“That was not a threat, merely a reminder of my teeth’s sharpness.”
“Shall we fetch the food, Maezza?” Justus asks, sending me a pointed look, one which I interpret as,Holster your tongue, Nipota.
“Not yet.” Dante’s reply is low, yet my grandfather must hear him because he doesn’t give the six soldiers behind him the order to scurry off to the kitchens.
I wonder if Justus actually thinks this a real meal because I certainly don’t. Unless I misconstrued the salt’s presence . . .
“First, I’ve some questions for Antoni.” Dante’s palm creeps up the side of my ribs.
I know Justus mentioned seducing the prick, but seduction meant the reins were in my hands. Right now, I’m not holding on to any reins.
“Fallon, take the salt.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I scan the gaudy carvings of the headboard for the dagger I am to use. How I itch to hold it.
“Better do as I say, or I will do far worse than pry truths off your little sailor’s tongue.”
My hand jerks to the wooden bowl and pinches out the coarse flakes.
“Now feed it to him.”
I shake with rage. Shake so hard that the coarse flakes flutter off my fingers and settle on the tabletop like snow.
The Faerie King slides his index along the underside of my breast, right beneath the band of linen on my brassiere. If only it was made of iron instead of fabric . . .
When he palms my breast, I whirl toward him. “Don’t.”
He moves his mouth toward my ear again, his hand creasing the silk, straining it over my ribs. “You cannot sit at my table dressed like a whore and expect to be treated like a queen.”
“Should I remind you that I did not choose this dress; your general did. You’ve an issue with it, take it up with him. Or better yet, if you have extra armor lying around, I’d be more than glad to accessorize my nightgown.”
“I’ve no issue with it.” His hand crawls down my ribs like a bug and settles heavily on my thigh. When I feel the hem of my dress begin to drift up my shins, I grip a handful of fabric to glue it in place. “Think of your little sailor’s fingers.”
My blood burns at his threat.
“Feed him salt now, or I hike this dress so far up your legs that—”
Though I keep one hand clamped over my dress, I fling the other toward the wooden dish. As I carry the salt to Antoni’s mouth, I hold his shiny stare. I worry he’s in pain until I catch his gaze lowering to Dante’s hand. When his throat bobs, I realize he’s hurting for me.
“Stick out your tongue, halfling.” Dante’s no longer pulling on my dress, but his grip hasn’t slackened either.
I’m sorry, I mouth as I drop the salt on the flat of my friend’s tongue.
A few breaths later, Dante asks, “Do you still burn for Fallon Rossi?”
“You fed him salt to learn about his feelings?” I ask, outraged.
“Answer, halfling.” Dante’s blue gaze doesn’t shift off Antoni’s sweat-slickened face.
He puffs out a breath. “I will always love Fallon.”
“What do you think of Lorcan Ríhbiadh?”
“I’m no fan.”
“And yet, you’ve helped him repeatedly over the years. Why is that?”
Antoni’s lips are so tight that they form a white line on his pasty face. “Because I disliked the Faerie regime.”
