Page 23 of Blood and Buttercups

Too soon, Noah slides a plate across the counter, right in front of my nose. I sit up, staring at it. I forgot to tell him what temperature to cook it to, but what difference does it make?

“Where’s your silverware?” he asks.

“It’s in the drawer next to the fridge.”

He hands me a fork and a steak knife that hasn’t seen a steak since my grandparents lived here.

I cut into the meat, and my stomach twists. “It’s still…um. It’s kinda bloody.”

Noah nods. “It’s rare.”

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful—but I’m not sure I can…”

This can’t be rare—it’s practically raw. Surely people don’t eat this.

“Just give it a try.”

I’m surprised it doesn’t moo when I stab it with the fork.

I cut off a tiny piece and clench my eyes shut, determined to eat it. It’s salty and warm, and the texture is all kinds of freaky. Quickly, I chew just enough I can swallow it. Once I do, I gag a little.

I open my eyes, breathing hard as I cling to the counter's edge.

“Dramatic much?” Noah says.

The spark of amusement in his eyes takes me so completely by surprise, I almost forget about the steak.

I take a sip of sparkling water, waiting for my stomach to object. When it doesn’t, I dare another piece. This time, I manage to eat it with my eyes open. When I’m able to keep it down, I eat a little more.

It’s hard, and I have to be careful not to think aboutwhatI’m eating, but somehow, I finish the entire thing.

By the time I’m finished, my dizziness is gone, and my stomach hurts only because my muscles are sore from throwing up so much.

I almost feel human.

Noah stands across from me, looking quietly pleased when I set the fork and knife on the empty plate.

“I did it,” I say triumphantly.

“Yes, you choked down my cooking,” Noah says dryly.

“That’s not what I meant.” I flush. “I’m sure if I liked meat, it would have been good.”

That doesn’t sound much better.

I glance at the clock on the stove. It’s been a little over an hour since I talked to Dr. Granger. “I’m supposed to see my doctor now.”

He frowns, looking me over. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to do that. I think I’m okay.”

“You still look a little worse for wear,” he argues.

Under my breath, I mutter, “That’s just what every girl wants to hear from a Greek god.”

“What?”

“I said I’m going to change. If you’re serious about driving me, do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

---