Chapter 9 #3
He was still turning the thought over when the rattle of wheels broke the quiet.
Cassia emerged from the kitchen, pushing a tiered trolley laden with dishes.
The scents hit first—rich, warm, and unmistakably indulgent.
Butter, slow-cooked meats, the earthiness of roasted vegetables and herbs, all mingling with the lingering sweetness of chocolate and spice.
She had been right. Their table would have collapsed under the weight of it all.
She maneuvered the trolley with practiced ease, a faint curl on her lips, like she already knew she had their attention before she’d spoken a word.
He didn’t move, but his gaze flicked over the spread as she began setting down plates.
Golden-crusted quiche, rich with butter and mixed with the earthiness of mushrooms. Scones dusted with rosemary and thyme, paired with whipped goat cheese so airy it maintained its perfect swirl.
A fragrant stew, its broth thick and dark, the kind that clung to a spoon and promised warmth down to the bone.
Rhodes, who had spent the past several minutes lounging with the easy patience of a man with nowhere to be, had gone completely still.
Ark watched as their attention shifted—not just to the food, but to her.
The way she moved, unhurried but assured, each dish arranged with a care so deliberate it became part of her character.
This was her stage, her domain. She’d grabbed their attention without even needing to speak.
By the time she set the last plate down—the poached pear pie, its almond-studded crust catching the light—the mood at the table had shifted.
Caius, usually unshakable, exhaled softly as he straightened.
It was rare to see him take interest in something as mundane as food, yet here he was: posture alert, eyes tracing the spread before them.
Rhodes, predictably less restrained, already had his fists planted on the table, no doubt calculating just how much he could claim before Caius reminded him that manners existed for a reason.
And Cassia didn’t even try to hide the satisfaction curling at her lips, watching them like a woman who thrived in that exact moment—that fine line between hunger and surrender.
“Anything else I can get you?” she asked.
“Not at the moment,” Rhodes said, eyes still glued to the spread before them. “But I have a feeling I’ll want seconds.”
Caius groaned. Ark simply sighed.
She laughed. “Feast well.”
He caught the briefest flicker of a wink before she turned back to the counter, her hands immediately reaching for a ceramic bowl and a bag of flour.
He and his friends stared at the veritable feast, overflowing onto the gilded cart pushed up against the table’s edge.
He didn’t rush, letting Caius and Rhodes be the first to dig in.
Rhodes took a spoonful of stew first, his usual impatience winning out. The first bite was always the tell. The moment the slow-braised lamb hit his tongue, his shoulders slackened, and he let out a slow exhale. Ark could almost see the warmth sinking deep into his friend’s bones.
Caius followed, cutting into the quiche, and Ark caught the barely there hum of approval as he tasted the first forkful.
Ark finally lifted his spoon and took his first taste.
The stew was rich, velvety, layered in a way that only happened when someone understood how patience and fire should work together. The meat practically dissolved against his tongue, warmth unfurling in slow waves, settling somewhere deeper than his stomach.
A familiar, almost-forgotten sensation suffused him.
Comfort.
His fingers curled around his spoon as the magic snuck in deeper—a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the food, but a power much more subtle, more careful.
It was the kind of magic that soothed aching limbs, that pulled tension from the body the way an old healer’s hands worked through tired muscles.
Energy surged through him, drawn from deep within, coaxed to the surface like embers fanned into flame.
Cassia’s food had that quality. It mended, nudged the body toward restoration.
Even his blistered palm felt better now.
Lightness settled in his limbs, warmth curling through his veins.
It was a foreign feeling, this gentle buoyancy—an almost giddy effervescence that lifted the weight from his shoulders.
His eyes fluttered, nearly closing, and he had to force them open—just in time to catch her watching him from behind the kitchen counter, an arrested expression on her face.
Ark cleared his throat and dug in before Rhodes devoured everything.
He knew now: her magic wasn’t the kind that roared. It didn’t strike like lightning or crackle in the air. It was quiet, stealthy in its gentleness, winding through every spice, every drop of slow-cooked broth, every delicately folded pastry.
It wasn’t something defined enough to be categorized or studied.
He didn’t even think it was something she had ever been formally trained for.
Yet, it was present in the way she worked, woven into every dish she made, into the way she brought people together and made them stay just a little longer than they intended.
He had come in hungry, expecting to be fed.
He was nourished instead.