by Ann Aguirre
Though I’m cold and starved, fear takes the upper hand. What if something happened while I was away? Maybe the curse ended because I left and he died; perhaps it qualified as abandonment—how should I know how ancient curses work?—and now I’ll only ever find a pile of dust with no answers as to what I was supposed to do instead. Shouting his name, I stumble from one end of the keep to the other, running from library to gallery to great hall, all the state rooms, until my vision blurs.
I must check the east wing. It’s the only place left to look.
But just as I reach the heavy, imposing doors, Njål staggers out. From the smell of him, he started drinking when I left and hasn’t stopped since. He peers at me with bleary eyes, his expression fluttering between despair and hope. He drops to his knees, drunk as hell, and somehow charming for it, though I shouldn’t find his despair so endearing. I should regret causing it, and to some degree I do, but it’s also lovely to be this vital. Oh gods, but I adore him.
Breathing fast, he stares as if I might be a chimera conjured by his deepest longings. “Are you real, Amarrah? Once you got free of this place, I thought I’d never see more of you than that blasted note.”
“I didn’t leave you,” I say softly. “I just went to tend my sister. I promised I would come back.”
“People promise all sorts of things and they mean it at the time. But as the world turns, those feelings change.”
“Mine won’t. This is still where I choose to be.”
Njål seems a bit wild in this state, nearly feral, and I close the distance between us by increments, until I can touch him carefully. He pulls me to him, and he needs a bath. It seems he’s only occupied himself with drinking, those strong spirits and fancy wines he eschewed before. I can tell that he hasn’t been eating either. He’s gaunt in a way he wasn’t prior to my nocturnal flight. It’s true then—hunger can only give him pain, not end his life.
“I don’t understand why,” he whispers.
“Because you’re here.”
Njål enfolds me in his arms, and I feel him shaking, not because I’m so cold, but because he’s so glad.
After a moment, he seems to gather himself, gaining the presence of mind to ask, “Is your sister better?”
“She was when I left.”
He touches me with less fervor, more concern, cupping my face in his hands. “You’re freezing. Let’s get to the kitchen. I’ll build the fire.”
“Is there anything to eat?” My stomach rumbles to punctuate the inquiry.
His gaze slides away from mine. “I haven’t bothered, I’m sorry.”
“I can.” A wave of sudden dizziness strikes me as I try to stand, and Njål catches me.
The world swims, and I lose touch . . . with everything. Instead of being merely cold, I’m on fire and frozen at the same time; I see flashes of Njål’s face furrowed in fear, and firelight, no, candles, a cool cloth, then . . . nothing.
My body aches when I come to myself again. I’m in bed, tucked up beneath a mountain of blankets. Njål is sprawled across the foot of my bed like a great mastiff, head pillowed on his arms.
With hammers striking anvils in my head, it seems clear that I’ve been ill, but I’ve no idea for how long. As I stir, Njål jolts awake.
“You’re back?” he asks in a hoarse voice, as if he’s scarcely had a sip of water since I fell over.
“How long was I out?”
“Nearly a week. You took your sister’s fever. I’ve done what I could, but I’m not much of a cook and we have no medicine.”
Now I see dishes piled around my bed, discarded compresses, basins of cloudy water. Yet he kept me alive despite lack of experience and little knowledge or supplies. I reach for his hand and curl ours together, avoiding his claws.
“You must be tired.”
“Not as much as I was worried. And I’m grateful that you lived. Thank you, Amarrah.”
I smile slightly, half-closing my eyes as he smooths my lank hair. “Nobody’s ever thanked me for surviving before.”
“They should’ve thrown you a party every year.”
“For continuing to exist?”
He whispers something in that language I don’t understand and cradles me in his arms for long, luxurious moments. Then Njål sets me aside with a gentle push toward the pillows. “Rest more. I’ll tidy up your room, now that the fever’s finally broken.”
It takes another full week for me to recover enough to resume my routine—tending to the little garden that’s now producing vegetables, cleaning the rooms that we use, and spending time in the library, perusing the books. There’s also Bart and Agatha, who also seems to be on an accelerated schedule. That, or she was pregnant when she arrived. Either way, she’s about to drop a kid.
Winter has a chokehold on the town below, but it’s less brutal here at the keep. My wards are strong, deterring even ferocious weather, as it’s a force that can inflict harm.
With fresh vegetables, I vary our meals a bit, and I try not to think about what my family is eating. Da tried to sell me for twenty pounds of flour.
“What has you so sorrowful?” Njål asks.
We’re in the library, reading together, one of my favorite pastimes. He likes me to read aloud, and I enjoy hearing his voice as well, so we take turns, finishing The Night Watchman and The Knight’s Mistress that way, and now we’ve started on another novel.
I haven’t told him what happened, and I wasn’t planning to because it’ll upset him when he can’t do anything about it. But trust has to start somewhere. If I want him to believe in me enough to show me whatever’s in the east wing, I should prove I’m worthy of it by putting my faith in him first. I tell him everything, and when I finish, he rises with a roar, slamming a powerful palm into a nearby shelf so hard that it shudders.
For a moment I think we’re about to be buried by a ton of valuable books.
“You will never return there. Not ever. They tried to sell you!”
“I’d already decided that, yes. But I’m glad you’re so angry on my behalf. It’s incredibly heartwarming.”
“I would like to tear your father’s heart out and step on it. He had a perfect rose growing in his garden, and he cut it down with his own hands.”
My heart flutters. I set my book down and curl into his lap, wrapping an arm around his neck. At first, he found such intimacy awkward, but now he settles me close with an eagerness I find irresistible.
I find Njål irresistible.
26.
To be fair, I don’t even try.
There’s no reason to deny myself when I want him this much and I’m finally recovered. But as I tug at his shirt, he clasps my hands, stilling them suddenly. His heart races beneath my palms, but I hope he’s not afraid of me? Njål must know that if he’s not in the mood for bedsport, that I won’t press the matter.
Eyes wide, I stare at him, startled because he’s never reacted that way to my touch before. “Is something wrong?”
“You need to rest more and shouldn’t exert yourself so soon after your illness,” he says gently.
That doesn’t ring true, and when he averts his gaze, I’m positive he’s lying.
I relax, as if I intend to comply with his edict. The moment he lets go, I pounce, pulling his shirt open at the laces; that move reveals deep gouges in his flesh, barely scabbed and with evidence that they’ve recently been oozing. He tries to push me away but he won’t use brute force, and I discover wounds on his arms as well—and at such an angle that it seems impossible that they were self-inflicted.
“You’ve been fighting.” Njål says nothing as I slide off his lap and take a step back. “But you can’t leave and we’re the only ones here. Aren’t we?”
Clearly, one of those things is not true. As I reconsider our interactions, I’m sure he said he’s been tortured by being trapped here, and he’s mentioned the unbearable solitude, but I don’t know if he ever expressly said he’s the only one here. There could be other prisoners he avoids
. He ordered me to stay out of the east wing, but . . . what if it’s not a secret so much as it is for my own protection?
Still, he’s silent.
“Or do you claim that Bart inflicted that much damage?” It’s a test.
I know damn well those injuries didn’t come from goat horns, and if he lies to me about this, after trying to keep me from uncovering his wounds, I won’t be able to trust anything he’s said so far. And that . . . that would be heartbreaking, because as of now, he’s the only person in the world that I did believe in.
Slowly, he shakes his head. “There’s a reason I told you to keep out of the east wing. I stay away as much as I can, but sometimes the call is overwhelming, and I lose myself. It’s worse when I’m drinking, as I did when you went away.”
“I don’t understand! Can’t you just tell me?”
“No. I wish I could, but it’s impossible.” Such a despondent tone—I’ve never seen him look this hopeless, eyes downcast and shoulders bent. His posture speaks of abject defeat. He wants to spill everything, but he can’t.
Perhaps he means it literally. In the old stories, people could be compelled to silence, not to speak of certain things. Could this be part of his curse? On impulse, I close my eyes and switch to spirit sight, checking Njål over as I did Tillie. And I find grim and terrible threads, woven through him like the careless stitches they make in a dead man’s wounds, only caring about making him presentable for burial. But that’s not all. There are multiple tethers, showing me all too clearly how bound he is to this place. Considering all the binding threads, it’s a miracle he can even make it to the portcullis. Between these threads and the barrier, no wonder he can’t pass through. And he’s been cursed for so long that it’s become part of him in a way that the tendrils weren’t for Tillie.
It would take me days to unravel this, even assuming I could survive the ordeal. I don’t know if Njål could either, for Bitterburn does seem to be sustaining his life, and separating them would free Njål, but he’d also die in the process. Because his natural body is unfathomably old. The minute the magic stops preserving his life, I suspect he’ll return to the dust he would already be, if not for the curse.
What am I to do?
With an aching heart, I take his hand. His head comes up in surprise, and he regards me warily. I think he imagines that this is where I draw the line and decide he’s not worth the effort. Has anybody ever fought for him? Fought hard?
“Amarrah?”
“Let’s tend your wounds. You needn’t suffer alone anymore. I’m with you.”
He seems bewildered as I tow him to the kitchen, where I boil some water and wash all the rents in his chest and forearms. I watch the softening of his expression as I tend to him, the light of hope returning. Actions speak so much more than words or promises. This, he understands. I’m not giving up on him, and I never will. I cut up one of the smocks he brought me and use the linen strips as bandages. There’s no medicine, as he said, only soap and water, but surely this is better than nothing.
“You’re not angry?” he asks, once I’ve finished.
“Why would I be? You said you can’t tell me. That’s not a lie. I confirmed the bindings on you through my own abilities. Those tethers are ancient, and you can’t break free simply because you want to.”
He lets out a long breath. “I have tried.”
“I know.”
Now I do. I’m not just taking his word for it. I’ve confirmed that there are multiple restrictions on his freedom. My poor, precious Njål.
Before he can don his shirt, I rise on tiptoe and pull him down for a kiss. This time, he doesn’t argue that I need to recover more. Njål kisses me back, his lips soft and rough at the same time. I part for his tongue, because we’re so far past innocent pecks. Between us it’s all desperate desire, endlessly yearning for deeper and more.
I can’t get enough of him.
“We can stop if you wish.” He breathes the words into the side of my neck.
“I’d rather finish, more satisfying that way. But only if you’re up to it,” I tease.
“I’ll find the energy somehow.”
Njål sweeps me into his arms and carries me into my little room. The fire is already lit here, making it the natural place for us to continue. I pull off my own clothes, and he removes his, each of us making a silent statement about our choices. Before coming to Bitterburn, I rarely thought of my own body, but I hope he finds me pleasing.
“Just look at you,” he says.
I’m too busy looking at him to feel shy. At his cock in particular, immense and stiff already as he prowls toward me, covered only by the bandages here and there. It’s a bit difficult for me to believe that’s been stuffed inside me or that I rubbed him in the kitchen until he spilled in my hands. Right now, Njål seems more like a force of nature than a flesh and blood being.
“Is it always hard?” I ask.
He follows my gaze downward. “I collect you mean this . . .” He gestures at his shaft. “And not life in general.”
“Yes.”
“No, not always, beauty. It hadn’t been for ages, and it took some time for me to remember what desire was, even after you arrived.”
“When did you first want me?”
He pauses. “When you said you like it here. I didn’t understand, because there was nothing anyone would want, and you said—”
“You’re here,” I finish.
“Those words awakened me, reminded me how yearning felt. I started craving you then, and it soon became a physical need.”
“I can see that. Come, let’s assuage the ache.”
Njål groans, closing the distance between us in three strides. We tumble to the narrow bed together and he pulls me onto his broad chest, careless with his own wounds. I try to ease back.
“You’ll hurt yourself!”
“It’s a pain I’ll bear gladly. I’d happily die with you on top of me.”
Despite myself I laugh. “Just imagine how regrettable it would be for me, though.”
“True. Kiss me like you love me, Amarrah.” A soft entreaty, one I’m helpless to resist.
Maybe I ought to say the words instead of speaking with my lips. I cup his face in my hands, stroking his cheeks as I touch our mouths together, light and teasing. I deepen the kiss with exquisite care, never rushing, never demanding, until he’s breathing fast, and I drink down those gasps, soft strokes with my tongue. We kiss for ages, until my mouth is swollen and I feel his cock pulsing under me. He rolls his hips until I settle exactly where I ought to be, giving us both incredible pleasure with each thrust and slide.
Njål cups my breasts, watching my face intently, and he reads my expressions like one of his treasured books, adjusting pressure according to my response. My nipples are tight, and I want him so much that I can’t think of anything else. Soon, I’m moaning, squirming around on him, and I’m so slick that it’s a little embarrassing.
“Put it in me,” I whisper.
“Say it specifically. Ask for what you want.”
I know the words; they were written as captions in the naughty book Owen and I got from the peddler. It gives me a thrill to utter them for Njål’s pleasure. “Your cock. Please fuck me now.”
A shudder shakes through him and then he lifts me. I help him, holding his shaft with one hand, and he teases us both by sliding around, rubbing himself against my most sensitive spot, until I could finish just from that. I can’t keep quiet, making helpless sounds that mingle with my panting breaths. Gods, this feels good.
Slowly, with exquisite patience, he works his cock into me and I bear down. My whole body feels flushed, practically glowing with pleasure. Njål grips my hips, lightly pricking with his claws, but even that feels exciting, a hint of danger to augment the shockingly delicious sensations. I feel him throbbing inside me though he hasn’t moved. There’s no sting this time, just heat and fullness.
“How is it?” he asks through clenched teeth.
; “Beautiful.”
That word acts as a lever; he lunges upward with his whole body, until he’s holding me in his arms, enveloping me completely. He’s still inside me, but from this angle, I can wrap my legs around behind him and now we’re completely entwined. It means I can’t ride him precisely, but we move together, push and pull, and it’s a slow, sweet fucking as we hold each other.
“Does it feel good this way?”
I can’t speak anymore. There’s too much brightness in my body, so I nod and gaze into his eyes, falling into him deeper, until I lose all sense of separation. When I close my eyes, I sense his mounting pleasure, waves of it, and his movements become quick and jerky. He kisses me as I lose control, taking all my gasps and groans. With my core still pulsing around him, he finally lets go, filling me with heat.
Afterward, I kiss his chin, still completely entwined. “You seem pleased.”
Tremors still wrack him as he settles us both under the covers. I’m too relaxed to care about washing up just now. I’ll do that in a bit.
“I’m sleepy,” he admits. “The damnable calling is painful, and I don’t get much rest without you.”
I wish I understood what he’s talking about. “It’s easier to ignore when I’m here?”
“Most definitely. It was much better when you laid the wards, but after you left . . .”
“Perhaps my proximity strengthens them?” I suggest.
“Possibly. I know little of such matters, other than what’s been done to me.”
Though I don’t say so, I haven’t given up on the idea of saving him. There must be a way; I’m just too green to untangle the complex skein of ancient magic. But if the curse was born here, it can die here as well.
Without taking Njål with it.
27.
In the morning, when I check on Agatha, I find her in distress.
It’s too soon, but with my help, she gives birth to a tiny, malformed kid that can’t survive more than a few minutes on its own. She bleats and cries when I take it away and bury the wee body in the kitchen garden, the only place where the soil is soft enough for me to dig the hole. This feels like a bad omen, a blight on my chances of saving Njål.
