“What?”
“I got stabbed,” I repeated, as I remembered that I hadn't locked the door. So I turned around to do so, and when I turned back, I caught him staring at my legs. I went red as I realized I was only wearing Ryu's shirt.
“Lemme change,” I squeaked, running up the stairs to my right.
I dug out a pair of black stretch yoga pants and a tank top before I remembered I needed a bra. Then I still felt a little naked and was about to put Ryu's shirt back on when I changed my mind and dug out my own purple cardigan. I took a moment to compose myself and brush my hair and my teeth before I realized with a little aria of swearing that I'd left the vegetables on the burner.
I raced downstairs and into the kitchen, expecting to find a conflagration of burned onion. Instead, Anyan was stirring the vegetables with one hand as he stretched his long arm out toward the sink to rinse the lentils.
I stared at his back, unsure of what to do, as he used the colander to flick off the tap and then dumped the lentils into the pot. Then he stirred it all around a bit, just as I would have done, before adding the carton of chicken stock. Then he rummaged around in the cupboards till he found another, dumping that one in, too.
I took a seat across from him at the island to watch, my brow furrowing, as he raised the heat and stirred everything. He brought my bouquet garni up to his long nose and sniffed it before adding it to the pot. He ground a bunch of pepper into the mix, added some salt, and gave it one last stir before he turned to face me. He placed his palms on the cool granite of the island and leaned over to stare into my eyes.
He'd taken off his jacket, and I noticed that his black T-shirt sported an advertisement for Milk-Bones. If he hadn't been staring at me so sternly, I would have laughed at that.
“What in the hell are you doing here? And what do you mean, you got stabbed?”
I eyed him warily. “You usurped my lentils.”
“The stabbing, Jane,” he replied, not batting an eyelash.
“Did you add the garlic?”
“Yes. Tell me how you got hurt.”
“I usually cut the stock with water.”
“I don't. Now what happened to you?”
“That's kind of a waste of stock.” I noticed that the very tip of his nose was starting to twitch.
“I swear to the gods that if you change the subject one more time, I'm going to put you in the lentils.”
“The pot's about to boil over.”
Anyan swore and wheeled about to lower the heat and stir the broth into submission. He also took a moment to visibly gather himself before turning to face me. I took the opportunity to compose myself as well. It's not just that I was trying to be difficult; it was also that I didn't know how to act around Anyan the man. The dog Anyan was no problem, but the man was a whole different kettle of fish. Kettle of man. Kettle of supernatural shapeshifting man-dog. Whatever.
And he had usurped my lentils.
Anyan picked up the wooden spoon again to dredge up a bit of broth. He turned around, blowing on it to cool it, before holding it out for me to taste.
“Check the seasoning for yourself,” he demanded, so I did. “Is it fine?” I nodded. “Good, now forget the lentils and tell me what happened to you.”
I glared at him, but did as he asked in as few words as possible. As I told him, I unconsciously rubbed at the aching spot on my palm where the knife had gone in.
When I was finished, he stood there, staring at me. Then he walked around to where I was sitting. His large hand gripped mine, and he held it gently, probing at it with magic.
I shivered at the touch of his power and pulled my hand from his.
“Anyan, it's fine—” I began to protest, but he silenced me with a thumb over my lips. The barghest cradled my jaw with his hand, forcing me to meet his gray eyes with my black. I could smell cardamom and leather and man. And maybe the faintest whiff of clean doggy.
“Shush, you. You're still hurting. Let me see it.”
I was still hurting, damn him. So I pushed my curled fist back into his palm
He gently spread my fingers open with both hands, stroking his thumbs over my palm. I didn't know which was hotter: Anyan's own skin or the healing magics he sent through me. I felt like a child, dwarfed by his imposing frame as he loomed over me, his attention turned inward as he fixed whatever was still wrong with me.
“You took a knife to save Ryu?” he asked, making me start. His voice had gone quiet, if still rough. His fingers tracing over my skin were ridiculously gentle.
“Yeah,” I said, blushing. “And it was a Crocodile Dundee ‘knoife,‘” I clarified. Then I hung my head. “But Ryu had already jumped clear. So I saved a patch of empty air.”
“It's not what you did, Jane. It's what you intended.”
I frowned. But I don't know what I intended, I suddenly wanted to tell Anyan, even though I couldn't for the life of me figure out why it was so important he know that.
I was distracted, however, as another warm surge of power went into my hand and I felt—and heard—
something pop. The ache was gone finally, and I suddenly really wanted to stretch my fingers.
“You were very brave,” Anyan told me, his rough voice dark.I blushed, stretching my hand out underneath his calloused palm.
“Never do something like that again,” he concluded as he ran his calloused thumb one last time over my palm before he turned back to the stove to stir the lentils.
Suddenly too warm, I took my cardigan off as I watched him fiddle with the fire until he got the lentils to simmer just so. My eyes widened as, suddenly, everything fell into place. I was such a moron.
“The cabin,” I breathed. “It's yours, isn't it? Not Nell's.”
He snorted, still facing the stove.
“You thought it was Nell's?”
I glared at his broad back. “Dude, you were a dog when I met you and I thought that's all you were. Dogs don't usually own property.”
“Okay, but how did you think Nell reached anything? Levitation?” he asked, as he finally turned back around to face me.
“Stepladders,” I replied automatically.
“Stepladders?”
“Yes, stepladders. Like I have.”
Anyan's big face opened up in a huge smile, and I couldn't help but smile back; it was that infectious. It transformed him.
“Poor little Jane. Your life must be one giant stepladder. When we get back to Rockabill, I'll make you stilts.”
I laughed, looking down at his hands. I'd felt how rough the skin was on them, even if his touch had been gentle. They were scarred and rough and calloused. A working man's hands.
Or an artist who, among other things, sculpted metal.
“Did you make all the stuff in there?” I asked. “Theart?”
He nodded, looking a little embarrassed. “Yeah, most of it. It's what I do. I'm not really good at the human money stuff, like the others, so I do what I've always done. I stick to art. Luckily, I have a few lifetimes' worth of international reputation, so the money's decent.”
“It's beautiful. I love the one in the bathroom,” I admitted before I had time to reflect that that probably sounded a little weird.
He laughed, a big, rich sound that filled the kitchen.
“I knew you would. That you'd get why it was in there.”
I thought about it. “It's one of the stories you told me when I was in the hospital, isn't it?”
He nodded. I leaned forward on my stool. “And those stories about the fighting dog who saved his people, those were really your stories, weren't they?”
I think he actually blushed. “I didn't know any other stories,” he admitted.
“They were good stories,” I told him gently. “I appreciated them very much.”
His big hands clenched into fists and he turned back to the stove to stir the lentils.
“So you saved your people, and you made an iron cartoon about it, and then you hung it in your bathroom.”
He shrugged, silently, in assent.
“How very postmodern of you.” I grinned.
He chuckled and then went to open the refrigeratordoor.
“I'm assuming the mashed garlic was for something different?”
“Yup. Salad. The stuff's in the crisper. I'll help.”
I sliced tomatoes and olives while Anyan grated a carrot and washed lettuce. We worked in companionable silence, only talking when I made the dressing and he wanted to see what went in it. I pointed at where the steaks sat, still wrapped, warming up to room temperature while waiting to be cooked.
“Sorry, we only have two steaks. But you can share mine.”
Anyan smiled at me. “No worries, Jane. I usually don't eat meat unless I catch it myself.”
I frowned at him. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, poking at the steak with one finger as it sat—packaged in cellophane—on its little Styrofoam plate. “This is just not sporting.”
I snorted. “You're a strange man, Anyan. Or dog. Dog-man?”