“Morning, Frel,” I murmur.
She throws me a grin, sits herself down on the corner of the table by me, and extends her extra-knuckled hand. “Kidnapper man, where is my sustenance?”
Kidnapper manchuckles. “My name is Castor, hatchling. Fetch your own food. It is abundantly displayed.”
Castor.
His name isCastor.
Frelsi crosses her arms. “You made my Dani get her own food?”
“No.”
“Then why doIhave to?”
“Because I would not remove my organs one by one for your pleasure in the same way I would for her.”
The mad spark in my small pixie’s eyes sends a shudder down my spine. Before she can ask that I request such a horrific display, I say, “Frel, no.”
Her lip juts as her nose scrunches. “Why not?”
It really should be obvious.
What should also probably be obvious is a loophole in his violent statement. He can’t lie, so what he just said has to have some twisted phrasing that means he would not actually, upon my request, begin dissecting himself, right?
By the time the words blur in my brain and I’m not sure if I’m recalling them correctly anymore, I still haven’t found the part that makes it clear he’s not being wholly forthright.
Which is…odd.
When I was a child, I pleaded with my mother to not make me do swimwear shoots. For one thing, I was embarrassed, already struggling with a complex where my figure was concerned thanks to how my mother spoke about my body. But, for another, I was also much too aware how people looked at me. I did not feel safe in such skimpy attire. Not at all.
Way back then, I still bothered to cry and beg, thinking it might appeal to thesomethingin that woman that was meant to love her only daughter.
Compared to my memory of those cries going unheard, the contrast in what this faerie man seems willing to do for his new pet is loud.
Yeesh.
Dog people are crazy.
A little more comfortable, I settle in while Frelsi makes a point of dragging her wings across the table as she mopes on over to a slice of toast. Her pitiful little self sniffles as she peers at the glass butter dish beside the bread platter. Her big eyes hit me.
The back of Castor’s hand so gently stops me when I reach for the knife to butter her a slice. He says, “Don’t allow her to manipulate you, Danielle. Manipulation, from this point on, is a game between us. And I insist it remain a private lobby.”
Frelsi stomps her foot. “I’m toolittle.”
“And?” he prompts.
“I can’t do it.”
“Well, surely you can’t with that attitude.”
“I wantbutter.”
“Indeed. Then, hatchling, I do suggest youproblem solve.”
Frelsi stabs a finger toward me. “Solved.”
“No.”
