It still seemed incredibly stupid to him that Prim would not have been permitted to kill her abusers without facing repercussions, but he remained silent on the matter. He did not wish to cause offence. Not tonight.
“I will need to see your injuries in order to treat them,” he reminded her with as gentle a tone as possible. He could not be threatening, not in this. Even the most brave could feel vulnerable and exposed when their clothing was removed by one who had been an enemy only the previous sunrise.
Prim took a deep breath. “Will you be looking as a doctor or as a husband?”
A reasonable question, though he was not certain of the answer. “At the moment, a healer. But later...”
She took another breath, and he searched her eyes for any sign of fear or rejection. There was none, but nor was there any particular desire. It bothered him, but he understood.
She reached for the hem of her tunic and pulled it over her head, and he offered her what privacy he could by turning to hang a pot over the fire so he could begin steeping the manta root for her. There was no place for pain now. Not for her.
He retrieved the salve from its place on the shelf, opening the pungent jar and showing it to her. Her arms were crossed over her breasts, though her cheeks remained unpinked. Good. He had no desire for her embarrassment. “It should help ease the ache,” he explained, “and aid the healing. Will you permit me?”
She glanced at the contents perhaps a little dubiously, but ultimately she gave a slow nod of her head in assent. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Though it’s only my ribs that really hurt.” He reached out and pointedly ran his finger across her cheek, the swelling already beginning across the delicate bone. At that, her cheeks finally darkened. “Maybe that too.”
He decided then not to trust her assessment of which hurts were bothersome—not uncommon amongst his own people. The females were more willing to divulge an ailment, but the males acted as though any such confession was an offence to their dignity. Therefore he had learned to act upon his observations, and if those had proven faulty, he would simply consult the mate more willing to speak to him in truths.
But he was Prim’s mate, so it was merely his judgement he would have to trust in this instance.
He dipped his finger into the jar, gently moving her arm from around her breast so he could see precisely how far the bruising ascended. Black and angry, it was little wonder that this was one that she should admit caused her pain. He smoothed the paste over each mark, wishing he could return to Mercy directly and find those who had hurt her. He may not have been able to act earlier, not when she was yet to be his, but it was different now. There was one who lived—perhaps many someones—who currently drew breath who had hurt her.
If ever he was called upon again to oversee the trades, James would not be so hale and hearty upon his departure.
Prim hissed at even his more tender ministration, and he hummed lowly in his throat to soothe her. “It will help,” he promised.
He glanced away from his work to look at her face, and tears were glistening in her eyes, though they did not fall.
“I will bind your ribs, which should ease some of the discomfort. You must also rest, lest any cracks turn into breaks and you puncture something vital.” She was staring away from him, studying some speck upon the floor, and he waited patiently until she looked at him properly. “Do you understand?”
Her lips thinned. “You are not marrying an invalid.”
His head cocked to the side, considering her statement. The last word was unfamiliar, but her tone suggested something distasteful. “I am taking you for a mate, and you are presently injured. I fail to see the issue.” Except that Okmar had made it perfectly plain that Prim could not remain here simply as a mate, but as a wife. And tired though she was, bruised though she might be, there were certain protections that were essential that would require one more act of them this night.
He wondered if he should mention it. Should explain the reasons for his insistence upon their joining beginning the night of her arrival. But the words stuck upon his tongue, and he felt clumsy and inadequate at addressing such an intimate subject. He was a healer, and it shamed him that he should feel such a fool to his chosen mate.
He returned his attention to her wounds, tending to her cheek and smoothing a balm upon her arms where it was evident a male’s fingers had wrapped tightly about her.
There would be no more of those. She would be treated gently here, and the marks would fade until she was pale and whole once again.
He bound her ribs as promised, using a clean length of cloth, tying it tightly so as to secure the bones that should never have been forced to withstand such strain. “Are there any on your lower region?” he asked quietly. She sighed, before she made to undo the tie that would drop her trous, but he saw the subtle bowing of her head, even as her face maintained its carefully neutral expression.
He halted her before they could fall, and he handed back her tunic, easing it over her head, the length obscuring her most intimate places but leaving her legs available for him to tend. There were fewer here, a few on her calves that were pale and small, more akin to ones that appeared from a fall rather than a kick. A much larger one blossomed across her thigh, and he could easily imagine it coming from just such a reason, and he stroked over it softly with his balm, hoping it would soothe, hoping it would comfort in ways that she feel no more pain.
By the time he had finished, the water was boiling in the pot, and he placed a sprinkling of shredded manta into its depths, swirling it idly as he tried to gather his thoughts.
His task seemed at odds with his knowledge of healing. She needed rest, rather than to mate, but if he faced the elders tomorrow with her not as his wife...
“Are you upset about the bruises?”
He frowned into the brew, straining it into a cup before he turned and handed it to her. “Of course. My mate has suffered a great wrong by her kin. They should fear much from me.”
She looked up at him in surprise, but did not object to his statement.
“But what troubles me at present is that I do not know... there is no way I may present what we must do without you reacting poorly.”
Prim took a sip of the manta, her nose crinkling slightly as she considered the taste. She must not have found it too objectionable, for she took another. “You could just tell me,” she suggested reasonably. “I’m not someone that’s easy to shock.”
He wondered at the kind of life she must have led that would make it acceptable for a new mate, strange and foreign to her in all things, to inform her that they must mate.
And yet he did.
“I am troubled for I must tell you that it is necessary for us to solidify our mating, our marriage,” he clarified, “before the first sun rises. And I know you do not want me.”
And he wished that anything in her expression might suggest that he was wrong.
Yet it remained as placid as it ever was.
4. Consummate
“I thought I’d already told the other one I was prepared for... relations.”
Rykkon continued to watch her warily as she took increasingly longer draws of the manta. He wondered if it would affect her differently than was usual—it was entirely possible with her differing physiology. “I do not wish to dishonour you. I would not do it at all if it was not important to your continued safety.”
Her head tilted to the side. “Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you want to?”
Rykkon looked at her pointedly. “You do not want to. That is what we have established.”
Prim gave a little snort and shook her head. “No, we haven’t. But if it makes you feel better for me to say it, I don’t not want to. But I am tired and would like to sleep, and if it’s important we do it tonight, I’d rather we just get on with it.”
Rykkon did not appear wholly convinced that he should proceed and she sighed. “You afraid you’re going to rape me?”
He flinched from the word, the context
and her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I do not wish to dishonour you,” he repeated.
Prim’s lips thinned. “I’m not a very romantic person. Never have been. You certainly won’t be raping me, even if I’m not overly enthusiastic. Do you want my permission? You have it. You’re... you’ll be my husband.”
This was said a bit more doubtfully, and he considered it. “Do your people marry in other ways?”
She shrugged again. “I was told that before we came here, weddings were large affairs. Lots of decorations, lots of people—never saw the point of it, really. Now Desmond just has us recite some vows and the couple goes off to their tent. Simple.”
Rykkon frowned. “Would you have preferred that? To do it in the ways of your people?”
Her look became slightly incredulous, and he wondered if the manta had loosened her tongue, as she seemed to be speaking more freely with him. It did not displease him. “If I had cared for my people’s ways, don’t you think I’d still be there?”
He grunted in agreement. “You speak rightly.” She had not returned her trous to her person, and they both sat on the long workbench, her tunic riding high so her legs were clearly exposed. They were finely shaped, pleasing to his eye, and it still troubled him to consider what she truly thought of his appearance.
She insisted it did not matter, just as she insisted she held no objections to what would soon transpire, but that did little to quiet his lingering reservations.
Prim ran her fingers over the lip of the cup. It was not one of his finer offerings as he had simply taken up the first his hand had reached, the rim holding a slight catch from where he had not managed to smooth the clay properly. He had been younger then, full of knowledge in many things, yet in this he had proven clumsy and unprepared.
But he had learned.
As he would in this—this treatment of his soon-wife. What she needed. What would make her soften, make her enjoy his company.
He would simply have to believe her that to accept him tonight would not be truly an invasion. Perhaps it would not be the most pleasurable, that she held not great desire for him, but that could come, with time. With knowing.
He only wished he had more experience so as to ease any discomforts. Though, he supposed, he was not entirely certain that being with one of his own kind would be completely similar, so perhaps that was a foolish wish.
“How do your people do it?” she asked him finally, still inspecting the slightly inadequate cup. “Get married, I mean.”
“I announced our intention to mate before the village. Then we will...” he tried to remember the word she used. That act had many words, some held with varying degrees of reverence or derision, and he did not wish to cause offence. “We will have relations together. Then my people will recognise that we are one, and you will be respected.”
She gave a slight sigh, looking suddenly terribly sleepy, and he wondered at the wisdom of allowing her to sleep for a while.
But she was placing her cup upon the workbench, and a tentative hand reached out and the same finger that had been running over the rim now skimmed across the back of his hand.
Perhaps the manta had made her a little bold as well. It did not displease him.
“Can I know your name first? Before we... we relate?”
He startled, not realising that she had not gleaned his name from Kondarr’s use. For all that he did not know of her, she was equally blind—if not more so. He at least had an understanding of her people, if only a slight one, while she knew only of the traders who appeared in her camp, tall and burly in their hides as they occasionally demonstrated their authority through a show of force.
And yet now she was consenting to lie with him, her only request to first know his name.
It humbled him.
“Rykkon,” he told her, his voice low. Her finger stilled upon his hand when he spoke and she apparently considered the name, before it began to make its careful circles once again. “My apologies. I did not realise you had not heard Kondarr speak it.”
A little smile touched the corners of her mouth, barely there, but perceptible. “Your language is difficult to make out.”
“Is it?” He had not given that a great deal of consideration, but he supposed it was a harsher language than her own.
She nodded. “So I know your name, and you know mine. Should we...” she looked over to the bed and then back at him, her intention clear. He followed her cautiously, waiting for her to change her mind, to tell him that she required more time. But she kept her hand on his, and she was the one to lead him to the bed, her only hesitation coming when she made to settle upon it. “Is it all right that I be here?”
He skimmed his fingers over her hair, still damp from the stream. “I would not have you on the floor, Prim, not as my guest, and most certainly, not as my wife.”
She shivered then and he worried she was cold, so he pulled back the hides and blankets that warmed his bed, gesturing that she should enter first.
He was proud of his bed. It was comfortable and large, and from the way she wriggled and sighed, she found it agreeable. He did not immediately join her, instead choosing to watch her grow accustomed to it with some amusement. Eventually she noticed his hesitation, and looked up at him, her cheeks growing pink as she fiddled with the edge of a blanket. “I don’t really know how to start.”
“Nor do I,” he confessed. He was curious about the feel of her flesh against his, however, and though he should likely remain covered—she seemed to prefer him that way—his fingers found the edge of his sleep-tunic and he removed it before coming to lie beside her.
It was an odd thing, having a presence in his bed. He felt more aware, every brush of her arm against his own, the feel of a softened hide against his leg where the trous had exposed an ankle.
“Do your people kiss?” she asked into the quiet of the room.
A memory assaulted him, one long since pushed away. A loving female, gentle and kind, kissing his boyish cheeks as she whispered how much she loved him. That he was a good son, and not to listen to any of the hurtful words that were spoken to him. He had associated such things with motherly affection, but he wondered if they held significance in this as well.
He rolled over, careful to keep his weight from her lest he press on any of her bruises. “Do you feel any pain?” he asked, simply to be certain.
She shook her head, her eyes perhaps a bit wide, the darker parts larger than he had seen before. “No.”
“Good.” He stroked his finger along her cheek, watched it blossom into pinkness once again. He would need to put more salve onto her the chapped portions—to make her soft and whole after too much exposure to the suns. “There are kisses,” he admitted, wanting to attempt them but also unsure of their welcome. “Would you like to try?”
She shrugged, a little stilted given his position over her. “I suppose. Might speed things along.”
He wanted to recoil, being reminded so that she was tired, that this was likely more a chore than any desirable event. He wanted to savour, to explore, but he also did not wish to be a bother. Not when she had been so clear as to her fatigue.
And he could admit, perhaps only in the farthest corners of his mind, that he was a little hurt that his mate should wish to end things quickly.
He would save his kisses, he decided. Until she was more receptive, more willing to reciprocate.
In the few times he had allowed himself to imagine what it would be to mate, to feel the pliant female form beneath him, he had not conjured the feeling of awkwardness as he wondered at where to put his hands, what places were acceptable to touch—when would he become tedious when he lingered too long.
He felt the tips of her breasts brush against his chest, and too tempted to refuse them, he allowed his hand to splay across just one, soft and delicate and lush against his palm, covered though it was by her tunic. His thumb stroked gently, wondering at the texture, so different than he had expected. The females of his tri
be were typically only this size when they were milking mothers, and belatedly he realised he had neglected a rather pertinent enquiry.
“Do you have any young?”
He hoped she did not. He would have accepted any with little hesitation, though it would be even more difficult to keep them all safe from the displeasure of his tribe. But to think of her abandoning them so abruptly was repulsive, and his opinion of her would have deadened immediately. He knew what it was to be left alone, and he would not wish it on any young one, his kind or not.
Her brow furrowed for a moment. “No,” she related, honestly but with some measure of confusion. “Why would you think that?”
He could explain about their differing physiology, but he was more preoccupied with relief that she came to him freely, without sacrificing the tender state of any young.
“It does not matter,” he told her, allowing his hand to release her breast with only some small moment of loss before it drifted lower, pushing up her tunic and exposing her to the slightly too-cool air of the hut.
She shivered again as his fingers brushed against her thigh, and he shifted, pulling the blankets over them both so she would not be cold.
“Better?” he asked, and she nodded, though she did not quite look at him.
He would have pressed her, would have tried to see more to her comfort, but her earlier reminder that she valued haste over such things prompted him to acquiesce, only the slightest taste of bitterness on his tongue as he did so.
But the feel of her stopped him short. He was surprised when his hand crept over a tight patch of curls, the texture vastly different from the mane upon her head. But she had agreed to accept him with all his differences, and he would be willing to do the same.
And some secret part of him might have even found her difference exciting.
But as he explored further, tracing over skin so strange and new to any he had felt before, the rasp of unslickened flesh was undeniable. And he grew certain that to take her, to press into such delicate tissues when she was so dry and unprepared would only cause her pain.
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 5