43. Hector

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

HECTOR

S eeing the Cranes, it'd been so perfectly apparent that Killian, with his silvery hair and striking grace, was one of those ethereal creatures.

Once we'd eaten, I expected him to stand and shift effortlessly into one of the most beautiful creatures I'd ever seen. But Killian, as ever, was more considerate than I gave him credit for.

When we stood to get to work, he didn't shift but loosened my shirt at the hollow of my throat. He reached for the front of my trousers with such brusque efficiency that heat flooded my face. When he glanced at my red cheeks, Killian smirked, but he saved any comment as he leaned closer.

"For me," he said, resting the heel of his palm against my neck, "it starts here."

His fingertips probed the back of my head, into the small dip at the top of my neck.

"A kind of hazy feeling. It might be different for you. Your brother was startled the first time he shifted. But—don't think too much about the particulars of it. Think more about the wind, how it'll feel between your feathers. You're a part of the sky as much as the land."

That sounded absurd, and despite the sickness and the creaking pain in my bones for weeks as I'd battled off illness, I didn't think I could do it.

Changing into a bird? That was the stuff of children's tales. Just because I'd seen it didn't mean it was real. It certainly didn't mean that I had that sort of magic.

But when I closed my eyes and matched my breathing to Killian's, something changed. It was the wind, moving through my lungs, running through my hair. What would it feel like to have not hair, but feathers—firm and flexible at once.

To belong to the sky.

I felt the world shrink. Watched it, when I opened my eyes and even the blades of grass looked sharper in my field of vision.

And then, I was stuck inside my shirt.

Despite Killian's foresight in loosening it, it took a lot of squirming and wing flapping to fight my way out of my clothes. I opened my mouth—beak—to an unholy screech, and when I finally got free of the fabric that'd shrouded me, one of the beautiful cranes had decided he'd had enough of the chaos and taken flight.

Not Killian though.

He still stood there, looking at me like—like he'd never adored anything more.

Free of the tangle of clothing, I looked down at myself.

Pigeon indeed.

My heart clenched. All I saw was a sea of brown—light and dark feathers speckling my chest, enormous talons tucked beneath hundreds of feathers.

I... was nothing like Paris or Helena at all.

Even with Killian's assurances that a bird did not change my character or where I belonged, I'd still held out hope that whatever transformation I had would prove beyond all doubt that I shared blood with my siblings, that I wasn't so different from them after all.

And there I was, brown.

A mournful coo escaped me as I looked up at Killian, and he only shook his head.

"Hector," he said, his soft voice trapped between empathy and bemusement, "you're an owl."

The world tilted, and suddenly, I was back on two very human legs. The shift this way was easier—natural, given that it was the only shape I'd had in my life and the one that felt the most me . Perhaps one day I'd integrate having a bird better, but as soon as Killian spoke, I needed my own voice.

"An owl?"

He nodded.

"But I'm . . . brown."

Killian shook his head as if I were the strangest being he'd ever met. "Yes. There are brown owls and white ones and gray ones, just like cranes."

My breath escaped me in a rush. "You're sure? An owl?"

At this, Killian laughed, but it didn't feel like he was laughing at my expense. "Yes, Hector. Enormous and horned. Forgive me for saying so, but you look even more formidable than your siblings."

Paris and Helena . . . we were all owls.

That mattered to me more than the color of my feathers. And perhaps—perhaps it would've been all right if I hadn't been an owl at all.

The shift alone proved that I was Nemedan. I had survived. Not just Avianitis, but everything. I'd survived Urial. Losing first my mother, then Paris and Helena's mother, and then our father. I'd survived poisoning.

Now, I was home . It was all real. Nothing remained that would let me doubt it.

As all this fell over me, I glanced up to see Killian smiling. It wasn't his sharp, slick smile he got when he thought he'd been clever. His expression was softer than that. Open, even.

I'd rarely seen that look from him before.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Killian pursed his lips in an attempt to stop smiling. It didn't work.

"I like seeing you happy," he admitted.

Happy .

I was. I wasn't sure I'd ever been happy, not entirely, but in that quiet moment overlooking the marsh, yes. I knew what it meant now.

Had you asked me months or years ago, I might've said I was happy, thoughtlessly tried to move on from the topic before I had to pick at the idea too much, but now—it fell on me heavy and true. I was happy .

I stepped closer to Killian, the sun warm on my bare skin. Biting the tip of my tongue between my teeth, I slid down to my knees.

"What are you doing?" Killian's voice hitched, slightly choked, and a delicious thrill coursed through me. I was naked and he was still wrapped up in all his clothes, but rather than need him bare, I liked the contrast.

I ran my hands up his thighs, feeling their warmth, their strength, through the loose linen. His breath hitched, and his cock plumped up, tenting the fabric.

"Perhaps I want to see you happy too," I said, leaning forward to mumble the words against his bulge.

Killian made a sound, deep in his throat, and I smiled. If he wanted me to stop, he'd have said it. Instead, his hand slipped down from the top of my head, fingers spread wide, pulling at the cord at the nape of my neck and freeing wild locks to fall around my cheekbones.

I eased him out of his trousers. His cock was as pretty as the rest of him—thick and veined, flushed so red against the silvery curls at the base, mouthwatering. I licked the tip.

He whined, and it was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard.

I love you , I thought as I turned my eyes up to meet his.

I love you . I flicked his slit with the tip of my tongue. Kissed him and spread my lips to take him inside.

I love you . He pressed the soft palette of my mouth, the back of my throat, but I couldn't pull away. Didn't want to. I needed Killian more than air, more than ease, more than comfort. He moaned raggedly, his fingers tightening in my hair. A tingle rushed down to the base of my spine and I groaned around him..

I love you . The words carried too much promise, too much risk, to say aloud, but I said them with my eyes, with every move, with every indulgent swipe of my tongue or fingers over his body. Every swallow when he pumped down my throat, shattered and panting, but still trapped in my gaze.

He caught himself on my shoulder and eased back from me, only to fall to his knees. For once, I was gratified that he wasn't the least bit graceful, and he toppled into me, pushing me back onto the picnic blanket for a sloppy, bittersweet kiss.

His clothes against my skin were rough and nice at the same time, but where they were parted—that triangle of his lower stomach and groin—was my favorite. I pressed against him, needing nothing so much as to have him closer.

"Happy?" I whispered against his lips—just there at the corner, where I could feel his smile widen.

Killian nodded. His tongue delved into my mouth.

He caught my hands, pressed them into the blanket, and nibbled his way down my throat.

"Very," he promised.

Then and there, I swore to myself that I'd keep him that way, whatever it took.