It was his turn to flush as they shook.
Neither of them let go until the clock chimed.
“I should go.”
“Do you want to help?”
Their voices overlapped.
“I’d be happy to teach you.” She motioned to the oven. “It might not be magie, but it’s a start.”
Nik stared at the half-prepared batter and the scattered ingredients. Food wasn’t comfort for him. It was a necessity, something to be consumed quickly before it could be stolen.
But when she looked at him with such openness, he couldn’t refuse. “Fine.”
She took a lump of material from the cupboards. “Wash your hands. Put this on.”
A patchwork monstrosity made of brilliant colors flew at him. It was large, rumpled like a blanket, with frills on the straps. An apron.
“No.” He tossed it back. “I agreed to cook, not to play dress-up. Find me something else.”
“There are only two, and that one doesn’t fit me.” She slapped it against his chest. The places where her fingertips touched his skin burned. “I’d hate to see you add another scar to your chest.”
Reluctantly, he yanked it over his head.
“Four cups to a saucepan.” She pushed cream toward him.
From this close, he could steal glances down at her, spotting the tattoo inside her robe again.
“What’s that?” he asked.
She pulled the folds closed. “Some mistakes are permanent.”
A gang? No. That wouldn’t account for the pink warming her cheeks. A lover?
He shook the thought away. It wasn’t his business.
Even as he measured with care, he still managed to spill cream on the counter.
She didn’t say a word, simply offered him a dish of butter. “Melt those together. Whisk constantly.”
The whisk was just as strange in his palm as a syringe. First, he stirred in circles, which didn’t feel right. He’d watched Elara plenty of times, so he should already know how to do it.
“Like this.” Elara whisked her own bowl.
He tightened his grip and followed. Flecks of hot milk sloshed over the edge, sizzling against the burner.
“Loosen up,” she said. “You look like you’re about to face a firing line.”
He tried, but the mixture thickened into ugly clumps. He wasn’t fast enough.
Loose enough.
Smart enough.
“Nikolas.”
The touch to his bicep was like a slap. One he’d endured many times. It sent him recoiling from the stove and her. His heart slammed against his ribs, and the room was closing in again. A deadly weight pressed upon his chest, suffocating his lungs.
