"I wouldn't know anything about that." Her voice is steady, but her hands have resumed their work with just a little too much focus. "Will there be anything else?"
She's already stepping back as she says it. Creating distance.
I let her go. Because pushing won't help, and because I recognize that fear. Whatever happened to Abigail, the staff knows. And whatever they know, they're too afraid to talk about.
Which means I need to find answers somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn't have a pulse and can't be trained to keep secrets.
I'm studying a painting that might be a Monet—the brushwork is right but the color temperature seems warmer than his usual palette—when I become aware that my shadow count has changed.
Two guards behind me, same as all morning.
And one very tall, very silent presence that has materialized approximately three feet to my left.
I don't jump. I'm proud of that.
"Does appearing out of nowhere run in your family," I ask without turning around, keeping my eyes fixed on the painting like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen, "or is it a skill you had to practice?"
"You haven't eaten."
That's so far from what I expected him to say that I do turn then, startled out of my careful composure.
Devyn is in another one of his perfectly tailored suits, this one a deep charcoal that makes his eyes look almost amber in the light from the windows. Liquid gold with depths I can't read. His dark hair is pushed back from his face, and there's a tension in his jaw that suggests he's been awake for a while, dealing with things I'm not privy to, carrying weights I can't see.
He looks like a man with too much on his mind, and somehow that only makes him more unfairly attractive.
Which is honestly just rude.
Not my problem,I remind myself firmly.He's the one who kidnapped me. Proposed to me. Whatever this is.
"I'm not hungry," I say. "I'm investigating."
"You're eating."
He says it like the matter is already decided, like my input on the subject of my own stomach is an irrelevance he doesn't have time to consider. And then, without waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking, clearly expecting me to follow like a well-trained pet.
I don't follow.
For about three seconds.
Then he pauses, glances back over his shoulder, and raises one eyebrow in a way that manages to communicate both impatience and inevitability at the same time. A look that sayswe both know how this ends, so why are you making it difficult?
My feet start moving.
Traitors. My feet are absolute traitors, and I'm going to have a serious conversation with them later about loyalty and self-respect and not just doing whatever the intimidating mafia king wants.
"This is ridiculous," I inform him as I catch up, slightly breathless from the pace he's setting with his stupidly long legs. "You can't just decide when I eat. I'm not a child. I'm a grown woman with autonomy and—"
"You skipped breakfast."
"I wasn't hungry at breakfast, and that's not the point—"
"And dinner last night."
"I was tired, but you're not listening—"
"And lunch yesterday."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
