Kingdom of the Cursed (Kingdom of the Wicked, #2) (81)

TWENTY-TWO


I took a loaf of bread from a tray of freshly baked offerings and brought it to my oversized wooden cutting board. Two heads of garlic, a generous portion of basil, pecorino, pignoli, and olive oil all joined my station. The cook was just finishing up when I’d arrived and informed me that Wrath had the ingredients brought in from the mortal world for me.

Apparently, he’d also had seeds purchased and planted in the castle’s greenhouse so I’d have all my familiar herbs and vegetables at my disposal. A touch of magic helped them along, according to the cook, and there was a veritable bounty awaiting me whenever I’d like to tour the indoor garden. I rooted around in the icebox and pulled out a hunk of what tasted like goat cheese, then donned an apron I’d found hanging on a peg with an army of clean linens.

Cooking relaxed me. When I was in a kitchen my problems faded away. There was only me and a dish, the scents and sounds and satisfaction of creating something nurturing and delicious overtaking all else. There were no murders. No lost loved ones. No liars or secret keepers. I knew nothing of assassination attempts or marriages brought about by a spell gone wrong. I felt joy, peace. And serenity was something I desperately needed at the moment.

I cut off the top of one head of garlic, exposing all of the cloves, drizzled olive oil over them, covered it with a tin can, then placed it in the oven to roast. I turned my attention to the basil, pine nuts, garlic, and olive oil.

Chopping, mixing, pouring all of my love and energy into the sauce, erasing the rest of the night from my thoughts. It wasn’t denial, only a brief respite I sought.

I’d just finished making pesto when I felt his presence. I continued working, waiting for him to speak. I didn’t know whether I was eager for him to have found my attacker, or if I suddenly wanted to pretend the night hadn’t happened at all. When several moments passed, I finally glanced up. “Is there something you needed to tell me?”

Wrath leaned against the end of the table I worked at, his arms and feet crossed. The picture of casual calm. I noticed he’d changed into a new shirt and his hair was slightly damp. “There is little I need. But much I want.”

“I’m not going back to that room tonight.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” He straightened and moved to my side, nodding at the loaf of bread. “May I help?”

I peered at him from the corner of my eye. “There’s not much left to do, but you can pour us some wine. Red would be nice.”

“Red it is.”

He left and returned a breath later, bottle and glasses in hand. He rummaged in the icebox and brought over a container of blackberries. After uncorking the bottle, he added a few berries to each glass, then set mine next to where I sliced bread.

I laid the bread slices on a baking sheet and drizzled olive oil across the tops. I set them inside the oven and adjusted the little timer before taking a sip of wine. Wrath clinked his glass against mine, his gaze content. “May we always feast after spilling the blood of our enemies.”

I smiled at him over my glass. “You’re a barbarian.”

“You defended yourself. If being proud makes me a barbarian, so be it.”

“Do you think I killed him?”

He swirled the liquid in his glass, his attention riveted to it. “Would it matter if you did?”

“Of course it matters. I don’t want to be a murderer.”

“Defending yourself is not the same as attacking without cause or reason.”

“Which, by your refusal to answer, I’m assuming means I did.”

“You do not bear the burden of that demon’s death, Emilia.” Wrath set his glass down and faced me, his expression hard. “I do.” The smile that tipped up the edges of his mouth was not warm or friendly. It was cold, calculating. Designed to frighten, to call forth fear and seduce it. “Here I am, the very essence of evil and sin. Am I the monster you feared?”

I looked at him—really, truly looked. There was nothing overtly indicative of his emotions in his face, but there was something in the way he’d asked the question that made me carefully formulate my response. He did not want me to think he was a monster.

And, goddess curse me, I didn’t. I met and held his gaze. “Did he suffer?”

“Not nearly enough.”

“Were you able to get information from him?”

Wrath shook his head. “His tongue was recently severed. It appears to have been a choice he made, likely in case he was caught.”

I don’t know what madness came over me, but I put my wine down and moved to where Wrath stood rigidly, awaiting judgment. Slowly, as if approaching an animal ready to bolt, I wound my arms around his waist and laid my head against his chest.

For several long moments, he barely breathed. Then, he wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin atop my head. We stayed there, holding each other, until the little windup clock dinged. Even then I didn’t let go right away. This demon, this living embodiment of sin, was so much more than the monster he was supposed to be.

I pulled back gradually, and rolled up onto my toes, pressing my lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss. “Thank you.”

Without giving him an opportunity to respond, I hurried to the oven and removed the toast and roasted garlic. I placed them both on the cutting board, then added the hunk of goat cheese and the bowl of pesto. I grabbed two small dishes and stuck a butter knife near each item on the board. I smiled down at my work, pleased beyond measure with the outcome.