She had been shocked. Of course she had been.
Theobject, as he called it, was not the shocking part, although it elicited a strange mix of excitement and dread when she looked at it.
No, her shock was the knowledge that every gargoyle she’d assumed was asleep during the day, stonelike on a rooftop or the parapets of the tower, was actually fully aware. The safety she’d assumed that daylight granted her was just an illusion.
Her hunter, her tormenter…he might watch her every day as she went about her business in the city. He might track her movements, learn her friends. See the shape of her body changing as his child grew inside her.
She shuddered with revulsion. She could not venture out again now that she knew.
However, the awareness of Rikard’s consciousness was actually quite pleasing. Rather than making her feel exposed to have him observe her in her private spaces and habits, it made her feel safer. Not only was he watching—watching closely, if he was to be believed—it was quite harmless to flirt with him when he could not reach for her, when she knew it would not provoke him to pounce on her or touch her in return.
She was…emboldened.Now, when she passed him on his roost, she let her fingers brush his. When she dressed, she made sure it was in view of his frozen form. Now, when she touched herself to relieve these unfamiliar aches, her whispered words were for his ears, too.
When he woke in the evenings, he did not mention it. He merely greeted her with a kiss on her forehead and called her beautiful. Inquired what the keepers had brought on the evening tray. Ate with her and talked and joked. He did not ask for anything, as he had promised.
However, bold as this might make her, she had not quite worked up the courage to use his gift.
The basket sat beside her sewing chair, tempting her. She wondered how its firm length and carved texture would feel against her more sensitive places. She feared the feeling of it entering her. Would it be like the other times? Would it make her feel pinned and pained, the way she had on those terrifying, lonely nights when her hunter found her?
But somehow, some part of her knew it wouldn’t. It couldn’t, not if it came from her husband. The thought of using it at her own pace, with her own hands, made her yearn to try it.
Rikard would like to see it, she was sure. And she did not mind him seeing it. But shedidmind him seeing her fall apart and cry when he was helpless to comfort her, and she suspected she would, especially the first time. She needed his arms to hold her together.
There was only one solution, then. He would have to be awake when she tried the first time.
When Rikard returned home in the small hours, Carlijn, drunk and dizzy on Lucan’s attention, had gone to bed, but the keepers had not yet delivered the morning tray. The lamp burned low, casting its amber pool across the table, just enough light that Hannalinde could stitch.
He stood beside her, watching her work for several minutes before he spoke. “It’s early. I did not think you would be awake yet.”
She turned her head to smile up at him. “Did you hope to watch me sleep?”
He nodded gravely. “And wake. Why did you wait up for me?”
She considered the coy answer and the honest one, and decided that coyness did not suit her. “Because I was thinking of your gift. Of using it. It made me restless, and I wished to quell that restlessness as soon as you returned.”
He exhaled in a gust, apparently surprised by her frankness. “I see. Are you ready?”
She rose and put away her sewing things in the nesting chamber while she thought of her answer. When she had it, she stood before him. “I believe I am, but I cannot promise how it will feel. What my body wants and what my mind can endure may be two different things.”
“I understand very well what you mean. Perhaps better than most.” Rikard unbuckled his wing straps so their remains could hang loose. “Bodies heal or they don’t. They have pain or they don’t. The mind is not so straightforward, is it? One day it’s strong, another weak.”
“The heart, too,” she murmured, putting her hand over her own, where it was thundering. “Today mine feels very strong, though. Stronger because you are with me. So let us test it.”
“Ah, wife.” Rikard pulled her into his side and kissed the top of her head. “You would be amazed at the resilience of even the most shattered heart.”
He had to know. His had been in pieces. If his could repair, then so could hers.
She fetched the basket and joined him in the nest, sitting cross-legged with it in her lap. Slowly, she drew back the linen.
The carved phallus gleamed in the humble wicker container. In the lamplight, the polished bone looked like gold. She ran her fingertip along its ridged length and felt her core clench.
“It’s surprisingly warm,” she remarked, taking it out. Rikard’s breath hissed out as he watched her wrap two hands around it, caressing the smooth carving. “What would you like me to do with it?”
He shook his head. “Whatever you do with it, or don’t, is your choice, as it is when I am in daysleep.”
The warmth in his voice was the same warmth that had been there during his mead-soaked confession. But tonight he wasn’t drinking. Tonight, the warmth was all his, not a honeyed dream.
“But I want to please you, too,” she protested. That was why he’d hired harlots before they married. Perhaps he still did. He could not perform, but he liked to watch them perform.
