2. Brave

Orma abhorred decision making.

She hadn’t realised it. Not until Lucian had placed opportunity into her mind and heart and made her stew with it.

Well, perhaps that was unfair. The waiting was her own fault. She could have answered him immediately, either in the affirmative, or far more likely, the denial that settled on her tongue with far more ease than was comfortable.

Sleep left her. Which was nothing new, but every time she tossed and turned uncomfortably onto her wing, she would huff and curse and more often than not, it was Lucian’s name she was denouncing.

Then she’d feel sorry for it, and whisper a blessing, while tugging at her blankets and willing for a rest that refused to come.

Which led to fitful days, where she’d drift off at meals, only to be sharply awakened when her mother’s hand would settle on her shoulder, worried eyes looking over every bit of her while her father whispered about healers.

As if she couldn’t hear.

As if she wouldn’t insist she was fine, she was tired, that was all. She’d keep to her room, and surely it would be better in the morning.

Which it wasn’t. And their patience was waning, and she knew what would come next.

She chewed at her thumb until it bled.

Put salve and a bandage and told herself to simply decide . She needn’t even speak to Lucian directly if she didn’t want to. A note passed along to one of the kitchen girls. They’d see it delivered, and it would be over.

Except she did not pen the note.

Lost herself in a cycle of imaginings. Of what ifs and all the subsequent possibilities until she was so sick she found herself sicking up what little she’d managed of her supper.

Her brow was damp with perspiration, and the thought of lying awake for another night was almost intolerable.

She looked to her table of tonics, wondering how sick she might be if she ignored the healers’ warnings and mixed a few of them together to increase their potency—since they seemed to do so little any longer.

She stilled.

Quieted.

It might grant sleep—but it also might be of the more permanent nature.

And she did not want that. No matter how miserable she was most days...

That wasn’t what she wanted.

She sniffled. Rubbed at her face.

And decided this wasn’t really deciding at all. This was simply another step. An adventure.

Which would have sounded far more appealing if she felt better, but she didn’t.

She rinsed her mouth and scrubbed at her face with cold water. Dressed in her darkest clothes.

And slipped out of her window.

It was not the first time she’d escaped that way, and likely would not be the last. But it was not a fete she wanted. Wasn’t threads and bonds and the earnest smiles she craved.

It was sleep and rest. Which evidently, this required.

It made her knock more forceful than was reasonable. Made her scowl and cringe when it was Firen that opened the door rather than her cousin, and she certainly had not earned even a moment’s ire.

“Orma!” Firen urged, pulling her into the kitchen. It was not so very late, Firen in her nightdress, but there was little else to suggest she’d been pulled from sleep. Dark, but the moon was high and lit her way admirably. “Are you well?”

Orma smiled dimly. Always the question. Always the one that lacked an answer anybody wished to hear. “Not really,” she answered truthfully. She did not need to ask for Lucian. He emerged through the doorway, hair mussed and looking strikingly different from his usual crisp appearance.

He looked her over, and she did so tire of that. Of the appraisals. Her chin rose, which likely formed unflattering shadows on her already gaunt cheeks, but so be it. “Will you take a walk with me?” she asked her cousin, Firen looking between the two of them with all the bewilderment Orma might expect if Lucian had kept his word.

She could share or not share whatever she liked.

It had been given in comfort, but now it felt like yet another weight. Another talk, more advice.

Choking at her. Drowning her. Pressing and twisting until she...

“Yes, of course,” Lucian answered, already heading back toward his room, presumably to change.

Which left her with Firen.

And questions she did not want to answer.

“Do you mind?” Orma asked, trying to head off any need for an explanation. “If I borrow him? It shouldn’t be too long.”

Couldn’t be. She had so few reserves left to draw upon.

“He’s your family,” Firen assured her. “If you need him, you need him.” So simple, but there was a glint in her eye that suggested he would be missed, and she did not particularly favour having to share him at this hour.

Of course.

She should have come in the morning. Or perhaps stolen him from the Hall in between assignments.

Her insides twisted, insisting she was an inconvenience. A mistake.

She rubbed at her nose, and there were no tears, the thoughts too old to cause fresh pain.

Lucian appeared before she could form any sort of apology. He did not have to think carefully about his attire—he was used to the harsh black that came with his station.

“Shall we?” he asked, opening the door and ushering her out.

But not before ducking back in, his hand curling about Firen’s ear as he whispered softly to her.

Her lips thinned, but her hand came to his chest, pushing him back out gently.

Gracious, even when she was being robbed of her mate with little explanation.

“She is too good for you,” Orma declared when he shut the door and waited to hear the bolt fasten behind it.

“Isn’t she just,” Lucian agreed. He took a few steps through the courtyard before he broached their aim. “Is this really just a walk?” He asked it gently, but it was still enough for her throat to tighten and to desperately wish she’d never come.

“No,” she said instead, her voice small and almost inaudible. “It’s not.”

He was polite enough not to give her one of his smug smiles. Not to tease or mock or do anything at all that might discourage her from the attempt.

Wise, because if he’d even allowed his eyes to glitter, she would have waved him back to Firen and taken to her bed for a full season if she must.

Sleep would come eventually. It had to.

But he merely stood. Waiting for her.

Right.

He’d offered a cart.

Because asking to be carried was an embarrassment. Something reserved for over-tired fledglings and not the woman she was supposed to be.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tonic she’d stashed there. Not of pain, although she likely would need one of those soon enough. Energy was what she was after—the thrill that urged her toward a fete to watch the couples there.

For a hint of the magic that buoyed her, lifting her spirits and making the world seem a far kinder place than she’d known thus far.

His brow rose slowly as she drank down the noxious liquid. She’d begged the healers to stop trying to mask the taste with fruits and sweet syrups. At some point, they only made the bitter brews worse, lingering on her tongue and spoiling the flavours that should have reminded her of harvests and festival treats.

“Do I wish to know what that was?” he asked, leaning forward slightly as if he might ascertain the contents from the lingering scent alone.

“I only have enough for me,” she answered, her hand hovering over her pocket where others were stashed. “Unless you’re too tired from your day?” She was being polite—offering him an out that she almost hoped he would take.

“For you? Never.”

She doubted that. Doubted he’d be willing to drop just anything if she had need of him—most particularly if Firen grew less obliging. She’d not abuse his willingness. Would not use his kindness against him.

She certainly would not grow teary over it.

She felt the prickling in her skin, unpleasant yet familiar. The tonic at work, lending her strength she didn’t think she had anymore. “I don’t want to do this,” she admitted, more to herself than to him

Lucian gentled. Reached for her, but she shook her head. “Do you want more time to think?”

She snorted, shaking her head certainly. “That is the last thing I want.”

He hummed. “Of course. Well, then.” He opened the courtyard gate and ushered her out.

She rubbed at her forehead, a pressure coming between her eyes.

She was going to do this.

It felt strange to try.

To feel the threads, to coax them from their terrible knot in her chest. To urge them out, to lead her. She’d never done it before, did not know if she was even capable—he’d been so near before, they’d acted of their own accord.

It did not feel as she expected. Instead, it was almost a release. As if she’d held in a breath too long only to feel the burn and relief all at once as precious air came once more. The threads themselves were dim, and she had to squint too hard to make them out. That was her, wasn’t it? A shadow. A figment of something more.

She took a breath. Then another.

Let them go.

“Can we walk first?” she tried, seeing if her voice worked or if it had been lost as her heart raced with an urgency settled in her veins that frightened her.

She was a child again.

Rushing forward. Thrilled and exhilarated.

Full of hope and certain there could not possibly be any consequences.

But this was a different Orma.

One that could keep her steps measured. Would keep her head.

She would not engage with him, even if she found him. She would learn of him, that was all. Lucian would keep his disappointments to himself if she turned around at any time and went home.

But she didn’t want to go back. She reached out and allowed the tendrils of shimmering light to weave through her fingers, tickling her skin and promising everything would be all right. If she just kept moving, if she just went a little faster as they reached and pulled.

She did not wonder what she looked liked. Did not question when suddenly she was airborne, her wings moving of their own will, pulling her upward. Faster. Enough with her slow gait. This was more important. Fundamental.

Instinctive.

Lucian followed, but she was only vaguely aware of his presence. It was more a nuisance than a comfort—but those weren’t her thoughts, were they? They were this half-formed bond, wanting nothing to interfere now that she’d finally, finally, paid attention.

It frightened her more than she could say.

The numbing haze was a balm, full of promises that could not possibly be real.

She was truly mad. One healer had said so. When all his knowledge had failed to provide a cure and she was still there, wretched and miserable.

She wouldn’t be able to take it. She’d start raving at some point. Dancing along with her lights that weren’t real, and they’d have to consider more drastic measures for her protection.

But it wasn’t just about that, was it?

It was the appearance of it. One of the most prominent families in the city, allowing their mad daughter to roam about freely.

An embarrassment.

She drew her hand back, and her wings slowed. She was higher than she’d gone for a long while, the city below blanketed in black, punctuated with the warm glow of homey windows and bits of moonbeams.

“Orma?” Lucian called, coming as near as he dared. “What’s going on?”

She should answer him. She knew that, in the part that was suddenly caged. Penned. Something else had taken over, and she darted past him, wanting away from him. He’d stop her. She knew that. She wanted to call out to him, to tell him something was very, very wrong, and he needed to take her home. To shutter her window and fetch her parents, and most especially to pour tonics down her throat until this awful feeling went away.

The one that surged and trapped her.

The one that flew with more speed than she’d ever dared attempt in her fragile state.

She would pay for this for days afterward.

Lucian was faster. She glanced back more than once, and to her horror, she felt her teeth bare in something near to a snarl. And it wasn’t her, it was the tangled bond, suddenly free and so terribly angry.

Orma wasn’t crying, but she wanted to.

She had never imagined this could turn out so badly, not even as she’d tried to dream up even the worst scenarios.

She flew downward. Spinning and twirling as the threads reached out, tangling amongst themselves in their fervour to grasp hold of their target. It was too far—the street below approaching far too quickly, and she closed her eyes and brought her hands out to cover her head.

Only to lurch back as Lucian caught her, pulling her to him as he darted them upward once more. “Talk to me, Orma,” he insisted, shaking her slightly until her eyes focused on him.

She wanted to struggle, wanted to fight him.

Wanted to bury herself in his arms and insist he take her home again.

It was a war she would not win, but she tried. Tried to pull in the threads. To knot them, tie them up within herself until they’d spend a good long while trying to loosen again.

She’d made a mistake. It did not mean all was lost. “I don’t know how to stop,” she choked out. “This was wrong,” she insisted. “I can’t... I can’t do this.”

His eyes drifted over her wildly, trying to make sense even as her body fought to free herself from his hold.

Even as her mind screamed to stay where she was, that he would protect her...

Except the face was wrong.

The hair, too.

This was kin, and she could recognise that, but not much else.

She lurched free.

Snarled at him without words.

And darted back down to the street.

He was close. She could feel it. The threads were taking shape, binding together as they formed first into twine.

Then as thick as ropes, brightening and shimmering in ways they had not for years.

He was close. The one she needed. Wanted.

Not on the street. One of these houses. His house? She did not know the district, did not know this place at all. The towers were far away, the city sprawling and circling in a maze of streets and roofs for an easy landing, mapped out available for study if she’d ever cared to pay attention.

She hadn’t. What did it matter how the city was constructed when she had no intention of going out there?

It mattered now. Or would have, if she was moving on anything but instinct and a power she didn’t understand. Lucian was hovering above her as she moved, but he did not grab her again. It made her antsy, uncertain when he would strike, and she hissed at him vaguely, warning him away.

This was a private business. Her mate had made her wait, and for that, there would be consequences.

The thoughts were not her own, and did not seem to matter how she argued internally with the wrongness of it.

It was true she was years past her majority. But that choice had been hers.

She found herself on a doorstep of a stranger’s home, her hand poised not to knock and wait politely. But to try the latch and see if the door would allow her entrance directly, so she might stalk and find and subdue what felt far too much like prey.

She tried to touch the newly formed ropes. To pull them back, to shove them back into her chest where they could remain there until she was ready to deal with this latest development, but they simply whispered through her fingers. Filaments from her imagination rather than corporeal.

She sobbed. Just once, born of frustration too great for her to name.

She touched the latch.

Only then did Lucian come.

He was faster than she knew, his presence above in the peripherals of her awareness, until suddenly he was there.

Pulling her back. Holding her against him.

Which felt all wrong. Now that she was fixated on her aim, kin meant little.

Her mate meant more.

And he was just inside, wasn’t he? Waiting for her. And this man was keeping her from him, just as her mother had done, her father, those healers that couldn’t begin to understand what ailed her.

She struggled fiercely, but his grip was stronger, and she would have taken a dozen tonics if it meant she could remove his hold from her.

“Settle down,” Lucian urged. “You think he’s inside?”

She tried to whimper, but it caught in her throat and became a choked, wretched sound instead. “Orma,” he hissed when her foot caught at his ankle. She’d hurt him, and that should matter to her. Did matter.

Or... would. Later. When she was herself again. If this awfulness that took her senses and control of her body ever let her go.

She sagged against him, which was more effective than her struggles, as her sudden shift in weight had him grappling to hold her upright. “Orma,” he repeated, still a whisper, but with far more alarm than had been there a moment before. “I do not know what to do.”

And there it was. He was frightened, too. Because of her. Because he understood even less than she did.

She did not screech, but she wanted to.

But she flailed, her head lurching backward, narrowly missing his chin as he ducked away from her just in time.

But her foot caught the door, her boot thudding against it just the once while Lucian cursed and pulled her even further back from the house.

That might be her house in a moment. If only he’d loosen his hold long enough, she could slip inside and bolt the door so he couldn’t take her away again. “Let go!”

The voice wasn’t hers. Or maybe it was—she just hadn’t used it in such a way. It was raspy and low, born of desperation and a fury that curdled in her blood and left her feeling wild.

He was going to argue with her. He was going to talk some more, and that truly was intolerable. She was sick to death of worry and wondering and the endless cycle of tests and theories that all were utter nonsense.

This was real. This was right.

If only that door would open.

And it did.

The light was too bright as it glittered off the shimmers, a lantern held high as a man took in Lucian’s hold on her squirming frame.

“What is your business here? Let go of her!”

She did not much care what he thought he saw, of the way Lucian growled low in her ear that she would pay dearly for this entire escapade when she had sense enough to listen to him.

“She is kin, I promise you,” Lucian answered as calmly as she could. She made to kick him again, but he squeezed her so tightly for a moment she had to focus on her breathing.

Which let Orma take greater control, if only for the moment between her last inhalation and the slight burn of too little air.

Enough to close her eyes, to be sorry when he loosened his grip so she could take a full breath.

When it meant she was lost, pushed aside, buried under this new horrid creature that cared nothing at all for anyone but herself.

Untrue.

There was one other.

And it was certainly not the man standing with his lantern.

The threads wavered, brushing past him. Pushing and reaching and urging her to do whatever she must to follow them.

“I said let go of her!”

“She isn’t well,” Lucian offered back, pulling upward. “And I made you a promise.”

Flying upward.

And she screamed.

Angry. No. Furious.

Because she’d been the fool to make him promise, to talk of looking and watching and assessing the man for herself before she allowed any instincts or bonds to overwhelm her.

What a fool she had been.

The man was calling after them, and then there was another figure.

And it hurt.

Her chest felt as if it was going to wrench itself open. The threads—no, the ropes—yanked forward desperately, knowing what would happen if they were parted once more.

“No, no, no...” she repeated, shaking her head wildly as she was wrenched away.

Again.

“Orma, I swear,” Lucian was growling in her ear, and the wind was rushing about them, unseasonably cold. Or maybe that was just her, shivering and teeth chattering with something that felt all too near to despair.

“Please,” Orma gasped out, uncertain if she was begging Lucian or the bond itself. To settle, to quiet, to go back into the dormant tangle she’d been able to—not ignore—but live with.

That wasn’t quite right, either.

She’d survived it.

She wouldn’t survive this.

Better he drop her now. Crush her wings first, and then she’d plummet and then...

He was still growling. Was shaking her lightly because he wanted her attention, didn’t he? Wretch that he was. Ruining her. Ruining what was meant to be.

“Wait!”

It was impractical to yell while in flight. Currents and wind and sound made for a terrible combination, and yet, she heard it.

Urgent. The bond was still reaching. Searching.

Not on the ground any longer.

But in the air.

Because...

They were being followed.

Not by the man with the lantern, but by the one she’d needed all along.

It was too dark to make out more than his form, and even that was quickly obscured when Lucian suddenly plummeted.

Then pulled sharply upward.

Trying to outmanoeuvre their pursuer.

No.

Her mate.

He’d spoken to her.

Called to her.

And she wanted so badly to answer him. To let him know she was there, that she wanted him, that she was sorry she’d been frightened and had brought Lucian at all, because he was spoiling it and she wouldn’t forgive him for this. For being like the rest of their family, brute that he’d proven himself to be.

But there was the rest of her. Shoved down and locked away inside herself that insisted that was wrong, that he was listening to her, fighting for her, to offer her the choices she’d said she’d wanted.

“Stop!” came that voice again. The one that sounded anxious and worried, and her head lulled to the side and there he was, more than just a dark figure against a rapidly retreating city. The clouds broke, and the moonlight hit him just so, and he caught her gaze, if just for a moment. And the bond flared. Pushed. Ripped her open and tumbled free, and her mouth opened to scream at the feel of it, but she could conjure no sound at all.

Because it was settling into him. Pushing and squirming, and while he seemed surprised by it, there was no pain. No agony.

Just a surge of movement as he flew nearer still.

He was strong, and he would overtake them, Lucian burdened by her weight. “I am a healer,” he insisted, his words carrying better now that he was closer. “Land, please. Let me help her.”

And she laughed.

A broken, wretched sound because she could think again. Could curl her fingers and clutch at Lucian’s robe.

A healer.

Of course he was.

“Lucian,” she murmured as he looked down at her in alarm. She touched his cheek, and she felt his frown. “Thank you,” she offered, and meant it. He relaxed, just a little, because he must have known she’d come back to herself. “We won’t make it if I’m slowing you down.”

He opened his mouth to argue with her, but she shook her head. “Let me do this,” she entreated. “Please. I... need to.”

He swallowed. Kissed her once on the top of her head, and let her drop.

Which was not exactly what she’d intended, but her wings knew what to do.

They spread and surged, while Lucian darted to the other side, disappearing from view.

Which meant she would choose for herself. If she’d run. Hide herself away and let him feel some of the pain she’d endured for years. Let him feel the absence.

Or...

She could stay.

Talk with him.

Perhaps even like him.

He’d gone after Lucian at first, which gave her a head start. A moment to think, to decide for herself.

It did not last for long. Perhaps he’d seen Lucian was no longer burdened, or perhaps the bond had settled quick and deep, urging him back toward her.

He was calling out to her, but the wind carried his voice in the opposite direction. But she could feel it, which was enough to send a shiver through her. No more echoing into the dark. But a person. Warm and very much alive, suddenly on the other end of her tangles.

Not tangles.

Cords. Thick and strong as they drew taut as he came nearer, coming after her.

She should feel elated. Or frightened.

Or... anything at all.

But the tonic had worn away, likely because of the struggle the bond had waged against Lucian.

She landed. It hadn’t mattered where, only that it was in the vague direction of home.

She blinked, realising she’d misjudged, and it was soft sand beneath her feet rather than the cobbles she’d intended.

And he followed, rushing toward her with teeth exposed and arms outstretched.

Her brow furrowed, and she took a measured step backward.

His arms dropped.

His lips met.

Oh.

He’d been smiling.

And he’d...

Wanted to embrace her.

For as much as she’d felt through their half-formed bond for so long, it was suddenly—and almost blessedly—quiet.

How long had she prayed for that? When it ached and squirmed about in her chest, and she just wanted to sleep?

She wanted that now. Exhausted and weary and with no idea of what to do with a smiling man that wanted her hug.

His demeanour shifted almost immediately, and it was almost amusing to watch. When he turned from mate to healer, eyes drifting over her even in the near-dark, looking over any bit of her he could.

Looking for just how wrong she was.

There would be plenty for him to find, especially if he had a lamp. More particularly, if he was bold enough to pluck off some of her clothing and assess the skin beneath.

He moved closer to her, his steps hesitant. Afraid of frightening her? She shook her head, frustrated with herself, and considered delving into her pocket for another tonic. Something to keep her awake. To see what sort of man he was.

To endure whatever came next.

“Hello,” he said, and she blinked, not expecting such a simple greeting.

“Hello,” she answered back, voice raspy from over-use.

He waited for her to say more, but there was little thought in her head beyond keeping herself upright. She would not dare the flight back home. It would be a shuffling trudge forward. Back to her bed, where she would bury herself in her blankets and embrace the absolute bliss of a bond that was no longer struggling to escape from her.

“I’m Athan,” he continued when it was more than apparent she would not make the introductions. “And I think you need my help.”

Her hand should come over her heart. She should bow her head and recite the prayer of thanksgiving she’d found him.

She didn’t.

Wouldn’t have, even if she had the energy to lift her hand and murmur the rest of it.

But there was enough for a rueful sort of smile. “Do I?” It wasn’t a tease, although there was a lilt to her voice that was strange to her ears.

“Yes,” he answered certainly, taking another step forward. “Will you allow me to give it?”

As if it mattered what she wanted.

The wind blew cool sea spray up against her, and she shivered, and he dared another step. “You are cold,” he observed. No... he tested. Tugging at the bond, just enough that she felt it reverberate in her own chest. Saw it give a shiver of its own.

“No,” she answered honestly. She’s stopped feeling that a long time ago. She turned, beginning her shuffle homeward. It was a foolish idea—all sorts of stories trickling through her head. No new mate would even consider spending the night apart, and there was a sickly dread for when her parents heard of his profession.

“Where are you going?” he pleaded, closing the distance between them with less effort than was fair. “Why are you going?” he tried again, and that one was better. Struck harder.

As she closed her eyes and her hand went to her chest, rubbing as she always did. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He reached out.

She couldn’t see it, but she knew. And she braced herself for the contact, for the pain, or perhaps for something else that frightened her even more, but it did not come. “What wasn’t?” A huff of breath. Not exactly a sigh, but near enough. “I do not understand.”

And there it was. Just a hint, but his frustration was growing, and she owed him her honesty, didn’t she? Her apologies, too.

“Athan,” Orma tested, just the once. “I’m not well.” Because that was the whole of it, wasn’t it? So many other bits and pieces that made up her life, but that was the most important.

At her declaration, he came to stand in front of her. To pause her steps and have her look at him.

Which was rather ridiculous given how dark the night had become as the clouds rolled in from over the sea. “If you are poorly, allow me to take you back to the infirmary. I might examine you and have you feeling better.”

She laughed softly, more air than sound. “You are not the first healer I have seen,” she explained as gently as she could. “But I thank you for your offer.” It was politeness rather than genuine gratitude. She had a great many feelings about his profession, none of which she would share with him now. Perhaps he was a kindly sort, with a listening ear and compassion in his heart, but that changed little.

She could just make out the way his shoulders pushed downward, the way his hand came to push through his hair. She wanted home. Wanted her bed.

And yet...

She felt whispers. Of disappointment. Of confusion.

Ones that were not hers.

She rubbed harder at her chest, willing it to quiet down. She did not need to feel sorry for him—but it came, anyway.

“Orma,” she offered, hoping he’d move or else she’d be forced to shuffle around him. Undignified and allowing him too near a look at her unnatural gait.

He brightened at that. She might not make out his expression, but the bond flared enough for her to catch the shimmer, to feel it warm in her own chest.

It should have been bliss, but she only felt more weary.

She could feel his smile. Feel his pleasure that he had her name, that she was trying.

“I’d like to go home now,” she informed him.

He opened his mouth as she passed him, and she braced herself for his argument. He’d want to take her home with him. Probably had imagined all sorts of ways this meeting would end.

Most of them likely tucked in the bed with the mate he’d waited for.

She grimaced.

Swayed.

Her head felt muzzy, and she didn’t think, only acted out of the need to hold herself upright long enough so she could make it back home.

She touched his arm to keep her balance, and her mouth grew dry. He was strong, his arm firm beneath her touch. He gave a sharp inhalation, and she was not immune to the way the bond warmed. Prodded. She could ease into his arms. Could ask him to fly her wherever he liked so long as she did not have to make the walk.

“Let me help you,” Athan pleaded, his voice gentle. Less like a healer, and more like a man whose mate was ailing. “Please. I’ll take you where you want to go, but just...” his hand settled over hers and he squeezed it gently, still resting on his arm.

She waited for him to say more, but it seemed the words were lodged in his throat. She understood that feeling well.

A healer.

Her parents...

She swallowed, eyes burning. It had little to do with the sea air, and a great deal more to do with the battle soon to come. Lucian’s father would be furious. He already thought so little of her, and this would likely cause a far greater rift.

“I don’t know where to go,” she admitted, her breath coming in short, tight spasms. “I’m so tired and I...” she sniffed, her free hand delving into her pocket in search of a tonic. To get her home. She’d likely sleep most of tomorrow once the effects wore off, but that wasn’t so bad. She just needed to endure for a little while longer...

He heard the clinking of bottles, and he shifted. Back to a healer intrigued with her treatments, her condition. He eased the bottle from her fingers and held it up to what little light there was. “What is this?”

She had no right to be cross with him. This disaster was of her making, and he would be the one to pay the highest price.

“I do not know exactly.”

She knew he was frowning, her answer unsatisfactory. If they’d tried to tell her before, she couldn’t recall. Everything was filtered through her parents—their selections, their choices. Habits driven from childhood, when she was too young to give much input at all.

“Will you wait?” he asked, his voice tense. “Never mind the infirmary. Come home with me. Just... just for tonight.”

It was not a concession made easily, nor was it one a mate should have to give. She needed her tonic back, needed her hand back, but so much was beyond her control.

She was only supposed to find him. To watch him.

See if she liked him. If he was worth risking losing the rest of herself for.

But that had been taken away from her, and now...

“Wasn’t that your home?” she asked, thinking of the house. The man with the lantern. A brother? Cousin? Kin, surely, if he was there so late.

“No,” Athan answered, already tugging at her hand. He was going to carry her. Which should have been mortifying if it did not feel so needed. “A patient.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

“I am going to pick you up now,” he told. Not asked. Which should have upset her greatly.

There was no accompanying warm purr as he held her for the first time. Just that sharp inhalation again. The one that said he found her lacking. Followed by the concern that flowed freely across the bond.

She was too light; she knew. Orma certainly didn’t need him chiding her for it.

“Will you tell me of your illness?” he asked, already flying upward.

She’d given no assent. No agreement to his proposed plan. Yet he was taking her there, presumably to his home, and she lacked the energy to fight back.

She wanted Lucian back. To intervene, to explain when she couldn’t.

But she’d sent him away, wanting to believe she could take care of it herself.

Another foolish choice. One of many she’d made in a single night.

He hadn’t given her tonic back, and that angered her.

Her head lolled.

“Orma,” he insisted, his wings beating faster as he hurried to his home.

“You took my tonic,” she mumbled. It sounded muzzy and slurred to her own ears. She wasn’t sick. Just tired. But he wouldn’t know that. Because he did not know her. Did not know about threads and shimmers and the cord that had buried in his chest. He’d just know the bond had flickered to life, gentle and welcomed.

He’d think her awful for resenting it.

It shouldn’t matter what he thought. Shouldn’t matter that she liked he was strong. That he could carry her. That his response to meeting her for the first time was a warm smile and a hug.

She was the broken one. That did not know how to be welcoming and soft.

A prickly family. That’s what Lucian called it. He was soft with Firen. Could hold her and love her, despite his upbringing.

His mouth came to her ear. Not touching, but his breath tickled, and she flinched away from him. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I need you to keep talking to me, Orma. I don’t trust you to sleep in your condition.” He jostled her, which was really quite rude, and for one horrible moment she thought he intended to drop her.

She was not prepared to fly, and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but he steadied again. Waited for her to do as he’d asked.

“You took my tonic,” she repeated, this time the words coming out much better. “Give it back and you won’t have to worry so much.”

He followed the coastline. Away from the towers, and even past the bay where the merchants docked.

Then inward. Back toward the city. Still within the walls, which was a relief. Not that she intended to live there. Or maybe she would. She didn’t know much of anything anymore.

“Yes, I did. Because there could be anything floating around in there, and it might not be safe for you.”

She bristled. Which took strength she did not have, but it was enough to lean slightly away so she could try to look at him properly. Not nestle in close. Not let herself rely solely on his strength and find the respite she so desperately needed.

“You are not my healer,” she reminded him. “I have been taking those tonics for years, and I’m still here.”

He turned his head, and she could feel his pointed look.

She lived.

But barely.

She wilted, feeling chastened without even a word from him.

She did not bother trying to make out the district. Not even the position of his dwelling. It was too dark to make out the details in any case—the streets utterly lacking in the expensive moon-stone lamps that lined the streets by her home. She said nothing about it, because he could not help where he lived.

And if he thought they’d be welcomed in her parents’ tower, he would soon be severely disappointed.

The houses were not in tight rows when he landed. Golden light peeked out from nearby shuttered windows, but this structure stood alone. One building of at least two storeys, the one neatly beside, sprawling at only ground level. Inefficient, if one was particularly interested in architecture, when there could have been a few family homes nestled into the same space. But she did not question him.

He did not set her down. Instead, he walked boldly into the house, unbolted and without need of a key.

Which meant others lived there. Family. Parents? Or perhaps siblings.

He hesitated just inside the door, the hall dark without lamplight or gently glowing stones to welcome them.

The tower was never dark—there was always light to peek in through the shutters, or moonstones set by skilled masons, so the halls always were gently illuminated. She found this most disconcerting. A strange place and a strange man, the bond so quiet it was no comfort at all.

Footsteps met her ears, but they lacked the lightness she was used to. Heavy and lumbering, and she wondered what sort of kin Athan called family.

“I’ll put you down just for a moment,” he explained, his voice decidedly nervous. “You would be more comfortable in my bedroom, but I don’t...” he set her down, holding onto her long enough to be certain she was steady. She reached out, not toward him, but in want of the wall, and set her shoulder there for support. “Just... a moment.”

He left her side, and there were the sounds of heavy feet on the floor, and if she made a few shuffling nudges back toward the door, she did not think it unreasonable. She could have slipped out. Could have left him there with his family and his house, but she didn’t.

She would not risk growing lost in the city, without a tonic even to help her from collapsing in a gutter.

The light came first. The glow of the oil lamp was welcome.

The view of the beast in the hall was not.

She did not have to think. Her body reacted with no thought on her part.

It was large, and covered in fur, and although her mate was entreating something, she could not put meaning to his words.

She scrambled out the door, the latch yielding quickly, the hinges well oiled.

Back into the dark, which she did not particularly like, but it was better than being locked in a house with a strange man and his stranger beast.

She wiped at her eyes, her heart racing in her chest, and of course, he would follow her.

“I’m sorry,” he offered quickly. She wasn’t running—she wouldn’t make it. Her back was to the front wall, and she could recognise she was shaking lightly.

“Give me my tonic back,” she insisted. “Please,” because she had manners, and although she meant to be firm so he might know she was serious, she did not want him angry with her, either.

Maybe he frowned. Maybe he wanted to argue with her.

But he didn’t.

He just sighed, and handed it back to her, watching as she uncapped it gratefully and swallowed it all without thought to the bitterness.

She waited for the momentary rush, for her heart to beat more rapidly in answer to whatever concoction the latest healer had brewed.

She frowned.

All was quiet.

She was still tired. Worn thin and desperate for the normalcy and comfort of her own room.

“Better?” Athan asked, rubbing at the back of his neck and sending her a dubious feeling across the bond.

“No,” she croaked out, rubbing at her throat, then the space in her chest where the tangle of bond had lived for so long. “What was that thing?”

He made a strange sort of noise in the back of his throat. “Brum,” he gave in answer, as if that would be all the explanation she required.

She was too tired of this. “I’ve never heard of a brum.”

Not that she’d paid much attention to the books on the wildlife on their planet.

She swallowed.

Not true.

She had, when the books were filled with pictures, and she was small and nothing seemed more important that learning about how long a hesper’s horns could grow, or how many babies they could have in a season.

“No,” Athan corrected. “That’s not... that’s his name.”

She blinked stupidly for a moment, trying to make sense of him. “He lives there?” She stared up at the house, and maybe it made sense why it was separated from the rest of the surrounding buildings. “That is his dwelling?”

Athan laughed, a breathless sort of sound that was light and lively and suggested he was not unused to doing so. “Well, I mean. It’s mine. But his. Or...”

If he suggested it was hers, she was going to begin shuffling home again.

“I did not remember how intimidating he could be if you do not know him. I should have warned you.” He took a step nearer and held out his hand. “I can put him in another room for a bit. Let you get settled without worrying about him. I want you to be comfortable.”

She rubbed harder at her chest.

“Orma,” he urged, reaching out for her. Was he going to pick her up again without waiting for her answer? She took a step backward in case he got anymore ideas.

“I don’t...” she started, her chest feeling too tight, too empty, and she shook her head as she tried to calm herself. “I can’t...”

The tonic’s effects came all at once. Not the gentle burst of light and energy it usually gave, but a sudden rush to her pulse that felt far too much like panic.

It made her grow alarmed as Athan approached, made her skirt back and hold out her hands as if that could possibly ward him off.

“Orma,” he repeated, this time more softly. Coaxing. “Take a full breath with me.” He demonstrated what he meant, his hand coming to mimic her position, resting upon his sternum. He didn’t understand, didn’t know how it hurt, how her pulse raced, how nothing ever worked the way it should. Not when it came to her.

She felt the traitorous tears as she shook all over, trying to do as he bid, managing a half-breath by his third.

Held it.

Let it out in a tremulous puff of air.

“That’s it,” he praised. “Again.”

As if she was a child. As if she could not even do something as rudimentary as breathing without assistance.

She shook harder.

“I’m going to take you inside now. No Brum, I promise. Just a room and you can lie down, and we’ll get you feeling better.”

A ridiculous thing to promise, but likely what anyone else would believe possible.

He did not wait. Not for her answer. Not for her to fall, as was much more likely to happen next.

He simply moved with all the assurance he was doing the right thing. And this time there was light and a sharp whistle, and the lumbering beast retreated somewhere else while he whisked her to the upper floor and shut the door behind him.

In the dark.

Again.

She curled inward, which might have pressed herself into his chest more than was decent, but that could not be helped. She did not much care for the dark. Or the cold. She liked the glow that came with light and warmth. A fire in a hearth, the whisper of a flame in an oil lamp. Those were girlhood comforts in an otherwise unyielding underground.

She wasn’t there. She was grown, and she did not need to cower and...

He set her down on something soft.

Lit a lamp.

A room. Perfectly ordinary—or it might have been, if she had not spent her life in the confines of a tower, its ornaments and furnishings passed from one generation to the next.

These were plain. Useful, but without carvings or gilding to add to their beauty. A trunk. A bed. Shutters that were fitted poorly and allowed a bit of the night air to push between them.

She wiped at her face and curled on her side. She should take her boots off. They had no place on a bed. She was going to get his bed linens dirty, and could a healer afford a service to launder them?

She couldn’t stop shaking.

“This is not a reproach,” Athan warned as he came to her side and coaxed her hand away from her middle. Her arm. To poke at. Prod and cut and see if that released her visions and...

She yanked it away.

He was not her healer.

She did not have to consent to any of his experiments.

“Medicines do not always heal,” he continued, looking at her sadly as she clutched her hands together and kept them far away from her. “You are overwrought. You are reacting poorly and I do not know how to counter the effects because I do not know what was in that potion of yours.”

She rubbed at her nose, willing the tears to abate. “If that is not a reproach, I hate to hear what is.”

Her words were quiet and slightly slurred, but she caught his frown at the edges of her vision, his hand coming to her shoulder. Not pulling at her, forcing her to bend and offer her arm up to him against her will.

Just... resting there.

A large hand. Practiced in a craft she held no trust in.

“I will fetch you some water. And a clean blanket.” He nodded to himself, as if pleased with his pronouncement, but his steps were hesitant as he moved from the room. “If you could just... stay put. While I’m gone. I will be quick.”

He shut the door behind him, and she waited to hear the familiar sound of a latch bolting from the outside, but it did not come.

That should mean something, shouldn’t it? She had choices, even now. Or she would, if her body could stop betraying her. Could stop shaking and shivering and decide if she was hot or cold. If she wanted to tuck herself in or bolt for the door again.

She started to sob.

She wanted this to be Lucian’s fault. He’d set the idea in her mind. But he loved her and was only trying to help. But that was always true, wasn’t it? Everyone wanted to help her. See her better. Cured. No more visions, no more threads. No more pain that was her most constant companion of all.

Athan was true to his word. She hadn’t had time to purge her disappointments with a proper cry before he was back again. He had a neatly folded blanket over one arm, and a pitcher in the other, a handled mug crooked on one finger so he could carry it all.

He went to the bedside and set down the pitcher and filled the cup, holding it out to her. At least he did not cradle her back and help her sit up—just let her take it when she was ready, sipping at the contents and belatedly remembering she should peer into the contents to ensure it was only clean water.

“Are you in pain?” he asked, still gentle, as if afraid of setting off another bout of her hysterics. “I should like to measure your pulse, if you are agreeable.”

She did not laugh, but she wanted to. He couldn’t know her history, and she did not truly want to share it with him. It would only make him think worse of her, treat her more delicately, because she was needy and broken and...

She sat up slightly, careful of the cup in her hands, and nodded vaguely. It’s not like it mattered. It never did.

He did not reach for her arm again, but instead brought his palm to the back of her neck, his fingers pressing into the vulnerable lines of her throat.

He looked so serious, a crease forming between his brows as he lingered. This was not the method she was used to, and she swallowed, feeling caged and anxious and...

Something else.

His palm was warm.

Not cold and clinical.

He was handsome, now that there was light enough to notice. His features were well met, his dark hair complimented by the blue of his eyes.

His wings were a speckled brown, and he did not wear the harsh black of her kin. Blues and browns—simple in cut and utterly lacking in embroidery or decoration. Practical and layered.

How often did he get blood on his clothing?

It was a strange thing to wonder, and she refused to dwell on it. There were memories enough that could answer it, but she shoved them away, trying to calm her heart, even as it refused to quiet no matter how many deep breaths she took.

He hummed, shaking his head slightly as he removed his hand.

She tried not to notice the way his hand curled in his retreat, his fingers flexing lightly before returning to his side. “Are you frightened?”

She curled her legs up toward her middle, balancing the cup on her knees before she remembered her boots.

On his coverlet.

She paled, then used one hand to pluck at her laces, water sloshing over the side in her haste to undo them.

He took a step backward and put on a smile. Not wide—only the corners of his mouth pulled upward as if assuring her it was all right if she was. “I need to know if it was that potion of yours or part of your natural reaction. It will help me decide how best to help you.”

What she wanted most was for him to leave so she could cry herself to sleep.

But she could not say that, could she? She wanted to poke at the bond, to see why he could not tell for himself what she was feeling, but she did not want to wake it up. Did not want it to take over, rushing her even further into matters she was not ready for.

“I am frightened and tired and I did not mean for any of this to happen.” It was as much honesty as she could offer.

He did not appear hurt by her assessment of their evening, nor by her apparent lack of trust in him. He merely nodded his head and took another step backward. Did it cost him something to do so? She peeked at him, at the glow that surrounded him—the silvery threads that glowed gold where the light caught.

Hers.

A matching pair.

How could she tell him about that? She’d learned that lesson well, and even thinking of it now set a burn in a throat and made her pulse quicken even more.

She rubbed. Rubbed harder.

Athan stepped closer, reaching to still her hand. “Describe the discomfort,” he urged. “A pain? An itch?”

He’d want to delve beneath her tunic. To see the abraded skin. The scars. He wouldn’t see the bursts of light, the pretty shimmers. Just mangled flesh that had healed poorly. “I do not want you to see,” she protested before he’d even suggested she unfasten her laces, so carefully tied to just beneath her throat.

He sighed, but just a little. “How can I help you if you I do not know the source of your discomfort? I could provide a salve, or a compress, or...”

She reached for his wrist. Held it as firmly as she dared. “I need rest,” she insisted. “Sleep. To deal with...” she needed to be kind. Needed not to hurt him. “To address matters tomorrow.”

He took on a look of supreme patience, as if she was the wayward child that could not possibly know what was best.

She sat up straighter, smoothing her hand over the wet part of the covers where she’d spilled the water. “I’m sorry,” she began, not sounding sorry in the least. “But I have a poorly constitution. This is not new, and I have had many healers long before you. Nothing you give me tonight will change anything that is wrong with me, unless you’d like to provide me a sleeping draught, so my rest might be easy.” She let go of him. Went back to rubbing at her chest. Felt his deep displeasure settle through her bones, and she grimaced. “I’m not what anyone would have wanted. I know this. And I did not mean for us to meet, or for you to have to care for me. It was an accident.” Her throat burned. Her eyes too. She wasn’t pleading, but it was a very near thing.

He did not sit on the bed with her. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the bed and reached out and took her hand, holding it almost tenderly. “What was an accident?”

She sniffed. Wiped at her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You keep apologising. Saying this wasn’t what you meant to happen. That suggests you intended something—what was it?”

She flushed all over. But strangely, with him holding her hand, with the weariness that spread and settled through every part of her, it made it easier to talk with him. These bonds were for life. Putting off the truth of it all would only prove a hardship.

His thumb moved over the back of her knuckles, and she frowned down at the gesture. It felt... Nice. Not so soft that it tickled, but a warm sort of reassurance. He was there. He was listening.

And for a moment, she felt like that little girl again, seeing him from afar. Certain that everything would be perfect if she could just reach him. If he might turn and look at her and be her friend.

Seeing him now, he was older than she’d estimated in her youth. He spent time beneath the suns, not just tucked away in an infirmary. His skin glowed slightly, with good health and good humour, and hers appeared sickly and grey in comparison.

“I’m not supposed to talk about this,” she explained as cautiously as she could.

His thumb did not stop its careful circles. “Not even with your mate?”

Tears welled. They shouldn’t, and she tried her best to keep from embarrassing herself with yet more upset. She was too exhausted for another bout of sobs, her muscles protesting the effort they’d already made for her. “Surely there can be no secrets too burdensome to share between the likes of us.”

He was unpractised with the bond, yet still pushed comfort and warmth in her direction. To make sure his words were not a chastisement, but an encouragement. That he was there, and he would care for her, and nothing she said would change that.

It wasn’t true though, was it? He thought he could patch her up. Settle her into a new regiment of medicines, this time with his oversight, and she would be better.

Or, like her mother thought, once the bond settled properly, all of her ails would simply vanish.

It had been the source of more than one argument once Orma had come of age, and no amount of her explanations proved satisfactory. Her fears were unfounded. Her anxiety about having a mate was leftover from girlhood traumas.

If she had enough faith that all would be well, it would be.

What calm had come from his tender touches left her. Could she tell him? Lay out the whole horrid business and be done with it?

She would worry. It would rob her of sleep and fill her mind for days otherwise. Until inevitably she had to act, had to tell, just as she’d had to find him.

But perhaps there were parts she might hedge around. Cover the important parts. Leave the rest for when she was stronger. Braver.

“I saw you,” she blurted. “As a girl. And... I knew.” Her free hand went to her chest. Not rubbing, just holding. Covering. “I was... far, far too young. But the bond went to work as it’s supposed to, and I’ve carried it ever since.”

Alone.

Twisting and scaring and leaving her with terrible dreams that stole her sleep and plagued her waking hours.

“Oh no,” Athan murmured, shaking his head. “Orma...”

She didn’t sniffle. Just met his eye as best she could. “I was born wrong. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing you can do now.”

His grip on her hand tightened. “That cannot be true.”

Of course he would think that. Because he was strong and capable. While she...

“If you say so.” She would not argue with him. He’d come to agree with her conclusion soon enough.

And she pitied him for it.

She waited for the lecture. About how he was different—his methods and experience far more advanced. The usual puff and bluster she’d come to associate with the others of his profession.

She did not know how she would tolerate it coming from him.

“I was told I would be undesirable as a mate if I became a healer.” He grimaced a little, shaking his head and looking down at their hands rather than look directly at her. “Then I found a starving and bedraggled faol and took him in. So then I was told to prepare myself because surely any mate would come into my home and look at him and insist I get rid of him.”

Orma thought of her response, and even though he tried to hide just how he felt about it, she knew she had hurt him. That even now, he was waiting for her to pronounce she would not live in the same dwelling as an over-large beast, and he’d have to make a terrible choice.

For her.

Not for her.

Because the bond would compel him. Would make the choice, perhaps not an easy one, but one with an inevitable outcome.

Whatever it took to keep her close.

Whatever loss was necessary, so she’d stay.

Athan swallowed and glanced at her, and it really was unfair how handsome she found him. How her heart fluttered, and she was forced to think of her own appearance and feel worse for his sake. “Is that why you waited? If you knew who I was, did you... did you find me lacking?”

He’d taken her words and come to the wrong conclusion, and she needed to correct it. But that would mean talking about forbidden matters, deeply personal.

Ones that would inevitably lead to talk of cellars and chambers and screams when even careful anaesthetics could not contain the agony...

Would it be so wrong to let small bits of untruth to lie between them? If it meant... if she could just...

“No,” Orma answered him. “I did not know... anything about the rest. I just...” There it was again. The confession Lucian had pulled from her, which was not quite so costly to offer this time. “I was afraid. Still am.”

His thumb went back to work on her knuckles. Circling. Smoothing. For his sake or for hers? “I am sorry. I did not know...” He paused, obviously weighing his next words. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

She waited for the glimmer that would inevitably follow. A mystery. Something to poke at and wonder about. An exciting a specimen if ever there was one.

Not a person. Not a girl, not a woman. Just a body with a puzzle trapped inside.

“I do not much care for healers,” Orma stated bluntly. “Always so sure of themselves, and I find they become mean and impatient when you do not respond to their liking.”

His shoulders tightened. “I do not believe that is why you were warned away from becoming one.”

He coughed slightly. Awkwardly. “No. It wasn’t.”

He seemed reticent to say more, and she wondered if she should pry further. Open him up as he was doing to her.

“I do not know what your...” she paused. Considered. “Brum is,” she finished, satisfied she had been correct in its name. “And I do not know if I shall live with you, here or otherwise.”

The bond flared. Pounded. A sharp tug, insistent such thoughts were absurd, but she’d spent far too long practicing how not to listen to be swayed by it now.

It was harder than it had been—she’d let it out far too recently. But she could manage.

Athan was struggling more.

“If he is your friend and your companion, I would not have you parted. Not for my sake, or for anyone else’s.”

She might come to regret that, most particularly since her glimpse of him had been short and her terror very real, but the sentiment remained the same. If Athan cared for it—him?—then she would not be the one to make such cruel demands.

Just as she could not tolerate if he made the same of her.

He smiled at her. A soft upturn of his lips that made her stomach tighten strangely. “That is kind of you.” He shook his head, his hair falling forward slightly. It was overly-becoming and terribly impractical. A healer should have longer hair so it might be bound, or shorter so it would not become a nuisance either caring for a patient or during flight.

Not slightly longer about the top, so it might fall just so.

Perhaps he had no family to remind him to attend to his hair. Or no groom to come see to his feathers and his hair in a timely fashion.

Was that to be her job? Her mother saw to such things. Settling the appointments, changing them if Orma was too sickly to sit for the ministrations.

She was a woman in age, but not in responsibility, and it made her feel even more a failure as she sat and he held her hand and tried to tell her all the reasons they were the same.

Because he had a Brum and his profession was suspect.

She had visions and was half-mad and half-dead already.

“Have you much family?” Athan probed, squeezing her fingers lightly. “That you’d be reticent to leave?” Orma blinked slowly. “Only, I wonder why you think we should not live together. I should like to.” He smiled at her again, and it was a charming, practised sort of smile that made her frown deepen. “Just so there is clarity between us.”

Her eyes darted toward the window, the door, and he was hushing her before she was even aware of her desire for escape. “I was going to ask if I should tell them of your whereabouts tonight, but perhaps not.”

She nodded dumbly. She hated the idea of it.

Hated the disappointment in her mother’s eyes when she saw Orma had not magically transformed into the very picture of health.

Her father’s face when he realised his daughter had not joined with one of the other great families, adding another tower to their household estate.

Mama would censure him. Drag him into another room and she’d hear the snippets of raised voices and firm reminders that Orma was delicate. Special. And he should have put those expectations aside long ago.

Then they’d grow quiet.

And Father would appear chastened and Mama would look at him with a tinge of disappointment for a day or two, and then it would be over.

“Perhaps not,” she repeated, her throat tight and her heart sore. She rubbed at her nose and made herself look at him. “Have you a family?” She hated to think what they might say about her. How opposite she must have been to their hopes and imaginings.

“I did,” Athan answered, as if expecting the query and keeping his voice purposefully light. “Blight took them quickly. One after the other. And then I was apprenticed by the healer called to help them, and I dedicated myself to the craft.”

He said it with pride, and a tinge of apology.

It seemed an interesting thing to do when medicine had failed them. Blight was harsh and killed quickly, even when one was young and hearty.

Or so she’d heard. It had never come to her district, and if it had, she would have been carefully sequestered until all signs had been purged.

“I’m sorry.” She looked down at their hands. Squeezed lightly because she meant it. It must be a terrible thing to lose one’s family. Even if they could be wretched, could hurt as well as love.

Would she lose hers? Because of him?

She was supposed to be all right with that. To prattle off the wrongs done to her and stride away into her new life, pleased to be rid of the worst of it all.

But that wasn’t her.

She wanted to please them. To see them happy. To make up for the years of worry and strain she’d seen etched into the lines of their faces as they tried to make her well.

They sat quietly for a moment, sharing in a bit of peace and understanding between them, and it was far more comforting than she would have thought. The bond was there, not pressing and reaching and urging her for things she was not ready to contemplate.

It was just a warm presence in her chest. Whispering how right this was, that she was to be his comfort, and he was to be hers, and if she could simply stop being so afraid then all might be well...

He spoke first, shifting slightly. And she thought of his knees, and then of her knees, and how terribly they would have ached to be positioned against the hard floor for so long, and she tugged at his hand to urge him upward. “You shouldn’t...” she swallowed, wondering what she meant to offer. For him to share the bed? To rest with her?

The bond flared, insisting that would be precisely what she should do, and did he not look strong and capable of protecting her while she slept?

Her mouth was dry, and she had not finished her water, and her words were more a whisper than sound. “You should sit,” she insisted, tucking her legs closer to her so there was more room on the bed.

His bed.

Which meant he would have to sleep elsewhere if she did not permit his company.

Better it was her bed, so she did not have to feel as if she was stealing from him. He did not have a tower that boasted other rooms—and the ones he had might hold a Brum inside them, and surely he could not sleep when it was near? What if it grew hungry, and he was not awake enough to stave off a killing bite, and then...

Her stomach tightened.

She did not want him sleeping elsewhere.

Did not want him here, either, but the alternative was too gruesome to tolerate.

Athan got to his feet, and she waited for him to sit where she’d offered at the end of the bed.

“You should have your privacy,” Athan began, and her eyes widened, already full of objections. Most particularly, that she did not know the mechanisms for locking out the Brum, and if he wasn’t there, then she would not sleep at all because she did not wish to be eaten. He looked at her, drifting over every bit he could. “However, I am concerned for your condition.”

She relaxed, but only just. “You should stay. Not for... I do not wish to...” Her cheeks grew pale and words failed her, but she needed to be clear, needed to ensure she was understood.

The bond might have wants, and he might have expectations, but the very thought of...

He leaned down.

Cupped her chin with his palm, and he had no business doing that, not when her heart had finally calmed and now it fluttered rapidly back to its previous upset. “Consider this your sickbed until we are certain otherwise. It would be a poor mate indeed that would press advantage during such a time.”

This thumb touched her cheekbone just the once, and her mouth was too dry, and her skin was too sensitive, because it felt... it felt.

Not a hurt. Not an ache.

But a sweetness she did not know skin might feel.

She wasn’t sick. This was just... her.

But he did not know that. And it made it easier, for the moment. To let him dote and play the healer, and let him think he could find the right tincture, the right salve, and all would be right with her.

Before she could grow flustered, could blurt out more of her sorry history, he refilled the water cup and handed it back to her. Watched as she swallowed great gulps of it, thankful for the distraction, as well as the moisture for her parched lips. Her hand shook, but just a little, and there was a nervous fluttering in her belly that was strangely pleasant.

She might come to like him.

The thought did not feel intrusive, not as the bond often did. It was quiet, and hers, an admiration for his care and his consideration, and despite his unfortunate profession, perhaps he was a good sort.

She wished Lucian had seen him long enough to make his own judgement. That she might ask for his opinion and ensure it was not a girlish fancy—or a worse, the bond smoothing over the hard bits for the sake of the offspring they would make together.

Her throat tightened.

She looked down at herself, to the layers she surely should shed. She’d have to return home in crumpled clothing if she didn’t, and her mother would take one look at her and reach all sorts of mortifying conclusions.

She hadn’t noticed Athan rifling through his trunk, pulling out tunics and shirts and inspecting each one carefully before moving on to the next. None of them smelled peculiar, so it must not have been cleanliness that troubled him. Did he wash his own clothing? He likely could not afford a personal washer, but maybe there was a service?

Her nose crinkled, trying to imagine her clothing entering a vat with a bunch of strangers’ underthings, dried and folded and returned to her where she was not supposed to worry about contamination.

Her eyes narrowed, trying to make out what he was looking for. Perhaps the light caught some more than others, suggesting the fabric had worn thin in places. Others had suspicious stains, usually smattered about the sleeves.

Blood?

Such garments should be disposed of, surely.

He shook out another, nodding to himself before he turned. It was a dark grey, but appeared clean and with no marks, suspicious or otherwise. “Would you like to change? I’ve no women’s clothing, I’m afraid, but it is... fairly new.”

It was a simple shirt, with the customary ties to accommodate much larger wings than her own. It would gape at the neck unless she made a few extra knots to keep it properly closed, and her legs would be...

Beneath the covers, she told herself firmly.

It would be fine.

And better than appearing before her parents in anything but an impeccable state.

“Yes, please.”

He smiled at that, his shoulders relaxing. He... enjoyed doing right by her. She tucked that notion away to study later once she’d slept and could think properly again.

“Right. One more trip.”

He did not ask, just plucked her out of the bed and took her to the washroom. She should mind. She should tell him she was a woman grown and just because of a certain bond they shared, it did not mean he could carry her about however he liked.

But the truth of it was that she needed it, and the idea of asking for the privacy she desired was difficult.

He left her alone with no need to be shooed from the small room. Just lit the lamp quickly and shut the door behind him.

The bolt was on the inside this time, and she used it with an excitement that startled her.

She’d never had one before. In case of emergencies, she’d been told. If she should grow faint and fall, they must be able to reach her.

He didn’t know that.

So she bolted the door and removed her clothing, folding it neatly. Then there was the matter of his shirt. It hung nearly to her knees, but that left one of her scars on display, and...

There was nothing she could do about that.

He could ask whatever he liked, but she need not answer him.

She used the facilities and washed her face, and although the water was cold, it was clear and tasted of nothing in particular when she swished about her mouth in a haphazard attempt to attend her nightly ritual.

It made her feel better, in any case. More like herself. He was thoughtful. Patient with her. Even if he did like to pick her up too often. She really should say something about it.

Later.

She did not want to have to learn the layout of his house, or worry about tripping over a Brum in the dark.

She unbolted the door and peered out, fully expecting him to be waiting outside the door.

It wasn’t disappointment she felt. It wasn’t.

She was just over-tired, and had liked the idea of being transported back into a comfortable bed with no effort on her part.

She held onto her bundle of clothing, certain the Brum would appear to formulate his attack, and her heart beat wildly the longer she stood there. The light from the washroom cast long, ominous shadows, and she should have doused it, shouldn’t she? Except what if Athan needed it also, and then he would have to light it all over again, but maybe he didn’t and...

“Sorry,” he called, doing up a tie at his shoulder as he hurried from the bedchamber. He’d changed into his own nightclothes, looking her over to find the source of her upset.

His eyes lingered on the scar on her leg, and she did her best not to squirm—to stand straight and allow him to look, because she could not change it and the shame had no business flaring bright and new when its source was anything but.

“I didn’t know if I should dim the light,” she admitted, trying to bring his attention away from her bare leg.

“Oh.” It got him moving at least, and he brushed by her so he could attend to it himself before he picked her up again.

It was just the bond, that was all. It made her sigh just a little. To rest her head against his shoulder and let him do it, even when she was supposed to be reproaching him. The earliest days of a mating were most important—they set the precedence for all the ones to follow. Or that’s what Mama used to say. Back when she gave lessons about such matters, full of certainty that Orma would settle well, once she was old enough.

There was only one table beside the bed. The other was situated too near the wall, and it became clear he was giving her his preferred space. She should argue that too, shouldn’t she? It was an unnecessary gesture, because she refused to think of it as hers when it was his, but...

The water was here.

And she did sometimes awake with such a thirst it set her hands to shaking as she fumbled with the pitcher and cup beside her bed at home.

Long ago had her cups been replaced with fine metal castings, as the ones made of pottery met the impact of the floor too many times. Plush rugs could only offer so much protection, and she’d have to flutter out of bed, tearful and ashamed that she needed help to find all the shards and little bits that settled into the carpet.

He pulled back the top of the bedclothes. Which... were not the same as they had been.

He noticed her expression, and he made a sheepish nod toward the pile of linens. “I thought you’d rather sleep in fresh. That’s what took me so long.”

She swallowed. Hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, but now that she did, she found it yet another sweet gesture. He was trying—and she... wasn’t.

Or was she?

She didn’t know anymore.

He settled the bedclothes over her, and it should have simply been a kindness, but it made her feel somehow worse. She wasn’t doing enough, and none of it was the right thing. He’d been generous with her, and she’d blubbered and promised him nothing, and if their first night was to be a sickbed and a healer that was hers but also wasn’t, then she would like it to end with some nicety on her part.

“There,” Athan declared when he was satisfied she’d been tucked in properly. “Comfortable?”

Yes.

No.

He likely did not even need the bond to feel the anxiety pulsing off of her in steady waves—her expression would have shown it just fine.

A sickbed, he’d said.

With all the expectations that accompanied it.

Like rest, and many liquids, and minimal complaining when a tincture was particularly bitter.

“I’ll let you sleep. But for the sake of clarity, I shall check on you often. I would like you to keep breathing, at least until tomorrow.”

Humour. Said with a smile, as he looked at her expectantly for some sort of engagement.

Her lips quirked upward, but she was too consumed with her own thoughts to properly answer him, let alone offer him a jest in return.

“Athan,” she murmured when he nodded. Her hands were tight at the top of the bedclothes, and she was not a child, not a girl. She was a woman grown, and she could say what she wanted.

Or... what she thought was right.

And maybe those things would someday align.

“Yes?” He was near the door, and she wondered if he was off to another chamber, or would he sit up in the kitchen all night in between his checks?

She should tell him it was unnecessary. Even at her worst, she’d never stopped breathing. Never come close to dying, although she’d almost...

She stopped the thought.

She did not want to die. Not then, and not now.

“You could stay,” she managed to get out from a throat that felt too tight and a head that reminded her just how sore and heavy it had become. “You needn’t go very far then. To check on me.”

She adjusted the blanket, hoping he’s say no. Hoping he’d say yes.

That he would... want to.

It was a shameful admission, even in the privacy of her own mind. She wanted him to want her. To think her pretty, just as she thought him handsome. For him to have lingered on her legs because he thought them comely, and not because he wondered at the story behind her scar.

It was absurd. More bond nonsense, she knew. Making her think things, and wonder things—that had before now involved only a faceless entity. Not someone real, with a becoming smile and a kind heart.

She could not know that for certain. She’d spent far too little time with him to feel her judgement was born from more than relief that he hadn’t immediately shown himself to be a selfish brute.

But the bond still whispered she had the right of it. That it had picked well, and she should stop her worrying.

“I do not know if that is wise,” Athan answered, his words slow and carefully chosen.

“Oh,” Orma whispered, nodding to herself. She’d known he’d refuse. Was glad of it.

Better to sleep here alone. Far better.

She’d offered, and that’s what counted. A bit of bravery when she’d proven herself anything but.

Orma waited for the indulgent smile, the murmured goodnight. The one that would leave her feeling like the child she’d been. Even mated, even with the bond finally where it rightfully belonged, nothing had truly changed.

Just as she knew it wouldn’t.

He stared at the floor a moment, then seemed to come to some sort of decision.

“I’ll have you know, this is most unusual.” He made his way first to the lamp and lowered it as much as he dared without the flame disappearing entirely.

So he might check on her. As if the bond would not alert him if something was wrong.

She didn’t argue, her words stolen along with her breath that he was staying.

With her.

Because she’d asked him to do so.

“I shall be flattered, then,” Orma assured him, her heart racing as he shimmed beneath the linens beside her.

“Quite.” A little bemused, a bit... relieved.

She was careful with her wings, kept them tight so they would not accidentally catch him unawares with unconscious flailing.

“Orma?” he asked, seeming very far away and a great deal too close all at once.

“Yes?”

She waited for him to ask her to hold his hand. To kiss him. To do anything at all to test the affection that was meant to flow so freely with their new tethers.

“Who was that man with you? The one trying to pull you away?”

She had not considered how it looked, and she could not abide what conclusions he must have reached now that she pondered the matter. “My cousin. I... I can only imagine how it looked, but he was helping. He’d... he’d made me a promise, and I...”

She was the one that had failed him, not the other way around.

Had he gone to her parents? Explained to them? She hoped so, in more of her cowardly nature. Let him endure their worries and disappointments.

She hated herself for even thinking it.

“You did not want to find me,” Athan finished for her.

“I did,” Orma hedged, her head throbbing and her eyes burning. “I just wanted to know of you first. Before. But the bond... got away from me.”

He shifted, and she knew because the bed moved with him. Not a lot, but enough. Could she sleep through that? Would her bed at home have done the same, or was his frame of a lesser quality than hers?

Or maybe this was simply the nature of sharing a bed.

Which she was doing.

With her mate.

Whispers in the near-dark. As she’d dreamed of doing back when she cared to consider such things.

“Would it be so terrible to come to know me now?”

Orma’s lips quirked about the corners. “Now is for sleeping,” she reminded him. “But... maybe later it wouldn’t.”

He hummed, and she was left with the distinct impression he wanted to touch her. Just the brush of his fingers across her arm where it peeled out of the covers.

And she waited, a little breathless. Wondering if he might. If she wanted it. If she should reach out and pat his arm and thank him for his hospitality, because that would be the polite thing, regardless of their mating.

But before she could decide, he was rolling back, the cot dipping as he did so. “Have pleasant dreams, Orma,” he murmured. “And keep breathing.”

She did not laugh, but she wanted to.

She should ask him how he’d imagined his first night with his mate. Learn more of his heart and his mind and everything in between.

But she closed her eyes instead, and the bedding felt different and the pillow was not as soft, and she was not used to sleeping with a shirt that boasted sleeves long enough to cover both wrist and hands.

It should have made it difficult.

It should have made her squirm and roll about a few times as she sought some form of comfort.

But she didn’t.

Because there was a peace she hadn’t known in ages, and she did not have to wonder about bonds and threads and if she’d be cured.

She wouldn’t.

Hadn’t.

But for tonight, for that very moment...

That was all right with her.