Page 26 of Below the Shadow of the City

If you took a gander at him you’d assume he lives in a haunted castle or hidden cave deep in the woods. When I first saw him in the alleyway I firmly believed he would toss a shroud over his shoulders and run off to some crumbling stone tower. I can’t tell if I’m incredibly pleased or somewhat disappointed that he instead resides in an apartment far nicer than mine.

I can’t stop focusing on his kitchen, that glorious kitchen, that is glowing like a beacon to me. He has a high end induction stove, massive marble countertops that I can picture myself rolling out dough on, and a double oven. If I had a kitchen like this I’d make sure to use it to its full potential. It’s the stuff of Pinterest boards.

Amidst my gawking at appliances I’ll never afford, Maddox settles in quickly, removing his massive jacket and draping it over one of the stools at the kitchen island and crossing the room. My eyes track down his body to a pair of bare feet that are very clearly paw shaped. His biceps stretch in the faded graphic tee he’s wearing. It’s the most I’ve seen of his arms. His chest is wide and sturdy, and tapers to a narrow waist hugged by a pair of expensive looking jeans, notably with a hole cut in the back to make room for his fluffy tail.

“Want a drink?” he opens an upper cabinet and pulls out two wine glasses. When he reaches up, his shirt lifts and reveals a strip of dark fur across his hips. There’s an unfamiliar animalistic lust I have to swallow down every few moments. Every time he stretches, cracks his jaw, or speaks there’s an iron ball that’s dropped in the pit of my stomach. It is…distracting, to say the least. I really fucking need a drink.

“Uh, yeah, what do you have?” I'm desperately attempting to be normal and casual. I’ve been in someone’s apartment alone with them before, I know what the glasses of wine and light conversation lead to. It’s a pattern I’m familiar with, with a few slight differences. Mainly, the someone.

He flings open a pantry across the kitchen that’s a pseudo wine cellar, stacked floor to ceiling with bottles of varying colors, ages, and price tags.

“You have a wine cellar?” I nearly choke at the sight.

“Family members love to gift wine to me for some reason. I can’t tell the difference between any of them, other than white and red. This is an accumulation of many birthdays, dinner parties, and random holidays,” he shrugs his broad shoulders, the fabric of his shirt stretches. “Take your pick. Drink whatever strikes your fancy so it won’t go to waste.”

I don’t even know what most of the labels are, they’re either out of my price range or not available above ground in the realm I live in. I extract a bottle of average looking Merlot and hand it to him. Our fingers brush and his touch sends a flurry to my center. From the quick furrowing of his brows, I think it did something to him, too.

“You have a wine cellar but not in unit laundry?” I ask.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’m just too lazy to buy the appliances and get them installed?”

“Considering money seems to be no object for you, yes. It is pretty unbelievable.”

Maddox gestures to a sticky note with “washing machine/dryer” written on it. “That’s been there for two years. I haven’t gotten around to it.” I give him a suspicious glance.

He does a “scout’s honor” style pose, “I swear. I’m a horrendous procrastinator, besides, I didn’t mind the trek to your laundry room.”

“I’m a horrendous procrastinator too,” I smile at him. “My laundry basket has had a broken handle for five years and I haven’t replaced it.”

He chuckles, pops the cork of the wine bottle, and pours the glasses while I lean pensively on the island. I notice his hand shake a bit as he pours, a hilarious sight from such a massive, terrifying creature. From my place behind the marble countertop he can’t see me nervously bouncing my leg, and for once, I think I have the upper hand here. Even though every single thing he’s doing is making me want to pounce on him like a cheetah. I watch him from my spot here, his mane tumbles over his shoulders in glorious chocolate-y waves. I twirl a dark brown strand of my own locks, painfully lacking any volume like his.

He’s far easier to digest in pieces. The silky mane, the voice, the strong hands. Initial shock has all but worn off. Even now, it’s comical how I ran off in fear when he first revealed himself to me. But there’s still a lot to take in, heightened still by the fact that I’m currently standing in his kitchen.

With a nod, he gestures for us to move to the living room and I dutifully follow.

I sit stiffly on the couch, made with high end leather from cows that probably live more lusciously than I do. It feels illegal to relax on it, though Maddox is clearly settled into his well worn spot on the cushions. “Okay, so obviously you’re rich.”

“I’m…comfortable, I guess,” he nervously replies. Even across species there’s that “oh pssh” body language that every wealthy individual takes on once the money conversation comes up.

“That’s what really rich people say,” I retort.

He stretches his neck and rests an arm across the back of the cushion, the tips of his claws sit a few inches from my shoulders. His open arm seems like an invitation to settle against his broad chest, but I hesitate. My body twitches like it wants to catapult itself into that empty space.

“You know that whole generational wealth thing I’d mentioned? I’m more or less a beneficiary of it. My great grandpa got into business decades ago and managed to find quite a bit of success, my grandpa and dad did the same. Each generation is a little wealthier than the last, though that’ll probably end with me. My dad sold the business to some humans. Now, his old partner runs it while he enjoys the massive lake house he bought upstate.”

“So you could live above ground if you wanted?”

“It’s a risk. One he took because the area he’s in is so rural. Plus, he has the funds to fight anyone who tries to tell him he can’t. His employees sign an NDA, he gets everything delivered, and when I travel to see him I take a private car with tinted windows or I drive myself and hope that no one notices.”

“And your mom…?”

“She passed away when I was around eleven or so. You’d think that a fae could outsmart cancer but it claims us just as often as it does humans.” He shares the information matter of factly, there’s a clear distance between her death and now.

“I’m so, so sorry,” I say quietly.

“It was so long ago. Losing a parent at that age is tough, you know? You’re already at a strange time in your life, and then suddenly someone who’s been your rock your entire life is ripped from you like that. It’s been eighteen years since I lost her. It’s weird to think that I’ve been without her for longer than I had her.”

I feel a knot of guilt in my chest for how ambivalent I am about my parents. How I keep them at arm’s length at all times and never manage to give them more than perfunctory answers about my life.