Something loud and rancorous unleashes upon the roof, a thundering assault unlike anything I’ve ever heard.
My heart leaps into my throat, gaze ripping from Kaan’s and darting around the room, searching for cracks in the walls since the building is obviously crumbling.
Did a moon fall?
Shouldn’t we be running? Hiding under the table?
Why the fuck is he so calm?
“It’s just a heavy rainstorm,” he rumbles, his voice a tender stroke to my hackled heart.
My body loosens.
Oh.
“It’s very … loud,” I say, still hunting the walls for cracks. “Are you certain it’s not a moonfall?”
“Positive. You are safe.”
I meet his cinder stare. “Debatable.”
“You are safe.”
“Because you need me for something—they always do. What is it? Might as well get it out in the open now, don’t you think? Expectations really pinch when they stab you in the back.”
He frowns. “All I want from you is for you to eat your fucking soup. And maybe for us to get through this slumber without any more bloodshed—a concept I’m aware you struggle with.”
My eyes narrow, seeking the fissures in his stare, finding only stone-hard conviction. “You’re a good liar, I’ll give you that.”
A growl boils in his chest, and he releases my wrists, stepping back. For some strange reason, it feels almost like ripping a seam open, my breath shuddering free.
He turns on his heel, picks up my spoon, rinses it under the tap, then sets it back in my bowl. Settling on his stool, he continues to eat in stoic silence, such a contrast to the battering of rain on the roof.
The air grows tighter by the second.
My gaze nips to the bite wound on his arm, blood dripping onto the ground. Still slicked across my lips.
I cringe.
I bled him in his mah’s home. Dammit. And dropped soup everywhere.
Turns out, I’m a shit houseguest.
Another grumbling belly gurgle, and I think of my beautiful, fallen Essi. She often baked for us. Loved experimenting with all the different foods I’d bring home from the markets.
I always thanked her, appreciating her efforts.
I’m almost certain I didn’t thank Kaan when he slid me the meal. Just began wrangling my spoon after watching him prepare it from my somewhat-relaxed perch on the stool.
Wow.
I’m a really, really shit houseguest.
No matter how much I dislike the male and everything he stands for, I should at least show my gratitude for the fragrant meal he cooked for us both. And persevere with trying to get some into my mouth.
With a deep sigh, I push off the wall and settle back on my stool, still wearing his blood on my face as l say, “Sorry for being disrespectful. And thank you for this meal. I appreciate the effort you put into it.”
He pauses, spoon midscoop. “It’s my pleasure, Raeve.”
I nod, toss my hair over my shoulder with a swish of my head, flick him a shy glance, then lean forward, pucker my lips, and shove my face in the bowl—sucking a long slurp of broth.
A moan slips out.
This.
Is.
Delicious.
Not too rich or salty. Subtle notes of whatever herbs he threw in here. There’s even the hint of something citrus. Don’t know what, but I like it.
I’m just swallowing my second glorious mouthful when Kaan erupts, his deep, gravelly laugh loud enough to battle the clamorous sky.
My cheeks heat, and I almost snap at him again, but then his laughter weaves a thick ribbon beneath my ribs that flutters up my throat and bursts from my mouth so fast it also spurts from my nose with a spray of soup that coats the butcher block.
My nostrils burn like I just snorted flames, but the laughter keeps coming, my entire body shaking from the force of it.
I’ve never laughed like this before. Not truly. I didn’t know it could feel this …
Good.
Why does it feel so good?
Tears streak my cheeks, soup drips from my nose and chin, my guts ache as my sound continues to spill …
And spill …
It takes me a while to realize the male next to me has gone quiet.
My laughter tapers, face muscles loosening. I unscrunch my eyes, looking sidelong at Kaan.
My heart stills.
He’s watching me with a haunting intensity that threatens to peel off one of the many calluses crusting my heart. A look that presses against my chest. My soul.
The sort of look that buckles spines, heartstrings, and knees in the same swift strike.
The air between us hollows, hungry for something I certainly don’t have the substance to fill, and I realize I might’ve been wrong about him. That he doesn’t want me for my affinity with Clode or Bulder or the ease with which I slay. That he wants something much, much worse …