“To ensure her cooperation, I’m going to unchain you,” Maksym said. “If you do anything other than sit against the wall licking your wounds, I will end her right in front of you. Do you understand?”
Cael gave him the barest nod.
Maksym released Cael’s chains, and he toppled to the floor in a heap, his arms, legs, and wings sparking with sharp, electric pain. He didn’t dare try to push himself upright yet. Just hugged the cold, stone floor, sucking in deep breaths and trying not to pass out from the renewed agony.
Xenia’s choked sob shredded through him.
Maksym yanked her to her feet and threw her into a chair. “Sit. Stay.”
Cael let his fury dull his other senses so he could maneuver himself into a seated position, resting his aching, feverish wings against the cool wall. He pulled his knees up to his stomach, gritting his teeth against the pin-pricks running along his limbs as blood began to flow again. He removed the iron shackles digging into his wrists, and fresh wounds spilled trickles of blood into his palms before his skin knit back together. Whatever healing suppressant they’d given him was wearing off. He could feel his body mending.
He surveyed his surroundings, this once-grandiose chamber he’d been chained in for the entirety of his imprisonment.
The long stone table suggested the room had been a gathering hall. A human fortress, abandoned to disrepair after the war, perhaps? Piles of red sand dusted the corners and an overcast, starless night peered through several jagged holes in the soaring ceiling. A large canvas map of Ethyrios decorated the opposite wall, littered with red X’s throughout the colonies’ four islands.
Xenia slumped in her chair, massaging her neck.
Cael leaned back and angled his head towards her, determined to watch over her as her dinner with Maksym began.
* * *
Xenia’s neckthrobbed as she choked back tears. She didn’t want to cry in front of this green-winged prick. Her tears were only half for herself anyway.
Wrath of Vestan, what had theydoneto Cael?
Seeing him chained to the wall had reminded her of the hogs her father raised for slaughter on their farm—though Cael was in worse shape.
She wished she knew how to fight like Cass, wished she had a weapon. She’d bring this entire complex to its knees.
Maksym took the seat to her left—the head of the table, naturally. There were only two place settings, so she guessed he wasn’t expecting anyone else. He snapped his fingers, and a Deathstalker entered carrying a jug of wine and two covered platters.
It wasn’t Alexei, but one of the other guards whom she recognized from dungeon meal-times. The lanky Deathstalker sported a pinched look with thin lips, a hooked nose, and long ash-blond hair that fell to his waist.
He set a plate in front of both Xenia and Maksym, then poured them each a glass of red wine before uncovering the plates with a flourish.
“Thank you, Zakariah, that will do,” Maksym nodded. Zakariah placed the jug on the table and scurried out of the room.
Though Xenia didn’t want to accept Maksym’sgenerosity, her mouth watered at the meal’s enticing scent. She couldn’t help it after a week of eating nothing but cold, lumpy oatmeal and stale bread.
Fanned out over a bed of roast potatoes and asparagus spears, seared strips of beef oozed blood-red juices onto the plate.
Maksym sliced his meat, gazing sidelong at her. “It’s not poisoned, Sister. I’m not in the habit of murdering my dinner guests. Not during the meal, at least.”
She glared and crossed her arms, refusing to take the chance.
He snorted, then speared a piece of beef from her plate. He popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly before washing it down with a sip of her wine.
Her gnawing hunger won out in the end.
But fuck this asshole if he thought he was getting a dignified dinner companion.
Ignoring her utensils, she dug into the food with the frenzy of an animal denied sustenance for days. All five remaining pieces of beef fell prey to her clawing hands and ripping teeth. Chin coated with grease, she chewed the potatoes with an open mouth, peppering her plate with flecks of fluff, then crunched into an asparagus spear.
She gulped her wine, and the burgundy liquid trailed from the corners of her lips, flowing down her neck and staining her green silk dress.
Once she’d drained the glass, she wiped her chin with the back of her wrist, then flicked it, splattering chunks of potato, meat grease, and red wine droplets onto the floor.
Maksym remained utterly silent, wearing a suitably disgusted grimace.
