It was lunch. Which ant fire, grease, and unsolicited lectures.
I sat cross-legged, barefoot, picking at a piece of smoked rabbit and glaring at the cracked femur resting across my lap like a personal insult.
Bone marrow.
Gods.
I took one look at the glistening tube of horror and announced, “I hate this.”
Across the fire, the Dragon made an absolutely obscene slurping sound. He was three knuckles deep into a femur the size of a fencepost, tongue doing ungodly things to what remained of so poor beast’s insides.
He didn’t look up. “Bone marrow is good for you.”
“So is not dying. I’m still not eating it.”
“It makes your tendons supple.”
“I like my tendons just the way they are—useless and decorative.”
He cracked the bone a little louder, like punctuation. “Wings flap better when the joints are nourished.”
“Don’t have wings.”
“Yet.”
I threw a twig at him. It bounced off his snout. He didn’t blink.
“This is disgusting,” I muttered, nudging the bone like it might scuttle off if I stared long enough.
“It’s a delicacy,” he corrected, licking his lips. “Savages eat at. Connoisseurs eat marrow.”
“You’re a savage with opinions.”
“And you’re a courtesan with crumbs in her cleavage.”
I looked down.
Damn it. He was right.
Still.
“I’d rather starve,” I said, tossing the bone onto the pile with exaggerated revulsion.
He snorted. “You said the sa about beetle paste. And then you ate three helpings and licked the bowl.”
“That was different. I was drunk. And horny.”
“You’re always drunk and horny.”
“Exactly. So I know what I’m talking about. Bone marrow is not sexy.”
He raised a brow ridge. “Strong joints are sexy.”
“You’re insane.”
“You’re malnourished.”
I picked up a piece of flatbread and jamd it in my mouth, defiant. “This is all I need. Bread. Fire. Freedom. And maybe a pickle.”
“Your bones will snap like twigs.”
“So will yours if you keep flapping those wings while I’m napping.”
He gave a long look. Then, with all the theatricality of a cathedral bell, let out a dramatic sigh and said, “Fine. More marrow for .”
“Enjoy your goo tube, lizard.”
He slurped again, louder this ti, just to spite .
Gods, I hated how smug he looked when he ate like a troll.
Still.
I stole one of the roasted carrots from his pile while he was distracted.
That’s called a balanced diet.
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