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Then he’s gone, and once again, I’m alone with the prince. Corrick moves to the side table, where a massive array of steaming food is making my mouth water. I can smell something sweet and something savory, and there must be fresh bread because the scent of the yeast is heavenly. My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten. I don’t want to move any closer to him, but I inhale deeply.

Corrick picks up a piece of fruit and holds it up to the light. The skin is glistening red. “Honeyed apple, Tessa?”

All of my hunger dies. “I hate you,” I grit out.

He tosses it to me, and I catch it automatically, since the alternative is letting it smack me in the face.

“As I’ve said in the past,” he says, “that will definitely work out for the best.”

A large, ornate table sits on the opposite side of the room. When I didn’t move, Prince Corrick filled two plates and set them on the table, making a show of setting them across from each other, not beside each other. He holds out a hand to one of the seats and looks at me pointedly.

I really am hungry. Every breath reminds me of how little I’ve eaten lately. It took everything I had to set that apple on the floor.

I stick to the wall. “No.”

“You decline an invitation to dine with the brother of the king?” He feigns a gasp. “What will the kitchen staff say when your plate returns untouched?”

“I don’t think you want my hands near a knife right now.”

That earns a rakish smile, and for a moment he looks so much like Wes that my heart swells and aches before shattering into a million pieces. Maybe he can read it on my face, because his mouth forms a line. “Sit. Eat. I know you’re hungry. What’s to be gained by refusing?”

Nothing, really. I don’t have a good answer, and the question feels like a challenge. I take a deep breath and walk to the table. I’m sure there’s some court etiquette I’m supposed to follow, but I have no idea what, and if he expects a curtsy, he’s not getting one. My heart thumps along in my chest, and I have to remind myself that he’s not Wes, he’s the King’s Justice. He’s not a friendly outlaw. He’s a cruel man with no empathy.

I ease into the chair, and he does the same. My spine feels like a steel rod. I can’t relax. I pick up the roll from my plate. It’s still warm, and dusted with salt. I tear a tiny piece and shove it into my mouth.

It’s not salt. It’s sugar, and it’s everything. I want to shove the whole thing down my throat at once.

I can feel him watching me, so I keep my eyes on anything else. The filigreed place settings. The embroidered tablecloth. The gravy in a small pool beside four thick slabs of poultry.

Ihave so many questions, but they would all reveal my feelings about a man who doesn’t exist, and I won’t give any of that to Prince Corrick. He’s already taken too much. I tear another small piece of bread and say, “Quint knows the truth. About you. And me.”

“Yes.” He pauses. “He is the Palace Master. And a friend. There is very little that goes on here that Quint doesn’t know about.”

“But . . . ?but the king doesn’t know.”

“No.” Corrick glances away. “I never wanted to put Harristan in a position where he would be forced to deny it.”

“If you were caught.”

“Yes.”

“I could tell everyone,” I say, finally meeting his eyes with a glare. “Reveal your secret. The King’s Justice is secretly a smuggler stealing from the royal elites.”

“Go right ahead,” he says mildly. “You wouldn’t be the first prisoner to come up with a clever story.” He slices a piece of meat. “If you decide you don’t want to stay here, it’s a good way to earn yourself a trip to the Hold.”

“If I decide? Is that a joke?”

“I didn’t lure you into the palace.” His voice has turned hard. “In fact, when you forced my hand, I did my very best to convince you that tensions were high and you would do well to stay out of the Royal Sector for a while.”

When I forced his hand. When we stood in the woods, and he didn’t want to make a run for supplies. He tried to talk me out of it, and I shook him off and demanded revolution.

A revolution I now realize he could never be a part of.

Of course he had to kill off Weston Lark. I might as well have done it myself.

“And here we are,” I whisper. Against my will, my eyes well again, and I sniff back the tears and shove more bread into my mouth. “Who did you hang in your place?”

“A true smuggler,” he says easily. “He might have gotten away with Moonflower petals, but he thought to spend a few minutes taking advantage of the lady of the house, and her son heard the commotion and rang the alarm. I hear the man beat her rather badly before he was discovered.”