Page 5 of These Immortal Truths
Anna stares into the fire between them, watching the bark curl and blacken and tries not to think of how her skin should have done the same.
“You haven’t eaten.”
Anna looks down at the strip of dried venison in her hand and her stomach sours. “I’m not hungry.”
“A lie,” he says, prodding the fire. “You haven’t eaten since, what? Yesterday?”
Was it only yesterday that the soldiers kicked down her door? It feels so much longer. Her last meal—
Her thoughts stutter, remembering the taste of syrupy sweet flesh rolling on her tongue and how it seemed impossible for anything to taste like the divine. How, in the moments before the fruit was offered, the promise was made.
Death will not come for you.
Anna’s mouth goes dry. “It was the fruit, wasn’t it? The tao? That’s what did it.”
“Táo,” he corrects, eyes gleaming. “I told you it was a gift.”
Except, her whole life, Anna has learned that no gift comes without strings. Not for her. “Why?”
“Why not?” He leans back, hands resting on his knee as he regards her closely. “Do you regret accepting it?”
Anna closes her eyes, trying to interpret her feelings without the flames licking at the edges of her vision. “I don’t know.”
Admitting it feels like spitting on a gift from the gods, but instead of being met with anger, he hums approvingly. “An honest answer. You’ll lie about your hunger, but tell the truth about this. You certainly are a refreshing change of pace.” His fingers lace over his knee. “Worry not. You’ll have plenty of time for it to grow on you.”
She doesn’t have much choice but to take his word for it. There is no regret in living through what would have been a horrible death, but the idea of forever is so fathomless she can’t wrap her head around it well enough to tell how she feels. It’s like asking her opinion on a place she’s never seen, or a song she’s never heard. Time will tell.
She shifts, eager to steer the conversation elsewhere. Something nags at her—something one of the soldiers said before they lit the kindling and watched her burn. “Why were they after you?”
His brows draw in, a fleeting moment of confusion, before understanding smoothes it away. Anna’s not sure if it’s the warmth of the fire or the flickering shadows, but she swears she catches a satisfied smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “They believed I poisoned their lord.”
She never knew the lord, not personally. Everything she did was out of sight and out from underfoot. Still, the news that he was murdered makes her stomach stir uncomfortably. “Did you?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “I only told his eldest son what to slip into his drink and where to find it. He’ll do a great deal better job than his troll of a father.”
His eyes slide to hers. “You wouldn’t know this, but his people were nearly as hungry as you were.”
It seems impossible. The ache in her belly was so strong for so long. Anna winces. “The crops?”
His lips thin. “His lordship’s expensive tastes.”
She thinks of the bright silks and glittering jewelry—the tragically beautiful face—he wore when she first found him in the woods and doesn’t dare ask more. Some truths are too hard to hear.
His stare is unnerving. Measuring. Anna wonders if he’s regretting his choice yet.
She tears the venison into smaller strips, just to keep her hands busy and give an excuse to look away from him. “Where are you taking me?”
“A dear friend’s,” he answers, voice warm. “You’ll suit each other.”
Anna doesn’t know what he means, but she’s too afraid to ask. She hasn’t lived with anyone since she was exiled—the thought of her suitinganyoneis almost laughable. “So you won’t keep me.”
“Keep you?” he echoes, amusement flirting at the edges of his lips. “Are you something to be kept, Anna?”
She shrugs, nibbling at a corner of the jerky. “I was, once. Until they no longer wanted me.”
The hint of a smile dims, turning thoughtful. “I do not keep you because you’re not mine. You belong only to yourself.”
Anna doesn’t understand the difference. For the past decade, exile and freedom have meant the same thing. It was the hunger in her belly, the quiet loneliness that made her itch for the touch of something real.
