Between Frost and Fury

by Chani Lynn Feener

  She was momentarily distracted, curiosity getting the best of her. The closest she’d ever come to watching someone cook a meal was when she and Mariana went out for hibachi. She so didn’t count those times Ruckus had attempted, or even her roommate for that matter. None of them were very prolific in the kitchen.

  But Trystan wasn’t worried or cautious at all in his movements. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, sometimes reaching for something without having to look first. True to his word, there wasn’t any sign of a recipe anywhere, no slips of paper or the shing tablet he always carried around.

  “How long did it take you to memorize this?” She wagged a finger at the stuff on the table. “Longer than sixty seconds?”

  “I had to make it a few times before I could do so without the recipe,” he said, “yes.” Then he went quiet again.

  “And your mom taught you?” She almost regretted bringing it up when his hand paused over a spoon he’d been reaching for.

  His lips were pursed in concentration, and that V-shaped wrinkle between his brow was back.

  She had the sudden urge to lean forward and smooth it out with her thumb, catching herself at the last second.

  “You were so young. How did you manage to remember any of this?”

  He’d told her before he didn’t have any actual memories of his mother, just ones that bled together because they’d happened so often. Like how she’d read to him. He couldn’t pinpoint an actual time and recollect it, but he recalled that it had happened a lot. Was cooking like that as well?

  “My mother enjoyed being in the kitchen,” he explained calmly. Too calmly. It gave him away. “When I was younger, she’d let me pretend to help. Eventually I graduated to actually helping. That’s how I learned, hands-on. Most of that stuck after she was gone, and the rest I learned on my own. But the basics, the love I have for cooking—”

  “That all came from her.” Delaney could picture it now, a tinier, less domineering version of him, standing at his mother’s hip. The image didn’t match with the person he was now, and she wondered what he’d been like as a child, before he’d been left alone with the Rex. “I’ve never heard you use the L-word in regard to anything before.” It was rare to even hear him mention that he liked something, in fact.

  “I used to think love was a weakness.” The corner of his mouth turned up at some private thought. “I still do. Only, now I don’t wish the feeling away. Some things are worth accepting.”

  Delaney didn’t like the secretive look he gave her then, the way he tilted his chin with that half smile still in place. Like he was toying with her, fully knowing that she wouldn’t grasp the how or the why.

  Trystan started moving again. He’d pushed aside the original bowl he’d been using and was now stirring a liquid concoction in a square jar. There was something that could be meat in a package on the counter, though it was green, and he tugged it closer and tore open the plastic wrap. He began shaping it into small balls, dipping them into the liquid concoction before dropping them into the original bowl with the pink-and-black mixture.

  “You can help now,” Trystan said suddenly, motioning to the deep triangular pan he’d pulled in front of him.

  “Oh,” she drawled, glad for the distraction from her darkening thoughts, “can I?”

  He glanced at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. “If you’d like.”

  “All right.” She got up and went around so she was standing next to him. “If I ruin it, though, it’s really your fault for letting me near it in the first place.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” he said, chuckling. Then he gently took her left hand and turned it around so her palm was up. Placing one of the small green balls there, he angled his chin out toward the triangular pan.

  He’d already lined the bottom with a light blue layer of dough, and had sprinkled more of that pink grainy powder over it. Now he eased her wrist toward it and helped her place the small green ball in one of the corners. Then he repeated the process.

  By the third time, she finally snapped herself out of it to stop him moving her around like a marionette.

  “I think I got it,” she told him.

  “Are you sure?” His look was teasing. “You said I’d have to take the blame if you ruined it, and it’s been a long time since I screwed something up in the kitchen. I’d like to keep my record clean, you understand.”

  She laughed and shook her head at him, reaching for another of the green balls and pointedly placing it a half inch away from the ones already in the pan. “There, happy?”

  He merely clucked his tongue and picked up the spoon he’d been using on what looked like another dish.

  “What is this, anyway?” She kept placing the green balls, moving from one row to the next, all while casually trying to spy on what he was doing without seeming too eager. This was all fascinating, but she really didn’t need to stroke his already massive ego by showing just how much.

  “That’s the main course.” He pointed at what she was doing, then down at the bowl in front of him. “And this is dessert.”

  “There’s dessert, too?” She smiled. “I should have known. This is you we’re talking about. You and your huge sweet tooth.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t get any,” he countered. “Maybe I’ll decide I want it all to myself and refuse to share.”

  “That…” She paused. “Wouldn’t be very nice.”

  “No one’s ever known me to be nice, Delaney.” He frowned, looking away quickly.

  “What are these specifically, though?” She brought the topic back to the green balls.

  “Cish,” he replied.

  “Okay…?”

  “When someone offers you fried chicken, is your greatest desire to know exactly what the animal was prior to becoming your latest meal?”

  She thought it over, then plopped another ball down. “And we’re done with the questioning. Tell me about this whole process instead. What makes you like cooking so much? Aside from the control, of course.”

  “I don’t have to do it for anyone other than myself,” he confessed. “I can make whatever I like, and however I like it, without having to worry about catering to someone else’s needs or desires.”

  “Basically,” she said, downplaying it on purpose, wanting to lighten his mood again, “you can use as much sugar as you want.”

  Only, her comment seemed to have the opposite effect.

  “Unless you’re opposed to sweet things.” He paused, turning toward her. “I just realized I never asked you. You do enjoy sweeter foods, correct?” He glanced at the spread on the table, that frown returning tenfold. “Or did you want something more savory? I should have—”

  “Trystan.” She stopped him when he went to move toward the refrigerator. “I’m sure what you’re making will be great. I’ve liked everything else you’ve had me try, remember?”

  Hadn’t he just gotten done telling her he enjoyed cooking because he didn’t have to worry about other people? Yet less than two minutes later he’d been about to scrap everything to, what? Please her? That revelation made her uncomfortable, and she pulled on the collar of her shirt, finding it suddenly too tight.

  “I’m done with this,” she said before he could push and ask if she was sure. She tapped the edge of the triangular pan, now layered with the small green balls, and waved at the rest of the items still there. “Show me what to do next.”

  He hesitated, but must have seen she was all right by the determined look on her face. “You can stir the wareni.”

  She glanced into the bowl he’d been working with, then took the spoon and poked at the thick mixture.

  “That,” he chided lightly, “is not how you stir.”

  She gave him a mocking salute with her free hand, then gripped the metal spoon and began swirling the contents. It was hard, and within minutes her arm started to ache. Fortunately, just as she was about to give in and complain, he stopped her, taking the bowl to add a cup of small shiny blue be
ads.

  She assumed they were edible, and watched as he mixed them in. The result reminded her a lot of chocolate chip cookie dough.

  “Tell me about the Unveiling,” she said.

  “It’s where we exchange the gifts we selected for each other.” He added something liquid to the batch. “There will be a small audience to witness it. To ensure we don’t alter the results.”

  Because the items in the boxes were supposed to be prophetic somehow. Made sense. She understood what he was trying to say by “audience” as well, but she didn’t want to think about the Rex anymore.

  “What do I have to do?” She really hoped there wasn’t a speech.

  “Only open the gifts handed to you. Their meaning will be explained as each item is revealed. Once we’ve both opened all our boxes, that’s it.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  “It’ll go quickly,” he assured her. “You won’t have to be in the same room as my father for long.” He’d clearly seen right through her avoidance tactic.

  Knowing she wouldn’t have to deal with the Rex, aside from him being there with them, was a comfort. She put the whole thing aside, focusing on the food once more. It was way more interesting than freaking out over things she couldn’t control. She could see why Trystan enjoyed it. Being the Zane had to mean there were a lot of things he worried about on a daily basis.

  He scooped the mixture out and filled two deep bowls, sprinkled the same grainy pink powder he’d used on the main dish, and then moved to place them in the refrigerator. When he came back, he tugged the triangular pan between them and handed her an oddly shaped utensil that reminded her of three forks melded together at their centers.

  “Press the cish down,” he instructed, taking her hand a second time to show her exactly what he meant, “while I make the rest of the filling.”

  Delaney did as she was told, too caught up in the easy rhythm the two of them had created to really even notice.

  * * *

  “DON’T TELL ANYONE I said this.” Delaney eased closer to his side conspiratorially, and he found himself lowering his head, instinctually playing along. “But that might have been better than pumpkin pie.”

  Trystan laughed, the sound echoing down the long empty hallway. He was escorting her to her rooms, and was in a better mood than he could recall ever being in before. Part of him was uncomfortable about that, a sense of foreboding yawning open in the pit of his stomach. Whenever he was relaxed, something always tended to happen to take that feeling away.

  “I’m going to hold a press conference,” he joked, wanting to ignore that inkling of dread. “Tell the whole world.”

  “Then I’ll have to kill you.” She said it with such a straight face, he almost missed a step. But then the corner of her mouth twitched, cracking the mask to reveal she was messing with him yet again.

  “You, Delaney Grace,” he drawled, “are hilarious.”

  “Why, thank you, Trystan End.” She pressed her hand against his arm and pushed lightly, not hard enough to even budge him. “I get that a lot.”

  “You enjoyed it then?” he couldn’t help but ask, despite the fact that she’d already told him as much half a dozen times during, and then after, their meal. He hated the thread of doubt, that foreign need to please her. There’d only ever been one person he’d wanted to make happy. His mother.

  When it came to the Rex, he toed the line as close as he could, making sure not to actually cross over, but coming so near to doing so, he might as well. He did what his father instructed—not to please him, but because there was no other choice.

  Trystan wanted what was best for his people, that was true, but pleasing them and giving them what was best weren’t necessarily the same things. Delaney was different. He wanted to charm her. Wanted to wash away all those doubts she’d had at the beginning, when she’d woken up on his ship, spitting fire, looking like she was debating the best way to remove his head from his body.

  As much as he liked her angry and feisty, he found he preferred her like this. She was relaxed and content, in no rush to get anywhere. In no rush to get away from him. He was tempted to discover how long she’d remain at his side without complaining, considered leading them around the halls to test it.

  But then she stifled a yawn, and he realized how late it actually was. They’d had a stressful and busy day, had both been shot with electric zees. She needed rest, which meant he had to give it to her, even if sleep was the last thing on his mind.

  “I’ve never eaten anything that amazing in my life,” she told him, glancing at him from beneath long dark red lashes. “It was like, sweet but salty, and soft but crunchy. And that dessert.”

  “You’re just saying a bunch of random descriptors.” A rush of pride swept through him, pushing all those disquieting thoughts out.

  “That’s because I’ve never had anything like it before,” she continued. “It’s impossible for me to describe it. I want it again, though. Like, all the time.”

  “Or,” he suggested, “we can try something else. I know a lot of recipes. Perhaps even something that isn’t typically served for breakfast.”

  “Oh no.” She shook her head. “Definitely not. We’re sticking with breakfast. I want to have tried every single traditional breakfast dish on this planet before we even consider moving on to lunch or dinner.”

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, chuckling, “it can certainly be arranged.”

  They came to her door and she spun on her heel, the move sending locks of her hair spinning around her head. She was in the process of leaning a shoulder against the wall, and he was already reaching for a strand.

  He curled it around his finger, fascinated by the contrast of bright red against his tanned skin. He was careful not to tug, gently smoothing the ends between his thumb and forefinger. If he could touch her like this forever, he’d do it. Tell his father and all the other responsibilities that constantly weighed him down to go screw themselves.

  Which was a dangerous thought. A deadly one. For both of them.

  She’d been quietly watching him, her expression enigmatic, and he forced himself to drop her lock of hair and pull away. Distance himself before he made a mistake and voiced the way he was feeling.

  If she noticed him rebuilding his walls, she didn’t show it, but he wasn’t foolish enough to believe she’d missed it. She was observant, smart.

  Perfect.

  “I have to go,” he told her, inwardly cursing when his voice came out husky and low. He was giving himself away.

  “All right.” She nodded almost imperceptibly, her hand reaching out for the panel near her head to open the door. She kept her eyes on his, and he got the sense there was something she wanted to say but was unsure about.

  The door clicked open and she moved to step through.

  He resisted the urge to stop her, because it was ridiculous, misplaced, and there was no reason for it. He hadn’t been lying: There were things he needed to attend to before he could even consider sleep.

  “Trystan.” She paused, frowning slightly. It was adorable, her struggling like that. It made him feel like he wasn’t alone. “Thank you for dinner. I had … fun.”

  He fought against the satisfied grin threatening to split across his face, subduing it into an easy smile instead. Deliberately, he took a step back.

  “Good night, Delaney,” he said softly.

  She mumbled it in return and then slipped through the doorway, shutting the door behind her. It was too late, though; he’d seen what she hadn’t wanted to him see. That she was just as confused right now as he was, that there were things she suddenly wanted that were dangerous and possibly—in her mind—even wrong.

  It was another minute before he was able to get his legs to work. He was halfway down the hall when his father’s voice burst into his head, shattering every good thing he’d just been feeling in less than a heartbeat.

  “Trystan,” the Rex commanded, “you and I need to have a disc
ussion about Kilma. You’ve put it off long enough.”

  He ground his teeth and continued walking, not bothering to change course. “Would you like me to meet you, Father?” He knew the answer already. If the Rex had wanted to do this in person, he would have sent a Teller to retrieve him.

  Like he was still a child, or worse, a pet.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can work it out now. Don’t you agree?”

  “Is this why you’ve moved up the Unveiling?” He tried not to allow his ire to bleed through, but so soon after leaving Delaney, he wasn’t sure he was successful. She had a way of getting into his head, messing with the cold inside he used to create the barriers to keep people out. Another reason why he should be cautious with her.

  It was too late to distance himself, though. He’d already fallen.

  “I’ve ensured you’ll be available should you choose to go to Kilma with the rest. This is a serious issue, son. You don’t want to see an army rise up against your human, do you?”

  Trystan came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hall, barely noticing how tightly he clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

  Damn his father for being right.

  “The Tars are only continuing to rebel because of your insistence to place a human on the throne,” he continued, as if sensing Trystan’s wavering. “I didn’t raise you to allow others to fight your battles.”

  Trystan almost punched the wall. Almost.

  “These are valid points, Father.” He would have to be the one to lead the attack, for multiple reasons. His people needed to see he was still taking responsibility. His father needed to be shown that Delaney wouldn’t get in the way of duty. And he needed to ensure firsthand the Tar threat against her was quelled.

  Delaney had told him she didn’t want him to go, but that was because she was afraid of the Rex. Even knowing she had Sanzie and Pettus with her wouldn’t be comfort enough. Truthfully, not for either of them. If Trystan was going—and he’d just decided he was—he needed to leave more assurance behind.