“You just stared at that blood bag like you hadn’t eaten in ten years.”
I sighed heavily.
Emil’s eyes narrowed. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“You’re attached.”
I took a step back. “I am not. Why would that be your immediate first thought?”
“You started baking, didn’t you?”
I scowled. “That is completely unrelated.”
“It’s never unrelated.”
I glared at him.
Emil folded his arms. “Human?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” He winced. “That’s bad.”
“I’m aware.”
“Well? Is he hot?”
I hesitated.
Emil pointed immediately. “See? Just as I suspected. Dangerous. Very dangerous grounds, Winifred. No wonder you look so hungry.”
“He’s a widower with children,” I admitted. I rubbed tiredness from my face. “I almost told him the truth about who I really am. He deserves to know.”
Emil went still. “That,” he said carefully, “is substantially more serious than simple yearning.”
I hated that he was correct.
Emil sighed softly before walking toward the tiny office kitchenette tucked into one corner of the basement. “Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good. You look one emotional inconvenience away from performing an interpretive dance, and I don’t have time for that shit.”
A few minutes later, I sat across from him, nursing a cup of chamomile mixed with blood. Rain tapped softly against the tiny basement windows, and it reminded me so much of the time when Conrad and the kids had been sick, and I’d slept in the basement with the rain pounding outside.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted quietly. “There are children involved. It was never my intention to get so… invested.”
Emil studied me over the rim of his mug. “Do you love them?”
The question hurt because the answer came instantly. “Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“And him?”
