Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,25

Then his hand is on mine, clasping delicately.

“You’re willing? That changes everything.”

I hold on to him, my heart skipping in my chest. Maybe I’ll be swept off to his lair. But Njål doesn’t move, just holds my hand quietly, and I sense him growing calmer through that one point of contact.

“What now?” I finally ask.

“It’s too soon. If you intend to come to me, I can withstand the temptation. As I’ve said before, patience is my primary virtue. Only when you’re ready will I do more than touch your hand.”

Part of me is relieved to hear this. “Will it be so easy? Bitterburn drove you to me tonight, and you were . . . different.”

Hungry. A bit wild.

“My guard was down, and I didn’t realize that my own impulses were being used against me. I know the difference now, and if the tide rises again, I won’t repeat this mistake. If it becomes necessary, I’ll lock myself in the east wing so I can’t get to you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I say then.

A scene flashes in my head, a cloaked figure dashing himself against the wall, until he’s wounded and dazed. Njål cares about me; I’m sure of it. He’d rather hurt himself than allow harm to befall me.

“Perhaps you should be.”

“Rubbish.” This is bold, but I want to give this much, and he’s promised that I will set the pace. “Can I hug you? I won’t peek, I promise.”

“Amarrah . . .”

“Yes?”

“In my current state, this is most unwise, but I’m reluctant to deny you anything.”

I take that as permission and step into his arms, moving closer until I feel the incredible breadth of his chest. Njål is massive, and his body temperature bewilders me, as if he burns with a cold so deep that it emerges as heat. I slide my arms around him, breathing in his distinctive lye and pine scent. My hands don’t quite meet around his back, and I feel him tucking his cloak around me. He holds me with such tentative care, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“It’s been so long,” he whispers with an agonized elation that makes my heart turn over, quivering like a fish at the river’s edge.

Njål does wear clothes. I feel the rasp of a linen shirt, the leather of a belt and part of a buckle. His shirt has laces; they’re slippery against my cheek. For long moments, I hold on to him, until he gently puts me away from him and takes a step back.

“You’re going?” I guess.

“I’ve lingered too long. Don’t underestimate my desire for you.”

Oh, I won’t. It would be impossible to ignore such a sizable response, but it seems polite not to mention it. Part of me is intrigued, however. I wonder how that hard length would feel in my hands. Later, Njål might rub it frantically until he spurts and goes soft. Is that even possible with his claws? Perhaps, if he’s careful, and if so, I hope he thinks of me.

“I won’t. Keep safe and warm until the morning, Njål.” I speak his name with purpose, for the same reason I’m giving his salutation back to him. He should know that he’s seen. I know who he is and often treasure his words.

He says nothing more and I hear him departing. I wait a few moments more to be sure he has the chance to get clear before opening my eyes. Trying to settle my nerves, I put a couple of pieces of wood on the fire. What will I do when we exhaust the broken furniture I’m currently using? No answers spring to mind, but that’s a dilemma for another day.

Exhausted, I stoke the flames to make sure they’ll last the rest of the night, then trudge to my room. My bed is soft and inviting, nicer than the pallet I shared in the loft with Tillie and Millie. I don’t expect to fall asleep quickly, but my body is tired even if my mind is full. I have no impression of drifting off, but suddenly, noise from the kitchen alerts me.

I dart out to find the space transformed. There are people everywhere: a plump, apple-cheeked cook, two thin girls chopping and stirring, a lanky young man rushing out with a platter. Nobody pays any attention to me, attending to their work with single-minded focus. One of the girls drops her paring knife, earning a brisk scold from the chubby woman who must be the