“Not with him,” I say.
“I’m not leaving you down here,” Caiden says.
“Then I’m going to my room.”
“You are acting like a child,” he hisses.
“No, I’m acting like a spoiled fucking prince,” I tell him.
He stands, then holds out his hand. “Come on, I’ll take you to your room.”
“I don’t want your help.” I stand, but bump into the chair leg and nearly tumble back down. He catches me with a sigh.
“Is this typical for her?” Caiden asks as he starts guiding me between tables.
“No,” Anya says. “She gets quiet when she drinks a lot. Usually cries.”
“I told you not to say anything,” I tell her.
“It’s the magic,” Caiden says.
“What do you mean?” Anya asks.
We stop in front of a stairway that leads up to the rooms we rented. Caiden glances around, then must determine it’s safe to speak. “It has a unique influence on everyone. Usually wears off after a few months, but can sometimes take years to adjust. I’ve seen this before. People who used to handle several drinks without issue sometimes can’t anymore after the temple.”
“That would have been good information to know,” she says.
“Stop talking about me,” I demand.
“Right, come on, princess,” he says as he helps me up the stairs.
“I amnotyour princess,” I tell him. “Heused to call me that, but now, thanks to you, I’m nothing. I’m supposed to be something. I’m supposed to do things but I only let everyone down.”
“Here comes the crying,” Anya says.
I want to yell at her, but she’s not wrong. Hot tears stream down my cheeks and I sniff and fight against the rising onslaught. I know I’m about to completely lose it.
“Here,” Caiden says, holding out a key with his free hand. “Open the door?”
Anya takes a key from him then lets us into our room. It’s a small room with two narrow beds side by side. There’s a chair inone corner and a little desk by a window where a pitcher and two glasses are set up. It’s a nice room, especially for a small town like this.
Caiden guides me to one of the beds, then helps me sit.
“You can go now, your highness.” I think I’m slurring my words.
“I’m going.” He turns to Anya. “I’ll bring some food up. See if you can get her to eat.”
“I’ll eat if I don’t have to look at you,” I say.
“Whatever it takes.” He leaves without another word, closing the door behind him.
“He’s terrible, you know that?” I say.
“You keep telling me the opposite. And maybe I’m starting to believe you. He’s bringing you food because you’re too drunk to sit in the tavern,” she says.
“Are you seriously taking his side?” I demand. “He’s a murderer. A mud-deer-er.”
“I know. But so am I,” she says.
