3. Sleep

Lucian fetched her water.

She’d been afraid to ask him for it, but he’d rolled his eyes and grumbled something about what sort of home she thought he had if there was no water to be had.

Which there was. Because a door opened beside the hearth and she saw taps and a full bath and if that wasn’t the most over-indulgent thing for a single person she had ever seen in all her days...

But there was a cup, and the water was cool and fresh when he handed it to her, and she would not complain that he hadn’t been forced to fly down to the kitchens—up to the kitchens?—and leave her alone.

It made it easier still when she could make use of the adjoining suite to relieve herself and wash her face and even brush her teeth with her finger and the bottle of salts she found neatly on the shelf.

The same sort she used. The pot was even familiar, and she wondered if he frequented the market himself or if his mother made such purchases.

That did not count as snooping. On that, she was decided.

There was even a looking glass. One of the finest she’d ever seen. Not rippled and pitted like the one stationed over her mother’s trunk in her bedroom. Smooth and so clear that she leaned forward to peer at herself more closely. Even pulled open a few laces to look at her chest where she felt the bond most strongly, trying to see if anything had changed now that it was present.

But no. It was just skin and a scar where a hot ember from the forge had spat out and burned her when she was little.

She took down her hair. The circlet that she would return to Da tomorrow. She did not go so far as to make use of Lucian’s comb, so she settled on running her fingers through it as best she could.

They were going to sleep. Lucian had said so. They would sleep and sort out the rest in the morning. And if she’d been bolder, she would have taken her dress off entirely, insistent on making use of a large bed and a private moment to the fullest. But that seemed... presumptuous.

So she settled on undoing the outer layer of her dress, the thin shift beneath a suitable nightdress until she could fetch her trunk.

Firen shivered as she paused with her hand on the latch separating the bathing room from the rest of the sleeping chamber. She felt all at odds with herself. The bond working its way to warm her blood and send tendrils of anticipation for acts she had so looked forward to had craved. And then there was the rest. Uncertain and yes, even a little unhappy with the man that was her mate, no matter how she tried to smooth over that fact with understanding.

They had made no plans beyond spending the night in his room. He’d asked if she needed nourishment, but could not quite hide his relief when she’d assured him she’d eaten plenty at the first fete.

Not that she must clarify which one, as he’d been there to see her shunning from the second.

She opened the door, impatient with herself. She’d do as she pleased, and nothing that she didn’t. Nothing would be wrong with... with mating with him, if she wanted to. If he wanted to.

Did he want to?

He’d changed. Gone were the formal robes, exchanged for a pair of loose-fitting trousers that tied about his waist. He wore no shirt. He should wear a shirt. Well. He shouldn’t. Not when he was slim and fine to her eye, and she wondered if she should have removed her shift as well. So he might be the one to stare and his pulse to flare and to wonder if they might and if they should, and she was still a little cross with him, despite it all.

But she hadn’t. And she wondered if she had come back too soon except that he’d moved away from the wardrobe and was pulling back the coverings on the right side of the bed.

Firen took a deep, full breath, and he glanced at her.

His wings were as black as the robes he’d worn, and they stood in such contrast to the paleness of his skin. Often wings and hair were similar in nature, but not in his. All contradictions, her mate.

“You may take that side,” Lucian declared, pointing to the bed. Then hesitated, glaring down at the coverlet. Not made from scraps of old trimmings, quilted into usefulness. But a swathe of dark green that had seen no other purpose than to cover this bed. His bed.

Not theirs.

Her stomach gave an uncomfortable pull, even as the bond warmed. It could be theirs. If she went over there. Touched him as she was meant to. Smoothed her hands over skin that had clearly never known hard labour, and yet held a strength that seemed inherent in their kind.

“Unless you’d rather this one.”

It was an offer begrudgingly made, but given all the same.

It made it easier to approach. She did not go to him, not as the bond insisted. But went to the side initially offered and mimicked his act of pulling back the bedding. The coverlet was thicker than she’d thought, and there were linens of crisp white beneath. A bother to wash, Mama would say, clicking her tongue and fretting how they’d fit in the washbasin come laundry day.

But Firen could not deny how soft they were when she ran her hand down the bottommost layer. It made her almost giddy as she slipped beneath the bedding, tucking her wings low so she could situate herself more comfortably. The mattress itself was welcoming, and easing her tension and promising her a restful night when she could relax enough to sleep.

“It is only a bed,” Lucian groused, lowering the light but not dousing it entirely. “You needn’t smile so.”

His disposition did nothing to quell her appreciation. He left the drapes open at the bottom of the bed to allow in the heat from the hearth, but she watched as he moved the ones at the side of the bed until they almost shut entirely.

Should she have done that?

Before she could decide, or even ask him, he came around and saw to it himself.

“Thank you,” she murmured, curling her toes and watching them barely show any movement at all.

He did not answer, but he wasn’t scowling, so that was something.

And she was still smiling.

She could not have expected the thrill when he got in beside her. How their squabbling dimmed. Talk of families and disappointments seemed foolish and unimportant.

This mattered. The two of them. The way the bond flared to feel him settle in beside her. As he would, hopefully every night for the rest of their lives.

She reached out to find his hand. He was at the far edge of the bed, his body stiff and his hand tight when at last she settled hers around it.

She turned to her side, and while every impulse insisted she creep nearer to him—to settle against his chest. To touch him and be touched...

There was an unease in the bond that insisted she be a little more cautious. “You all right?” she asked, squeezing his hand briefly.

“Yes,” he answered tersely. Waited for a moment. “No,” he amended, and there was the sadness again. For herself. For him.

But there was a flare of excitement when he pulled her closer to him. When he wrapped his arm about her and let her settle just where she’d hoped she would. When she could feel them fitted so rightly together. And she loved the feel of his skin against her cheek when she chose that instead of the many pillows behind them. Loved the way he situated the covers to ensure her shoulders were warm and her wings not situated badly.

Loved it more when she felt his fingers in her feathers, brushing and coaxing, until her wings tingled and she wanted so badly to kiss him. To ensure that he felt the same as she did.

But that meant moving. Meant shifting and coaxing him to show his back to her, and she did not think he’d be willing to allow that. And besides, moving was a terrible prospect, not when her bones felt like they’d turned to liquid, when she felt a peace she had hoped for, but never experienced.

She almost wanted to say something. To ask if he felt it, if this was shared rather than for her alone. But it had to be. And talking thus far had only led to quarrelling, so she settled for resting her hand against his chest. To the spot where she assumed his bond was nestled, also. To plying it first with little patterns with her fingers. Feeling his body tense, then slowly— slowly— loosen.

Which was rather marvellous.

Not that she wanted him to be nervous with her. Not that she would purposely make him anxious. But the feel of him relaxing, of being with her without the scowl and the glare...

She craved it.

Firen shifted again. Not too far. But enough that she felt him stiffen ever so slightly as she flattened against him. Which wasn’t so great a change, only that it allowed her lips to find the spot her fingers had played with. To kiss it once, simply to gauge his reaction. For his hand to come to her hair as he looked down at her, eyes harder than they should be. Questioning and suspicious.

Which was absurd.

“We are meant to be sleeping.”

Firen smiled at him. “Really? I wasn’t aware.”

He gave a snort of amusement. “My day has been long. Has yours been otherwise?”

“My day...” she murmured, feeling it all felt rather far away. There was a before and an after. When she was Firen, the smithy’s daughter. Now...

“Was spent preparing for you,” she breathed, allowing her lips to drop so she could skim across his bared chest. And really, if he did not want her attentions, for her to notice him, he should have worn a proper sleep-shirt. But he hadn’t, and while she thought wistfully that she should have gone without her shift to match him, it was too late and too much effort to be as bare in kind.

She was close enough to see the way he swallowed, the way his eyes flared with heat for just a moment before he forced them back to a guarded sort of neutrality.

“You cannot say the same, I know,” Firen added, and she was pleased that she could say it with a smile even as she kissed his chest once more. It would be his mouth soon. When she could be bothered to wriggle up enough to find it. “But that’s all right. I don’t mind.”

And she didn’t. He’d resigned himself to the nothingness he would find in a fete barred from families not old enough. Which meant he’d known he would be without. Without a mate, without her , and without things like kisses and bonds that warmed and tugged and insisted that they would sleep much better after.

“I wonder if I believe that,” he mused, playing with a lock of her hair and bringing the end to brush against her cheekbone.

“It’s true,” she insisted. And then it was worth pulling herself higher. To bring their faces nearer to one another. She didn’t kiss him, not yet, but she liked the way he swallowed again at her closeness. Most of her was still situated at his side rather than fully on top, but that could be changed as well. Would only take a bit more wriggling, after all. “I was tired too. Of the waiting. Of the sameness. Why would I begrudge it of you?”

His mouth tightened and his eyes...

She sighed.

He was going to remind her about blood and families and how he hadn’t gone looking as she had done because he did not want a mate that did not align with that description.

But he’d promised. So he would say nothing.

But he would think it.

And she hated that, too. Hated that she could feel his withdrawal even when he had not moved. Could feel him remember she wasn’t what he wanted, and so there should not be sweet touches and whispered words between them. Sleep, yes. Because they must sleep somewhere, and the bond would not be satisfied unless it was together. But anything else...

She held his face much as he had done to her in the street, and she was gratified when his expression became startled instead.

And then she kissed him. Perhaps it was a bit desperate. Perhaps it was born of wanting to make a point rather than simple desire. But that was all right, wasn’t it? Because he was hers. And she was his, even... even if he still had reservations on that score.

It hurt.

She wished it didn’t, but it did.

But it was easier to ignore as the bond flared and his hands went to her waist, and then she did not have to think about wriggling or shifting because he was the one pulling her over top of him. To allow her to settle against him while she kept control of their kiss. Because it was theirs. Because his lips moved in turn, sometimes forceful, other times gentle. Allowing her to lead, to conquer.

Until she was breathless and sore because her lips were not accustomed to being used so, and her blood pulsed with needs that were just as new. And far, far too strong to simply ignore.

“Someday,” Firen murmured, kissing his cheek because she could. “We will be able to talk to one another without arguing afterward.”

Lucian grunted, but his hand smoothed up her back, and Firen had to suppress the urge to chase some of those sensations brewing beneath the surface of her skin.

“You are so certain of that.” He no longer sounded so weary, but it was not amused enough to be counted as a tease.

He doubted her, then. Which was all right. She held enough determination for the both of them. “I am. Because we have been paired for a reason. And I do not believe that it is to make us unhappy, no matter what you might think.”

He grimaced, as she knew he would. “Firen...” he began, and she liked the way her named sounded on his lips.

But she shook her head, trying to keep away his argument. The beginnings were there, in the tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes shifted toward the door. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

But her only solution was to kiss him again. To smooth away all the parts of them that didn’t quite fit with the ones that most... assuredly...

His fingers were at the ties on her shoulders. Not undoing the knots that held her shift in place, but near enough that she shivered, wondering if he would be so bold. She might have taken advantage of his lack of proper sleeping attire, but that wasn’t the same thing as undressing him. Which she could do. If she wanted. If... if he wanted.

She hated the doubt that cooled some of her ardour. Hated that she had to wonder at her welcome, if they ought to wait—although for what, she couldn’t say. There were no lessons in such matters. Mama had brusquely covered the subject but insisting she would know what to do when the time came and she shouldn’t pester about it. Then came the book with the diagrams when Firen had taken her queries to the market and Mama had overheard her being laughed at by Old Mag. “At least find a mated friend to ask, silly girl! What do you expect any of these unpaired to know about anything?”

And Firen had been mortified and so had her friends, and it had taken two full markers before any of them could look at one another again.

Firen swallowed, looking down at Lucian and wishing...

No, not that he was a different man. That was wrong. But that she could be sure of him. Of herself.

Which was ridiculous, as she was not this careful creature, too afraid of doing wrong that she was paralysed into inaction. She hoped, and she did her best, and this far all had come out well enough.

“Lucian,” she murmured, uncertain of herself. “Tell me this is all right.”

His hand stilled by her shoulder.

“Which part?” he asked tightly, and Firen suppressed a sigh.

“I should like to keep kissing you,” she explained, because it felt right to express herself, even when it was difficult. “And I should like to be with you.”

His eyes flashed just once. Not in that hard way that spoke of anger and resentment. But as if her plain speech excited him.

Buoyed, Firen smoothed her hands down his chest, and she allowed herself to move downward. Just a bit. To where... if he was amiable... they might divest him of his trousers, and her of her shift, and they might make a very fine pairing indeed.

“I’ve imagined it so many times.” And maybe that was too near to talking. Which would lead to quarrelling. Which seemed a terrible thing when this was so very pleasant. “What that first night might be with my mate.” She shivered, and the rest of the evening took on a distant sort of quality. Everything, really. Everything that wasn’t the feel of his hands coming to her waist. The soft squeeze as his breath hitched at her words, the pulse that flared in time with the bond settled so neatly in her chest.

“We would kiss, of course. For so long that my jaw would ache.” And it did. Her lips too. And yet... it seemed a terrible waste not to keep going. Not until she had kissed him all over.

She leaned down so she could place one more upon his lips, just because she could.

“And then?” he asked, his voice low and almost a rasp as it settled across her skin.

“Well. I confess I wasn’t sure how it would go after that.” She ducked her head, but it wasn’t shyness. Not exactly. Just a momentary startling at her own boldness and how... reasonable it all felt. To be close. To share thoughts and, yes, the actions that would follow. “But I knew I wouldn’t be wearing this.” Her hands gestured over her shift, bunched and creased now by her place overtop him. “And you wouldn’t be wearing those.”

He hummed. His hands drifting down too. To catch at the shift caught between them. To smooth his hands up her thighs.

“Not one for modesty, are you?” It did not sound like a complaint. Not when he delved higher still, smoothing his hand up her torso, covered by thin cloth and hiding precisely where he meant to touch next.

She pressed her hands against his bared chest and arched a brow. “You should not complain. Not when I come to bed and you dress like this.”

He smiled at her. Not quite the proper word—not when his eyes were dark, and it quirked on one side more than the other. It made her insides twist to see it, to know, to be sure, that he was pleased. And it was because of her.

“This is how I dress for bed. I can assure you; I had no particular plans of seduction.”

“Oh.” She didn’t mind. Not when he looked as he did, and she liked to touch. “Well, I did. Considered coming out in nothing at all.”

She was rewarded with his eyes drifting downward. To where he touched but could not see. Her own hands drifted to the ties at her shoulders. To the knots he’d fiddled with but had not actually undone. “Do you mind?”

Another snort. The shaking of his head as his hands reached further still. To the soft swell of her chest. They really were not much to behold, and she could admit, if only in the privacy of her own mind, that she looked forward to when she was full and lush after her first fledgling came.

Would it be soon? Was that something that needed discussing? There were chapters on such matters. Of joining and mingling and eggs and fluid and a welcoming womb. And hers would be, wouldn’t it? But then there was an entire section on wanting, and she had tried to puzzle that out, because her parents never seemed to not want another in their brood, so maybe that wasn’t so complicated after all.

She tugged at the delicate bows she’d crafted at her shoulders. Then an extra knot because it would have been terribly embarrassing to lose one of them during the dancing and have her shift hanging strangely during the set.

The lights were low, but that was all right. She knew the feel of it well enough. How to tug, how to wriggle her thumb just so, and then when to pull the long end until it all tumbled free.

A simple matter. Dressing and undressing.

Made to feel like something else entirely when it was done perched across one’s mate. To feel the heat and weight of his attention as first one shoulder dropped, and then the other.

When fabric pooled about her middle, covering only the most intimate part of her and nothing else.

Would she stand to be free of it entirely? Or would he turn her onto her back and ease it the rest of the way down, perhaps kissing down the length of her as he went?

There was no doubting he was pleased. Not when he looked at her that way. When his hands were quick to follow, gentle and careful with her. She felt beautiful, if perhaps a little mad. That bare skin could inspire such captivation. Had she looked at him so when she rejoined him in this chamber? She couldn’t recall.

She reached for her shift about her waist, wanting to tease him. “Or would you prefer that I be modest?”

He grabbed hold of her wrists, and yes, they tumbled then. When suddenly his weight shifted and she was not straddling him any longer, but landed with a breathless sound as her wings jostled and she tucked them just in time so they were not squashed uncomfortably.

But she didn’t mind. Couldn’t mind. Not when he captured her mouth and kissed her deeply. When he left it only to whisper at her ear, his breath hot and his voice squirming at her insides. “Never,” he swore.

The bond swelled. Or maybe that was her heart. Or maybe the two were so artfully entwined that she could not tell the difference any longer. That was all right. Most especially when everything felt peaceful and exciting all at once. They were precisely where they were meant to be. She was meant to feel the weight of him as he hovered over her. She was meant to squirm when he kissed down her neck. When his lips touched her breasts, when his kisses reached their centres and suddenly it was not thoughts of fledglings and future fullness, but sensations that were new and so very present.

The same as they ever were, but different.

Changed.

Altered, because it was him. Because he was the one kissing her, and she needed to touch him. To clutch and to hold and make sure that he knew she was pleased that he was pleased.

And then there was a delicate sort of pressure, and it wasn’t just about pleasing him. It was a swirl of sensation, a tug and a pull that sent a flare through the rest of her—set her wriggling beneath him as she dug her nails at him, and had to remind herself firmly to let go. Not to hurt him, not to do anything at all that meant he might stop...

Yet he hummed.

And the bond pulsed in time with the rest of her.

Because he liked for her to squirm. Liked her to feel.