The Thief (Black Dagger Brotherhood #16)(88)

“Nothing, my love. Shall we get a cart?”

She went over and untangled one from the lineup, and then they were in the store proper, surrounded by a surplus of such magnitude, he was momentarily struck stupid. The fact that the interior of the grocery was lit up bright as the outer crust of the sun did not help. And then there was the ocular insult of aisle after aisle after aisle of colorful labels and logos and foodstuffs of incalculable variety.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a supermarket,” Marisol said. “You look like you’re facing Mount Everest.”

“It is…a bit daunting.”

“You want to do vegetables first?” As he just stood there, she laughed softly. “Maybe I should rephrase that. Let’s do vegetables first. Come with me.”

Assail followed her to the left, past a floral display where pre-made bouquets were wrapped in cellophane. He grabbed two bundles of white roses.

“She’ll love those,” Marisol murmured.

“One is for you.”

He kissed her as he put them in the cart, and then they were penetrating a forest of fruit and vegetable displays.

As Marisol stopped them in the midst of the bins and bushels, and looked at him with expectation, he realized he was going to have to make the decisions—and tried to recall recipes from the Old Country.

Mayhap he should have thought this through a bit more.

But surely he could remember something. Surely…he could think of one dish, one soup, one meat.

As it turned out, Assail had to go way back in his memories. To the castle he had grown up in…it had had a kitchen separate from the main living area as a fire preventative, and he could remember being little and staying for hours and hours beneath the rough oak table, watching the doggen turning animal carcasses, and root vegetables, and grains, into proper meals.

“Turnips. Onions. Potatoes. Carrots,” he announced.

Like a dam released, he connected with what he wished to prepare, and he was aware of a feeling of pride as he led the way now, picking and choosing and filling plastic bags…then taking his female and the cart to the meat counter and securing lamb.

After that, they were in the dairy section, and he had to pause to ponder how much cream he required—

“My father was a criminal,” Marisol said in a low, tense voice.

Instantly, Assail grew quite still and then he swung his eyes to her.

“Have I shocked you?” she said tightly. “It’s the truth. He died in jail under circumstances that I’ve never truly gotten to the bottom of. Could have been a fight. Or cancer. But I believe he was murdered, although I will never say that in front of my grandmother.”

Assail blinked. “I am so sorry.”

The way she shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself broke his heart. “That was how I got into…you know, my side of things. He taught me how to steal. How to break in to places. How to take things without being caught. And you know, all that would have been fine if it had been a case of him teaching the younger generation the family trade, so to speak. But that wasn’t why he did it. He discovered that someone cute and disarming could be a great thief—and then he could have more things to sell for the drugs he wanted. It was all for him.”

Abruptly, she looked at the egg section. “We’re almost out of these. Vovó prefers the brown ones.”

Marisol went over, picked out two cartons, and flipped open the lids to check for broken shells. As she did, she continued, “I actually got good at robbery because I wanted him to be proud of me. Pretty sick, huh? Become a better immoral deviant so Daddy will love me. I think that’s why I fell in with Ricardo Benloise. He was older, powerful, and very disapproving. He was someone for me to try to please again.”

As a vicious claw of jealousy went through Assail, he had to remind his bonded male that he had, in fact, murdered the man.

Funny how that could cheer a guy up.

“Ricardo was so like my father…except he was polished, not crude. And he was hella smart. It was a strange dynamic to be sure. They say that people find do-overs in their lives, folks who are like those who hurt us, so we can go through and do the relationship again. Get it right, or something. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

On some level, the idea they were having this intimate conversation in the dairy and egg section, across the aisle from the ice-cream freezers, was utterly bizarre. But he certainly wasn’t going to stop her from talking.

“What of your mother?” he asked.

Marisol shrugged and seemed to lose track of her shell-checking duty. But then she continued, both with the inspection and the talking. “She died when I was young. Thank God my grandmother stepped in when I was little and never left.” She leaned over the lip of the cart and placed the eggs down with care. “That’s why I will always take care of her. Plus, God, she’s had a horrible life. She is a true survivor.”

“So are you.”

That smile, that one he loved so much, came back. “I guess I am.”

Assail stepped in and embraced her against his chest. As he looked over the top of her head, he subconsciously tracked the movements of the human male and the human female down at the far end of the aisle by the precut-and-shredded-cheese displays. Both were in blue jeans and dark parkas and seemed to be arguing the merits of orange versus white cheddar strips.