7.2

“I have loved you from the moment you agreed to meet Brum,” Athan confessed, his lips near her ear. “All nervous determination. It was glorious.”

Orma tried to draw back. Or... tried to want to. “You should pick something else,” she argued. “There was nothing glorious about it.”

His purr grew even more determined, punctuated by kisses he pressed against her jaw. Her cheek. The bridge of her nose.

Absurd things that shouldn’t set her heart racing as they did. Shouldn’t leave her fingers twitching to clutch at his shoulders and urge him to do more.

“All right,” Athan teased, nipping at her earlobe. Which was decidedly inappropriate and should not have sent a shiver through her like it did. “Then it was the night when I woke to find you curled against my back, holding onto my arm like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to the world.”

Her cheeks felt hot, or maybe it was all of her. “This is a mortifying conversation.”

“Is it?” Athan countered, skimming his fingers through her hair while he played with whatever bits of skin appealed to him at the time. “They are some of my fondest memories.”

There was no apology in his tone. Nothing to suggest it was all a jest, and he was merely playing with her. “That’s...” she didn’t know what she meant to say, other than she felt flustered and bothered, and she really was dreadful at this. Being a mate. Being... amorous.

If that’s what it was?

Did he feel it, too?

She closed her eyes and forced herself to think. Or... it wasn’t about thinking. It was about feeling. Not just the way his skin felt against hers. The way he sought knots in her hair and teased them free with excellent care. It was the bond she wanted. To peek into his thoughts and his emotions, so she would know she wasn’t alone.

He nuzzled against her, and that was distracting, and she was doing something, and he should just be patient and let her work. “What are you doing?” he murmured, his voice deep and soft and only for her.

Could he feel that? The way she was tugging, inspecting. It was harder than she expected, to sort out what was hers and what was his and...

Oh.

Because it was all a jumble of sameness. Of warmth and desire and those little hints of sorrow about the edges, about what had been and, most importantly, what might have been.

“I just...” she began, then stopped herself. Was she really going to answer him?

But he pulled back enough so she could look him in the eye, and he was curious and gentle and she was safe. With him. To tell him her thoughts and not simply rely on the bond to tend the difficult parts. “I wanted to know if you felt like I did,” she answered, so softly he might not have heard if he wasn’t so near.

But he was.

She was perched on his lap. Indecently so.

Her nightdress had slid upward to accommodate the position, and she was acutely aware of all of it. The feel of him beneath her, the press of her torso against his.

The way his kisses sent tingles through every part of her.

He gave an almost soundless laugh, more breath than sound. “And how is that?” Athan urged, pressing his forehead to hers. He could look for himself, as she had done. Could play with the tendrils floating about them, glimmering and pulsing in time with her heartbeat. With the pulse lower down she couldn’t quite account for.

She sat back, certainly not going to answer that question. She did not care he was a healer, did not care he was her mate. There were surely matters that one did not discuss—and something so personal as... as this would be one of them.

His hand cupped her cheek, and he smiled at her, and her insides felt as liquid as she leaned into his touch, the bond flaring. Soothing. Quieting the parts of her that were nervous, that were insistent, she stop her revelling and consider where this might be going.

She was supposed to care about such things, wasn’t she? Keep them apart, keep him away.

Don’t kiss too long, don’t let touches linger. Not when...

Because she couldn’t...

Why couldn’t she?

It hadn’t seemed fair before. When he didn’t know. When he could have gone into their... their intimacy thinking a child might come of it. He’d be angry and hurt, and she wouldn’t have blamed him for it, but that needn’t be a worry any longer.

“I want to kiss you,” she explained, warring with herself. With the parts of her that had been forged in her upbringing and the ones that were shiny and new. Glistening with promise. “I want to kiss you and not fret about stopping.”

His eyes glittered in the lamplight. “You may do whatever you like with me,” Athan urged her, offering one too-short kiss to seal his pronouncement.

Why was it so difficult to give him the same? To be confident in his restraint, in his care? It all seemed so silly with the bond lodged so firmly in her chest, reminding her that all her fears had come from others. That Athan had done nothing to earn her mistrust.

He’d gone to her home, hadn’t he? Retrieved the rest of her medical texts. Sat here in the dark and read them instead of waiting for them to discuss it together.

Orma took a breath.

She refused to harbour that. Refused to give any of that resentment hold. It was over and done, and she was glad. He’d spared her the little particulars, kept her from having to endure those memories.

Orma moved closer to him, almost ready to continue their kiss. But she hesitated, drawing back with a small frown. “Not here,” she murmured. “Not with all of that.” She nodded toward the books and papers. Tamped down the urge to toss them into the kitchen fire.

He brought them, he could hide them away again.

She wanted something else.

He made to pick her up, but she shook her head, taking a step toward the kitchen doorway. She would go on her own. Not the invalid, but the woman. His mate. Who’d found her bed empty and cold, and gone to retrieve what was hers.

She looked down at the Brum and gave him a stern look. “Don’t go reading any of that. It’s private.” Orma glanced at Athan and saw the guilt there. “Just for us two,” she reiterated, squeezing his hand.

Brum thumped his tail against the kitchen floor, seemingly unbothered he was about to have the kitchen to himself.

It was a testament to Athan’s preoccupation that he did not think to turn down the lamp, and she clicked her tongue at him as she went back to tend to it herself. “Distracted?” Orma teased, coming back and taking his hand again. If the stove needed anything for morning, she didn’t know what it was. And her own thoughts were drifting upstairs, an anticipation building low in her belly.

“You are terribly distracting,” Athan agreed. “My work suffers terribly. And you’ve stolen my foot-warmer.” That was true. Brum had taken to sleeping beside her, and Athan complained of it often—always with a glimmer that suggested his protestations were only partly genuine.

She wondered how long it might be before he threatened to get himself another creature, one whose loyalties could not be so easily purchased with a few breakfast crumbs.

“We’ll get you some very fine socks,” Orma countered. “As for your work, perhaps we might commission my aunt to paint a portrait. A very large one. You might hang it in your office and see my scowling that you haven’t finished your work.” Her hold on his hand tightened as they made it to the stairs. “Because if you had, you would be home again with me.”

Athan hummed.

Tugged at her hand until she leaned toward him and placed a kiss to his expectant lips. It was easy—he’d let her begin her trek up the stairs, and it was strange and satisfying to be at eye level with him. “What was that for?” Orma asked. It was dim in the stairway, and she didn’t like that she could not fully make out his expression.

“Because I like when you call this home,” Athan explained, his voice low. Warm. Which paired especially well with the feelings that flowed so freely through the bond. There were trickles of excitement, a great deal of anticipation, but most of all...

Love.

A great deal of it.

It made her smile, because it was pointless to pick apart who had more of it. It was simply... there. As real as the threads that wove between them, pulsing and flexing and catching what bits of light they could to sparkle pleasantly.

Orma hummed.

Then startled, when his free hand was suddenly at her waist. Or... not quite. Her hip. No, her lower back.

Lower still. “What are you doing?” she asked when she could no longer pretend her back was involved at all.

“It’s dark,” Athan reminded her with far too much innocence in his voice for where his hand was currently located. But it crept back upward, to what might be considered a more respectable spot, and Orma was flustered, which she highly suspected had been his aim.

She would never do that, would she? Just... touch, simply because she could?

She swallowed. Considered.

Those were old thoughts. Sensibilities that were not necessarily hers. She could like what she liked, and do what she pleased, presuming Athan found it as agreeable as she did.

Did she like to be touched there? Like that he wanted to feel her curves for himself?

Her cheeks flushed and her breath grew shorter.

Maybe.

There was no hurrying on the stairs. Not when she was determined to take them on her own. She didn’t push Athan along, did not fuss when he kept pace with her. Although she could have, if he was going to respond as he did before, silencing objections with fervent kisses.

He occupied himself with memorising the lines of her back, the little dips of her spine. Fiddled with the soft, downy feathers he found where wing joined skin.

Which made her squirm all over because it tickled in the strangest way, and she hadn’t been tended to in such a manner since her last moult. There were still five steps to take, and this wasn’t the seductive walk she’d imagined. Or rather, he seemed intent on doing the seducing.

“All right,” she said at last, then leaned backward with full confidence he would catch her before her wings instinctively took over.

He made a strange sort of sound, evidently not expecting the sudden movement, but she was correct in her estimation and he plucked her up with great efficiency, chiding her about fairness and giving proper warning if she intended to do any such thing again, and what if he had dropped her? He never would forgive himself.

She hummed, her hip pleased with her choice, and her heart even more so, because it left her fingers free to trespass into the collar of his shirt and tease whatever skin she found there.

He swallowed thickly, and there were no more chastisements.

Which was fine with her. She did not want an argument. She wanted his kisses. His touch. Wanted to see what she liked for her own sake, without thought of proprieties.

Only the two of them would ever know.

It excited her. Made her nervous as he brought her through to the bedroom. It was dark even there, and old lectures about proper sleep and routines flittered through her mind. Even now, he’d tuck her in and curl up beside her, if that’s what she wanted. He would give no complaint. Just a wistful little sigh before he kissed her temple and promised her he wasn’t cross.

Did he plan on heading to the infirmary in the morning? Perhaps this was selfish.

He placed her on the bed, her arms about his neck.

Perhaps she wanted to be selfish.

She did not let him go. Held her to him and kissed him with as much enthusiasm as she might offer.

He lost his footing, which made for an awkward sort of tumble when he half-fell on top of her, his wings rustling as they tried to right him. His shoulder dropped once toward her collarbone, so she released a breathless sound as some of the air was knocked out of her. “Orma, I am so sorry,” Athan blurted, one hand on her side as he scrambled upward, face stricken as he set assessing eyes over her that weren’t heated and impassioned any longer, but looking for wounds, for hurts, and how he might mend them.

“Don’t you dare,” she chided, refusing to lose him to the healer’s side. Not when she was ready to claim him as her mate. She reached for his face, sitting up as he backed away, holding him to her. “I’m fine,” she insisted. Kissed him once. Then again, because he was looking at her in that dubious way, certain she was simply trying to appease him.

Impatient, she reached for his hand and brought it to her breast, holding it there. Why it should distract him, she couldn’t say, but there was no denying the hitch in his breath as his eyes flickered downward to watch her.

Boldness was new, but it did not feel like a stranger. It was just a part of her, buried away and conditioned into silence. Ready and willing now that she called for it.

“Am I lying?” she asked gently, tracing her fingers against the back of his hand, gratified when he swallowed thickly. “You can look.”

It wasn’t the invitation she’d meant. Not in the least. She’d meant for him to poke about the bond in search of bruises and unacknowledged pains.

Instead, he reached out with his free hand and woke the lamp, the flicker of firelight a sudden change to the dim room. She blinked, not expecting it in the least.

More particularly when he delved for the ties at her throat. When he took looking to mean at her rather than the bond between them.

Her throat ached, and she was nervous, but she did not stop him. Not when he was looking at her, as if she was the most precious thing in all the world.

As if he could not quite believe the turn of the night.

That she could captivate him so entirely with a nightdress and a simple string of ties, which he plucked at with fingers that shook ever so slightly as he undid them one by one.

He couldn’t see the threads that tangled there. The glow. They were beautiful, shimmering and all alight when he touched them. It was enough to leave her breathless, refusing to close her eyes to the sensation even though the reflex was there. To savour, to revel. To let him work and trust his exploration would bring her nothing but pleasure.

But she wanted to see the threads. Wanted to see what he would do next as he parted the fabric of her nightdress and looked at her more intimately than ever before.

She was far from perfect. He’d see that, too.

And she supposed that’s what she was truly waiting for. When his touches would grow more hesitant. When he’d notice the intermittent scars that punctuated softer flesh.

Some healed well, all silvery and smooth. Others were knotted and sore, a constant reminder of their origins.

Her chest had healed poorly. The skin was too taut; the wound stretching with every breath. It didn’t matter how many salves they’d put, how faithfully she’d been instructed to massage the tissue as it healed so it might flatten and quiet.

Orma waited.

Watched him.

Did not expect for him to place a hand between her breasts. Did not expect for him to press lightly downward, urging her to lie back.

She obliged, her heart racing beneath his palm.

He followed, covering her. Not with the blanket as he might if they were going to sleep, but hovering above her. He was careful of his weight as his hand retreated to its place where she’d set it against her breast, and his head dropped to press a kiss on the scar. On the bond. Which fluttered and pulsed and almost drove her to distraction. She had known she was sensitive there, but hadn’t realised what it might mean for moments like this. When she wanted to squirm away and press closer all at once. When the nerves she’d cursed had brought nothing but pains that ranged from prickling to sharp daggers in her chest.

A sound caught in her throat as his mouth opened. Not to talk to her, but to press another open-mouthed kiss to the tangled flesh, which nestled him against the cords binding them together. His affection was genuine, and if there was a sorrow about it, it was not punctuated with a complaint. He did not find her wanting.

He was pleased with his mate. Pleased with her acceptance of him.

His fingers moved against her breast, pressing. Gripping lightly. Then a bit more firmly when the sparks of sensation turned from an odd sort of pressure to flickers of something more. Something tantalising.

Should she be doing something? Probably. She’d meant this as a seduction, after all, and she was being a rather passive participant at the moment. Not that Athan seemed to mind, as he was busy moving his attentions from the scars themselves to press kisses to softer flesh, to determining what it felt like to press a kiss to the small nipple he found there.

Then, to her great mortification, he licked it.

Then blew gently over the wetness. And that wasn’t fair, because she’d just been about to tell him that he should keep his tongue to himself, but how was she meant to do that when it felt like that?

He was rewarded with pebbled skin and a glower from his mate, but he wasn’t looking at her, just teasing new sensations from her.

Which was good. Was what she wanted.

The bond sent a little thrill, finally satisfied with their join purpose. But Orma felt a niggling sense of... something.

She reached for him. Buried her hands in his hair and held him to her while he placed long kisses on her, and was rewarded with his hum.

That was all. Much better. She needed to touch, to not lie there like she was being subjected to something, but move and urge and distract him with little pleasures, too.

She ran her fingertips lightly behind his ears, where his hair met the skin of his neck, and his kisses wavered. His eyes were closed and how many nights had he spent doing much the same to her, all while hoping their roles might be reversed?

She really must pay better attention. Make sure he was taken care of in all the ways she could offer.

“You’re going to put me to sleep if you keep doing that,” Athan warned, propping his chin on her sternum and looking up at her. “Is that your aim?”

She curled her fingers about his ear and felt more affection for him than she thought possible. “No,” she soothed, just in case he was worried she’d changed her mind already about their aim. “I just so happen to like touching you.” She canted her head, certain of the answer but wanting to hear it from him. “Is that bad?”

He hummed, pressing his lips back against her skin as he made from the delicate skin between her breasts back up to her mouth. “Never,” he insisted, eyes full of something very near to delight. She was supposed to have protested the lamp, because it was one thing to be with him in the dark, where scars and imperfections might be lost in the shadows. But for the moment, she was glad, because she liked to see him this way.

Happy, she decided.

Not merely content. Or pleased. Or any of the placid, mild feelings that were encouraged in her other home.

He was happy, and he smiled into their kiss, and he made no protest when her hands delved to his shirt, to the ties at the shoulders, the knots that kept it from hanging open indecently while he worked.

Then grew frustrated, because who taught him how to make these sorts of knots? She pulled the usual side, and fiddled with the other, but rather than give easily as hers did, it earned only a firmer tangle.

“I question your skills,” Orma protested, very nearly wanting to push away his head as he placed kisses down her throat so she could properly see what she was doing.

“My skills?” Athan murmured, placing another kiss. Then another. Seemingly unbothered by her frustration. “Which ones? Hopefully not at pleasing you.”

She gave one knot a tug to draw his attention. “ These skills,” Orma insisted. “You tie them wrong. They won’t come apart.”

He chuckled at her, which was not at all what she wanted, because she was supposed to be alluring and bewitching while she undressed him. “Undressed many men, have you?”

She might have scowled except he wasn’t looking at her, but was busy pulling her shift to better expose her breasts to his view. They really weren’t all that interesting when he wasn’t licking and blowing and doing all sorts of scandalous things to them. They wouldn’t swell as she grew with child, wouldn’t soften and look all womanly like her sister’s did after her first.

She took a breath.

Released the thought along with the air.

It was sad, and she could be sorry, but she needn’t dwell. Athan said so.

“Of course not,” Orma retorted, and really, he shouldn’t be making her cross when they were supposed to be loving.

Athan hummed, and brought one finger to trail across the flat of her nipple, while the other attended to the line that formed between her brows. It really was the oddest sort of sensation, one of a fond, teasing tenderness, the other a distracting reminder of their lascivious activities.

“The order is reversed,” Athan explained, and at least he wasn’t laughing at her any longer. “Compared to when you are doing it for yourself.”

Her throat tightened. “Oh.”

He kissed her lips once before he smiled at her. “I do have some experience in the matter. There is no need to be embarrassed.”

Her mouth grew dry.

And she absolutely refused to be jealous.

It wasn’t like she wasn’t aware there were... dalliances. Highly discouraged by parents and grandsires alike, but it happened. She even remembered her brother returning home, somewhere between the cusp of night ending and morning beginning, her father’s voice carrying through the tower as he chastised him for making use of one of those places.

She’d asked her mother the next day, who’d grown misty-eyed and at first informed her she needn’t trouble herself about such matters, but then changed her mind.

Orma might need to prepare herself. In case her mate grew impatient, and he found comfort in some of the merchant districts, where foreign women who cared nothing for mates and the sanctity of bonds not yet created might enjoy a night of company.

She tried to picture Athan in such a place. With such a woman.

Then did anything she could to not picture such a thing.

Athan shifted, bringing his hand to pinch her chin lightly as he waited for her to open her eyes and look at him. “Where did you go just now?” he asked, always so careful of her.

She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t meet his eye. She was being silly, and far too young, but it was merely another reminder of how much life he had lived while she... hadn’t.

“I didn’t realise you’d been with anyone else,” she admitted, her voice so small it was barely like speaking at all.

His mouth dropped open, and suddenly it wasn’t enticing touches and teasing kisses, but she was being pulled into his arms and squeezed tightly. “That is not what I meant.” He huffed out a breath, and he was shaking, and if he laughed, if he teased, she was going to wriggle out of this bed and sleep on the chaise with Brum. “Examinations, Orma. Which I shouldn’t even be bringing up either, now that I think of it, but surely that’s better than...”

He placed a kiss on her temple and was petting her hair, as if trying to smooth away the upset between them as efficiently as he possibly could. “I haven’t. With anyone else. I swear to you.”

Her eyes burned, and she could not account for why. “Oh,” she repeated, and no, she did not want to think about healers and tables and him looking over wounds and battered skin, but it was better than the alternative.

He shouldn’t have to swear. He shouldn’t have to look at her with worry that she would find fault with him, whether or not there had been a woman before her.

But in some secret part of her, she could acknowledge she was pleased. Did that make her horrid? She didn’t know. “I would have loved you anyway,” she promised him, because that was what mattered, didn’t it?