Trapping Sophia (Disciples 6)

Just the thought of Sophia doing anything with another man has my blood boiling. Nah, she’s not allowed to get through her grief like that.

Not unless it’s with me.

“Sophia, what do you want for dinner?” I ask quietly.

No response.

Getting closer to her, I kneel down and ask. “Sophia what would you like to eat? Are you hungry?”

Mitzy begins to fidget in my arms, squirming and twisting to be let down.

“Sophia, how’s Fluffers with dogs?” I ask as I carefully set down my little baby.

Still no response.

Mitzy doesn’t seem to care about the cat sitting on Sophia’s lap. She hops onto the chair and moves right up to the pair. Sniffing around them both, she gives Fluffers a firm stare down before plopping down beside them on the lifted leg part.

“Umm…” I say with a deep sense of instant loss. “Did you just steal my fucking girl?”

Neither Mitzy or Sophia answer, and I’m not sure who I was talking to anyways.

Fucking hell.

Shaking my head, I stand up and say, “I’m going to see what’s in the kitchen and find us something to eat.”

Walking past the couch, I catch sight of one those huge throw quilts folded up on the couch and grab it. Turning back to the chair, I settle it over the three of them as best as I can before heading to kitchen.

What the hell am I going to do?

Big thick couches are not for the faint of heart. Especially the one I slept on last night in the living room. It has so much cushion, I sank somewhere deep into the bottom and have to crawl my ass back out.

I’ve slept in some of the worst conditions in the world. From hanging in a tree to balancing on the sprawling ledge of a mountain.

That shit last night sucked twice as much.

My back hurts, my neck has a crick, and my dog fucking slept next to Sophia all night.

My fucking dog.

“Fucking hell, if I never sleep on another expensive-ass couch again in my life, I’ll die happy,” I groan as I roll over to my side and then continue to roll onto the floor.

I should have taken the floor last night, but after everything I tried to make or get Sophia to eat, I was worn out. Fluffers ate, of course, because she’s a chunk. Mitzy did as well.

But not Sophia.

She fell asleep late last night, and I know she got up to go to the bathroom, but that’s it.

What does she plan on doing? Withering away and dying?

All of this shit is beyond me.

Standing up from the floor, I stretch around for a couple of minutes, trying to loosen all my tight muscles. If Lucifer called me right now for a job, I’d have to call in a sick day. Make one of the other guys handle the sniping rifle.

“Fuck it, time for a Cajun pick-me-up,” I say to Sophia. “Ever had Cajun?”

She doesn’t respond. Not that I expected her to...

I’ve been talking to her though, regardless of a response. I’ve talked to her like I talk to Mitzy when I’m at home. Just because she doesn’t say something back doesn’t mean she isn’t listening.

And it’s been almost therapeutic in a way.

I talk and she listens. I’ve kept my ramblings to mostly mundane things, but I’ve slipped some stuff in there to see if she responds. The word Trent created a modest amount of annoyance on her face.

Which, if I’m being honest, I loved.

Walking into the kitchen, I get started. While I’m working on caramelizing the onions and peppers, I think about what I’m making her.

It’s my spin on a dish my mother loved to make on shitty mornings. Onions, garlic, bell peppers, cayenne, and jalapeño peppers. Add it all to some eggs and scoop it onto to some French bread, and you’ve got a meal that tastes so good, you’d hit your mother in the mouth if she took the plate away too soon.

It’s hot and spicy, and with a steaming hot cup of coffee it’s just about perfect.

Placing the bake in the oven for about forty minutes, I breathe in the spices flowing through the kitchen. Not too bad. My kitchen is set up much better than this one, but I can make do with just about anything really.

The new secure phone in my pocket vibrates.

Pulling it out and pushing connect, I ask, “What’s up?”

Uriel’s deep voice comes through. “I’m outside, sir,”

“Be right there,” I say with a grumble.

Heading past the living room, I look in on the trio of recliner potatoes.

“Uriel’s here, dropping off some work stuff,” I say before moving on to the front door.

Once I open the front door, I’m greeted by a man almost as big as Gabriel. He’s not as bulky or as prison huge as Gabriel, but he’s got the build of a former Army Ranger.