Page 13 of Thorn of Sorrow

“So, you pressure cook it for what, forty minutes and it’s done? Just like that?” I watched as he adjusted the time, the beeps echoing in the small room.

It wasn’t that small, but compared to the towering grandeur of the other rooms, the kitchen felt snug, like a warm hug wrapped in sunlight.

This was another space Malachi had let me own. I’d found a picture in one of those home and garden magazines, and Dick had brought it to life.

Swear, it was an exact replica of the one from the magazine. He’d even flawlessly filled in the areas that couldn’t be seen in the picture.

Buttery yellow walls reflected the soft glow from the crank-open windows above the farmhouse sink, where a slight, warm breeze stirred strands of my hair. The sink itself was massive, its porcelain surface gleaming, and wide enough that I swore I could probably curl up inside it. Beyond the window, the backyard sprawled, the grass swaying in the breeze.

“Yes,” Dick said, his voice as steady as his hands. “Forty minutes, and you have a complete meal.”

The guy had more patience than anyone I’d ever met. I was like a toddler with a million questions, but he never seemed irritated when I asked them. Except whenever I asked what he was. Then his eyes did that glowing thing, a warning to drop the subject.

“What exactly are you cooking?” That was one thing that sucked about a pressure cooker. I couldn’t lift the lid and inhale the aromas, which was one of my favorite things to do.

Dick stood at the butcher-block island in the center of the room, his knife moving in fluid, precise strokes as he chopped potatoes into perfect cubes. The wood beneath his hands was nicked and worn, its surface etched with faint scars from countless meals prepared over the years. Copper pots and pans swayed slightly on the wrought-iron rack overhead, catching the light with every faint movement.

“Barbecue short ribs,” he replied, his hand never missing a beat with the knife, even when he glanced at me. If I’d tried to cut something that fast, my fingers would be included in the dish.

The six-burner cast iron stove on the far side of the kitchen added its own charm to the space, its brass accents gleaming faintly. A pot of baked beans simmered on the front burner, the scent of brown sugar and molasses curling through the room and wrapping around me. Three times, I’d grabbed a spoon for a taste, my mouth watering for more.

I leaned my hip against the oak counter next to the sink, watching him work. The surface was smooth and polished, its honeyed tones glowing in the sunlight. My entire life—all twenty-six years—I’d never eaten this good. Dick’s food was like having my own gourmet chef. Every single dish he’d cooked had been perfection, a slice of comfort in a life that rarely offered any.

Whatever he was, the guy was a master at cooking. Last winter, I’d stupidly used the shimmer on one of my needs to get out of the castle and fucked around and caught the flu.

If the vampires avoided me before, it was nothing compared to a sneezing, watery-eyed, runny-nose human. They’d acted like I’d been a walking plague or the harbinger of death. Not even Giovanni had come near me.

But Dick? He’d not only nursed me back to health but had fed me the most amazing soup I’d ever tasted. I still salivated whenever I thought of its deliciousness.

Dane walked in, heading straight for the pantry. Which meant Malachi was lingering in the hallway. The room was too bright for him to enter. He’d insisted on having the windows in the kitchen sealed after my possession, but I’d had such a meltdown, he’d dropped the subject.

The kitchen had incredible lighting during the day, and fuck if anyone was taking that away from me. I wasn’t sure how the whole dimension thing worked, but a slight breeze filtered through the windows from the countryside yard, carrying the scent of honeysuckle as a few birds tweeted. I needed that sense of normalcy, as well as the sunshine and scents from the outside world.

At times, it had been the only thing that had saved my sanity.

I didn’t move when Dane walked out of the pantry, hoping he didn’t notice me. No such luck.

“Are you done hiding, or should I pretend you’re invisible?” He set the package of cookies on the counter, grabbed a spoon, and tasted the beans.

He slapped his hand on the counter, his eyes rolling back. The guy had more food orgasms than anyone I’d ever known. “You are a rock star, Richard.”

Dick smiled, seeming pleased at the praise.

“Dude, I complimented it three times, and you didn’t once preen at me,” I grumbled.

Regret filled his eyes. “My apologies, Kyson. I’ve just grown so used to your praise, I’ve begun to take it for granted.”

“And Dane is the shiny new toy,” I replied.

Dane shot me an uncomfortable glance, causing me to realize how bitchy I sounded.

“Sorry.” I ran my hand through my hair. He was one of two people who wasn’t offended by my scent, and I was unintentionally pushing him away. That would only make me feel even more isolated, which was the opposite of what I wanted.

I’d had enough of feeling hopelessly alone for the past five years.

“I’m just—” Having a hard time since seeing Malachi basically worship you. “It’s just an off day for me.”

“I’m not trying to sound selfish,” Dane said as he approached. “And trust me, I get… you know.” He pointed at his head, referring to both of us refusing to talk about our trauma. “But you and I are the only humans here. No offense, Richard.”

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