Good Roasts That Rhyme Novels & Stories

he asked. Uncle Steve pointed at me and spat, "That bastard embezzled Mr. Langdon's money that he was supposed to use to purchase premium seafood. Now, he's trying to pin the blame on me. I want you to beat him to a pulp!" Jordan didn't say another word as he lifted the bat and attempted to smash it against my head. I quickly dodged out of the way. The bat smashed against the plates on the table instead with a deafening bang, sending the sardines and crayfish rocketing in all directions.

Footsteps approached him and a second person leaned down to him. "And what they say, Mr. Sanchez?" Asked them cold. Azrael shuddered again. He didn't want to hear that voice anymore, he just couldn't stand it anymore. “Looks like a braised roll roast,” was the expert comment. So a roll roast. A roll roast . A shitty roll roast. With that, he had secured a ticket for one of the top three on Azrael's imaginary list of those he would kill particularly cruelly. "Very funny," came the icy from her , while only a giggle could be heard from the other direction.

Arthur lifted his glass and took a sip, prompting the others to do the same; Rori closed her eyes and allowed the cool alcohol to glide down her throat before placing the glass back down. The main course consisted of a large steak and greens with cauliflower rice and bresuto wrapped asparagus. Out of habit Rori instantly cut up her steak and asparagus, her cuts were precise and silent just the way she had been taught by her madam; Rori had hated that old nun, but now silently thanked her for the lessons. An ear splitting screech snapped Rori out of her thoughts again and she glanced toward the sound to see Mrudok’s large frame struggling with the dainty silverware he held as Mason and Krist

he declared confidently, a glint of competitiveness in his eyes. Not to be outdone, I carefully seasoned my steak with a bold mixture of garlic, pepper, and a hint of smoky paprika. "Oh, it's on," I replied with a playful smirk, ready to give Max a run for his money. As the steaks hit the grill, the sizzle intensified, filling the air with an enticing aroma. We watched them cook, flipping them with precision and care. The flames licked at the meat, creating tantalizing grill marks.

“Only the best.” After such an emotionally charged day, the meal felt lighter than I’d anticipated. The smell of roasted chicken and bread lingered as we ate, laughter weaving through the space. Roman sat across from me, a sly grin playing on his lips as he teased me about how I “barely touched my plate.” “You call that eating, Ruby?” he asked, arching a brow. “I call it pacing myself,” I shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Right… pacing yourself. Seems like you’re just trying to keep that perfect figure,” he said, his tone dripping with playfulness.

The pièce de resistance was a grand roast, its skin crispy and golden, the meat tender and succulent, surrounded by an assortment of roasted vegetables. The bread is accompanied by a small dish of creamy, salted butter, and a selection of flavourful olive oils, some infused with herbs and garlic. “Are they too your liking?” I ask her. “Yes, your majesty.” She answers. “Since when did you care too much about the dishes, Ozar?” Camille asks and Asher begins to chuckle. “I have always cared about the dishes.” I state. “No, you haven’t.” Camille argues.

She’s smiling in that soft, surprised way she does when someone catches her off guard, and Ryker, usually all sharp edges and silence, actually laughs. The feast begins. Long tables groan under the weight of delicacies: roasted pheasant glazed with honey and herbs, platters of fresh river trout sprinkled with crushed emerald salt, baskets overflowing with berries kissed by cream. Goblets clink as toasts rise in waves. Kael leans close to me, his breath warm against my ear. “You shine brighter than all the jewels tonight,” he murmurs. I press a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the royal robes.

I scowl at it. If Ragnar thinks I'm going to play his game, then he's grossly mistaken. I make way for the bathroom, but my hand brushes over the shelf, knocking a book down. I'm about to pick it up and toss it back in the shelf when I stop, looking at the open page. An image of a hooded man, dressed in a black coat, swinging a scythe in one hand stares back at me. "The tale of the three wolf packs..." I whisper, reading the caption underneath.

Last stop, the dining room, ripped from a gothic fever dream. People wear powdered wigs and discuss bloodlines over roasted swans in a place like this. It's massive, like everything else in this mansion, but there's only one table in the center. Long, black, polished enough that I can see my own distorted reflection on the surface. Dinner's already laid out. Roast beef, pink in the center. Piles of honeyed carrots, potatoes so crisp they steam at the edges. A boat of gravy, actual gravy, thick and dark and shimmering. I haven't smelled anything this good in years. Maybe ever.

I repeated. “It doesn’t rhyme with any of that shit. It does however rhyme with works and hey - hoes.” Bridge said then. “Those are not real words…” Proctor shot out. “Y’all are insane. All of you.” Layla said. But my girl had done it. “Turks and Caicos??!” I yelled. “Yeah!!!” They all yelled .. relieved that the rhyming was over. “And you wanna hear the best part?” Frankie asked me. “That wasn’t it?” I asked.