The General's Daughter (Snow and Ash #1) Read Online Free Page B

leaves.
    It’s hours before the door opens again, and in all that time I haven’t moved.
    “I brought you some clothes.” Talon tosses a bundle, and it lands next to my feet. He sets down a bucket, and I hear something in it slosh against the side. “It stinks in here.”
    “No kidding,” I tell him.
    “You haven’t eaten.” His tone is neutral.
    This gets my attention, and I move my head enough that I can see the untouched plate of food. “I forgot.”
    It’s true. In fact, I haven’t eaten anything since the steak feast the night before my father left. Surprisingly enough, I’m not even hungry. I expect him to blow up at me, but he doesn’t. He merely retreats from the room.
    My eyes seem to be adjusting. The pale streak of light that seeps under the door jamb is just enough to let me see the outline of the new bucket. The bundle of clothes remains where it landed, just against my right foot. I may be depressed, but I’ll do just about anything to get out of these clothes. I feel foul. Disgusting. I peel off my jeans and panties and discover that the pail is full of hot water, and atop the pile of clothes he brought is a towel.
    This small kindness stings my eyes, and my throat pulses with unshed tears as I wet my old shirt and use it as a washcloth to scrub under my arms, then my crotch and down my legs. There is no underwear or bra in the pile, only a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. I put them on, throw the dirty stuff in the water bucket, and set it by the door.
    The door opens a few moments later, and my heart jumps. What now? I did what he asked.
    Talon sets the dirty bucket just outside the door, then comes inside. The sheer size of him makes the room seem even smaller. I press myself tight against the wall, but that’s no hiding place.
    “Sit.” He crosses his arms over his chest. The command in his voice is so strong that I feel a tug deep inside my belly. Not good. I sit, and Talon joins me.
    When he takes my hand in his and begins to wash the cuts and scrapes, I am not prepared for the rush of emotions that hit me. Anger melds with fear, leaving me tired, so tired. But grateful? I am not expecting this. When he is done cleaning me, he draws one last, smooth stroke of the sponge over my palm, and it’s almost like a kiss. I swallow back the pleasure this brings. When he pats the sores down with raw alcohol, I hiss and snatch my hands away.
    “Don’t be an idiot. I need to bandage you.”
    “You can’t fix me,” I say, and I hate how broken I sound.
    His head jerks up, but I look away.
    “I’m not trying to fix you,” he says, and I hear the revulsion in his voice. “I just need you alive long enough for your father to get here.”
    He grips my hands hard, and I cry out. But something about the pain soothes the darkness inside me.
    “How does someone like you live with being such a bitch?” The way he doesn’t look at me speaks volumes.
    “Does it matter?” I can’t change a single thing about the past or my role in it.
    “No.” That one words holds a mountain-full of condemnation, of hate. “You owe me two lives.”
    Two lives. His mother’s and his sister’s. He’s right; I do. If only someone had told me she was my sister.
    “Mom and me, we believed the lies. All of them. He made us an entire world, and we lived it. We never asked a single question.” Looking back, I can see how I missed clues. But that didn’t excuse me from being such a nasty bitch. A nasty bitch.
    He flings my hands away like they’re crawling with maggots. “She was your fucking sister.”
    This rips me open. My chest throbs from a wound that will never heal, and I can’t look up from my hands. If I could avoid looking inside myself, that would be perfect, but I can’t.
    I nod. “What I want to know is why you were the only one honest enough to tell me.”
    He continues as though I haven’t spoken. “Misty looked up to you. She just wanted to be a part of your snotty, entitled little