18. Chapter Eighteen
Despite what’s happened recently, I’ve tried to keep my distance from Kyrielle and honor her boundaries.
It’s been phenomenally difficult, even when I’m pissed.
From the moment I saw Kyrielle, my desire for her has only grown.
More so, I’ve craved endless conversations with her since we said goodbye that evening.
But it wasn’t truly goodbye for me. Not really. Kyrielle is clearly unaware that I’ve secretly attended all of her battles. Hanging on the outskirts of the crowd, watching her dominate men twice her size with both skill and fire.
From the start, she represents the type of person I want to be.
As corny as it sounds, I want to be like her; formidable, ferocious, and fearless.
Before she told me about her rule, I was willing to throw the last dregs of my hope into her.
That maybe, just maybe, I intrigued someone enough that they stuck around.
It had been unbelievably painful when she had asked for a one-night stand. Kyrielle turning me down was a clear message from the universe that I’ve taken seriously since: No dating; only fucking.
And that has probably run its course. There’s no real joy in it anymore; I don’t know if there ever was.
I’m doomed to be a crotchety old Dragon, hoarding nerdy figurines while living in a dark cave filled with game consoles and snacks. A born-again virgin with arthritic fingers from clutching my cock so much, my fist is stuck that way.
It’s my destiny. I’ve accepted that.
Except the way she looks at me right now, stewing in her wrath as she takes a sip of her beer, something stirs in my chest. Not quite hope. I won’t let that exist. But it’s something.
“Do you guys really like Heimlock or something?” Orliana asks, her eyes bouncing between the two of us. Talia’s eyes burn a hole in my head, but I refuse to look at her.
“Kyrielle really loves Heimlock,” I state, tossing back the rest of my Minga and starting on the beer. It tastes like memories and sexual frustration.
Her fireburst eyes are inviting pyres, with those orange fingertips twitching like she’s imagining wrapping them around my neck and boiling me alive. Yes, please.
The thing is, I’m surprised she’s kept our tryst from Orliana. Which tells me there’s some form of shame inside her. That’s too delicious to not exploit. We can become shame twins.
“You do?” Orliana asks, puzzled. She’s collecting silverware from a drawer, eyeing her best friend suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you drink it.”
“He’s joking,” the Fire Sprite grits out. “I only drink it on very special occasions.”
Pinning her with my stare, I purr, “Like today?”
Her jaw see-saws. I glance at my brother. He’s giving me a hard stare. Like he knows I’m needling her, but is unsure why.
“Am I missing something?” Talia asks from over my shoulder.
Our denials collide as we both say, “No.”
Everyone in the room quiets. Even Moxie, who's been digging into the Tupperware cabinet, pauses, a piece of plastic in her mouth.
“Well …” Orliana says slowly, “Since we have that settled … let’s set the table?”
“I’ll help!” Joulian says, exploding from his chair at the table. His gangly arms almost knock over the pitcher of water on the counter. Fynn lunges and catches it before it falls.
Kyrielle and I stand at the same time, her breasts grazing my chest. Oxygen stalls in my lungs; she inhales sharply.
“After you,” I murmur, smirking.
“That’s what I recall,” she murmurs. She scoots out of my way, but my mouth parts in surprise. Was that a joke about our one-night stand? Because she definitely came first.
When she shoots me a grin full of mischief, sitting in what is normally my chair, something skitters in my pulse. She picks up the hoodie I dropped there earlier and places it in the seat next to her. A silent challenge.
The winged familiars find their designated roosts, with Talia’s fox familiar curled at her feet.
Fynn sits at the head of the table, as usual, with Orliana on his right.
Joulian on his left. I’m discombobulated because where I’ve sat for over a decade, at the other end of the table, is currently occupied by an orange-headed minx.
Talia sits next to Joulian, leaving me to sit on Kyrielle’s right.
The chair creaks as I plop down into it.
“That’s my spot,” I whisper.
She takes a sip of her Heimlock, then hisses, “I don’t care.”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “You should.”
“Why? What will you do if I don’t move?” The challenge in her voice shoots straight to my cock. All sorts of visualizations have me swallowing hard. Everyone at this table would have a conniption if I bent her over to spank her silly.
“You know we can hear you, right?” Fynn says blandly, pouring Orliana wine. On the table are various dishes; they’ve spent all day cooking. Hunger bites at my stomach.
Snatching a roll from a plate, I take a bite. “We’re simply establishing boundaries about where she’ll sit next time.”
“Here,” Kyrielle says primly, also grabbing a roll. She splits it in half and spreads butter on it. Just like at my apartment, she’s inserting herself. My mild sense of irritation blossoms into indignation.
Why?
Why does she insist on needling me?
Who does she think she is?
“No, that’s my spot,” I insist, forgetting our audience. “I’ve sat there for almost fifteen years. I remember the day it was put into this kitchen. It’s my spot.”
“Things can change, Trinte,” she challenges. There’s an underlying meaning to her words, but I refuse to think about it. All I know is that she’s the new one here.
“I don’t like change,” I snap.
“Clearly,” she fires back. “You make it everyone else’s problem when things change.”
“It wouldn’t be a problem if people didn’t act like things can just change without discussion.”
“Is this about the chair?” Talia whispers to Orliana.
“I don’t think so,” Orliana whispers back.
“Well, if some people didn’t avoid conversation like it was Hells’s thirteenth coming, then maybe change wouldn’t be an issue.” Kyrielle’s chest rises and falls rapidly as she glares at me.
The way her face flushes is intoxicating. As much as I want to crush this line of conversation, I also want to continue. Arguing with her is fun. Maddening, but fun.
“Maybe some people don’t like conversations.”
“I remember some people actually enjoying a conversation,” she shoots back, practically snarling.
“Who are they mad at?” Joulian asks.
“Maybe it was a one-time conversation,” I growl back. The fork in my fist bows under the pressure of my grip. This banter isn’t fun anymore. It isn’t the time or place, and now my brother will have questions.
“You’re so fucking insufferable sometimes,” Kyrielle spits out.
“You …” My face contorts with anger, but I can’t find anything mean to say. I’ve been mean enough. Exhaling sharply, I disengage. Take a sip from my beer. Pretend that we weren’t just yelling at one another in front of our family.
She fumes next to me, looking like a flame with her red skin and orange hair. In my orbed eye, I can see her temperature rising by the second. She might actually burst into flames, she’s so mad.
“What the Hells have I missed?” Fynn says, bewildered. I can’t look at him.
“Nothing.” Both Kyrielle and I snarl the word, looking away from one another.
“Okay …” Orliana murmurs. “Now that the weird foreplay is over, let’s eat.”
Talia almost spews out her wine. She coughs, slamming a fist against her chest. Reaching for her water, I hand it over, refusing to look at anyone.
We don’t look at each other for the rest of the meal.
Maybe I took it too far. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that.
Around Kyrielle, I’m a mix of confusion.
One minute, I want to fall on my knees and worship her.
The next minute, I want to redden her ass for leaving me all those months ago.
For pushing me over the edge and solidifying my belief that I’m unloveable.
Maybe it would all be solved by a conversation. But I’m far too terrified of another rejection — I’d rather accept the rejection ahead of time. It’s safer that way.