7. Stay

Firen yelped—a distinctly unfeminine sound, most particularly when it accompanied the lurch and wriggle as she fought both the quilt surrounding her and the arm that was suddenly around her waist.

Lucian loomed over her, and there was a distinct tug of happiness through the bond that thrilled her.

“You jumped on me!” she protested, because that seemed the right sort of thing to do when she’d taken a moment to herself, only to be accosted with her eyes closed and her body almost ready to drift into an afternoon nap.

“Which would not have been possible if you were conscious,” Lucian argued, still keeping most of his weight on her. Which she should really fuss about, but didn’t. Yet. “Are you sick?” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Hardly. My eyes got tired, that’s all. Chains are fiddly work, but people do like to wear them.” Necklaces, anklets. Even the bracelets that dripped down daintily toward long fingers. Trinkets and gifts for special occasions. They sold well, even if she did not always care for the tediousness of making them.

Rings must be sized, making it all the harder for the buyer. But chains...

She shifted so that she could place both hands about his neck, smiling at him tiredly. “And what has you home early?”

If he minded she called the loft home, he did not complain. They were to leave tomorrow. Or... the week was ending. She wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t fallen asleep with an ache in her stomach the last two nights in trepidation of it.

Which had woken Lucian. And he’d grumbled and rolled back over to her, and rubbed at her skin until she warmed all over, and if they’d kissed and loved again, that was hardly her fault.

“You should not work so hard that it hurts you.” He smoothed at the line he must have found between her brows where the strain settled.

She smiled and nodded, all the while thinking of how many coins it could fetch her at the next market.

Fetch them.

“Forget about that. Tell me, is your good mood upon finding me already in bed and awaiting you, or is there something else that pleased you?”

He rolled to his side of their joined cots, and there probably should have been some sort of scolding about outerwear and boots and bedding—but she noted his feet were already off the end of the cot and she needn’t have thought otherwise.

“I finally met with Vandran.”

Firen did not so much as twitch, but she’d hoped one of the faceless names from the list would have caused his sudden shift in mood.

“Oh, yes?”

He reached over and pulled at a lock of her hair, twisting it about his finger absently. “Yes. At first, he stated his regrets that I had not been old enough to mate one of his daughters.”

Firen did not frown, but she wanted to. “Is that so?”

His eyes shifted ever so slightly in her direction, and he did not smirk at her, which saved her from having to shove at his shoulder in punishment. “It is. And I thought that rather a good start, as it meant he knew me well enough to think me appropriate for his family.”

Or had been. Before her.

“I’m glad he likes you,” Firen murmured. It was honest, but there was still hurt there. A wound that was going to be slow to heal.

He took her hand and held it on top of his stomach, fiddling with her fingers. To soothe her? It was working, which perhaps reflected rather badly on her ability to remain cross with him. “That is perhaps a bit strong. He thinks I have potential.” His grip tightened ever so slightly. “My father saw us speaking.”

Firen turned to her side, the better to look at him. “Was he angry?”

Lucian played with her fingers, his thumb moving over the delicate nail bed, the arch of each fingertip. “Yes.”

He did not elaborate. And perhaps she ought to have pressed him, but it seemed rather fruitless. Nothing Oberon might have said would do anything but hurt her. No, that wasn’t true. It could make her lose even more respect for him, make her hate the way he could affect her mate. Send him back into his surly attitude, back to glares and tense shoulders.

Flinching slightly at her unexpected touches.

She liked this one. Warm and pliable. That touched. Liked her touches in return.

His expression clouded, and the smile that had been easy on his lips faded. She curled into his side and hugged him close. “I’m sorry.”

Lucian huffed out a breath. “It isn’t your fault.”

But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? It was, and it wasn’t. Some days she felt the crush of guilt for it, mingled in with her private joys. Because he was here and he’d settled nicely into the family she loved so dearly.

Her brothers had come for supper. Had eyed him appraisingly and muttered about treating their sister well, and then asked why Da had never left them live in the loft when they were first mated?

To which Firen had shoved at both of them. “Because it has always been mine, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”

Lucian had watched them strangely. He did not glower or glare, but there was a look that, when paired with the twinge in the bond, had made her cross back to him and take his hand and smile at him. She did not ask what was wrong. Not then. She’d learned that already. He was amiable enough with her family—he asked them personal queries and answered readily when they posed polite questions in return. But when it came to how he felt, those talks were reserved for when they were tucked away in their loft. More often than not, a tangle of limbs and feathers. When the bond was pleased with their joining, and all was calm and quiet.

Then she could ask him.

And he’d clutch her a little tighter and remain quiet for a while. She’d grown anxious of it at first, but she was learning to be patient with him. To allow him to gather his thoughts, to set them in order before he made any attempt at answering her.

But this one was particularly slow in coming. She’d only asked what had troubled him at supper, if someone had said something or if he took her brothers’ threats too seriously. “They would not actually hurt you.” Which sat too near an untruth, not when she’d scuffled with them herself throughout the years, and bruises had been exchanged on both sides. But they’d grown out of it. Or... had. Surely. But Lucian had no siblings, so perhaps he did not know their ways. “They were teasing.” Mostly.

“They are right to be protective of you,” Lucian disagreed, his hand coming to smooth against her side. Over and over. Soothing, or being soothed? She could not quite tell. “You are... happy. With them.”

Firen’s brow furrowed, and she put her hand on his and squeezed it gently. “I love them.”

He groaned and shook his head slowly. “I love my family. My mother. That does not mean I am happy with them. I had not... recognised there was a difference. Before.”

A lump settled in her throat. And she’d wanted him to be comfortable here, wanted him to see her family as his own, but she hadn’t considered how it might hurt him. To know what a family might have been, and how... unique... his family truly was.

She wanted to say she was sorry. Wanted to hold him. To promise she would love him. Would understand him. Would not force him to endure loving her while feeling a misery that spread like rot through his very bones.

But her mouth was dry, and the words stuck, and she could only hold his hand to her and pray that the bond said all that she could not.

And now they were lying there again. Not after a family supper, but in the middle of the afternoon. And her head ached and her eyes felt the strain of tedious work, and she sighed into her mate and closed them.

Mating was not about fault. It was deeper than that. Some might claim it was about strong offspring and the betterment of their kind, but even that felt inadequate to encompass the whole of it.

“So you saw your father, and still return to me in a pleasant mood,” Firen countered, reaching up and allowing her fingers to drift through his hair. Just once, as he could fuss when she messed with it too much. She did not point out his hypocrisy, for he certainly liked to play with her hair with little regard for the state of it when he’d finished with her.

He’d also taken to hiding her pins and ribbons, which was another matter altogether.

“I have a housing prospect.”

She didn’t stiffen. Didn’t allow the sudden bolt of anxiety to blossom into anything at all. “Oh?”

She couldn’t keep him here. Not indefinitely. But there was some part of her, perhaps too entrenched in her girlhood, that liked the idea of it.

“At the Hall.”

Which was better than his family’s tower, although there was still a prickle of guilt for thinking it. “The Hall,” she repeated, because she was listening, and she wasn’t setting herself against it. She wasn’t.

“Not inside, of course. But near to it. I’m sure it is nothing opulent—they’re mostly for understaff and apprentices. But it would be ours. Assuming... assuming he would sponsor me.”

Not theirs, then. Because it belonged to neither family. But the city belonged to them all, did it not? So maybe that was all right.

His fingers skimmed over her arm so lightly that it tickled at her. “He would like to meet you. Before he gives his endorsement.”

Firen turned her head, and he had a guarded sort of look. “That displeases you? You think me so ill mannered I shall sabotage your efforts?”

It was an ungracious thing to say, but she had mostly meant it as a jest.

But Lucian flinched, and she was sorry, and she grabbed hold of his arm before he could retreat from her fully. “Of course he wants to meet your mate,” she soothed, rubbing her thumb against his knuckles. “And I shall be happy to charm him using every one of my wiles.”

He relaxed against her, but he brought his lips toward her ear. His voice was a low rasp against her. “Is that so?”

She nodded seriously. “I am determined that one person from your circle shall think well of me.” Orma did. But Firen did not think she counted. She was not truly one of them. More hostage than anything else.

He stilled behind her, and she hoped she hadn’t insulted him somehow. She’d meant only in a light and teasing way, although there was truth enough in it she felt guilty she could not call it solely a jest. “I am not certain that is a worthwhile endeavour,” Lucian cautioned, rolling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling.

She wouldn’t be hurt by that. Wouldn’t let it land with a sting of fault and blame. “Because I am so unlikeable?” She would not allow this to dissolve into a squabble. And that seemed an easier determination when she moved over him. If he found her habit of sitting upon him disagreeable, he had to chide her for it.

And she did so like the way his eyes moved over her when she did it. How his hands settled on her thighs, and ever so gently kneaded. Her eyes and head hurt too much to be much interested in loving, but she found his touches pleasant, and if it eased the way for their talking, then it could not possibly be so wrong.

“Your father is downstairs,” Lucian reminded her.

Firen rolled her shoulders before leaning down. Not to kiss him, because they were talking, not loving, but it allowed her to keep her voice even lower. Just for him. “That is fine, because this is not a seduction.” She sat upright again, her brow quirking slightly. “Or did you have intentions of me? When my head hurts so?”

His hands went to her waist, and he held her there. “You were the one that settled upon me. And yet you call me the brute that would impose upon you?”

She did kiss him then. Just once, upon his cheek, so it was hardly a kiss at all. But it was a bit of softness when his tone had grown too hard. A reminder that they were not enemies. Not in the least.

“You are not a brute,” she murmured, skimming her lips across his cheekbone. He relaxed under her, and she feared she had touched too near a genuine concern. She sat back and eyed him, perhaps a little too closely because his expression hardened as he set his attention back toward the ceiling. It was only wooden slats. With bits of soot they had missed from their night of scrubbing. “Lucian,” she urged, her fingers continuing what her lips had begun.

He looked at her. Eyes too grey and far too worried. It was nearly enough for her to slide off of him, but she was certain if she did so he would leave and pace and perhaps escape out the door entirely.

But no. That was what she would do.

“I was only teasing,” she promised him. “But I won’t. Not about this. Not if it troubles you so.”

He made to roll his shoulders to show it did not matter to him, but it did. She could see it plainly, even as he worked to cover his expressions as best he possibly could. “It does not matter.”

She touched her finger to his bottom lip and shook her head. “Lies,” she muttered, and watched his eyes harden. Which made her kiss him again, this time a brush of her lips against his. Soft when he was sharp. Gentle when he grew prickly. “If it matters to you, it matters to me. And you have been nothing but kind to me. Whether it’s in your bed, or here in the mishmash that makes up this one.”

Firen cupped his cheek and tried to bid him look at her. His throat was tight and his head only moved because he willed it. He wasn’t glaring, but it was a near thing. She did not flinch, did not mutter an apology. Just kept her fingers gentle as she leaned a little closer. “Did you think you wouldn’t be?”

His teeth ground together, and she hated the sound. Hated it so much that she gripped his face between both of her hands and kissed him much harder than she’d intended to, so long as it meant that his jaw would loosen and he would kiss her in return.

Which was a success, for it distracted the both of them. Made the bond hum slightly, urging gently that there were much better pursuits that did not require talking or thoughts of eyes and strain and anything but being together again.

But that was not the point.

They both knew it.

So he let her withdraw, her breath tight as she struggled to shove down the feelings he’d elicited. “Talk to me. Please. I don’t want to get this wrong.”

He huffed out a breath and raised his arm to hold over his eyes. Hiding from her as best as he was able when they were situated so closely.

She should move.

Give him space and the time he needed to collect himself. Perhaps it was wrong to mingle affection and difficult talks, but she had not known that it would be a difficult talk.

He sighed deeply.

Then took hold of her waist, and while he did not move her off him, he did lift her up enough that he could sit up fully, leaving her to wriggle and decide if she was going to keep on his lap or move to her own side of the bed.

“You want to be liked. By my circle. ”

She would not fret about the way he said that. As if it was so far removed from the realm of possibilities.

He reached for her, and it was his turn to cup her cheek and hold her steady while he looked at her. “You want to charm them and be accepted, and then everything will sort itself out. Yes?”

Her mouth was dry, and this was mean, twisting her words and making them sound manipulative rather than genuine. “I want to be a help,” she clarified, proud of the way her voice was clear and did not waver. “To you.” The rest mattered, but only in the vaguest sense. If he was willing to forsake them, she would not give them another moment’s thought. Her sleep would not be plagued with worry over their opinion of her. They would simply be the horrid lot in their high towers, that happened to birth and raise the man she held dear.

But he wasn’t.

Not yet, at least.

Not for good.

He smiled, but it was not a particularly happy thing. Just the twist of his mouth, and she wanted to rub it away, either with her own lips or the touch of her finger. But she didn’t.

“I think what you do not understand,” he continued, picking up the ends of her hair and playing with it between two fingers. “Is that they do not even like me. ”

Firen’s mouth opened, but she closed it again, uncertain what she meant to say. That could not be true.

“Those people. The ones at the fete. You knew them. They were your friends.” She remembered the way he’d stepped between them. Hid her from them. She’d thought it protective at the time, but she wondered at it now. He knew all of them. Just as she knew the ones at her own fete. Her friends and neighbours from the district. They’d grown up together, even if some could be considered merely acquaintances instead.

“Yes,” Lucian agreed.

She huffed and shook her head. “I do not understand.”

He brought the tendril upward and tickled it across her cheek. The line of her neck. The slight dip of her throat where her collar went low. “I know. Because you think about things like happiness and liking, and think that it matters.”

She swallowed thickly, realising they were navigating a game she was not at all prepared to play. “Because it does.”

He nodded, but it was indulgent rather than a true agreement. “Here, maybe. But I will admit the concept is... strange to me. That it should matter to you.”

She thought the strangeness quite the reverse, but she did not say it. Not when he suddenly glanced up at her, his mouth pulling downward at the edges. “Do you like me?” He blinked once, but he did not look away from her. “Since you think that matters.”

Firen stared at him. That he had to ask. That he looked as if he already knew her answer, was already beginning to nod and sigh and his hands were coming to her waist to move her away from him.

Which was all manner of wrong.

It was not a question she had ever imagined having to answer. There were grievances she could so easily call upon. Moments when no, she had not liked him in the least. Moments when the bond had itched and chaffed and felt a shackle rather than the most precious tether she would ever possess.

And he expected her to name them.

Expected her to tally them all against him. That she could accept the pleasure he gave her but not crave his presence. His affection. A cool transaction that perhaps one day would begrudgingly lead to children.

Because he expected her not to like him.

Because he thought no one did.

Commitment and obligation. Not wanting and loving and all the fondness that came from being with one’s other half.

He’d never seen better, had he?

Never felt it.

“I’m so sorry you have to ask,” she managed to choke out, hands clutching at him, holding him to her. Keeping him from moving her. “I’m sorry if I...” She stopped, because these doubts had been bred long before he knew her. She would not carry the weight of them, the burden of wounds she had not inflicted.

But she could be kindly toward the fears they’d left in him. “I like you,” she promised him. And it had become true. When he’d return home and wrap his arms about her from behind. When he consented to live in the shed just because it meant being with her . When he was respectful to her mother and courteous to her brothers. He did not have to do any of those things. But he chose to. Because...

He wanted to be kind to her. Whether in their bed or out of it. He might not know the way of it, might begin each attempt with a sort of awkwardness she hadn’t understood at first, but she was coming to.

She kissed his cheek just once and pulled back again. “Would you go somewhere with me?”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and while it might have bothered her even a week before, she felt only a mounting sense of fondness. But the sadness came, just as it always did. That he had cause to doubt her motivations, that he had to wonder if what was to come was a pleasure or a pain.

“Why?”

Because she asked it of him. Because it was a normal thing for a couple to do.

Because they needed to learn how to be with one another outside of these cots. When they were upright and had only words instead of touches to gentle their communication.

“Because it’s good for us,” Firen urged. “And I think we need it.”

He continued to eye her dubiously, and she smiled at him and tried to push all the reassurance she could across the bond. It wasn’t bad. He needn’t be frightened in the least.

It was just her.

Wanting him to venture out with her.

He was still looking at her as if she’d gone slightly mad, and perhaps she had. But she needed to move. Needed to move with him. To fly and be out in the suns and the fresh air, and he needed it too. Of that, she was certain.

“What of your head?”

“Never mind that,” Firen insisted.

“I see. So you’re well enough for dragging me to an undisclosed location, but not enough for...” His voice trailed off but his hand found her breast and held it, his brow quirked.

And she smiled. “Precisely.”

Maybe he huffed at her. Maybe he was only indulging her because he wanted to prove himself likeable. She did not much care as she tugged at her clothing to ensure she did not appear as if she had been napping the afternoon away. Then she did up the laces on her boots as quickly as she could and opened the door. “Well?” she asked, rolling her feet slightly so her heels raised and lowered twice as she saw him sitting on the bed, eyeing her as if she was some peculiarity he could not puzzle out.

“You are not going to the Hall, are you? We have more to discuss before we meet with Vandran.”

It had not occurred to her to attempt anything of the sort, but it was telling that he thought her as impulsive as that. “No,” she promised.

Held out her hand.

And she did not blink at him slowly in the way Mama said she did to urge Da to give her whatever she wanted. Only smiled and waited.

Expecting that he would close the distance between them. That he would follow, because she asked it of him.

And he could sigh if he liked. And he could be the first to pass through the door as if he was the one leading her somewhere. He nodded to her father as they passed, and she smiled and held up her hand, and suppressed her laughter as Lucian pulled her out the workshop door.

Only to cross his arms and lean against the building as he quirked a brow and waited for her to declare her intentions.

But she didn’t. Just fluttered her wings twice, then pushed upward. She would not pretend that the suns were good for her head, but the air was good. A crisp day, tinged with the winter that was supposed to be passed. Grey clouds were pushing in from the north, but they needn’t be gone long. The rest of the sky was clear and bright, and she glided easily far above the city by the time Lucian caught up to her.

Talking was a useful venture when the winds caught and carried all sound away. Parents often taught signals with their hands to direct wayward fledglings on what they should do and where they should go. But they were unique within families, carried on and passed down, so beyond a simple wave to follow along, she did not bother to say more.

It was cold. Always was, up here. How many times had Mama chided about wraps and scarves and even a hat if she meant to go on one of these flights?

Had Lucian been subjected to the same in his early years? Or had his parents been so preoccupied with their own priorities they hadn’t cared if their young son got chilled ears and frozen fingers?

It made her ache. Made her fly a little faster so she could wrap her arms about him and promise herself that she would care about those things. That even if it felt strange at first, he would come to find it common. That he would look back and find his upbringing as bewildering as she did.

Or maybe she was wrong. And his parents were not as awful as they seemed. That they loved him in their way, that he was cared for and nurtured. Loved.

Even... even if he was not liked.

She frowned to herself and pushed further. Welcomed the slight burn in her wings because she’d grown sedentary of late. She glanced behind her, wanting to ensure Lucian was nearby. She needn’t have worried—his wings were so large when they spread outward he was impossible to miss. A dark smudge against a light sky, his eyes darting every which way. What dangers he imagined they’d find, she couldn’t say. Or perhaps he was merely trying to get a hint of their destination.

It seemed more than obvious to her. Away from the piers—she was not looking for company. The docks where ships came into the cove and unloaded their wares. It would bustle in preparation for the upcoming markets. Merchants and Proctors with their lists and pens. Carts that would be filled and hesper with their heads down low as they waited to pull everything into the city itself.

So she went along the coast. Where the beaches were small—more rock than sand.

Then further still. To the small inlet where the cliffs gentled. Then curved. Eased downward and there was a long stretch of sand where the tide had retreated for the moment.

She landed, the sand soft beneath her. The wind was crisp, pushing the clouds over the suns. But the sea was no less beautiful, even if it appeared more grey than its usual blue-green.

Lucian landed close by, eyes already hard as he approached her. “If you are going to suggest one of your dips, I will bury you in this sand until you agree to return home.”

She wasn’t going to warm all over to hear their loft referred to as home. But she might have smiled absurdly wide and done a little twirl because she was happy.

Which he surely could feel. Even if he continued to look at her dubiously when she suddenly sat on the sand and unlaced her boots. Then removed her stockings, which took very little time at all.

While he stood, looming and glaring, as if she was doing something scandalous. “Sit,” she suggested, patting the sand beside her. “I mean to stay awhile.”

He glanced up at the sky, and she knew what he saw. A day that was going to rain later on. A mate he could not begin to understand.

He did sit. Every movement begrudging as he did so. His shoulders were stiff, his face lined with tension, and he looked so miserably unhappy at it she could not help the sudden burst of laughter that earned her another of his glares.

But it did not dissuade her. The day was too pretty, and if she grew cold, it only meant that she could scoot a little nearer and wrap herself about him. Which, she noted as she did precisely that, did not even bring a sigh from him as he brought his arm about her in turn.

“So,” she began, feeling this a far better arrangement for their talk. No sound of the workroom below them. No worry about fathers on either side. Just them. “You think I don’t like you?”

He waited a moment before answering. “That is not what I said.”

“True,” she agreed, then turned her face so she might look at him rather than out at the sea. The waves lapped greedily at the shore, easing further up with each push and pull. “But you worried about it.” He gave no answer, but his expression was response enough. “Why?”

Lucian stared out at the sea for a long while. And she let him. It was all right, because she could feel him working out what he might say, how much he wanted to share with her. She did not expect him to be able to do it all at once.

“There is a difference,” he began at last. “Between commitment and... liking. Affection,” he amended. “I was willing to honour my commitments from the start, but I’ll not pretend that I have been... easy.”

She snorted, just a little, and she was sorry for it when she caught the glimmer or hurt there. He was vulnerable, her mate. All hard edges and sharp words, but remarkably sensitive to her slightest displeasure.

Firen smoothed her hand down his side and took his hand in hers. “I was eager for change,” she commented, rubbing her thumb against the back of his hand softly. “You were not. I do not blame you for finding it a difficult transition.”

Most particularly when he would lose much. And she...

A lump settled in her throat. “I like how you are with my family. I like that you are willing to live in a loft. I like that you came after me. That you forgave me each time I ran off. That our mating means something to you.” She leaned in closer, because even if she could say it aloud, it still felt private and meant entirely for them. “I like the things you do with me in our bed. I like when I can make you smile. That they’re rare and precious when I get to see one.” He ducked his head, and she was distinctly aware she had embarrassed him.

But there was something else. Something that tugged at her through the bond. Made her reach for his face and turn it back to her. “I think you had some preconceptions about me. And as much as I don’t wish to admit it, I had plenty about you.”

He rolled his eyes, but then brought his hand to capture the one holding onto his cheek. “You keep waiting for me to leave you.”

She rolled her shoulders and her feathers rose briefly before she flushed and forced them back down. “I just don’t think that I mean as much to you as you do to me. I feel like at any moment you’ll have had enough and be back in your tower and...” They were the fears she tried to soothe in the dark before sleep came. When she had to recite all the ways that she was fine and he was there, and his arm was about her middle and they’d loved one another well so he wouldn’t go, it wouldn’t be the next morning that he’d leave her. “I couldn’t follow.” It was a confession. One bitten out from a throat too tight with emotion, and she huddled into his side, allowing him to support her. “Please don’t go back.”

He laughed. It was not a mocking sound, but a sudden burst of sound that left her scrambling so she could better make sense of him.

“I have gone, every day, to the Halls. Talked and cajoled with men that some I respect, and others I despised. So that one of them would even consider accepting me. Accepting us.” He grasped hold of her waist and pulled her back to him. “You think I would do this just to go back and beg my father to take me back? To set you aside and leave you behind?”

Her throat burned and so did her eyes, and it had little to do with the salty breeze.

Far more because of the sudden shame that bloomed inside of her. That somewhere along the way, she’d started expecting the very worst of him. Looked at his family and assumed he was too much like them rather than look at the way he treated her. The care he took of her. And allow those parts to shape her opinion of him.

He nuzzled against her cheek, then brought his lips closer to her ear. “How can you say that you like me when you still expect so little of me?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and clutched him to her. “I am sorry,” she choked out, and she meant it. She was not sinless in this. She was stubborn and fanciful, and she needed to be loyal to him. As fiercely as she held to her own family, she had to do the same for him. Against all others.

And expect the same of him.

He did not accept her apology. Not with words, at least. But he smoothed his hand through her wind-blown hair. Rubbed at the back of her skull in a way that made her want to cry all the more because it was the precise spot that ached so badly, and his fingers felt like magic as they worked and rubbed the tension out of her. “I will give you a home,” Lucian murmured softly. “One where you will feel safe. Where you will not endure talks of old magics and severing bonds.” He skimmed his lips against her cheekbone. “They are my burden, not yours. I should not have subjected you to them. I am sorry for it. For how they frightened you.” He huffed out a breath, and it was warm while her cheek was cold. “For the doubt they caused.”

It was not only his family that had caused that. While Lucian might have known he would honour her, honour their bond, he’d done little to communicate that from the start. He’d let her think her presence a nuisance rather than a balm, let her think he was opposed to anything that meant moving away from his ancestral tower.

She could chide him for it now. Could remind him of the ways he’d hurt her. But she was tired of that. Some wounds needed to stop being picked out so they might heal, and she thought the first night of theirs was one of them. They’d both made mistakes. Been imperfect and uncertain of one another, and they could dwell there. Mistrustful and full of blame. Or...

“I’d like that,” Firen answered, smiling at him and finding it perfectly genuine. She would go with him. To meet this Vandran and to do all the things he told her to do when dealing with one of his lot. She would not even begrudge him for it.

And maybe they would not get to sleep in her playroom any longer, playing at a life that might have been hers if her mate was different. If his abilities and training left him open to learning smith-craft.

But this was the one she had, and she had to stop dreaming about some other man. The one that aligned so perfectly with her there would be no strain. No pains as they grew and accommodated one another.

He relaxed against her. Pulled her to him and nestled her into his side as they sat in the sand. As they watched, the waves grow and creep. Push and pull. Over and over.

A bit like them, she supposed.

“I mean to take care of you,” Lucian continued. “I am trying.”

Firen nestled closer, and if her hair was blowing in his way, if her wings rustled too much in the wind and bothered him, he said nothing of it. “I know. And I thank you for it.”

He grunted. And if there was more she ought to say, she did not know what it should have been. The bond was tranquil between them. Not pressing at them to love, to consummate their understanding with something physical. It was content with holding. With sitting. With watching as she buried her toes in the sand and pulled them free again, while Lucian made little sounds of displeasure each time she did so.

He would be the one beating sand out of his boots after it worked its way through the laces and into his stockings. And she’d help him. Maybe.

“Firen,” he asked at last, when her cheeks were cold but her heart was warm.

“Hmm?”

“Why are we here?”

She laughed lightly and shook her head. “Because Da would bring us here. Probably because Mama asked him to, and she wanted the house to herself for a while. At least that’s my guess now that I’m thinking about it. But I didn’t know at the time, of course. He’d just announce that we were off on an adventure, and don’t bother with shoes because we’d only have to clean them later.” She tapped her bare foot lightly against his covered one. “And we’d spend all morning looking for shells. Or there was the time the boys found great sheets of seaweed and try to wrap me in it until I screamed. Then Da taught me how to hit. Then told me not to and made the boys spend the rest of our time playing whatever game I wanted.” She smiled softly at the memory. “A fair trade, I think. That was still one of the best days I can remember.”

She waited, hoping that Lucian would offer a similar story. Something light-hearted. Something that meant that he hadn’t only known harsh words and lonely rooms during his upbringing.

But he was silent. And when she turned her head to look up at him, his jaw was tight. Remained that way, even when she reached up with her fingertips to smooth against it. “Should I not tell you these things?”

He swallowed, his eyes dark and grey. “No. Why would you ask that?”

She would not impose any sort of reason at all. Not when she so often seemed to get it wrong. “I don’t know. Maybe you don’t like stories about siblings when you have none.” That would not be unheard of. She had noticed how some of her market friends got a little wistful, a little sad, when she prattled on too long about her home life. Wren especially. Or she used to, anyway.

He shifted. Not away from her, but enough that she knew it took some effort on his part to remain in place. “There were two fledglings. Before me. Brothers, I think, if you can call them that. They did not live very long.”

Her throat ached. For him, and even for Ellena. Because loss was a terrible thing. Could make one grow cold inside.

She did not say she was sorry, but she was. To live in that shadow must have been a terrible sort of grief, most especially when Lucian had been too young to understand the reason.

“I love my mother,” Lucian reiterated, but it felt less like he was throwing it at her. A more wistful sort of remembrance. “I do not want her to lose another child.”

She wanted to say that Ellena made that choice with her own behaviour. That Lucian—and by extension, Firen herself—were not required to put up with just anything in order to keep her from that pain.

But that was harsh. Too harsh when she was talking with her own mate. Who spoke of his mother with the tone of one who had lost her. Mourned for her. He never sounded like that regarding his father. What love he had seemed to belong only to his mother.

He’d been disappointed. In Firen.

For not being more patient.

And he’d been trying with her family. And no matter the reasons she could throw at the guilt that bubbled within her—that his was mean and spoke of horrible, demented things so she could speak however she wanted about them and to them and it should make no difference at all.

It did.

Firen turned, disliking how it pulled one side of her face into the cold, but needing to look at him. “How can I help with this? Would it... do you want me to meet with her? Or simply give you time to go yourself?” She smiled at him, thin and full of self-deprecation. “I would promise not to leave. Not without you, that is.”

He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his attention was fixed out on the waves, where foam was beginning to form as it tussled in the surf. “Our priority is Vandran,” he said at last. “Securing lodging.”

She opened her mouth to remind him they had a room as long as they’d want of it, but she closed it again. He wanted to provide it for her. For them. Wanted it to be theirs, tied though it was to a job she knew so little about.

“All right,” she agreed with a nod. “When?”

Lucian sighed as the wind blew harder, her hair already loosened from its braid blowing fiercely about them. She smiled a little and tried to manage it and hold on to her ribbon all at once, but it was a losing battle, so she simply held it and rolled her shoulders as she waited for him to answer.

But he didn’t.

He huffed out a breath and shifted, pulling her between his legs so he had access to the unruly mass.

His hands did not move with a certainty that suggested he was practised in the art of a woman’s tresses, but he was determined. First to smooth it all back until he could clasp it with one hand. Then he twisted, first one way, then the other, until it was coiled at the nape of her neck in some semblance of order. What he expected a single ribbon to accomplish, she hadn’t the least idea, but she handed it over demurely to allow him to wrestle with the problem at his leisure.

The coil dropped, and he settled on tying the ribbon at her neck, where at least the majority was out of her face and could not whip at him as they sat together.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Lucian answered at last, trying helplessly to smooth out the tangles he undoubtedly found. It needed a proper combing and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But it could wait, and she eased back further, tucking her wings as best she could so as not to bother him. This was a pleasant posture. Would have been better still tucked in their bed with warm cups of tea, the blankets tangled about them while Lucian took all the pillows for himself. But that was a fair trade, since she got to use him as the largest pillow of all.

“All right,” Firen agreed. “Will it be... formal?” What she was really asking was if they were going to have to make another visit to the tailor. While the thought should have thrilled her, there was instead a lump of memory that hurt if she poked at it.

He smoothed his hand down her arm until he reached her hand. “No. Anything from your own wardrobe will be perfectly sufficient.” He picked it up, turning it this way and that, before he wrapped his hand about the whole of it. “You are cold,” he murmured into her ear. A warning, she thought. That he would soon insist they leave. Which was not a bad thing, not when they would go home again.

“Anything?” she teased, and felt him tense, felt herself shiver when his lips found her ear, nibbling lightly before he pulled back enough just so he could whisper.

“Are those part of the wiles you intend to utilise? To be liked?” His other arm came about her middle, holding her to him. And she really should protest his insinuations, but found that she couldn’t. He was teasing her. The bond was warm and urgent, but did not speak of a true resentment for any part of her nature. Of her body, for that matter. “Perhaps I shall have to sort through your clothing. Leave you only what is respectable.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek in an awkward pose, given his position behind her. “I should like to see you try.”

Which really should not have sounded as much of a challenge as she did. There was nothing wrong with her clothing—it had all been made by her own hands as soon as she’d been old enough to take over that chore from Mama.

He rumbled behind her.

Not a growl.

But...

A purr.

He hadn’t done it before, and she wasn’t sure what had prompted it now. But it was low and soothing, and it made her want to burrow further into his chest in want of more of it. To feel the reverberation against her cheek, to feel his skin, to touch him all over.

He was seducing her. Perhaps it was not intentional, or perhaps it was how he meant to win this game. She wasn’t sure which, and she wasn’t certain she cared.

Not when there was suddenly the desire to kiss him. To hold him to her so she could coax more of that rumble from his throat.

Coax a great many things from him.

“If we had a place of our own,” Lucian murmured against her skin, keeping her just far enough that she could not complete her aim and kiss him thoroughly. “I would take you home. And I would love you until you forgot your tired eyes and pained head and had a very different sort of sleep.”

Her eyes widened, because she had forgotten both those things already and he hadn’t even tried.

“We’re quite alone here,” she cajoled, her hand skimming up his thigh. She could not reach him properly, not the part of him that the bond insisted was the best place for her to touch, but he caught her wrist anyway, capturing it and holding it to her middle instead.

“If sand can creep into my boots, I hate to think what it would do to my mate’s more delicate areas.” Firen gave a rueful sort of smile in agreement, but she could not deny a slight disappointment that they would not even try.

She sighed. The urge to argue was there, to seduce and cajole simply to prove that she could. But he was taking care of her. Which she supposed, in a begrudging sort of way, she appreciated.

She did wish the bond would stop thrumming. Heating her blood and reminding her how good it would feel to be with him again.

Patience was important. Mama had always said so. She just didn’t know it would include having one’s own mate.

“Stop wriggling ,” Lucian complained, and she laughed softly, reaching for her boots. The stockings she’d safely shoved inside. She didn’t bother putting them on again, just got to her feet instead. Held out her hand to help him up. Not that he needed it, but it felt a kind gesture after she’d teased him.

He took her hand anyway, although he kept his weight from her, using his wings to push himself upward instead. Then pulled her back into him. “Will you be patient? Until tonight?”

Firen sighed, easing against him. Absorbing his warmth while she could. It would be a cold flight home. A difficult one, too, now that the winds were going to prove an impediment rather than an aid. “No,” Firen answered honestly. “But I’ll try not to tug at the bond too much.”

There was his purr again. The rumble that sent shivers all over her. An agreement and a chastisement all at once. “If we had our own home,” Lucian continued, as if it didn’t make it worse, did not make her want him more when he spoke to her so low, his voice a rasp of sound that caught and settled into her hidden places. “I would fill you a hot bath. I would wash you all over and make certain every speck of this wretched sand was off of you.” He placed a kiss on her neck, his hand flat against her as he pulled her closer still. “Then I would wrap you in linens and take you to our bed. One that did not have a horrid seam down the middle, but a proper one. Meant for the two of us.”

“You are not being fair,” Firen argued. He should not be teasing her like this. Stirring her up, only to make her wait.

He chuckled, his lips skimming across her cold cheek. “You wriggled. It seems perfectly fair to me.” He nuzzled into her, and it was sweet and solely theirs, and she loved him so much in that moment. Never mind the heating of her blood. It was something else. Something that came of care and attention. His sweetness.

That tended to look like something else entirely if she did not pay enough notice.

But she did now.

“There’s a bath at home,” she expressed hopefully. “We could still...”

He nipped at her jaw, and she quieted. “With your parents so close about? I think not.”

He squeezed her tightly against him. “Just let it be an inducement. For trying our hardest to settle on our own.”

“I didn’t argue about that!” It was a feeble protest, one bit out from frustration and yes, a great deal of want.

“Good. Now you won’t even want to.”

One more kiss to her cheek. One more pulse of the bond that bled into other pulses that were even more a distraction.

It should have helped that he felt it, too. Should have made it easier that she did not have to bear those feelings alone.

Except that it didn’t.

To want. To be wanted in return.

And to have to go home and pretend like everything was fine...

It was a new sort of torment, and she balled her hands into fists as Lucian stepped back from her.

Dared to smirk at her.

“I will not add this to my list,” she accused. “I do not like this at all!”

He nodded, hovering above her as he waited for her to join him. “Good. Help me get lodging for us, then, so I can make good on my promises.”

Not fantasies. Not daydreams of a different life.

Promises.

Of a hot bath and fresh linens, and loving afterward.

It was her turn to glare, to take to the air and fly too near to him so she could kick at him. Because he was smirking in the sort of way her brother might when they both knew he was teasing her and yet still she was bothered, and it was a wretched thing.

Except different.

Because this time he could grab hold of her. Could wrap her in his arms and suddenly it wasn’t her flying at all, but just him. Supporting her weight, keeping her moving. Holding her close and manoeuvring them toward home.

Not home.

Sort of home.

And she would not sit and stew that their alone time would have to wait. She would make supper. After she left him to get all the sand out of his boots on his own.

Because she was not a perfect mate, and she would not pretend to be.