But he hadn’t. Not before he had first deepened the kiss, his hand resting against her neck as he held her close, testing and savouring—until it was she who was forced to stop, to draw breath, to stare at him with wide eyes.
He had stared back, eyeing her closely. It was not quite as he had done before, mesmerised by the feel of her lips against his as he touched them almost reverently. Now it was as if he was assessing her, though she could not guess the reason.
“Is it later yet?” she asked breathlessly, not wanting to presume, but wanting more of his kisses.
Machrus hummed, pulling her closer so her ear was pressed against his chest, the vibration comforting. “Soon,” he assured her, his hand tickling as his fingers skimmed against her arm. Her back was doing better, likely due to his attentiveness. He was methodical in his treatment of her, ensuring that each wound was covered in a thick layer of salve before he wrapped her up in bandages again.
She was even beginning to blush less when inevitably her breasts were exposed. Though not the last time he had done it, for that was when she caught him looking at them—just for a moment, but long enough to make her blush spread all the way down to his view.
He had not apologised, and she didn’t want him to. Not when a part of her preened that he found some part of her distracting.
The only other part of her that required special attention was the cuff around her upper arm. She had not given it much thought, her shawl having covered it during her time out in the cold. It was only when she complained about her arm aching that Machrus had recognised the damage that had been done, the skin blistering where the frozen metal had touched.
Self-recrimination flooded through the bond, as he berated himself for not having noted it earlier.
“Don’t think like that, please,” Renna urged him as he removed the cuff carefully, her gasp of pain stifled as much as she could manage. “I was the one that went out there. You did the best you could.”
He frowned down at her skin, smoothing a thick layer of unguent over it with a shake of his head. “You are to be treasured,” he had murmured regretfully.
She’d woken later and found him holding the cuff between his hands. His shoulders were hunched, the bond dim. He had warned her that the longer it was open, the more difficult it would be to close. Evidently he had attempted it, but this was all he could manage.
She shifted, drawing closer to him, not quite willing to sit up all the way but wanting to give him what comfort she could. She tucked her forefinger around his, and nestled her head against his leg, smiling up at him as soothingly as she could. “Will I be in trouble for not wearing it?”
That cuff was the unifier of his people, the mark that such physically diverse entities were all of the Marzon. She had grown used to its presence on her arm, the bandages feeling rough in comparison.
Machrus scoffed, looking down at her. “And who is to know but us?” He glanced back at her cuff, gripping it tightly with the hand not being held captive by hers. “Though I almost wish they would see. Would know how much I have failed you.”
Renna gaped at him. “Why? What good would that do?”
Machrus shook his head. “It would do no good. I know this. My family is too kind, as are you. But your acceptance does not relieve the guilt I feel that you have been damaged because of me. By my selfishness.”
Renna did not know how to soothe that particular regret, not without some measure of falsehood seeping into it. How he’d treated her had not been all right—for him to ignore her, to leave her to herself with nothing to do, no concept of how to navigate in this strange new world. His guilt could only ebb with time, when he began to feel that he had done rightly, that she was happy here.
So she merely adjusted her hold so that she could grasp his hand more firmly, tugging at it slightly so that he would look at her. “I forgive you, you know,” she murmured softly. “We are not our best selves when we are in pain, when we are frightened. It doesn’t make it right, but it does make us...” she grimaced. She had meant to say human, but he was not. He was Marzon, wounded yet kind, gruff but attentive. So much that was contrary, yet somehow wonderful when put altogether in this man. “I understand,” she said instead, unable to find a proper word to describe him. To describe them. “It’s just important we try to do better. To be better.”
Machrus leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead, not withdrawing immediately. “I will try, for you,” he whispered softly against her skin. A vow if ever she’d heard one.
And then he had hummed, a musical lilt of breath and sound as he tried to coax her into sleeping again—even though it was impossible for she had slept far too much all these last days. Yet somehow her body obeyed.
But now she was bored, and their nightly closeness was hours away, and perhaps if she was being more truthful with both herself and with him...
She was lonely.
She had come to crave the intimacy to be found when he was near, loved the feel of his arms wrapped tightly about her.
Loved that he could be content with a kiss, with stroking his fingers through her hair. That he was the one who appreciated that closeness came in each quiet act, not merely in a frenzied passion toward release.
But she couldn’t quite seem to phrase it that way, to relate exactly what she thought and felt—requesting something so personal when still uncertain that he might agree. So instead she hedged, pressing the issue of visiting his flock. At least it would be something done together. And maybe he would hold her hand the whole way there. She felt a pleasant warmth spread at the thought of it.
“What if the grenpeets feel lonesome?” Renna pressed, a genuine concern, if only partly. She fiddled with her blankets. Machrus had changed the linens yesterday, but had refused to allow her to help with their washing. His stubbornness was infuriating. And, if she was honest with herself, rather endearing, but she did wish she could help him in some way, to show her care in return.
Which made it even more difficult when she had finally begun to improve, yet he still demanded she rest.
Machrus stared at her incredulously for a moment before he dropped the rag into the soapy cook pot and dried his hands on a nearby cloth. She could not immediately guess his intention. He did not join her on the bed as she’d hoped, but instead went to the front door and yanked it open with far more force than was usually required. She had thought him angry at first, and guilt made her stomach clench. He hadn’t left her since her cold-sickness began, and already apologies burned at her tongue. She would be quiet and amiable if only he’d stay...
But then the door gave way, the wood groaned, so warped was it from the moisture, a pile of snow falling freely through the doorway as it opened. Not angry then, the force simply necessary to open it at all. She stared, not realising that the storm had lasted so long, the mound of snow nearly a third of the way up the door frame.
That would have been her tomb if he hadn’t found her.
She pushed the thought away as best she could, a lump of dread settling in her belly.
A biting chill came through the open door and she shivered violently, probably more in remembrance rather than from actual cold. The fire flickered, lashing back at the cold in angry reproach, and she huddled a little further under the blanket.
Machrus continued to stare, showing no indication that the cold troubled him in the least. “I would take this time to remind you that your shoes are buried out in that,” he stated blandly, nodding to the heaps of frothy white outside. “Do you see now the importance of remaining indoors?”
He brushed away enough of the snow so he could shut the door when she gave her nod of understanding. His display had not been entirely necessary, but it certainly was effective, and she felt a little foolish for not speaking more directly of what she had really wanted.
She did care for his grenpeets—she was surprised at how she worried for them. They were sweet little things when not actively trying to knock her over or taste her toes, an
d having now experienced what true cold felt like, she did not wish it on them.
But now was not the time for that, not when her foolishness had ruined her shoes and her body was still working to recover.
“Can you come sit with me?” she asked meekly. “I just don’t like being cooped up here alone.”
Machrus shook his head, sighing to himself, but it could not have been in refusal for he was already moving to join her. “You are hardly alone,” Machrus objected. “I have only been in the kitchen.” It really was rather ridiculous of her. The space between them had not been large, and he seemed far more relaxed when there were not piles of untidiness strewn throughout their home.
But it was yet another thing she could not help with, and she wondered how much longer he would enforce her bed rest.
He sat down beside her on the mattress, leaning against a heap of pillows, allowing her to come and settle next to him without any form of objection—not even one of his quiet huffs that suggested he merely endured something for her sake. “Better?” he asked, the bond making it clear that he already knew the answer. He dared to feel so satisfied that it nearly bordered on smug. If she didn’t feel so content curled up next to him, she would have given a huff of her own and pulled away in retaliation.
But she wasn’t as prideful as all that, so instead she nestled closer, his arm wrapping about her and holding her close. “Yes,” she replied, not because it needed saying, but simply because she felt free enough—safe enough—to admit it. She had come to recognise that such confessions did not lead to mockery as she once had feared, only a warm flush of affection through the bond as she acknowledged her want of him.
“Machrus,” she continued hesitantly. “He gave a pleased hum to indicate he was listening. “My... my back is doing much better, right? You said so this morning.”
“You are healing well,” he confirmed, his fingers driving over her arm absently. “Is that of some significance?” His eyes suddenly narrowed suspiciously. “You have not forgotten the snow outside, correct? We will not be venturing out, regardless of how your back fares.”
She smiled sheepishly and shook her head. She bit her lip, wondering if she could ever be so bold as to actually tell him what she wanted. He seemed to value directness, his own manner of speech proved that almost daily, but the thought of being so daring herself rebelled against her very nature.
She was not brave. Not courageous. She did what she was told and without complaint—or at least, with very little complaint. Sometimes she questioned if such passivity was a good thing. She admired daring in others, their self-assurances, their boldness, their willingness to say no when necessary. But she’d been given much time to think over these last days and concluded that compliance was not wholly bad. It could be, if she wasn’t careful, if she chose to place her trust in the wrong people. She had certainly done that with Maisie’s father.
But that part of her had also led her here.
And she could not regret that.
And yet... it was only from her braver moments that this arrangement had grown, had matured into something good, so she would have to fight for that balance. The bond could only get them so far, Edlyn had told her. The rest required directness and communication.
So despite her nervousness, her lingering fear that he might reject her, Renna scooted up so she could lean over him, pressing her lips firmly against his. He accepted her kisses, and reciprocated in turn, soft and drugging, coaxing and pleasant, one hand settling at the small of her back, the other resting against her neck. She felt small and safe pressed against him so, enveloped in his arms. He was strong, but gentle—always so gentle with her, and it made her crave more of him.
She pulled back only slightly, her eyes meeting his, fingers suddenly pushing her hair behind her ear as he smiled at her. Her heart fluttered, and she could not help but kiss him once more, only briefly, simply because she could. But she needed to speak, needed to tell him, and she was afraid to give him opportunity to talk first, for him to convince her that they should wait longer. “No more ‘laters’,” she murmured determinedly. “I’ve had quite enough of those.”
She felt a pang of worry that perhaps she’d been too forceful—that it was not merely for her own sake that he insisted upon a delay. He seemed to sense her concern as she braced herself for his dismissal, and she endured another of his careful perusals as he searched her eyes for... something.
But instead of the denial she feared, she received a warm smile, so soft and tender that she blinked, suddenly certain she had fallen asleep and merely imagined it. There was a strange note of pride echoing through the bond, but it lacked any conceit that might accompany self-accomplishment. Did that mean he was proud of her? She couldn’t imagine why.
And that was something she did not know how to ask.
He must have seen some of her confusion for he stroked her cheek, still smiling at her gently. “No more laters,” he agreed, his voice low, a hint of an unfamiliar rasp present. It sent a shiver through her. She was more pleased than she could say to have his agreement, but now she floundered, uncertain how to proceed. She wanted to kiss him again, wanted him to kiss her, wanted to know what it was to be desired by him, to be...
To be loved by him.
But he was still looking at her, still stroked her cheek, as if waiting for something.
“What?” she finally asked, forcing her voice to be soft even though impatience coiled in her belly. He smirked at her, the expression sending a funny sort of tingle through her, though it was tempered with her own frustration.
“I am merely thinking,” Machrus said finally, the hand at her waist gripping her more firmly. “I simply wanted to be certain that you understood my reasons for waiting. I would not have you proceed thinking it was a lack of desire for you. For... for this.”
He shifted her slightly so she lay more fully against him, and her cheeks turned crimson when she felt the hardness there. There was no mistaking that a part of him desired her greatly.
It was enough to keep her from groaning in annoyance that he wished to talk, but just barely. She did not want to talk. She wished for more of his kisses, to finally be allowed to peel off the layers of his clothing and inspect the markings on his skin that she found so curious. But he must find this important or else he would not have brought it up, so she forced herself to think, willed her heart to stop beating so hard, urging her toward...
She shook her head, trying to focus. “You.... wanted me to be the one to ask?” she guessed, feeling the need to at least try and give an answer. “And to... to mean it?”
Machrus hummed again, a little noncommittally. “I wanted you to feel safe,” he corrected. “I wanted you to know that... that we may proceed slowly. That I am not ruled by expectation. You know what it is for your wishes to be ignored, and worse, to be used against you. You do not have to fear that here. Not with me.”
She felt a lump in her throat as she stared down at him. How could she have ever thought this man unfeeling? He was gentle, and thoughtful, and kind and...
“And,” he continued leaning forward to place a kiss of his own. “I wanted you to accept that my feelings for you are true. Is that the case?” He waited patiently for her answer, and she swallowed thickly. How could she possibly doubt him when he looked at her like that? When his patience and care were absolute?
And so the words came unbidden, natural and right, no hint of panicked shame as they fell from her lips, no scramble to rescind them.
For they were true and honest.
“I love you, too.”
She did not expect him to surge up to meet her, his lips fervent as they moved against her own. The bond pulsed and confirmed, allowing no room to fret that she had been in error of his feelings.
He loved her.
Perhaps it was new, relatively untried and without the years to hone and test it into something that proved its endurance. But it was real and it was theirs, and for once her worries eased, too preoccupie
d with his lips and hands to question anything else.
She wasn’t frightened. Not of him and not of this. She felt brave and, she blushed to admit it, desired, and found there was nothing unpleasant about being so. There was no frenzied stripping of clothes, no fumbling rush to join.
Instead, Machrus eased back at her gentle urging, removed his tunic at her whispered entreaty, his eyes burning as they regarded her. She bit her lip, her hands moving of their own accord as she cautiously reached out and ran her fingers along the markings. They twined down his neck, over his arms, his sides, swirling like vines over hard muscle. They were slightly raised, and she found the delineation between textures to be fascinating.”You were born with these?” she asked, remembering how she’d first worried they had been applied and she would be expected to receive them as well.
“Yes,” Machrus confirmed, watching her carefully. “Do you... find them disagreeable?”
She blinked up at him, surprised. “No,” she asserted firmly, wondering how he could ask that when the bond was open. “When I first came I thought... well, I didn’t know if they were tattooed somehow, and I...” she smiled, feeling awkward. “I didn’t want them put on me. Only because I thought it would hurt!” she hastened to clarify. “Not because I think they’re ugly or anything.”
Quite the contrary now that she saw them as a whole. The way they followed the natural lines of his body, the way they accented and accentuated...
There was no denying that she had been given a beautiful husband. Though she knew better than to use that word, talk within the colony had made it very clear that men didn’t appreciate such a description.
So instead she tried to infuse her approval through the bond, a little shy when it was his turn to tug at her nightdress, asking for its removal.
She hesitated. He was... perfect. And she was... most certainly not. She wasn’t ashamed of her body, not exactly. It was useful and dextrous in the ways it needed to be, but it wasn’t... lovely.
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 33
