She sniffs at the provisions he set out by the small fire he just started. There is a clay pot and he’s now setting a contraption over the flames that’s meant to hold it aloft. He pours water inside the pot and adds what looks like some sort of dried meat, wild onion bulbs… and greens I don’t recognize.
I’m entranced.
“Is this all we have?” Ardruna growls. “You should have told me to go hunting, Ro.”
He says nothing, focused on cutting the bulbs and greens into the now boiling water. It doesn’t look like much but the smell is making me faint with hunger.
“Is it almost ready?” The raven comes hopping toward the fire. “I’m starving.”
“It’s not for you, you bottomless pit of a bird,” the lioness says. “It’s for her.”
“The whole pot?”
“True, she can’t eat from the pot,” the lioness muses. “It’s too hot. Don’t you have a bowl to serve the soup in, Ro?”
“You know I don’t,” he mutters back, frowning.
“You’re a barbarian, Ro. And you’ve let our guest collapse, not taking proper care of her. You forget she’s human. She has needs.”
“Everyone needs food and water,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. “Don’t you?”
“Calm yourself,” the lioness says. “Hey, Ro, what about that old helmet? You can use that as a bowl.”
Old helmet?
The lioness disappears between the columns, while I resolutely do not stare at the handsome fae guardian. I have no business looking at him and feeling all sorts of hot and bothered.
She returns with what looks like a tin bowl. She drops it beside Roane and nudges him with her head. The scowl on his handsome face is formidable, but he takes the bowl and checks the soup that’s boiling away.
My gaze is inevitably drawn back to him. The way the muscles shift in his arms, the fabric of his shirt molding over them lovingly, the way his dark lashes sweep his cheeks when he looks down. The perfect bow of his lips. The strong line of his jaw. The gold stud twinkling on his left earlobe. The scar on his cheek, and the edge of another peeking out of the neckline of his leather tunic.
I open my mouth to ask about those scars, exhaustion making me stupid, but I’m saved by the lioness rattling the bowl. Helmet. Whatever it is.
“Is it ready yet?” she asks.
“There isn’t enough food for you,” Roane grunts. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Yeah, I heard,” the lioness growls. “Just make sure she eats. I’ll go hunt.”
“We’ve shut the library doors,” he says. “Stay here.”
“I’ll find something inside the library to eat, then,” she snaps. “Don’t concern yourself.”
Roane grunts again, his gaze flicking to the lioness as she trots away. I want to ask him what she could possibly hunt inside the building, but I’m not sure I want to know. Most of my attention is on the food. He dips the bowl into the pot, filling it up, and turns to me.
Offering it.
My grip shakes as I take it, liquid sloshing over the sides, and with a curse, he grabs my hands, steadying them. Rough palms, long fingers. Strength. Stability.
I meet his gray eyes over the rim. Gods, they are gorgeous. Like limpid lakes, drawing me down into their depths, drowning me.
“Eat,” he says, snatching his hands back.
I blink, snapping back to the here and now. “Don’t you have a spoon?”
He glances around and lifts a hand to scratch his black hair. My mouth twitches. His bewilderment shouldn’t be so cute. “No.”
Nodding, I dip my fingers into the broth to fish out pieces of softened meat and greens. Who cares anyway? I’m not at the Queen’s ball, and although at home we were taught strict table manners and Naida would snap our heads off if we disobeyed, who will see me here?
