Chapter 14
He isn’t going to hurt me. He isn’t going to hurt me. I chant it over and over in my mind as I clutch the sheets and try to find the will to lie down. But despite my rational mind insisting that he clearly has no intention of touching me, it is an intimate thing to share a bed. We are married, I remind myself.
I just cannot imagine that it’s physically possible to sleep with a man only a couple of feet away. Especially a fae man.
Ash goes to lie down, making my heart zip straight into my throat. He scoots down into the sheets. When he extends his legs, however, they hit the footboard. His knees are still bent.
“You humans and your puny beds and your puny chairs,” he grumbles. “Is six more inches too much to ask for?”
The giggle is out before I can stop it.
Ash’s head swivels to mine. “Did you just laugh? At my discomfort?”
If he’d asked me this question an hour ago, I would have apologized as quickly as I could. But now, an apology isn’t what escapes my lips. “No, my lord.”
He blinks, as though surprised I would blatantly lie to him. Then he grins and leans back against the pillows. “I might have to lie diagonally if I’m going to get any sleep. Or . . .” He kicks off the covers and props his feet up on the footboard. He folds his hands across his stomach. “This might do.”
I bite my lip as I smile, then scoot under the covers myself, bringing them up to my nose as I curl into a little ball. I can do this. We can do this.
The relief hits me so hard it blazes past my nerves, straight to my tear ducts. I like my husband. At least, what I’ve seen of him thus far. How is such a thing possible? How am I lying here on my wedding night, which should be the most terrifying night of my life, and instead I cannot stop thinking of how fortunate I am? Just a few nights ago, I faced the possibility of a future as Prince Brochfael’s sixth wife.
Yet here I am now.
I need to cry. Tears of relief, of gratitude, of hopefulness. But I cannot cry. That was one of Father’s strictest instructions. No tears on the wedding night. I’ll save them for when I am alone—or after my husband falls asleep.
“Come, tell me one of those thoughts flying through your brain.”
His voice makes me jerk to attention and blink up at him from over the edge of the covers. He’s looking at me with that one eyebrow cocked. “M-my what?”
“One of your thoughts. I can see them racing around your mind. Tell me one of them.”
Tell him? What I’m thinking? “I am not sure that is a g-good idea.”
He rolls onto his side so he can face me, his elbow propping up his head. “Is that so? Why?”
I shrink a little lower into the sheets. “B-b-because they m-might n-not please you.”
My father would be vastly displeased if he knew the contents of my thoughts.
That is an understatement. He’d be furious. And then he’d berate me like always—and there would be no place for me to go, no place for me to hide without incurring greater wrath.
“Please me?” Ash scoffs. “What has that to do with the price of pixie dust in the swamps?”
I blink once. Twice. “Pixie dust is real?”
“Of course it is. Now don’t try to distract me. Tell me one of those thoughts that might not please me.”
Now I just want to fling the rest of the covers over my head as my face goes hot. What could I tell him? That he’s better than I expected? That I thought he was going to abuse me tonight? That I think he’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, and I really didn’t think I’d marry anyone remotely nice to look at? That this is all happening so fast? That I’m relieved he doesn’t find me ugly?
“Or else,” Ash says, noting my hesitation and leaning closer, “I’ll kiss you.”
My mouth suddenly goes very, very dry.
He smirks. But is that just a tinge of hardness on the edges of that smirk? “So what will it be: a thought, or enduring a terrifying kiss?”
A kiss would indeed be terrifying, but probably not in the way he’s imagining. I doubt there would be much enduring on my part.
Well, those thoughts will just be added to the growing pile in my mind that I can never, ever say to him. But when my hesitation continues, as I wrack my brain for something, anything, to say to him, he scoots closer. Bringing his face nearer to mine.
“A thought, or a kiss,” he says again, his voice lower than before.
Quickly, quickly—something! Anything!
“Um . . . I l-like f-food,” I blurt out desperately.
His face halts above mine. “What a displeasing thought.”
Now I feel like an idiot, but something about his reply loosens an inch of tension inside me.
“Are you hungry?”
I shake my head, my belly still very full of the maid’s earlier offerings.
“You’re sure?”
I lick my lips and nod.
“Then let’s have another thought.”
Another one? I wrack my mind, clenching the sheets tighter in my grip. “I . . . d-don’t know what you w-want.” I don’t know what you want me to say. But I stop before I stutter too much.
“What I want?”
I nod.
A strange expression crosses his face, one that I cannot read one bit. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”
My mouth opens beneath the covers at his honesty. His wish, however—that’s impossible. “F-f-forgive m-me.”
He frowns. I’ve said the wrong thing, haven’t I? I cringe.
But then his hand comes to rest on top of my head. Warmth seeps past my hair, into my scalp. I peer up at him just as he bends down and presses his warm lips to my temple. Heat floods me to my toes. I stiffen.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he murmurs, his mouth above my hairline. “Sleep well, Stella.”
Then he rolls over, kicking his feet up on the footboard and falling back against the pillows before closing his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, all the candles in the room go out. Darkness wraps us up like a blanket.
Breath puffs in and out of my mouth. I taste the linen of the sheets and the faintest fragrance from their last wash. My eyes are wide, too wide, as if I can make them adjust to the darkness faster. I’ve heard fae have excellent night vision.
I want to cry, but it’s not safe yet. I need to be sure he’s asleep before I let myself shed a tear.
There’s no chance I’m falling asleep with him right there. What if he changes his mind about . . . expectations? What if he wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s a different person? What if I just ruined the tentative trust we were building with my reluctance to speak? Father would have punished me for speaking my mind. How am I to be sure Ash is different? Besides, why would it matter for him to know what I’m thinking?
I lie awake, not moving a muscle, as I wait for Ash’s breathing to even. My mind spirals deeper and deeper into doubt, which is ridiculous, because I ought to be thankful for how fortunate I’ve been so far. I shouldn’t be scared or worried about the future or about losing my husband’s good opinion. Did I even have it to begin with?
Can I even trust my own ability to know if he likes me or not?
Does it matter?
It’s impossible to know for certain, but I guess an hour or two has passed since Ash rolled over. He hasn’t moved. His breathing has evened. It should be safe now, right?
I turn my face into my pillow, and as quietly as I can, loose the dam I have on my tears. I don’t let myself sob—that would be too loud. To keep from sniffling, I breathe through my mouth.
I cry out my fears of tonight; I cry my gratitude, and then I cry for the looming future I don’t understand. I cry that I don’t know what my husband wants from me. I cry because he has been kind to me, and I like him. I cry because after tomorrow, I will never see Amelia again.
Finally, the tears slow. I keep breathing through my mouth, keep fighting to stay silent. Then, as carefully as I can, I push up on my elbows, wipe away the tears stuck in my lashes, and try to peer into the darkness at my sleeping husband.
It’s hard to see much except the broad expanse of his frame, his wide shoulders and chest, his long legs sticking out over the end of the bed. One of his hands is beneath his head, the other lying across his stomach. He doesn’t lie beneath the covers, and I don’t understand how he’s not cold.
His hair is much longer than human men typically wear it. I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would. Though he could be bald, and it wouldn’t dim his beauty.
Even so, I’m glad he’s not bald. Prince Brochfael is bald.
A sudden thought occurs to me. If he is to become the High King of Faerieland, then does that mean I’ll be Queen of the Fae? I shove the thought out of my mind before it chokes me, but not before my stomach bottoms out.
What does it even mean to be queen of his people?
I won’t worry about that now. I just need to make it through tonight. Later, I’ll worry about the rest.
“Stare at me any longer and I’ll fear you’re plotting to put a dagger through my heart.”
His voice is a dagger through my heart. Something a little louder than a squeak but quieter than a scream bursts from my mouth as I scramble back, back, away—
The bed ends. I go tumbling off the edge, scrabbling with my nails for any kind of hold on the sheets. They give way, and I land on the floor, my skirts riding up my calves as I catch myself with my hands.
Faster than I expect, Ash is kneeling beside me, a hand on my back and the other planted on the floor beside my knee. “Great Kings, wife, did you hurt yourself?”
I shake my head, despite my rattling teeth, and yank my dress back down to my ankles.
“Are you sure?”
I nod and bite my lip. It’s too dark to see clearly, but his brow is knit in concern. As if he’s genuinely worried about me. I’m more worried about what I’ll be like in the morning when I’ve gone the whole night working myself into an anxious tizzy and not getting a wink of sleep.
His words register belatedly in my brain. Stare at me any longer and I’ll fear you’re plotting to put a dagger through my heart. He knew I was studying him? He was awake all this time? Did he hear me crying? Did my crying wake him up?
The blood drains from my face. His expression is hard. Is that anger glimmering in his eyes?
“I’m s-s-sorry I w-w-woke you up.” Why won’t my stupid tongue work? I just—I want to go hide somewhere. I don’t want my husband looking at me right now, seeing the tearstains on my cheeks and beneath my eyes.
He scoops me up, eliciting a surprised hiccup from me. This feels different from earlier, without mounds and mounds of fabric between us. It is far more intimate, the warmth of his strong arms burning into my back and knees through the thin material.
He sets me on the bed without a word, then walks around to his side.
I don’t know what to say to get rid of that expression on his face. I want something lighter, brighter, happier on his face. I want him grinning again, chuckling, or even laughing like that one glorious moment earlier. But even if I did know what to say, my tongue wouldn’t cooperate.
I don’t think I could bear it if he is angry with me.
He sits on his side of the bed, his back facing me. Then he tilts his head and asks, “Would you like me to hold you?”
My brain sputters to a stop. What does that even mean? I’d have understood better if he asked me if I wanted him to do cartwheels for me. I stare at him blankly until, eventually, he turns to look at me.
“If you’d rather, none of this just happened and I’m still asleep.”
A stray tear leaks out of my eye at his offer. I thought I was done crying, for heaven’s sake! A sniffle escapes me.
Ash heaves a sigh, swings his legs onto the bed, and twists toward me. “Just come here, Isabelle. It’s alright. I won’t hurt you.”
The effort to restrain this new well of tears grows more monumental by the moment. A few more tears leak free despite my best efforts. I don’t want him to see me cry—I’m not supposed to cry!
I don’t know who moved, whether it was me or him or both. All I know is that one minute, I’m sitting on my side of the bed and he’s sitting on his, and then we’re in the middle, his arms wrapped around me and my face buried in his chest.
He says nothing as I cry, just holding me tightly and wrapping me in his warmth.
“I’m s-s-s-sorry,” I gasp. Getting the words out is like fighting against a river’s current. “I d-d-didn’t w-w-want to d-d-disappoint you.”
“Shh, don’t talk. It’s alright.”
How is he not upset? Or angry? It’s the reassurance I need to tuck my head beneath his chin and stop fighting to explain myself. He holds me through my tears, stroking my back. At some point, I become aware of his fingers fidgeting with something near my waist, and then I realize he’s pulled the ribbon from my braid as he unwinds the long strands and tangles his fingers into them. It feels even better than when he stroked my back, and slowly, it soothes me until my tears have finished into little sniffles and hiccups.
“Thank you,” I mumble into his chest. “I’m sorry for crying.”
“I don’t mind.”
I find that hard to believe, but my shoulders relax anyway. “I can explain.”
“I don’t require an explanation, little wife. But if you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.” He twirls a strand of my hair around his fingers.
I hiccup. “I didn’t think you’d be this kind.”
“Neither did I.”
I sniffle, arching my neck to look at him. He peers down at me and gives me a little smirk.
“What do you mean?” Hiccup.
“I’ve never been married before. And I can assure you, I’m not this nice with people like your father.”
Somehow, that makes me giggle, and his arm squeezes me closer.
“But you’re so old. How could you not have been married?”
He chuckles, and the sound rumbles through his chest and into mine. I like it. Very much. “We’re not like humans who bond as soon as they reach adulthood. It is not uncommon for fae to be three or four hundred years old before bonding.”
“But you’re almost five hundred years old, right?”
“Mm hmm.” He combs through my hair with his fingers, and my eyes close despite myself. I’m so tired. Much more tired than I realized.
“Is it strange”—my question cuts off into a yawn—“to be so old?”
He chuckles again. “I am not so old to my people. In fact, I’m still considered young. We mature differently than humans. Much slower, actually.”
“Really?” The quiet question comes out on an exhale. He smells so soothing, like a forest after a rainstorm. And he doesn’t seem angry with me at all. I almost want to fall asleep like this. “How did you stay awake for so long? I thought you were asleep.”
“We don’t need as much sleep as you do. I thought you would feel more at ease if you thought I was asleep. I’m sorry I frightened you. I certainly wasn’t expecting you to go leaping off the bed like a gazelle.”
I give a sniffly laugh in response. “You make it sound so graceful.”
“You should sleep.”
“Will you?”
“Maybe.” His hand pauses its caress of my hair. “Why did your father veil you?”
So Father’s claim that it was our custom did not fool him. I sigh, fighting to stay awake long enough to respond. “Because he said I wasn’t beautiful like my sisters.”
Silence. I almost fall asleep. Then his hand goes back to playing with my hair as he mutters, “Then your father lacks eyes as well as a spine.”
And that’s the last thing I hear before oblivion claims me.