Page 100 of The Hive Queen

I stop in front of the shed and reach for the door, but my hand hesitates on the handle. What if he forgot, or he was pulled into a meeting and there’s no portal? I hadn’t checked for an email before coming out here.

And what if he didn’t forget? How do I greet my sire without hatred and disdain as a buffer separating me from the other emotions that roil to the surface every time I see him? Do we hug? That feels like too much. Shake hands like uncomfortable acquaintances?

Maybe I should have brought Marc with me. Facing Lord Marius alone feels so daunting now that the moment has come.

With a deep breath, I open the shed door before I can overthink the matter even more. Through the open doorway, I see the mower and yard tools we store out here but rarely use. We don’t have a lawn, so we only maintain the driveway and let the forest have the rest.

I blow out my breath as I step forward, and tingles rush over my skin, the shed replaced by a well-cared-for parquet foyer from one step to the next.

Surprised, I take in the brown-and-orange, floral wallpaper and the modern-style, wooden entryway table, polished to a shine. A vase of wildflowers sits at the center, with a white bow crisply tied around the fluted neck.

When I glance over my shoulder, the glass panels in the wooden front door reveal an elegantly cared for lawn with a hedge-bush blocking off view of the street.

Are we still on the human plane? We have to be, with that much greenery outside. Is this Lord Marius’s house on this side of the veil?

“Breakfast is almost ready,” my sire calls from deeper within the house. “Come on in. The dining room is the first door on the right.”

The scent of sausage and eggs fills the air, along with the much-desired ambrosia of coffee. I follow the delicious aroma down a hallway filled with framed images of my life. Hand-drawn and painted pictures intermingle with black and white and colored photos.

Me on the street.

Me at a cafe.

Me hunting in the wilderness.

Images of Marc and Flint are there, too, in photos of us together. There’s even one of Sharpe alone at the police academy, from before he rejoined us.

While I steadfastly pretended my sire didn’t exist, he had watched us live our lives from a distance, keeping tabs on us and making sure we were happy.

My chest tightens, and I drag my eyes away from a framed photograph of me and Flint dressed as yetis from a month ago. Lord Marius had been in my life all along, never giving up, even when I gave him no reason to hope he would ever be anything but a silent observer.

When I step into the dining room, that tight feeling grows. Food covers the surface of the six-person table. Far more than two people can eat alone.

French toast, crepes, waffles, pancakes, souffle, quiche, country potatoes… Everything Lord Marius had suggested once we settled on brunch, plus a few things that weren’t on the list.

A clatter comes from a doorway on the other side of the dining room, and a moment later, Lord Marius ducks through the opening, carrying platters of bacon, sausage, and eggs.

Without the white robe of a High Lord, he looks younger and more approachable in a blue, cable-knit sweater and dark khaki pants. Black loafer slippers cover his feet, with cream-colored fleece poking out of the top.

His golden eyes light up when they settle on me, and he sets the food on the table. “I just need to grab the coffee. Please, take a seat, Merripen. Will the others be joining us?”

“No, I wanted to come alone.” I pull out one of the delicate, wooden chairs and settle onto it. “I’m sorry that you made so much for just the two of us.”

“That’s all right,” he calls out. “I have Tupperware so you can take the leftovers home.”

The image of my sire buying Tupperware brings a smile to my lips. His seven-foot-tall figure in the home goods aisle of a store must have drawn more than one stare.

He bustles back into the dining room and sets a flaming mug in front of me. “You still likecapunis, I hope? If not, I also have regular coffee.”

A lump forms in my throat as I lift the cup. “I haven’t had this in centuries.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose it’s hard to get outside the capital.” He sits in the larger chair at the head of the table and pulls a napkin onto his lap. “What would you like to start with?”

Overwhelmed by the options, I stare over the flickering flames of my coffee at the spread of food. “Is there cinnamon in the waffles?”

He beams and reaches for the platter. “Of course. I remember how you like them.” He slides one large waffle onto my plate. “There’s cinnamon syrup, too.”

I take the glass bottle he offers, appreciating the warmth. It pours out of the bottle in a deep-golden stream, filling each pocket of the waffle. When I take a bite, the perfect balance of flavors reminds me of childhood breakfasts in my sire’s home on the demon plane.

---