Chapter 6 #2
“I know.” I gently turned her toward the kitchen. “How about you help me make something to eat? We’ll all feel better if we have good food.”
Rosa sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “What are we making?”
“Pancakes.” I stood, holding out my hand. “With chocolate chips.”
Her eyes lit up, just slightly. “Really?”
“Really.” I led her into the kitchen, lifting her onto the stool by the sink. “Right after you wash your hands. You can help me measure and stir. And not eat all the chocolate chips before they go into the batter.”
She giggled, just a little. It was enough.
The first batch burned.
Rosa had dumped in too much baking powder when she was mixing, and the pancakes puffed up like little volcanoes before collapsing into blackened ruins.
She wailed. “I ruined them!”
“No.” I flipped the ruined pancakes onto a plate, then handed her the spatula. “We’ll try again. This time, you pour the chocolate chips in. But only a handful, okay?”
She nodded solemnly, her small fingers careful as she sprinkled the chips into the batter. I’d heard Sofia wake in the den, heard the groan she’d tried to hide as she shifted on the couch, and hoped she might be up for more breakfast.
The second batch turned out golden, fluffy, perfect.
Rosa beamed. “I did it!”
“You did.” I slid a pancake onto a plate, then handed it to her. “Take this to your mama. Tell her you made it all by yourself.”
She grabbed the plate with both hands, her chest puffing up with pride. “Okay!”
I watched her go, her pigtails bouncing with each step.
Then I turned back to the stove, pressing my palms to the counter, breathing.
Mine.
The word was a growl in my chest.
I forced myself to exhale, to count the seconds until the yearning ache receded, then I flipped the last pancake.
Rosa insisted on telling Sofia the entire story of the pancakes—the burned ones, the perfect ones, how she’d almost eaten all the chocolate chips, but I’d stopped her.
Sofia listened, her eyes closed, a small smile playing on her lips. “You’re a very good cook, mija.”
Rosa preened. “Mr. Dakvaar says I’m very good.”
“You are,” I called. “And you don’t have to call me mister, Rosa. If you’re camping out in my house, that means we’re friends.”
“Okay!” she bounced beside her mother on the couch as Sofia took small, careful bites. “Dak says I’m a genius.”
“A genius, huh?” Sofia’s smile widened, then faltered as she winced. I saw the way her fingers twitched toward her jaw, the way she carefully didn’t touch it.
My Kteer snarled.
I turned away, busying myself with clearing the dishes. The sink water ran too hot, steam curling up around my wrists.
Control.
I gripped the edge of the counter until my knuckles ached.
When Sofia’s eyelids grew heavy, I took the dishes, then solemnly explained to an excited Rosa that cleaning was part of cooking, and to my surprise, she was happy to help. Then I sent her off to get changed, and she came skipping back into the kitchen with a brush.
“Here.” She thrust it at me. “You gotta do my hair, ‘cause Mama’s asleep.”
My hair was cut short, and although I had vague memories of my father doing this for my mother and a few of my brothers, I’d had no experience with it. Still, Rosa was trusting me to learn, so I would.
I gathered her in my lap and took care to gently work out the knots from sleep.
“Mama is always in a hurry,” she suddenly announced. “I like the way you do it!”
My lips curled slightly, peace filling me. “Thank you, dkaar.”
“That’s your name, silly!” She twisted around in my lap to frown up at me. “I’m Rosa. Ro-saaaa.”
This time I couldn’t help my genuine smile as I gently turned her back so I could work my claws and the brush through her hair. “My name is Dakvaar. Dkaar is a term of endearment, like honey or sweetheart…or mija.”
I could see her little thoughtful frown. “What does it mean?”
Her mother had asked that last night. I hadn’t wanted to make Sofia uncomfortable, not until I understood her situation, but Rosa… I exhaled softly. “It means beloved. My father used to call us all that.”
“I don’t have a daddy.”
My hands stilled. “You—” I swallowed. “You don’t?” I managed, trying to sound nonchalant, and feeling immediately guilty I was trying to get information from this precious innocent.
“Mama and me left him a long time ago, when I was a baby. She says he’s not a nice man.” Rosa was kicking her little feet, her heels slamming into my knees as I forced myself to brush her hair. “I don’t remember him.”
I remembered the smell of Sofia’s blood on the bastard’s knuckles, and how my teammates were texting me with updates about how they hadn’t been able to find him, and my grip tightened on the brush’s handle. “That’s probably for the best.”
“Yeah, but Tommy has a daddy, and sometimes I think I want one too, but I don’t tell Mama, because she works hard.” Rosa’s nod was solemn as she twisted toward me. “Now you gotta put in my pigtails.”
Having no idea what pigtails had to do with little girls, instead I lifted her gently from my lap. “I think I’ve done a good job as it is, and we’re not going anywhere fancy today. Should we do some drawing instead?”
“Yeah!”
Thank the gods below that Rosa was easily distracted; we sat at the kitchen table and drew together as she chattered and her mother dozed.
“That’s Mama’s hands,” the little girl announced confidently, pointing at my sketchbook with her brown crayon. “You’re a good draw-er.”
I didn’t look up, because yes, my pencil skimmed across the paper, picking out the curve of Sofia’s fingers where they rested on top of the blanket. “So are you.”
“Yep! I’m a genius.”
My lips twitched at her confidence, and I realized how ridiculously proud I was to be able to help build this little girl’s confidence, even just a little.
After lunch—soup for me and Sofia, a sandwich for me and Rosa—I saw the little one yawning, and suggested a nap.
She planted her hands on her hips, stomped her foot, and glared up at me.
“I’m not a baby who needs naps!” But when I suggested she sit next to her mother on the couch, she went willingly.
She curled up against Sofia, her small body warm and heavy, her dark head tucked under her mother’s chin, a picture of battered innocence framed by the snow falling outside the big window behind them.
Sofia’s arm came up automatically, cradling her. “You need a nap, mija.”
Rosa shook her head, but her eyelids were already drooping. “No. I want a story.”
Sofia opened her mouth to argue, but Rosa cut her off. “From Dak, not you, Mama.”
Sofia’s lips twitched. “Oh?”
Rosa nodded, her voice already slurring. “Yep. An orc story.”
I exhaled. “I don’t have any children’s books.”
“Then tell us one,” Sofia said softly.
I hesitated. The stories of my world weren’t meant for human ears. They were raw, violent sometimes—the way survival often was. But Rosa was already half-asleep, her breathing slowing, and Sofia’s gaze was warm, expectant.
I sat in the armchair beside the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll tell you the story of Veth’kar the Storm-Bringer.”
Rosa snuggled closer to her mother. “Is he a good guy?”
I almost smiled. “He is now.”
And I began.
“Long ago, before the first snows fell on the peaks, before the rivers carved their paths through the stone, the world was dark.”
Rosa’s breathing was already evening out, but Sofia’s eyes were open, watching me, her bruises even darker.
“There was no fire. No light. Only cold, and hunger, and the howling of the wind through the bones of the earth.”
I kept my voice low, letting it rumble like the storms in the mountains.
“But the gods listened. And one among them—Veth’kar, the youngest, the most reckless—decided to steal fire from the sky.”
Rosa murmured something, her fingers curling into Sofia’s shirt.
“He climbed the highest peak, where the air was thin and the stars burned like embers. And he reached—” I stretched my arm out, my claws flexing “—and he took the lightning in his hands.”
Sofia’s breath hitched.
“It burned him. It changed him. His skin turned to stone where the fire touched him. His eyes became storms. But he carried the flame down the mountain, and he gave it to the people.”
I lowered my voice.
“And that is why, when the winds howl and the thunder shakes the earth, we say Veth’kar walks among us again.”
Silence.
Rosa was asleep, her mouth slightly open, her dark lashes fanned against her cheeks.
Sofia’s eyes were still on me. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered.
I looked away, my throat tight.
Outside, the snow kept falling.
I reached for the book on the side table—The Count of Monte Cristo, half-read—and opened it to a random page.
The words blurred.
I didn’t care.
I just needed something to focus on that wasn’t the way Sofia’s scent wrapped around me, warm and sweet and mine.
I turned the page.
And pretended I didn’t hear the way her breathing slowed, the way she, too, drifted into sleep.
The fire crackled. The snow fell.
Mine.