She glanced over her shoulder. Rune had sat back in his chair. He lounged with his long legs stretched out, watching her with his full attention. Which was, one-on-one, in the quiet solitude of the sunlit kitchen, quite a considerable force of nature. He drew on her like a magnet. She picked up the plate of steaming meat. She looked at it and back at him, and she spoke a word and the meat cooled. Then she walked over to set the plate in front of him.
She had a bizarre experience as she approached him. It started first with this thought: what an exotic thing it was to place a cooked meal in front of a waiting hungry male. No doubt it was something millions of women did daily, but throughout the several thousand years of her existence, she had never before been one of them.
Rune gave her a slow smile, his gaze very male and lit with appreciation, and it stirred something inside. What was that? Distracted, she poked at herself, like poking at a sore tooth. That was another strange thing for her to be feeling, what was it?
Pleasure.
He smiled at her as she placed the meal in front of him, and she felt pleasure.
The muscles in the pit of her stomach tightened, like a snake coiling to strike. She opened her mouth, to say what, she didn’t know. Something scathing, a suitable put-down, something by gods not vacuous, or she would have to throw herself over the nearest cliff just on principle alone—
Rune’s smile had deepened and it carried a hint of puzzlement. “What did you do just now?” he asked. “It was a spell of some sort. I could feel it but I didn’t understand it.”
Confused, the snake in the pit of her stomach fumbled and lost the ability to strike. She blinked and glanced at the stove. What had she done? She said, “I cooled the meat.”
Rune’s eyes danced and his lean tanned features lit with laughter. “You . . . cooled the meat for me?”
“Rasputin cannot eat the chicken when it is too hot,” she said, frowning at him. “It seemed logical that you would not be able to either.”
“Of course. How remarkably—thoughtful of you.” He put a hand over his mouth to cover an explosive cough. “You named the ankle-biter Rasputin?”
The sense of his amusement was intoxicating, like champagne must be for humans. She regretted never having had the opportunity to drink champagne when she was human. She had been a Vampyre for a very long time before she had first heard of the drink.
She raised an eyebrow. “Your attempt to hide your amusement is futile. And Rasputin seemed an appropriate name, since he is apparently so hard to kill.”
She had met the original Grigori Rasputin once, as she had traveled through Russia to consult with a certain hermitic and irascible witch. She had found Rasputin to be an odd, intense man. He had been undeniably human and very likely insane, but anyone who could survive reputedly being stabbed, poisoned, shot multiple times, mutilated, and badly beaten before finally drowning, deserved a certain amount of respect.
“And,” murmured Rune, “the ankle-biter’s more than a bit rabid.”
Now both her eyebrows rose. “I do not find him so.”
“Of course not,” Rune told her, his tone cheerful. “You rescued him, you’re female and you cook him chicken. That makes him yours, heart and soul.”
Her mouth tightened. “He’s a ridiculous creature.”
“He’s a dog,” he said, his wide shoulders lifting in a shrug. “That’s what they do.”
She crossed her arms under her breasts. Only later did she recognize it for a defensive gesture. “I did not ask for his devotion.”
Rune’s gaze darkened into an expression she didn’t understand, so she had no words for it. He said gently, “You know, there isn’t anything wrong with simply being kind for kindness’s sake, or other creatures responding to it.”
This conversation had not only turned uncomfortable, it was unnecessary. She looked away from his penetrating gaze. “Do you require anything else that will help you read?” she asked, her tone frosted with ice.
“No,” he replied. His tone was as easy and relaxed as the rest of him. “Not a thing. Thank you for the chicken.”
“Fine.” She turned to go but found herself unable to step across the doorway.
Being kind for kindness’s sake.
Now the tightening was in her chest. She pressed a hand to her breastbone, bewildered. She no longer knew her own body. It was betraying her in a thousand inexplicable ways whenever she was around this male.
She forced herself to say, “Thank you for staying and trying to help me.”
Twenty feet away, he took a breath. He replied quietly, “You’re more than welcome, Carling. It’s my pleasure to do what I can for you.”
Those words. He gave them to her so easily, like a gift. They were far more gracious than she deserved. She fled before her body could betray her in some other way.