“I am attending lunch with my brothers. No one else will be there,” he says.
“Okay,” I sniff pathetically.
I don’t think he is trying to reassure me, but I’m beginning to think acting all pathetic might be a good tactic anyway. It probably won’t make him be nice to me, but it could lull everyone into a false sense of security.Get them to put their guard down. Then I might be able to escape. And it won’t even be much of an act. I am genuinely feeling quite pathetic.
The prince starts walking again. Two people, who I can only assume are servants, fling open a huge pair of double doors. We step into yet another ridiculously fancy room. This one has an enormous round table in the middle. My abductor takes a seat, and to my surprise, I’m seated next to him, and not on the floor. Well, that’s a relief.
He keeps the chain of my leash wrapped around his wrist, but at least this leather collar around my neck is not too tight. It is actually fairly comfortable.
Oh shit. Did I really just think that? What is wrong with me? Surely it is far too soon to be getting Stockholm Syndrome?
A door at the other end of the room opens, but I’m far too nervous to look up. Maybe if I sit here and stare down at my empty plate, no one will notice me. Actually, in hindsight, I think I would prefer to sit on the floor. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that. It would be extremely humiliating, but probably safer than sitting here in full view of all these predators. Because fey are definitely predators. I can feel the truth of that with every part of me. It’s like being in a room full of wild panthers. Every instinct I was born with is screaming at me to freeze like the little defenceless mouse that I am.
I hear the sounds of chairs moving, and the gentle hum of conversation as people take their seats. I’m not daring to move a muscle in case the slightest movement triggers their prey drive.
The delicious smell of roasted meat floods the room, accompanied by soft footsteps. Servants are bringing in lunch, is my guess. I’m not going to look up to check.
My stomach rumbles loudly. Traitor. Can’t believe my appetite doesn’t give a shit about my emotional distress and the very real threat to my safety. But I guess keeping my strength up is a good idea. Fainting from hunger in the midst of running away would be terrible.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the prince pile his plate high with different looking meats. Not a vegetable or salad in sight. Somehow I’m not surprised. I wonder if all the Keto diet enthusiasts in the world are pleased that our new overlords follow their diet?
My plate remains empty. I bite my bottom lip. Oh, my god. What if he means to starve me to death? Just as full-blown panic sets in, he slides a chunk of meat off his silver fork and onto my plate. I’m so glad I don’t have to eat from his fingers.
I don’t have any cutlery. Maybe they think I might try to stab someone with it, but I’m not that stupid.
I give the prince a tentative, sideways glance and he nods at me. So I pick up the meat with my fingers and shove it into my mouth before he changes his mind. Delicious flavour explodes over my tongue. I think it’s chicken. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, please let it be chicken and not the royal family.
Too late now, I’ve already devoured it. Belatedly, I remember tales about the danger of accepting food from the fey. But in those tales, the hapless human wanders into the fey realm. I’m very much still in the human realm and it is the fey who are strangers here. Hopefully that means the same rules do not apply.
For fuck’s sake. Why did I not think of any of this before wolfing down the very first thing I was offered? It is only lunch time for heaven’s sake. I’m not exactly wasting away. Even though I ran out of time to have breakfast. Wow. Was that really only this morning?
Forgoing porridge and running out of my flat seems like entire lifetimes ago now. And now I’m hysterically rambling, in my own mind, and thinking I may just have eaten an enchanted piece of King Charles and now can never leave Buckingham Palace.
The prince drops another chunk of meat onto my plate, and I recoil in horror.
“It is only chicken,” he says in a tone of wry amusement.
Embarrassment and relief fight within me, and honestly, I don’t think either one is going to win. I try to ignore my surging emotions and concentrate on eating instead. This truly is the best chicken I have ever eaten. I almost don’t care that it might be ensorcelled.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I calm down. Lunch continues and conversation washes over me. The prince occasionally dumps food on my plate. Everyone else ignores me. My ears start to hurt. I guess that means my adrenaline is wearing off.
I begin risking quick peeks at the other fey seated at the table. There are five of them. Are they all his brothers? Apart from the antlers, I can’t see any resemblance. Other than they are all extremely good looking in an eerie and terrifying way.
They all have their hair coiling in complicated braids that weave around the base of their antlers, but leave most of their hair to fall long and free to their waists. All apart from the black-haired fey. He doesn’t have any braids at all.
Everyone’s hair colour is different. A vibrant variety of shades. White, gold, red, black, brown and lilac. Do they dye it? Is it natural genetic variation? Are they adopted? So very many questions. And not only about hair colour.
“Are you going to introduce your new pet to us?” someone drawls sweetly.
I freeze. Every muscle locks into place. Oh fuck.
“Why? It’s just a pet,” shrugs the prince. Though I guess if these are his brothers, everyone here is a prince. I’m going to have to start thinking of him by his name.
“What did you do to him to get him to behave so nicely?”
The prince, my prince. No, that sounds all kinds of wrong.Rhydianshrugs.
“Nothing. He is naturally meek.”
