15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Emma
Dacre is the most confusing man I’ve ever met.
It’s been more than a week since initiation night, and Dacre hasn’t spoken a word to me that isn’t a command, which would have been perfectly fine with me before.
But now I have to live with the knowledge that Dacre helped me during initiation.
What do I do with that? I didn’t make that up, and I wish I could just forget it happened like I said I wanted.
It’s just hard not to remember when he was the softest I’ve ever seen him.
It was as if seeing him for the first time. I thought we had made progress, and I was starting to understand him a little. So why am I getting the cold shoulder?
My memory of that night is hazy. I don’t think I’ve ever drunk that much. But there is a memory I can’t forget, because it replays over and over. Dacre’s lips on my neck, my ass in his lap, and his thumb rubbing against my leg as he comforts me.
I could have forgotten the whole thing if it weren’t for that stupid thumb thing. I’d have chalked it up to a lapse in judgment on his part. I have no idea how much he was drinking that night, but maybe instead of being a drunk asshole, alcohol has the opposite effect on him.
I scroll through my messages to Mom:
Dacre did the thumb thing Dad always used to do for you when you were scared. I can’t believe it.
Under that is a wall of text. I wrote down every thought and feeling about the initiation. She’s the only one I could tell. Somehow, though, Parker found out about it and told Olivia, and I got an earful about the dangers of Doxlothia the next day. As if I needed another lecture.
My parents and their romance have always been the blueprint for me. They spent every moment together when they weren’t working on their respective passions. All my favorite memories involve simple days with them, sitting in the kitchen, laughing and bickering with coffee in their hands.
And when scary moments did arise, Dad was there standing behind my mother with his hands on her shoulder and his thumb rubbing her arm.
He was the support and kindling to her fire.
That’s why when she died and Dad changed, I understood, even if I didn’t like it when he shut himself in his room all the time.
He was mourning his other half, the loss of all the life they had together, and all their dreams. When he got angry at the Donor Program, I understood that, too.
I reach the bottom of my messages, which display a much more accurate depiction of where my life is at now:
So never mind. He hates me again for some reason.
A few days later:
I just don’t get it. He was so sweet, and it lasted for a night, and then nothing.
The one I sent two minutes ago:
I wish I could call you . . .
I stuff my phone into my pocket as I reach the culinary club lounge. We have our own café, but even the best lavender matcha latte that exists (I’d bet money on it, I swear) isn’t enough to lift my spirits for the day.
Dacre is prepping at his station in an otherwise empty kitchen when I enter.
I get in early every morning and still never manage to beat him in or out.
There’s a sink full of dirty dishes next to him.
He must have been testing recipes or something.
But why? If he’s a prodigy, does he even need to practice?
He’s an enigma, unfortunately blessed by the stars above with perfect forearms. I don’t say anything as I come in, put on my white coat, and pull back my hair.
I can’t stop thinking that those same hands, that were once on my thigh, are the ones that are molding and folding dough.
When I fall asleep, that’s the image that loops in my head.
His strong fingers, sculpting and pressing.
That stoic gaze that calculates the next thing and the next.
He’s the type of person who knows what he wants, and he’s already formulated a plot to get it.
I wish I could do that part. I get cooking.
I can do just about anything, but the furthest I think ahead is on a week-by-week basis.
Once I got into the culinary club, my baseline changed. Now what do I want?
The culinary club isn’t exactly what I thought it would be, either. I imagined days of learning under renowned chefs, and so far, the only person who’s taught a class is Dacre. He’s a decent teacher, but I spend a lot more time perfecting every little thing than actually cooking recipes.
Don’t get me started on the cleaning. I had no idea I’d be spending more than an hour every day making sure the kitchen is spotless. Dacre makes us scrub the tile with a toothbrush, and I don’t think I can mumble the words “Yes, Chef” one more time.
I make no attempt at saying hello as I ready myself for the day. It doesn’t matter whether he likes me or not. I half expected him to kick me out, since I’ve heard nothing about the contract, but the cold shoulder is more unsettling than anything.
What is it about me that Dacre can’t tolerate?
I’ve never met a person whom I couldn’t make like me in some way.
My sisters and I weren’t exactly popular after being homeschooled for the majority of our lives, only entering a public school in our later years.
The school was small, and everyone knew everyone else.
But I’m the one who made sure our classmates warmed up to us.
It took time and effort to find out what everyone liked, but it was an exciting challenge for me.
It was a crash course in social interaction, and I learned quickly that most people respond well to kindness and being interested in what they’re interested in. It requires sacrifice of time and, occasionally, for me to keep my mouth shut.
But Dacre doesn’t fit into any of those categories.
It’s as if he hates the fact that I exist.
“Look at that. You’re doing so well.” Dacre’s praise snaps me out of my daze.
I check the clock. The early morning disappeared right before my eyes. Today’s lesson is all about making a roux and the different ways to create one. Creating a roux I’ve done many times, but Dacre is teaching us how to add potions to the mix, and my brain is mush.
It’s like math. The measurements are totally different from using metric cups, and some of them cancel each other out. Or if you add too much of one, it creates a completely different flavor, and it ruins the entire thing.
I’ve redone mine five times already.
“Having fun yet?” he asks when I don’t answer.
I’m honestly still shocked he’s speaking to me. That, and I’m too busy staring at the concoction in front of me, trying to judge if the potion I just added heated the mixture up too much. There are too many bubbles.
“Do I get special treatment for kissing your ass and saying yes?” I say.
“What’s wrong, thief? Not all glitter and sunshine?”
I start whisking, just in case.
“There’s no . . . fun, creative day where we cook whatever we want and everyone gets together and tries everyone’s dishes?”
That budges his frown. “Absolutely not. That’s not what makes money. Efficiency. Skill. Precision. Those make you money. If you want to be that big shot pastry chef in the city, it’s a lot more of this.”
“What about Isabella Bronswen? The last time I checked, they were the youngest chef to make their whole restaurant in Vviveren City with their own creations.”
“Daddy’s money. No oversight. Never worked their way up in the system. Word on the street is it’s going to close.”
“No way. Rosealla Erena, then. She’s the most famous sous chef in Vviveren.”
“She makes the exact same hundred-year-old recipe every single day. Eat. Sleep. Work. Do it over.”
I don’t like how sensible he’s being about something that shouldn’t be so black and white. Also, why does he know everything and everyone?
“The culinary world should be about exploration and fun.”
“Some people think structure is fun.” He’s doing it again—staring at my neck.
“Like you?”
“Me? I hate cooking. I’d be happy if I never set foot again in another kitchen.”
He’s less rigid today and less poised as he leans on the counter next to me. He must be tired from staying late and opening early. Maybe that’s why he’s saying more than five words to me, other than “Clean this” or “Do it over again.”
I hate both phrases equally, for the record.
His jacket sleeves are rolled up and I eye the whisk tattoo on his arm as my own wrist grows tired from my vigorous whisking.
“Why’d you get that tattoo, then?”
“Childhood fantasies die painfully.” He says nothing else to explain what he means by that as he eyes my work. “You burned it. I want you to do it over again.”
“What? How can you tell?”
“Your heat is too high for the potion you used, and you’ve been whisking too long.”
I sigh, flip off the burner, and throw my pan into the sink.
When I turn around, Dacre is standing there with his arms crossed, a smug smirk overplaying on his lips.
“Is this amusing to you, Chef?”
“Oh. Very.” He walks in closer, and I square my shoulders.
There’s spice and evaporated charms in the air, but nothing, and I mean nothing, touches the smell of this man’s cologne.
“Have something you want to say?”
“No, Chef.”
I redo it again.
Then again, and that’s not good enough, either. I’m not sure which is worse: Dacre getting under my skin or my inability to get the roux correct. There’s never been anything I haven’t been able to do in the kitchen.
I’m so tired by the time I’m done that I almost cry when I remember I still have to take my general interspecies education class today.