In the end, it is Soren who speaks. His voice is thicker than usual, a throaty rasp that lacks all levity. “Spying on me, skylark?”
“No.” I swallow hard against the lump in my airway. “I merely…I heard the sirens after the quake. Then I felt your maegic and…It was like I was compelled to seek it out. A tether, pulling me in. I could not seem to—” My teeth dig into my bottom lip, locking in the rest of my incautious words before they can escape.
Must I tell the man every thought that pops into my head?
As for Soren, he says nothing. He is unnaturally still, his body a gargoyle of stone on the edge of the roof. Suddenly feeling like the most voyeuristic of intruders, I begin to backtrack toward the trapdoor. I should’ve resisted the strange pull that led me here, even if I had to lock myself in my suite to do so. I should’ve—
“I’m hungry.”
I halt, startled into stillness by Soren’s abrupt announcement. “Sorry?”
“Famished, actually.” His voice is back to normal. In a heartbeat, he’s risen to full height and crossed to my side, moving like a phantom. The only indication of his recent maegical expenditure is his eyes. He’s wiped away the blood, but his irisesare nearly pure silver as they lock on mine, streaked sparsely with his typical sapphire. Only once before have I seen them like that—the night of Fyremas, as he fought the ice giants and drove back the Reaver clans.
“What about you?”
I blink stupidly at him. “What?”
“Are you hungry? You must be. You went to bed without dinner.” He doesn’t wait for me to follow him, merely prowls toward the hatch that leads back into the villa on bare feet. “Come on, then. I’ll make you a midnight snack.”
His tall form ducks down into the darkness as he descends the ladder out of sight.
After a brief moment of befuddled hesitation, I follow.
I sit ona stool, watching Soren move barefoot around his kitchen through slitted eyes, intermittently sipping wine from the crystal goblet he poured for me. I’m not entirely sure what to make of the sight of him huddled over a skillet, his large hand gripping a spatula. Gone is the man from the roof, with his quicksilver eyes and immeasurable power. Here is a new creature—one that sets my teeth on edge.
He moves with confidence as he collects ingredients from the larder and tools from his cupboards, as he cracks eggs into a flour-filled bowl. He did not lie this morning. The man does indeed know how to cook.
I sip more wine, hoping it might soothe the fluttering anxiety within. It is more than his ease in the kitchen that’s making me nervous. After what I witnessed with the tsunami, I don’t know quite how to talk to him anymore. Wariness lodges in my throat, so thick I’m certain I will not be able to get down a single bite of food despite the gnawing hunger in the pit of my stomach. Ishould tell him not to bother making me a helping. I’ll simply go back to my room and—
Soren sets down a plate in front of me.
My mouth fills with a rush of saliva. I stare, astonished, at the perfect stack of griddle cakes, golden brown at the tops and bursting with purple berries. They smell heavenly, like butter and sugar and sweet cream. I am abruptly ravenous.
“They’re no good cold,” he says, taking the stool across from mine at the heavy oak table.
I nod, still staring at my plate.
He douses his own with a pour of syrup from a porcelain tureen, then sends it sailing across the smooth wood surface with a sharp flick of his fingers. Jolted out of my trance, I catch it reflexively before it topples off the edge onto my lap.
“If you’re not going to use that mouth for conversation, you should use it for nourishment.” His lips twitch as he pauses with a forkful held aloft. “I must say, I find you strange when starstruck into silence, skylark. I much prefer you snappy and snarling at me to tongue-tied and taciturn.”
Gods, this man.
I shoot him another glare as I aggressively cut into my meal, my knife scraping the plate with a piercing shriek. All annoyance vanishes the instant the first bite hits my tongue. The syrup’s sweetness mixed with the unfamiliar tang of tart berry juice is a revelation. I thought the sensory feast I experienced at the floating market would never be topped, but this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. I cannot stop a low hum of pleasure from escaping the back of my throat as I chew.
Soren’s gaze flickers up to mine at the sound. “Satisfactory?”
I manage to swallow, still reeling from the flavors bursting across my tongue. “What kind of fruit is this?”
“You’ve never had a seaberry before?”
I shake my head and take a sip of the crisp, floral wine—a perfect pairing for the tangy berries—to wash it down. “They do not grow in the Midlands. Not anywhere I’ve been, in any case.”
“Ah.” He saws another forkful off his stack. “I sometimes take the Llyrian climate for granted. We have a long growing season on the mainland. What we cannot produce ourselves, we import from the Southlands or across the North Sea. And here in the capital, we have several greenhouses that keep us in plentiful produce during the colder season. They’re not far from the Easterly Beacon, if you feel the urge to explore tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
Will I still be here tomorrow?