Kiss of Death (Cronus Society) by Rhea Watson

Author:Rhea Watson [Watson, Rhea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-10-26T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

Despite ogling this heart bond in various stages of undress since my arrival, today was my first real opportunity to study the horrific scars left after the fall. Sat on a cushy barstool, I watched a shirtless Hannibal putter around the kitchen, doing all the final touches on what we had spent the last two hours preparing. Rich, bronzy tanned skin stared back, dotted by the odd freckle here and there, the lovely constellation over his nose—and then those.

Big. Ugly. Red and circular, the flesh had thickened, almost like tree bark, to twin horrors where his wings once sat on his sculpted back, muscle rippling around them. He seemed to have forgotten they existed, perfectly at ease to spend the morning with me sans shirt, scars on display, painful memories following him around the kitchen.

A kitchen that was a little like those scars, actually: out of place. For such a huge house, all black marble and gold, the grounds lush and endless—this room could do with an expansion. No more than a tight, windowless boxy space, the manor’s kitchen felt both claustrophobic and a little too hot with all the ovens going. Quartz counters and high-tech appliances lined the walls, along with an ancient wood-burning stove stuffed in the corner that apparently only Hannibal could finesse. A square island occupied the center, where I’d been for most of our prep, kneading and mixing and slicing.

Now waiting for the last of the rolls to finish baking.

Now watching, squinting, gawking at those grisly scars—

“You really miss it, don’t you?”

I flinched, focus shattered and face on fire, afraid he’d caught me. “W-what?”

“Your tree.” Hannibal ducked down to remove the cast-iron tray from the oven bare-handed, then turned and set it on the island across from me. He pointed at something, the burns and blisters across his hand already healing. “You’re literally drawing it in the flour, sweetness.”

I blinked back at him for a moment, then looked down and—

Oh. Goodness, how embarrassing.

Apparently, I’d traced the silhouette of my oak in the leftover flour without realizing. Given the thickness of the lines, the sureness of every stroke, I must have done it a few times, fingers with a mind of their own, drawing while my mind and my heart had been lost in Hannibal’s scars.

“Oh. Right.” Shaking my head, I slashed through the design, then smoothed all the flour into a single pile. For the last two hours, Hannibal had entertained my desire to make a full breakfast from scratch. I rather liked impressing this trio with my cooking abilities; a part of me needed to prove that I wasn’t just some young angel anymore—that I too had centuries of experience and skill to bring to this bond if I joined. So, when I informed Hannibal last night that I wanted to surprise Daemon and Bastian with a special treat before they left for the possession ward today, still high on my date in the mountains, the burliest of the bunch vowed to rise before dawn to make it happen.

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