He smiled. “Good. I hoped you would.” He held her chair for her and then sat too.
A platter of some kind of sliced roast meat was near Dragos’s elbow, along with roasted potatoes and gravy. Revolted by the sight and confused, she averted her gaze. Near her was a dish of bow-tie pasta with red peppers and broccoli in a garlic sauce topped with vegan grated “cheese” and a spinach salad topped with mango slices and pecans. Between them was a basket of white and whole grain rolls. An opened bottle of Pinot Noir sat nearby.
Her stomach gave another unsettled lurch, but she was so hungry in spite of it that she forced herself to take a bite of the pasta. The nausea disappeared like it had never been. She said, “This is delicious.”
“If you have a sweet tooth, you might want to save room for dessert,” he said. “There are strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.”
She sighed. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
Silence fell as they concentrated on their food. She felt again that sense of the bizarre, sharing such a simple domestic scene as eating supper with him. Caught in the grip of compulsive hunger, she ate like there was no tomorrow. Then it eased so she was able to think again.
Feeling tentative she asked him about his day, and she was surprised and flattered when he responded with every appearance of prompt frankness. He told her of Urien’s disappearance, their corporate conflict, the mayor, and the Elves. She bit her lip as disquiet intruded. “This isn’t going to have a quick or easy resolution, is it?”
He regarded her from under lowered brows as he took a drink of wine. “It doesn’t appear that way. It might be a good idea for us to spend some time at my country estate. Not only is it quieter and more private, it’s well defensible.”
Us. We. Her clothes in his bedroom. Sleeping in his bed. She thought of their confrontation with the Fae King on the plain and how Dragos had denied his instinct to pursue so that he could protect her.
“Dragos, what’s going on here?”
“What do you mean?”
She put down her fork. He watched her, thoughts shifting in his gold shadowed gaze. After a few moments she said, “I would like to ask you a series of questions, if I may.”
He put his fork and knife down as well and rested his elbows on the table, hands clasped loosely, steepled index fingers pressed against his mouth. “Go on.”
She began to pleat the edge of her linen napkin. “Would you be hunting Urien yourself if I weren’t here?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.
For a moment she lost her breath. Implications tried to crowd her mind. She shied away from them and focused on another question. “What happened to my apartment?”
“I presume it’s where you left it,” he said. “Why? Do you want something from it?”
She clenched her hands. “What if I wanted to leave? What if I wanted to go back there?”
“You promised you wouldn’t.” His voice was steady, ruthless.
Fair enough. She started pleating the napkin again. “What if I want my own room?”
Silence.
She forced herself to continue. “What if I want to go see my friends? What if I want to start working at my job again?”
Silence. She looked up and met the dragon’s gaze. He hadn’t changed position, but his hands had clenched. His fingers were longer and tipped with razor-sharp talons.
She wasn’t sure what emotion moved in her at the sight. He was far too dangerous a creature for pity. She did feel concern. She reached across the table, holding her hand out to him, and said in a gentle voice, “They’re just questions, big guy.”
He regarded her hand as it lay on the table, her fingers curled over an empty palm. For a moment that became more terrible than she could have imagined, she thought he was going to ignore her reaching out to him. Then those long taloned fingers wrapped with the utmost delicacy around hers.
He said without expression, “What do you want?”
Something was on the line in this undefined place they were in. She chose her words with a great deal of care. “I’m not sure, other than I would like to know my wishes matter. I don’t want to be talked about in the third person while I’m standing right there or for my life to be arranged without my consent. I would like to make sense of what we’re doing.”
“That would help both of us,” he said. Lines bracketed his mouth.