Page 73 of Embers of Midnight
“Hands,” Ronan calls as soon as I clear the doorway, because I’ve learned his religion. “Wash, then skewer duty.”
“Yes, chef,” I answer, bumping his hip with mine on the way to the sink. His arm bracket around the grill tongs looks like competence and menace had a baby.
The sink water runs hot, and it’s bliss on my fingers. I towel off and turn into the chaos.
Ash has colonized the counter. A bowl of marinade sweats under cling film. He’s doing something obscene to a rack of ribs with brown sugar and a grin. Morrow’s eyes in the tattoo catch a highlight and seem to watch the meat with judgment. Silks’ little tongue is frozen mid-taste.
“Little flame,” Ash greets me, without looking up. “Try this.”
He holds out a spoon. I close my mouth around it and make a noise that would get me banned in polite society. “That’s illegal.”
“I prefer ‘competitive.’” He leans in and drops his voice. “You have basil in your hair.”
I reach up, mortified. He laughs. “Lie. You’d still be hot with a bush attached.”
“Stop flirting with the garnishes,” Caelum cuts in, measuring salt like a surgeon. He’s elbow-deep in a bowl of something green and righteous. “Some of us are trying to keep this meal out of the crimes-against-lettuce category.”
“Your salads are a love letter,” I tell him. “To chlorophyll.”
He makes a small, pleased sound in his throat and pretends not to. The color in his cheeks gives him away.
Darian is a moving wall of useful. He hauls benches into place, checks the string lights, and rehangs a charm on the back gate that apparently stopped doing its job last week. His shirt sleevesare rolled, forearms steady as a promise. He glances over his shoulder when I pick up a skewer. “Gloves,” he says.
I wiggle my fingers. “Heat-proof hands.”
“Splinters,” he counters. He wins by pulling a pair from his pocket and handing them to me with that face. I put them on because I like being cared for more than I like being right.
Vex drops from the ceiling beam like a criminal in training, lands on the spice rack, and knocks a packet of cumin into my palm with a satisfied croak.
“For the ribs,” he declares, then steals a cherry tomato and sprints along the curtain rod, trailing swagger.
“Accessory to flavor,” Ash intones, solemn. “You will be tried and acquitted.”
We fall into rhythm. Skewer, pepper, onion, repeat. Ronan works the patio like a battlefield—grill lit, coals settling, a second station set for anything that needs a quick sear. He moves quietly, checks the vents, tests the heat with his palm like a heretic. He notices when my shoulders get tight and brushes my lower back on his way past. Light. Present. More effective than ibuprofen.
“Outfits,” Ash announces suddenly, like a talk show host. He eyes me from boots to shoulder. “Approve.”
“I didn’t ask,” I say, smoothing a hand over the black dress I found in my closet an hour ago. Not mine, technically. Appeared over the week. Classic demon boyfriend behavior; except it came from four directions, and I’m not complaining. The neckline is simple. The fabric doesn’t fight. Ronan’s mother’s bracelet sits snug at my wrist, warm against Darian’s thread. My chest does a thing when I look at it I’m not going to diagnose.
“You clean up like a threat,” Ash adds, mouth softening. “Incredible.”
“Flirt later, baste now,” Ronan tells him without looking.
Ash salutes with a brush. “Yes, dad.”
“Never call me that again,” Ronan replies, deadpan.
The doorbell chimes like a polite spell. Darian gestures with his chin. “Guests.”
I wipe my hands, breathe once to remind my body this is a party, and open the front door.
Team Umbra arrives like a traveling circus that knows its worth. Nyra Kael leads, all long lines and panther calm in a leather jacket I want to borrow yesterday. The grin she sends me is sharp and friendly. “You must be Seraphina,” she says. “Or do you bite anyone who uses your full name?”
“Sera,” I offer, hand out. Her grip is warm and decisive.
“Kieran Holt,” says the man behind her, already juggling a casserole dish, a paper sack, and a six-pack of something crafted within a hundred kilometers. I know him as the Navigation instructor; today he looks less teacher, more teammate—worn boots, rolled sleeves, a smile that could sell expensive compasses. “Off-duty,” he adds. “I’m not giving you homework.”
“Thank God,” I answer. “I didn’t learn to multitask gratitude.”
