Page 83 of Snag
“Yes,” Rought says easily. Then he scoops perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs onto a quarter of my plate.
“As it should,” the Outcast says from the table.
Rath pivots with a plate literally piled with protein — more of the scrambled eggs, two types of sausage, bacon, and ham — and places it in front of his uncle. The serving of food to his pack leader is casual but filled with meaning.
“Where’s your brother?” the Outcast asks, meaning Reck.
“Not invited.” Rath begins steadily building an identical plate of food for himself.
“And why is that?” the Outcast asks, picking at his eggs. The only nonprotein item on his plate appears to be a single roasted tomato.
Rought fills the remainder of the space on my plate with crispy hash browns. Then he winks at me when he catches me watching.
It’s possible I’m drooling, just a little. And not just over the mound of potatoes. If I could fall for my gryphon shifter all over again, I probably would in this moment.
“And one of those tomatoes?” I ask in a whisper.
“I’ve got you,” Rought says, already spearing a tomato with a serving fork.
I reach for the now-full plate, but with a tiny shake of his head, Rought pivots to deposit it before the seat to the Outcast’s right. Then he pulls out the chair for me.
I sit, wanting to playfully protest but also aware that I’m the Conduit in this room, not the lovesick schoolgirl I dissolve into when I’m around Rought. Not that I was ever like that as a …
Well, I guess I don’t know how I was around any of mysoul-bound mates when I was young. Nor have I had the privilege of attending an actual school.
Rath settles with his plate directly across the table.
“Please eat,” the Outcast says to me.
I obligingly take a bite of the hash browns, following it with another, far more generous bite. They are perfectly crispy and salty on the outside, fluffy and starchy on the inside. With maybe a touch of paprika?
The Outcast grins at me, nibbling on a piece of bacon. He’s barely touched any of his other food, even though Rath is already a quarter of the way through his just-as-full plate.
Rought sets a freshly pressed apple juice next to my plate, then lowers himself into the chair next to me. He, at least, has some potatoes mixed in with his mound of protein.
The Outcast looks pointedly at the empty setting to Rath’s left, requesting a response to his inadequately answered question without asking it again.
“He’s Authority,” Rath states evenly, still shoveling food in his mouth as quickly as he’s chewing and swallowing.
“He’s one of your bond group.”
Rath’s fork pauses in midair for a moment as his gaze flicks to me.
The Outcast follows his gaze.
I take a sip of my apple juice. “Not my call.”
“It is always your … call, weaver.” The Outcast frowns, glancing at Rought and Rath again.
“That’s not why we’re here,” Rath says.
“Yes. I do note that you’re still wearing your cut. Your bond, as nascent as it is between Zaya and Rought, is incomplete.”
So the Outcast can scent soul ties, or maybe even all essence-imbued bonds. It’s another intriguing glimpse of the power he holds, though that sensitivity might be due to the bond — through both blood and pack — that he holds with his nephews.
“This is about you, Uncle.” Rath still sounds perfectly calm, even deferential. “Not us.”
“Tell me, then.”
