Page 210 of Ashes of Sin and Stardust

“Nope.”

“It’s a type of therapy involving flashing lights, REM sleep cycles, and traumatic memories. It deprograms your trauma.”

“You’re joking. That sounds like science fiction.” I pushed myself up by my arms and sat on the counter across from him while I watched him pour some milk into a saucepan.

“It’s real. And we use a lot of it at The Weston House. I wasn’t going to bring this up, because I don’t want you to feel like your needs are a problem, because they’renot. Iwantto take care of you, and Iwantto fulfill your needs. But, I’d like to maybe get you in for a few sessions, if that’s something you’re willing to try.”

“Okay... I’m not opposed to different kinds of therapy. But why did you change your mind and decide to bring it up?”And why were you sitting on the floor by my bed this morning?

“Because baby... you scream in your sleep.”

I sat rigidly still on the counter, my fingers digging into the marble. I whispered, “I do?”

“Sometimes. And I hate hearing you so upset. You safeword in your sleep, which tells me you’re having some very upsetting dreams.”

“Didn’t it stop after our scene at AnchorX?”

“Mostly... but it happened again last night, and a few nights before that. I was hoping it would go away, but I’d like to help you work on that, if you’re okay with it.”

I stared at his hands as he finished cutting the chocolate and began mixing it in, stirring the milk slowly. Augustus had always used powder mix and water to make hot chocolate. Reuben had broken out a knife and a chocolate bar first thing in the morning for me, only because I’d had a bad dream last night.

“Is that something you’d be interested in trying?” he asked me.

“I mean, I’ll try anything twice,” I shrugged. “So yeah, I don’t see why not.” Especially since he was clearly so concerned for me. Despite his insistence, I did feel icky knowing I was being a traumatized pain in the ass and had disrupted the small amount of sleep he got.

“Why twice?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“It might have sucked the first time.”

“Hm.” He ladled some of the cocoa into a mug and brought it to the table, motioning for me to follow him. I jumped down from the counter and did so but froze as I watched him take a spoon and measure out a heaping tablespoon from the sugar container on the table.

Oh no. Oh shit.

I tried not to let my face react. Last night after I’d finished cleaning up, I’d swapped the sugar and salt as an anticipatory prank for today. I watched in horror as he dumped a huge spoonful of salt into the steaming mug of hot chocolate. Never before have I had a prank backfire on me so disastrously.This is bad. I’m going to have to drink that. And he was being so sweet to me!

“Here you go, baby,” he said, sliding the mug into the spot where I normally sat. I held the mug in my hands and tentatively lifted it to my lips, hoping it wasn’t too horrendous.

It was awful. It took everything in me not to react.

He set to preparing his breakfast. “Have I ever told you about the time my mentor, Oliver Dupont, taught me to cut an onion?”

“No, Sir,” I said, pretending to sip the cocoa.

I could hear Reuben rifling through the fridge, looking for the ingredients he wanted for his omelet. He seemed to make one every day.

“Cutting onions is one of the first things you learn to do safely in any kitchen, but Oliver had very specific methods. He wanted no waste. I was taught by my mother to cut off the ends of the onion and use them for stock. Oliver didn’t like that one bit.”

I watched Reuben as he pulled the outer skin off the onion he was holding. “He taught me how to cut these in a very exacting way. Every single swipe of the knife mattered to him. When I could do it easily, he blindfolded me and made me perfect it without being able to see.” He looked me in the eye as his hands flew, dicing the onion without looking at what he was doing.

I swallowed hard. I loved watching him work with knives. I had a major knife kink, and he was an absolute master with the tools.

Mushrooms, spinach, and some spices flew into the pan. He cracked a few eggs into a bowl and began to whisk them, pouring them over the ingredients in his pan.

“He did the same with every new challenge he threw at me. He presented me with a method, and then careful, effective training to master the skill. Then he would take away my sight and force me to rely only on my instincts, my sense of touch, smell, and awareness.

“I had to make entire meals blindfolded before,” he said, finishing the omelet and scooping it onto his plate, and then setting it in front of his spot on the table.

He sat down and scooted himself closer to the table, reaching for the pepper grinder and the sugar pot on the table. “So, I’m not sure why you think, after being a professional chef for my entire adult life, I can’t tell the difference between sugar and salt by looking at them.”

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