Page 32 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

Twenty-Two

Isleep better than I have in months. You would think that my senses would be a little on edge given that I’m in a Fellian’s bed and completely at his mercy, but no. I sleep so heavily that I don’t even dream, and when I wake up, my chin is covered in tracks of dried drool.

“You snore,” is all the Fellian says to me when I wake up.

“I do not snore,” I say, indignant. “I am a princess.”

“A snoring princess is still a princess.”

I glare at him and sit up in the bed. I feel surprisingly good. I’m still drained, of course, but my stomach is settled and my limbs no longer feel sluggishly heavy, nor is my mind fogged. It’s a relief, and I owe my recovery all to my enemy, which is unsettling.

“Do you want the lights on or is your head still bothering you?”

I rub my eyes and notice that there’s one light on in the corner, the orb covered by a thin cloth so it shines dimly and gives just enough light to illuminate the shapes in the room. Considering he can see in the dark, it’s obviously for my benefit, and a thoughtful gesture. I look around at the absolute clutter in his room and then back to him. “The light is fine, thank you. Whyare you being so nice to me?” I’m suspicious. “I showed up here to kill you.”

“Did you truly think you’d succeed?” He sounds amused. I notice that he has a stool pulled up to the side of the bed and he straddles it, his strange legs folded on each side, his wings a black cloak behind him. Those strange horns of his make him look regal even in the near darkness, as does the heavy set of his brow.

Did I think I’d succeed in killing him? It’s a good question. In all honesty, no. But he doesn’t need to know that. “I had to try. You have me backed into a corner.”

“I don’t know how you came to that conclusion.” He shakes his head. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

Is he serious? “You stole the last of my wood! That’s why I came after you.”

Nemeth gives me a puzzled look. “Your wood? You mean that sled?” At my indignant nod, he continues. “The sled that you banged around with for a full day and got nowhere with? The sled that you cried over because you couldn’t break it apart?”

“I didn’t cry,” I hiss, embarrassed. Tears are weakness, and I hate showing weakness to this cretin.

“I saw you were having trouble with it,” he says, his words slow and measured, his gaze locked on me. “So I took it apart for you and put the wood in the kitchen below, by the hearth. You would have seen it if you’d gone downstairs.”

I blink, taken aback. I hadn’t thought to go downstairs to look. I’d simply asked my knife if he’d taken the sled, and the answer was yes. I hadn’t thought to ask why he’d taken the sled, or where it was at now. “You made it into firewood for me?”

“I broke it down into easily manageable pieces, yes. You should be able to burn them now.” He shakes his head. “Whoever sent you your supplies needs to be drawn andquartered. To think that they sent you sixteen trunks of dresses and nothing to burn.”

Rude man.

He’s right, of course, but it’s still rude to point it out. “I suppose your people did a lot better for you?”

“I suppose they did, yes.” He gestures behind him, and I can see a massive stack of firewood, the logs jammed into place as high as the ceiling. He has wood downstairs in the kitchens, too, so this must be an additional supply. It’s revolting to see how well stocked his quarters are. In addition to the food downstairs, he’s got some hidden away up here, too. Shoved in-between books and wooden cases, I see more wheels of cheese and what looks like a board full of growing mushrooms standing up in the corner of the room. Bushels of dried leaves hang from the ceiling, and I’ve no doubt that he’s got more than enough supplies to allow him to ease through the winter and spring, until the next solstice.

Whereas I’ve been chewing on stale, raw turnips and shivering under my blankets. So that’s fun.

I sit up and he immediately moves, fluffing a pillow behind my back. It’s a rather touchingly sweet response and makes me feel guilty. Here he is, this big, vicious-looking enemy warrior, making sure I’m comfy in his bed. I glance over at him. “I don’t suppose you have any more water?”

“I do. And soup, if you’re hungry.”

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice not to shriek outyes, yes, please, I’m starving.

He hands me a wooden cup full of water and I force myself to take tiny sips even though I want to gulp the whole thing down. As I drink, I watch him move across the room. His fireplace is flickering, and there’s a small pot over the flames. He stirs the contents with a ladle and then fills a second wooden cup with what smells like soup. My mouth waters, and at this point, if hepulled his cock out and told me I had to suck it to share his food, I’d gladly do so. I’m that hungry.

But he only sits down on that stool again and holds the soup out to me. He doesn’t ask for anything.

Warily, I take the cup from him, trading my empty water cup for the food. “This isn’t poison, is it? Because with my luck, it’d be poison.”

Nemeth rolls his eyes at me. He crosses his arms over his bare chest—still wearing nothing but his leather kilt with the decorative metal studs, I notice—and considers me. “Why would I nurse you back to health only to poison you?”

“Because it hurts more that way.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Remind me to get tips from you on how to torture the enemy. I think my people could learn a thing or two.”

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