I went too far. I can see it in the way the vein at the king’s temple throbs. We stare at each other for a few long seconds, and I can practically see the king’s internal debate. In the past he’s killed off everyone who speaks out against him, but clearly he’s hesitant to do that to me, now that he’s gotten me in his private rooms. But how to handle the situation?

The moment is interrupted by what appears to be the king’s personal chef. She sets a covered plate in front of each of us, and then removes the metal lids. “Filet mignon served with a red wine sauce, fried gnocchi, and caramelized shallots. Paired with a cabernet sauvignon.”

I stare at the plate in front of me. I don’t recognize any of the food items the chef just rattled off, and I can only identify the reddish-brown lump on my plate as meat. But from the smell wafting off the food, it will taste delicious.

The chef pours a small serving of wine into the king’s glass, and I watch, fascinated, as the king swirls the liquid, smells it, and tips a portion back into his mouth. After a moment, he nods, and the chef pours more wine into the king’s glass, and then mine.

“You make food look like an art form,” I say.

“That’s because it can be,” the king responds.

I shake my head and glance down at my meal. He will never understand how insulting this is to a girl who is always underfed.

“Go ahead,” he says, “try it.”

I lift my knife and fork and try a bite of the meat. I have to close my eyes as I eat it. I’m not sure I’ve ever tasted anything so delicious.

I hear the king chuckle across from me and my eyes snap open. “Now try the wine.” His voice lilts, reminding me that he’s just as exotic to me as his lifestyle is.

I reach for my glass. I’ve only had sips of alcohol up until now. Not too many people in the bunker bother with the stuff, but I’ve tasted it enough to expect the strange flavor that hits my taste buds. What I don’t expect is the warm richness of the liquid. It heats up my throat, and then my stomach. I didn’t know any substance could do such a thing.

“It’s good,” I say reluctantly, and then I take another drink. And another.

“Just good?” There’s a twinkle in the king’s eyes. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Yes.”

The room gets quiet, and I know that we’re both remembering my earlier words. I wonder why he hasn’t brought them up again.

“Tell me about yourself,” I finally say, because I can’t think of a more open-ended question to distract us.