My hands are shaking as I reach for the laces of my tunic. I’ve been naked in front of people before. I’ve been dressed and bathed by servants my entire life. It’s never meant anything. But this is different. He’s not a servant. He’s not safe. And I’m supposed to strip down in this tiny space with him right there.
“Turn around.”
He doesn’t move, other than one sharply angled eyebrow arching up.
“Turnaround.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move, and the silence grows between us. Then he dips his head in the barest acknowledgement, and turns, presenting me with his back.
I let out a breath that shakes all the way out.
I strip out of my hunting leathers as fast as I can. They’re stiff with dried sweat and dirt, and they fight me as I drag them off. I consider leaving my undergarments on, but I’ve been wearing them for days, and there are clean ones in the pile the seamstress gave me. My hands don’t stop shaking as I pull them off, and for a heartbeat, I’m standing there completely naked.
The air is cold, making my nipples harden and raising goosebumps over my skin. Every inch of me is exposed, and he’s less than a foot away. I can hear him breathing, see the rise and fall of his shoulders. If he turned around right now, there would be nothing I could do. Nothing I could cover. Nothing between his eyes and all of me.
Mouth dry, I yank the fresh undergarments on so fast, I nearly trip. I manage to steady myself before I crash headfirst into his back.
And that’s the moment it dawns on me that the seamstress didn’t givehimany. I think of him pulling on those new pants with nothing underneath, the fabric rough against bare skin, because why would an animal need comfort? Why would a beast need dignity? I watched her cup him between the legs, and he just stood there and took it. And now he’s wearing clothes without even the basic decency of?—
I shove that thought away. I can’t afford to think about him like that.
Instead, I focus on the rest of my clothes. The new shirt is next. It laces at the front, and I manage to do it, even though it takes three tries, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. The pants after that. They’re made from thick wool, not the soft, expensive kind I’m used to when riding, but still better than the ones she gave to him.
“Done.”
He turns back, and his eyes move over me. His gaze makes me want to cover myself, even though he can’t see anything, and I have to force myself not to cross my arms over my chest. He nods once.
“You first.” Meaning he has to follow me out, like a dog at my heels. The seamstress doesn’t look up as we leave.
The common room of the Crossed Keys is busier than it was when we arrived yesterday. He steers me toward a table near the back, in a secluded and shadowed corner. He doesn’t touch me—he’s careful about that, playing the role of a possession—but he stays close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back.
“Sit. Order food.” His lips don’t move as he speaks in a low undertone.
I sit, and he takes a position behind my chair to my left, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. I lift a hand, drawing the attention of a serving girl and she brings a platter of bread, cold meats, cheese, and a sweet tea to the table.
I tear off a piece of bread and hesitate. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday. I know he finished what I’d left him because the tray was clear of food when I woke up. If I’m hungry again, surely he must be too? But I can’t just hand him a plate. That’s not how this works, is it? The seamstress treated him like livestock. The serving girl at the inn talked about renting him like a horse for stud. No one feeds their horse at the table.
I glance around the room. A merchant in the corner has a small dog curled at his feet. As I watch, he drops a bit of sausage in front of it. The dog snaps it up.
My stomach flips, but I understand now.
“Kneel.” I say it quietly, not looking at him, and pray he understands what I’m doing.
He does, sinking down beside my chair. I wait, and when no one says a word or pays us any attention, I hold out the bread without meeting his eyes, the way I just watched the merchant feed his dog.
His fingers brush against mine as he takes it. I glance at him. A muscle jumps against his jaw, but he eats the bread in two bites, his gaze fixed on the floor.
I do it again, this time with the cheese.
He takes it, chews, and swallows.
I don’t know what I expect him to show. Gratitude, maybe? But there isn’t anything other than that terrible blankness on his face, and tension coiled beneath it. And all I can think about is that I’m feeding him like an animal, and he’s letting me.
Voices drift through the room, different conversations mixing together. Farmers talking about crop prices. A dispute over grazing rights. Someone’s son who has gone to the city to apprentice with a blacksmith. Then someone mentions Huntsman Dell, and I freeze.
“Heard there was trouble there. A few days back.”
My eyes scan the room, looking for the speaker. I find him near one of the fireplaces, sitting with two others.
