I put down my empty cup. Killian scooped up a piece of pie for me, and I looked at it, shaking my head.
“What?”
“I don't like sweet things,” I said.
“Really?” He put it down, looking at me. “What do you like then?”
“Not sweet things,” I replied.
“You have to give me more than that, love.” He gave me a look—the same one he always did whenever I tried to downplay something. How do I word this without sounding weird or pitiful? I pressed my lips together.
“When I was in the orphanage, there wasn’t much to choose from. And since the day I got into Anderson Mansion, everything I did or ate was chosen for me. I didn’t protest because it saved me a lot of grief, so I never actually thought about it or cared.” My last words sounded like a question to me too. Did I ever think about it? Did I
