My eyes flash with irritation. The last thing I ate was the slop for breakfast.Of courseI’m hungry. But I’m not about to admit it, and it’s definitely not the reason why I’m pissed. Children shouldn’t be used.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“No?” Rip replies mockingly. “Shame.”
He reaches for the tray and begins doling out three portions of dinner. I can smell rich, hearty soup, see curls of steam wicking up from each bowl. A large loaf of bread sits off to the side, with three iron cups that Ireallyhope are filled with wine.
I could really use some damn wine.
Together, he and Osrik begin to eat, tin spoons dragging, the sound scraping against my nerves. I watch in agonized silence, and even though I try not to, my eyes follow every dip of his spoon, every bob of Rip’s throat.
Stupid. Why did I have to go and open my stupid mouth? I should’ve only opened it to shove food in.
“So, the cage is true then.”
My gaze snaps up from where I was watching his mouth, a sheen of broth covering his plush lips.
“Makes me wonder what’s in it for you.” Rip speaks conversationally, though his intense attention belies the easygoing tone.
My hunger tangles with my nerves,and knots together with my growing anger. The ribbons in my hand wind around my fingers, squeezing. “You don’t need to wonder anything about me,” I reply hotly.
“I disagree.”
Every time one of them lifts the spoons to their mouths and drinks down more soup, I seethe. When Osrik tips the whole bowl back and gulps it down, my anger snaps. “It kept me safe.That’swhat was in it for me.”
Rip angles his head. “Safe from whom?”
“Everyone.”
Silence breeches the wall between us, slipping between the cracks. I don’t understand this game he’s playing. I don’t know the ramifications of my responses.
Rip reaches for the third bowl and begins to slowly push it toward me, iron scraping over rough wood in a loaded path. My mouth waters.
When it stops directly in front of me, my eyes flick up to him.
“Eat, Auren.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that an order, Commander?”
Instead of rising to the bait of my taunt, he slowly shakes his head and lifts up his soup, dark eyes watching me over the rim of the bowl. “I think you’ve had enough orders, Goldfinch,” he murmurs with a silken tone that makes me fidget in my seat.
His reply causes my eyes to lower with a weight I don’t know how to measure. I don’t know why his answer bothers me so much, but it does.
How is it that this male can strip me down to my thinnest layers, no matter how thick I try to build my walls?
I haven’t forgotten who I’m dealing with. He’s arguably the most cunning strategist in the world, which is probably why I always feel so off-center when I’m around him. He never behaves the way I expect him to.
But I bet that’s calculated too.
To make myself busy, I lift the bowl to my lips and take a long gulp, bypassing the spoon completely. The salty broth hits my tastebuds, the hot liquid a balm to my timidity.
“Did you often dine with Midas?”
I lower the bowl from my lips so I can look across the table at him.
Another question. A seemingly innocent one. One poised aboutmebut having everything to do with my king.
When I don’t reply, Commander Rip drags the loaf of bread in front of him and lifts the knife from the tray. With meticulous precision, he begins to cut three even portions, the scent of rosemary immediately wafting out as the blade scrapes against the crust.
