18. Cherry
18
CHERRY
A ny stupid, weird, new hopes about my husband actually growing to love me were dashed after dinner when he stoked the fire so high that the house became toasty enough there would be no reason to touch each other in bed.
After collecting my clean and now-dry PJs from where I’d hung them, putting them on, and crawling into bed, I watched as Silar heaved himself awkwardly into the bedroom after me. I guessed that with the table and chair project finished, he didn’t have an excuse to dawdle out in his workshop late into the night. And while I wasn’t great at reading Zabrian expressions, especially on a face as stony as Silar’s, the man looked exhausted. He really was just here to lie down, do his best to ignore me, and sleep.
He took off his boots, reached for his belt, then hesitated, his gaze jerking to me as if he’d gotten lost in muscle memory and had only just remembered I was there. In his bed. Watching him like a weirdo.
“Don’t worry about me,” I squeaked, flapping a very uncool and not-at-all nonchalant hand his way. “Wear whatever you usually do. Whatever is comfortable.”
After a moment’s consideration, he did end up taking off his belt and placing it on top of the dresser. He kicked off his boots as well, but ultimately left his trousers on. Without realizing just where my thoughts were going, I wondered idly about where his soiled pants had ended up after he’d…
Nope. Don’t need to think about that.
And I wasn’t going to say anything about his current trousers, either, only…
“They’re a little dusty,” I said doubtfully, noting the creased and therefore slightly more clean places that were a completely different colour from the rest of the fabric. “I mean, it’s up to you, of course! I’m not complaining!”
I was complaining, though, at least a little. I’d gotten my PJs all nice and clean, and the blanket and bedsheets were pretty clean, too. Which told me that he didn’t normally wear his dusty clothing to bed.
“Do you have any pyjamas?” I asked when he didn’t respond to what I’d said before.
“No.”
Of course he fucking doesn’t. Just like he apparently doesn’t own a goddamn shirt. Even now, the dim glow from the oven in the kitchen was licking around the hard planes of his body, illuminating the taut curves of his shoulders, painting shadows into the hard lines of his abdomen.
His hands went to his hips, as if he were going to take his pants off, then he stopped.
“I won’t look,” I said quickly. “If you want privacy to change or… Or to just take them off. I don’t mind if you sleep naked.”
I did mind. I very much minded, in-fucking-fact. But not because I was alarmed or truly bothered by the idea. But because I was suddenly breathless with the thought of his big body stretched out beside mine without any fabric between us. Well, apart from my own pyjamas, I supposed.
“Doesn’t matter. You’ve already seen me,” he said so suddenly that it took me a second to understand what he meant.
My face burned.
“Oh. God. Sorry. You mean right before we got married.”
“Yes. When I was cleaning up.” His eyes flashed white. “You saw me. And then you told the warden you would marry someone else.” His voice turned clipped. “Anyone else.”
“You heard that?” I gasped, mortified. I’d probably sounded so desperate.
His golden ears twitched.
“Right,” I said, grimacing. “That great Zabrian sense of hearing I keep hearing so much about.” I ran fluttery fingers through my hair. Silar’s gaze tracked the movement with silent… something. Interest? Desire? Irritation? Absolute impassivity? It was impossible to tell.
“I’m sorry, Silar. I was so mortified that you’d caught me looking out the window at you. And then you just stared at me and didn’t shake my hand when I offered it. Which isn’t even your fault. I’m sure Zabrians don’t even shake hands, so it was silly of me to even expect that! But I was… I was terrified you’d change your mind and send me back.”
“Send you back…” He repeated the words oddly, slowly, like it was some foreign language that made no sense to him, even though his translator seemed to be working just fine.
“Maybe your hearing isn’t quite as good as you think it is,” I teased with a small smile that I was certain didn’t reach my eyes. “Because I’m pretty sure what I actually said was, ‘If he doesn’t want me , I’ll marry someone else.’”
“If I didn’t want…” The words trailed off, and I found myself pathetically grateful for it. Because if I’d had to listen to Silar say, “I didn’t want you,” even as a hypothetical sort of repetition of what I’d just relayed, I didn’t think my heart would be able to take it.
When the hell had I become so sensitive to rejection? I was sickly aware of the fact that this had very little to do with the fact that Silar’s rejection of me would be a death sentence and everything to do with the fact that I simply didn’t seem to want Silar to reject me.
Which he kind of already had, to be honest, what with the way he kept booking it out of the room every time I touched the man.
“Did you mean what you said before?” I asked abruptly.
I want to put my tongue inside you … God, it was so vivid in my mind. Like he’d only just spoken the words aloud.
He didn’t ask what I referred to. He simply flicked his tail in his weird Zabrian version of a shrug and said, “I don’t say much. But what I do, I mean.”
Oh. Oh .
And suddenly, my mind was on fire, chasing down every word he’d ever spoken in my presence, Admittedly, there weren’t that many. But some of them had been nice enough.
He’d told me he consented to this marriage. He told me that I didn’t need experience riding shuldu, because he had me.
He told me he wanted to put his tongue inside me.
And maybe he didn’t just mean my mouth…
Oh my God.
“OK! Great! Glad that’s cleared up!” I chirped idiotically, slamming my body down onto the mattress and turning on my side to face the wall. I pretended to sleep, scrunching my eyes shut, every bit of my body finely attuned to Silar’s position as he stood still in the room. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose in response to what I was certain had to be his gaze dragging over me.
I waited, almost trembling, for him to join me in the bed. He didn’t. Not right away, at least.
Nope, first he took off his pants.
I remained utterly still, barely breathing, listening to the unmistakeable rustle and slide of clothing over skin.
And then came the pressure of a body on the bed.
Silar sat, then stretched out stiffly on his back. On top of the blanket and as far from me as possible.
Which was… fine. Totally fine. He could sleep however he liked. He didn’t need to come under the blankie with me and keep me company. I was a grown-ass woman, not a little kid who needed coddling.
“Aren’t you cold?” I whispered hopefully.
Don’t need coddling, my ass.
“Aren’t you sleeping?” Silar countered in a low voice. He shifted slightly, and though I wasn’t looking at him, I was pretty sure he had his hands behind his head now, the rest of his golden-skinned body splayed and…
Naked.
It wasn’t even that dark in the room with the glow of the kitchen’s oven filtering through the bedroom doorway. I could so easily roll over, get a better look at him.
I showed him my boobs today. It only seemed fair.
“I asked you a question first,” I tutted.
“No. I am not cold.”
Why had I even bothered asking? The man was like a furnace. There was more heat pulsing off of him than there was coming from the kitchen’s fire.
“Are you too hot, then?” I asked. Maybe that was why he wasn’t coming under the blanket with me. He didn’t even sleep with the fire burning unless it was winter.
“Don’t concern yourself,” he growled at me.
I chuckled, drawing the blanket around myself and burrowing down. Despite the awkwardness between us, it really was so nice to have someone to chat to before bed. It felt… cozy. Comforting. Safe. Tension began to ease out of my frame, my eyelids growing heavier with every blink.
“I can’t just not concern myself. I’m your wife, remember? Wives are great at getting all up in your business. Just all concern, all the time.” I yawned. “Isn’t it like that on Zabria?”
He didn’t answer. That was probably a stupid question. He’d clearly been here since childhood and said he never went back to visit, so maybe he hadn’t been exposed to many Zabrian couples. His own parents seemed to be a no-go zone in terms of conversation, so they’d probably died too young for him to remember what they’d been like together. It was possible he didn’t know if his mom tsked over him or his father getting too hot, or letting their ears get burned.
“I’m glad your ears are better,” I murmured drowsily.
The bed creaked as he shifted again. I felt Silar’s next words, a hot skim against my cheek, like he was leaning over me with his face very close to mine.
“Go to sleep, Cherry.”
It was hard to tell with my eyes closed, but it seemed like everything got momentarily brighter, as if a blindingly white spotlight had been fixed upon my face. Or maybe two spotlights.
“Goodnight, Silar,” I whispered.
“Goodnight...” I barely heard him through the haze of descending sleep. And I really must have dropped off quick, because it seemed like I started dreaming immediately.
What other explanation could there have been for the quietly tender, almost aching way Silar ended off his sentence? He didn’t say “Goodnight, Cherry.” He didn’t say, “Goodnight, human.”
He said, “Goodnight,” – a hushed pause – “ wife .”
Nope. Definitely not real.
Oh, well.
A girl could dream. Even if that was all it would ever be.