Her stomach especially bore the reminders of Maisie’s growth. The marks had faded greatly—something she thought of with sadness when left on her own, though she knew the memories of her would never diminish. But for Machrus they would be the reminder that she had been with another man, had already given birth by another, with no guarantee that she could do the same for him.
“Renna,” Machrus soothed, shifting them slightly so they both lay on their sides. She felt more shielded there, less exposed, though already she was bracing herself to remove her nightdress, her fingers at the straps.
But he stilled them, his fingers enfolding hers as he leaned closer, smoothing kisses over her neck, the bits of shoulder he could find through the bandages, as effective a distraction as she could have imagined.
So it was not nearly so frightening when the strap slipped down her shoulder, when deft fingers smoothed it lower, releasing her arm as it draped over her stomach. She tensed, a little wary of what he would think as he tugged the nightdress even lower, down her hips, and finally, off completely. He had to sit up to accomplish it, his eyes trailing over her as he settled back down. They did not hold the disgust she feared, nor the hint of disappointment in her form. His hand rubbed softly over her stomach, the curve of her hip.
“You are so soft,” he murmured reverently. She winced. She was not as firm as she had been, though days of heavy labour had forced her to regain some of her strength. But there was not criticism in his voice, and as she searched his eyes, there was none to be found there either.
She smiled, a little hesitantly, and he kissed her again, drawing her close, her breath choked as she felt the feel of him against her for the first time. He wasn’t wholly naked, not yet, but this alone—her bandages the only barrier as he pressed her against him, hard lines meeting soft curves—was already marvellous. She could grow lost in his kisses, she decided. Thought seemed very far away, doubt and worry a dim reality of another time. His leg found its way between hers, and she shifted, startled but... curious.
He did nothing more, did not rut or growl or any of the things she might have expected. But then, her husband was remarkably careful of her, gentle and thoughtful in his attention to her, and she found herself relaxing into him, though there was a clutching low in her belly, an awareness that she had rarely experienced.
Machrus’s hands roamed freely, her bandages preventing most attentions to her breasts, but his fingers delved and found, fabric slipping just so as he sought to view them as best he could. She did not need the bond to recognise the desire in his eyes, the way he stared, his thumb coming to brush lightly across her nipple.
She bit her lip at the sensation.
Those had served a purpose once. They had fed her little girl, nourished her in ways that nothing else in the Wastes possibly could have done. But even that had failed, when she’d grown too weak to suckle. She remembered well the agony as her milk dried up, no more Maisie to need her.
But now...
She had never considered that they could be a source of pleasure.
That she could feel a moment’s pride at the way Machrus looked at her.
She allowed her hand to raise, to softly graze the markings at his temple, to feel the texture of his reddish hair. It felt much like her own, the strands perhaps a little thicker, but not unlike others she had felt within the colony. He turned his head, kissing her palm, smiling at her with such warmth that it made her heart ache to see it.
His thumb brushed the corner of her eye, his head cocking to the side. “Why are you crying?” he asked gently. Was she? She wasn’t sad. Quite the contrary. And he must have known, the bond assuring him that she was well, despite her foolish display.
“I’m happy,” she told him, told herself, told her memories. “I... I didn’t think this was for me. Feeling this way. Being... being with a man.” She tucked her head beneath his chin, huddling close and relishing the feel of him, the way his arms enclosed about her, hiding her away from the world. “But I’m glad to be wrong.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I am most grateful that you have such a forgiving nature,” he whispered sincerely, his breath warm as it tickled at her hair. “That you should consent to be mine, even after I have treated you so atrociously.”
The bond flickered with pain and regret, and she did not want that between them. Not now. They were building something, something right and good that did not need past regrets casting shadows where they weren’t wanted.
So gathering her bravery, her too-small teases, she tilted her head just enough so that she could distract him from the morose turn of his thoughts. “None of that now,” she reproached. She was glad he was sorry—she could not admire him as she did if remorse was absent from his character. But she did not want to dwell there either.
So her fingers drifted lower, a bit shy, but also very curious, and found the laces of what little of his clothing remained. “You have more clothes than me,” she chided softly, trying her best to smirk, though she was certain her blush ruined the effect.
Machrus did not seem to mind, his attention returning quickly to the willing wife in his arms, his hand reaching down to run lightly down her side. She tried not to squirm though it was almost light enough to tickle. But what movements she did make reminded her that his leg was still nestled between hers, a reminder of what else could be there.
It did not fill her with fear as it might have once. She was nervous, but her trepidation was accompanied by a flutter of excitement, a surety that this was wanted. There was no place here for her previous experience, nor for her worries that pain would only follow its completion. Machrus was her husband, sworn and true, and this...
This was right.
She peeped as he shimmied from the rest of his garments, the markings twisting across his legs most becomingly, even going so far as to reach the ends of his toes. And because her curiosity overwhelmed her last remnants of modesty, she found herself looking at his nethers, only to find that the markings twined there as well.
But before she could grow nervous, could spend too long inspecting that part of his anatomy, Machrus situating himself beside her once more, his body long against hers as he tucked her close, kissing her as they indulged the feel of naked skin against skin.
Until somehow she was the one coaxing him to her, pulling him closer, needing him.
And he acquiesced with a groan, a rumble coming from his throat as he joined them, clutching her to his chest as he simply held her there.
She had never felt anything like it. Never.
She might have cried again, she could not be certain. But she felt his love for her, the pleasure he felt as her body surrounded his, multiplied by the feel of his larger frame dwarfing her own. This was where she was meant to be. Not as a scavenger in the Wastes. Not even with the other colonists.
Here.
With a man who loved her, who whispered his reverence in her ear as he moved, gently, carefully, until her leg wrapped about him and pulled him closer, urging him nearer. Each move was methodical, carefully chosen, heightening her awareness of him. It was as if he felt the need to show her that this was different in every way—that he was controlled and thoughtful, even in this. Especially in this.
And it made her love him more for it.
And it made it all the sweeter when he faltered a little as her muscles clenched in delicious tension, when he tucked his head so closely to hers, when his lips caught hers as he swallowed her own muffled whimper as her body reacted so sweetly to his ministrations.
She loved the juxtaposition between the taut lines of muscles and the tender presses of his lips against her skin. She loved the way she felt free to smooth her fingers across the whirls and lines on his skin, how each of her touches made him sigh ever so softly.
Until finally his body surrendered just as hers had done, a tightening before a release, a kiss upon her cheek, her hand clutched tightly in his.
This was love, she decided. It was tenderness and strength. Compromise and care. The willingness to try.
“I love you,” Machrus whispered in her ear. So wholly unnecessary after what he had just given her, yet so incredibly welcome.
“You’re my husband now,” she pronounced, feeling strangely possessive of him. He had been another’s once, but now he was hers. And she would keep him, love him.
Grow old with him.
“Foolish girl,” he grumbled, holding her even closer. “Always.”
23. Kin
Renna could not seem to stop touching him. She reminded herself firmly that clinginess was not an attractive quality, but still she found herself seated close, her hand twining with his, found that she could not stop impulsively kissing his cheek. And he would sigh and shake his head, and she knew that without the bond she would see it as disapproval, her desire to touch and to be touched shrivelling in uncertainty. But with its aid she could feel his good humour, his playfulness at maintaining the charade of the long-suffering husband.
Was it necessary to maintain the practice? She was not well trained in the arts of diplomacy, but she realised that such an ability allowed the Marzon to maintain a formality and coolness in their conduct with outsiders, while infusing their personal bonds with all warmth and affection, regardless of the circumstance. A clever tool, that, if indeed that was their way.
And perhaps she did not mind it so very much. Not when she had come to see such reactions as an extension of his nature, and she thought she might miss it if suddenly his manner altered so completely.
So she ignored his huffs with smiles of her own, and even dared a few eye rolls when she was certain he wasn’t looking.
When it had come time to rise from their warm nest beside the fire, Machrus helped her wash, claiming it a husband's right, and she was wrong to try to deny him.
“You bathe children, not wives,” she protested firmly. She cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly. “Are you saying that’s how you see me?” She knew it wasn’t, but she hoped to gain some ground in the argument—or perhaps just a little bit of privacy—but Machrus could not be swayed.
Perhaps if it was possible for him to fit inside the bath with her, she might have felt differently. But it had been built only for one, though it had obviously been designed for his much larger frame. She always felt dwarfed by it, like she sat in a giant cook pot, a monster from one of the children’s tales awaiting their evening meal.
Not to mention the sheer wastefulness of the entire process. It had seemed so strange to her when first she had come here, the act of submerging oneself in precious water, and with apparent regularity. They had tried to keep clean in the Wastes, disease spread quickly otherwise, but there was a difference between a small pot of simmered water used to scrub down with a cloth and this utter indulgence.
But upon her first arrival, Machrus had insisted that proper bathing was an area she would embrace, and she could not deny that she had come to enjoy the entire process—even if she could not bring herself to fill the entire basin at one time. It was easier to justify with laundering, when the lavatory was transformed into a washroom, large mechanical devices for sudsing, scrubbing, and wringing making the process remarkably efficient. They had frightened her at first, looking dangerous even as they sat immobile, but it had meant being able to launder her own clothes so she had swallowed her trepidation and allowed him to teach her.
Yet now Machrus did not want the basin filled for any washing but for her, and he would not be dissuaded. “With children it is a chore,” he insisted. “With a wife, it is a privilege.” And noting her dubious look, he gave up on words and explanations, giving another of his sighs before lifting her into the warmed water—she still did not know how it managed to be heated—and waiting less than patiently for her to settle.
And just to tease him in return, she took an extra long time situating herself just so, though her game was a little spoilt when his hands reached out abruptly, stopping her when her bandages came too near the surface of the water.
Perhaps he was not acting solely as her husband, she decided grimly, but was also intent on being her healer as well.
The reminder was enough to quell her rising effrontery, and she sat meekly as she waited for him to bathe her. She had feared it would be awkward, him sitting beside her, smoothing a cloth over her arms, her torso, down her legs and—her cheeks flamed hotly—even dipping between them.
She wondered why this felt so acceptable, why having her equally bare husband touch her so brought only a pleased sort of pride and not the embarrassment she would have expected. He was enjoying this, the act of washing her, of caring for her, and as she sank more deeply into the water—what he would allow given her wounds—she found herself humming contentedly.
Perhaps it was not the water that was the indulgence. Perhaps it was the husband who wanted to pamper her with it, instead.
“You are quite lovely,” Machrus complimented, rescuing the tips of her hair by pulling the thick length of it over her shoulder.
She did not know why he said that, and she was unused to his praises. He must have seen her discomfort for he gave a sad shake of his head. “I have done you a disservice, not telling you so sooner,” he intoned unhappily. “Another regret I must carry.”
She opened one eye, not liking the change in his voice. Her earlier contentment receded, for how could she rest when his mood had shifted from pleasantly attentive to morose? She reached out and stilled his hand, hugging it to her as best she could, careful to keep it from touching the linen of her bandages. She wouldn’t have him fussing about that right now. “I don’t like seeing you sad,” she reminded him, her voice soft. She reached out and brushed his cheek, still finding it incredible how different things now were between them. “I forgave you, remember?”
He nuzzled into her hand, her heart beating faster at the action. “Yes. It is not something I am likely to forget. My gracious wife,” he murmured, kissing her hand.
She smiled, loving him a little more. She did not know what to do for him, what to suggest to unburden him of his guilt. Time would help, she was certain. Wounds needed time to close, for the pain to slip into memory, but she did so wish to help him. “I’d offer you another cleansing,” she proposed sheepishly. “But this is the only water I wish to be in for quite some time.”
Machrus sat up straighter, his expression turning stern. “Always accompanied,” he instructed, his tone brokering no refusal. “Are we in agreement?”
That was not a promise that required coaxing on his part. “You’ll have no argument from me,” she soothed, patting his arm, her thoughts drifting to ponder if it would indeed be possible for him to join her in this bath. It seemed like it would serve as ample distraction from the sudden turn in the conversation, but she still questioned the logistics. And he would likely deny her anyway, citing her bandages as reason enough for caution.
So instead she leaned forward, not caring that her hair fell back into the water, only wanting to smooth away the worried lines that formed about his eyes, needing to see him smile again.
She kissed him, softly, sweetly, until his hand settled against the back of her hair, drawing her close and deepening the exchange. She didn’t care that when she wrapped her arms about him she dripped water all over his exposed flesh, did not care that her movement caused the water to slosh dangerously over the side, dousing him slightly in the process.
“You are making a mess, wife,” Machrus reproached, the bond not matching the disapproval in his tone.
“You should be clean too,” she countered, wondering at her own boldness as she rubbed a damp hand down the lines of his chest. “Why should you be the only one allowed to do the touching?”
She had known that words could affect emotion. Hurt was easily given, anger was kindled quickly by a sharp word or ill-advised tone.
But watching Machrus’s eyes glow when she teased, when she suggested, was not something she had ever envisioned
. It made her feel strangely powerful to be able to influence him so, to undermine his cool manner, his desire overwhelming such pretence.
He appeared ready to pluck her from the wash basin, ready to take her back to their bed, regardless of how wet she currently was and what it would do to their blankets.
And with him looking at her that way, she was not certain she wished to give any objection.
A strange sound in the main room gave her pause. It was a scraping, followed by a clatter, and the oddity was enough to cool her ardour considerably. “What was that?” she asked Machrus worriedly, noting the way he closed his eyes and hung his head, his breath carefully controlled. Irritation flooded him, hot and startling, and she leaned back in the water, suddenly nervous. “Machrus?”
“That,” Machrus answered, his voice tight, “would be my family attempting to be helpful.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, paling as his meaning settled over her. Her hands fought to cover herself, ridiculous as that might have been as they were not actually in the room, but she suddenly felt her nakedness acutely, mortification overpowering the last of her desire.
Machrus looked at her sadly. “Please do not feel that way,” he entreated, brushing his fingers along her shoulder. “You have done no wrong.”
She knew that. Or... would try to believe it, in any case. They were married, they loved one another, and this... this was good.
Machrus rose with a sigh, taking another small cloth and wetting it before he quickly cleaned himself as well. She looked away as he did so, very aware that only moment’s ago she would have relished watching the entire process.
He dried himself and then helped her stand and exit the basin, drying her swiftly yet thoroughly.
“I shall have words with them for this,” he grumbled.
Renna looked at him curiously as he knelt, paying careful attention to the back of her knees. “Why? You said they’re helping. Or... think they are.”
Trade (Deridia Book 2) Page 34
