I make an exasperated face. “You didn’t rush me, Nemeth. It was my decision. It has been all along. I knew what I was getting into when I married you, and I decided I wanted to do so anyhow.”

He caresses my face, his expression sad. “And will you abandon me when the tower doors open, like Ravendor did her mate?”

“Of course not. My love is stronger than that.” I put my hand over his. “I knew what I was doing when I decided to mate you. I knew I was giving up on my people for yours. They won’t accept me now because of what I’ve done. I’ve thrown my lot in with you. I suppose in a way I am Fellian, now.”

Nemeth looks sad. “Not Fellian,” he says softly. “Just mine.”

“That’s all I need.” I smile up at him. “Come to bed now?”

He blows out the candle.

Chapter

Fifty

Being mated to Nemeth makes me happier than I ever thought I could be. If I thought being with him was pleasant before, it is utterly joyous now. We spend several days in bed, doing nothing more than touching and learning one another. I learn that if I scrape my teeth on his knot, he will come instantly. He learns that there is a spot behind my knee that, if touched, will make me go mad with need. We learn how to make each other’s bodies sing, and I never tire of his touch.

That in itself is a marvel—I’ve grown weary of every other lover I’ve had in the past. Either they would grow selfish, or the sex would become routine, and I would find myself losing interest. Sometimes those lovers would seem as if they were interested in nothing more than making themselves come instead of giving pleasure to me. I’d feel like an object instead of a person. Or worse—I’d feel like they were fucking the Vestalin princess and not Candra.

It’s different with Nemeth. I love his touch. More than that, I love that I always feel that he sees me. Not Candromeda Vestalin. Not the princess of Lios. Not Erynne Vestalin’s spoiled, useless sister. It’s always Candra with him, the Candra that loves a shoulder rub when she has her period, hates epic poetry, and sometimes drools on her lover’s chest when she falls asleep atop him. It feels like Nemeth loves me and all my flaws, just like I love him. I love that he insists on putting basil into everything because it’s his favorite, even though too much will make his stomach ache. I love that he adores epic war poetry, the longer and more dull the better. I love that he’s fascinated with his mushroom farm, and that he talks to them as he tends to the rapidly-growing fungi.

I adore him, and every day that passes doesn’t feel like torture now. It feels as if we’re in our own cozy little nest, letting the world pass us by as we snuggle under the blankets and kiss.

The weather grows cooler, and as it does, it seems to be colder than the last winter. This strikes me as particularly odd. After all, we’re in the tower to prevent the Golden Moon Goddess from venting her wrath upon the people of our world, and yet this doesn’t feel normal. We conserve our wood and our peat bricks as best we can, and some days we warm my potion with body heat instead of the warmth of a fire.

This winter, the water in the kitchen pump freezes up for over a week. We are more prepared for such an event and have kept several tubs and buckets full of water for just in case, so it isn’t more than a minor inconvenience, but it worries me. “How is it that we are sacrificing seven years of our lives to make the goddess happy and this is what we get?” I ask Nemeth on one particularly cold morning. I gesture at the walls of the tower. “This doesn’t feel happy to me.”

“Perhaps other things displease her.” Nemeth turns a page in his astronomy book.

“Like what?”

“War.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You think the war goes badly?”

“I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

“Well, if the goddess is choosing sides, I hope she realizes that everyone is suffering.” I gesture at our frigid room. “Your skin is dry from the cold and my toes feel like they are icicles. Suffering, everywhere.”

Nemeth chuckles at my pouting. He arches a brow at me and puts his book aside. “You are being dramatic, milettahn.”

I am. I don’t even care. “It’s just rotten that we’re devoting ourselves to the cause and some days I can’t even tell what the cause is.”

“Strange things happen with the eye of the goddess on the world,” Nemeth says. He pats the blankets, indicating I should join him instead of pacing near the cold fireplace. “The books say the weathers can be foul and unpredictable.”

“Because of the goddess,” I agree.

“Because of the moon in the sky,” he says, and then adds, “and the goddess, too. But my point is that we do not know what the gods have in mind. It is not our job to speculate. Our job is to remain here in this tower.” As I crawl into bed next to him, he slides his arm around my shoulders. “It is not so bad being here with me, is it?”

“You know it’s not.” Some of my grumpiness eases and I dramatically drape myself over his lap. “What else does your book say?”

“Mmm. Nothing near as important as this.” His hand slides up my skirt, and when he discovers I have no bloomers on, he arches an eyebrow. It’s become a tease of mine, to only wear bloomers sometimes, just to see his reaction. It never fails to arouse him. “You are letting this pretty cunt freeze to death.”

“You should warm it up.”

He grins, showing his fangs. “I absolutely should.”

Hours later, I’ve forgotten all about the goddess and her theoretical anger. I’ve had Nemeth knotted inside me and he made me come so hard that I wept his name as he played my body like a harp. Now I’m feeling much looser and relaxed, and I watch from my spot in bed as he feeds a log to the fire, preparing my potion. As he hovers near the hearth, he practices his stretches and extends one wing gracefully outward. I wince inwardly as the other stretches out, the flare of it tight and off-center from where I stitched him. It looks uncomfortable.

“How does it feel?” I ask.

Nemeth shrugs. “It is tighter than it should be, like my wing is pinched in one spot. With time and use, I think it could stretch itself out again. The scar tissue just needs to be worked.”

“And you need to fly,” I say softly. “And there is nowhere to fly in here.” He’s tried flying downstairs, but he doesn’t have enough room to spread his wingspan to its full breadth. The ceiling is too low, and the stairwells too narrow. It’s something I fret over constantly, because I know how much it must bother him to be stranded here like this, to have an injury to such a vital part of him and not be able to do the proper exercises to mend it.

“It is what it is,” Nemeth replies. He pauses and glances over at me. “Speaking of things we cannot change…we are out of your tea.”

The minty concoction that Riza makes for me? She sent a bag along with our supplies last summer. But if we’re out, we’re out. I shrug. “I’ll just drink your brew.”

His wings flutter as he closes them, a sure sign that he’s nervous about something. “I examined yours to see what was in it, because I knew you were running low. Did you know you have pennyroyal in it?”

“I couldn’t pick pennyroyal out if someone painted a portrait of it,” I reply tartly. “I don’t know plants. What about that one is important?”

“Pennyroyal is an herb that can prevent pregnancy. I never said anything before because I know you drink it for the taste, but now that you are out, I wondered if you wished to try to replace it with something else?” His wings flutter again. “Or shall I not give you my knot anymore?”

I snort. “Are you truly worrying over an herb? I told you, love, I can’t get pregnant. I know you think your cock is impressive—and I do, too—but even you cannot pound the blood curse out of my veins.” I give him an amused look. “Much as I would love to try, of course.”