“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.”
Restless? Perhaps he rolls or kicks, but if he wanted to say more, he would. My chest aches over Njål having nightmares with nobody to comfort him. I’ve glimpsed how it was when he was small, and it seems to me that he’s already suffered so much more than anyone should. Yet he’s afraid for me, frightened that he’ll lash out in his sleep and injure me with his great strength.
“I trust you.”
That’s all it takes for him to settle. It’s closer than I’ve ever slept with anyone because in truth, we both barely fit in my bed, so I half-crawl on top of him. I’m not wearing my nightdress. I lunge upright, feeling around for it, and Njål claims my hands and presses a kiss to each.
“Don’t get dressed unless you’re cold. I know my body temperature isn’t normal.”
Maybe I’m confused, but he feels warm to me now, not like that initial burst so cold that it burned. The idea that Bitterburn is changing me too bobs to the surface again, but I’m sleepy, and I can’t hold on to that possibility. Other suspicions flicker in my mind like minnows, too slick for my tired brain.
Slowly, I sink down and settle in against him, my back to his front. He spoons up behind me and I feel his cheek barely brushing my hair. It will probably annoy him, falling over his face while he’s trying to sleep, but right now he seems to be enjoying the feel and scent of the strands. He strokes me gently, one arm wrapped around my hips.
I’m closer to the wall, so he doesn’t feel trapped. The last thing I want is for Njål to react like a wild animal caught in a snare.
No, that’s not true.
The last thing I want is to hurt him. I’ve become aware of my own power; the keep listens to me and tries to please me while he’s still a prisoner. I don’t understand what that means yet, but the balance has shifted.
What I do here will have lasting consequences.
16.
Njål is gone when I awaken.
Unsurprising, but I’m still a bit sad. He also removed my blindfold, as it’s folded neatly and laid across the foot of the bed. At least I suppose it must have been him. If I’d torn it off in my sleep, I doubt I would’ve folded it. I imagine him untying it with great care and gazing on my face, hopefully with profound affection. When I move, my thighs are tender, abraded by his whiskers, and when I wash up it gives me shivers because I’m still sensitive down there. Imagine what it will be like when we do everything—I won’t be able to leave my bed for two days.
Chuckling at myself, I don my work dress. Really I need to launder it, but I’ve been making do with rinsing my shift, as it’s such a chore to heat the water and scrub the garments properly. Now that we’ve frolicked in my sheets, I probably ought to wash them as well. Not looking forward to that.
Putting off a task never makes it more pleasant, however. First, I eat some leftover fry bread, then I check on Agatha and Bart. They happily devour the kitchen scraps I offer, and they’ve still got plenty of hay since it replenishes on its own. Next, I peek at the garden to find that the shoots are doing well. The soil’s a bit dry so I water it, not too much, as that’s worse than too little.
But there are no bees. Interesting, as the goat wishes came true straightaway. I instantly regretted using the word “wish” when I said that. Perhaps Bitterburn interpreted that as me changing my mind? I wish I understood how this works, but regardless, it seems unlikely that we’ll be swarmed. If it was going to happen, it would have by now.
Now I have no excuse not to do the laundry. Groaning, I fetch the heavy kettle and frame, haul both into the courtyard, then I build a fire and hang the kettle above it. Despite the chill, I’m already sweating. If I wash everything I own, I’ll be standing naked in
