Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

“I made ravioli with cheese. Is that okay?” My hands are shaking a little as I move to the cupboard to take out the plates. I wasn’t this nervous stitching him up last week, but I am now. Something has changed between us. I’m not certain what, but I can feel it. Maybe he’s right. This time feels different from a mere week ago.

“I don’t have a preference for food. It’s just sustenance. But I did like the cake.”

“Is chocolate your favorite?”

“I’m not sure. Could be.” He falls silent for a moment. “I’ve never tried cake before.”

My hand stills on the stack of dinnerware. “You’ve never had cake?”

“No. I don’t think I have.”

He says it so casually, as if it’s just an ordinary declaration. I can’t wrap my mind around it. How is it possible?

“What about on your birthday?”

“Birthday celebrations aren’t something that’s done where I come from. I’m not sure of the exact date, but I believe I was born sometime in winter.”

I set the plates on the table while dread pools in my stomach. How terrible it must be, to not know something as basic as your own date of birth? My arms ache to wrap around him and pull him to me, to offer the warmth and love he’s obviously never experienced.

“I think you should pick one,” I say.

“One what?”

“Date.” I move the bowl of ravioli to the center of the table and then take a seat across from him.

“I’m pretty sure birthdays don’t work like that, cub. But if I can choose, I’d pick June second.”

I suck in a breath. My heart swells while my demon keeps me pinned with his eyes from the other side of the table.

The day we met.

“Why?” I choke out.

He switches his gaze to the plate in front of him. And just like that, his walls are back up.

He slayed a man for trying to hurt me, but he still won’t let me glimpse into his life. Even after nearly a year, he barely touches me. Kissing my fingers. Holding my hand. On a few rare occasions, he’s touched my face. That’s all I’ve gotten. It’s not enough.

Not anymore.

I need to feel his skin on mine. I want to know the taste of his lips. The weight of his body as it presses against me. I want everything, but I’m afraid that if I bang too hard on the barrier he has set between us, I might lose him. For good.

I follow Nera with my eyes as she scurries around the kitchen, putting away the leftovers and loading dirty dishes for a wash. She probably thinks that inviting me over was nothing special, completely oblivious to the consequences of her actions. An invitation into her home. Another part of her to which she granted access. There’s no going back now. She can’t revoke it. It’s mine.

“What would you like in exchange?” I ask.

“In exchange for what?”

“For the food.”

She turns around, hurt written all over her face. “I don’t want you to pay me back. It was a . . . gift.”

I take a step toward her and place my hands on the counter, caging her in. There isn’t a feeling similar to this—being this close to her, with our bodies almost touching.

“There are no free gifts, cub,” I rasp. “Not for me. Name your price.”

Nera’s breathing picks up. Her eyes drift down, stopping on my mouth. “I want a kiss.”

I freeze. For a moment, I think I’ve misheard her. I’ve been dreaming about her lips on mine for months. It was a fantasy, an unattainable wish, but now she’s offering to make it a reality.