Page 22 of The Royal Curse

Andreas’s hand landed on my shoulder and he pushed me upright again, and another moan burst out, the stretch in my abdomen almost unbearable. His face swam in front of me as if I viewed it through shifting water or a poorly made sheet of glass.

“Drink this,” he said, and set something against my lips. I drank, this liquid thicker than the first and tasting faintly like caramel. “It says on the label it’s to calm the nerves. Tell me when the pain comes back, and I’ll give you more of the first one.”

Drugs made by apothecaries capable of infusing their creations with magic, like the one we’d bought these from, worked extremely quickly. Like the other, this medicine took effect within seconds: everything slowed down, the air going cool and slippery against my skin. The chill sank in, soothing my desperate need for a moment.

Until it sank in too far, and shivers skittered down my limbs. I shifted in the chair, wrapping my arms around myself, teeth starting to chatter.

And then Andreas was there, pulling me up, arms sliding around me, his body a solid wall of glorious, wondrous heat. I’d gone far beyond the point of having any pride, or self-respect, or even consciousness of anything but my own misery.

“Cold,” I muttered, voice shaking, and buried my face in his shoulder. Mmm. He’d taken off his chain mail while he was gone, must have, because I wasn’t resting against the texture of metal rings beneath his tunic, but of lovely firm muscle and the ridge of his collarbone.

Bliss: the scent of him, and the strength of his arms as they wound around me, one at my waist and the other cradling my shoulders, and the way my knees started to give out but I didn’t fall, because Andreas could hold me up, and he would.

“I could tell,” he said, and then we were moving. “Come closer to the fire, you’ll—”

“Bed,” I managed. My head swam. No more standing up. Besides, he felt so much better than any fire could. “Lie down with me and keep me warm.”

We stopped moving. “That’s a very bad idea, Your Highness,” he said, his voice low and tight.

Even in my state of near-incoherence I knew I was being unfair when I nuzzled into his shoulder and murmured, “You promised you’d take care of me.”

“Gods,” Andreas choked, and his arms tightened until I struggled to breathe. “Buggering fucking gods. Your Highness—damn it.”

I smiled into his chest as he finally started walking, half-dragging me the other direction, toward the bed. He got me sitting down and then crouched and pulled off my boots, the tugging motion sending me toppling backward. The shivers started again instantly, goosebumps covering every inch of my skin and making it unbearably sensitive. I tried to curl in on myself, panting, as the heaviness in my lower abdomen built and built, a horrible counterpoint to the crawling cold on my outer parts. At last Andreas’s boots hit the floor with a pair of thuds. More rustling and the clink of a buckle suggested he’d removed his sword belt.

By the time Andreas climbed onto the bed with me, I’d gotten myself into a ball like one of those little bugs in my mother’s rose garden that would roll up when they were frightened, and I’d burrowed into the quilts, hiding my face in soft fabric that still felt too rough against my burning cheeks.

The straw mattress crunched and rustled, and then blessed warmth enveloped me. Andreas wrapped his arms around my back and tugged me in close, letting me nestle into his chest and tuck my knees against his legs.

The first dose of medicine had maybe begun to wear off, my heartbeat speeding up. But as I listened to his, it evened out again, matching itself to the steady thump against my ear.

The strung-tight tension in my muscles loosened, and I let out a long, helpless sigh of relief.

As if in response, my gut clenched into a twisted knot again.

I gasped, writhing, all my limbs pulling in.

One of Andreas’s hands stroked my back, a soft sweep from my waist to my nape and then down again. The other clamped onto my hip.

Oh, gods, I needed that first hand lower, cupping my ass, sliding fingers between my cheeks, and the other holding on even harder, holding me down.

But I couldn’t have that, could I? I closed my eyes, holding them shut tightly until I saw stars, and then I opened them, staring into the black fabric of Andreas’s tunic. No. No, I couldn’t have that. I wasn’t going to have that. I didn’t want Andreas. And even more to the point, he didn’t want me.

My guard, paid by my mother. That was all. Protecting me until I could get my potion.

The idea of the potion seemed so far off, like something glimpsed in a dream. This was real. Andreas’s body, the emptiness inside me, the pain starting to gnaw at me again and filter down along my veins and into my arms and legs. All real.

Red-tinged and cloudy and all the more real for it.

I stretched out my legs, wriggling closer to Andreas, taking hold of his tunic in my fists and pulling myself up until our hips aligned.

“Your Highness, what are you do—fuck, don’t, you don’t want this,” he protested, as I shoved myself against him, throwing a leg over his hip.

He tried to pull back but I clung to him, moaning, and gods, I needed him between my legs, Ineededhim.

And I could feel him.

I stopped.

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