Trade (Deridia Book 2)

by Catherine Miller

  He took her hand and placed a kiss upon the back of it, then replaced his lips with his forehead, an act of supplication that seemed so strange and unexpected coming from him. There was a subtle line of ridges that tickled against her skin, and like so much with him, she longed to learn of him better, to tease her fingers across each line and mark until she had memorised it all. But her ability for movement seemed very far away, and she was helpless to do anything but watch and listen.

  “I have done you great wrong since our marriage began. And I must ask your forgiveness.”

  This... felt wrong.

  There was no doubting his sincerity, no questioning that he was indeed sorry for the hurt he had caused her. But she found herself tugging her hand away, holding it to her and waiting for him to move, to loom, to... to act like her husband usually did.

  She did not recognise this humble entreaty, the passive posture, and it made her all the more uncertain.

  “I...”

  She swallowed, trying again to find her words, to do something to make all of this... stop.

  She had wanted him to change, hadn’t she? To tell her that he’d been wrong, that she was worth loving—that what had begun as a marriage solely for the needs of others had transformed into something good.

  But now that she was faced with it, she did not know how to react.

  He glanced up at her, his confusion apparent. It didn’t feel right for his eye-line to be below hers. He was hunching in an attempt to show his contrition, but she didn’t like it. Not at all. So with sure hands she pushed at him, his confusion mounting.

  It was strange, the bond flaring in confirmation of what her eyes were seeing. The furrowing of his brow, the almost hurt expression at her apparent rejection before all was smoothed over, the knot of emotion in her head now the only thing to relate what he truly felt.

  She needed to speak, to explain. But she also needed time to formulate her own proper response. Though at the flare of hurt, barely smothered when he realised the bond was no longer safe to be open—the shutter snapping closed with almost brute force—she realised she could not afford delays. Not if she wanted to keep him from regretting his openness.

  “Please, don’t shut it off,” she blurted, wincing as soon as she’d spoken. That wasn’t the most important thing, but already her own mind felt empty and lonely, and she craved the return of that blissful warmth from before.

  Machrus frowned. “It is... unwise for it to remain open. My hurts are not yours to share.” Renna flinched, and Machrus gave her a peculiar look. “Perhaps you misunderstand,” he tried again, his words slow and carefully chosen. “You have your own wounds, physical and otherwise. I will not burden you with mine as well. It would be... most unkind.”

  Renna considered that. She was coming to recognise that she usually expected the worst from him, that his motivations were somehow to exclude her simply for the sake of doing so. And that wasn’t fair. He had commended her for her graciousness, and perhaps it was time she extend a little bit more to him.

  “I think I’d rather know. I appreciate that you don’t want to overburden me, but... I want to take care of you too, in what ways I can. And if it’s knowing when something upsets you, knowing when you are hurt and need comfort... I think that’s important.” She swallowed, realising that there was missing a crucial bit of knowledge if that was to be her goal. “What... what brings you comfort? I don’t want to make it worse, and I know you don’t find touching me... or me touching you... to be particularly enjoyable.”

  Machrus sighed deeply, a hint of exasperation in his voice, though he stifled it quickly, replacing it with a look of penitence. She did not like that—didn’t want him covering up his genuine reactions in some attempt to please her. It felt much too close to deceitfulness. “Renna, I have explained what I meant by that statement. Did I not do so adequately?”

  She shrugged again, feeling a little awkward under his scrutiny. “You did,” she assured him. “That was how you could tell what I was feeling. And at the time it was... not the best.” An understatement, to be sure, but she didn’t think it necessary to delve through all her emotions when first she’d come here. “But for my people... comfort usually involves some form of touch. Not always... intimate,” she hastened to clarify lest he misunderstand. “But...”

  He took her hand in his and held it up. “Such as this?”

  She nodded, though perhaps it was not a very good example. She hadn’t held someone’s hand before him. “Or putting your arm around someone when they’re upset. Or touching their arm.” She demonstrated, just a quick gesture, even as her fingers lingered just a little too long. “But that is our way, and I want to know... what is it that you would like from me? When you speak of things that pain you, what can I give to you that would show you that I care? That I don’t want you to hurt, just as you don’t want that for me.”

  What could she do when he spoke of a wife he loved, of the pain at the loss of her? Words seemed so wholly inadequate.

  Machrus stared at her for a moment, debating with himself. But then he sat up straighter, taking hold of her wrist and manipulating her fingers until only her forefinger remained extended. She waited, unsure of what he was trying to do, but not wanting to distract him with questions. His own longest finger crooked around hers, linking them, and he brought his head forward to rest against her forehead.

  She remembered seeing Adelmar and Sladec greeting one another in this way when first she’d seen them. The posture seemed odd, and she could not quite understand how it was a comfort. If they were standing, very little of them would be touching, but she was not about to give comment.

  She had asked what he wanted, what he needed, and she was not going to criticise his answer.

  Except then he was opening the bond. She did not feel the rush of warmth from before, just a simple awareness that he no longer shielded himself from her. “When needed, the bond is used to give the comfort you describe,” Machrus told her, his voice soft. His finger clutched at hers, and though it was dim, she could feel a tremor through his mind, a... need that she felt an equal desire to fulfil.

  She did not know what she was doing. Not really. She’d only tried this once, desperate and cold, pushing at their closed bond as hard as she could in the frantic hope that he might hear her.

  But already she could tell that she could be gentle. The bond was open, ready and free for her to use as she willed.

  She pushed away her petty jealousies, her envy at a woman who had come before. She focused instead on her sorrow for Maisie, of the remembered hurt, and conjured all that she’d wished she had received upon her death.

  The love she wish she’d felt.

  And sent it to her husband.

  The effect was immediate, the tension leaving him as he seemed to melt under her tender care, her understanding of his loss and the acceptance of his past.

  This was better than a hug, or a brush of fingers against an arm in consolation. This was to share, to join, to feel, with no mistaking intent, no fumbling of words that seemed so wholly inadequate.

  And for once, she felt she had done right by him.

  She felt his own emotions soothe, felt his gratitude, his swell of love for her in return, and it was enough to make her choke back a sharp inhalation. She had not expected that, not at all. If he had spoken of it, she would have thought it a placation—a half-heartedly offered remnant born from his responsibility for her care. But now... feeling the affection directly from its source, she could not so easily explain it away.

  Something in her flared anew, her desire for him strong. She had not meant to pass that along as well, but when Machrus pulled away, staring at her with wide eyes, she realised she had done so.

  And was utterly mortified.

  “I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, her cheeks already burning. “I...” she wanted to pull away entirely, to hide under the blankets. That was something she was barely able to acknowledge to herself, and for him to have seen, to ha
ve felt it to so keenly...

  “No shame,” Machrus told her, reaching out and coaxing her to look at him, his fingers tangled in her hair. “Not here.” She did not mean to project that, to reveal that as well, and already she was scrambling to put a barrier of her own, to hide away her feelings until she had a better handle of them. But she could barley think when he looked at her that way, when he held her face in his hand so tenderly, his thumb stroking her cheek, until she could do nothing but stare.

  “I have found myself... reconsidering many of my viewpoints of our marriage, of what I wish for us. I am... honoured that you desire me.” His eyes flickered downward and her eyes followed. The blanket she had tied about herself had become tangled, bits of pale flesh peeking through the openings. “I find your form to be most agreeable as well.”

  That shouldn’t have pleased her so much, yet it did. There was no hint that he was teasing her, nothing through their bond suggesting that he was being anything but truthful.

  “However,” Machrus continued, her stomach clenching fearfully at where this might be going. “You are injured. Both here,” his fingers drifted over her bandages. She’d almost forgotten they were there, too caught up with thoughts of him, “and here.” Her heart raced when his forefinger drifted to the cleft between her breasts, covered though they were by both blanket and bandages. She bit her lip when they lingered.

  What had he said? She was injured there?

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You were taken by a man that did not love you. He was deceitful and dishonourable, and his actions inflicted wounds I am not certain have ever truly healed.” His fingers smoothed upward, as if memorising the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder. “When you are with me,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, a tone she had never heard from him before. “I would have you know that you are safe. That you will be cherished and cared for long after the act is completed. I would have no doubts in you, no fears that I will leave you. For I will not. Not because Sladec would never permit such a thing, but also...”

  His head dropped to smooth his lips over the hollow of her throat, not quite a kiss, but close enough that her breath caught at the feel of it.

  “Because only the greatest fool alive would rebuff a love such as yours. And I should like to think I am not as stupid as that.”

  And she could not help but laugh, for though at times he had seemed so strange, that was so utterly Machrus, and when he smiled at her, a real, true sort of smile that made her heart ache just to see it...

  Renna did not think, did not take the time to remind herself of all the reasons she should not.

  Something had made her brave, if only for this too-brief moment.

  So she leaned forward.

  And kissed him.

  And did not regret it. Not in the least.

  For he kissed her in return.

  22. Husband

  The kiss had not been forceful, or demanding. It was a sweet brush of her lips, his coming to meet hers in equal pressure. There was a flare of confusion on his side of the bond, though it was quickly stifled by a mounting affection, and she wondered if perhaps his people did not actually kiss... if she was causing him to suffer through some kind of depravity because she had been rash.

  But there has been no disgust, only curiosity, and she comforted herself that perhaps she had not done something so very wrong after all.

  And she hoped dearly that she hadn’t, because for her...

  She was not well practiced in the art. Most of the ones she had known were harsh and urgent, met with fumbling hands and whispered words that more was to come...

  Only that prospect had been met with fear and not desire, with pain and not the tender pleasure her mother had told her to expect from a good man.

  She pushed those thoughts away firmly. They had no place here. Not with Machrus. He would be different, and she would not have these experiences spoilt with memories of what had come before.

  Machrus was the one to pull away first, his eyes alight and his hand tracing over her lips—the ones he had just been kissing. She shivered pleasantly, and leaned forward again, hopeful and just a little expectant that they could continue.

  “Later,” Machrus chastised, though the bond suggested he was as regretful as she, “You are healing.”

  She wanted to remind him that it was only her back that was wounded—that his idea of her heart being equally so was a foolish thing. Except... it wasn’t. Not really. Perhaps not quite for the reasons he suggested. She wasn’t still pining for... for Max. She rarely thought of him directly, thought his name, his face conjuring in turn. There was no point in it, as it only made her sad, or perhaps in her darker moments, terribly angry.

  But the wounds left by Maisie’s death, those were real. But she doubted those could ever mend.

  And though she tried not to think of this most of all, she remembered how painful her first experience with sex had been. And her back did ache, fiercely if she thought too long on it, so perhaps there was some wisdom to the idea of waiting. But even so, she did not think it would be quite so bad with Machrus. She actually desired him, and he had been happily married before. Surely they could not have been so if he was selfish in such an area.

  Unless their kind of intimacy was different?

  She flushed as she caught her eyes moving downward of their own accord, wondering and utterly indecent, and Machrus caught her chin between his fingers, adding to her embarrassment by catching her. “Later,” he reiterated, this time a bit more firmly.

  Though the bond flared, even more regretful than before.

  She still did not quite understand what he was waiting for, but she knew what it was to be pushed, so she relented, content for him to help her to lie down, to arrange the blankets over her just so.

  To huff at their soup having long gone cold.

  And then later, after he had seen that she’d eaten properly this time—even allowing her to sit up to eat it, though informed her firmly she would still be sleeping on her stomach—he settled in beside her.

  No blanket rolled between them, no feeble barrier to delineate that their marriage was in name only.

  That alone was enough to set a small, sleepy smile on her lips. But when he went further, when he crossed that invisible line between their sides, wrapping his arm loosely across the small of her back so as not to agitate the healing scratches above, she began to accept that perhaps he was being serious. And when he leaned closer still and placed a kiss upon her shoulder, skin meeting skin all too briefly, her smile grew all the more.

  Perhaps things had really changed for him—that he was willing to accept that she was his wife. That she wanted to be his wife.

  Assuring her of that seemed to be his goal over the next days. That and infuriating her at every turn.

  She tried to keep her temper, to remind herself that he was being kind and attentive, but each day she felt stronger, yet he insisted on carrying her as much as possible, of disallowing her from preparing any meals, of even walking to the lavatory unescorted.

  “You could fall,” he reminded her patiently. “Your limbs have suffered so.”

  She scowled, though it faded rather quickly. He had heeded her request and the bond remained open, and with it came all the concern and fear he felt whenever she tried to push herself to get well. He truly did believe that if he was not there to lend support she might topple over and hit her head, sending her back into a delirium—this one that she might not recover from.

  And knowing that made it difficult to challenge him, at least with all the heat she occasionally felt at being coddled. She wasn’t used to it, not at all, and it made her feel useless. There was little room for weakness in the Wastes, and even those who required care had to manage for themselves most of the time as caretakers could rarely be spared from their primary responsibilities.

  It was a harsh life, but one she had known, and all this lazing about made her anxious.

  “R
enna,” Machrus sighed, eyeing her from his place in the kitchen. “You are squirming.”

  She didn’t mean to pout, not exactly, but she already felt her lip extending regardless of her wishes. “I am bored. You won’t let me do anything!”

  “Untrue,” Machrus said, scrubbing calmly at the cook pot, their morning meal finished. “I let you eat. And sleep. And bathe.”

  Renna suppressed a roll of her eyes. Barely. “Generous of you,” she grumbled. She shouldn’t complain, truly. He had been so attentive, helping her as best he could, never complaining even when she protested and whined that she was not recovering more quickly.

  But her limbs were starting to twitch, urging her to move, to walk, to use them rather than simply lying here for the rest of her life.

  Or a few more days.

  Machrus did not seem particularly clear about the timeframe.

  “We could go see the grenpeets,” Renna offered. She was certain he would need to visit them soon as he had not made any trips outside since she’d fallen ill, and going would allow her to stretch her legs and test her strength.

  Machrus dropped his dishcloth into the soapy water, his eyes fervent. “Absolutely not!”

  She had not expected such a firm reply, nor the spike of alarm that echoed through the bond, and she frowned at him. “Why? Don’t they need you?”

  His eyes narrowed at her. “They have been well provided for in their burrows. Regardless, they sleep through most of the snows. I believe you require a great deal more of my attention.”

  Renna huffed, smoothing the folds of the blankets. The bed had not yet returned to their room as Machrus insisted she still required the warmth of the fire. She didn’t think she did, though it wasn’t unwelcome either. And she didn’t mind their abandoned bedroom, not when he still slept with her at night, holding her to him and smoothing his fingers through her unbraided hair.

  It was in those quiet evenings that her heart felt full near to bursting. He had kissed her, just once, last night. First her cheek, then her brow, then finally her lips. He lingered there, and she tentatively returned the gesture, afraid to grow too invested lest she be too upset when he inevitably pulled away and reminded her of later.