Page 4 of Claimed By Her Monsters
“I’m not sick.” I try for teasing, but my stomach rumbles loudly, ruining the effect.
He must hear the noise because his lips twitch as he places the bowl on a small table next to a high-backed chair. “You may not be ill, but perhaps you still need some tending.”
My heart clenches at that. It’s been a long time since anyone took care of me. I take the large spoon he offers, noting how clean my fingers are now. I’d scrubbed them raw after he left, unsettled by his comment about blood.
“I have news,” he says, stepping back just enough to watch. “Mrs. Hernandez called. The DA is declining to file against you. Security footage corroborated your story.”
For a heartbeat, the room goes still.
Then shoulders loosen and my chin comes up. “Good,” I say, steady. “They shouldn’t.” Because he attacked me. Because I defended myself. Because I was right.
“Thank you for telling me,” I add, quietly awed that someone pushed my case through so fast, but who would have the power to do that? To get the district attorney to watch grainy security camera tape on a Friday night? No one I know, that’s for sure.
He nods, solemn, like he understands how much this means for me and my future. “I’m still in charge of you for now.” He reminds me, but gently.
“I’m sure we can petition to change that next week.” I tell him and only then do I sink into the chair. The steam warms my face, the smell shifts from background to irresistible. The knot under my ribs loosens, and hunger slides back in now that fear has somewhere to go. I draw the bowl closer. “Did you make it?” I ask, unable to picture this polished man bustling around a kitchen like a grandma.
He pushes back his sleeves revealing muscled forearms and nods. “I’m a pretty good cook. Picked it up ages ago in Paris.”
“Paris?” I echo, intrigued.
“Yes. For a while I cooked in a Left Bank café. I’d come home every night with my hands smelling like thyme and garlic.” His gaze goes distant. “I got obsessed with the idea of substance. Of how food fills your belly, sure, but also your soul.”
I consider that as I lift the spoon to my mouth. The first sip nearly undoes me. The broth is rich and golden, threaded with herbs I can’t name. Pepper prickles the back of my tongue, sharp but not overwhelming, while tender noodles and shredded chicken melt against my teeth. It tastes like warmth, like home, like something I haven’t had in so long I forgot how much I missed it.
A low sound escapes me before I can stop it. A moan that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with survival.
“This is the best soup I’ve ever eaten,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can swallow them back.
“I’m glad.” He smiles then, a real smile, andoh my god. If I thought he was handsome before, now he’s devastating.
Lethal.
Something flickers low in my belly, heat curling where it shouldn’t.Shit. That’s the last thing I need right now, to be attracted to him. I shove the feeling down so hard it makes me dizzy.
Then he inhales, quiet but deliberate, like he’s scenting the air. My pulse stumbles.
I’ll be mortified if he somehow knows what my body just did without my permission.
But Alister doesn’t leer. Doesn’t smirk. Instead, his head tilts the faintest degree, his eyes sweeping over me with a frown, like he’s catching something just out of reach. Like something about me doesn’t add up.
Heat floods my face. I grit my teeth and look away.
The fragile ease that had begun to grow between us vanishes in an instant. His spine stiffens, his expression shutters closed. “You should stay up here the rest of the night. I have friends coming over.”
Girlfriends?is my first thought. Jealousy flares sharp before I can stop it, which is silly. So stupid.
He reaches for the door, brushing the knob with his fingertips. For a heartbeat, he hesitates, shoulders tight, like he might say something more, but whatever it is stays locked inside.
After he’s gone, I finish my dinner, then lie in bed on top of the comforter. The mattress is soft. The pillows are expertly fluffed. For a minute, I wonder if Alister has house-elves that run around making everythingperfect. Like Cinderella and her animal helpers. The thought takes me back to happier times, Disney movies and cuddles on the couch. Growing up, we didn’t have much, and yet we had everything, love, kindness, the kind of laughter that shook the dinner table. It was messy and cheap and perfect. Usually, I try not to think about it, about them, my parents. I may be adopted, but they always made me feel like I was their own. Now, with a homemade meal in my belly, I let myself remember. My mom humming in the kitchen. My dad cracking jokes until milk came out of my nose. I didn’t know how rare, how special, they were until they were gone.
Through my shut door comes the thud of footsteps downstairs. Voices follow, several of them, low and muffled, but definitely male. I lie still, listening as my body grows heavy. My thoughts turn to him, the handsome man with the ice-cold eyes.
I wonder who’s down there with him. I wonder what he’s doing right now.
Sleep drags me into darkness.
Chapter Four
