Chapter 8
The Art of Slow Heat
Riven
The moment June steps through my door, every instinct I possess starts roaring orders at me: Claim her. Protect her. Feed her. Keep her warm. Show her you’re a worthy mate. Pin her down and bind her in silk until she’s helpless and perfect and mine.
But my careful studies tell me: Be polite. Don’t scare her. Be mindful of your strength and size. Ensure she enthusiastically wants this.
It’s exhausting being a predator with social anxiety.
“Let me take your jacket,” I say, which sounds perfectly normal until I realize I’m looming over her like I’m about to devour her whole. I force myself to step back, giving her space, even though everything in me wants to draw closer to her.
June shrugs out of her wet jacket, and I’m reminded again how small she is. How fragile. The scarf I gave her makes her look even more delectable, like a gift I’ve wrapped for myself. The thought makes my silk glands twitch with interest.
I could have her bound and displayed in minutes, spread wide and helpless while I learn every sound she makes. We needn’t waste time with pleasantries—
Down, predator. Not yet.
But as I take her jacket, I notice she’s shivering slightly, and her clothes are damp from the rain. The adrenaline from her near-death experience is probably wearing off, leaving her exhausted and cold.
“You need to get warm and dry,” I say as I hang her jacket. “And you should rest. That was a significant trauma you just survived.”
She looks like she might argue, but then a particularly violent gust of wind rattles the windows, and she nods. “That does sound good. I’m running on adrenaline right now, but I can feel the crash coming.”
“The guest room is downstairs,” I say, leading her down the hall. “It has its own bathroom, so you’ll have privacy.”
The guest room is at the end of the hallway, a comfortable dwelling with all the furnishings a guest could need, soft colors, and windows that face the sunrise.
I’ve kept this room immaculate for years despite never expecting a guest. Now I watch June’s face carefully as she steps inside, searching for approval in her expression.
Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in the king-sized bed with its plush duvet and the tasteful mountain landscape painting on the wall, all carefully selected based on home decor magazines I’ve studied.
“This is… really nice,” she says, trailing her fingers over the wooden dresser. “I expected something more…”
“Webby?” I finish for her, noting how her pulse jumps when I say it. “No, I keep my weaving and web-spinning isolated to the cave in the back of my home. Though I can make an exception if we’re feeling adventurous later…”
She blushes furiously at that, and I can smell the sudden spike of arousal in her scent.
Fascinating. The memory of her caught in my web is clearly still fresh for the both of us.
“The bathroom has everything you should need,” I say, gesturing to the door. “Towels, soap, shampoo. You should take a hot shower and rest. The mountain isn’t going anywhere, and neither are you.”
June nods, still looking a bit overwhelmed. “Thank you. I appreciate all this.”
“Your clothes are still damp. I could make you something to sleep in while they dry.”
“Make me something?” She raises an eyebrow. “You keep offering to create clothing for me. Should I be flattered or concerned?”
“Flattered,” I say immediately. “Definitely flattered. Vyders only spin for people who matter to them.”
The admission hangs between us, heavier than I intended. June’s cheeks flush pink, and I can smell her pulse quickening again.
“In that case,” she says softly, “I’d be honored.”
I nod and step toward the doorway before I can do something stupid like offer to help her undress. “Take your time. Rest as long as you need.”
With that, I retreat to my workshop in the converted cave system that connects to the main house. My hands and legs are already moving, spinning silk into soft, loose pants and a tunic that will drape perfectly on her smaller frame.
The work is meditative, and it gives my overcharged instincts something to focus on besides the fact that June is in my home, taking off her clothes.
By the time I’ve finished the sleepwear and slipped back into the guest room to leave it on her bed, she’s well into her shower, the steam curling under the bathroom door, carrying with it her intoxicating scent.
It makes my mandibles click involuntarily, and I have to force myself to retreat to the kitchen and try to focus on something else.
Food. I can focus on food. Surely after her nap she’ll be hungry, and as is customary for a Vyder, I must prove to her my ability to provide for my mate.
I stare at the modest groceries Celeste brought this week and try to figure out what constitutes an appropriate meal. The Internet has very specific opinions about comfort food, so I decide to start there…
Hours into my preparations, I finally hear movement from the guest room. Bare feet on hardwood as she’s getting her bearings. I check the time and realize June’s been asleep for nearly three hours. Longer than she probably intended, but she needed the rest.
Quickly I get the stove going, intending for her to walk in on a warm home cooked meal in the making.
Instead, in the ten minutes it takes for her to get ready and make her way down the hall, I manage to do the impossible: I set the kitchen on fire.
Not literally, but close enough that the smoke detector is shrieking and there’s a concerning amount of smoke billowing from what was supposed to be boiling water.
How I managed this, I don’t know.
“Riven?” June’s voice carries from the hallway, soft and rough with sleep—or perhaps smoke inhalation. “Please tell me that the burning smell isn’t dinner.”
“Define dinner,” I call back, staring at the disaster zone that used to be my kitchen.
She appears in the doorway wearing the silk pajamas I made, and my breath catches in my throat at how perfectly the fabric drapes her frame. Her hair is mussed from sleep, and when she stretches unselfconsciously, the silk shifts in ways that make me want to wrap her in my web and never let her go.
“Oh, wow,” she says, surveying the carnage with barely contained amusement. “You’ve been busy.”
“I’m attempting something called carbonara,” I say, gesturing helplessly at the smoking disaster. “The Internet made it sound simple.”
“What happened here?”
“I’m not entirely sure. The eggs turned into rubber, the pasta became paste, and I think I may have violated several laws of physics in the process.”
June moves closer to examine the wreckage, poking at the congealed mess in the pan with a fork.
“Did you add the eggs while the pasta was still boiling?”
“Yes?”
“Well, there’s your problem. You basically made scrambled eggs with pasta bits.” She smiles up at me. “Though I’m impressed you managed to burn water. That takes real talent.”
I cross my arms and hang my head. “I don’t find this amusing.”
“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re trying so hard, and it’s kind of adorable.” She pauses, before suggesting, “How about I teach you?”
Something in my chest tightens at the offer, and I realize it’s my pride warring with practical necessity. Here I am, the one supposed to be impressing her, and she’s offering to rescue me from my own culinary incompetence.
Still, I find myself nodding slowly, accepting that perhaps learning from the mate I’m trying to impress isn’t the worst fate imaginable.
“Okay, before we begin,” June says, settling onto one of the bar stools. “Let’s start with what you know. What do you normally cook?”
“I don’t normally cook,” I admit. “Vyders usually eat their prey right off the web.”
June frowns and motions around us. “But you built this beautiful kitchen.”
“I thought I should learn. After the Great Unveiling, when I could finally interact with the outside world, I realized how many basic life skills I was missing.” I look around at the disaster I’ve created. “Though clearly I still have a long way to go.”
June slides off the stool and moves to survey the surviving ingredients on my counter. “Okay, no need to panic. You can still make a great meal out of just a few basic ingredients, so what do we have to work with here?”
“Pasta, canned tomatoes, garlic… That’s about it. I’d rather save what little remains of the eggs for breakfast.”
“Perfect. We can make basic spaghetti then.” Her hands move efficiently through the pantry, instantly locating what we need. “My mom taught me this recipe when I was twelve. It’s basically foolproof.”
“Your mother cooked with you?”
“Every weekend. Cooking together was bonding time for us.” June’s voice grows warm with memory. “She’d put on music and we’d spend the afternoon making dinner together. Some of my best childhood memories are from that kitchen.”
I try to imagine such casual intimacy, such deliberate nurturing. “That sounds… warm.”
“It was.” June’s hands still for a moment, and her expression grows distant. “She died when I was fifteen. Cancer. But she made sure to teach me all her important recipes first.”
The casual way she mentions such a profound loss catches me off guard. To think my intended mate suffered such a great tragedy at such a young age… “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago, but…
” She shrugs, focusing on opening the can of tomatoes.
“Some things you never really get over. But the recipes she left behind help. When I try out one I’ve never made before, it’s almost like she’s still right there, teaching me things.
Anyway…” June’s quick to focus on something else, turning to the stove and setting the heat to medium-low.
“First rule of cooking: control your heat. Most beginners cook everything too hot and too fast.”
“That explains the smoke alarms.”
“Probably. Here, watch.” She adds oil to the pan, swirling it gently. “You want to warm the oil slowly, not blast it with high heat.”