-

He stood watching. His scent was a sweet yoghurt that spilled across the kitchen. God-like and ethereal, with crystal eyes and corn-spun silk hair. He glowed in the darkness, skin as if swathed with the love of the stars and haloed over his head. His lips were pressed together, pillowy, glossy, and soft. It spread into a small, tender smile that twitched as if nervous.

How could he be nervous? Her heart raced, fear twisting through her, reminding her of the sink of his teeth, awful in her flesh. His bites burnt, his teeth scraped bone and tore nerves. Elysian wouldn't hesitate to hurt her.

"Good morning," he murmured, eyes meandering over her clothes, voice all rough like the sweetest honey. Fuck. Anxiety struck her, toiled in her guts at the vampire king's presence. But he didn't draw closer, only turned to the stove, fingers tracing the edges of his kitchen—wiped down by her hands. He picked up a pan, ignoring her, back facing her body—broad, wide and tapered into a thin waist.

Quinn stammered out her own greetings, eyes rushing towards the next spot on the ground. She waited for something to happen, but the hiss of a bubbling pot and the pop of oil had her looking. The king was cooking. But her astonishment must have shown in the hitch of her breath because Elysian talked as he worked, pan upon fire, butter warming into a sizzle.

"When my mates are home, I make their meals. It brings me great joy to see people enjoy my food," he answered the questions she had not asked. He reached for eggs that he cracked into the pot, and a spoon stirred. There was already some sort of meat thawing on the counter. "I would be a chef if not for the needs of the people." This, Quinn realised, Euodia had not known, and memories quivered to a stop at the questions on Elysian's hobbies.

The smell of his breakfast was glorious, grilled hunks of fish hot on the pan, sizzling garlic flavoured thickly with the smell of the sea. And Quinn couldn't help but shudder at the scent of it. Belly growling for breakfast, but she went back to her work diligently, noticed that James had conveniently left her alone with the monster.

She cursed under her breath, but then raised her head, startled to him squatting by her side, spoon in hand, and pan in the other. He inspected her with blue eyes the colour of streams, lakes, and glaciers. "Taste."

He popped the spoon into her mouth before she could protest, eyes searching her face. And God, she had to melt, for the fish was good. A thick mouthful, umami-rich and with the punchy taste of garlic and spices, cooked to delicious outrageous perfection. Her groan was automatic, squeezed out of her in a soft pitch. And Elysian's smile after that was so exquisite it had her staring hard at the alluring stretch of plush lips that showed pearly white teeth, the blossom on the apples of his cheeks.

"Good?" He stood then, pan in hand. A flush rushing to the tips of his ears. She hated that he was gorgeous, that he looked anything but the tyrant she thought him to be. "You didn't really like my cooking yesterday."

"I enjoyed it, the meat melted—"

"Enough with your flattery," his voice bubbled into a half-chuckle. "You struggled to swallow it down even though it was as soft as I could get it to be so that you'd be able to digest it well."

Quinn opened her mouth, then closed it, unable to deny. She pulled the spoon from her lips. "I…I was just nervous."

"Of course," he nodded. "It is difficult to find peace in an unfamiliar place." He licked his lips, pressed his hands on the counter as he retreated to give her space. He was boyish when he fumbled with his words. "I've meant to tell you that we've decided to give you some time to recover."

"You mean to leave me on my own?"

"You'll attend dinners, if we have them as a pack here," Elysian paused, considered his words. "We're busy men. There's much to do." He went back to his cooking, knife thudding across wood. "Icarus noted that your blood tasted malnourished and weak. It would be better for you if you spent a week or two recuperating from your ordeal." So they wanted her healthy, like a pig fattened for slaughter. "And," Elysian echoed. "You're unfamiliar with us. You smelled awful in the dining room, worse when you're with me now."

Quinn twitched. "I will get used to you, eventually."

"Perhaps," Elysian nodded.

"I will. It won't impede my work or your needs."

"That's not what I—" his eyes shot to hers, brows knotted. Then smoothed into an expression that was neutral. "Of course."

She couldn't help herself, the curiosity jumping to the forefront of her mind. "What do I smell like?"

There was a pause before he spoke. "Like the ripest peach in the sun," Elysian answered softly, a wistful tone, brows pressed together with endeared longing that stretched into a hum in his voice. "Like fruit so ready from the tree, it spills with warm, sugary honey and fills the air with flavour. But now…You smell crude, like petroleum, all bitter with burnt root and spiced with the sharpest of zest. You smell like you hate me and fear me." Her eyes widened at his words, at how close he was to the truth.

"I…I can't help it," Quinn told him. How could he smell her so well? Wasn't she just a Beta?

She rose then moved to wash the spoon in the sink, but Elysian reached out then to take it from her hands. She flinched backwards immediately, but not before their hands touched, fingers brushing that led to an electricity that sung up her veins. It buzzed through her body like a wild, flowing current and Quinn shuddered, warmth pooling in her chest, a flush rising up her cheeks. But the vampire seemed to take it wrongly, for there was a startled look that blossomed in his eyes. A flash of panic, a long swallow as he pressed his fingers to his chest, almost as if he were struggling to breathe.

"Sorry," he whispered, the spoon he dropped into the sink. Then he flicked his wrist, pressing the pan back upon the fire, spun around clad in the gold of the rising sun. His eyes shifted to her then, pupils that were the pools of an endless abyss that only grew wider, sweat beading on his brow. "I owe you an apology," he plated the food, placed it on the counter. It steamed with wonderful smells that stabbed at her belly and had saliva flooding her mouth. "For being unkind. I hope you will accept this meal." He placed the pan into the sink, then moved to gesture to the bowls on the counter. "It is yours."

He stepped back as if burnt and turned, leaving the threshold of the kitchen.

A quiet moment contemplating, and Quinn moved forward, eyes locked on the bowls. There were chunks of thick sardine, heaped upon a generous dice of garlicky, juicy tomatoes and seared sausages. Then rice, and a bowl of soup with silky strands of beaten egg whisked into a fermented sauce.

His ingredients were not the best—how could they be in a city so ravaged by climate and death? But Quinn could tell they were the best he had. And the strange vampire had even given the sausages little legs, sliced them up to resemble that of tiny octopuses.

The food did not taste like ash that day.