Page 22 of The Fire Went Wild

“Thewhat?”

Jaxon doesn’t answer, just guides me through another doorway. A dining room. There’s an enormous walnut table with two formal place settings. Some covered silver platters. A chandelier turned low. More taxidermy on the walls, although animals this time. Alligators. A bear. Half a dozen deer heads. They all look ancient, cobwebbed and moth-eaten.

“Are those for the Unnamed, too?” I ask, immediately regretting it.

“Those are my grandfather’s.” Jaxon directs me to a chair and pushes me down to sitting, then slowly draws the knife away. I immediately look down at the place setting, but there’s no knife to be found. Not even a butter knife.

I sit very still, my hands curled in my lap. Jaxon moves around the table, opening up the platters. White rice. Biscuits. A thick, rich stew with a salty briney scent that reminds me of the ocean. A salad, oddly bright compared to all the other dim colors in the room.

“I’ll serve you,” he says stiffly. “Keep your hands in your lap.”

“If I don’t?” I peer up at him, my hair falling into my eyes. It’s already starting to turn greasy.If you’re good, I’ll let you have a bath.

Jaxon looks at me. His face is unreadable. A killer’s mask. He doesn’t answer.

And that frightens me more than anything.

CHAPTER NINE

CHARLOTTE

Iwatch him serve me dinner. I keep my hands in my lap. I pray he hasn’t changed his mind about not being allowed to kill me.

“Crawfish étouffée,” he says as he spoons the stew into the porcelain bowl at my place setting. “They probably don’t have this in California.”

I look up at him, squeezing my napkin in my fist. He’s so close to me that his arm brushes against my shoulder as he serves my food. I’ve seen how fast he can move, and I can only imagine how quickly he’ll hurt me if I say the wrong thing.

And yet, that compulsion to talk back to him rears up anyway. “How the hell do you know I’m from California?”

He smiles lightly at me. “You told me. At Bandit’s.”

Embarrassment flushes up through my cheeks. Oh. Right.

“Although I did look at your driver’s license.” He lays out a biscuit, scoops up some salad, and pours the wine glass half full. Then he moves to his own place setting, his movements careful and measured, like he doesn’t want to mess up.

If this were literally any other circumstance, if he didn’t have two mummified corpses in the next room and hadn’t chained me to a bed for the last twenty-four hours, I’d be charmed.

I’m almost charmed anyway.

“Eat,” he says, sliding down into his chair. “It’s not poisoned or anything.”

“Right,” I say, not moving my hands out of my lap. “You can’t kill me.”

He just stares at me, eyes dark. The truth is I’m absolutely ravenous. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday, having rejected his admittedly delicious-looking oatmeal. He didn’t bring me lunch, which shouldn’t be a surprise. Making sure I’m good and hungry.

He sighs, irritation flickering across his face. “If you eat,” he says, “we can talk about Edie Hensner.”

“Astor,” I say without thinking.

Jaxon smiles strangely. “What?” He picks up his spoon and stirs his étouffée around, which wafts the spicy, salty scent into the air. I can’t fucking stand it. My stomach feels like a bottomless cavern, and I fucking love Cajun food. Contrary to what the psychotic redneck sitting across from me thinks, you can, in fact, get étouffée in California.

“Her name is Edie Astor,” I say as I pick up my own spoon and drop it into my étouffée. I can feel Jaxon watching me as I lift it to take a bite.

Fuck, it’s better than the étouffée I get at that little hole-in-the-wall place whenever I’m in Los Angeles. Creamy and rich and layered, the spices blended together perfectly.

“The papers say her name is Edie Hensner,” Jaxon says. “How do you like it?”

I swallow the étouffée and lie. “It’s fine.”

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