Bound to the Shadow Prince

Chapter 47

Chapter

Forty-Seven

A fter my medication is administered, I tell Nemeth I want a bit of time to myself to primp and look good. He seems skeptical, but I kiss his cheek and take a lamp with me upstairs, promising not to be gone for too long. While it’s true that I’ve left the largest mirror upstairs on my wall, I also want some time alone with my knife so I can ask it a few questions. I need to see what Erynne knows about my plans, or if she knows anything at all.

I head upstairs and close my door, setting the lamp next to my mirror. I eye the woman that stares back at me. I don’t look the same as I did from my days in court. My face is incredibly pale, the sun-kissed warmth once gracing my cheeks gone completely. My hair is thick and full of split ends from my careless brushing and the fact that I don’t have Riza to rub silky oils into the ends. I wear no cosmetics and my face is a bit thinner than it used to be, my cheekbones pronounced instead of a rounded face.

Ugh. I’m vain enough for this to bother me.

Fussing with my hair, I manage to smooth it as much as possible and then work it into a clumsy set of braids that highlight the pronounced cheekbones and the stark, unhealthy paleness of my skin. I look even worse, somehow. I dig through the cosmetics on my table and find a bit of rouge and apply it to my cheeks, but I end up looking more clownish than ever.

“Happy wedding day to me,” I mutter, giving up and wiping my cheeks clean. At least with the scrubbing my face is enduring, I’ll have a ruddy glow.

Giving up, I move away from the mirror and begin to pace. I know I’m stalling. I don’t know that I want to hear about Erynne. What if she knows of my intent to marry Nemeth and will stop the next food shipment? What then? Can I back away from what I want—to marry Nemeth—for my own good? And if I don’t…?

Biting back a frustrated whimper, I pull my knife sheath from its place nestled deep in my cleavage. I free the blade and roll it in my hands, gazing down at it. A thousand questions surge in my mind, but I don’t put voice to them, and if the knife picks any of them up, it’s not indicating so.

I hesitate a moment longer, and then ask, “Are you there?”

The knife shivers. Yes .

Here goes nothing. “Does Erynne know of my plans to marry Nemeth?”

Silence.

“Would she approve?”

Silence.

All right, then. That’s answered. It’s not a surprise, either. My sister is blindly loyal to the kingdom, even if it’s run by an absolute twat like Lionel. I think for a moment, trying to determine the best questions to ask. “Does my sister have a knife like you?”

Shiver.

“Does she know I love Nemeth?”

Another shiver. Oh no.

“Is that why she asked me to kill him?”

Shiver.

“Oh, ugh, truly, Erynne?” I make a face at the knife, as if it’s the one deciding things. “Must we all be martyrs to the Vestalin name like you?”

The knife gives a confused shiver, as if it doesn’t entirely understand the question but wants to respond anyhow.

That response just irritates me more, though. Meryliese devoted her entire life to preparing for the tower, only to die. Erynne is queen, but is miserable in her marriage, and her husband is a warmonger. And apparently I’m supposed to have a horrible fate as well? I don’t think so.

“Has Erynne been asking about the poison?”

Shiver.

“Does she know I tossed it?”

Silence. No.

“Does she know I won’t use it?”

Shiver.

I consider this. “Are they planning to punish me for not killing Nemeth?”

Silence. No.

That’s good at least. “So they yet plan on sending food to me? For next year?”

Shiver.

It’s enough for now. I can’t ask if it’ll happen—the knife won’t know the future—but if they are intending upon continuing to feed me, that’s the most I can ask for. I consider things a moment longer and then roll the blade in my hand again. “Did my sister send those men to break in?”

Silence.

Huh.

“She knows nothing about them?”

Shiver.

“Did Nemeth’s people send them?”

Silence.

“So no one sent them?”

Shiver.

“They came to raid the tower entirely of their own volition?”

Shiver.

How very odd. I wonder what possessed them to attack. They wanted our supplies, they said. Surely that wasn’t all of it? I wish I’d paid more attention to the tower’s history so I would know if crazed peasants had ever attacked it in the past.

Yes, shivers the knife.

Well, that answers that. I move to put the knife away, back into its sheath, and then pause. “My sister is well? Her son well?”

Yes.

“Her pregnancy goes well?”

Yes.

Even though I’m currently miffed at Erynne, I’m still glad she’s healthy.I decide to ask about more people. Lionel is well (sadly). Nurse is well. Riza is well again (much to my relief) and my friends at court seem to be healthy. It fills me with accomplishment, as if these victories are somehow mine, and I’m in a pleasant mood when I go to sheathe the knife once more.

Then I pause. “Does…Nemeth love me? Truly?”

Yes, the knife shivers.

I’m beaming as I tuck it away, leaving it on my table since I don’t plan on wearing my gown for very long after the ceremony. I finish my primping in the mirror, eyeing my unsatisfying reflection. Then, after a moment’s pause, I reach under my skirts and tear my bloomers off.

No sense in wasting my time…or Nemeth’s.

I race back downstairs with my lamp to greet my bridegroom, more excited than ever to get this marriage going. I don’t care that I’m going to be abandoning my people, or that Erynne, the only family I have left, wouldn’t approve of my actions. Nemeth loves me and I love him, and I’m excited to become his wife in all ways. I’m radiant with happiness as I enter our room…only to find it empty.

Hm.

I know he didn’t come upstairs. I peek into the storage room, wondering if he’s touching himself again, unable to wait for me to return, but it’s empty as well. Curious, I take the lamp and head downstairs. “Nemeth?”

“Here,” he calls. “I am readying the altar.”

Right. Because the Fellians ask for the approval of the three gods when they mate. Liosians have a similar ceremony, but ours is more of standard pomp and fussiness than an actual praise of the Gray God, who looks over the land of Lios and protects us from the whims of the Golden Moon Goddess.

With lamp in hand, I head down the stairs. Sure enough, Nemeth has our precious candles lit at the altar, and he has an intricate, woven prayer cloth covering the table. That’s…new. “Where did that come from?”

“I found it upstairs,” he tells me.

“Huh.” I move toward the altar, fingering the delicate fabric. It’s clear that whoever created this spent a lot of time on it. The stitches are exquisite and plentiful, flowers and birds moving along the elegant vines on the borders. “I’ve never found anything but useless junk in there.”

“It was buried under a few old books,” Nemeth says, his big hand smoothing the sides of the fabric as he sets the ceremonial plates on the altar in their spots.

“Well, that would explain why I never saw it,” I say brightly. Though I don’t recall books, either. Nemeth must have snagged them before I went up and did my hunting.

I eye the altar. Even though we’ve been here for a year now, I’ve done no more than glance quickly at the altar, assuming that it looked like every other church effigy I’ve ever seen. It would hold images of the three gods—a triptych carving of them—ruling over their particular realms. The Absent One, his face turned up to the heavens instead of gazing down at the people of the world, surrounded by sunlight and the daytime realm. Across from him, the Gray God, his sorrowful face tilted toward the ground, as if watching over the people of the mortal realm, his equally gray moon behind him. Between them, the Golden Moon Goddess, she of dawn and dusk, the fickle one who stares right at the person in front of the altar as if daring them not to worship her.

Normally, the Absent One is an elderly, gray-haired man, the Gray God a bearded father figure, and the Golden Moon Goddess a radiant young woman. But in this triptych, they are all Fellians. Their faces are hard and angular, noses pronounced just like Nemeth’s. They have spread wings and the horns that draw back from their faces just like he does. Their legs bend backward, and they do not look like friendly, familiar gods at all.

I stare in surprise at this blasphemy, then glance over at Nemeth. “Are there two altars? Have I missed one?” Perhaps this is the altar of the Fellians (who would be used to blasphemy of this sort) and there is a different one for Liosians.

“You have been here as long as I have,” Nemeth says, snapping his fingers and creating a tiny flame to light the candle. “Have you seen another altar?”

I have not. I purse my lips, then decide to let the matter drop. What do I care? It is not as if I am particularly devout, and since I am throwing my lot in with the Fellians, should I not get married at an altar with Fellian gods? Nemeth sets an offering bowl upon the altar in front of each representation of the gods, then pulls out a cushion for my knees and places it on the floor in front of the altar. “Shall we begin?”

The sight of that cushion gives me a dozen filthy ideas, none of which have to do with religion. Pinching my arm to clear my thoughts, I kneel upon the cushion and hold my hands out to Nemeth to take. He doesn’t exactly kneel across from me as much as he crouches, thanks to his backward-bent knees, but the intent is the same—to make oneself lower than the gods.

He takes my hands in his and begins a quiet prayer to the gods. “We ask for your protection, o Great Ones. We ask for abundance. We ask for your smiling eyes to look down upon us. We ask for your favor. We ask for your joy. We ask you to see this mating between this male and this female and give us your blessing.” His gaze locks upon me. “We ask that you see this union of Nemeth of the First House of Darkfell, and Candromeda Vestalin of Lios, and grant us happiness. We seek to live our lives in the shadow of your glory, and to bring honor to your forgotten names. Be with us.”

“Be with us,” I echo appropriately, trying not to fidget. Here Nemeth is leading me through a very serious, very religious Fellian wedding ceremony and I’m focused on the fact that I’m not wearing my bloomers. Truly, I am such a disgrace.

Nemeth bows his head and then begins to speak in Fellian, switching out of common. His words are lyrical and flowing, and I understand not a bit of it. But I watch him for clues, keeping my hands in his as he continues the ceremony. Even though he’s concentrating on the prayer, I like the feel of his hands in mine. If I was a better person, like he is, I’d be thinking about prayers, or what it means to be bound before the gods in holy matrimony.

As it is, I’m just thinking about his cock…and more importantly, his knot. My pussy clenches reflexively even now.

I wonder if the gods would think I’m a vile creature if I tackled my new husband—excuse me, my mate—in front of their altar. Just grabbed him and tossed him onto his back and flipped up that kilt of his and?—

“Candra?”

I blink, pulled away from my lascivious thoughts. “Hm?”

His eyes narrow. “Are you not paying attention?”

“You’re speaking another language,” I chide. “I’m paying as much attention as I can. Are we married yet?”

A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth. “Not yet. We must give our offerings to the gods and complete the prayers.”

“Of course,” I say, as if I have any clue about how our ceremony will work. I flutter my lashes and give him an expectant look. “You start and I’ll follow your lead, naturally.”

“Naturally,” he agrees, amused. He lifts our joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of mine. “Let us give our offerings.”

He gets to his feet and helps me to mine. Nemeth stands proud in front of the altar, with my smaller, ridiculous figure at his side. I cannot imagine what the gods think of our pairing. Of a short, rounded, soft human woman in a voluminous pale blue dress with puffed sleeves and a tightly laced corset, standing next to an enormous Fellian with gray wings, glowing green eyes, and a leather kilt. We are a mismatched pair to be certain, but I like to think that he enjoys the sight of me as much as I enjoy the sight of him.

And truly, that is all that matters.

Nemeth takes each cake and breaks it in half, feeding a portion to the flickering candle in front of each of the triptych images. He chants the words of a prayer in Fellian, and when he places the hard cake into the flames, it lights up as if covered in pitch and flames to ashes in moments. He indicates I should do the same, and he patiently leads me through the Fellian prayer and the cake offering. We repeat that for each of the gods, and when there is nothing left but ashes, Nemeth takes the final cake, breaks it in half, and offers me a bite.

I eat it delicately, making sure to nip his fingers as he feeds me. Then I feed him, and his hot gaze devours mine, sending shivers of anticipation through my body.

“Now are we mated?” I ask, breathless, as I brush a crumb from his hard mouth.

Nemeth chuckles at my eagerness. “Not quite. Now we must give each other the bite of marking.”

Right. The bite-y part of the ceremony. That means we’re close to the end, at least. “Do you bite me first or me to you?”

“You bite me,” he says, and his green eyes flare, as if the thought excites him very much.

“All right, but my teeth are rather blunt. Don’t blame me if I gnaw for a bit.” I take the hand that he holds out to me, palm up, and eye him. “I’m a little afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

His lips twitch. “You will not.”

Hmph. He acts like I’ve got a mouth full of pillows. Teeth are still teeth and if I have to tear at his skin, it’s not going to be pleasant for either party. “Do you have the ink, then?”

Nemeth pulls out a small glass bottle with a flat bottom, likely used for dipping a quill pen. It’s full of dark, thick ink, and I bite my lip, realizing I really have to bite the man I love to show him I care. I glance up at Nemeth but the look on his face is unafraid. If anything, he looks excited at the prospect of my bite.

Well, all right, then. “Do I just bite down whenever? Is there a particular method?”

“However you like. Just do it wide enough and deep enough so it will leave a scar pattern of your teeth.”

I examine his hand, and the meaty portion just under his thumb. I lift it to my face, eyeing him, and his excitement heightens visibly. I’m glad this is a turn-on for one of us, at least. I lick the meat of his palm with a little smile, and then sink my teeth in before I can overthink things.

Immediately, I know I’m not biting hard enough. I can barely dig my teeth into his skin, and Nemeth shows no reaction to my bite, so I concentrate on bearing down as hard as I can. When I finally taste blood, I realize I’ve broken skin, and I make a noise of surprise.

“Don’t let go yet,” he whispers. “Bite harder, so you can mark me harder.”

Oh gods, why did that sound arousing? I do as he commands, and my mouth fills with a gush of his blood. Horrified, I draw back in surprise, spitting it out onto the floor, and swipe at my lips with my sleeve. “I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “Is that enough?”

Rivulets of blood slide down his palm, and the look he gives his hand is pleased indeed. “It is a fine bite.”

“Is it?” I grimace, still tasting copper. I scrub the sleeve over my mouth again, knowing I’m probably ruining my dress. I love the taste of Nemeth…but not his blood. “Can I see?”

He wipes the blood away with a brush of his fingers over the skin and shows me. Sure enough, there are the flat lines made by my front teeth and then the holes from my incisors, along with the rest of the bite that forms a ragged oval on the meat of his palm. More blood wells up, and instead of wiping it away, he picks up the pot of ink and pours it over the wound.

I wrinkle my nose at the sight, imagining the pain. “Does it hurt?”

“It is a good hurt,” he reassures me, producing a strip of white cloth and wrapping it around the fresh wound. Immediately, the cloth soaks with a mixture of ink and blood. “It is a wound I am proud to carry. May the mark last forever, and if it does not, you will have to refresh it for me.”

“Of course.” In that case, I hope it lasts forever. I’m going to feel the give of his flesh underneath my teeth in my nightmares, I just know it.

“Give me your hand.” Nemeth holds his out, his eyes feverishly bright.

I do, eyeing his large, sharp teeth. Surely his bite won’t involve nearly as much…sawing. I swallow hard as he delicately turns my hand over and lifts my palm toward his mouth. “Be gentle,” I whisper.

“You are not a female that likes gentle.” The way he says it is like a caress, his breath playing over my skin.

“You’re right, but—” I gasp as his teeth sink in.

A hot, sharp pain shoots through me, accompanied by an odd curl of pleasure. The way he bends over my hand, his teeth deep in my flesh…it should not look as seductive as it does. He immediately lifts his head and swipes his tongue over the wound, lapping up the blood.

“Oh,” I breathe.

“If it makes you feel any better, you are delicious,” he tells me, licking my palm again as he gazes at me. Another curl of pleasure ripples through my belly at the sight, at the drag of his tongue over my tender, abused skin. “And now we are almost done.”

“Will you put the ink on the bite for me?” I ask. I’m not good at applying my medicine, and I suspect I will be equally poor at this.

He nods, picking up the vial and giving my heated flesh another swipe of his tongue before dousing it with ink. I whimper as the dark ink stings at my fresh wounds. Gods, I hate pain. Hate it. But Nemeth’s eyes are bright with pleasure and wonder both as he gently binds my hand, wrapping up the bite so it can have the chance to heal. “I will tend them both in the morning.”

I take my throbbing hand back and study it, the bandages soaking through with inky blood in the shape of a bite. “Now are we mated in the eyes of the gods? In the eyes of your people?”

“Almost.” There’s a feral light in his eyes as he regards me. “The marriage must be consummated.”

“Well now. This is my favorite part.” I beam up at him and tug at the bow at the front of my dress. “Wanna do it in front of the altar? Shock the gods? Or should we go back up to bed?—”

He puts a hand over mine, stopping me before I can unlace my dress. “Now we must do the ceremonial chase.”

Another hot curl of pleasure slides through my blood. “A chase, mmm?”

Nemeth nods, unable to pull his gaze from me. “A good Fellian male gives his mate a chance to run from him, and then he hunts her down and gives her his knot, claiming her as his for all time.”

“It sounds positively barbaric.” And absolutely filthy. I am so ready for this. He needs to be prepared for the worst chase ever, because I am going to let myself get caught, and caught hard. I lick my lips, and I love that his gaze flicks to my tongue. I smile, feeling powerful and sexy, knowing I’m about to be fucked thoroughly. “How much of a head start do I get?”

“Start running and you shall find out,” he all but purrs to me.