Chapter 24
I’m not worth it…unless I am?
Crisis
After getting dressed for the day, I trudge out of my bedroom to the noise of a criminal clanging around in my kitchen, stealing all my good pots probably. Rubbing sleep from my eyes and stifling a yawn, I mosey through my hall to accept my fate—wondering why death by lowlife hands smells so good.
Chocolatey accents meld with rich buttery aromas, the thick warm scent of eggs and toast creating a symphony of delicacy as I realize—first—I live in Sunset, a town with a zero percent crime rate because of how every single resident is selected through a severe curation process and every guest must pass entry checkpoints and pay a guest fee, and—second—no criminal is going to be stealing the pots from my bare-bones kitchen. I got them at the thrift store up nearer to the mansion-side of town, sure, but they’re still not worth the robbery.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, yawning as I nestle myself beside Viktor—for warmth, and nothing else. It’s not my fault he’s hogging the stove. My AC is on, and it’s set to chilly so I can snuggle beneath my blankets at night. I am cold .
Smiling at me, he tosses scrambled eggs in a skillet. They are fluffy. Majestic. My mouth waters for them, yearning. He says, “Morning, sleepyhead.”
“Morning.” I lift my gaze to his face, his tousled hair, his gentle eyes, the scruff defining his jaw, that little scar on his right brow. “What’s chocolatey?”
“Hacked pain au chocolat.”
I blink. Okay, rich kid. “What’s the hacks?”
“I bought chocolate and wrapped croissant dough around it.”
I murmur, “So you are human like the rest of us…”
He pulls the eggs off the stove right around the exact moment the oven timer alerts. So, maybe he’s not exactly human. “Take a seat,” he encourages, reaching for a hot pad to get the tray of pastries out.
I slide myself into a stool at the bar, clasp my hands together, and beam—until he pulls a green smoothie out of the fridge and places it squarely in front of me.
The fluid stares at me. A bubble on the surface pops.
“Drink up, sweet pea,” he murmurs, smile spreading. “You want to stay young and spry, don’t you?”
My heart jumps. “It was a trap. A diversion.” I look toward the chocolate melting out of its prison and onto the cookie tray in warm puddles of sugar and happiness. “My loves have betrayed me…”
Viktor tracks my gaze to the stovetop where the discount pain au chocolat rests. “They need to cool down.”
If he doesn’t give me chocolatey goodness soon, I will need to cool down.
Using a single finger, he slides the tall glass toward me. “Try it. It’s good.”
“You lying liar. I have never once told you any of these were good , only good for you . Which is a factual fact.”
“I refrained from adding peanut butter. And chia seeds.”
“Do you want me to nominate you for sainthood?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
I scrunch my nose, look toward the eggs…the toast…the pastry… Taking a deep breath, I lift the disgusting retribution and down the biggest gulp I can tolerate. Banana hits my tongue, creamy and sweet. Hints of honey. Splashes of vanilla protein powder.
I’d taste his smoothies to make sure they sucked enough. They were bitter amalgamations of disgusting textures and flavors.
This…this is delicious.
“ Eww ,” I say, downing another gulp. “Gross!” I smile.
Viktor shakes his head as he plates my favorite breakfast for two and slides into the seat next to me. “The difference between a green smoothie made with hate, and a green smoothie made with love .”
“For your edification, Viktor —” I lick love smoothie off my lip, “—hate tastes like flowers.”
“Flowers,” he says, then he stands. After disappearing into my guest room for a few minutes, he reemerges with a bouquet. “I got these for you while I was out shopping for breakfast.”
I blink—calculate. Breakfast…is an act of service. Now he’s on gift giving. He’s just ticking off love languages all willy-nilly this morning, now isn’t he? “A whole bouquet of hate?” I croon as he places the overwhelming number of blush lilies, pink roses, and lavender balanced with baby breaths in my arms. “You shouldn’t have.” I nuzzle the soft petals, letting their cloying scent fill my nose. “I shall gleefully watch them die.”
While I’m contemplating where in the world to keep the bouquet as it wilts into nothingness, a black and yellow splotch moves in the corner of my eye .
My stomach drops as a yellow jacket rises from a blush lily, locates me, and charges. I—obviously—squeak and fall off my stool.
“Crisis—” Viktor jolts, sees the wasp deadset on my demise, and lunges, swatting it away from me. He winces as the evil thing flings across the room, hits the wall, and lands on the kitchen tile.
Viktor’s shoe sends a horrid crunch pouring into the silence while I take deep breaths and cling to my flowers. My trap flowers.
Scrambling, I push the bundle away from me and sail backward like a crab.
“Crisis, are you okay?” Viktor drops to one knee beside me when my back hits the wall of my living room. He searches my face, looks at the flowers, cringes.
Heavy breaths fill my lungs as he examines the petals. “I think it’s safe now.” His shoulders sag. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please…please don’t think I planned this.”
Everything in me wants to.
But I can’t. Not while he’s babying his dominant hand—the one that swatted the wasp. Already, even from here, I can see a welt rising.
“Did it sting you?” I ask, the concern in my voice something wholly foreign to my ears.
He attempts to flex his fingers and winces instead. “Yeah, I think it got me pretty good.”
“Are you allergic?”
His head shakes. “Not fatally. It will swell quite a bit, though, then be gone in a few days. Nothing to worry about.”
And, yet, I worry.
Once again, he’s hurt because of me. Physically hurt because of me .
When he turns his attention back to me, care fills his eyes. Probably, I can only assume, because I’m choking back tears. “Hey,” he soothes, approaching and pushing hair back from my face with his uninjured hand. “It’s okay.”
“Please.” I blink. A tear falls. He catches it on his thumb. “Give up now. Before something worse happens to you. People shouldn’t be this close to me. I’m a hazard. It’s not worth it. Unless you’re magical like Crimson and can premeditate hero moves, it’s not worth it .”
“You are worth everything, Crisis.”
I shake my head, hiding in the curtain of my hair. “This prank to get back at me isn’t going to be funny if something else, something worse , happens.”
Hard, he states, “Crisis. The green smoothie was a prank. Loving you is not. I’d handle a thousand yellow jacket stings if it meant you’d let me love you.”
“And how is that supposed to make me feel, Viktor?” I peer at him, past the loose strands of my hair. “How am I supposed to handle that if I figure out how to care for you in return? How can you expect me to watch someone I love get hurt for me?”
“You’ve dealt with all of this by yourself for twenty-seven years, Crisis.” Pushing my hair aside again, he cups my cheek. “I can at least help now. You don’t deserve to be alone. Not anymore.”
I cut my attention to his hand. “You’re blowing up like a balloon.”
“For someone who’s hated me so long, you really can’t stand it when I’m in physical pain.”
“Emotional is worse. Physical is lazy .”
“Mhm.” Unhurried, he pushes aside my curtained bangs and kisses my forehead. “Is now a bad time to tell you that the majority of your emotional attacks I’ve found humourous and adorable? ”
“Now is, actually, a terrible time to tell me that, yes.”
“Oops.” He kisses again, and I fear he’ll continue until I can find the strength to stop him.
Lucky for him, dreadful for me, I…don’t appear to possess that strength.
“Your breakfast is getting cold, sweet pea.”
“ Our breakfast is getting cold, you mean, but how are you going to eat?” I sniffle. “Your dominant hand is a balloon .”
“I can think of one solution I would very much enjoy.”
As can I. My breakdown halts as my heart dips. I locate his eyes when he pulls away. “No,” I squeak.
“You feel bad?” he asks—evilly.
“Y-yes…”
“Then…take accountability. You’re my right hand today, Crisis.” He lifts my fingers and presses them to his lips while keeping his torrid gaze locked on me. “It’s occurring to me that you’re a fan of justice, and I’ve been too soft on you. You condone retaliation. It makes you feel better. Like you can control something right with the world.”
I shake my head. “N-no. I—” I swallow. “—I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Rising, he pulls me to my feet. “You’re a sweetie. You hate causing trouble outside your control. Asking you to let me take the brunt just because I love you makes your skin crawl. So.” He sits me down, takes his seat, and hands me his fork. “I’ll take care of you and protect you, and, when it makes sense, you’ll take care of me, won’t you?”
He opens his mouth.
I stare, horrified, between his lips and the fork I’m holding.
He can’t be serious, and—yet—he is.
It is going to be a long couple of days…