Zoe POV

I look at the glass for another moment, then pick it up.

It's probably nothing. It's a toast from the host of a pack that has fed me well for five days and never given me any concrete reason for suspicion beyond a feeling I can't name and a smile I can't read. Refusing it in public would be a statement, and I don't have enough to make that statement on. I take a sip. It's good—crisp and cold, with something faintly floral underneath that I can't identify.

I set ...