I stick my tongue out at him, and the sound of his soft chuckle lingers as the door swings closed behind him.
The kitchen is soothing even though it’s a constant ebb and flow of total chaos. It’s a welcome distraction from stewing in my room about my father. I’m not ready to face him. Facing him means facing all the pain his leaving caused, and I would rather keep that buried.
A few Rhiza females assemble the baskets, while others come and go, taking full baskets out and returning with empty baskets over and over again.
I find a spot at an empty table and begin packing. It doesn’t take me long to get into a rhythm. Wrap a piece of bread in a white cloth, fill a large jar with stew, add in a glass bottle of clean water. There are also pieces of fresh produce for each basket, and I wonder where they’re growing it.
All kinds of goods are being prepared and cooked over fires that must be vented somehow because no smoke fills the space, even when one of the younger-looking cooks leaves her bread in the fire a little too long.
Breesha doesn’t scold the girl, and it makes me like her a little bit more.
The fact that I’m not choking on the smoke that should be swirling in the air from the burnt loaf makes me wonder how close we are to the surface.
I quietly pack baskets, marveling over their bountiful supply of food and trying not to drool, while simultaneously observing and listening to their conversations for any tidbit of useful information I can get.
I’m in a groove with my baskets when I notice the room goes quiet. When I look up, the bitch from the throne room is standing in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, burning a hole through me with her cold, gray eyes.
“What the hells isshedoing here, Breesha?” Shreya snarls.
Breesha only shrugs, too busy to care. “Raiden’s only just brought her to help us, miss. If you have a problem, I’d take that up with him.”
Shreya tucks a wavy wisp of bright-white hair behind her ear as she studies me, looking me up and down.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Can you drop dead?” she asks, and I stalk toward her, ready to swing.
I can’t help myself. The female is just begging to catch my fist with her face.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I demand, my face inches from hers. I try not to think about how damned good it would feel to hit her. “Do you think I asked to be here? You think Iwantto be here?”
She doesn’t flinch, but there is rage boiling just below the surface when she speaks, “Myproblemis you killed my mate. Because of you, I am no longer whole. And Iwillreturn the favor.”
Godsdamnit. Her words stun me, and I can’t bring myself to respond. Thankfully, Breesha steps in for me, resting her hands on her hips as she places herself in the small space between me and the angry rebel.
“That’s enough, Shreya. If you aren’t here to help, you need to get out of my kitchen.” She points one aged finger to the door.
Shreya holds her ground for a long moment, likely considering if charging over the older fae to reach me would be worth the consequences she might face.
She must decide against it, because she peeks around Breesha to snarl at me while backing toward the door. “Do you know what happens when your mate dies?” I shake my head, looking at a spot on the floor. “This isn’t over. Watch your back, healer bitch.” I wince when the door slams, shaking the utensils that hang on a rack over the fire nearest the door.
I release a breath after she disappears and return to my work. Looking to the ceiling for a moment, I attempt to blink back the tears that sneak up on me, but it’s no use.
This is all so overwhelming. My father. Being stuck beneath the earth with people who are so frank about preferring me dead. Not knowing if I’ll ever see Phillipa again. Murdering that rebel.Fuck. I’m a murderer.
My clothes become too tight, and I can’t catch my breath, but a soothing, gentle hand lightly grazes my shoulder.
“Don’t pay no mind to her,” Breesha coos. Something about her feels so safe, and I fight the urge to sink into her comfort, returning to my work as a distraction.
If I don’t pull my shit together, I am useless to my people.
When I collect myself, I turn to her and ask, “Who are the baskets for?”
“We distribute them throughout the colony. Everyone contributes. Everyone has a job. Everyone gets fed.”
They’re so much more civilized than I envisioned. Nothing like the monsters I always thought had stolen my father from me.
“This is nothing like what I expected,” I say. “You all are nothing like what I expected.”
