Page 201 of Starside

I curse and turn back toward my room, before something glimmering catches my gaze. There’s a pair of silk slippers by the front door. They must belong to an attendant.

They’re beautiful, with ribbons as ties, and they somehow fit perfectly. I push on the door, expecting to find friction, or that it’s locked, but it creaks open, letting in a shard of moonlight.

We’re safe on this estate, according to Vander. Still, I grip my sword in my hand as I creep to the barn.

Raker isn’t sleeping either. He looks up the moment I enter. Now both of his hands are tied in manacles, his arms chained above him on either side. I wonder what he did to earn that second shackle.

His sword is still on his back, but he can’t reach it. I wonder if he can still call upon it, locked up like this.

His eyes sear into mine as I step forward. They slip down my body with little interest, even though I do find my new outfit interesting.

“It’s soft,” I tell him about the fabric, knowing he doesn’t care at all. I smooth my hand down my leg, to convey my meaning.

“I’m glad you’re nice and comfortable,” he says, voice grating.

Right. I’m in a castle, and he’s here … in a stable. My nose crinkles. A stable that smells horrible.

He sighs. “Why are you here, Aris?”

“I—I wanted to make sure—”

“I wasn’t dying a brutal death? How thoughtful of you. I am, as you can see, perfectly alive.”

“Right.” I nod. “I—I brought you this.”

I’m about to toss the food at him when I remember the restraints. There’s a full cup of water a few feet away from him, clearly left as a taunt.

This demon deserves to starve, to thirst, but—that poison should also be mine. Even though he did it for his own selfish reasons, he took pain from me.

Slowly, I bend down to get the cup of water. He watches me with narrowed eyes, eyes of precision, someone who is used to sketching and enacting battle plans. Used to predicting all his enemy’s movements.

Right now, I’m moving toward him with the cup in my hand.

He’s so tall, even sitting down. I sink to the ground and—this isn’t going to work. He watches as I slowly lift onto my knees to get anywhere close to his height. He just stares at me, his gray eyes even more piercing this close.

Our faces are almost level. I lift the cup.

“What are you doing?” he demands through his teeth, eyes still narrowed, as if trying to ascertain my ulterior motives.

“I’m helping you, you cranky bastard.”

He glares at me. But when I slowly bring the cup to his lips, he drinks.

I watch his throat work with far too much interest. Everything about him is enormous. Muscled, but lean. I wonder—I wonder what—

I realize the water is gone and I’ve been ogling his body when he says, voice echoing into the empty cup, “See something you like?” I drop the cup. It thuds against the dirt.

His voice is cutting, full of brutal mirth. My cheeks burn.

“I could never like anything about you,” I say.

He tilts his head. “And here I was, thinking we were becoming friends.”

Friends. At that, I have to laugh. I want to turn and leave him here, the way I did before, but his face is still too flushed. “You’re feverish,” I say, leaning closer, feeling his heat.

“Poison will do that to you,” he says.

I sigh. Carefully, I reach my hand out, until the back of it touches his forehead. “So foolish of you, to save my life.”