Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Read online

  His hand raised and rubbed at his head, and he grimaced at the feel that met him there. He looked at Prim only briefly, still finding her rifling through her satchel and pulling out articles, and he found the idea of some time alone appealing.

  He had wounds of his own to nurse, and it was clear she would not be a comfort. Not in this.

  Rykkon took his necessary items, uncertain what to tell his wife, so he merely departed, closing the door firmly behind him. He may not be overly pleased with her at the moment, but he would not have any intruders mistakenly believing she would easily be stolen. The stream was not so far that he would not hear a scream or a scuffle in any case, so he felt confident that it was safe to leave her there.

  He deposited the short blade on the grasses and took the soaproot, lathering it between his hands until a foam appeared, and he spread it on his scalp carefully, determined to do away with any evidence, any sign of his differences.

  His people were right to think him strange, he recognised with a grimaced as he followed the foam with his blade, hands well knowing the proper pressure to apply so as to only leave smooth flesh behind, only occasionally drawing blood as well.

  His head jerked sharply when he heard footsteps and a sharp intake of breath, and the blade sliced a portion of his ear in the process. It was not deep, but the soaproot caused it to sting terribly, and he cursed as he soothed it with a generous amount of water.

  “Rykkon?” He was still unused to his name coming from her lips, and his muscles tensed to hear it. There was no sneer, no hint of disgust as she said his name. Not yet. But there could be. “Oh, I’m sorry!” She must have caught sight of the blood for she hurried closer, and he felt his muscles stiffen as she did so.

  “I am well,” he told her, his tone not the least welcoming. This was something he did in private—or at least, something that he had not been forced to do with a witness—and he did not relish the thought of beginning now.

  He had taken to doing it in the mornings, with her still asleep, but he had slept deeply and had awoken to find her curled about him, her cheek pressed against his chest, each breath deep and peaceful. So instead he had lain there, relishing in the feel of her, of the trust that her unconscious showed in him to be so vulnerable.

  Her fingers reached out, he supposed to assess the damage, and he batted her hand away. “Do not,” he insisted, unwilling to have her hands near his scalp before he had finished. He did not want her to know, not yet, probably not ever...

  Prim frowned, and for a moment he thought he saw a measure of hurt before she carefully hid it away from him. “I must show you all my wounds, but I’m not allowed to see yours?”

  “I am a healer,” he reminded her.

  “And I am your wife,” she told him just as firmly. “And you keep an awful lot of secrets from me.” She huffed out a low breath, her hands clenched tightly as she looked at the ground. “I can mind my tongue, and I can keep my questions to myself. I know how to be invisible in a household. But... I was almost thinking you wanted something different from me.”

  She turned, and something clenched at his gut and he knew that stopping her was far more important than keeping this hidden. He stood quickly and grasped her arm, keeping her from returning to the dwelling. “You are correct,” he assured her, hoping she would turn and look at him properly. She did not. “I am... unused to having to speak directly of my history. My people... they have known it for always, and I...” he groaned, and at that she did turn, her expression wary but her interest clear. “I find it difficult to find the words.”

  Prim nodded, and he sank back upon the shore, wiping away the blood that still pooled about his ear, only to be replaced by gentle fingers prodding and careful as she assessed the injury for herself. They stilled, however, when she caught sight of what he had hoped to avoid. “You have hair.”

  He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

  She wiped away a bit of the foam that still clung to the unshaven parts of his scalp, mostly concealed by the texture and nature of his skin, but evident when touched directly. “Do... do all of you? Or... just you?”

  He wanted to lie, to pull away, to remind her that this held no purpose to their new relationship. Except that it did. For nothing troubled him more, nothing brought him more shame than this particular truth. “Just me.”

  Prim sighed, releasing him before she came to sit beside him. “I do not understand. Do they hate you because you seem human?” She held out a lock of her hair, frowning as she did so. “Because a fluke gave you hair?”

  Rykkon rinsed away the last of the foam and the blood, gathering his thoughts and trying to find his words, even as they lodged deep within him and warned him against attempting to speak them. He had never done so before—never admitted what everyone already knew to be truth. It seemed better that way, it always had, and yet... his wife was confused. As right she should be. Because in her mind they were so wholly different that they could not possibly procreate.

  “It was not a... a fluke,” he said at last, not entirely certain of that word, but believing he understood her meaning well enough. “It is because I am... partly human.”

  Prim’s eyes widened, and she glanced over him again, and he had to tamp down the growing shame that welled within him to have her do so. The urge to flee was great, to tell her to never speak of this again as he fought to forget that he had ever told her, but her hand suddenly settled on his arm, keeping him there. “Really? Your parents?”

  Rykkon gave one slow nod. “My father... he found my mother after your people appeared. She was hurt and he was the healer. He should have killed her that day but...” he gave one of her shrugs, the story well known to him. His mother had spoken of it frequently, as Rykkon had fallen into her arms, devastated at how the other young spurned him. So she would hold him close and remind him of his father’s mercy, of his compassion. Of his love.

  And though a niggling voice had reminded him that had his father not been prone to such feelings, Rykkon would have been birthed from a proper Arterian female, he loved his mother dearly and could not wholly begrudge their mating.

  “But?” she prompted, evidently wishing to hear the story in full.

  “But he could not. She intrigued him, and she was hurt, so he took her to this dwelling and nursed her there until she was well. And when my people brought yours to Mercy, my father could not bear to see her go.”

  “And no one stopped him? From being with her, I mean?”

  Rykkon shook his head, looking at her closely for some sign of what she thought. She seemed more perplexed than anything, and he supposed there were less desirable reactions for her to express. “The elders have no authority over matings. They are between those involved.” Had he not explained that to her already? When he had followed in his father’s practice, choosing a mate that his people would despise, merely for being a colonist?

  The familiar sense of guilt came over him, and he looked away from her, at the stream beyond. It remained unchanged from his youngling days, much as his dwelling did. He could still remember his progenitors as they smiled and touched one another, his mother insisting on bestowing kisses upon the both of her men at least once daily. His father had taught him to be indulgent of such things, but always ensured he knew the ways of their people. He had often wondered if that had hurt his mother, to know that her son was being raised to think that some of her ways were foreign and strange, but she had never chastised him, never told him differently. Only had held him close and told him how very much he was loved.

  How he missed her.

  “Were they happy? Your parents?”

  He was not prepared to tell that particular part of his past, not yet. Not when even now it hurt him to think of those days. “They were devoted to each other,” he told her, thinking that a truthful description. “My father was kind and she was so gentle and sweet.”

  “And then they had you.”

  He nodded. “Yes,” he confirmed, finding it oddly freeing to spea
k of them. To speak of his heritage to one that did not yet seem to reject it outright, see it as a poison, a blight upon the bloodlines.

  And though he hoped she would not ask it, Prim still spoke the question—the one that had led to his loneliness, to his isolation.

  Had led him to accept the call to mate with a female he did not know, simply for the sake of having a companion to call his own.

  “Where are they now?” she asked, her voice soft, and her touch gentle upon his arm. “What happened to them?”

  Rykkon closed his eyes against the memory, even as he found just enough will to answer her.

  “They are gone.”

  Prim’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

  “Your mother,” Rykkon recalled, her father having made it perfectly plain that he held the Arterian’s responsible for her demise. Prim nodded, releasing his arm as she made herself more comfortable beside him. “How did she die?” he asked, hoping it would not prove too painful for her to recall.

  She was a silent for a while and he considered rescinding his question, but eventually she gave a shrug, continuing to stare at the water before them. “I wasn’t there,” she said at last. “She liked me to stay in our tent. Even then the kids liked to pick on me, and I was always forgetting my headscarf and coming home with burned cheeks. My father... he lived with us then too, and he...”

  She glanced at him, her expression growing wary. “He didn’t like the way things were run. The deal Desmond had made with you. He thought that if we broke the bargain, our lives could improve. We’d find a way through the Wastes and become a thriving colony. So, when next your warriors came, he fought.”

  Rykkon frowned. “Did your mother as well?”

  Prim shook her head. “No. I’m not sure what she was doing—maybe she was trying to stop him, or maybe it was all an accident. But she ended up dead, and the deal remained, and my father was censured for it.” She gave a snort, obviously finding something in the memory distasteful. “He didn’t take it well.”

  “He does not seem stable,” Rykkon agreed, glad that he now had Prim at his side and no longer with such an intemperate male. She did not continue and Rykkon struggled with how to offer her comfort. She did not seem terribly sad at the loss, though perhaps a bit thoughtful, and he wondered if his touch would be more burdensome than encouraging. He risked laying his hand over hers, and when she did not pull away, he thought that a sign of welcome. “I am sorry for her passing,” he murmured softly, meaning it. He could well picture how the warriors had reacted if there had been any hint of rebellion. Their retribution would have been swift, their blades quick and sure. Though, if he was truthful, he doubted that Prim’s mother would have been an accidental kill.

  It was more likely that her death had been used as a punishment, even if such practices were not thought well upon. And though Rykkon would never say it, had Prim been present, if they had known she had young at home, it would never have been done at all.

  But he could not tell her that—not now, and likely, not ever. Not when it would only hurt her; and she suffered too much already.

  So instead he took her hand and helped her to her feet, and they walked back to their dwelling to begin a stew for their last meal before bed.

  11. Guilt

  Rykkon woke slowly, pleasure coursing through him. His dream was dark, void of shape and colour except for the insistent thrum of something. He arched, trying to draw nearer, trying to make sense of the sensations, but he felt only warmth, surrounding him, embracing him, touching him...

  He kept his eyes carefully closed, not wishing to disturb this almost-dream. Perhaps his wife had awoken from a similar interlude, needful and wanting as she took her fill from her husband, and he would not dare interrupt her—could not imagine telling her to stop if this is what she truly wanted...

  A stifled groan finally caused his eyes to open, taking in the dark of the room, the fire having long since diminished to embers and ash. His brow furrowed as he confirmed Prim’s position—no longer nestled at his side as she had become her wont as she took her rest, but instead over him, pressing onto him, trying to make him enter her, to fit inside her.

  When he had done nothing to please her in turn, to help ease the way. His hands came to her hips, restraining and halting in her determination so he could look at her face, try to ascertain what had brought her to begin their union in such a way.

  Only to see tears in her eyes as she fought against his hands, fought to move, to press, to join with him.

  “Prim,” he said at last, all too aware of how close she truly was to him, how easy it would be to bring her down upon him so he could once more experience the delight of being within her.

  But her eyes were wet, and her expression was not one of excitement. Resolved, yes, but nothing suggested she was acting upon some drive to find her own fulfilment. “Stop,” he told her firmly, removing her from her position across his hips, turning them so he could restrain and comfort at once. “What are you doing?”

  “What you won’t!” she snapped, her eyes briefly flashing before they widened, her hand coming to cover her mouth as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  Rykkon grunted, hurt and confusion mixing within him as he tried to make sense of all that had transpired—all the while trying to ignore the lingering desire she had so persistently awoken in him. “Prim,” he tried again, fighting for calm, for understanding. “What were you trying to do?”

  Little had happened since their talk beside the stream. They had eaten, and talked a bit, Prim rather thoughtful but not unduly so. They had retired early, Rykkon content to hold her, and she had not questioned him again regarding when next they would join. Her bruises were fading, but too much had transpired during the day to think of adding exploration into their night. Though, with his own thoughts frequently drawing to memories of his mother, to the instructions of his father, he would have welcomed the distraction.

  Prim shook within his arms, and he thought that she must again be overcome with the sobs she had spoken of, so he held her closer and tried to coax her into sharing her burdens with him. “You may tell me of anything that troubles you,” he reminded her gently. “You were not so distraught when we went to bed.” She had turned her face so she could avoid looking at him, but he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, the better to see her. It seemed odd that even in the darkness she would seek to avoid him, and he wondered if perhaps her sight was better than he had initially supposed. Or perhaps her avoidance of him was instinctual, even when it was unnecessary. The thought did not please him. “Prim?”

  “I don’t want to feel this anymore,” she admitted brokenly. “I never had doubts before. I knew what my life was, and how to act, and what to say. And... and I thought...” She blinked at him, her eyelashes clinging together with her tears. “At least when I’m with you I can think of other things.”

  Rykkon grimaced. “Yes, like the pain you are in because you refuse to allow me to prepare you adequately.”

  Prim flushed and closed her eyes, not even bothering to deny it. He wondered what she could see in the near-darkness of their dwelling. He could make out her features, but he already knew that her sight was not as precise as his own. Would she like him to tend the fire? Or did the darkness provide her some semblance of cover, as she sought comfort in the dark in ways she had yet to fully understand.

  His finger skimmed over her cheek. “Did you dream?” he asked at last. Either she had lain awake overlong, her thoughts and memories troubling her until she could no longer stand them, or perhaps she had suffered some terror in her mind, something that caused her to awaken in such a state.

  The way her breathing hitched, her tears renewed, he rather thought he had unearthed a truth.

  He smoothed his finger across her cheek again, marvelling at how even in the dark, he could see how his began to shift colours to mimic hers. “Will you tell me of it?”


  “What’s the point?” came her hitched reply, her tears evidently making her ability to speak difficult. “I’m not there now. I’m not with h-him any longer. My m-mother is still dead, my people... h-hate me, and so do yours. What good does it do to talk about any of it?”

  Rykkon leaned down and rested his head against her shoulder, suddenly tired. He had no answers to give her, no assurances that to share her burdens would indeed alleviate any of them.

  And was he wrong to deny her the distraction she craved? He could so easily lean forward, nuzzle his way across her form, learn every curve and softened swell that showed she was beginning to adjust to having proper nourishment each day. He could press his lips against hers, and see if kissing his mate was as different as he thought it might be from the ones his mother would bestow upon him.

  It would be simple, but Rykkon was unsure that it was right.

  And in that moment, while it appealed to him—to have her so close after she had awoken him with such apparent intentions—there was no ignoring her upset. Her instigation was fuelled from a desire to forget rather than to join with him.

  And for that reason he would not.

  He would hold her. Would encourage her to speak, to share, and he would offer her every assurance that he could. But he would not have her weeping when he was within her. He would not have her using him simply to overwhelm the memories she sought to forget.

  “You are not alone any longer,” he told her at last, the only thing he could think to say.

  Her sobs turned to hiccups as he continued to hold her, until she found her voice enough to speak. “I feel so guilty, you know, and it’s stupid. My mother always said I was the level-headed one, that I didn’t let emotion bungle up what needed to be done, and now... I want that back.”

  Rykkon was confused, not at all sure of what wrong she had done to prompt such guilty feelings—nor what her affinity for practicality had to do with anything. “I do not understand,” he admitted, hoping she would not be cross with him.