10.2

“This is better,” she insisted. “I’m sorry,” she told their mothers. “We rarely sit across from one another, and it felt a little too strange for me.”

She would not comment on how they usually took their meals. Her feet sometimes tucked on his chair, her posture not at all proper as she lounged about and hummed happily to herself to have him close by again. She would have kept their hands tangled if he’d let her, but he insisted there would be some propriety during meals, which meant he wouldn’t let her sit in his lap either.

Which she understood better, because that would mean battling food stains in the laundry as she inevitably grew distracted and spilled—either on herself or onto him.

But he’d allow her stockinged feet to slip beneath his leg. Would let her sprawl and giggle to herself as they ate at her own table. Nothing scandalous about it when it was just the two of them nestled in her kitchen. Their kitchen.

She wouldn’t do it now, although she could feel some of his trepidation through the bond that she might, and she could not help the curl of her lips as she glanced at him, letting him wonder if she would embarrass them both in such a way.

Mama passed down her cup and plate, although she’d emptied both and felt over-full at the prospect of more of either. And she might have rolled her eyes a little, but there was a faint smile at the corners of her mouth. She wanted Firen happy in her mating, and would overlook some peculiarities that accompanied the newness of it.

Firen wanted to ask if there had ever been a time, no matter how short, that Ellena had longed for Oberon’s company. That he’d been tender and indulgent, nurturing the bond so it might grow strong. A buoy when life brought inevitable hardships.

For as good as Firen’s imagination might be, she could not picture it.

Perhaps it had been wrong of her to move beside him. To take hold of his arm and pull it to her, just briefly. To make him look at her and watch as his expression softened. Only to succumb to the rolling of his eyes as he plastered on a scowl. “We are with our mothers,” he reminded her—although there was a warmth in him and in the bond that she’d needed to see again.

So she dropped his arm and sat demurely in her place, and nodded. “So we are.”

He hummed, and she could not explain how his demeanour changed, yet it did. Perhaps it was the lightness in his expression when he asked after his mother’s paintings. If he might ask for some to hang upon the bare walls since he did not think his mate was proficient in tapestry.

“I could be!” she protested, because she was skilled with her hands and would have time enough to learn. But any true argument died on her lips as she saw Ellena smile so brightly at the request, and if he showed her the wall he wanted filled, she would make something special.

She did not expect him to pick up her hand. To bring it to his lips and to press a kiss to her knuckles. “Of course you could,” he soothed, and there was that look in his eye that he gave when he was merely indulging her, the smirk that she found loathsome—most particularly because she wanted to kiss it off of him, and this was not an appropriate moment to do so. “Stubborn creature that you are.”

Which was not a flattering thing to say, and had no business making her stomach tighten and her lips to part, because he was a wretch after all, and both their mothers did not need to know that as well as she did.

If this was meant as a punishment for bringing her chair closer to him, he was doing a very fine job.

Although she had far too much pride to move it back again.

Mama was asking Ellena about her painting, lamenting how she had no talent for the craft, despite her appreciation for the skill.

Which left Firen room to smile sweetly and lean in close so her words were for him alone. “Talk like that will set you up for a new tapestry for each and every one of your name-days for the rest of your life.”

She leaned back again.

“Promises, promises,” he murmured back, and Firen was left with the distinct impression she really was going to have to learn tapestry, and that he’d goaded her because...

He liked them too.

And she didn’t huff, did not poke him with her elbow, but she wanted to.

He simply might have asked her to learn.

But she supposed this resulted in much the same outcome.

Fuelled by her own indignation and determination, which she supposed could be considered a better prompt than pleasing the mate she loved.

Not by her, of course, but someone.

She wanted to stay cross at him, but he brought his hand to her leg and squeezed it gently, and it was so unlike him to do anything of the sort when family was about that she grew a little breathless as she glanced at him.

He wasn’t looking at her—was instead watching his mother talk with a great deal more animation than she had previously, all about charcoals and pastels and really, she’d be more than happy to provide something for Aylin’s house if she only told her the orientation and colouring of the room...

But the bond was warm, and so was his hand when she tucked it between hers, and she did not know how long they might have before he had to leave again. Vandran seemed to be a kindly sort of master, but a strict one, and she wondered what exactly Lucian had to barter in order to earn a reprieve from the schedule.

She hoped it would not be a late night, but she supposed it could be.

A sacrifice. A worthy one, but she was selfish and did not want to make it.

It made the rap upon the door feel even more abrupt—as if Vandran himself was coming back to collect Lucian. It was enough that Firen turned to her mate first and gave a rather accusing look. “You did have permission to slip away for this, didn’t you?”

She was rewarded with his rolling eyes as he stood from the table. “Of course I did,” he answered curtly, and then she was filled with visions of Vandran growing jealous of tea and company, deciding it was his right as master to trespass on a family party simply because of affiliation.

But it was not Vandran at the door. She would not have known immediately, except that she’d been nosey, and followed Lucian toward the door. She’d kept at the kitchen threshold, just close enough she might have gone forward and tried to smooth over any unpleasantness if Lucian had stayed longer than Vandran had agreed to, but when he opened the door and she saw the dark robes, the fair hair, the grim expression...

She was more than glad she’d stayed where she was.

“Father,” Lucian greeted, and if he was surprised at his appearance, he ensured nothing in his voice or posture revealed it.

What surprised her was the way he stood in the doorway. Almost...

Liked he was blocking entry.

Not taking the customary step backward.

Not making the sweeping gesture to punctuate one’s welcome.

Just... standing.

No hand to his chest, no bowed head.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

She could just see Oberon’s’ expression over Lucian’s shoulder, and she was ashamed of how her pulse raced just at that glimpse of him.

This was her home. Her mate stood at the door, and she had absolutely nothing to fear.

But that did not stop the other possibilities from pushing at her. What if Lucian hadn’t come? What if it was her at the door, uncertain and a great deal too afraid, not knowing if she should be hospitable and allow him entry or if she could allow her stubbornness to rule and keep him out?

Ellena’s chair made a grating sound over the wooden floors, enough to draw Firen’s attention. Her face was pale, her breath caught in her throat, and she shook her head furtively. “I did not tell him,” she choked out, then repeated it more firmly. “Firen, I did not bring him here.”

She got to her feet and clutched once at Firen’s arm, then made her way down the hall.

But Firen caught her halfway down. Held her still. “Let them talk,” Firen soothed, praying that was right. She could not interfere with mates—no one could, and she was uncertain this counted as doing so. Her grip was not hard, just an arm about Ellena’s shoulders. Bracing as well as supporting.

She could feel the woman’s fear as tangibly as if they had a bond between them. At first she thought it was simply because of Oberon’s presence. Or that she had not told him of their meeting, and she had some repercussions she would endure once they were home again.

But no...

Because she repeated she had not brought him, as if...

As if her main concern was for Firen and Lucian. That they believe her innocent, that she had not betrayed them by bringing an unwelcome presence to their home.

That she had told him where to find them.

“He’d only have to ask the Registrar,” Firen whispered to her. “You did nothing wrong.”

Her shoulder slumped and then Firen truly was the one supporting her. “Oberon, please, why must you...”

His attention drifted from his son toward his mate. “Do you know, dearest? That the bond only feels a certain way when you are with our son. Which makes it so very easy to know where to find you.”

Ellena’s hands turned to fists, and she pulled away from Firen’s arm.

Pushed past Lucian’s frame.

Or tried to.

Except that he put his arm out and held it there, keeping her inside the house.

Which left an uneasy feeling in Firen’s belly, because that truly constituted as interference between mates, and they weren’t to do that, couldn’t do that, and yet...

Ellena grasped Lucian’s arm and pulled it down, giving him a firm look.

Then stepped out onto the stoop.

“I am happy when I am with my son,” she bit back. “Which should mean something to you.”

It was a hiss, a rage that had built and simmered. Bubbled freely now, as she stood to her full height and...

Shoved at Oberon.

She had not the strength to push him over, but it was enough that he had to take a step backward to keep hold of his posture.

And he was angry. Of that, Firen was certain.

She knew because it was the same jaw he shared with Lucian. The silvery eyes that flashed and smirked and did everything to appear sardonic and mocking rather than simply express honestly.

She could kiss it away in Lucian.

Because he was not his father, and he did not want to be cross with her.

Oberon was a wholly different matter.

“You will not steal this from me,” Ellena insisted, her voice shaking. “You will go home, and we may talk when I return.”

His eyes widened, but it was not in surprise. “You are giving me an order?”

Ellena paused, her hands curling into fists as she stood a little taller. “I am telling you,” she started again. Firmly, but with more composure than she’d had before. “To leave them be. To leave me be when I am with them. You did not want them—you made that perfectly clear. But I do, and I am doing my best to mend what you have broken, and you are making that far more difficult than it needs to be.” Her breath came in great heaves by the end of it, and for one terrible moment, Firen expected Oberon to reach out. To take hold of his wife and...

She could not even supply what she thought. Shake her? Strike her?

Those things were not done.

Not between mates.

Not ever.

And yet... she thought it.

Briefly.

As he looked at her, then swivelled his attention to his son.

To Firen.

“Your mother’s loyalties have always been so backward,” he commented, strangely cool and unaffected by his mate’s words. “The moment our children were born, they always held so much more of her attention.”

Firen reached out. Curled her hand about Lucian’s. “Some mates would be thankful to have such devoted mothers for their children. I am sorry you could not appreciate it.”

There was that look again. The one that was growing most tiresome as eyes drifted down toward her middle.

Wondering looks.

She made no answer—he, of all people, did not deserve one. He’d have no part in the life of her children, not unless he grew penitent. If he would not try to feed them little lies about bloodlines and old families, and what a pity it was their mother was so beneath the rest of them.

She had more to protect than Lucian’s feelings. Or would. Someday. She would have children to shield, to protect. To offer the truth to them gently, when they were old enough to understand it.

Not expose them to Oberon’s poison as Lucian had been. To prey upon their age and inexperience. To fill them with doubt. With prejudice.

“This is a family matter,” Oberon answered Firen with a curl of his lip that hid none of the disgust he must have felt toward her. It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t twist something inside her, the part that had flourished in her girlhood. That wanted so desperately to be liked by everyone, for them to smile at her, be pleased with her, and he... wouldn’t.

Not ever.

She couldn’t know that for certain, but it was not a wager she was willing to make.

“Kindly remove yourself, so we might finish it in private.”

Her mouth did not drop open at his impudence, but it was a near thing.

And for one horrible moment, she almost did as he asked.

Back to her mother. To pace around her kitchen table and spill out all the things she wished she might have said, but hadn’t. Around and around, until Lucian came back and pulled her into his arms and assured her he was gone and could not be so wretched any longer.

But Lucian’s grip tightened on her hand, and he took a half-step forward.

“A family matter,” Lucian repeated. “Was precisely what we were attending to before you made your appearance. Uninvited, I might remind you.” Another step, and his hand pulled from hers, and she let it, because she would not clutch at him, grasp at him. Not when something needed saying.

A poison pulled from a wound that had festered far too long. “You wanted to pluck me out of our family line. Disinherit me, leave without means to provide for myself or my mate. Deny my right to our ancestral home.” His words were tight, but he was not caught in a rage. Truth, harshly spoken, but no less honest. “But I have made a remarkable discovery along the way.”

He waited, allowing his father to shift his weight and give him his attention, a lone brow raised in question. “The family I care to keep followed me. ” Ellena’s hand came to her chest, where Firen was certain the bond throbbed with Oberon’s displeasure. “Your line will end with you. And someday you will regret your actions, of that I am certain. Most especially when mine has gone on.” His head turned, but just a fraction. “When ours has gone on,” he amended, and Firen’s heart filled with warmth.

He sounded so certain, and those little doubts eased. That he was indulging her, that he agreed only to please her.

He wanted it.

Someday.

And she was patient. Would be.

Because it mattered to her for them both to be ready. For him to not be exhausted from days spent in the Hall, with no hours left to devote to loving their fledgling.

Loving her.

And if selfishness was the fuel for her patience, was that such a bad thing? To want to covet his time and his attention, and be willing to wait for when she could have plenty of each?

It took a great deal to stay where she was. Not to go after him and take his hand again, or maybe his arm, and thank him for his words. His promises.

Because that’s what they were.

For her. For Oberon.

He did not answer immediately. Merely watched his son and mulled over his words, and she wondered if that was one of his tactics or if Lucian had been chastened into silence. Ellena did not seem to know who to look at, her attention drifting between both men, her hand creeping up toward her throat as the quiet wore on.

“Go home,” Ellena tried again. “Please. No good can come of staying.” The anger had drained out of her, leaving only a weary sort of plea that Oberon ignored with only a flicker of his eyes in her direction.

“The Hall, then. You and I will meet in private. To finish this discussion.”

Lucian rolled his shoulders, and glanced upward. Praying for patience, perhaps? Or merely trying to keep hold of his own temper. “What do you imagine will change when we are alone?”

Oberon did not answer immediately, but when it came, Firen had to struggle to keep hold of her own response. “Alone, you will not be trying to impress your mate. To do what you must to keep her willing and pliant. It will be more... productive.”

Firen could not see Lucian’s expression, but she saw the tightening in his shoulders, the tremble in his wings. “Enough,” he said at last. “There will be no private meeting. When our work in the Halls demands our discourse, I will allow it. Other than that, we are finished.”

He turned, and Firen braced herself for more of Oberon’s vitriol, but Ellena stood between them.

Grabbed hold of his face and brought his attention down to her.

“Enough,” she insisted, repeating Lucian’s sentiment. “For today.” One of her hands drifted down his chest, where she laid a hand over their bond. Whatever manipulation she offered internally, Firen could not guess, but she held his attention and that seemed to be her aim. “We will go home,” she insisted. “Let matters settle.”

Firen could not say he softened. But his mouth twitched, and he seemed to truly see Ellena rather than fight to keep his attention of his wayward son and his apparent challenge.

“Did you think I would not know you came here?” he asked her, his voice lower. Not quite as mocking, but not what Firen might consider gentle, either. “That I would not know you had seen him?”

Ellena closed her eyes, but only briefly. “I would have told you. Afterward. I would have a tray sent and we would have shared it and you’d get to feel how happy I was for a little while.” Her smile was a sad, wistful thing. “But you couldn’t wait, could you?”

He grunted. Took her chin between two fingers, and placed a kiss upon her lips. It was the most affection Firen had seen from them, but she could not decide if it was genuinely given. Ellena did not relax beneath his touch, but watched, waiting to see if he might yield to her request.