Page 39 of Lamb

“Starving.”

Chapter Eleven

LAMB

Gathering the necessary ingredients from the refrigerator, I set them out on the kitchen island, its shining surface reflecting a blurred image of my face.

My motions were practiced and fluid as I set each ingredient apart and pulled out the small dishes that went alongside them. I cracked the eggs into a glass bowl then pulled out the few slices of bread onto a plate, putting away each item before moving on to the next step.

I heard the pained gasp from across the room and paid it no mind. I made quick work of mixing the eggs as Ash hobbled across the floor towards the kitchen. I focused on the task at hand as she managed to lift herself onto the bar across the island. She sat hunched into her shoulders, eyes roaming all around me.

If she was looking for the evidence of last night’s rampage, she wouldn’t find it. It’d be hard to believe this was the same crime scene I’d returned home to. Not a single drop of sauce, a broken shell of pasta, or a shard of glass remained in sight. The scene was impeccable; even a fingerprint would be hard to find.

With a frown wove into her brows, she turned instead to the inductive hob, watching as I moved the eggs around the plate. “You can cook?”

I neglected the eggs and set the bread into the toaster. “I can. Though just making eggs hardly counts as cooking.”

“It is surprising, nonetheless …” Ash bobbed her head, a hand moving to push the wild strays of her mussed hair behind her ears. It still looked a million times better after I’d detangled it, but in just a few days, it had already begun to resemble its wild state.

“I own plenty of cookbooks.” I paused by the fridge, pulled out a water, and grabbed a packet of pills from the counter. I popped open the bottle, poured two painkillers into my hand and, after cracking the seal on the water, slid them, along with the bottle of water, across the counter.

Ash stared hard at me, seemingly unable to marry the idea of me and cookbooks. It took a while, but once abandoning the thought, she dropped her eyes to the counter, giving the proffered tablets a hesitant look.

“They’re painkillers,” I explained. “And water.”

Ash rolled her eyes before settling a pointed glare on me. “And here I was, thinking it was poison.” The sarcasm rolled off her tongue and over my skin, an electric current rippling.

She popped the pills into her mouth and took a swig of water, a shiver running through her body.

“I’m making eggs,” I explained, lowering the heat. “It should be easy on your stomach.”

“Okay … Jekyll,” Ash murmured, casting a sensitive glare on the bottle of water again.

I collected a glass from one cupboard, setting it on the counter before moving to the other side of the kitchen. I unlocked the coded latch beneath the handle and opened the door tucked under where the stairs descended into the otherroom. Inside sat a compact cabinet filled with various bottles of alcohol.

“Of course,” Ash grumbled behind me, more sweet sarcasm rolling off her clever tongue. I masked the amusement threatening to reach my eyes. “Why did I not check under the stairs? That is where everyone keeps their alcohol. I am an idiot.”

“You’re talkative this morning,” I said instead, pouring half a glass of whiskey before sliding it across the bar. “Feeling better?”

“Not exactly,” Ash grumbled, a hand unconsciously reaching up to touch her head, a headache no doubt brewing there. “Besides, you are the one being weird.” She didn’t give me a chance to rescind my offer as she scooped up the glass of whiskey. “Is this not supposed to be the part where you shuffle me back into my prison, lock me up, and make sure I never escape ever again?”

“I think you and I can agree that didn’t work. Either time.” I pulled out a plate, the only one remaining in the cupboard, and dished her eggs and toast.

“I guess,” Ash said, her drink perched permanently against her bottom lip as she took small, savoring sips.

I set the dish in front of her with a knife and fork.

From the beginning, I’d barely seen Ash eat more than a bird. She’d pick at her food, a bit here and there. Even the food I’d brought had turned stone cold with no more than a bite taken from each. Ash was slim, but her body had gone to waste over time. And now, instead of the soft, straight lines to her body, she was scarily skinny, sharp bones protruding from her pale skin.

“Eat.” I pushed the plate further, discomfort ebbing in my chest as she gave the plate a wary eye. “Or I’ll spoon-feed you.”

Her gaze snapped to my face lightning-fast. “I thought you said that forcing me was not working?” she hissed, her drink parting from her mouth.

“This is this, and that is that.” I shrugged, raising a brow, daring her to challenge me. I was more than willing to take up the offer, and her opinion was the least of my worries when it came down to getting some nutrients into her body. In fact, a large part of me wanted her to, the fight stirring something unfamiliar deep inside.

Sensing something from me, Ash’s fire cooled as she looked back down at the plate. Her lips pinched into a tight line, hesitance crossing her expression. I couldn’t tell what she must have been seeing on my face, but one more glance up seemed to steel her resolve. She took a big swig of her whiskey, tongue darting out to catch an escaping drop from her lip. I traced the movement, desperate to copy it, but I knew the same honey-sweet taste would be absent from my own.

Armed with her knife and fork, she swept back her hair and gave the plate a challenging glare before setting to work.

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