18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Dacre
I should have let her fail. If I’d just let her walk out that door a few days ago, my plan would be well underway. I just couldn’t do it. Why couldn’t I fucking do it?
I do want her to quit. But not like that. Giving up and dipping out is . . . beneath her.
Emma is not a coward with no talent. I couldn’t let her be shunned as one, but I should have because now nothing is working.
I thought, surely, after the four week mark and then again at the fifth, that she would start to shed that hopeful, glittery persona, but Emma doesn’t quit.
She just keeps her head down and does what I tell her to do, with fleeting pushback and pointed glares.
I’ve tried everything. Making her stay late to clean the entire kitchen, being overly picky and critical of her work, and even making sure every lesson we do strays away from pastry or baking so she has nothing to look forward to.
It was me who picked the hardest recipes for her, filled with complicated potion measuring because it’s her sore spot, and now it’s backfired because she spent the entire week working on it after hours. She picks up on things quickly.
The list of things I know about Emma keeps growing.
Cooking is vital to her. She uses it to self-soothe, and I think she enjoys her late nights in the kitchen.
Maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time.
It’s nearly impossible to get her frustrated unless she’s doubting herself, and that doesn’t work for me.
It’s only now, as I stare at her from across the room, that I see a slight tremble in her hands for the first time and worry lines in her forehead. This isn’t doubt in herself; it’s just fear. Exactly what I need.
I knew this would get her.
It’s lobster day, and she’s got a live, crawling crustacean in one hand and a knife in the other, but her fingers slip every few seconds. She readjusts her position, failing to summon the courage every time.
Maybe this is finally the moment she gives in and decides she’s done with this place. Everything is going according to plan.
Emma sniffs, dropping her knife before wiping her eyes with her jacket sleeve.
Oh no. Dacre, dammit, don’t do it, you bastard. This is what you needed, the moment you’ve been waiting for.
I press my fingers into my eyes. Maybe if I don’t watch, I won’t get that urge to protect her. But I hear her, still struggling and sniffling.
This is biological. Nothing more. I can ride out the guilt.
Every second she struggles with the lobster, her face grows red with frustration. I can almost feel her anxiety leaking into the air.
It’s time to crush her. I dig my fingers into my palm as I walk over with my fists at my sides.
“Problem, thief?”
She shakes her head, refusing to look at me.
Crying wasn’t part of this. I never agreed to watching her cry.
“Move. Let me demonstrate.”
Our fingers touch as I grab the knife from her hand, and she jolts. Touching her is like acid seeping into my skin—it changes molecules. She must feel it too. I demonstrate how to hold the knife, place the blade between the lobster’s eyes, and press down.
“They’re stunned from their time in the freezer. It’s quick for them.”
She sighs and nods. No witty comeback? Not even a mumble?
“I can do it. Let me do it.”
When she grabs another, I help her get her hands in place.
“Perfect. Just like that.”
Her heart stutters along with the crunch of the knife in the otherwise silent kitchen, noiseless apart from the sounds of clinking pans and sizzling oils.
There’s no talking during class, and I hate the sound of music when I work.
She struggles to separate the tail from the head and recoils when its leg twitches and moves.
Now is the perfect time.
“Am I going to have to help you every time I ask you to kill a crustacean? Because I shouldn’t have to. In fact, if I were to tell Verity, she’d make you kill everyone else’s.”
She shakes her head, staring at the dead carcass, her eyes glossy and little bits of glitter smeared on her face.
A little more. Push.
“No, Chef.”
She reaches to support herself on the counter. It didn’t occur to me that having her kill a lobster might make her physically ill.
“Do you need to sit down?”
“I think I’m okay.” Her voice is muffled.
“Here.” I dart for a chair. “Sit.”
“No . . . I can do it. I have to cook it, or its death means nothing.” She presses out her bottom lip.
“We’ll cook it in a second. First, sit.”
I leave to grab her a soda from the fridge, and her head snaps up when I pop the aluminum tab.
“Strawberry?”
“You like strawberry soda, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but how did you know that?”
She has one almost every day with dinner. “Lucky guess.”
Emma takes a sip and closes her eyes.
“Good, Em.” I lean my head on my hand as I watch her.
Those golden eyes narrow at me as she takes another sip.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I need blood or sleep. It’s never been this hard to put someone down. But when it’s her, it’s as if my brain rebels and won’t let me do it.
I never thought this was what having a scent-match would mean. Scent-matches are pretty rare in Vviveren. Not rare like linked mates, but it’s still a one-in-a-million situation.
I’m more fucked than I realized. This woman will be my undoing, and I’m not sure there’s much I can do about it.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe it’s the fresh boost of serotonin I now have from helping her, but my limbs feel heavier, enough that I imagine sinking to the floor in front of her and resting my head in her lap.
I’m so tired of this.
“Come on. Drink a little more soda for me,” I nudge her.
“Fine, but it’s because I want to, not because you asked me.”
I smile as she takes another sip, and I have to blink at the tiredness in my eyes.
“You like being praised?” I ask, leaning against the countertop to get closer to her, anything to gain a few extra inches.
“I . . .”
She has no idea how to answer that question because the answer is undoubtedly yes.
“That’s a yes.”
She licks the soda off her bottom lip. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at you.”
For the first time, I let myself take it all in.
The curve of her cupid’s bow, the width of her bottom lip, the small cut on her brow, barely visible.
I wonder how it got there. Or how she chose the colors to paint on her nails.
Is it because she likes that shade of blue? Does it mean something to her?
I think the stars made this beautiful woman for me, and I don’t know why.
“Please don’t let Verity make me kill a family of lobsters,” she asks sheepishly.
“I won’t tell her.”
“Will you show me how you cook them?” she asks through her lashes.
I nod and give her a couple more minutes to recover while I walk her through the rest of the cooking process.
It’s a useful skill, but I doubt I’ll see her offering seafood on a menu anytime soon.
She’s back to her normal self once the lobster is cooked and she is done killing things, and I relax when she does.
I hate myself for being weak. Something so simple is impossible in her presence. But there’s always tomorrow.