Page 9 of A Kiss of Deception

“I am Milkor.”

“Strange name for an elf.”

His piercing gaze never leaves me. I suppress a shiver, uneasy. The sounds from my parents’ bedroom twist my stomach. Why bring a dark elf home?

“Are you hungry? The journey must’ve been long,” I say, eager for a distraction.

The rustle of fabric tells me he’s moved, but I don’t dare look back. I busy myself with pots and pans, the familiar motions soothing my nerves.

“What passes for food here?” His voice drips disdain.

“Stew. Nothing fancy, but it’ll fill your belly.”

“How quaint.”

I bite back a retort, focusing on chopping the root vegetables we’d scrounged up. The knife’s rhythmic thud against the cutting board helps drown out the noises from the other room, but they linger in my mind. Half-formed memories of dark elves from my past.

I recall their predatory grace and overconfidence. Their silver eyes gleamed like weapons against their shadowy forms. Childhood encounters left me unsettled, reminding me of my family’s inferior status and our constant wariness of the dark elves’ capricious rule.

“Tell me, little one,” Milkor’s voice is suddenly much closer, pulling me back into the present. “Do you often cook for your father’s... guests?”

The knife slips, nicking my finger. I hiss and pinch it. The pain distracts from my swirling thoughts. Memories flood back: a dark elf, ominous in stature, haggling with severity in the marketplace; another tasking father with grueling labor. These recollections twist in my gut like a blade.

I shake off the thoughts, forcing myself to focus on the vegetables before me. “Not that it’s any of your business,” I reply, trying to sound indignant to mask my discomfort. “But no. You’re the first ‘guest’ he’s ever brought home.”

A low chuckle. “How fortunate for me.”

I turn, all set to tell him where he can stick his fortune, but I can’t get the words out. He’s right there, mere inches away, silver eyes boring into mine. The air feels thick, charged with something I can’t name.

I turn back to the pot, stirring the thick stew. The smell in the kitchen is so comforting, but there’s a definite tension in the air. Milkor’s presence looms behind me, an unspoken challenge that adds weight to the comforting atmosphere.

“Are you sure you’re not hungry?” I ask again, my voice steadier than I feel. “It’s not much, but it’s hot and filling.”

“I have no need for your human sustenance.” His tone is dismissive, but beneath it, I sense a hint of curiosity.

I shrug, ladling a generous portion into a worn wooden bowl. “Suit yourself.”

As I set the bowl on the table, steam rises in lazy curls, carrying the rich scent of the stew between us. I grab a spoon and place it beside the bowl, then turn to face Milkor.

Milkor narrows his eyes, glancing from me to the food. “What game are you playing?”

“No game—just common courtesy.”

I clean up, aware of his gaze on my back, tension stretching between us. Then, the scrape of wood piques my attention. Milkor settles at the table, spoon in hand. He takes a bite, surprise flickering across his face.

“It’s not poisoned,” I quip.

He shoots me a look that would terrify most, but I’m beyond caring at this point. “I’m well aware, little one. Your pitiful human concoctions couldn’t harm me if you tried.”

I settle into the chair across from Milkor, my elbows resting on the worn wooden table. The aroma of the stew wafts around us, a subtle reminder of home even as our conversation grows more charged. His silver eyes flick downward, lingering on my form for a heartbeat too long.

A smirk tugs at my lips, but I school my features. So, the mighty dark elf isn’t above base instincts, after all. Interesting.

His gaze snaps back to mine. A flash of something—anger? embarrassment?—crossing his face before it smooths into that infuriating mask of indifference.

Despite his words, he takes another bite. And another. Soon, the bowl is empty, and I’m fighting to keep the smug smile off my face as I stand to check the remaining contents of the pot.

The scrape of wood against stone signals Milkor’s departure from the table. I keep my eyes fixed on the pot, pretending to be absorbed in stirring the remnants of the stew. My skin prickles with awareness as he approaches, his presence a tangible force at my back.

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