Page 66 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

“Wounded?”

No response.

“Lost? Sad? Tired?”

None of these questions get a response, and I’m frustrated by my inability to close in on the proper questions. I’m filled with a vague sense of worry and I want to fling the knife away again. It feels willful to do so, but what use are these answers? They fill me with grief and anxiety, not comfort. “Is Balon well?”

No answer.

“Is Balonalive?”

No answer.

I swallow hard, blinking back tears. I suppose that’s my answer. He hasn’t returned because he’s dead. Poor Balon was so young, too. “Was it sickness?”

No answer.

“The same problem as Riza?”

No answer.

“Is…it the war?”

Yes.

“Did he die in battle?”

Yes.

Oh. I had no idea he joined the war. I thought he’d been considered too young. That his father didn’t want him gallivanting off when he was the heir. It seems he changed his mind. “Is King Lionel alive?”

Yes.

Figures. I stare down at the knife, unhappy.

“Candra?” Nemeth calls up to me. “Are you hiding? Come and see what was brought.” His voice is cheerful, his mood a happy one. He doesn’t need to know that I feel as if I’m a cake that has suddenly sunk in the middle. There’s no need for both of us to be miserable.

I can do nothing about what is happening at home, so I shall not think about it at all. I tuck the knife into the front of my bodice and get to my feet, dusting off my skirts. “Coming! Are we going to feast on fresh Fellian mushrooms tonight?”

Nemeth laughs again, the sound echoing through the lonely tower, and I feel a little better after hearing it.

Just a little.

The worldoutside fades away from my thoughts far too easily.

Now that our supplies are flush once more, it’s easy to feel happy and settled. The root cellar is full to overflowing, and the storage room on the first floor brims with flour for bread, dried herbs and teas, fuel, and new, warm clothing that we can use in the winter. There are fresh blankets and sweet-smelling candles. There are soaps and lotions for me, and new books for Nemeth. With his ledger book, Nemeth has our food supplies plotted out to last us several weeks beyond the next Solstice, all without skimping on meals.

The tower seems a little more comfortable in the weeks past the Solstice.

If the tower’s comfortable, I wish things between Nemeth and I were equally so.

It’s not that things are bad between us. But Nemeth has erected a wall. He’s stated what he wants—a mate—and is calmly and patiently waiting for my decision. He doesn’t want a fling from me, and he’s perfectly willing to wait—or to decline my advances entirely. We still share a bed at night, but the kissing and cuddling has ended as quickly as it began. Things are still friendly and affectionate between us, but he hasn’t tried to wake me with his head between my thighs, and I’m afraid to approach him in a similar fashion once more and get turned down.

And I don’t know what to think.

It’s hard not to feel like I’m being punished. That he’s withholding until I agree to be his mate and say “Yes, I renouncemy kingdom, my sister, and everything I’ve ever believed in.” But Nemeth is still my friend. We still laugh over passages in books and curl up together in bed to read or talk about nothing at all. We take turns making meals and playing a card game, and it’s all quite lovely and sweet.

He’s not trying to be an arse about it, I realize. It’s just that if we take things further, Nemeth is only comfortable with one route—as a mated couple. I understand that. I respect that.

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