42. Brett

He knew.

No, not knew; he'd already known, for days, how I felt. And he hadn't been treating me any differently. No constant pity in his gaze, and he wasn't avoiding being anywhere near me.

Because he was young and confused and he didn't really know how to deal with it any better than I did. I'd never been in love before, but he... well, whether or not he had been—or still was—in love with his prince, he was just as lost as I was. Maybe even more lost, since I had years of experience he didn't, even if it wasn't experience with this specific thing. I'd been head of my family for half a decade, and Paris had never been responsible for himself before.

I slid my arms around him, pulling his warm body against me and tucking my face into the crook of his neck. The scent of him made me want to pull him closer, snuggle his perfect round ass into my groin, but that wasn't what he'd been asking for. He wanted comfort, not sexual advances.

Except, then he pressed his own perfect ass back into me, making a soft, pleased sound when he found my cock already half hard, and wiggling against it. Then he bared more of his throat for me, twining our hands together tight and leaning all the way in, offering his body up like a feast for my consumption.

Well, who was I to say no to that?

The Montagues were justas friendly and welcoming in the morning as they'd been when we'd arrived, so far from what we expected of Nemedans that it made me wonder if we'd misjudged them as a country. Between them and Paris, it just seemed like comparing them to those cruel geese of theirs was entirely and obviously wrong.

I didn't want to say that to Paris and Killian, though. Too likely that if I said any such thing, they would point out how naive I was being. Because here, I was.

Paris knew Urial better than anyone, and Killian... well, Killian was a master of people. I wasn't sure he'd ever been surprised in his entire life.

So a little while into the ride, when he lifted a brow at Paris, I didn't doubt there was a reason. He seemed to like Paris so far, so he wasn't just trying to make him uncomfortable. Probably.

Paris, apparently, was feeling more confident, and almost... cheeky? After a moment, he lifted a brow right back. "Yes?"

"You keep looking at my feathers."

Paris did flush at that, glancing away. "It's, um, a lot of feathers. If it's for the people you've lost, that's..."

Clearly, he wasn't sure how to continue that line of thought. That was nothing new for Killian. Many Nemedans stared at him the first time they met, like they were looking at a ghost. There was no one in all Nemeda with more feathers. No one who'd lost more people they cared for.

Killian wasn't too much of an ass about it, though. "My clan is large, and we are constantly at war with the southerners. Every Crane lost is important to me. Every member of another clan who comes to aid us in defense of the wall and is lost is important to me." He held up a long white feather with a black tip. "This one is mine. It's for a southern general. He"—Killian looked away a moment, bowing his head, before returning to speaking, his voice thick with emotion—"he tried to help me end the war, when we were both young and naive. We failed. I killed him myself when he came to face us with his father's army."

Paris swallowed hard and nodded, but unlike most young men faced with that kind of story, that kind of loss, he continued on. "Is that how it works for people who can't—who don't have birds? You use your own feather?"

That got Killian's attention. He turned to Paris with a keen eye. "It's more complicated than that. It has to be a feather sacrificed to the cause. The feather of someone who... who either stands in for, or was close to, the person lost. I cared for him, and lost him, as he was my friend. So my feather was right." When Paris only nodded thoughtfully, Killian pressed. "Who do you need a feather for, little Hawk owl?"

Somehow, Paris didn't seem offended by the odd moniker, but bit his lip and looked back to Killian. "My... My parents. I've lost them both." He looked back and forth between us, and shook his head. "But I don't want to—I mean, if it's not appropriate for me to?—"

Killian pulled the reins on his horse, tugging it to a stop and then reaching into his belt pouch, rummaging around. He stared at Paris as he did so. "This is more than Avianitis, you know. You didn't choose that, exactly. This is a choice. This is you, deciding who to be. What's important to you. The people at your palace court will look at you like you've lost your mind if you show up there with feathers in your hair."

Paris drew himself up to his full height. "My parents were more to me than every person at court. Only my brother and sister matter, and they'll understand. They would wear feathers too, I think."

Killian pulled a small gray feather from his pouch and leaned toward Paris. "This was one of my mother's feathers. She died ten years ago. I have less than five left. She led my clan for fifty years, the strongest, bravest person I have known in my life. She led the Crane Clan, protected us, made us allies and friends without whom we would all be dead now. Tell me of your mother."

He swallowed hard, but Paris didn't back down. "She... She was an artist. She was beautiful, and fragile, and so very bright. She taught me music and painting and diplomacy. She died in childbirth when my sister was born. She—she wasn't much like your mother, but?—"

"She was a mother," Killian interrupted. "And while we may not be able to be artists any longer, there are none the Crane Clan respect more. My mother would have been honored to stand for yours. Do you accept her gift?"

Eyes glassy, Paris nodded, and when Killian motioned him in, he leaned forward. With expert fingers, Killian used a bit of twine and his skill at braiding—the best I'd ever seen—to attach the gray feather to a lock of Paris's hair, behind his ear. Knowingly, Killian looked to me, waving his hand in my direction.

I smiled and ducked my head, but did what he was expecting. "Tell me of your father."

"H—He was... wonderful. He gave Helena and me everything. Spent so much time with us. Read us stories to put us to bed every night, even though he was important at court, and many men in his position never so much as looked at their children. He was always home for supper. Always there when I needed him. I miss him so much." His voice cracked repeatedly, and it took all he had in him to manage to get to the end, so I reached out and squeezed his hand, bracketing him in with my horse, so he was held between Killian and me.

"My father was a kind, patient man. He only served one year on the wall, knew he was no kind of soldier, but made sure that the Crane were never in want of food or resources in their war to protect us. And when I decided to serve longer, he never questioned my choice. He always supported me in everything I did, so long as I was being true to myself and my clan. It sounds to me as though our fathers had much in common. My father would be honored to stand for yours. Do you accept his gift?"

Tears falling in earnest now, Paris nodded. I took the lock right next to the one Killian had tied his mother's feather into, and added a golden-brown striped wing feather from my father, bigger than the Crane feather, which looked like a contour feather, smallish and delicate, but not downy.

"Show off," Killian mouthed at me, but he looked amused. And like maybe he was feeling something about the proceedings too. I couldn't blame him. I hadn't given someone a stand-in feather from my father in years, and it was always an emotional moment.

"There you are," Killian finally said, breaking the silence. "Now, you're truly one of us. A mad bird worshipper."