Page 17 of Entangled

Despite me politely not pressing her, Madison grows more and more tense beside me, stealing small glances at me and then away.

I don’t want to find this woman interesting. I want to focus on myself. That’s more than enough of an issue right now. But it’s been so long, and she’s ashe, andshe’sin the same position asmeright now. And despite the way I want to harden myself for what’s to come, despite my hungry hate... I’ve never been particularly hard.

She gives me another tense, darted look, and I sigh. “What?”

Madison whips back to look at the trees. “What?”

“What’s with this?” I echo her earlier words and exaggerate looking back and forth, not meeting my eye.

She huffs impatiently, likeI’mbeing unreasonable.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” she mutters, and her fingers tap nervously on her lap where her hands are pinned by rope. “Whether I gave them information? What I said?”

I study her for a moment, her battered face and tangled hair. She smells like she’s already decaying.

She smells like me.

“Whatever you did, it’s not really my business,” I say. “You did what you needed to stay alive. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for that.”

Her gaze is a gray tempest, and she holds my eyes for a long moment, searching them. Then her expression cracks. She blinks fast, and I watch her lips roll in and her throat work. Once. Twice. It splits the fragile flesh back open, coating her lips like glossy lipstick. She turns away, pressing her tongue to the cut.

“You’re a naive idiot,” she whispers fiercely.

I purse my lips but stay quiet while she pulls herself back together.

“God damn it!” Logan yells abruptly, upending the large pot they’ve set up for cooking over the low fire. The pot was set up between the two opposing groups and there are two more similar setups nearby, though the other two are empty and cool, the coals under them dead.

I recall the feeling of his cold, unforgiving gunmetal against my forehead and anger spikes again.

A weedy man from Sam’s group skitters back. “Logan, I didn’t mean to?—”

“You don’t like what I make, John?Youcook, I’m done!” Logan roars.

“I can’t cook!” John splutters. “All I said is just use some, like, herbs or whatever sometimes. It’s bland as fuck.”

“About as much flavor as your personality then,” Logan says, advancing on him.

“Enough!” Sam calls, shoving his blankets back and getting up. Nights are cold, so he’s still fully dressed. He rubs a hand over his face. “Someone else can cook. Get Akira to do it.”

But Akira is gone and so is the hunter she was with.

“I can cook.”

At first, I hardly recognize the words as my own. It only registers when Madison’s head whips around, and I hear her whisper, “The fuck are you doing?”

“I can cook,” I repeat, louder this time, as the kernel of an idea starts growing in my brain.

The arguing stops and several heads turn my way.

Sam examines me. “Why?”

I duck my head submissively.

“I would prefer to help, and have a chance to move a little,” I say, trying to bury my nerves. I’m not sure what the best angle is here. “I’m a decent cook. And I can help tend to people too if you untie my wrists. I’m good with herbs.”

Of course, I don’t have any on me. Well, none except... a hot thrill races up my spine, then spreads through my limbs. It’s an effort to not let my sudden realization show on my face.

I have the water hemlock.

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