Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“My father, my sister, and her son. Servants and soldiers.”
“Soldiers?”
He doesn’t remark.
I want to ask more, but I see the table set for two in the dining room just beyond him, and a basket of steaming bread.
My hand moves to my stomach which I clench to keep from growling, refusing to ask his permission to eat.
He walks over to the dining room table and sets his drink down. I follow but stop when he turns to me, warm roll in hand. He picks off a piece and sticks it into his mouth, and I salivate.
God. I want to kill him.
“So, are you going to eat the food from the man who drugged you?”
I glare at him, wishing he’d choke on that bread.
He raises his eyebrows, still chewing like it’s the most delicious thing on earth.
“It’s that or starvation, so yes,” I say, not attempting to hide my anger.
“Hunger is a good teacher.” He drops his roll onto a small plate and pulls out a chair. “Have a seat.”
I do as he says. At least I will for now.
He takes his place at the head of the table—shocker—and I’m tempted to grab a roll myself, but Damian picks up the bottle of wine on the table and pours me a glass. I force my hands to remain in my lap.
“Drink,” he says after setting the bottle down and sitting back in his seat.
“I need to eat before I drink anything unless you want me passing out.”
“You’re that weak, Cristina?”
I take a breath in, then out. Yes. I am that weak.
Picking up the glass, I take a sip. It feels warm running down my throat, but I stop because I realize he’s not drinking it.
“Is it drugged?” I ask, panicked.
He reaches over, fingers skimming mine as he takes the glass out of my hand, brings it to his lips, and swallows a healthy sip.
“I have no reason to drug you.” He puts the glass down.
I reach for a roll, half-expecting him to stop me, but he doesn’t. I spread a healthy amount of butter on it, and I think it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. He’s watching me, but I don’t even care as I finish it and reach for a second.
“Elise,” he calls out, sipping his whiskey.
The swinging door opens. I watch, chewing as Elise enters, that tinkling key ring on her belt, her expression as sour as yesterday. A man follows her, carrying two dishes. He sets them down in front of us, and it takes all I have not to pick up my fork and shovel the food into my mouth as fast as possible.
“Thank you, Elise.”
“Sir.” They all disappear back into the kitchen, and I dip my roll into the sauce of the stewed meat before putting the last of it into my mouth.
“God, that’s good,” I say before I can stop myself.
He smiles, still only sipping his drink. “Go ahead.”
I give him a nasty look but pick up my fork and knife and eat the first bite of the most tender, most deliciously spiced meat I’ve ever tasted. I’m quick to follow it with the potatoes and vegetables, then dig into the meat again.
“Slow down, Cristina,” he says a few minutes later, and I realize I’m halfway through my plate. “I won’t take it from you.”
I glance over at his plate, which he’s hardly touched, and put my fork down to pick up my wine. It’s good. It goes well with the food.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
He picks up his fork and knife and slips a bite into his mouth.
I drink another sip of wine as I process his words. I won’t take it from you. He can take it from me, though.
My appetite wanes, and I finish my glass of wine.
He pours another.
It’s silent as I consider how to ask what I need to ask. He must be anticipating that I will. What’s normal in this situation?
What’s normal about this situation?
I force myself to eat some more, leaving just a few bites before I finally blurt out my question. “What’s going to happen to me?”
His expression darkens. “That depends on who you ask. Are you finished eating?”
I nod, push my plate back.
“Coffee?”
“No.”
Elise appears then and I wonder if she’s had her ear to the door. She starts to clear the table, but Damian stops her.
“Do it tomorrow. Go to bed,” he tells her.
“Yes, sir.”
I get the feeling he doesn’t like her.
When she’s gone, he gets up and goes to the bar, then returns with the bottle of whiskey. After he sits, he pours for himself, and I pick up my wine, taking a small sip.
“Where did you go last night?” I ask, not sure I’m ready to hear the answer to my other question.
“That’s none of your business.”
“You made everything about you my business when you kidnapped me.”