“Don’t be late again.” The words were out of his lips before he could stop them, driven by a growling stomach and a bearish morning temperament. He’d meant to say please. Had he said please? He didn’t think so.
Her eyes were narrow with sleep. They widened momentarily, white visible all around her irises. She dipped a curtsy, bobbing her head down, and approached quickly into the flickering red hearthlight.
“I am sorry,” Ayla said. The words came out a croak; she cleared her throat, curtsied again, and slipped into the chair opposite him. Her gaze didn’t touch his, and he found himself staring at the top of her head, where her dark hair parted in a pale line.
She was breathing fast. Shallowly. With fear. Shit. He’d known she was easily frightened; it was why he’d decided in the first place that the poisoning could not possibly be of her doing, despite him suspecting she was far cleverer than she let on.Because people that scared still had something they didn’t want to lose.
It was when they’d lost it all that they became dangerous. He knew. He’d lived it. It was being pushed to the edge, again and again, that had set Niel’s heart on a war of revenge. First by his brother, then by Hannes of Ashbrin, Niel’s former knight-master. Then by the Queen, who refused to do anything about it when she learned what Hannes had done.
Enar could burn, as far as Niel was concerned.
“S’fine,” he made himself say. It came out as another growl. Ayla nodded but didn’t look up at him.
He knew he was being a bear, but he was too tired to apologize. The fact that he knew heoughtto only made him feel more annoyed. He didn’t want to have to sayanywords, when it was still dark out and he hadn’t even had a bite to eat or a sip of his tea. He’d managed to talk to the kitchen only because talking to the kitchen was necessary for acquiring food. He’d thought he might get away without saying anything else until the sun was up.
“Well? Eat,” Niel growled. His own stomach chose that moment to make an uncouth rumble.
She dipped her spoon into the porridge and took a bite so small it wouldn’t have satisfied a mouse. He wasn’t sure if the color on her nose and cheeks was cosmetic, or from the cold. The bit of sleep in the corner of one eye made him suspect she hadn’t spent any time getting ready at all, apart from the clothes and combing her hair. What had she beendoing, while he sat there watching the food go cold? Just laying abed until the last possible moment? Perhaps trying to annoy him. Maybe sloth was her new tactic to frustrate him, now that she could no longer play a fool.
No. She was terrified. And he was just in a bad mood. He gripped the arms of his chair and drew a deep, steadying breaththrough his nose. He wasn't just agitated, he was… strangely off balance.
Ayla slowly dug out another spoonful and wrapped her lips around it, gray eyes vacant. He stared at her mouth, his stomach’s emptiness the only thing keeping his mind from delving into another form of hunger altogether.
He couldn’t wait any longer. If she were willing to eat the porridge, nobody had told her to avoid it. He grabbed his spoon and dug in. The top layer was cold, but it was still faintly warm beneath, and sweet with milk and honey. He was halfway through his bowl before he realized the lady was sitting stiffly upright in her chair, eyes closed and spoon resting beside the near-untouched bowl, clutching her mug of tea in both hands. She looked like a soldier nodding off at attention after a forced march.
“Why’d you stop?” he asked, pausing with his spoon halfway to his mouth. It occurred to him that if an attacker had used a mild poison, one that took a whole bowlful to kill, Ayla taking a prim bite and stopping while he plowed ahead would be a perfect strategy. Well, too late now. It was either death by porridge or a near escape.
“Oh! Forgive me,” she whispered. She set down the mug too fast, tea sloshing, and gripped her spoon in a hand that trembled. Bowing her head, Ayla dug the spoon into the bowl and forced a bite into her mouth.
She looked terrified. Either it was poisoned, and she was scared to eat it. Or she was scared of him.
That seemed the likelier option. He sighed, and grit his teeth for a moment as he watched her dig the spoon back into the bowl, her face grim and her hand still shaking.
“You’re my hostage. Not my guest.”
“Yes. I know.” Her voice warbled.
“You think I’m being cruel. Yet….”
“I did not say that, my lord.” Her voice was soft, almost soothing, like she was trying to calm him.
She didn’t understand what he was trying to say. He sighed and set down his spoon. He was going about it backwards, as usual.
“Do you know what rights a hostage has by law, Lady Blackfell?”
“I cannot say I do.” She slowly lifted another spoonful of porridge out of the bowl as if dreading it.
Niel reached forward across the table and touched her covered wrist lightly with his fingertips, stopping her from taking a bite. She went instantly still, not reacting, not even lowering her hand. He drew his own back. There was the strangest discomfort in his chest.
“None, that’s what, except to be ransomed and kept alive. But I let you go freely between the rooms of this castle. You speak to who you wish, and saywhatyou wish, anddoas you like with your time. Yet I would be well in my rights to chain you to a wall and feed you gruel if I wanted.”
Her gray eyes were on him for one startled second. He could see the swell of her chest as she drew a sharp breath of air. She still hadn’t lowered or raised the spoon. A glob of porridge slowly shifted towards the edge. He watched it grow heavy and plop back into the bowl.
“I did not mean to offend,” she whispered. Her hand still had not moved.
Mercy, but he was bad at this.
“No, I… Fuck it. That wasn't a threat,” he muttered sharply. Niel set his elbows on the table and cradled his head for a moment, cursing his leaden morning tongue with a groan. “Mercy; ImeantI’m not that sort of man. I meant you don’t need to, to… dammit.”
