5. 3
3
Thorn
T his man is going to be the death of me and not in the romantic, destined soulmates type of way. More in the “I’m about to strangle him with my bare hands” type of way.
I aggressively work the dough, imagining Draven’s perfect smirking face in place of the innocent lump of bread. Punch, fold, flip. Punch, fold, flip. It’s therapeutic usually.
Baking always soothes my nerves, but it’s not working today. Not with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Infuriating lounging by the fire, critiquing everything I do as if he’s the gods-gifted authority on the art of bread-making.
It’s barely been a few hours since he woke up, yet he’s already made himself quite at home here, strolling around my cottage uninvited and inserting his opinions where they aren’t wanted. He’s been peppering me with all manner of invasive questions in that posh voice of his.
Where am I from? Why am I alone here? What are the full extent of my healing talents? How does a humble peasant woman know vampire physiology so well?
Yeah, hard pass on sharing my life story with this stranger, fate-bound or not. I don’t care how muscly his forearms look when he folds them behind his annoyingly perfect head of raven hair. A girl’s gotta have her boundaries.
So here I am, embracing the peaceful cottage life, doing my adorable little homesteader thing. Just an ordinary forest witch with a slightly aggressive bread technique. Nothing to see here!
But can I get a moment’s peace? Nope! As I knead, Draven lounges on like a lazy housecat, criticizing and questioning my every move. He even critiqued the “haphazard” way I hang my dried herbs, insisting on reorganizing them alphabetically “for maximum efficiency.” Then, he scoffed at my “primitive” wood-burning stove and lack of proper silverware. Apparently, he’s accustomed to five-course meals at some fancy vampire castle.
Oh, and let’s not forget him raising that arrogant brow at my hairbrush with twigs for bristles. He just can’t comprehend life without his diamond-encrusted, sphinx hair combs or whatever lavish grooming accessories nobles use.
He won’t tell me who exactly he is, only that he’s rich and everyone waits on him hand and foot. If I judged him by his clothing alone, I would find this claim hard to believe, but no one other than a noble could be this self-entitled, arrogant, and clueless and survive.
Now, he’s moved on to insulting my bread technique as if he’s the gods’ gift to baking. I swear, just a few more smug comments about my incompetent dough kneading skills, and I’ll—
Deep breaths, Thorn. You’ve got this. Just keep punching and folding. Don’t let Sir Fangs-a-Lot ruin your peace.
“Is that really how you knead dough where you come from?” he muses, tapping his chin in mock scholarly observation. “Seems rather brutish. You’ll choke the poor yeast’s spirit mixing it so violently.”
I grit my teeth and keep kneading, refusing to acknowledge him. Just keep working the dough, Thorn old girl. This loaf is your baby, your pride and joy. Don’t let Fangs McGee ruin your peace.
“You know that dough owes you no offense, right? No need to teach it manners by punching it into submission,” he drones on.
Sparkles of energy crackle across my palms where I’m aggressively massaging the dough. Dammit. My magic always gets testy when I’m worked up, and whatever this mate connection has done to my magic is just making it worse. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions before Draven notices anything amiss.
Get it together, Thorn. Your secretive solitary lifestyle depends on keeping these mystical talents under wraps. Last thing you need is giving Mr. Tall, Pale and Handsome more reasons to stick around probing into your business.
“Might I recommend letting the dough rise near the warmth of the fire before baking?” he muses, peering at my work with vexing authority. “Could add a lovely airy texture to the crumb. ”
That does it. This loaf isn’t the only thing getting kneaded into submission today.
I brush my hands off on my apron, walk to the nearest book off my shelf, and whip it at his aristocratic head. “Here! Make yourself useful for once and read this quietly while I finish, you yammering pine cone!”
With an infuriating grin, the wretched man snatches the book from the air without even glancing up. Blast his stupid vampire reflexes. Probably just showing off at this point.
“Such hostility over a few helpful suggestions,” Draven tsks, looking far too delighted by my outburst. “And here I thought we were getting along famously like old friends.”
“Old friends? About as famously as a troll and a unicorn!” I scoff. “Now read your book in silence before I shove those unsolicited opinions about proper dough-handling technique right up your—“
“As the lady commands,” he interrupts with an exaggerated bow, settling into the chair by the fire.
Mercifully, he opens the book and starts reading, finally giving me some peace, but did he just call me lady again ?
I blow an errant strand of hair from my forehead and get back to shaping the rounded loaf. As soothing as baking usually is, my insides are churning worse than the dough after Draven’s constant needling.
Who does he think he is anyway, this stranger I pulled from the jaws of death? Waltzing in here and acting like he knows everything with his posh accent and stupidly perfect raven hair and strong arms that probably feel amazing wrapped around—
Ahem. Anyway. Where was I? Right, angrily kneading dough.
At least he’s quiet now, though as I sneak glances across the cottage, I catch the insufferable smirk playing on Draven’s unfairly kissable lips. No, not kissable. Oh, he’s enjoying getting under my skin, the scoundrel. Thinks he’s so clever.
Well, two can play at this game. I’ll get him back for being the most aggravating, vexing, distractingly handsome thorn in my side and send him off to never be seen again. But first, I need my daily bread to get through whatever antics you have planned next.
As I knead the dough, an idea strikes. Perhaps I can weaken the unwanted bond between Draven and I before he recognizes it .
Moving quickly, I gather a pinch of dried asrbloom leaves from my herb cabinet. They have nullifying properties useful for suppressing magical effects. I crumble the leaves and work them into the dough, chanting an incantation under my breath.
The bread takes on a faint shimmer as the magic spreads evenly through it. There, this should help block Draven’s senses when I eventually serve the loaf, keeping the mating bond clouded. He’ll eat it without knowing a thing. Our paths will then part ways with no cosmic strings attaching us. I release a breath, satisfied.
You’re clever, Draven, but not as clever as me. This vampire might think he has the upper hand, but I have tricks up my sleeve too. Let’s see that over-confident grin when he tastes my spell-laced bread.
Magic zaps through me unexpectedly, and I yelp, shaking my singed hand. Blast! Gotta be careful not to overdo it while the loaf bakes. Just enough to mask the bond, not torch the whole cottage down.
I sneak another glance at Draven. Soon, fate’s meddling will be muted, and we can go our separate ways. It’s for the best, no matter the ache the thought strangely stirs in my heart .
Game on, Draven Fangface. Let the battle of wills commence, but fair warning—I’m no damsel to be trifled with. If you think one lethally aimed book was the extent of my retaliation, you’ve got another thing coming. This sassy sorceress always gets payback.
I finish shaping the loaf with a satisfied smile. Round one goes to me, vampire boy. My cottage, my rules.
***
The bread safely tucked away to bake, I settle into the worn velvet armchair by the fireplace and take up my knitting needles and yarn. If I can just lose myself in the steady click-clack of the needles, maybe I can tune out the vexing vampire currently invading my home and ignore the urge to watch his every move. I need this mate bond to be gone. This is ridiculous. I’m no teenage girl. I’m over three hundred years old for crying out loud!
Knitting has always soothed my nerves. Something about the repetitive motion lets my mind empty of all worries as I focus only on the soft yarn gliding through my fingers. With each new row, I can feel the tension easing from my shoulders.
I glance to where Draven lounges across the cottage, hoping he takes the hint that I’m now occupied. Wishful thinking. He peers at my knitting curiously, head cocked in that infuriatingly endearing way he has.
“And what might that be you’re working on so intently?” he asks.
I sigh, resigned to conversation. “A scarf. For myself, not you, so don’t go getting ideas.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Lady Thorn. I would never presume such familiarity when we’ve only just met.”
“Uh huh. Then be a good vampire and leave me in peace while I finish this, why don’t you.”
“Alas, I fear reading has taxed my spirits,” he laments dramatically. “Might I regale you instead?”
I resist the urge to chuck my wooden knitting needle at him. Barely. “Do as you wish. Just keep it down. I’m trying to focus.”
Ignoring my tone, Draven rises and peruses my overflowing bookshelf, head tilted as he scans the cracked leather spines. I tense, wondering if he can sense the power that thrums from some of those ancient tomes, but he merely selects a book of Tretteran poems, flipping idly through the pages.
I exhale, returning my attention to the scarf as I finish another row. The fire crackles low in the hearth, spreading comforting warmth across my cheeks. My muscles finally start to loosen their tension knots. Maybe Draven will actually stay silent for once.
No such luck.
“Ah, this one,” he murmurs. Clearing his throat, he begins to recite in his rich, velvety voice:
“On the dawn wind’s breath, the old magicks rise,
Two souls entwined by fate’s design.
The blood moon reveals that which hides inside,
Awakening the beast you caged within…”
My knitting needles freeze mid-click. Blood drains from my face. It cannot be chance that led him to read those ominous words aloud.
I force a shuddering breath, schooling my features before facing him. “You might want to be more careful what you wake here with incantations,” I say as lightly as possible.
Inside, my heart hammers. Does he know? Suspect what we are? I’ve made sure not to touch him again, and I’ve kept my distance. This bread has to finish cooking soon!
Draven lifts one brow. “Come now. It’s merely verse. What harm ever came from poetry?”
“Words hold power, vampire,” I reply sharply. “Not all strings in this cottage are safe to pull.”
His grin only widens at my warning. “You almost sound as if you have something to hide.” He taps his chin in exaggerated thought. “Now whatever could that be, I wonder?”
I bristle at the glint of anticipation in his silver eyes. Everything is a game to him, a dance of veiled words. He seeks to provoke a reaction that will betray my secrets, but I will not oblige.
Holding his gaze steadily, I set my knitting aside. “Enough riddles. If you insist on keeping me from my work, then make yourself useful.” I gesture to the bubbling pot hanging over the stove. “The soup needs tending while I ready the bread.”
With far more enthusiasm than the task warrants, Draven snaps the book shut and saunters to the kitchen. I grind my teeth. You’re only encouraging his pestering, Thorn. Sometimes you’re your own worst enemy .
But I cannot sit idle while that poem’s meaning sinks in. Better to keep busy preparing our meal.
The rich scent of baking bread now laces the cottage air, my empty stomach rumbling in response. Strange, this connection with Draven seems to have increased my appetite threefold.
Crossing to the oven, I slip on a hand towel and pull out the perfectly browned loaf. After all that nonsense working in the nullifying herbs, at least the dough baked up nicely. I inhale deeply, taking comfort in the familiar simplicity of fresh bread.
Behind me, I hear the bubbling hiss of soup spilled across the stove, followed by Draven’s muffled curses. I whirl to find him frantically mopping up splatters of scalding liquid from my worn countertop while clutching his hand.
Despite myself, I have to stifle an exasperated laugh.
“Not accustomed to managing a common hearth fire?” I quip, crossing my arms.
He glowers at me, sucking his scalded fingers with a petulant look. “Pay it no mind. Merely… testing your reflexes.”
I shake my head, lips twitching in a smile. “Here. Run cold water over the burn. ”
Draven lets me guide his hand under the pump, leaning closer than necessary so our shoulders brush. Tingles erupt across my skin at the contact. I focus on the cold water rinsing away the angry redness, trying not to notice how pleasantly cool his skin feels against mine.
Get a grip, Thorn. We’re just two people preparing dinner. Nothing out of the ordinary about this at all.
When I glance up, however, Draven is staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch. His eyes seem to bore right through me, as if glimpsing all the secrets I cloak in shadow.
Heat rises in my cheeks. I step back and busy myself slicing thick pieces of the fresh bread.
Focus on the food. Safe, mundane soup and bread. Not the magnetic pull of the man now watching your every move.
Gods, when did this cottage shrink so small?
“You take the bowls. I’ll dish up the soup and bread,” I say briskly, avoiding his gaze.
Draven obediently sets the table while I ladle steaming soup and arrange the bread, studiously keeping my gaze from wandering his way. Just one more meal. Tomorrow, this strange, vexing bond between us will wither away once he departs.
The crust crackles as I cut, and I arrange slices of the freshly baked bread on faded ceramic plates. Wisps of savory steam rise up, making my mouth water.
Draven places worn silverware and chipped bowls on the small wooden table near the fire.
I ladle the hearty vegetable stew, filled with potatoes, carrots, and greens, into each bowl. The chunks of potato soak up the rich broth eagerly.
Draven’s eyes widen as I set the filled bowls down, along with a small crock of fresh butter.
“Please, enjoy,” I say, gesturing for him to dig in. No need to stand on ceremony here in my cozy cottage.
Draven waits until I’ve seated myself across from him before lifting a spoonful of stew to his lips and blowing gently. His eyes drift closed in bliss at the first taste. I hide a smile and duck my head to my own bowl to try the stew.
The broth is fragrant, with pops of flavor from herbs I grew and dried myself. The carrots and potatoes are perfectly tender. I peel flakes of crust from the bread and swirl them through the stew to soak up more of the savory liquid .
Across the table, Draven makes quick work of the stew, pausing to liberally butter a chunk of the bread and take an appreciative bite. I notice a spot of butter cling to his upper lip and have to stifle a laugh. Table manners clearly weren’t a priority in vampire training.
We eat without speaking, the only sounds the crackling fire and the scrape of our spoons on bowls. It’s a simple meal, oddly comforting on this snowy evening. It’s almost like we’re old friends. I blink away the thought. Nope, I can’t let my mind wander like that. He’ll be gone in the morning, and that’s for the best.
I sneak glances at as he enjoys the bread and stew with gusto. The furrow between his brows has smoothed, the set of his mouth relaxed. The nullifying herbs seem to be working, dampening the demand of our unwanted bond.
Soon, we will be strangers once more. As it should be.
I take another warm bite, savoring the brief companionship before our paths diverge. The bread tastes bittersweet on my tongue.
I clear my throat and keep my tone casual. “This storm should break soon. If we’re lucky, by mid morning, you can gather supplies and be on your way again.”
He stills. “You are so eager to be rid of me?”
There’s no masking the note of hurt in his voice. Against my will, guilt pricks.
I set down my spoon and face him. “It’s not that I don’t… appreciate you as a guest,” I say carefully, “but you have your own path, as I have mine. It is not wise to overstay a welcome.”
His expression turns contemplative. “And if fate intended our paths to now merge?” He leans forward. “Would you still force me to leave?”
My throat tightens. Is he feeling it? I thought the bread would work.
I stand and begin clearing dishes with finality. “Fate rarely considers individual will, and it’s often wrong. Get some rest. You’ve a long road ahead come dawn.”
I don’t need to glance back to feel his stare. Holding in a sigh, I make a show of preparing for sleep, moving about to extinguish candles and bank the fire. The cottage descends into shadow, only the dim orange embers casting a faint glow.
Draven stands, hands clenched at his sides. I avoid his gaze, heart heavy with regret. This long night is nearly through. With the rising sun, two strangers will finally part ways, memories of their encounter fading until they are once again nothing.
It is better this way.