Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
I can do the same.
For the last month, I’ve written and rewritten my letters, obsessing over the messages I’m sending. The one to Riza is twenty pages long, the one to Nurse nearly as lengthy. Erynne’s is five pages. Part of me wanted to be ruthless and send her nothing, because I’m still bitter over her demands that I murder Nemeth. But…she is my sister, and in the end, I know that sending her a chirpy letter full of absolute nonsense will make her mad with frustration. As a sister, I can’t not send such a thing, after all.
I’m equally excited to see what the others have written to me. Even if the letters are full of nothing but recipes and weather predictions, I will savor every word.
Moving to Nemeth’s writing table, I push aside his books and hunt down my letters. They’re not sealed—I’ve got no wax to seal them with—so I’ve tied them with ribbons from my least favorite dress. Nemeth’s stack of letters is twice as big as mine. He spends a great deal of time writing to his family and friends back in Darkfell. Letters are something he has sent frequently in the past, since he spent his time locked away in the Alabaster Citadel.
I think of Meryliese, and how I never wrote her a single letter, and feel just a smidge of guilt.
“Who do you think will be here first?” I ask Nemeth, picking up my stack of letters and turning to regard him. “Darkfell’s suppliers or Lios?” I gasp as a new thought occurs to me. “Oh, I hope they don’t run into each other. That will be quite ugly.” I get a terrifying mental image of the two parties warring on the beach, and our supplies abandoned mere steps away from the tower. “We have to keep them apart.”
“Do not borrow trouble, milettahn. They will avoid each other. Darkfell will make certain of that.” Nemeth rises from the bed and puts on his favorite kilt. “They are familiar with how this works.”
“Yes, but if they both come on the same day…” I pause, realizing what he’s saying without being obvious. “More magic, then?”
He nods. “There are simple spells to observe others. Darkfell will ensure they do not run into Lios’s contingent.”
I eye my mate, leaning against the table. I never ask about magic, because other than lighting a candle or two, he avoids doing it in my presence, as if it’ll frighten me. Which is just plain silly, because I don’t understand magic, but that doesn’t mean I’m scared of it. Most of the spells he’s mentioned seem to have a practical use of some kind. “You’re going to have to teach me some of these simple spells.”
He gives me a fanged grin, eyeing my half-laced breasts. “They only work if you’ve got magic in your blood, I’m afraid.”
I sigh dramatically, toying with the laces, because I do so love to flirt. “And here I am with cursed blood, alas.”
“Alas,” Nemeth murmurs, watching me as I tease a finger over my cleavage. “Magic requires intensive studying, and you are too busy anyhow.”
“Too busy?” I laugh. “Too busy doing what?”
He rumbles low in his chest as he slinks to my side, all dark wings and big slabs of gray muscle. Nemeth reaches for my laces, brushing a finger over my breasts as he does. “Busy with kissing your mate…taking his knot…licking his knot…”
“Truly, a packed schedule,” I agree, fluttering my lashes. Then I mock-pout. “But I have had no knot today.”
“Because with my luck, I will be balls deep inside you and they will come knocking at our door.” He slides a finger into the front of my dress, finding my nipple and teasing it. “And how shall I explain that I am knotted inside a human princess?”
“Perhaps I’m a particularly wicked human that seduced you. After years of me begging you for sex, you finally gave in. It’s not so very far from the truth.” I lean back, giving him full access to my breasts.
But Nemeth frowns at my words. “I would not have you slander yourself to my people.”
Aw. “Is it slander if it all sounds wonderfully naughty?”
He pinches my nipple, sending ripples of heat through my body. “You are my mate,” he chastises. “I would have you respected.”
It’s getting dreadfully hard to concentrate when he’s teasing me like that. “Nemeth, they can’t know I’m your mate.”
“Even so. I do not like the thought of anyone thinking poorly of you.” He frowns at the thought. “You are a Vestalin and a princess, and you deserve respect, even if it’s the respect of Fellians.” With that, he pulls his hand from my bodice and reaches for the laces, this time to tie them. “And that means we must save our playing for later.”
I want to pout again, but I know he’s right. If we want to keep receiving food from our respective peoples, it’s best that no one looks too closely at our relationship. That we be seen as enemies, separate and co-existing in the tower in our own spaces. It sounds like it should be easy to do, and yet I find that the more time passes, the more intertwined we become. Denying that feels wrong.