It’s probably for the best. Things have been a little muddled for me since Farah played the video from the day of my mother’s funeral. I remember laying my mother to rest, but I don’t recall the rest of the events that occurred that day. How can memories just up and vanish like that? It isn’t that I was too young to remember; I was twelve when she passed, but that day and many that followed are blank.
I’m snapped back to the present when someone asks, “And you’re okay with it?” Wyatt’s question is for Asher, not me.
Asher plucks a bread roll from the bowl I’m clutching for dear life before raising his eyes to mine. For how icy his gaze is, you wouldn’t expect my body to respond on the other end of the scale. I’m hot and sticky, my thighs pressing together. My emotions must be crazy this month, because I’m certain the last time he looked at me like this was seconds before he had my knees buckling from the meekest brush of his thumb. That can’t be the case, surely. He hates me—doesn’t he?
After taking in my blushing neck and parted lips, Asher asks, “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
He talks around a chunk of bread in his mouth, but I can’t miss the superiority in his tone. His usual deep timbre is accented with ownership. It pushes steel rods into my wobbly thighs, making them sturdy enough to withstand the most brutal blow. After what our mothers endured, I’ve always hated the thought of being owned, and Asher knows that.
“No, I’m not going anywhere.” I shift my head to the side to hide my eye roll. “It’s not like I have anywhere to go.”
My last words are only for my ears, but I’m certain Asher hears them, because a pompous grin tugs his lips even higher. “Then I don’t have a problem with it. She knows the rules and what will happen if she doesn’t abide by them, so what do I have to be worried about?” His question isn’t for me either. Both his eyes and his words are for his brother.
I can’t hide this eye roll, so I just release it, dump the bread bowl on the table with a clatter, then leave the dining room before Asher can reprimand me for being disobedient. I don’t need to hear his scold to know of its arrival, though; I feel it burrowing into the back of my head.
* * *
The dinner schedule follows the same routine it does every night. It’s a smooth, easy transition even with the table having a more fussy audience than usual. The female portion of the crowd isn’t as pleased by the chef’s decision to bakepirozhkis.They’re a little high in fat and are messy to eat while wearing a ballgown, so I can understand their disdain, although I don’t think it excuses their rudeness. From how high-strung they are, I doubt even the highest quality meal would have leashed their vicious tongues. They’ve been giving me and Eda hell all night, and they’re not the least bit remorseful about it.
“Stop flirting with the help, Wyatt. It makes you look desperate.”
He isn’t flirting. He was merely being polite when Eda’s removal of his plate made his butter knife topple to the floor. He kindly collected it for her instead of making her set down the two dozen dirty dishes she was wrangling to gather it herself.
“Thank you.” I accept the dirty knife from Wyatt before spinning to face Eda. “Why don’t you head into the kitchen while I gather the rest of the dishware?”
She looks like she wants to argue, but the assurance in my eyes keeps her from arguing. She hasn’t stopped shaking all evening, so more than a dropped knife is bound to happen. Furthermore, I’d rather endure a few more minutes of work than have her ridiculed more than she has already been tonight.
When the worry in Eda’s eyes triples, I settle it. “It’s fine. I’ll be right in. There are hardly any dishes left to gather.”
With a reluctant nod, she balances her stack of dirty plates on her slim hip before pivoting around. Her blonde hair swishes low on her back when she races for the servants’ entrance. I wait for her to be engulfed by the blackness before slipping Wyatt’s knife into my pocket. With it being the only cutlery left on the table, I don’t want it slipping off the greasy plates for the second time.
I’m happy to avoid any further incidents, but the blonde seated across from Wyatt isn’t as eager. “A screwdriver will work better.”
With Eda out of view, I break her very first rule by raising my eyes to the blonde. I don’t want to say it’s because the person accosting me is female, so I’m less worried about retaliation, so I’ll keep my mouth shut. Even though I don’t immediately recognize the slim, green-eyed woman glaring at me, I’ve seen her around. I think she is Asher’s cousin, but don’t quote me on it. The Yury family lineage is as long as mine, and people are often claimed to be a relative when they’re not. Vaughn has had many “uncles” who are not related to him by blood, so that could be the case with this female.
“I’m sorry. Were you speaking to me?”
She smirks, pleased I’ve taken her bait. “I wasn’t speaking to you, more offering a suggestion.”
When she pauses, I encourage her to continue with a wave of my hand. The more time I spend prodding her, the less time I’ll have to hang out in my pajamas eating leftoversharlotka. The messy, reverse-engineered apple pie cake is my favorite dessert. Bela made it for me every Tuesday, and I missed it nearly as much as I have her when four Tuesdays slipped by without her and her famous pick-me-up.
Finally, the blonde relents. “A screwdriver would be better to tackle the training wheels no man in this room is interested in touching. It’s a little thin, but that’s not always bad. Especially in yourcondition. ”
I have no clue what she is talking about, but the women surrounding her have no trouble deciphering her riddle. They laugh in sync, like teasing me will be the highlight of their night. It makes me feel sorry for them, which shelves my retaliation. If picking on “the help” is all they’ve got to look forward to, they’ve got more issues than I’m willing to tackle.
With a shrug, I continue gathering the dirty dishes, my pace only slowing when I reach Asher. He hands me his plate instead of waiting for me to remove it like he has the past month. It’s the smallest action, but it causes the biggest impact to my heart. That’s not something a captor does for their captive.
The reason for his change is exposed when he murmurs, “If you don’t like the way you’re being treated, Zariah, do something about it.” His words are so soft, they barely wobble the napkin he’s using to clear away crumbs from his mouth.
If he weren’t shooting daggers at the blonde while speaking, I could have misconstrued his meaning. He’s not referring to our relationship; he’s talking about the quiet snickers the blonde and her friends have been exchanging the past ten minutes.
“I’m not worried about them. Words can’t hurt me.”
I skirt around him, preparing to clear the plate from the man seated next to him, but before I can, Asher’s hand darts out to seize my wrist. His hold is firm enough the plates rattle from the zap surging through me, but not enough to hurt me. He’s not aiming to hurt me. He just wants to get his point across.
“You either do something, or I will.” His narrowed eyes speak the rest of his sentence:and my retaliation will be nowhere near as nice as yours.
“Why does it matter—?” My words fall short. I’m not up for more arguing. Why does it matter why he wants me to do this? He tells me what to do, I do it. Plain and simple.
