Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
“Nemeth.” I put my hand over his larger one. “I’m a little nervous because of what our union means for the future, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t want this…or that I don’t want you. On the contrary. I’m going into this with my eyes open. I know what our mating will mean.” I smile at him, deciding to tease a little. “Besides, are you sure you want me? I have it on good authority that I’m a bit spoiled.”
“You are,” he admits, a hint of a smile curving his mouth. “But I can look past that.”
“Can you look past the fact that I cannot give you children?” I give him a worried look. “My blood curse prevents me from carrying. You would never have offspring of your own.”
“I know.” Nemeth shakes his head. “It will be the duty of my brothers to carry on the bloodlines of the First House, just as your sister carries on the Vestalin bloodline. I will be happy with you at my side. I want nothing more.”
“Nothing more? Not even to be free of this tower?” I tease.
He gives me a somber look. “Sometimes I think I would be happy to remain here for the rest of my life, if all stays as it is today.”
Strangely, I know just what he means. If we could stay in this moment for all time, I would be a happy woman.
“Now give me your arm, milettahn,” he murmurs, picking up the needle. “I will be gentle.”
As if I need reminding. Nemeth is always gentle.
Chapter
Forty-Seven
After my medication is administered, I tell Nemeth I want a bit of time to myself to primp and look good. He seems skeptical, but I kiss his cheek and take a lamp with me upstairs, promising not to be gone for too long. While it’s true that I’ve left the largest mirror upstairs on my wall, I also want some time alone with my knife so I can ask it a few questions. I need to see what Erynne knows about my plans, or if she knows anything at all.
I head upstairs and close my door, setting the lamp next to my mirror. I eye the woman that stares back at me. I don’t look the same as I did from my days in court. My face is incredibly pale, the sun-kissed warmth once gracing my cheeks gone completely. My hair is thick and full of split ends from my careless brushing and the fact that I don’t have Riza to rub silky oils into the ends. I wear no cosmetics and my face is a bit thinner than it used to be, my cheekbones pronounced instead of a rounded face.
Ugh. I’m vain enough for this to bother me.
Fussing with my hair, I manage to smooth it as much as possible and then work it into a clumsy set of braids that highlight the pronounced cheekbones and the stark, unhealthy paleness of my skin. I look even worse, somehow. I dig through the cosmetics on my table and find a bit of rouge and apply it to my cheeks, but I end up looking more clownish than ever.
“Happy wedding day to me,” I mutter, giving up and wiping my cheeks clean. At least with the scrubbing my face is enduring, I’ll have a ruddy glow.
Giving up, I move away from the mirror and begin to pace. I know I’m stalling. I don’t know that I want to hear about Erynne. What if she knows of my intent to marry Nemeth and will stop the next food shipment? What then? Can I back away from what I want—to marry Nemeth—for my own good? And if I don’t…?
Biting back a frustrated whimper, I pull my knife sheath from its place nestled deep in my cleavage. I free the blade and roll it in my hands, gazing down at it. A thousand questions surge in my mind, but I don’t put voice to them, and if the knife picks any of them up, it’s not indicating so.
I hesitate a moment longer, and then ask, “Are you there?”
The knife shivers. Yes.
Here goes nothing. “Does Erynne know of my plans to marry Nemeth?”
Silence.
“Would she approve?”
Silence.
All right, then. That’s answered. It’s not a surprise, either. My sister is blindly loyal to the kingdom, even if it’s run by an absolute twat like Lionel. I think for a moment, trying to determine the best questions to ask. “Does my sister have a knife like you?”
Shiver.
“Does she know I love Nemeth?”
Another shiver. Oh no.
“Is that why she asked me to kill him?”
Shiver.
“Oh, ugh, truly, Erynne?” I make a face at the knife, as if it’s the one deciding things. “Must we all be martyrs to the Vestalin name like you?”
The knife gives a confused shiver, as if it doesn’t entirely understand the question but wants to respond anyhow.