Chapter 230 | Do You Girls Want Massages?
Dexter shrugged. "So you don’t want to eat?"
"I didn’t say that either."
Dexter chuckled from the kitchen. He shook his head at the non-answer.
"Understood," he said. "I’ll set a plate down for you anyway."
He placed Mira’s bowl at her spot at the table. Then went to collect the tea.
By the time he returned, Mira’s food wasn’t at the dining table any longer she had taken it to the living room and was eating currently with her free arm.
Dexter said nothing.
He sat down at his own spot.
Lyra was already eating. Her spoon moved in a blur. The Grade Five meal disappeared from her bowl with speed.
Dexter blinked his eyes at the girl then at her chest and then shook his head with a small smile.
Selene emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp but her face clean. She’d swapped her sleeping gown for a simple white blouse and dark skirt, looking fresh and rested. The pink in her cheeks had faded to a natural healthy tone, slightly deeper than usual, Dexter noted.
She saw Dexter and lowered her head as she sat at the table. Found her bowl and picked up her spoon.
The three of them ate in silence and when Lyra asked for more, Dexter served her seconds without comment.
Selene ate slowly, tasting the food first and her eyes widened slightly as she spok.
"This is different," she said quietly.
Dexter looked at her. "It’s a new recipe."
Selene tilted her head.
"It’s really good," she said. "It feels... warm. Inside. Not temperature warm. Something else."
She took another spoonful.
"I’m glad you liked it." he said.
Then Dexter set his spoon down as he looked at Lyra, then at Selene.
"I want to ask you both something," he said.
Lyra’s spoon paused mid-air. Selene’s head tilted toward him.
"The massage technique I use on Mira is different." Dexter continued. "The 108 Body Massage Sutra. It stimulates healing at a cellular level. Increases nerve regeneration. Improves blood circulation. Accelerates the body’s natural recovery processes by alot."
He paused. Chose his words carefully.
"If I apply the same technique to both of you, your healing rates would increase significantly. Selene, your frost condition might stabilize faster. The countdown to your next crisis could be extended further. Lyra, your overall recovery would accelerate."
He looked at them.
"Do you want me to give you massages?"
The question landed on the table like a stone in still water.
Lyra’s spoon clattered against the rim of her bowl.
Her dark eyes went wide. Her cheeks flushed. The pink started at her neck and climbed upward with the relentless, unstoppable progression of a woman whose circulatory system had decided to publicly broadcast her emotional state.
She was shy.
Not the mild, social shyness that characterized her usual interactions. The deep, full-body, can’t-make-eye-contact shyness of a woman who had just been asked if she wanted a man’s hands on her body.
Her mouth opened and closed but no sound escaped. This was because her vocal cords were damaged and the telepathic connection was experiencing technical difficulties. The volume of simultaneous emotional signals was overwhelming her brain’s transmission capacity.
She sat in her chair, her spoon in her hand, her face the color of a ripe tomato, and stared at her bowl as though it contained the answers to every question ever asked by humanity.
Selene was different.
Her initial reaction was similar. A faint flush appeared on her pale cheeks. Her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon. Her head, which had been tilted toward Dexter, tilted further, angling downward in the particular, self-conscious dip of a woman who was processing an unexpected proposition.
But she recovered faster.
Her Echolocation pulsed once. Twice. Mapping the room. Confirming the distance between herself and Dexter. Establishing the spatial parameters of the request.
Then she nodded.
"If it might work," she said. Her voice was quiet. Careful. The voice of a woman who was weighing the practical benefits against the personal implications and arriving at a conclusion that prioritized healing over discomfort. "Then there is no harm in trying."
Dexter looked at her. She was still looking at the table. Her cheeks were still pink. But her posture had settled. Her breathing was steady. She had made a decision and was committing to it.
He turned to Lyra.
Lyra was still staring at her bowl. Her face was still crimson. Her spoon was still frozen in the air. The telepathic silence continued, suggesting that her brain was still running the emotional equivalent of a system reboot.
Dexter waited.
Five seconds passed.
Ten seconds.
Lyra’s spoon descended to the bowl. She set it down. Her hands moved to her lap, where they clasped together tightly. Her dark eyes, still wide, still carrying the particular, luminous intensity of a woman whose entire nervous system was processing a significant emotional event, lifted from the bowl and found Dexter’s face.
She nodded.
One small, barely perceptible dip of her chin.
The nod was accompanied by a telepathic transmission. A single word. Fragile. Trembling. Spoken with the cautious, tentative delivery of someone who was agreeing to something they wanted but were terrified of wanting.
"Okay."
Dexter smiled.
"Good," he said. His voice was warm. Gentle. Carefully calibrated to convey reassurance without pressure. "Whenever you are ready, come meet me. No rush. Anytime."
He paused.
"Lyra, you don’t have to be nervous. It’s a medical procedure. I’ve been doing it on Mira for two weeks. It’s completely professional."
The word "professional" was, in retrospect, possibly not the most reassuring word he could have chosen. Because Lyra’s face immediately went from pink to a shade of red that suggested her circulatory system had abandoned all pretense of normal function.
She stood up.
The motion was abrupt. Sudden. The particular, explosive evacuation of a chair that occurred when a woman’s fight-or-flight response had been triggered and the flight option had won by default.
She grabbed the Primordial Beast Egg from beside her bowl. Clutched it against her chest. Her dark eyes met Dexter’s for one brief, mortified second.
Then she fled.
Her bare feet slapped against the hallway floor. The bedroom door opened. Closed. The faint sound of her body landing on the mattress was followed by silence.
Dexter stared at the empty chair.
He looked at Selene.
Selene was still at the table. Her pale eyes were aimed at her empty bowl. Her expression was composed. Serene. The expression of a woman who had just watched her sister-wife flee the room in embarrassment and was choosing to process the moment with dignity.
Then, very faintly, the corner of her lip twitched.
It was not a smile. It was not a smirk. It was the particular, barely perceptible micro-expression that appeared on Selene’s face when she found something amusing but was too refined to acknowledge it openly.
Dexter caught it.
He caught it because he had spent three weeks studying her face. Learning the topography of her expressions. Mapping the subtle, almost invisible movements that constituted her emotional vocabulary.
She was amused.
’She’s laughing at Lyra. Internally. Without moving a single facial muscle.’
’And probably at me too.’
Dexter shook his head.
"I’ll be in my room when you’re ready," he said to Selene. "Take your time."
Selene nodded slowly.
Dexter collected the dishes and carried them to the kitchen. He washed them in silence. The water ran. The soap foamed. The sponge moved in circles.
He thought about what he had just done.
He had offered to massage two women who were not Mira. The same offer that, twenty-four hours ago, had triggered a spike of jealousy so intense that the temperature in the room had visibly increased.
Mira was at the window.
She had heard.
Mira continued eating.
She said nothing but the silence was louder than any comment could have been.
Dexter dried the dishes. Placed them on the rack. Turned off the kitchen light.
He walked past Mira on his way to the hallway.
"Ready for your massage in an hour," he said.
It was not a question. It was a schedule. Delivered with the calm, matter-of-fact authority of a man who was not going to ask permission because asking permission would open the door to refusal, and refusal was not on the agenda today.
Mira’s Spectral Arms folded behind her back.
Tighter than usual.
"I didn’t say I wanted one," she said.
Dexter stopped walking.
He turned. Her rigid posture, folded Spectral Arms and crimson eyes fixed on the window with a determined gaze suggested she was desperately trying to focus on something other than him.
"You didn’t say you didn’t want one either," he replied.
Mira’s jaw tightened.
"I’ll be in your room in an hour," Dexter said. "If you’re not there, I’ll come find you."
He turned and walked down the hallway.
Behind him, the temperature in the living room increased by two degrees.
Dexter smiled.
’I’m going to pay for that later.’
’But it was worth it.’