Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales Book 1)

by Ann Aguirre

  Fear spikes through me, sharp enough that I wake in a cold sweat, shivering in Njål’s arms. That’s a toothless threat; it must be. She can’t cut through the ages to hurt me.

  Can she?

  Still, I can’t get back to sleep with the visceral fright coursing through me in drowning waves. Njål, on the other hand, dozes like the dead. Carefully I roll to face him, gazing into his face as I don’t dare when he’s awake. Though he’s given me permission to look, it still makes him uncomfortable when I do.

  Carefully, I trace the ridge of his brow and smooth his thick eyebrows, the same ashen hue as his hair. His coloring whispers of winter, like the magic of this place has trickled into his bones. I wonder what happened the night of his transformation, and if the baroness succeeded in possessing Gilda.

  With a soft sigh, I wriggle out of his arms. I’ll get restless and bother him if I stay here, pinned between his big body and the wall. Despite the popping fire, the floor is cold beneath my bare feet, but I don’t don my shoes until I get in the kitchen. I stop in astonishment because Bart and Agatha are curled up by the fire like a pair of dogs. They’ve also made a bit of a mess and there’s goat dung to clean up as well. On the whole, the damage isn’t as bad as I feared.

  Silently I tidy up, then escort Lord Buck and Lady Doe back to their own quarters. Once they’ve settled in the stable, I head to the west tower, more shaken by the encounter with the baroness than I want to admit. Climbing the spiral staircase takes far more effort when I’m not dream-walking, and I’m panting by the time I get to the top. Part of me hoped that all the details would be wrong, proving that I didn’t really go back. It was just a result of exhaustion and imagination.

  But no. Time has had its way with this place; the plush fabrics are faded and frayed while the windowpanes sport a few cracks here and there—spiderweb traceries of damage, chips and dings in the glass. I run a fingertip over the broken parts, gazing out into the darkness. From this vantage, that’s all I can see, not even a glimmer from town. I might well be alone in the world.

  If Bitterburn was frozen when the curse began, that must have happened decades after his transformation. I peer at a sampler and recognize the brown-red splotch of blood.

  There are supplies still in cupboards and baskets, gilt thread meant for decorative work, and silver needles that would fetch a pretty penny in the great city. In Bitterburn town, nobody adorns their dresses anymore, assuming they can afford to replace them. It’s all stolid wool and thick stockings and boots heavy as my heart is now.

  I don’t understand the dread permeating my whole body, but it’s a chill I can’t shake off. That warning gnaws at my mind like a worm that can devour my happy thoughts. When I inhale, I breathe in attar of roses, thick and cloying. The perfume fills my lungs, and suddenly, it feels as if she’s watching me, like I’m not the only one who can skim through the years. Shuddering, I run from the tower, taking the stairs at a breakneck pace and it’s only when I stumble and nearly dash my brains out on the stone stairs that I slow, breath heaving in the darkness and silence of Bitterburn.

  Hunched over, hands on my knees, I drink down great gulps of air. Here, it’s fresh and clean, none of that awful floral essence. The keep nudges me, trying to show me more of the old wards, more of the tangled webs. I can’t concentrate on this while doing anything else, but what’s more important than this?

  Closing my eyes, I let the connections unspool in my head, and I see tendrils extending outward, draining the life from the land surrounding it. Though I was only guessing at the time, I was right. Powerful spells don’t sustain themselves, and the surrounding area is paying the cost. Winter will only get worse, until everyone starves and there’s no life left here at all.

  What happens then? Will the spell expire from lack of energy? Or will it just keep draining the world, as winter expands its territory? Right now, nobody in Kerkhof cares about our predicament, but when the snow stops melting farther south, they’ll likely march, and they might bring down the walls with cannons and mortar. The wards react with what feels like emotional distress, filling my head with colors in response to the idea of an army outside these walls.

  Njål said he can’t die, but I’m sure he can be hurt. Can any creature survive having his head separated from his neck? I’d rather not find out.

  This is my problem to solve, but it’s so weighty. I’m inexperienced. Untrained. It seems likely that I might even make matters worse with my unskilled fumbling. Despair perches on my shoulder like a spider.

  As I sit in the drafty hallway, my brain bloated with too much information, I have no idea how I’m supposed to keep the promises I’ve made.

  21.

  It takes me a full week to recover from laying the wards.

  While my spirit is willing, my body is weak. Apparently magic takes a great deal out of you, just like Bitterburn is slowly sapping the life from the countryside. I try not to think of that—of the low harvests and the long winter, how my family might be starving.

  They didn’t even want you, that awful voice whispers. You could make them pay.

  That’s the right approach, and it takes me longer to silence the enticement than usual. I wish that Da and Catherine would suffer, but if I let this creature dig into my own wounds, they’ll not only fester, my soul will rot from the inside. Shuddering, I roll over in bed and slam the door between us.

  I must not weaken. I must not let it in.

  To encourage me to rest, Njål does half the cooking, despite being endearingly terrible at it. During that time, I don’t dream-travel, though I do have nightmares that I don’t recall upon waking. And he stays with me in my room, five nights out of seven.

  I can’t recall anyone caring for me this way. My mother must have, but I was so small then and our roles reversed when I was young, so that I nursed her as she lay dying. Owen was too busy working in the smithy, planning for our future, and we never got the chance to live it. Maybe it’s because Njål only lets himself believe in now but he’s here with me, every heartbeat, every moment.

  And it is . . . magical.

  “Put on a pretty dress tonight,” he tells me, as I scrub the kitchen floor.

  I glance up at him through the tumble of hair that’s escaped from its plait. “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Not at all. Will you indulge me?” When he uses that deep voice, there’s little possibility that I could refuse.

  “Very well.”

  “Meet me after dinner in the great hall,” Njål says mysteriously.

  Plenty of chores await me, but I’m far too excited about this cryptic invitation to focus on any of them. Awash in fervent anticipation, I cook some food and tuck it in the pantry to be heated later, then I indulge myself as I rarely have by hauling ice and snow to heat for a proper bath. I settle into the copper tub before the fire and scrub every inch of my skin until it’s glowing.

  Part of me hopes that Njål will interrupt, as that could prove most diverting, but he makes himself scarce all afternoon and into the evening. I wish I had essential oils to make me smell as pretty as I am clean—oh. Dried rosemary and mint might not be an expensive scent, but when I soak the herbs in water and daub the resultant tincture on my pulse points, I smell bright and fresh, the best I can do under the circumstances.

  Njål does show up for dinner, and we eat together, but he doesn’t say much. I’m torn between irritation and intrigue at his secretive behavior. This isn’t like the usual mysteries, nothing to do with the east wing.

  “Do you plan to tell me what this is all about?” I ask.

  “I will not. Let me surprise you, beloved.”

  This endearment nearly slays me. The first time he’s called me that—and the word pierces me like an arrow, a sweetly killing shot. “Beloved” is not a term that’s commonly used anymore, unlike “sweetheart” or “darling,” yet I thrill to it, as if I’ve stepped into an epic poem, an ode written in my honor. Njål’s eyes twinkle nonstop, until I finally stor
m out of the kitchen pretending to be vexed.

  I’m not at all. Trying to cool my cheeks with my palms, I wonder what the night has in store. A touch nervous, I pinch my cheeks and bite my lips for I’ve no cosmetics, and then I take down my hair. It’s dark and wild, spilling down my back like a spring torrent. My “pretty dress” I made myself, sewn clumsily, but in the candlelight my poor stitches don’t show, and at least it’s not the one I wore with Owen. The fabric is creamy and clean, dotted with tiny green flowers, and I tie a matching sash around my waist, spending a good five minutes trying to perfect the bow in back. I’ve no shiny shoes to match with it, no glimmering jewels either, but I hope Njål won’t mind.

  In appearance I take after my mother, and I’ve never cared if others found me beautiful. Tonight, I wish to take his breath away. My heart races as I make my way to the great hall. Bitterburn tries to show me something, but I block it out. Just once, for tonight, I don’t want to think about anything else. No fear, no foreboding.

  Halfway there, I spot candles lining the hall, a veritable sea of them, like a chorus of fireflies standing guard along my path. I come into the great hall and there are even more candles, along with the chandelier that he’s somehow polished and kindled, so this is the brightest this room has ever been since my arrival.

  Njål waits for me in the center of the room, standing on one of the white tiles. As always, I avoid the red and move toward him at a stately pace. When I get close, he extends his hand, allowing me to see him fully. No shadows, no hunched shoulders. And he’s dressed in formal wear perfectly tailored to him. Black jacket, crisp white shirt, white vest threaded with silver. From head to toe, he is magnificent. Not human, but when he’s this fierce and resplendent, I don’t know why he’d want to be, either.

  As if by magic, a soft, tinny music starts to play, probably from an old music box. My imagination fills in the melody, adding percussion and strings, until it becomes a full orchestra. I put my hand in his and then we’re dancing. He carries me with him more like, swept on the gorgeous tide of his eagerness. Njål knows what he’s doing while I plainly do not. I’ve only ever done festival dances, the stomping and spinning that gets on when people are full of ale and high spirits.

  Yet it doesn’t matter that I fumble my steps. I only need to trust and follow him, glory in his grace and strength. His hand in mine, the other at my waist, guiding me through the turns. He gazes down at me like I’m the sun in the sky or the goddess of spring, certainly the most beautiful person he’s ever beheld. His eyes glow like stars, and I have never been as happy as I am at this moment.

  When the music stops, so do we. Njål bends so slowly that I could avoid the kiss, but instead I rise on tiptoe to meet him. His mouth burns mine with icy heat, and I stretch upward even more, twining my arms about his neck to fall into the embrace that sweeps me like an avalanche, until I dig my fingers into his shoulders because the world is spinning beneath my feet. My soul fills with him, even as our lips glide and nuzzle, a steamy softness that fills me with urgency.

  His tongue touches mine, and I feel that delicate stroke everywhere. Njål catches my gasp in his mouth and swings me into his arms. “Come to bed with me.” The deep, low growl vibrates in my stomach, creating a shockwave of pleasurable chills.

  I nod and snuggle into his arms, no longer worried about anything. He spent so much time giving me a magical memory that I don’t doubt my own desires. The past doesn’t matter, neither does the future. For once in my life, I wish to be reckless.

  He carries me from the great hall in long strides, and I hold on to him. But we don’t go to my little room in the kitchen or the east wing. Instead, he’s created a bower for us from one of the empty state rooms. More candles in here, I’d no idea there were so many in storage, and part of me cavils at the waste. We ought to have put out the ones we left burning in the hall. What if—

  “Shh. Stop thinking,” he whispers, claiming me for another bone-melting kiss.

  When I ease back, my whole body is quivering, and I’m hot all over. Immediately I untie the sash and pull the dress over my head, leaving me clad only in a thin cambric. His shining gaze lingers on the dark points of my nipples, plainly visible in the flickering light. Njål inhales sharply and then he’s scrambling at his own clothes, a task made more difficult by his claws. As he snarls in frustration, I step closer and help with the buttons.

  “I hate how I am,” he snaps, though he doesn’t refuse my aid.

  “I love how you are.” His tense posture eases as I slip the shirt from his shoulders, tug the sleeves carefully from his arms. “Though I do wonder why you have attire like this if it irks you so.”

  “In the early days after the change, they thought it was amusing. To trot me out on formal occasions and put the beast on display.”

  Ah. And he went to war with those humiliating memories, fought them to a standstill for me. To try and become the sort of romantic hero he thinks I desire and deserve.

  I’m melting. Boneless. There’s only this endless ache, and only Njål can satisfy it.

  Like a hungry cat, I pounce on him, unfastening his pants with an alacrity that must startle him. I can’t touch him enough, and the way he shudders beneath my hands, it only makes me want more. More of his pleasure, more of his moans and desperation. Njål arches as I plant kisses on his broad chest, tonguing the graven patterns.

  The bed in this room is clean and large. We stumble backward and fall, together, hands and mouths wild. He tries to ask if I’m sure or I think he does, but I tug his body over mine, wrapping my legs around his hips. His sharp intake of breath tells me he wants this as much as I do. Njål props himself on his arms, slowly rolling his hips against mine.

  I want to eat him up.

  And I do, pulling him into another ravenous kiss—all teeth and tongue until my mouth feels deliciously swollen. I cup his cheek, stroking my thumb across the strong ridge. Njål closes his eyes, taking so much pleasure in that tiny caress that it unravels me. I’m molten to the core, and I roll my hips under him, letting him feel that sweet yearning.

  “Can’t believe this isn’t a dream,” he whispers. “But here you are.”

  “Please, Njål. I know you’re patient but don’t make me wait.”

  In response, he reverses our positions, so that I’m sprawled atop his naked body. “It would be so easy for me to hurt you. Why don’t you take what you need? Whatever that might be.”

  Such a beautiful, generous offer. I settle onto his hips, teasing both of us with a slow glide. He feels massive, but there’s no rush. Njål kisses the tip of my breast, and I pull his head to me, silently inviting more. When he adds his teeth, I whimper, moving on him helplessly as the familiar tension builds.

  Carefully, so carefully, he touches my center with the pads of his fingers. With my thighs splayed in erotic display, I hold still, because otherwise, this will be too difficult for him. Slow, delicate circles, gentle sweeps meant to relax me, but I only get wetter and more excited. He can’t stretch me with his fingers beforehand, so I do it, holding his sparkling gaze as I work myself with one finger and then two.

  “Faster,” he says, watching my face with a heat that envelops my whole body.

  Obediently I press inward, finding my rhythm, and I don’t even care that he’s watching, feeling my slickness right on his shaft. Groaning, he shifts beneath me, dragging his hard cock against my soft folds. I remember the way he responded to my touch in the kitchen, and I can’t stop humping my fingers.

  Oh gods.

  Surely that’s enough preparation. I can’t wait another second to have Njål inside me.

  22.

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  Njål offers an agonized chuckle. “Am I the one who needs to answer?”

  “Absolutely. Your feelings matter as much as mine.”

  “Then yes,” he says simply.

  I expect taking him to sting and it does, but since I’m in charge of how fast and how deep, I get us ther
e slowly, easing down until he’s fully seated. Then I rest, simply feeling how Njål throbs inside me. His patience truly is remarkable because even with his entire body rigid, tremors shaking through him in deep waves, he doesn’t move.

  “How’s that?”

  He smooths a hand over my hip. “Beautiful. You feel even better than I imagined.”

  “Have you fantasized about me?”

  “Constantly. But the reality of you far surpasses my dreams.”

  The sweet words spur me into motion. I’m the one who can’t wait. I want to know everything, and I learn. How he responds to my hands braced on his chest as I ride him, the agonized way he tilts his head, eyes half-closed with exquisite pleasure, but he can’t look away either. Can’t stop gazing up at me as I ride him, bearing down on his cock until we’re both panting and wild. I don’t know if I can get there this way because it’s very new and I’m a bit sore, but I can make it happen for Njål.

  Already, he’s jerking beneath me, helpless little thrusts as his urgency escalates. I curve my body to his, bending to kiss his neck, and with that shift, I can feel how wet I am. My juices are smeared between us, on my thighs and bottom as well. He feels it too and lets out a desperate whine, trying to bring me with him as he spills, long pulses of heat deep inside me.

  And with clumsy strokes of my own fingers, his lingering passion drags me over, not as strong as when he used his mouth, but I bask with him in the afterglow nonetheless, tumbled and messy, sticky and wet, and sweaty and delighted. I finally know what all the fuss is about, but unlike all the oblique warnings that came from various married women in Bitterburn town, I don’t feel ruined.

  Rather, I feel like a fucking conqueror.

  Njål pets my hair with gentle, trembling hands, as if I’ve drained all his strength whereas I could lay the wards four times over. I laugh silently to myself; perhaps some of the old stories are true and witches do steal a man’s strength through his seed.