8. Daisy
DAISY
Iwatch him try not to smile. He always does this: a valiant battle against facial expressions, always losing, but with dignity.
“If it’s an experiment,” he says, “it requires a control group.”
I lean in. “Meaning you’ll have to order the opposite of whatever I get.”
Enoch nods. “For scientific rigor.”
He studies his menu, meticulous and methodical, while I order the steak. The Drake’s Inferno, flambéed at the table and finished with a brittle black salt harvested from the volcanic springs at the edge of the monster territories. The description reads like a dare.
Enoch raises an eyebrow at my choice, then orders the fisherman’s stew, and the server—her hair in a tight bun, eyes ringed with elaborate kohl—gives us an assessing look. My cheeks are so hot I’m sure there’s a handprint on them. When she leaves, I say, “You don’t mind that I—”
He shakes his head. “I appreciate boldness.”
“I appreciate marbled fat and slightly dangerous menu items.”
“A useful trait around here.”
I’m about to respond when a family at the next table stares.
The parents try for subtlety, but their little boy is spellbound by Enoch’s horns, openly gaping at the lean curve of bone.
Enoch notices, but instead of shrinking, he turns and gives the boy a short, three-fingered wave.
The kid squeaks with delighted terror and ducks under the table.
I grin at him. “You’re a celebrity, you know.”
“Occupational hazard.” He shrugs, not quite comfortable, but not unsteady either.
“I imagine you get your share of local attention.”
“Usually more after the free samples, but yes.”
I glance down at my hands. I never noticed how much they move when I’m nervous, zigzagging over the tablecloth, twisting napkins into little flourishes.
“My sister thinks I’m insane for living here.”
He cocks his head, interested. “Does she visit?”
“God, no. She’s in Thistlebrook and refuses to step foot east of the bridge. She says Blackthorn Bay is for cryptids and quacks.”
I expect him to laugh, but instead he says, “Family can be strange that way.”
“Is yours?” I blurt, then instantly want to whack myself with the breadstick they set between us.
He considers. “Not in the human sense. Except for Zadok, my siblings are scattered. I see them once a century, at best. I don’t think we ever sat at a table together.”
He lifts his water glass and turns it slowly, the candlelight burning through the liquid to flicker against his knuckles.
“I enjoy the theater of it.”
“Well, my sister Violet would have a stroke if she saw us here.”
I say it as a joke, but it comes out quieter than I intend. Enoch catches that. He catches everything.
“She’s worried for you?”
I nod, picking at the edge of the coaster.
“She thinks I’ll end up as monster food or—” I force a laugh. “—worse, embarrass the family.”
He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “What do you think?”
I meet his eyes. It’s harder than I expected. “I think... I want her to see me happy. But I also want her to understand I like it here. I like being on the fringes. I like—”
Enoch waits. It’s his specialty.
I drop my gaze to the butter plate. “I like the person I am here.”
He’s silent, but his silence is gentle. He doesn’t reach across the table, but his hand hovers like he might.
“You could bring her to a session,” he says. “If neutrality helps.”
I snort. “You want to give my sister therapy?”
A faint, sly smile appears. “I’m a professional.”
My laugh startles me with its own volume. “And what if I need therapy, Dr. Infernalis?”
Enoch shrugs. “Then I’ll find you the very best.”
That’s what clinches it for me: the way he makes it clear, without pretense, that I’m not just another rescue case. That he wants me, not out of obligation, but because he likes the way I test boundaries and eat pink cupcakes for breakfast.
The server returns, and with a flourish worthy of a traveling magician, sets the steak on a heated slate, sprinkles a pipette of something iridescent over it, and then—cautious, dramatic—torches it with a dragon-spit flame that lights the whole end of the table blue-white.
The smell is faintly floral, but then comes the iron tang of good beef and the slightly sulfurous crackle of the black salt, and I almost salivate onto my own lap.
She plates it for me, then gives Enoch a bowl of stew peppered with claws and tiny, spiral-shelled things I later learn are baby krakens. He thanks her in a voice so soft I wonder if the words are only for us.
I cut into the steak. I’ve always gone medium rare, but this is near-black at the edges and hot pink in the middle—like if a reckless god invented prom dresses for cows.
I look up at Enoch and catch him watching me as I chew.
“What?”
He leans in, quietly conspiratorial. “You look happy.”
“I am happy. This is inhumanly good.”
“Is the company as good as the steak?”
Now it’s my turn to flush. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try?”
I spear a bite—generous, but not grotesque—and slide my fork across the plate.
The moment Enoch’s lips close around the tines, his face transforms: surprise, real and clear. His pupils dilate, gold almost swallowed by black, and he makes a throaty humming noise.
“That’s illegal,” he murmurs. “And also, possibly, an aphrodisiac for my species.”
My cheeks go atomic. “Should I be worried?”
He sets the fork down, his voice lower. “You should be extremely concerned.”
I laugh, bright and reckless. “What does kraken taste like?”
He offers me a spoonful. It’s briny, rich, almost sweet, with a strange undercurrent of something I can only describe as deep-sea electricity.
We pass bites back and forth, testing, trading commentary, rating sauces and plating, making enemies of the surrounding tables with our shameless delight.
At one point, a couple slides into the booth behind Enoch, and I can immediately tell they’re from Thistlebrook. The woman leans forward, barely lowering her voice. “I didn’t know they let monsters in here now.”
Enoch glances at me, the tiniest of frowns. I brace myself, ready to fight, but he only raises his glass, salutes the air, and says,
“We do tip well, though.”
The woman splutters. Her date is openly fascinated.
I can’t help it. I reach out, my hand curling around Enoch’s where it rests on the table. His fingers are long, warm, a promise of strength. He looks down at our hands, then back up at me, and for a wild second, I think—hope—he’s going to kiss me right here, in front of everyone.
Instead, he squeezes gently and moves his thumb in a slow circle over my knuckle, and it feels like electricity, but in a safe, home-circuit kind of way.
Our server returns with the dessert menu, and I hear myself say, “We’ll take the sampler, please,” and the words are heavy with context.
Enoch grins, actual teeth this time, and I feel dizzy with anticipation.
We linger over dessert, picking apart a mosaic of sweets: coral-pink mousse, a tart made with something called witch’s berry, a spicy dark chocolate that leaves my lips tingling long after.
When the check comes, Enoch pays, brushing aside my halfhearted protest.
“It’s only fair,” he says, gathering his coat. “You provided the experiment.”
I’m still thinking about the blue flame, the sweetness of mousse on his tongue, and the way we must have looked—the town’s own punchline, demon and baker, eating like royalty—when we step out onto the glittering shore.
The wind bites sharper, carrying the salt and the possibility of snow, and I shiver.
He notices. Of course, he does. “Would you like me to walk you home?” he asks, as if I might say no.
“Please,” I say, my voice suddenly small beneath the sky.
We walk the first block in silence, shoulders occasionally bumping. There’s a warmth radiating off him, not quite supernatural, but certainly more than human. My head feels light. My heart is... well, occupied.
I break first. “So—was it up to your standards? The food?”
He stops walking, just for the span of a breath. “You want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
He glances sidelong at me, looking almost shy. “I haven’t eaten this well, or felt this good, in... too long to measure.”
He swallows, the Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I have memories, but none of them feel as real as right now.”
He gives me this look—open, unsure—and for the first time, I realize how little practice he’s had, really, at putting down his guard. For a being whose entire job is understanding others, it must be a kind of vertigo to be this exposed.
“Thank you, Enoch,” I say, meaning it in about seventeen different ways.
He bows his head, graceful. “The pleasure is entirely mine.”
We reach my bakery, the streetlamp whitening the sidewalk and pooling light over the blacked-out window. I stop, heart pounding. He stops too, and I think: what now? Will he say goodnight? Shake my hand?
Instead, he says, “Daisy. I won’t pretend I have any idea what I’m doing in this particular realm.”
I smile. “Dating?”
“Yes. Or... pursuing whatever this is.” He breaks off, searching. “I’m so used to being a neutral party that it’s—”
He exhales. “I want to get it right. But I probably won’t. Not always.”
Under the old neon sign, it should feel awkward, maybe, but it doesn’t.
I understand. “I don’t need perfection. Just honesty.”
He blinks, almost startled. “I can do that.”
My hands are cold, but I don’t care. I reach for him, and we are nose-to-nose, and for a moment neither of us speaks. His breath is warm, with a hint of cinnamon and something darker lingering beneath it.
I kiss him.
Because this time, there’s nothing in the way—no magic, no bakery counter, no excuses. Just us on a salt-lit street, the snow beginning to dust our hair.
It’s not fireworks. It’s not even chemical euphoria. It’s just... safe. And, okay, a little bit thrilling.
He pulls back, blinking. “Should I call you tomorrow?”
I laugh, my head tipping back. “You’d better.”
“Goodnight, Daisy Flowers.”
“Goodnight, Enoch.”
I watch him walk away, coat flapping, horns catching the wind, and I am warm all the way to my toes.
The only regret is that tomorrow is a full twenty-four hours away. But that’s okay. Because now I know the recipe: a pinch of awkward, a dash of danger, and enough sweet to drown the rest of the world out.
I can’t wait to try it again.