Page 19 of Enemies By Fate

I manage to slip my damp tresses into a ponytail when a knock on the door distracts me again.

This time, it’s Asher carrying a silver tray, his amber eyes glowing with interest as he takes in my new outfit.

“That looks more comfortable than a potato sack,” he offers.

“I could do with my own clothes,” I reply. “And my phone.”

“They’re being washed,” he answers nonchalantly, without mentioning my cell phone. “Are you hungry?”

My stomach growls on cue to his question, but my immediate reaction is to refuse his offering. Before I can defy him, he steps inside the threshold, closing the door with his foot. The door clicks ominously behind him.

“No need to be stubborn, Poppy. You need to eat, and you’re already stuck here. You may as well take advantage of our world-class chefs.”

A stab of guilt courses through me as he sets the tray down on the table and lifts the cloche to reveal a delicious-looking plate ofmeat and vegetables, the savory sauces making my mouth water, even from where I stand.

No sense in offending the cooks just because I’m mad at the Alphas.

I pause. Am I mad at the Alphas? I don’t even know anymore.

“I bet the prisoners down in the underground cells aren’t eating this well,” I comment.

He scoffs lightly and sinks onto the sofa, draping an ankle elegantly over his knee. “They don’t deserve it,” Asher replies flatly.

“And I do?” I laugh dubiously, perching at his side tentatively.

His eyes trail over the curve of my thigh, but then casually slide back up to my face. A bemused smirk rests on his full, luscious mouth, and I find myself wondering what he tastes like.

What am I doing? I came here to get answers, not to fuck the Apex Alphas. So why is my body reacting to them like this?

“You should eat before it gets cold. That’s disrespecting the chef’s hard work.”

I reach for my fork and stab at a baby potato, jamming it into my mouth. I can’t deny it’s amazing, the vegetable melting on my tongue.

“See?” Asher says, reading my appreciation clearly. “It’s good, right?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I insist. “What makes me more worthy than the others in captivity?”

Asher sits forward, his foot falling flat as he folds his hands together. “I can’t tell if you’re just being difficult, or if you’re some kind of social justice warrior.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I tell him honestly.

“What are you doing here, Poppy? You claim you’re here about your murdered father, but now you’re up in arms about the prisoner’s rights? It’s starting to feel like this is a bit of asetup. I’m beginning to understand why Malachi is so suspicious of you.”

My neck stiffens at the accusation. Defensively, I put my fork back on the silver tray and face him. “Can’t I worry about the prisoners and also want justice for my father?” I ask bluntly. “Or am I expected to be entirely single-minded just because I’m a woman?”

His golden eyes widen, my challenge amusing and annoying him. I’m immediately sorry for the latter reaction.

I need him—he’s the nice one. I shouldn’t antagonize him, and he’s easier to approach than Malachi—no matter what happened between us in the elevator.

“I’m just trying to figure out your angle.”

“I told you my ‘angle’,” I retort sharply. “I want to know why you murdered my father.”

Asher nods toward the food, silently encouraging me to eat, but I’m not sure I’m hungry anymore, my nerves raw again as he studies me.

Does he know what happened between Malachi and me?

Just like with his brothers, there’s a distinct transference between us, as if something is striving to connect, but won’t. It makes me heated and uncomfortable, but Asher doesn’t withdraw like his siblings. He’s leaning into it. Or at least he’s trying.

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