At least two hours pass before Lucas returns, and my stomach is painfully hollow by then. According to the clock on the wall, it’s one in the afternoon when the front door opens—which means my early breakfast of Rosa’s soup was nearly seven hours ago.
Despite my hunger, a prickle of awareness dances over my skin as Lucas approaches, walking with the athletic, loose-limbed gait of a warrior. Like yesterday, he’s wearing a pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt, and his body looks impossibly strong, his well-defined muscles flexing with each movement. I’m again reminded of an ancient Slavic hero—though a Viking raider comparison would likely be more apt.
“Let me guess,” he says, kneeling in front of me. His blue-gray eyes glint at me. “You’re starving.”
“I could eat,” I say as he unties my
