clearly how bound he is to this place. Considering all the binding threads, it’s a miracle he can even make it to the portcullis. Between these threads and the barrier, no wonder he can’t pass through. And he’s been cursed for so long that it’s become part of him in a way that the tendrils weren’t for Tillie.
It would take me days to unravel this, even assuming I could survive the ordeal. I don’t know if Njål could either, for Bitterburn does seem to be sustaining his life, and separating them would free Njål, but he’d also die in the process. Because his natural body is unfathomably old. The minute the magic stops preserving his life, I suspect he’ll return to the dust he would already be, if not for the curse.
What am I to do?
With an aching heart, I take his hand. His head comes up in surprise, and he regards me warily. I think he imagines that this is where I draw the line and decide he’s not worth the effort. Has anybody ever fought for him? Fought hard?
“Amarrah?”
“Let’s tend your wounds. You needn’t suffer alone anymore. I’m with you.”
He seems bewildered as I tow him to the kitchen, where I boil some water and wash all the rents in his chest and forearms. I watch the softening of his expression as I tend to him, the light of hope returning. Actions speak so much more than words or promises. This, he understands. I’m not giving up on him, and I never will. I cut up one of the smocks he brought me and use the linen strips as bandages. There’s no medicine, as he said, only soap and water, but surely this is better than nothing.
“You’re not angry?” he asks, once I’ve finished.
“Why would I be? You said you can’t tell me. That’s not a lie. I confirmed the bindings on you through my own abilities. Those tethers are ancient, and you can’t break free simply because you want to.”
He lets out a long breath. “I have tried.”
“I know.”
Now I do. I’m not just taking his word for it. I’ve confirmed that there are multiple restrictions on his freedom. My poor, precious Njål.
Before he can don his shirt, I rise on tiptoe and pull him down for a kiss. This time, he doesn’t argue that I need to recover more. Njål kisses me back, his lips soft and rough at the same time. I part for his tongue, because we’re so far past innocent pecks. Between us it’s all desperate desire, endlessly yearning for deeper and more.
I can’t get enough of him.
“We can stop if you wish.” He breathes the words into the side of my neck.
“I’d rather finish, more satisfying that way. But only if you’re up to it,” I tease.
“I’ll find the energy somehow.”
Njål sweeps me into his arms and carries me into my little room. The fire is already lit here, making it the natural place for us to continue. I pull off my own clothes, and he removes his, each of us making a silent statement about our choices. Before coming to Bitterburn, I rarely thought of my own body, but I hope he finds me pleasing.
“Just look at you,” he says.
I’m too busy looking at him to feel shy. At his cock in particular, immense and stiff already as he prowls toward me, covered only by the bandages here and there. It’s a bit difficult for me to believe that’s been stuffed inside me or that I rubbed him in the kitchen until he spilled in my hands. Right now, Njål seems more like a force of nature than a flesh and blood being.
“Is it always hard?” I ask.
He follows my gaze downward. “I collect you mean this . . .” He gestures at his shaft. “And not life in general.”
“Yes.”
“No, not always, beauty. It hadn’t been for ages, and it took some time for me to remember what desire was, even after you arrived.”
“When did you first want me?”
He pauses. “When you said you like it here. I didn’t understand, because there was nothing anyone would want, and you said—”
“You’re here,” I finish.
“Those words awakened me, reminded me how yearning felt. I started craving you then, and it soon became a physical need.”
“I can see that. Come, let’s assuage the ache.”
Njål groans, closing the distance between us in three strides. We tumble to the narrow bed together and he pulls me onto his broad chest, careless with his own wounds. I