"And if I prove it?" I hear myself ask. "What then?"
His golden eyes hold mine. "Then we'll discuss what happens next."
It's not an answer. It's barely even a promise.
But it's more than I had five minutes ago.
"Okay," I say. "Three days."
A knock at the door keeps him from answering, and a woman carrying a tray enters the room. The smell of fresh bread and coffee hits me, and my stomach makes another undignified noise.
I close my eyes. "Please ignore that."
"I don't think I can," Devyn says. "It was quite emphatic."
My eyes fly open.
Was that—did he just—
His face gives nothing away. Absolutely nothing. But there's something in his eyes. The faintest glimmer of—
He's teasing me.
The mafia king isteasing meabout my stomach growling.
I don't know what to do with that information.
"Eat," he says, gesturing to the tray the woman has set on a side table. "Then we'll begin."
"Begin what?"
"Your three days." He moves toward the door. "I'll have Mrs. Lyme bring you appropriate clothes. You'll join me for dinner tonight, and we'll see if you can convince the household you're not a threat."
"And if I can't?"
He pauses at the threshold. Looks back at me over his shoulder.
"Then dinner will be very awkward."
And he's gone.
I stand there, staring at the closed door, trying to process what just happened.
The mafia king made a joke.
Two jokes, actually.
His face didn't even change when he said them. Just that perfectly neutral expression, those golden eyes giving nothing away, and then—deadpan humor, delivered so dryly I almost missed it.
Then dinner will be very awkward.
I press my hands to my cheeks. They're warm. Too warm.
What is wrong with you, Bailey?
My stomach growls again, and I give up trying to understand my own reactions. Food first. Existential crisis about finding a fictional mafia king's dry humor attractive later.
The tray holds fresh bread, still warm. Butter. A pot of strawberry jam. Coffee, strong and dark. A small dish of mixed berries.
