Page 13 of Gyft
“Menga, the honorable High Commander Gyft T’shil honors us with his presence and that of his new bride.”
His mate drops the cloth she is holding as she stares at my bride.
“It is their people’s custom to cover,” I bluster. “May I see the suite? I must tend to my bride’s wounds.” I take Bride’s arm to steer her past the couple.
“Of course, of course,” Menga says, not at all appalled by my rudeness. By my lack of a formal greeting. A twinge of guilt strikes me. Do people consider it normal that I am so blustery?
She takes us up a set of creaky stairs. The landing is hardly used and at the top, has some cobwebs from unuse. She ignores them, so we do too. We follow her down a hallway to the reserved guest suite. All the older farmhouses this near to the deadlands have a guest suite reserved for the King’s Guard. It was part of the package when they were given the farms... no one else wanted property so close to the deadlands unless the houses were offered free with the stipulation that a suite always be available for those of us who get stranded in the area.
“This is it,” Monesse M’irshlak says, unlocking the door and flipping on the light. The room looks satisfactory—not quite as basic as the dusty old wooden landing. The suites were built for a small bit of comfort for weary soldiers, especially those that might need medical attention.
There’s a small sitting area, a dining spot near the wide, glass-framed doors covered with a sheer white curtain, a bedroom behind the living quarters, and a door to what I’m sure must be the bathroom. Beyond the glass framed doors is a second-story porch that faces the direction of the deadlands.
“It’s lovely,” I say to the farmholder’s wife, who blushes and flings the dishtowel over her shoulder.
“Thank you. I clean it every other moon if there are no visitors. I’ll leave you to relax while I finish making dinner,” she babbles, but I’m hardly listening. Once she steps over the threshold, she looks like she may turn around.
I close the door and fling the lock hard enough to make it click.
Her footsteps echo down the wooden floors, somewhat sorrowful that she didn’t get as much gossip as she wanted.
As soon as the door closes, I stare at my bride, who pushes the hood from her head and speaks. “There’s one bed. Now, look. I understand you’ll want to sleep on the floor of your boss’s wife’s room, but I have to admit to feeling slightly guilty because you’re injured. So, I will allow you to sleep in my bed. But no funny business just because you have amazing abs, Dracula.”
“Do you babble just for the sake of talking, female? When will you get that we have no clue what the other is saying? Now, I want you to try to understand that I will bathe you. Will wash off the grungy ink from everywhere on your skin. Plus, you kind of smell.” I hold up my hands, as if she’s about to protest, even when I know she’s clueless. “It’s not your fault, not really. That sleeping gas exudes from your pores. You’ll be fine once we clean you up. Well, as pretty as you can be, Iguess. You have nicefreelig, when it’s not knotted up in a tangle on your head, so I guess there’s that. I wouldn’t expect other females to feel challenged by you, that’s for sure.”
I begin tugging on the brichet she wears, and she helps by sliding her arms out like I’m her lady’s maid. Huh.
I leave her standing in the bedroom while I head into the adjoining bathroom—small, to be sure, but at least we don’t have to head out to where the rest of the family gathers—and rinse it out, hanging it to dry. Then I run the shower so the water heats and turn back to my bride.
“Can we get this atrocious travel garment off you?” I lift her various layers of black skirts.
“Hey, now, hands off, buddy. I just told you. There are layers of social etiquette being broken here, doesn’t even matter that you have an eight pack. The lady of the manor does not do the pool boy, if you know what I mean. Or in your case, the security guard.”
“Come now, this is not the time for being shy. We’re married,” I chide, tugging at her bodice, suddenly eager for a glimpse of what she looks like.
Bride giggles and my heart lifts at the sound. She bats my hands away, then holds her skirt in her hands and runs around the bed. I happily give chase and she squeals louder.
“Now just hold still,” I grin, showing fang as I clasp her to me.
“No, no,” she laughs, giggling still. “I know I’m irresistible. Fight the urge, soldier. Take control of yourself. Ignore my sweet pheromones. I can’t keep them from exuding from my pores.”
I race my fingers along her sides, tickling her gently as she slaps my hands away.
“I’ll get you naked and you’ll have to quit moving,” I say. “Otherwise, you’ll be slippery when wet.”
“How would you like if I took your clothes off?” She slides her soft fingers into the edges of my shirt, but apparently forgot she’d popped off all my buttons earlier.
Her laughter halts and her eyes grow wide as she skims her touch along my scaled skin—the scales that automatically soften for her sweet touch.
“So warm,” she hisses. “Still improper, you naughty vamp.”
“Hold still, lovely,” I murmur, trying to ignore the way my heart pounds. Surely it’s from the chase around the room and not the excitement of being so near her?
So I tickle her sides again and she giggles, stepping back from my arms. I don’t like that, not one bit. I take a step forward, reaching for her wispy layers of skirt again.
She slaps my palms and I slide my hand up her outer thigh, along the curve of her hip and to her waist. A bit higher and I can feel the curve of her bosom...
But then, somewhere, a zip-like contraption hisses down the side of her, and her breasts pop free. Spring out. Fall forward.
