Page 155 of Sweet Ruin

Honey. Poppy seeds. Yeast dough.

The way they feel about cabbage is the way I feel about sugar and butter. If some is good, more is better, and if more is better, then “all of it” is best.

I notice Priya fixing me with a concerned look. “Might this be a wee bit of overkill?” she ponders.

“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I just don’t want to seem like I’m not fulfilling my end of the bargain.”

“Delilah, darling, you don’t have to pay admission in labor every time you walk into a room,” she says. “You’re worthy all on your own.”

She sounds suspiciously like Kane when she talks like that.

I look toward the walk-in and sigh.

Shit.

Maybe they’re right.

Maybe I am doing the thing I always do.

I just can’t ever accept that good things happen to me without bad things arriving right afterward.

That probably explains why I’ve spent every night this week acting like a guest in my own house.

Connor’s gone—his clothes, his stuff, the bed he defiled—and the locks have all been changed, but I still wander through all the rooms and feel like a stranger.

The only room that feels somewhat like mine is the bedroom.

And I know why that is.

Because that’s where Kane sat on the floor next to me and told me my sister’s cruel words were nothing but a nasty lie designed to hurt.

Oh, God.

Is he becoming my safe space?

I cannot allow that.

But the evidence is not in my favor.

The photograph of us kissing in the coat closet has found a home on my bedside table. Do I check it every night before I fall asleep?

Does it make me feel safe? Cherished? Wanted?

… Maybe.

“I’m not testing that theory tonight,” I tell Priya.

Her mouth twists. “Which theory?”

“That people might want me without getting something first.”

She sighs. “You’re a tough cookie, Delilah Dorsey. One day, you’ll believe me when I tell you you’re good enough just as you are.” Then she reaches for an apron and joins me at the stainless steel counter. “But fine. If we’re feeding the Russian army, I’m frying.”

Stepan arrives at 6:30 P.M., dressed in black with his eyebrow ring catching the light.

He looks at me.

He looks at the boxes.