Page 103 of Devour
Half a dozen Drak pile in at once. Not enough for every Drahkita here but more than enough to be intimidating.
For the first time, I am able to pick mine out from the crowd. Though he wears his mask and hood pulled up over his head, his movements are more feline than the rest. His eyes… deeper, somehow.
And when those dark eyes meet mine, there is an intensity that unnerves me. He does not blink or glance anywhere in the room—he doesn’t even look where he’s walking. He just marches with smooth steps around the table, focused only on me.
My cheeks warm, and I look down at my lap, unsure what to do with such intensity. He plops down beside me without a word.
The other Drak act similarly. Quiet but with powerful presence.
There is silence for several minutes. The servants rush to get the Drak their desired beverages. I study the others in those minutes.
The two across from me stare straight ahead, a permanent crease between their brows. Their minds are not present. Their muscles tense in a way that seems painful.
They are miserable.
To my left, beside Jullian, a warrior sits straight as a rod. His expression is calm, though. If he is pleased to be with his Drahkita, the mother of his child, he does not show it. But he doesn’t appear to be prepared for battle at any moment either.
To my right is Cordy’s Drak. His eyes seem lighter, somehow. He watches her closely and smiles as she begins to tell him about their day. Everyone listens to Cordy’s tale about the dressmaker’s new purple fabric and how lovely it was on her alabaster skin.
“It was collected from Ruthend,” he tells her.
I tilt my head. “I thought rebels took that city?”
“Rebels have needs too,” Cordy’s Drak explains. “It will not last long under their command. For now, though, we trade.”
Cordy chats openly about the rebels and how terrible they are. She’s been here for years, what does she know of rebels? I consider asking her, but it matters little, as it’s clear she’s convinced.
Instead, I watch her Drak as she chatters.
His eyes follow her fingers as they illustrate her point. She looks up at him and smiles once, and I swear he stops breathing.
A wayward strand of hair drops into her face, and without a word, he reaches up and gently tucks it behind her ear. My stomach flutters.
“It is rare—a flower that can bloom underground.”
I blink and look up at my own Drak. My Dread. His eyes are intently on me, soft and curious. My cheeks warm, and I look back down at my hands.
“You rarely join us for dinner,” I comment.
“Helena came to badger me.” He nods to her in the corner, where she’s watching us with giddy laughter. She is more excited about our perceived success as a couple than anyone. “I decided it was best to encourage your acceptance.”
I want to ask him why he cares. I am not accepted, not really. Why pretend?
“It makes her happy,” I say instead. “For that, I’m thankful.”
My Drak does not respond to that, and moments later, I am wide-eyed as the previously stoic warriors turn rabid at the delivery of food. They scarf the meat down with slurps and growls, as if someone were going to steal it from them.
I take my bites slowly, a little horrified at the ferocity of their appetite.
I suppose blood is not their only sustenance. All five Drak finish their plates first and are left watching the women pick at theirs uneasily.
“Lina,” someone says from across the table. I look up to find the older, freckled Drahkita. Harabe, I remember. “You have your second reading tonight, I hear. I don’t recall you ever telling us about your first!”
“Oh,” I say, glancing up at my Dread. He shakes his head ever so slightly. “It was… strange.”
“Yes, we all remember how unnerving it can be that first time.”
A girl beside her leans in to whispers in her ear. Harabe straightens.
