Coldsnap: The Billionaire Alpha's Fated Pregnant Princess (GL)-Chapter 448 - Food For The Soulfire

"Ah..."

The first tray of food I uncovered after washing my hands, instead of immediately engaging with her open-book behavior and attitude that practically begged me to read her... held something I didn’t expect to get sent back. Let alone cut into small pieces and cooked.

Fried dark and crusted with a peppery spice blend that entered my nose with cayenne and garlic and something I’m pretty sure is cornmeal, the handwritten note on the back of Lunarizon pamphlet paper stock had grabbed my eye with the word [brain] immediately.

[ Mais, don’t need no more than cerebrum with what I have here in stock. This rougarou been waitin’ to show his skills.

Got told you shot this bear yourself. You a belle fleur farouche, you.

For the new Mama - cerebellum and brainstem, fried Cajun style. A lil’ lagniappe.

Source of DHA - and you gonna need it ’cause you gettin’ all mixed up in the head - that fog in your brain in new mom is REAL, for true.

Says my own, and she don’t lie. Ate them brains so much pops - he starts lookin’ at her sideways, him. Start whisperin’ she some kinda Voodoo Queen or Zombi walkin’ the marsh.

Your body still suckin’ all it can of your life into the T-bébé. So take care and enjoy, chère.

- Lou ]

Putting aside the things I don’t understand, though I can use my intellect and context for the gist of it, I note the dark smudge fingerprint too close to the name to be just an accident. Like he needed to leave an additional way to identify it was him beyond the rest of it.

"...Who writes like this to someone they’ve never met just to say they cooked them brain as a health snack?"

"Someone from Louisiana, it seems. Claire vouched for him again. Said she watched the security feed the entire time. That he did nothing all that out of the ordinary when preparing it."

Kyrie is still... all kinds of right beside me. She’s always been rather... *my* space is *her* space, however this is probably my fault for complaining she was being mean. Now she won’t part more than a few inches.

> My terrible, terrible fault. <

"However, she also didn’t look me in the eyes when I pressed her."

"Because she would vouch for anyone that entertains her."

I brought one of the pieces to my nose and sniffed the aggressive spicing. Indian subcontinent cuisine in this world, one of the surviving analogues to my fox kingdom culture, consists of some pungent food components.

Turmeric, coriander, cumin, and cardamom seem to be more popular in culturally themed dishes from there than elsewhere. At least in the city here, before things went cold. The garam masala in particular from [Delhi-Kate/Tess-En] made me purchase one of their dabba sets in case I had a mind to use the spice mix for my own food preparation.

But Cajun was a whole different kind of thing despite heat being a big shared component.

The coating was crispy and fierce with capsaicin and something earthy that I believe is bay leaf. Meanwhile, the meat itself had a texture that reminded me of a very dense custard. Clearly he has tricks to the preparation, because their consistency is usually not like this raw.

Human sensibilities seem like they would rebel to the idea of consuming this component, but if I had anything like those feelings of physical refusal when it came to food? My beast instincts must have told them to sit down and be quiet, because I don’t hear a peep from my own ’cerebrum’.

"Well?"

"I’ve had worse."

> Much of what I had in my former life was worse. This is actually... quite good. The man can clearly cook. <

"...Okay."

Fire-opal eyes watched me eat three more pieces before seeming satisfied that I was not merely phoning in my enjoyment. Or so it looked, by her little release of breath and nod. How rude.

"I have never in my life continued eating something that was unpalatable."

"You’re aware that you could have just said it was good, right? The first time. Or this time."

Today of all days, telling myself I could *just* be honest seems like advice I should take without being so repressed. After all, you never know when circumstances will cause you to meet your end.

But the idea of that feels like standing near a roaring bonfire I didn’t actually mean to build all this time. Trying to light a burnt out ember I wasn’t sure I could afford to let turn to ashes completely, all for the sake of becoming part of the blaze.

> Hm. Why am I so obsessed with fire metaphors now? Is it because I know I am relatively impervious to it? <

"I took the tongue and kidneys and had my chef handle it in his apartment. He’s been taking shifts down below to help direct the ration cooking group, but seemed happy to have the break to cook something fresher and unique... or he did at first."

The next dish she showed was sliced thin, flash-seared to a slight crisp, and served with a bed of what seems to be black garlic on the bottom and charred onions on top. Humans really love that last ingredient.

Not that I’m complaining, they grew on me since they were so common at restaurants. Though it seems lucky that werewolf stomach anatomy can actually handle them where real canids would be in distress...

"He was really unhappy that I wanted it done tonight, though. Called it barbaric not to prepare this one confit. Or without a slow brine to tenderize it. I had to listen to him grumble and ask to use his pressure cooker for a braise."

Kyrie took a piece onto a tiny plate and held it out to me before looking startled and... jerking it away. Like someone who realized they were about to give another poison or something they were allergic to.

I can feel my eyes dart between hers, the food, her hand, the plate, the rest of the food, and finally her eyes again before finally guessing at what I should be doing in order to have a taste of what smells like excellence.

"Please?"

"No, I... I just forgot something. I was too focused on watching you eat. Hold on."

She sets it down takes a beat to *pet my face*, and then rushes over to the little cart and lifts out a small cooler hidden under a cloth flap. It seems to hold three things that she sorts through before handing over a little tiny glass of red juice to me.

Of course, I don’t take it immediately because I’m busy dragging my fingernails against where she just touched my face. Pointedly not looking her way as I accept whatever this is supposed to be.

"He made palate cleansers for us as well. I think this one was ruby grapefruit and ginger. I trust him to know what to do after describing any dish."

"Yes, all of you people trust each other so much. It is very touching."

It lifts the heat and pulls off some of the tallow residing on my tongue. Though the citrus hint is quite unpleasant. I swirled it around my mouth anyway, because it couldn’t be worse than-

Her wiping the bit of red that leaked over the corner of my puckered lip, as I bit down on my own soft flesh at the sour flavor. I should start forbidding this behavior.

She shouldn’t be allowed to assist me while I eat any longer! Not when I might be making stilly faces like this... and now I kind of want to see her face. Should I make her drink it too?

> Ignore it and eat. Stop thinking about kissing her the moment her lips press together. <

A bit crunchy, still a nice springy density of meat, and really it is very hard not to make satisfied smacking noises as I try... the tongue. From the little plate.

Okay, the choice of food is not helping my touch-starved libido, is it?