Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

“It was many generations ago. Our legends say that the child looked like Ravendor, but his coloring was that of my people.”

I think of my sister’s dark hair and dark eyes—and mine—and how we stand out in the court of blondes back in Lios. “Someone told you a story full of dragon shite,” I declare. If Erynne and I were Fellian, even a drop, we’d be tossed out of the court at Lios. We’d be pariahs, Vestalin bloodline or not. “It’s not true.”

“Is it so very terrible a thing if it is true?” he asks, his voice soft in my ear as his breath tickles my hair.

“I’m tired,” I say. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”

I huddle down in the blankets and pretend to sleep. My mind whirls with what he’s said. His story can’t be true. Ravendor was a brave hero, the champion of Lios. She didn’t seduce the enemy and betray him. Garbage. All of it garbage.

Either I disappoint Nemeth, or I disappoint my ancestors, my bloodline, and my kingdom.

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

The story sits between us for a time, souring our conversations. Things remain awkward, and even though we’re friendly, the ease between us is gone. I haven’t been flirting. I haven’t been teasing him when he returns to our room, dripping and wet from a quick bath, even though he looks delectable and I find him more disturbingly attractive by the day.

It’s strange, because we’re together in the same room, yet we could not be further apart.

The weather continues to be icy cold for another week, and we burn through far too much fuel. After a few days of this, Nemeth declares no more fires for heat, and we huddle in the blankets together, fully clothed and sharing warmth. Since our conversations are fraught, he reads aloud from a book of poetry, and I pretend like they’re interesting.

Poetry is truly only exciting when it’s dedicated to you and your lover has written it on your behalf. The rest of the time, it’s dreadfully dull and complicated. This one appears to be a war poem of some kind, with lots of flashing spears and mighty heaves of weapons and it takes all of my strength not to yawn and offend Nemeth, who is quite absorbed.

I have my knife again, and I hold it sometimes and think about the questions I want to ask and I’m too scared to know the answers to. I want to ask it if my sister misses me. If Ravendor really loved the Fellian she was stuck in the tower with. If Nemeth still thinks of me when he touches himself.

I don’t ask. Sometimes it’s easier not to know the truth. And the truth would change nothing anyhow. If Erynne doesn’t miss me…I’m still trapped in the tower. If Nemeth is tired of me, it’s not as if he can leave.

If I have Fellian blood, it doesn’t change anything. It just depresses me.

I keep to safe questions. “Is Erynne well this day?” I whisper to it.

The knife vibrates with affirmation.

“And her son? Is he well?”

More affirmation.

“And Balon?”

The knife is silent.

After that, I decide to put it away.

Spring comes. At least, I assume it does. There is no hint of sunlight in the dark, oppressive tower. No sound of birds chirping or a gentle breeze or anything to tell us the seasons are passing. But my breath no longer fogs the air with cold, and when I touch the stone wall, it no longer feels like touching ice.

Another sign of spring? Nemeth is restless.

Every day, he does exercises. He tells me it’s to keep his strength up, since he cannot fly properly in the tower. Even though he was living at the Alabaster Citadel, he had an active life. Part of his training, he tells me, is to be prepared to defend the tower. When he told me that, I laughed. Nobody comes in or out. But Nemeth was very serious and replied that it was to ensure no one tried to remove us from the tower before the seven years were up.

After that, I’m no longer laughing. I think about Balon and how I’d begged him to free me. Would Nemeth have attacked him? Or me? Simply to stop the displeasure of the goddess from falling upon us? It’s a sobering thought.

I watch Nemeth one morning as he does his exercises.

“Do you want to join me?” he asks, because he always asks.

“I’ll just watch.” I always watch. Not because I’m lazy (though I am) but because the sight is spectacular. I hold a book in my hands, but I am not a reader and have no plans of actually cracking it open. Books are boring. People are far more fascinating.

Nemeth wears nothing but an unadorned linen kilt around his hips as he exercises. It allows for movement, he tells me. All I know is that it allows for some delicious viewing. He faces the fireplace, his back to me, and I watch as wings ripple outward. He does a series of stretches after this, lifting his wings up and allowing me glimpses of his magnificently strong back. He’s immensely broad, his shoulders wide, and tapers down to a thick waist that’s nothing but slabs of muscle. He’s not elegant and lithe like Balon. Every bit of him is strength, and it fascinates me.

As his big thighs flex and he maneuvers, his kilt tightens across his buttocks, and I catch a glimpse of strong, tight globes of muscle and a hint of a tail between them. Aha. I feel as naughty as if I’ve just seen his cock. The Fellian’s secretive around his tail, and it makes me incredibly aroused to know I’ve glimpsed something forbidden.

I might need some alone-time after watching him exercise.

He stretches, his fingers arching towards the ceiling, and his wings flick outward. My breath catches, and I press a hand to the bodice of my gown, fascinated at those oversized hands. He could absolutely wreck a woman with just one single finger, and the thought makes me squirm. Gods, I really need something to take the edge off. Maybe I will go upstairs after this, citing a headache and alone-time needed. Something. Anything.

Nemeth stretches higher, his heels lifting off the ground. Then, he curses and thumps back to the floor, scratching wildly at the base of his neck, just above where his wings attach to his shoulders. He growls in frustration.

“Problem?” I ask, tossing aside the book I’m not even pretending to read. It’s so unlike Nemeth to show irritation that it immediately gets my attention.

He makes another crabby noise and claws at his back again. “Dry skin. The winter has made me itchy. I can reach most spots but not this one.”

Oooh. I watch as he scratches frantically at another spot on his shoulder, then tries to reach for the place near the join of his wings again. His twisting is giving me quite a show, and I pause to watch for a moment before taking pity on him. “Would you like some help with that?”

“Help?” He turns and gives me an impatient look.

“Yes, help. I can oil your shoulders for you, and your wings if you like. I’m happy to be of assistance.” I make my voice sound as innocent as possible. As if I’m just an innocent saint willing to help out. As if I haven’t been salivating at the thought of putting my hands on him. I fling the blankets off the bed and get to my feet as if it’s already decided. “You’ve got some oil around here somewhere, don’t you? Or a lotion of some kind?”

He turns and faces me, still grumpy. “I guess so, yes.”

We pick through several bottles of various concoctions that he’s brought with him for healing, tinctures for burns, extracts for sicknesses of various kinds, and find a bottle that’s labeled “wing oil.” Nemeth hesitates on pulling out the cork stopper. “I’ve been saving this because I’m not sure if they’ll bring me more when they bring supplies. It needs to last.”

“Maybe we can make our own if we run out,” I tell him. “There’s no point in you having itchy wings for the next seven years. I’m sure that can’t be good for your skin.”

“Six,” he corrects absently. “But…yes. You are right.”

Huh. In another month, it will be six years. We’ve almost made it an entire year. It feels like we’ve been in this tower forever, and yet at the same time, it feels like we just got here and we’re still finding our footing. “Your birthday is soon then,” I comment. “How do you want to celebrate it?”

He snorts. “The only thing I wish to celebrate is another solstice so we are that much closer to freedom.”

Good point. “I promise I’ll be sparing with the oil.”

I pour a tiny bit into my hands and show it to him for approval. Nemeth gives me a cranky grunt and then taps at his shoulders. “Right between here.”

“Just a moment.” I close my fingers over the bit of oil in my palm, and with my other hand, grab my skirts. I climb onto the bed and stand upright, then turn around to face him. “There. This should help, since you’re so much taller than me.”

His wings flutter as he gazes up at me. “You’re sure you don’t mind doing this?”

“You’re really going to ask that?” I give him an exasperated smile. “You, who administers my medicine to me every night?”

The wings twitch again, his shyness coming through. “You bruise so easily. I want to make sure you don’t get hurt, that’s all.”

Because he is kind and gentle. Because he doesn’t like to see me suffer. Because we have this strange push-pull dynamic between us that we can’t figure out how to handle. I indicate that he should turn around, then rub my hands together to warm the oil. I’ve had heated oil massages after my baths in the past, and it’s always nice to have someone’s strong hands working your muscles. It’s the least I can do for Nemeth after all the kindness he’s shown me.

Plus, I’m being selfish because I really, really want to touch him.

Carefully, I place one hand below his neck, at the spot between his wings. It’s surprisingly hard to reach, because his sweeping horns jut backward like a wind-swept mess of hair, and they get in my way as I try to maneuver closer. But the moment I stroke my fingertips between his shoulder blades, he gives a sigh of pleasure.

“Perfect. Just like that.”

His low voice sends ripples of heat through me. Thighs clenching, I bite my lip as I smooth my oily hands over his back, rubbing and massaging around the base of each wing. I dig my fingers into his hard muscles, fascinated at the play of them. He’s so very strong. His shoulders are enormous to give strength to his wings, but I don’t find them unattractive. The opposite, really. I run my slippery hands down his spine, then back up again. “Should I do the wings proper, too? Or just your back?”

“Wings too, if you can.”

“I’ve never touched a wing before,” I say softly. “If I do something wrong, let me know.”

With careful fingers, I caress along the delicate, flexible bones of his wing. I know from watching him move them that the bones here are strong but light, but he’s still meticulous with them. He stretches the wing I’m touching out to its full length, the ripple of leather-like skin fascinating up close. I can see minor striations in the skin and veins tracing through the delicate membrane. Using my fingertips, I trace along one vein, forgetting that I’m supposed to be massaging and following my curiosity instead.

“Perfect,” he groans. “Your hands…they’re perfect.”

My pussy clenches at his words, and the ragged way he says them. Oh. He sounds aroused, as if the movement of my hands over his wings is the most decadent thing ever. “I don’t think I’ll have enough on my hands to cover your wings, but I’ll get the bases well,” I murmur, moving to the other wing as he extends it outward. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

He doesn’t tell me to stop, though. Instead, his breath hitches the moment I touch his other wing, and just that small noise makes me clench again. I stroke and toy with the thick base of the wing, getting the oil of my hands on and around it, working the firm muscle on his shoulder where it’s attached.

I’m having very naughty thoughts. Very naughty thoughts brought on by arousal.

Would he stop me if I ran my oily hands down his front? If I reached around his waist and gripped his cock and worked my slick hands over him until he came?

I bite my lip again, the mental image of that driving me slightly mad with lust. Do I dare?

I know he’s a Fellian. I know he’s the enemy. I just…don’t care at the moment. I’m dying to touch him.

Slowly, carefully, I slide my hands lower down his back.

Chapter

Thirty

Nemeth stands before me, frozen in place, his wings spread so I can administer more of the oil to his skin. I should be working on his wings. I know I should. Instead, I’m running my fingers lightly down his back. I want to touch him all over, to caress that hot, muscled, deep gray skin and give him pleasure. I’m shameless, but I want to watch him come.

“Can I keep going?” I ask, breathless. “Or should I stop now?”

“Keep…going?” It takes me a moment to realize he’s confused by my question. “My wings no longer itch, Candra.”

“I wasn’t talking about your wings.” I lean in, slipping my hands around his front, and move lower down his belly. I’m being obvious. So obvious. I close my eyes as I stroke my fingers over his abdomen, waiting for him to push me away.

Maybe if he spurns me, I’ll finally stop thinking hungry thoughts about him.

“I…I…” he stutters for a moment. “You do not have to, Candra. I did not mean to…”

He trails off. Didn’t mean to what? I remind myself that he’s a virgin and he’s not used to flirtation. He grew up around monks, after all. “I know I don’t have to. I want to. May I touch you?”

Nemeth groans, the sound low and ragged. “Please.”

Oh, gods. My pussy clenches again at the sound of that single word. Has anything ever been so sinfully delightful? I keep my hands on him as I step down off the bed, all the better to stroke my slippery hands around his waist. His wings fold in slightly, but my arms are yet underneath them. Not quite trapped, but definitely holding me in place.

I love it.

I press my cheek to his back, not caring that I’m getting oil on my skin. I close my eyes and savor the moment, my hands flexing over his stomach and then moving down to the waist of his linen kilt. Before I can even reach downward, there’s something hard and urgent pressing against my hand.

His cock is already fully erect.

Oh. My lips part, and I reach down, moving my fingers over the shape to learn him. I can feel the tension bunching up in Nemeth’s muscles, but he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t pull my hand away. He’s perfectly still except for his wings, which twitch each time I touch him.

It’s the most erotic experience I’ve ever had…and I’ve experienced quite a bit.

Nemeth’s head falls back, his horns brushing against my hair. “Candra…”

“I love touching you,” I confess in a whisper. “I’ve thought about it so often. How you’d react if I got brave enough to put my hands on you. I wondered if you’d push me away because I’m human and a spoiled princess, or if you’d feel anything for me.” I bite my lip, because I’m blurting out vulnerable things and I hate being vulnerable. “Anything at all.”

“Candra—”

“And then I decided,” I continue before he can speak. “That it doesn’t matter. That we’re trapped in here and we can do whatever we like, and no one has to know. Just like we promised, all secrets remain in the tower.” I slip my hand under the waist of his kilt and the fabric falls to the floor between us. “We can do anything at all,” I whisper. “You can be my secret and I can be yours.”

And I curl my fingers around his cock and stroke him.

“Unh.” The sound Nemeth makes is primal. His hips surge up as I caress him, and I stroke him again, this time slower, learning his cock with my grip as I do.

I gasp with delight as I realize just how big he is. I drag my hand up and down his shaft, from base to tip, and it’s a journey. He’s big and thick, and I can’t believe what I’m touching. “You’ve been hiding all this under your kilt? That’s incredible. To think I’ve been missing out on seeing all this.”

He grips my other arm, the one I have around his waist, and his hand covers mine. At first I think he’s going to stop me, that I’ve gone too far, but he links his fingers with mine instead and holds me tight.

Oh.

My heart aches. Sweetness rushes through me, and I nuzzle against his back. I want to kiss him all over. I want to make him feel so damned good. I slip my hand up to the tip of his cock, encircling it, and it’s an elongated sort of tip that ends in a blunted point, less mushroom and more arrow. How very curious. I tease the tip, pressing my finger against the dip in the center. Within moments, my fingers are coated with sticky pre-cum and I begin to work him again with a tight, shuttling grip. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

He groans, his hand tightening over mine. “Good,” he rasps. “So good, Candra…”

I squeeze harder, using his foreskin to work him, and add a little twist near the end of his cock, teasing the tip as I drag up and down. “I love that you say my name.”

And I do. I love that I’m fulfilling his fantasies, that he’s twining his fingers with mine even as I work his immense cock. I love the hot, hard feel of him in my grip. I love the trembling of his wings that intensifies with every stroke of my hand. I’ve daydreamed of this but the reality is so much better.

His hips buck, startling me from my reverie.

Nemeth makes another one of those unh sounds that seems ripped from his throat, and when I work my hand over his cock again, it’s as if he’s pumping into my grip. He must be getting close, and hot excitement curls through me at the realization. “Can I make you come?”

He groans again, the sound more of a growl, and it’s so intense and sexy that it makes my toes curl and my thighs clench in response. His laced fingers tighten over mine, and his other hand covers the one gripping him. He forces my hand up and down his shaft, hard, and as he does, his hips flex forward.

“Use me,” I purr. “I love it.”

Nemeth’s breath catches again, and then he’s fucking my hand roughly, shuttling his cock into my grip over and over again, twisting and using my hand for his pleasure. His breath catches again—a rough, choked sound—and I squeeze tight. There’s a wet splat as his hot release spatters on the floor in front of us, and my hand is coated with his seed. I stroke over him again, slowly…

…and then pause. There’s a hard bulge at the base of his cock that’s new to me. It’s appeared just now and I’m mystified. “What’s this?”

“Knot,” he wheezes. “My knot.”

It feels hot and tight. There’s no sound of panic in his voice, though, so it’s clearly a normal thing for him even if it’s strange and inhuman to me. I stroke my fingers over the “knot” at the base of his shaft. “Should I touch it?”

His wings spasm, jerking so hard that I know the answer before he speaks. “Yes,” he pants. “Yes. Feels good.”

All right, then. I lightly touch, and when his cock twitches in my grasp and more seed spurts out of him, I grow bolder. I rub that hard knot, toying with it even as I whisper filthy things against Nemeth’s back. I drag my thumb over the bulging ring of it, and Nemeth continues to come, his lungs heaving. Perhaps it’s a lot like my clit, I decide, where I can have multiple orgasms with the right touches at the right time. The thought’s an appealing one, and I keep working him with my fingers until he groans and pulls my hand away, clutching it against his chest, just like the other one.

I hug him from behind, smiling, my cheek pressed to his warm skin. Even though I didn’t come, I feel good. Happy. Pleased. He sags against me, and our joined fingers are sticky with his release. He seems reluctant to let me go, and I’m content for him to hold me tight. I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed touching until just now.

It’s not about sex. It’s about intimacy. I’ve been craving intimacy with Nemeth and I’m so, so glad I finally took the leap.

I just hope I haven’t offended him in some way. I know how to handle a human man. I don’t know how to handle a Fellian…as the knot has blatantly proved.

“You…” he manages to choke out. “Why…?”

What does he mean, why? I’m puzzled at the question. “Because I wanted to?”

He releases my hands and pulls away from me, leaving me to stagger forward. I manage to catch myself before I faceplant in the room, and hold my dripping hand out from my skirts. Normally I’d just wipe my hand on my dress, but now that I’m the one that has to do the laundry, it’s not worth the mess. I watch in surprise as Nemeth scoops up his discarded kilt—and yup, there is definitely a small wedge of a tail tucked above his butt cheeks—and tugs it over himself, giving me a disgruntled look.

He’s acting like he’s upset…at me? My stomach gets a little queasy, and I pick up one of my discarded woolen stockings and wipe my hand clean on it. “You said you wanted me to keep going.”

“I didn’t realize what a game my responses were to you.” His voice is harsh, cutting. “You find Fellians revolting, remember? Was this a ploy of some kind? To have something to use against me? Or so you can prove that I’m weak and foolish around a pretty female?”

Hurt spirals through me. I calmly finish wiping my hands and toss down the stocking. I smooth my skirts and wipe my cheek, still slick with oil. I want to cry, but I’m not going to show the bastard that he’s wounded me. “That wasn’t a game.”

“Then what was it?” he bites out. “What else could it possibly be?”

“Maybe I just like you, you sodding pile of dragon shite,” I bellow at him. I grab my skirts and lift my head, marching across the semen-splattered stone floor as if I’m a queen. “I’ll be upstairs. Don’t come after me.”

And I head up in the darkness. I’m so irritated and hurt that I’ve forgotten to grab one of the lamps, but no power in all the heavens is going to make me go back into that room and face him. My jaw set, my dignity arming me like a cloak, I head up to the second floor and to my old room.

My bed is where I left it, and there’s a gentle dripping into the pan that tells me it’s raining outside. I lie down on the naked bedtick (since all the blankets are downstairs) and stare up into the darkness. Tears threaten again, because I feel betrayed that something I thought was so wonderful has turned out so badly. How could he think that I’m touching him just to have something to use against him? Does he think I’m that cheap with my favors?

True, I have said in the past that Fellians are horrible and the enemy, but I thought he realized just how attracted I am to him. I can barely keep my hands off him whenever we’re together. I watch him do his exercises like some sort of pervert. I cuddle up against him and press my body to his in bed the moment there’s a hint of cold weather.

And yet he would think the worst of me.

It hurts more than it should, and I’m not used to letting people wound me like this. If we were back at court and someone thought I was using him after I’d made him come…I’d probably have laughed in his face and thought nothing of it. I’m untouchable back at court. A Vestalin princess with the world in her fist.

I don’t like this tower version of who I am. She’s far too vulnerable. Tears threaten again and I jab my nails into my palms until the pain makes the tears vanish.

I’ll cry later. Tomorrow. Next week. When I get out of this fucking tower. Just not now.