Page 38 of The Enemy's Daughter

His head drops. “Not anymore.” He continues to move up the stairs, and the closer he gets, the more his emotions and sincerity mist over me. They all resonate with what he’s saying.

It means I’m equally exposed. My foot finds the step behind me. “I don’t care.”

There’s a brief pressure on my mind as his forest-green eyes study my face. Then one corner of his lips curls upward. “Come.” He holds his hand out. “You should have some fesber tea.”

He’s right. I should. But as his fingers reach for me, I can only stare at them. The ghost of the feel of them comes back to me. The way they wove together with my hands. How his thumb moved over my skin. If I touched him now, would we connect again?

Does he really think I’m stupid enough to try?

“Lead the way,” I say, then gesture for him to go down the stairs.

13

In the kitchen, Tristan pulls out one of the padded leather chairs near the dark, amber-colored table for me. They’re in incredible condition and look far more comfortable than anything we have in Hanook. It’s a punch to the gut. A stark reminder of their hoarding and all they’ve done to leave the clans with nothing but crumbs. I opt to lean against the wall, staying closest to my exit, all while trying to hide how out of breath I am.

Tristan opens a large metal cupboard, and I’m shocked when cold air drifts out and touches my legs. I move closer and the coldness intensifies. But from what I can see, there’s no block of ice.

I sense Tristan’s amusement, which makes me self-conscious. I return to my spot by the wall. “I’ve read about these cold storage units in books.”

Tristan bites his bottom lip. “It’s called refrigeration. Some people only have freezers because they’ve lasted longer. If you want, I can explain how it works.”

There’s a gentleness to his offer, and I am curious. But the only information I should be extracting from him right now is clues onhow to escape. “Maybe another time.”

“Okay. Can I get you something to eat?”

I shake my head, thinking of all the food I hid in my room before Enola took away the supper tray. He closes the door, and I watch him move about the kitchen with the same grace he had in the forest. There’s nothing weary or weak about his movements. “Is fesber tea really all you’ve been drinking to make yourself better?”

He glances back at me over his shoulder, then opens a cupboard. “Pretty much. But I had to guzzle the stuff for days. I’m still not feeling great.”

I’m not sure I buy that. “You’re a million times better than me.”

He turns to face me. Takes a slow breath. “I know you think I only want to get inside your head, but I could... help you share the load of the remaining poison. Make up for time you lost getting better because of Caro and Annette.”

A knowing smile slips over my face. That didn’t take long. “No, thanks. I’ll stick with the tea.”

He shrugs, then opens another cupboard and pushes the items around before grabbing a medium-size bowl from the top shelf. “I’ll keep the fesber and white thistle here, so you can make it yourself as much as you’d like. The mugs are...”

I point to the cupboard he just shut. He reopens it. “Right.”

“Why does it seem like you don’t know where anything is in your house?”

“Because it isn’t my house. Or, it wasn’t until a few days ago. It was my father’s.”

“Oh.” My ribs constrict as my gaze drops to the floor.

“Me, Samuel, and my cousin, Ryland, have a place a couple of streets over.”

Ryland is his cousin—that’s why they look alike. That also explains why Tristan’s bedroom was so impersonal—like a guest room with his extra clothes and leftover childhood things.

The kitchen grows silent as he stuffs two mugs with the herbs, then fills a funny-looking metal pot with water. With the press of a button, it begins to heat. It’s like magic.

What a world of privilege he gets to live in.

Questions burn on my tongue, and I rethink not asking them. After all, it was Annette, and not Tristan, who locked me in my room. I point to the pot. “I’ve seen other small appliances like this before, but nothing that would power them.” It takes work to keep the bitterness from my voice. “What do you use to make electricity?”

Tristan’s eyes narrow on me before he props a hip against the counter. “There’s a hydropower facility on the river. It’s been there since before the bombs hit. We’ve managed to maintain most of that, and traders know we’re always on the hunt for parts. We also have a coal mine, which may one day be a source of power if we get a few more parts, but for now is how we heat our homes.”

I exhale, stunned. “So, this place”—I gesture around me—“really is a piece of the old world? How was it spared from everything? The bombs? The war for resources that came after?” It’s such a blow to learn they haven’t struggled like we have by being forced to build everything from scratch. How could we not have known that? “Have you always been here?”

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