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Halfway through, he set his fork down and leaned his head back against the wall. I noted with that queer satisfaction that his cheeks had regained some color.
He reached for the bottle without moving his head and drank some more wine. “Thank you,” he said as he put the bottle down.
I grunted. I didn’t deserve his thanks, and I knew it. Not when I was the one who’d put him in here in the first place.
He eyed me from beneath lowered lids. “So is it true my father was in Paris but didn’t try to rescue me?”
I frowned. “Someone told you that?”
“Yeah. Ines and the others. They said he left me here to rot. Is it true?” His voice was matter of fact, but I heard the vulnerability beneath the question.
I knew I should tell him yes. It was clear Moreau was trying to break Zaq, both physically and mentally.
But I didn’t. Instead, I told him the truth. “I don’t know. I do know that according to our intel your father came to Paris. But he’s made no attempt to rescue you.”
Zaq’s face fell. “I see.”
He reached for the steak tartare and this time, didn’t stop until it was gone. He took another swig of the wine. His strong throat worked as he swallowed, and I wanted more than anything to press a kiss to it. Not a bite. A kiss.
It was my turn to swallow. I looked away. “You need to take a piss?”
“Yeah.” He pushed himself to his feet, careful as an old man. He blinked, then stumbled forward and nearly face-planted.
I jumped up, crossing the cell in a few swift steps and sliding an arm around his waist. “Here. Lean on me.”
“Sorry.” He draped an arm over my shoulders and I helped him the few feet to the toilet.
He was too warm and too damn skinny, but he still felt good. Hard-muscled and just the right height for my cheek to press against his shoulder.
I glanced up. He was looking at me, his beautiful green-and-gold eyes just inches from mine. My breath hitched and my mouth dried.
He gave me a crooked grin that was like a sneaky arrow to the heart. “I can handle things from here.”
My arm tightened on him. I didn’t want to release him; I wanted to help him.
I had to force my arm to remove itself from his waist. “I’ll be right outside the door.”
When I returned a few minutes later, he was curled up on the floor, asleep. I crouched down and watched him. Learning his features—his strong nose, his sculpted cheeks, his stubbled jaw, his full bottom lip.
I reached out and touched his mouth before I realized what I was doing. Caressed that full lower lip. It was warm, soft.
And this time I did want to bite. To bite and kiss and suck and lick.
His eyelids fluttered. I hurriedly brought my hand back to my side and backed away. But I kept watching him. I couldn’t look away.
Two hours passed. I didn’t dare stay with him any longer. Reluctantly, I crossed the cell and shook his shoulder. “Wake up. I have to go.”
Zaq blinked and stretched. I was pleased to see he looked better. His eyes were clear and a thin new skin had formed over the burns on his wrists. He downed the last of the blood-wine and stood up.
I nodded at the wall, but instead of raising his arms, he cocked his head to the side. “Why are you doing this?”
It was the second time he’d asked that. I set my jaw. “I told you.”
“No, you don’t understand. I meant, why are you feeding me? Letting me sleep?”
I shook my head. “I have to go. Get up against the wall.”
“Reaper.” His hollow-cheeked angel’s gaze beseeched me. “You don’t have to do this. This is fucked up and you know it. Help me. Please.”
