He laughs and looks over at me, a curious glint in his hazel eyes as he cracks orange eggs into a bowl. “I know who you are, little blade slave,” he declares with an amused smile.
I’m taken aback by his use of the title from the ludere and the overly friendly nature in which he speaks it. It throws me just like the long journey comment. I study him closely, questioning if there’s more going on here that I don’t understand or if I’m reading too much into it. I have a leery, overly cautious habit of thinking there’s a hidden meaning beneath every word that’s ever been spoken to me. Sometimes I’m right, but other times I’m merely assigning depth that isn’t there.
The slaves would have been told about me. That’s all this is, nothing to freak out over.
He stares at me expectantly, but after a moment when he doesn’t find whatever he’s looking for, he shakes his head and turns back to the bowl of eggs. I think I see his smile grow even wider, but I can’t be sure.
“I’m Riall,” he finally calls out as he starts stirring the contents of the large bowl and sprinkling different things from jars into the mixture.
When he’s done with that, he opens an oven door and pulls something out. He slices it up with a thin, delicate knife that I have to stop myself from trying to steal, and then sets the sliced up thing in front of me.
“It’s bread,” he states, and then he turns back to what he was doing before.
Starving, I snag a thick oval slice of whateverbreadis. It’s warm and spongy in my palm, and I immediately shove the entire piece in my mouth. Riall laughs, and I look up to find he’s watching me. I probably look like some desert rat stealing scraps under the table, with both my cheeks puffed greedily as I test the limits of how much they can hold, but I don’t even care. Bread is amazing. I definitely like bread. I eagerly add it to my list of things I now know to ask for, and ignore the warmth that washes through me because my list isn’t just gruel and sand stag meat now.
The slave’s eyes twinkle merrily as he watches me try to chew my huge mouthful, and there’s something oddly familiar about the look on his face.
“Iss goo,” I mumble, already reaching for another slice. I don’t know if I want to shove it in my mouth too or hide it for later in the shirt halves I wrapped around my waist.
Riall’s laugh deepens and grows even louder, but a noise from behind me pulls my attention away. I spin, puff-cheeked and swelling with chagrin, to find two other males standing in the doorway watching, surprise—and could that be relief?—etched in both of their faces. They’re big like Riall is, their muscles and bulk filling out their tunics and trousers in an equally appealing and astonishing way. Once again, I’m curious as to what these slaves do around here to look like bigger versions of the warriors I’m used to training next to, but my mouth is too full of delicious bread to demand answers.
Maybe they’re guards?
The male with wavy, shoulder-length, dark brown hair is the first to snap out of his stupor and stride into the room. His eyes are a startling light blue that makes me think of snowflakes, even though I’ve never seen one. The beginnings of a beard dust across soft, warm-ivory skin. The dark scruff highlights his strong jaw and high cheekbones, and I struggle not to stare at him.
Where Riall is more feral looking and gruff, this male is pretty, but in a deadly, masculine kind of way. He leans back against a wood counter, crossing his large arms over his wide chest and watching me like I’m something to hunt. Instead of challenging that look like I want to, I turn to take in the other fae still standing in the doorway. When my eyes land on him, it also seems to pull him from some sort of trance, and he joins us in the kitchen.
He moves like a feline, more prowl than walk, and I recognize the gait, but I can’t immediately place it. His hair is long, layered, and gorgeously full. It’s the color of shadows with a few pieces around his face that are the same color as the pale-gold that often streaks the sky at dawn. His hooded eyes are a rich hickory, and his complexion is a shade darker than mine but with an olive undertone. He’s wearing a black tunic like I am, but his trousers are an inky suede and not the weird skintight material I found in the drawers of the room I woke up in. His dark brown eyes fix on my shoulder, and I realize the neck of my tunic is currently sliding down my arm. I rush to pull it up, and a small smile threatens to spread across his plump lips before he catches it and blanks his face.
I manage to swallow my mouthful of the bread while the three fae silently study me. I try not to squirm. Riall chuckles again and then gestures to the long-haired fae, who I swear is debating whether or not he wants to eat me up right now like I’m the best option for breakfast, or maybe it’s dinner time, I’m still unsure.
“This is Curio, and this is Tarek,” Riall states, his arm waving from the long-haired fae to the one with ice for eyes and dark brown hair teasing the tops of his muscular shoulders. “Boys, this is Auset,” Riall tells them, and Tarek looks from me to Riall, like he’s trying to read what’s really written in the slave’s amused tone and gleaming eyes.
I survey them and the loaded reaction. Maybe I’ll be working with them while I’m kept here? They’re probably just as surprised by my presence as I am. They don’t seem cruel—surprisingly polite, if I had to categorize it. I’m uncertain if that’s a testament to the kind of fae they are or if it’s because the Scorpions are good masters. I shove the thought away. Good or not, I’m done with it.
Riall rubs a hand over his short shorn hair as he and the other two exchange another veiled look. I have no idea what it means. Warnings trill in my head, and instead of shoving the new slice of bread in my mouth, or hiding it away in my clothes, I set it in front of me and pick off a small chunk while watching each of the slaves more suspiciously. I’m missing something here, but I haven’t the foggiest clue what it could be.
“Don’t tell me our littleSlavehas forgotten us already?” Curio asks, a teasing lilt to his deep tone, and Riall lets loose an exasperated groan.
“Really, Curio?” Tarek asks.
I stare at Curio, his question taking its time to seep in and tickle a memory. Understanding crashes into me like a runaway beast I’m not fast enough to avoid, and the blood drains from my face. My startled gaze jumps from Curio to Riall to Tarek and back again, my heart dashing away entirely too fast for me to keep up, as I finally connect what is so oddly familiar about these three strangers.
They’re not slaves.
They’re fucking Scorpions.
I’m staring at Skull, Bones, and Scorpius, only now there’s no shadow and bone glamour for them to hide behind.
ChapterTwenty-One
The stool beneath me hits the ground with a loud thwack as I scramble off it and struggle to get my legs and feet under me. Unsteadily, I back up, pulling Eacon’s knife from my shirt loop and clench it tightly in my hand. Light flickers on the blade as my stricken gaze jumps between the glamour-free Scorpions. They cautiously watch me, exchanging loaded looks like they’re trying to anticipate what I’m going to do. I catch signals in the silent communication they pass back and forth, but frustratingly I can’t decipher what they mean.
“What’s going on?” I demand, feeling duped and stupid and entirely unsure of what game they’re playing here.
“It’s okay, Auset, there’s no need for that,” Riall purrs at me, his hazel eyes flicking from me to the knife and back again.
I realize as he talks that I know the sound of his voice. I don’t know how I didn’t hear it before. It’s unquestionably Bones. I’ve just gotten used to associating the sound of him with the glamour he’s always worn. I study his face, trying to lay the image of a magicked skeleton over his fae features. I attempt to line them up, fit them together, so I can reconcile the glamoured assassin I was getting to know with the unfamiliar male currently standing across from me.
