FOUR
“Okay, what have we got here …?”
The question was more, what haven’t they got, Beth thought as she leaned over a freezer unit dedicated solely to ice cream.
Turned out pregnant women liked the sweet cold stuff. Okay, the pregnant Chosen, Layla, liked it—and Beth had delivered the same kind on schedule, every night for the last … how long had it been since the female’s needing?
God, time flew.
And as she counted the days, she was well aware she wasn’t thinking about Layla’s progression. What she was really adding up was how many hours she’d logged in that room, sitting close by … hoping that for once an old wives’ tale would come true.
She didn’t just go up there to be a kind housemate or supportive friend.
Nope. Although why the hell she thought she and Wrath needed a baby in the middle of all this drama was a mystery. Mother Nature, however, had forced her around some kind of corner and there was no going back, no making sense of it, no reasoning with the urge.
Not that she’d necessarily talked to Wrath about it lately. As if he didn’t already have enough on his plate. But come on, if she were able to kick-start her needing …
She just wanted to hold a piece of herself and of Wrath—and the more dangerous things became with the Band of Bastards, the more desperate that need became.
In some ways, it was the saddest commentary on where they were at.
At least something of him would survive if the Band of Bastards succeeded in killing—
The wave of pain at the thought was so great, she sagged against the freezer and it was a while before she could refocus on the mother lode of Breyers, Ben & Jerry’s, H?agen-Dazs and Klondikes.
So much safer to stress over which flavor she’d have tonight. Layla was always vanilla—it was the only kind she could keep down. But Beth was wide open on that one, and thanks to Rhage’s infamous appetite, there were, like, a gabillion choices.
As she searched for inspiration, the dilemma was a slice right out of her childhood, a modern-day echo of the days when she would palm up one of her hard-earned dollars, walk a half mile to Mac’s Grocery, and take twenty minutes to get the same Hershey’s Dixie cup of chocolate that she always did. Funny, she could still remember how the place had smelled like those cake cones Mac had handmade. And that cash register, the old-fashioned one that had had a hand crank.
When she’d check out, Mac would always give her a red plastic spoon, a napkin and a smile—along with her twenty-six cents in change.
He’d been extra nice to the orphans who’d lived down at Our Lady. Then again, there were a lot of people who had been kind to her and the other kids who had been either unwanted or unlucky.
“Mint chocolate chip,” she said, reaching in and long-arming a stretch to the back.
As the cold air wafted up, she stopped to soak in the deep freeze. “Oh, yeah…”
Even though it was frickin’ December, she found herself craving the chill, her skin goose-bumping, the pores on her face tightening, the inside of her nose humming from all the dryness.
Guess all that sex was still revving her up.
Closing her eyes, she went back to Wrath taking her down onto the floor and ripping her clothes off. So good. So what they needed.
Although she hated the way she felt now.
He was so damned far away, even though his body was just upstairs in that study.
Maybe that was another reason she wanted a child.
Refocus, refocus. “Vanilla, vanilla … where are you?”
When it turned out the vanilla was MIA, she had to settle for a trio’d half gallon that was polluted with strawberry and chocolate. No biggie. With proper surgical extraction, she’d be able to get the job done without getting any offending contamination in Layla’s bowl.
Leaving the pantry and entering the kitchen proper, the sweet, earthy smell of sautéing onions and mushrooms mixed with basil and oregano was heaven in her nose. But the ambrosia wasn’t for Last Meal and it wasn’t a doggen at the sauce pot.
Nope. It was iAm—again. Which considering he appeared to cook when stressed suggested someone else’s life was in the crapper.
The Shadow and his brother were the most recent additions to the Brotherhood house, and as the owner and head chef of the ultra-old-school Salvatore’s Restaurant, iAm had more than proved his chops with linguine—although that was not to say Fritz approved of the guy getting out all those multi-gallon pots: As usual, the butler was hovering in the periphery, apoplectic that one of the household guests was doing any cooking.
“That smells delicious,” she said as she put the containers on the deck-size granite island.
She didn’t have a chance to get the bowls or spoons. Fritz sprang into action, pulling open cupboards and drawers—and she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to wait on her.
“So what is it this time?” she asked the Shadow.
“Bolognese.” iAm cracked open another spice bottle, and seemed to know the exact amount to put in without benefit of a measuring spoon.
Meeting his almond-shaped black eyes, Beth pulled her turtleneck higher to hide the bite marks on her neck. Not that he seemed to care either way. “Where’s your brother?”
“Upstairs,” came the tight reply.
Ah. Closed subject. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at Last Meal?”
“I’ve got a meeting, but there’s lamb for the rest of you, or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh, I thought you were cooking for—”
“This is therapy,” he said, banging the wooden spoon clean on the rim of the pot. “It’s the only reason Fritz lets me use his stove.”
She dropped her voice. “I thought you had special powers over him.”
“Trust me, if I did, I’d use them.” He turned down the flame. “S’cuse me. I’ve got to go check on Trez.”
“Is he injured?”
“You might say.” He gave her a brief bow and headed out of the room. “Later.”
In his wake, the air seemed to change, the molecules in the kitchen calming down sure as if his dark mood had electrified them. Freaky, but she liked him and his brother: Another couple of trained killers in the house was not a bad thing at all.
“Mistress, I believe I have everything you need.” The butler presented her with the accoutrements necessary for Breyer’s imbibing on a silver tray. “For you and the Chosen.”
“Oh, Fritz, how lovely—but, actually, I just need one bowl. I’m going to eat mine out of the carton as tacky as that sounds. But I could use a—thank you.” She smiled as the butler handed over a scoop. “Do you read minds?”
The doggen blushed, his weathered, lined face breaking into a smile. “No, mistress. Occasionally I anticipate well, however.”
Popping the top off the tri-flavor carton, she dug in, being careful to scoop the vanilla only. “Try all the time on that one.”
As he flushed and ducked his already drooping eyes, she wanted to hug him. But the last time she’d done that, he’d nearly fainted from the impropriety. Doggen lived by a strict code of behavior, and although their fondest wish was to serve well, they simply couldn’t handle it if they were praised.
And iAm had already stressed the poor guy out.