"This Jason . . . you care for him?" he asks casually.
"I did. Why?"
"You think of him often," he replies. "Besides, I have spoken to no one in four days. This place is driving me mad."
"So you're in my business because you're bored. That's fantastic," I say sarcastically and rest a hand on my hip, unimpressed with his explanation. "One day, someone will genuinely give a shit."
"I cared for you for four days, did I not?"
And saw me completely naked. "That's different. You want something from me, but you don't really care what I think or feel or . . ." Embarrassed by the words and aware I'm inviting criticism I can't handle today, I shut up.
The jackass who murders whole armies is listening intently. "Jason was not good to you," he observes.
This room is way too small for the two of us. "I didn't enter another world to talk about my horrible luck with men!"
"Mayhap if you appreciated your unique gifts rather than pitied yourself, you would not have settled for a man who sees you as disappointing." His gaze is traveling down my body as he speaks, which makes me think he's talking about physical gifts.
I can't summon a response. Is he really giving me relationship advice by telling me to stop wallowing in my misery?
He's not the first person to tell me this. My mother did, too. The only person who always found me beautiful, no matter what, she used to tell me I had to stop settling for men who didn't think of me in the same way. She liked Jason but still told me to find someone who didn't make me cry once a week.
If I don't put some space between us, I'm going to throw myself out the tower window. "How do we get out of here?"
"Can you fly?"
"No."
He's opening the windows. "Can you swim better than you ride a horse?"
"Maybe a little."
Perplexed by his questions, I return to the other side of the prison and peer out of a window. I noticed the sky before; this time, I look down.
"Holy shit. How is this possible?" We're in a floating tower over a bay deep enough that its waters are almost black, the nearest beaches a hefty mile swim. There are five more towers evenly spaced and suspended between the beach and us.
"Magic put us here. It must free us," he answers.
"But we don't . . ."
He gives me a knowing look and crosses his arms, exposing the roped lengths of his forearms and the strain of his biceps inside the sleeves of his tunic.