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.

Just as she knew he liked the way she pulled him to her. That he liked her fervency as she urged more of him on top of her, wanting the weight. To be as close as they possibly could, even if her need for breath made it a too-short interlude.

And it was delightful. The feel of skin against skin, warm and cool in turn, the shivery feeling that skittered down her arms as she hugged him to her, her fingers tangling in feathers, soft and downy as she pressed deeper.

She was met with a groan. As if he was sore in places and she’d pressed too hard—or maybe not enough? There was a nudge in her chest, as if she’d found the right of it. And her hands moved cautiously back to where they had been, and this time she found the base of his wings—taut where skin met feathers.

She rubbed.

Was rewarded with the feel of his head as he pressed it down against the curve of her shoulder, his body shuddering over her.

The angle was awkward for her, and she wished she knew how to coax him to the bed beside her. She’d climb on top of him. Coax his wings to spread and she could work properly. Wings could be a fussy business, and his reaction suggested perhaps his family was not tending to their responsibility of care for him.

She wanted to ask.

Didn’t.

Not about the bed, not about his kin.

Asked nothing at all when suddenly he was wrenching away from her hands, the bond tugging and wriggling, then settling when his mouth found her, insistent and needful.

Her sighs were lost between them, her attention only drifting from the want of him when his hand skimmed down her side, taking her shift with him.

She tried to help. To move her hips and use her legs to push it down and away from her. But doing so pressed their lower portions together in a way that made her breath catch in her throat, even as Lucian grew still and his breath heavy as he drew in heavy breaths over her.

Words failed her. There was only the sudden sense of urgency. That shifts were stupid and unnecessary. Just as were the trousers he wore to sleep. Most particularly when the knot he tied at the drawstring was not the same as the one on her shift, so she fumbled and murmured out a curse, only to be batted away so he could tend to it himself.

Which was fine. She could see the shift down her legs and threw it artlessly over the side of the bed while Lucian did the same.

It was almost enough to make her laugh at the both of them. That for two souls that had such difficulty talking with one another, they could be so aligned in this.

But he was reaching for her again. Brought his hands to her hips and then the softness of her thighs, and pushed them open.

Which should have made her feel exposed and nervous. Should have made her want to grope for the bedclothes so they might do their explorations under some shroud of modesty.

But they weren’t particularly modest, were they?

The book was inadequate. The diagrams too.

There had been paragraphs about preparing a mate—of needing to stroke at a male so that his phallus might extrude and settle into her opening properly and without discomfort.

She reached for him. Perhaps that was something she should have asked about first, but the impulse came upon her so quickly that she quite forgot her manners. She only made one full stroke down the length of him before his hand caught at her, keeping her still. “The book said to prepare you,” she insisted.

There was that choked laugh again. The shaking of his head as he pulled her hand away and held it. “I am quite prepared, I assure you.”

Oh. Well. “All right, then.”

She waited for him to prod at her. The book was quite clear that copulation should begin quickly after readiness, lest essential moisture be lost in the meantime.

But he didn’t.

Instead, it was his fingers she felt down below. Gentle. Careful. Smoothing against her with a delicate pressure at first, so soft that it was almost a tickle rather than the jolt of pleasure she’d experienced before. She bit at her lip and wondered if it would be terribly greedy to ask him to be firmer. Wondered too if his book had been the same as hers.

Or...

What if he hadn’t had one?

Which was a rather sobering thought, and she was not at all prepared to give that sort of education in the moment, not when her pulse was racing and her fingers twitched with the want to reach for his wrist and hold him to her and make him truly touch her.

“What else did this book say?” Lucian asked, his mouth near her ear. Low. Intimate. Only for her. “What did it say that you needed?”

Something deep inside gave an exquisite pulse in answer.

“Well,” she swallowed, her thoughts feeling very far away when he was touching her like that. But he had asked a question and it would be rude not to answer, and they were so very bad at talking to one another... “I confess I paid more attention to the sections on you.”

That smile again. The one that was not just a smile and made her stomach tighten when he looked at her. “Did you, now? And why is that?”

Firen swallowed, his touch shifting just a little. Dipping inside, she realised. Teasing her. “Because...” Her breath hitched. “Because I take care of you. And you will take care of me.”

He hummed again. Not an argument. Which was good. Very good.

She had not ignored the pages on female anatomy entirely. She knew how they would fit together. Knew he was touching something just at her entrance that made her breath coming in tight little sips, her heart racing to keep in time. “You don’t...” she insisted, thinking of the way he’d stopped her, of the pleasure he’d denied himself for reasons she could not quite name. “That is, we should...” She angled her hips slightly, trying to encourage him to join with her. Together was better, wasn’t it? Together was the point.

“Hush,” Lucian murmured. “Let me prepare you.”

Prepare? If he knew he was ready, then surely she could declare the same. That the aching, clutching feeling in her insides meant she wanted—that she needed him. But maybe there was something she’d missed in all her reading. Some pain he meant to keep from her with his dedication. Some consideration that she would be rude to ignore.

It was easier to say yes when he kissed her shoulder. When his mouth returned to her breast. When she grew distracted over what exactly he was doing down below because it all tumbled and churned into a thrumming tension. It made her shift and squirm, and even to tug at his hair as he continued to kiss and...

He licked her.

Just the once, across the flat of a nipple that had never known much use before. He turned his head to gauge her reaction. Which... which did not make sense to her in the least. Because that was a silly sort of thing to do, and yet...

He did it again. Lingering. Making patterns in her skin that perhaps were words, perhaps were symbols. Blessings? She couldn’t be sure of anything at all. Other than she did not want to stop. Did not want him to stop.

There was an urgency building in her. A craving that was not satisfied. Not by his dipping fingers that stretched and then retreated. Not by his ministrations to her breasts. The bond was a quiet sigh within her chest, but there was the memory—the reminder that there was more. That while he was pleased with her, pleased to pay her such attentions, it was not shared. Not in the same way.

“Can I be ready now?” she asked. As if he would know when it was her body. Her reactions.

She was met with a chuckle, and this time the kiss was to her lips. “If you like.”

But it wasn’t her hand that stroked and steadied him, it was his own.

And there were no more touches to her breasts, not when he was using the other to hold her open, to ease the way, to pause and halt when first he breached her. His breath was taut, the muscles in his neck equally so.

Patient. For her.

Because...

It stung.

Not fiercely, but a warning that she should not be too exuberant, not encourage him too quickly.

And he was looming, and she didn’t like it. He felt too far and too close all at once, and maybe she should have kept out of it entirely and let him tend to her and to him, but...

She reached for him instead.

Brought him back down to her. Which shifted matters considerably, and she felt him enter a little more fully. But it did not bring more pain—instead, it brushed against that portion of her he had found with his fingers, and her breath caught.

And her hips shifted.

And he was the one to hiss.

Which was a rather satisfying sound. When she had the bond to assure her he was all right and she had done nothing terribly wrong after all.

It was her turn to hum. To pull him as close as she could, and if she brought her legs just so, shifted and made room and clutched him to her, then the feelings spread. Honed. Until she gasped lightly and was rewarded with his groan. Of knowing they were as close as two people could be, and that...

That was glorious.

Perhaps they had some matters to sort out between them, but this would not be one of them. Not when he moved just so, when her pleasure amplified his. And his made hers feel safe and sweet. That she could touch as she liked, that she could rub at his arms, could find that spot between his wings. That she could do nothing at all and simply enjoy the feel of him as he moved over her. Treasure each of the kisses he placed on her cheeks, her lips. The way he curled his fingers into hers and his motions became more purposeful.

Stroking. Pausing. Settling deep and letting her body hold him still as her own muscles contracted in ways no diagram had managed to relate.

She did not want it to end.

She wanted to live in this moment. The belonging, the sweet tension. The knowledge that something was about to happen, and she wanted it. Needed it. But also... didn’t.

Because then it would be over, and she’d be tempted to talk again. But then he whispered her name. Or perhaps it was another groan.

But it was there.

She said his name in answer.

And she did not know which release came first. Knew only that the tension peaked at a magnificent unfurling. That the world was white, and the bond was bright and overwhelming in its peace. Its rightness.

She felt somehow languid and excitable all at once. That she might begin to laugh if she was not careful. That she would kiss him again, this time in triumph. In the affection that bloomed from every part of her. The need to touch him was fierce. To cling and hold and draw out that perfect moment for just a little longer.

Which was unnecessary, she knew. They had forever. Perhaps it would not all be new as this was. But it would grow more tender as they learned more of one another. He moved off of her, and she might have mourned the loss if he did not nestle her to his side, allowing her to do as she pleased. To kiss occasionally. To nuzzle and whisper little promises too quietly for him to hear.

That everything would be just fine. He’d see. His family would love her because they loved him. He would admire hers just as soon as he met them.

“What are you muttering about?” Lucian asked, his hand picking up a section of her hair so he might see her lips and make out some of it. “Not complaints, I should hope.” He was teasing her, because he knew perfectly well how much she had enjoyed it.

“Oh yes,” she countered, curling up against him. “Because it’s over,” she clarified, before he could take any sort of offense. “And I rather liked it.”

She did not ask if he felt the same. She knew he did. Had felt it in every bit of him. It might have been nice to hear, however, but that was all right. She knew she was freer with her words and feelings than most.

“And you wanted to sleep,” she chided, shaking her head in a dramatic fashion.

“An absurd thought,” Lucian agreed. “When this immodest creature intended to have her way with me.”

It was not exactly a compliment, and yet the words filled her with such fondness for him she thought she might burst. “Perhaps I might have considered sleeping, if you had worn proper night clothes.”

He rolled his eyes, but it lacked the tension he’d worn before. It had all eased out of him, at least for the moment, and she would treasure that as fiercely as she held the rest of it. “I brought it upon myself—that is what you mean to say?”

Firen sat up slightly, beaming at him. “Precisely.”

He was going to kiss her again. She could see it in his eyes. Feel it through the bond. To punctuate their teases with something warm and affectionate.

But instead, he sighed, rolling away and stretching out his muscles. “Where are you going?” she asked, distinctly disappointed that he had denied the kiss she felt had been promised to her.

“Did your mother never teach you to wash afterward?”

She didn’t like the prickly feeling that spread at the mention of her mother. The wariness that interrupted the perfect understanding she thought they had found through mouths and touch and mated congress.

She sat up, trying to smooth away the hurt that had no business being there, and stilled when he grasped hold of her chin gently and kissed her. Just once. Not the lingering, needful one that she’d wanted, but a brush of sweetness that soothed her more than she cared to admit. “I meant no insult if she didn’t.”

Of course he hadn’t. It was more of his teases, that was all, and she’d been foolish about it.

So she tossed her hair as he released her, and she knew it was tangled and frightful after their loving. A comb. A wash. “The book might have mentioned washing, yes,” she added as she vacated the bed as well. Rumpled. That’s how it looked. Where it once had been all crisp lines and a carefully tucked coverlet, now it appeared... likely as she did.

Lucian did not move even as she moved toward the bathing room. “We’ve only the one,” he reminded her, his brow furrowed.

She glanced down at herself. She had not forgotten she was naked—couldn’t, not when he was equally so and looking rather marvellous. His phallus had retreated, just as the book said it would, and she found herself wondering how long it might take to bring it out again. Which would mean washing all over, and that was a tedious business, wasn’t it? “Is there something you’ve not seen that you would need a separate bathing room?”

She did not bother to mention that facilities were scarce in her childhood home. That privacy was a luxury sometimes forfeited out of necessity.

Lucian huffed and brushed past her, but opened the door and gestured her in first.

She did not flounce. Truly, she didn’t. But from the sound that Lucian made as she walked past him, it was more than apparent he appreciated what he saw. Which was just as well. She found his form immensely pleasing.

The room felt smaller with both of them in it. Not cramped—not like when Eris grew impatient and intruded at home. It felt... intimate. Even more so when he went to a cupboard and pulled out a cloth. Then stopped her when she made to douse it in cold water from the tap.

He pulled on a decorative cord dangling near the basin, then opened the tap.

Instead of the cold water she’d used for her teeth, it was warm—almost hot.

He wetted his own cloth, then kept it running so she could do the same. “How?” she asked, thinking of kettles and hearths and even the stove that Da had installed after a particularly extravagant commission.

“Magic,” Lucian answered dryly.

She threw her wet cloth at his bared chest and was gratified at how it stuck to him before he retrieved it, scowling at her as he handed it back.

“A tank in the wall, heated by the hearth. Happy?”

“Elated,” Firen answered, wondering which parts of her she should wash first. Top down, she supposed. She rubbed at her lips, feeling a wistful sort of sadness as she did so. She did not really want to wash him away. But the book agreed with him, so she went to work. Lips. Her neck. And yes, her breasts that had returned to their earlier nothingness. There were no rippling sensations down her middle when she passed the cloth over the tips that had been so sensitive earlier.

But there was memory.

That sent fluttering pulses through her. That reminded her of what she’d experienced. That it had been real and glorious and would be theirs again.

She just wished she remembered what the book had said about when.

She caught him watching her. It embarrassed him to be caught. She could tell by the way he glared and his own movements roughened as he went down his stomach and began poking at the slit that hid his phallus. Would he bring it out again, just to wash?

Suddenly she felt a little awkward, suddenly realising why he might have wanted to attend to such matters without her watching him. But she’d been the one to insist, so she took the cloth to her own hidden places and wiped away the remnants of the two of them.

“I thought it would be messier,” she commented, wondering if she dared to dip inside as he had done to coax out any extra fluids she might have missed. But that felt... not precisely wrong, but a far greater show than she intended to give. Later. Perhaps decades later. When their eyesight grew poorer and the lights were dim, it wouldn’t matter quite as much.

“Did you?” He was exposed again, but it looked... different than it had. She could not explain why. Less... ready, and just... an organ. A part of him, to be sure, and he grimaced as he passed the cloth over himself, as if it was sensitive to touch. Which it would, wouldn’t it? She certainly was.

“Well, if we had to wash afterward, I assumed there would be quite a mess. Although I suppose it did not mention the need for laundering afterward, so perhaps I was wrong to assume there would be quite so many fluids involved.”

Lucian rubbed at his eyes and his hand delved into his hair. She tried not to stare as the organ retreated, but really, it was rather fascinating.

But she’d promised not to be too nosey. Did that mean understanding male anatomy as well? She hoped not. But his expression was not exactly pleased, so maybe it did.

“Sorry,” she murmured, and found that she meant it. “I just... waited a long time to understand everything. I’m excited.”

He took the cloth from her and deposited them both in a basket, evidently intended just for such a purpose. “It’s just rather sudden,” he begrudgingly offered. Not a reprimand, not exactly, but a warning of his feelings.

She needed to be respectful. And keep her eyes to herself occasionally. And maybe allow him to use the bathing room on his own.

It was humbling. Enough that she wrapped her arms about him and hugged him close for a moment, just so he might feel that she truly was sorry for overstepping. For rushing him. She’d even wait to ask how long it might be before they copulated again.

Generous of her, really. Thoughtful.

“I am sorry,” she said again.

And was rewarded with an awkward sort of pat on her wings.

“For which aspect?” he asked, not exactly carefully, but with a weariness that had not been there before. Perhaps he was afraid of talking as much as she had become. To grow serious and allow petty differences to influence what should have been simple.

Firen pulled away from him with a sheepish sort of smile. “Intruding. When you want privacy, I will respect it. Or... try to. As best I can. Just because we are mates doesn’t mean I expect we must spend every moment together.” She just might wish it. With all of her heart.

But it wasn’t practical. Mama had reminded her of that with increasing irritation when Firen would sigh and sit at the table and insist that she could not imagine spending her days working with the children or the kitchen and only seeing her mate for mealtimes and evenings.

Mama would roll her eyes. Without fail. And more often than not, hand her a dishtowel and would she please stop her daydreaming and this was real life, and mating was not all fantasies and togetherness.

Firen had listened. Truly. While harbouring all sorts of her own ideals of what it meant and what it was for, and she couldn’t quite understand why her mother had not taken more interest in the workshop and most importantly, the man that devoted his skill and his work to it.

Another pat, this one settling. Which felt much better. More like a proper embrace where he might overlook her neediness. “I shall endeavour to forgive you.” Before she could work out if he was in earnest or if this was yet another tease, he pulled away. “Now, we sleep.” He grasped her chin once more and held her gaze—as if she intended to look anywhere else when he was talking with her. “I do mean it this time.”

She wanted to say that she was fairly certain he’d meant it the last time, too. That if she kissed him long enough, the bond would do the rest in coaxing him, that perhaps they might at least try to see if his body was ready enough to go again.

But she didn’t.

A concession. To show him she could listen. That she cared what he thought and how he felt, even if it did not perfectly align with her own desires.

“Sleep,” she agreed. But his lips curled downward at the corners, and his eyes narrowed at her. “What? I didn’t argue!”

He hummed.

Didn’t take her hand to lead her back into the bed, which left her feeling more bereft than she should have.

By the time she followed, he was standing at his trunk, rifling through its contents. “The last time I possessed a sleeping shirt, I had not even moulted.” It was a grumble, more to himself than a revelation for her. He meant to dissuade her with clothing, then. She shook her head, and did not even watch as he put on another pair of trousers—knotting the cord that held them.

She did not watch. But if her eyes drifted just to catch that last part, then... peeking did not count. Not exactly.

She stepped into her shift and tied up the shoulders, but she did not knot them. She did not mind if he woke with newfound appetites.

“You do not need a shirt,” Firen assured him, climbing back into her side of the bed. The one she’d been all too happy to vacate when he welcomed her to do so. “I had to share with my sister for a while. I’ve been told I’m the perfect bedfellow. Might not even know I am here.”

He snorted, abandoning his search and taking to his own side. “That I do not believe.”

She needn’t be affronted, but there was a tinge of it. Most especially because she couldn’t reach for him and soothe the sting with physical affection instead. She needed to keep to her word. She would not be nosey. She would let him sleep and keep to herself.

Firen hated both promises immensely.

It felt... lonely. Even with him so near. His back was to her, his wings a proper barricade when the bedclothes went over the top of them. It would have been better to match his position, to close her eyes and pretend that he was curled about her. But that only reminded her he wasn’t. That there was no warmth behind her back, no solid chest and strong arm about her middle. Her wings made no pillow for his cheek, her hair did not move gently with each exhale.

Lucian groaned.

Rolled.

And her heart swelled with delight when he did just that. She did not even mind the grumbling under his breath. About bonds and how did she expect him to sleep when she was tugging so fiercely at it, and he would have words with her sister about lies and perfect bedfellows.

Which filled her with a new sense of peace. That he would speak with her sister. That everything would be all right in the morning. They’d make sure of it.

Together.

“Sleep,” he insisted, this time a growl low in her ear.

Which was not at all something that could be commanded. And yet...

She could sigh. And it did not count as moving if she wriggled just a little closer.

He rolled away from her, eventually. Back to his side, where she wasn’t clinging, and he could have space to breathe without her intrusion in his every sense.

But that was all right.

Because she was sleeping by then. And he was still close. The bond said so.