“Would you have come?”
“No.”
He holds his arms open.
Rolling my eyes, I take my time. Dread gnaws at the back of my mind. I can’t shelve it or stuff it away.
“Sit here,” he says, drawing out a chair to his right like he’s a gentleman.
I do not want to sit there, it puts my back to the door. But I also don’t know what situation I’m in. Logic says take the seat I want. The one facing the hall.
I don’t. I sit down and let him push me in.
I’m leaning on the theoryyou catch more flies with honey than vinegarapproach my mom always talked about.
He sits beside me again. No food in front of him, just a glass of dark red wine that looks almost black.
“How do you find your quarters?”
“Cold.” I shove ham in my mouth, then chew with it open.
“Charming.” He doesn’t blink.
“Where’s Kieran?” I don’t dare look away from him as I eat. Not. Once.
He leans back in his chair, dips a finger in his wine and runs it around the rim. “My son,” he says and those two words are full of hate. Anger. General loathing.
“Yeah, Kieran.” I grab a glass of wine. Lighter. And sip.
I hate how amazing their food is. Addicting, sweet in the best way and never overwhelming.
“Exiled.” Moros smirks.
“What?” I nearly drop the wine. “You wanted him to?—”
“Control you,” he chuckles. “I’ve learned the error of my ways. My son would never hold the ability to control one such as you.”
“That took you a month to figure out?”
“No.” He smiles and my gut detonates. “No, that did not take a month.”
He leans back and grabs his wine, drinking the rest quickly before setting it back down. Holding eye contact, he says simply, “Wine.”
It starts at the back of my neck. Creeps from my shoulders to my crown.
Licking my lips, I stare at him. “What did you do?”
“Only what must be done.”
Footsteps shuffle behind me then into my periphery.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to know who he stole. Who he dares to use as a slave.
But I fuckingknow.
“Oh but you’re about to miss the best part,” Moros coos. “Don’t you want to know how I’m going to control your every move?”
A lone tear tracks down my cheek and I open them only to come face to face with my mother’s steel grey eyes. Margret Hayes-Morgan.
