Page 59 of Malicious Claim

Instructed.

Not begged?

Not Makros begged?

Instructed.

As if he were a deity and his word was absolute.

Makros had instructed me to eat.

So, I wouldn't.

I pushed the tray aside, and the fork scraped against the porcelain. The maid flinched, but I ignored her reaction.

"Take it away," I snarled.

The woman hesitated. "But madam he instructed—"

"I don't care what he instructed."

She hesitated a fraction of a second too long, and then jerked her head into a swift nod and took flight, tray raised high.

I rolled out of bed, feeling the dulled dizziness that always accompanied hunger, but I reveled in it. I pushed off the sheets and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. They fell onto the hard marble, anchoring me.

A burst of air brought the scent of the sweet, creamy fragrance of gardenias from beyond the balcony. I went towards it, sunlight pouring down upon me.

The view of the estate dropped away below—neatly manicured gardens, walkways of stone, a pool so still that it reflected the sky like glass.

I leaned onto the floor, starting with a few push-ups. Then I stretched out.

Deep lunges, spine twists, the slow stretches that had been a fixture in my morning routine—all before my life was taken from me. Finally, I sat to meditate, having no sense of time or purpose.

When I finished, my breathing was consistent, my body relaxed.

I remained in the sitting room across from the library all day, gazing at the rows of books that I did not want to read. I spurned the lunch presented to me, then the dinner.

Nobody had come to visit me. Not even Makros.

By nightfall, my belly folded in outrage, but I didn't mind. Each meal I avoided was a small victory, a reminder that for all his work, there were some things Makros couldn't get me to do.

I stalked the halls, soaking up the luxury. Every square inch of this mansion was meant to impress. Marble floors and vaulted ceilings and chandeliers that cost more than most men's lives.

The Cretes were a family who had profited in blood for all the wealth that surged around them.

I heard voices as I passed by Makros’s study.

I slowed down.

"A mole within the Crete household." Makros's voice was deep, but biting.

A pause.

Then another voice—one I didn't recognize. "First the guns. Then the prisoner. Someone is interfering, and you won't believe it could be one of yours."

One of the muscles in my jaw tightened.

So there was a mole.

---