Page 27

I carry my plate into the dining room and sit at the end of a table built for more people than have occupied this castle in decades. Candlelight flickers across the wood. The nearest pendulum clock ticks steadily from the corner, marking each passing second in a room otherwise completely silent. Usually, I prefer it that way, but tonight I keep looking toward the ceiling.

Boone is several floors above me. There is no possible reason I should expect to hear him from here, yet every few bites I find myself listening anyway. The habit irritates me enough that I finish dinner faster than usual, carry the dish back to the kitchen and wash it before turning toward the food remaining on the stove.

For a moment, I consider leaving it there. Boone won’t starve from missing a single meal, and I have no obligation to make his imprisonment comfortable simply because he volunteered for it. Then I remember how he looked when he arrived. His boots were soaked, his hands were trembling, and exhaustion was written across his face after climbing through snow that nearly brought his horse to its knees.

I reach for another plate and give him more than I gave myself. That irritates me too, enough that I nearly take some back before deciding the entire thought is ridiculous. Instead, I add two thick slices of bread from the loaf I baked yesterday and pour water into a glass. Once everything is arranged on a wooden tray, I stand there looking at it, trying to remember the last time I prepared a meal for anyone other than myself.

I can’t.

The walk back to his room feels longer than it did before. I climb the stairs with the tray balanced in one hand and follow the maze of corridors without thinking about the route. The castle is quiet again. The closer I get to his room, the more I listen for the pounding and pleading I heard earlier, but nothing waits for me beyond the door.

I set the tray on a narrow table and unlock it, expecting Boone to rush me the moment it opens. Instead, I push the door inward and hear nothing except the fire shifting behind the grate.

“Boone?”

His name feels strange in my mouth. I retrieve the tray and step inside, closing the door behind me before searching the room for the man who has managed to disrupt twelve years of solitude in less than a day.

I find him asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace, curled on his side with one arm tucked under his head and his knees drawn slightly toward his chest. His eyelids are swollen, his cheeks blotchy, with dried tear tracks disappearing into his hair. He hasn’t even bothered climbing into the bed. I set the tray on the table and move closer.

His clothes are still damp. The bottoms of his slacks are dark from the snow he trudged through on his way up the mountain. I crouch beside him and pinch the fabric of his sleeve between my fingers, finding it wet as well. He hasn’t changed, explored the room or done much of anything from what I can tell. He cried until exhaustion took over, then curled up in front of the only source of warmth he could reach.

I should wake him, but instead I stay where I am. The desire I felt in the tower returns with enough force that I can no longer dismiss it as nothing more than the novelty of having another person in my home after so many years alone. My attention lingers on the soft line of his mouth, then the brown hair fallen carelessly across his forehead. There’s no point pretending otherwise.

I want him.

I haven’t wanted another person in so long that I can’t remember the last time desire was anything more than a distant inconvenience, something easily ignored until it disappeared. Twelve years alone stripped certain needs of their importance. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about touch entirely—the warmth of another body, the weight of someone beside me, the simple pleasure of putting my hands on another person because I wanted to. Now Boone is lying within arm’s reach, and suddenly I remember all of it.

My eyes move over him again. He offered himself willingly in exchange for his father, and the bargain gives me the right to his body. The thought sends heat straight through me, and I shift my weight as my cock hardens inside my trousers.

Brown hair has fallen across his forehead, hiding part of his face. I lift my hand without giving much thought to the movement and brush the strands away from his skin. His hair is softer than I expected. My fingers linger for another second while I imagine what it might feel like if someday he leaned into my touch instead of recoiling from it.

His eyes open slowly, unfocused with sleep. The moment he sees me crouched over him, he scrambles backward, shoulders scraping across the rug as he tries to put more distance between us. One hand braces against the floor. His other arm draws close to his chest while he stares at me.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes.”

He blinks several times before answering. “I don’t have anything else to wear.” The words are quiet and hoarse after all the crying he’s done, but I hear them well enough.

I straighten and cross the room, yanking open the doors of the armoire. Shirts, trousers, sweaters, and nightclothes occupy the shelves and hanging rail inside, most of them untouched for years. I gesture toward them. The solution seems obvious enough that I shouldn’t have to explain it.

When I turn back, Boone has pushed himself into a sitting position and is watching me carefully. Then he smells the food. His attention shifts toward the table, first to the venison and vegetables, then to the bread. He stares at the two thick slices long enough that I wonder when he last ate. When he finally looks at me again, he seems uncertain whether the meal is actually for him.

“Eat.”

His shoulders jerk at the sharpness of the command, and I realize I’ve frightened him again. He doesn’t argue. He pushes himself off the floor, keeps a careful distance between us as he moves toward the table, then takes his first bite without even sitting down.

9

Boone

I’m so hungry that for a few precious minutes, I forget everything else. I forget that I’m a prisoner inside a castle I didn’t know was real until today, that my father is somewhere on the mountain making his way back to Villeneuve without me, and that the man responsible for both of those things is standing less than five feet away.

The smell of the food pushes everything else aside. I pick up one of the slices of bread and tear into it without bothering with manners. I can’t even remember the last time I ate. Sometime before Bramble returned without Dad, certainly, but everything since then has blurred together until I can no longer separate one hour from another.

I finish half the bread before reaching for the knife and cutting into the meat. The blade slides through it so easily that I pause before taking the first bite. It’s tender, seasoned with herbs I recognize from our own garden, and so flavorful that I chew more slowly the second time because I want it to last.

We haven’t eaten like this in years. Winter reduced most of our meals to whatever I could trap, preserve, or stretch far enough to fill two bowls, and even then, there were nights when I claimed I wasn’t hungry because there wasn’t enough for both of us. Dad never knew. At least, I don’t think he did. I’d gotten good at pretending I ate before he came into the kitchen or insisting I’d taken something with me while I worked. Watching him grow thinner frightened me more than the ache of an empty stomach.

I don’t stop eating until I become aware of how quiet the room has become. He isn’t eating. My hand slows halfway to the plate before I lift my eyes and find him watching me.