Page 50 of Caged

Which is nearly all the time.

I’ve been doing my utmost to keep calm, to not think about anyone coming for us, but I understand why he’s on edge.

I wish he could feel safe.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, head upside down.

I growl under my breath. With a swish and a thump, he’s next to me.

“It’s nothing. I’m making dinner.”

“You made food yesterday,” Sylas says, his head inclined to one side as he looks over the prep area.

“You eat a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed.” I laugh.

“I require fuel,” Sylas says seriously. “But this should not be your problem.”

“Someone has to make dinner.” I bang the side of the rehydrator. “If this thing would bloody work, that is!”

“Alex,” Sylas says, grasping my chin and turning my head towards him. His eyes, liquid dark, soft, and inviting, search my face. “It is not your place to serve me. I am not your master. You have no master, not anymore.”

“Someone has to make dinner,” I repeat with a hiccup.

“Then why not me?” he says.

“I thought…” I stutter out the words which my brain doesn’t want me to say. “I thought you’d be served as a gladiator.” I wrench my face from his hand because I’m embarrassed at what I know I’m going to say. “I thought you wouldn’t know how.” I look down at the counter, tracing my finger over the surface.

“You’re right, little feather, our diet was strictly controlled in the dome.” Sylas moves closer to me, sliding the tip of his finger under my chin and lifting my face up until I’m looking at him once more. “But good nutrition was important. Whilst I wasn’t allowed to prepare my meals, I took an interest in food preparation.”

I look at him blankly.

“I can make dinner,” he says, his voice low. “I’d love to make dinner, to feed you, little mate.”

The little mate comment settles in my core, making me squirm.

“You would?”

“It would be my honor and privilege.” Sylas takes a step back and does a bow, his wing tips lifting up behind him like starched coat tails. “But you may wish to stand back.”

I move around to the other side of the counter, intrigued. He shoves his hand into the back of the rehydrator, and there is awrenching sound. He smiles at me and begins to hum as he pulls out the packets of supplies and puts a couple in the machine.

The damn thing purrs into life as if Sylas is a magician.

“Huh!” I snort.

He bares his teeth in a grin to end all grins. It is sinful, it is cocky, and it is…entirely his.

“Knives?” he asks.

“Second drawer.”

He flicks the lethal item up in the air and catches it by the very tip before spinning it again to take hold of the handle.

“Show off.” I put my chin in my hands and stick my tongue out of the side of my mouth just a little.

Sylas clearly represses a shiver and recovers himself with another flick of his wings. The rehydrator chimes, and he removes a selection of vegetables and a chunk of what looks like some sort of fish.

“I am a gladiator. I should be able to handle any sort of blade,” he says without looking up from probably the most precise and most vicious chopping session I’ve ever seen.

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