Page 98 of Powerless

“Blue,” I say, my voice low.

“Hmm.” She’s looking at me thoughtfully, studying me sincerely. “I would have never guessed.”

Neither would I.

“And yours?” I ask, watching her as she thinks.

She opens her mouth and then shuts it, considering something. Her jaw sets. “I don’t have one.” With a small shrug, she asks, “Favorite food or dessert?”

“We’re in the middle of a Trial, and you’re asking me about my favorite food?”

She ignores me. “Well, I know it’s not rabbit. I see the way your mouth twists when you eat it—”

“I do not twist—” I pause, grinning. “Have you been looking at my mouth, Gray?”

She opens her own mouth to argue only to huff instead. “Just answer the damn question, Azer.”

I chuckle and spin her slowly. “Easy. Lemon tarts.”

She snorts. “You’re kidding. Lemon tarts? You’re a rich prince who could have any food he wants, and you would chooselemon tarts?”

“Yes,lemon tarts,” I mimic. “And now I’m making you eat some with me when we finally get out of here.”

“Over my dead body.”

My smile is wicked. “That can be arranged.”

And there she goes, making good on her threat to stomp on my toes, seeing that her feet are her only weapon at the moment. “Oops.”

“Vicious, little thing,” I murmur under my breath.

“You don’t know the half of it, prince.”

“Oh, but I hope one day I will.”

We are silent for a moment, studying each other before I finally say, “Tell me, what’s your favorite food then, since you seem to think it’s so much better than lemon tarts?”

“Oh, trust me when I say that it isfarbetter than lemon tarts.”

“Well don’t keep me guessing, Gray.”

She tilts her head up towards mine as she confidently says, “Butterscotch.”

“Butterscotch,” I repeat, committing the information to memory.

“Yes.” She smiles, but I see the sadness in it. “My father used to give out the candy to his patients. And every time he would fix up one of my wounds, or I would help fix up someone else's, we would eat butterscotch after as a sort of reward.”

We are quiet for a moment. “You two were very close.”

“We were,” she states. “But you and your father aren’t, are you? Not after what he’s put you through.”

I’m thankful for the lack of pity in her voice, though her disgust is clear. A quiet, bitter laugh escapes me. “No. I’m more soldier than son, and he’s more king than Father. It’s hard to be close when our only time spent together was training, and I didn’t exactly look forward to those encounters.”

“And your mother?” she asks quietly.

“She’s everything I could have asked for,” I state simply. “Everything I needed as a boy. She’s been one of the only constants in my life, a source of kindness and caring.”

“And yet,” Paedyn says hesitantly, “she let your father do what he did?”

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