Page 20 of For the Love of the Gods

Marcus wouldn’t meet my eyes. Alright, so they quit. That was fine. This was fine. Expected, even.

“Would they feel better sooner if they cooked for the staff, but not for me?”

Raiden’s eyes dropped to the counter, giving me a view of his shaved head. “Yes, they would probably be okay with that.”

I knew it. There was a slight chance they were waiting for me to eat, but I knew this was the real reason Marcus looked hungry.

“They have an industrial kitchen? And this one is open?”

“Yes, Rose.”

“Brilliant then,” I forced a smile to my face. I started cooking out of necessity and it had quickly become something I really enjoyed, but this still stung. “Don’t worry today, Raiden. I have it covered. I cook for Max and Marcus all the time. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, starving.” Raiden’s voice still carried a bit of doubt.

“Perfect. Sit, enjoy,” I said, mustering as much false cheer into my voice as possible. They couldn’t feel guilty for something that didn’t affect me.

I decided to cook omelets, pulling out eggs, greens, mushrooms, onion, and goat cheese from my thankfully unchanged fridge.

As I began slicing the mushrooms, they began filling me in a bit more on what was happening. There wasn’t much yet, but there were sure to be issues with the transport of the dead. Dominic and I’s power was more removed than the gods who dealt with the concerns of the living, our roles gearing more towards guardian than patron. Even then, funeral rites and grieving were very much within the scope of our power, and everyone ended up in the Underworld eventually.

The conversation quickly moved from business to Marcus recapping a story about his weekend. I was halfway through sauteing the mushrooms and onions when the energy in the room shifted. My shoulders tensed and my back straightened at the same moment Raiden said, “Dominic.”

I lifted my head to find him standing at the entrance to the kitchen, assessing the scene in front of him with the intensity of a general stepping onto the battlefield.

I was having a good morning and he would not ruin it. So I forced myself to grin—he wasn’t getting a full smile out of me—and said, “Morning, Dominic.”

“Morning.” His response was short and clipped, but he stepped into the room. Towards me.

He was muttering something under his breath the entire way over. His first intelligible sentence came when he stopped mere inches away from me, crowding me near the stove.

“What is going on?” The question was spoken with a deep, sleep-addled grumble that sent my stomach flipping.

I tilted my head up to meet his eyes. His hair was sloppy and messy from sleep, and he had traded his night clothes for a tight fitting black t-shirt that left his tattooed arms exposed.

“I’m cooking,” I explained. “There is enough for you, so don’t get your panties in a twist.”

Dominic grunted in response, but didn’t move out of the kitchen. He slipped behind me and reached over my head to the cabinet to the left of the stove.

The kitchen felt so small. His woody, spiced scent was so powerful it completely blocked out the smell of the food. I kept my gaze trained on the very, very interesting task of watching eggs cook and tried not to calculate the inches between the side of my head and his huge bicep.

It was less than five.

He stepped to my side and began assembling the things he needed to make coffee. He used a stout gray pot that tapered in the center and came apart in three pieces. He packed in coffee, filled the bottom with water, and reached over meagainto turn on the burner behind my pan.

I had half the mind to tell him to fuck off, but I kept my mouth shut when I noticed he had grabbed two mugs from the cabinet.

Dominic stayed in the kitchen, leaning back against the far counter so he could watch the coffee and intermittently grunt or give short responses to Raiden or Marcus or Max’s attempt at conversation.

He was not a morning person, o-kay.

I didn’t stay silent, but I didn’t participate in the conversation as much as I normally did. Dominic’s proximity was about to overload my senses.

The coffee pot started whistling, high-pitched and screeching, and I jumped. Dominic steadied me with a scorching hand on the middle of my back. His hand was huge, taking up the space between the small of my back and my lowest rib.

“Careful.” The word was still grumbly.

I just nodded, meeting his eyes for a moment before stepping back in search of plates. Dominic moved faster than me, grabbing five off a high shelf and handing them to me. It was a casual, comfortable motion. Two words I’d never use to describe us.

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