“McDonalds?” she sneers. “What are you, five? Did you get yourself a happy meal?”
I bought you your first ever happy meal. I still remember how she gazed up at me with stars in her eyes. She was fucking thrilled when she pulled a plastic dinosaur out of the crinkled paper bag.
“Nope, but I am a growing boy, so I got alotof food.” As in, I don’t know her preferences, so I may or may not have ordered the entire menu.
“If I untie you, are you going to come at me with another makeshift weapon?” I ask her.
She considers this for a beat. “Probably.”
“Sounds like fun.” I set the three overflowing bags on a desk and take a seat by her on the bed. A few quick tugs later, and her hands are free. There are angry red marks around her wrists—looks like shedidtry to escape in my absence.
Transporting her isn’t going to be fun. It’s safest to sedate her, but I find I don’t like the idea of her unconscious. I far prefer it when she tries to tear my head off my shoulders.
I’m not sure what that says about me, and frankly, I don’t much care.
She sits up slowly, reaching down to scratch her thigh. “Any chance you have a spare set of clothes in your mystery duffle bag? I’m cold.”
“I can tell.” I leer at her breasts—nipples hard enough to poke through the fabric of her bra—and she snarls.
“You can have a sweater,” I decide, retrieving one from my duffle.
“How magnanimous.”
“Considering you’ve racked up three attempts on my life in less than a day, it certainly is.” I carelessly toss the fabric of a black athletic sweater at her; she catches it one-handedly and pulls it on.Quick reflexes, I note.
“Any preferences?” I ask.
“I’d shoot you in the head for some fries.”
“You’d shoot me in the head anyways.”
“True, but I’d be much more satisfied if it gets me fries.” She stares hungrily at the bag.
I suppress a smile. She’s fucking adorable when she wants to kill me.
I open one of the bags, rummage around in it, and walk across the room to hand it to her. She eyes it for a moment as if it’s a nuclear bomb and not a bag filled with food.
“Shake it,” she demands.
I arch an eyebrow. “Are you expecting it to blow up?”
“One can never be too safe in our line of work.”
“Fair enough.” I give the bag a few shakes; when it doesn’t explode, she grabs it from my hand and reaches in, stuffing a handful of fries into her mouth at once.
When was the last time she ate?I don’t think she had anything at the casino; she wasn’t drinking and wasn’t eating. So, it’s been at least twenty-four hours.
Longer, if Dagon has a habit of starving her, which wouldn’t surprise me. Guilt pangs at my stomach, but it’s quickly followed by annoyance.
I have to remind myself that this is notmyEmber. This is not the girl who cried when I left for college, hugged me like I was her favorite human, and taught me how to read. This girl—woman—is an assassin who has probably killed dozens of men like me, if not more.
This is a girl who doesn’t remember me. Who probably doesn’t remember herself.
I take a seat at the rickety desk, open a different bag, and devour three burgers in under five minutes.
Ember watches me with raised eyebrows. “Wow. I’ve met dogs less food-obsessed and messy than you.”
She’s still working through a ten-piece chicken nugget box and fries.
