Page 22 of Scavenger's Oath

But I know better than that.

He crouches slowly, setting the bowl down outside the bars. Then he moves back again and sits on the concrete floor,

The distance doesn't make me more comfortable, butI appreciate the way he seems to think about every movement. Measuring how close is too close. As if he’s trying not to spook a caged bird.

“We made some rabbit stew,” he says. “It's still warm.”

I make no move toward the bowl, unsure if it's just a trap to get me to reach out through the bars.

But his strange gentleness is a stark contrast to Death’s volatility. I want to trust it. But that’s how they get you. A soft voice. A warm smile. Then the door shuts behind you.

“You don't have to talk,” he says after a pause. “But I'd like it if you did.”

I rub my lips together as my heart hammers in my chest.

Zane might not be like the other guy. But there's still something in him. Something dangerous. I can feel it between his calm. Like a blade tucked in its sheath. Docile, but still capable of harm.

I open my mouth. Then close it again.

In that fraction of a second his eyes widen, face softening with a look of pure innocence as he waits for me to speak. Then he deflates slightly when I don't.

No one has ever held their breath to hear me speak before.

Who is this guy?

Danger doesn’t usually wait. It grabs. Forces. Hurts. This… stillness? It’s disorienting.

I don’t trust it. But part of me wants to.

Zane doesn't rush at me like the other one. He just sits there, arms resting on his knees, watching like he's waiting for a signal I don't know how to give. I can't decide if it makes me feel exposed or... seen.

“I have a bottle of clean water as well,” he adds gently. “If you're thirsty.”

God, am I ever.

Inod, ever so slightly, my tongue wetting my lips automatically at the mention of water.

He slowly moves his hand to his pocket, the plastic bottle crinkling as he pulls it out.

“Do you want me to roll it to you? Or can I come closer?” he asks cautiously.

Oh, I see what he’s done there. Nodding or shaking my head could be taken either way. He’s coaxing me to speak.

Speaking is far less threatening than him coming closer. I can do this.

Swallowing back my fear, I whisper, “roll it,” my voice husky from under-use.

A small smile creeps onto his face before he controls it again, then lines up the bottle on the floor and gently pushes it.

It rolls until it hits the bars, thankfully not bouncing back out of reach. I glance at it, nervous to move.

“You can do it,” he encourages. “I promise I won't move.”

How do I know this isn’t a trick as well? I’ve heard similar lines before. ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’But they always do.

He doesn't sit turned away this time. He’s watching me with so much curiosity, waiting to see what I’ll do. And he’ll probably take everything back before he leaves—whether I eat or not.

Gathering my confidence, I shift on my knees.