“How’s that?”
He smooths a hand over my hip. “Beautiful. You feel even better than I imagined.”
“Have you fantasized about me?”
“Constantly. But the reality of you far surpasses my dreams.”
The sweet words spur me into motion. I’m the one who can’t wait. I want to know everything, and I learn. How he responds to my hands braced on his chest as I ride him, the agonized way he tilts his head, eyes half-closed with exquisite pleasure, but he can’t look away either. Can’t stop gazing up at me as I ride him, bearing down on his cock until we’re both panting and wild. I don’t know if I can get there this way because it’s very new and I’m a bit sore, but I can make it happen for Njål.
Already, he’s jerking beneath me, helpless little thrusts as his urgency escalates. I curve my body to his, bending to kiss his neck, and with that shift, I can feel how wet I am. My juices are smeared between us, on my thighs and bottom as well. He feels it too and lets out a desperate whine, trying to bring me with him as he spills, long pulses of heat deep inside me.
And with clumsy strokes of my own fingers, his lingering passion drags me over, not as strong as when he used his mouth, but I bask with him in the afterglow nonetheless, tumbled and messy, sticky and wet, and sweaty and delighted. I finally know what all the fuss is about, but unlike all the oblique warnings that came from various married women in Bitterburn town, I don’t feel ruined.
Rather, I feel like a fucking conqueror.
Njål pets my hair with gentle, trembling hands, as if I’ve drained all his strength whereas I could lay the wards four times over. I laugh silently to myself; perhaps some of the old stories are true and witches do steal a man’s strength through his seed.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Surely I ought to be inquiring as to your well-being.”
“The usual rules don’t apply between us. You must have worked that out by now.”
With a quiet chuckle, he fetches a cloth and a basin of water, tending to the aftermath of our romp with profound tenderness. Afterward, we snuggle together in bed, and I pet every inch of him that I can reach.
“I don’t know how good that was for you,” he says seriously. “But if you’re kind enough to let me have another try, I’ll make it better next time.”
A giddy breath escapes me. “It was lovely. And kindness has nothing to do with it. You must have noticed that I want you.”
“I don’t understand that at all, but . . . I’m grateful.” He tucks me against his side and I rest my leg on top of his.
“And I appreciate everything you did tonight to show me that I’m special to you, not merely present or convenient.”
“I can see why you’d be afraid of that,” he says slowly, “but I honestly believe that I would have continued hiding with anyone else, assuming the keep let them in.”
“You’re saying I was destined to be yours,” I tease.
“Maybe a little. Is that too fanciful?”
“All things considered, not even slightly.” The idea of fate aggravates me, but I’m willing to give the notion a little leeway, if it means I made my choices freely, and everything is working out as it’s supposed to.
Tonight, Njål drifts off before I do, and I amuse myself by tracing all the fascinating patterns on his body. His entire existence seems to be the result of a ritual gone wrong. If matters had proceeded as the baron and baroness intended, Njål would be gone, his soul devoured in the process. Of course, I have only his word that he isn’t the baron.
Why do you trust him so readily? The awful voice creeps in like a beetle, eagerly scuttling into the space my doubt has made. You wonder what became of the baron. He’s had a hundred lifetimes to pretend, learn the art of seduction. You think you want him, but who is he? So many secrets. So many.
Firmly I close the mental door between us, silently cursing myself for letting my guard down. Just because it’s safe to be with Njål, that doesn’t mean no harm can befall me within these walls. There’s danger here, no doubt about it. When I finally doze, my dreams are bleak and chaotic, full of haunting images that slip away from my waking mind like sand in the fingertips.
Suddenly, the dreamscape changes, and Agatha is standing beside my bed like a guardian wolf. “You should get up. There’s a man outside the gates shouting to the heavens, and since I don’t know him, he must be looking for you.”
That startles me enough that I jolt upright in bed. Beside me, Njål stirs but he doesn’t rouse. Sure enough, Agatha is in the room—how did she manage that—and the nanny bleats for emphasis, then trots into the hall. Shortly thereafter, she sticks her head back inside as if to check whether I’m following. My head feels strange, but I get up anyway, dressing as quickly and quietly as I can.
Agatha leads me all the way to the kitchen, where the door to the courtyard is ajar. If the goats can now work door handles, my life is about to get a lot more complicated. But that’s not even the strangest thing about this, because the moment I step outside, I hear my father’s voice, hoarse from all the hollering.
A bad tremor passes me, killing happiness like insects. All the joy I’ve hoarded drifts away, dried flower petals borne by the wind. With each step closer to the gate, my feet grow leaden until I might as well be suffering from Njål’s curse. I peer
