Chapter 20 One Bed #2
I do what he says and he carefully holds the spot just above my wrist before moving the damp cloth in long, languid strokes up my arm.
I shiver as he works his way over both arms and then dips it again before moving to the exposed skin of my collar bone and neck, lingering there, eyes cast over me, his lids heavy.
Then he works upward to brush over my lips, cheeks, and forehead.
Once finished, he drops to his knees in front of me to drag the rough cloth along my legs.
Heat grips me when he moves up higher than I expect and I have to grab the edge of the dresser to keep from going sideways.
He works slowly, methodically. The warm liquid seeps into my skin, leaves every place it touches tingling or humming.
“If you sit at the edge of the bed, I can get your feet.” His voice is husky and low. I study his face, realize that he might be a little more drunk than he’s letting on.
I go to the bed and perch myself at the edge of it, raising an expectant eyebrow. When he grabs a fresh cloth, dipping it before approaching, I lean back into my arms. The thin material of the nightgown clings tight to my chest.
He kneels down again. Our eyes meet for a moment too long and I feel heat rush to my cheeks.
One foot after another he props onto his knee and cleans with the oils before placing them back down.
When he’s done, he doesn’t move and I lean forward.
At this angle, him crouched and me sitting, our heads are more level than ever.
I study him closely, every smooth line—and the sharper ones.
A strong, straight nose. The careful arch of his brow.
The way his iris’ churn with stormy power.
Something inside of me squeezes. His hand lifts to my chin, like at the ceremony when he kissed me, and the breath leaves my chest.
“You look like yourself again,” he whispers.
A rush of embarrassment winks within my stomach. Almost strangles me. “Sora used one of your sister’s potions to make me…better.”
He makes a small noise, like a snort, and when his thumb grazes my lower lip, I shudder, heart thumping hard.
“Not that my opinion on the subject matters, but I think I prefer you this way.”
Something brilliant erupts inside of me, a feeling I can’t explain.
It’s wholly unreasonable that I should care at all what he thinks of the way I look, but it doesn’t stop me from rushing forward, slamming my lips into his.
He’s rigid for a moment—taken off guard—but then he softens against me.
His hand shifts, grazing my collarbone before curling at the hollow of my throat.
I feel his tongue slip out and tease over the soft opening of my mouth, then part my lips for it.
My grip goes to his shoulders and then his hair, twining within the dark strands to pull him closer, deepening the kiss.
Already, my head is light from the wine, but I feel like I could faint at the sensation of his mouth on mine.
His fingers ghosting possessively over my skin. A claiming.
I am his, body and soul. Not by choice. But now he is mine, too. Real feelings or not, the vows we made gave me a claim of my own over him. Pirate. God. Monster. Mine.
Too soon, he breaks away, holding my panting frame at arm's length.
“Nymph?” he breathes, eyes searching mine in question, like he's trying to decipher what's real and what's fake. And then the expression morphs into something cold and closed off. “What are you doing?”
Clarity settles over my head again. I pull back, feeling my mouth drop in horror at what I’ve just done. “I don't—I don’t know what came over me.”
He stands and moves to study the basin of water, dipping a finger inside, putting much needed space between us. “It was the herbs. They have…stimulating qualities. Part of the old tradition. I imagine, for a mortal, it could be very hard to resist.”
There it is. Careful, measured distance.
A logical escape from emotion. The lie I needed to believe, even if every nerve ending in my body screams otherwise.
He’s once again the cocky arsehole I first met.
I glare at him, springing to my feet. You kissed me back!
I’m half tempted to challenge; instead I murmur, “Yes, that has to be the explanation. They must be particularly powerful if they could make me want to do that with you.” I want the words to hurt, twist like a dagger in his chest, but I know they probably don’t and it only makes me more angry.
“Your turn to get a good scrubbing. You need it. Let’s hurry, I’m exhausted. ”
He's silent as I fish a fresh cloth from the pile and push him out of the way to dip it into the warm water, cursing gods and their traditions.
Sea witches and their whims. My own body just betrayed me for the second time, thanks to their weird magick, but I think I preferred it involving me trying to murder him.
When I turn back, I find that he’s shed his shirt, a look of quiet amusement painted in the shadows of his face.
And damn the gods if he isn’t as perfectly sculpted as I very pointedly never once imagined.
His muscles are thick and pronounced. I try not to pay attention to it as I run the cloth over every dip and ridge, working from his shoulders, across his chest, and down to where his waistline V’s into his drawers.
My hands pause and I frown, staring at an unblemished patch of skin just above the spot.
“What is it?” he asks softly.
A loud bang echoes in my memory—the sound of a gun firing. I blink up to find him gazing down at me but only shake my head. “Nothing.” I continue moving in quick, rough circles before making him turn around so I can get his back.
Not nothing, I think to myself. I shot him there, right at that spot, yet there’s no wound. No scar. Just skin that looks like it was never harmed. Maybe he healed himself. It’s the only explanation. But no scar?
“Sit down on the bed,” I say curtly.
He does and I kneel at his feet with a fresh cloth. The only skin not covered by his drawers are his calves and feet. I wash them thoroughly and then bring the soiled cloths back to the basin, drying my hands on a towel.
The blankets are pulled back when I get to the bed.
He sits expectantly on top of the quilt on the other side.
When I climb in over him, he covers me to my chin and I roll toward the wall so that he's met with my back.
I force myself to be as still as I can. Try to muffle the quick breath on my lips, the way every inch of me is aware of the heat that seeps from him.
The weight of him pressed into the mattress.
“Goodnight, Nymph,” he whispers, before dousing the oil lantern.
I say nothing and close my eyes, doing my very best to ignore it all.
Darkness, thick and absolute, absorbs the room but brings no relief.
No instant lull of sleep I’d give anything to escape into.
The tingling. The strangeness of lying next to the man I’m at odds with, my husband now.
It doesn’t feel real, any of it. I squeeze my eyes shut, only to find that it’s even worse.
That it leaves me more hyper aware than before.
Sleep is a distant shore when I can hear every drag of his breath, feel every infinitesimal shift of his body.
How the air turns heavy, thrumming with the energy from that damned kiss.
What did you do? Why would you do that?
The herbs. More godly tricks. I try to wrap the thought around me like a comfort. A warm blanket against biting cold. Rhyland Crow is my enemy and I vow, here and now, to make him pay for everything. This most of all.