Page 82 of Interion

“A little more, and that's your last chance.” He was grinning now. I didn't know whether to be more thrilled by his answer or by his spontaneous smile—something incredibly rare.

“Oh, gods! You're a record holder. Let me think—I'll guess 1,600. It can't possibly be higher than that.” I gripped the edge of the table in anticipation. He finally laughed and popped the last cheese bread into his mouth.

“Wrong.”

“I don't believe it. Are you serious? How much more, Zion? This is impossible—no one's ever heard of a level that high. What's the number?”

“You didn't guess it, so I'm not telling.”

I squirmed in my chair, ready to protest, but when I opened my mouth, Zion's smile vanished and his eyes grew sharp. Then the metallic scent of my blood spread through the room, catching me off guard. Embarrassed, I hunched my shoulders and sank deeper into my seat.

Zion pushed back his chair and stood, grabbing his omelet before sliding it onto my plate.

“Eat. You'll need it more than I will.” He took off the apron and hung it on the wall. “Do you have everything you need?”

“I need to go to the pharmacy,” I replied, staring at the omelet. All my enthusiasm had evaporated.

“I'll go. What do you need to buy?”

Zion started up the stairs but stopped, waiting for my answer. I didn't even know what to say.

“No! Don't worry about it—I'll go myself, it's no problem,” I argued, still embarrassed. He couldn't possibly do that. It would be mortifying.

In response, he crossed his arms over his chest and planted his feet wide, standing firm on the stairs. I knew that stance—it screamed: *I'll argue until you want to stick your head in the toilet and flush.*

“You're not going. Today you stay here, and I'll go. It's hard enough having to leave you alone when I'm away. Let's not start an argument.”

“Don't start with that territorial shit.”

I walked over to the sink and crossed my arms in protest, but he didn't budge.

“Come on, quit the drama. Just tell me what you need.”

“No way.”

“Stop being stubborn.”

“Stop being a pain in the ass.”

Now he was the one looking amused while I huffed in frustration. Zion Voluz buying pads for me was absolutely ridiculous.

“If you don't tell me what you need, I'll call Ambrose and ask.”

I wanted to throw a glass at his head, but I held back. His smile was still taunting me, but even I knew that arguing with Zion Voluz was a losing battle.

“Absorbent soaked in magic. That’s what Ambrose said,” I grumbled, looking at my hands.

“See, that wasn’t difficult. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He smiled triumphantly one last time and disappeared.

Two minutes later, I’d finished washing the small stack of glasses and went back to get the plates. I felt a pang of sadness when I noticed his omelet was still there, and I told myself it was only because I’d have to throw such a lovingly made omelet in the trash, but as soon as I picked up the plate, Kiara appeared at the top of the stairs and eyed the meal with keen interest.

At least someone would enjoy my cooking.

Chapter 22

For the rest of the day, I stayed in my room studying. I was slowly working my way through the medical cases in book 3 of the neurological diseases collection but still hadn't found any syndrome that matched the comatose patient's symptoms. Ambrose was growing more discouraged about the treatment, and Serguei simply hadn't found any trace of consciousness to dissect. The patient was truly a mystery to neuroscience, and that made me eager to help solve it.

Kiara lay beside me, her snoring and the turning of pages the only sounds in the room. The books were also a good excuse to avoid going downstairs and being near Zion. The problem was that after he returned with the pads, I noticed he went on high alert every time he caught the scent of blood. So I chose to stay in my room because his restless glances made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of a shadow or two slipping under the door, but when I turned to engage with them, they'd hurry out of the room.