Page 43 of Tabitha

I glance down to see Tabitha diligently finishing the peppers and broccoli. Her head is tilted to the side as she observes her work, and I notice each cut is done with a precision that usually only a machine could produce. I assumed she was a liability, but I’m beginning to suspect she might actually be smarter than all of us put together.

She lives in her mind, thinking twenty steps ahead of the rest of us. She probably isn’t even aware of how to interact with other humans. To people like her, the rest of the world is inept or even incompetent.

It must be frustrating to live like that, not being able to connect with anyone else.

Worse, without explaining her steps, she comes off as cold and unfeeling.

And I, just as guilty as the rest, suddenly feel like shit.

As the butter melts in the pan, I nudge Tabitha. “You’ll want to put the vegetables in the pan and sauté them. I’ll start the rice.” She watches me diligently as I stir the food and add spices. She picks up each step so quickly that I bet she’d be able to recreate the meal down to the exact grains of rice.

It makes me wonder about her life.

For her to be so exacting, there must have been severe consequences when she got things wrong.

What happened to scar her so deeply that she could no longer function normally? My stomach churns at the possibilities.

The urge to protect her is nearly overwhelming, and I’m suddenly determined to find out what happened to her.

I couldn’t save my sister, but maybe I can save Tabitha.

* * *

TABITHA

I’m nearly skipping as we carry the meal toward the table. It’s stupid to feel so accomplished over something so simple. Food has always been a necessity for me, fuel for my body. It wasn’t until the other Belladonnas introduced me to chocolate that I realized it could be something more.

I quickly got addicted to the cocoa-y goodness.

My mouth waters from the delicious aroma of the stir-fry, and I wonder if I underestimated the value of being able to cook.

The men wait for us to put the dishes on the table, then Pierce holds out my chair for me. A flush climbs up my cheeks at his blatant attention, the man peeling away the shadows where I’ve lived most of my life. Being seen by him is unsettling, and awareness of him prickles almost painfully along my skin. I feel vulnerable under his gaze, like all my secrets are exposed.

It should piss me off, but I’m getting used to his attention, almost craving it.

I seat myself, conscious of everyone watching. River moves next, strutting around the table to sit across from me. He pulls the cleaver out and sets it on the table next to him in a place of importance, like it’s a prize he won.

“Do you normally have cleavers lying randomly around your house?” Bast asks as the rest of the men find their seats.

“While some girls collect porcelain figurines or knickknacks, I collect knives.” I shrug off the odd question and begin piling food on my plate. “It seems more practical in my line of work. I placed them around the house, because why collect something if you don’t intend to show them off and use them, right?”

It’s only when I take a bite of food that I become aware the rest of the room is watching me. I hesitate, feeling a little uncertain.

“Makes sense to me,” Pierce says, shooting me a wink before taking a big bite of food.

Deciding that I’m being paranoid, I focus on eating. When done, I stand, but Pierce grabs my plate before I can leave. “Why don’t you go shower? We’ll clear the table.”

I narrow my eyes, but he only smiles. “The people who cook don’t have to do dishes.”

I glance at the others curiously, and they each nod. Only when I’m convinced they’re telling the truth do I head for the stairs. I peer over my shoulder, mentally sighing when I find each of the guys watching me leave.

Oh yeah, they want me out of the room so they can talk.

I’m not stupid.

I leave them to it, since I have my own plans to make that don’t involve them.

Chapter Fourteen

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