Page 19 of Ashen Wings

I wash and dress quickly. There's a brush left undisturbed on the carved oak nightstand that makes quick work of combing through my snarled hair, now entirely clean from the dye. The handle is quite blunt in my palm. It’s no ceremonial dagger or one of the many weapons I packed on this mission, but it’s my only option.

The room barely feels like a prison cell by the time I’ve slipped into the black gown and done up the lacing over my back. I’m not thrilled about the plunging neckline, but I’m desperate enough to use it to my advantage if need be.

Isra returns with an abrupt knock on the door just as I’ve pocketed the hairbrush in one of the many interior folds at my hip.

“You’re looking less like a sewer rat,” he says as I swing open the door. His eyes wash over the gown, landing on the curve of my breasts for just a moment too long.

“Let’s go,” I reply, crossing my arms before brushing past him. We travel back down the corridor and descend the steps until we reach the ground level. The main hall of the house perfectly matches the decor upstairs with trailing black velvet curtains and various paintings of previous nobility.

“Gods, he gave her one of my dresses?” Roe’s leaning with her bare foot braced against the wall. “I’m going to have to burn it.”

Isra shoots her a withering look but continues toward the dining room entrance. Scents of roasted meats and root vegetables waft through the warm entrance, and my mouth waters. I realize it’s been nearly two days without a meal.

“It’s not really my taste, if I’m being honest,” I reply, following Isra’s heavy footsteps.

“And what’s that? Dirty hand-me-downs?” Roe purses her lips and falls in behind me. I don’t trust she won’t pull a knife on me, no matter what orders Jace has given her.

“Oh, simmer down the both of you, before you bite each other's throats out,” Isra huffs, pausing at the long varnished table in the center of the room. Various dishes of roasted meats and fish are scattered between two rows of wingback chairs—all empty except for one at the table’s head.

Jace Ashborne sits with his leg crossed casually over his knee, his fingers drumming the place setting before him.

His eyes glaze over me with devilish satisfaction. “Now that is a dress.”

My heart slams into my stomach as he rises from his seat to pull out the chair beside his. The wooden legs scrape against the floor, sending a shiver down my spine. Jace holds out a palm, directing me to sit.

My throat goes dry, but I follow his command.

“Eat. Drink,” he says, returning to his own chair.

My stomach grumbles, but as much as I ache to dive into the multitude of courses and dishes set before me, I don’t. Isra pours himself a glass of the plum-colored wine presented in a golden decanter beside him and drains his glass. My mouth waters, my stomach begs for sustenance, but I keep myself straight backed in my seat.

“It’s not poisoned,” Roe says, stabbing a chicken thigh with her fork.

I scoff and lock my hands in my lap.

She carves a slice of the meat and places it in her mouth. “Suit yourself.”

Jace’s eyes never leave mine as his two companions dine. His hands slip behind his head as he leans into his chair.

“She’s right. I have more honor than poisoning my guests. If I wanted you dead, well, you’d be in the ground by now,” he says.

“A guest?” I reply, feeling the rage bubble in my chest. “I’m not your fucking guest. Do you lock up all of your visitors?”

“You’re free to go…if you can figure out how to break the ward.” His lip curls into that smug half smile and my stomach drops.

Infuriating but so exhilarating. Gods, what the fuck is wrong with me?

“What do you want?” I ask, swallowing my traitorous thoughts. “I can’t imagine it’s stipen you’re after, and if you already have complex wards in place, you don’t need dragonstones. So why hold me here?”

“The question game again?” He leans over the table. His tunic strands fall open, and again I catch my gaze wandering to his chest. Someone needs to teach the man how to properly dress himself, clearly. “I’ll play along.”

What should be a terrifying remark feels like a thrilling challenge, and I’m wholeheartedly prepared to meet him match for match.

“Is that your question? Then, yes. I want answers. If that’s how I get them, I’ll be the one that plays along,” I snap.

Jace leans in closer, his nose barely brushing mine. Fuck, this guy clearly has a personal space issue. Without breaking the tether between us, he reaches a hand to the decanter and fills my glass.

“New rules. For every question I answer, you have to take a bite of your dinner. Can’t have you starving to death before I’m done with you.”