Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
His voice sharpens, feeling like fingernails on my skin.
“You don’t sleep. I hear you at all hours of the night.
The Manor echoes with you, constantly. It’s maddening.
” His eyes drop to my mouth, and that one small look sends my pulse racing.
“Then, you never rest. Even your relaxation is productive.”
“Looking up recipes is peaceful for me.”
His eyes work down my form and back up, and yup, I’m suddenly very much anti–tall men. “And you don’t eat. You’re thinner than when you arrived.”
My face goes hot with… with something. Fury. Embarrassment. This man tenderly fed me a tomato fifteen minutes ago. Tenderly.
“Of all the ridiculous—I’m a Farewitch! I eat plenty. I’ve just been stressed. Everyone is stressed. We’re trying to save multiple lives, remember? So forgive me if I’m just not hungry. I’ll eat once I’ve accomplished what I need to do. I don’t like to break my concentration.”
“You can’t go through life treating food as a reward. You’re not a dog. As much as Lazlo might prefer that.”
My skin buzzes with the urge to flee, but only animals on the defense retreat. “I’m trying to run a business and take care of a parent. I am an only child, an only daughter. I. Am. Busy.” I enunciate each word.”
“And do you ever finish the list of things you have to do?”
Irrelevant. “I enjoy something I want when I’ve earned it. That’s how I stay motivated, and that’s how I appreciate something in peace. And—and you’re my employer! You don’t get to offer advice on my health.”
His next words are startlingly soft. “But as your friend, I do, and I think you’ve gotten too used to starving yourself.”
“Excuse me?” Blood whooshes in my ears. “Do you want me here or not?”
“Do I—” He runs an agitated hand over his face, like he can’t decide if this should be a lecture or a scolding and I’m making the choice difficult.
“You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t care.” I can’t think when I’m tucked in his body space like this. My hands spring free of my apron and push against his chest. “Move.”
He steps away, no questions asked. “Ms. Frost, you know very well I don’t have the energy to fight with you. Quite literally.”
Before I can feel disappointed his body heat is gone, I point to the door. “Then get out, because I feel like fighting.”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s my kitchen.”
He throws up his hands in defeat. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he’s gone.
Immediately, I open the fridge and scream into it. The cool air is heaven on my hot face.
How dare he. Howdarehehowdarehe. I’ll stomp through his gardens and squish every last delicate vegetable under my clogs. Rip the petals from his flowers. The mental image is incredibly satisfying. I shouldn’t care if the Warlock is upset with me.
So why do his words sting so much?
Momaw’s voice trickles through my mind’s dam of anger. It only hurts if it’s true.
I cradle my head in my hands over the sink, staring at the stupid vegetables that the stupid man nurtured and grew and cared for in his stupid garden.
My frenzied thoughts sharpen as I gather ingredients. Do I eat? Ha. Do I ever.
Weisenberger stone-ground yellow grits. Burners click to life.
Water boils. Shrimp dance in a sauté pan on the stove.
I stir my grits until they bite back like al dente pasta, and then fold in cream, cheddar cheese, and butter, of course.
Buttermilk and paprika, freshly cracked black pepper, too.
No bland grits in this house. The soundtrack at my fingertips is always the best way to channel the angry thrum under my pulse, the growl in my stomach.
As I stand over the hot stove, temples sweating, my mind fogs for a second, but then the dizzy sensation is gone. Maybe I’m hungrier than I realized. But that doesn’t mean the Warlock is right.
Finishing touch: I add molasses to the sizzling sauce. The salty bite of the grits will wear it well. Everything sharp needs a little sweet.
In under an hour, I’ve rage-cooked something gorgeous. Sautéed buttered shrimp with Southern cheddar grits. How a person can create something from nothing and have immediate, delicious evidence to prove it—this is the real magic in the world.
I plate the plump shrimp onto a pillow of grits, ley lines of butter creating a glorious foundation. Then I plop down at the kitchen table and eat every. Last. Shrimp. The grits, too, for good measure.
Utterly full and warm, I slump back and stare out at the Manor’s kitchen. His kitchen. Mine? Who cares. I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten a full meal I made just for myself. It’s divine. For about twenty minutes.
And then it isn’t.
The fuzzy feeling starts in my neck, like I’m wearing a cheap scarf. Sniffles spread through my nose. My sinuses stop up, head stuffy. It’s way too warm in here. Did I leave the oven on? I clear my throat but it feels like I’m swallowing my lymph nodes. My eyes grow watery. Am I crying?
Then my chest tightens, and I realize I’m not breathing fully.
My internal smoke detector starts screaming.
I shuffle to the main staircase, but my limbs are heavy and the hallways are as warm as the kitchen.
I want to shed itchy layers, but all I have on under my apron are my overalls.
With an embarrassing amount of effort, I at last reach the third floor and pause to catch my breath.
My gut turns over and my lower abdomen clenches.
I can’t decide if I need to sit on a toilet or lean over one.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a hall mirror. Skin splotchy red like a McIntosh apple.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Somehow, I stumble to the Warlock’s rooms. Knock. “Mr. Knight.” No answer. I knock again, taking a wheezy breath. “Sir, please.”
Thank the Lord, his voice comes through the door. “We’re fighting, Ms. Frost. I’d like to be mad at least until tomorrow morning.”
I rest my forehead against his door. I need to sit down. Or bend at the waist. Or go completely horizontal? Air. I need air. Or him. Same thing.
Smothering my pride, I croak, “I need your help. I don’t feel so—”
The door flies open, revealing alarmed hazel eyes. My voice must sound as bad as I feel.
“Ms. Frost, what’s wrong—why are you swollen?”