Chapter Thirteen
It took many days to ready their hut for living. Rolan had lost count, but they worked on it every day from dawn until dusk.
They’d spent several of those days hauling items to the spring so they could clean them—pots and utensils, clothing and bedding, rugs and cushions—before he’d noticed the pipes attached to the rear of the hut. Tracing their origin, he found they drew water from both the pool and the hot spring. A small knob where the pipes connected to the hut had him curious, so he’d twisted it, earning an immediate yelp from inside.
When he’d rushed in to find his bride soaked from head-to-toe and water sprouting from the basin against the wall… they realized the hut contained its own water source. Similar to what they’d known in the Hold, but instead of springing directly from the rocks their dwellings were built upon, this was drawn from the brook and brought across the land to the hut.
He’d never forget the look of surprise on her face when he showed her the piping system. They’d not seen anything like it.
“Quite clever,” she’d commented, to his agreement.
Rudimentary as it was, other parts of their new abode were more familiar. Lanterns like the ones in the Hold, powered by daylight. Climate controlled by mechanisms that collected energy the same way. It even powered a Cold Box so they could keep food fresh.
To his relief, the hut was stocked full of clothing—though some of it was useless from dry rot—and other supplies that couldn’t be foraged. One day, they’d have to find a way to replace things, but for now, they were set.
The bed was different than any he’d ever seen, constructed of wood instead of steel, and containing a mattress that his bride described as heavenly.
And there was only one for them both to share.
He had tried to allow her the sole use of it, offering to sleep on the floor. It was what he was used to anyway. But she’d balked at the idea, insisting he take half and she, the other.
The first night, he’d shoved the canvas cache tote between them to ensure he maintained his distance. But the next night, she moved it, saying it dug uncomfortably into her back. So he replaced it with his pillow.
Except the pillow didn’t always stay in place.
As a precaution, he tried to wake before her in the mornings to return it to its position before she noticed. So far, she hadn’t mentioned it.
It was a precarious thing, sharing the bed, but he was happy his bride had a soft place to rest, safe beside him. And… he really liked watching her sleep. It had become his favorite thing about being wed.
Oftentimes she fell asleep quickly, being tired from all the physical labor. Which gave him plenty of time to memorize the details of her face, the sound of her soft snore, the way her plump lips pouted more in rest than awake.
He found that the more he watched her, the more he ached to touch her. Not in the way that a husband would—though that was never far from his mind—but a simple touch. To know what her skin felt like, or the exact curve of her cheek. Only knowing she didn’t welcome it kept him from trying.
But it was enough just being in her vicinity.
He’d never had anything like her. Nothing to call his own, but more than that. He’d never had anyone to share his time with. Having a partner to pass the hours with was a gift beyond his imagining.
And his female was pleasant to be around. She was patient and often had a smile to offer in spite of their unfortunate circumstances.
At least… she was until today.
Upon waking, he discovered her missing from the hut. When he went in search of her, he found her returning from the hot spring dressed in fresh clothes and carrying the used ones in a bundle as if they were soiled.
When he’d asked why she bathed in the morning instead of the evening, she’d snapped at him that some things weren’t necessary to discuss with a husband.
For most of the day, he’d wondered what those things were so that he’d never try to talk about them again. But with no other explanation, he was left to assume the long days of work were causing her mood to sour. The weight of it all, with nothing to break up the monotony, must be wearing on her.
So he concocted a plan to give her enough happy moments that she’d forget her reasons for being cross. The goal was to make her smile. If he was lucky she’d even laugh again, like she did that morning when he didn’t know what snuggling meant.
He started by presenting her with a treat he’d discovered on his last forage. He’d hidden the shiny red-skinned fruit in his pocket as he helped her hang damp clothing on a rope they’d strung from tree to tree. When they finished, he told her about the tree he came upon and how it dropped fruit to the ground but most had rotted. So he climbed into the branches and picked a fresh one to bring her.
Her mouth had dropped open in surprise as she took the fruit from his hand, marveling. But she did not smile.
Instead, she cried.
Happy tears, she insisted, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. He’d never known tears to be anything but awful.
Next, he took a short walk to search for the blooms he’d found growing at the base of a rock the day before. When he’d first spotted them, he thought the color was an exact match to the shade her cheeks became at times. He studied them all, collecting a perfect pink one for her. But he didn’t dare give it to her in person. Because he didn’t know if he could withstand anymore tears—happy or not. Seeing his bride cry made his middle ache fiercely.
Instead, he left the bloom on the table as she began frying the fish he’d cleaned for dinner, then he escaped for his final task…
Now, halfway into it, he was wondering if he’d made a huge mistake.
Perched on the edge of the hot spring, he dragged the blade of the knife along his chest, hair coming away in patches instead of smooth as he wanted. He’d already shaved his entire face and much of his neck, but the knife needed sharpening again.
With a growl, he rinsed it in the spring and went through the process of bringing the blade to an edge again. Then, he continued removing the hair from his body. Neck, chest, arms. He couldn’t reach his back, and his legs would remain well covered.
Using the surface of the water as a reflection, he checked his progress. It wasn’t a perfect job, but his face was smooth and he thought it fairly normal looking. Squared jaw like other Vegoths. Straight nose down the middle of his face. Dark eyes above prominent cheekbones.
Surely this would put her more at ease.
At least he hoped so. Because he had his own motives for removing the hair…
Abauna had not touched him since the day they found the hut, when she took his hand as they ran toward the water. At night, it was warm in the hut so there was no reason to snuggle. In the day, as they worked, she never attempted it. Not even when he drew close enough to cause an accidental graze.
He was hungry to feel her touch on him again. Starved for it. So much that he’d considered wounding himself once more just to have an excuse for her to bandage him.
But… he tried this instead.
She once asked him if he’d ever tried removing his hair. Now he did, with the hope that she’d find him more appealing.
Giving the knife a final rinse, he gathered his things, slipped back into his tunic, and returned to the hut. The smell of dinner was strong in the air and anticipation knotted his gut. His bride made delicious food but he wasn’t sure if he could eat it tonight.
Entering, he found her readying the table as she did every night. The bloom he’d left there was now tucked into her hair. Just above her ear, as if she wanted to keep it nearby. The idea fed his hope.
“Oh, good. You’re back just in time.” She didn’t look up as she set their plates on the table and turned to fetch their drinks, placing one at each seat. “Dinner is… ready…”
She went perfectly still as her gaze finally landed on him. Moments moved like molten steel as it was coming to cool, dragging until too many of his labored breaths had passed. He couldn’t read her expression. It gave him nothing. Then finally, she blinked.
“Rolan?” Oh, he very much liked when she used his name. “What have you done?”
Was it not obvious?
“I, uh… shaved.”
Her eyes swept lower, taking him in despite his tunic. What did she think? It was killing him to not know.
“Everywhere? All of it?”
“No, just my face and neck. My chest and arms…” He stopped because her eyes went back to his face and her shock was replaced by…
Laughter.
It bubbled up quietly at first, causing her body to heave before it ever left her lips. But when it found a way out, it was loud and free, bouncing off the walls of the hut with a magic only his ears could hear.
“Groom, your face is… is… naked as a baby’s! I hardly recognized you.” She seized her middle, bending forward as her laughter continued unchecked.
And it didn’t ring of mockery. It was a true laugh, full and hearty, from her belly, like she couldn’t contain it. And it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
“Don’t you laugh, female,” he scolded, unable to make his voice firm. “It took me most the damn day to sharpen the knife and remove the hair, all while knowing it would return by morning.”
Somehow, this made her laugh harder, and she braced herself on the counter as if she was growing weak from it.
“Then why did you do it, groom?”
“Don’t you know, I’d try anything for you. To make you happy. So don’t you dare… laugh.”
Except he realized he’d done just what he set out to do. No more cross bride. Now she smiled freely, and he could hardly care that it was at his expense. In fact, he relished it.
Her laughter died eventually, and she came closer to inspect him. Her eyes went everywhere, settling briefly on every feature of his face.
Then, the thing that made it all worth it…
Reaching forward, her fingers swept softly over his jaw, ringing a shiver from him. But she didn’t seem to notice. “You really are just a man under all that, aren’t you?”
Rolan swallowed hard. “Of course.”
Wasn’t he like any other? He didn’t know for certain, but he had needs and desires like other men. And his body responded to what it wanted. Just as it was now. It wanted her. More of her touch. More of this happiness she exuded.
Her pretty smile faded as if she could read his mind, and if felt like strings of hope slipping from his fingers all over again. Like the Empress and her games. A gift snatched away.
Don’t think of her now.
Abauna pulled back, looking suddenly uncomfortable.
He wanted to make her smile return. It helped him breathe easier. Made the tightness in his chest ease. And her touch on his face—the softness of it against his bare skin—was a pleasure he’d never felt before and would always hunger for after this night.
“If I remove the hair tomorrow, would you touch me again?” he asked carefully. He would do it everyday—every single one—from here on out if it meant his bride would touch him.
She shook her head, no longer meeting his gaze. “Is there something about me you would require I change, beast? Something you find off-putting?”
“No. Nothing,” he answered immediately.
“Then I cannot require it of you. Fair is fair.”
Was that a no? Maybe she found him even uglier without his hair. He knew his bride was too kind to say so.
“Let’s eat,” she said, marching over to the table. She pulled her own chair before he could move for it, and sat.
He took the one across from her, wishing he had the covering of his hair back again. If nothing else, it was something to hide his expressions behind so that if she looked his way, she wouldn’t see the choking disappointment he was holding back.