There were too many of them to eat around the small kitchen table, so Paris had set the barely used dining room table instead, laying its glossy surface with a lace tablecloth and lighting the candles in the candelabra so that they caught in the prisms of the crystal glasses she had set out for their use.
Raiden went to assist Brock with the finishing details of the meal in the kitchen. She caught a glimpse of Brock, one of her grandmother’s floral and flouncy aprons wrapped around his waist, at the stove and grinned.
“I like it when men are self-confident enough to wear floral,” she commented to Paris.
“I know, doesn’t he look awesome in lilac,” Paris smirked. “It is a good china day,” she added as she laid out the silverware that habitually lived snuggled in a velvet lined box in the bottom of the china buffet in the dining room. “Good silver, and good crystal, and a bottle of wine.”
“Sounds good,” Lia replied thinking that her grandmother’s ghost would not approve, but she was not currently present in order to protest. “But what’s the occasion?”
“Someone else cooked,” Paris suggested, then grinned mischievously. “Looking very sexy in a lilac apron whilst he did so.”
“Good enough reason for me. No Cael?”
Paris had set the table for four, so she was not planning on feeding the blonde man.
“No, he has gone out. I’m not sure when he’ll be back, so we’ll save some for him in the fridge. Your washing is done by the way,” Paris added. “You had better do something about it before it gets musty.”
“Oh,” Lia remembered it with a start. “I’ll just put it into the dryer.”
She went into the laundry and transferred her wet laundry from the washing machine and into the ancient dryer. As she stood, she bumped into Cael. For a moment she thought he was Raiden when his hands caught her hips and held her against him, but then she smelled sandalwood and bergamot and not lavender and citrus.
“Cael, let go,” she protested his grip on her, squirming for freedom as the dryer began its rotation with a metallic groan. “Paris said you were out. Do you want to join us for dinner?”
“You are mine,” Cael murmured in her ear. “I own your life.”
“What do you mean? You keep saying different variations of that, but then you don’t explain. You do not own my life,” she protested the possessiveness of the statement. “We barely know each other, and even if we did, no one owns someone else’s life.”
“You will remember,” he added with confidence. “Eventually. But do not go mating with that dog until you do. It is one thing to f-k him, quite another to whelp with him, when you belong to me.”
“Cael,” she pulled away from him, backing up until the machines would allow her to go no further and she was blasted with damp warm air as the dryer heated. “You are giving me the creeps. I don’t want to kick you out, but you are making me feel unsafe in my own home. I have told you, hands off. If you are not going to explain yourself, then leave me alone. I don’t belong to you. I am seeing Raiden. If I belong to anyone, it is him.”
“No,” Cael leaned forward, bracing an arm against the dryer behind her head. His beautiful face pulled into a scowl which should have frightened her, were it not for the pain in his eyes. That pain left her speechless and disarmed.
“Cael,” she whispered. “What is going on?”
“You belong to me. Please, Lia. I am not good at this, obviously,” his voice softened, and he stroked her cheek. “And its complicated, with repercussions you cannot even imagine. But you have been mine since you were six years old. I lost you then, and it has taken this long for me to find you again. The dog is not right for you. You are mine, not his.”
“Cael,” she felt the pull of power, similar to that used by Lucian and by Cael the night he had arrived at the house, and felt her body relax and soften, incline towards him, lift her mouth to his… “No! Finis!” She broke the magic, felt it recoil and saw Cael wince at its backlash. “Don’t do that, Cael, don’t coerce me.”
“How is it that you do that?” He leaned against the wall. “You should not be able to do that.”
She regarded him for a long moment. “We can’t keep doing this,” she said to him sternly. “It’s assault, Cael. Touch me again without my permission, and I will kick you out, and report you to the school.”
“Dinner’s ready,” Raiden appeared in the laundry doorway and looked from Lia to Cael, frowning as he did so. The sound of the dryer, she realized, had hidden their conversation from her werewolf mate’s sharp ears. “Paris thought you were out, Cael. We have saved some dinner for you.”
“Thank you, but I was just on my way out,” Cael pushed off the wall. “I was just getting Lia to show me how to use the machines in this room.”
“Mhm,” Raiden stepped to the side so Cael could pass and watched him walk down the hall to the front door. Once the door closed behind him, Raiden turned back to Lia. “Something isn’t right about him.”
“That is an understatement,” she sighed heavily and stepped up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him. She felt him inhale and wondered if he could smell Cael on her. “I think I have to kick him out.”
“Do you want me to do it?” He stroked his hands up and down her back. “Is he being inappropriate?” His voice was hard, angry with the other man.
“It’s complicated. Let’s go eat, and I will explain it after dinner,” she released his waist and took his hand instead. There was a solid reassurance to his touch that felt good after another confusing conversation with Cael.
“Alright,” he said it reluctantly, his eyes going to the front door as they passed through the hallway, as if he wanted nothing more than to pursue Cael and have it out.
Brock had served and was pouring wine when they entered. “Hey,” he grinned brightly.
“Oh wow,” Lia looked at the huge serving and met Paris’ eyes on a laugh.
“I told them,” Paris replied. “One of these serves would be big enough for both of us. But they wouldn’t listen.”
“You need some fattening up,” Brock replied holding her chair until she sat. Raiden was poised behind Lia, waiting also. Werewolves, she thought with amusement as she sat, had old fashioned manners, but it was so sweet. “I can count every one of your ribs.”
“We have to maintain this weight,” Paris rolled her eyes. “So that the male dancers don’t get injured lifting us.”
“Cost is too high for the ability to dance on your toes,” he offered her the bread and she demurred. “I can’t imagine living life eternally hungry and breadless.”
“We have never lived any other way,” Lia giggled. “Breadless and hungry.”
“Did you know that it hurts?” Raiden asked Brock. “Every single time one of them gets up on their toes, it is hurting them.”
“How is it,” Brock collected spaghetti onto his fork. “That people overlook that for ballet? I mean, if you said to me, Rai, that you were starving yourself on purpose, working out incessantly, and doing something to yourself every day that caused you pain, I would be calling your mother to come take you in hand. But because it is ballet, everyone’s like, oh, but that is just fine.”
“It is because we look so pretty on our toes,” Paris smiled at him. “And it is traditional.”
“You look better on your back,” he replied with a leer. Paris laughed, delighted. Lia was almost certain they were playing footsies under the cover of the table.
“Too much information,” Raiden laughed. “Save it for the full moon.” He realized he had slipped up, using a werewolf saying, and exchanged a look with Brock, but Paris had not noticed, or accepted it as a saying she didn’t know.
“This is delicious,” Paris said with appreciation. “Much better than Lia and I make.”
Raiden grinned, throwing Lia a look. “Told you.”
“Probably because we dump the sauce from a jar onto of the pasta and call it spaghetti,” Paris continued. “Whereas Brock chopped tomatoes from scratch, added herbs, garlic and onion, cooked that, and then added mince, and put that over the pasta,” she told Lia, much impressed with Brock’s culinary skills. “I watched,” she added with a grin. “I was so helpful.”
Brock snickered. “And tasted.”
“Oh yeah, I did that too,” Paris said in such a way that left Lia in no doubt she had not tasted the food, but rather the cook.
After dinner, Lia and Paris cleared the table whilst Raiden and Brock washed up.
“So cute,” Paris whispered. “Didn’t I tell you, the quality of men at the club are so much better.”
“Yeah,” Lia wondered if she should caution Paris about Brock. It felt like a betrayal of the friendship to let her blindly proceed towards being turned to a werewolf at the next full moon. Another thing, she decided, that she would have to discuss with Raiden.