Page 17 of Of Bargains & Betrayal

Framed by skin of a deep purple-gray and long, undercut hair as white as fresh snow, his silver-black eyes seemed to glow at me in the darkness. The question of my prison’s whereabouts resolved itself quickly.

I shrank back farther into the corner, clutching the bucket. “What?”

The man chuckled. “You haven’t eaten much in a few days. Barely drank either. Here,” he took a couple of steps towards me and extended a waterskin, “have some.”

Unease must have been written all over my face, because he tsked and took a healthy gulp before thrusting it back at me.

“Drink.”

My hand shook something fierce as I grabbed it.

I gave the contents of the skin a cursory sniff, and, goddess above, it reminded me of the crisp smell of spring streams that would run down the back of the fortress. A small, cautious sip, and I could’ve groaned. I took another sip, and another, and another. My jailer definitely told me to take it easy, but I just couldn’t.

When I’d finally drained the skin and handed it back, the man raised one of his stark-white brows. “Want some bread too?”

The rumble my stomach gave in response could have easily been agreement or a warning of danger, but I’d risk my luck for a chance at sustenance.

I blinked at him in disbelief before I nodded. The man smiled, a bright flash against deep gray, before he dipped his head and backed out of my cell. The barred door clanked shut behind him as he said, “Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

I scoffed at that. As if I could swing myself off my cot, even though the itch to check if my cell door was locked gnawed at me. Thankfully, my jailer’s absence was brief, and he returned with a bounty.

In his bracer-bound arms were not only a sizeable metal tankard and bread roll, but another blanket. It was as threadbare as the one wrapped around me, but that didn’t stop a tremor of relief from running through my body at the prospect of doubling that measly warmth.

He handed me the bread and tankard brimming with water before setting the blanket by my feet. “Thought that wouldn’t hurt. It’s the draftiest damned cellblock this side of the chasm.”

I gave the bread roll a testing squeeze. “You’ve seen the inside of a lot of cellblocks?”

“Plenty. Now, go on then.” He gestured at me. “Shut up and eat.”

Was it the most decadent bread roll I’d ever eaten in my life? Hardly. But it seemed relatively fresh, and that was more luxurious than any dungeon food I’d ever seen. Our prisoners were lucky if the oats they got were cooked that day, let alone ones delivered with consideration and amiable conversation.

When I’d made it through half my roll and was confident it would stay put in my stomach, I broached my next question without even looking up from the bread as I picked at it. “So, I’m in Grimmoria then? Or the Wastes?”

That, at least, had been easy enough for my simple mind to deduce. Full-blooded dark fae—Umbrites, specifically—like the one before me were a rare sight in Odessa, and the scarce few who settled in our lands always saw bountiful work in trades or education with their magic. Not as jailers.

“Grimm’s Keep.” A thoughtful hum. “Pretty damn far for an Odessan like yourself.”

I scoffed and kept chewing.

Grimmoria was weeks away from our borders, and my head hurt a little too fucking much when I tried to piece together what happened after we left the fortress, or when I tried to narrow in on how the hell I was in my betrothed’s dungeon being treated downright cordially by one of his guardsmen.

Unless he didn’t know who I was by an unfathomable stroke of luck.

That was a thought that took me so suddenly, it almost tumbled right out of my mouth. “The rest of the party I was traveling with,” I replied slowly instead, “they’re here somewhere too?”

His pause was unnerving.

“I’ve been assigned to keep watch over you, and you only, so—” He shrugged. “I take days; Jasper watches nights. That’s all I know.”

Two entire people dedicated to watching over me? That wasn’t comforting, and he definitely knew more than he was letting on. But years of guard training taught me well—prying in the wrong places never yielded fruitful results.

“And I’m sick or something? That’s why I’m being kept here?” I asked next. Stupidly, maybe, because why else would I feel so feverish and like a cavalry fleet had run me over?

“The old witch can’t seem to figure out what’s been ailing you, truthfully.”

“The what?”

“The witch?” He tipped his head, though I wasn’t sure if it was in confusion or amusement. “They…tend to the sick and wounded? Pump you full of tonics and tinctures? Usually old bats with awful attitudes?”