Page 21 of Caged By Dance and Desire

“What the devil do you mean my new living situation?” I demanded.

The blond grimaced at me. “Do you like pasta?”

“I don’t want dinner! I don’t even want explanations, I just want to?—”

Legolas stepped close, lowering his face to mine. “You aren’t going anywhere, girl. We’ve been charged with keeping you put, so accept it.”

“What gives you the right to—” I stopped.

Andrei. High Lord.

“Exactly,” Legolas said. “Welcome to House Casakraine.”

“You were nicer in the movie,” I spat, and turned to Mathen, looking up at him with big eyes. “Please.”

He blinked at me, shook his head. “I—I can’t.” He frowned.

“Please.” I stepped closer, placing my hand on his chest. “Please take me home, Mathen.”

Another long, slow blink. “All. . .right. . .I’ll take?—”

“Are you mad?” Legolas said. “He’ll take your head. What’s wrong with you?”

Mathen shook himself, stepping away from me. “I’m sorry, Lady.”

“You come on.” Blondie grabbed my arm again.

“Let me go, Legolas!”

He halted. “What did you call me?”

My cheeks warmed. “I mean—forget it.”

Mathen began chuckling. “Legolas?”

The blond turned to me, glaring.

“I just, I don’t know your name, and your hair. . .” I waved my hand up and down. It was loose rather than bound back in a tail.

He lifted a pale brow. “You like my hair?” Legolas glanced at Mathen. “The mortal women have a thing for this Legolas, right? I remember that movie. It came out a few months ago.”

“Um. . .it’s been about twenty years,” I said.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Same thing.” But he smiled at me, relaxing abruptly. A mischievous, masculine smile. “So. . .you like a man with long blond hair. Too bad for Andrei. Short and emerald-black isn’t your thing, darling?”

“His name is Constin,” Mathen said, voice dry. “And he’s clearly neither vain nor a flirt. You were going to feed her? Or seduce her?”

“There will be no seducing,” I exclaimed. “One of you isenough.”

“We’ll see,” Constin murmured, but turned and dragged me into the kitchen.

The massive kitchen—someone liked to cook. Or eat.

He shoved me in a chair, bared his teeth at Mathen who’d barked at him again to be gentle, and stomped to the cabinets and began pulling out implements of torture—a large pot for boiling pasta and a colander. Then the ice box and pulled out a paper wrapped ball revealed as a mound of dough, setting it on the counter.

. . .they were too fancy to eat boxed spaghetti. Why was I unsurprised.

“I’m not eating pasta,” I said, folding my arms and sinking into the chair. “I can’t carb load right now. I bloat.”

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