by Ann Aguirre
A sudden thought strikes me. “Do you know the date?”
Njål laughs. “I’m not even certain of the year.”
Though I’ve stopped paying attention to such things, I do know what day I left and how long I’ve been here. Quickly I count forward and tell him where we are on the calendar. There are only six weeks left in the year, and I make a mental note to do something special for the winter solstice. Back in town, they’ll do their best, but scant provisions will make it difficult. In my childhood, there was hot spiced cider and roasted chestnuts, sleigh rides, and skating on the frozen lake. Carolers would sing to usher in the deepest part of winter while also entreating the return of spring.
“I could tell by your clothes that things were very different in the world, but it’s been much longer than I realized,” he says softly.
“The writing in your journal . . . I can’t read it. But you speak as I do now.” I wonder if he can answer this much without a fearful reaction.
“Language evolves over time. I wasn’t alone at first, even after the curse.”
He seems calmer, his hand no longer shaking in mine. I don’t want to hurt him and it will make the situation immeasurably worse if I drive him back into that pit within his mind. If that happens, I suspect I won’t be safe either, but at least I know the danger now.
Even so, I must try to learn what I can, in ways that won’t harm him. My impetus remains the same. “What about the conditions for breaking the curse?”
“In the stories, it’s always so simple, isn’t it? Earn someone’s devotion. Receive true love’s kiss. Perform a noble deed.” His tone carries a mocking edge, caustic as he speaks in a way that makes me want to curl into myself to keep from being cut by his contempt.
I believe in love. I did while Owen was alive and I still do, though it seems that Njål doesn’t. Maybe he wouldn’t even credit my words if I told him that my sorrowful heart is healing because of him.
“Does that mean you don’t know how to earn your freedom?”
“Freedom is not something that should need to be earned,” he snaps, yanking his hand away.
And I have no response, because . . . he’s right. However he ended up like this, it’s wrong, a crime of the highest order. With no part of my heart do I imagine that he’s utterly wicked and deserves this fate. If he has done wrong, it wasn’t of his own free will. Whatever happened, it was so terrible that his mind snapped and it took ages to mend.
“I put that badly. I’m sorry.”
He sighs. “No need to apologize. I get so angry when I think of them. And I understand what you were asking and why. In truth, I had no power in this place. I was lucky to be fed or not to be beaten on any given day.”
While Njål might not realize it, that information helps me. That means the curse was born from his tormentors, somehow. “Do you remember what the keep was like before? Did you have the same sense of . . . sentience?” That might be the wrong word, but I think he’ll grasp what I mean.
He drums his claws against the table thoughtfully. “My memory is blurred from that time, but . . . I don’t think so. I feared the baron and baroness, not this place in particular.”
Yes. That’s valuable knowledge.
“Then the logical conclusion is that when you changed, Bitterburn did as well.”
I need to know what happened, but I can’t torture Njål with it. There are two potential options for me to explore: his journal and dream-walking. I can visit the library anytime, but I have no control over when I slip into the past, and if I manage to repeat that feat, I can’t choose where I appear. Unless I can learn to guide the ability in the witch book.
That seems unlikely though, as the charms I’ve encountered so far seem to be directed at household management. Still, it’s worth a look, I suppose. It’s a slim volume so it won’t take long for me to read it cover to cover.
“Yes,” he says slowly, as if he’s turning an idea over in his mind.
“What is it?”
“Let’s say you’re right about my fate being tied to Bitterburn. I was just wondering if I’d die if the keep was destroyed.”
Oh hell.
“Don’t think that way,” I beg.
“Death would be freedom,” he says gently.
“It’s just an ending. Don’t you want to live—”
“Can I, though? Even if you break the curse, there’s no guarantee I’ll survive. Fell magic forced me to exist this long, and let’s say you untangle it. I might crumble into dust.”
That . . . makes a terrible amount of sense. Fresh dejection surges through me and I slump across the worktable, propping on my elbows. Maybe I ought to stop poking at this. When I said I’ll set Njål free, I didn’t mean I would kill him.
End the cycle. Save the village, the awful, insidious voice whispers.
I tense, but before I can react otherwise, he steps up and wraps his arms around me from behind. His size swallows me, but I feel safe in his embrace. I straighten and lean against him; Njål takes my weight easily, holding me with such tenderness. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so precious.
“This time with you is a gift,” he whispers against my hair. “No matter how it ends, I will not regret a moment that we’ve spent together.”
On the surface, it’s a sweet thing to say, but a shiver still rolls through me. Because it’s like he knows that I will be the instrument of his demise, and he still cradles me like a priceless treasure. Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks as a sadness I can’t master overwhelms me. I should go. Before whatever tragedy he’s expecting comes to pass.
Slowly he nuzzles the top of my head and I lose the will to move, let alone leave. There’s no point in deceiving myself. Even if Bitterburn lets me, I won’t abandon him. He’s sunk the hook too deep. When I arrived, my heart was too damaged for him to take hold of it, so he’s latched on deeper and woven his lonely threads through the tapestry of my soul.
Belatedly I realize that I’ve only offered silence in response. “I wish you wouldn’t take such a tragic tone,” I say lightly. “Perhaps we’re meant to live out our days together.”
But to him, even that would be painful, as I can’t stay forever. My mortal lifetime precludes it. From his shuddering breath against my back, Njål knows it too but he allows me the illusion of a happy ending.
“I hope so.” He tightens his arms, loath to let me go.
“Me too.”
I snuggle against him, content to remain this way as long as he wants to. The reassuring thump of his heartbeat against my back fills me with peace, and the tension trickles out of me, leaving me boneless in his arms.
“It’s maddening how much you trust me,” he growls.
“Is it?”
“I want you so much that it’s all I can do not to drag you to bed. I remember the way you stroked me and . . .” Njål shifts, his hardness jutting against my back.
Heat scalds my cheeks, but it’s not all embarrassment. “I thought you were sated for the time being since you haven’t made any overtures.”
“I’m never satisfied. I ache for you constantly.” His hips move as he speaks, reinforcing my impression of his desire. Then he quiets himself with effort that renders his entire body rigid, muscles locked.
I recall the way he panted and came undone as I touched him, the salty smell of his juices on my fingers. It would be so easy to do that again, a quick and dirty stroke to offer him some relief, but I want more. He’s proven that he’ll wait for me. I’m ready to go a bit farther and learn a little more.
Making a swift decision, I say, “If I say that I want to do . . . other things but not that, yet, will you honor it?”
Njål’s voice deepens, sending an exciting shock through me when he speaks near my ear. “You want me to promise not to ravish you.”
“Yes. And I would like to . . . explore more of you, if you’re willing. I can wear a blindfold,” I add quickly, as he’s expressed a desire not to be seen.
A li
ttle shudder runs through him. “I’m willing. Let me wash and I’ll come to your room when I’m done. Wait for me?”
He’s gone before I can respond. I put my hands to my hot cheeks, wondering whether this is wise, but I have no intention of changing my mind. A bath sounds like a good idea because I don’t know what will happen between us precisely. Springing into motion, I haul some ice and snow, melt it into warm water, and scrub up quickly. There’s no time to wash my hair, but I damp it with herb-freshened water and then plait it like I’m going to bed. I have no mirror in my tiny room and it occurs to me that Njål might prefer my hair tumbling loose.
I don’t know how to get ready for such an assignation.
Eventually, I don my nightdress and unbraid my hair, fluffing it so it crackles with electricity. The last step is the blindfold I mentioned. I pull the sash from my good dress, fold it over, and wrap it around my eyes, tying it neatly behind my head. At last I fumble my way to bed and slide under the covers.
Now I’ve only to wait for the lover whose face I’ve never seen.
15.
I know Njål has come from the soft footfalls and the scent of lye soap and pine.
But he hesitates in the doorway. He’s never been this close to my private space before, and he seems unsure. So I invite him in. “Please, I want you here.”
For him, this little room will be all firelight, shifting and romantic. For me, it’s darkness, but I know where I am and who’s with me. I’m not afraid.
Tentatively he approaches the bed and I put out my hand. He takes it. “Are you sure? I don’t want to push you.”
“I was certain in the kitchen, and that hasn’t changed. I still want to kiss and touch you, all night if you’ll let me.”
The mattress sinks at his weight and the bedframe groans. I never considered this issue; I just want this to happen where I feel safe. Too late to suggest a change of venue. I expect we’ll be close enough tonight that the size of the bed won’t matter.
“I’ve never seen your hair down. It’s beautiful.”
Self-conscious, I touch the long, wild locks, but I believe him. “Thank you. I don’t often wear it this way.”
Njål draws in a deep breath, possibly incited by some aspect of my gesture. “Ah, what you do to me,” he growls.
I reach out and encounter bare flesh. For the first time, he’s dispensed with the cloak and he’s not wearing a shirt either. His skin feels unusual. Inhuman. Thicker and tougher, not as soft. I don’t find it off-putting; it’s just another facet of him. Njål trusted me to keep my promise about the blindfold, and somehow, not seeing what I’m touching makes this more exciting. I learn the shape of his muscles and find intriguing scars by skimming my hands over his chest, arms, and shoulders. The marks seem more precise than I expect, some lines angle in geometric shapes. He bears with this exploration with remarkable patience, only reacting with a sharp jerk when I delve lower, tracing over his abdomen.
“Does that feel good?” I ask.
While I suspect I know the answer, I need to hear it. Suddenly I’m starved for praise and I want all the pretty words about how I make him feel.
“It’s exquisite torture. I haven’t been touched in so long. See what you’ve done?”
He pulls my hand up and places it on his heart, so I can feel the wild, thundering rhythm. I listen with my fingertips for a few seconds, then I smooth my palm sideways, marveling at the breadth and strength of his chest. I find a tight nipple, and he moans when I swirl my fingertips in a circle. I get the same reaction when I tease the other one, and his unfettered response makes me so wet. The more I touch Njål, the softer and slicker I become, as if his pleasure is tied to mine. At the rate we’re going I might burst when he does without anyone touching me down there at all.
“More?”
“Whatever you wish,” he gasps. “I’ve boasted of my patience more than once, and I’m regretting it now.”
Slowly I lower my head and plant kisses along his collarbone, moving upward until I find the curve between his neck and shoulder, then I linger there with my mouth. His skin tastes clean; I can tell that he washed, and he trembles beneath me, his erection burning like a hot iron bar between us. I brush it now and then with my hip, and he reacts like I’m hurting him, pleasure gone through the looking glass.
I return to his nipples because they must be aching as mine are, to be touched and licked and sucked. When I do all those things, a growl escapes him, but his hands are gentle on the back of my head, stroking and caressing while I do my best to drive him wild.
Finally he pulls my mouth away with a gasped plea. “Please. Please let me.”
I know what he wants and I straighten enough to pull my nightgown over my head. There’s a certain decadence in knowing that I’m completely exposed while I can see nothing. I don’t know why that excites me, but it does.
“You’re beautiful. You are so beautiful.” Hotly admiring whispers, given to my skin as he nuzzles his face into my chest.
And then he does to me what I’ve done to him—lips and teeth and tongue, soft and sharp and hot, on my neck, my shoulders, and finally my breasts. When his teeth graze my budded nipple, I react with a demanding sound, one I didn’t even know I could make. Njål does it again and again, until my body throbs and I can’t stop those helpless noises. I’m wet, so very wet, and I’ve forgotten why I didn’t mean to bed him completely. Now I’m ready to climb on top of him. I don’t care about the east wing or why he doesn’t want me to see him. There’s only this insistent pleasure, stealing my sanity.
“You’re so excited,” he teases.
There’s no point in answering that. Anything other than the obvious “yes” would be a lie. I quiver when his touch glides downward. I imagine his hand there as I did the first time I rubbed myself and squeeze my thighs together in response to the powerful surge of excitement.
“Look at you, aching for more. Shall I go on?”
“Yes. Whatever you like. Please.”
I squeak when he moves me, and then my nerves catch fire. I think I’m perched on his chin and his mouth moves down there, licking me up and down like a delicious treat. This is beyond all decency and I’m torn between ecstasy and shame. Soon, the shame dies in a fiery conflagration as Njål tastes me and nuzzles into my softest parts, and I can’t keep still or quiet. I moan and squirm, until I realize the feelings are building like they did when I stroked myself, only a thousand times more powerful.
“That’s it, beauty. Show me how much you like it,” he whispers.
Utterly seduced, I relax and move with more purpose against his mouth, shifting my weight, learning when to lift and tilt, how to offer myself so he can reach where it feels best. The sounds, oh, the sounds—wet and decadent—he’s taking so much satisfaction in this. When I brace my hands on the wall, offering myself fully, Njål goes wild, licking and sipping, and then he focuses right there. I’ve never felt anything so good.
“Oh. Oh. Njål!”
My stomach tightens as I crest, rubbing wildly against his lips and tongue. When I go limp, he catches me, tucking me against his side. I nestle into his arms, wishing that I didn’t feel so . . . done. But I’m relaxed and sleepy now, bewildered by the shivers still spiraling through me.
“Did you enjoy that?” he asks in a sweet, husky tone.
“You know that I did.” I hide my face against his chest, not that he can see much of my expression beneath the blindfold. I hope.
“Have you ever done that before?”
Now I know how he felt when I was poking at the curse, because I don’t want to ruin this glow by thinking—or speaking—about Owen. Owen and his cold hands and the pennies on his eyes.
“I haven’t.” To forestall further questions, I add, “I’ve never done much other than kissing and cuddles.”
“Ah,” he says. If he’s curious about anything else, he holds it in.
“Give me a minute to recover and I—”
“No,” he cuts in. “I
don’t want this to be transactional. You trusted me enough to permit me into your bed. This is enough.”
“But . . .”
“In the strictest sense, this is equitable,” he tells me sternly. “You got nothing from our encounter in the kitchen, so I’m merely recompensing you.”
“You said not to make this transactional. And anyway, that’s not true.”
Njål makes a scoffing sound. “What could you possibly have gained from that?”
“I got to touch you.”
“Like that’s worth anything,” he mutters.
Right, enough of that. I lever up on my elbow and glare down into his face. Well, in that vicinity anyway, as I’m still wearing the makeshift blindfold. “It is to me. You are fucking priceless, do you understand?”
In a guttural, shaken tone, Njål whispers something in a language I don’t speak, but there’s absolute adoration in his tone. Then he crushes me to him without his usual care. He’s not hurting me, but I feel the fear and urgency in his hold.
“Please stop saying these things. How am I supposed to live without you now?”
The assurances tremble on the tip of my tongue—that I won’t leave, that he won’t have to—but I understand how irresponsible it is to make promises that I’m not sure I can keep. Even if things don’t go dreadfully wrong, I will die someday. I can’t stay with him forever because I’m not cursed, and Bitterburn won’t keep me alive indefinitely. He’s so scared of losing me that he’s not hard anymore, so I hold him until the shaking subsides, stroking his back in gentle sweeps.
“Stay with me,” I whisper. “It will be a tight fit, but I don’t want you to go.”
“Are you sure? This is your safe place. I don’t—”
“I’m safe with you too,” I cut in.
“My precious Amarrah, I would fight an army to keep you so.” From his somber tone, he means it literally.
“Hopefully we’ll never be invaded. Does that mean you’ll stay?”
“I will. At least for a while. I am . . . a restless sleeper and if it becomes a problem, I’ll go before I trouble you.”
