The boy is bent over, staring down at his bloody hands. In front of him is a sea, but it’s not a normal blue one. It’s crimson, the waves high. A village surrounds the boy. He seems pained…in agony.
I don’t blink as I stare at it. The main thing that gets me is the blood on his hands—as if he did something he never should have done.
“Let’s go.” Patanza’s agitated voice slices through my thoughts and I blink rapidly, hurrying after her.
When we are at the end of the corridor, she opens two white french doors and walks in. Inside the room is a dining table. This table can seat at least twenty people.
In the middle of the table, on the left side, there is a place already set up. A silver tray has been placed there, and I can smell the food from where I stand.
Salty.
Sweet.
Savory.
My mouth waters and the urge to shove Patanza out of the way just to get to the food seizes me, but I maintain control. I don’t want to look desperate or greedy.
She shuts the door behind us and then steps to the far corner. “Go. Eat.” She lifts a hand, gesturing to the covered tray.
I side-eye her before going for the food. With each step, I’m taking in the set-up of the dining room. The high ceilings and large chandeliers make it appear elegant, but the portrait on the wall across from the door is what throws it off scale.
It’s a portrait of the boss. It’s like the others along the stairwell. His face is serious, his jaw locked, but unlike their eyes, his aren’t as dark or cold.
His brown irises swim with confidence and wickedness, yes, but there is also something else there.
I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but I know it isn’t a bad thing.
I pull the chair out slowly and it scrapes the floor. My eyes flicker up to Patanza. Hers are narrowed, watching me very carefully.
I sit down and slide the wooden chair in, studying the domed serving tray. I look to the right and there is only a spoon. It’s plastic.
I look up at her again and a smirk is on her lips, but she’s no longer looking at me. Her arms are locked tight over her chest.
No knives or forks. I’m glad they are taking me seriously.
I lift a hand and take off the lid. A waft of steam runs across my face and the mouth-watering increases. There’s baked chicken, broccoli, and a sweet potato with butter and cinnamon inside of it.
My insides are in a frenzy now. My belly rumbles with joy. I pick up the spoon and immediately dig into the potato. The smooth, sweet taste sweeps over my taste buds and I shut my eyes for a brief moment, sighing.
It’s good.
So good.
I dig into the broccoli with my hands, leaving the spoon standing in the sweet potato. My teeth bite into the chicken, snatching off a piece and chewing quickly. Bite after bite seems to only get better.
I’ve had way better meals than this, but it’s been six days since the last time I’ve had a decent one, minus the protein-filled breakfast given to us this morning. I moan as I eat more of the sweet potato.
A door across from me opens up rapidly and a tall, young man walks in with a pitcher in one hand, a cup in the other.
I pause on digging into the chicken, swallowing the chunk that’s already in my mouth. He looks at me with quirked brows, moving quickly as he meets at my side.
“Té?” He places the cup down and lifts the pitcher of iced tea in the air.
I bob my head. “Yes, please.”
He pours away and I pick it up quickly, guzzling it down. When I’ve finished, he pours another, but I take note of his stunned expression.
I can’t believe I’m being so barbaric, but for all I know this could be my last meal. My last day. Like Patanza said, I better make it count.
What the hell, right?
“Thank you,” I breathe, smiling crookedly as I place my half-empty glass down.
He simply nods his head, topping my drink off before walking back out of the dining room. I catch the look he gives Patanza and she shakes her head, laughing silently.
They’re mocking me.
I couldn’t care less.
I finish my meal in a matter of minutes. By the time I’m done, all that’s left is the peel of the potato, specks of green from the broccoli, and the bare bones of the chicken.
Patanza pushes off the wall and flicks her wrist. “Clean yourself up,” she mutters as she steps closer.
I grab the hand towel that was beneath the tray and wipe off, pushing out of my chair and standing as I do. I toss the towel down and then step over, looking towards the french doors. A shadow appears. Someone is coming.