Turned out pregnant women liked the sweet cold stuff. Okay, the pregnant Chosen, Layla, liked it—and Beth had delivered the same kind on schedule, every night for the last … how long had it been since the female’s needing?
God, time flew.
And as she counted the days, she was well aware she wasn’t thinking about Layla’s progression. What she was really adding up was how many hours she’d logged in that room, sitting close by … hoping that for once an old wives’ tale would come true.
She didn’t just go up there to be a kind housemate or supportive friend.
Nope. Although why the hell she thought she and Wrath needed a baby in the middle of all this drama was a mystery. Mother Nature, however, had forced her around some kind of corner and there was no going back, no making sense of it, no reasoning with the urge.
Not that she’d necessarily talked to Wrath about it lately. As if he didn’t already have enough on his plate. But come on, if she were able to kick-start her needing …
She just wanted to hold a piece of herself and of Wrath—and the more dangerous things became with the Band of Bastards, the more desperate that need became.
In some ways, it was the saddest commentary on where they were at.
At least something of him would survive if the Band of Bastards succeeded in killing—
The wave of pain at the thought was so great, she sagged against the freezer and it was a while before she could refocus on the mother lode of Breyers, Ben & Jerry’s, Häagen-Dazs and Klondikes.
So much safer to stress over which flavor she’d have tonight. Layla was always vanilla—it was the only kind she could keep down. But Beth was wide open on that one, and thanks to Rhage’s infamous appetite, there were, like, a gabillion choices.
As she searched for inspiration, the dilemma was a slice right out of her childhood, a modern-day echo of the days when she would palm up one of her hard-earned dollars, walk a half mile to Mac’s Grocery, and take twenty minutes to get the same Hershey’s Dixie cup of chocolate that she always did. Funny, she could still remember how the place had smelled like those cake cones Mac had handmade. And that cash register, the old-fashioned one that had had a hand crank.
When she’d check out, Mac would always give her a red plastic spoon, a napkin and a smile—along with her twenty-six cents in change.
He’d been extra nice to the orphans who’d lived down at Our Lady. Then again, there were a lot of people who had been kind to her and the other kids who had been either unwanted or unlucky.
“Mint chocolate chip,” she said, reaching in and long-arming a stretch to the back.
As the cold air wafted up, she stopped to soak in the deep freeze. “Oh, yeah…”
Even though it was frickin’ December, she found herself craving the chill, her skin goose-bumping, the pores on her face tightening, the inside of her nose humming from all the dryness.
Guess all that sex was still revving her up.
Closing her eyes, she went back to Wrath taking her down onto the floor and ripping her clothes off. So good. So what they needed.
Although she hated the way she felt now.
He was so damned far away, even though his body was just upstairs in that study.
Maybe that was another reason she wanted a child.
Refocus, refocus. “Vanilla, vanilla … where are you?”
When it turned out the vanilla was MIA, she had to settle for a trio’d half gallon that was polluted with strawberry and chocolate. No biggie. With proper surgical extraction, she’d be able to get the job done without getting any offending contamination in Layla’s bowl.
Leaving the pantry and entering the kitchen proper, the sweet, earthy smell of sautéing onions and mushrooms mixed with basil and oregano was heaven in her nose. But the ambrosia wasn’t for Last Meal and it wasn’t a doggen at the sauce pot.#p#分页标题#e#
Nope. It was iAm—again. Which considering he appeared to cook when stressed suggested someone else’s life was in the crapper.
The Shadow and his brother were the most recent additions to the Brotherhood house, and as the owner and head chef of the ultra-old-school Salvatore’s Restaurant, iAm had more than proved his chops with linguine—although that was not to say Fritz approved of the guy getting out all those multi-gallon pots: As usual, the butler was hovering in the periphery, apoplectic that one of the household guests was doing any cooking.
“That smells delicious,” she said as she put the containers on the deck-size granite island.
She didn’t have a chance to get the bowls or spoons. Fritz sprang into action, pulling open cupboards and drawers—and she didn’t have the heart to tell him not to wait on her.