Chapter Eight
“It’s cold out tonight.” Chloe Rodgers says, shivering beside me. She rubs her hands up and down her arms as we brave the bitter chill to get to the parking lot behind the science buildings.
The strawberry-blonde, green-eyed enchantress shares my animal science course, even though she’s technically on biochemistry track.
She’s taking one of the hardest courses as a freaking elective.
The girl is scary smart, scary pretty, and scary nice.
The truly terrifying thing is that her niceness isn’t a thin shield; she’s genuinely a kind person, which is just eerie to me.
“Vermont weather can be harsh,” I agree, pulling my blouse tighter around me. It’s nice—silk, so soft I could weep. Seamus might be one scary motherfucker, but he’s got good taste in women’s clothes.
Chloe pulls her phone out of her pocket as we reach the parking lot and sends a text—probably to Mason, her boyfriend. I’ve met him enough times to deduce he is not a good person, but he is so devoted to Chloe it’s almost suffocating. When he looks at her, everything about his energy just… lifts.
“Mason coming to pick you up?” I ask her, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
She nods. “Yeah, he’s running a bit late. I’ve told him I should get a car, my stepdad has offered to buy me one more than once, but Mase likes driving me.”
“He really loves you,” I say with a faint smile. “It’s kind of sickening.”
Chloe lets out a light, ringing laugh. “He scared me at first. A lot. But I love him, too. He’s good to me.”
I don’t think there are many people who can say that about Mason Sieger, heir to a multibillion-dollar empire, but I don’t doubt his devotion to Chloe.
“You need a ride somewhere?” she asks me. “Back to dorms? I know they’re across campus.”
I bite my lip. “A friend’s picking me up, so I’m good.”
“M’kay,” Chloe says, just as Mason’s car pulls up in front of us.
She gives my hand a squeeze, smiles, and gets in the car.
Mason only spares me the briefest glance before curling a hand around Chloe’s neck and drawing her in for a deep, lingering kiss.
I avert my gaze, even as something in my chest pulses with want.
After a minute, the car pulls away, leaving me alone in the cold, with my teeth chattering.
I’m not left to wait for long before Dorian also pulls up in his BMW.
If only I could feel as safe around him as Chloe does around Mason, I could breathe a lot easier.
Instead, I’m going to endeavor to win over the members of his house by making a really, really good dinner that’ll hopefully make them want to kill me a little less.
The drive to the grocery store is mostly taken in silence—I can tell Dorian’s mind is elsewhere. The quiet doesn’t bother me. I go over the notes I took for my classes today until we approach a super nice store—the one on the rich side of town. I grab his arm as he pulls into a parking spot.
“Um… can we go to the Speed Mart downtown?” I ask him.
His brows furrow. “This place is better. It has a good meats selection, too, so we won’t have to go to a butcher.”
I chew my lip. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it, but working at an animal shelter doesn’t pay much. I have a pretty strict budget for grocery shopping, and I need to get more supplies for my pack and clan. I…” God, this is embarrassing. “I can’t afford this place.
His expression smooths out. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Whatever you need, I’ll cover it.”
I shake my head firmly. “No. You’re paying for dinner stuff, definitely, but not the rest—I don’t want to be in your debt.”
“You won’t be,” he replies. “As much as you’re trying to make nice with my crew, it’d also behoove me to make nice with you, don’t you think?”
“No. Whether or not you’re nice to me won’t change the fact that I’ll keep my mouth shut. I still will.” My plan is to avoid getting killed or seen as a loose end for the next week, then return to my life as it was.
Independence is something I’ve always prized; I worked really fucking hard to earn it, and I’m not eager to lose it or have it undermined.
I also don’t really want Dorian to be nice to me.
I don’t want to start forgetting who he is or how we met—I don’t want to be charmed by him.
I know he’s into me, I know he wants to have sex with me, and I don’t want to give into that.
I won’t deny that I’ve experienced moments of attraction to him—he is really hot—but I like to think I’m better than sleeping with someone I caught getting rid of a body in the woods.
Dorian sighs. “It’s been a long day, let’s not argue. You won’t owe me anything. This doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just groceries.”
He gets out of the car without giving me a chance to respond.
Reluctantly, I follow, frowning even as I tell myself that it is just groceries.
I don’t even want to know how much Seamus spent on the bag of clothes he presented me with—these jeans alone probably cost at least seventy bucks, and the silky blouse…
yeah. I’m pretty sure a few hundred dollars would be pocket change to these guys.
Shit, a few thousand dollars probably wouldn’t make a dent in their accounts.
I bite my lip and follow Dorian inside the store, spending the next half hour pointedly averting my eyes from all the price tags.
It’s not my money. Besides, Dorian did dislocate my shoulder last night, so I could view this as his way of making reparations to me.
I don’t think he feels bad about hurting me, but I can pretend he does, and pretend that this is his way of paying me back.
I find myself sneaking glances at him on the drive back to his gothic McMansion.
There’s definitely something down about him today, as if he’s received shitty news or heard something he didn’t want to hear.
Part of me is tempted to ask him about it; another part is actually tempted to soothe him.
I resist both temptations, opting to instead go through the recipes folder in the notes app of my phone.
I’ve tested out a lot of recipes over the years, and I always write down the ones that work best, along with a few personal edits I figure out as I go along.
Growing up, I never had the privilege to cook—there was barely even canned food at home.
I only started learning when I began visiting a friend who was a cooking enthusiast. As soon as I left for Greywood and started earning my own money, I spent all of my free time honing my cooking skills.
I was pretty crappy at first, even with the practice I’d gotten over the years.
Valerie and Cara nearly kicked me out of our dorm because of my disastrous experiments, but after a few months I improved.
Now, they love it when I cook; they’ll even contribute to groceries when they know I’m making a family meal for all of us.
“It’s early,” Dorian observes. “We usually don’t eat until 10. We’re night owls in this house.”
I release a breath of relief. “Oh, good. Then I’ll have time to make everything I was thinking of and marinate the steaks.”
Dorian throws me a squinty look as he parks his car in front of the House of Horrors. “That’s four hours from now,” he says slowly. “Are you planning on cooking enough to feed an army?”
I smile faintly, shaking my head. “No, I’m planning to cook enough to have leftovers for a few days.
Do you know how rare it is for me to have enough groceries to make several dishes?
I love cooking. It relaxes me. Tonight’s as much for me as it is for you, big guy.
” I nod towards the back seat. “I’m designating you as my bag boy; help me carry groceries. ”
Dorian’s brows furrow. “You don’t have to serve us, you know,” he says. “I’d actually prefer if you didn’t.”
I pat his hand. “Once again, this’ll be fun for me.
Cooking calms me, and weirdly enough, I’ve had a lot of anxiety since meeting you.
You and your psycho roommates just happen to be lucky beneficiaries of my coping skills.
And hopefully Connor will start seeing me as something other than a liability—that’s also part of the game plan.
If not,” I shrug, “at least I’ll get to spend a few hours engaging in one of my favorite hobbies.
Now, seriously. Help me get the groceries. ”
There are over half a dozen bags brimming with products—vegetables, meats, flour, sugar, dark chocolate. I might’ve gone a bit overboard once I started viewing Dorian swiping his card as him repaying a debt. “Let’s go.”
I carry two light bags filled with produce, while Dorian carts everything else. He unlocks the mansion door, taking me straight into a kitchen with appliances that nearly make my mouth water.
Huge marble island. Stainless-steel fridge. Chef’s grade six-burner stove and four ovens. Oh, I am going to have fun tonight. Usually, I have to make do with an oven possessed by a demon and a barely functional two-burner stove.
Dorian spends a few minutes showing me all the cooking supplies, a seemingly endless stockpile. Mixing bowls, whisks, measuring cups, even pasta makers and a mandoline. Excitement sizzles in my veins; I’ve never had a kitchen or so many excellent tools to work with.
“You need help?” Dorian asks, watching as I lay out the grocery items and start collecting cutting boards, mixers, knives, and pots and pans of all different sizes.
“Nope,” I respond. “You’ll just get in my way. You’re good to go, everything will be ready at ten.” I wash my hands and grab several sauces from a cupboard to start on a marinade for the steak. “You guys have a grill?” I ask.
He nods. “Out back. Let me know a half hour before you need it, and I’ll fire it up.” He seats himself at a small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll stick around.”
I frown at him, opening my mouth to tell him I prefer to work in peace, but think better of it. “Whatever floats your boat.”