2. Bond

Harm seemed to be a relative term. While she wasn’t hurt, she could not pretend that the hold he kept on her hand was entirely gentle. That the winds batting at her legs and reminding her of the reasons dresses were meant for walking on the ground to a neighbourhood fete rather than flying through the city itself.

A mate should be concerned about that, surely?

But he flew with a determination that kept her from making enquiries up further still. She’d thought the high towers all the same—and they had seemed it during her twining walk through the streets.

They were entirely different jutting up from the air, each bolder and more impudent than the last, the whites of the stone shimmering in the bright lights that burned out in seemingly eternal fire. Only the ones further inland were dark and quiet.

Not of use, her mother would say with a shake of her head and a tsking sound. Pretty little eyesore was another favourite term of hers.

Yet Lucian approached as if it was natural. Like he belonged in one of these. Drawing her through one of the overly large windows, unshuttered and utterly impractical given the breeze that caught and chilled this high up.

The room itself was dark. Unwelcoming. And she squinted about, trying to make sense of where he had brought her. A bedchamber, or a home, or perhaps a kitchen that would soon be her kitchen once they talked everything through with one another.

Not a kitchen. Not when there was an enormous bed along the far wall. Rather than draperies for warmth in the cold season, it relied on carved wood—making the whole thing appear as an elaborate cupboard meant solely for sleeping. She had seen nothing like it, and it did not look particularly enticing, yet she felt her insides give a sort of squeeze that was not entirely unpleasant.

Their bed?

She went to move through the space, to take an inventory of his belongings and hopefully find some small measure of who this quiet, terse mate of hers might be.

But as she moved, his hold on her hand did not relent, and she turned back to him with her question already at her lips. “Is this room yours?”

It seemed baffling to even think it. Not even in her wildest imaginings had she supposed that her mate might belong in one of the tallest towers in the city. That held importance—distinction. It was little wonder he was confused at the prospect of being mated to a smithy’s daughter.

He looked about the space, his brows drawn close. “This? No. For guests. The window was open. Airing the room, I expect.”

He still did not let go of her hand.

Which might have thrilled her. Might have drawn her in until she was nestled close, except there was the curl of unease that perhaps this wasn’t where they belonged at all.

She glanced about nervously, already inching back toward the window. “Perhaps you are comfortable with trespass, but I am not.” It wasn’t an accusation, exactly. And it was certainly not something she’d ever thought she’d have to say to a mate.

She should have insisted they go to her mother’s kitchen. Get warm by a comfortable fire. Sip tea and get to know each other.

He snorted a little, shaking his head, and finally let go of her hand.

It should have been a relief, as now she could leave, whether or not he followed. But what if he... didn’t? He did not seem to find the bond as enchanting as she did. Did not seem to find her so alluring that she might expect him to come find her. So she stayed, eyes anxiously drifting toward the closed door of the room, certain someone would come to make accusations at any moment.

He moved over toward the bed and sank down, eyeing her up and down. “You can relax. The room might not be mine, but the tower is.” He grimaced. “Will be.” He closed his eyes. “Would have been.”

Firen swallowed. Some of the tension had eased from him now that they were in private, but it seemed only to have settled into her instead. “I do not know what that means.”

He laughed, a low, derisive sort of sound that wasn’t particularly pleasing to hear.

“Do you know why there is a guard at the door for our fetes? Did he tell you?”

Firen did not know why they were talking about such things, not when they could hold the least relevance to their current circumstances. They were bonded. It was done. Foolish men and their foolish enquiries about birth and names and houses, all of that was behind them.

“No,” Firen answered, standing a little taller.

They should be kissing. Holding each other. Maybe even plucking at one another’s clothes if they were amiable to it.

Not standing so far apart while he looked at her as if she was some sort of inconvenience, tucking her away in guest rooms being aired for someone that was certainly not her.

He stood, and even though he was moving toward her and her heart beat a little faster, it was not with anticipation. Not when he was looking at her that way. His eyes were too hard, his mouth pressing into a too-firm line.

Firen stood her ground, not from some surge of courage, but because it did not occur to her to do anything else.

His eyes narrowed further.

“There are expectations, ” he continued, as if disappointed when she had done nothing. Said nothing. “Who we are to meet, who we are to take to mate. And I can assure you, that does not include a fine craftsman’s daughter from the fourth district.”

He might not be able to harm, but he could hurt. And he did it without even a hint of remorse through the bond for what he’d inflicted on her.

She took a breath.

Swallowed.

She would not rage at him. But she would not endure insults either. Not on herself and not on her family. Not her home.

“So?”

He paused, not expected her terse reply.

It was all the encouragement she needed.

“I do not know your family,” she responded tightly. She wasn’t yelling—hadn’t even raised her voice. But she would be heard. “And you most certainly do not know mine. Thus far, you’ve accused me of being some sort of... lurk-about, preying on—what I can only assume—are the wealthiest of us all?” She did not bother to pause long enough to hear him confirm it. “I went to that fete tonight in good faith. Because I wanted my mate, and I’ve waited for my mate, and I knew he had not come through the circuit to find me as he should have done.” Her hands formed tight fists, and he was glaring at her—oh yes, it could be considered nothing else.

“You mean as I should have done.” It was not a question, and he did not bother to present it as such. But it was dripping with all the disbelief that she should hold him accountable for anything at all, that she took a step nearer to him, her chin held high.

“You were always going to be mine,” she reminded him. “Always. There would be no other. Not in a tower, not in a fish-vessel. Just me. A smithy’s daughter that wanted nothing more than to meet you. To love you. All in good faith.” Some of her anger seeped out of her as she finished, replaced with a sorrow that was bone deep.

She wanted to go home. Wanted to collapse into her mother’s arms and apologise for not believing her. For holding so tightly to the idea that everything could be good and perfect and easy from the start, no matter how she’d tried to warn her.

But the bond wouldn’t allow that, would it? It would itch, at first. A niggling, worming distraction that all was not as it should be. Then there was the ache. The one she’d had since she was young. Too young. Lying in her bed with talk of how much her someone would be missing her in turn.

Nothing about Lucian suggested he’d pined. That he’d wanted her at all.

Not when there were expectations.

She wiped at her eyes, although they were mercifully dry. Watched his tense form as he looked at her, his own hands balled at his sides to match her own. “Why are those other expectations more important than mine? A mate comes first. Always.”

“Do they?” He leaned toward her, eyes still too hard. “This is a different household you’ve mated into. Responsibilities. And what if the cost of being my mate was that you had to sever ties with that family of yours? To fit in, with as little fuss as possible, into this world that you were so eager to climb into?”

She opened her mouth, her heart beating too quickly, her throat too tight to answer.

He was serious. Perfectly so. She could not find any sort of pleasure in the words, nor in the panicky feelings they elicited in her. But he’d said them, and there was a part of him that meant them, and she took a measured step backward.

“I never imagined a mate could be cruel,” she answered, her voice a little softer. “Yet there you are.”

She turned back to the window. She thought she’d known pain before. Thought she’d understood what it was to ache and want and long for something that might never happen at all.

This was worse.

This was disappointment so deep she wasn’t sure how to bring herself out of it again. It was resentment and rage and the unfairness of it all.

She’d sought this? Wanted it? Craved it with her heart and soul and...

She was clear of the window. It was an awkward sort of lurch that meant she dropped briefly before she could settle her wings into proper movement.

Only to lurch harder still when she felt her ankle grabbed. As if she was a wayward child instead of the incensed and devastated mate she truly was.

She turned, and she was out of doors so she could yell truly now, but he was looking at her, not with that hard and angry expression she associated with him, but with all the desperation she felt to be away from him.

“Wait. Just... wait. Please.”

She was never particularly good at hovering, so she either needed to wrench herself free or land again.

The bruised pride insisted she return home. Let him come fetch her when the ache grew too great for the both of them. Let him humble himself by coming to her modest abode and petition her with apologies and promises that he’d no longer be wretched to her.

She was not his enemy. No matter how he’d looked at her.

It was the second, softer, “ Please ,” he offered to her that brought her back. Gentle. As if he’d already resigned himself that she would go and they would not see one another again. As if such a thing was possible for either of them.

He gave her room as soon as she’d stepped back into the guest quarters, and she would not stand lingering at the window, even if it would prove her most efficient escape. They were mates. This could be mended.

She had to believe that.

So she sat on the edge of the bed where he had been.

She didn’t huddle. She didn’t curl up, drawing up her knees and tucking them under her skirt, no matter how naked and nervous she felt. Instead, she sat with her back as straight as she could make it and smoothed down what fabric she could, mindful of how it had wrinkled slightly during their flight here.

Lucian paced.

From one side of the room to the other, his eyes darting toward her every so often. She would not speak first. She’d decided that, although she could not have said when. It settled rightly, soothing and reassuring. If he wanted her to stay, then he would have to begin it with an apology. She’d done no wrong. Not in her word, nor in her birth.

And if he expected her to offer any without the conviction of her conscience, he would wait for a very long time.

He didn’t look at her when he finally paused. Her mother would have insisted that a turned back was rude and that no apology could be given without a proper posture and a penitent tone.

But perhaps his mother did not have the same handle on manners as hers did.

It felt an unkind thought toward a woman she’d yet to meet—one she hoped she might love. Families grew with each mating. It wasn’t meant to be loss and threat and everything Lucian was making it to be.

“I’ll not keep you from your family,” he said at last.

Which was not an apology at all.

“No,” she agreed. “You will not.”

His shoulders had the audacity to shift in a way that suggested he had to take a deep breath in order to carry on. As if he had to be patient with her.

She was not a woman easily angered. She despised conflict of any sort and would do whatever she could to smooth things as quickly and efficiently as possible.

He didn’t know that, she reminded herself firmly. They were bound, that was all. Working out the rest was up to them.

She rubbed her hands against her knees, praying for calm. For understanding.

Praying he’d open his mouth and set things right between them.

Da would have gone to Mama. Pulled her closed and whispered in her ear. Their mendings were quiet, done through closeness and quiet assurances that things would be better.

Did he feel the tension in the space between them? Was it a comfort to him, or did he feel the same urges that she did to close it? To touch and encourage and smooth away hurts with a balm of affection?

She wanted it.

But stayed where she was.

“I will...” He halted, his shoulders moving again as he heaved another great breath. Finally turned to her with his hand moving through the longer bits of his hair, his grip a little too firm. “You don’t understand.”

Firen nodded, for at least they agreed on that. “No, I don’t. You’re going to have to help me.”

And for once, he was not scowling. He looked... almost lost, standing near the door.

He might not deserve it. Might not have earned her consideration with his behaviour, but she found herself sighing just a little. Perhaps he simply did not know how to proceed. Perhaps he wasn’t given as excellent an example of a companionable mating as she had. “Maybe it would help if you weren’t all the way over there.” She patted the bed beside her, the invitation a shocking one from a certain point of view.

He seemed to share that perspective, for his eyes widened and he took another step back toward the wall as she rolled her eyes at him.

“Or stay there,” she conceded. “Although I would argue there is nothing shocking about sitting close to one’s mate, whether or not it is on a bed.”

He snorted, shaking his head. And for a moment, she truly thought he intended to keep as far away from her as possible. Yet he moved. His steps were begrudging as he sat beside her. Not directly—certainly not touching—but he was there. His legs stretching out in front of him as he stared down at his boots with a hint of his glare.

The bed in its strange cupboard made for an almost muffled quality. Made it feel all the more private. Dark. Where they might talk without having to stare at one another too deeply.

Except that she wanted to. Wanted to know every bit of him, inside and out.

Varrel had been quiet. He would answer any question put to him, his answers carefully considered when they were of a more important nature—how Eris would live with him. His ability to provide for her and their fledglings when they came. Those sorts of things.

But Lucian...

It was a different sort of silence. Or perhaps it was having the bond, humming and squirming about in her chest, making his tension a physical reality in her own body.

In another life, with another mate, she would have pinned him to the bed. Kissed him thoroughly until the tension eased and his tormented thoughts quieted until only she remained.

But he...

“We are told,” he began at last, and she kept very still, afraid that anything she did might keep him from continuing. “That we are born to our stations. Tied to the blood, yes?” He tilted his head toward her and she nodded. She had never put much stock in all the talk of blood and its relation to the bond. Hadn’t cared when she’d been warned away from mingling with Wren and her half-blood. Born outside a bond.

An abomination.

She’d wanted to smack the word out of Old Henley’s mouth when she’d heard it the first time, but she’d settled on a scolding so fearsome that he at least knew not to use it again in her hearing.

“So if a mate is not... of similar station, then what does that say about us?”

She tried to be patient, truly she did. But it was all such nonsense that it took a full three breaths before she could respond in any way that wasn’t a biting sort of retort. “It says,” she answered as graciously as she could. “We are all of one kind under the bond. That there is something in my line that will strengthen yours. That our children will be the better for the both of us.”

Another scoff as he shook his head. “There are few that would share your sentiment.”

Her throat burned. “In your circles, perhaps. But I can assure you, that is a common enough view in mine.”

But that was the trouble, wasn’t it?

His scowl eased into a glum sort of expression, and it made it easier to slip a little nearer to him. To tuck his hand into hers and remind herself that they were meant for one another. Insults or no, they had to work things out. And she did not bother to see how he took it. To know if he grimaced or resented the closeness.

“I should like to accept your apology,” Firen murmured, tightening her hand just a little in case he tried to escape. “Should you care to give one?”

He made a strange sort of sound. Perhaps a laugh, although it came out wrongly. Too choked, and ending far too quickly for her liking.

“And if I do not believe I have done anything to apologise for?”

The words did not comfort her, but the bond was warmer than it had been. “Then you are a wretch. And I shan’t hold your hand.”

It was not a threat she had ever considered making before, but it was pertinent now.

He pulled at their hands, and she could not account for what had changed, yet suddenly it was her hand being held by his. “What a pity that would be.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she wished she could better make out his expression. “Are you poking fun at me?” Maybe later she would know how to read the bond. To look in his eyes and know that he adored her, so light-hearted teasing was to be expected. But that was then, and this was now, and she was still waiting for some measure of apology.

“No,” he assured her, sounding more tired than he had before. “I do not find this,” he held up their hands between them. “As disagreeable as I had imagined.”

Perhaps she should be offended by that, but the bond was humming between them, and it was... pleasant. More than pleasant.

She nudged him with her shoulder, because she could not let it go. Perhaps she should have. Perhaps it was a subject to be returned to when there was more understanding between them, but she couldn’t. Not when he’d spoken of her family so. Of her.

He did not sigh, but their hands dropped, and suddenly it was hers keeping hold of his. “I should have known that... speaking of such things would upset you.”

Firen blinked once, slowly, and then turned her head to look at him.

The bond was not as pleasant as it had been.

It was Firen’s turn to laugh—an incredulous burst of sound that had Lucian turning his head to look at her in alarm.

“Well, yes, I suppose you should have known that. But an apology would be that it was wrong to have said it at all.”

His mouth twisted slightly. “It is what you will soon hear. Whether it be from me, or from others.”

She stood, releasing his hand. But she did not make for the window again, not when she could lean over and take his face in her hands to ensure he was looking at her properly. “Then if I must, it will be from others. But never you. Never my mate. Are we agreed?”

His eyes darted toward her mouth just once. But it was enough for her to remember that earlier desire. The one that bid her lean down, to claim him, to taste him. To seal the promise with something new and tantalising and solely theirs.

But he hadn’t promised, had he?

She leaned down anyway. Did not indulge. Did not press her lips to his, even as the bond thrummed and her heart pounded. “Are we agreed?”

His hands came up. Buried in her hair at the nape of her neck as they had on the stoop where they’d found one another. And suddenly she didn’t feel as tall as she had. Didn’t feel like the advantage was hers at all.

“Agreed.”

And then he kissed her.

Which still wasn’t an apology. And she was going to remind him of that in the firmest possible terms. After. When her heart stopped racing and when her hands stopped reaching for him. When she decided just what her lips were meant to be doing, how they might encourage him just to linger a little bit longer because this...

This finally felt right.

But that was the point of it all, wasn’t it? To get them to bed, to get them as close as two people could possibly be. To make more little fledglings that would fly about and grow until they would be thrust into much these same positions. Struggling and grappling with expectations and fantasies until all that was left was mouths moving and maybe hands too as they gripped and pulled and wanted.

It was petty. Except that it wasn’t.

Mama had said that the beginning mattered. That those initial disputes would be the ones you carried longest.

And she couldn’t... she wouldn’t... let this be one of them.

“Please be sorry,” she murmured against his mouth.

Felt him still.

Felt him pull away from her, which wasn’t what she wanted. Not at all. Not when her blood had turned to fire in her veins. Not when she felt as if she was beautifully, perfectly alive.

But she blinked at him even as he studied her. Didn’t push him back and take his mouth and his bitterness and turn it into something lovely.

“Please don’t tell me you think I’m something less.”

He swallowed.

And that hurt.

That his reassurances were not quick. That he had to think about an answer rather than promise her it was all nonsense. That he was pleased with her, that he could imagine no other...

Sweet words. The kind that her father always made. Until Mama rolled her eyes and swatted at him with a dish towel and banished him back to his workshop.