Chapter 50
Chapter
Fifty
B eing mated to Nemeth makes me happier than I ever thought I could be. If I thought being with him was pleasant before, it is utterly joyous now. We spend several days in bed, doing nothing more than touching and learning one another. I learn that if I scrape my teeth on his knot, he will come instantly. He learns that there is a spot behind my knee that, if touched, will make me go mad with need. We learn how to make each other’s bodies sing, and I never tire of his touch.
That in itself is a marvel—I’ve grown weary of every other lover I’ve had in the past. Either they would grow selfish, or the sex would become routine, and I would find myself losing interest. Sometimes those lovers would seem as if they were interested in nothing more than making themselves come instead of giving pleasure to me. I’d feel like an object instead of a person. Or worse—I’d feel like they were fucking the Vestalin princess and not Candra.
It’s different with Nemeth. I love his touch. More than that, I love that I always feel that he sees me. Not Candromeda Vestalin. Not the princess of Lios. Not Erynne Vestalin’s spoiled, useless sister. It’s always Candra with him, the Candra that loves a shoulder rub when she has her period, hates epic poetry, and sometimes drools on her lover’s chest when she falls asleep atop him. It feels like Nemeth loves me and all my flaws, just like I love him. I love that he insists on putting basil into everything because it’s his favorite, even though too much will make his stomach ache. I love that he adores epic war poetry, the longer and more dull the better. I love that he’s fascinated with his mushroom farm, and that he talks to them as he tends to the rapidly-growing fungi.
I adore him, and every day that passes doesn’t feel like torture now. It feels as if we’re in our own cozy little nest, letting the world pass us by as we snuggle under the blankets and kiss.
The weather grows cooler, and as it does, it seems to be colder than the last winter. This strikes me as particularly odd. After all, we’re in the tower to prevent the Golden Moon Goddess from venting her wrath upon the people of our world, and yet this doesn’t feel normal. We conserve our wood and our peat bricks as best we can, and some days we warm my potion with body heat instead of the warmth of a fire.
This winter, the water in the kitchen pump freezes up for over a week. We are more prepared for such an event and have kept several tubs and buckets full of water for just in case, so it isn’t more than a minor inconvenience, but it worries me. “How is it that we are sacrificing seven years of our lives to make the goddess happy and this is what we get?” I ask Nemeth on one particularly cold morning. I gesture at the walls of the tower. “This doesn’t feel happy to me.”
“Perhaps other things displease her.” Nemeth turns a page in his astronomy book.
“Like what?”
“War.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You think the war goes badly?”
“I suppose it depends on who you ask.”
“Well, if the goddess is choosing sides, I hope she realizes that everyone is suffering.” I gesture at our frigid room. “Your skin is dry from the cold and my toes feel like they are icicles. Suffering, everywhere.”
Nemeth chuckles at my pouting. He arches a brow at me and puts his book aside. “You are being dramatic, milettahn .”
I am. I don’t even care. “It’s just rotten that we’re devoting ourselves to the cause and some days I can’t even tell what the cause is.”
“Strange things happen with the eye of the goddess on the world,” Nemeth says. He pats the blankets, indicating I should join him instead of pacing near the cold fireplace. “The books say the weathers can be foul and unpredictable.”
“Because of the goddess,” I agree.
“Because of the moon in the sky,” he says, and then adds, “and the goddess, too. But my point is that we do not know what the gods have in mind. It is not our job to speculate. Our job is to remain here in this tower.” As I crawl into bed next to him, he slides his arm around my shoulders. “It is not so bad being here with me, is it?”
“You know it’s not.” Some of my grumpiness eases and I dramatically drape myself over his lap. “What else does your book say?”
“Mmm. Nothing near as important as this.” His hand slides up my skirt, and when he discovers I have no bloomers on, he arches an eyebrow. It’s become a tease of mine, to only wear bloomers sometimes, just to see his reaction. It never fails to arouse him. “You are letting this pretty cunt freeze to death.”
“You should warm it up.”
He grins, showing his fangs. “I absolutely should.”
Hours later, I’ve forgotten all about the goddess and her theoretical anger. I’ve had Nemeth knotted inside me and he made me come so hard that I wept his name as he played my body like a harp. Now I’m feeling much looser and relaxed, and I watch from my spot in bed as he feeds a log to the fire, preparing my potion. As he hovers near the hearth, he practices his stretches and extends one wing gracefully outward. I wince inwardly as the other stretches out, the flare of it tight and off-center from where I stitched him. It looks uncomfortable.
“How does it feel?” I ask.
Nemeth shrugs. “It is tighter than it should be, like my wing is pinched in one spot. With time and use, I think it could stretch itself out again. The scar tissue just needs to be worked.”
“And you need to fly,” I say softly. “And there is nowhere to fly in here.” He’s tried flying downstairs, but he doesn’t have enough room to spread his wingspan to its full breadth. The ceiling is too low, and the stairwells too narrow. It’s something I fret over constantly, because I know how much it must bother him to be stranded here like this, to have an injury to such a vital part of him and not be able to do the proper exercises to mend it.
“It is what it is,” Nemeth replies. He pauses and glances over at me. “Speaking of things we cannot change…we are out of your tea.”
The minty concoction that Riza makes for me? She sent a bag along with our supplies last summer. But if we’re out, we’re out. I shrug. “I’ll just drink your brew.”
His wings flutter as he closes them, a sure sign that he’s nervous about something. “I examined yours to see what was in it, because I knew you were running low. Did you know you have pennyroyal in it?”
“I couldn’t pick pennyroyal out if someone painted a portrait of it,” I reply tartly. “I don’t know plants. What about that one is important?”
“Pennyroyal is an herb that can prevent pregnancy. I never said anything before because I know you drink it for the taste, but now that you are out, I wondered if you wished to try to replace it with something else?” His wings flutter again. “Or shall I not give you my knot anymore?”
I snort. “Are you truly worrying over an herb? I told you, love, I can’t get pregnant. I know you think your cock is impressive—and I do, too—but even you cannot pound the blood curse out of my veins.” I give him an amused look. “Much as I would love to try, of course.”
“You are not worried about conceiving, then?”
“I’m far more worried you’ll stop giving me your knot.”
His eyes gleam with heat. “If my mate demands, who am I to deny her?”
Who indeed.
“Today’s the day,” I say excitedly to Nemeth as I dress one summer morning. “Solstice. Year two! Can you imagine? We’ve made it two years so far.” I give him a cheery look as I slip my dress over my head and then pull the laces of the bodice tight. “I think we should celebrate. Once our food supplies are delivered, we should splurge a little. Work that into the plans for the year. If I’m being perfectly honest, I’d give my left tit for some pie or a scone with cream.”
Nemeth chuckles at my enthusiasm, reaching over and tugging at one of my laces the moment I tighten it. I swat his finger away. Normally I’d take him up on any kind of flirting, because we have nothing but time and bedsport is so very delightful, but today is not just any day.
Today is the solstice, and our food is to be delivered today.
It’s a delivery that is desperately needed. Nemeth has been careful with our supplies this entire year, but we’re out of our wood logs and almost out of peat bricks. My ingredients for my potion are low, and our foodstuffs are looking pathetic. I’m sure we could make it last for another month or two if we had to, but I’m very glad that we don’t.
My mouth waters at the thought of a cup of tea, in the blend that Riza always makes for me. Tea, and a bit of honey. Oh, and fresh bread with jam. Gods, I would love that. Simple, but delicious. “Do you think they’ll send jam again this year? I’ve completely forgotten to ask in my letters. The last jar they sent was delightful. I’m not normally a fan of yellow plums, but that jam was pure bliss on toast.” I cinch my corset up tight and then fluff my tits, adjusting them in the dress. “Oh. My letters. I need to get them! Where are they?”
“Next to mine, milettahn ,” Nemeth says in that calm voice of his. My sweet scholar never gets his wings ruffled over anything (except perhaps a knot-licking). “We won’t let them leave without taking the letters, I promise.”
I beam at him, full of anticipation. I know I won’t find out what anyone thought of my letters for a year, but it’s exciting to be able to get to send word out to someone outside, even if I must conceal everything I’ve done in here. I’ve got no mention of Nemeth or our mating in my letters I’ve written to Riza, Nurse, and Erynne. Part of me feels guilty that I’m keeping such a large secret, but then I remember that they deliberately avoided mentioning the war in their letters to me and kept their letters full of fluff and nonsense.
I can do the same.
For the last month, I’ve written and rewritten my letters, obsessing over the messages I’m sending. The one to Riza is twenty pages long, the one to Nurse nearly as lengthy. Erynne’s is five pages. Part of me wanted to be ruthless and send her nothing, because I’m still bitter over her demands that I murder Nemeth. But…she is my sister, and in the end, I know that sending her a chirpy letter full of absolute nonsense will make her mad with frustration. As a sister, I can’t not send such a thing, after all.
I’m equally excited to see what the others have written to me. Even if the letters are full of nothing but recipes and weather predictions, I will savor every word.
Moving to Nemeth’s writing table, I push aside his books and hunt down my letters. They’re not sealed—I’ve got no wax to seal them with—so I’ve tied them with ribbons from my least favorite dress. Nemeth’s stack of letters is twice as big as mine. He spends a great deal of time writing to his family and friends back in Darkfell. Letters are something he has sent frequently in the past, since he spent his time locked away in the Alabaster Citadel.
I think of Meryliese, and how I never wrote her a single letter, and feel just a smidge of guilt.
“Who do you think will be here first?” I ask Nemeth, picking up my stack of letters and turning to regard him. “Darkfell’s suppliers or Lios?” I gasp as a new thought occurs to me. “Oh, I hope they don’t run into each other. That will be quite ugly.” I get a terrifying mental image of the two parties warring on the beach, and our supplies abandoned mere steps away from the tower. “We have to keep them apart.”
“Do not borrow trouble, milettahn . They will avoid each other. Darkfell will make certain of that.” Nemeth rises from the bed and puts on his favorite kilt. “They are familiar with how this works.”
“Yes, but if they both come on the same day…” I pause, realizing what he’s saying without being obvious. “More magic, then?”
He nods. “There are simple spells to observe others. Darkfell will ensure they do not run into Lios’s contingent.”
I eye my mate, leaning against the table. I never ask about magic, because other than lighting a candle or two, he avoids doing it in my presence, as if it’ll frighten me. Which is just plain silly, because I don’t understand magic, but that doesn’t mean I’m scared of it. Most of the spells he’s mentioned seem to have a practical use of some kind. “You’re going to have to teach me some of these simple spells.”
He gives me a fanged grin, eyeing my half-laced breasts. “They only work if you’ve got magic in your blood, I’m afraid.”
I sigh dramatically, toying with the laces, because I do so love to flirt. “And here I am with cursed blood, alas.”
“Alas,” Nemeth murmurs, watching me as I tease a finger over my cleavage. “Magic requires intensive studying, and you are too busy anyhow.”
“Too busy?” I laugh. “Too busy doing what?”
He rumbles low in his chest as he slinks to my side, all dark wings and big slabs of gray muscle. Nemeth reaches for my laces, brushing a finger over my breasts as he does. “Busy with kissing your mate…taking his knot…licking his knot…”
“Truly, a packed schedule,” I agree, fluttering my lashes. Then I mock-pout. “But I have had no knot today.”
“Because with my luck, I will be balls deep inside you and they will come knocking at our door.” He slides a finger into the front of my dress, finding my nipple and teasing it. “And how shall I explain that I am knotted inside a human princess?”
“Perhaps I’m a particularly wicked human that seduced you. After years of me begging you for sex, you finally gave in. It’s not so very far from the truth.” I lean back, giving him full access to my breasts.
But Nemeth frowns at my words. “I would not have you slander yourself to my people.”
Aw. “Is it slander if it all sounds wonderfully naughty?”
He pinches my nipple, sending ripples of heat through my body. “You are my mate,” he chastises. “I would have you respected.”
It’s getting dreadfully hard to concentrate when he’s teasing me like that. “Nemeth, they can’t know I’m your mate.”
“Even so. I do not like the thought of anyone thinking poorly of you.” He frowns at the thought. “You are a Vestalin and a princess, and you deserve respect, even if it’s the respect of Fellians.” With that, he pulls his hand from my bodice and reaches for the laces, this time to tie them. “And that means we must save our playing for later.”
I want to pout again, but I know he’s right. If we want to keep receiving food from our respective peoples, it’s best that no one looks too closely at our relationship. That we be seen as enemies, separate and co-existing in the tower in our own spaces. It sounds like it should be easy to do, and yet I find that the more time passes, the more intertwined we become. Denying that feels wrong.
Nemeth finishes lacing my corset and I reach in, adjusting my breasts as I always do so they look optimal. “Will you braid my hair for me? I want to look perfect. Maybe a crown looping around my head? The men Lios sent last year were absolute beasts, and I want them to remember that I’m a princess when they talk to me.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I can do that for you, of course.”