The Grey Ones

THE VASAATH

The girl was certainly trying his patience that day. He could have had her, right there, right then; he could have torn that gown off her back and claimed her. Indeed, deep inside, he had been tempted enough. Her lips had been parted, her eyes had been hazy… if he wasn’t going mad, he would say that she was waiting for him to kiss her, but he dared not. In his current state of mind, he couldn’t trust himself.

It pained him to know such despicable thoughts plagued his mind, and the cruelty he put her through in front of his soldiers and the nomads was enough to make him doubt his self-control. So naturally, he wouldn’t be able to trust himself with a kiss.

But when she leaned into him, when her soft hair touched his chest, he knew he could never hurt her—he would rather die. When she pulled away from him, he felt the agonising cold around him. Tonight, he thought victoriously, he would have her with him again, even if it meant another night out on the rugs.

He couldn’t, however, suppress the fact that more than twenty humans were housed in the tent he had built for her. It was partly his own fault, of course—had he not agreed, this situation would never have existed. Then again, had he refused, he might have lost her forever.

He wondered what he was to do with those Kamani. He had seen in that old man’s eyes that he had no intention of abiding by the Kasenon. When he asked the Kamani if they had come to submit, all the man had said was that they wanted refuge. They had turned to him, not because of the life he represented, but because they shared a common enemy. Such desperation. It sickened him.

He was not without empathy—he understood the struggles those people must have gone through, and he had accepted many wretched humans before—but he was not desperate, nor was he charitable. Juniper did not understand that. Because the guards had been looking for her, she felt an obligation to protect them. Her misery was not an obligation, it was not her responsibility to save people from her tormentors, but how could he convince her of that when she seemed so sure?

He waited patiently for her to return that evening. He went through plans of defence with Kasethen in case of an attack, and he made sure to overlook their resources to make sure they had all that they needed, but it was all dull pastimes.

Then, at last, she came in time for supper. She seemed exhausted, and she said that she had had to sing to the children for the entire afternoon. He wanted to ask her to sing to him, but he could not bear putting such strain on her tired form. He could only imagine it was beautiful.

He could barely keep his eyes off her that evening. She had let her hair down from the braid and her black locks lay over her shoulders and scented the air with lavender and honeysuckle. Her silver eyes glittered in the firelight, and her smile made his heart skip every other beat.

He thought about her hands against his skin, about her head resting against his chest, about her parted lips… his longing was getting unbearable. When she spoke, his eyes were drawn to her lips, the curve of her neck, her pale collarbones, the soft shadow of her cleavage—

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” he suddenly heard her say. He looked up, saw her cautions gaze and her flustered cheeks, and then she mumbled, defeated, “Of course, you do. Forgive me, I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“Suggested what?”

Her cheeks reddened even more and her eyes widened. “I—didn’t you...”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was lost in thoughts.”

“Oh.” She looked down on the table. “Well, it’s was nothing. It was just a silly thought, you wouldn’t want to hear it, I’m sure.”

“I want to hear it.” He gazed at her, sought her eyes, focused now. He would hear her; he would listen.

Her face was beet red as she said, “Well, I—I said that it would be tragic if you were forced to sleep out on the rugs again tonight, now when you’ve finally had your bedchamber back.”

He sighed. “You are not sleeping out here.”

“No.” Her whole face burned, and he wondered—what had she suggested? “I was thinking, that since the bed is rather big, and I don’t take up that much space, there would be room for, well, both of us.”

He was surprised. Intrigued, exuberated, and genuinely perplexed. “Very well,” he said, trying to contain the childish giddiness that erupted inside him.

But his acceptance caused the girl to tense. “What?”

He nodded. “Very well. You’re perfectly right.”

She stared at him, speechless.

Fearing she might have regretted her suggestion, he said, “Out on travels, we oftentimes share beds, no matter disposition, or sex. Sometimes, during the deepest of winters, we have to if we want to survive.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “That seems reasonable.”

He bit down hard, trying to still his raging heart, cursing himself for his mindless ramble. “I would not wish to make you uncomfortable, Juniper.”

She smiled, but it was a nervous smile. “No, no. I just didn’t think you’d accept my suggestion. It may not be decent.”

He frowned. “I would rather think it’s indecent in your culture. In mine, we have greater things to worry about than who shares beds with whom.”

“Yes, of course.” She shot down her gaze, and the Vasaath wondered why the girl had even suggested it if it frightened her so. He was glad she did, but he was confused.

“We don’t have to decide such a thing just yet,” said he. “You may change your mind, and I have slept on worse than pristine rugs.”

The girl was embarrassed, he knew that, but she smiled and slowly by slowly, their conversation continued. He tried to concentrate, tried to keep his eyes from wandering, but it was difficult; her wine-stained lips looked too delicious. The prospect of sharing his bed with her was almost overwhelming, and he began to worry. What if he couldnʼt control himself?

They stayed up quite late, both seemingly too nervous to suggest sleep. It didn’t feel like him to be hesitant, to fear the closeness of a woman, but this was new to him.

Indeed, he had slept next to women before—for comfort and warmth—but never next to someone he cared for as deeply he did for the lady. Sooner or later, they had to sleep—and he’d be damned if he had to move two giant leaps backwards and sleep on the rugs now when he had the chance to be close to her, even if that only meant a slight touch or just the heat of her body next to his.

So he suggested it, as cautiously as he could, that they should perhaps let the day go in the wait for the next. She agreed, but the tension was thick—he knew, as he knew she did too, that this was more than just a pragmatic solution. This was a statement, from both of them.

She was shy as she stripped down to her shift and climbed into bed and under the furs without looking at him. He sighed and started undoing the straps and knots that held his vambraces in place. He had a rack for his armour and each piece he removed from his body was carefully positioned in its rightful place on the rack. Finally, all he had left on his body was his breeches, and he left those on—he wouldn’t want to frighten the girl!

He carefully slipped beneath the furs, and he could hear the tiniest of gasps escape the girl. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was smiling, albeit nervously.

“So,” she said, voice thin, “we should try to sleep, then.”

“Yes,” said he and made himself comfortable. Indeed, he wasn’t as nervous as he thought he would be. In a way, it felt right. He felt calm. He placed a hand behind his head and exhaled deeply; yes, this was a thousand times better than those wretched rugs.

She dared to slide down further and fell naturally into the groove made by his body. Carefully, she turned to her side, her back against him, as she made herself comfortable.

The Vasaath looked at her small frame, saw how her chest rose and fell quite rapidly, and wondered if either of them was going to be able to sleep at all.

“You may hold me, if you’d like,” she said, much to his surprise, but he did not make her wait.

Slowly, and carefully, he turned to his side and placed an arm over her. His hand hovered over her abdomen for a short moment, hesitating, before he settled it there. He felt her stir in his embrace as she shifted and burrowed herself into the furs and pillows. He took it as an invitation to pull her closer and as her full body was pressed against his, her curves firmly hugged against him, he felt the desire surge through him again. He pushed it back, with intent, decided not to ruin such a precious moment by growing stiff against her.

He felt like a young boy again, struggling to control himself in the presence of a beautiful woman, but he was the Vasaath. He was Control. Indeed, this was a new situation for him; when in bed with women, he would usually want to show his need and interest, as well as his prowess, but this girl was no maasa. This was no healing session. He certainly wanted her to know that he would be a good mate to her, that he could satisfy and please her, but this was not the time.

He would have to take care, not rush things; not put pressure on her, not be imposing. Her breathing slowed as she seemed to relax, and that calmed him as well. He carefully began caressing her with the thumb that rested on the edge of her ribs, and he let his face sink further into the pillow, closer to her hair. The scent was almost overwhelming, and certainly addictive. He wanted to caress it, feel the silk between his fingers, but he refrained. She had not asked him to, had not allowed him to.

Dismal thoughts suddenly clouded his mind as he wondered how many times someone had touched her without her consent. That was common in these lands, he knew—women were commodities, not people. Had she, perhaps, been wrongfully touched by that young lord? He was to be her husband, after all. Perhaps that was enough.

The mere thought of that whelp touching the girl was sickening—infuriating. She wouldn’t have lain with him by her own volition, not in a thousand years, he was sure of it. The thought of him forcing himself upon her made the Vasaath absolutely mad with fury. Such an intelligent and thoughtful person she was, and how horribly she had been treated.

He pulled her tighter to him, took a deep whiff of her hair, and knew she was there by her own free will—by her own suggestion, no less. She had chosen him.