“We made a deal—you help me, and then I help you. It is not my fault you went back on your word, naughty nymph.”
“Whatever you say,Gary,” I snap. “Now would you mind stepping back so your erection doesn’t keep prodding my stomach?”
He releases me and turns away, but not before I catch the dusky rose coloring his cheeks. “It is an affliction of the early hours. I was not trying to seduce you.”
His description of morning wood is amusing, and the fact that he immediately put distance between us helps to take my boiling anger down to a simmer, but that’s the extent of my goodwill. I’m still furious my second escape attempt was thwarted and that I have no choice but to do as he wants, delaying my search for a way home.
“Good,” I say, plunking into a chair and ripping off a hunk of stale bread. “I’m not the type who gets off on being manhandled anyway.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers a Shakespearean warning about protesting too much.
He pauses pulling on his shirt, his gaze sliding back to me. For several eternal seconds, he studies me, eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. I force myself to hold his stare, determined not to be the one who looks away first. My chin lifts defiantly, an arched brow daring him to say something.
A slow, smug half grin tugs at one corner of his mouth, revealing that single dimple in his right cheek.It’s as if I’ve just confirmed something for him, though I can’t fathom what. Without a word, he resumes dressing.
The silence between us stretches. I tear off a piece of bread, chewing it with more force than necessary. The man is easily the most infuriating beast I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.
“Be ready to leave,” he says briskly, breaking the silence. “We have much to do today.”
“Can’t wait,” I reply sarcastically, rolling my eyes as I toss the remaining crumbs onto the plate.
He moves toward the door, his booted steps echoing softly against the worn wooden floorboards. Just before he reaches the door, he pauses. He glances back at me, his gaze meeting mine. There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his stormy gray eyes.
“My name,” he says quietly. “It’s Ronan Greve.”
I cough, nearly choking on my mouthful of bread at his unexpected confession. He’s been adamant about keeping his identity a secret. Now, he’s trusting me with his name. I suppose it could be an alias, but I don’t think so. As a clinical psychologist, I’m excellent at reading people. His eyes are sincere, absent of any guile or deception. This feels like an olive branch.
I nod and offer him a small smile. “Thank you for telling me, Ronan.”
A subtle softness settles between us, and the tension eases just enough to make the cramped room feel a little less suffocating.
And then he ruins it.
“But you will refer to me as ‘my lord’ when not in this room. Do not forget.”
The fragile truce shatters, the fleeting warmth evaporating like morning mist.
I stand and brush the crumbs from my dress. “After you, my lord,” I say, the title laced with sarcasm he annoyingly chooses to ignore.
He opens the door and steps into the hallway, and I follow a few paces behind. As we descend the narrow staircase, the murmur of early patrons filters up from the tavern below.
I stare at the back of Ronan’s head and make myself feel better by fantasizing about shaving off his eyebrows as well. Stifling a laugh, I press my fingers to my lips and continue plotting my next move.
* * *
Ronan leads Sabre, whose name was offered without any difficulty, along a winding path through the countryside until we arrive at a small cottage nestled among rolling hills. The thatched roof and ivy-covered stone walls give it a quaint charm that might be comforting under different circumstances. An older woman with silver-streaked hair and kind but sharp eyes stands at the door, wiping her hands on an apron.
“This is Sally,” Ronan says as he helps me dismount. “She used to serve one of the noble families. She’ll train you to be an exemplary pawn so you can pass the trial.”
Sally nods curtly. “We haven’t much time. Let’s get started.”
If I thought my previous waitressing experience was going to make this easy, I was sorely mistaken. Serving at what is essentially a high-society dinner party in Towerfall is nothing like slinging beers and apps at a TGI Fridays.
Sally ushers me into a spacious room cleared of furniture. “We’ll begin with the basics,” she announces, handing me a large, round tray. “During the mingling hours, you’ll serve drinks and hors d’oeuvres,” she explains. “But not with your hands or arms.”
I frown. “Then how am I supposed to carry the tray?”
She demonstrates by placing the tray gracefully on top of her head, her back impeccably straight. “Like this. You may use one hand to steady it, but only on the side away from the guests. We mustn’t ruin the aesthetic or impede their access.”
I lift a brow and cock my chin. “You want me to balance this on my head while walking around a crowded room?”
