Chapter Twenty-One Monika
Chapter Twenty-One
Monika
It’s been three days since I—or anyone—has heard from or seen Taranis, so needless to say, finding him standing in too-short sweatpants with a hole cut in the ass for his tail to pop through in the middle of my bedroom as I get out of the shower is . . . unexpected. I shriek.
Taranis exhales heavily. He blinks a lot in a way that makes him look really soft and almost approachable for a seven-foot-tall alien monster, and then he has to go and ruin it by opening his giant mouth. “Good, you’re finished. Put this on. Let’s go.”
He tosses some clothes onto my bed—he must have gone through my closet and picked something out, and I can’t say I’m not impressed with the selection.
But considering it’s the middle of the day on a Thursday, I can’t imagine where I’d need to wear these thigh-high boots and this formfitting sweater dress, especially when he’s dressed like that.
“Um . . . what are you doing here?”
“Picking you up for our date.”
“What?”
“Get dressed. I’ll wait.”
“We’re fighting,” I remind him.
“Yes, excellent. Now, get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside.”
I’m so bloody confused. I start to drop my towel, and he immediately covers his eyes. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” I say in a low voice.
“Yes, but we’re leaving, and if I open my eyes and see you in all your glory, we won’t. So put this shit on, do your hair or whatever the ladies do or don’t, and come on. You have five seconds.”
I scoff and watch him bumble out of my bedroom, knocking his horns into the doorframe and cursing before he ducks and tries again.
I chuckle, and then I start to wonder whether I should bring up the contracts he gave me earlier this week or ask him if he’s okay or just .
. . what the fuck is happening? But I don’t do any of that.
Instead, the idiot I am—the same idiot who agreed to go on missions for Mr. Singkham or spy on Taranis or even become a war photographer in the first place—pulls on the sweater dress and thigh-high boots and follows the world’s greatest double-crossing superhero-villain to wherever he wants to take me.
And where he wants to take me?
The circus.
“Are you serious?” I ask him as Nicoleta pulls up in front of a venue guarded by a high fence, behind which stands a massive white tent, with people dressed all kinds of crazy flocking to it. I start to laugh as he ducks out of the car and offers me his hand.
He’s got a grumpy face on that relaxes when he pulls me toward him and then hooks his arm around my waist and holds me even closer. “It’s supposed to be fun.”
“It’s the circus.”
“It’s a circus for grown-ups.”
“Then why are there so many kids here? And why am I the only one dressed up?”
“So ungrateful.”
He pinches my ass hard, and I laugh as he walks me toward the VIP line while everyone else in the general line watches us agape.
I offer passersby wary smiles, but it’s hard to even notice them when Darius doesn’t.
Instead, he acts like this is all totally normal.
Like he’s a regular guy ordering popcorn from the vendor, who about looks ready to piss herself at the sight of him.
The people-pleasing Taranis is nowhere in sight either. He waves off anyone who tries to ask him for pictures or an autograph, and when he leads us to our seats under the big top, I laugh when he realizes the seats are too small for him.
“You’re also blocking the eleven rows of seats behind you,” I tell him, starting to stand back up. “Let’s go stand at the back.”
“I’m not going to stand at the back,” he huffs, and before the squadron of frantic ushers can try to accommodate him, he grabs my hips, hauls me onto his lap, and starts to lift.
We rise up into the rafters, him still in a chair position, me still seated on top of him.
He floats us over to where the light crew stands on a metal walkway and takes a seat at an empty place amid the employees—one without any railings.
I’ve never been particularly afraid of heights, and I’m not afraid at all right now.
I probably should be. He’s so hot and cold—one minute he’s asking me to marry him, the next he might just push me.
“Popcorn? Wine?” he asks me, warm breath on my neck, his strong arms circling my waist.
My arms prickle with goose bumps. “Yes,” I say breathily.
He hands me both, and as the circus starts and acrobats leap and spin onto the stage, I no longer think I might be in trouble. I know for certain I’m in trouble.
After the show, he flies us home, unwilling to wade through the traffic that Nicoleta is caught up in trying to get out of the parking lot.
We land on the balcony of his penthouse, my limbs all a little shaky from holding on to him as tight as I was.
He seems to realize this and sweeps my feet, then carries me inside.
He sets me down on the barstool in front of his kitchen island before moving around it with confidence and opening up his fridge.
“You were right,” I say with a chuckle. “That was an adult circus.”
“I told you.”
“I was expecting clowns and animals. I’m glad there weren’t either.”
He smiles as he turns toward me, his hands filled with peppers and round blocks of mozzarella. “It’s a variety show, technically. Not a circus.”
I nod and then shiver, residual chills from flying shooting up my arms. “I about lost my lunch when that guy stood on the other guy’s shoulders on a bicycle and went over that tightrope.”
Darius nods absently, too busy watching me with concern. “You cold?”
“A little. Mostly just still wound up from flying.” I smile at him. “It was a lot of fun.”
His lips part a little, and then he shakes out of it. “Let me get you a blanket.”
He returns a moment later with the comforter off his bed. He throws it all around me, and I laugh. “You don’t have a blanket?”
“Why would I need a blanket?”
“For comfort?”
“I’m comfortable.” I don’t believe him at all, given the furnishings in his flat, but I don’t say that.
“What about for your lady friends you bring over that might not be?”
“I don’t bring lady friends here.”
I find that unbelievable too. “Yeah, right. You’re the world’s most eligible bachelor—well, I mean, you were.” He glares and tosses a piece of chopped tomato at me. “You probably have a whole stable of lady friends.”
“I don’t, and even if I did, that’s where they’d stay—in the stables. You’re the only person who doesn’t work for me that’s come to my place.”
“I do work for you.”
He frowns. “You know what I mean.”
I don’t speak. I can only smile at him shyly as I tuck my windswept hair behind my ear. I’m sure it’s sticking out in every direction at this point, but he doesn’t look at me like I’m insulting the aesthetic of his place. He looks at me like he’s . . . absorbed.
“You want eggplant Parmesan or chicken Parmesan? Got Parmesan that needs eating.”
“You’re cooking for me again?”
He nods. I watch his hands work deftly with the tomatoes, not so much as pinching their fragile skins with his hands. It’s like he’s always had claws.
“Mmm . . . eggplant. Can I help?”
He hesitates. “Sure.”
He slides me a cutting board, and soon enough we’re working side by side on his kitchen island.
I’m still swathed in his comforter, which smells deliriously like him, and he’s standing on the corner adjacent to me.
He grates Parmesan and I slice eggplants while his red sauce starts simmering.
The smell of garlic and fresh basil swirls around us, making his place feel a little homier than it did.
“You cook?” he asks out of the blue, his tail constantly in motion and stirring the air behind him in a way I find oddly soothing.
I snort. “Definitely not. I’m more of a whatever-I-can-eat-that’s-fast kinda gal. It’s nice to have a home-cooked meal. I . . .” My voice breaks like a prepubescent boy’s. I clear my throat and try again. “I really liked my omelet.”
He stares at me for a beat too long, then nods and looks away from me quickly.
We lapse again into a nearly pleasant silence.
Nearly. There’s so much between us left unspoken, but I can’t seem to find the courage I need to bring it up.
Or maybe I just don’t want to break the spell of the moment.
This is nice. Maybe the best date I’ve ever had.
“I take it you cook often?”
“I do.”
“I took you for an in-house-chef kinda guy.”
“I had one for a little while. He sucked, so I fired him. Couldn’t make a simple ratatouille.” He clicks his tongue against the backs of his teeth, his brow furrowing in memory.
I can’t help it. I wish I could but I can’t. I bark out a laugh that has him bumping his shoulder against me in what was supposed to be a light gesture but nearly throws me out of my seat. “Shit, sorry,” he chuckles.
I laugh harder.
He smirks and places the eggplant slices on paper towels layered over kitchen towels and instructs me to salt them. I don’t understand why until I start to see little beads of moisture start to condense on the tops of the eggplants a few moments later. We flip them.
“You like heat?” he asks me as he starts to layer the thirteen-by-nine-inch baking tray.
“Yessir. The Korean in me came out stronger than the German, in that way.”
“Your dad is German?”
“He is. Born of Malian parents. Hence the melanin.” I got a lot more color from my dad than my mom, even if my hair texture came out very different from both of theirs.
For no reason I can think of, other than the fact that Darius is also Black, I add, “It’s not that easy being Black in Germany.
Or Korea. Or really anywhere, for that matter. ”
He snorts. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, laughing loudly and unattractively. I tuck my hair behind my ear while his brow flattens. He gives me a dull look, but there’s a humorous glint in his eye. “That was pretty good.”
“I still can’t fucking believe it.”
“What?”