Page 53 of Even Angels fall
Molding that pasta dough should be considered a sin.
And I watched every single second of it.
He still hasn’t said a single word when he finally puts the plate in front of me. I have no idea what this meal could be called, but all I want to do is dig in, my etiquette lessons be damned.
I also want to ask Elhyor how his brain went from “you just tried to kill me” to “I’m going to cook you dinner” in less than a day.
It seems so strange.
If I hadn’t seen him cook everything before my eyes and divide everything in two equal portions, I would have gone as far as thinking that he might be trying to poison me.
Except, I’m the one with poisons in my room.
There might still be some in Notre Dame, but I’m the one who came with the purpose of killing him, and yet he made sure I properly healed, and now he’s feeding me.
Sure, I wouldn’t have needed healing if he hadn’t pinned me to the wall, but I probably would have done worse if I were him.
I flex my hand, just to remind myself that he did indeed pin me to a cross.
I can’t start finding excuses for him.
He might have gotten my father to release Léandre—and to be honest, I don’t know how he managed that—but I’m still supposed to kill him… am I not?
If he can be killed.
After what he told me and the way he said it, I’m not so sure anymore.
I’m not even sure my father will really let Léandre come to Notre Dame for the wedding. I wouldn’t put it past him to have a trick up his sleeve, especially for this.
The wedding.
I’m getting married.
I should be used to the idea already—I was sent to do exactly that—but it hits me in the chest as if I didn’t see it coming at all.
In two days, the man in front of me will become my husband… and I don’t know him at all.
He takes the plate in his hand and grabs a fork in the other as he sits on the stool facing me.
As I grab mine, the only thing I can see is how big his hands look in comparison to mine, and yet they are elegant as he turns one of the stuffed pasta in the creamy sauce.
“Eat,” he says without looking at me, but I know from his small smirk that he saw me staring.
Tentatively, I cut the pasta in two and bring a smaller piece to my mouth.
Not going to lie, it smells good, and has been made with things that look very good, but he still could be a shitty cook.
My inner bitching stops short when the pasta hits my tongue.
That thing is amazing.
Why did he make so little of it?
I want that for every meal every day. On second thought, maybe not for breakfast.
But it’s so freaking good.
“Can you teach me how to make that?”
