“I swallow already. I no die.”
The ball in his throat sharpens. “Go back to your chambers and wait for me there.” Smoke seeps from his skin, but he stays in his Two-legs’ form long enough to add, “I mean it, Daya. In your room. Now.”
I hate how his command makes me feel like I’ve done something wicked. When he morphs into his bird, I climb to myfeet and tread back to my living area. My eyes sting, not with shame, but with annoyance. Now that I think of it, I shouldn’t have tried to heal him. After all, if he turns to stone, then he wouldn’t be able to shadow me everywhere.
I fling my terrace door shut and bolt it. Even though physically it cannot keep him out, perhaps it’ll give him pause and make him leave.
Sure enough, he raps a fist against the glass. “Open up.”
I cross my arms. “No.”
His head rears back.
“I no want drink.”
He vanishes.
I almost think he’s gone, but of course, he’s not.
“Take one sip, and I leave.”
I cross my arms. “I say no. You still come inside. Against consent.”
“It’s not the same.”
“You right. Not the same. I try heal you. You try drunk me.”
“For Mórrígan’s sake, I’m not trying to get you drunk,” he grouses. “I’m trying to cleanse your stomach of any toxin.”
“My stomach fine.”
“It’ll be finer once you take a swig of this.”
“I no like this liquor.”
He scoffs. “Youadorethis liquor.”
“No,” I lie.
“Then why do you drink a glass of it every night at supper?”
“Because polite.”
“Oh, come the fuck on, Daya, each time you take a sip you fucking rattle.”
I suck in a breath. Do I? I know I did it once, because it drew the queen’s stare, but I try so hard to keep my Serpent reactions from bleeding over my Two-legged ones. “Take off pants and I take drink.”
He chokes on air. “Wh-what?”
“You show wound; I drink.”
“You can see it just fine through the rip.”
“No. Rip too small. Take pants off.”
“No,” he grits out.
“Why?”
