My sail loses all its rigidity.
Damn.
A young servant begins placing bread rolls atop each of our place settings, but Rhordyn plucks his up the moment it lands on his plate and relocates it to mine.
The room falls into a fragile stillness.
I study that bun like it’s the sum of my salvation and ruin all rolled into a well-seasoned lump of dough.
“Eat, Orlaith.” The command is not gentle, but despite my lack of appetite, I know he’s right.
Ishouldeat.
I’ve never had wine before, and it’s left me feeling a little light-headed. Likely because I’ve barely eaten since the withdrawals kicked in.
“I have manure on my hands ...”
Zali clears her throat, and I lift my gaze to the napkin she’s suspending over the table. “I’ve dampened it for you.” Her words are accompanied by a gentle smile that’s almost tentative.
I set my glass on the table and take the offering, mumbling a thank you as I wipe my hands clean and split the bread.
Warm, yeasty steam puffs up and I sample the smell, expecting it to curdle my insides. Instead, it’s a gift for my starved lungs, and I draw deeply, moaning as the intake awakens every nerve ending in my body.
Suddenly, any air ungraced with the delicious aroma feels entirely inadequate.
A small plate of cinnamon-nut butter slides into my peripheral, and I steal a peek at Rhordyn.
“Thanks,” I mutter, using my finger to daub it onto the warm flesh, waiting for it to melt down before I take a bite.
Soft, fluffy goodness yields a wholesome, decadent flavor—the perfect mix of sweet and savory somehow meeting in the middle to form divinity incarnate.
My lids flutter closed, shoulders softening as I chew, nice and slow, trying to savor the taste. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but Cook has improved her perfect recipe. I doubt anything but theseexactbread rolls will satisfy my hunger for the rest of my entire life.
I glance up to see Baze and Zali watching me with awed intrigue. “What?”
They tuck their heads down and start ripping apart their own rolls.
Shooting a glance at Rhordyn, I’m stilled by the haunted look in his eyes. He’s watching me with such primal intensity, I doubt a single strand of hair could shift out of place without him noticing.
“Is something the mat—”
I’m cut off by the sound of a blade loosening from the confines of its sheath—the hiss short and sharp, yet still managing to slip a hook through the flesh of my lungs andpull.
My gaze collides with the small, metal blade Zali is using to butter her bread, spearing my heart with the urge to flee.
The room closes in, evicting air I so desperately need as I struggle to convince myself I’m not the epicenter of three circling beasts; that they aren’t slashing at me with talons thatscrapeevery time they land a blow.
A Vruk talon is longer than that blade. It’s black, and hooked at the end.
Not the same. This isnotthe same.
I drop the bun in the same instant Rhordyn’s hand snaps out, gripping the sharp end of the dagger.
A rich, coppery tang permeates the air.
The weapon is snatched out of Zali’s grip and folded amongst his napkin, as if out of sight equals out of mind.
He knows better.
