Chapter 40
Chapter
Forty
N emeth 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.