Chapter 14 #2
He was already intimidating when I was standing. From this lowly place on the floor, he’s a thousand times more so.
He smiles faintly, slides the tray in front of him, and pours himself a cup of tea.
I drop my gaze, but I’m hyper-aware of him the whole time he drinks his tea and eats his breakfast. I get a little fidgety when he pours a second cup. Kneeling on the floor is uncomfortable, even with a cushion.
He stills and glances down. “Is there a problem?”
I shake my head vigorously. “No, my lord.”
He sighs, sets the cup back on the saucer, and holds out his hand. I place mine in it, and he draws me to my feet.
“We’ll see if we can do better tomorrow, hmm? You may take the tray back to the kitchen and help Grace for the rest of the day.”
I’m dismissed. “Go ahead,” he says, when I only stand there gawking. “I have much work to do.”
I pop a curtsy, which feels ridiculous, and gather the tray. I bustle to the door. It’s awkward trying to open it while carrying the tray. I’ve never really paid attention to how servants do this so easily. I suppose it is practice.
There’s a lot of clattering—an alarming moment when I’m sure the whole thing will crash to the floor—before I finally get the damn door open and shuffle out.
That was very curious indeed. Not a hint of ravishment. Why am I disappointed? Maybe griffins do not, in fact, bed human women, or even chosen ones? Maybe they just like to watch?
I return to the kitchen, where Grace has me help her like I’m just another servant here.
Rafe
They have us chopping wood. Tons and tons of fucking wood. I’ve long since stripped out of my shirt and worked up a sweat.
After what feels like an eternity, a servant arrives. She brings us food—thick sandwiches made of slabs of bread with melted cheese, bacon, and a fried egg, along with water and mugs of breakfast brew. I’m absolutely famished. We stuff our faces and lick the juices from our fingers.
“At least the food is good,” Lark says. “Fucking ravenous after chopping all that wood.” He sips his brew as we take a break. “And her heat.” He grins at that memory, but it soon fades. “Aye. I wasn’t expecting this.” He gestures toward the pile of wood.
“Me neither. It feels like a trick,” I say suspiciously.
“Can’t see the point of a trick when they already hold all the cards,” he replies.
“They can do whatever they want. We cannot beat them. And no chance we’re going to escape here with Violet.
Even if we could, winter is closing in, and we would likely fucking die.
A dozen griffins live here—maybe more. And then there are as many humans living in the eyrie as there are in Acton Trussell, according to Jim.
Besides, we both know she had been drawn here, obsessed with griffins since the start.
I’m not one to believe in fate, but, you know, this feels fucking fateful…
Still, we’ve not been apart from her like this since this began.
My wolf is restless, and he’s not normally a restless beast.”
The same restlessness invades me. What the fuck is the bastard doing with our girl?
I’m rousing myself to do something stupid when the servant returns and gathers our empty trays. She is followed by Pete, the crusty old goat, who appears to be in charge of us. Pete orders us to stack the wood.
All of it.
It is hard grafting. We’re more used to riding horses and the occasional skirmish than chopping and stacking wood. But we get on with it without complaint.
By the time we’ve finished stacking all the fucking wood, Pete returns.
“Time for your training,” he announces.
I share a look with Lark.
He shrugs. “Fuckers,” he mutters under his breath. “This has to be a ploy to make sure we are too fucking tired for mischief.”
I’m inclined to agree.
Pete escorts us into a massive stone room with a high vaulted ceiling and a sandy floor. It is much like the training block back at Violet’s former home, so this, at least, is familiar.
“What do you suppose this is about?” I ask Lark as Pete leaves us there alone.
“No idea,” he says.
Atlas arrives first, and then men I recognize as the griffin shifters who watched us. Darrion, the smug bastard, grins. He is wearing a silk suit, this one crimson, so I presume he’s not going to be getting dirty today. The redhead, Fenix, offers only a scowl.
“Time for your combat training,” Atlas announces. “It is important to keep skills sharp. Your hand-to-hand capability will be assessed, followed by various weapons drills to see how you fare.”
“We have been chopping wood all fucking morning,” Lark gripes.
He snaps his mouth shut when Atlas’s wings spring from behind his back, nearly knocking Fenix over.
Fenix grunts.
Curiously, Atlas’s expression is one of vexation, and he seems to battle with them before they snap tightly against his back. They are still fucking massive, and he still looks annoyed. The rest of the shifters are now eyeballing him as though similarly confused.
“Yes, combat training,” Atlas says, ignoring both his wings and the looks he is getting. “We are approaching winter. It is a dangerous time here when the dark fae invade our lands. Every capable fighting man must be involved. You are no different.”
I nod. Something tells me they don’t usually train their grunts personally. More likely, they’re seeking to assess us, wear us out, or both. It’s not like we have a choice.
“Vander,” Atlas calls.
A big bastard moves forward and cracks his knuckles. And when I say big bastard, I mean biceps that look like they could crush rocks—literally—heavy set, with legs thicker than the logs we have just been splitting.
A disbelieving laugh bubbles up.
Vander grins, points at me, and crooks his finger.