Page 49 of Blood that Burns
It’s been a long time since I’ve had alcohol. I enjoyed a shot or a beer or two back in the day, but this is different. Today is different. I no longer live in a world that makes sense. Vampires are real. Witches are real. And I’m supposedly something else entirely. Which means the rules of humans don’t apply to me anymore. At least that’s what I’m going to tell myself.
I make quick work of uncorking the bottle and reading the label, Lafite Rothschild 1999.
“It’s a Bordeaux blend,” Law explains, as I eye the bottle curiously.
That means exactly squat to me, but I’m sure whatever they serve in this place is top notch. I channel every woman I’ve ever watched sip wine at a restaurant, bringing the glass to my nose, inhaling deeply, swishing the glass so that the liquid moves around, and bringing it to my lips and sipping daintily.
I have to admit it’s dangerously good. I’ll need to sip this slowly so as to (1) not make a fool of myself and (2) not end up a messy drunk. Neither would bode well for me. I can only imagine the embarrassing truths that would slip from my loose lips. No, tipsy Maggie would not do.
“Do you not like it?” Law’s expression appears disappointed.
“I do. It’s wonderful,” I say, hoping to quell his momentary discontent.
I take a seat, admiring the beauty of Law’s backside as he works diligently over the stove. The aromas waft through the room and my stomach rumbles.
“It’s almost ready,” Law says through his laughter. He clearly heard my errant stomach. “I made your favorite.”
He doesn’t look back as he says it. The effort he’s gone to may not be much to some, but to me it’s everything. Not only does he not require human food, but he chose this meal because I told him it was one of my favorites. Grilled cheese and tomato soup is the one thing my mother would occasionally make when Marina or I were sick. It was the one comfort we had in that house.
I never really felt like that place was home. There was some disconnect for me, always. While Marina longed to be close with our parents, I never really cared. They never seemed like mine.
Because they were always drunk or high.
“You remembered,” I say, as he carries two plates to the table.
“I remember everything you told me.”
My traitorous stomach starts that flipping and flopping about while a tickling sensation works its way up my spine. His simple words push away the anger and resentment from Seattle, which isn’t good. I need to stand up for myself, or we’ll be doing this dance forever, which is exactly what I want to avoid.
He leaves the plate in front of me, cheese oozing out the side of the sourdough bread. A piping hot bowl of tomato and basil soup takes up the rest of the plate.
“Dig in,” he suggests. At that, my stomach growls again and Law chuckles. “Good thing I cooked for you. You’re starving away over there.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly starving. I ate better at Marcellus’s then I ever did at home.”
At the mention of his brother, he goes still, taking the seat across from me. He doesn’t touch his food as he stares me down.
“Are you going tell me about what happened there?” The words are ground through his teeth in barely restrained anger.
I place my napkin on my lap and look up into his hard grey eyes. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“There’s nothing to say, Law. He caught me when I jumped and took me to his place, explained the situation with the Council, and offered for me to hide out in his mansion.”
“He had you locked in a room.”
“For my own safety. He gave me options but stressed the danger I was in even being at his home. He didn’t exactly keep the best company.”
Law grunts. “Having you there was just as dangerous.”
“Be that as it may, he kept me safe. He fed me well. Trained me how to protect myself and wield a dagger.”
“He taught you how to use a dagger?”
I nod. “And kick your ass.”
His brow lifts. “Is that so? And how, pray tell, did he tell you to do that?”