So instead, I follow him downstairs, watching as he rolls his shoulders, releasing pent-up tension. As his muscles flex and coil beneath his clothes, I wonder what other animals rest beneath his skin.
"Cole?" I break the silence, ready to ask this one question that I might be allowed. What other forms can he take? What other animals?
But when he turns, his expression is so broken that I stop talking. All I do is reach out my hand, making an offer he can choose to refuse if he wants to.
But he doesn’t.
He takes my hand and interlaces our fingers, gripping firm enough to hurt. But I stay quiet because I know he needs it, and I know I can take this little bit of pain if it means he can let go of some of his.
After Cole drops me back to my room, I don't see him again until the next morning. He doesn't surprise me, doesn't scare me. Instead, I wake to the sound of a gentle, hesitant knock against my door. And for some reason, it brings a smile to my lips and a warm, fuzzy feeling to my heart.
"You can come in," I call.
He does, poking his head through the door first, gray eyes widening when he spots me sitting up in the center of the bed with the comforter wrapped snugly around me.
"You're still asleep?" he asks, puzzled.
I should probably feel mildly embarrassed. My curly auburn hair is most definitely in disarray. My eyes are still heavy with sleep. And when I turn my gaze to the window, I realize the sun is very high in the sky. But all I could think about all morning was how cozy and warm it was beneath the covers, and how I had nothing to do all day, and how for once I felt safe enough to just relax for a little while.
So instead, I shrug. "I'm awake now."
Cole stays in the doorway, filling the opening with his expansive frame. Something about him is more awkward than usual, as though all of his predatory grace has fled for the moment. He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck, and I find myself holding back a giggle. "I, uh, brought you some food if you want it."
My pent-up laugh turns to a soft groan when I notice the small bag in his other hand. "More apples and dried meat?" After days and days of eating the same thing, my stomach yearns for new flavors.
But in the silence following my words, I watch Cole's entire person fall slowly—first his hand, which drifts back to his side, then his brows, which tighten into a knot, and then his nearly smiling lips, which drop into a frown.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly, sitting up, not sure what I did.
And then it hits me.
I'm an idiot.
All this time that apples and meats have been delivered to my door, I never thought about where they came from or who prepared them. I was too afraid of the animals dropping the packages outside my room to even think about anything else. But wolves can't tend to apple trees. And bears can't prepare meats to dry. And leopards can't bake any sort of bread. Only one person can.
Cole.
He's the only human I've seen.
He's been silently looking after me this entire time.
And how do I show my gratitude? By behaving like a brat and asking for something else. Maybe he doesn’t have anything else. Maybe he doesn’t know how to make anything else. Who would have taught him how to cook? The wolves?
"Cole?" I ask softly.
He nods, not looking at me, pretending to be tough just like I always pretend. But the tense line of his jaw gives him away.
"Has anyone ever made you breakfast?" I question.
His gaze flicks toward me then, alight with interest, and the clenched muscles in his neck release.
That's all the answer I need because we're friends. And friends don't act like spoiled jerks. Friends don't question someone else's form of kindness. Friends give back and show some compassion of their own. Friends see that spark of intrigue and get a twinge of excitement at being the one to put it there.
At least, I think they do.
In a flash, I hop out of bed. I went to sleep in a soft cotton gown I found in the armoire, and I don't feel like wasting any time changing back into my T-shirt and jeans, which if I'm being honest, are starting to smell. So I wrap a cloak around my shoulders and grab Cole's hand, pleased when he latches his fingers tighter around mine instead of pulling away.
"Where's the kitchen?" I ask when we enter the hall.
Cole takes the lead, tugging me gently down long corridors until we reach a massive room that makes me gasp. Pots and pans line the back wall, all different shapes and sizes. There must be four ovens and ten stovetops. A huge table topped with a sturdy wooden block fills the center of the space and resting beneath the prep surface are every utensil and every bowl I could ever imagine needing. When I turn to look behind me, there are multiple cabinets filled with enough china to serve a hundred people.
My eyes find Cole's.
But his have grown hard and stormy again.
The questions die on my lips. Clearly, there was once a time when this castle hosted balls and banquets. When the rooms were filled and the halls were loud with boisterous conversation. Clearly, there was a time when people and not animals roamed the city streets. But what's clearer is that Cole does not want to talk about it. And I know in my gut it has something to do with magic.
But I made a promise not to speak of those things.
So I open my mouth and ask, "Where do you grow the apples?"
His gaze softens. His shoulders relax. "This way," he says and nudges his head to a door I didn’t notice before. He leads me out to an expansive greenhouse. The plants are wild and unruly, but I take a deep breath, letting their scents fill my nose, and immediately know there is so much here I can work with.
Cole watches me warily, as though he can sense the magic beginning to course through me. I keep it forcefully at bay.
"Do you have eggs?" I ask.
He nods.
"Could you go get some, please?" I keep my voice steady as the magic builds beneath my skin, bubbling excitedly to the surface as the smell of so much vegetation continues to overwhelm me. Only after he's back inside and out of sight do I give into the temptation.
Immediately, I'm outside myself, traveling with the magic as it sinks into the dirt beneath my feet, kept soft and warm by the glass dome overhead. The apple trees Cole has been pillaging are where I go first, oozing new life into their tired branches. Rotten apples fall to the ground, replaced with brand-new glistening red ones. My senses extend further until soon I'm one with nearly every plant in this place. Lemon trees and orange trees blossom with new fruits. Potato spuds, radishes, and carrots sprout beneath the surface. Herbs pop to life one by one, basil, oregano, rosemary, and thyme. A garden of riches Cole didn't even know he had bursts to life beneath my magic. I bring new vivacity to vegetables that had grown weary and sad, and within all the magic, I hardly notice as I introduce new ones. Tomato vines ripen. Strawberry bushes rise in the corner. Raspberry bushes too.
I only stop because of the familiar pinch deep in my chest. The magic snaps back inside as a wave of fire courses through me, then a crash of frigid ice. Time strips away, stolen from my soul. And I stumble on uneasy feet, gritting my teeth to keep from crying out as I wait for the onslaught to end.
Another rose petal falls. Then another.
A few minutes later, I can breathe again. And with that painful reminder of the cost of my magic over, I push the power firmly back into hiding, trying to forget how glorious it felt to use it so freely.
When I return to the kitchen with a basket full of potatoes, tomatoes, herbs, and more vegetables, Cole is waiting for me. He doesn't mention the greenhouse. I don't either. We both pretend there is no awkward silence filling the space between us.
"What do you normally eat?" I wonder aloud.
Cole grins wickedly. His gray eyes flash, and I notice how his shaggy black hair falls over his forehead just a little when he turns to look at me. "Rabbits. Squirrels. The occasional bird or fish. Deer if I'm lucky."
Duh.
He doesn’t know how to coo
k. There was hardly any food in the kitchen. And he lives in a town of wolves, bears, leopards, and who knows what else.
He's a hunter.
A carnivore.
The image of a bear ripping into the carcass of a deer suddenly fills my thoughts. I swallow, voice small when I ask, "So, you've never had an omelet before?"
His smile deepens, amused at my discomfort. "No," he answers slowly, shaking his head.
Under his gaze, I find myself associating with the rabbits, feeling caught, trapped by his unwavering attention. I clear my throat. "Well, it's no deer, but I make a pretty good veggie omelet. Hash browns are my specialty."
My mind wanders back to the base, to the small kitchen my father and I shared. Omelet day was a treat. There weren't many supplies to spare, especially for things like eggs and meats. But potatoes were plentiful, and I used to make them all the time, testing out recipes with the basic foods we were allotted each week. Once in a while though, we got eggs. My father showed me how to make them just the way my mom and I used to like, stuffed with vegetables, spicy, with flavor oozing from each bite.
"Can you show me?" Cole asks.
He snuck up next to me while my mind wandered, but now I can't ignore his presence. Heat from his skin funnels into mine, bringing warmth to my arm and a strange tickle to the back of my neck, a tingle that shivers down the entire length of my spine.
"Sure," I murmur breathily.
Air, I realize. I need air. He's overwhelming.
I spin on my heels, surprising us both with my spastic movement, and start collecting items from around the kitchen. Mixing bowls. Knives. Forks. Anything and everything I think I'll need until my arms are completely full. Then I unload the pile on the table, using it like a barrier between my body and his, giving me enough space to think clearly.
I hand him a knife and half the vegetables.
"First, we have to do the menial labor," I joke, grabbing a potato.
For the next ten minutes, we work side by side in silence. But it's a nice sort of quiet, a peaceful one. Cole glances over every so often to make sure he is slicing everything the right way, but even if it's wrong, I don't correct him, not when he's concentrating so hard. I find my gaze constantly flicking over to observe the hard-set line of his pursed lips and the determined scrunch of his dark eyebrows. I glance away quickly each time, hoping he doesn’t notice my stare.
When we're finished, I put all the ingredients in two separate bowls, one for the omelets and one for the hash browns. And then I reach for the eggs.
"Want to give it a try?" I ask, cracking one egg gently against the ceramic edge of a bowl and pulling it open until the yolk and whites fall easily into the dish.
"Do another one," he murmurs, focused on my hands.
I bite my top lip to keep my smile from spreading too wide, and oblige. Another egg falls seamlessly into the bowl.
"Okay." He reaches out eagerly. I can’t fight the bubble of happiness rising in my chest as I watch him. But I've never seen anyone get so excited about making breakfast.
"Just tap it gently until it cracks and then pull it apart slowly so none of the shell falls in," I say as I hand one to him.
He nods.
Those smoky eyes land on mine for a moment when our fingers touch.
And then he looks down, rocking the egg in his hand for a moment as though testing out the technique. And then…
Crack.
In one quick movement, Cole slams the egg against the bowl in what he must have thought was a gentle motion. Immediately, it shatters in his hand, exploding over his ivory skin, landing half in the bowl and half on the counter, scattering shell remains everywhere.
I exhale noisily.
He flashes me an angry look.
Using all my willpower, I manage to swallow the laughter back down my throat.
"Try again," I squeak, forcing the words out and not one other sound.
Snarling, he grabs another egg. But I already know what's going to happen before it does.
Crack.
Shatter.
Explosion.
Same as before, only this time Cole slams his hand against the counter with frustration.
"Here," I jump in before he grabs another egg. My fingers reach for his, and before I fully realize what I'm doing, I'm pressed against his side, faces close enough to touch, wrapping my palm over his.
We both inhale sharply.
"Let me help," I say, amazed at how steady my voice sounds when the rest of me has decided to momentarily freak out. I'm even more amazed at how casually I push in front of him, so my back is pressed against his hard stomach. "Just put your hands over mine and observe."
My heart hammers in my chest as he bends over me, strong arms wrapping around my shoulders as his hands land on mine. His breath tickles my neck, stealing mine away. And then he leans closer, until almost every part of us is touching, and I remember again just how commanding his presence is, just how easily he can envelop me.
My fingers tremble.
The egg cracks before I even manage to tap it against the edge of the bowl.
Immediately, I hear snickers. Little self-satisfied, arrogant, under-his-breath chuckles.
I spin around, furious, and do the first thing I think of.
I smash the remainder of my egg right into his forehead.
Then I gasp as both of our eyes go wide.
Time stops.
Everything stops.
The only thing moving is the slimy yellow trickle making its way down the center of his previously pristine skin.
Before he has time to react, I run under his arm, escaping his hold and race to the other side of the table.
He growls.
For some reason, the sound excites me. I stop moving, pausing opposite him, and smirk as the egg yolk continues to inch down his cheek. We both keep our hands pressed against the butcher's block, staring at each other, waiting for the other to move. He creeps to the left. I move left. He steps slowly to the right. So do I.
But in the back of my head I know my time is running out. He's the definition of a predator, and I might as well be the definition of prey. It’s only a matter of time before I'm caught. So before he can make his move, I reach for another egg and launch it at his face.
He catches it midair, reflexes incredibly quick.
But not quick enough. It crashes against his muscular palm and explodes, sending another splatter of slime into his face.
The growl turns to a roar.
I try to run.
Before I can even take a step, he leaps over the table in one unbelievably fluid motion, moving in a way only someone who is half animal could. Sturdy arms wrap around me, impossible to dislodge. I get out one shriek in protest before an egg cracks solidly against the top of my head.
It’s my turn to growl.
I do. Not as menacing, maybe, and definitely not as natural, but I think I get my point across.
Apparently not.
A moment later, I find myself airborne, thrown over his shoulder in one easy effort.
"Cole!" I pound a fist against his back, but I think it hurts my fingers more than it hurts him. "Put me down!"
"You're supposed to be making me breakfast," he replies.
"I am," I reply sweetly. "This is how I make breakfast."
He snorts. "Well, this is how I make breakfast."
Then he's walking. And walking.
The cool brush of wintry air hits my calves as he opens a door.
"Cole, where are you taking me?"
He doesn't answer. But the ground has turned to gravel that crunches ominously beneath his boots.
"Cole?"
No response.
I try to look around, but the blood is rushing to my head.
"Cole?"
And then I'm flying.
I scream, but the sound is washed away as I land in a pool of ice-cold water that shocks my system to the very core. I gulp and gasp when I reach the surface, sputtering. I w
ant to scream. I want to yell. My entire body aches for retribution.
Instead, I reach my hand up and smile as though the whole situation is one big entertaining joke. "Ha. Ha," I mutter. The words come unevenly out of my shivering lips. "Help me up. I'd like to eat before I freeze to death."
His eyes grow a tad concerned as he reaches for my hand, as though uncertain about his rash actions. I wonder if my skin is as blue and frozen as I feel. But I don’t wonder for very long. When his strong fingers wrap sturdily around mine, I yank with everything I have.
Even a beast can be caught unaware.
Cole loses his balance, tumbling into the fountain right next to me. And when he comes surging to the surface, the first thing that greets him is a cold, wet splash.
I'm still shivering half an hour later as we both sit with our plates before a warm fire, wrapped in dry blankets. But even my chattering teeth don't stop the giggles that burst from my lips as I look up from my steaming eggs to find the dangerous, brooding beast disgustedly picking at the yellow goo still stuck in his eyebrows.
The next day Cole greets me with breakfast in bed. Two omelets, nearly perfect. We eat side by side before the fireplace in my room, and I don't mention the few bits of eggshells that crunch between my teeth as I chew.
That night, I teach him how to roast a chicken, which he assures me tastes better than the way he normally eats it—raw.
The following day, he takes me to the library, a gigantic room that towers at least two stories high, and all I can see are books upon books upon books. He watches me wander through the shelves for half an hour before confessing he doesn’t really know how to read. So we find a spot beneath a window, and I do my best to show him. At first he growls at his own incompetence. But it isn't long before I find myself curled against his side with his muscular arm wrapped around me as we lean over the page, deciphering the words together.
The day after, he tells me one of the wolves had pups, so we abandon the books. I watch from the corner of a cold cottage as he plays on all fours, barking and growling with the little fur balls. Every so often, his eyes find mine and he smiles just a little wider. And then I find myself pulled into the fun as sharp baby teeth tug on the edge of my dress, dragging me closer. Soon enough, I'm giggling as little pups pounce on my lap and scratchy tongues tickle my skin.
Withering Rose (Once Upon a Curse Book 2) Page 9
