Bitterburn (Gothic Fairytales #1) - Ann Aguirre Page 0,50
truly mad then, and he only came to himself later. What, exactly, happened during that period? And what does it have to do with the east wing?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for I’ve no notion what else to say.
“Not your fault.” Flat tone.
What have I done now? Perhaps he thinks I pity him. Grumpily, I amend, “I’m not accepting blame, but expressing sympathy. Perhaps I should’ve said ‘I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered.’ Gods forgive that I got the verbiage wrong.”
“So prickly. I treasure the way you snap at me.”
“Why?”
“Because it means you’re not afraid of my retribution. You believe I’m not a monster, even if I look like one.”
The fact that I was afraid of him earlier—it likely cut deeper than I knew. When someone cares deeply, it gives you power over them. I forgot that. Relationships are complicated, and careless words cut like knives. Those wounds we carry under our skin, undetectable to other eyes.
“I don’t think you do. Not human certainly, but . . .” I shrug. “They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and you appeal to me as you are.”
Njål reaches out with a clawed hand and tilts my face to meet his gaze, seeming thunderstruck. “You mean, even if you could undo the curse, you wouldn’t wish to change how I look as well?”
Since he’s invited me to look, I drink my fill. His features are heavy, too strong at the nose and brow, and cheeks with a jaw so square it’s geometric. His hair is an ashen shock of snow, not as pure as the first fall, but on the second or third day—that shade. I’d like to touch it and explore his little horns, but that would be peculiar.
“I want you to be free. To leave Bitterburn and choose your own course. That’s all.”
His expression sours, the corners of his mouth turning down. “Even if I could, I doubt I’d be accepted.”
Sometimes he’s so vexing that I can’t stand it. “That’s not the problem we need to focus on. Worry about that later.”
That quickly shifts his mood, and I feel his quiet laugh against my hair. “You’ve got me thinking that these things are possible . . . there could be an end in sight, one that doesn’t end in my death. Once, that was all I dreamed about, and even that release seemed improbable and unattainable.”
He’s been so miserable and so alone. I’m glad I came to Bitterburn. Even if I can’t unravel this mess, I won’t regret spending my life with him. Softly, I say it aloud because Njål deserves to hear it, and I should make amends for my doubt this afternoon.
“I don’t want to think about that,” he says, when I finish.
“Why not?”
“You think I’ll want to go on without you? Yet I will have no choice. Please don’t make me envision that desolation tonight.” Absolute anguish rends his voice, leaving it deep and broken.
“I’m sorry.” I’ve hurt him again. For me, hearing this would be a good thing, but he sees time in a way that I can’t fathom. He’s spent centuries alone and knows well what it’s like to gaze into infinity.
“Let’s sleep. It seems we’re both a bit raw.”
That seems like a wise suggestion. We communicate a little longer with soft touches, my fingers on his biceps, his claws tenderly sifting through my hair. And if I dream, I don’t remember it.
In the morning. Njål is stoking the fire when I rise, feeding bits of broken furniture to the hearth. “Good morrow.”
“To you as well,” I reply, starting on our morning meal.
There’s fry bread and beans for breakfast. Gods, but I’m tired of this repetitious menu. It’s odd how fast we can become accustomed to things. When I first arrived, I was so grateful to have this much to eat, and now I can’t wait for Agatha to drop her kid, so I can milk her. That will mean butter, cheese, and delicious, creamy puddings. When the back garden provides fresh vegetables, our meals will seem positively luxurious.
We eat in silence, and I feel strangely shy, considering that Njål slept in my bed last night, and he essentially said that he doesn’t want to live without me. It’s hard for me to meet his gaze, the day after so much intense emotion.
“Are you well?” he asks, likely sensing some of my reticence.
I flash a hesitant smile. “I will be. What’s your plan for the day?”