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Her eyes went wide as her gaze shot to Strider. She was amiss. She had just eaten like a rabid dog. He had to be horrified at her manners. Mama June had instilled proper manners in them when they were very young, and her manners were one of the few things Mrs. Flagton had always complimented her on.
The flush on her cheeks deepened to the bone. “Are we done? Do we need to leave?”
“Not by far. I’m having more food brought out. You clearly need to eat more—that dress hangs on you.”
Rude.
But that was what Strider was now. Rude.
Rude to her, any chance he got.
Her back stiffened, the ratafia no longer softening her bones to jelly. “I apologize, my manners seem to have escaped me for a moment. If someone can show me to my room, I can leave you to dine in peace. I will search for the innkeeper.” She shifted, her palms flat on the table as she scooted along the bench to remove herself from the table.
His hand reached across the table and clamped onto her wrist, stopping her escape. “No, you need to stay right where you are, Pen.”
“Why?”
“Because more food is coming, you drank none of your tea, and I don’t want to have to traipse after the soused stumbling you’re about to embark upon.”
She suddenly found it incredibly easy to focus her glare on him. The food in her belly must already be working.
His fingers released her arm and he nudged the cup of tea toward her. “Drink.”
She sighed, picking up the cup and sipping the lukewarm tea. The fine china so delicate, she imagined it would crumble if she set her lips to it too hard. Ignoring her glare, Strider cut into his grouse, deliberate in bite after bite. His manners were still in place.
Surprising, for what she’d surmised of his life since they were separated so many years ago. She would have guessed him a heathen at the table. At least his mother still lived in him through the politeness he was able to show while dining.
That fact alone heartened her. Maybe all was not lost where Strider was concerned.
She took another sip of the tea. “What is it, exactly, that you do?”
He chewed on a bite of asparagus, not hurrying and not talking with his mouth full. Not until he swallowed did he look up at her. “I import things. I export things. I offer services.”
“Services like gambling and whores?”
“Among others.” His look went back down to his plate.
She fingered the lip of the teacup as she stared at his dark hair. “People are afraid of you, Strider.”
“And well they should be.”
“You kill people, don’t you?”
His brown eyes, but not his face, lifted to her. “Yes. Though not in a long time.”
She blinked hard.
She’d suspected it, knew it deep down by the way people reacted when she said his name. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hadn’t wanted to know for certain that he’d traded his soul for what—money? Set himself on the pathway to hell. Mama June would be devastated at what had happened to her son—at the evil that had invaded him.
Penwas devastated.
And Strider had said it so casually, like it was an everyday occurrence.
She swallowed hard, not wanting to believe his words. “But you have.”
“Of course I have.” His face lifted to her, his head tilting to the side, his words cold. “I have done what I’ve needed to, Pen. I’ll make no apologies for it.”
Her tongue went dry. “But…but why?”
