Page 22 of Insatiable

“You deserved worse,” I snap, but there's no real venom in my voice. Just a weary resignation.

“Maybe,” he agrees, looking down at the table. “But I’m trying to make things right.”

We carry on asking each other questions about food, which is excruciating.

Tomas tries to keep the conversation going, his voice soft and careful. “Do you remember that chocolate lava cake you made for my birthday?”

I glare at him, but the memory slips through the cracks of my anger. “Yeah. You almost burned down the kitchen trying to make it yourself.”

He laughs, a genuine sound that catches me off guard. “True. You saved it, though. Best cake I’ve ever had.”

“Doesn’t mean anything now,” I retort, but there’s less bite in my words.

“Maybe not,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “But I still remember it.”

We continue the questions, the air between us thick with unresolved tension. Each answer is a reminder of what we had and what we lost. My stomach growls loudly, and I can hear similar sounds from the others. It’s almost comical, the way we’re all sitting here, starving and talking about food.

"Trust demons to come up with a party where we talk about food after not eating for seven days," I mutter under my breath.

Tomas smirks, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You know, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

I stare at him, the words hanging in the air. “Sorry doesn’t change anything.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s a start.”

I shake my head, trying to keep the walls around my heart intact. I’ve heard him say he’s sorry countless times in the past. The word has become meaningless when he says it. “Let’s just get through this.”

“Okay!” George claps his hands as his huge voice fills the room. “I want to mix you up a bit.” He points at Tate. “You come here and take the place of… er… Tomas. Tomas, you can sit with Quinn, Orlin, can you sit with Dade?”

The sound of chair legs being pulled across the floor fills the air as everyone moves around to George’s satisfaction. He moves a few more before deciding he’s happy with his choices. Rowena looks bereft as Felix is forced to sit at her table. The only good point is that Anthura also looks pissed off with the situation. I have no idea if Felix and her are still fucking, but I’ve seen them arguing together more than once in the past week, so something is going on with them.

I turn my attention to the impossibly beautiful Tate. In Hell, I look the best I have in years, but I can’t compete with Tate. She’s stunning. Bitch!

I sit at the table, arms crossed, staring daggers at the woman across from me. Tate. Even her name sounds too perfect. She's sitting there, smiling like she hasn’t a care in the world, while I’m practically vibrating with anger. She looks calm, cool—like nothing could ruffle her. God, I hate her already.

I force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace. "So, how long have you and Tomas been fucking?" If Tomas won’t admit to screwing her, maybe she will.

Tate raises an eyebrow and glances at me. Her eyes, a startling shade of blue, flicker with something amused. “He’syour ex husband, right?” Like she doesn’t already know. “What happened between the two of you?”

“Tomas has a habit of finding new distractions when he gets bored."

Tate leans back in her chair, her gaze never leaving mine. There's something about the way she looks at me that makes me feel exposed, like she can see right through the mask I’m trying to keep in place. "I’m not one of his distractions," she says calmly. "Trust me, he’s not my type."

“As a hooker, I doubt that, but I must warn you. He doesn’t have much money. Anything he did have when he died was left to our kids.”

Her perfect face falters for just a second before she smiles again, flashing those dimples in her pink cheeks. "I like Tomas. He’s a good guy. I think you’re still in love with him."

God, she’s a condescending cow. "I’m not in love with him," I snap, my voice coming out louder than intended. Across the room, George's eyes light up as he glances at me, furiously scribbling something down in his notepad.

"I’d believe that if you didn’t shout it so loudly," she replies, her tone dripping with smugness.

"I’m not shouting," I mutter, quieter now, but the irritation is bubbling just beneath the surface. She’s really starting to get under my skin, and I hate it. This is none of her damn business. "I was in love with him. I’m not now. I just don’t like the thought of him with?—"

"Me?" she interrupts, her eyes gleaming as if she’s won some twisted little game. “Other women,” I say, even though she’s hit the nail on the head. Itisher specifically. If Tomas had started dating Quinn or Ro or Twila, I’d be fine with it, or at least not as incensed as I am about him dating this woman. So what is it about her that riles me up? It’s because she’s exactly the type of woman I wanted to be and never was. She’s the pin-up thatgraced Tomas’s teenage wall, the supermodel that he drooled over in magazine spreads, the woman that always had it together as I was falling apart with three kids to look after. She’s the woman that I always thought Tomas secretly wanted to be with. She’s not got a single flaw and I hate her for it.

"What's your favorite food?" I ask through gritted teeth, my grip on the paper tightening until it crinkles beneath my fingers.

"I enjoy licking whipped cream off of..." she starts to say, but I quickly raise my hand to cut her off before she can finish with the word "cock."

---