Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 40 страниц)

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

Ihead upstairs after I’ve finished bathing, the tub emptied of its water and my soap carefully put away. I hold the light that Nemeth left for me, and when I get to his rooms, I find him in there, reading a book. He gives me a distracted smile, kisses my palm, and then returns to reading. It’s obvious that he needs some time to himself, to pick through his thoughts.

That’s fine. I have two more letters to dig through. They sit on the corner of the bed, and I glance over at Nemeth. “Should I go upstairs? Give you some privacy to think?”

He looks up at me in surprise and blinks those strange eyes at me. Then he shakes his head. “No. I should like for you to stay.” The smile he gives me is a little shy, a little uncertain. “I prefer you here.”

I beam back at him, pleased. Impulsively, I go to his side, to the stool he has near the cold fireplace, and I fling my arms around his neck and press a kiss to his cheek. “No matter what you decide, Nemeth, we are friends. Understand?”

Big arms go around me and he holds me close. “You are right. Let us be friends first and foremost. I keep forgetting that we are here for the next six years. That we have many, many days and months to live through before we worry about the outside world.” And he squeezes me tight, as if in an apology. “Forgive me for thinking too much.”

“I never have that problem,” I tease, and I’m rewarded with a chuckle from him.

He hugs me again, pulling me closer. I love the feel of his arms around me and so I press his head to my bosom and hug him like I would a child, stroking the horns that sweep back from his brow.

Nemeth immediately stiffens, his body growing tense against me.

Oh. I’ve done something improper, I suspect. I pull back, lifting my hands. “I’m sorry. Is touching your horns bad?”

“It is…a strong sort of touch.” His voice is tight.

Oh dragon shite, he’s told me that before, hasn’t he? And I’ve completely forgotten. “As in, not the sort of touch a friend gives a friend. I’m so sorry.”

Nemeth nods at me and lets me go. I’m left feeling vaguely disappointed and sad that he doesn’t pursue things more. That he doesn’t fling me down onto the bed and fuck me until stars burst behind my eyes.

He needs for this to be a true marriage between us—a mating, as he calls it—but I am Liosian.

If I choose him, I lose everything the moment I get out of this awful tower.

I’m not sure I’m ready to make that choice yet. Picking up my letters, I move back to the bed and sit down to read. Nemeth retrieves his book, opens it to a page, and starts reading.

It’s quiet between us, and it’s not a comfortable quiet in the slightest.

The letters from Nurse and Riza are less guilt-inducing than Erynne’s letter. Both of them are sweet and full of worry over me, and they tell me all about Erynne and court—what the latest fashions are, who recently got married, and who inherited a fortune. They tell me of Allionel and his baby activities, and it’s clear that both of them adore him. It seems like the entire court does. I read their letters multiple times over the next several days while Nemeth makes careful lists of meals we can make that will stretch our food and firewood.

I offer to help him with it, but he has a workbook he pores over, numbers he moves back and forth, and I give up trying to assist. He has a system worked out, and I’m just slowing him down. I read my letters again and again instead, as Nemeth’s food supply is delivered in much the same way as mine. I expected them to deliver it through magical means, since they have lights that shine without fuel and the ability to meld their bodies with the shadows, but Nemeth assures me this is not infallible. To move through the shadows, one must see where they are going, and with a wall in the way, no one can trust where to arrive.

Plus, they are not allowed to step foot inside the tower, and he is not allowed to go out.

When they arrive on the Solstice (as planned), I have to hide upstairs from the Fellians. Hiding in the shadows and watching isn’t enough, because they can see in the dark. It makes me feel like I’m being punished even if I know Nemeth’s request is reasonable. I sit upstairs and read through my letters for the dozenth time as Nemeth waits downstairs for his supplies.

We’re supposed to pray to the Golden Moon Goddess on the Solstice but I don’t feel much like praying to her—or to any of the gods. They can just enjoy my presence here in the tower and know I’m doing my stupid, ridiculous duty to them. I flick through Riza’s letter.

And then Nurse’s.

A thought occurs to me and I pick up Erynne’s letter from the stack and read through it again.

No one has mentioned the war.

There’s not a single mention of the fleet of ships that were waiting in the harbor last solstice for a good wind. No mention of their arrival to Darkfell lands or how the conquest is going. If the Fellians are fighting back or if they have been completely destroyed. I’ve seen just how large the Liosian army is and I can’t imagine the war is going well, even if Fellians can blend with shadows. How very curious that they didn’t say anything about it at all.

Could it be because they’re afraid Nemeth would get the information? That seems the most likely reason. If so, I’m a little hurt that Erynne and Riza and Nurse don’t trust me enough not to blab about state secrets. Am I not here in this wretched tower because I love my country?

Hurt, I look to the stairs, but there’s still no sign of Nemeth. He’s been down on the first floor for a while now, and I worry that he’s getting the same abrupt treatment I did. I put on my slippers and grab my skirts so they don’t rustle, tiptoeing down the dark stairs without a light, counting until I get to the thirty-fifth out of the forty steps. Then I sit, straining my ears to hear.

There’s a low murmur of conversation, and I can’t pick out their words. They must be speaking Fellian, because the cadence of their voices is unfamiliar to me. Then, someone laughs.

A moment later, I hear Nemeth’s booming voice join in. He laughs, too, the snake, and I frown into the darkness. Are they just standing at the door and chatting as if they’re having a cup of tea? Catching up on gossip while I was treated like a prisoner by my own people? I’m irritated, and sitting on the steps and hiding as I listen in isn’t helping things. When they laugh again, a stab of hurt radiates in my chest.

Nemeth’s people clearly love him. They’re pleased about his duty as the Royal Offering.

Mine won’t tell me about the war and treat me like I’m some sort of beggar when they come to give me supplies. I’m sure there’s a reason behind it, but resentment stirs in me just the same.

Chapter

Forty

Nemeth is down there for hours, and I get tired of sitting on the stairs, listening in to a conversation I can’t understand. They seem to be jovial enough, and I wonder if they’re teasing him about me. Stuck with the fat, cursed princess? Shame about that.

The thought irritates me and I head upstairs. I fold up my letters and put them aside, because their contents no longer bring me pleasure. Instead, all I can see is what they don’t mention. Other than the baby and my sister, I realize that no names are given. When they mention someone at court marrying, it’s a “certain someone with a forked beard,” not “Bernard Athelhorn, Lord of Silver Thorpe.” They’re hiding information from me because of my situation. It bothers me, so I decide to put them away, into my trunk upstairs where I keep my knife and the secretive things I don’t want Nemeth to see, like the worn out bloomers I wear when I have my period and the supplies for such things.

My trunk is just where I left it, but I’m a little anxious each time I open it, worried that this time, my knife will be gone again. That Nemeth will have lied to me and stolen it. That he’s somehow figured out its magical properties and wishes to use it against me. But when I open the small, gilded trunk, my knife is there.

I pick it up and set the letters inside. “I missed you,” I joke.

The knife doesn’t respond. It’s either disagreeing with me or didn’t realize it was a question.

I bite my lip, thinking. Should I keep it with me or put it away once more? I stare at it, hoping for inspiration. I’m afraid to ask it anything. I’m afraid to hear the answers, because I’m powerless to do anything about them. “Is Erynne well?” The question comes out of me grudgingly, and I flinch, waiting for the answer.

To my relief, the knife shivers in response.

I sigh, some of the anxiety disappearing. “And the new baby? Has it been born yet?”

No answer.

“Is it a boy?”

No answer.

I smile at that. A girl, then. I hope she looks just like Erynne. Lionel will be annoyed that his second child is female, but he can just suck on eggs as far as I’m concerned. I cross my legs and sit in front of my chest, gazing at the innocent-looking knife in my hands. “Is Nurse well? Nurse Iphigenia?”

Again, the knife shivers.

I smile once more. “And Riza?”

Silence.

The urge to vomit rises in my throat. “Is Riza alive?” I whisper. The knife shivers, and I let out a deep breath. All right. Riza is alive, but she is not well. “Is she sick?”

No response.

“Wounded?”

No response.

“Lost? Sad? Tired?”

None of these questions get a response, and I’m frustrated by my inability to close in on the proper questions. I’m filled with a vague sense of worry and I want to fling the knife away again. It feels willful to do so, but what use are these answers? They fill me with grief and anxiety, not comfort. “Is Balon well?”

No answer.

“Is Balon alive?”

No answer.

I swallow hard, blinking back tears. I suppose that’s my answer. He hasn’t returned because he’s dead. Poor Balon was so young, too. “Was it sickness?”

No answer.

“The same problem as Riza?”

No answer.

“Is…it the war?”

Yes.

“Did he die in battle?”

Yes.

Oh. I had no idea he joined the war. I thought he’d been considered too young. That his father didn’t want him gallivanting off when he was the heir. It seems he changed his mind. “Is King Lionel alive?”

Yes.

Figures. I stare down at the knife, unhappy.

“Candra?” Nemeth calls up to me. “Are you hiding? Come and see what was brought.” His voice is cheerful, his mood a happy one. He doesn’t need to know that I feel as if I’m a cake that has suddenly sunk in the middle. There’s no need for both of us to be miserable.

I can do nothing about what is happening at home, so I shall not think about it at all. I tuck the knife into the front of my bodice and get to my feet, dusting off my skirts. “Coming! Are we going to feast on fresh Fellian mushrooms tonight?”

Nemeth laughs again, the sound echoing through the lonely tower, and I feel a little better after hearing it.

Just a little.

The world outside fades away from my thoughts far too easily.

Now that our supplies are flush once more, it’s easy to feel happy and settled. The root cellar is full to overflowing, and the storage room on the first floor brims with flour for bread, dried herbs and teas, fuel, and new, warm clothing that we can use in the winter. There are fresh blankets and sweet-smelling candles. There are soaps and lotions for me, and new books for Nemeth. With his ledger book, Nemeth has our food supplies plotted out to last us several weeks beyond the next Solstice, all without skimping on meals.

The tower seems a little more comfortable in the weeks past the Solstice.

If the tower’s comfortable, I wish things between Nemeth and I were equally so.

It’s not that things are bad between us. But Nemeth has erected a wall. He’s stated what he wants—a mate—and is calmly and patiently waiting for my decision. He doesn’t want a fling from me, and he’s perfectly willing to wait—or to decline my advances entirely. We still share a bed at night, but the kissing and cuddling has ended as quickly as it began. Things are still friendly and affectionate between us, but he hasn’t tried to wake me with his head between my thighs, and I’m afraid to approach him in a similar fashion once more and get turned down.

And I don’t know what to think.

It’s hard not to feel like I’m being punished. That he’s withholding until I agree to be his mate and say “Yes, I renounce my kingdom, my sister, and everything I’ve ever believed in.” But Nemeth is still my friend. We still laugh over passages in books and curl up together in bed to read or talk about nothing at all. We take turns making meals and playing a card game, and it’s all quite lovely and sweet.

He’s not trying to be an arse about it, I realize. It’s just that if we take things further, Nemeth is only comfortable with one route—as a mated couple. I understand that. I respect that.

I just don’t know if I can do that.

To his credit, Nemeth doesn’t push me to accept him. It’d be easier if he did, I think. Instead he’s kind and understanding and leaves it all in my hands.

Sigh.

Why does he have to be so nice? Why can’t he just grab me and pin me against the wall and have his way with me? Demand my body? Demand my kisses?

I know why—it’s not who he is. He’s a polite monk of a Fellian who just happened to be trapped in a tower with a princess of loose morals who really, really wants to ride his cock.

Weeks pass with our relationship standstill. I keep waiting for Nemeth to break, but I’m starting to realize that this anxious tension on my part might continue for the rest of the time that we’re here in the tower. Six years of waiting for Nemeth to push me into his arms (and his bed) and it might never happen.

And that bothers me.

I wake up in darkness, and the bed beside me is empty. “Mmm,” I say aloud, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. “Nemeth?”

No answer.

I reach over and tap the light, turning it on, and the room we share—Nemeth’s room—is empty. I see stacks of books and firewood by the hearth. I see the table heaped with my sewing (the only hobby I’ve managed) and the cards from our last card game scattered about. I see the shelves filled with supplies and Nemeth’s stool near them, but no Nemeth. Frowning to myself, I reach under the mattress and pull out my knife, where I keep it when I sleep.

“Is everything all right?” I ask. “With Nemeth?”

A quick pulse reassures me.

Yawning, I put the knife back. A midnight run to the garderobe, then. I should just go back to sleep.

I don’t. Instead, I get to my feet, drawn perhaps by instinct to leave our comfortable quarters and the light behind. The moment I step outside of our room, I hear a grunt.

I know that sound.

Fascinated, I follow it towards the storage room, where Nemeth keeps his mushroom farm and the wood supplies. I don’t have to be able to see in the dark to know that the door is slightly ajar. I can tell that from the sounds coming from inside. The slick, frantic slap of a hand working a thick cock is a familiar one to me, and heat pulses between my legs.

It’s quickly followed by an ache in my heart.

I would have done this for him. I would have touched him (and thoroughly enjoyed doing so). I would give him relief and make him feel so good…and yet he doesn’t want my touch unless it’s that of a mate. How deeply and utterly infuriating. I’m angry and frustrated, but most of all, I’m hurt. I’ve offered myself with no strings attached, and he’s turning me away. It makes me feel like he somehow finds my touch dirty.

Pushing away from the wall, I head back for the bedroom.

“Candra?” Nemeth’s voice is startled, wary. He realizes he’s been caught in the act.

“Go ahead and finish,” I call back to him, not turning around. “Or don’t. I don’t care what you do.”

I tap the light to turn it off, get back into bed, and pull the covers over my head like a child. My mouth is set in what feels like a permanent frown, and I just…ache. I ache because I’m dying for Nemeth to touch me and instead he’s sneaking off to jerk his cock in the darkness, hiding his need from me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so low.

A short time later, the bed sinks with Nemeth’s weight. He touches my blanket-covered shoulder. “Candra?”

“I don’t want to talk. Go to sleep.”

He tugs at the blankets I have pulled over my head. “You are upset.”

“Of course I’m upset,” I grit out, frustrated. “I’ve offered myself to you on a silver platter and you push me away. Finding you touching yourself in the middle of the night when I’m in bed right next to you? Just waiting for you to touch me? It makes me feel like you don’t want me. You don’t approve of me unless I agree to be your mate. You make me feel like there’s something wrong with who I am. Like I’m dirty if I touch you without some stupid vows.”

“Candra, no.” His hand strokes my back through the blankets, and I wish it didn’t feel so good. “You misunderstand me.”

I suspect I’m not misunderstanding anything. Nice try, though.

He continues to rub my back. “I…I must relieve my body, Candra. It is the only way I can be around you without touching you.”

His words make me jerk upright, all frustration. I sit up in the darkness, glaring at the glow of his green eyes, the only thing I can see. “So touch me. I’m right here.”

“It is not that simple.” His eyes flicker. “I cannot compromise who I am, and a mate is everything to a Fellian. A female brings honor to her mate, and I would not dishonor you.”

“You weren’t thinking about honor when my mouth was on your knot,” I grumble.

“You woke me by surprise. No male would turn away such a thing.” A long claw strokes along the curve of my jaw. “I am a strong male, but not that strong, Candra.”

“So you didn’t like it.”

“No, that’s not the problem. I liked it too much.” His voice is achingly gentle. “I like you too much. I am just trying to love you and honor you in the best way I know how.”

I go still in surprise. “You…love me?”

“You sound surprised. Have I not made my affection for you clear?”

Has he? It’s hard to say. He’s kissed me and we’ve fooled around, but I didn’t realize love was a factor. Or am I so used to court morals and flirting that it all seems normal to me? “I mean…it could be clearer.”

“I asked you to be my mate,” Nemeth says gently. “I do not offer such things lightly. If I took a human female as my mate, I would be mocked before my people. They would not shun me, but they would make their displeasure very evident, and it would take many long years for my family name to return to honor. I know my brothers would be disgusted with me, my mother disappointed. I know all this and yet I still make this offer to you, because a life without you seems far more unbearable.” His thumb pad skims over my lower lip. “Would I take myself in hand all through the night if I did not care for you?”

“All through the night, huh?” How did I sleep through this?

He gives a wry chuckle and skims my lip again. “Being near you and not being able to touch you? It is maddening. But I would respect you. My people think so little of Liosians that I would have no one think I did not treat you with the utmost honor in our time here. Please do not be angry with me.”

“Well…I can’t be angry now,” I say, mollified. I feel better knowing that despite his serene facade, he’s desperate with wanting me.

Claws move to my chin and he tips it up, making me meet his eyes in the darkness. “Then say you will be my mate.”

I swallow hard. If I say yes, I get what I want here—him and me, together. But once we leave this tower, I’ll be a pariah. Not just in my kingdom, but it sounds like in his, too. There will be no place for us to be happy together. “I don’t know, Nemeth.”

“I understand.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my brow. “Take all the time you need. We have years.”

Instead of reassuring me, that just makes me feel worse. Do I waste our time together worrying about the future? Or do I forget about the future and live for now?

This time, when we lie down to sleep, Nemeth pulls me against him. He doesn’t kiss me again, but tugs me against his chest and holds me close. If I was a strong, indignant woman, I’d say that him holding me is a little manipulative. That he’s trying to pull me to his way of thinking.

But I’m lonely and needy and his arms around me feel far, far too good. I guess he’s not the only one that’s weak.