Текст книги "Bound to the shadow prince"

Автор книги: Ruby Dixon

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Chapter

Fifteen

“…and so I said to the bard, surely you can come up with a better song than that? We need smiles at court, not frowns and sadness!”

“Mmm,” I say to Balon. I lie on my back by the door, nestled amidst the pillows and blankets. I’m just so happy to hear him that I don’t mind him rattling on about court life and the sheer silliness of it all. At least, I didn’t at first. I was so relieved to hear his return that I didn’t care what he talked about, so long as he talked. But it’s been hours now and he’s not asked about me, nor has he told me anything about my sister. I’m starting to wonder if I’m simply a captive audience for his tales of court shenanigans.

“And do you know what he did next? He played a merry tune, just as I asked!” Balon laughs at his own story. “Isn’t that marvelous?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and then add, “Can I ask you a question, Balon?”

“Anything, my darling princess!”

“Where were you? It’s been a month since you came by.” I don’t say that I’ve been waiting impatiently because I don’t want to seem needy. I am needy, of course, but I’d prefer not to show it.

There’s a long pause. “I thought you couldn’t tell time inside your tower.”

“Not very well. But I was so excited to see you that I’ve been counting the days as best I can and I know it’s been a while since you were last here. Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine, Princess Candromeda. It’s just been so busy at court. I’ve scarce had the opportunity to get away. You understand that it’s quite an excursion for me to come out here and see you?” His tone sounds faintly reproachful. “I must keep my visits a secret or else I would be banned from keeping you company.”

“Who would ban you?” I press. “My sister? I don’t think she would. She would understand your devotion. And you said Lionel is off to war.”

“It’s just…it’s dangerous.”

“Only if you try to break me out. Which you said you weren’t going to, right? So what’s the harm in visiting me?” I clutch the pillow close to my chest and turn toward the door. “Did you ask the gods if you could free me?”

“No answers on that front, my love,” he replies cheerily.

I roll my eyes into the darkness. I wonder if he even remembered to ask. “Please follow up with the priests,” I ask, keeping my tone sweet. “You know it would mean everything to me if I could get out of here.”

“You’re very brave for your sacrifice,” is all he says.

I’m struck by annoyance again. Does he think I want to be here? That I had a choice? I’ve been trapped since the moment Meryliese died, with no way out of my horrible destiny. “You’re too kind.”

“Shall I tell you more stories of court?” he asks cheerfully. “It has been quite adventuresome as of late.”

“Actually could you get a message to my sister? Tell her I’m all out of candles and wood? I need them both if I’m to last through the winter.”

“My sweet princess, you know that no one can be aware of my visits here. I dare not tell a soul.”

Dragon shite. He just doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s visiting because it doesn’t suit his needs. “Do you want me to sit in the darkness for the next year, Balon? Because if you don’t tell them I need candles and wood, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. I have to make my medicine and I can’t if I don’t have anything with which to make a fire. Understand?”

“I shall see what I can do,” he says. “But I do wish you wouldn’t be so angry at me, dearest. It’s not my fault you’re trapped.”

I pinch my brow, frustrated. “I know it’s not. I’m not trying to be angry, Balon. I’m just scared. If I don’t have my medicine, I’ll get sick and die. You know this. Please, just tell Erynne I need candles and wood for a fire. Please.”

There’s a long pause. “I will do what I can, my heart.”

“Thank you, Balon. That’s all I ask.” I smile into the darkness. “And you’ll be back soon?”

“As soon as I can get away. It is terribly difficult to get away from court, you know. Did you hear that there is a holiday ball next week? For the Feast of Pious Arthell.”

It’s the Feast of Pious Arthell already? I mentally go over a calendar, trying to count the days. The feast always happens in harvest season. Maybe I’ve been here longer than I thought already. “I love the Feast,” I say, moving into safer territory with the conversation. “What are you going to wear?”

Balon settles in with a happy laugh and proceeds to tell me all about his wardrobe choices for the upcoming festivities. When he leaves a few hours later, he promises to return “swiftly” and with news of my sister, the war and to tell the others about my predicament.

I get up from the floor and straighten my blankets, folding them, and as I do, I think about his promises. I don’t know if he realizes just how dire my situation is. I think of spending the long winter in the darkness, parceling out my wood so I can make my potion, and eating cold, raw food. The thought is a depressing one.

“You should tell him to forget you.”

I jump in surprise, my heart thudding wildly in my chest at the sound of the Fellian’s voice. I clutch the pillow to my breast, glaring into the darkness where he’s hiding, only his eyes visible. “Gods above, you really do enjoy jumping out of corners to startle a girl, don’t you?”

He chuckles, and the sound is hollow and strange, and yet oddly enticing. “Not trying to startle you. It’s not my fault you can’t see in the dark.”

“Mm. I still think you’re doing it on purpose.” I set my pillow atop the sled, along with the blanket. There are no more trunks left, after all. There’s junk on the top floor, but after that, I’m out. The sled is my final resort. Once I have to break it down for wood, I’ll know I’m truly in danger. For now, just knowing that it’s there is comforting. “Have you come to chastise me again? Remind me that I’m not to touch your things? Because I’m not.”

“I heard you talking to your fool of a lover,” he says. “And I wanted to remind you that we are both trapped here. He cannot free you, and I won’t let you leave. It’s best if he forgets you entirely.”

Such words of encouragement. “He’s not going to forget me,” I say, lifting my chin in a show of defiance. “Balon loves me. He’s not forgotten about me despite the fact that everyone else at court has. And besides, I don’t want him to forget me. Why should I listen to you?”

“Because seven years is a long time to be alone.”

His words are simple, but devastating. My happy mood vanishes, and I’m left feeling like a hollow shell. Seven years is a long time. It feels like forever. It might as well be forever. “Thanks for that. I was in a bad mood earlier and now I’m in a worse one. You’re not very good company, you know that?”

“I know.”

Hmph.

It’s silent in the large, echoing chamber, but I don’t feel alone. I know he’s still in the shadows, watching me. Waiting for…something? “What’s your name?” I ask impulsively. When it remains quiet, I add, “So I can quit calling you ‘that damned Fellian’ when I think of you.”

“Do you think of me?”

“As little as possible.”

That elicits a laugh from the shadows. “Nemeth. I am called Prince Nemeth of the First House of Darkfell, Princess Candromeda Vestalin.”

So he knows my name. Is it because he’s researched the Vestalin line or because he’s overheard me talking to Balon? I don’t suppose it matters. “You can call me Candra.”

“You can call me Prince Nemeth,” he replies, and I could swear I hear amusement in his voice before he fades out and I’m alone in the room once more.

Chapter

Sixteen

It’s the next morning before I realize that I’ve lost my knife.

I wake up in bed, reaching for the blade that I keep tucked between my breasts, only to find that I’m wearing nothing but a loose chemise, and there’s no bodice in which to tuck the sheath. I grope my breasts anyhow, just in case, but there’s nothing to be found.

Dragon shite.

I must have set it down when I was bathing. Or when I was talking to Balon. Or when I was cleaning up, lost in a dizzy hum of happiness that my erstwhile suitor would soon be arriving. Really, it could be any number of places. I get out of bed and run my fingers over the mattress and blankets, looking for the knife, but my fingers encounter nothing but bedding. I do a blind search of my room as well, but it’s fruitless. I head downstairs and fumble through the darkness, searching the kitchen and then by the door.

I can’t find it. Not without some light to guide me.

Panicked, I return to my quarters and find my strikers and the box of candles. It’s empty except for two. Two lonely candles are left to last me the rest of the year. My panic increases and I clutch the candles in my grip. Do I dare light one? For something as frivolous as finding my knife? Or do I simply wait for it to surface again? After all, I can’t leave the tower. There’s only so many places it can be and I’m bound to find it at some point.

The loss of it hits me hard, though. It feels like I’ve just been abandoned by my only friend. Without the knife, I can’t check to see if Erynne and the baby are well. I can’t ask if someone’s coming to get me, or if the war is over. It doesn’t matter that the answers are unsatisfying. What matters is that I have some sort of connection to the outside world, and I feel lost without it.

Carefully, I put the candles back down and decide to search the tower again. I go over my room as best I can, handspan by handspan, shaking out every dress and blanket. Still nothing. It’s not until after I head out of my quarters to go search the kitchens that a new idea occurs to me.

What if Nemeth took it?

He was indignant that I touched his food, after all. What if he stole my knife as some sort of petty revenge? I pause on the stairs and then sit on the landing to his floor. I’ve never explored it or even stopped here, not after that first day. He made it clear that the first floor belonged to him, and I’ve done my best to honor that and give him space.

Not today, I decide.

Hands out, I feel in the darkness, hunting for the door to his quarters. His floor should be laid out similar to mine⁠—

A squeak of distress escapes me when my hands run into something hard and unyielding…and warm. Skin. Nemeth’s chest. I draw back, biting my lip.

“What are you doing on my floor?” he asks, tone ominous.

“I’m looking for my knife. Did you take it?”

“Why would I take your knife?”

“Because it’s magic. And because it’s mine, and you know it would bother me if you stole it.”

There’s a pause. “You said you didn’t have magic.”

“I don’t. I do, however, have a magic knife.”

“What sort of magic?”

I sputter. “I’m not going to tell you.”

“Then I’m not going to tell you if I have it.”

Infuriating, horrible man. No, not a man, a creature. “So you did steal it. Why?”

“I didn’t say that.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and spins me around. “Ten steps ahead of you are the stairs down. You should go. You don’t belong on this floor.”

I brace my feet, my stubborn nature rising. “I’m not going anywhere until you give me back my knife.”

He tries to guide me forward, but I push back. Nemeth clearly wasn’t expecting that response, because I smack into his bare chest again, and he grabs my shoulders, pinning me in place so I don’t topple in the darkness. It’s like he’s pinning me against his body, and I breathe hard, thinking about the naughty questions I asked the knife. If Nemeth touched himself to me. If Nemeth touched himself to me often.

Yes, and yes.

“Is this all a ploy to get me here to your chambers?” I ask, voice wobbling. “Are you so lonely that you can’t simply ask for company? You have to resort to stealing?”

With a disgusted sound, he pushes me away from him. That warm presence at my back is gone, and I’m adrift in the endless black. I automatically put my hands up in front of me, trying to find a wall. “You flatter yourself,” Nemeth says. “And I didn’t take your paltry knife.”

“Fine,” I call out. “No need to be nasty about it. Prick.”

I take a step forward, only to be lifted off my feet as if I weigh nothing, and then am set back down again, facing a different direction. A low, silky voice murmurs in my ear, “You’d fall down the stairs if you kept on as you were.”

Oh. My skin prickles with awareness at his kindness in moving me, at the easy way he hauled me into the air, but most of all, that deep, decadent voice in my ear.

Then he ruins it. “A smart woman would be looking for her lost belongings with a candle lit, instead of accusing her neighbor.”

Disgusted, I make a face at the shadows and find the wall, leaving with as much dignity as I can.

Chapter

Seventeen

Isearch all day and still don’t find my knife. I give up at bedtime, a candle for the briefest of moments so I can administer the injection of my medicine, and then blow it out again. That quick glance shows me that I’m low on my potion, and I’m going to need to make a fire. I’m going to have to burn my sled, and then I’ll be out of wood, just as I’ll be out of candles.

Things are getting desperate.

I lie in the darkness and contemplate my options. Balon won’t help me. He’s made it clear that he’s going to show up when he pleases, talk of nothing but court gossip to me, and then leave again. I have to make things last until the solstice next year, when new supplies will be delivered.

And as I check the root cellar for the dozenth time in the last few days, I come to the realization that I don’t have nearly enough supplies. Either I’ve been deliberately sabotaged or whoever is in charge of supplying me needs to be removed from their post. That, or I’ve managed my supplies so very poorly that I’ve gone through a year’s worth of goods in a season. It doesn’t matter. What matters now is that I need to take action.

I can run out of everything and starve. I can let my potion run out and die. I can bargain with Nemeth for some of his supplies.

Or I can kill him, just as Erynne suggested, and take everything.

The thought sits with me all day. I don’t think of myself as a murderer, but I also don’t immediately dismiss the idea. I don’t like the idea of starving while he sits all pompous in the shadows, but he’s got a name. We’ve had conversations.

It’s hard to kill the enemy. It’s doubly hard when you know their name.

I don’t have many options, though. I feel naked without my knife, even though there are other blades in the kitchen. It’s that my knife was my consultant, my companion, my advice giver. I search for it all over again the next day, and I think about Nemeth and how I would kill him.

I don’t have the supplies for poison. I don’t have the strength or stealth to take him by surprise in his bed.

Maybe a seduction? He’s dismissive of me, but he also watched me bathe and didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. I could seduce his goods out of him, I decide. And if that fails, I can invite him to my bed and then kill him.

Then I’d have no problems with food or wood to last me through the year…but I would be sharing the tower with a dead body.

For the hundredth time a day, I want to just get up and walk out of the tower. To somehow get the doors open and unbricked, and race out into the fresh air. Damn the favor of the Golden Moon Goddess. Damn the crops that would surely be destroyed if the goddess is angered. Damn it all and just take my freedom.

Thunder crackles overhead, loud and booming enough to make me jump. It’s as if the gods are reminding me that I’m at their mercy. Figures. It’s the first storm I’ve heard since arriving, violent enough to make the walls shiver each time the thunder peals and lightning strikes. Rain hammers on the tower, violent and furious, and it seems like fate when something wet drips onto my forehead.

Because of course the tower would have a leak.

The goddess really isn’t making me warm up to the idea of being her sacrifice, I grumble to myself as I drag my bed frame out of the way. Once it’s moved, I can hear the plip plip plip of the water dripping down from the floor above. Lightning crashes again, so loud that it shakes the tower itself. “Yes, yes,” I mutter aloud at the displeasure of the gods. “I’m staying. Don’t worry.”

I pick up my dress, intending to slip it over my head and lace it up, then head upstairs to check out the leak. The moment I do, though, I toss the dress back down. Does it matter if I wander about the tower in nothing but my filmy chemise? It’s not as if there’s anyone to see except Nemeth, and he’s already seen everything.

Even though it pains me, I light one of my precious candles and lift it in the air, heading out to the landing and towards the steps to the third floor. Thunder crackles overhead, booming and startling me with the severity of it. It’s the season of storms, so I’m not all that surprised. They’ll shower down for a month, and then it’s harvest time, and then come the snows.

After the thunder dies down, though, I hear something downstairs. It sounds like something hitting the wall, a soft thump that isn’t made by the storm itself. I imagine Nemeth falling down the stairs below, or the storm shaking loose a brick and it landing on his head. I imagine him lying on the floor, broken and bloodied, and when the strange, soft thump occurs again, my curiosity gets the better of me.

Instead of heading upstairs, I go down to the floor below.

Nemeth’s door is closed. Another round of thunder rumbles, the stone walls practically shaking, and then I hear a crash from within. I move to his door and knock. “Everything all right in there?”

The door whips open to reveal a wild-eyed Fellian. Behind him, I catch a glimpse of crowded shelves, full of books and supplies. Before I have a chance to catch more than a quick look, Nemeth focuses stark eyes on me and then tugs me into his quarters. “Good, a hostage.”

A…what?

Chapter

Eighteen

My candle sputters as I surge forward into Nemeth’s room. He looks crazed, eyeing the walls with what looks like anger or resentment.

I’m confused. “What’s going on?”

“They are attacking the tower,” he says, grabbing me by my shoulders and eyeing the walls. “I have never heard such a din. Do they mean to tear it apart and pull us from the rubble?”

Thunder crashes overhead again and he jerks, his wings flicking out and extending in what must be a reflexing action. He pulls me against him, his claws twisting in the voluminous folds of my chemise.

Is this big Fellian warrior…afraid of thunder? Surely I am misunderstanding him. “You do know that’s a storm, right?”

His wild gaze focuses on me. “What?”

I open my mouth to speak and it thunders again. His grip tightens on me, his gaze going to the ceiling. Aw. “It’s a storm,” I say gently. “A thunderstorm. A loud one, granted, but still a thunderstorm. We’re entering the season of storms. Do you not have that where you live?”

In the light of my candle, I see his thick gray throat work. “You…this is normal? We are not being attacked?”

“It’s a very loud storm but no, we are not being attacked.”

The rain pounds against the stone walls and he flinches. He doesn’t let go of me, either.

I’m acutely aware of my candle burning, and I know I have to save it, but I also don’t want to abandon Nemeth when he’s clearly feeling vulnerable and doing his best to hide it. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stay here as your hostage until it stops, all right?”

His gaze focuses on me. “You would…do that?”

“I have the time,” I tell him with a wry smile. I blow out my candle and then hold my hand out to him.

Absolute darkness falls once more, but his green eyes blink at me. “You want to sit in the dark?”

“I’m being conservative with my candles,” I lie. He doesn’t need to know that I’m down to two. “Where do you want to sit?”

He makes a sound in his throat and takes my hand in his larger one. A Fellian’s hands are massive, I realize. It’s like an enormous paw swallowing mine as he holds my fingers. Nemeth leads me forward a step or two, and then my leg bumps into a bed frame.

Oh. My face gets hot. I didn’t think about the implications of being in the dark and in his bed with him. “Sit on the edge?” I ask brightly. “Or do you have a chair?”

“A stool,” he says. “But not enough seating for both of us.”

I nod and feel my way down to the edge of the bed and sit, clasping my hands around my candle the moment he lets go of me. His large form sinks down next to me, and when thunder rumbles again, shaking the tower, something warm and leathery skims over my shoulders. A wing.

He jerks when thunder rumbles once more, shaking the bed with his movements. I set my candle to my side and offer my hand to him. “Are storms not like this where you live?”

Nemeth takes my hand in his again. “I live deep inside a mountain. I guess it is muffled where I am.” He pauses. “You are sure we have nothing to worry over?”

“I’m sure.” I pause, then add, “Now poor Balon might have a devil of a time returning to Lios, but we’re fine.”

That elicits a laugh from my companion, and I smile.

“I suppose you think me foolish,” he says after a time. “For thinking we were being attacked.”

“Not at all,” I lie, glad that I’m able to keep a straight face. “I imagine with all the training you received on how to handle living here, it didn’t cover everything. My maid forgot to tell me how to clean my laundry. She was in such a rush that we weren’t able to cover everything, but I think I’ve been managing fairly well. If you notice my gowns are excessively wrinkled, though, please do not point it out. Wrinkles were definitely not covered in my book.”

“A book?” he asks. “You have a book?”

“I do.” I pause for a moment, wondering how much he knows about Meryliese and her untimely death. “My sister was supposed to be the one to come to the tower. Meryliese was an acolyte at the Alabaster Citadel and had trained all her life in preparation for her time in the tower. But when she was on her way here, her ship sank and everyone died. I was told three days before that I was to be the one to come here. I’m not used to looking after myself so my maid made me a book with as much information as she could squeeze into it in such a short period of time.”

“I am sorry about your sister.”

“Me too. I barely knew her, but I’m sorry that I’m trapped here. I’m not supposed to be, and it’s hard to move past the resentment.”

“And you are sick.”

“Yes.” I don’t say more about that. He’s still the enemy, even if we’re holding hands in the darkness.

“The fop that visits you. He was your betrothed?”

I snort. “Balon was not my betrothed.”

“He is a fop, though.”

It’s terrible of me, but I giggle. “He’s young. Hopefully he will grow out of it. And no, definitely not my betrothed. He was just…a diversion.”

“I see.” His tone indicates that he doesn’t see at all.

“What about you?” I ask. “Were you always meant to come here? Or were you a last-moment replacement as well?”

Nemeth is silent for a span. When he finally answers, he says, “My king told me it was my duty to come here. I did not argue. I knew it was a possibility.”

“Because of the bloodline,” I agree. It was always something that had lurked in the corners of my mind, as well. I’d simply thought that since Meryliese was to be the one sent, I was safe.

Clearly I am a fool.

His hand warm in mine, I turn in the darkness towards those green eyes. I know he’s the enemy, but it’s so good to have someone to talk to. Someone that knows the frustrations that I’ve been going through. Yet I can’t say too much to him. He’s still the enemy. We’re not meant to be friendly. I should be looking for the best way to destroy him, not making friends. “Consider yourself lucky that you were prepared. I’m not having much fun learning of all the things that were missed.”

“Mm.” Nemeth is quiet for a moment. “You had someone to do things for you, back in the palace?”

“You didn’t?”

“I am a warrior,” he says, as if that answers everything.

“Yes, well, you can’t shame me for not knowing how to do laundry or make soup. We don’t know what we don’t know, and I only had three days to prepare. If I had prepared better, I should have learned how to read or to play a musical instrument to keep myself occupied.” I shake my head. “The days are so damned long and the darkness is maddening.”

“It bothers you?”

I know I’m saying too much. I just don’t care. This is the first real conversation I’ve had since I’ve been locked in the tower—other than the other run-ins I’ve had with Nemeth. But each of those occasions felt like we were trying to get the upper hand on each other. This feels like something more. So I allow myself to be vulnerable. “I hate it. It’s oppressive and just makes me feel more trapped.”

“Ah.”

I wonder if he’s mentally cataloging how to use this against me as he withdraws his hand from mine. Thunder rumbles again, and then I hear a tap tap.

The room fills with light.

I gasp, stunned. It’s a pale, gentle white light, and it seems to be emanating entirely from a rounded white stone set upon a pedestal. Nemeth lifts his large clawed hand from its surface and then moves farther down in the room and taps a claw upon another one of those stones, and the room grows even brighter.

The bastard isn’t even using candles.

My jaw hangs open in shock. I want to memorize everything in his room now that I can see, or gaze my fill on the craggy, unpleasant face of the Fellian in front of me, or eye his lack of clothing, but I can’t take my eyes off of the shining globes that seemingly produce their own brilliant light. One would be enough to see by. Two feels like decadence, and then the bastard goes and lights a third one.

Harsh thunder rumbles again, shaking the tower so hard that the bed quakes and the globes shiver. Nemeth turns back to me. “Better?”

I lift a finger, pointing at the globes. “You…how…how did you do that?”

“Magic,” he replies, as if this is the most obvious thing ever. “You do not have magic? At all?”

I shake my head, mystified. “I told you I didn’t.”

“You are my enemy. You could have lied.” But he runs his hand over one of the globes, caressing it. “It seemed a wise thing to bring a few with me. One must be prepared for all occasions.”

And he gives me a pointed look that tells me he doesn’t think me very prepared at all.

I suspect he knows I’m low on candles, too. It seems like something Nemeth would be aware of. That, and he’s probably guessed from my fumbling about in the darkness. If I had one of those globes, it would save me from having to light a candle every time I needed a hint of light. It’d save me tinder, too. I could keep it for my fires. “How does that work?” I ask. “Do you say a spell over it?”

“You tap it twice and it lights up. That’s all.”

“Can you make me one?” I try to keep the eagerness out of my voice, but it’s impossible. The hunger is written all over my face, I imagine. I have never needed anything as much as I need one of these magic globes of light.

Nemeth hesitates and then shakes his head. “I do not have the supplies here.”

Disappointment crashes over me, but only for a moment. A new idea takes place. “Can I bargain with you for one?”

“A bargain?” he looks skeptical. “What is it you think you have that I could want?”

I fiddle with my chemise, thinking. He’s right that I don’t have a lot in the way of supplies that would entice him. I have less food, so I can’t offer him that. I have no books, and judging from the looks of his quarters, he is a great reader. One wall is filled entirely with massive tomes. I can’t even offer my knife—not that I would. I have little in the way of wood to burn, or candles, or anything…unless he wants a dress. “Fabric?” I ask. “I could take apart one of my dresses and you could use the material for…something?”

He snorts and gestures down at the short leather kilt he wears that barely covers his massive thighs. Right. He doesn’t wear human clothing. In fact, he wears very little clothing at all, it seems. “Blankets? A cloak?”

Nemeth shakes his head again, those strange horns of his making the action seem exaggerated. “You have nothing.”

Despair curls through me. “Please,” I say, reaching out and touching his hand. “I need one desperately.”

He stares down at my hand on his arm, and then his wings twitch.

I don’t move.

Neither does he.

Oh.

Oh. I look down at my hand on his arm. I suppose I do have something to bargain with. He’d stared for a very long time at my breasts, after all, when I was in my bath. How much will I be willing to do for one of those globes? To have light constantly and easily?

I’d be willing to do quite a lot.

I look up at him and carefully put my hand on his thigh. Even as I do, I use my other hand to tug down the neckline of my chemise, revealing my cleavage. “There’s nothing I have that you want?”

Nemeth jumps up so suddenly that the bed shakes. “I do not want that.”

Oh.

Gods, I’m horrified and full of shame. I can’t believe I just offered myself—a princess—for a magical light source. Worse than that, I’ve offered myself to the enemy. My face burns and I jerk away, grabbing my neckline and hauling it up high. I snatch my candle off the bed and race out of his quarters, humiliated.

I don’t know what embarrasses me more. That I offered myself to a Fellian so cheaply or that he refused.

Or that I’m disappointed.

I retreat to my quarters—now a familiar path in the oppressive darkness—and slam the door shut.

The next day, I kick a trunk set in front of my door. I grab my toe, wincing at the pain, and wondering what new humiliation is awaiting me today. Is Nemeth going to throw it in my face that I practically flung myself upon his beastly cock? He’s a hideous-looking creature, and not one that I would ever consider touching otherwise. He’s not attractive. He’s not even pleasant.

Is this an apology? If so, I’m not interested.

But I’m also curious to see what he’s offered. If it’s food, I’d be foolish to turn it away. I kneel down before the box, searching in the darkness for a latch of some kind. My fingers locate it and I flip the lid open, hesitantly feeling around inside.

It’s something rounded. And cool.

Holding my breath, I tap it twice, like Nemeth did last night. The box floods with light, nearly blinding me, and I lift the globe out of its case. He’s…giving one to me?