Sylas’s expression turns so perceptive I wonder if that mismatched gaze can pierce right into my mind and see the ways my captors chose to muddle me when it suited them. “Ordinary food only. And perhaps you’d like the use of a proper toilet as well.”
Yes, that would be helpful if I don’t want to soil these nice sheets—well, any more than my unwashed body already has.
He beckons for me to follow him. My limbs balk, but only for an instant. I’m not sure what’s going on here, and I’m even less sure of where here is than I was before our conversation, but even if Sylas is like my captors in some ways, he’s giving every indication of being gentler. And I know what state I’ll end up in if I try to refuse to eat completely.
I ease off the bed and brace my feet against the floor. As I put my weight on them, a faint ache spreads through the warped one. Keeping more of my balance on my good side, I manage a few wobbly steps.
But it’s been too long since I really walked. For all my attempts at keeping my strength up, there are muscles I didn’t reach—muscles I need to hold me up.
Sylas is just opening the door when a tremor runs through my legs. I try to tense them, but it’s too late. They give beneath me, sending me toppling onto my hands and knees. The twist of my foot with the fall sends a sharper needle of pain through my ankle.
I scramble to right myself, and Sylas is there, grasping my arm firmly but carefully to help me up. Having that huge, powerful frame so close to me is nearly overwhelming. I don’t think it’s just my unworked muscles to blame for my unsteadiness now.
His gaze has fallen to the floor. “Your foot. Is that from before, or did Aerik’s men injure it?”
“It was them. So I—so it’d be harder for me to run away.”
He makes a gruff sound that’s unnervingly growly and reassuringly disgusted at the same time. Easing me around, he takes my hand and sets it on his elbow. “Put as much of your weight on me as you need to.”
The muscles in his arm are even more solid than I expected, flexing as I adjust my grip. Heat floods my face. But what’s he going to do if I refuse—sweep me up like he did from the cage and carry me to my meal? No, I can handle this.
As I limp beside him into the hall, a snicker carries from behind us. Sylas’s head swings around at the sound.
Another man, one I didn’t see last night, peers at me, his eyes glittering silver in his pale face. When he speaks, I recognize that sharp voice as the one who suggested they kill me rather than deal with my struggles.
“So the dung-body is a cripple as well. Wonderful.”
“Move along, Kellan,” Sylas commands.
The other man brushes past us without further comment, but his words linger. The icy fear that Sylas’s calm presence started to melt solidifies in my gut all over again.
This place may be prettier and more luxurious than my cage, but who’s to say it’s any safer?
5
Talia
It turns out faeries have toilets. Or at least, these faeries do.
After Sylas helps me to the room he calls a “privy” and the heat of approximately a thousand suns has burned across my face with embarrassment, I manage to convince him that I can make my way to the porcelain throne without assistance. And I do, grasping the sink for balance as I leverage myself over.
Of course, neither the sink nor the toilet are actually made out of porcelain. They’re more of a shell-like material with a pearly sheen on the inside. I can’t see any pipes. Is there a fae sewer system, or will my pee be washed away by magic?
It’s easier letting my mind puzzle over silly things like that rather than to dwell on the contempt in the silver-eyed man’s voice when he talked about me.
This setup sure beats a bucket, even if the details are odd. Rather than toilet paper, I find a wicker box full of leaves. I try to dampen one at the sink and give myself a bit of a wipe-down everywhere I can reach, though it doesn’t feel all that effective. Then I splash more water on my face.
The room has no mirror, but maybe that’s a good thing. If I could see how bedraggled I must look, I’d feel ten times more awkward walking back out.
Sylas leads me down a spiral staircase that’s the same polished wood everything in this keep appears to be built out of. I cling to his elbow as little as possible, which is still quite a lot. He doesn’t remark on my shakiness—or anything else, for that matter—but I catch him eyeing my feet in apparent contemplation. Do I even want to know what he’s contemplating about them?
There is one question I can’t hold back, as nervous as I am about the answer. When we reach the bottom of the stairs at one end of a wide, wood-lined hall, I glance up at him and gather my courage.
“Why did you bring me here? I mean, what—what are you going to do with me?”
Sylas considers my face now, his expression so unreadable I can’t tell whether he’s annoyed or amused by the question. “I was planning on getting you full of breakfast,” he says. “We’re almost at the dining room.”
That isn’t what I meant, as I’m sure he knows, but before I can figure out how to demand a proper response—and whether it’s worth the risk that he’ll turn those fierce white teeth on me rather than offering one—another of my rescuers-slash-kidnappers from yesterday pokes his head from a nearby doorway.
It’s the man with the broad boyish face, which splits with an eager smile. Now that I’ve got a better look at him, I’m struck by his eyes. The sharp-voiced man, the one Sylas called Kellan, might have a silver sheen to his irises, but this guy’s are pure gold, as radiant as that smile of his, both warm and utterly inhuman.
“You’re up!” he says with the same buoyant energy I saw before. “Perfect. I was just about to serve the meal.”
Then I notice the spatula he’s brandishing and the apron draped over his muscular frame. Apparently he’s also the one making our breakfast. Smells drift from the room behind him: creamy and meaty, buttery and doughy. My stomach gurgles loud enough that I suspect the whole keep can hear it.
The eerily gorgeous guy widens his grin. “And it sounds like you’re ready for it.”
My lips part, but I don’t know what to say.
Sylas motions to me. “Her name is Talia. Talia, this is August of my cadre. I wouldn’t typically have any of them working the kitchen, but we’re in short supply of staff.”
“And I like doing it.” August twirls the spatula in his fingers and waves it at me. “If this isn’t the best breakfast you’ve ever had, I’ll keep trying until I get there.”
It’s guaranteed to be the best breakfast I’ve had in more than eight years, as long as Sylas was telling the truth about no funny business with the food. My throat’s still closed up, but I tip my head in acknowledgment, and somehow August’s smile grows even wider. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, though. They’ve crinkled at the corners with a shimmer of something almost sad…
It’s probably pity. My face flushes again, but pity is better than contempt, at least. “Thank you,” I manage to say, though still in the whisper I’m having trouble breaking my rusty voice out of, so I’m not sure whether the attempt makes me seem less pathetic or more.