“You need to eat and drink to survive,” he says, still holding out the water.
“I don’t want to survive.” The words slip out before I can stop them, flat and unemotional. I mean them completely. What’s the point? Love is a lie. Kindness is a weapon. I’m better off dead.
Lucian ignores my statement entirely, pressing the waterskin into my hands. “Drink.”
I let it fall to the grass beside me.
He stares at me for a moment, then stands and walks over to the fire. I watch him tend to the meat, turning the pieces and checking them with his knife. The blade catches the firelight as he carves off a small piece to taste it.
We don’t speak. The only sounds are the crackling of flames and the soft sizzle of meat cooking. I turn my head to look around the camp and notice some things that seem odd.
