Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81867 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
“Fine,” I snap, shoving the bowl into his hands as he hefts them out from underneath the heavy blanket.
The spoon immediately begins knocking against the side of the bowl, soup sloshing out and down the sides.
“Okay, Romeo,” I say, snatching the bowl back. “Try again tomorrow.”
He sighs in frustration and leans back against his pillows.
“I’m not used to being so weak,” he says.
“What’s wrong with a little weakness?” I ask, snatching a towel from the nearby table to swipe up the spilled soup and load up the large spoon to hold up to his lips again. “What makes the strong so superior anyway?”
His eyes look up at me in surprise as he opens his mouth to accept the soup. I smile and slip it between his waiting lips. He swallows, eyes still caught with mine for a long time until he realizes how long he’s been staring and jerks his gaze away.
“You’re kind,” he says.
I shrug. “That’s certainly not something I’m usually accused of,” I mumble. I look down at the bowl and scoop another spoonful.
When I move it to his lips, I find those thoughtful, too-seeing eyes locked on me again. “That surprises me. You’re the kindest person I’ve ever met.”
My stomach swoops at his words, and I’m the one averting my gaze this time, focusing on his lips as I spoon the soup into his mouth. “Well, you don’t know me very well.”
He swallows, then licks his lips. “Seems like I might be seeing the real you that you don’t give others the chance to see.”
I can’t do anything but chuckle. “Ah, my friend. That’s wishful thinking. I know who I am. And it’s not a kind person.”
“Maybe you aren’t surrounded by the right kind of people.”
I laugh again and lift my eyebrow, along with another spoonful of soup. “And you’re the right kind of people?” Bantering with him like this sends excited thrills spiraling through my stomach.
He shrugs. “I never would have thought so before now. But I know what it’s like to be around people”—he swallows another spoonful, eyes laser-focused on me— “maybe family? Who makes for a bad environment. You never know what you could be apart from them until you leave.”
I frown, pulling back a little. As I’ve been leaning in to feed him, my hip has settled into the bed and leans against his. Shockingly, I didn’t even realize the physical contact was happening when I’m usually so wary of how close I allow anyone to get to me. “What do you know about it?”
His lips split in a weary grin. “More than you know.” The smile disappears from his face as his eyes slide toward the wall. “My family only knew the language of brutality, never warmth or kindness. Still, I was shocked and so betrayed when they buried me alive after my father cut off my wings for rebelling against being the monster he’d created me to be. My brothers, I’d thought might at least…” But he shakes his head.
My mouth has gone dry at his words. I can’t relate to everything he’s said, but god, if I thought I could connect with him before… His story echoes mine in so many ways.
I drop the spoon into the bowl because I can’t think of any words, even though I want to say so much. It’s like there are too many thoughts swirling around in my head, and I can’t pick any to come out of my mouth. The spoon rattles in the empty bowl.
I look down, surprised. “Oh,” I say, blinking. “We’re all done.”
“Good,” he says, pulling the covers up and turning away from me again, the shorn wing on his left shoulder peeking out above the covers for a moment before he tugs them back up angrily.
“Layden,” I say, reaching to put a hand on his shoulder, careful not to hit the stump of his once-wing.
He flinches away from my touch, though, and I yank back. “I think I’ll rest now,” he grumbles into his pillow. I suck in a deep breath and stand up. Is it as difficult for him to allow anyone close as it is for me to? Especially after he was betrayed by his own brothers?
I swallow hard. It hurts the worst when it’s family that only sees you as something to use. It’s wrong. Family should be like I knew briefly as a child before I had to come live with my Grandfather Vlad. When it was just me and Mom and Dad. We didn’t live in a palace or a compound. Just a small apartment.
But they loved me. We decorated a Christmas tree each year and drank hot chocolate, and when I had a bad dream, my mother would rock me back to sleep. My father read me bedtime stories, played soccer with me at the nearby park, and held me when I cried because I didn’t fit in with the other little kids.