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It's one reason I think I become frustrated with Riffin. He means well, but he always lets me have the upper hand, in exchange for kisses. Maybe it's fucked up that I find the fact that I can manipulate him like everyone else a little…repulsive.
Crulden—excuse me, Victor—sees through my bullshit. And even though it makes me a bit more vulnerable, it also makes me feel oddly seen. Like he knows it's all part of my survival instinct and sees the real me through it. It feels like he understands what it's like to have to put on a front to protect yourself around others. I wonder if that's why I'm drawn to him.
Either that or it is really long past time for me to break it off with Riffin.
I immediately drop the bathing conversation, because no good can come of that. Instead, I focus on something that can help him fit in with the rest of society—his eating habits. Victor eats like it's all about to be snatched away from him. He shoves his muzzle into his bowl and eats rapidly, flinging crumbs with such abandonment that it's a wonder he gets any of the food into his mouth. Today, I hand him a pair of the eating sticks that everyone here uses and a bowl full of noodles. The eating sticks aren't quite like chopsticks—they're fatter at one end than the other and the ends are flattened, so they're almost like tweezers. I got quickly used to them, but I know some humans still prefer forks and spoons. If Victor is going to mix in with everyone else, though, he needs to blend.
So, sticks it is.
I have the guards bring in a small table and another stool, and we sit across from each other as he practices. His big hands don't work well with the delicate utensils, and between that and the sloppiness of noodles, it's a lesson that doesn't go particularly well. We end up spending all afternoon fighting over how he needs to hold the sticks, getting him to cup the bowl properly instead of just shoving his face into the contents. I keep my smile on and my attitude bright, even when Victor gets all snarly and angry at me because I won't let him eat the now-cold soup without using the sticks.
We bicker over it for so long that I'm certain Victor is starting fights just to prick at me and get under my skin. I refuse to let him get to me, though. I stay strong and correct his grip and make him repeat the small motions over and over again.
"You are trying my patience, female," he growls, finally flinging the sticks into the bowl and shoving it aside.
"My name is Bee," I correct sweetly, plucking the sticks back out of the bowl and offering them to him again. "Not female. Not human. Bee. And you have to practice, Victor, or else you're never going to get anywhere. You need to show them that you're just the same as any other alien on this planet, and the first step is copying their mannerisms. So if you want to be a sulky baby, go right ahead, but if you want to beat them at their own game, you learn to use their tools."
And I wiggle the sticks at him.
His eyes narrow and he snatches them back out of my grip. Instead of flinging them to the floor as I expect, he clamps his jaw, glares at me, and holds them properly once more. Or tries to—his fingers are thick and his claws get in the way. But it's a close approximation.
I beam at him. "Now—"
The lights go out. The low, constant hum of power in the background whines and goes silent. Everything is creepily quiet and dark, and I stare at Victor. His eyes shine in the darkness, like a cat's.
I swallow hard, getting to my feet. "Is there a storm?"
The door to Victor's cell clicks, the electronic mechanism unlatching. The sound is overloud in the shadowy darkness.
Victor rises to his feet, turning toward the door. The very unlocked door that is no longer powered by the security grid in Lord va'Rin's estate.
Oh no, this is a bad idea. If he escapes, they'll kill him for sure.
I immediately fling myself against him. "Don't you even think about it."
He puts his hands on my arms, holding me against him. "Think about what?"
Double oh-no. He's using that low, sly purr that tells me he knows exactly what I'm asking and is fishing for my reaction. "Don't even think about escaping," I tell him. "We both know you're thinking it."
"Am I?" I could swear his thumb moves against my sleeve, the claw dragging over the material.
I stare up at him, his face cast in shadows except for those bright, glowing eyes. "You've wanted freedom since day one," I point out. "Don't play dumb. And think about it, Victor." I reach up and squeeze his lower arm, cutting my finger on one of the spikes. "Let's say this is a freak storm that knocked the power out. What then? Where do you go? You have no money, no shoes, no identification. Everyone's terrified of your appearance because you look like the rotten guy. They'll hunt you like a dog for the rest of your days, and that's the best-case scenario. Worst-case scenario, this is a trap and someone's hoping you rush through that door so they have a good excuse to shoot you."
