Page 50 of Griffin Food

My stomach flutters with nerves as I find Atlas sitting like a king behind a huge wooden desk in a stately study.

“You are to wait inside,” Posey whispers. “The Lord will instruct you on what he wishes.”

Atlas glances up, brows gathering in a scowl that makes me quake and full of uncertainty. I don’t know how it’s possible for him to look more imposing while sitting, but somehow, he does.

The door thuds shut behind me, trapping me alone with him.

His wings suddenly manifest behind him with a distinct snap. His frown deepens, and he mutters something under his breath, then sighs heavily.

They waft a little. Utterly resplendent. “They are so beautiful,” I murmur wistfully.

He glares at me. I shut my mouth and remind myself to be quiet and invisible like a good servant should.

“Put it on the table,” he says, tapping the wooden surface to his right.

“Oh, yes, of course.” I hurry over. The tray lands with a clatter. The wings are very distracting. I try not to look at them, but they move constantly, creating a draft that sends little wafts of his musky scent over me.

Not sure what to do with myself, I glance up and get a little lost in his strange, whirling eyes.

“Kneel,” he says gruffly.

“Kneel?” I squeak, confused.

His lips curve slightly. “Is my request in some way confusing?”

Yes. Very. “No, my lord.”

He gestures to a cushion on the floor beside him, which I only now notice. “Kneel, pet.”

I swallow. My tummy takes a slow tumble. A strange pulse kicks off deep in my core. I’m not convinced I want to kneel, but I don’t have a choice.

Round the desk, I gather my skirts and drop down to my knees on the indicated cushion.

“Good girl,” he says.

My eyes flash to meet his.

He was already intimidating when I was standing. From this lowly place on the floor, he’s a thousand times more so.

He smiles faintly, slides the tray in front of him, and pours himself a cup of tea.

I drop my gaze, but I’m hyper-aware of him the whole time he drinks his tea and eats his breakfast. I get a little fidgety when he pours a second cup. Kneeling on the floor is uncomfortable, even with a cushion.

He stills and glances down. “Is there a problem?”

I shake my head vigorously. “No, my lord.”

He sighs, sets the cup back on the saucer, and holds out his hand. I place mine in it, and he draws me to my feet.

“We’ll see if we can do better tomorrow, hmm? You may take the tray back to the kitchen and help Grace for the rest of the day.”

I’m dismissed. “Go ahead,” he says, when I only stand there gawking. “I have much work to do.”

I pop a curtsy, which feels ridiculous, and gather the tray. I bustle to the door. It’s awkward trying to open it while carrying the tray. I’ve never really paid attention to how servants do this so easily. I suppose it is practice.

There’s a lot of clattering—an alarming moment when I’m sure the whole thing will crash to the floor—before I finally get the damn door open and shuffle out.

That was very curious indeed. Not a hint of ravishment. Why am I disappointed? Maybe griffins do not, in fact, bed human women, or even chosen ones? Maybe they just like to watch?