“And?”
“And you should be thankful they do not live on your side of the canyon.”
First thing tomorrow, I am going straight to the library to find any information I can about the wolves and any other animals living in Everett’s territory. To think, he and his people are out there, night after night, protecting us from danger.
Do the citizens of Rosehill realize the role these people they’re so afraid of play in their safety? “That’s awfully kind of you, watching out for us.”
His lips flatten. “It is part of the agreement. We protect you in exchange for access to your well.”
Sothat’swhy they’re allowed to use the well. No wonder he assumed I wanted something in return for the biscuits. “What happened to your wells?”
“We have none.”
Meaning they’re wholly reliant on our goodwill.
A well should be for everyone, regardless of where they’re from, but they can only use it in exchange for putting their own lives at risk. “Who protects you?”
His hand goes straight to the handle of his dagger. “I can protect myself.”
That may be so, but it doesn’t seem fair that they should have to live in constant fear just to survive. Meanwhile, right across the bridge, the rest of us walk around blissfully unaware of danger.
“May I see your dagger?”
He withdraws the weapon from its sheath and flips it over, catching the blade at the tip and offering me the handle. My fingers wrap around the worn wood, but when my thumb smooths along the bubbled section at the end, I realize it’s not wood at all.
It’s bone.
The dagger is lighter than I thought it’d be—not that I have much experience handling weapons. The only knives I’m familiar with are the ones that spread butter or slice pie. This one looks wickedly sharp.
Still, it’s a wonder he needs another weapon with those teeth…
“Have you killed with this?”
His head tilts, sending a lock of hair falling across his brow. The piercings in his ears glimmer despite the darkness. “How else am I supposed to eat?”
He says it so simply, as if he can think of no other alternative. Perhaps he doesn’t know any better. “I don’t kill for my food.”
The way his nose wrinkles makes me chuckle. “Vegetables taste like dirt.”
“Only if you don’t wash them.” I picture Everett hauling a carrot from the ground and taking a big old bite. Another laugh bubbles forth, and he raises a skeptical brow. There’s only one way to settle this. “You wait here, and I’ll be right back.”
I tiptoe out of my room, careful to close the door behind me in case Nia wakes up to use the bathing room. Downstairs in the kitchen, I find a bowl of leftover tomato soup in the ice box. The dish won’t be as nice cold, but I cannot be caught heating it at this hour, nor do I want to take the time.
When I get back to my room, Everett is sitting cross-legged on my floor. “Here.” I extend the bowl and spoon toward him.
He takes both, staring down at the reddish liquid with a grimace. “Why are you giving me this gift?”
“It’s not a gift, Everett. I want you to try my food. The soup is meant to be served warm, but I don’t think my aunt or uncle would appreciate me cooking at three o’clock in the morning.”
He dips the spoon in and out, letting the liquid splash back into the bowl, watching like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “So this house is not yours?”
“No. My brother and I grew up in the mountains.” I nod toward the bowl. “Are you going to try it or keep playing with it?”
He scoops some up and takes a slurping sip.
“Well?”
His lips smack as he makes a face. “Not the worst food I have tasted.”
