Page 109 of Feralheart

“How?”

She compressed her lips, saying nothing.

I sighed out a growl and backed away from her when all I wanted to do was touch her.

Kiss her.

“You’re packing wrong,” I said with a huff, turning to the sack still lying on the counter beside her.

She blinked. “What?”

I grabbed her bag and dumped everything out.

She reached for the sack. “Wait⁠—”

“This will mold in two days.” I held up the bread. “You need dried biscuits. There are some in the pack in your room.”

“Someone said there would be five trials. I might need more.”

Hence her stealing from the kitchen.

“Pantry. Left side.” I was already moving, grabbing what she’d need. Dried meat. Biscuits I wrapped in oiled cloth. A water flask, though I’d already made sure she had a good one. Small containers of fresh produce and fruit, spelled to ensure they wouldn’t rot.

I packed it the way I’d been taught. Weight distributed, most-used items accessible.

“Why do you know where everything is?” she asked.

Because I’d been trained to survive anything except the soft look in her eyes when she realized I was helping her.

“Why wouldn’t I?” I said instead.

She sniffed. “Why are you always helping me?”

I could give her the strategic answer. That keeping competitors alive longer made the race more interesting. That it benefited the crown to show mercy. Or I could give her the practical answer. That she’d survive longer with the right supplies.

“Because,” I said slowly, “I have learned, recently and against my will, that I’m not whole. Not the way I thought I was.”

Her swallow took a long time going down.

“There are parts of me I only discovered existed the moment I understood they could be taken,” I said. “I don’t know what all this means, but I know I can’t watch something happen to you.”

My hands kept moving, checking the weight distribution in the pack, a detail I’d learned from trainers who’d prepared me for scenarios where supply lines failed, and you had to live on what you carried.

This was insane. I was the crown prince, and I was stealing food from my own kitchens to help a woman who made it clear I was part of her oppression.

Because I was. Or I had been. I actually wasn’t sure what I was any longer except needy in a way I’d never been before.

I added dried fruit.

“You have a larger bag,” I said. “With clothing. Food. A good-sized tin of burn salve.”

Her frown deepened. “You gave that to me, didn’t you?”

“You misheard me,” I said.

Her lips curled up at one corner before she smoothed them. “Right. I didn’t hear you tell me you were carrying around a second tin of salve, which implies you gave me the first.”

“Put this sack in your bag, near the top so your food doesn’t get crushed.”