He just stares at me, unmoving.
I narrow my eyes. “Stay.” I add focused compulsion—stronger than I bothered with the couple. Will it even work on him? Sabra learned to shield herself against me after we practiced. And Grandfather Vlad is the only other person it’s completely useless against.
But my uncles—all dozen of them—can’t resist. So it should work on tree-man.
I hurry inside the small two-room cabin and grab what I need. I also swipe a plate of still-steaming stew off the table while I’m at it. Good timing. We got here just in time for dinner.
When I return outside, my heart actually stutters.
Tree-man has made it halfway across the yard, dragging himself in the most pathetically slow army-crawl I’ve ever seen.
“I told you not to move,” I say loudly.
He collapses to the ground immediately, giving up his pathetic escape attempt.
I walk over to the water pump and drop the soap, towel, and blanket I grabbed from inside. Then I close the distance to where the man sprawled in the grass, plate of food in my hand.
“You do realize I’m trying to help you,” I say, crouching down to roll him over onto his back.
He winces when he lands. I wonder if he’s injured somewhere hidden beneath all those layers of mud.
First things first.
“Come on. Let’s get some food into you.”
His eyes fall on the stew, and even though most of his face is still covered in filth, I can see the hunger there. Raw. Desperate. It hits me like a punch to the chest.
But almost as soon as he looks at it, he stubbornly turns his face away.
“What? Don’t like stew?” I sit down in the bed of mulched leaves, the last rays of sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. I lift his head and prop it in my lap. “I can literally hear how hungry you are.”
“Come on,” I say, gentling my voice. “You’re going to take some sips for me.”
I lift the spoon to his lips. They stay stubbornly closed.
“Open your mouth.” I pour all the compulsion I can manage into the command.
Still, he keeps his lips sealed tight.
Frustration explodes through me. “What’s wrong with you! Do you want to die?”
His eyes flash up to meet mine.
He nods once.
Something cold settles in my chest. Something that feels dangerously close to recognition.
I grit my teeth and glare down at him. “Well, too bad, buddy. You ran into me on the wrong day. I’m not leaving until you eat this goddamned stew, and I don’t care if I have to force it down your throat. I’m your fucking angel of mercy whether you like it or not, and you’re going to let me help you.”
A sound comes from his throat—raspy, unexpected.
It takes me a moment to realize he’s laughing.
“Angel?” His voice cracks on the word. Those gray eyes lift toward me with a look I can’t quite decipher. Probably because his face is still covered in god-knows-what. But there’s something in that gaze. Something that feels like... wonder?
“That’s right,” I say firmly. “I’m your motherfucking angel today.”
I grab his jaw, tug it open, and shove a spoonful of stew into his mouth.
