Page 156 of A Dawn of Gods & Fury

I gasp. “I adore grapes.”

“I guess you’ll have to be nice to me for a change.” He grins up at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He washed up somewhere. The smears of travel dust he wore earlier are gone, his dark hair swept off his face as if pushed back with wet hands. And his jaw is clear of stubble. Even in the dim light, I can make out the dimple on his cheek.

“You risked our lives for fruit?” Destry scolds. “Word spreads of the kal’ana’s escape. Letters to local governance have arrived. People will be watching. Soon, soldiers will begin searching door to door. You must remain inside.”

“I did not go far, but you are right. I apologize.” Tyree sounds oddly genuine.

She shakes her head. “We leave before sunrise. This is from Ezra, as a thank-you for saving Uda’s life today. I pray you do not cost it tomorrow.” She thrusts a jar of honey into his grip and stalks off.

Tyree watches her go, consternation on his face. “Here. Catch.” He tosses the jar up.

I fumble but manage to grab it before it hits the floor.

Collecting the pitcher of mead, he carries it and his tunic-basket of grapes up using one free hand on the rail.

“You have a lot of experience climbing up and down ladders?”

“Lately? Yes.” He reaches the top and my focus drops to the exposed skin above his breeches, to the taut ridges of his abdomen and the hard cut of muscle disappearing below his belt.

“Thirsty, Annika?”

My eyes dart upward to find him watching me. A beat later, he holds out the jug. “For mead, I mean.”

I yank it from his grasp and take a long, leisurely sip, ignoring how my cheeks burn from getting caught ogling him.

Tyree settles down beside me and busies himself with unwrapping the parcel of food, before smoothing out the paper for a place to set the looted grapes.

I pluck one off the stem and pop it into my mouth. Sweet juice explodes against my tongue, and I fight the urge to moan.

“Well?” Tyree’s eyebrow arches, waiting.

“They will do.”

A tiny smile forms on his lips, as if he knows I’m lying.

“Where did you wash up?” I ask, collecting a fistful of grapes and stretching back into my pallet, to lie on my side.

“In a trough out back.”

“Cold water?”

“Freezing.” He joins me, wordlessly handing me a piece of bread with cheese.

We savor our meager meal in comfortable silence until Tyree opens the jar of honey and jabs his middle finger into it.

My mouth gapes. “Have you no manners?”

“I have plenty of manners. What I do not have is a spoon.” He sticks his tongue out to catch a drip of the sticky substance before stuffing his entire finger into his mouth to relish it with a deep hum of satisfaction. The act is far too suggestive to be unintentional.

I roll onto my back to force myself to look away before I get caught staring at his lips. “The last time I spoke to Zander or Romeria, I was eating grapes.” The day of the tournament, when Atticus turned the army on Zander and stole his throne from him. “Though, those were from Seacadore. They are these delicious little things, bluish-black, and so sweet, they make your mouth pucker. Have you ever had those?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

I examine the last fruit in my palm. “I suppose you wouldn’t. They barely survive the trip to Cirilea. They would never reach Ybaris before they spoiled.”

I feel Tyree’s gaze on my profile as I study the barn’s trusses.

“Do you miss him?”

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