Ravaged Captive (Wren's Song 4)

Eyeing the abundant spread, enough mouthwatering dishes waiting to feed an army, Wren yanked lightly on her arm.

Muscle in his jaw ticking, it clearly took Kieran a great deal of effort to lift his fingers one at a time from her wrist. And off she went to the table, impatient to be free of the Second, eager to have an excuse not to look upon the First, but mostly famished.

Pastries and meat—steaming meat seasoned with herbs. Root vegetables, salads, sauces, all the decadence the typical green sludge was not. Though, had Caspian offered her barrels of sludge, she would have sucked it down to fill the hole in her belly.

The unseen rise of his brow colored Caspian’s question. “Did you not feed her?”

A deadpan, was offered in reply. “I fed her often.”

Even with warm food in her mouth, a chill crept up Wren’s spine at Kieran’s tone.

Swallowing the food stuffed in her cheeks, she reached for a folded napkin, wiped her hands, and turned around.

“Keep eating, mouse.” Even moderate, there was something under Caspian’s order. “And don’t forget your dessert under the silver dome.”

Both males were watching her in very different manners, Wren’s eyes darting from one to the other. Caspian was calculating, lounging in his chair. Kieran was ominous, staring at her as he was wont to do.

Still hungry, Wren hesitated. That was when she looked past her own discomfiture to notice the room. It was more than the table laden with fine cuisine. It was the stale nature of the place.

It was the bed adorned with the finest nest she’d ever built—still intact. A nest she had enjoyed for less than an hour before she’d been paraded in front of Caspian’s men and made to watch Toby beat her boy bloody.

No one had touched it. No other female scent wafted under the delicious aromas emanating from the table.

Caspian had not despoiled her nest or this room the entire time she’d been gone.

Their eyes met, the male neither addressing what must have been a question on her face, nor challenging her appraisal.

He wanted her to look at him.

Free of his coat, cheek freshly shaven, commanding, male, and powerful. Seated, so they were of equal height.

Familiar.

“Eat.” How Caspian managed to drench one gently spoken word with so much arduous command, she’d never know.

Wren wanted to eat his food, not solely because she hungered, but because instinct commanded she take the male’s offering.

A beautiful offering of more than sustenance. An offering she had taken for granted, stuffing it into her mouth with her fingers like she had.

It had not been appreciated or fully recognized.

So she did it now, savoring a moment so rare.

A single place setting waited.

Fork, knife, spoon, silver-rimmed bone china plate.

There was even creamy linen. Had the table boasted flowers and candlelight, it would have been straight out of an old painting.

Fingertips brushing the crisp fabric, Wren hummed, mind full of the wonderful dress she could make out of this panel. It wouldn’t last five minutes in the squalor of the Warrens, but for those brief, pristine moments, it would have been grand.

Better than her dress made from fancy, old curtains.

Lifting the waiting plate in careful fingers, the smoothness of china, the fact there wasn’t a single crack or chip was marvelous. So clean she could see herself in it, it was turned so the light might play off the sheen.

Plenty of times during salvage she’d come across old, cracked remnants of some long dead person’s fine dishes.

Some with painted flowers or intricate designs.

But this simple bone china with light detail and a high polish—this was prettier by far. Though it would have been frivolous and held no true value in the Warrens, she would have snatched it from whatever lair she’d haunted and kept it in her box of treasures.

Her boys would not have been allowed to touch it.

Before she realized what she’d done, the plate was cradled to her breast, realization that her box of treasures was buried so deep under the mud that it would never be salvaged, spoiling her joy.

An impatient male noise at her back, and Wren lost the far off look in her eyes, cheeks stained with an embarrassed flush.

Setting down the dish, a sheepish twist to her mouth, she signed to Caspian. It’s very pretty.

“Spell out what you just said.”

She did, brows drawing together to find that he was actually paying attention to her hands.

It took a moment, before Caspian strung the gestures into meaning, but he did. He’d learned her alphabet. “Pretty.”

And she was all shock, nodding, fairly certain the expression on her face was laughably stunned.

Chapter 10

Pasta in enough cream sauce to drown a rat. When Wren had taken the time to pay attention to the offerings, that was what her shaking hand reached for.

Noodles drenched in heaven.

It had been years, years, since she’d eaten anything nearly this frivolously decadent. Real cheese, real cream, from real cows. Nothing powdered, and by the texture, she imagined the linguini was handmade and fresh.