Page 5 of How to Dump a Vampire

Baking always soothes my nerves, but it’s not working today. Not with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infuriating lounging by the fire, critiquing everything I do as if he’s the gods-gifted authority on the art of bread-making.

It’s barely been a few hours since he woke up, yet he’s already made himself quite at home here, strollingaround my cottage uninvited and inserting his opinions where they aren’t wanted. He’s been peppering me with all manner of invasive questions in that posh voice of his.

Where am I from? Why am I alone here? What are the full extent of my healing talents? How does a humble peasant woman know vampire physiology so well?

Yeah, hard pass on sharing my life story with this stranger, fate-bound or not. I don’t care how muscly his forearms look when he folds them behind his annoyingly perfect head of raven hair. A girl’s gotta have her boundaries.

So here I am, embracing the peaceful cottage life, doing my adorable little homesteader thing. Just an ordinary forest witch with a slightly aggressive bread technique. Nothing to see here!

But can I get a moment’s peace? Nope! As I knead, Draven lounges on like a lazy housecat, criticizing and questioning my every move. He even critiqued the “haphazard” way I hang my dried herbs, insisting on reorganizing them alphabetically “for maximum efficiency.” Then, he scoffed at my “primitive” wood-burning stove and lack of proper silverware.Apparently, he’s accustomed to five-course meals at some fancy vampire castle.

Oh, and let’s not forget him raising that arrogant brow at my hairbrush with twigs for bristles. He just can’t comprehend life without his diamond-encrusted, sphinx hair combs or whatever lavish grooming accessories nobles use.

He won’t tell me who exactly he is, only that he’s rich and everyone waits on him hand and foot. If I judged him by his clothing alone, I would find this claim hard to believe, but no one other than a noble could be this self-entitled, arrogant, and clueless and survive.

Now, he’s moved on to insulting my bread technique as if he’s the gods’ gift to baking. I swear, just a few more smug comments about my incompetent dough kneading skills, and I’ll—

Deep breaths, Thorn. You’ve got this. Just keep punching and folding. Don’t let Sir Fangs-a-Lot ruin your peace.

“Is that really how you knead dough where you come from?” he muses, tapping his chin in mock scholarly observation. “Seems rather brutish. You’ll choke the poor yeast’s spirit mixing itso violently.”

I grit my teeth and keep kneading, refusing to acknowledge him.Just keep working the dough, Thorn old girl. This loaf is your baby, your pride and joy. Don’t let Fangs McGee ruin your peace.

“You know that dough owes you no offense, right? No need to teach it manners by punching it into submission,” he drones on.

Sparkles of energy crackle across my palms where I’m aggressively massaging the dough. Dammit. My magic always gets testy when I’m worked up, and whatever this mate connection has done to my magic is just making it worse. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions before Draven notices anything amiss.

Get it together, Thorn. Your secretive solitary lifestyle depends on keeping these mystical talents under wraps. Last thing you need is giving Mr. Tall, Pale and Handsome more reasons to stick around probing into your business.

“Might I recommend letting the dough rise near the warmth of the fire before baking?” he muses, peering at my work with vexing authority. “Could add a lovely airy texture to the crumb.”

That does it. This loaf isn’t the only thing getting kneaded into submission today.

I brush my hands off on my apron, walk to the nearest book off my shelf, and whip it at his aristocratic head. “Here! Make yourself useful for once and read this quietly while I finish, you yammering pine cone!”

With an infuriating grin, the wretched man snatches the book from the air without even glancing up. Blast his stupid vampire reflexes. Probably just showing off at this point.

“Such hostility over a few helpful suggestions,” Draven tsks, looking far too delighted by my outburst. “And here I thought we were getting along famously like old friends.”

“Old friends? About as famously as a troll and a unicorn!” I scoff. “Now read your book in silence before I shove those unsolicited opinions about proper dough-handling technique right up your—“

“As the lady commands,” he interrupts with an exaggerated bow, settling into the chair by the fire.

Mercifully, he opens the book and starts reading, finally giving me some peace, but did he just call me lady again?

I blow an errant strand of hair from my forehead and get back to shaping the rounded loaf. As soothing as baking usually is, my insides are churning worse than the dough after Draven’s constant needling.

Who does he think he is anyway, this stranger I pulled from the jaws of death? Waltzing in here and acting like he knows everything with his posh accent and stupidly perfect raven hair and strong arms that probably feel amazing wrapped around—

Ahem. Anyway. Where was I? Right, angrily kneading dough.

At least he’s quiet now, though as I sneak glances across the cottage, I catch the insufferable smirk playing on Draven’s unfairly kissable lips. No, not kissable. Oh, he’s enjoying getting under my skin, the scoundrel. Thinks he’s so clever.

Well, two can play at this game. I’ll get him back for being the most aggravating, vexing, distractingly handsome thorn in my side and send him off to never be seen again. But first, I need my daily bread to get through whatever antics you have planned next.

As I knead the dough, an idea strikes. Perhaps I can weaken the unwanted bond between Draven and I before he recognizes it.

Moving quickly, I gather a pinch of dried asrbloom leaves from my herb cabinet. They have nullifying properties useful for suppressing magical effects. I crumble the leaves and work them into the dough, chanting an incantation under my breath.

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