Page 85 of Jailer to the Death God
“You said untying this knot between us might not be possible,” he murmurs. “And that physical contact will only strengthen it.”
My fingers curl convulsively into the fabric of his black robes before I force myself to let go. “You’re right, of course. You can take my father’s old room tonight, and I’ll sleep in mine.”
He nods, resigned, and we return to my chambers in silence. Hessie serves us our private dinner, with many wide-eyed glances at both of us. She doesn’t try to hide her fascination and delight over the fact that we’re married now.
Halfway through the meal, the Chief Manager of the palace stops by my rooms to congratulate us—and also to voice a subtle rebuke, because all the preparations for tomorrow’s wedding are now useless.
“I understand why the wedding had to happen quickly,” the manager says. “Still, it’s a shame. We had some fine things planned.”
“We could still have a party, if you like,” I tell him. “A celebration of the union. But it will have to be short. Vaughn and I have more sick people to tend, and we must prepare for another journey to more outlying towns—a longer absence this time.”
The Chief Manager brightens. “Yes, yes, I believe a party would be just the thing. We can make some minor adjustments to the plans—tomorrow noon, then, Your Majesty. Lord Consort.” He bows deeply to Arawn, who is chewing a bite of pie contemplatively.
Shortly after the manager departs, Hessie clears away our empty dishes and tends the fire. “Ring for me if you need anything else, my lady. Have a pleasant sleep.” She looks from me to Arawn and makes a little sound of delighted wonder before breezing out of the room.
When the door closes behind her, I rise abruptly, brushing a few stray crumbs from my skirt. “I’m going to bathe, then sleep. You can use the bath when I’m done.”
Arawn is sprawled on a sofa, his long legs crossed and a cup of wine in his hand. He doesn’t reply, only tips wine into his mouth while watching me over the rim of the cup. His gaze sends a bolt of hectic heat through my chest.
Steeling myself against the waves of desire flooding my body, I go to my room for fresh nightclothes and a robe. Then I cross the parlor again, conscious of the death god’s stare.
I close the door to the bathing room and breathe a sigh of relief. I make quick work of relieving myself and stripping down to my bare skin while I wait for the bath to fill. As I stand beside the sunken tub, I press my fingers to my sex, trying to still the buzzing need there. But my fingers come away slippery, and I can’t help the tiniest whine of yearning.
Sighing, I step into the bath. I shave the parts that have gone untended for a few days, and I wash the grime of travel from my body and my hair.
And while I bathe, I think of my husband.
Arawn is a blessed relief from the ever-present ache in my soul. But he’s more than just a balm. I admire him and respect him. He intrigues me, surprises me. Despite his vast age and his odd view of the mortal world, he is startlingly perceptive, and more compassionate than I gave him credit for at first. He can also be adorably naïve at times. I love it. And I hunger for him, for the divine beauty that’s so far beyond anything I could have imagined in a man.
But there can be no lasting happiness for him and me. This thing between us could lose him the throne of Annwn, and Macha would leap in to take his place. Which would give her license to do anything she likes to my stepmother, my father—to everyone I love.
I can’t do that to them.
I must not tempt Arawn, or lure him to abandon the only life he has ever known. I can’t ask him to yield the guardianship of the world’s souls to a warmongering goddess.
Once again, I must give up what I want so badly, for the ultimate good of others.
It’s wretchedly unfair.
But unfair or not, I must find a way to break the death god’s heart and destroy his love for me.
36
My desire for the Queen is like the fire of my Furnace, ever-burning, unquenchable.
It’s all I can do not to rise from the sofa, walk into the bathing room, and drag her out of the tub. But I manage to stay put. I reward myself with another cup of wine, to celebrate my strength of will.
And then she walks out of the bathing room.
She pads across the carpet toward her room on small bare feet, wrapped in the same fluffy robe she wore that first night.
Her hair is a waterfall of silvery moonlight. She turns her face just slightly, her gaze darting in my direction. As if she can’t quite bear going to her room without one more glimpse of me.
That tiny glance cracks my control.
I slam down the wine-cup and leap for her.
With a squeak, she flees into her bedroom and tries to close the door, but she has the strength of a frail bird compared to mine. I force my way in, grip the collar of her robe with both hands, and jerk it down, off her shoulders. She’s wearing a thin nightdress beneath.
