I’m in a good mood because we are hopefully on our last day of editing, so you get a snippet.
When I came out of the bedroom, Derek was sitting in my sanctuary at my kitchen table spreading a thin layer of honey mustard on a slice of bread with a wicked-looking knife. Another bread slice with an inch-thick slab of smoked ham waited on his plate.
He’d made himself a sandwich. Maybe I’d get lucky, and the son of a bitch would choke on it.
“You don’t have any iced tea,” he said.
I would strangle him. “That’s just one of the things I don’t have.”
Derek sliced the sandwich in half. “Oh?”
“I also don’t have any patience for people stealing my food.”
Derek picked up half of the sandwich, bit into it, and chewed.
Food held a special significance to the shapeshifters. When a shapeshifter offered to feed someone, he communicated willingness to protect and take care of them. A shapeshifter who couldn’t protect his meat was weak. Derek broke into my house and ate my ham, and now he was rubbing my face in it.
Just you wait. You’ll regret it.
I sat across from him. “Is it good?”
He licked his lips. “Delicious.”
I’d negotiated peace agreements with people I hated. I would not give him the satisfaction of slapping the rest of the sandwich out of his hand. No matter how wonderful that would feel.
I pulled a pad of paper toward me, wrote $20 on it, and passed it to him.
“The bill for the sandwich.”
“A $20 ham sandwich?”
“You chose to eat here. You should’ve asked about prices in advance.” I pointed at the doorway. “The door is that way. This restaurant is closed. Take the rest of your meal to go.”