“I am not,” Nemeth declares, his tone dangerous. He picks up a book and brandishes it. “I am going to read. Take as much time as you like. I care not.”

Rolling my eyes at his temper tantrum, I head for the garderobe. When I’m done there, I’m tired, but in a pleasantly achy sort of way and I’m not ready to lie in bed for the rest of the day again. He acts as if I am a fragile thing that must be protected from myself. He doesn’t realize how much strength it takes to live with an illness such as mine. Every day is survival, and I am tougher than he thinks. So I head upstairs to my quarters and open the door.

My room feels chilly and strangely vacant. It’s been days since I’ve been in here, and it both feels like forever and five minutes ago. I take a few steps inside, and as I do, I see my knife, carefully laid out on my (also carefully) made bed. My discarded dresses have been picked up off the floor, too, and put on their hooks. That must have been Nemeth. I can see him fussing over every detail, right down to fluffing my pillows. I want to roll my eyes, but I smile instead.

Who would have thought Fellians were so particular about tidiness? I expect a certain amount of mess from anyone that’s been born into a royal family, because we have servants following behind us all day, waiting to clean up after us. I’m certainly not nearly as tidy as him, and I move over to my bed and set the lamp down next to it, then pick up my knife.

I’d tuck it into the front of my dress but I’m still wearing nothing but a chemise. “Hello there,” I say to it. “Did you miss me?”

The knife is silent. Figures that I’d have a salty magic blade instead of a friendly one.

I glance around my room. The fireplace is cold, and my food supplies are exactly where I left them. Not surprising. I consider my dresses and decide I want a fresh chemise, as I’m yet too tired to go through the process of heating water for bathing. I lift the neck of my chemise and give it a sniff. “Do I smell?”

The knife pulses an affirmative.

“Thanks,” I say wryly. Okay, a change of clothes, then. I eye my surroundings. “Is Nemeth lurking in the shadows?”

Silence from my knife.

Interesting. So much for my hovering Fellian nursemaid. Maybe he’s realizing I’m not as weak as I seem and is going to give me some space. I pull off my old chemise and exchange it for a new, fresh one that’s wrinkled from washing. It’s chilly inside the tower, so, toes curled against the stone floor, I pick up one of my heavier dresses and slip it over my head. It’s a bright green with an attached skirt, and when the bodice slides over my head, I settle it at my waist and then lace it up at the front. As fashion goes, it’s a terrible choice. No one lets their dresses lace in the front because it screams I am poor. Fashion insists that other people dress you.

I wonder if Nemeth would do my laces up for me if I had a dress that tied in the back.

Once I’m dressed, my sleeves fastened and puffed, fresh exhaustion hits me. I collapse on the edge of my bed. Maybe I’ll take a moment before I head back to his warm, toasty, crowded quarters again. I lie on my back in the bed and tuck my knife between my breasts, now lifted and plump from the bodice’s support. “Is Nemeth coming up here?”

The knife does not respond.

Hmm. Thinking about Nemeth makes me think about other things. Naughtier things. I stroke my hand down the front of my bodice. “Does Nemeth still think about me when he touches himself?”

Yes.

My insides clench, and I think about that claw that skimmed up and down my bruised arm.

“Did Nemeth touch himself to thoughts of me when I was sick?”

Silence. There’s that, I suppose. He’s not an absolute pervert.

“Has he touched himself to thoughts of me recently?”

Yes.

“Today?” I ask, scandalized.

Yes.

“Right now?”

Yes.

Oh. My lips part, and I stare up at the shadowy ceiling in a mixture of shock and titillation. After giving me so much grief about wanting a moment alone, he’s taking this time to quickly rub one out? To the thought of me? I stroke my hands up and down my bodice as I consider that, utterly fascinated. I picture a big, skull-sized fist wrapped around his cock, squeezing and twisting as he shuttles into his grip. He’d need large equipment for that to feel good, I bet, because his hands would dwarf his cock otherwise.

I haven’t touched myself since I arrived in the tower, I realize. Is that why I’m so fascinated with the thought of him touching himself? Or is it because he’s jerking off to me? I haven’t been a chaste princess. I’ve always known I can’t get pregnant, due to the blood curse, so saving myself for marriage seemed rather silly. I slept with my first lover when I was fifteen, and I’ve had a string of them since then. Sex is a craving, and I’ve been so preoccupied with survival in this tower that I’ve had no time to even think about it.

But I’m thinking about it now.

I’m thinking about him touching himself, and how good it must feel to release. Where does he come, I wonder? Into his hand? A cloth he keeps for such purposes? Does he call my name while he’s doing so?

The knife pulses between my breasts, and I shiver with arousal.

I’m tempted to follow his lead and touch myself, to give my body a quick, dirty release, but with my luck, he’d show up in the shadows the moment I put my hand under my skirts. He’s probably already done.

Yes.

There goes that idea. I sit up on my bed and glance around my quarters once more. He wants me to return to his room, and it’s more practical, of course. We can share fuel and meals. We can make everything go twice as far.

It’s just that it also means sharing a bed. He’s slept next to me for the last several days, but I’ve also been ill. The moment I closed my eyes, I was fast asleep, and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Now, though, I’m going to be acutely aware of his presence. I’m going to think about him touching himself.

Does lying beside me in bed arouse him? Is he hard and aching as he lays at my side?

It’s going to be a long winter.

I find a pair of thick woolen stockings and then decide to head back downstairs before Nemeth comes looking for me, or before I get any ideas on seeking my own release. Composed, I shake out my skirts and then pick up the light, exiting the chamber.

When I get back downstairs, I see the door to Nemeth’s room is open, warm, bright light pouring from it. He sits upon his stool by the fire, a large book in his hands and open to the middle. His expression is serene, as if he’s been sitting there reading the entire time I was gone. Such a liar. I smile sweetly at him, feeling a bit naughty at knowing his secrets. “See? I’m fine.”

He eyes me, his gaze moving over my tight-waisted dress. “Isn’t that get-up uncomfortable?”

“This? Not at all.” I put my hands to the bodice and give my tits a jiggle. “It keeps everything in place.”

Nemeth quickly looks away again. “I see.”

It takes everything I have not to smile.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

It’s a slow, lazy day, the first I’ve enjoyed in a long time. Nemeth refuses to let me help him make dinner, and he cooks a thick stew of dried meat and mushrooms over the fire. I’m told to stay in bed and rest, and he gives me his book to “enjoy” as he tends to the food.

I flip through the pages, frowning. “There’s no pictures in this. And the words are so tiny. Are you really reading all this or are you just pretending to?”

He chuckles, the sound deep and low and does quivering things to my belly. “What is the point in pretending to read a book? Clearly it doesn’t impress you. Next time we’ll ask for books with more pictures.”