Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Chapter

Twenty-Seven

We head back upstairs and have a meal of leftover stew. The day is miserably cold, so I huddle under the blankets and nap while Nemeth pulls out one of his books and reads by the fire. It’s a lazy day, but it’s too cold to do much. I think of my sister back at Castle Lios and wonder if she’s enjoying the holiday, or if she misses me. Is she eating sweetcakes and drinking mulled wine? Is Balon eating peppercorns out of the apples of other ladies? Do I even care since he’s abandoned me? I didn’t expect him to wait seven years for me, but now that he’s the one that showed up to visit, I’m annoyed that he’s wandered away.

Seven years is a long time to miss out on celebrations and parties. Seven years in my prime, too. When I get out, I will be thirty-one, and will flirting and dancing seem frivolous and silly? Will everyone be expecting me to settle down? My thoughts take a depressing slant and so I fluff my pillow and go back to sleep.

A hand gently shakes me awake a short time later. “Candra.”

Nemeth. I inhale, stretching…and pause, because I smell onions? I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “What is it?”

He holds an onion out to me, the source of the smell. Studded into the surface with bits of wood serving as toothpicks? Peppercorns. He’s made me a feast apple, but since we have no apples, it’s a feast onion.

I giggle at the sight of it, feeling perilously close to crying with joy. “You made me an apple.”

“You were so sad at missing the holiday, I figured we could have one of our own without assigning it to a particular historical figure. Nothing says we cannot celebrate the end of winter, just the two of us.” His hard face is impassive, but his eyes gleam with amusement. “I will not celebrate that man, but I will celebrate at your side.”

I clutch the peppercorn-studded onion to my chest, utterly touched. “Thank you, Nemeth.”

“What would you like to do for your holiday? Since there is no one to flirt with but me, you cannot play your regular games.” His cloak sways, as if his wings are twitching nervously underneath.

“I can’t flirt with you?” I tease, hugging the onion as if it’s made of gold. I’m just so happy. “You wouldn’t eat a peppercorn for me?”

His wings move again, a sure sign that he’s nervous. It’s his way of blushing, I think. “If you want me to, I will.”

I beam at him and wink, holding out the onion. He takes it from my hand, his fingertips brushing over mine, and then he studies it as if trying to decide which peppercorn he’ll eat. Nemeth finally lifts the onion to his lips and plucks one of the peppercorns off it with his tongue, chewing.

“You did it,” I crow, delighted. I clap my hands. “Now the rules say we have to be lovers.”

He coughs, choking on the pepper in surprise, and I burst into a fit of laughter. Nemeth laughs, too, and the room feels full of happiness even if there’s no feast to celebrate. We don’t need one after all. We have each other for company, and full bellies. It’s enough for me.

Nemeth’s cloak practically shivers, and he sits down on the bed next to me, handing back the onion. “What else do you do on this holiday?”

I stroke the stupid onion with my fingers, knowing that we’re not going to eat it. Ever. I’m going to keep this onion forever just because it will remind me of this moment. Nemeth doesn’t realize how touched I am that he’s done this for me. Other than my sister, people tend to only do things for me because they have to, or because they want something from me. Nemeth just did it to make me smile. I touch the tiny splinters of wood, the peppercorns he somehow glued to the end of each one with a substance that looks like honey. It must have been a lot of fiddly work, and to think he did it all so quietly as I slept. “Some people give gifts, but it’s mostly parties and food for the feast. Oh, and party games.”

“What sorts of games?” he asks. “Perhaps we can do them here.”

With just two people? I don’t know how effective that will be, but it’s sweet of him to want to try. “Well, there’s a game where one of the king’s rings is hidden into a cake, and everyone gets a piece. If you get the ring in your piece, you get to rule court for a day. And then there is a dessert full of minced nuts and if you get a whole nut in your dessert, it’s supposed to be lucky. That you’re supposed to be exceptionally fertile in the next year.”

“Mmm. We can avoid that one, I think.”

I chuckle. “It’s pretty useless for one such as me anyhow.”

“Why is that?”

I wave his question aside. “Most of court likes drinking games, or flirting games. Things that involve kissing.”

There goes his cloak again, shaking with agitation as the wings underneath move. Is he even aware that he’s doing that? It’s such an obvious tell that I think perhaps he has no idea. “I doubt you would want to play such things with me.”

“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “I am up for any kind of game. And while I’m not a huge fan of kissing old men in a game, I’ve done so in the past, just because I like to win.” I give him a sly look. “Did I mention that I’m competitive?”

“Gods help us both,” he mutters. Nemeth gestures at me, his big hand motioning where I’m nestled in bed. “You pick the game. I will play.”

I consider, turning the onion over carefully in my hands. “Do your people have games they play?”

“Ours are mostly ones of skill. Flight games.” He shrugs. “I do not think you would be able to play.”

No, I suppose not. I consider the games I know that can be played without additional props or people. I can’t think of anything that doesn’t involve rather lascivious sorts of things or court frivolity, so I decide to make one up. “I suppose we could play…Secrets.”

“Secrets?”

“Yes. I give you a challenge. Something small, like ‘Go across the room and touch the wall’ or whatever. If you decide not to perform my challenge, you must tell me a secret instead.”

Nemeth frowns at me, moving to sit on the stool beside the bed. “This sounds like a foolish game.”

“Highly foolish,” I agree. “But did you have another way you were planning on spending the afternoon?” I give him a challenging look. “Is your day full of meetings? You have many things to discuss with your advisors?” I lift a corner of the blanket and peer under. “Are your advisors hiding under here?”

He chuckles. “Fine. Fine. You win. We shall play your secrets game. All right?” When I beam approval at him, he says, “Who goes first?”

“Me, because I’m the lady.” When he raises a brow, I nod. “Those are the rules. I swear. All right. For my first challenge I…” I look around the room, trying to decide. Then, the idea hits me and I hold out my onion. “I want you to eat another one of these peppercorns.”

Making a face, Nemeth takes the onion from me and pulls another peppercorn free with his lips. They lock around the kernel in a rather impressive sort of way that fascinates me, and then he pulls the toothpick free and crunches down on the peppercorn. A moment later, he grimaces and gives his head a shake, but he doesn’t sneeze once.

“Very nice,” I tell him. “Now you’re doubly my suitor, aren’t you?” I give him a sly wink. “I suppose it’s a good thing we don’t have the minced nut cakes for fertility.”

His cloak shakes violently even as he narrows his eyes at me. “You are trying to embarrass me.”

“I am,” I agree. “I find your embarrassment utterly charming.”

There’s a pained expression on his face, but his cloak gives another vigorous flutter.

“I told you I’m a flirt,” I warn him.

“You did.”

“Should I stop? I can tone myself down if you feel uncomfortable.”

Nemeth shakes his head and runs one hand over his cluster of horns. “I would rather you be yourself. Pay no mind to me. I am just a blushing, bookish sort and not the type to go toe to toe with a court lady.”

“So you are blushing,” I tease. “Excellent.” I shift in the bed, curling my legs underneath me as he hands the onion back once more. “Now it’s my turn. Dare me something or force me to tell a secret.”

He scratches at the base of one horn. “A dare, eh? Let me think.”

“Don’t vex yourself,” I tease. Oh, I’m having so much fun.

Nemeth gives me a quelling look. He rubs his chin, thinking, and glances around the room for inspiration. “I should dare you to…”

“Something wicked,” I encourage, practically bouncing with anticipation. “Something naughty. Make me do something naughty!”

His nostrils flare and the cape flutters again. He looks everywhere but me, and then says, “I dare you to put a finger up your nose.”

I groan. “Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’s not very ladylike,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height, shoulders stiffening. “Are you going to do it?”

I roll my eyes and jam a finger up my nose, making a face at him as I do. “You need to get better at this game, friend. Allow me to show you the way.” I crack my knuckles (also not very ladylike) and pretend to consider. “All right. My dare for you is that you take off your kilt.”

Nemeth recoils in surprise. “What!?”

“You can keep your cloak on for modesty,” I say, flicking my fingers at him. “But that’s my dare. I dare you to give me your kilt.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then you have to tell me a secret.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Make it a juicy one, please.”

He puts a hand on the belt of his kilt, as if determined to protect his modesty from me, and narrows his gaze in my direction. “What sort of secret would you like?”

Is he letting me choose? Well that’s just delightful. “Tell me a secret about a past lover.”

He rubs his ear. He truly is the twitchiest man when he’s nervous. “There are no past lovers.”

I suspected as much, and I can’t help but smile. “Is that part a secret? That there wasn’t anyone?”

Nemeth shrugs. “I suppose it depends on who you ask. The monks back at the Alabaster Citadel might have known the truth of it. It was a secret to you, so that counts, does it not?”

Was it truly, though? As skittish as he is, it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, especially if he grew up at the Citadel with my sister and surrounded by monks, priests, and prophets. It’s not exactly a setting conducive to sensuality. But he’s clearly disconcerted at confessing such a thing to me. He looks uneasy, and those brilliant green eyes won’t look at me directly. Does he think I’m going to judge him?

I sit up, reaching out toward him, and touch my fingertips to his chin. “Look at me, Nemeth.”

He does, and his eyes are shuttered, as if he’s afraid to show emotion.

“This is just a game,” I say gently. “A game between friends. Whatever you tell me here in this tower remains with me and only me. I make you that promise, all right? I would never tease you about your experience or lack thereof.”

Nemeth just grunts. I suppose that’s some sort of agreement.

I hold my hand up. “Want to swear it in blood? I’m happy to slash my palm in dramatic fashion and mingle my blood with yours.”

That makes him roll his eyes. He snags my wrist and turns it face up, towards me. “Here is a hint from a warrior to a princess,” he says, and his claw brushes over the middle of my palm. “You never cut down the middle. A vow in blood doesn’t mean you have to slice your hand open. If you do so, not only can you not hold your sword, but you run the risk of destroying the tendons in your hand. If you truly wish to make a blood pact, use a fingertip.” His claw moves to the tip of my finger and he rubs it, his callused hands warm over mine. “Fingers bleed. And no blood pact says that great amounts of blood must be used.”

“Such an expert,” I say coyly, amused that he’s educating me. As if I’d ever hold a sword. “Does this mean you don’t want to do a blood pact, then?”

“Oh, we can do it, little princess. You make it sound like a challenge, and I won’t back down from a challenge from you.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and then nicks my finger on one of his teeth.

I gasp in surprise. Unexpected…as was the answering pulse between my thighs.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, lowering my hand. There’s a look of concern on his face.

“No, I’m fine.” Strangely aroused, but fine. I watch as the blood wells up on my fingertip and he nips his own finger, then holds it to mine.

Our blood mingles, and his eyes meet mine from across our joined hands.

“Our secrets remain ours,” he says. “Nothing leaves this tower when we do.”

I nod, and when he releases my hand, I automatically put my finger into my mouth to lick off the blood. Here I started a silly game simply because I wanted to tease him and have some fun, and it’s turned into a strange sort of vow that feels rather weighty. Like we’ve just made a soul-pact of some kind.

Nemeth’s gaze is on my mouth as I suck on my finger. He licks his, and I watch as his tongue slithers over his skin. “Do you still want to play?”

“I always want to play,” I whisper, and I wonder if we’re talking about the same thing.

The game dies a quick death after the deep moment of blood-letting and finger-sucking. It’s hard to find the fun mood after that, and Nemeth, clearly out of his element, returns to tending the fire. Instead of teasing him about it more, I let him retreat. If he was Balon or one of my suitors, I’d keep hounding him until I got the response I wanted—either an angry, passionate kiss, or a heartfelt confession—but I’m not going to push too far with the Fellian. He’s my friend, and I don’t like the idea of making him so uncomfortable that he wants to retreat from my presence. Something tells me that if I kept needling Nemeth, it wouldn’t break his resolve and turn into a passionate kiss. He doesn’t know how the game is played. He’d probably storm out of the room and not speak to me for a week, thinking I was teasing him out of cruelty.

I’d much rather us be friends. So I cradle my pepper-studded onion in my hands, and we talk of nothing at all for the rest of the night, until it’s time for bed.

All in all, not so terrible a holiday. When we go to bed, I’m happy, even if my hands do smell like onions and pepper despite washing them.

I wake up in the middle of the night to a strange, jarringly loud clattering noise. It’s dark in the room, the fire having gone out, and so cold it feels like my entire body is made of ice. It takes a moment for me to realize that the constant clicking sound is my teeth. I shiver wildly in the bed despite the layers of blankets and the thick dress I’m wearing.

“Candra?” A large hand grips my arm. Nemeth, in bed next to me. “Are you all right?”

“C-cold,” I manage, my teeth chattering. “Why is it so c-cold?”

He shifts in the bed and I see green eyes blink to life in the darkness. “The fire is out. I could light another, but we should conserve our fuel. Do you need another blanket?”

“H-have them all,” I manage, my jaw trembling. “How is it so cold?”

“One last storm before the end of winter, perhaps? Maybe the Green Goddess isn’t ready to return from the Gray God’s realm just yet.” He rubs my arm. “Do you want to get under the blankets with me? Share warmth?”

Do I?

I thought he’d never ask.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

Iall but fling the blankets back the moment he suggests we share warmth, tugging his blankets over me. We’ve had two separate sets of blankets all this time even though we share a bed, simply because it was more comfortable for both of us to have our own space. I don’t care a bit about space tonight, though. Not when I’m freezing and my toes feel like icicles.

I plunge under his blankets, my hands seeking out his to share warmth. He’s turned towards me in bed, and my seeking hands encounter bare chest and muscles. Lots and lots of muscles.

I pause, not because I’m shy, but because I know he is. “Are you naked?”

“I am wearing an undergarment.” His voice is oddly tense in the darkness.

“Okay, good.” I slither forward. “Because you’re really warm and I’m going to put my hands on you.”

He remains still as I move against him, settling myself in. His big body is enormous against mine, dominating the bed. I press up against him, my front to his front, my hands tucking between our bellies for warmth, and I curl my legs up against his.

“Better?” he asks, and there’s a little more ease in his tone.

“Much,” I murmur, and lean in, breathing in his warm scent as he settles my blankets over his, enveloping us in a cocoon. My jaw unlocks and no longer shivers with distress, and all of me relaxes. He smells like herbs and woodsmoke from tending to the fire, and it’s actually quite a lovely smell on his skin. I’m tempted to burrow my nose into his neck and just breathe in from there all night. “Thank you, Nemeth.”

He grunts. “Your chattering was keeping me awake.”

I just smile against his chest. He’s trying to sound stern and grumpy, but I know him better than that. He hovers over me, watching me as if I’m some fragile thing that’s going to break at any moment. I think my blood curse scares him and makes him think I’m more vulnerable than I am. As long as I get my daily medicine, I’m fine. But if he wants to fuss over me? I’ll let him.

My feet are still cold, so I draw my legs up and tuck them between his legs. I’m wearing a heavy dress for warmth, but despite all this, our knees bump. His legs fit together with mine strangely, and he shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable. Right. Time to spoon, then. I roll over, presenting him with my back, and then grab his arm and put it around my waist, tucking myself against him once more. “Better?”

He grunts again.

This time, when I move my feet back and tuck them between his legs, it’s far more comfortable for both of us. I’m half-curled but I like it, because he’s curled around my back, one of his heavy hips practically over mine. I don’t know if he’s aware that he’s pinning me to the mattress, but I like it. I like his weight over me, hugging me against him. The hand on my waist practically covers me from breast to groin, and I’m fascinated with how much larger his hand is than mine. His feet are enormous, too, now that I think about it.

I shift my weight, pressing my backside up against him.

Just as I suspected, there’s a hard wedge of cock there between his thighs, pressing up against my amply padded butt. The hand on my waist tightens, as if he wants to hold me in place. My senses are utterly, wildly alert. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to sleep now, with his thumb-claw practically brushing my breasts and his cock pushing against my buttocks. Perhaps a better woman than me could ignore this, but I’ve always been a bit of a mess.

I move my hips back and forth in a deliberate manner, just because I’m the worst.

I’d love for him to grab me tighter. To haul my skirts up and push my thighs apart and just claim me. To grind his cock against my backside until he comes. Heated, delicious fantasies fill my head and I know some of it is the late hour and some of it is my enforced celibacy, but right now? All I can think about is how good it would feel if he drove me down into the mattress and used me.

“Are you warm now?” Nemeth asks.

I burrow back a little further, just because I’m clearly the only one feeling aroused at the moment. “This is so much better. How is it you weren’t freezing?”

“I’m not a puny human.”

He is most definitely not. I put my hand over his on my belly, fascinated by the large size of it once more. “Why is it that your hand is so much larger than a human hand?”

“Why are yours so small?” he counters. “Go to sleep.”

“Are they big because you have wings and it’s for gripping? I noticed your feet were big, too.”

He sighs, and his breath brushes over my hair, teasing it. “I do not know. We are two different peoples, thus we are made differently. Are you going to ask why my knees bend in the opposite direction of yours? Have I asked you about your tail?”

“Tail?” I hiss. “I don’t have a tail. Do you have a tail?” Is he hiding it under that kilt?

“Go to sleep, Candra.”

As if I can sleep now. I wriggle backwards against him, hoping that he’ll react. Just a small groan. A hitch of breath. Something that tells me he’s noticing how blatantly I’m pressing my backside against him. There’s no response, though, and I fight back disappointment. He’s not interested, I realize.

But if he’s not interested, why does he jerk off to thoughts of me?

The man is a perplexing mystery, but I’m not going to give up. Not now that I’m warm and wide awake. “Are you tired?” I whisper. “Because now I’m not tired.”

“Candra.” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “You are impossible sometimes.”

Am I? I’m clearly not the impossible one. His big hand is a breath away from landing between my thighs, his cock is pressing up against my backside, and I’m the one being unreasonable? I want to laugh at the irony of it. “Want to play our game? We can skip the dares and just tell each other secrets. It’s too cold to get out of bed anyhow.” I blow a breath out and watch it fog in the air.

I wait for him to give me a grumpy sigh or tell me to go to bed. Instead, his weight settles in against mine, his delicious hip heavy against my thigh. His chin presses against my hair. “What do you want to know?”

“Do you have a tail?”

Now I get the heavy sigh. His hand twitches against my belly. “Ask me something else, Candra.”

“I’m going to assume that’s a yes, since if it was a no you wouldn’t be so fussy at me.” I tap a finger on the back of his hand. “But fine. Tell me when your birthday is.”

“My birthday? Do you truly celebrate such childish things?”

“Why not? Birthdays are a celebration of you. What makes that childish?”

“My people do not celebrate birthdays after you come of age.”

I tap his hand again. “Well, I’m human, and I want to celebrate it, so humor me. When is it?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “On the seventeenth of spring, I will be twenty-eight.”

Born a short time after the last people in his family were in the tower, then. “Were either of your parents in the tower?”

“My aunt.” He pauses. “She was never the same afterward.”

Mine neither. My aunt Calliope was older when she went to the tower, and my mother (Calliope’s much younger sister) said that she was never quite right in the head afterward. That she preferred to sit in the darkness and liked a small, quiet room. She moved to a monastery not long after she returned from the tower and died a few years later. My mother rarely spoke of her, and whenever I asked about the tower, I’d been told that it was Meryliese’s duty and not to worry about it.

Now I wish I’d pressed more.

We’re both quiet for a long moment, and then Nemeth’s mouth brushes against my hair. “That was two questions, you cheat.”

Two questions? Oh—the tower and his birthday. “Well, ask me two questions, then.”

“Your birthday?”

“Alas, I am high summer, three days after solstice.” I smile into the darkness, cocooned against him. “Didn’t feel much like celebrating this past year. I just turned twenty-four.” I pat his hand again. “Next question.”

“Did you leave a lover behind?”

Oh. I’m surprised he asked that. Perhaps he’s not as detached as he’s pretending to be at the moment. I stroke my fingers over his hand on my belly and consider my answer. Most men don’t like hearing that a woman has experience in bed. They seem to think that we don’t have needs or desires like they do. That we’re supposed to be pristine, virginal goddesses until they deign to stick their cocks into us and “make us whole” or some such drivel. Erynne waited for her marriage to Lionel, and she told me that her wedding night was so awful that she cried for a week.

I’ve never regretted being free with my favors. But I also don’t want Nemeth to think less of me. “I left a great deal of lovers behind,” I say, deciding to go for a teasing manner. “But if you are asking if I had my heart on someone specific, the answer is no. Court was just…court. Everyone there was bored, including me. You amuse yourself the best you can, and sometimes you end up in someone’s bed. It means far less than you’d think. It was mostly flirting, and sometimes flirting would go a little too far. But no heart attachments, no.”

I hold my breath, waiting for his response. Waiting to see if he’s going to shame me for my immorality.

“So…this Balon…he is not a great love of yours?”

Oh, is he jealous? I’m thrilled to my core at the thought. “Balon? Please. He wants to marry a Vestalin.”

Nemeth chuckles. “So it is not true love?”

I snort. “Very clearly not. He got bored and stopped visiting. If he really loved me, he’d be out there constantly. He’s just fascinated by me because I’m an incorrigible tease and I have an important family name. Even if he was in love with me, his family wouldn’t allow it. Balon will need heirs.”

“Ah. So you don’t wish to give him heirs?”

I pause. “No one will marry me. I have the blood curse, and it makes me barren.”

“This blood curse. You’ve mentioned it before. What is it?”

I turn my head, as if I can look back at him in the darkness. His breath fans over my face, and it’s warm and pleasant and surprisingly cozy. “How many questions are you going to ask? You’re not very good at this game.”

He squeezes his hand over my belly, sending a pulse of heat straight through my body. “Just tell me. I wish to know.”

“Do your people not have the blood curse then? The First House of Darkfell?”

“No curse at all.”

Figures. I consider for a moment, wondering if I should tell him. He’s still the enemy, even if I enjoy cuddling with him. Even if I’m starting to have filthy daydreams about him. Would he use this information against me in the future? But…we made a promise that whatever was shared in the tower would not be used against each other. I decide to trust in that. “The blood curse dates back to Ravendor Vestalin, the first of our line. Have you heard of her?”

“Everyone has, yes. Even those of us monsters in Darkfell.”

I poke him for referring to himself as a monster. The more time passes, the more I’m convinced that he’s just a man. A man with wings and fangs and weird legs and possibly a tail, but definitely a man. He has people, just like I have people. “So you know of Ravendor Vestalin. Then you know that she was the first of her line, and she was born from starlight. She wasn’t given the name Vestalin until her quarrel with the Golden Moon Goddess. Back then, they called the goddess Vestal. That was before we lost the right to call the gods by their names. Have you heard this story?”

“A version if it, but very different than yours, I imagine. Keep talking.”

“So Ravendor was a fierce warrior who sold her sword to whoever would pay her. The goddess was upset because Ravendor had killed the goddess’s son in battle. He was supposed to be impossible to slay by any blade, so Ravendor used a club given to her by a male of the First House of Darkfell. The goddess was extremely upset and appeared in the sky as the Golden Moon for the first time. She demanded that Ravendor and the male from Darkfell pay a penance—to give seven years to the goddess. Seven years of piety and prayer, and the goddess would forgive them. Ravendor agreed, and so the goddess rose the tower from the land itself—this tower—and Ravendor went inside. The Golden Moon hung in the sky for seven long years, watching over the tower to ensure that Ravendor and the Fellian did not leave. Once the seven years passed, Ravendor stepped foot outside of the tower, but the goddess was furious because Ravendor had been blessed by the Gray God during that time and had given birth to a child.”

“The Gray God, eh?”

“Yes,” I say. “And so the goddess named Ravendor as Vestalin—under Vestal’s eye—and cursed her line. Some of the children are born with a blood curse in their veins that will destroy them from the inside out. It’s only through prayers to the Gray God that we figured out a potion that enables me to live.” I shrug. “But that’s why the Golden Moon Goddess rises every thirty years to harass the new generation of Vestalin and your people, and why she gets so very mad when her demands aren’t met.” It’s the only reason the goddess’s name has survived for so long. Mankind lost the ability to refer to the gods by their names in another war, another time, but the Vestalin name has remained even though the names of the Gray God and the Absent One are long-forgotten.

“I see.”

He sounds amused, and I cannot for the life of me figure out why. It irks me. “You think it’s a funny story? That everyone in my line has a risk of death? That I have to take potions for the rest of my life because the goddess is angry with my ancestor?”

“That’s not it at all.” He shakes my hand against my belly, as if I’m a child to be jiggled into paying attention, but instead of making me attentive, all it does is remind me that I’m pressed to his body, and we’re sharing warmth, and I’m starting to ache in all the spots that most definitely should not be aching. “You are misjudging me, little princess. I laugh because your story is so different from what I have heard.”

“Okay then, what have you heard?”

His breath is warm against my hair. “Well, the Fellian legends are similar in regards to the war.”

“But?”

“But that the human Ravendor fell in love with the Fellian Azamenth when they went into the tower. It was he that gave her the club that killed the goddess’s son, and they were lovers before they went into the tower and continued when they were there.”

“What?” I practically screech. “Humans don’t marry Fellians!”

“She gave birth to Azamenth’s child,” he continues, his tone chiding. “Which is far more believable than the Gray God touching someone like her and having her give birth to a baby with no father.”

I sputter. “The Gray God⁠—”

“Are you sure she did not fornicate with a gray man? A Fellian? Because my people are gray. It is entirely possible that the story was twisted over time. My people say Azamenth was devoted to her, and it was Ravendor who betrayed him. The moment they left the tower, she abandoned him for her human lover. He killed himself out of grief and the loss of her. It is why my people do not like humans much. They have betrayed us time and time again.”

I roll my eyes, plucking his hand off my stomach. All the sensual pleasure I was feeling about being wrapped in his embrace has disappeared, and I’m left with vague irritation. “So you’re saying that I’m not born of the Gray God, but that one of my ancestors was Fellian. Do I look Fellian to you?”