Once all three pieces are cut, he hands one to me. I almost turn it down out of spite, but I’m too hungry to refuse food twice, so I pluck it from his fingers instead.
His black eyes skim over my hands. “Wouldn’t you rather take your gloves off to eat?”
I stiffen. “No. I’m cold.”
Rip watches me—theybothwatch me—and even though I’m hungry, my stomach begins to churn with unease.
He raises the slice to his mouth as I do, both of us taking a bite at the same time. Osrik, on the other hand, shoves the whole piece into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously, crumbs falling on his jerkin that he dusts off absently.
“Are you going to ignore and deflect all of my questions?” Rip asks after swallowing his bite.
Dipping the bread into my last inch of soup, I soak up as much of the broth as I can, mostly so I don’t have to soak in his gaze. “Why do you want to know if I dined with Midas?”
He rests an arm on the table, eyes unreadable. “I have my reasons.”
I finish the remaining bread, though I’m unable to enjoy the taste. “Right. And I’m sure those reasons are to find weaknesses, right? You’re probably trying to determine how important I am to him. What you can get in exchange for me.” I level him with a look. “Let me make this easy on you, Commander Rip. My king loves me.”
“Indeed. Loves you so much he keeps you in a cage,” he says with dark derision.
My temper flares, and I slam the bowl against the table as I set it down. “Iwantedto be in there!” I say with a snarl.
Rip leans forward in his seat, as if my anger draws him in, as if it’s his goal—to make me mad, to see me snap. “You want to know what I think?”
“No.”
He ignores me. “I think it’s a lie.”
My glare is so hot, I’m surprised my ears aren’t smoking. “Oh? That’s funny, coming from you.”
Finally,finally, Rip’s impassive demeanor cracks. His black eyes narrow on me.
“Since you seem to want to talk about lies, tell me, Commander, does your right-hand man here know what you are? Does your king know?” I challenge.
Both he and Osrik go utterly still.
I stare at Rip with vindication, celebrating the fact that I’ve turned this around, that I’ve puthimon the spot.
His spikes seem to flex—maybe in anger or threat, I don’t know.
Rip’s voice goes low. Coarse. Like jagged rocks along a shore. “If you’d like to talk aboutthat, then by all means,” he says, lifting a hand. “You first, Goldfinch.”
Shit.
My gaze darts to Osrik for a second, but the man is stony. I can’t get a read on the behemoth at all. No surprise there.
In my lap, my ribbons swivel from the adrenaline sweeping through me. There’s no possible way he can see them, and yet, Rip’s eyes fall to the edge of the table before lifting back to my face.
The soup sours in my stomach, acid crawling up the back of my throat.
“Keep a lie for a lie, or tell a truth for a truth. What’s it going to be, Auren?” he asks, voice like dark honey, wicked and tempting.
My breath breaks apart. Like it froze in my chest, a brittle, sharp thing with nowhere to go.
The truth… Such a complicated thing.
The problem with truths is that they’re like spices. Add a little, and it can enrich things, let you experience more layers. But if you pour out too much, it becomes unpalatable.
My truths seem to always ruin the meal.
