Falling To The Sun | B. Swan + E. Cullen

soixante-quatre

Romulus was pouting, she could see it on every inch of him as he sat in the corner of the living room, staring out the window with a blank expression as he refused to speak to anyone.

Rather, she didn't let him have any fun until he stopped acting so stubborn and ate the human food that was still placed on the kitchen table that he refused to touch. She understood that he had preferences, that he wanted to go hunting all the time instead of taking advantage of both sides of his diet, but she wasn't about to let him waste food.

It didn't matter that someone else would have eaten the ravioli that Esme had made for them, that Seth was sitting around more than willing to scarf down the plate. It was the principle of the thing.

He wasn't allowed to simply decide for himself what he wanted when he wanted it.

And he needed to listen, even if he had the skills to argue with her.

Edward stood by her, at least, knowing that their son was likely to bat his pretty eyes at her and cling to her side until she agreed.

He was a mamma's boy, through and through, and he knew how to play her like a fiddle. She didn't mind in the slightest.

"You should take the chance to look at the maps while you aren't distracted, my love," Edward tells her, arms locked around her waist.

"You just want to get me out the way so you can speak to him. You don't need me to leave for that."

"No, but he won't pout for attention if you're gone. He's doing it for you."

Roman sighs. "I know."

"He's acting as if you've betrayed him," he breathes into her ear, the humour in his voice bringing her to roll her eyes.

At three months, they looked closer to a year and all his dramatics were all the more amplified. She found he had moments where he was childish compared to what she came to expect of his behaviour.

He chuckles. "You think so highly of me, my love."

"Are you trying to tell me that you don't possess a flair for the dramatic?"

"I certainly do not."

Roman reaches back and pats his cheek. "Of course, darling."

He growls playfully, bending down to nip at her ear. Biting her lip, she swallows the urge to squeak with a breath held firm in her lungs, stilling in his arms as he chuckles deep and rough, hoarse, in his throat.

"Shall I wait?" he asks, silent and teasing. "It's only a short trip home."

"Cheeky," she says, leaning into his touch for a moment before pulling away, turning him to face their son. "Go talk to your son. Get him to stop pouting so he'll eat. I'll take him out hunting as soon as he's done just as promised."

"He's being stubborn still. Perhaps he simply doesn't like ravioli?"

"No. No, he's had it before. He simply doesn't want human food," she says, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow. "I don't want him to sustain himself solely of animal blood. I don't understand why he suddenly refuses to eat. He was happy to take whatever we served him last week."

"It's likely that his taste buds are developing, love."

"Well, I can't give him a break. He got out of it for the last two days," she bites, meeting her son's watery gaze when he turns to meet her eye. "It's like he's testing me. Look at him."

Edward chuckles. "He's hoping tears will change your mind. Why don't you go relax? I'll get him to eat."

"Yeah?"