Page 23 of Crave

“Yeah, last time we watched CSI, I was really feeling those up close and personal morgue scenes.”

“Two. Just got the first floor wired for security.”

“My apartment has security.”

“Your creepy landlord shooting at rats from his balcony doesn’t count.”

“Pretty sure it does in Texas.”

“Point for the lady.” He twisted the cap off a sweet tea. “Three. I just stocked up on groceries.”

“Ha!” I leaned across the counter, tapping him on the end of the nose. “Bet you don’t have—”

“Dr. Pepper, marshmallow crème, graham crackers—”

“Stalker, much?”

“Um, prepared. No way are we making another 3 a.m. hangry-run to the gas station because we’ve both got the post-shift shakes and someone’s wolf has to eat her weight in s’mores.”

“Once. I did that once.”

He held my gaze, eyes the sparkling cerulean blue of the sky on a perfect summer day. My stomach did a flip.

When I swayed in place, Dallas came around the island and felt my forehead. “Sit. I’ll put together the lasagna. We can start with a big salad and some fresh bread while it bakes. Carbs will do you good.”

Mouth watering, I propped my elbows on the counter, watching while he lined a flat glass baking dish with noodles, layered on creamy ricotta, basil and parmesan, and topped everything with a savory homemade tomato beef sauce. There was something beautiful about seeing Dallas move around a kitchen, about watching the flex of his forearms as he chopped lettuce and thick tomato wedges, cracked pepper and tossed in sage, oregano and thyme without ever needing to measure a thing. It was maybe the only time he ever seemed calm, the rare stolen moment the voices of doubt quieted and I saw the man he’d spent nine years struggling to become peeking out from cracks in his armor. When Dallas Caldwell cared, he showed it with food.

After a few minutes, the smell of Italian cheese and tomatoes began to drift from the oven. The sun was sinking down behind the row of century old trees lining Pecan Street, buttery yellow and orange rays warming the kitchen walls. Dallas dished up two bowls of salad with croutons and Ranch dressing.

We clinked forks. I poked at an olive. “I’m not staying locked up.”

“You and me both.”

“We need answers.”

“Something’s bothering me. We know when vampires drink from werewolves, it causes irreparable tissue damage. They can’t tolerate the lycan virus the way we can.”

“Right.” I sipped my iced tea.

“So do you really believe a pathogen that could sicken one of them could cross over to one of us?”

“Why not? You hear about viruses making the jump across species all the time. And they could have been developing some superbug in their labs. They’ve been abducting shifters off the streets of Austin for over a year now. Maybe that’s what they’ve been working on.”

“They’ve been taking females. That’s not what you do if your goal is biological warfare.” He paused. “You don’t think—”

“They can’t reproduce with us. We have a century and a half of evidence saying so. Even human-vampire offspring doesn’t survive.”

After a moment, Dallas’s eyes flicked to my face. “The swelling’s gone down. Any change?”

“Maybe. It’s hard to explain. Some of my senses are starting to come back, but it still feels like my wolf is trapped in an isolation tank, unable to claw its way out.”

“Let’s hope that means whatever they hit you with isn’t permanent.” A beat passed. “Before I forget, Ethan texted. He and Hayden are bringing over your car.”

“They came by the bakery last week to put in an order for a custom cake for the mating ceremony this Thursday.”

Dallas stabbed a tomato wedge. “You cool with that?”

Shrugging, I reached over and speared one of his olives, tempted to tell him Hayden had texted weeks before, asking if I would meet her for coffee. I hadn’t responded. Inevitably we would have to see each other. The pack was too small to avoid it. Still, I was about as eager to see whatever skull and crossbones number Ethan would come up with for the top of my latte as I was to watch them eye-fuck each other across the counter at Dark.