Unbound (The Griever's Mark series Book 3) (20 page)

I don’t think that’s the lesson he learned.

I close my eyes as the truth becomes obvious. How could I not have seen this? The truth is so simple. It’s twisted; it’s horrible. But it’s clear.

I whisper because the silence is fragile. “When the Ancorites beat you, they wanted you to react. But you didn’t, did you?”

He tenses at the question, but he’s too tired to draw away from me. I keep my fingers moving through his hair.

“No,” he says, his voice muffled against my legs. “Not for a long time.”

“That’s why you do this. It’s how you first learned to bury everything inside.”

He doesn’t answer at first, then he says, “I need it.”

“No, Logan. Not this.” His fist tightens again on the belt. I don’t try to take it. I need him to give it to me. I stroke his hair. “I know that you don’t want to hurt people—”

“I have
killed
people.”

“I know. And that’s a terrible weight to bear. But you cannot keep hurting yourself to prevent that.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No, Logan. It’s not good for you.”

He says wearily, “That doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. You are going to have to find a way to balance what you are by nature with how you want to be. You keep trying to drive this wedge into yourself, to split off the part that scares you. But you can’t. You will have to accept that part of yourself.
There is nothing wrong with it.
”

He starts to pull away, not believing me. When his head comes up, I catch his face in my hands. “The only thing wrong with you is that you keep shoving part of yourself away. You can neither bury it nor cut it out. It will always emerge, and it is worse for having been so brutally contained.”

“But it’s dangerous.”

“Because you haven’t learned to control it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do!”

“Oh, love, that’s not control. That is denial, and it’s not at all the same thing.”

He looks almost surprised, and for the first time, I see a hint of understanding in his eyes. For the first time today, I have hope.

But he challenges, his tone bitter, “And how am I supposed to learn control?”

I can’t answer his question, and he knows it. All I can say is, “We will figure it out.”

He pulls out of my hands.

“Logan, you are the bravest man I know. Have the courage for this. It won’t be easy. There will be failures. But try, please, just
try
. Let us work on it together—”

“Don’t you understand? You shouldn’t have to do that. You think that’s what I want for you? Why do you think I try to hide this?”

“I don’t want you to hide it. It
kills
me when you do that. I want you to talk to me. I want you to trust me—”

“I
do
trust you.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t trust me when I say that I want this. You don’t trust me to see you fully and not turn away.”

His eyes squeeze shut as I hit on the truth.

“I’m not turning away, Logan. Nothing about you scares me or disgusts me. I love you, all of you, and I need you to
stop hiding from me
.”

He is still for a while, not sure what to do with this, then he turns toward me fractionally. It’s hesitant, like he’s still questioning me, giving me the chance to change my mind, to show some sign that I don’t really mean it. I raise my arms. I silently beg him to come to me.

He shifts the rest of the way, lifting his arms in answer, and we pull each other in. I press my face into his neck. He presses his into mine. I slide my hand down his right arm to his fist, and it opens at my touch. The belt slides free, the buckle thumping to the floor. His right arm wraps around me, his hand pressing against my back, clinging to me instead.

Eventually, worn out, he begins to slump. I tug at him, urging him to his feet. We have to break apart a little to get up, but I don’t take my hands from him. By silent agreement, we make our way to the bedroom.

Someone has cleared away the broken furniture and swept up the glass. Shutters are nailed over the window, making the room dim.

Beside the bed, I free my hands to unlace Logan’s pants. I slide them off his hips. It arouses him a little, but I want him to sleep. He is physically and emotionally exhausted, and he doesn’t put up a fight when I nudge him toward the bed. I strip off my own clothes and crawl in beside him. We snake our arms around one another. He is asleep almost at once.

He wakes maybe an hour later. His eyes slide open, and his arms tighten around me. His leg is between mine, his hip resting against me. The pressure from his aroused flesh makes heat pool between my legs. When I trail my fingers down his side, he shivers. I slip my hand around his hip to touch his most sensitive, intimate places. He moans, head falling back.

He lets me explore his body, trusting me with it, accepting the pleasure I give him. But he wants to give back, and I let him.

He rises above me, his powerful body hovering over mine, and caresses me as I did him. He is in control of himself but not restrained. He slides a hand under my back. He rocks into me, beautiful in his pleasure, and that, more than anything, makes me fall apart.

Chapter 29

I WAKE LATE in the afternoon. For once, I don’t jolt up to look for Logan; I feel him in my arms. He stirs when I do. The light that slips through the shutters lets me see his eyes. They are calm.

I’m not naïve. Logan is not healed. There is no magic to Heal the mind or the heart, and words can only accomplish so much at a time. But this is a beginning.

“I love you, Astarti.”

That is the most beautiful thing I have ever woken up to, and it’s difficult to get my lips working to answer, “I love you, too.”

He sighs against me, and we luxuriate in the warmth of each other.

I say, tucking my head under his chin, “The feast is tonight.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was thinking I might...”

“Might what?”

“Dress up. A bit.”

I feel him trying to angle his face down to look at me. “Don’t you have some kind of agreement that you have to?”

I could let it go at that. I could pretend I’m only fulfilling an obligation, but I want to be honest. And I want to know what he thinks. I admit, “I thought I might want to.”

I bite my lip. Is this very stupid?

Logan brushes tangled hair back from my forehead and leans away to look at me. I meet his eyes and find them intent on my face. “I think you should do whatever you want.”

“But won’t I look fake and silly?”

Logan’s thumb grazes my cheekbone to my ear. He doesn’t pose an argument and doesn’t get annoyed with my insecurity. He says simply and seriously, “No.”

I let out a relieved breath. “All right.”

I tighten my arms around him, snugging myself against his body. He returns the embrace, and soon we want more from each other. As he moves over top of me, I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back. When I feel the warm, swollen welts, I let go. But the loss of contact is terrible for both of us, and I press my hands to his back again. He sets a rhythm that takes over my consciousness. My mind expands until I am aware of all of myself and all of him. I feel the blending of the elements that make us what we are, the wildness that is Logan, and I give myself to him. For a moment, the boundary between our bodies vanishes. We are one, and we shatter together.

Lazy and content, I lie in his arms. My fingers trace the muscles of his back, skimming over the thin ridges of flesh that are his scars. I lurch up to see his back. The welts have vanished.

“Logan...”

He jolts like he’s just now realized the pain is gone. “Astarti, you...”

“I
Healed
you.” I look down at his face and find him staring up at me in wonder.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t think I could. Korinna tried to teach me, but I failed. I think...when we...” I blush, unable to say the words.

A line wedges between Logan’s brows. “Don’t be embarrassed by anything we’ve done.”

“I’m not,” I protest.

Logan pulls me down into his arms.

I insist, “I’m not embarrassed.”

He says gently, “Sex is not a dirty word. I don’t want you to be ashamed of it when we step away from our bed, as though it’s something we hide away and don’t talk about and pretend doesn’t happen. I love you, and I love making love to you, and if I don’t speak of it to others it’s not because I think it’s wrong or embarrassing. It’s because it’s only for us, and I won’t share it.”

His words make something click in my mind. I have been embarrassed. I’ve wanted this, have enjoyed it. But I’ve always tucked it away afterwards.

I don’t want to do that again.

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He draws back to look at me. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he says firmly, then, “What? Why are you smiling?”

I shake my head. “Just you.”

He asks warily, “What did I do?”

“You just made me love you a little more, that’s all.”

His eyebrows jump. “Oh. Well, good. Then come here.” He nips at my neck while one hand cups my breast.

I laugh. “Surely not!”

He growls, “What do you mean, ‘surely not’?” and applies himself to his task with admirable determination.

I work my fingers under his chin and lift his head. His irises are solid gold, and it makes my breath hitch. Even so, I remind him, “I need time to get ready.”

He sighs in resignation. When I make no move to leave the bed, he asks, “What is it?” Now his eyes are worried. He reads me so well.

“A while ago, your mother offered me herbs. Contraceptive herbs. I was wondering what you thought about that.”

“I think what you do with your body is your decision. If you’re worried, I can tell you you’re not pregnant.”

“How would you know?”

“I sense energies, Astarti. I’ve always been able to tell when a woman is pregnant because another life is growing. I sense you more strongly than anyone. I know that your body is not receptive to a child right now.”

I bite my lip. “Right now? Or ever?”

Logan catches the end of my braid and combs his fingers through it. “I don’t know. Do you want a child?”

“Not right now. But maybe someday. I’d like to know that I can.”

“I’m sure most women feel that way. Most men as well, for that matter. I think there’s no reason to worry that you can’t. Your body is stressed now, and no wonder. But we should be more careful.”

“Do you not want a child?”

“I want you, Astarti.”

“But someday?”

“I don’t know. I guess I never thought—”

When he doesn’t go on, I prompt him, “What?”

He stares down into the tangled sheets. “What if it’s like me?”

There it is. The pain that’s not gone.

I brush hair away from his face. “Your child would be beautiful. And we would raise that child in kindness, and we’d never let him or her suffer as you did.”

He’s touched by that, and he has to clear his throat to answer me. His eyes still do not meet mine. “You really wouldn’t mind...I mean, you would accept...”

“If I ever have a child, Logan, it will be yours.”

Now he does look at me, and I see his hope. And his fear. He says seriously, “You don’t have to make that kind of commitment, Astarti. I would never bind you.”

My throat closes because he says that honestly and without any hidden, selfish purpose. He gives me the one thing I need above all: freedom to control myself, to make my own decisions. This is the very reason I cannot imagine leaving him. I wish I could put that into words for him, but I am too full of emotion, and all I can say is, “I know.”

*     *     *

When I slip through the doorway into the rooms that adjoin Logan’s, I find that Clara has been busy. She peeks from the bedroom into the sitting room when I enter.

“Hot water in the tub,” she says. “I’m just laying out some options.”

My heart skitters at that, but I remind myself of Logan’s words:
you should do whatever you want
. This is what I want. Not every day, certainly, and maybe never again. But today I feel like doing this.

The tub’s blissfully warm water tempts me to soak, but the sound of Clara humming in the other rooms keeps me focused. I scrub and work the rose-scented soap into my hair. When I step out of the tub, I pull on a linen dressing gown and wrap my hair in a thick towel.

A fire burns in the sitting room hearth, and Clara motions me toward a padded footstool positioned before it. As I sit, I notice a small table arranged with combs, towels, bottles, and a steaming cup of something that smells sweet and a little spicy.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

Clara says, seeming to brace herself for my refusal, “Your hair is very long and will take a little while to comb and oil and dry, so I thought you might enjoy a cup of hot chocolate.”

“Hot chocolate?”

“Milk, chocolate, honey, spices. You’ve never had it?”

I tasted chocolate once in Avydos, but it’s rare because imported. Clara presses the warm cup into my hands, and I take a cautious sip.

Oh. My.

Oh my, yes.

“You like it?” she asks, sounding a bit worried.

“Clara, this is the most incredible thing I’ve tasted in my life.”

Her face splits into a broad smile. She picks up a small bottle of oil and looks a question at me, waiting for my permission. I unwrap the towel from my hair, and Clara shakes a few drops of oil into her palm. She rubs her hands together and starts to smooth the oil through my hair. She adds more oil, working from scalp to tips as I sip the sweet, warm drink.

When she starts to comb my hair, she shows more patience with the tangles than I normally do. She teases them out from the bottom and works upward. It feels...good.

Clara hums softly as she works, and I sit in idle contentment, enjoying the hot chocolate and the fire and her gentle combing. In this quiet moment, I realize what I should have seen long ago. Clara is kind. I have thought her silly. If I am honest with myself, I have even thought her a little stupid. I have seen the worst, not even knowing if it was true. An ache forms in my chest as I think of how I’ve treated someone who has never been anything but kind to me. I think how I have missed another chance to call someone friend.

Clara sets her comb on the table and starts pressing water from my hair with one of the fresh towels.

“Clara?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

She goes still, hands still gently pressing my hair, then she resumes her work. “I know some of what you’ve done to protect us. I cannot repay you. None of us can. This is all I am able to give, though it may seem frivolous. All the same, you are welcome.”

But it doesn’t seem frivolous because I finally recognize what this is. It’s not Clara foisting her style upon me, not at its heart. It is her trying to take care of me in the only way she knows.

I nod, and she picks up her comb to tease out a few remaining tangles. Between the warmth of the day and the fire, my hair is soon semi-dry. Clara explains that the way she does my hair will depend on the dress I choose, and we are headed to the bedroom when someone knocks on the door.

Clara scowls and says irritably, “I made very clear that you were not to be disturbed before the seventh hour.”

She marches toward the door, clearly ready to give whoever is there a verbal lashing, but when she pulls open the door she stumbles back. “Prince Rood,” she says in shock, all the fire gone from her voice.

He nods to her, then his eyes find me across the room. His cheeks color as he takes in my dressing down and loose, damp hair.

“Apologies,” he says. “I can come back another time.”

“Stay,” I call. “Come in.”

He has never come to see me before, and I am too curious to let him slip away.

He enters the sitting room cautiously. I motion him toward the chairs before the fire.

“I’ll wait outside,” Clara says, ducking out and closing the door.

Rood sits on the edge of one of the chairs, and I take my seat on the footstool. I’m sure I look silly in my dressing gown, but I pretend not to notice.

Eyebrows drawn together, Rood stares into the fire. Maybe it’s only his expression, but he looks older than I remember him looking before Belos took him.

“I didn’t know,” he says at last. “What it was like. Being Leashed.”

I’m not sure how to comfort him, and I don’t think that’s why he’s here, so I wait for the rest.

He goes on, “I’ve been envious of you, and it seems so foolish to me now. I had no idea what you had been through, or what Logan had been through. Feeling it for even a few hours, I wish”—he breaks off, seeming to fight with himself before he can conclude—“I wish I had been better to you.”

For a moment, I am too stunned to reply. Rood has always seemed so arrogant, too sure of himself to apologize. Indeed, I can see that this was not easy for him to say. But he did say it.

I tell him, “I wish you had not learned what it feels like to be Leashed.”

He looks at me in surprise. “I would think you would have wanted it.”

That stings, and I say a little sharply, “I wouldn’t want that for anybody, much less for you. Why would think that?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Because our father...”

Ah, I see. Because Heborian gave me away. Because he kept Rood.

“None of that was your doing.”

He looks into the fire. “He loved your mother, you know. In a way that he did not love mine. Everyone says so.”

There is nothing I can say to that, and it’s a pain I don’t understand, though I see clearly that it
is
pain.

He says, echoing my words, “I suppose that was not your doing.”

“No.”

He sighs, sounding a little relieved, as though he is letting go of a resentment he didn’t really want.