Chapter 16
Morella blinks. “We followed the recipe…”
I saw as Liv’s face changed. One moment she's laughing that Silas is getting some karma and then…She’s tucking her lip between her teeth, and her arms crossed over her stomach like she was bracing for impact. I see the shimmer hit her eyes before she turns away. She was trying not to cry.
Shit.
I grab a cookie and force it down in three chews, trying not to wince as the salt sucker-punched my taste buds.
“Dramatic much?” I mutter, swallowing hard. “They’re fine.”
Silas turns and stares at me like I’ve grown a second head.
“Fine?” he echoes. “You’re insane.”
Liv looks up, blinking fast. I catch the tail end of her smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she reaches for a cookie herself, cheeks still pink.
Nope. I snatch the cookie right out of her hand and grab the tray in front of her too.
“Hey!” she shouts.
I don’t say anything. I just give her and Morella a hard look and step back.
“These are too good to share,” I tell them as I back out of the room, guarding the tray of cookies.
Behind me, I hear Silas whispering, “He’s gonna die later,” and Rafe muttering, “He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
The cookies were awful, but the look on her face, the hurt in her eyes. I don’t think I could handle it.
The tray sits untouched on the coffee table.
The den feels darker now, even with the glow of the muted TV casting flickers across the walls.
Silas is back to his usual slouch, this time with a pillow clutched to his chest like he’s shielding himself from the memory of what he’d just tasted.
Rafe leans back into the corner of the couch, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the tray like it might explode.
I haven’t said a word since I sat down. The cookies sit between us. Salt bombs in disguise.
Rafe finally breaks the quiet. “You hate sweets.”
Silas leans forward, elbows on his knees. “No, like seriously. You don’t even eat birthday cake. What the hell was that back there?”
I don’t look at them, I just stare at the tray.
I was five.
Perched in a high-backed kitchen chair that didn’t quite fit me, legs swinging as I watched my grandmother flip through a glossy magazine, Entertaining Monthly or something like it.
She was studying the upcoming season’s party trends like she was preparing for battle: floral arrangements, canapé spreads, the new rage for caviar towers.
She was elegance in motion, all draped silk and perfect posture, her lipstick a careful, classic red. She didn’t belong in this room, not really. The kitchen wasn’t hers. It belonged to the staff, the caterers, the ones who knew the difference between baking soda and powder.
“I’ll call Leclerc’s and have them deliver some cookies,” she said without looking up. “You like those lemon ones, don’t you, Sugarplum?”
I shook my head. “I want homemade cookies.”
That got her attention. She looked up, surprised. We didn’t do homemade. Not in this house. Not in our world. But she never told me no.
Her red lips curved into a smile. “Well,” she said, “then I suppose I’d better make you some.”
I beamed. She set the magazine aside and moved through the kitchen like she was trespassing in her own home, curious, careful, and uncertain. Her fingers hovered over the stainless steel canisters on the counter, all stripped of their labels long ago. I saw her pause. Squint. Sniff.
She picked one.
Later, the cookies came out looking mostly right. A little pale, a little lumpy, but cookies nonetheless.
She plated them on a saucer and handed me one like it was part of a royal tea service.
I bit into it and everything in my mouth rebelled. It was salty and sharp. Crumbly in the worst way. I tried to chew, tried to smile, but I was five. My face gave me away.
She bit into hers and that was it. Her hands moved quickly, gathering the tray, scraping it into the trash. Her shoulders were stiff, her face expressionless. She didn’t yell. Didn’t apologize. Just stood over the sink, her back to me, quiet.
Then I saw her reach up and press her fingertips to her mouth. Just for a second. Like she was holding something in.
I didn’t know what to do. So I slid off the chair, padded across the tile in my socks, and wrapped my arms around her legs.
“They weren’t that bad,” I said quietly. “I don’t need good cookies. I just wanted yours.”
She let out a trembling sound and knelt down slowly, her hands brushing over my hair, my shoulders.
“Oh, Sugarplum,” she whispered, pulling me into her arms. “They were awful. But you,” she kissed the top of my head, “you’re the sweetest boy. You always love me anyway.”
I nodded into her shoulder and we held onto each other like neither of us knew how to let go.
I never ate sweets again after that.
Silas nudges my foot with his. “Dude. Earth to Archer.”
I blink, the room coming into focus again.
Rafe was now watching me, arms folded. His stare wasn’t sharp. Just curious.
I lean forward, grabbing the tray from the table, and stand up.
“Seriously,” Silas said. “What was that? You trying to die for dramatic effect or something?”
I stare at the cookies for a beat too long.
I shrug. “I really didn’t want to listen to the girls cry all night about some stupid cookies.”