Will I be tortured like that man if I sneak some food for myself?
The question lingers, but I don’t act on it.
All I do is swallow back the bile.
The fae on the other side of the pool find their sleep. Glass is curled up, facing the steam, but Shark and Rainforest are on their backs, fists loose around the handles of daggers.
My hand finds my belly.
I hold, firm, as if I can silence the faint snarling of my acidic hunger. It’s quiet, too quiet for another human to hear, but thehearing of the fae is a lot fucking sharper, and my grumbling stomach is as loud as a foghorn to them.
But I can’t stop the faint burp from bubbling up my throat. My face twists against the singe and I turn my cheek to my knees.
And my chest constricts.
Cold eyes, the hue of iceberg lettuce, are aimed down at me. There’s a faint frown etched into the marble grooves of his brow, a deep consideration.
Then, slowly, he reaches for the boulder on his right, just above the pile of my things, and he pinches the edge of the bowl.
My lashes flutter, a bolt of hope spearing through me.
I unravel myself, sitting upright.
The warrior’s movements are slow, unsure, and his eyes don’t leave mine as he brings the bowl around.
He offers it to me.
My mouth floods as I look down at the leftovers.
It isn’t much, but it’s a good few spoonfuls, and that’s more than what I have in my stomach now.
My gaze is cautious as I drag it up to his.
There’s care in the way I take the bowl, a gentle touch, polite and grateful, but once I have it, and I face the threat of him taking it away, changing his mind, I scarf it down.
It’s not much.
But it’s enough to ease the sickly hunger in me.
I pick out every last spec, until the bowl looks clean, and it’s a battle against my own urges to lick the fucking sides.
I’m contemplating it, licking the bowl, when his hand reaches out for the left pile—and he starts to pack it all back into my bag.
I slide the bowl aside, then just watch his orderly, systematic packing method.
He layers everything.
Clothes first, the socks, the spare underwear set that’s rolled up, a t-shirt I haven’t worn in over a month, and honestly I forgot it was still in there. Then he adds in the soda cans, pads them with a scarf, then the chocolate bars—and I realise he has a similar packing method to my own.
Clothing pads the noise.
I’m not grateful.
It’s for his own benefit, the benefit of this unit, not for mine. This guy doesn’t give a shit about me, my life, my survival. He can force powder down my throat, feed me his scraps, and I won’t waver in what I know.
I’m just a promise he made.
And I don’t trust his word.
