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Georgia arched a narrow painted eyebrow. “Is it good?”
“It’s... distinguished,” he decided. I couldn’t disagree with that, so I didn’t challenge him. But then she looked at me, and I had to work hard not to look away.
“Is it good?” she asked again, gaze narrowed.
“It’s complex.”
Her mouth twitched. “Put in the fridge, or in the deep freezer down the hall if it needs to get cold fast. Cassie is upstairs with the baby. You should go find Wes. He needs help with the Triumph. Something about the starter, I think.”
“Okay,” he said, but glanced at me.
I recognized that gleam in his eyes. He was seeing oil and bolts and steel, and hearing the purr of a well-running antique. I also knew the division of labor in shifter houses tended to fall along traditional gender lines: Ladies did the cooking; men did the mechanics.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Connor pressed a kiss to my lips. “Be good. I’ll be outside if you need me. Take care of her,” he told Georgia with a grin, then walked toward the door.
He hadn’t been fazed by kissing me in front of his family, or leaving me alone with them. For the first time, I realized we hadn’t just “met” his family on this trip. He’d presented me to them—to his best friend, his relatives, his (theoretical) allies. He’d introduced me to shifter families whose lives didn’t seem all that different from humans, to a clan of shifters who’d never feel comfortable inside the Pack. He’d told them who I was, stood for me, and allowed me to stand for myself.
This trip hadn’t been entirely—maybe not even mostly—about an initiation or a monster.
He’d been introducing me to the Pack.
This was... a beginning.
Surprise and pleasure made my heart beat a little faster.
“So,” Georgia said, “you can entertain me with stories of big-city life while I slave over this damn dough.”
I had to blink my way back to the kitchen and the conversation. “I could help you,” I said.
She looked at me, brows winged up in surprise. “Vampires can be helpful?”
“Yes, at least as often as shifters are open-minded.”
Georgia chortled. “Touché.”
I smiled at her, liking her already. She was up-front, unbowed, and straightforward. I walked toward her, glanced in the bowl. There was a mass of shaggy dough, combined but in need of some work.
“I can knead that if you want to move on to something else.”
She looked down at the dough, then up at me with suspicion. “You know how?”
“I went to college in France. I can’t bake, but learning the mechanics was, let’s say, not optional.”
“Oh là là,”she intoned, then put down the spoon, walked away from the bowl. “Get to work.”
I glanced back, found Connor still standing in the doorway, arms crossed and head tilted as he watched us, amusement on his face. “Go,” I told him, and he gave me a wink, disappeared.
I made room on the counter and looked around, found a scoop buried in a crock of flour, and sprinkled some on the countertop. Then I tipped the bowl so the dough slid onto flour and began to work, just as I’d been taught. Fold the dough in half, push to stretch, fold it again. Turn, repeat until the dough was smooth and the gluten stretchy.
“I take it you aren’t ready to run away from us quite yet,” Georgia said as she moved to the stove, pulled out a silver baking dish that sizzled and sent out the ambrosia smell of roasting meat.
“I grew up with vampires,” I said. “My standards are low.”
“Clever,” Georgia said, and moved the chicken—two birdswith cracklingly crisp skin that was nearly translucent over herbs tucked beneath it—onto a large white platter. I had to work not to reach out and grab a bite.
And realized I hadn’t been the only one interested in the surroundings. Maybe because of the food, maybe because of the magic that permeated the cabin, the monster had awoken.
