Renaud sipped his wine, settling back in his seat. It was a risk asking him to delve into his past. It could send his mind hurtling back into the ether.
Though. . . my fear of that had faded. Interacting with him now, it was difficult to imagine him slipping back into a Nora-like fugue. It was subtle, but he burned with a hunger to live.
“I remember when I care to. But we haven't discussed your odd years yet.” A brush of malice across his face.
I choked on my wine. Please, by the old realm, not the odd years. “I thought you wanted to enjoy this evening? Let's not bore ourselves talking about me.”
“My halfling, I am anything but bored. But very well. You wish to hide things from me, and I will allow it for now because it's adorable you think there is anything about you I don't know. I wish you to be at ease.”
His gaze took on a distant look again, and this time I was more than happy to let him lose himself in the clouds. I wanted his mind far, far away from my odd years. I wanted to live through these negotiations.
“My sister perished when I was a child. She was like a mother to me. Mine was much involved in affairs of state.”
I set down my wine. That wasn't what I'd expected to hear. And I was even more shocked at the naked thread of pain in his quiet voice.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I lost my mother too.” As if he didn't already know. But for this one brief moment, I was willing to set it aside.
He refocused on me, though his gaze was still remote. “Something we have in common.”
“Death? Tragedy? Not a great basis for a long-term relationship.” I shifted in my seat. By the realm, was that presumptuous. “I meant—”
“I know what you meant, Aerinne. But you're wrong, you know. Pain binds people together even more tightly than love.” A beat of silence. “I know you crave pain—I taste it in your soul.”
His eyes paled to twin moons. “If you wish to hold that which you claim, then feed it anguish and joy from your own hand.”
ChapterNineteen
The Prick was talking about trauma bonding. That was why no one liked the Old Ones.
“I'll. . .pass on that. But thanks for the tip.”
A knowing, almost boyish grin curved his lips. “It's not the only method, of course. And not even the method I prefer. Sex is often a more effective binding.”
I choked again, certain this male had waited to say his most outrageous thoughts until I sipped my wine.
“By the gods, I highly doubt you’re that good in bed. You’re a Prince. No female would require you put in the effort.”
“A challenge,” he purred, tilting his head. “I can have you swearing I am your god in minutes.” The small table between us wasnoprotection. “Only give me leave, Aerinne.”
The confident set of his shoulders put my teeth on edge. He lounged there with such a goading look that I second-guessed myself, at a loss for words, blushing.
Mortifying.
Dark, masculine amusement slithered across his face. But he let me off the hook and began to serve our dinner.
I shifted in my chair and reached out to take the serving utensils away from him. “You shouldn't be doing that.” Renaud slapped my hands. I snatched them back and put them in my lap. “Fine.”
“Don’t pout.”
I stared as he lifted chafing lids to reveal the savory aroma accompanying grilled meat over a mash of green vegetables and potatoes.
“Who told you about mukimo and nyama chola?” I lifted a brow. “Who made it? A Fae?”
He piled a serving of the traditional dish onto my plate and watched me expectantly. “Try it.”
I did. Narrowing my eyes, I said, “This tastes awfully familiar.”
Renaud smirked, serving himself, and settled back in his chair. “It should. Your Aunt Fatma prepared it.”
