Book 3 - Page 49 (1/2)

With my own bag in hand, I joined him. “What do you suggest?”

“You could have a hot meal. Come, sievā, unless you eat more, you can’t continue to ride as you have been.”

The idea of downing another energy bar made me queasy. The pantry here had been stocked.

“Afterward, you could have a long, hot shower.” When I faltered, Aric pulled off his gauntlets and reached for me. He laid a bare hand on my lower back, ushering me into the kitchen. Before he released me, his fingertips dug in a little, as if he battled with himself to let me go.

“We should prepare a feast.” He placed his helmet, swords, and gauntlets on a counter, his bag on the floor.

He motioned for me to give him my pack, but I wasn’t sold on staying. “You expect us to fire up the stove in a slave boss’s house and cook?”

“Let’s.” His amber eyes were playful. “And if we get thirsty from our labors . . .” He opened the refrigerator with the toe of his armor-covered boot, revealing a twelve-pack of bottled beer. “Not as bracing as the vodka we always share, but we’ll manage.”

“Even with the bodies out there, shouldn’t we be anxious about more slavers coming? Or the men in the garage getting free? Or Bagmen? It’s A.F., we should be anxious about something.”

“If for some reason I don’t hear a threat, Thanatos is right out back. He’s quite territorial.” To put it mildly.

I sidled over to the pantry. Among the offerings was a jar of maraschino cherries, just like Jack and I had found at Selena’s.

When I was with Aric, things reminded me of Jack. And the opposite was true as well. Which meant I was forever screwed. If I chose one, I’d never stop thinking about the other.

Pain awaited me, no matter what I did. The idea couldn’t be more depressing. . . .

My foraging turned up a family-size lasagna in the freezer. The package didn’t even have ice on the edges. The meal wouldn’t be gourmet, but it’d be hot and cheesy.

Game. Set. Match. I dropped my bag. “Fine. We’ll eat. Just so no one else can have it.” I tossed it in the microwave, then hopped up on the counter to sit, my transceiver within reach.

Aric opened two beers—pop-tops with his fist—handing me one.

The same reasons for drinking still applied: possible imminent demise plus severe mental confusion equaled to h.e.l.l with it.

He leaned one broad shoulder against the kitchen doorway. He was so tall, he barely cleared the frame. “Uz veselibu.”

“What does that mean?”

“Cheers.” We both took a swig. “The mortal’s meeting must have been dire for him to leave us together.”

“Jack trusts me.”

“If only you could return that trust.”

I frowned. “Why do you have to taunt him so much?”

“Because he gives me much fodder.” Aric took a long draw from his bottle.

“You called him a drunkard, but we’re drinking right now. You like your vodka well enough.”

“Yet I didn’t bring a liter of it in my valise.”

“No. But you smoked opium for centuries straight.”

Lips curving, he said, “And this is why I should never tell you anything.”