Scandal

Chapter 7

Unfortunately, a reluctant alliance with Kai Parker means avoiding him for the majority of the morning–and afternoon–and forever.

I walk into the kitchen with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner stepping up to their fatal turn on death row.

Kai's humming a tune at the stove, flipping a pancake on a skillet with precision.

He glances up, offering a smile. "Good morning sleeping beauty"

His cheerfulness might be a bit questionable with Everything that went down yesterday,
Kai's behavior never quite teetered irreversibly into a zone defined by stoicism. Like most killers who are holding a serious grudge might.

The prison world was his playground and it seems, after years of boredom, he was just happy to have a new toy.

I look at the man wearily as I make my way to the fridge and manage only a stiff nod for a greeting.

"Want a pancake?"

"No," I respond, pulling the gallon of almond milk out of the fridge before shutting it.

"Suit yourself. But just so it's out there, I'm a master at making sure they have just the right amount of fluff. And if you're a person who likes those crunchy, slightly burnt edges, I can–"

"I'll just have cereal," I cut him off, swiping an empty bowl and the box of Cheerios from the cabinet, then stalking back to the dining table.

"Oookay. But I give it an hour tops before you're hungry again." He shrugs. "Not everyone's enlightened in the art of maximizing the day's breakfast."

Not everyone's enlightened in the art of shutting the fuck up, either, I refrain from childishly grumbling, while pouring cereal into my bowl.

The newspaper is laid out across the table, the gory headline intent on ruining my appetite. Disgruntled, I hastily flip to a random section. I eat a spoonful of Cheerios and try to preoccupy myself with the details on the magic of Meg Ryan.

With a stack of golden-brown pancakes that makes my breakfast look impossibly meager, Kai takes his seat across from me. I spare him a glance that hopefully doesn't betray my bitter longing, then flip wordlessly to the next page in the Arts section.

"So..." He speaks up, drizzling maple syrup on his pancakes. "Last of the magic that I stole from Liv drained away overnight."

"Things that don't belong to you tend not to linger," I answer sweetly.

He rolls his eyes. "The spirits crafted me to steal, the way I see it. People seek equilibrium, naturally. I seek magic whenever I can get it to keep the cravings at bay. Like vampires and blood bags, but less messy. But I don't really expect you to understand that, so you just go about your business as a human with all bark and no bite, and I'll go about mine, okay?"

"All bark?" I laugh sharply.
"You have an interesting way of viewing what's technically been a hostage situation from the start."

"You're not my hostage." He feigns offense at the idea. "You're my guest. Sure, I initially had to take you hostage, cut you off from your friends, blah blah, but such measures were necessary for me to show off my dazzling hospitality."

I shove away the newspaper, deciding that if he insisted on having a conversation, it could at least be a useful one.

"Fine. If you're so committed to hospitality, it's your duty to clear up a few things for me." I gesture vaguely around us. "About this place."

His eyes widen dramatically. "Happy to."

I swirl my spoon in milk, while pondering what to ask first. "Is it really the size of...the whole world? Or are there limits?"