Page 50 of White Raven

“Go ask your mormor if there is an extra room upstairs.” Frida nudged the young girl.

She nodded, disappearing into the crowd.

“Can I get you anything else?” Frida’s throat bobbed, her attention flicking to me.

Envy, hate, and pain raged in her eyes.

“No, thank you.” He addressed her with no emotion.

He might as well have slapped her, his dismissal locking up her muscles, her happiness wiped away, replaced by a harder woman. A woman that fit this place better.

She dipped her head and strode away.

He drank down some of the ale she poured only for him before digging into the porridge. I stared at him, the scent of overcooked barley wafting up my nose.

“Her eyes.” My statement was more a question. “They’re more purple than black.” Just like the men at Beggar’s Hole.

“Over generations people in the Shadow Rift have adapted their sight to the twilight here. It’s no different than having light blue or dark eyes, depending on where you live.”

I peered over at the woman in question. Across the room she still watched the Northerner intently.

“A lover of yours?”

His glower slid to me for a brief second. He took another bite of food, his attention moving over the room, noticing everything going on.

“Frida seemed quite⁠—”

A growl cut off my sentence.

“I’m just saying, if you need to take care of things . . .”

He inhaled and exhaled, his energy daggering the air.

“I think she really likes you.” A smile played on my lips, toying with him.

Another growl. “Eat.”

I scooped up my steaming porridge, not waiting for it to cool down. The first real sustenance I had had in days. I shoved the scorching porridge into my mouth.

And almost spit it back out.

It was bitter, burnt, and stale. My tastebuds cringed against the sour taste, struggling to swallow down the oats sticking in my throat. Not thinking, I snatched the cup from his hand, drinking down the remaining ale. The acidic, strong taste of fermented barley replaced the other, burning my nose, causing me to recoil and cough.

His hand stayed in the air like he was holding the mug, gawking at me. Stunned I would dare touch something of his . . . drink from the same cup.

Only a few days before, I would have gagged at the idea of using the same mug as the thrall. That my lips touched the same spot.

Swallowing back the prejudice still prickling my skin, I forced down the last drops of bitter ale. Wiping my mouth, I placed the cup back into his hand, my gaze never leaving his.

A challenge. A dare.

The tendon in his jaw twitched, which warmed me along with the alcohol. It felt comforting in an odd way, that I could invoke something in him.

He heaved an exasperated exhale, clanging down the cup and turning back to his food, his attention scouring the room like he was searching for someone.

Probably changed his mind about Frida.

“So, Onyx . . .”