Just as he’s drawn to me, I’m drawn to him.
Now that I’m fairly certain he won’t strike me, I find myself aching for his touch.
The only male who’s ever touched me in an intimate manner is Lord Nevel, and I hadn’t liked his touch. Not even when he tried to be gentle the first few times.
But Tristan? The warmth that emanates from him makes me want to experiment with a male’s touch. Not just any male, but him. Only him. Perhaps I’ve gone mad if I’m craving the touch of my captor, but I can’t seem to suppress the longing and the eager curiosity.
My stomach suddenly emits a loud growl, and General Dalgaard gives me a concerned look.
“Sweet human, you sound famished. Forgive me for not providing the evening meal to you sooner.” He practically jumps to his feet and steps outside.
As soon as he’s gone, I’m finally able to draw in a full breath. What is it about him that makes me so flustered? I can scarcely form a coherent thought in his presence. I also can’t control the lustful urges that keep building inside me.
I can’t hear anything going on beyond the tent, and I’m certain the huge fae male warded the structure to not only keep me inside, but to prevent sound from traveling in and out. Earlier in the day, I’d heard the terrified screams of a human female, and only seconds later, everything went silent.
If he lifted the soundproof barrier, what would I hear? Would I hear the screams of my fellow humans? Would I hear prisoners being tortured?
Coldness grips me, and I wrap my arms around myself as I consider my plight and the plight of other humans in the camp. Orcs, too. As we’d landed next to the tent, I’d glimpsed a fewdark green forms on the camp’s edge. The chill that’s descended on me deepens when I think about the poor castrated, glamoured servants. The very servants that are likely fetching my dinner.
Is there any hope for humankind and orcs? What if the fae priestesses are right and a period of total fae rule over the known realm is inevitable? Will any territories remain untouched by the fae?
General Dalgaard enters the tent carrying a tray that holds two large, covered plates. He sets the tray on a table, then turns to face me. The warmth in his eyes chases away the remaining coldness brought on by my musings about the bloody war that might never end.
Technically, none of the four fae courts have declared war on the human and orc territories, though their brutality would suggest otherwise. Their response to a human or orc attack on a new fae settlement is always overzealous. For every dozen fae deaths, they claim the lives of a few thousand humans or orcs.
The general approaches me and gestures at the table. “Would you please join me for dinner, sweet human? As I’ve already told you, I would like to get to know you better. I think sharing a meal would be the perfect opportunity.”
I glance at the table, then meet his expectant gaze. My heart thunders in my ears, and giddy nerves soon descend. It’s difficult not to feel touched by the fact that he wants to get to know me. Lord Nevel didn’t care to know me. Not really. He only cared for one thing, and I paid the price when he couldn’t obtain it.
At last, I rise to my feet. As I face my captor, I’m forced to crane my neck just to peer up at him. Gods, he’s tall. About three full heads taller than me. If I had to guess, I would say he weighed four times as much as me. His shoulders are broad, and his muscles are massive.
He holds out a hand. “Join me?”
I sense his hope that I’ll take his hand. I also sense his genuine desire to converse with me over the meal. He wasn’t lying when he claimed he wanted to get to know me better.
I exhale slowly and stare at his hand, tempted to accept it but also anxious. His hands are so very large, and if he wanted to, he could easily hurt me. In the early hours of morning, I’d watched him strangle a human soldier with just one of those hands. He’d held the man up as though he weighed nothing and choked the life out of him.
I search the emotions that are billowing outward from General Dalgaard. Tristan. But I don’t sense any deceit or cruelty. He’s not trying to trick me. He’s not pretending to be kind just to later visit violence upon me. At least not now.
“Amelia?” His tone is encouraging, and he continues holding his hand out. Though I sense his struggle to remain patient, there’s truly no viciousness brimming within him, which is surprising for a fae male. His people aren’t known for patience, particularly highborn fae.
I draw in a deep breath and finally place my tiny hand in his much larger one. The awareness that passed between us earlier when our fingers touched not only resurfaces, but it ignites to a full-blown inferno of need. I almost retract my hand. Almost. Instead, I summon bravery and continue examining his emotions.
Warmth. Arousal. Pleasure. He’s overjoyed that I willingly placed my hand in his. He’s delighted to be touching me.
He guides me to the table, then releases my hand and pulls out a chair for me. Disbelief reverberates through me, and I’m unable to suppress a small gasp. No male has ever behaved so gentlemanly toward me. I search my memories but can’t recall a single time a man ever pulled out a chair for me, and I flush as I finally take a seat.
I’m hyper aware of Tristan’s large form hovering behind me as he pushes my chair up to the table. I’m his war prize, but thus far, he’s treating me like a female he’s courting. It doesn’t make sense, but perhaps I shouldn’t complain.
For the umpteenth time in his presence, my breath catches as he moves to the side but leans close as he removes the cover from my plate and sets it aside. I mourn the loss of his warmth when he settles in his chair across from me.
The delicious aroma of the food finally catches my attention, and I glance down to find a roasted turkey leg, fried squash, boiled potatoes, and something green and round for which I don’t have a name, a vegetable that must be native to the fae lands. The plate also holds a small bowl of some sort of berry cobbler. I don’t have a name for the berries either, though I recognize them from the forest. More than once, I’d enjoyed a handful for breakfast as I made my way north to Glenville.
“It looks delicious. Thank you.” I smile at Tristan as he lifts the lid off his own plate. It feels so natural sitting across from him, as though we’ve shared a thousand meals before.
He picks up a fork, and I do the same. “I hope you like it. If you don’t, I will be happy to have the servants fetch an alternative meal. Whatever you desire, Amelia, I want you to feel comfortable asking. I won’t deny you anything. Within reason, of course.”
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I say as I gather a bit of the fried squash onto my fork. “An alternative meal won’t be necessary.” Besides, I would hate to make the servants do extra work on my account. I would prefer to do what I can to make their lives easier.
