Page 88 of Grim
I watch her sleep, hoping to absorb her quiet, but my growing feelings are yelling too loud. The ache in my hollow chest pinches, a physical sensation I’ve not known in centuries.
I sigh, the sound voicing the only thought in my head.This is going to be fucking devastating.
She’s humming this morning.Humming.Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains, casting long, sleepy rays across the kitchen floor, and there she is—padding across the tiles, singing off-key like a broken siren.
As I take in the scene before me, my eyes travel downthe length of Rue’s body to the slippers on her feet. What looks like a pair of enormous clouds consumes her small ankles. Her feet sit inside the puffy masses of cotton that appear to be swallowing her legs slowly. As she turns to face me, I notice the slippers are not clouds. I am staring back at the face of two identical bunny rabbits.
“What are those?” I ask, the derision evident in my tone.
“These?” She wiggles her feet obnoxiously.
“Yes.”
“These are my hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities.”
I do not respond.
“Do you like them?”
“No.”
“I have another pair that might fit you. If you want to try them on. They’re surprisingly comfortable. Like walking on air.”
“I can do that without wearing those abominations.”
“They’re not abominations. They’re slippers, Kane.”
“Slippers,” I scoff.
“And not just any kind of indoor footwear. No, no. This is Bunny,” she says and holds up her left foot. “And Cher.” Then she shakes her right foot.
“You did not name your slippers.”
“My hippity-hoppity flippity-floppities, you mean? Yes, I did. I named them Bunny and Cher.”
Having no idea how to respond to this childish inanity, I opt for silence. Eventually, she turns back around and continues her task.
I stand in the doorway, watching as she cracks eggs into a bowl with an absent smile on her face, her hair messy and her cheeks still rosy from sleep.
“Something wrong, Grim?” she asks without looking up, her voice light, teasing. “You look like a man staring into the abyss. Again.”
“Just concerned about Fate,” I murmur absently.
She glances back at me, one brow arched. “Mine?”
I shake off my darker thoughts and return to the present. “Of those eggs actually.” I shrug, dragging a hand through my hair.
She rolls her eyes and goes back to whisking. “I make excellent eggs.”
“Everyone says that, and most people don’t.”
She glares at me suspiciously. “It’s basically impossible to ruin scrambled eggs.”
I meet her gaze defiantly. “You seem to be well on your way.”
“Oh, really? And what exactly am I doing wrong? Eggs. Bowl. Beating. Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”
I sigh, debating if this is worth my time. If it’s worth her time. Deciding it’s never too late to learn something new, I move from the archway of the kitchen toward her as I begin to instruct, “Set the bowl down. Turn that burner off and get a new pan.”
