Page 87 of Bound to the Shadow Prince

“Well, that would explain why I never saw it,” I say brightly. Though I don’t recall books, either. Nemeth must have snagged them before I went up and did my hunting.

I eye the altar. Even though we’ve been here for a year now, I’ve done no more than glance quickly at the altar, assuming that it looked like every other church effigy I’ve ever seen. It would hold images of the three gods—a triptych carving of them—ruling over their particular realms. The Absent One, his face turned up to the heavens instead of gazing down at the people of the world, surrounded by sunlight and the daytime realm. Across from him, the Gray God, his sorrowful face tilted toward the ground, as if watching over the people of the mortal realm, his equally gray moon behind him. Between them, the Golden Moon Goddess, she of dawn and dusk, the fickle one who stares right at the person in front of the altar as if daring them not to worship her.

Normally, the Absent One is an elderly, gray-haired man, the Gray God a bearded father figure, and the Golden Moon Goddess a radiant young woman. But in this triptych, they are all Fellians. Their faces are hard and angular, noses pronounced just like Nemeth’s. They have spread wings and the horns that draw back from their faces just like he does. Their legs bend backward, and they do not look like friendly, familiar gods at all.

I stare in surprise at this blasphemy, then glance over at Nemeth. “Are there two altars? Have I missed one?” Perhaps this is the altar of the Fellians (who would be used to blasphemy of this sort) and there is a different one for Liosians.

“You have been here as long as I have,” Nemeth says, snapping his fingers and creating a tiny flame to light the candle. “Have you seen another altar?”

I have not. I purse my lips, then decide to let the matter drop. What do I care? It is not as if I am particularly devout, and since I am throwing my lot in with the Fellians, should I not getmarried at an altar with Fellian gods? Nemeth sets an offering bowl upon the altar in front of each representation of the gods, then pulls out a cushion for my knees and places it on the floor in front of the altar. “Shall we begin?”

The sight of that cushion gives me a dozen filthy ideas, none of which have to do with religion. Pinching my arm to clear my thoughts, I kneel upon the cushion and hold my hands out to Nemeth to take. He doesn’t exactly kneel across from me as much as he crouches, thanks to his backward-bent knees, but the intent is the same—to make oneself lower than the gods.

He takes my hands in his and begins a quiet prayer to the gods. “We ask for your protection, o Great Ones. We ask for abundance. We ask for your smiling eyes to look down upon us. We ask for your favor. We ask for your joy. We ask you to see this mating between this male and this female and give us your blessing.” His gaze locks upon me. “We ask that you see this union of Nemeth of the First House of Darkfell, and Candromeda Vestalin of Lios, and grant us happiness. We seek to live our lives in the shadow of your glory, and to bring honor to your forgotten names. Be with us.”

“Be with us,” I echo appropriately, trying not to fidget. Here Nemeth is leading me through a very serious, very religious Fellian wedding ceremony and I’m focused on the fact that I’m not wearing my bloomers. Truly, I amsucha disgrace.

Nemeth bows his head and then begins to speak in Fellian, switching out of common. His words are lyrical and flowing, and I understand not a bit of it. But I watch him for clues, keeping my hands in his as he continues the ceremony. Even though he’s concentrating on the prayer, I like the feel of his hands in mine. If I was a better person, like he is, I’d be thinking about prayers, or what it means to be bound before the gods in holy matrimony.

As it is, I’m just thinking about his cock…and more importantly, his knot. My pussy clenches reflexively even now.

I wonder if the gods would think I’m a vile creature if I tackled my new husband—excuse me, my mate—in front of their altar. Just grabbed him and tossed him onto his back and flipped up that kilt of his and?—

“Candra?”

I blink, pulled away from my lascivious thoughts. “Hm?”

His eyes narrow. “Are you not paying attention?”

“You’re speaking another language,” I chide. “I’m paying as much attention as I can. Are we married yet?”

A reluctant smile tugs at his mouth. “Not yet. We must give our offerings to the gods and complete the prayers.”

“Of course,” I say, as if I have any clue about how our ceremony will work. I flutter my lashes and give him an expectant look. “You start and I’ll follow your lead, naturally.”

“Naturally,” he agrees, amused. He lifts our joined hands to his mouth and kisses the back of mine. “Let us give our offerings.”

He gets to his feet and helps me to mine. Nemeth stands proud in front of the altar, with my smaller, ridiculous figure at his side. I cannot imagine what the gods think of our pairing. Of a short, rounded, soft human woman in a voluminous pale blue dress with puffed sleeves and a tightly laced corset, standing next to an enormous Fellian with gray wings, glowing green eyes, and a leather kilt. We are a mismatched pair to be certain, but I like to think that he enjoys the sight of me as much as I enjoy the sight of him.

And truly, that is all that matters.

Nemeth takes each cake and breaks it in half, feeding a portion to the flickering candle in front of each of the triptych images. He chants the words of a prayer in Fellian, and when he places the hard cake into the flames, it lights up as if covered in pitch and flames to ashes in moments. He indicates I should do the same, and he patiently leads me through the Fellian prayerand the cake offering. We repeat that for each of the gods, and when there is nothing left but ashes, Nemeth takes the final cake, breaks it in half, and offers me a bite.

I eat it delicately, making sure to nip his fingers as he feeds me. Then I feed him, and his hot gaze devours mine, sending shivers of anticipation through my body.

“Now are we mated?” I ask, breathless, as I brush a crumb from his hard mouth.

Nemeth chuckles at my eagerness. “Not quite. Now we must give each other the bite of marking.”

Right. The bite-y part of the ceremony. That means we’re close to the end, at least. “Do you bite me first or me to you?”

“You bite me,” he says, and his green eyes flare, as if the thought excites him very much.

“All right, but my teeth are rather blunt. Don’t blame me if I gnaw for a bit.” I take the hand that he holds out to me, palm up, and eye him. “I’m a little afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

His lips twitch. “You will not.”

Hmph. He acts like I’ve got a mouth full of pillows. Teeth are still teeth and if I have to tear at his skin, it’s not going to be pleasant for either party. “Do you have the ink, then?”

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