VIREMONT KEEP
Guinevere Ashford opened her eyes, assessed the handcuffs, assessed the chair, assessed the man sitting across from her, and thought: what fresh hell is this, and thank fuck there's wine.
She blinked, taking in the scene. On the table was bread, cheese, dried meat, and fruit. The spread was generous. It was supposed to communicate hospitality but generally hospitality did not involve handcuffs.
Then again, who was she to judge.
Beside the food was a bottle of wine. Two glasses. Both empty. Waiting.
A man was sitting across from her.
He was older. Fifties, maybe sixties, with the kind of face that had been hardened by decades of decisions that other men would have lost sleep over and that this man had made before breakfast. His eyes were small, calculating, set deep beneath a brow that communicated permanent dissatisfaction with everything beneath it.
He was watching her wake up the way a man watches an investment mature.
