Rykkon grimaced, taking a sip of his own drink. “We had a visitor earlier.”
Wariness immediately overcame her, though he could see she tried to hide it. “Oh?”
He was weary of this talk. Of his people. Of his duty. He longed for his most pressing concern to be his enigma of a mate—that his hours could be spent learning her every nuance, of what she liked and how best to please her.
That his days and nights could be spent exploring.
With a wife who would come to love him.
But his time was not truly his own. It had been bargained away even as his very birth had promised a life of disrespect and challenge. And he had brought an unwitting wife into it.
And he could not pretend that it had not been wholly selfish to have done so.
And in that moment, he was sorrier than he could say.
“I have wronged you. So very much.”
That clearly was not what she expected to hear, for she appeared almost startled by his declaration. “What do you mean? How?”
Frustration welled within him, at himself and at the circumstances he could never change, and he began to pace. “For bringing you here. For thinking... thinking that I could offer you a better life, when I know full well how difficult living here can be. With people who blame you for your own birth, who never let you forget that you are an outsider. I thought only of myself and that I would rather have a mate—have you—than continue here alone. And that was... it was selfish and wrong and you will end up paying dearly for it. And I must live knowing that I have done you this wrong until someday you look at me and wish you had never asked to accompany me.”
Prim was silent for a long while, her eyes settled on the floor as she seemed to process his words. “Who came?”
His steps halted. “What?”
“Who came here?” she reiterated. “Who made you think all these things?”
That did not seem wholly relevant. Kondarr had come, perhaps not as a friend, but for reasons that were relatively pure. But it seemed ridiculous to deny her a simple answer. “Kondarr.” The name clearly meant nothing to her. “He is the trade leader with Mercy. You have seen him often there.”
Prim grimaced. “Oh, him.”
Evidently she had less than a high opinion of the other male, and he remembered some of Kondarr’s rudeness to her when first she had proposed she return with them. “He came to warn us that the elders would be discussing Okmar’s death. Discuss... you. And the Narada.”
Prim shuddered. “And the colonists.”
Rykkon gave a nod. “Likely, yes.”
Prim was silent, and she continued to look downward, and as she moved she seemed startled to realise she was still holding her untouched cup of teshon. She took a tentative sip, and he wondered at her thoughts.
And again wished that she had slept on. That he could have woken her in sweeter ways—a welcome distraction for them both.
“So your answer is to say that us being together is a horrible mistake? That it was selfish of you and I should... what? Just go back to the colony? Back to my father and the starving? How would that be better?”
Rykkon sighed deeply, his fingers suddenly tingling with the desire to touch her. To comfort. To repeal the words he evidently should not have spoken. “That is not... I would never return you there. Surely you know that.”
She looked up suddenly. “Do I? When apparently you feel guilty for the whole thing. When you start thinking that a few unkind words in a language I can’t even understand would make me regret everything. Regret you.”
“Prim...” he murmured, words failing him. He did not know how to answer her, not when she was right. It was foolish of him to dwell even a moment on the possibility that their choices, the very decisions that had brought them together, had been a mistake.
He would not undo them. Not ever. And to give any of those doubts hold would be a dishonour to the wife he was coming to treasure so very deeply.
He stepped closer, hating the distance between them, the hurt he saw in her eyes, the way she turned from him as he neared. “You can’t say those kinds of things to me. Not if... if you want me to trust you. To believe you that this is our home. That my children would be welcomed by you and you would take care of us. Because what if the guilt is too much? And suddenly, stupidly you think I’d be better off back at the colony and you leave me there?” She looked over her shoulder, her eyes accusing, her shoulders hunched as she set her teshon upon his worktable.
And he realised how much he had wounded her. More than any action his people had taken against her.
Perhaps he had been mistaken—it was possible that his selfishness was not in the accepting of her proposal, but in thinking he had the luxury of toying with regret. And yet, perhaps that was what caused so much of his guilt—Prim had admitted it, but he had not.
Despite everything, he regretted none of it. Not the way in which they had come to be, not in their joining or their mating. For it seemed the most wrong to even consider that he should do so.
And if she held no objection to it either, found even the mention of regret to be a hurtful, stupid thing, perhaps it was acceptable that they be selfish. Together.
And perhaps he thought a great deal too much, and action was needed instead lest more foolishness fall from his tongue as he hurt his poor mate further.
Rykkon stepped closer to her once more, and though she tried to move away, he drew her into his arms, her back against his front as he leaned down, his lips grazing the curve of her shoulder. Not quite kissing. Not quite. But wanting.
Needing.
“I’m mad at you,” Prim declared, her body stiff against him, trapped as it was between the worktable and his larger frame.
“I know,” he acknowledged, his lips pressing all the more firmly.
“Do you think holding me here against my will somehow change my mind?”
Rykkon sighed deeply and laid his head against her shoulder. Words failed, action failed. So he would have to become better with both. “No,” he agreed. “But perhaps your foolish mate does not wish for you to flee from him, not until he can ask for your pardon.”
Prim looked back at him, her expression resolved. “Apologies don’t really mean much, Rykkon. I’ve received enough of them from my father to know that for sure.”
He ached for her, to know that even something as simple as a genuine expression of remorse could be twisted into something ugly—once the betrayals kept asserting themselves, once the beatings began anew.
“You are right,” he said instead. “It was wrong of me to speak as I did. I would never force you back to Mercy, not even in a misguided sense of protection. And I... must remember that you possess a great fortitude when it comes to dealing with my people.”
Prim nodded. “Yes, you should. I don’t think you really understand that they aren’t much different than my people. Not in the way they treat me. I was an outsider at the colony and I’m certainly one here. I’m not sure I’d know how to be anything else.”
It was not an answer he cared for, but he did not offer her platitudes—assurances that things would be different in the future. Even now, the elders were discussing the Narada, discussing them, and he could not guess the outcome of such talks.
But he knew that he had wronged his wife, and he would seek to make amends.
“I shall make mistakes. I am... unused to living with another, to assessing their feelings and acting accordingly. I would ask for your patience and your forgiveness when I misstep.”
Prim was silent for a long while, nothing in her body suggesting where her thoughts might lie. Until finally, excruciatingly, she relaxed against him.
“I want to trust you,” she murmured softly, and he held her all the nearer, relishing the feel of her. “I want the words you speak to be the ones you mean—and I do not want to hear again that you feel guilty. That you might regret us. I can’t... we can’t move forward if that’s what you’re harbouring.”
He wo
ndered if he would ever be truly free of the burdens he placed upon himself. But his wife required it of him, and he would do anything for her.
“I will do my utmost not to be overcome by such thoughts again,” he promised her. “And you need not fear—this is your home as well, and I shall not evict you from it. I have no right to dictate such a thing, only to ask that you continue to make your home with me.”
She suddenly shifted in his arms, turning to face him and he adjusted accordingly. His hands were against her back, though he allowed one to come to touch her cheek—needing to feel her, to know truly that all was forgiven. “That’s all I want to do. I don’t care about the rest of it. I mean...” she blew out a frustrated breath. “I admit, your people frighten me and what they might choose to do when they blame me for something. But I won’t let that ruin the good life that we could have.” She peered up at him, her eyes solemn. “Will you?”
He could easily do so. He had already offended her deeply with his worries.
But she spoke truly—it would be wasteful to allow his people to dictate the joy to be found within these walls.
And he fully expected there would be much joy to be found, if ever he would gather the courage to take it.
She did not move when he leaned closer, did not push him away or give any sign that his presence displeased her. There was a nervousness in his belly that he found rather shameful, an uncertainty that was becoming all the more familiar in his dealings with her.
But he wanted, and he needed, and as she looked up at him in that way, her body so close, no longer stiff and withholding, he wanted to see what would happen if their lips met.
It was not like when his mother had kissed him.
That had been suffered through a youngling’s indulgence for a mother who insisted upon the giving of them. But kissing Prim... the way her lips yielded to his, moulding around his, warm and pliant as she received him...
It was a most pleasant thing.
He did not kiss her long, a firm pressure before he retreated, the better to look at her, to assess. Her eyes were closed, though they slowly opened to look at him as well, and they stared at each other for a long moment.
“Well?” he asked at last. “Do you find it agreeable?”
Prim made an odd coughing noise in her throat, colour coming into her cheeks. “I think... I think you should do it again so I can make sure.”
Rykkon nearly frowned at that, but the way she looked at his mouth it appeared as if she was... teasing him.
Because she wanted him.
It seemed almost too incredible to be possible, but he had already determined that he thought entirely too much, so he would not press her on the subject. Now was the time to explore, to listen and indulge based on the cues she provided him. And, for now, she wished to be kissed again.
This time he took his time, varying the pressure as he tried to learn what he liked best—what she seemed to like best. But when he felt her small hands coming to rest upon his chest, he no longer had so much control over his thoughts, some instinct asserting itself that he did not know he possessed as he drew her upward, resting her on the worktable so he would not have to lean so very far to kiss her properly, his lips almost moving with a will of their own.
As they learned her.
Tasted her.
And coaxed her to do the same.
He grew concerned when at last she pushed him away, her breath a bit short, a bit ragged. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Prim? Are you well?”
He did not expect to find her so radiant when she smiled. She had gifted them to him before, but not like this—never so unhindered. “I think I like it,” she decided, and a swell of pride overcame him. And instead of kissing her again as he should like to, he found himself drawing her into his arms and holding her close, needing to feel her, to know that she was real.
Never could he have imagined a mate that brought him such completion simply from being herself.
“I care for you,” he managed to say at last, when her confusion must have given way to acceptance, her body leaning into his embrace. “I care for you very much. And even if you do not like to hear it, I shall say it for I need to. I am sorry for my earlier words. I am sorry that anything should have made me doubt. Doubt us.”
He felt her fingers smoothing across his tunic, tickling in their softness as she drew unknown patterns through the fabric. He supposed he was holding her rather tightly, an unreasonable feeling settling within him that to let go would mean to lose her, but he forced himself to loosen his arms, allowing her some measure of freedom.
“I accept your apology,” she answered, her eyes so lovely as they looked up at him. So different from his kind, with their solitary lid, the rounded pupil. But lovely in their way, soft and kind as she regarded him.
It was with some startling awareness that he finally noted their position. He had come to stand between her legs, the better to reach her, to kiss her, to hold her.
His mouth grew dry, his pulse quickening, and he knew then that he should very much like to learn more of her. To give her a joining that was proper and true, when she was no longer hurt, her blood not tainted with manta to dull those pains.
When she could look at him that way when he was buried inside her, so warm and welcoming as she drew him all the closer.
His fingers grazed her cheek, afraid that to touch her more would frighten her away. He must be supremely gentle with her—of that he knew. A thrill of excitement shuddered through him as he thought of what might come.
Of exploring.
Of exploring her.
“Prim,” he said again, his voice slightly hoarse. “Would you care to return to bed now?”
She blinked at him, and he was gratified to see none of the confusion, none of the resigned wariness that he had witnessed before. Only, perhaps, just a hint of excitement.
But maybe he chose only to see that as a reflection of his own.
Yet her words confirmed it, her cheeks still that delightful pink even as her voice remained steady.
“Yes.”
15. Explore
It was an odd thing to carry her to their bed while the suns were still present in the sky. Odd, but thrilling; the knowledge of what was to come keeping his pulse quick as he laid her down upon the furs, almost reluctant to let her go. She was no great weight—never that—but Prim filled his arms somehow, the fullness of her presence a tangible thing as he held her in his embrace. He relished her cry of surprise as he had lifted her, not wanting to be separated from her even during the short distance it would take to cross the room. He wanted to kiss her again as he carried her, but her eyes were on the bed, a hint of longing there.
And so he set her down gently, pausing as he did so. He would join her—of course he would. But he wanted to remember this. Remember her slightly rumpled hair, the colour of her lips, pink from his kisses.
She was a thing of beauty, his mate.
She shifted slightly, evidently uncomfortable with his scrutiny. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Yes,” he assured her, his hand reaching out and skimming her covered shoulder. “But I am wondering,” he mused aloud. “If perhaps you could be persuaded to remove your tunic.”
Her cheeks flamed even as she glanced away from him, and he considered if he had offended her. Such had not been his intention, but he remembered every instance of seeing her so partially nude, and... he wanted it again.
To feel her skin against his.
He had yet to don a tunic of his own, and it seemed only fair.
And to his surprise, she relented as she sat up, her fingers hesitating only the smallest amount before she removed the covering entirely. Her arms shifted awkwardly, almost as if she wished to cover herself, but she did not allow them to do so.
And belatedly he realised that he was waiting too long, her discomfort growing all the more as he continued to stare at her.
Rykkon sat on the bed, pushing her tunic to the end of it. Now
that so much bare flesh was exposed, he did not quite know where to begin. He wished to study her breasts—so different from those of his people in their softness and size—but instead he found himself looking at her expression, waiting until she would meet his eye.
When she did so, there was a tenseness about her mouth that he could not allow. Not now.
He reached out, a finger smoothing across the terseness of her lips. “You are most beautiful,” he murmured, feeling the description wholly inadequate. “I have not told you so enough—another cause for an apology.”
He should take offence at the roll of her eyes, but he realised then, as the amusement settled within him, that she would not be his Prim if she accepted every compliment with grace. “I believe we both decided we were receiving rather plain offerings for mates.”
His head tilted slightly to the side. “I believe that we both agreed that it did not matter that others thought us thusly. For I find you most agreeable. And you find me so?” He looked to her for confirmation, displeased that he felt it necessary to do so. She had assured him before that she thought well enough of him, but now, with the prospect of what was to come, he found it important to know that she thought him desirable.
For he certainly thought so of her.
She glanced away again, and he wondered yet again if he used too many words, if she would prefer that he be more like her—silent in most things unless it proved a matter or question that was particularly pressing.
But he had come to enjoy having someone to talk to, even if she preferred merely to listen.
“You are very fine to look at.”
He frowned. “Do you mean ‘fine’ as in adequate?” How he hated when she would describe her state of being as fine. And he rather thought he hated it more when she used it to refer to his person.
But she scoffed and gave him a shove, and he grew alarmed until he saw the humour in her eyes. “No, you dolt. As in... I find you... handsome.”
Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Page 19