She should have been more excited that Daman had an oven. She hadn’t seen one since her family had been wealthy enough to have a full kitchen, and even then she’d spent limited time in that area of the house. It hadn’t been until they’d lost all of that and she’d begun cooking for her family herself that she’d started dreaming of using one. Now she finally had her chance, and she couldn’t enjoy it properly because she couldn’t quit thinking about her sour host. She grasped the knife.
“It’s been weeks,” she informed the would-be stew. “Weeks, and every time he deigns to speak with me I get to bear the brunt of his atrocious mood swings.” She stabbed the raw meat and resumed butchering it. “If he didn’t want to go on a walk, he should have said so! It wasn’t as though I was trying to underline the fact that he…”
She tripped over the words in her mind, tiny voices in her head screaming she was being rude until she forcibly shook off her embarrassment. “Don’t be a ninny, Maribel,” she told herself firmly. “Say it. He hasn’t got any legs.” The knife thunked into the wood on a particularly enthusiastic jab. “That’s no reason we can’t get along. I’m not judging him for it, there’s no reason for him to be so blasted sensitive.”
The meat sizzled, oil flying off in angry sputters, wrenching Maribel out of her reverie. She gritted her teeth as the oil splattered against her arm, tiny droplets burning her skin. “If anything, I should be the one who doesn’t want to try and get along with him,” she told the vegetables. “Every chance he gets, he steers the conversation to Corrine. I’m sure he thinks he’s being subtle, but men in general are lost when it comes to subtlety and that’s apparently even more true for men who are…” She glared at the angry red spatters on her arm. Say it, Maribel, it’s no big deal. You’ve already said it once. “Half serpent,” she finished.
“Wyvern.”
A squeak exploded from Maribel’s lips. She whirled around with the knife held out in a defensive pose, silver blade shining in the light pouring into the kitchen from the open door and the great cooking fire in the hearth.
Daman loomed in the doorway, his strange silver eyes glinting in the light like polished silver coins. The draconic scales of his lower body shimmered as muscles shifted, and Maribel cursed the blush that heated her cheeks as she became painfully aware that Daman was naked. The fact that he had no…parts, showing should have made it easier—but it didn’t. The arm holding the knife sagged as she scrambled to tear her mind away from wondering things no lady had any business wondering about a man who was not her husband.
“What?” she demanded.
“Wyvern,” he repeated evenly. His deep voice rolled into the air like approaching thunder. “Not serpent.”
Maribel tried to follow the conversation and failed. The fierce heat of her embarrassment had obviously boiled her brain past the point of functioning. Anger obligingly rose to take the place of logic, but before she could let loose a scathing comment, Daman spoke again.
He gestured at his lower half. “I’m not half serpent, I’m half wyvern. Serpent could just as easily mean snake. My ancestry is dragon.”
Maribel started to cross her arms, realized she was still holding the knife, and pressed her lips into a thin line. He’d heard her then. Shame rose at being caught insulting her host, but she viciously squashed it down. What business did he have spying on her anyway? She returned her focus to the chunks of meat sizzling in the pan, careful to brown them evenly. “What’s the difference?” she shot over her shoulder, forcing nonchalance into her tone.
“Careful, child,” Daman warned, the now-familiar warmth of his temper heating his tone.
Maribel whirled around. “I’m not a child. I’m a grown woman.”
Daman held her gaze, silver eyes steady and unnerving. “What’s the difference?”
A thousand contemptuous retorts fought for dominance on Maribel’s tongue. She’d come to the kitchen to find some peace, to lose herself in doing something productive. It wasn’t fair for him to follow her in here, to spy on her and try to paint her a fool. Not when he avoided her so well the rest of the time. She diverted her attention away from Daman and back to the meal she was preparing, jabbing at the chunks of meat and dusting them with pepper.
“What are you making?”
Maribel tensed, grip tightening on the knife. “You did say I was free to go wherever I wished on the property. You have no cook, I assumed it would be all right for me to feed myself.”
“I did not mean to suggest you were doing anything wrong. I was simply…curious.”
The hairs on the back of her neck rose as he moved closer. Her stomach fluttered and she had to take a moment to settle herself before answering. “I’m making a stew.”
“Stew?”
Maribel glanced over her shoulder, brows rising to her hairline as she found Daman examining the vegetables she’d chopped, poking through the bowl of carrots and potatoes and the separate bowl of celery, onion, carrots, tomatoes, and garlic. Her inner chef preened at the expression of appreciation in his eyes as he surveyed the stew’s ingredients. She started to say something, but suddenly his forked tongue flicked out of his mouth, killing the words before they could escape her lips. It was only for a second, but it was…unnerving. Generally speaking, such tongues were usually very tiny, belonging to snakes significantly smaller than Daman. Seeing a tongue the size of a human’s—forked like a serpent’s—was…strange.
Daman finally raised his attention from the ingredients. Maribel jerked her attention back to the browning meat, hoping he hadn’t caught her gaping at him.
“Go ahead and stare, it’s all right.”
Maribel tensed. His tone held no heat, but after being here for weeks, the words were familiar—and they’d never been pleasant. “I was not staring.”
Scales rustled against stone. “I wasn’t accusing you, I was telling you it was all right.”
Again his tone sounded sincere. The meat hissed as Maribel flung the thick pieces about in the pan. “So you think I want to stare at you, that I’m that rude? That’s what you think of me?”
“You’re behaving like a child again.” Daman snatched up a potato, squeezing it in his grip until his claws disappeared into the brown-skinned flesh. “I was trying to be nice. I’m aware you’ve never seen a naga before and you’re trying not to stare, but frankly it’s more annoying to see you tense up every time I’m in the room because you’re trying not to stare. The first time obviously wasn’t enough, so just get it over with, satisfy your curiosity.”
Now there’s the sourpuss I remember. Maribel spun around, the spoon clenched in her grip as her arm trembled with the urge to fling it at her host. “Has it ever occurred to you that I’m tense around you, not because I’m trying so hard not to stare, but because I’m bracing myself for whatever vitriol you’re going to fling at me? Perhaps you’d like to disparage my sister some more?” She pointed at him with the spoon, feeling a sense of empowerment with the utensil that usually only came from brandishing a weapon. “I don’t know what has your tail in a twist, but I’m sick of you taking it out on me.”
She whirled back to the stove before the color rising to her face could steal her victory from her. It had taken every ounce of willpower she had to mention his tail, and she didn’t want to ruin the moment by letting him see how much effort it had taken.
The stunned silence behind her was incredibly satisfying. Maribel smirked at the stew meat. There was an exhalation of breath behind her, a ragged sound dragged up from the depths of his being.
“I’m sorry for what I said about your sister,” Daman muttered.
“Sorry because it’s not true, or sorry because it caused our ‘little feud?’”
A low growl rumbled up from Daman’s chest. “I do not want to fight with you.”
“Then get out of the kitchen.” Maribel grabbed the pan holding the meat and dumped the browned beef into a large bowl. The pan clanged onto the stove as she slammed it down. She kept her eyes awa
y from Daman as she stalked over to the vegetables she’d prepared and threw the carrots, garlic, onion, and celery into the pan still coated with oil and residual fat from the meat. The vegetables sizzled, echoing her temper.
There was a short silence and then Daman’s voice again. “It has been some time since I’ve…entertained,” he admitted grudgingly. “Perhaps we could start over. Get to know one another over dinner.”
Maribel went still, a cup of pulverized tomatoes in her grasp. “Are you completely serious?” She glanced back at Daman, torn between outrage and shock. “Are you inviting yourself to share a meal with me? A meal I’m preparing?”
For a moment, she caught him with his guard down. His stiff mask of indifference had broken and he was gazing with something akin to longing at the food cooking on the stove. As soon as he registered her attention, he stiffened. Haughty arrogance returned to mask his emotions and he pulled his claws free of the potato and thumped it down onto the table, holding her eyes as if daring her to comment. She swallowed the sharp words she’d been about to hurl at him and tapped her spoon on the pan.
“Do the brownies cook for you?”
His eyes twitched, but remained on her. “They gather fresh produce from the gardens, but they don’t cook and they don’t hunt.”
Maribel couldn’t help dropping her gaze to the claws on the tips of his fingers, glancing from them to her injured potato. “So you…hunted for this meat?”
“One doesn’t ‘hunt’ for cows.” Daman made a face as though he’d bitten into something sour, then sighed. “I mean, yes, I slaughtered the cow for that meat.”
Her temper, which had flared up at the first part of his sentence, quickly calmed as she acknowledged he was at least trying to be less insulting. “Well, I suppose it would be rude of me to cook your food and refuse to share it with you.”
The hope that lit Daman’s eyes was humorous. “That is very…kind.” He slid closer, scales grating over the stone. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a grand meal such as this.”
Maribel tensed, the camaraderie of the moment threatening to shatter. “Are you mocking me?”
Daman’s slitted eyes widened slightly. “No.”
“A stew is grand?”
Again Daman gazed longingly at the pan of vegetables. “I’ve been cooking for myself for some time. I’m afraid I’m rather basic when it comes to meals—meat, bread, and whatever fruit the brownies harvest from the garden. I’m not much of a chef.”
“A stew is a fairly simple meal,” Maribel insisted, annoyed with herself for the curl of pleasure that spiraled inside her at the compliment.
“It smells amazing already.” Daman moved closer, arching his neck to peer into the pot. “What are you adding now?”
“Tomato paste.” Maribel scraped the thick red substance into the pan and stirred the vegetables into it. She let it cook for a moment and then grabbed the large bottle of red wine she’d found in the cellar. Part of her waited for Daman to stop her, to say something about the wine being too fine for such a paltry use. But the…naga, just watched, fascination lighting his features.
She dumped the wine into the pan, relishing the sizzle as the alcohol evaporated and the bouquet of the wine scented the air. Daman remained silent, though he slid closer. His body heat caressed her back through the few inches that separated them and Maribel’s nerves danced with awareness. The butterflies swarmed back to life in her stomach and she realized she was holding her breath, anticipating… What?
Snap out of it! Maribel forcibly shook off the ridiculous fantasies trying to play out in her head and snatched up the bottle of balsamic vinegar. She poured it into the pan and Daman’s tongue flicked out again. Maribel jumped, her arm jolting with the motion and pressing against the hot cast iron.
A sharp inhalation of pain escaped her lips as she dropped the spoon and clutched her arm. The skin shrieked in objection at her touch and she quickly yanked her hand away, holding the injured arm out into the air and clenching her teeth against the pain.
“I’m sorry.” Daman’s voice was terse, tight with an emotion akin to self-admonishment. He vanished with unnerving, inhuman speed, then returned with a jar of honey. “I startled you.” He snorted as he unscrewed the lid, filling the air with the sweet, sticky scent of honey. “No wonder Moira never wanted me in the kitchen.”
Maribel held still, trying to concentrate on his words, on the jar, anything but the throbbing pain of the burn. Equally to be avoided was the sharp stab of jealousy that lanced through her at the mention of some woman named Moira.
Forcing her mind away from that baffling train of thought, she held her breath and let Daman smear some of the thick, viscous fluid on her arm. “Honey?” she breathed, more to distract herself from her own thoughts than anything. She closed her eyes against the sting of pressure on the wound.
“It is a natural disinfectant and will ease the pain.”
She opened her eyes. “I know, I…” The traitorous blush returned with a vengeance.
Daman arched an eyebrow at her. “You didn’t expect me to know that. Because I’m a man or because I’m a naga?”
This time there was no doubt that Daman saw her embarrassment. She kept her gaze on her arm, pathetically unable to meet his eyes.
The sight of his finger sliding so gently over her arm mesmerized her. It wasn’t the fiery red condition of her own blistered skin, but the unmarred perfection of his. For some reason, she’d expected his entire body to be covered in scales, thought that if she got close enough, she would see the fine diamond pattern common to snakes. His skin had appeared smooth, but she’d assumed the scales were simply more refined on his upper body.
Now that she had an opportunity to see his skin up close—in a situation where she could study it without appearing rude—she realized that for the most part, from the waist up, he was the same flesh and blood as any human she’d ever met. Though, granted, his skin was a pale blue and did bear some scaled ridges.
Her gaze landed on his neck and the lines of thick scales that fell like braided silk down either side of his throat and ended just after the curves of his shoulders. A circular swirl of scales sat at the base of his throat, tendrils of the thick scales sliding out in a line on either side to almost, but not quite, connect with the ridges that ended at his shoulders. The bottom of the circle was connected to another ridge that fell down his chest, branching out into two delicate lines of ridges that cradled his ribs on either side. The main ridge down his chest continued past his taut stomach until it blended seamlessly with the scales of his lower body like a glistening river meeting the rippling waves of the ocean.
The honey grew tackier as Daman continued to spread it. He dipped his finger into the jar for a fresh scoop. As he applied more honey to the burn in the same slow, soothing motions, some of the tension leaked from Maribel’s shoulders. The even strokes he used to apply the balm were hypnotic, calming. The pain faded into the background and her mind continued its unimpeded consideration of her host.
His fingers were tipped with short, but wickedly sharp and curved white claws. He was obviously taking great care to keep from scratching her as he used the middle of his finger to spread the honey. Her gaze travelled to his hand and up his arm, and she noticed for the first time how thick his muscles were, the tempting swell of his biceps.
She must have made some sort of sound, because when she finally tore her attention away from his torso, Daman was staring at her, his face less than a foot away from her own. His mercurial eyes were dilated, the reptilian slits wider, round enough to be human. He’d stopped spreading the honey and now held her arm in a gentle grasp. His grip was warm and strong, and Maribel was suddenly incredibly aware of exactly how close they were.
“Does that feel better?”
His voice was deeper than it had been, absent the sharp edge she’d grown used to hearing from him. Rough and textured, a tangible sound, like rich, thick bed furs on bare skin.
He has a ver
y human face, really.
The thought came out of nowhere, but it lodged itself in Maribel’s brain, dragging her attention to Daman’s face, the line of his jaw. He had very angular features, strong and solid. His mouth was perfectly normal, his lips…
Maribel had a sudden image of his forked tongue flicking out, his reptilian eyes intense. The strange spell rising between them shattered like overheated glass.
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely, tugging meekly at his grip on her arm. Her heart pounded so hard she thought the pulse in her throat would cut off her air.
There was a strange look on Daman’s face, as if he were debating whether to let go of her arm or pull her closer. Hyperawareness reminded her how much strength was in those broad swells of muscle, how much power was in that sculpted body. His eyes that had appeared so human to her a moment ago were now stark reminders that the man beside her was a predator. And she was behaving like prey.
The sound of blood rushing through her veins was so loud in her ears it shut out all else. She had to swallow three times before she could speak.
“I… I should get back to cooking.”
She held her breath and tugged at her arm again, inordinately grateful as he released her without protest. Then she practically dove for the spoon she’d been using to stir the pot, focusing on mixing the simmering concoction as though it took all of her concentration. Every nerve in her body vibrated with awareness as she waited for some sound behind her, some indication that Daman had moved. There was nothing but silence.
“I don’t want the vegetables to burn,” she babbled, focusing hard on the stew that didn’t need the attention she was giving it. “It has to cook like this for hours, and then I’ll add the bowl of carrots and potatoes and they’ll have to cook for another two hours… It takes so long, I know, but I used to make this all the time on the farm because I could leave it to cook while I…”
The complete and utter silence that met her incessant stream of rambling knocked against Maribel’s awareness like waves against the hull of an abandoned boat, and she forced herself to stop. She concentrated on taking a few subtle, slow breaths, trying to regain her composure. By the time she finally got the nerve to glance over her shoulder, he was gone.
All for a Rose Page 12
