Bound to the Shadow Prince

Chapter 46

Chapter

Forty-Six

I t doesn’t matter how good I feel after my delicious orgasm or how convicted I am of my path. I have nightmares that night, of King Lionel dragging me from the tower for betraying my people. Of my sister spitting on me, her child in her arms, as the stone tower is destroyed with Nemeth still inside. Of being dragged through the streets of the capital and my people throwing rocks at me.

Vestalin whore , they cry.

I want to protest that I’ve always been free with my affections, that it’s only now that they have a problem because of who my partner is. But dreams are impossible things and my mouth won’t work. I can only scream silently as they stone me and call me names, and somewhere behind me, the distant tower is being destroyed with a broken Nemeth buried alive in a sea of rubble.

Vestalin whore!

I gasp awake, my body bathed in cold sweat. It’s pitch-black in our chambers, and I can’t see anything. My breathing rasps hard in the silence, and for a moment, the tower feels oppressive. My skin crawls with the need to escape, to drink in the sunlight, to be free?—

“Candra?”

A hand strokes my arm. Nemeth’s sleepy voice instantly reminds me of his presence. I look over and see two glowing green slits of eyes, the only light in the darkness.

I swallow hard. I want to marry him. I do. So why is my head full of dragon shite?

I curl up against him, letting him loop a comfortingly heavy arm around me. “Bad dream,” I manage. “Just a bad dream.”

“I have you. Go back to sleep.”

I can’t sleep, though. I don’t want to dream about my sister, or Lios, or that I’m betraying them. Why is it so wrong to want to marry a kind, loving man? Does it truly matter so much that he’s Fellian? Is my happiness not the most important thing?

Unfortunately, I suspect I already know that answer. My happiness counted for nothing the moment Meryliese died. And her happiness counted for nothing at all.

Even after Nemeth returns to sleep, I stare into the darkness at nothing. The tower feels incredibly vulnerable with the loss of the bricking outside that barricaded the door. While it was up, I only thought of how it kept me in.

Now it’s far more important that it keep the rest of the world out.

I slide out from under Nemeth’s arm. He immediately stirs, reaching for me, protective even half-asleep. “I’m all right,” I tell him in an easy voice, finding his hand and squeezing it. “I’m headed to the garderobe.”

“Take a lamp,” he tells me sleepily.

I find one in the darkness—Nemeth always keeps them in the same spot for me so I don’t fumble like a child hunting for one—and hold it against my sleep-chemise as I step into the hall. Tapping it once to light up, I don’t head for the garderobe after all, but down the stairs and towards the door, the flimsy barrier that keeps the world out.

It doesn’t feel like enough. Not nearly enough.

Standing in front of the door, I raise the lamp and eye our efforts. The knives wedged into the doorjambs. The wood wedges at the bottom and down the middle of the double door. The broom slid through the handles to act as a bar. The ropes tying the two handles together. Nothing has been disturbed, but on the other side of the doors, in the sand, are two sprawled bodies. Someone’s going to see them and come ask questions, surely.

Or someone else will be curious.

Or someone will think we are an easy target to rob, a princess and a Fellian alone in a tower.

I think of the men with their pickaxes. How they’d attacked Nemeth. My cheek still smarts from where I was backhanded, and there’s a bit of a bruise on my face, but I’ve been using a hint of cosmetics to keep Nemeth from noticing. He’s taken enough of the brunt of things. I think of his wing and how it dripped blood everywhere. I should clean the floors, I think absently.

Clean the floors and then pull down some of the junk from the third floor to pile against the door. Barricade us in .

I walk away from the doors, musing at how much I’ve changed in the last year. Back at court, I would have never cleaned a floor, much less tended to someone else’s wound. I would have cried and fussed dramatically over my own small bruise until I was certain everyone knew of my pain and was feeling it with me. I never would have married a Fellian. I don’t even know that I would have married. Perhaps I would have spent my days carousing in court, the drunken wastrel aunt of Allionel and Erynne’s upcoming child.

As I head for the stairs, I pass the forgotten altar of the Golden Moon Goddess. At least, forgotten by me. There are remnants of incense and herbal offerings that show that Nemeth hasn’t forgotten the goddess, at least. “Was this your plan?” I ask, as if the goddess will somehow answer me. “To change us down to our very beings? To make us forget where we came from?”

There’s no answer.

I’m wrong anyhow. I might be changing, but Nemeth is as steadfast as ever. I’m the only one who is being made anew.

I sleep late the next day, though it’s impossible to be certain of the time. All I know is when I wake up, there’s a scent of baked sweets lingering in the air and Nemeth’s face is buried in one of his books. One of the lights sits near his feet, giving off a gentle glow that illuminates his strong, harsh features. He looks up as I stretch, a warm smile moving across his face, and I instantly feel better. Dreams are just dreams, nothing more. I smile at him, rumpling my tousled hair. “You should have woken me up.”

“You seemed like you needed to sleep, milettahn .”

That’s a new word. I pause, tilting my head at him. “I haven’t heard that before. What does that mean, milettahn ?”

To my surprise, he looks a bit taken aback. “Mate,” he manages after a moment. “It means ‘my mate.’”

Such a shy man. I beam at him. “Today’s the day. You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

“Never.” The look he gives me is full of intense longing, his shoulders immediately tensing. “Have you changed your mind?” I shake my head, and he relaxes again. “I have already baked the cakes for our ceremony. Do not touch them when you go downstairs. We must save them for the ceremony.” He turns a careful page in his book. “And I have readied your bath by the fire. All you have to do is add the warm water I’ve prepared. It’s still on the hearth.”

Oh, how thoughtful. I know a bath is a lot of work. I get to my feet, padding across the cold stone floor, and slide into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You are most kind.”

“I am determined,” he corrects, sliding one arm around my waist as he closes his book with his other hand. “I shall have you tied to me before the gods quickly, so you cannot change your mind. To that end, I am ridding us of any chance of delays.”

I chuckle. Who knew such intent could be so damned sexy? “If you’ve drawn a bath for me, I can’t possibly refuse. I’m sure that’s in the vows somewhere.”

Nemeth rubs a hand up and down my back, watching me. “No more nightmares?”

“None. I slept quite well after I got to put my feet on you.”

He grunts, his hand straying to my backside and rubbing. “You make it sound as if you don’t put your feet on me every night.”

I slide a little closer, my breasts loose under my sleep-chemise. With my hair tousled and the fact that I’m almost naked? I feel quite frisky this morning. The bath can wait. “You don’t mind.”

“I never said I did.” His voice lowers, grows husky as I lean in. “Go take your bath, Candra. Once the ceremony is completed, I’ll be rutting atop you for hours. Save it.”

Oh. Rutting . Such a delicious word. With a shiver, I slide off of his lap. “Let me see your wing first. If it looks bad, we’re not doing anything today.”

“I shall be the judge of that,” Nemeth tells me, but he stands upright and stretches to his full height, his wing gently flaring outward. He doesn’t stretch it all the way, just enough to let me examine the stitching.

It looks a little puffy and swollen, but it’s no longer bleeding and the color is good. Best of all, there are no red lines tracing outward from the wound. I don’t know anything about healing, but I remember Riza told me her husband died because he had a tiny wound that got infected, and the redness crept up his arm in straight lines as it infected his blood. He died two days later.

Thinking about that makes me a little panicky. I swipe at some of the salve on his wound and poke one of the stitches. “Painful?”

“When you poke it, yes,” he growls.

Fair enough. “But it doesn’t throb? No burning?” I touch the wound again, this time gentler, and it doesn’t feel hot, which is a good sign. “I need to put more salve on it.”

“It is fine, Candra. I promise you.” He sounds a little pissy, his wing flicking as if he wants to pull free from my grasp. “Quit stalling.”

How very rude.I huff indignantly, releasing his wing. “I am not stalling.”

“Aren’t you?”

Scowling up at him, I wipe my salve-smeared fingers on my sleep-chemise. “I’m not stalling,” I say again. “I do wish to get married. I just don’t want to spend a day frolicking in bed with you if your wing is hurting.”

“But our frolicking last night was fine…?” He arches a heavy eyebrow at me.

Damn this man. I’m not stalling…am I? “Excuse me for being worried about you,” I say in my most regal voice. “Gods forbid anyone should care if you’re hurt.”

I draw myself up as tall as I can and turn away. A moment later, he grabs my wrist and spins me around. He hauls me up against him, one big hand clenching my ass as he pulls me up against his chest, and kisses me, hard. His mouth is rough and possessive, but I like it. I like the scrape of his oversized fangs on my lip, and I love when his tongue strokes into my mouth as if he’s claiming me.

Then, he sets me down again and swats my backside as if I’m a naughty child. “Go bathe, or I really will think you’re stalling.”

Distracted, I toss my hair and try to exit the room as gracefully as possible, even though my knees are weak from that rough, wild kiss. I forget a lamp, because I’m too caught up in the pleasant throb of my lips and I have to return to retrieve one.

Stalling, indeed. Doesn’t this Fellian realize I want nothing more than for this ceremony to be over so I can finally get his cock inside me? Hmph.

Well…perhaps I was stalling a little. I’m terrified of what the future might hold when we get out of the tower, but I’m choosing to focus on the present. On Nemeth. On being happy.

So I head down to the kitchens and to my waiting bath. Sure enough, the tub has been filled halfway with tepid water, and the fire in the hearth is banked, coals smoldering. On one of the tables, four circular cakes are cooling on racks, and they’re the source of that divine smell from earlier. He’s been busy, all right. I’m a little miffed that all that deliciousness is going to be an offering to the gods, but I’ll let Nemeth run things as he chooses today. He wishes to do things in the Fellian way, and if I become his bride, I’m telling my people that I’ve more or less switched sides. I’m betraying them and they won’t know for years, because I don’t plan on telling them until I emerge from the tower. No sense in cutting off my food supply.

I pause, worried for a moment. Is my sister going to use her magical blade to figure out what I’m up to and withhold from me? I’m tempted to race upstairs and quiz mine. If I did, though, Nemeth would know something was strange about my knife, and he’d want to know more about it. Today is perhaps not the day to have that conversation, so I’ll have to do it later, in private.

Heading for the hearth, I see the largest kettle hanging on a hook over the coals. I hold my hand close to it. Still warm. Perfection. I pour the water into the tub, and as I do, the scent of roses touches my nose. Oh, he’s added scented oil to my bath? How lovely. I smile at the shadows and wonder if Nemeth is watching from them, even now.

Probably not. He’s such a stickler for his people’s rules that he’s probably just staring up at the ceiling and not even touching himself to the thought of me bathing. He’s going to save all that pent-up passion for tonight.

I shiver at the thought, because I’m not hating it. Not in the slightest.

I take my time and luxuriate in my bath, since it is my wedding day. I might as well pamper myself. It’s nice to be able to soak in a warm bath, and even nicer to wash my hair without shuddering from ice-cold water being poured over my head. When I get out, I’m not going to take a single servant for granted, I tell myself. I’ll be so thankful to Riza and Nurse for their efforts?—

And then I pause, because I’m giving them up if I marry Nemeth. I’m abandoning them as well as my sister, and Riza is sick…I sink lower in the tub, frustrated and miserable. I can’t do anything about their struggles. Erynne will take care of them. My sister is nothing if not committed to duty. I can’t let the thought of Riza being upset with me for marrying Nemeth stand in my way. Don’t I deserve a hint of happiness after all I’ve done? I’m staying here in this tower, after all. I’m sacrificing seven years of my life.

No one says they have to be miserable years. Why not make them happy ones as Nemeth’s mate?

Resolute once more, I finish my bath and dry off, then head upstairs with my towel wrapped around my body, another in my hair. Liosians have all kinds of traditions about the groom not seeing the bride before the ceremony at the altar, but I decide to bend the rules. I leave the water to tidy up later, and return upstairs. Nemeth is seated by his large table, his horns gleaming strangely. He’s wearing an unusual set of clothing—one I’ve only seen on him once before, when we first entered the tower. Normally he wears only a leather kilt of some kind, but today he’s wearing a leather kilt that’s cut into jags, each one heavily studded with decorative bits of metal. His chest is covered with a leather breastplate, straps over each shoulder and around his waist to hold it in place. The breastplate itself is studded and heavily decorated, just like his kilt, and it seems an odd choice for a seven-year peaceful stint inside the tower.

As he regards me, Nemeth carefully sharpens his claws.

“You look very dapper,” I say as I enter. “Are you dressing up for me?”

His gaze skims over my body, and then he goes back to sharpening his claws. “Of course. I would wear my finest hunting leathers for our ceremony.”

“You brought hunting leathers with you into the tower?” I arch a brow at him as I unwind the towel from my hair.

“You brought cosmetics,” he points out.

Fair enough. And here I thought he hadn’t noticed me wearing them over my bruise. Luckily it’s almost gone now and I won’t have to fuss with covering it any longer. I drop my towel from my body and pick up a fresh chemise, shaking it out before slipping it over my head. When I glance over at him, I can see he’s definitely watching me. Good.

I love when he watches me.

“Thank you for oiling my bath,” I purr, putting a foot on the edge of the bed and then running my hands up my leg, hiking my skirts to reveal my calf. “It made my skin really soft and touchable.”

He groans and sharpens his claws even more frantically, the metal file’s loud scrapes filling the room.

Hmm. I sit on the edge of the bed, eyeing him. There’s a new sort of confidence in him today, a self-assuredness that’s rather erotic. “Did you oil your horns?”

“Tradition.”

“I suspected as much…” I trail off as he flexes his hand, eyeing his fingers. Instead of a full hand of dangerous, lethal dark claws, the claws on the fingertips of the first two fingers have been cut to the quick. “Your claws!”

“Again, tradition.” And he eyes me as he carefully files those first two fingers. “A Fellian who takes a mate trims down his claws for his female.”

I eye his hands. Sure enough, the forefinger and second finger of each hand have been filed down to short, blunt nails. As I realize what it’s for, I blush. It takes a lot to make me blush, but Nemeth’s simple determination and the naughty claw-filing will do it. I imagine him using those fingers on me, no longer worrying over his claws, and the breath escapes my throat. Oh, today is exciting . “My,” I murmur. “I’m liking this ceremony already.”

The look he gives me is scorching with heat.

Just the glances he’s giving me are making me squirm with arousal. It’s like he’s been saving all his pent up need for this day and it’s about to erupt out of him. “I suppose I should get dressed.”

“Unless you want to enter your mating ceremony with your hair about your shoulders and wearing nothing but your chemise, aye.”

The thought gives me a delightfully erotic shiver. As much as I love the thought, I also love pretty dresses and I always wanted to look nice for my wedding. Plus…I want a few moments in private with my knife so I can question it properly. “I should dress and do something with my hair.” I touch a damp lock in explanation. “I want to look good, too.”

“Shall we do your medicine early, then?” He puts away his sharp-looking nail file. “In case we are…distracted later? I’ve readied your potion.”

My goodness, he truly is selling this mating ceremony. Heart fluttering, I nod. “Very well.” Taking my medicine early will make my head a little swimmy, but it beats the alternative. “Now?”

He nods and gets to his feet. “Come.”

I move closer to him, and he smells like leather in his new clothing. I’m tempted to bury my face against his chest and just breathe in the mix of scents—Fellian skin with leather armor—but I suppose that won’t help him administer my potion. To my surprise, he pushes aside the books on the table and then lifts me atop it, seating me. He presses a quick kiss to my lips. “Wait here.”

As if I’m going to go anywhere? When he’s looking so delicious and being so commanding? Nothing could drag me from his side.

I roll up my sleeve as he crosses the room to the fireplace. I didn’t notice that he’d set a small fire there until just now, when I realize he truly has been warming my potion. He’s thought of everything this day, as if he’s mapped it all out in his mind as to how he wants it to go. I’m fascinated. He tests his claw in the potion and then rubs it between his fingers to check the temperature, then carefully pours it into one of the glass vials and screws on the specially made lid with the attached hollow needle.

With a damp towel, he rubs my arm clean, just as he’s done for me these last several months. He’s always incredibly gentle with me—more gentle than I am with myself. Today, however, his movements are distracted, thoughtful, as he strokes my arm.

“What is it?” I ask, curious.

“Am I pushing you?” He slides the towel over my arm, caressing me clean. “Into this mating.”

“Of course not. It was my decision.”

“But I have been withholding my affection from you. I have pressed you to mate with me. I worry I have pushed too hard. That this isn’t what you truly want.”

“Nemeth.” I put my hand over his larger one. “I’m a little nervous because of what our union means for the future, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want this…or that I don’t want you. On the contrary. I’m going into this with my eyes open. I know what our mating will mean.” I smile at him, deciding to tease a little. “Besides, are you sure you want me? I have it on good authority that I’m a bit spoiled.”

“You are,” he admits, a hint of a smile curving his mouth. “But I can look past that.”

“Can you look past the fact that I cannot give you children?” I give him a worried look. “My blood curse prevents me from carrying. You would never have offspring of your own.”

“I know.” Nemeth shakes his head. “It will be the duty of my brothers to carry on the bloodlines of the First House, just as your sister carries on the Vestalin bloodline. I will be happy with you at my side. I want nothing more.”

“ Nothing more? Not even to be free of this tower?” I tease.

He gives me a somber look. “Sometimes I think I would be happy to remain here for the rest of my life, if all stays as it is today.”

Strangely, I know just what he means. If we could stay in this moment for all time, I would be a happy woman.

“Now give me your arm, milettahn ,” he murmurs, picking up the needle. “I will be gentle.”

As if I need reminding. Nemeth is always gentle.