Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  And he would not be the cause of that. Not when he had promised her.

  He removed himself from the bed, and she looked at him in surprise, a measure of hurt present before it was quickly concealed. “Changed your mind?” she asked resignedly, staring up at the ceiling as she drew the bed coverings up around her shoulders.

  He went to his many shelves, considering which would serve his purpose best—something to ease the way, something that would not further irritation to tissues about to be abraded.

  Rykkon made his selection, returning to her side and showing her the little pot.

  “You may prefer to have this over quickly, but I prefer not to leave you bloody by the end of it.”

  Her face flushed and she looked away from him as he sat beside the bed, and he urged his fingers not to shake as he spread a generous amount between her legs.

  This was not how he had imagined his first mating. Not at all.

  Not with her looking resolutely away from him, not with her glistening from burn paste rather than want of him.

  But he supposed, with grim humour, that their future could only improve.

  She was tight around his finger as he made sure she was as prepared as he could make her, and he watched her face carefully for any sign of discomfort. She did not look pleased, but she did not push him away, did not ask him to wait, to kiss her, to find some small moment of love in this midst of their joining.

  He pushed away the hurt and reminded himself that she was fatigued, the manta dulling her senses. They would have a lifetime to perfect this particular art.

  He resituated himself over her when at last he was satisfied that she was as ready enough to receive him, wishing that he had more certainty that such was the case.

  Despite his reservations, the feel of her, the knowledge that he had been given permission to relate to her was enough to ready his own flesh, though he did not feel the overwhelming urgency that he had expected. Not when she still would not look at him, and it all felt too clinical to be considered fully binding.

  She had asked if his people knew of matings without love.

  There was a difference between knowing of them and experiencing one, and he became all the more determined that he could not spend the rest of his life with her in such a cool manner.

  But she was tired and wanted to rest, and he would view this as his first measure of protection over her and not a reflection of their cycles to come.

  He entered her slowly, gently opening her flesh and coaxing it around him lest he pull or tug something unnecessarily. She still stiffened beneath him, still closed her eyes as she hissed in a breath, and he could only imagine what she would have felt if he had attempted this action when she was so dry and unprepared.

  And felt tremendous guilt at the sheer pleasure that shuddered through him to be so tightly embraced.

  “Do you need me to stop?” he asked, gritting his teeth as he tried to fight for calm.

  She was too warm, too soft, everything that was glorious and unexpected. He wanted to move, to push, to prod at her, but she still appeared pained, and he could not have that. Not with his now-wife.

  “I’m all right,” she confirmed at last, her voice not as strained as he had expected. She opened her eyes at last, the tight cord of her muscles relaxing, and he was glad that he had given her the manta if it was the reason she was able to do so. “Are you going to move?”

  He grunted, giving an experimental push of his hips, closing his own eyes at the pleasure that came with it. He held himself above her, wishing he could crush her body to him as he found what rhythm was most pleasing, but he was mindful of her bruises, knowing that would have to wait. But he leaned down and nuzzled his face into her neck, her hair, his mouth brushing at the flesh there in not quite a kiss.

  And when he felt the tightening of his belly, as he tensed with expectation of the release to follow, he was almost certain that he felt a whisper of her fingers against his arm.

  Only to find it gone when he recovered himself enough to once more have proper awareness of his surroundings.

  “Have I hurt you?” He hated that he needed to ask, wanting to think it too preposterous to even require the question, but there was no mistaking her wince when he had entered, and he would not have her suffering on his account.

  “It’s fine,” she insisted, tugging at the blanket even as she pushed down her tunic.

  He frowned. “It is not ‘fine’ if I have hurt you. Would you like another cup of manta?”

  Rykkon could not allow her to imbibe too much, but she would be fine having perhaps another half-cupful.

  Prim rolled to her side, and his arms felt empty, his body too cold no longer having her pressed against him in the most tempting of ways.

  She was tired.

  And weary.

  And he wished he could have waited.

  “Really, it’s fine. It didn’t hurt any more than I expected. You were very... gentle.” Her voice was odd, rather detached, and it troubled him.

  He should not touch her, should simply leave her to rest and they could discuss everything more come morning—possibly not until second sunrise if the dark circles beneath her eyes indicated how much sleep she truly required—but he felt uneasy and needful, an unexpected combination to be certain. He reached out and grasped her shoulder, pushing gently yet insistently until she lay flat against the bed and he could look at her properly.

  “Do you hate me?”

  It was not what he meant to ask. He was going to enquire as to her wellbeing, check her for any tearing that would require tending. With some embarrassment, he already realised he would need to fetch her a cloth and a bowl of water so she could cleanse herself before sleeping. He chastised himself for feeling so—there was nothing more natural than the fluids they exchanged during their mating. But then, there had not been a true exchange, had there? There had been no answering slick to meet him, no desire in her eyes as he had taken her, and now she was even more cold and aloof.

  Had he ruined things already?

  Prim blinked at him, seemingly in surprise. “Hate you?”

  Rykkon sighed. “For this. For taking you when you do not want me.”

  She chuffed out a breath, tugging at the coverings until they were tucked beneath her chin. Her fingers still stroked over the edges, and he vaguely wondered if having such comforts was a new experience for her and thus something to be treasured and savoured.

  Precisely how he had wished to treat her.

  “I don’t hate you, Rykkon,” his name on her lips sending a strange thrill through him. “I don’t know why you keep saying I don’t want you, because I made it very clear I wanted you for my husband. And since this was the way of your people to make that happen, clearly I’m fine with it. I am fine,” she reiterated, her voice firm even through her ever increasing exhaustion. “But I am also worn out and just... please, can’t I sleep now?”

  He wanted to press, to explain his meaning so she would understand that he only desired to be a good, kind mate that would provide his wife with pleasure in equal measure, but he hesitated.

  Perhaps their females were not gratified during such joinings?

  There was much he did not understand, and she was thoroughly exhausted, and he was a brute for keeping her from the rest she desperately needed.

  But he also would not allow her to awake sticky.

  “A moment,” he told her, and he very nearly saw her whimper as she burrowed further beneath the blankets, and he felt a moment’s guilt. But he knew it was best for her, so he fetched what was necessary and held out the cloth to her.

  Only for her to blink at it without understanding.

  “You should wash,” he said at last, knowing he was perfectly capable of doing it himself, but thinking she would prefer that his hands be nowhere near those delicate places. Not now.

  Her cheeks pinked, and she dampened the cloth before bringing it beneath the blankets, and though he should give her privacy, turn his back
and busy himself elsewhere, instead he merely turned slightly away, enough that he could still watch for any discomfort to flit across her features as she washed.

  There was none.

  And some part of his guilt lessened.

  She handed him back the cloth, and mumbled, “Thank you,” before she curled into a ball beneath the bedding, her eyes closed tightly, and he finally let her rest.

  He stared down at the cloth in his hands, his throat tight as he saw the smear of blood evidenced there. She had told him she was fine. He had already given her medicine to help her pains, and there was little he could do for that particular area.

  Yet guilt gnawed at him that he had not done enough, not been careful enough, and she had been damaged in the process.

  He left the hut, choosing to rinse the cloth in the stream rather than the pot he used to launder his garments when they were particularly soiled and required a soak over the coals.

  The night was crisp, a firm reminder that soon the colder seasons would come and the snows would set in. But for now, he was glad for the nip against his flesh. He had righted his trous, but he was bare above them. It cooled his blood and allowed him to think more clearly.

  He had a wife now. One he did not understand—not in the least.

  He wanted his father. Someone to speak to, to understand, though he was not certain that he would have done so. But he had apprenticed under him, and he missed the carefully worded advice, the stern tone when a skill was of particular importance.

  And Rykkon could certainly have used some of his wisdom when it came to Prim.

  He would tell Rykkon to be kind. To remind him that she was the gentler between them, and that he must be tender, in both body and in heart.

  Rykkon grimaced. He had tried to be, and still she bled.

  He knelt beside the stream, remembering the view of her barely concealed breasts, and he bit back a groan, instead plunging the cloth into the water and scrubbing at it, determined to wash away the evidence of their congress. The elders would come early, he was certain of it, and he could tell them honestly that he had taken Prim to wife. There would be no cloth to show, no examination. Their solemn word was enough, but he would have to keep his temper should they press him further.

  Prim might not be as he expected, not with her dead eyes and hesitant questions, but she was his and he would keep her.

  Of that at least he was certain.

  She was fully asleep when at last he returned, and he watched her for a time, studying her features. Her brow was smooth, her lips full, yet chapped from both her nibbling and exposure to the suns.

  She was appealing, even now, and would be more so when she was healed and he no longer was faced with the evidence of her past. She was an enigma, and unknown, but they had time, and he would do his utmost to have patience. Even when her words stung, when her meaning was unclear, he would at least offer her that.

  He climbed carefully into his bed, fairly certain that it would be more generous to allow her use of it while he slept elsewhere—at least until she grew more comfortable with his presence. But she had insisted that she wanted him to be her husband, if not perhaps her lover, and it was only natural that they share a sleeping space.

  So with that assurance, he pressed a little closer, his arm brushing against the small of her back, the bedding unfamiliar in its warmth as he settled there.

  This was to be married.

  And as he lay awake, considering, he did not find it wholly unpleasant. Awkward, perhaps, and with much room for improvement. But overall, he was not displeased.

  And with that determination, he slept.

  5. Learn

  “Is your name of some significance?”

  The second sun had yet to rise, and Rykkon still lay beside his new wife, finding this a very pleasant way to awaken. She had slept longer than he, likely aided by the manta, and he had debated ensuring his morning was a productive one with his desire to remain by her side.

  The comforts of his bed had proven too powerful to resist.

  At last her eyes had fluttered before they opened, her brow furrowing as she seemed to try to make sense of her surroundings. He did not greet her, made no sound, allowing her to adjust and come to the realisation on her own. She did not startle as he had half-expected, did not pull away from him when she noticed that her arm was pressed close to his. Instead she merely blinked at him, lying prone and still likely sleepy.

  He enjoyed it.

  And it allowed him time for questions.

  He knew little of the names of her people. The leader was known, and he had gleaned others throughout the cycles of joining the traders in their exchange of goods, but hers did not seem quite in keeping with those he had known.

  Prim hummed low in her throat, neither an affirmation nor a denial.

  He looked at her more closely and tried again. “Were you named after a progenitor?” A common occurrence amongst his people. He was named after his father’s father, for remembrance. It was an honourable thing to be worthy of another to share in ones namesake.

  Prim remained silent and his frustration rose, until finally, she spoke. “Prim wasn’t the name I was born with.”

  Confusion replaced frustration. “An endearment then?” Some held such titles, but those were few. Names were important. They spoke of lineage, of strength, and were not easily put aside.

  Prim snorted, rolling her eyes. “Not quite.” She did not seem keen on elaborating, but Rykkon was concerned. Her people held no qualms at punishing her physically, and he would not approve if he was causing her some inner hurt by using a name meant to deride her.

  “What does it mean, then?”

  She closed her eyes before she rolled over, the easier to look at him, he supposed, as she watched him carefully—the better to watch his reaction, or perhaps his understanding, he had yet to tell. “Prim and proper. It’s a saying from the Old Days. Means someone who likes to keep to manners and rules.”

  His confusion grew. “But it was not meant a compliment? To be called that?”

  She gave one of her little shrugs, something he was coming to suspect covered hidden wounds. “They didn’t mean it to be. Thought I was uppity because I didn’t like their games, didn’t like their ways.” She shook her head. “They were only children, and so was I, but the name stuck, until even the adults used it.”

  “I will not use it then,” he suggested, hoping to please her. But instead, her lips thinned and he wondered what he had done wrong. “That is not to your liking?”

  Prim sighed before looking at him again. “I’m used to it, and it doesn’t bother me anymore. Don’t see a point in switching now.”

  He wanted to remind her that she had started a very different life—that if there was any such time to begin anew, it would be now. But her eyes were guarded, and he feared that to prod further would do more damage than cause healing, so he decided to remain silent.

  On that subject at least.

  “Are you well? After last night?”

  A part of him did not wish to enquire, still feeling strange about the entire exchange, but the healer in him needed to know that she was not truly injured—not that he trusted her overmuch to tell him the truth in that regard. The sight of her blood upon the cloth still troubled him.

  Prim sat experimentally, appearing to actually consider the question. He was disappointed at her actual reply. “Would you be angry if I said I was fine?”

  He very nearly sighed at that, tired of that particular word and her insistence of its use when he could not know of its accuracy. “Possibly. It would depend on your truthfulness.”

  She considered a moment longer then, still looking at him. “I’m sore, but I have no idea if that’s from the walk or from... you.”

  Rykkon thought that strange—that both activities required very different muscles that might choose to protest now, but he did not press her further. She had admitted to some pain, and he could help her. He doubted she would like to hear a ch
astisement for not having spoken of it without prompting.

  “Would you care for some manta?” Prim looked at him quizzically. “The drink from last night,” he clarified. “It helps with pain.”

  Colour rose in her cheeks and she glanced away from him. “No, I don’t think so.” She did not tell him of her apparent embarrassment, did not explain why she should blush and find herself unable to look at him, but he supposed he could offer her a modicum of privacy. Even as curiosity burned at him.

  “I need not make it so strong,” he offered gently, wondering if perhaps that was the cause of her concern. He was well aware that the elders would call upon him soon, whether by journeying to him, or sending a messenger to demand his own presence, and he would need her to have full use of her faculties.

  If he had to go, he supposed he could leave her behind, but the thought filled him with dread. He could offer her no protection if he was far from her side, and while their bond created last night was absolute, there were still devious persons of his tribe that might see to put an end to their mating through violent ends.

  Prim moved then, obviously considering his offer, and he watched her face carefully. If she would not be more forthcoming with her needs, he would simply have to become more proficient at gleaning them for himself.

  “Maybe a little something,” she admitted grudgingly, almost as if it was a weakness to have done so—and from the way she looked at him, it appeared as though she half-expected him to find her so for asking.

  Rykkon leaned forward and nuzzled his face against her neck, allowing his lips to drift across the skin there in a not-quite kiss. Later. When he had courted her properly and she was warm and willing and inviting. “It is a pleasure to provide for you,” he assured her when at last he pulled away. “You need not fear to ask something of me.”

  He had hoped to see that his nearness was a pleasing thing to her, that she enjoyed it as a wife would a husband, but she appeared more uncomfortable than aroused or assured.