It was still hard to believe I was sitting in a villain's house. My mind kept drifting to the events of the day, Amara's brutal beating, the red flames that erupted from me, and the half-dragon woman who was currently lounging across from me.
Her beauty was almost distracting enough to stop me from spiraling into existential dread. Almost. The green glow from her hands had disappeared, and now she sat with her legs crossed, an air of elegance radiating from her every move.
"Are you just going to stare at me, or do you have questions?" she asked, her lips curling into a playful smile.
I flushed and looked away. "I wasn't staring."
"You were staring," she said, resting her chin on her hand. "I'm Miren, by the way. Amara's friend."
"Miren," I repeated, glancing at her cautiously. "Are you a villain too?"
She laughed, the sound rich and melodious. "Villain is such a strong word, don't you think? Let's just say I'm... morally flexible."
That wasn't comforting, but I nodded anyway.
Before I could ask anything else, Amara walked back into the room, her long coat sweeping behind her like liquid shadow. Her golden eyes flicked over me, then to Miren.
"She's not gone mad. Good," Amara said, her tone brisk. She turned her attention to me. "Feeling better?"
"Yes," I said, though my body still ached in places I didn't know could hurt.
"Great." Amara flopped onto a chair with a dramatic sigh, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Cook for us. I'm too tired to deal with it."
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "Kitchen's that way. Knock yourself out."
My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "I just got beaten to a pulp, and now you want me to cook for you?"
Amara raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Did I stutter?"
Before I could argue, Miren stood and walked over to me, holding something in her hands. It was an apron—bright pink with frilly lace edges and a pattern of cartoon vegetables smiling up at me.
"Here," she said, handing it to me with an innocent smile that somehow felt mischievous.
I stared at the apron in horror. "You're kidding."
"It's all we have," Miren said, suppressing a laugh.
With a resigned sigh, I put the apron on, tying it around my waist. It felt ridiculous, but I wasn't about to give Amara the satisfaction of complaining.
"Fine," I muttered, heading toward the kitchen. "But you'd better appreciate this."
The kitchen was surprisingly well-equipped, a stark contrast to the rest of the house's rugged, slightly chaotic vibe. Gleaming appliances lined the counters, and the cabinets were stocked with high-quality ingredients. I rolled up my sleeves, determined to show them that if I was going to be forced into this, I was going to do it right.
First, I surveyed the ingredients: fresh vegetables, herbs, and spices that smelled divine even before being used. I decided on something hearty and satisfying—a creamy mushroom risotto paired with herb-crusted chicken.
I started with the stock, setting a pot of broth to simmer. While it heated, I prepped the vegetables, my knife moving swiftly and precisely. The satisfying rhythm of chopping carrots, celery, and onions was soothing, almost meditative.
Next, I seared the chicken, letting the golden crust form as the kitchen filled with the savory aroma. I added garlic and rosemary, basting the meat with butter until it glistened.
The risotto was next. I toasted the Arborio rice in olive oil before slowly ladling in the warm broth, stirring constantly to create a creamy texture. I added sautéed mushrooms, a splash of white wine, and a generous handful of Parmesan cheese, the mixture turning rich and velvety.
As the dishes came together, I plated them with care. The risotto was garnished with a sprig of thyme, and the chicken was sliced and arranged artfully on the side. I couldn't help but feel a small sense of pride as I stepped back to admire my work.
When I carried the plates into the living room, Amara and Miren were waiting expectantly. Miren's eyes lit up as she caught the scent of the food, while Amara looked mildly intrigued, which, for her, probably counted as excitement.
"You actually did it," Amara said, taking a plate.
"I said I'd cook, didn't I?" I replied, setting the rest of the food on the table.
Miren took a bite, her eyes closing as she let out a soft hum of approval. "This is incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
I shrugged, sitting down with my own plate. "I've always liked cooking. It's one of the few things I'm actually good at."
Amara took a bite, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as she chewed. For a moment, I thought she might actually say something nice, but instead, she just nodded and kept eating.
"This is too good," Miren said, setting her fork down and looking at Amara with a grin. "Let's keep her. She can be our personal chef."
I choked on my bite of risotto, coughing as I stared at Miren. "Excuse me?!"
Miren laughed, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "You heard me. We've got the space, and you clearly have the skills."
"I'm not some kind of live-in cook," I said, glaring at her.
Amara smirked, leaning back in her chair. "You say that now, but give it time. You might get used to us."
"Not likely," I muttered, though I couldn't stop the small smile tugging at my lips.
As much as I hated to admit it, there was something oddly comforting about this chaotic household.