by Ann Aguirre
While I’ve been absently poking at the fire, Njål has tended the animals, feeding them and setting out water. Quickly, I fetch the cookware and ingredients to prepare our supper. At night, it’s a touch chilly, and I wrap up in my gray cloak as I stir the bubbling soup, acutely aware that I’m a witch tending a pot beneath the open sky. I laugh softly.
Was the world always so beautiful? Above, the stars spread out like crushed ice, thickly dusting the deep blue of the horizon. The moon is a coy, yellow crescent, hiding the rest of its curve from my admiring gaze.
“The soup is delicious,” Njål says as we eat. “But I miss your fry bread.”
“Thought you must be tired of it by now. I can make some in the morning if you like.”
“Just as I’m patient, I’m also loyal. I love what I love forever.” Setting his empty bowl aside, he takes my hands. “May I tell you now?”
I remember how I stopped him from saying it before. “I wish you would. I haven’t mentioned it since then, and you haven’t either.”
“I tried to show you because actions speak louder than words. But words matter too. I love you, Amarrah. Always and forever, you hold my heart in your pretty, precious hands.”
My hands are rough as rawhide, scarred from years of work and callused on the palms. But the way he studies them, you’d think they were exquisite, the delicate fingers of a princess. I suppose love makes us beautiful to those who cherish us. He slips a ring onto my finger; it’s carved from wood, a treasure he must’ve been working on secretly as winter faded into spring, long before we left the citadel. I wonder if this is what made him act skittish and secretive, not the silent fears I imagined.
“Am I truly enough for you?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve lived for so long, seen so much, and I—”
“I existed,” he corrects. “I didn’t start living until I met you.”
With my heart overflowing, I whisper my love against his lips, and he takes my mouth in a ferocious kiss, all delving tongue and absolute desire. I can’t stop touching him—his wild hair, his strong back and broad shoulders, the silver hoop that ties past to present and lets him move freely, a prisoner no more. When I dig my fingers in, Njål groans and arches into me, burying his face in the curve between my neck and shoulder.
“I fear I’m about to scandalize our travel companions,” he whispers.
“Hm. I’m willing to risk it.”
Since I’ve granted permission, he tumbles me back, using my cloak as additional cushion on top of the soft grass. Starlight, moonlight, and his mouth, I tip my head back at the stars as he works utter magic on my throat, my breasts, my nipples, his strong hands working lower. It seems that only my pleasure matters, and I squirm, breathless.
“Take your dress off, beloved.”
Shameless witch that I am, I do, and then I lie back. There’s no muffling my moans and no need to either. When we’re not traveling, I want his mouth down there and I want to do it to him too, but not until we take a proper bath. Still, this feels amazing, and—oh. He kisses the tip of my breast, sips and nuzzles, and teeth, oh, the teeth.
I’m tingling all over, so wet that I’m tempted to rub myself to verify how this is possible. Panting, he eases over me, braced on his arms.
“Tell me I can have you now,” Njål growls.
“Now and forever.”
He thrusts deep, and we moan in unison. I wrap my legs around his hips, loving the hot glide of him taking me hard and fast. I run my hands over the strange lines of his beautiful-to-me face, over his wide chest and straining arms. At my touch he trembles. I trace the sigils they left on him, caressing his marks because I love them as I do him.
He gasps, throwing his head back. “You feel incredible.”
“So do you.”
I pull his mouth to mine, kissing him hard and deep. His tongue teases mine, taking my mouth as he claims my body. With fraying control, he drives me wild until I’m sobbing with need, writhing beneath him.
“That’s it. Show me how you like it, beauty.”
At his inciting words, I reach between my thighs and rub that spot, working my own juices around, and I even caress his shaft as he slides in and out. Njål snarls in pleasure, his features ravaged with ferocious hunger, and moves faster, pumping with relentless demand.
“Ah. Just like that. Don’t stop. I’m going to—”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know if . . . should I not . . .” Njål can’t get his breath to finish the thought, shudders ravishing him as he moves over me, inside me. He can’t stop, not even to ask a presumably important question.
I’m getting close, so it takes me a few seconds to grasp what he’s trying to say. He’s finished inside me before, so he must be wondering if he can get me pregnant. Since he was changed and cursed, I’m not sure either. He rolls his hips, hitting a spot that makes me scream. How am I supposed to make logical decisions right now? I want, I just want—
“Yes! Keep going. Talk later.”
Pleasure mounts, tightening my body, and I clench on his cock, coming so hard I see stars. There’s a million overhead and those sparking behind my eyes too. The pleasure is too much, overwhelming, and I reel from the wildness of it. As aftershocks quiver my thighs, Njål arches into me, filling me in long, luxurious spurts.
Harsh rasps of breath escape him as he kisses my neck, then touches his forehead to mine. “You’re going to kill me,” he whispers.
I smile. “After all the trouble I went to saving you? I would never. That would be a criminal waste.”
“Every time, it’s a little better. How?” He shakes his head in mock amazement. “Mathematically speaking, it’s quite improbable.”
“It’s because I love you more, exponentially more with each passing moment. So much that there’s no one clever enough to factor the volume.”
“Call it infinite then?” His expression is so soft just before he kisses me.
For a while, we cuddle by the fire, but eventually, not even his body heat can keep me warm. “Shall we tidy up and retire for the night?”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”
Njål puts away the leftovers and washes the cookware while I do a quick lower-half wash. I save some warm water for him, then I don my dress amid chilly shivers. By the time he douses the fire and settles the animals for the night, I’ve got our bed laid in the wagon. He crawls in and maneuvers carefully because it’s a tight fit and he’s a large person. But horizontally, we nestle together beneath the blankets, a cozy space.
I settle into his arms, awash in utter bliss. “Our life will be marvelous, won’t it?”
Njål strokes my hair, sending a lovely thrill through me. His touch is infused with sensual reverence. “It already is. Before you came, I’d lost all hope. I had not even the slightest spark to keep me from despair. Nothing changed. I didn’t imagine it ever could.”
“And now?”
“I have a future, something I never dreamt possible. Because of you.”
I kiss him with all the sweetness in my soul, for I need to give him ten lifetimes worth of joy. Life isn’t always magical. Terrible things happen, and good people are tormented and cursed through no fault of their own, but sometimes, sometimes we make the right choices. Mine led me to Njål and profound happiness.
By surmounting our travails, we fight past the wall of thorns to the flower garden, a fairytale ending that we earned by our own efforts, not one granted by gods or fate.
For us, though, for us, this is the beginning, not the end.
Epilogue
Tales persist about Amarrah and Njål, legends of monsters vanquished and other curses broken. Some say that she was a sorceress, who sold small charms to earn their bread; others claim she was an eerily accurate fortune-teller. The pair lived simply, as wanderers on the road, though by all reports, they could have amassed power and wealth, positioned themselves as advisors to generals and kings. Multiple songs have been written abo
ut their exploits, and according to the Ballad of Bitterburn, they always kept a pair of goats in their retinue.
The accounts cannot agree whether she was dark or fair, but troubadours concur that she was exquisitely beautiful, like a perfect rose at the moment of its fullest bloom. Stories also state that Njål was always at her side, an immense man who oddly made few impressions on passersby. Onlookers noted his great protectiveness and intense devotion, but nothing of his physical appearance. Until the end of days, the two were inseparable and could be parted neither by calumny nor adversity.
Whatever is true of their fabled adventures, they certainly lived happily ever after.
Author’s Note
I’m so thrilled that you read Bitterburn and hope you’re eager for more in the Gothic Fairytales series. Bitterburn is the first book in a projected three-book series, as follows:
Bitterburn
Mirror, Mirror
Widow of Wildwood
This isn’t a series in the usual sense. Rather, the stories occur in the same pervasive world, linked by an object featured in the prior story. For example, in Mirror, Mirror, you find out what happens to that cursed looking glass.
Would you like to know when the next book will be available and/or keep up with exciting news? Visit my website at www.annaguirre.com/contact and sign up for my newsletter. Follow me on Instagram at instagram.com/ann_aguirre_author or “like” my Facebook fan page at facebook.com/ann.aguirre for exclusive content, contests, and fun swag.
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