Page 49 of Griffin Food

My cheeks are hot with shame.

Not only shame, I admit, for there is arousal all mixed up with a softness that is unmistakably love for Rafe and Lark. I regret nothing that happened, and certainly not my bonding to two beta men, not even that Atlas and his select pride members watched. My only regret is that I did not recognize what Rafe and Lark meant to me sooner.

How my sister would scorn my choice of two such lowly men, and how I pity her narrow mind. She might have an alpha of high standing, but I have found something far more precious than status or wealth—I have found true love with men who have demonstrated their nature through deeds a thousand times over.

Finished washing my body, I focus on my filthy, knotty hair. Scrubbing it vigorously, rinsing, and repeating until it is squeaky clean. Then I apply some of the soft hair balm I find in a little pot and work the comb through.

Little bruises dot my breasts. My lips are tender and puffy… my pussy is very sore indeed. It clenches savagely as I remember staring at what Lark did to me. I can’t believe he put his whole… I mean… Goddess, it was compelling. A tingling awareness spreads between my thighs just thinking about it.

I wonder if he will do it again, even without my heat. Whether I would like it… need it.

Shamelessly, I think that I shall.

I wish I still had my diary. This must be many pages worth of notes. I have kept a journal since I was little and, where possible, completed it every day. To think of it lying lost and forgotten on the forest floor, where it will rot and turn to dust, fills me with sorrow.

Maybe if I asked Atlas would go back and find it?

Maybe not…

Why I’m worried about it, when I should be worried about what’s happening to Lark and Rafe, eludes me. Maybe my mind is conjuring things worse than reality. I mean, perhaps they’re merely helping the other servants, like I appear to be. Maybe I’m reading this all wrong.

“It’s only me,” Grace calls brightly from behind the curtain. She ducks around it, bustles in, and drops a pile of clothes on the stool beside me. “I’ll be back shortly, then we’ll get you some breakfast.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, realizing my skin is starting to wrinkle I have been in here so long.

Quickly climbing out of the bath, I dry myself and survey the clothes. Stockings… A long shift, but no underwear. Next comes a woolen dress—a simple garment with crisscrossed braids at the front that can be pulled for fit. My old boots have been cleaned and polished, though there are plenty of scuffs from travel. Still, they are serviceable.

My hair is long, very curly, and I’m pulling the drying strands into a long braid when Grace returns.

“There, looking much better,” she says brightly. “Come with me, lass. Let’s get you some food.”

I’m taken to a bustling kitchen where I feel incredibly shy. Not that anybody appears to pay me any attention as Grace sits me down at the huge central table and brings over a hefty platter—boiled eggs, cured ham, cheese, fresh bread, and soft butter that tastes delicious when I slather it over the bread with honey.

I’m ravenous and tuck into it with enthusiasm.

The rest of the kitchen workers continue to ignore me as they go about their duties.

A pot of tea arrives next. I sweeten it a little with honey. Everything is simple but tasty.

As I’m finishing up, a young woman begins to prepare a tray beside me: a pot of tea, a cup and saucer, and a plate filled with similar breakfast food topped with a silver dome.

“I’m Posey,” she says, smiling. “I’ll show you where the Lord’s room is so you can take him his refreshment.”

I wipe the crumbs from my mouth with a napkin and rise.

“Where should I put these?” I glance around, wondering if I should clear my empty plates away.

“I’ll tidy it up afterward.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “The time is getting on. We mustn’t keep his lordship waiting. He’s very particular about punctuality.”

I pick up the tray she has set. It is heavy and cumbersome… I’m not well practiced at being a servant and feel a little churlish that this is to be my lot. There are worse things, I reflect, but still…

She escorts me through the eyrie, chatting happily as we walk. She points out things I’m sure to forget: the barracks, the stores, the training grounds, the Great Hall, and the corridors that lead to the quarters and the workshop.

“This is the master’s study,” Posey says as we stop before a grand wooden door. “We always knock, await his permission to enter, and then go in.”

The tray is large and heavy. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to knock while holding it, but she smiles and knocks for me.

A gruff call comes from within. She pushes the door open and steps aside so I can enter.