The hare roasted slowly, fat dripping in soft hisses, each pop of the fire stretching time thinner… slower… almost unbearably so.
Amara glared at the dancing flames instead of him, chin high, fury simmering under her skin like a fever. She was not going to eat. She was not going to give him the satisfaction, no matter how traitorous her stomach had been.
Like come on, she had some ounce of dignity! Hunger couldn't rob that from her.
Eventually, he rose.
The skewer shifted from the fire with a muted crackle, the roasted meat glistening golden brown.
He carved off a piece with the same knife he had earlier pressed to her skin.
Then he walked up to her.
Slow steps.
Heavy with intention.
He crouched in front of her again, the firelight painting his face in warm amber and dangerous shadow. For a moment, he simply watched her…more like studied her…like she was part of the landscape he was trying to paint.
Then he lifted the small portion of meat towards her lips.
