Chapter 6 #2
So, I watch her carefully for any sign of discomfort as I tuck into my own meal. The food is quite good. Judging by the blissful look that keeps entering her eyes whenever she takes a bite, I know she’s enjoying it as well.
I open my mouth, preparing to ask her questions about herself, particularly her life in Braemar and her family. But then I quickly press my lips together and remain silent. Thankfully, she’s too focused on her meal to realize I meant to speak.
Perhaps I shouldn’t engage her in a conversation until she’s eaten her fill.
I don’t want to say anything wrong that might upset her or cause her to lose her appetite, and I want to make sure she gets enough to eat.
The more I look at her and the way the robe drapes loosely over her thin frame, the more certain I am that hunger has left her somewhat gaunt.
I reach for the decanter of wine and pour her a glass. As I nudge it toward her, she accepts it with a small smile.
“Thanks. I’ve only tried wine once, but I liked it very much.” She takes a slow sip and her eyes flutter shut in another moment of bliss.
“Only once?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “My birth father was a terrible drunk. So, after he died, my mother forbade any alcohol in the house. My stepfather, the man she married not long after my birth father died, always abstained from drinking. The only reason I got to try wine was when the neighbors invited me to stay for dinner one night after I watched their children. They gave me a small glass. I almost didn’t try it, fearing my mother would be upset if she found out, but I decided there would be no harm in having a taste.
It made my head feel fuzzy in the most delirious way, though I suppose I can understand how it might make angry people become… angrier.”
I hang on her every word, more curious than ever about her past. I’m also disturbed to learn about her birth father being a drunk, particularly given her comment about alcohol having negative effect on a person already prone to anger.
Though a voice in the back of my mind whispers that I shouldn’t ask her to clarify her statements, I am simply too curious to resist. I must know. I must know if her birth father mistreated her. Even if the man is long dead and I could no longer seek vengeance against him on her behalf.
“How old were you when your birth father died?” I ask, deciding to carefully wade into the subject, rather than start by asking her outright about any possible mistreatment.
She sets the glass down and meets my eyes. “I was eight years old.”
“When you say that your birth father was a terrible drunk…” I begin, only for my words to fade at the sudden darkness that crosses her face, a haunted look that answers my unasked questions. “He hurt you,” I say, tensing as I await her response.
“Let’s just say that I didn’t mourn his death.
” She takes another sip of wine, nearly draining the cup, before setting it down again.
“But my stepfather, he is a good man. I wish he were my real father, though I suppose the gods will not allow us to make such decisions for ourselves. We are born into the lives we are born into, and that is that, and we must try our best to survive with the hope that one day we will… thrive.” She gives me a sheepish look.
“Gods, it would seem the wine has already gone to my head. I am not usually so silly.”
“You are not silly, my dearest. You just made a very good point, a rather philosophical one. It is true that we cannot choose our birth parents or where we are born and raised. You were born human, and I was born fae. We were born in different lands and into vastly different circumstances, yet here we are now. Together. Enjoying a fine meal in Ellonnar with a view of the sun setting behind the ice clouds.”
She glances out the window, toward the view I just mentioned, and her eyes widen for a moment as she takes in the orange-pink of the sky and the way the last rays of sunlight pierce the ice clouds, sending fragments of light in all directions.
The ussha covering the mountains sparkles in the gloaming, evidence that the concentration of the life force of fae magic is growing stronger in these parts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the population of Ellonnar exploded in the coming years.
“You are kind to call me philosophical rather than silly.” Another smile graces her lips.
Seeing her relaxed posture, so different from when she first sat down at the table, makes my heart stutter. I return her smile, and to my astonishment, it no longer feels so strange and forced.
Her expression soon changes, however, as she draws back and her smile fades. Her eyes widen a bit as she stares at me. I feel my own smile fading.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she blurts, her eyes growing even wider.
Through the bond, I sense an initial glimmer of fear that’s already waning, continued shock, and… guilt. I don’t like it. Why does she carry so much shame?
“Tell me,” I say, the familiar bite of command entering my voice before I can stop it. It’s the tone I use with the new aerial scouts the king occasionally asks me to train.
She sighs and her guilt increases. “Your teeth are very sharp and pointed. When you smiled so wide just now… well, it was the first time I saw your teeth, and I must confess, it startled me for a moment, frightened me, even…”
Her voice trails off, and she draws in a shaky breath as she holds my gaze, an apologetic gleam in those dark soulful eyes of hers that I adore so much.
“I am sorry,” she blurts. “I do not mean to offend you, Master.”
Master? Before I can stop it, a growl tears from my throat.
She gasps and draws back. Her utensil falls from her hand, clattering to the table. She glances around the room as though she’s looking for an escape route. As though she’s thinking about running away from me.
“Gods, Gwen, I am not going to hurt you. How many times must I say it? How many promises must I make to you?” My body tenses, and I force in a few deep breaths as I strive to calm myself.
“And you don’t need to call me Master. I already told you to call me Merak when we are alone.
When we are not alone, Lord Blackthorne will do. ”
“I’m sorry.” She lowers her head and stares down at her lap.
“You don’t need to keep apologizing, my dearest,” I say, trying for a warm tone.
Hearing her address me as Master so casually was more than a little unsettling.
Yes, there’s a part of me that likes owning her, a part of me that likes knowing no one can take her away from me because by law she is my possession. However, I don’t want her to view me as her master.
I want her to view me as her mate.
Gods, when will she feel the bond?
When?
Maybe I am the silly one. I could inform her that we are mates at this very moment. Yet I keep holding back. Am I truly so afraid of her rejection that I will continue keeping this secret from her?
“Your teeth are actually quite lovely,” she murmurs, finally meeting my eyes again. Gradually, she lifts her head, no longer looking so downcast. “Really. I mean it. They are white as snow, and so very sharp, and strong too, I would imagine.”
The sweetness that radiates from her tells me she’s not mocking me. She’s paying me a real compliment.
For a reason I can’t fathom, the tips of my ears suddenly burn.
“Thank you, Gwen,” I eventually reply, deciding not to tell her that I enjoy using my teeth to rip out the throats of human and orc soldiers during battle. I nod at her half-eaten meal. “Please continue eating.”
She briefly glances at her plate and reaches for the utensil she dropped moments ago. “All right. I’ll keep eating, but only if you promise never to bite me.”
I find myself fighting a smile. “I won’t promise never to bite you, my dearest, but I will promise that if I do, you will enjoy it.”
She promptly flushes, then tucks into her meal without offering a response. But as we finish eating, I keep detecting her excitement through the bond. More than once, I also catch a hint of her feminine slickness in the air.
Soon, I tell myself.
Soon, she will become mine in every way.
Our bodies joined as one.
Our hearts entwined.