12. Mari

Chapter twelve

Mari

I can't believe that came out of my mouth. I mean, I can believe it. Outbursts like that aren't uncommon for me. But the stunned look on Em's soft-featured face has me wincing.

They're trying to be so helpful.

The bacon still sizzles in the pan, filling the room with much-needed sound. Unlike Em, Soren's expression is oddly pleased.

His massive palm holds the spatula in a grip that makes the muscles in his forearms flex. I don't normally ogle men. I find most of them repulsive, in fact. However, his outward appearance displays a certain ferocity, contrasting with, well, everything else.

His home is warm, not simply in temperature but also in sensation. Every piece of furniture, art, rug, and plant fills the space with color and depth. It's not dull and modern, as most men in my world prefer their homes. It's bright and full of personality, full of Soren, I guess.

I look up at him from where I sit on the barstool. He tosses a heap of crackling bacon as a smirk arches his full lips, causing heat to spread across my skin. I hope he doesn't see the color in my cheeks.

I brush my face again with the oversized sweater, hoping to make an excuse for the blush blooming there.

"Oh, I think we can find a job for you." He looks at his sister conspiratorially before looking back at me.

I don't like the sound of that.

A barrage of unpleasant jobs flashes in my mind. From what I can tell, this property is huge, if the fields spanning the house and shop are his. And I've seen a few different animals. What if I have to kill chickens? Or shove my hand up a cow's ass. I don't know why people do that or if it needs to be done regularly. I know I don't want it to be me.

Shit, shit, shit. You should have just spoken up. You could have said anything. I ' m good with kids, athletic, I can do some light accounting—anything. Pounding fence posts would be more desirable than shoveling pig shit.

Gathering my confidence, I straighten my shoulders, looking the ogre in his chocolate eyes. "Fine," I spit back. "I'll take anything you can throw at me." A Cheshire cat-like smile spreads across his face, and I immediately regret my words.

"I don't think I can arrange everything today, but would you be willing to start first thing tomorrow?"

I nod in agreement, keeping my spine straight and gaze locked .

He leans over to his sister, whispering something. She smiles at him before taking a long sip of her coffee. And eyeing me again. I'd think she was checking me out if I didn't know better. That's crazy, right?

Regardless, the expressions on their faces indicate I might be royally fucked tomorrow.

Soren cooks us a lavish meal: bacon, roast potatoes, pastries, and eggs. His sister has no shortage of conversation topics. She runs a leather shop and specializes in shoemaking. She has even measured me to create a custom pair of boots.

I have my hiking boots, but having an extra pair for outdoor work would be beneficial. If that's what they have in mind for me.

I ask the pair again what my job might be, and they laugh. This back-and-forth goes on for the rest of the meal, until Em announces she needs to head back and start working on my boots.

When Em leaves, I go back to my room.

It feels like hiding. It is hiding. Without having Em as a buffer, I don't know what would happen. There would be a fight, most likely. Just a simple look from him gets under my skin.

I lay out all the clothes she gave me on the bed, sizing up each piece. They are some of the most well-made materials I've ever seen.

Finding a quality piece like this is rare in my fast fashion world. They might be in a thrift store, but they're definitely not on a department store shelf.

Time passes, even if it seems like I'm forcing the hands on the clock to move just so they can spring backward. I take a long hot bath, braid my hair, and change into new clothes. They are still a little loose, but they are workable. Being too small for clothes is an odd concept.

After my bath, the dark day quickly becomes an even darker night. I've resisted leaving my room, but when the smells of sage, butter, and citrus waft upstairs, my feet and stomach decide for me.

I'll give this man credit; he cooks.

There is a spread of pan-seared trout, wild rice, and roasted vegetables. And, of course, a baked good. I've only been here a full day and night, but I have yet to see his kitchen counter without some fresh-baked treat.

I wonder if he bakes to ease some kind of anxiety. That would explain it—he's anxious I'm here.

I walk over to the counter, where two place settings lay across from one another.

He has his back to me, but I have no doubt he knows I'm here. His broad shoulders pull back, outlining the carved muscles through his light shirt. That back was on full display last night.

But his stiffening, that sudden reaction to my presence, reveals more to me than he would ever be willing to tell me.

Anxious then. That being said, I've given him no reason to be at ease in my presence.

He turns, and the pale green of his skin is streaked with flour. His hands and clothing are splattered and covered in herbs and breading. He's not what I would call a tidy cook.

The smile threatening the corners of my mouth almost breaks through my icy exterior. Not yet. Don't get comfortable; don't let this person in. There are still threats everywhere. Keep your guard up.

I clutch my front pocket, where Patti's knife rests. Reminding myself of the genuine horrors that this place can manifest, the smile dies before it reaches my eyes .

"Would you like an ale with your dinner?" He holds an extra mug out, sloshing with amber liquid. A gesture, perhaps.

"No, water is fine, thank you."

"Well, I could put some tea on—"

"No, I'm good." I cut off. The last thing I want is my senses dulled. If this place has taught me anything, it's to stay alert.

He shrugs, reaches for the dishes already portioned out, and sets one in front of me.

Even though the room is lit, and he's covered in refuse from making dinner, this feels intimate.

"So, um, what am I going to be doing tomorrow? From how you whispered to your sister, I feel like I'm in for a punishment." Why did you say punishment? I inwardly wince at the misspoken word.

He gives me another one of those smirks, those fucking smirks I would love just to slap off his face.

"I suppose it could be considered a punishment to some, only if they were horrible."

Well fuck, it's a litmus test, then. Despite my prickly nature, I consider myself a good person. This should be no problem at all. I straighten my shoulders, looking him in the eyes, averting my gaze from his obscenely chiseled jaw and full lips. They only deepen the taunt boiling in his stare. Wait, why are you even looking at him that way? Stop it.

"Well, I guess we will find out tomorrow whether I meet the moral standards of an ogre."I snipe, before throwing some buttery, perfectly cooked trout into my mouth, silencing whatever jab is lining up behind the first.

But he doesn't grimace. He grins ear-to-ear, taking a slow swig of his ale, as if impenetrable to insults. Almost as if he enjoys them. His brown eyes scan me in a way that is not how a predator would size up prey; it is more like an opponent accepting a challenge and reveling in the thrill of the fight.

I know that responsibility all too well in my group of friends. I am the fighter, the protector. I would be lying if I said I didn't occasionally enjoy it.

"Tomorrow it is, little human. And as far as my standards are concerned, I doubt I'll be found wanting."

My heart quickens at his words. What does he mean by that? Every conversation with this beast has been a series of riddles and innuendos I still can't untangle. Every time I speak, he twists the words in such a way—I can't defend myself. It's maddening.

I keep my face hard despite the maroon spreading on my chest. Do ogres have sharpened senses? Can he detect the uptick in my pulse, the heat spreading through my body?

You need to get out of here. Keep yourself under control.

I've never reacted to another person like this before. Sure, I've had relationships, but those were few and far between, and none emitted this kind of thrill through my system.

"Well, I've just lost my appetite; see you in the morning, ogre." I leave the table, wanting to rid myself of the effect his stare has on me. But it's still there.

Even after a shower, even after nothing but a dark night is cast through the small window of my room, I lie there with wide eyes, thinking about that stranger, his hands, his arms, and the white flour streaking his green skin.

I throw a pillow over my face to scream into it. I want to get this tension out as much as possible.

Despite the chill in the air, my skin blazes, and heat spreads like wildfire in my veins. I toss again. You ' re just pent-up. You need to exercise tomorrow. This is just energy trying to escape .

That's all, nothing more.