Page 23 of Infernal Affairs

I say it as a joke, but it comes out quieter than I intend. Enoch catches that. He catches everything.

“She’s worried for you?”

I nod, picking at the edge of the coaster.

“She thinks I’ll end up as monster food or—” I force a laugh. “—worse, embarrass the family.”

He’s quiet for a moment before asking, “What do you think?”

I meet his eyes. It’s harder than I expected. “I think... I want her to see me happy. But I also want her to understand I like it here. I like being on the fringes. I like⁠—”

Enoch waits. It’s his specialty.

I drop my gaze to the butter plate. “I like the person I am here.”

He’s silent, but his silence is gentle. He doesn’t reach across the table, but his hand hovers like he might.

“You could bring her to a session,” he says. “If neutrality helps.”

I snort. “You want to give my sister therapy?”

A faint, sly smile appears. “I’m a professional.”

My laugh startles me with its own volume. “And what if I need therapy, Dr. Infernalis?”

Enoch shrugs. “Then I’ll find you the very best.”

That’s what clinches it for me: the way he makes it clear, without pretense, that I’m not just another rescue case. That he wants me, not out of obligation, but because he likes the way I test boundaries and eat pink cupcakes for breakfast.

The server returns, and with a flourish worthy of a traveling magician, sets the steak on a heated slate, sprinkles a pipette of something iridescent over it, and then—cautious, dramatic—torches it with a dragon-spit flame that lights the whole end of the table blue-white. The smell is faintly floral, but then comes the iron tang of good beef and the slightly sulfurous crackle of the black salt, and I almost salivate onto my own lap.

She plates it for me, then gives Enoch a bowl of stew peppered with claws and tiny, spiral-shelled things I later learn are baby krakens. He thanks her in a voice so soft I wonder if the words are only for us.

I cut into the steak. I’ve always gone medium rare, but this is near-black at the edges and hot pink in the middle—like if a reckless god invented prom dresses for cows.

I look up at Enoch and catch him watching me as I chew.

“What?”

He leans in, quietly conspiratorial. “You look happy.”

“I am happy. This is inhumanly good.”

“Is the company as good as the steak?”

Now it’s my turn to flush. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try?”

I spear a bite—generous, but not grotesque—and slide my fork across the plate.

The moment Enoch’s lips close around the tines, his face transforms: surprise, real and clear. His pupils dilate, gold almost swallowed by black, and he makes a throaty humming noise.

“That’s illegal,” he murmurs. “And also, possibly, an aphrodisiac for my species.”

My cheeks go atomic. “Should I be worried?”

He sets the fork down, his voice lower. “You should be extremely concerned.”

I laugh, bright and reckless. “What does kraken taste like?”