CHAPTER 12: The Wolf's Table

POV: Neoma

If the bedroom was a gilded cage, the dining hall was the butcher’s block.

An hour after Viggo found me in the closet, I was marched down the corridor to a common area that connected the Vanguard’s private quarters.

A long table of dark, polished mahogany dominated the room. It was set with silver and crystal that gleamed under the chandelier like rows of teeth.

Commander Barzil sat at the head. A king in his own castle. He had shed his armor for a black tunic that did nothing to hide the width of his shoulders.

Wolfy sat to his right, slicing a piece of steak with surgical precision. The knife snicked against the china—a sharp, efficient sound.

Viggo sat at the far end, fidgeting with his fork. Bending the metal tines with unconscious strength.

And there was one empty chair. To Barzil left.

"Sit," the Commander ordered. He didn't look up from his meal.

I stood by the door. My arms crossed over my chest—a flimsy shield. I could still feel the weight of the butter knife tucked into my waistband.

Cold metal against warm skin. It felt ridiculous now, facing three Highbloods who could tear me apart with their bare hands, but it was the only piece of control I had left.

"I'm not hungry," I said. My voice was tight. Dry.

"That is a lie," Wolfy noted without pausing his chewing. "Your cortisol levels suggest stress, but your glucose levels are critical. Your stomach lining is currently digesting itself."

"Tactician," Barzil warned. Low. A rumble of thunder.

"Merely stating facts, Commander."

Viggo looked up. His golden eyes locked onto me, burning with that same unnerving intensity he’d had in the tunnel. He pointed his bent fork at the empty chair. "Sit. Food is good. Real meat."

I didn't move. In the Dregs, if someone offered you a free meal, you checked for the strings attached. Or the poison.

Barzil set his knife down.

Clatter.

The sound of silver against china was a gunshot in the quiet room. He turned his head slowly to look at me. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop.

"This is not a request, Neoma. Unit cohesion requires shared resources. You are part of the Unit. Sit."

My legs moved before my brain gave permission. A somatic response to command. I walked to the table, my boots thudding softly on the rug. I pulled the heavy chair out and sat on the edge, muscles coiled, ready to bolt.

The plate in front of me was piled high. Roast venison. Glazed carrots. Fresh bread that smelled of yeast and warmth.

My mouth watered so hard it hurt. Saliva flooded my tongue. My stomach cramped—a sharp, demanding twist.

I didn't touch it.

"So," Wolfy said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "The Dregs. Specifically, the Warrens. Is it true the Scavenger Guilds have established a primitive form of democracy based on salvage rights?"

I stared at the venison. "No. It's a dictatorship based on who has the biggest knife."

Wolfy looked delighted. "Fascinating. A pure meritocracy of violence. And you survived there for twenty-two years? Statistically, a Null female has a life expectancy of fourteen in that sector."

"I learned to be small," I murmured. "And fast."

"Eat," Barzil commanded.

I looked at him. "How do I know it's not drugged? Like the water in the cell?"

The table went silent. Viggo stopped chewing. Wolfy raised an eyebrow.

Barzil stared at me for a long beat. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the static of his irritation. I felt the weight of his gaze pressing against my skin. He didn't shout. He didn't strike me.

He reached over.

His hand, large and scarred, moved into my personal space. Heat radiated from his skin. I flinched back, hand going to my waistband, but he ignored me. He picked up my fork. He stabbed a piece of the venison from my plate.

He brought it to his mouth.

He ate it.

He chewed slowly. His golden eyes never leaving mine. I watched the muscles in his jaw work. Watched his throat move as he swallowed. Then he took a piece of the bread, tore it in half, and ate that too.

He set the fork back down on my plate with a deliberate clink.

"If I wanted to drug you, Neoma, I would have Wolfy inject you again," Barzil said. His voice was low. Dangerous. A vibration in the table. "If I wanted to kill you, I would snap your neck with one hand. I do not need poison. I need a Tether."

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. The smell of him—forge smoke and authority—rolled over me. Suffocating. Masculine.

"You are an investment. A billion-credit piece of biotechnology that is currently malnourished and shaking from exhaustion."

He pointed a finger at my plate.

"Eat. You start training at 05:00. And you are weak."