Page 17 of Sold Bullied Mate

Almost, almost something close to the feeling of being at home.

Chapter 11 - Dorian

I’d be lying if I said I had no idea what made me so exhausted that I could fall into my bed and pass out for four hours in the middle of the day.

I do know—the stress of going to the market, of what’s happening with the Amanzite. The fact that since bringing Kira back to my place, I haven’t been able to get a single second of solid sleep. Lying here in my bed, knowing she was just across the hall from me, was pure torture.

And not just that, but this bone-deep sense that I needed to protect her. Knowing that she wasn’t next to me had me feeling like I needed to be awake, listening for every sound, every creak, to make sure she was okay.

But you can only stay awake for so long before your body just forces you to crash.

Now, I pry my eyes open, still feeling tired but not quite as exhausted, and look around the room. The sun is setting outside, and there’s the strangest smell in the air.

Like onions, peppers. Something savory and rich.

My stomach growls and I force myself to sit up, shaking my head and running a hand through my hair. Am I dreaming still? I don’t remember much of my grandmother before she died, but I’m pretty sure this house has never smelled this good. Not even when she was alive and cooking for us.

Slowly, I stumble to the hall, limbs still waking up.

Walking down the stairs and into the kitchen is like entering one of the sun-drenched scenes in a movie, when the protagonist is remembering the bliss his life once was.

Except this isn’t a memory, or a dream, I realize. Kira Argent is actually standing in front of my stove, humming lightly to herself as she stirs something in a pan. The kitchen is rich with the scent of whatever it is that she’s making, all spice and meat, the heady, thick scent of cheese.

Shemustbe wearing Ash’s dress, because I know she has no other clothes, but there’s no way this dress could ever look like this on my sister.

The top is like a tank top, with thicker straps, dropping low on her back to reveal her skin. The waist cinches in, hugging her curves and showing off her ass, and the hem swishes just above her knees. When she turns to look at me, I catch a line of buttons down the front of the dress, and I itch to undo them, to slide the fabric from her skin.

“Oh,” she says, and then, she does something I haven’t seen from her since she got here. In fact, I haven’t seen it since before we got to high school, back before when we were still kids.

Kirasmilesat me.

“You’re up,” she says, tilting her head. “Must have been one heck of a nap.”

I blink at her, throat feeling too swollen to talk. Thishasto be a dream, but it feels so real, and I can feel the steam from whatever she’s cooking, bubbling away on the stove.

When I look to the left, I can see a tidy stack of brown paper sacks, smoothed out. After a second, I catch something on the sacks that I really don’t like—another man’s scent.

Looking back at her, I growl, “Was someone else here?”

“Delivery guy,” she says simply, grabbing a plate from the cabinet and setting it gently on the counter. When she looks backat me, there’s something close to a twinkle in her eye. “I stopped him at the end of the drive so it wouldn’t wake you up.”

I frown. “You carried the groceries in yourself?”

To my surprise, she laughs as she scoops various things from various pots onto the plates. “Wow, no pleasing you, huh?”

A warm flush moves over my cheeks, and I realize I’m still grappling with whether or not this is real.

Kira Argent, in my kitchen. Cooking for me. Wearing that dress. Smiling at me.

It’s a moment in which I realize I’m getting something I never really knew I wanted, or at least could never put a name to—I want her here.

My mate. Like this, in my home.

And it’s more than the fact that she’s cooking for me, more than how amazing it smells and the fact that I haven’t had a home-cooked meal in ages.

It’s the way her eyes are lit up, how she moves competently between the stove and the plate. The swift motion of her hand as she slides what I assume is cilantro from a sprig, actually garnishing the dish before bringing it to me.

The pride in the actions. My mate, in my house, doing something that brings her genuine happiness.

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