Page 83 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

Scowling up at him, I wipe my salve-smeared fingers on my sleep-chemise. “I’m not stalling,” I say again. “I do wish to get married. I just don’t want to spend a day frolicking in bed with you if your wing is hurting.”

“But our frolicking last night was fine…?” He arches a heavy eyebrow at me.

Damn this man. I’m not stalling…am I? “Excuse me for being worried about you,” I say in my most regal voice. “Gods forbid anyone should care if you’re hurt.”

I draw myself up as tall as I can and turn away. A moment later, he grabs my wrist and spins me around. He hauls me up against him, one big hand clenching my ass as he pulls me up against his chest, and kisses me, hard. His mouth is rough and possessive, but I like it. I like the scrape of his oversized fangs on my lip, and I love when his tongue strokes into my mouth as if he’s claiming me.

Then, he sets me down again and swats my backside as if I’m a naughty child. “Go bathe, or I really will think you’re stalling.”

Distracted, I toss my hair and try to exit the room as gracefully as possible, even though my knees are weak from that rough, wild kiss. I forget a lamp, because I’m too caught up in the pleasant throb of my lips and I have to return to retrieve one.

Stalling, indeed. Doesn’t this Fellian realize I want nothing more than for this ceremony to be over so I can finally get his cock inside me? Hmph.

Well…perhaps I was stalling a little. I’m terrified of what the future might hold when we get out of the tower, but I’m choosing to focus on the present. On Nemeth. On being happy.

So I head down to the kitchens and to my waiting bath. Sure enough, the tub has been filled halfway with tepid water, and the fire in the hearth is banked, coals smoldering. On one of the tables, four circular cakes are cooling on racks, and they’re the source of that divine smell from earlier. He’s been busy, all right. I’m a little miffed that all that deliciousness is going to be an offering to the gods, but I’ll let Nemeth run things as he chooses today. He wishes to do things in the Fellian way, and if I become his bride, I’m telling my people that I’ve more or less switched sides. I’m betraying them and they won’t know for years, because I don’t plan on telling them until I emerge from the tower. No sense in cutting off my food supply.

I pause, worried for a moment. Is my sister going to use her magical blade to figure out what I’m up to and withhold from me? I’m tempted to race upstairs and quiz mine. If I did, though, Nemeth would know something was strange about my knife, and he’d want to know more about it. Today is perhaps not the day to have that conversation, so I’ll have to do it later, in private.

Heading for the hearth, I see the largest kettle hanging on a hook over the coals. I hold my hand close to it. Still warm. Perfection. I pour the water into the tub, and as I do, the scentof roses touches my nose. Oh, he’s added scented oil to my bath? How lovely. I smile at the shadows and wonder if Nemeth is watching from them, even now.

Probably not. He’s such a stickler for his people’s rules that he’s probably just staring up at the ceiling and not even touching himself to the thought of me bathing. He’s going to save all that pent-up passion for tonight.

I shiver at the thought, because I’m not hating it. Not in the slightest.

I take my time and luxuriate in my bath, since it is my wedding day. I might as well pamper myself. It’s nice to be able to soak in a warm bath, and even nicer to wash my hair without shuddering from ice-cold water being poured over my head. When I get out, I’m not going to take a single servant for granted, I tell myself. I’ll be so thankful to Riza and Nurse for their efforts?—

And then I pause, because I’m giving them up if I marry Nemeth. I’m abandoning them as well as my sister, and Riza is sick…I sink lower in the tub, frustrated and miserable. I can’t do anything about their struggles. Erynne will take care of them. My sister is nothing if not committed to duty. I can’t let the thought of Riza being upset with me for marrying Nemeth stand in my way. Don’t I deserve a hint of happiness after all I’ve done? I’m staying here in this tower, after all. I’m sacrificing seven years of my life.

No one says they have to be miserable years. Why not make them happy ones as Nemeth’s mate?

Resolute once more, I finish my bath and dry off, then head upstairs with my towel wrapped around my body, another in my hair. Liosians have all kinds of traditions about the groom not seeing the bride before the ceremony at the altar, but I decide to bend the rules. I leave the water to tidy up later, and return upstairs. Nemeth is seated by his large table, his horns gleamingstrangely. He’s wearing an unusual set of clothing—one I’ve only seen on him once before, when we first entered the tower. Normally he wears only a leather kilt of some kind, but today he’s wearing a leather kilt that’s cut into jags, each one heavily studded with decorative bits of metal. His chest is covered with a leather breastplate, straps over each shoulder and around his waist to hold it in place. The breastplate itself is studded and heavily decorated, just like his kilt, and it seems an odd choice for a seven-year peaceful stint inside the tower.

As he regards me, Nemeth carefully sharpens his claws.

“You look very dapper,” I say as I enter. “Are you dressing up for me?”

His gaze skims over my body, and then he goes back to sharpening his claws. “Of course. I would wear my finest hunting leathers for our ceremony.”

“You brought hunting leathers with you into the tower?” I arch a brow at him as I unwind the towel from my hair.

“You brought cosmetics,” he points out.

Fair enough. And here I thought he hadn’t noticed me wearing them over my bruise. Luckily it’s almost gone now and I won’t have to fuss with covering it any longer. I drop my towel from my body and pick up a fresh chemise, shaking it out before slipping it over my head. When I glance over at him, I can see he’s definitely watching me. Good.

I love when he watches me.

“Thank you for oiling my bath,” I purr, putting a foot on the edge of the bed and then running my hands up my leg, hiking my skirts to reveal my calf. “It made my skin really soft and touchable.”

He groans and sharpens his claws even more frantically, the metal file’s loud scrapes filling the room.

Hmm. I sit on the edge of the bed, eyeing him. There’s a new sort of confidence in him today, a self-assuredness that’s rather erotic. “Did you oil your horns?”

“Tradition.”

“I suspected as much…” I trail off as he flexes his hand, eyeing his fingers. Instead of a full hand of dangerous, lethal dark claws, the claws on the fingertips of the first two fingers have been cut to the quick. “Your claws!”

“Again, tradition.” And he eyes me as he carefully files those first two fingers. “A Fellian who takes a mate trims down his claws for his female.”

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