Mercy (Deridia Book 1) Read online

  He wanted to sigh to see her blank expression once more. “Yes?”

  He was surprised she had not prompted him to speak of their visitor, to translate the conversation so she could understand her current relations with his people. But apparently she was content simply to worry in silence, and he wondered rather spitefully if he should leave her to her troubles since she would not turn to him for reassurance.

  But he did not wish to be a spiteful husband, so he crossed over to her, taking her hand in his and leading her to the workbench, urging her to sit.

  She did so with care, and it was a stark reminder that she was to be treated delicately.

  “Do your ribs hurt?” She glanced up at him, her brow furrowed in confusion, obviously not expecting the question.

  “Yes,” she confirmed, surprising him a little that she would do so.

  “Did I... cause them further damage?” He had tried to be careful, keeping his torso carefully away from her bruises, away from the bindings that would support the tender bones.

  Relief filled him when Prim shook her head. “No. They’re still just sore. You don’t... I don’t need you to feel bad about last night. Honestly. I told you before and I’ll say it again, I knew that was a part of marriage when I suggested it.”

  He very nearly grimaced at that. “It should have been different.”

  This was not the time to be discussing this. Their relations with his tribe were at best tenuous, and she needed to know of Lorrak’s visit, unhindered by words she could not possibly understand. And yet he did not seem capable of turning the conversation, not when she was speaking rather freely of such intimate matters.

  She smirked, and he looked carefully for any signs of genuine amusement. There were none. So perhaps it was truly more of a grimace. His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the thought. “It was fine.” How he was growing to hate that word. “You were fine. I got to go to sleep a married woman, and that was enough for me.”

  And maybe it should have been for him as well, yet it was not. Not when he had to rely on salves to slicken the way since there was no evidence that she welcomed him of her own desire.

  “Do your females not...” This was absurd. He was a healer, had touched many a woman to help with a birthing and speak to her husband about waiting until she was ready to receive him again. Yet at the moment he would prefer chastising a warrior over asking his new wife if the females of her people were capable of pleasure.

  And he had simply failed to provide it to her.

  Causing her to bleed in the process.

  He rallied his courage, forcing calm to overtake him as he approached this more as a healer would a case for study rather than a husband to his wife. “Do your females not feel... gratified when they relate with their mates?”

  Prim blinked at him, and he was worried that he would have to explain the process—for his kind at least—when, to his surprise, she rolled her eyes. “Is that what you’re upset about? Really? A man was just in here, looking all to rights like he was going to slit both our throats, and you’re worried that I didn’t have an orgasm?”

  She seemed to realise her tone, for she paled, quickly looking anywhere but at him. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she told him, stiffly. “It’s not my place to question you.”

  Rykkon frowned at that. “If it is not your place, then I do not know who possesses such a right.” He had not recognised the last word she used, this... orgasm, but if she had understood his meaning, evidently she thought his concern for her pleasure a ridiculous one. And while he did not mind her speaking freely, it bothered him greatly that would be her response regarding such an intimate subject. Embarrassment fought with indignation. “Lorrak was here to ensure that you were truly my wife. He is satisfied. Therefore this seems a more pressing issue.”

  She blinked at him again, processing his words. “So... that’s it then? I’m your wife and they’ll just accept that?”

  Rykkon mimicked one of her shrugs. “Perhaps. That is not to say they can make things... difficult. It is not a pleasant thing, to be shunned, and even less so to be openly berated. Both are equal possibilities. And if someone believes they can succeed, there is always the possibility they will attempt to do one of us harm.” But his position was more secure than hers. It would be stupidity itself to harm the only male capable of saving a life they may one day actually value. Which meant that some rogue soul might ignore his caution and choose to hurt Prim, and that he could not allow. “It will not be an easy life, here, and until I better know the tone of the people, it is important you remain close to me. Do you understand?”

  Prim nodded, still appearing troubled, yet he had no more assurances to give. He could not promise that she would only know kindness within the village—only within his dwelling. His hut could be their sanctuary, a place of safety when both their peoples despised aspects of their being, and even when she rolled her eyes at him, he was glad of her presence.

  And he wondered if they had talked enough about Lorrak to return to the subject of their joining. He stared at her rather a long time, saying nothing and allowing her to answer his previous question on her own, but she seemed lost in her own thoughts and oblivious to his prompting.

  He sighed, wondering if he had the ability to ask her again, when at last she spoke—though with some disappointment, he realised it did not refer to what he truly wished to know. “What can I do around here? To help?”

  Rykkon very nearly sighed again. This conversation was growing tedious. “You will not be working until you are healed. I have expressed thusly to you before.”

  Prim glanced at him. “You still sound upset.”

  That was perhaps too strong a word. He was frustrated, his fingers still twitching to avenge the underlying threat to his new mate, and she would not answer him about the potential for her pleasure.

  He turned to his work, choosing to ignore her until he had better control over his emotions. He did not wish to hurt her with his words—not when he wanted her to favour him.

  “I don’t... I don’t know how to be when you’re angry with me,” she remarked softly from behind him. He placed a handful of grenut in a mortar and pressed forcefully, releasing the precious juices that could bring down a deadly fever.

  He should deny that he was angry. Should tell her that it was permissible that she ignore him until such time that he could prove better company and not regret any of his responses. But instead he continued to work the grenut until his arm ached.

  Until a gentle hand was laid upon it, and he stilled.

  He turned then, to look at her, and some of the blankness had gone from her expression, replaced by wariness. And perhaps a little sadness. He hated it.

  “I would run away when someone was angry with me,” she confessed quietly. “Out into the Wastes and collect those precious beetles your kind like so much.” He did not like to think of her working so very hard. Did not like to imagine the wounds on her fingers from their secretions, untreated by their fool of a healer. But still, he did not halt her speech. “I’d rather be sore for a few days from hard work than taking the brunt of someone’s misplaced anger.”

  Rykkon waited, thinking most assuredly that she would ask him once again if he intended to hit her. Perhaps she would even give him some sort of permission if it meant he would cease being angry with her—the thought sickened him.

  But it did not come, though her hand fell from his arm and she took a careful step backward. “I don’t have anywhere to run now, and I’d rather you weren’t upset with me. So what can I do to resolve this?”

  Rykkon frowned, very nearly returning to his pestle and continuing to grind the grenut. But something in her eyes held him fast, and he took a moment, considering. “You could answer my questions when I ask them.”

  Perhaps it was an unfair bargain. He had already informed her there were subjects he would not soon be speaking of, and yet he would extract such a promise from her when it came to her own past. He could justify it i
n his own mind—that he was a healer and would need to know what wounds, both internal and external, he would be delicately avoiding as her mate. But it was more selfish than that. He wished to know her, to understand, and he felt blind and thwarted in regard to her.

  A feeling he did not appreciate.

  It was Prim’s turn to frown. “I answer you.”

  Rykkon gave her a pointed look. “You deflect, or you remain silent completely. That is not at all the same as giving a simple answer.”

  Her shoulders slumped, and he wondered if he had hurt her somehow with his observation—precisely why he had wished to avoid conversation with her for a time. “What if you do not like the answers? What happens then?”

  He tried to imagine what she could say that would cause him to reject her. Nothing immediately came to mind, though with a twist of his belly, he remembered the disgust he felt at the prospect of her abandoning one of her young. So perhaps their mating was not infallible. “I would prefer the truth, in all things,” he told her, knowing even as the words fell that he believed them. He did not wish for a manufactured wife, one carefully built upon what he might desire most, her history expunged lest it bother him. He wanted to know Prim, and it troubled him when she withdrew so completely.

  Prim sighed. “Some things are more difficult to talk about. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Like pleasure?” he pressed grudgingly, only to see her smile ruefully. He did not like that smile, not when it felt like she was dismissing his concerns once again.

  “Still on that, are you?”

  He grunted then, and did return to his grenut. This was a fruitless talk and perhaps it was better that they continue as they were. Strangers need not quarrel, need not bicker over tasks and certainly not over relating. Prim could continue to shy away from him, to welcome him to her with her body belying each of her assurances that he was wanted. It certainly seemed enough for her. Even as something deep within him hurt just to think of such a life.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she nearly whispered, and it only made it more difficult for him to keep his temper. He wanted her truths, her hurts, so he could help and mend and comfort, and she thought it unimportant.

  Thought him unimportant.

  So he ignored her in turn and the silence was only interrupted by the continued thump of the pestle against the mortar, and the bubbling as his brews turned into salves.

  But though they spoke little, Rykkon remained tremendously aware of Prim’s every movement. He wondered vaguely if she knew how often he watched her, or was even aware that he could see her so clearly from this vantage when to all appearances his back was turned. She seemed ready to approach him a few times, her brow furrowed and her hands clasped, but she would give the thinnest of sighs and return to their bed, perched upon the edge as she gathered her thoughts once again. Her hands would smooth the blanket at times, and he rather thought she wished to straighten the blankets properly, but instead she simply sat, quiet and thoughtful, while he worked.

  He would need to feed her again.

  The first noon was approaching and she required extra nutrients to promote her healing, and even with things so strained between them, he would not see her starve.

  He wanted to be a good mate.

  He simply wanted her to realise that.

  When he moved to his stores and began collecting ingredients, Prim appeared, wary but almost... hopeful. “I can help.”

  He should tell her to sit back down—that she was still sore and he was not so much the brute she must think of him that he would ask her to fix meals while still recovering. But he could not ignore those eyes as they stared up at him, and he found himself giving her a tour of the various items of his pantry. Grains, meats, spices, herbs, fruits and the like, all carefully stored in their respective pots so as to last the colder seasons. Prim looks surprised at the variety and amount, and he was glad that boredom had prompted him to collect so much now that he had a second person to look after.

  And maybe someday, a third.

  Lorrak had meant the subject of offspring to be a source of dishonour—a reminder of what their combined species could produce if young was granted to them. And perhaps Rykkon had given less thought to young than he had a mate, but even now the prospect did not displease him. It would mean an apprentice, someone to share in his work and be a companion as they navigated the forests in search of illusive ingredients.

  Not a displeasing notion at all.

  And perhaps that relationship would not be so difficult as the one with their mother.

  “I don’t know what to make,” Prim admitted sheepishly as he cut a length of dried meat. “We didn’t have things like this back at camp.”

  “You had meat,” Rykkon disagreed, knowing full well that while this had come from a different beast—a smaller, more easily subdued animal that he could bring down himself—she would not know the difference from that which his village provided them.

  Prim huffed out a breath. “Fine then. I did not have things like this.”

  Rykkon wondered at that. “Did you not receive a portion?”

  She gave an odd combination of a shrug and a shake of her head. “If I did, it was usually confiscated very quickly.”

  He opened his mouth to ask why she did not stab the thief with a blade, but quickly closed it again. If she would not defend herself thusly after personal harm, it was not likely she would do so when meat was stolen from her. “What did you eat then?”

  She looked at him carefully for a moment, evidently considering something, before she decided it was safe to speak. “They grow a type of grain there. One of the few things they managed to seed. And then there’s the fruit that grow in the trees. In some places it’s difficult to walk because they’ve planted the trees so close together. And then there’s always what you can find in the Wastes.”

  Rykkon grunted. “They are called that for a reason. There is nothing.”

  Prim took a piece of dried meat that he held out to her, bringing it to her lips and chewing thoughtfully. “That depends on how hungry you are.”

  He supposed it did. He had known many difficulties, but hunger had never been one of them. He might not have been welcome in the communal hunts, but his father had taught him well, both in the arts of healing and way of self-sufficiency. He knew how to maintain his home so the roof proved strong against the mightiest storm, and how much wood for the fire was needed to see him through the cold seasons.

  But as he regarded Prim’s own worn clothing, he was forced to realise that the colonists had no such teachers to pass on necessary knowledge. And, if his own observations proved correct, Prim’s progenitors seemed more willing to hurt her than teach her how to live with some modicum of comfort.

  “Is it difficult for you to talk about such things?” he asked, gladdened for her effort, but mindful that it might be.

  Prim gave another half-shrug, taking another bite of meat. “Just don’t really see the point. Am I going back there?” she looked at him then, quite seriously.

  Rykkon frowned. “If you are asking if you would be permitted to visit, it is... possible. Though likely not with any great frequency.” In truth, he was not certain that they could do so at all. It was doubtful the traders would welcome their presence, and Rykkon did not know if he was willing to risk the journey on their own. “Or if you mean to ask if I shall reject you and my people would return you there, I have no intention of doing so.”

  And it was far more likely that if misfortune befell him and he came to an early end, it was far more probable they would simply kill her rather than make a special journey to see her back to her people.

  But it did not seem helpful to tell her that, so he remained silent on that particular musing.

  Prim nodded, accepting his word—though he wondered how fully she did so. “Then I guess I just don’t see the point of bringing all that up. Isn’t it enough to know that my life wasn’t the greatest before I came here?”

 
Perhaps another male would have agreed with her—that life only truly began after their mating had begun, but Rykkon did not agree. Not when his Prim was everything that was strange.

  “Is it not enough to know that it is important to me to know of it? To know your history and of your life, and for that reason alone, that should make it worth speaking of?” It was possible he expected too much, that she viewed the depth of their bond differently, but he should hope he would make the same concession for her, should she ask it of him. Though he did not relish speaking of his past either. Not when it would require explaining why he should never have been allowed a mate to begin with.

  Prim opened the jar of berleets, and he wondered if she took some because she favoured the taste or simply because they were the only thing that proved familiar. She looked at him expectantly, obviously waiting for some sign of permission before she took any, but Rykkon waited. He could continue to anticipate her needs, but he wanted her to feel comfortable asking—to vocalise that which was important to her.

  She sighed, and for a moment he feared she would give up and return the lid to its proper place, pushing away her desire so she would not have to ask it of him. But instead she merely glanced away, her expression carefully concealed. “May I have some?”

  “Yes,” he affirmed, though some of the joy seemed to leave her as she took a handful from the jar. He wondered if he had wronged her by not assuring her sooner that she was welcome to any of his stores. “You do not need to ask. If the stores run low, we shall merely have to gather more.”

  Assuming any could be found. That particular fruit had been an unexpected find, though he had plucked the bushes clean lest he be unable to find his way to them again—or if any of the villagers should discover its location before he could return there, and the precious berleets would be gone.

  But he did not begrudge sharing them. Not in the least.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” He should not have asked, not when things were beginning to settle between them once again, but he found the words escaping before he could think better of it.