Chapter 30: Chapter 30: Cookies

Gabriel stared at him. “Common poison.”

“Just a trace,” Rafael clarified, waving a hand as if discussing seasoning rather than homicide. “A stabilizer for the destabilizer. Marin said it enhances absorption.”

Gabriel closed his eyes briefly. “Rafael, I do not think Marin intended for you to mix pharmacology with pastry.”

“Then he should not have given me options,” Rafael replied.

A chef carrying a bowl of frosting slowed beside them, looked at the tray, then looked at Rafael with a quiet, prayerful expression. He said nothing, wisely, and continued walking.

The scent of vanilla and something faintly metallic filled the kitchen, a warning only Gabriel understood well enough to fear.

“Rafael,” he said slowly, “you realize that when Gregoris finds out…”

“He will know the moment he smells the cookies,” Rafael interrupted, sliding the tray into the oven with crisp finality. “But his ego would force him to take a bite; well, no, I will play a role in that too. If he thinks he can play with me without consequences, he is terribly miscalculating.”

Gabriel stared at him, expression flattening into something between pity and poorly concealed amusement. At seven months pregnant, he had perfected the art of observing chaos with the calm interest of someone who no longer had the energy to intervene.

“Rafael,” he said, shifting his weight slightly to ease the pressure on his back, “his ego is not a tactical weapon.”

“It is,” Rafael replied calmly, “when properly baited.”

Gabriel exhaled, the sound weary but undeniably amused. “You’re planning to provoke him.”

“I don’t plan to,” Rafael said, adjusting the oven timer with unnerving accuracy. “I inevitably will, simply by existing.”

Gabriel rested a hand on his stomach as his child pressed a knee against his ribs. His expression didn’t change, but the baby’s timing made Rafael pause.

“Even my unborn child thinks you’re reckless,” Gabriel murmured dryly.

“Your unborn child,” Rafael answered, “is a creature of instinct and judgment. I accept the critique.”

A kitchen apprentice carrying produce took one look at Rafael beside the oven and Gabriel watching over him like a very pregnant general and wisely chose to detour around them.

“Rafael,” Gabriel said, voice gentler but still threaded with humor, “Gregoris is… not subtle. And not gentle. If you push him, he’ll push back.”

Rafael’s smile sharpened. “Gabriel. He ambushed my love life and made Augustus cancel our second date by threatening a car explosion, then forced him to retire. There are now two men left in that cursed courting system.”

Gabriel arched a brow. “Two?”

“Yes,” Rafael said flatly. “Augustus and Gregoris. One retired out of self-preservation. The other refuses to retire out of spite.”

Gabriel made a thoughtful sound. “Ah. So the field has narrowed.”

“It has narrowed,” Rafael echoed, “because someone weaponized paperwork against me.”

Gabriel blinked, slow and unimpressed. “You say that as if you haven’t weaponized paperwork yourself.”

Rafael did not deny it.

He simply continued, “And now one suitor remains, solely because he refuses to follow instructions, laws, or basic emotional etiquette.”

Gabriel rubbed the side of his stomach in slow circles, easing the pressure as his child insisted on practicing martial arts. “Rafael, he’s a Shadow commander. Etiquette was never part of the training.”

“Then he shouldn’t have applied to court me,” Rafael snapped, then composed himself. “Which he did. Without my input. Using forms I had never seen.”

Gabriel nodded sympathetically, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. “And you believe cookies will fix this.”

“No,” Rafael said, pulling off his oven gloves with delicate finality. “I believe cookies will tip the balance.”

Gabriel inhaled slowly through his nose, that careful, controlled breath of a man who had endured an empire, a war, and now pregnancy. “Rafael… if he eats these, he may fall over.”

“Yes,” Rafael said.

“And you intend to be present.”

“Naturally.”

“To witness it.”

“To enjoy it,” Rafael corrected.

Gabriel shook his head, the motion small and wry. “Do you want him to stop courting you?”

Rafael paused at that.

The kitchen went quiet around them, save for the hum of machinery and the distant clatter of dishes.

“…No,” Rafael admitted softly. “I want him to understand I am not prey.”

Gabriel looked at him, expression shifting, still amused, still tired, but tinged now with recognition. “Ah. There it is.”

“There what is?” Rafael demanded.

Gabriel stepped closer, leaning one elbow against the counter for support. “You want to match him, not escape him.”

Rafael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny that either.

The oven chimed.

Rafael turned toward it with the solemn intensity of a general retrieving a sacred weapon. Gabriel watched him, one hand braced at the small of his back, the other resting protectively over his stomach.

“Be careful,” Gabriel murmured. “He will retaliate.”

Rafael lifted the tray from the oven, steam curling upward like the breath of a dragon.

“I know,” he said. “I am counting on it.”

By the time the cookies cooled, Rafael had packed them into a pristine black box tied with silver ribbon. A handwritten card rested on top in calligraphy neat enough to pass for artificial.

“Thank you for the lovely evening. Let’s do it again sometime. Or not. Warm regards, R.R”

He adjusted his coat, smoothed down his sleeves, and left the consort wing with the calm of a man delivering a peace treaty written in sugar and veiled threats.

—

The Shadow Department was a fortress of sharp metal, colder lighting, and expressions that suggested the occupants slept in their armor and dreamed about war.

Rafael stepped inside with the cookie box held like an offering to a god he planned to overthrow.

Every Shadow in the hall froze.

They all looked at Rafael with the same expression:

’Who let the soft secretary into the murder wing?’

Gregoris stood near the training hall doors, discussing logistics with two commanders. He looked up immediately, instinct, awareness, and predatory focus snapping into place.

Rafael smiled.

A sweet, polite, poisonous smile.

“Commander Frasner,” he greeted brightly. “I brought you something.”

Gregoris’s attention locked onto the black box in Rafael’s hands before it returned to Rafael himself. The shift was subtle, but every Shadow in the vicinity felt the temperature in the room drop by several degrees.

One of the commanders beside him murmured, “Sir…?”

Gregoris lifted a single hand. The man fell silent immediately.

His eyes did not leave Rafael.

Rafael stopped two paces away, close enough to be bold, far enough to be polite. The contrast between him and the department around him was absurd: refined posture, immaculate coat, silver ribbon tied to perfection… all framed against walls made for tactical maps and combat readiness.

“Rosenroth,” Gregoris said, voice quiet and flat. “You should not be here.”

“Oh, I know,” Rafael replied pleasantly. “Everyone has looked at me like I wandered into a restricted dragon enclosure.”

“You did,” muttered a Shadow behind him.

Rafael ignored it.

Gregoris took a step forward, and Rafael felt the ether pressure shift. Shadows straightened unconsciously when Gregoris moved; Rafael did not.

He lifted the box slightly. “For you.”

Gregoris stared at it, then at Rafael, then back at the box again, as if calculating probabilities of poison, traps, and emotional manipulation. “What is it?”

“Cookies,” Rafael said.

Gregoris’s jaw tightened once, almost imperceptibly. His gaze swept the box with cool suspicion. “You baked.”

“Yes,” Rafael said, sounding pleased with himself. “I was inspired.”

Gregoris didn’t blink. “You do not bake.”

“I do now,” Rafael answered. “Consider it a new hobby.”

Gregoris took another step closer, close enough that Rafael could feel the heat radiating off him and the faint hum of tightly leashed ether. “What is in the box?”

Rafael tilted his head. “You’ll have to open it to see.”

A muscle in Gregoris’s cheek twitched. The other Shadows watched with mounting terror and fascination, like they were witnessing a man willingly command a tiger to sit.

Gregoris reached out and took the box from Rafael’s hands.

His fingers brushed Rafael’s hand.

Rafael did not move.

Gregoris looked down at the ribbon, then at Rafael again. “Why?”

Rafael smiled, polite and lethal. “To thank you for the lovely evening.”

Gregoris’s eyes narrowed a fraction, the slightest tell of interest or warning. “Is that so? But Rafael, I’ve told you, I dislike sweets.”

Rafael’s smile didn’t falter. “You dislike sweets you haven’t evaluated.”

A few Shadows exchanged glances, the silent kind that said ’dear gods, he’s provoking him on purpose.’

Gregoris shifted the box in his hand, thumb brushing over the ribbon with a slow, considerate motion. “You came all the way to my department,” he said, voice steady, “to offer me something you know I do not enjoy.”

“No,” Rafael corrected softly. “I came all the way to your department to offer you something you won’t refuse.”

Gregoris stilled.

The hallway felt suspended, as if even the lights were waiting for the next breath.

Rafael tilted his head, expression serene. “Aren’t you going to taste at least one?”

Gregoris studied him for a long, weighted moment. His gaze swept Rafael’s face, his posture, and the slight challenge in his stance. Something darkened in his eyes, something sharp, assessing, and vaguely amusing.

“You’re baiting me,” he said quietly.

Rafael’s lashes lowered in something like innocence. “I’m offering you a cookie.”

Gregoris gave a humorless huff, closer to a breath than a laugh. “You’re many things, Rosenroth, but subtle isn’t one of them.”

“That’s rich,” Rafael replied. “Coming from you.”

A murmur passed through the Shadows. No one dared move.

Gregoris lifted the top cookie between two fingers and held it up, the gesture slow enough to make the other shadows tremble His eyes never left Rafael’s.

“Fine,” he said. “If this is the game you want to play.”

Rafael’s breath caught briefly.

Gregoris brought the cookie to his mouth.

And bit.

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