Page 34 of Fever

I pick up a shrimp and peel it with my fork and knife. It crunches in my mouth. My belly grumbles. “It’s excellent.”

“All the nutrition is fucking evaporating.” He stabs a piece of calamari and puts it in his mouth, then chews, making faces. He gulps as he swallows.

I laugh out loud. “You’re like a little kid with broccoli. Steamed is the same as raw. They didn’t even salt it.”

I must’ve said the wrong thing, because he widens his eyes. “Steamed food tastes like plastic.”

“Here,” I grab a saltshaker. “Put some salt on it.”

Sotay glares at the chefs, who turn away from him, heads down. “They better not fucking grill my steak.” Then, to my horror, he shouts, “You better not grill my steak, assholes.”

I sigh. “I’m never going out with you again.”

“You said next time just five minutes ago.”

“I take it back.”

“You can’t take it back. It can’t be unsaid.”

I sip my wine and continue eating. Sotay watches me, sometimes glancing outside. The server refills my glass and replaces our food with the main course. Sotay’s steak is nearly moving. Blood spreads all over the plate. It makes me nauseated, and I avert my gaze.

“What’s your name?” Sotay asks the server.

“Steve, sir.”

Sotay grits his teeth. The “sir” thing bothers him. “And why don’t you have a name tag?”

“Um, left it at home, sir.”

“What time is it, Steve?”

“Nine thirty-five, sir.”

“For the love of God, please say Alpha instead of sir,” I correct Steve, because it’s getting ridiculous that he can’t remember it, and Sotay’s all bent out of shape as it is. I’m not sure what’s got him so moody, but I’m not gonna let either of them ruin my dinner. The homemade mac is great, the wine even better, the music classic, and I haven’t had a date to a nice place like this ever. I moan around my fork, and Sotay lifts his head. I scoop out some noodles and offer him a taste. “Try it.”

He makes a face, scrunches up his nose.

“Don’t be scared of the mac.”

Sotay closes his lips over the fork. His mouth works, and he swallows. He chases it with water and shudders.

I laugh.

“I eat pancakes,” he says. “Those are cooked. Also scrambled eggs, but only because I’m used to the taste. The queen made us all eat them when we were little.”

The evening passes as Sotay talks about his family. His mood grows worse, and he even sings a Horde song, tapping the table for a drumbeat. The Horde sings this tune after a raid, so no human wants to hear it live. The other diners gather their things and exit. I’m unsure if he’s doing it to scare people off or to impress me with his singing. He also asks the server about the time at least twice. Is he on a schedule I don’t know about?

It’s near midnight when we leave. In the pod, Sotay sighs and rips the armor off his body, tosses it behind him before liftoff.

I bite my lip, then ask, “Is there something wrong?”

“Not anymore.”

“But there was?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to share?”

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