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“You should piss now. I want to get back to the food and eat while it’s still hot.”
I glare at him. “Do you intend to stand there and watch?”
“I thought I could hold your skirts and petticoats out of the way for you.” He smirks.
“How thoughtful, but no,” I say acidly. “I can manage just fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He steps up to the trough and unbuttons his pants.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I exclaim.
He looks up, a feigned innocence in his gaze. “I have to go, too. We can both use it.”
“Not at the same time,” I gasp.
“Why not?”
I try to explain, but words won’t leave my mouth.
And I could turn around. But I don’t. I stand there while he takes out his long, thick cock and pisses into the trough. I watch everything—the stream of liquid, the way he shakes it a little afterward, his fingers refastening the buttons.
I’m not even sure why I don’t look away. Or why my skin is hot as molten gold.
When he’s done, he saunters past me. “I’ll watch the door and stop anyone from coming in. Hurry up.”
Stop gawking, Juliette. Stop it right this minute.
Managing my skirts and using the trough without making a mess is difficult, but I manage to do my business and rinse off. There’s nothing to dry myself with afterward, but I can handle a little dampness. If I’m honest, I’ve been rather damp since I first saw Rupert this morning.
To his credit, he keeps his back turned until I approach and tug on his sleeve. Then he glances at me, a strange look on his face. “All done?”
“Yes.”
He shoves the door open for me, and he nods to both of the guards on our way back to the spinning room. He murmurs something under his breath, presses a palm over the mirror on the outside of the door, and then follows me inside, shutting the door behind us.
“It’s nearly dinnertime,” he tells me, removing the cover from the food cart. “I can’t believe I did a full day’s work.” He scoops a clump of walnut-and-cranberry stuffing from a bowl with his fingers and plops it into his mouth, followed by a steaming strip of roast turkey. “Goddess, that’s good.”
“There’s such a thing as utensils,” I remind him, taking a spoon from the tray and digging into the pudding.
I’ve always had a hearty appetite, but watching him eat is a revelation. It’s hilarious how fast he devours the contents of the food cart—roast fowl and stuffing, vanilla pudding flecked with cinnamon, steaming buttered noodles, fluffy bread dipped in savory sauces, fat vegetable dumplings.
“Such variety in the food of this kingdom,” mumbles Rupert through a mouthful.
“The cuisine of our kingdom is an amalgam of various dishes and spice families, adopted and blended from the surrounding nations.” I survey the puckered, glossy surface of the warm dumpling between my fingers. “Come to think of it, our music is the same way—bits of different styles intermingled to create something new. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Sometimes I feel as though we’re scavengers, unable to make the creative kill ourselves, instead picking bits off others.”
Rupert chuckles. “I know many Elves who would claim that sort of cultural theft is a typical failing of your race. You stole from us before you stole from each other. That’s what they’d say.”
“And what do you say?”
He chews thoughtfully, swallows. “I’d say that if I like a thing, I don’t much care where it comes from.”
“I suppose I’m the same way. I can appreciate the original sources of food, music, or art, but I tend to prefer it in its current form the most, even if that form has deviated from the original. But is my preference simply because I haven’t had enough exposure to the pure source, the original style or flavor? Maybe I just don’t know what I’m missing. Maybe I’m being lazy, taking what I can easily get and not seeking out the real, vibrant roots of a thing.”
Rupert stares at me quizzically. “You think too much.”
“Other people don’t think enough.”
He laughs. “You’re probably right.”
