17. Tamsyn

17

Tamsyn

I WOKE SEVERAL HOURS LATER TO FIND MARI OVER ME, prompting me to eat and drink. Fell was nowhere to be seen, and I felt a bit deflated. Perhaps he was back to avoiding me. The fading light of dusk greeted me when I emerged from the tent to relieve myself in the nearby woods. The rest had served me well. Already I moved with more ease, my limbs looser. The earlier fog was long gone now, so there was no fear of losing myself within the trees. Everyone was settling down for the night, and no one even seemed to notice me slipping back inside the tent.

I climbed into the bed, stretching languorously within the furs and marveling at how much better I felt. Only a faint twinge of soreness lingered. That salve was truly miraculous. Or perhaps the long nap had given me time to begin healing.

"How are you?"

I jolted upright at the deep voice.

Fell ducked inside, setting a lamp down. The flickering flame cast writhing shadows over his face. Standing over me, he removed the scabbard at his back, lifting it over his head. The leather loop caught at his ink-dark strands. He shook his head slightly, freeing his hair. His arm bracer came off next. I watched avidly as he went through the motions of undressing, reflecting that this was what he did every night. Watching him perform this routine felt intimate, reinforcing that I was now a part of his world—and he was a part of mine.

He sank down onto the edge of my bed of furs and pulled off his boots. His hands moved to his leather armor. Off that went, followed by his under tunic. Each item hit the ground with a heavy thump.

His attention slid to me, and I realized I had yet to answer his question.

"Much better," I replied, shaking my head slightly.

He grunted in acknowledgment, which I took for approval.

He stripped himself to the waist. With a trip of my heart, I wondered if he would be staying the night in the tent with me. Glancing around the space, I verified no other bedding awaited him.

"It's unbelievable, really," I added, seeking words to fill the crackling air between us. "But the salve seems to be working."

"Not so unbelievable," he replied tersely, not looking at me.

"What do you mean?"

"A blood witch knows a thing or two about the healing arts."

"A blood witch?" I stared intently at his back. "You mean... that woman? Thora? She's a witch?" A bona fide witch or just someone unfairly suspect because of her red hair?

He sent me a wry look over his shoulder. "More than likely."

I shook my head. "No one has seen a blood witch in years. Decades. Not since—"

"Since they took to living in isolation? Those who weren't hunted and put to fire at least." He gestured around us. "We're in the middle of nowhere. Miles from the closest village. And way too close to the much-avoided skog for my liking. A perfect location for someone wishing to live undetected."

I fell silent, my mouth closing with a snap, thinking about that, thinking about witches running for their lives to the far corners of the realm when men started hunting them after the Threshing, eager to collect the bounties offered for them. Yes. What Fell said made sense. She could be a blood witch, one of a dying breed, living in seclusion rather than be tossed onto the pyre.

One of my earliest memories was looking out from the palace and seeing bonfires dotting the hills in the distance, a burning row of five pyres outside the City. I'd asked Nurse what they were. Her answer had been immediate and without inflection, her eyes gleaming with savage delight. That is peace coming to the land at last.

And I had believed her. Only later had I learned that her version of peace meant death for others.

Unlike dragons, witches were harder to identify. They looked human, after all. I wondered how many put to death had not even been witches. Mistakes happened. Paranoia was a real thing. The lord chamberlain was proof of that. If he'd had his way, I would have been kindling for the pyres because of my red hair and my keen ability to heal... and there was always the mystery of my parentage. He insisted that was a mark against me.

Thora's whispered words echoed in my mind. He will not tolerate the likes of you.

What had she meant? Had she recognized something in me? The same thing that existed within her?

A chill chased down my spine like a rush of icy fingertips.

I had an unwelcome flash of memory then. The taste of blood in my mouth. Copper coins rolling along my tongue and teeth. My conviction that blood was about to be spilled. Perhaps it was a reasonable hunch, though, given the dangerous circumstances of coming face-to-face with brigands. I inhaled a shuddery breath and shook my head. I would know something like that about myself. Wouldn't I? It was not possible. Magic did not course through me.

"In any case," he continued. "I'm glad the salve is working. We need to press on in the morning."

"I'll be ready."

I gazed at the great expanse of his back, at all that sprawling inked flesh. My fingers tingled, recalling the texture of his skin. Smooth and firm and warm. The X buzzed in the center of my palm, vibrating with energy and heat. The light from the nearby lamp painted his body in dancing red and orange, breathing life into his tattoos, twisting the strange symbols that I could now detect formed the shape of a screaming dragon.

He turned to look at me, asking almost grudgingly, clearly resenting that he should care about my welfare, "Are you cold?"

I realized I was clutching a fur up to my chin. "No. I am fine."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I fidgeted, reading his distaste for me in that cool gaze.

What did he read in mine?

The silence stretched between us. We were alone. This was no chamber full of prying eyes and ears. There was no contingent of warriors flanking us. The evening pulsed around us like a beating heart, and we existed alone inside our impromptu shelter for the night, a sanctuary from the rough country surrounding us.

"What am I going to do with you?" he murmured, in a way that made me think he was truly mystified and open to suggestions.

I moistened my lips. "I know I'm not what you wanted."

"No," he agreed. "You're not."

That did not even sting. Not after our ignominious beginning. It was the truth. I knew it and so did he.

Nodding as though coming to a decision, he reached for the edge of the fur and tugged it down my body, his voice low and deep. "But we can try to get on."

I released a ragged breath of relief, hoping that was true, giddy at the prospect of what that might mean for us.

We can try to get on .

Maybe we could manage a proper marriage despite our rough start. Maybe.

"Now," he added gruffly, sliding down the length of my body to the end of the bed. "Let me see if the witch's salve is really the miracle you claim."

"Oh," I said breathlessly. "You don't need to—"

"Don't be nervous. We've already been through this."

An irrational little laugh bubbled up inside me, but I stifled it. We've already been through this.

Had we, though? Been through this ? It had been different before. I'd been out of my head beside that stream and hurting and desperate for help. I would have lifted my skirts and let anyone examine me if they promised to ease my pain. I thought of Thora and winced. Case in point.

Pain was the last thing I felt, though, as I settled back onto the furs. I gulped as his hands went to my hem, flipping it up. Despite my lack of conviction, I told myself this was like before. A dispassionate inspection. It should be far less embarrassing the second time around.

I told myself that, but still felt my face catch fire as he parted my knees. Air hit my exposed body. The breath hissed past my lips, and too late I realized that this was not like before. I was feeling too many things and none of them pain.

His fingers trailed over my knees, skimming the tops of my thighs, and I bit my lip, fighting to stay silent even when I felt the press of his big hands, the warmth of his palms, the singeing X where my blood had joined with his. That brand swept a burning path up my leg.

My arms stretched above my head, hands clenching into fists to stop myself from touching the endless breadth of shoulders below me. That would make this something more than an impersonal examination, and I needed to keep matters as detached as possible.

He's just checking on me to see if I'm fit to ride.

"Your skin..." His fingers brushed the inside of one thigh, and I trembled from head to toe in a full-body shudder.

I peered down at him. "Am I... better?"

"Perfect," he replied, looking up at me, and my chest constricted at the hot, angry flash in his eyes... at the husky scratch of his voice. Why should he look so angry? So... accusatory?

I waited, expecting him to lower my hem now that he'd looked his fill.

But that didn't happen.

He wasn't done.

His fingers grazed me, inching up and up...

"The redness is gone... and the blisters, too," he marveled, staring fixedly between my legs.

I murmured something unintelligible that swung into a gasp when I felt the slow swipe of his fingers down my sex.

His gaze shot to my face. "Does that hurt?"

"N-no. You just startled me."

His breathing reached my ears, a rough, erratic rhythm. "Your poor little quim. It was so abused earlier. Red and chafed raw. Now it's a pretty pink."

My head dropped back, and I flung my arm over my eyes, feeling those words as though they were something visceral. As potent as his touch. I shifted, rotating my hips in an embarrassing way, seeking another stroke of his fingers against my suddenly aching core.

The flat of his hand on my thigh opened me wider, and I obliged, offering myself to his questing touch, gasping as he traced my cleft and eased one finger inside me.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, and his voice sounded strange to my ears. Lower. Deeper. Almost like he was in pain.

"N-no," I panted.

I shook my head and moaned as he pumped into my sex then, his finger moving slow and steady in deep thrusts. Not too hard. Clearly he feared being too rough, but the pace was agonizing, intensifying my torment, fueling my desire. I wanted it harder. My hands opened above me, grabbing fistfuls of the fur, hanging on as his hand worked between my legs.

He added a second finger and curled it inward, rubbing at some hidden patch of nerves I never knew existed. I started to shake. Tears seeped from the corners of my eyes.

"This is... comfortable?" he asked, turning his face to kiss the inside of my thigh.

Comfortable? Was he joking?

"Oh," I cried out brokenly, my chest rising and falling. "It's good." My body moved against his hand, wild with need, eager and hungry, desperate for more pressure, more friction. "So... good."

His thumb landed on a spot at the top of my sex, a little button tucked away that I had never known existed. He found it and pressed down, rubbing and rolling the swollen flesh.

"You like that?" he growled.

I arched my spine off the bed in response, bursting, coming apart into a thousand pieces. Moisture rushed from me, coating the fingers wedged inside me.

"Tamsyn," he breathed against my skin, his mouth opening, teeth scoring gently, tongue laving my goose-pebbled skin. "My little lying wife."

I fell back, overcome, dizzy and gasping for breath, not even caring that he'd called me a liar. It was true. Maybe I had been without a choice. Or maybe not. I didn't know anymore. Either way, I had done it. I'd married him. Bedded him. Fooled him. And now I was here, stuck with the consequences... whatever he decided those to be.

He lowered my hem back down to my ankles and crawled up the bed, dropping down beside me with a grunt.

I sighed. Ripples of pleasure eddied through me, turning my body the consistency of pudding. His bare arm aligned with mine, radiating heat.

We didn't have this the last time, this lingering in the bed, this closeness. The aftermath was shattered when my veil was yanked away, leaving only betrayal and fury in its place. I shivered at the memory.

"Cold?" he inquired, rolling to his side and draping an arm around my waist, pulling me close, spooning me flush against him.

On the contrary. Wrapped cozily in his arms, I felt warm and soothed.

And I felt his black opal necklace between us, a great buzzing current connecting us in a way something lifeless should not, burrowing past skin and muscle and bone.

My hand settled lightly on his corded forearm. His face nuzzled into the crook of my neck.

I swallowed, struggling to even my labored breathing and slow my violently pounding heart, trying to reclaim my composure and not get carried away with the hope that he was starting to care for me. I felt him, rock-hard against me, and I knew at least he desired me.

"Are you...?" I didn't know how to ask what I was thinking. How to inquire if he wanted me. If he was interested in finding his own release.

"Go to sleep," he instructed, his voice gruff.

"What about you?" Could I have been wrong? Perhaps he didn't want me.

"I'll sleep, too."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it." I told myself it was my sense of duty as his wife that made me push the subject. But that wasn't it. It was a lie I told myself. The pulsing throb between my legs was the truth. Maybe the most honest thing I had ever felt. As much as he'd satisfied me with his touch, I wanted more.

I wanted him inside me again.

"You've been through enough. I know they call me Beast, but I'm not such an animal that I will fall upon you in your condition. Rest now."

So he was holding himself back out of concern for me? It seemed more likely that he held himself back because he couldn't bring himself to bed me. The first time he had been compelled, required. No one was forcing him now.

"I've already slept," I argued, wanting to add that I wasn't saddle sore any longer. My earlier rest and Thora's miracle remedy had done the trick.

"Stop talking and sleep again," he responded firmly, his tone reminding me that this man was a warrior lord. He might be holding me in his arms, but he was not about niceties. I was his lying wife. He would never forget that. Never forget the ugliness of our beginning. It was chilly, and the ground was hard, so we were sharing a bed. This was about practicality. Nothing more. This was not a romantic honeymoon. He was not a tenderhearted lover. He was about giving orders and being obeyed.

I sighed, thinking sleep would never come while I was wrapped up in his arms like this, feeling his heartbeat through the carved X in his palm, the opal sparking and humming between us... my wanting him and enduring his nearness, his warmth while my chest pulled and tightened the way it did whenever he was close.

It was my last thought before I closed my eyes.