My stomach growls again.
Traitor organ.
No loyalty.
He moves around the counter to my left, close enough that I can watch his hands work without craning my neck.
Slicing cheese.
Tearing bread.
I shouldn't be watching his hands.
I'm watching his hands.
Long fingers. Precise movements. The thin silvery scars circling his wrists catch the light every time he reaches for something.
I wonder what made them.
I wonder what they feel like.
No.Notwondering that. Not going there.
He glances over—checking if I'm still upright, or still breathing, hard to say which concerns him more—and I'm caught. Those white eyes. No pupils. Just pale fire, holding mine for a beat too long.
I look at the ceiling. Very interesting ceiling. Lots of stone. Riveting stuff.
My face is warm. I blame the kitchen.
He sets a plate on the counter beside me. Bread torn into pieces, cheese cut thin, some kind of preserved fruit I don't recognize.
"Eat."
I reach for the bread.
His hand catches my wrist. Not hard, not painful—just there. Stopping me. His fingers wrap all the way around, and I can feel his pulse against my skin. Or maybe that's mine. Hard to tell when everything is suddenly too loud.
"I'll do it."
"I have hands."
"I know." He picks up a piece of bread and holds it toward my mouth. "Open."
His voice drops on that word.
Just slightly. Just enough.
My mouth goes dry.
This is insane.
This is absolutely insane.
A god is standing in a kitchen trying to hand-feed me and I should be running, should be fighting, should be doing literally anything other than opening my mouth—
I open my mouth.
The bread touches my tongue.
