“Are sewing things and baking things comparable in price?” Zakery ponders. “Aren’t there more appliances for cooking?”
Lukas hums. “I believe so.” He angles himself to look at their lavish kitchen. “We might have a portion of them already…but they may not be what Clara likes.”
What is he even talking about?
Their entire kitchen isKitchenAid. Like. Theprofessional gradestuff. And I’m pretty dang sure Morana was using a freakingWüsthofknife on the garlic bread a moment ago. As someone who has only ever hand-kneaded dough, I think I’ll be more than satisfied with what is currently available here. Nevertheless, since I cannot find it in myself to speak up, Zakery plows on, “In that case, maybe fifty grand.”
Airflow cuts off, and I tell myself it’s just my breasts! The big inconvenientjerks! This isnotan anxiety attack. No, no. It’sneveranxiety! It’s always just my sillymammary glands. Ruining my life!Again.
“Excellent,” Lukas cheers. “In that case, Viktor, I’ll be spending roughly fifty grand tonight.”
The air shifts. Darkens. Growsheavy.
And…maybe this is a panic attack, actually.
Stoically, Viktor plants his hands on the table and rises through the pudding-thick air. “Lukas. A word?”
“Sonder,” Lukas supplies. “An excellent word. The feeling that one receives upon realizing every person is a unique, untold story. You’re welcome to it.” Relaxing as though the air isn’t melted chocolate in my lungs, he smiles to himself. “Benevolent King, me.”
Viktor does not appear to appreciate this word, because in four seconds, he crosses behind Lukas’s chair, pinches the giant man’s ear, and drags him out of the room.
Leaving me alone…with a plate full of Stouffer’s lasagna…and the dire need to fend for myself.
