Thrall (Deridia Book 3)

by Catherine Miller

  But his smile was wide, his eyes bright before he placed another kiss, and her insides grew warm—even warmer than after her first sip of tishane.

  Bendan’s movement caught her eye, and she watched as he walked over to Alindra. Ness hadn’t noticed how she held onto her wrist, almost favouring it. Bendan reached out and pulled the appendage toward him, studying it closely. “Are you injured?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm.

  Alindra tugged her hand free. “I did not appreciate his attitude,” she replied stiffly. It did not escape Ness’s notice that she avoided answering the question directly.

  Bendan must have noticed as well, for he sighed, wrapping his arm about her waist, ignoring her huff of protest. “I think I will go tend to Linnie now, Olivar.” Alindra turned to him, her mouth already open to object, but to Ness’s absolute surprise, suddenly Bendan’s lips were pressed over hers. He pulled back just as quickly, and he eyed her sternly.

  Ness grew wary, but she relaxed slightly when Alindra leaned into him. “You can tell Olivar what happened, Ness,” she said tiredly. “You did not do anything wrong.”

  Ness smiled at her, a little timidly, pushing away the last of her tears. There was no need to cry, not when she was back where she hoped to someday belong, even if her darker thoughts reminded her that the ramifications of today were not yet known.

  “Come along,” Olivar encouraged, directing her toward the stairs as Bendan and Alindra took their leave. He halted, suddenly remembering the apron he still wore, and grimaced. He looked at her apologetically before disentangling her from around him, quickly removing the dirtied leather before dropping it on the floor.

  That seemed quite unlike him, and she almost bent to pick it up herself, but then he was tucking her against him once more and leading her up the stairs, and she could not bring herself to fret over the state of an already filthy apron.

  She looked down woefully at herself when they entered his home, and Olivar did much the same. He had suffered worse, by far, his clothes covered in a fine layer of grime, her own showing a matching imprint of where she had pressed against him.

  Only one day he had worked and yet she had managed to soil two perfectly wonderful tunics—and she was not even the one with a given task.

  “I will wash up quickly,” Olivar promised her. “And then I think I should like to hear the rest of what happened.”

  She nodded, knowing she would have to comply, resolving to put on one of her sleep-dresses and not risk dirtying anything else. She had no intention of leaving Olivar’s home in any case, and surely it would be permissible.

  Ness could hear Olivar running the water in the bathing-room, so she settled on taking a cloth to the kitchen and wiping off any hint of blackened soot. Her clothes she left in a pile for washing, then scrambled into her sleep-dress in case Olivar came out prematurely.

  She didn’t know where to be, didn’t like this waiting, not when she felt so anxious, her nerves tight and her tears too ready. She tucked herself into Olivar’s big chair, pulling her legs up to hide beneath the hem of her dress. She wanted to do quite the same.

  She hadn’t even realised she had dosed off until suddenly a warm hand was at her shoulder. She lurched upward, her head resting comfortably against the arm of the chair, apologies ready on her tongue.

  Olivar hushed them away, kneeling down beside her. “I would have let you sleep, but... well, I need to know if I should be expecting anything.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Like what?”

  He rubbed at his neck, and for the first time she realised why. When first she had met him, his hand had strayed toward his hair, almost as if the obstruction of the band was a new impediment. From what Alindra said, that was precisely what it was.

  Olivar sighed deeply, his hand still on her shoulder, smoothing little circle into her skin. “Was Ragmar going to the Caern?”

  She bit her lip, not wanting to think about that. “I do not know,” she answered sorrowfully. “Alindra hit him. Is that... is that punishable?”

  Olivar grimaced. “It is not encouraged, to be certain, and I suppose he could seek recompense.”

  Ness sank miserably against the chair, knowing she should move and allow him the seat, but finding that her limbs did not much care for courtesy at the moment. “I should have gone with him,” she whispered, knowing already it was true. It was especially true if now Alindra would be in danger of suffering some sort of penalty on her behalf.

  “No,” Olivar stated firmly, his other hand going to her cheek so she had no choice but to look at him. “You did precisely the right thing. I am... so very proud of you, Ness, for telling him no. You do not know how I have feared that you would comply with anything asked of you.”

  Staring at him so, seeing the earnestness in his eyes, made her tongue loosen and words come freely. “I did not want to leave you,” she confessed quietly. “I did not know what he wanted with me.”

  Olivar made a strange sound in the back of his throat, and there was a flash of anger in his eyes. But his touch remained gentle, and he brought his head forward to rest against hers. “I will find that out, Ness, of that you may be certain. And I cannot deny how... glad I am to hear that you do not wish to leave. Not when the very thought of that...”

  He pulled back, shaking his head slightly as he did so. “You have become quite dear to me,” he admitted, that green tinge coming to his ears that she found so very charming. “I should hope that you would...” the green leaked a little further, “find my company as pleasing as I find yours.”

  If his ears were so green, then she was certain her cheeks were a brilliant crimson. “You are my keeper,” she told him. “I do not want another.”

  Something in his eyes dimmed at that, and she could see him pulling away. Perhaps not physically, as he remained kneeling before her, but there was a shuttering away all the same. She hated it. She reached out, grasping his hand firmly, heedless of her training. “I do not... Please, do not misunderstand. I do not use keeper in... in any bad way. In a way to offend.” She bowed her head briefly, trying to find the words to say what she truly meant. “I... I am under your care. Your protection.” She grew a little more hesitant. “Yes?”

  “Yes,” Olivar agreed, though there was no denying the wariness in his tone. She knew how leery he was to be associated with anything from her before, for even the words to be the same. But this...

  This was different.

  “I just want to belong here,” she told him truthfully, hoping that at least he might understand. She was afraid there was a far bigger truth—that she wished to belong to him, but that she did not think she could fully explain. Perhaps not even to herself.

  His eyes softened. “You do,” he assured her, still making those little circles with his thumb. She bit her lip, trying not to grow distracted, shaking her head to clear her thoughts as much as to answer him.

  “Not without you,” she insisted. Hoping to show him that she could think practically. “Where would I live? How would I eat?”

  Olivar looked at her sadly. “That is true,” he relented. “I am happy to give you those things.” A tightness came to the corners of his mouth. “Is that why...” He closed his eyes briefly, likely to gather his thoughts. “If that is your concern, then that means that you think I am better than living with nothing at all, not that you have any...” he halted his words abruptly, removing his hands from her.

  She looked about, thinking he must have seen something for him to withdraw so completely, and she sat up a little straighter, her eyes flitting about the room. There was nothing amiss that she could see, other than Olivar was forced to stand because she still occupied his chair.

  She tried to rise and offer him his proper seat, but Olivar shook his head. “No, you stay, Ness. I... I think I shall make something and... and think.”

  He did not wait for her reply, instead busying himself by the stove. She blinked after him, wondering what had happened. Clearly she had done something wrong, said
something incorrectly, as he appeared most distressed. He moved a little stiffly, as if there was a tension in his shoulders that had not been there before. She frowned, trying to think how she could better explain, suddenly understanding Alindra’s caution to her. Language was difficult, assumption near disastrous, and yet...

  It was important.

  She did not want him to continue under a false assumption of her meaning, did not want to leave things with him looking so very distraught.

  Training dictated that she remain precisely where he had put her, that a master had commanded her to stay while he took time for himself.

  But Olivar had said he wasn’t a master.

  He was a friend.

  She thought of those girls she had been locked in rooms with, of the times when she could bear to see their suffering no longer and would sit next to them, simply... there. A gentle reminder that though speech was forbidden, though they were far from friends, they were not alone.

  Olivar was no different.

  She stood from the chair, grimacing a little at the ache in her hip, compounded by the way she had fallen asleep, but she chose to pay it little mind. She stole into the cook-area, pausing to see if he would chastise her for intruding. But he ignored her besides one quick glance to see that she’d moved. She almost found that to be worse. “I do not know what I said wrong,” she told him. “But... obviously I have since you are upset.”

  Olivar gave a poor imitation of a smile. “The truth is not always a pleasant thing to hear, Ness,” he reminded her. His voice lacked its usual good-humour, and it hurt to hear it absent.

  She bit her cheek, considering. He thought he’d heard a truth, but she wasn’t certain he had. Not when she was so absolutely certain that nothing about how she felt toward him or her life here could possibly be insulting.

  Unless...

  Unless he was coming to understand that she harboured impossible, shameful dreamings of... of him...

  And was as repulsed by them as he should be.

  Her heart ached to think that, even though she knew that it was proper for him to feel that way, and she peeked up at him, trying to decide if that was the right of the matter.

  He was sad. That much was clear. But he seemed more sad for himself than for her, and that was quite a difference.

  “Please,” she entreated. “I wish to make it right. What was it that I said?”

  He paused in his fiddling with a pot, looking at her from half over his shoulder. “Ness...”

  She shook her head, realising that she was rebuffing one of her betters. But he had... had wanted this. Wanted her to speak up, wanted her to show an opinion. And her opinion was that his unhappiness was simply not acceptable. “Please,” she said again, looking at him as she knew he liked.

  He sighed deeply, still not quite turning to face her. “I had... perhaps foolishly, wanted to believe that you would want to stay here with me because you...” he stopped again, groaned, and turned away from her fully. “But if your concerns are practical, then it is clear I was mistaken.”

  She frowned again, more deeply this time, before coming closer so she could see some of his expression. He was being terribly confusing, with his truncated speech, and how was she to know how to fix this if he would not fully explain?

  “About what?” she pressed, finding it oddly easy to do so. Was she changing so very much by being here? Apparently so.

  Or perhaps it was just with him.

  “Please, Olivar,” she entreated, coming as close as she dared. “You needed me to help you, and... and I need that from you, too.”

  His eyes met hers, and they were far more sombre than she was used to seeing from him. It was strange, but not a frightening thing. There was simply a steadiness that made it easy to return. “I want you to choose to be here with me, Ness. Not because it is better than an alternative, but because...” he huffed, rubbing at his neck again. “Because this is simply where you most want to be,” he finally finished, still appearing as if he had not spoken the whole of his truth.

  But she would allow that, allow him his secrets just as she harboured her own. “But it is,” she insisted earnestly. He gave her a dubious look and it was her turn to huff in frustration. More of her emotion must have shown than she’d intended, for suddenly his expression grew rather distracted, the solemnity in his features smoothing into a smile.

  It was an abrupt change, one she could initially account for, and that only fuelled her aggravation.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked, her tone not quite as respectful as was due. She tried to remind herself that Alindra had asked similar things of her, and therefore it was likely permissible, she knew those were justifications. There was a definite huff in her voice that made Olivar’s grin only grow, and she watched him with some consternation. “You are making it worse.”

  He laughed. Perhaps not as fully as he had with Bendan, but it was a laugh, and it was because of her. Maybe at her expense, since she did not know the reason for it, but it still sent a little thrill through her.

  “You are upset with me,” he answered. Except that was not an answer, because it was firstly a falsehood, and secondly because that did not at all explain either his look or his laugh.

  She sank back against the cupboard, trying not to cross her arms and huff for real. He was being terribly confusing and did not seem to want to change that in the least.

  But then he was reaching out, touching her arm gently as quiet chuckles still escaped. “I had... worried that you were afraid of me,” he finally answered more fully. “Or held some... wariness perhaps. I do not want that for you,” he continued, watching her closely as if she was about to interject. She had not been, for that was a truth she had learned early of him. He did not like her fear, did not like her unwavering compliance.

  For whatever reason, no matter how absurd, he liked opinion, and apparently, even stubbornness.

  “If you can be angry with me,” he continued, taking the end of her braid and giving it a little tug, “And show me that, it cannot mean that you think I would ever punish you for it. You... you feel safe here.”

  She truly did huff then, shaking her head. “That is what I have been trying to tell you,” she confirmed tiredly. “I want to be here because I like it. I... I like how I feel when I am here.”

  Olivar smiled, a little sheepishly, a little hopefully. “I am sorry I misunderstood,” he offered, coming nearer. Leaning nearer. She did not understand his intent, not until he was already doing it. He ducked his head down until it was even with hers, his lips coming to brush over her cheek. She could not say that it was swift, for it was not. He... lingered, if only the smallest amount. But that he wanted to made her pulse quicken.

  Her stomach gave a pull, and she would have thought it was a sickened feeling except that... it wasn’t. It was a flutter, an awareness. It was foreign, but pleasant.

  And then he was pulling away, his eyes meeting hers as he searched them for something she did not know.

  She could not readily read his expression, but he was no longer hunching away from her, and he had... had kissed her, if just a little, and that must mean he was no longer upset with her.

  Even if he had been the one to accuse her of being the one upset with him.

  The pot he had been simmering chose to overheat, the liquid coming and bubbling over the top, splashing onto the hot surface below with a sizzle. He jumped, hurrying to tend to it while she was left to stare and try desperately to remind herself that what she felt was dangerous, forbidden.

  All while wondering what it would take for him to kiss her again.

  She wanted to stop him when he moved to pour the contents down the drain, for he had a pinched look to suggest he was unhappy about losing... whatever it was, but she stopped herself. He knew far more than her about most everything, and perhaps it was inedible once it boiled over.

  He sighed, giving the stove a mournful glance, and she did reach out then, taking his hand. “I
can clean it,” she assured him, looking at the mess. It was something small she could offer, but she wanted to. He did so much for her, after all.

  But Olivar shook his head in denial. “It is far too hot for you now,” he answered, “and I was the one who did not pay attention.” She supposed that was true, but his distraction had come from kissing her, and that made her partially responsible.

  But she did not know how to bring that up—not when she was fairly certain there was some misunderstanding that fuelled them. He could not want her in any kind of... affectionate way. Not... not as if she was a mistress. Perhaps kisses meant something else here, not the forbidden things that led to mating as she had been told by the masters. He had not... not touched like the other thralls had when that was their aim. He merely liked to press his lips against her, his eyes so soft whenever he pulled away.

  Perhaps it was a custom of his people?

  She should ask Alindra, but she found that she did not relish the prospect. Those little gestures were hers, something to treasure along with the flutterings in her stomach.

  She was being a fool, and she knew that. Those kindnesses meant far more to her than they should, they made her... want things that were absolutely prohibited.

  She was growing too complacent here, she was forgetting herself and her place, and it was so easy to do with Olivar here to encourage her.

  He hadn’t chastised her for refusing that man earlier. He had looked at her with such pride and satisfaction—as if it pleased him greatly either that she had voiced one of her desires, or perhaps that she had chosen to remain with him. She knew it was her own wishfulness that made her consider the latter possibility, and she tried her best to quell such thoughts. She was growing too comfortable here, wanting things that would never be. Should never be.

  But then Olivar took her hand, and her heart still thrummed rapidly in her chest, and it made her thoughts fuzzy when he smiled at her. “And I do not much feel like cleaning at the moment,” he stated definitively. “Come and tell me of what transpired.”

  She wilted a little at that. She wanted simply to sit with him, perhaps to spy on him, reading in his chair as she pretended to sew. But she had nothing to occupy her hands, and he was already bringing her to the cushioned bench where both of them could sit comfortably, so there was no point in resisting him.