Page 213 of Slashed Bonds

Leaning in the arch beside Killian, casual, a beer in one hand, and he takes a pull off it before he says, in the voice he uses for faceoff disputes, “First off. We aren’t fucking in the house. Since it’s not allowed.” A pause. “Quote, unquote.”

“Quote, unquote my ASS.”

The twins. In perfect unison. The exact same pitch and cadence from two mouths at once, and it sets off their packmates all over again, Greenie wheezing, and I catch Ansel and Aurel sharing a look that means they’ve been saving that one.

“And second,” Cassian goes on, unbothered, “we’re not loud at all.”

“Yeah, fucking right,” Greenie snaps.

I’m not listening.

I’m looking at the spoon. The sauce on it’s a dark, glossy red going toward brown at the edges, with flecks of something green and a sheen of butter on top, and the smell coming off it from six inches away is doing a thing to the back of my throat that I don’t have a word for.

Hunger. That’s the word. The actual thing. The wire’s live.

I blow on it, because he asked. Then I lean in and take it off the spoon.

And the taste explodes.

There’s no other way to describe it. Tomato cooked past tomato into something deep and savory, the browned butter underneath it, garlic that’s been coaxed instead of burned, a bitterness of good olive oil at the back, salt placed exactly where salt belongs, and basil over the top of all of it like a hand on a shoulder. It fills my whole mouth. It goes down and keeps going. I close my eyes and a sound comes out of me that I didn’t authorize.

A moan.

Low. Long. The kind of sound I’ve made in a shower on the third floor of a gym and nowhere else.

“Oh my fucking Christ.”

I open my eyes. Nikolai’s still crouched there with the empty spoon, watching my face with an expression I’ve only seen on him in a crease after a save he didn’t think he’d make.

“I’m not even religious,” I tell him, “but praise whatever goodness you blessed into this food. It can take me to heaven.”

“Well, none of US are getting into heaven if our wildcard’s making noises like that.”

Okonkwo. From the far couch, whining it into his hands.

Nikolai’s head turns.

Slow. Toward the far couch. And the crouch changes, the weight shifting forward onto the balls of his feet, and I watch his jaw do the thing it does right before a Switch, and I put my hand on his bare shoulder without thinking.

“Well,” he says, pleasant, “I could take you on an express trip to fucking hell.”

He’s up.

The twins are up faster. Both of them, moving like one body, one on each of Nikolai’s arms before he’s cleared the couch, hauling him back a step while Okonkwo scrambles over the back of the far couch and Dubois laughs so hard he slides onto the floor.

“CAP.” Aurel, straining. “Why aren’t you HELPING?”

“Kill!” Ansel. “He’s your⁠—“

Cassian raises his beer.

“Good fucking luck.” He takes a pull. “I agree with him. I’m second in line.”

Killian shrugs. One shoulder. “Sorry, mates. I’m third.” He looks at Okonkwo over the back of the couch. “Who gave you permission to listen to our Monarch moan?”

“What was I supposed to DO?” Okonkwo wails.

“GO DEAF!”