Page 37 of Never the Roses

“That one, whoever he is, is no gentle man,” Tristan scoffed.

“His name is Em.”

“A lover?” Tristan asked, sounding displeased. “I thought you said you live alone.”

“I do live alone.” She punched down the dough she’d set to riseearlier, restraining herself from bruising it in her nerves. “Em is merely visiting.”

“Huh.” Tristan was clearly unconvinced. “For how long?”

“What?”

Tristan came up behind her and set his hands on her hips, drawing her bottom back against him as he nibbled on the side of her neck. “I apologize, lovely Lira. How long is this Em visiting? I have plans for this beautiful body.” He slid one hand up to cup her breast, thumbing the nipple expertly, and adding a sharper nip to her earlobe.

“Stop that,” she said, bumping him away, though it was like trying to dislodge a constrictor, his hands returning to roam further with renewed tenacity. “And I don’t know. I—”

“Am I interrupting?” Stearanos loomed in the open doorway to the garden, taking up all of the space with his broad shoulders, obvious annoyance, and potent magic. “I didn’t realize you had another visitor,” he said to Oneira accusingly, behaving as if they had been amiably chatting outside instead of pondering having an all-out duel.

“I didn’t think the information was relevant,” she answered lightly. “Tristan, off. I mean it.” Tristan gave her a wounded look and she realized she’d spoken to him as she would to a mud-covered Bunny. “For now,” she added, giving what she hoped was a look of sultry promise, sharply reminded of why she’d never been good at having a lover.

Once Tristan begrudgingly stepped away, giving her sad-puppy eyes, she said, “Em, this is Tristan, a poet and scholar who lost his way in a storm. Tristan, my old friend, Em. He’s staying for lunch.” She caught the Stormbreaker’s gaze and held it meaningfully. The sorcerer was no fool. He wouldn’t want a wandering tale-teller to tell this particular tale of Stearanos being in a partof the world where his very presence amounted to a declaration of war, Oneira’s retired status notwithstanding.

Stearanos made a sound like a low growl, but inclined his head to Tristan. “Well met, poet.”

“I hope you brought your own meat,” Tristan said, sounding more than a little put out. “There’s none in the house.”

“Can’t abide the stuff myself,” Stearanos replied, but with his gaze on Oneira, a light of interest in them. “Too many battles.”

She nodded faintly in agreement, understanding humming between them.

Stearanos waved a hand at the array of vegetables on the counter. “Can I assist?”

She looked over the pile she’d made, thinking he might mean something else. “Do you know how?” she asked, regretting the foolish words immediately. “That is—”

“If you trust me with a knife in your kitchen,” he answered with a wolfish grin that transformed his stern face, plucking a chopping blade from its slot, “then yes. I know how to chop vegetables for soup. Or a spring salad. I’ve spent time on the campaign trail, too,” he added, sliding her an opaque glance. “As you well know.”

She nodded slightly, realizing he likely understood things about her, too, but taken aback by the offer nonetheless. “Thank you, then.”

“What should I do, lovely Lira?” Tristan asked, giving Stearanos a defiant glare.

Naturally, the first time Tristan offered to help was to compete with another man. Oneira nearly rolled her eyes, then caught Stearanos’s questioning glance.

“Yes,Lira,” Stearanos said, emphasizing the false name, “shall I share the chopping? I also know how to pick lettuce, another refined skill of mine.”

“Any fool can pick lettuce,” Tristan scoffed.

“Then you’re just the man we need,” Stearanos noted, giving the young poet a wink.

She narrowed her eyes at Stearanos, who gave her a look of blithe innocence that did not sit well on his stern face. “And strawberries,” she told Tristan, handing him a bowl.

“Anything for you, my Lady Lira,” he said, snaking an arm around her waist and giving her a kiss that she cut off before he did. Tristan threw a smug glare at Stearanos before marching out to the garden.

“Young for you, isn’t he?” Stearanos inquired with a mildness that didn’t fool her, his blade flashing as he did indeed efficiently chop his way through the mounds of vegetables.

“He isn’t anything for me,” she answered crisply. “I’d never even met him until he showed up yesterday. I simply treated his injuries, gave him food and shelter.”

“And fucked him,” Stearanos observed, intently chopping. “Is that part of the standard hospitality you offer?”

“Ha ha. You wish.”

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