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“Is it to your liking?” asked Davron.

Amelie realized he was watching her, his fork suspended in his hand.

Dabbing the corner of her mouth with the napkin, she swallowed. She was being rude by eating without conversing. But also, what was she supposed to say to him? Nothing about this situation was usual.

“Yes, very much,” she said. “Thank you.”

He stabbed a chunk of meat with his fork. “Your brothers are cowards.”

“Excuse me?”

Stung, she set down her cutlery.

“They did not wish to face me,” he said with his mouth full. “So, they had you ride up to the castle alone.”

As anxious as she was, irritation flared in her chest. “They didn’t know I was riding to you. I left without telling them, for I knew they would stop me and insist on facing you themselves. Because they are not cowards,” she added with a glare.

All at once, she recalled who she was dealing with—a man who threatened human lives in exchange for a maiden. That he would clothe and feed her so finely did not negate that ugly fact. Naturally, he thought nothing of insulting her family.

Davron thumped his enormous fist on the table, making his plates clatter. The candles flickered overhead and the string music, which had been playing without pause, seemed to warp and sway. A moment later, both the candles and music were back to normal.

Amelie dug her fingernails into her palms, wishing dearly that she’d brought her silver rose to dinner. He seemed unstable enough to attack her at any moment. To say nothing of the strange enchantments pervading the castle, and possibly Davron himself. No ordinary man looked or sounded like him.

“You should not have taken that journey alone,” he said, his voice filling the room. “Do you not know the danger?”

“All too well, thank you,” she retorted. “I encountered a band of raiders. Thanks to Trésor, I survived.”

He blinked. “Who on earth is Trésor?”

Despite the precariousness of her circumstances, Amelie bit back a laugh. Trésor was only her name for the mare, of course—he likely called her something different. But in a tiny act of insubordination, Amelie did not explain. He deserved this moment of bafflement.

She picked her cutlery up and continued eating, trying her best to appear unaffected by his brutish nature. If he was like any other wild animal, it was imperative she not show fear. Davron considered her for several long moments, during which she ate her camembert and prayed he couldn’t tell that her hands were shaking.

“I shall send word with an esquire to your brothers, so they know you arrived unharmed.” He paused. “You are unharmed?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Davron.”

“Yes, Davron.”

His jaw clenched, but that was the end of the conversation. They ate the rest of the meal in stony silence, the sweet-sounding music at odds with the tense atmosphere and Davron’s messy, bestial eating. Wine dribbled down his chin as he drank deeply from his goblet. When he set the cup down, instead of using a napkin, his pink tongue slid out of his mouth to lick away the ferment.

Amelie watched in fascinated horror. Like the rest of him, his tongue was unusual. It was several magnitudes longer and thicker than normal and snaked all the way down past his chin when extended. He caught her looking and, with a scowl, quickly withdrew it into his mouth.

Shamed to have been staring, Amelie bowed her head and concentrated fiercely on her apple tart. What had made him this way? If he was a warlock or sorcerer, surely he would have magically altered himself to be less beastly.

Amelie’s stomach was now very full, the bodice uncomfortably tight. She couldn’t help noting the difference between this luxurious yet cold occasion and that of her brothers’ return to the cottage. She and her siblings had crowded around the wooden table, laughing and conversing in blissful comfort—a comfort that had nothing to do with chandeliers and golden fixtures.

It was difficult to believe that was only two nights ago. How life could change in an instant. She hoped Colette had been able to placate her brothers, at least until they received Davron’s message via the esquire. If Raphael and Marcel set off for the castle with bloodlust in their hearts, her perilous journey would have all been for naught.

“You are finished?”

Amelie snapped to attention, drawn from her wistful ruminations. She’d been absentmindedly pushing the soggy remains of the tart around her plate. Now that she had eaten, fatigue was setting in.

“I am,” she said, sitting up straighter. “A finer meal I’ve never had.”

Davron grunted and stood up, the chair nearly tipping over behind him. A trickle of dark red wine had dried on his chin. “You better sleep.”