This time, he’s got a smaller piece of meat.
He offers it to me, a lazy extension of his hand.
It’s not enough.
Not nearly enough.
My stomach tells him that with a deep gurgle.
But I say nothing.
Can’t risk him taking it away from me.
Lethargy weighs me down as I reach for it.
The rope is back on my wrist… but just one wrist. The first time I woke, my wrists were bound by the tether, but now one is free.
It lures a frown to my sleepy face, probably puffy and marked by the pressure of the foliage I’ve been sleeping on for however long.
I reach out that one bound wrist, and the tether dangles, tickling the tip of my nose, as I grasp the strip of meat.
The cold fae watches me as I stuff it into my mouth—and swallow.
No chewing, no tasting, just devouring scraps where I can get them.
I get more.
The winter fae scoops his ungloved fingers into the bowl and lures out strings of thick noodles. The length rises and rises, until the tips drag over the edge of the wooden bowl and dangle closer to me.
Now I know what the play-doh smell is. Some sweets have that smell, too, some fresh breads and wraps and bao buns. And noodles.
I try to push up, at least my upper body, but my muscles only clench for a fleeting moment before I’m melting back into the frozen soil and my lashes are lowering.
The warrior knows it.
Knows I can’t bring myself to sit up and eat.
Whatever that powder is that he forced down my throat, it has me weaker and fading on the foliage.
He brings the dangling noodles to my mouth.
Distantly, I wonder where they got them.
Do the dark armies gather preserved supplies along the way and feed off the scraps of our world?
The thought is quick to drift from my mind, the very moment that the soft noodles touch my bottom lip. He lowers them intomy mouth, then releases them. I turn my cheek to the soil so they don’t catch at the back of my throat and choke me.
This fae might be feeding me, but I’m still not wholly convinced of the lengths he’ll go to keep me alive.
On my side, gaze returning to the boots and mossy log, I chew, and chew, and chew. It’s a slow, tired process, and with every heartbeat that passes, my lashes are lowering more and more.
That wretched sleep is not done with me.
It comes with screams. Nightmares. Memories.
I don’t want to go back.
But I don’t have a choice.
