Dinner drifted by in silence. Inayah ate but could not taste the food on her tongue. Each movement was monotonous, automatic -- the rise of her fork, the clink of her knife, she did not sip her wine for it resembled Mathilde’s blood which had soaked her front and part of the table cloth.
The clatter of Salem’s utensils drew her attention back to him. She stared, pale as candle wax, and unmoving. Salem sipped his wine tentatively, seeking her eyes in the process. “I wish to apologize over my past behaviour and all that I had done to harm you.”
Inayah remained silent.
“I know I haven’t been the best caregiver, nor master,” he paused, “nor lover. But I have tried Inayah.” On cue, his gaze slid to Mathilde’s motionless body still strung on the seat, “It was my fault for not acting earlier
