This man is carrying a tray and he has a face that belongs to someone’s friendly older brother, open and warm with an easiness around the eyes.
He looks at me across the cell with an expression that isn’t cold.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Neither of us say anything for a moment.
“Is that poison?” I ask.
He blinks. Then his eyebrows go up slowly. “Poison?”
“On the tray. Is it poisoned?” I hold his gaze. “Because if so, I want you to know that’s extremely cowardly and I expected better from people who throw women into dungeons.”
He looks at the tray. Looks back at me. A sound leaves him that takes me a second to identify because it’s the last thing I expected in this room.
He’s laughing.
“Poison,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Do we look like people who handle enemies with poison?”
Enemies…
I think about the tattoo man’s hands and the cold efficiency of the men in Vienna and the way the whole compound went quiet when we arrived. My throat moves.
“No,” I admit. “No, you really don’t.”
He stops laughing, though something warm stays around his eyes, and he lifts the tray cover.
The smell hits me before I can prepare for it.
Actual food.
Bread that isn’t stale, something with meat and sauce, a cup of something steaming.
My stomach doesn’t wait for permission.
It makes a sound that fills the cell completely and bounces off all four walls.
I feel heat flood my face while it’s still happening.
The man looks at me and says absolutely nothing.
At least he has the grace not to smile.
He walks into the cell and holds the tray out toward me.
I stare at it.
Then at him.
Then at the food that smells like the first real thing I’ve encountered in days and I want it so badly my mouth is already doing something embarrassing.
I glare at him.
He holds the tray a moment longer, reads my face, sighs with the patience of a man who has dealt with difficult things before, and pulls it back.
He takes a fork and cuts into the meat and puts it in his mouth.
