Bound to the Shadow Prince

Chapter 29

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

T he 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.