Withering Rose (Once Upon A Curse Book 2) (13 page)

So instead, I shrug. "I'm awake now."

Cole stays in the doorway, filling the
opening with his expansive frame. Something about him is more
awkward than usual, as though all of his predatory grace has fled
for the moment. He reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck, and I
find myself holding back a giggle. "I, uh, brought you some food if
you want it."

My pent-up laugh turns to a soft groan when
I notice the small bag in his other hand. "More apples and dried
meat?" After days and days of eating the same thing, my stomach
yearns for new flavors.

But in the silence following my words, I
watch Cole's entire person fall slowly—first his hand, which drifts
back to his side, then his brows, which tighten into a knot, and
then his nearly smiling lips, which drop into a frown.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, sitting up, not
sure what I did.

And then it hits me.

I'm an idiot.

All this time that apples and meats have
been delivered to my door, I never thought about where they came
from or who prepared them. I was too afraid of the animals dropping
the packages outside my room to even think about anything else. But
wolves can't tend to apple trees. And bears can't prepare meats to
dry. And leopards can't bake any sort of bread. Only one person
can.

Cole.

He's the only human I've seen.

He's been silently looking after me this
entire time.

And how do I show my gratitude? By behaving
like a brat and asking for something else. Maybe he doesn’t have
anything else. Maybe he doesn’t know how to make anything else. Who
would have taught him how to cook? The wolves?

"Cole?" I ask softly.

He nods, not looking at me, pretending to be
tough just like I always pretend. But the tense line of his jaw
gives him away.

"Has anyone ever made you breakfast?" I
question.

His gaze flicks toward me then, alight with
interest, and the clenched muscles in his neck release.

That's all the answer I need because we're
friends. And friends don't act like spoiled jerks. Friends don't
question someone else's form of kindness. Friends give back and
show some compassion of their own. Friends see that spark of
intrigue and get a twinge of excitement at being the one to put it
there.

At least, I think they do.

In a flash, I hop out of bed. I went to
sleep in a soft cotton gown I found in the armoire, and I don't
feel like wasting any time changing back into my T-shirt and jeans,
which if I'm being honest, are starting to smell. So I wrap a cloak
around my shoulders and grab Cole's hand, pleased when he latches
his fingers tighter around mine instead of pulling away.

"Where's the kitchen?" I ask when we enter
the hall.

Cole takes the lead, tugging me gently down
long corridors until we reach a massive room that makes me gasp.
Pots and pans line the back wall, all different shapes and sizes.
There must be four ovens and ten stovetops. A huge table topped
with a sturdy wooden block fills the center of the space and
resting beneath the prep surface are every utensil and every bowl I
could ever imagine needing. When I turn to look behind me, there
are multiple cabinets filled with enough china to serve a hundred
people.

My eyes find Cole's.

But his have grown hard and stormy
again.

The questions die on my lips. Clearly, there
was once a time when this castle hosted balls and banquets. When
the rooms were filled and the halls were loud with boisterous
conversation. Clearly, there was a time when people and not animals
roamed the city streets. But what's clearer is that Cole does not
want to talk about it. And I know in my gut it has something to do
with magic.

But I made a promise not to speak of those
things.

So I open my mouth and ask, "Where do you
grow the apples?"

His gaze softens. His shoulders relax. "This
way," he says and nudges his head to a door I didn’t notice before.
He leads me out to an expansive greenhouse. The plants are wild and
unruly, but I take a deep breath, letting their scents fill my
nose, and immediately know there is so much here I can work
with.

Cole watches me warily, as though he can
sense the magic beginning to course through me. I keep it
forcefully at bay.

"Do you have eggs?" I ask.

He nods.

"Could you go get some, please?" I keep my
voice steady as the magic builds beneath my skin, bubbling
excitedly to the surface as the smell of so much vegetation
continues to overwhelm me. Only after he's back inside and out of
sight do I give into the temptation.

Immediately, I'm outside myself, traveling
with the magic as it sinks into the dirt beneath my feet, kept soft
and warm by the glass dome overhead. The apple trees Cole has been
pillaging are where I go first, oozing new life into their tired
branches. Rotten apples fall to the ground, replaced with brand-new
glistening red ones. My senses extend further until soon I'm one
with nearly every plant in this place. Lemon trees and orange trees
blossom with new fruits. Potato spuds, radishes, and carrots sprout
beneath the surface. Herbs pop to life one by one, basil, oregano,
rosemary, and thyme. A garden of riches Cole didn't even know he
had bursts to life beneath my magic. I bring new vivacity to
vegetables that had grown weary and sad, and within all the magic,
I hardly notice as I introduce new ones. Tomato vines ripen.
Strawberry bushes rise in the corner. Raspberry bushes too.

I only stop because of the familiar pinch
deep in my chest. The magic snaps back inside as a wave of fire
courses through me, then a crash of frigid ice. Time strips away,
stolen from my soul. And I stumble on uneasy feet, gritting my
teeth to keep from crying out as I wait for the onslaught to
end.

Another rose petal falls. Then another.

A few minutes later, I can breathe again.
And with that painful reminder of the cost of my magic over, I push
the power firmly back into hiding, trying to forget how glorious it
felt to use it so freely.

When I return to the kitchen with a basket
full of potatoes, tomatoes, herbs, and more vegetables, Cole is
waiting for me. He doesn't mention the greenhouse. I don't either.
We both pretend there is no awkward silence filling the space
between us.

"What do you normally eat?" I wonder
aloud.

Cole grins wickedly. His gray eyes flash,
and I notice how his shaggy black hair falls over his forehead just
a little when he turns to look at me. "Rabbits. Squirrels. The
occasional bird or fish. Deer if I'm lucky."

Duh.

He doesn’t know how to cook. There was
hardly any food in the kitchen. And he lives in a town of wolves,
bears, leopards, and who knows what else.

He's a hunter.

A carnivore.

The image of a bear ripping into the carcass
of a deer suddenly fills my thoughts. I swallow, voice small when I
ask, "So, you've never had an omelet before?"

His smile deepens, amused at my discomfort.
"No," he answers slowly, shaking his head.

Under his gaze, I find myself associating
with the rabbits, feeling caught, trapped by his unwavering
attention. I clear my throat. "Well, it's no deer, but I make a
pretty good veggie omelet. Hash browns are my specialty."

My mind wanders back to the base, to the
small kitchen my father and I shared. Omelet day was a treat. There
weren't many supplies to spare, especially for things like eggs and
meats. But potatoes were plentiful, and I used to make them all the
time, testing out recipes with the basic foods we were allotted
each week. Once in a while though, we got eggs. My father showed me
how to make them just the way my mom and I used to like, stuffed
with vegetables, spicy, with flavor oozing from each bite.

"Can you show me?" Cole asks.

He snuck up next to me while my mind
wandered, but now I can't ignore his presence. Heat from his skin
funnels into mine, bringing warmth to my arm and a strange tickle
to the back of my neck, a tingle that shivers down the entire
length of my spine.

"Sure," I murmur breathily.

Air, I realize. I need air. He's
overwhelming.

I spin on my heels, surprising us both with
my spastic movement, and start collecting items from around the
kitchen. Mixing bowls. Knives. Forks. Anything and everything I
think I'll need until my arms are completely full. Then I unload
the pile on the table, using it like a barrier between my body and
his, giving me enough space to think clearly.

I hand him a knife and half the
vegetables.

"First, we have to do the menial labor," I
joke, grabbing a potato.

For the next ten minutes, we work side by
side in silence. But it's a nice sort of quiet, a peaceful one.
Cole glances over every so often to make sure he is slicing
everything the right way, but even if it's wrong, I don't correct
him, not when he's concentrating so hard. I find my gaze constantly
flicking over to observe the hard-set line of his pursed lips and
the determined scrunch of his dark eyebrows. I glance away quickly
each time, hoping he doesn’t notice my stare.

When we're finished, I put all the
ingredients in two separate bowls, one for the omelets and one for
the hash browns. And then I reach for the eggs.

"Want to give it a try?" I ask, cracking one
egg gently against the ceramic edge of a bowl and pulling it open
until the yolk and whites fall easily into the dish.

"Do another one," he murmurs, focused on my
hands.

I bite my top lip to keep my smile from
spreading too wide, and oblige. Another egg falls seamlessly into
the bowl.

"Okay." He reaches out eagerly. I can’t
fight the bubble of happiness rising in my chest as I watch him.
But I've never seen anyone get so excited about making
breakfast.

"Just tap it gently until it cracks and then
pull it apart slowly so none of the shell falls in," I say as I
hand one to him.

He nods.

Those smoky eyes land on mine for a moment
when our fingers touch.

And then he looks down, rocking the egg in
his hand for a moment as though testing out the technique. And
then…

Crack
.

In one quick movement, Cole slams the egg
against the bowl in what he must have thought was a gentle motion.
Immediately, it shatters in his hand, exploding over his ivory
skin, landing half in the bowl and half on the counter, scattering
shell remains everywhere.

I exhale noisily.

He flashes me an angry look.

Using all my willpower, I manage to swallow
the laughter back down my throat.

"Try again," I squeak, forcing the words out
and not one other sound.

Snarling, he grabs another egg. But I
already know what's going to happen before it does.

Crack.

Shatter.

Explosion.

Same as before, only this time Cole slams
his hand against the counter with frustration.

"Here," I jump in before he grabs another
egg. My fingers reach for his, and before I fully realize what I'm
doing, I'm pressed against his side, faces close enough to touch,
wrapping my palm over his.

We both inhale sharply.

"Let me help," I say, amazed at how steady
my voice sounds when the rest of me has decided to momentarily
freak out. I'm even more amazed at how casually I push in front of
him, so my back is pressed against his hard stomach. "Just put your
hands over mine and observe."

My heart hammers in my chest as he bends
over me, strong arms wrapping around my shoulders as his hands land
on mine. His breath tickles my neck, stealing mine away. And then
he leans closer, until almost every part of us is touching, and I
remember again just how commanding his presence is, just how easily
he can envelop me.

My fingers tremble.

The egg cracks before I even manage to tap
it against the edge of the bowl.

Immediately, I hear snickers. Little
self-satisfied, arrogant, under-his-breath chuckles.

I spin around, furious, and do the first
thing I think of.

I smash the remainder of my egg right into
his forehead.

Then I gasp as both of our eyes go wide.

Time stops.

Everything stops.

The only thing moving is the slimy yellow
trickle making its way down the center of his previously pristine
skin.

Before he has time to react, I run under his
arm, escaping his hold and race to the other side of the table.

He growls.

For some reason, the sound excites me. I
stop moving, pausing opposite him, and smirk as the egg yolk
continues to inch down his cheek. We both keep our hands pressed
against the butcher's block, staring at each other, waiting for the
other to move. He creeps to the left. I move left. He steps slowly
to the right. So do I.

But in the back of my head I know my time is
running out. He's the definition of a predator, and I might as well
be the definition of prey. It’s only a matter of time before I'm
caught. So before he can make his move, I reach for another egg and
launch it at his face.

He catches it midair, reflexes incredibly
quick.

But not quick enough. It crashes against his
muscular palm and explodes, sending another splatter of slime into
his face.

The growl turns to a roar.

I try to run.

Before I can even take a step, he leaps over
the table in one unbelievably fluid motion, moving in a way only
someone who is half animal could. Sturdy arms wrap around me,
impossible to dislodge. I get out one shriek in protest before an
egg cracks solidly against the top of my head.

It’s my turn to growl.

I do. Not as menacing, maybe, and definitely
not as natural, but I think I get my point across.

Apparently not.

A moment later, I find myself airborne,
thrown over his shoulder in one easy effort.