“Not me,” Finnick interrupts and dives back to the pot for another helping. His cackle of triumph makes me giggle as he quickly flies away with his bowl. He doesn’t take a lot, so I’m not worried the food will run out. The thimble-like bowl he uses is enough for a tiny sip.
“We’d better get started before Finnick comes back with friends and steals dinner,” Zephyr says with a smirk, his tone light but laced with just enough seriousness to make me wonder—has Finnick actually done that before? I wouldn’t put it past him.
Niko and Zephyr move in perfect sync, effortlessly gathering bowls, silverware, and wooden trays as if they’ve done this a hundred times. Niko glances up, catching my eye, and flashes me a playful wink. “Ready, Chef?”
My cheeks warm instantly, the blush lingering as we work side by side, assembling everyone’s dinner.
We splitup to deliver dinners, though it takes Zephyr nearly dragging Niko away to agree. I’m given the west wing of the infirmary. Most of the rooms I slip silently into have family standing over their sick loved one. So many memories threaten to resurface. Memories of being in the same position, not once, but twice. I swore I would never set foot into a hospital again once my parents passed, and yet here I am.
But I feel good about the reason I’m here. Food is healing. Not only for the body, but the soul as well. Most families stare at me as I put the tray of food down on a small table. Some offer smiles, while others stare at me curiously, probably wondering who I am. Did Niko and Zephyr tell anyone of my arrival? Surely, they must have, but I make a mental note to ask them about it later.
By the time I reach the final room, my feet ache with every step, sore from a long day spent cooking and delivering meals. A yawn rises in my throat, barely held back as I picture the soft, inviting bed waiting for me at the castle. The thought of sinking into a long, warm bath doesn’t sound bad either—actually, it sounds perfect.
Unlike the other doors, this one is closed. I knock gently, listening for noise on the other side. Nothing. So, I try again. Again, nothing. Maybe they are asleep. Or the room is empty, but Zephyr said every room down this hall was full. I contemplate heading back, saving the meal for later, but considering I don’t know when thenext meal delivery will be, I decide it’s best to leave it on the table.
I slowly turn the knob and ease the door open. It swings silently on its hinges. The room is cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by a small cluster of flickering candles placed on a table beside the bed. Lying still beneath the covers is a sickly fae male. His eyes are closed, his body motionless.
In the soft candlelight, the black tendrils of the curse are stark against his pale skin, curling like ink beneath the surface. The veins snaking across his body are far more extensive than what I’ve seen on the others—eerily similar to the afflicted man I encountered in the forest.
He’s also alone.
My heart breaks for him. No one should be alone.
I step deeper into the room, drawn toward the only chair nestled beside the bed. It’s an old wooden piece, worn smooth with use. I ease down onto it, careful and slow, but the wood still lets out a loud creak that cuts through the thick silence like a crack of thunder.
A sharp gasp breaks the stillness. The man on the bed jolts awake, his eyes flying open as if awakening from a bad dream. His pupils are wide, almost swallowing the color of his irises, and raw fear flickers in their depths. Pain shadows his expression as his chest rises and falls in uneven, ragged breaths.
His cracked, dry lips part. He tries to speak, but the sounds are broken—barely more than a whisper of breath and syllables I can’t quite make out. I lean in, angling my body toward him, straining to hear. All that comes out of his mouth are groans of pain.
“My name is Evangeline. I’m…a friend.” For lack of a better word, I settle on that. “Future queen” seems intense. Like it’s someone else’s reality and not mine.
The fae’s dark eyes linger on me. He opens his mouth again, but all that comes out is a dry cough. His entire body trembles, as if unable to handle so much movement. It takes a moment for him to compose himself. His already pale complexion turns ashen.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to speak. I brought food. Are you hungry?”
Once again, he stares at me—wary and uncertain. To him, I’m just a strange woman, someone he’s never met, suddenly offering him food. But when I mention it, I catch the subtle shift in his expression: the brief flicker of interest, the slightest softening in his eyes. Then, almost too faint to notice, he gives a small nod. But I see it.
“It’s soup. Nothing fancy, but it’s warm and full of nutrients.” I smile, grabbing the bowl from the tray.
The fae’s body looks as if he could blow away in a slight breeze. Something as small as lifting a spoon could prove monumental for him, but I fully believe in bodily autonomy, and I’m not just going to assume he needs help eating.
“Would you like some help?” I ask gently, holding up the bowl of black bean soup in offering. This time, there’s no hesitation. He gives a small, weary nod.
Taking that as his consent, I inch closer and carefully lift a spoonful to his lips. He accepts it, swallowing slowly, as though even that simple action takes great effort. My heart aches watching him struggle, unsure what I’ll do if he can’t manage another bite. But then hegives a faint nod and parts his lips again, ready for more. With quiet relief, I offer him another spoonful, glad to provide whatever comfort I can.
We fall into an easy rhythm, going at the pace the man sets. Companionable silence settles over us. Not once does the door open, revealing family members or friends. He’s truly all alone, which makes this moment all the more significant.
Would he have eaten if I never checked on him? How often does this man eat? Because it’s clearly not enough. And according to my new fae family, he’s unlikely to eat much more until we break this curse.
Ifwe break this curse.
I push those dark thoughts away, concentrating on feeding the man. He manages to consume more than half the bowl, which I take as a win. His complexion seems to have improved, and I swear there’s a new rosiness to his cheeks. Or maybe that’s just my eyes playing tricks on me.
“I hope you liked it. There’s a little bit more left. I’m going to leave it right next to your bed in case you get hungry later.” I put the bowl back on the tray, angling it closer toward him so he might be able to reach it when he grows hungry again.
I don’t expect him to speak. So when a raw, hushed voice breaks the silence, I freeze.
“Thank… you.”
