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But the food turned ashen after a few bites. How could I enjoy it when I’d left everyone who mattered behind, probably thinking me dead? I couldn’t. So, I’d left it in favor of stewing in my misery.
I hang my head in my hands. Derrick is going to feel so guilty.This will wreck him. It’s not his fault some horrible dudes decided to rob his bar and then I got abducted by a fairy, of all things. He’ll put the blame on himself though. He’s always been that kind of guy, taking everything on himself and feeling it deeply. Even if he doesn’t say so, I’ve always been able to see it.
The main doors groan open and sound rushes in with them. Two voices I recognize immediately: Sigurd and Moria.
About freaking time.
I’m on my feet in an instant. Cool air tickles my stomach before I tug my shirt down to my jean shorts. Back in my own clothes, I finally feel more like myself.
I savor the way my boots click across the marble. Boots, or rather, heels in general, always make me feel good. Oh, sometimes they hurt my feet like all get out, but just sliding my feet down into the soles and giving myself those precious few extra inches makes me feel powerful. I can take on the world in heels, and I need them now more than ever.
“Great, you’ve figured out how to get me home!” I beam with the best false smile I can manage. It’s my “oh honey, sweetheart” smile I’ve used on many a drunk customer when I really want to deck them, but of course, I can’t.
Conversation halts. A third man walks with them. Long, brown hair hangs down to his shoulders, framing a sharp, angular face.
“Most interesting.” The newcomer’s head tilts to the side as he takes me in.
“Wren, this is Hawke.” Sigurd gestures between us, his voice flat. “Hawke, Wren.”
His name is fitting, given his prominent, hooked nose. Either a nickname or his parents had excellent foresight.
“My brother.” Moria slaps him on the back—hard.
Now that earns a raised brow. The similarities between them end with their tall and lean builds. He probably even has a few inches on Moria and Sigurd’s six-foot-plus heights.
“Care to join us for dinner?” Sigurd asks me as he tilts his head toward the large table occupying one side of the room. It has chairs for ten, but there are far fewer of us. The platters brought in earlier still occupy one end, the chair I’d used half pulled out.
We were supposed to share that? A touch of warmth rises to my cheeks. Whoops. Not polite to start before others, but it wasn’t like they’d been great hosts.
Just as I open my mouth, the main doors open, and people—no, fae—dressed in grays and light blues carry in various trays, pitchers, and all manner of things. My stomach lets out another growl as I catch a whiff of roasted meat.
“So…” I ball my fists on my hips and stare Sigurd down. “We’re just going to ignore the fact that youtrappedme here?”
“Wren…” he starts.
The servants don’t even look my way. Figures.
Various emotions flicker across his face before he continues. “I cannot reverse the bond. You’ll have a room here in my quarters. Food. New clothes. Any comfort you desire.” He sweeps a hand around the room in an oddly regal gesture.
“My freedom?”
His jaw shifts back and forth like he grinds his teeth behind his pressed lips. “That, I cannot give.”
A bonfire has less smolder than me. If only I had magic like his and Moria’s and could knock his backside to the ground. Oh, what I wouldn’t give for that. “So, I’m just to sit in this room forever? Or jump off that balcony and see if I can fly?”
His eyes go wide. A moment later, he’s right in front of me. I never even saw him move. A gust of wind shudders through the room. “You wouldn’t.”
I notch my chin higher. No, he’s right—I wouldn’t. But at least I got his attention. I shove against his chest with all my might, but he doesn’t budge. “Then what do you expect me to do?”
“Right now?” One brow arcs toward the ceiling. He gestures to the table being laid with plates and platters. “Sit. Eat.”
Of all the horrible timing, my stomach gives another rumble. The corner of his lips twitch.
Infuriating man.
“Fine,” I ground out before stomping my way to the table and claiming a seat at the far end. Hopefully it’s his, if just to piss him off.
The servants leave as quickly as they came. Sigurd, Moria, and Hawke claim seats together at the other end of the table from me. Their impeccable table manners set my teeth on edge. I’m not one of those high-class southern belles brought up preparing for cotilion, but I’m no pig either. I might as well be compared to them though. Eating is a dance, and I’m falling all over my feet. The food is good though, even if half of it looks strange and unfamiliar.
