Zeph glares at me, but I don’t buy that his cream-filled center is comprised of only heartless asshole. I’ve seen things that prove otherwise. He’s still annoying as fuck though, and I don’t have the energy to engage right now. My arms give out, and my efforts to protect Treno result in me just half lying on him and listening to him breathe. It’s comforting in a weird way, which is good because I can’t move.
“You need to eat,” Ryn declares, and he stands up and moves over to the llama-goat.
He pulls out a long knife and starts doing things that turn the animal from dead carcass into future dinner. Surprisingly, I’m not revolted by the sight of him skinning, draining, and removing and cleaning things. He moves fluidly and with purpose, and I can’t help but recognize almost a soothing poetry to his sure actions. Or maybe I’m just so hungry that I couldn’t take my eyes off of the meat even if I wanted to.
A massive hand places a pile of what look like black berries in front of me, and I look over to see Zeph moving away. I watch him for a beat as he pulls out a long sharp-looking dagger thing and starts peeling the pink not-watermelons. I pop a blackberry in my mouth as I watch him, wishing I could peel back his gruff exterior the same way he’s peeling the fruit in his hands.
Juice fills my mouth as I start to chew the berry, and I quickly realize that these couldn’t be further from the blackberries I know and love. I spit out the rancid fruit and simultaneously gag and try to wipe my tongue with the blanket still around me.
“What the fuck?” I demand as Ryn comes striding over, a concerned look on his face. Zeph just looks offended by my reaction to his offering, but what else is new? “That tastes like raw rotten fish!” I declare, looking at them and the pile of fish berries like they’ve each betrayed me.
Fucking nasty!
“They’re grot fruit. They’ll help you heal faster and get back on your wings quicker,” Ryn explains, as if somehow knowing the name of the nasty, treacherous berries will make them more palatable.
I try and fail not to flinch at the mention of wings. What I’m going to do about Pigeon is filed nicely in the I have no fucking clue cabinet in my brain. It’s right next to what to do about three mates and how to recover when you find out your entire life is a lie.
I shove the pile of berries away from me with a shiver and warily eye the fruit Zeph’s peeling. With my luck, it will taste like rotten meat or, worse—grapefruit.
“So are we just going to not talk about what happened?” I ask, hoping the change in subject will make Ryn stop looking at me like he’s trying to figure out how to shove the grot berries down my throat. Where’s a duda fruit when a girl needs one?
Zeph’s and Ryn’s features both close off, and it’s like watching the curtain shut on a movie theater screen. They both clamp down so fast. Zeph suddenly gets real interested in peeling not-watermelons, and Ryn puts all his attention into starting a fire and building a spit. I push away from Treno so I can position myself closer to the growing fire and its warmth. I didn’t realize I was so cold until right now.
“Don’t think that avoiding the subject is going to change the fact that your spying sister betrayed you and your people and then slit my throat.” I rub my neck but immediately stop, it hurts. I feel like I’m bruised, and I picture a black patchwork of bruises surrounding the new scar accessorizing my neck. Maybe my voice isn’t fucked up solely from sleep. Did she do damage? I try to palpate my neck again, suddenly feeling like I need to know just how bad it is, but it feels swollen and too tender. The scratchy material of the blanket I’m wearing suddenly feels like sandpaper against my skin when I move, and I want it off of me.
“Any extra clothes hidden in some well-placed wooden chest inside this cave?” I ask, recalling the well-stocked cave Zeph and I holed up in after our lake tour and subsequent crash landing. I don’t see one around, but they got these blankets from somewhere.
Zeph puts his peeled fruit on some kind of wooden looking plate and rinses his hands with a skin of water. He reaches behind his head and pulls off the gray tunic he’s wearing. He chucks it at me, and it smacks right into my face and falls uncaught to my blanket covered lap. I shake away the image of his well-muscled body and ignore what it does to me.
Apparently, my body is too tired to move much, but not too tired to appreciate my asshole mate’s muscles. The word mate snaps me all the way out of my daze, and I pick up the shirt and sniff it. I’m totally checking to see if it’s clean and not at all going for a nose full of his rich masculine scent. Nope. I don’t care if he smells like Bvlgari and bitterness, and I can do laundry on his abs. He’s a bad fucking dude.
I pull the gray shirt over my head and then try to reposition the scratchy blanket under my now cotton clad ass, using as little energy as possible. Pieces of meat are placed so they can start cooking over the fire, and I try to keep my eyes off the other pieces of meat walking around this massive cave, being all surly and shit.
“So you guys treat me like crap, lie to me, and keep vital information from me all because you thought I was a spy. Meanwhile, neither of you detected the actual spy in your midst.
