4. Worth

He was dressed before she woke. Which was... something. Firen had always been a fairly light sleeper, bothered when Eris rolled too frequently, when her wings stretched and feathers ruffled and it was loud and couldn’t she be more considerate?

And yet Lucian was able to stand there. Looming at the side of the bed before she had even opened her eyes.

She stretched, rolling her shoulders and watching as her shift slipped off one, then the other as she moved. “Fair morning,” she murmured.

He glanced toward the shutters, the light pushing relentlessly against the seams and edges, suggesting it was not as early as she’d thought.

“We’ve matters to discuss.”

Back to grim tones and stony expressions. Firen rolled over with a groan. She couldn’t sleep again, not so soon and not with him looking at her like that, but she would not be hurried, either. “Of course we do,” she agreed. Mostly about how quickly he wished to leave to meet with her parents and retrieve her trunk, and please do keep his nonsense about blood and old families to himself as they did so. “But I shall take a moment in the bathing room first.”

He grumbled something low in his throat, but she could not make out what it was.

She wanted the sweetness back from the night before. Wanted the tenderness they’d found in fervent touches and desperate kisses.

She grimaced, thinking of her teeth, and hurried into the washing room as Lucian settled into his chair to glare into the fire.

That was fine. She enjoyed sitting on his lap there. Would like it better after she’d attended to her more personal matters.

She did not take long. If she’d thought of it, she would have brought her dress in with her so she could appear with a little more dignity as they discussed. But she hadn’t. But her hair was combed, and that was a feat all its own. She brought the tangles on herself, going to bed without proper braids in it. Or so her mother would have said.

She’d been less gentle with it than she ought to have been, but she was eager to return to him, glowers and all. Perhaps he was simply not fond of mornings. Eris was rather like that. Most particularly when they were cold, and the bed was warm, and couldn’t Firen tend the chores just this once?

Which of course was really more than once, and Firen loved her sister, so did it truly matter? She hadn’t thought so. But now...

Would Varrel tend to the kitchen fire? Be happy to cook their breakfast even if he had to leave early before the fishing boat left without him?

“Did you eat?” Firen asked a little sheepishly as she approached him. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long, honestly.”

His smile was distant, but present. “Exhausted you, did I?”

She settled on the arm of the chair, not quite willing to sprawl across his lap without a proper invitation. Maybe tomorrow. “Thoroughly.”

Her hand moved toward his hair, wanting to push it back and feel its texture once more. She could not account for why, but his head turned, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you doing?”

Firen huffed, trying not to be hurt. Perhaps he did not have an affectionate family. Where touch was such a common occurrence that there was no need to question such matters.

Perhaps there was more to discuss than she thought before.

She curled her hands in her lap, trying to be placid. Trying not to entertain the thought of sitting on the floor again before the fire while she collected herself. “I like touching you,” she answered truthfully. “I... do not know if I can stop, but I can try.” There was no denying that particular hurt, even as she offered it. “If you want me to.”

He rolled his eyes briefly upward before he returned his attention to the fire. “No. I... it was just unexpected, that’s all.”

She relaxed, if only marginally. She did not reach for his hair again, and this time leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of his head instead. It did not have to be all scowls and suspicion between them. But maybe... maybe he didn’t know that.

“We could go somewhere,” Firen offered, reaching for his hand to give it a careful squeeze so he would know she was not too cross with him.

His eyes shifted so they could drift over her. “As much as I appreciate your immodesty in this chamber, I do not think your attire is entirely appropriate out of doors.”

She shoved as his shoulder, partly in play, partly because he couldn’t possibly think she would not dress first. Except... all she had was a dress. Which made flying a challenge now that there was daylight.

She would not dwell on how he was more comfortable with her nudges than her caresses.

“I just thought it might be easier somewhere else. Somewhere with food, perhaps.” She smiled ruefully, because she had been the one to sleep long, so she was likely the only one of them that had foregone the morning meal.

He stood from his seat and picked up a plate settled on his chest. He’d covered it with a cloth, but removed it to place upon her lap before he added the plate on top. Then it was back to sitting and brooding and avoiding looking at her at all.

Mama would have kissed Da for the gesture. Even if the bond was the one that prompted such things, it did not mean one should not be grateful. To punctuate little kindnesses with thankfulness, some in words, others in touch.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

But rather than smile at her, kiss her cheek—even squeeze her hand, he merely nodded his head and continued his vigil over the state of the fire.

The foods were not what she was used to for a breakfast. Stewed grains she knew well. Drizzles of fruit syrups and sometimes sprinkled with spices she found intriguing at the market.

These were an array of delicate pastries. Curled into intricate shapes, some studded with dried fruits, others glistening with sweet glazes. If fetched from the kitchen, his mother—sibling?—must be a fine baker to produce such items of quality.

Or perhaps he’d foregone the kitchen in favour of one of the shops she’d seen nestled between the towers themselves. Where a family made their profession perfecting a craft Firen had never even attempted.

She understood the napkin across her lap when a single bite made a shower of buttery flakes rain down onto both cloth and plate alike. “You said there were matters,” Firen reminded him as she swallowed and did her best to contain the rest of her crumbs. “Or would you prefer I finish before we talk?”

Lucian sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he looked at her plate briefly. “I do not know how to do this.”

It was a confession. One he did not wish to give—of that, she was certain.

He was distraught. Agitated. And it seemed as if it cost him something to continue sitting with her rather than to pace about the room.

Firen took another bite, then took up the napkin and the plate and went to the window.

That made him stand, eyes fierce and his jaw tight, and it took her a moment to reason why. “I’m not leaving,” Firen assured him. “But I would see you properly. Problems seem smaller when the suns are out.”

Lucian did not relax, his hands curling into fists as she opened the shutters and allowed bright sunlight to fill the space. Dust swirled gently, and she wondered how long it might have been since they were last opened fully. The hooks to secure them were heavy, black iron struck into the stone. Sturdy and perfectly willing to hold back the thick wood of the shutters.

“Better,” she declared, taking another bite of her breakfast. The light played with the room strangely. It had felt almost ominous the night before. Too rich and too masculine. But now...

It was just a room. Finely furnished, but not so very different after all.

“I prefer the fire,” Lucian muttered, sinking back into his chair in a way that—had he been one of her brothers rather than her mate—she might have thought him sulking.

But that was not generous enough for a mate, so perhaps he was simply... reflecting. Fiercely.

Another bite. This one larger, so the crumbs were kept to her mouth rather than the floor.

“What do you not know how to do?” she prompted, because if that was his main trouble, they might as well start there.

He groused low under his breath, and if she had been Mama, she would have gone to tap none too gently at his shoulder and insist that if he had a complaint, it should be vocalised clearly enough that the recipient could hear it and do something about it.

But she was just Firen, so she had to stifle her little prickle of worry, and smile instead and approach him and simply have faith that everything would sort itself out if they tried long enough.

“What was that?” she asked, and it wasn’t one of Mama’s taps, but just a little nudge with her arm in a way she hoped he knew was playful as well as a prompt to try again.

“I do not know what to do with you,” Lucian clarified, his hand back in his hair, tugging and pulling too hard to be comfortable.

Firen swallowed, her mouth suddenly too dry for pastry. She put the plate and the cloth back where he’d found it, ordering her thoughts as best she could. She could do nothing about the racing of her heart.

“We could sit in here and worry about it,” Firen agreed. “I’m not sure what will change about anything if we do. Wait until an egg catches, if that would help matters any.”

His eyes darted to her middle in something that could only be considered alarm.

She’d only been half-serious, but the hurt was whole and real if he was bothered by the prospect so greatly.

“I don’t...” he began, then groaned and looked toward the ceiling again. “No, it would not help.”

It wasn’t a rejection. Not of her and not of their young. She repeated it to herself over and over until her eyes didn’t sting as fiercely. She mustn’t get ahead of herself. “Right. Well, then why don’t we simply go down and meet them? And then we can have all the messy business behind us.” Then when they went to her home and he could see how welcome he was, he’d love them all the more. “And yes, I will put my dress back on first.”

He snorted. Rubbed at his forehead and there was that muttering again. Firen stepped closer, but he stopped before she could make out any of it.

That habit would grow irksome with time, she was sure of it.

She could feel his anxiety pouring unfettered through the bond, making her tense and fidgety to do something.

So she dressed. Not with the reverence she had the evening before. It felt like lifetimes ago rather than a few scant hours. She did not know what to do with her circlet—it was finery for a fete, not a trinket to be adorned after a lie in.

She settled on wrapping it about her wrist a few times, a bracelet far less conspicuous when hidden beneath her sleeve—thin though it was. Pretty in the way it fluttered as she danced. But she hadn’t danced, had she?

She was almost sad that they hadn’t gone in. Hadn’t found each other in the throes of a dance, following the movements together for just a moment while the bond settled and then their hands would have touched and it would have been beautiful...

Daydreaming, Mama called it. Fanciful nonsense when supper was burned because Firen was too busy in her own fantasies to remember she was supposed to be stirring the pot and minding the bread in the oven.

Firen had thought it would end when her mate filled her thoughts and heart, but maybe she’d been wrong.

She didn’t regret it. Regret him. She didn’t.

He was pacing.

She was uncertain if that was better or worse that sitting and glaring and brooding, but she would someday. For this morning, she straightened her skirt and her hair and hoped she did not look as dishevelled as she felt.

She did not ask him to compliment her. Did not ask him if she’d do. She’d heard quite enough of her failings the night before, and she was not keen to revisit them now.

But she would. When they found his parents and they saw she was a stranger to them and not... not what they would have chosen.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Did it again when Lucian paused in his stride, some of his own tension easing out of him the calmer she became for him.

And because she had needs of her own, she closed the distance between them and took his hand in hers, squeezing it tightly. He did not pull away, did not even glare—and if that meant he was coming to accept that such gestures would be frequent between them, she was glad of it. “It’s going to be all right,” she promised him. And that one settled better than her others had. True and real and something she believed with the whole of her being.

His mouth curved downward, and while he did not tug his hand free, he did not hold it back. “We might have differing opinions on what constitutes all right.”

She didn’t flinch. They probably did. She would be content with a small life. Something simple. Where work was hard, but their joy was easy.

He... he’d known a different life. She could not be cross with him if all he’d known was suddenly in jeopardy. Because of her.

It was a nagging, niggling thought. One that had no business being there. This wasn’t a matter of blame and fault, they were destined.

She tilted her chin just a little. “Mine means that we’ll be together. No matter what. That even if we never spend another night in that bed, I’ll be happy to find another one. With you in it. To kiss you all over.”

His hand tightened around hers, and his breath caught just a little. “We could make use of it now,” he reminded her, his head ducking just enough that he could whisper the words into her ear. “Forget about the rest of it. I believe there were a few places that missed your attentions earlier.”

The bond flared. Encouraged.

Reminded her of just what she’d felt and how she had felt, and she was ridiculous to want to leave this room, leave his arms...

She swallowed.

Closed her eyes.

Took a careful step to the side lest his lips follow where his words had been, and she would have been lost. Would have agreed to anything at all if he continued to encourage her back toward the bed.

“We have forever for that,” she said instead, her voice feeling as if it came from terribly far away as she wrestled with her own rapid heartbeat. “But this morning, we need to make some introductions.”

One night spent away was one thing. Two would have her parents worried, and they did not deserve that. She tightened her grip on his hand as he sighed. “Come on. I will be brave for the both of us.”

His steps were reluctant as she made for the door, but he did follow. “You can only say that because you do not know them.” At least the grumble was loud enough she understood him, even if she could not imagine speaking of her parents in such a manner.

“They will say things about my birth,” she reiterated from their earlier argument. “They will fault me and our bond, and you might be disinherited.” She said it as calmly as she could, even though she knew of no statute that could permit such a law.

But that was his job, wasn’t it? Lucian’s father. She wanted to believe that a lawmancer was most interested in justice and the good of all, but she supposed, in the strictest sense, he might use it for his own personal whims.

Her stomach gave an uncomfortable twist, but she smiled anyway. “Did I leave anything out?”

His mouth tightened, and he seemed to think she was mocking him in some way. Which she wasn’t. Truly.

But before she could reassure him, he brushed past her and made a quick plummet down the tower’s centre. Not to the ground floor, but very near it. Instead of a balcony, there were thick stone steps leading to the closed door. He did not call up to her, but she could make out the quirk of his brow and he waited.

While she had to fiddle with skirts and worry that they’d already made a mess of things, and perhaps she should have indulged his offer of an interlude in the bed before they faced... this.

It might not have been so frightening if she thought he would defend her. But their agreement was that she would not have to hear those complaints from him, not that he would ensure they were not spoken at all.

It was an odd sort of descent. It lacked the thrill and twist of freedom that came from proper flight. Instead, it was an awkward movement of wings and fabric that left her flustered and uncertain when finally her feet met stone.

Her only comfort was the hand he extended, helping her balance as she settled. “You get used to it,” he assured grimly. “Or maybe you won’t. Since we’ll be banished soon enough.”

That part was muttered beneath his breath. She could brush it away. Could ask why it wasn’t enough that they would be together and they’d make whatever life they could and it would be beautiful.

But she didn’t.

If she thought for a moment that her parents would not love him...

If she faced losing access to her childhood home. Perhaps even the family she loved, all because of her mate...

Her throat tightened, and her hold on his hand tightened. “I’m sorry.” And it was true. Not for being his mate, but because he should never have to face any of the troubles that so clearly plagued him. Never had to worry that family was temporary.

They should have started with hers. Then he could be certain they’d be well cared for as they shifted and grew.

But he sighed deeply and pushed open the door, and it was too late to make a full retreat. So she shoved away her mounting worries. If Lucian was going to be anxious enough for the both of them, she could be calm. Would be calm. And friendly, and maybe they would surprise him.

She wished he’d told her who they were to meet. If there would be sisters or brothers, or if his mother was deceased after all.

But he hadn’t.

She’d expected a kitchen. It seemed a practical place for one. But she supposed the steps had been too heavily ornamented for something so common.

Instead, there were books. What light came from slivers of windows built into the shelves themselves, muted by some sort of covering, so there was no true light, only a glow. Then there were the moonstones, punctuating the cases themselves and lending an even eerier light.

There were no lanterns. No lamps. Not even candles. The only firelight came from the hearth on the left, the embers low, the log within charred and battered. The room itself was large, and she suspected each one would be. Shelves reached up at least two storeys, but perhaps it was even three. There was a balcony separating two sections, with chairs—a desk? And there were tables every so often with tomes so large they required such ample space simply to open them.

And in the midst of all of it, a figure. He did not raise his head to greet them, did not give any indication at all that he’d heard their approach. He simply continued to scrawl across a scroll of parchment. A scroll. Not a simple pad where one might scribble out a list for the market and hand it to a daughter and insist she not forget a single item on it.

This was a room for important business. For governance and law.

“I was not aware we had a meeting scheduled.”

Lucian dropped her hand, and she would not pretend she wasn’t sorry for it.

She looked between both men, startled at how they were with one another. Something was terribly wrong in such a family. It had to be.

“Yes, well. There was an... incident. Last night. That requires your attention.”

The man looked up, but even that was slow and clearly at his convenience. And with it, Firen was granted a glimpse into her mate’s appearance in later years. Hair the same colour. A fair bit longer. Wings the same inky black.

His attention drifted from his son to her. And lingered.

While she had to fight down her urge to squirm. To tuck herself behind Lucian and tell him she didn’t mind if they were both disowned, most especially if it meant she did not have to see this man ever again.

Which was absurd.

It was only a feeling. It would pass. He was a stranger, and the setting was ominous, as was his manner, but did not make him anything but her mate’s father.

Which was a lie, and she knew it.