“Thank you, Twig. You can leave it
here.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy quickly places the tray down before hurrying out.
I look between them. “Your king forces boys that young to serve in his army?” I ask hotly. Twig looked barely ten years old.
Commander Rip reaches for the items on the tray, seeming unbothered by my tone. “He’s grateful to serve Fourth Kingdom.”
“He’s a child,” I snap.
“Watch your tone, pet,” Osrik growls, but the commander shakes his head.
“It’s alright, Os. She’s probably just hungry.”
My eyes flash with irritation. The last thing I ate was the slop for breakfast. Of course I’m hungry. But I’m not about to admit it, and it’s definitely not the reason why I’m pissed. Children shouldn’t be used.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
“No?” Rip replies mockingly. “Shame.”
He reaches for the tray and begins doling out three portions of dinner. I can smell rich, hearty soup, see curls of steam wicking up from each bowl. A large loaf of bread sits off to the side, with three iron cups that I really hope are filled with wine.
I could really use some damn wine.
Together, he and Osrik begin to eat, tin spoons dragging, the sound scraping against my nerves. I watch in agonized silence, and even though I try not to, my eyes follow every dip of his spoon, every bob of Rip’s throat.
Stupid. Why did I have to go and open my stupid mouth? I should’ve only opened it to shove food in.
“So, the cage is true then.”
My gaze snaps up from where I was watching his mouth, a sheen of broth covering his plush lips.
“Makes me wonder what’s in it for you.” Rip speaks conversationally, though his intense attention belies the easygoing tone.
My hunger tangles with my nerves, and knots together with my growing anger. The ribbons in my hand wind around my fingers, squeezing. “You don’t need to wonder anything about me,” I reply hotly.
“I disagree.”
Every time one of them lifts the spoons to their mouths and drinks down more soup, I seethe. When Osrik tips the whole bowl back and gulps it down, my anger snaps. “It kept me safe. That’s what was in it for me.”
Rip angles his head. “Safe from whom?”
“Everyone.”
Silence breeches the wall between us, slipping between the cracks. I don’t understand this game he’s playing. I don’t know the ramifications of my responses.
Rip reaches for the third bowl and begins to slowly push it toward me, iron scraping over rough wood in a loaded path. My mouth waters.
When it stops directly in front of me, my eyes flick up to him.
“Eat, Auren.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is that an order, Commander?”
Instead of rising to the bait of my taunt, he slowly shakes his head and lifts up his soup, dark eyes watching me over the rim of the bowl. “I think you’ve had enough orders, Goldfinch,” he murmurs with a silken tone that makes me fidget in my seat.
His reply causes my eyes to lower with a weight I don’t know how to measure. I don’t know why his answer bothers me so much, but it does.