Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Guess I fell asleep, because grogginess is a thick blanket draped over me when I stir to the nudge of a boot on my shoulder.
My eyes feel swollen, my face puffy, and a groan wisps out of me as I twist my spine to angle my face—and squint up at iceberg lettuce eyes.
His stare is unkind.
It always is.
An inherent coldness in him.
But he reaches down for me, a bowl cupped in his palm, and he drops it to the grass—to the literal grave I’m curled up on.
Sluggish, I blink at the bowl.
Slightly undercooked pasta glistens up at me, some carrots and whole mini potatoes that definitely came out of a can, and it’s all smothered in tinned spaghetti.
That’s not what hesitates me.
It’s that it’s a full bowl.
A full meal.
Not scraps.
I turn my puffy face to Samick again.
He has another bowl in his hand.
Must have been given two by the captives—or he took a second one for me.
The churn in my gut stops me from questioning it, and I sit up before pulling the bowl onto my lap.
I dig my bare fingers into the muck of food.
Goddamn, I hate the canned spaghetti here. Too sweet. It should only ever be savoury.
Those few times I visited my dad in the Before, I packed beans and cheesy pasta and my favourite crisps and canned spaghetti to bring over to Canada—so I had access to the good stuff.
Suppose the good stuff is just what we are raised with. Sort of how everyone thinks their mum’s broth or soup or chicken is the best, and no other compares, because nothing can compete with nostalgia.
There’s nothing nostalgic about these foods being lumped together into muck in a bowl. But that doesn’t stop me from devouring it like a fucking animal.
Is that what they see when they look at me?
If I lift my tired stare, eyes will be on me. I feel them, the glances, the glares, the frowned looks.
Some must wonder, the same as I do, why I’m fed a whole bowl this time.
I hide from the stares.
I swear I hear the faint sound of a sniff.
Head down, I clear the bowl faster than I’m proud of. As I set it on the grave, a wisp of purple inches into my peripherals.
I swerve my panicked glare to Mika—
And my heart eases from its sudden constriction.
I’m on edge.
More than I have been in a while.
It’s Rust that’s doing it, the glare I feel burning my face, a glare that—if I dare look—might just set me ablaze.
But it’s Mika who lures in my attention.
She wiggles the purple wine bottle in her grip and speaks, but I don’t understand a word she says. Then she gestures again for me to take the bottle.
I turn a blank look on Samick.
He picks at the meal, unenthused about it, and spares Mika a withering look.
She speaks again, this time to him.
“Wine is for all pain,” he translates with a glance down at me—but then the glare he sweeps over the campfire cuts down any talk of offered wine and period pain.
I trace his fierce stare…
All the way to his campfire.
Rust sits on the curve of a headstone. A bowl is loose in his grip, his other hand braced on his thigh.
He’s staring right at me.
He doesn’t hide it. He’s too open about it.
My throat thickens, tight, like my heart has slingshotted too high and gotten itself stuck. I feel it in there, trapped, thumping away.
I hadn’t considered running before.
I never wanted to be here. Not a moment have I wanted to stay with the warrior in his unit. I just have smarts enough to know it was my best shot at being reunited with Bee—and that it was obvious that I should do what she said.
Wait.
So that’s what I’ve been doing.
Weeks of waiting.
Weeks of being lulled into some sort of illusion—delusion—of security.
So now…
Now, with the stare of twin fires searing at me, I feel that sense of safety slipping from my fingers. Like I’m trying so hard to grab a fistful of water.
There is no safety for me here, not anymore.
The cold fae has fought to defend the bargain once. But my place in it is a weak position.
At some point, he’s got to know I’m not worth it. I’m not worth the fights, the wounds, the bother.
I’m a pawn on a chessboard.
Pawns are useful, but expendable.
And I might just be running out of use.