Page 52 of Wings of Lies
I bit my lip, feeling the itch, hating him even more.
He set it beside him. “Prince Aspen has your keys.”
Great.
I stood and waited for his arrogant bastard to return. While I did, a neon orange bug the size of a piece of rice landed on my arm. Another landed next to it.
“Firewings. Don’t let them bite you,” Brock said, unconcerned despite his warning.
I looked warily between him and the orange bugs. “Why?” They were cute.
“It burns. And once bitten, it’s a beacon to its swarm that they’ve found a meal.”
Wonderful.
“But don’t squash them either. It’ll end with the same result.”
Gritting my teeth, I asked, “What the hell do I do then?”
He shrugged, then said, “They don’t like fire.”
That was ironic.
I leaned my left side near the fire. The uncomfortable heat pinkened my skin, and the bugs flew into the night sky. I followed their bright bodies, wishing I could escape as easily as them.
The food was cold by the time my arrogant jailor came back. But it didn’t matter. I’d eat it. My body needed food.
As he approached, Brock gestured to my plate, then my hands. “She can’t eat. And if I fed her, she’d likely bite my fingers off.”
He never offered that option. Although, the thought of maiming one of them brought a twinge of happiness. But it wouldn’t have made a difference. I’d rather kneel on the ground and shove my face into my plate of food like a stray dog than let those worn, calloused fingers come near me ever again.
Like I had a choice.
My princely jailor walked directly into my path, adorned with a cloak similar to Brock’s, only black. He inserted himself in the small space between me and the fire. I wished I could have held my ground and make him back up a few steps, so he’d catch fire. But this was where hopes and wishes died. Instead, I was the one to back up.
“I don’t think she has the guts to bite anyone’s fingers off. Do you?”
I narrowed my eyes. A trickle of indignation tickled the tips of my fingers. “Wanna find out?”
His cold gaze slowly roved over me, taking in everything from my wavy limp locks to my scrawny ankles. By the muscle pumping in his jaw and the ire warping around his chilling gaze, I could tell he found me lacking.
“No. I want you to eat your food and be quiet,” he snapped, walking around me to unlock my cuffs.
The release of my wrists eased the tension in my shoulders, pulling out a blissful sigh from my mouth. Finally, I stepped toward my plate, eager to sink my teeth into the food, not caring it had a rubbery sheen. Inches away from snatching up the plate, my arm jerked back, tethered to something.
What the…
My eyes traveled down my arm, to the metal cuff, to the other metal cuff attached to a thick muscular wrist, and back up to the expressionless mask on my princely jailor’s face.
“Seriously?”
“The cuffs don’t work unless they’re both locked,” he stated, glaring at me like I was the one who forced him to cuff himself.
“Uh, you couldn’t, I don’t know, cuff the same wrist twice? Or lock them in front of my body instead of chaining me to…” I eyed him up and down, giving him a taste of what it felt like, and snorted. “Well, you.”
He tensed as his eyes… Glowed? The firelight highlighted his left side, leaving his right in shadow. But both his eyes and something red under his chin were lit.
“Remember she wants her alive, Prince Aspen,” Brock said, carving into a chunk of wood. Unphased.
