Bonds: A Cursed Six novel (The Cursed Six Book 1)

by Clarrisa R. Smithe

  He walked her to it, and sadly, his toes did not dance but were as straight as his visage in the orange fire glow.

  The round table hosted more steel platters like that which were durable in a furnace. Four of them, two large, two small. The handles were wrapped in protective red cloth, saucers set beside them in a precise stack, the utensils neighbouring and placed atop handkerchiefs.

  Unlike before, he moved behind the high-backed chair of black, heavy upholstery and immaculate wood, and shifted it back for her to sit. Though his mood was noticeably more dulcet, so too was it somber and once again distant.

  "Thank you," she whispered as she shuffled backwards into the offered seat. All princes, or rather, all proper princes, were taught to offer seats to ladies and ensure they were comfortable before they took their own place. Her big brother always made sure of that when it came to her place at the table, but it was different with Tristian. Before she had felt grateful and was comforted that her dining routine was continuing in its usual manner, with A'zur playing his part and she playing hers. Now she felt special and grown-up, even though her current companion viewed her as a child. Perhaps if she was to try to appear not so young he may shake away that opinion. Her physical appearance likely would not age as fast as she would like, but her voice and mannerisms certainly could.

  "I do apologise," she started, and already she gathered it was a better term than 'sorry', "if my presence has caused a disruption in your usual eating times. I think this is the earliest breakfast I have ever had, but it would be a lie if I said I was not hungry." There, she hoped that would do. She believed that she sounded older than usual and she hoped he would catch onto it.

  Instead, his attention was no longer even on her, but the windows as he rounded the table and took his own seat, his mass seeming to fill out the chair perfectly. Then his elbow propped upon the arm rest, his cheek flopping over to his clenched fist as he stared across at her with a look of bemusement. "What are you doing now? What is your goal that has you talking like that all of a sudden?"

  She blinked hard as she realised that her plan was foolish. He had caught on certainly, but not in the manner she hoped. No doubt he believed her to be strange, stranger than he considered her before. She offered a meek smile.

  "I thought it would make me sound more grown-up and it might please you."

  And she was such a fool for voicing that.

  "Heh heh," she laughed. "Heh..."

  As though she had not spoken a thing, those golden eyes stared on relentlessly. "Is it because I struck you and called you disgusting? Did you return to your chamber, gaze in the mirror and decide upon a minor change?"

  She wished to say that when he hit her and called her that dreadful name she felt upset and she would very much appreciate it if he did not do or say anything of the sort ever again. Not that it would do much good, however, for she knew he would reply with the instruction not to anger him, or not to be disgusting due to her ancestry, though she was not sure how she was to stop being a Misseldon.

  "I thought I'd try to impress you," she admitted. The truth was best, it seemed, especially when she had told so many lies in the past.

  "And do you feel you've done that, Astrid?" he enquired with the same restriction of a raised intonation. "Impressed me?"

  Her breasts certainly did. Anything else, most likely not.

  "I don't think I ever have. I'm not a very impressive person."

  He said nothing, which surely must have been agreement.

  She sighed and looked at her palms. The nerves had no doubt caused them to sweat, which was certainly unimpressive. Perhaps if she was older, or at least in possession of a more mature mind, she might have been able to exercise more control over her bodily functions and this terrible new habit of sweating. It was probably as much a product of her incapabilities as it was the heat.

  "Do you usually go barefoot? I was looking at your feet..."

  Why, oh by the gods why, did she have to pose that subject as a means of changing the topic?

  "Do you usually stare at bare feet the way you did?"

  "I just thought your toes were cute."

  She could have screamed if it was proper to do so.

  "Cute," he stated after her, blinking in what could only be a speechless state. And then he was shaking his head at her slowly, retrieving one of the square saucers from its stack, the porcelain bowl from the other and setting it before him. "Tell me, why do you want to impress me?"

  She felt her heart hammer in her chest, furious and loud enough to cause a steady thud in her ears. It would be wrong to tell another lie. Withholding this from him any longer was not fair on either of them, but especially him. Her teeth clamped down upon her lower lip so hard she was sure she was going to tear the flesh and cause an unsightly chapped surface. The image was enough to have her relax slightly and free her lip, though her demeanour remained nervous.

  "Because I like you."

  An understatement, of course.

  "Like me? The way one likes a colour, an item, a book of sorts?"

  He had to know what she meant, surely? He was older, more experienced, wiser. He had been fifteen before, twelve years prior but still. Part of him had to remember what all this felt like.

  "I don't think so. I don't want to say the other word. You won't like it, but it's how I feel. C-could I put it in a way you might like it more?"

  Brows raised, he waved her on.

  "Well, my necklace. How do you think I feel towards it? Do I like it? Or is too mild a word to describe my thoughts?"

  "I think you like it as one does a valuable item." He appeared genuinely perplexed as he began to set up another plate and bowl beside his own. "Perhaps you should be more creative with your meaning."

  She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed as she realised she had been stupid enough to make the situation worse for them. If anything she had confused him for he did not know what she meant. He was not teasing her or leading her into a relaxed state so she may tell all. He truly did not know.

  "You need not take it so gravely. I have been with many females before you. None were so vague as to use the term 'like', rather they always did find a way to paint the most colourful of pictures to express their meaning of 'love'. I've a desk full of their letters to attest. 'To rise at daybreak to the crazing scent of your hair', 'The ever-persistent need to be near your warm berth', 'A gaze that stops the heart and smile that starts it back up again'." He sounded irrefutably bored as he gave the examples, and then the quirk of his lips said he had, in fact, been teasing her all along. He'd known exactly what she meant.

  She narrowed her eyes at him briefly, though it was more so at the bubbling feeling of envy that some woman got to wake up to the smell of his hair as he lay beside her.

  "Is that jealousy?" he asked almost immediately, his eyes on her visage and drawing out her emotions before she'd even known she felt them.

  "Are you reading my mind?"

  "Not possible. But I wouldn't be angered if you joined the masses and expressed your undying love and loyalty, the want to be near me forever and always."

  She pouted and sensed that he was enjoying this. "Yes but I want you to myself. I don't like that other girls fancy you."

  "And I don't care that they do. I was merely stating they were more capable with their expression."

  "I suppose I'm more simple when it comes to how I wish to say it."

  "Simplicity is nonexistent, but I suppose that just goes to say you do not feel as similarly as they. That, unlike them, you do not wish to be close to me."

  She shook her head and had the urge to raise her voice to inform him that he was completely wrong. He just wished to get a confession out of her, she was sure of it. So he could make fun and feel good because someone fancied him, even if it was someone he believed to be disgusting.

  "That's not true! I do want to be close to you! I do!"

  He looked away. "I'm not convinced."

  "Well, what can I do to con
vince you?"

  He only shook his head. "You're an easy target, Astrid. Your flusters are as quick as my temper, and always are you too eager to please, to say and do the right thing." It was difficult to discern whether he was disappointed by this or neutral on the matter as he'd taken it upon himself to reach for the iron carafe hidden behind the largest platter. Sliding back its hinge, steam immediately climbed from its mouth, and with it, an influx of a potent herbal aroma.

  Without a word, he filled the bowl left of him with the red, simmering soup, seeming to have dismissed the discussion altogether.

  She stared ahead at him and wished to inform him that she was eager to please because she was scared of failure, but she feared it would open up a panic caused in her past that was best forgotten.

  "I love you," she stated softly as she watched. "There. I'm not full of words, but it's how I feel."

  He didn't glance up as he continued to arrange the meal, sliding closed the tongue of the carafe, burying the spoon in the soup and unfolding the cloth beneath the utensil to spread out before him. When he'd finished, he met her watchful stare and said, "We know each other hardly. The only ties we share rest within your womb, so tell me, how is it that you love me?"

  "You're kind to me." It was easier to speak now the three word confession had left her lips. Any examples of why were merely embellishments of the fact.

  "Oh, am I?" he all but barked out in laughter.

  She frowned. Not all of the time, of course, but most. "Yes. You take care of me. I feel safe with you."

  He appeared taken aback, for just one moment—the black brows above the gold gaze lifting perhaps unbeknownst to him, his lips separating the slightest. But then it melted back into his usual somber expression. Or perhaps it was not quite as it had been before, for now his lids were heavy and his gaze did not return to hers.

  "As I've told you before, you do not know the future."

  "I know now. The present."

  "Only a fool disregards the possible future. What is is entirely different from what could be. You might wish to be near me one moment, but when the tides change and you feel yourself drowning, only to realise I am that tide, you would not still wish to be near. Because that's just the way life goes. No one truly wishes to be beside another under certain conditions." And suddenly, it was a wonder whether he was speaking at all about the two bodies seated at the table.

  She considered his words and perhaps they held some wisdom, but nothing she could truly identify with. Life was uncertain, but they could form a foundation to withstand whatever came their way and make it stronger than if they stood alone. Her nod was small, as was her smile.

  "We don't know what will happen, but I think I will always want to be by your side. I want to do things for you, take care of you, and make you happy. Isn't it better to face the possible future together, knowing that there is someone there to support you and look after you, than be all alone because in the past you wanted to be, well, cautious I suppose?"

  The silver utensil dipped in the soup was taken by its handle, the prince rotating it slowly as he stared across at her. The firelight jumped in his eyes, but as was usual, his face conveyed nothing of his thoughts. Which was not to dismay, as he then moved to voice them. "My family has this fixed opinion of me that I am something to be coddled, at least my brother and parents feel this way." The corner of his mouth twitched in not quite a smile, but a seeming involuntary motion. "They worry about me. Not me me, but the state of things inside of me. They do not say it, but their eyes do. I'm irascible, volatile, emotionally detached, indifferent to those around me. As much as it sins me to say, months ago I would have agreed; it isn't so anymore. I won't claim love, but I am fond of you, no matter the flaws of it."

  He lifted the spoon from the sweltering soup, watched the red residue traipse down the depression of the utensil, two drops falling to join the mass. "I dislike what you are. I dislike how you believe you can speak to me. But yet, I'm still fond of you, despite the predicament. Does that make sense?"

  She felt prepared to have the burst of excitement leap from her, along with her heart which seemed fit to fly from her chest with such force it would burst through her chest. Her smile was so wide that she could only imagine the dimples dotted along her cheeks, but she hardly minded what she looked like in that moment. It was pure happiness, she was sure.

  "It makes sense and it makes me so happy! I love that you are fond of me, but I want to make you fonder, through speaking to you properly and trying to be less what you dislike."

  "It's not so difficult. If you would only mind your tongue when you are heated, I find you're rather...contenting. Such as before, beside the bath. Perhaps the pesky, lovesick women in the letters were not too far off in their admirations. Your eyes and smile, they are captivating. I do in fact enjoy the scent of your hair, be it sun-dried or rain-drenched, and your closeness, when seated upon me.. well, I longed for it each time you rose to leave me." He was back to stirring the spoon in the liquid meal. "I suppose some might call me equally pathetic."

  Insecurity ruled her life, or at least it had prior to her meeting him and especially before she returned to be his bride and bear his child. He rather enjoyed the look of her, well, more than enjoyed. Her heavier breathing, coupled with the prickling behind her eyes hinted at tears, but they were caused by joy rather than upset. She would have suggested that she sit in his lap that very moment, but it would surely sully his mood to a state of distaste at her being overly familiar.

  "You do not know that," he said rather darkly with a hooded gaze to match as he watched her, reading her gaze yet again as might an oracle and their omens. And then he was sitting back, seeming larger within his seat; he discarded the spoon finally and motioned for her. "Come here."

  She came to her feet and feathered the arm of the chair for support, lest her elated state send her buckling to the ground as it had made her feel both as light as air and as heavy as marble. When she reached his side she stood before him, only slightly taller standing than he was sat in his chair.

  Perhaps it was the crackle and blaze of the fireside heat as he was nearer to it, but when he turned his gaze upon her, it was as though the simmering berth of fire rose.

  Unwavering, clear yet vague, he bore up at her with a simple command. "Kiss me."

  The order filled her with excitement, for kissing him was something she loved and longed to do, though moving in herself and having him await the brush of her lips led her to believe that he might be judging her abilities. She had kissed plenty of times before, and not just him, but if she dwelled on the past too much she might find herself crippled with longing for A'zur and her old life.

  She did not nod, nor say a word, only moved in to brush her lips against his cheek, though realised that he likely meant his mouth. Her hand rested flat over his heart, while the other reached to tuck his hair behind his ear, before she cupped his cheek lightly. She trailed her lips along the corner of his mouth, the rasp of his beard prickling against the soft flesh of her lips. When she closed in on his lips, the movement was as gentle a flutter as it had been initially. With a deliberate slowness, to savour and not to rush and spoil anything, she pressed in tenderly, his own seeming to piece with hers with a delicacy that opposed his very nature.

  His hand cupped her jaw, three fingers splaying down the curve of her neck where her pulse rushed in a torrent beneath them, particularly when he leaned up into her and scaled his tongue gently across her lower lip. "I need add to the list that I am quite fond of your taste. Though, perhaps it does not rival my desire to be near to you. As you wish to be to me, yes? Close, to sit upon me as your gaze relayed just before?"

  She sighed against him as the corners of her mouth piqued upwards. The throb in her chest returned, as did one between her legs that was reminiscent of the time she had been with him before, along with the lonely nights in her old bed when he came to mind and her fingers trailed beneath the covers.

  "I should be more subtl
e, but I want to be so close to you. I cannot help it."

  "I can help it. Help you, as I said I would." His hand trailed down her collar before landing a slight push. "Turn around."

  Reluctantly she pulled away and turned so her back was to him, where instantly she felt his hands upon her waist. She could not ignore the urge to glance over her shoulder at him, and from the corner of her eye she saw the wild mop of her hair, of which he tugged in warning.

  "I did not say to turn around."

  In an instant, she turned back and his hands continued. Framing the curve of her waist, then descending back to her rear before traveling lower, his touch making her all too aware of the fabrics against her. The fabrics which he had begun to lift with a grueling patience.

  "Tell me," he said quietly behind her as the fall of her dress gradually crept up from her ankles to her calves. "How much you wish to be close to me."

  "I've longed to be close to you since we parted. I'd do all manner of... naughty things thinking about you. Now I am with you again, it is torture not being close."

  "And I did not know quite how much I missed it until only recently. The torture it must have been for you, to have longed for months." The seams was at the sensitive area behind her knees now, where he halted his journey—only to pass the task to the tips of his fingers. The calloused prints pressed to the supple skin of her inner thigh, making a hazardous path upward to the heat of her. "So tell me just how torturous it was, longing but not having."

  She shuddered in anticipation of where his fingers would soon land. "I'd lie in bed at night, sleepless, thinking how wonderful it would be to have you beside me. Your arms around me, your hands all over me, your lips all over me. Your head drifting between my thighs, showering me with kisses. Sometimes you'd ask me to use my mouth too and I would part my lips trying to imagine you between them. My fingers would grow stiff from how furiously I played with myself and it felt so good, though it is nothing to having you between my legs. Close to me."