30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Emma
“Do you know where Dacre went?”
“No clue.” Luther smiles, leaning in. “But you can set up your station next to me.”
That’s the last thing I want to do, but my only other choice is all the way at the end of the room, and I want to be front and center for today’s class.
“Distracted?” he asks.
“No. I’ve got it.”
I tighten the belt of my apron.
“He’s sick, I think.”
“Less competition for us, then,” I say, forcing a smile. The only clue we’ve been given about today is that there will be a competition of some kind.
Luther likes that answer. Of course he does. I fight the urge to check the door behind me. Why should I care if he’s sick and misses the class? He’s probably elated, since he hates cooking so much anyway. But maybe I’ll make him something.
If Dacre is sick, I know he doesn’t have anyone else to take care of him or even care about his absence. He’s all alone because his family sucks, and that’s not his fault. Someone should care. If it were me . . . I’d want someone to find me. To meet me in the middle.
“Today, we’re going to start a little healthy competition.” Our instructor rolls in right as the clock strikes nine. Her silver hair is pulled up into a slick ponytail, with round golden frames covering her eyes.
“I’ll choose an ingredient, and I’ll need you to create three dishes. An appetizer, a main course, and a dessert. You’ll have three hours. No more. No less.”
“Yes, Chef,” the room says in unison.
I clench my sweaty palms together. I’ve been practicing everything from braising to brining, but everyone here has years on me. At least I have the upper hand in one category.
I watch as she places a coin in her hand and whispers an enchantment into it, then flips it into the air, and it lands in her palm. Turning it around, it reads: Apple.
Fruit. Good. No, that’s great. Living in Groveshire, we’re surrounded by fruit trees, so I got lots of practice using them in everything from sauces to pastries.
There’s a chiming of a bell, and we break away to the table and shelves full of ingredients.
Verity grabs enchantments and potions. Those still aren’t my strong suit.
This isn’t the time to play it safe. I map out what I’m going to do quickly. I may not know potions, but I do know how to construct a recipe on the fly. I developed a lot of my own in Groveshire because there was literally nothing else to do but create recipes all day long.
The room is nearly silent, apart from the sound of the starter on the stove. It’s okay, Emma, you’re at home making food for your family. You know this.
My hands move on their own as I gather the ingredients and start peeling and chopping apples.
I hum quietly to myself as I work through each task.
I pick the lullaby Mom used to sing to me, surprisingly cheery in tone.
It’s a nervous habit. I glance at Dacre’s empty station.
Why do I feel as if I might enjoy this a little more if he were here?
Sure, beating anyone in the culinary club would be satisfying, but the thought of beating Dacre makes my hands all tingly with excitement.
There’s a clock on the wall, and every five minutes, it grabs my attention.
I turn toward my oven and nearly run into a man’s chest.
A man who almost looks like Dacre is standing in front of me.
This must be a sibling. He’s too young to be his father, but they have the same slender bridge on their nose and green eyes.
I’m a little shocked by how tall he is, but also by how much he doesn’t smell like Dacre.
It’s not as if I expected them to smell similar, but there’s sterility in his stature and piercing gaze, and it’s nothing like what I see in Dacre’s.
“My apologies.” He holds out his hand to take mine, and I sheepishly show him my dirty fingers.
“Are you . . . related to Dacre?” This is his family’s estate, after all. It makes sense that there would be more Everharts here.
“Yes, I’m Daniel. His older brother. One of two.”
“Dacre didn’t say you were coming.” I say the first thing I can think of.
“It’s a surprise. I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I had to meet you myself. Let’s have dinner.”
I muster something that sounds like agreement. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck as he saunters to the rear of the room to watch the rest of the class.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
From whom? Dacre? Something tells me this won’t be a welcome surprise. Anything related to Dacre’s family reminds me of that night in the kitchen. Thankfully, that man is nowhere to be seen, but I’m not going to assume friendliness.
I don’t have time to dwell on it. As he sits in the corner of the room to watch me, I focus on my work.
I almost drop the soup in my hand when I knock, this time harder. Upon pressing my head against the door, I hear movement inside. Dacre knows I’m here; he’s just refusing to open our door.
I stayed after lunch just to cook in the silence of the kitchen so I could gather my thoughts. I wondered how in the world I was able to get the runner-up spot. Verity was seething. Luther won, which is apparently a first because Dacre wasn’t there.
“Hey, are you going to explain what that was?” I try again.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is muffled on the other side of the door.
“This is our room, remember? Come on. I brought you soup, and you’re letting it get cold.”
Dacre opens the door, shirtless. He’s sweaty, and his hair is unruly. I swallow, taking in every muscle.
“You’re . . . sick?”
Dacre’s whole demeanor is different. I feel it in my body, even feet away from him. His usual calm, nonchalant aura is smothered in something more alluring as he white-knuckles the doorframe. I take another breath as he leans in closer.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because . . . You just look . . . Luther said.”
His eyes shift from emerald to charcoal. He grabs me by the waist and locks the door behind me, not releasing me while a hand pins me to the door. I gasp when his lips graze my neck, and he inhales deeply.
“You made this for me?” His lips stay on my neck, but he takes the soup from my hand.
“I thought you were sick.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe . . . you should make me feel better.”
“Dacre . . . Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m fine.”
The warmth of his hands cups my cheek. It’s so intimate, whatever this is between us. I try to control my breathing, but the wave of Dacre’s scent hits me again, and I’m caught by the heady air. I can’t stop looking at those eyes. Wild, untapped desire. Demanding.
I take another breath, adjusting to the warmth of his skin on mine. I don’t hate it like I should. He’s calling my bluff. But I don’t say things unless I’m prepared for the consequences.
“What is it . . . that you want from me?”
“Maybe I don’t want anything. Maybe I . . . want to give.” His thumb rubs my cheek, and his fingers run down the pulse in my neck.
He leans in as heat fills my lungs, my veins, my limbs. I’m flushed from the hum of his lips across my neck. I think he’s going to bite me when he pulls back.
It’s as if I’m in a trance. As if someone has hijacked my body and my brain. It’s a natural reaction to his pursuit, and there’s comfort in it and a pulsing craving.
“You can touch me . . . if you tell me what’s going on. No lying.”
“Oh, you’re making demands now?”
“Yes.” I hold the power here. “I want you to tell me the truth for once.”
He’s not giving me any room, with his chest pressed against mine, but there’s that scent again. All consuming and delicious.
“I can’t do casual. Because . . . if we’re scent-matches, then it will already be hard enough without complicating this for . . . pleasure,” I say.
“You want the truth?” He plays with the ends of my hair. “You’re ovulating, and I need to taste you. I want to make you feel good. I want…a lot of things.”
“So that’s it . . . That’s the only reason why?”
He hesitates. “No. But I can’t tell you the truth.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“You’re protecting me?”
I’m not entirely sure why I reach my hand into his hair. It’s not pity. It’s not lust. For the first time, I understand. I’ve racked my brain over and over again trying to figure out the reason behind his hatred and insults. I need him to know I get it now.
I understand because I’ve done the same thing. I’ve pushed him away because it’s easier, and through it all, we still end up in the same place with the same conclusion.
I can’t hate him, no matter how much I try.
“You can trust me,” I say.
Has he ever had someone he could trust? Someone who he can tell his secrets to? Someone he can tell his favorite things and secret wants? If not his family or friends, then who?
His eyes sparkle, and the wall I’ve always put between us lowers just enough.
“Don’t make me admit this.”
“Tell me. Please, I have to hear you say it. I need the truth from you.”
“The moment I spotted you, I knew you were going to change everything. Then I smelled you, and it was as if my atoms rearranged. I convinced myself I could stay away from you if I just . . . hated you. If I just found everything you did and liked and told myself it was annoying. But you just had to be . . . you. The epitome of a glimmering spark catching my eye because you were so bright and happy and everything I don’t ever feel.
It just kept getting worse because you .
. . you bake. Stars above, you fucking love the same things I used to love as a kid, and then I started to turn it into a joke because that was the only way I could cope.
Every time I learned something new about you, it just made you more interesting.
It made me obsessed with the thought of you.
Why would I ever admit that? Who would I tell?
My grandfather, who only loves me when I do what he wants?
You, the one person who should stay away from me?
The one person I can’t bear to lose sight of? ”
I let out a shaky breath, but I’m caged by Dacre’s ribs.
“You never hated me?”
“Not even a little bit.” Something breaks in his voice, and he presses his hands to the door beside my head.
“I’ve tried so hard. But I can’t . . . And that’s the truth.
That’s why I want to protect you. I know I can take care of you.
There wasn’t anything wrong with you. It’s been my fault this whole time. ”
We’re silent while Dacre warms my chest, his heartbeat calming my jitters. I let his words sink into my skin as he waits for me, patiently tracing circles on my chest and up to my ear.
“Can I taste you now?”
“Yes . . .”
Dacre kneels on the floor. I should be an egomaniac with this type of power, but I feel it, too—the urge to be satisfied like I have never before.
“Should we . . . move somewhere else, or?”
“No.” His lips hit the inner corner of my thigh, and my knees nearly buckle. I can’t bite back the moan on my lips.
His head disappears under my skirt, and he grasps my panties with his teeth. This, I’ve never done before, and I have no idea what to expect.
I brace my hand on the doorframe when Dacre’s tongue reaches my center. I never knew something could feel this good. He’s soft at first, dragging his tongue slowly over my wetness, and then peppering kisses everywhere else.
Dacre pulls me till I’m almost sitting on top of him. I try to keep my weight off him by grabbing the door handle or the dresser, anything to keep me from smothering him. But every time I do, he pulls me off balance till I’m certain I must be crushing him.
The softness is quickly replaced by something much more demanding and passionate. The first sensation of pressure has me digging my fingernails into his hair, demanding more.
“It’s . . . It’s so . . .” This feeling is impossible. “Good.”
“Yeah?” He gently sucks on my clit, and my head falls back.
Somewhere in that feeling, the fire of anger that once burned in me for him twists into searing pleasure, and I dig my fingers into the wall.
My skin is abloom with feeling, as if every nerve in my body is firing in response to Dacre.
There’s just that delicious smell I want on my tongue, a drive to pull him closer and closer until I bury my face in his hair.
My head tips back. I let him take more. My legs spread open, and his name rolls off my tongue. I fear he won’t understand, that he’ll stop and tell me that this is a joke.
But there’s no sign of stopping as he takes me again and again through the waves of pleasure that pump through my body. The high lasts seconds, and he gives me a few moments of softness before he draws another orgasm out of me with so little effort.
“We can’t do this again, Em.” His kisses mix with the wetness of my thighs.
“W-why?”
My breath shakes when he continues circling my clit with his tongue till the world shatters and my orgasm hits again.
“Because the next time I touch you like this, I’m going to fuck you, and then I’ll have to keep you all to myself.” He drags his tongue over my leg, and I’m flooded with the memory of his teeth into my skin.
I want it again. I want to do this all again. My legs are Jell-O, and he holds me when he stands.
“My world isn’t safe. I need you to know that.” His pupils are huge. “Do you understand?”
This is Dacre’s line in the sand. Stay away from me because I can’t stay away from you.
“I understand.”