She searches my face. “You knew him.”
“Knew him?” I chuckle. “He was my father.”
I imagined thousands of ways my father’s murderer would react once I confronted them. I was prepared for a battle, a gloat, pretty much anything other than what I got.
Jay hyperventilates.
Is she having a panic attack?
She faints with a thud to the floor.
Okay, that I didn’t see coming.
She’s a lot more trouble than she’s worth.
I shrug, turning around.
Don’t care. Don’t care. Don’t care.
However, I can’t kill her later if she dies now.
I make a good point.
I scurry back to her cell, open the gate and rush to her side.
I don’t want to risk my pack doctor’s safety by having him come down to port an IV in her, so I mindlink Tyler. I instruct him to secure a cot or mattress, anything, as well as some clothes and food for Jay.
I move her hair out of her face and fan her. Checking her pulse, she’s still breathing. I resume fanning.
Worry getting the best of me, I call up the stairs, “Tyler!”
Not soon enough, he appears with a flimsy mattress, shorts, a shirt but nothing for her to eat.
“Food?”
“Oh yeah, the chef went home already.”
“Then make her something.”
Tyler stares at me long and hard. His face scrunching. “That’s not in my job description.”
“Assisting meis,” I grit.
He sighs. “Oh-kay.” He turns around. “But if she dies because of my cooking, it’s not my fault.”
Jay squirms and moans.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter. “Out of my way. I’ll do it.”
And I may or may not have muttered the word “useless” as I stomp up the steps. I head to the kitchen and recall the food pattern she’s showing. There are so many dietary needs in the realm. I don’t know which one applies to her. When I’ve watched her eat before, I didn’t observe any kind of purging after. So, I don’t think she struggles with an eating disorder. But there is some sensitivity about her food—probably a dietary need or preference.
Does she have any allergies? Maybe that’s why she didn’t eat the pheasant.
Or she’s a picky eater, and I’m a fool.
Alright, let me think... She wouldn’t eat the pheasant I brought her. But she’ll eat fruit and bread. But she can’t survive on that only... I decide to go with premade boiled eggs, bread and fruit. At least I know she’ll eat those. This still isn’t enough—she needs a vegetable.
I sift through the fridge and find a cucumber. We have a personal chef, but most of the time, I prefer to cook for myself. My mother always had me cook in the kitchen with her growing up. But then the student became the teacher, and my abilities surpassed hers. Lately, I hate that I haven’t had time to make my own food. It felt right having the knife in my hand, slicing the cucumber and making a meal for someone else. Cooking is soothing for me, but it’s always better when you’re making something for someone else aside from yourself.
