Page 39 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

The man is not wrong. I would absolutely love a bath. “It sounds delightful.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He goes around the room, tapping the lights to turn them off, and his quarters darken. I get under the covers, checking my arm to make sure it’s no longer bleeding before he turns off the final light, and then I lie and wait, scarcely daring to breathe.

This is the first night I’m truly aware that he’s going to be in bed next to me. That he touched himself to thoughts of me only hours ago. I scarcely breathe as he climbs over the headrail on the bed and into the bedding next to me. His bed is far larger than mine, and when his wing gently brushes my arm, I realize that this bed was made for the Fellian who would be enteringthe tower, the sacrifice from his people. “You know, when I first got here, I thought you took the first floor just because you were being a prick,” I murmur into the darkness as he settles down in bed. “I didn’t realize your bed was so much larger than mine.”

He goes still, and then his chuckle echoes in the darkness. I catch a glimpse of shining green eyes, gleaming like a cat’s. “The furniture here seemed sized to one of my people. Perhaps I should have said something.”

“We could fill the last six months with all the things we should have said,” I joke. Having someone in the darkness here with me feels far less lonely than it did in the past. It’s rather nice. Like when Erynne used to crawl into my bed when we were children and we’d snuggle together as she told me stories.

Snuggling in bed with a Fellian isn’t quite the same, but at least I don’t feel adrift and alone any longer.

“Indeed,” is all he says, and then he shifts his weight on the bed. “Pleasant dreams.”

I pillow my head behind my arm, thinking. It’s obvious that Nemeth isn’t going to use bedtime for flirting. I could take the lead, of course. Turn and press myself against his back—and wings—and spoon him from behind. My smaller form would be ludicrous against his larger one, but after pushing my breasts against his back, I’m sure he’d get the idea. Run my hands over him. Play with his wings, see if they’re sensitive. Rake my nails down those thick thighs that seem to be made backwards from mine…

…and then what?

Have sex with a Fellian? Would it be just sex? Or would the monk-in-training view it as a long-term commitment? That it’s love instead of pure lust and boredom? I’m used to the men at court, where a fling is simply something to do to escape boredom. It’s flirting taken a little too far in the dark corners ofa room, or the thrill of sneaking into a lover’s quarters. That’s all it is—a thrill.

I have a feeling that to Nemeth, it would mean something much more.

I tuck the blankets under my arms and decide that I’m not ready to make that leap. Not when I have a fire and a full belly for the first time in weeks. I’m not doing anything to mess this up.

For now, sleep is best.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

The days start to settle in. The winter rages on, but we’re tucked away in the tower, the only sign that the Gray God is in hiding is the ice that sometimes forms over the water, or breath that sometimes fogs the air.

I keep track of the days on my wall, just as I did before, and through asking questions of my knife, I learn that the Feast of the Good Father is coming up. That means an end to winter and that we are one season away from the Solstice.

An entire season left in the first year. What a depressing realization.

But it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before, not with Nemeth to talk to and share the hours with. We split the chores, and even cooking and cleaning doesn’t seem so terrible when you have company at your side and someone to share the duties. At first we’re a little on edge with one another, uncertain as to the other’s motives, but that quickly turns to an easy friendship. Nemeth is as kind and sweet as he is oversized, a big gentle giant who does his best to bluster and seem tough, but who is truly sweet inside.

He’s courteous, making sure that I have my privacy when I need it, and I try to give him his, aware of what he might bedoing when he’s alone. I stop asking the knife about such things, because it seems unfair. He’s my friend, and right now I value friendship far more than a lover. Although sometimes, I truly do ache. It’s worst just before my moon-flow, when I wake up from dreams with my hands between my thighs, of feeling an aching, hollow need that can only be filled one way. Sex is a craving, and when I’m moody and irritable, I get all the cravings. On those days, I take to hiding in my rooms for a time, hastily rubbing out a climax so I can relax.

On the morning of the Feast of the Good Father, the air is so frigid that it hurts to breathe, and the water pump in the kitchen is entirely iced up.

“No bathing today,” Nemeth says, breaking a drip of frozen water off the underside of the pump. “We have water in a pitcher upstairs to drink, at least, so we will not have to go without.”

“Oh no. And today is Feast Day.” I barely manage to avoid pouting. Barely. “I wanted to celebrate.”

“Feast Day?” he asks. “Feast for what?”

“The Feast of the Good Father?” I blink up at him. “Do you not celebrate it? I thought we could do a small grain-cake to mark the passing of time or something. It’s for good luck.”

He arches one of those heavy, stony eyebrows at me, leaning on the useless water pump. Now that it’s colder, he’s taken to wearing a heavy, enormous cloak over his wings, and I can tell it bothers him, because he’s constantly slapping it out of the way. Even now, he pushes it aside as he regards me. “No, we do not celebrate such a thing. Exactly who is this Good Father you celebrate?”

“Why, Mekaon Vestalin, of course. He was the king of Lios long ago, the great-grandson of the hero Ravendor Vestalin, back when the Vestalin family still held the throne. His daughters were stolen away by Fellian princes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of the story.” When he indicates I should continue,I do. “Mekaon threw a wedding feast, pretending that he wanted to honor their marriages, but when the grooms arrived, they were slaughtered and the pieces sent back to Darkfell. His daughters were returned to him and the gods were so pleased that they blessed each Vestalin daughter with a child and a new, noble Liosian husband and the Vestalin line continued.” I purse my lips. “Okay, I’m starting to see why you don’t celebrate it.”

His lips twist in a wry smile. “Celebrate the willful slaughter of my kinsmen under the false truce? No, we do not celebrate it at all.”

“Fair enough, but the gods did bless them,” I point out. “All four of the Vestalin daughters had children and not one of them had the blood curse.”

“And did those children have wings? How did their knees bend?”

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