He motioned to the seat beside his. Ava hesitated for a second, her pride wrestling with her survival instincts. Then, deliberately, she chose the seat farthest from the king, as if proximity alone might infect her with his delusions. Herod merely sat down and reached for his glass of wine, amused at the open rebellion.
The table was a visual feast—platters of roasted chicken, vegetables, fruits. And yet, Ava's stomach churned at the very sight. Her mouth was dry.
The servants began their dance, starting with the king, as etiquette demanded. Herod's plate was soon brimming with roast and dripping juices. When one of the servants approached Ava with a tray, she didn't speak. She merely glared at the king from across the table, her eyes two frozen embers daring to ignite.
Herod looked up mid-bite, eyebrows raised in mock offense. "You seem to have something to say. Your looks could kill."
"I'm thinking about it," she replied dryly.
