Page 53 of Heimlock

Kyrielle shifts in her chair, playing with a napkin. “Yeah, thankfully I didn’t have to pay for it.”

She doesn’t have to say anything else — it’s clear she’s implying it was a date. “Was it North?”

Her fire-marbled irises flick to me, then away. Like she’s ashamed of admitting she’s been on a date. “Yeah.”

While I may not know why she’s uncomfortable, I know it’s far too easy to visualize them fucking, because I’ve literally seen it in-person. Now it’s easy to imagine him wooing her with fancy meals, followed by making her cum all night. Because he’s lucky enough to not need boxing to keep him sane.

Bastard.

Stuffing down my raging jealousy, I ask, “What did you eat?”

Kyrielle’s head lifts. “Hippogriff flank.”

Sitting back, I raise my eyebrows. “Never had it. Was it good?”

“It’s one of my favorite things,” she smiles. “But it’s so expensive, so it’s better to make a man pay for it.”

I grin because it’s impossible to hate the logic. “I don’t blame you. If I were a woman, I’d make men pay for everything.”

Her smile transforms into a brilliant grin. As Sebastian approaches with a tray of food, she says, “That means you’re picking up the tab today, right?”

I scoff. “I’ve never made a woman pay for a meal, ever.”

As Sebastian sets down the tray, she says, “What are your most expensive drinks?”

***

After an hour, we’re officially drunk. With each course, Kyrielle orders a round of drinks, each one crazier than the last. Sebastian has left to gather our dessert options, and Kyrielle’s finishing another martini. She loves the sweet ones, and while I’m not counting, I think this is her fourth. Not including the Heimlocks ordered in between.

I’ve never seen a woman put away so much alcohol, and still stand. I’m at least two martinis and one Heimlock behind.

My crush intensifies.

Her hands wildly gesticulate while she tells a story from the battle arena. The passion on her face is mesmerizing. “So the first thing he said to me, right before we went into the arena, was—” Kyrielle’s voice lowers into a mockery of a deep voice. “—little fly, I’m going to teach you how a real man fights.”

I frown. “Does it bother you when people give you insect nicknames?”

Her joy flickers for a split second. “It’s fine. I’ve been called way worse.”

“Like what?” When her body stills, I’m instantly interested. “That bad, huh?”

She drinks the remaining teaspoon of her martini, then slams the glass down. Any harder and it would’ve cracked. “Cockroach.”

Everything inside me stills. “Cockroach?”

With a grim smile, she gives an exaggerated bob of her head. “Yep.” She pops the P. “One of my stepfathers. It was his favorite term of endearment.”

“Is he alive?”

She gives me a sharp look. “Why does it matter?”

“I just want an address, if he is,” I say conversationally, examining the remains of my beer. “No specifically violent reason or anything.”

Kyrielle lets out a bitter laugh. “He’s alive somewhere. You might be able to find him; he isn’t hard to miss.”

“Why’s that?”

Once again, her face shifts, this time to a devilish one that might become my favorite expression of hers. “Because half of his face is burned off.”