Page 82 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

Or someone will think we are an easy target to rob, a princess and a Fellian alone in a tower.

I think of the men with their pickaxes. How they’d attacked Nemeth. My cheek still smarts from where I was backhanded, and there’s a bit of a bruise on my face, but I’ve been using a hint of cosmetics to keep Nemeth from noticing. He’s taken enough of the brunt of things. I think of his wing and how it dripped blood everywhere. I should clean the floors, I think absently.

Clean the floors and then pull down some of the junk from the third floor to pile against the door. Barricade usin.

I walk away from the doors, musing at how much I’ve changed in the last year. Back at court, I would have never cleaned a floor, much less tended to someone else’s wound. I would have cried and fussed dramatically over my own small bruise until I was certain everyone knew of my pain and was feeling it with me. I never would have married a Fellian. I don’t even know that I would have married. Perhaps I would have spent my days carousing in court, the drunken wastrel aunt of Allionel and Erynne’s upcoming child.

As I head for the stairs, I pass the forgotten altar of the Golden Moon Goddess. At least, forgotten by me. There are remnants of incense and herbal offerings that show that Nemeth hasn’t forgotten the goddess, at least. “Was this your plan?” Iask, as if the goddess will somehow answer me. “To change us down to our very beings? To make us forget where we came from?”

There’s no answer.

I’m wrong anyhow. I might be changing, but Nemeth is as steadfast as ever. I’m the only one who is being made anew.

I sleep latethe next day, though it’s impossible to be certain of the time. All I know is when I wake up, there’s a scent of baked sweets lingering in the air and Nemeth’s face is buried in one of his books. One of the lights sits near his feet, giving off a gentle glow that illuminates his strong, harsh features. He looks up as I stretch, a warm smile moving across his face, and I instantly feel better. Dreams are just dreams, nothing more. I smile at him, rumpling my tousled hair. “You should have woken me up.”

“You seemed like you needed to sleep,milettahn.”

That’s a new word. I pause, tilting my head at him. “I haven’t heard that before. What does that mean,milettahn?”

To my surprise, he looks a bit taken aback. “Mate,” he manages after a moment. “It means ‘my mate.’”

Such a shy man. I beam at him. “Today’s the day. You’re not going to back out on me, are you?”

“Never.” The look he gives me is full of intense longing, his shoulders immediately tensing. “Have you changed your mind?” I shake my head, and he relaxes again. “I have already baked the cakes for our ceremony. Do not touch them when you go downstairs. We must save them for the ceremony.” He turns a careful page in his book. “And I have readied your bath by the fire. All you have to do is add the warm water I’ve prepared. It’s still on the hearth.”

Oh, how thoughtful. I know a bath is a lot of work. I get to my feet, padding across the cold stone floor, and slide into his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “You are most kind.”

“I am determined,” he corrects, sliding one arm around my waist as he closes his book with his other hand. “I shall have you tied to me before the gods quickly, so you cannot change your mind. To that end, I am ridding us of any chance of delays.”

I chuckle. Who knew such intent could be so damned sexy? “If you’ve drawn a bath for me, I can’t possibly refuse. I’m sure that’s in the vows somewhere.”

Nemeth rubs a hand up and down my back, watching me. “No more nightmares?”

“None. I slept quite well after I got to put my feet on you.”

He grunts, his hand straying to my backside and rubbing. “You make it sound as if you don’t put your feet on me every night.”

I slide a little closer, my breasts loose under my sleep-chemise. With my hair tousled and the fact that I’m almost naked? I feel quite frisky this morning. The bath can wait. “You don’t mind.”

“I never said I did.” His voice lowers, grows husky as I lean in. “Go take your bath, Candra. Once the ceremony is completed, I’ll be rutting atop you for hours. Save it.”

Oh.Rutting. Such a delicious word. With a shiver, I slide off of his lap. “Let me see your wing first. If it looks bad, we’re not doing anything today.”

“I shall be the judge of that,” Nemeth tells me, but he stands upright and stretches to his full height, his wing gently flaring outward. He doesn’t stretch it all the way, just enough to let me examine the stitching.

It looks a little puffy and swollen, but it’s no longer bleeding and the color is good. Best of all, there are no red lines tracing outward from the wound. I don’t know anything about healing,but I remember Riza told me her husband died because he had a tiny wound that got infected, and the redness crept up his arm in straight lines as it infected his blood. He died two days later.

Thinking about that makes me a little panicky. I swipe at some of the salve on his wound and poke one of the stitches. “Painful?”

“When you poke it, yes,” he growls.

Fair enough. “But it doesn’t throb? No burning?” I touch the wound again, this time gentler, and it doesn’t feel hot, which is a good sign. “I need to put more salve on it.”

“It is fine, Candra. I promise you.” He sounds a little pissy, his wing flicking as if he wants to pull free from my grasp. “Quit stalling.”

How very rude.I huff indignantly, releasing his wing. “I am not stalling.”

“Aren’t you?”

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