Chapter Six #3
She releases my fingers slowly, and the look she gives me makes it perfectly clear she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Angel.”
Her smile is entirely too pleased with itself.
I smile and pick up another strawberry. “More?”
She laughs softly. “Yes, sir.”
I feed her the rest a piece at a time while we talk about nothing important.
By the time the bowl is empty, her hair is mostly dry and some of the drowsiness has eased. When she finally decides she’s ready to move, I bring her clothes over rather than making her search for them and give her space to dress.
She catches me watching when she reaches for her bag. “Same rules this week?”
“Yes,” I tell her.
“I can do that.”
“I know you can, Angel.”
The smile that earns me makes the endearment feel even more natural than it did the first time.
I walk her downstairs and wait while she puts on her coat. She pauses at the front door, looking back at me as though there’s something else she wants to say, but in the end she only smiles.
“Goodnight, Soren.”
“Goodnight, Margot.”
I watch from the doorway until she reaches her car, then stay there long enough to see her pull through the gates before heading back inside.
The common room is loud when I reach it. There are no evening bookings, which means most of the house has migrated toward the kitchen and fireplace instead of disappearing into session rooms or private quarters.
Mikael has claimed the armchair, one leg hanging over the side while he reads. Corvin sits near the window with a book open across his lap, unaffected by whatever's happening behind me in the kitchen.
Evander is at the stove when I come in, which is not unusual. The look he gives me over his shoulder is.
“My good stockpot went missing,” he says.
“I’ll bring it back.”
“I don’t care about the pot.” He points the wooden spoon at me. “You cooked. For a client.”
“I keep food in the session rooms.”
“You keep granola bars, fruit and those tiny bottles of juice Gael buys by the crate.” The spoon doesn’t waver. “You made soup.”
I pick up one of his spice jars and move it two inches, mostly for something to do with my hands. Evan takes it back and returns it to the same spot without breaking eye contact.
From the armchair, Mikael turns a page and says nothing at all.
“Not a word,” I tell him anyway.
“I continue to be remarkably silent.”
“You’re a vampire. You can be more silent.”
That gets a quiet laugh from Corvin, though he still doesn’t look up from his book. I leave before either of them can find another way to be right about me.
Gael catches me in the hallway, tablet under one arm.
“Two reschedules in one week, Soren.”
“Both clients were happy with the new times.”
“I didn’t ask how they took it.” She’s gone before I can decide whether to answer the question she didn’t ask.
Margot’s session went well, and there is no reason to turn a minor scheduling change into something more significant than it was.
Instead of going upstairs, I head back to the session room. I still need to finish resetting it, and putting things back where they belong gives me something practical to do with my hands.
The bed is stripped, the empty bowl and tray are waiting to go downstairs, and the towels from the bathroom are piled in the laundry basket with the robe Margot wore after her shower.
I reach for the basket.
Then stop.
Her robe is right on top.
I pick it up before I can think too hard about why I’m doing it. It should stay with the towels and go through the laundry with everything else, ready for whoever needs it next. Instead, I stand there holding it while the faint scent of her rises from the fabric.
I don’t even bother pretending to argue with myself this time. I put the laundry basket down, fold the robe over my arm, and take it upstairs with me.
I close the door behind me and carry the robe into my bedroom. Her hair tie is still beside the lamp where I put it last week, a thin loop of black elastic that has somehow survived seven days without me making any serious attempt to return it.
Now I’m holding her robe.
One hair tie could be dismissed as an impulse. Taking something directly out of the laundry basket is considerably harder to explain.
I fold the robe properly and place it near the nightstand beside the hair tie.
The satisfaction that moves through me is immediate.
I stare at both for a moment, increasingly annoyed with myself.
Margot will need another robe next Saturday.
There are plenty downstairs. This one is no different from any of the others except that she wore it, which is enough for my dragon to have developed very strong opinions about where it belongs.
I leave it there.
The extra blankets I arranged last week are still tucked into the far side of the nest, along with the pillows I added with Margot in mind. I haven’t moved any of them back. If anything, I’ve become accustomed to seeing the space prepared for her.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for my book. The robe catches my attention again before I’ve made it through the first page.
This is becoming a problem.
Not enough of one to make me take it back downstairs.