Defect of Servitude [Book #1]

"I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
-Jack Kerouac

All the anger and disgust I had harbored faded, replaced by stunned silence. I was at a loss for words. Could it be possible that what he claimed was true? The man waited for a response, but he continued when it became clear I wouldn't speak.

"I never imagined I would meet you, especially not like this." He stepped closer, running his hand down my cheek without hesitation. I wanted to flinch away, to escape his gaze and touch, but the magic held me firmly in place.

"Release her! I want to speak with her in private." The invasive sorcery dissipated as soon as he spoke, leaving a tingling sensation throughout my body, like pins and needles. The man touched me again with his rough, calloused fingers, grabbing my arm and hoisting me to my feet.

"Come," he demanded, the group's cheers beginning to swell again. Panic surged in my chest. I couldn't leave Jaxon alone with these people.

"He comes with us! I won't follow you unless he's with us too." My voice cracked, betraying my fear. I doubted I had any real choice, but I had to try.

The man paused, considering. "He stays bound. I want to have this conversation with you alone."

That was the best I could hope for, at least knowing I could keep my eyes on the Prince. I nodded at the stranger, who effortlessly hoisted Jaxon against his body and quickly carried him.

We crossed the small clearing to a tent shrouded in shadows, where the firelight couldn't reach. Stepping inside did nothing to combat the winter chill. A lantern flickered, casting an uneven glow that revealed the rough patches and holes in the thin fabric surrounding us. A narrow cot lay against the wall in one corner, while a table supported the lantern and two rickety chairs in the opposite corner.

The man unceremoniously tossed Jaxon onto the cot, showing no concern for his comfort. I shot him a glare, but he ignored me, turning his back as he approached one of the questionable chairs. I doubted it would support the weight of a well-fed squirrel, let alone that of a full-grown man. To my surprise, the chair groaned but held steady as he settled into it.

He gestured for me to sit. "I apologize for the lack of comfort; this is all I have to offer."

"I won't call you dad," I said, my voice sharp. It was impossible to believe him—he was clearly the leader of this feral group, and I wasn't about to let him play games with me. I sat in the chair, careful not to put too much weight on it, unsure if it would hold.

"I wouldn't expect you to," he replied calmly. "My name is Warren."

The dim glow from the lantern threw his features into sharp relief, and for the first time, I could see his face. It was unmistakably inhuman—skin too smooth, eyes too sharp and knowing, like they'd seen more than any human should. Yet beneath the strangeness, something familiar tugged at me. The shape of his nose, the angle of his chin. These were features I'd seen before—reflected back at me in the mirror.