8. Home

She was supposed to wake with a smile. Full of anxious enthusiasm as she woke Athan and insisted they begin her cookery lessons.

After she dressed, of course.

Or, if perhaps a different sort of appetite woke first, she was going to reach over for her mate and see if it was all right to indulge when the suns were up.

She was not supposed to have a terrible pressure in her head that made her squint and flinch when Athan opened the shutters. She was also not supposed to be achy in her hip and sore between her legs.

Those were ails for a different Orma. This one was supposed to be shiny and new and cured of all her ails. Because mating was magical. It brought people together and... and...

She burst into tears.

Which brought Athan back to her side, the bond echoing the concern she saw in his eyes when he coaxed her to look at him.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he prompted. His eyes darted as he fought the urge to look her over for himself. Because she did not want him as a healer. How many times had she said that? She hadn’t much cared if it hurt him at the time, and for that, she was deeply sorry. She’d just been so frightened, and he’d...

He’d understood. Eventually. The more he’d learned, the gentler he’d become in that regard.

But he could ask, and he was right to expect an answer, even if it was foolish. “My head is going to split open,” she explained. “And I’m sore, and I... I don’t know why I thought...” she couldn’t say it. It was too absurd.

But it had been a last hope, she realised. That once the bond was fully satisfied, everything would be different.

He laid a hand over her forehead. The pressure was a welcome counterbalance to what she felt inside her skull, and that made her blub harder.

“I will get you something,” Athan promised her. “For the pain.”

Denials were at the tip of her tongue. Reminders of old arguments. That he could bring her old elixirs or nothing at all.

But she stopped. Took a breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes again and turning onto her side, where she buried her face into his pillow.

He made quick work of dressing before he disappeared.

The guilt trickled in slowly. He’d been robbed as well. Of a gentle waking. Of a mate still full of contentment from the night before. Which made it worse when he returned, and she was feeling wretched and terribly sorry both for herself and for him.

She was not expecting Athan’s stern look. For the way he tugged her to a seated position and handed her a bottle of something murky and a deep green. She didn’t want it, but she wasn’t about to say so. Not when he’d gone to the trouble of fetching it for her.

She should ask what it did. If it would make her sleep, make her lethargic. All the usual penalties for some form of relief.

But surely it would show her trust in him if she didn’t? And she wanted to please him, to make him feel loved even when she felt so poorly.

“You can ask,” Athan reassured her. He was settled on the side of the bed, a cup in his hand. Water to wash the taste down after? Or had he taken the time to fetch himself tea? “You should ask. These are your pains, and your medicines. You should know them better than anyone.”

Orma smoothed the bottle in her hands, watching the concoction swirl. “How will I feel?” He could rattle off the contents, but it wouldn’t help anything. She didn’t know about herbs and their powers. Didn’t know how they interacted with one another. She wanted to learn how to make a meal, not set her hand to potion making.

“We will put a spoonful in this cup,” Athan explained, satisfied with her interest as he took the bottle from her. “I’ve half-filled it with water, yes?” He tilted it so she might see, and her head really did hurt but she tried to care about the dosage since it seemed to matter to him. He demonstrated, the spoon clinking against the side of the cup as he stirred. She did not appreciate the noise, but she kept quiet, letting him work. “At this amount, you might feel a little tired, but it should not force you to sleep if you do not want to.” He handed her the cup and watched her as she drank it down. It wasn’t nearly as bitter as she’d expected. It tasted of bright herbs and a hint of something sweet.

“Thank you,” she said as she offered him back the cup. He nodded to her, and he almost moved off the bed, likely to begin his day. Which she wanted to do with him. Wanted to make a terrible start at their breakfast and make him sit at the table while she placed a singed plate of food in front of him and watch him smile at her as if she’d done perfectly well.

She’d rub his shoulder and kiss his cheek, and promise she’d do better the next time.

“You started to say something, before,” Athan murmured, his attention flickering from the empty cup and back to her. “What was it?”

She’d hoped he’d forgotten. She couldn’t say his potion was helping yet, but she wanted to pretend it was. That her head was muzzy, and she needed sleep, and they could talk of this later. Or, better still, not at all.

But he was waiting, and he was patient and wonderful, and he’d go downstairs alone and fix her meal and come back and kiss her softly and promise he wasn’t disappointed—he just wants her to feel better.

But she was. Deeply so.

And she could admit that to him, even if it revealed her hopes had been more mystical than rational. “Everyone...” she began, then quickly amended it. “Mama mostly. She was so... sure. That I came of age, once the bond settled as it should, all the troubles would end. And I couldn’t say I believed her, but I suppose a part of me... wanted to. So when we met, and you took your part, I thought it was proof enough she was wrong. But then there was... the part we hadn’t done yet, so maybe...” her wings ruffled behind her, and she rubbed at her temples. “It was a stupid thought.” Her throat tightened, and she’d been done with her tears, but maybe there were a few left after all. “It’s your fault, you know.”

She raised her gaze to his so he might know she wasn’t serious.

“Of course it is,” Athan agreed, far too seriously. “But how exactly, if I might be so enlightened.”

She smiled softly, and maybe his potion was working after all, because some of the tightness in her head eased just a little. “You made me want to do things. I did not care before, so if I needed a day just to lie about, it didn’t matter. But now...” she reached for his hand, and she’d forgotten the cup and the spoon, but he shifted it to the other so she might have what she wanted. “My cookery lessons,” she complained. “Kissing you in the sunshine.” Her cheeks flushed because her imagination had included a great deal more than kisses. “It is frustrating.”

Athan’s fingers tightened around hers. “What is?”

She tried terribly hard not to give him an exasperated look. “This. Me.” She waved over her body, the one that always seemed intent on finding new ways to hurt and disappoint her. Had it only been last night she’d marvelled at what else it could do? How good she might feel when before it had felt an unending trudge just to function.

Athan leaned forward and placed the cup on her bedside table. She almost questioned why, but then he was leaning over her. No, not just over. Climbing back to his side of the bed before he curled his arm over her middle and tucked her in close. “I am very fond of this body,” he murmured softly, mindful of her head. Her wings. “I would thank you to be gentle with it, even in how you refer to it.”

That should not have made her eyes well. Should not have made her want to turn about and kiss him.

But it did.

And she was too poorly to do anything but lie there, and she wanted to grouse about her frustrations, but she paused. Took a breath. Tried to take his words as more than a tease. “I wanted to... be with you again,” she confessed, because that was the truth of it. The rest would have been the seduction, but it would have ended right back here. With the shutters open for the breeze. “And I’m cross that I have to wait.”

Athan chuckled and leaned over to place a kiss on her cheek. “And what if I told you I’m far too exhausted at the moment? Couldn’t possibly have done so, even if you woke ready and needful?”

She sniffed, turning her head to see if he was in earnest. “Are you?”

“Completely done in,” Athan insisted, his tone so serious that she almost believed him. Not quite, but enough that some of the guilt lifted, letting her settle a little more easily as bits of tension quieted. “I might even have to send away my patients this afternoon. Have a little nap right here.”

She would not question the time of day and if she’d really slept that long that morning had come and gone without her notice. “Don’t do that,” Orma murmured. “Not on my account.”

He hummed, pressing his head into her hair. “Not for yours,” he reminded her. “For mine.”

She smiled, despite herself, and shook her head. Which meant it ached a little more fiercely, so she scowled and very well considered banishing him from the room if he was going to insist on more of his teases. But his warmth was rather lovely, and his potion was too. It left a pleasant sort of haze instead of the ache she’d experienced. It was more effective for her poor nethers than for her head, but sleep would see to the other well enough.

“If you stay, we don’t talk,” she instructed. “For my head.”

He sighed, smoothing his hand over her temple. A cool cloth would have been better, but she supposed this was nice, too.

“Whatever you say.”

Which really wasn’t following what she said at all, but he was quiet after, and his touches were soothing parts of her she hadn’t realised needed quieting at all, and how she could possibly need more sleep when she thought she’d slept too long already, she couldn’t account for.

But she did.

A hazy sort of in-between sleep at first. When she was aware of Athan leaving her, and that really was wretched of him, letting her expectations shift when she hadn’t even asked him to stay, but now she wanted him and he’d gone.

Which should have been all right. He couldn’t stay with her the whole day.

It just would have been nice if the sleep could be the deep sort. Where she could just wake up and feel better, and he would be there, and perhaps there would be a meal involved, whether or not she made it.

She opened one eye.

Caught one beam of the sunlight through the shutters and pulled Athan’s pillow overtop her head, because he wasn’t using it anyway, and this really was much better.

And then she really slept, after all.

◆◆◆

“Orma,” Athan whispered, his voice low and lilting. More song than name. It was terribly rude to wake a sleeping person, especially one that was poorly and an invalid. One would think a healer would know such a thing.

But this one was laying a hand on her shoulder, and that really was intolerable because it was lovely and dark and the breeze was cool through the window and...

When had he opened that?

She frowned, her brow furrowing as she breathed in. There was food in the room.

Well.

That was a slight improvement to waking her for no reason—or for that reason simply to prove she lived and breathed and to quell his anxious heart in that regard.

“How is your head?”

She opened her eyes, and she really tried not to glare. “I don’t know yet,” she mumbled, trying to assess her own condition before she did something foolish like try to move. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. If she could find a comfortable spot, if nothing ached or protested, she would not sacrifice her place for anything.

There was a chair next to her bedside table that most certainly had not been there before. The lamp was not lit, so the whole day couldn’t be gone yet. Sometimes pains in her head could lead to a horrid roiling in her stomach, but that seemed blessedly absent. What had been a sharp, unavoidable throb had turned into a dull awareness at the back of her head. A warm cloth. She would have asked for one of those if her mother was present. But Athan...

She took a breath.

He would be no different. Eager to please, ready to fetch anything she desired. “Could I have a warm cloth for my head?”

Athan leaned over her, murmuring for her to show him where it hurt most. It was easier simply to place his hand where it hurt than to explain it, and he nodded briskly and left the room without even a hint of protest from the bond.

He liked to be useful. Liked to be useful to her.

She sighed, pulling the blanket up toward her nose. She could make out the edges of a tray—there was a mug rather than a bowl. Tea? Maybe something medicinal.

But no, it smelled like food. And now that it was in the room with her, her stomach seemed to waken, reminding her of its desire for something to eat since the night before.

She gave it an absent sort of pat, sorry she hadn’t listened. Perhaps that would have saved this whole miserable start to the day if she had.

Athan came back with... not a cloth. Or, at least, not just a cloth dampened with hot water. It looked more cushion than anything, and he coaxed her onto her back, moving the pillows about to better accommodate her as she sat up.

She let him do it, although she was tense and ready to reject the setup in favour of returning to her side, where she’d been snug only a moment before.

A moment. A few breaths.

And then warmth was pressed to the back of her head before he eased her back against the newly arranged pillows.

“How’s that?” Athan asked, looking her over to ensure all was as it should be.

She wriggled just a little, her wing shifting to a more suitable spot. “Very nice. Thank you.” She held out her hand for him to take, and he brought it to his lips instead of holding it like she intended. It was a tender gesture, one that made her heart warm even if the rest of her responses were quiet. No flutters, no hoping he’d draw his lips to her wrist, following the threads he’d learned the night before.

Just a warmth of being cared for. Loved, even when their room had transformed back into a sickbed.

It didn’t mean she liked when he placed her hand back on the bed.

She wouldn’t grow despondent. He had things to do. People to help that did not happen to be her.

“I brought you a meal,” Athan informed her, no matter how unnecessarily.

“I noticed,” she admitted, ready for him to hand her the tray and be gone again. Not that she did not want his company, but it was always easier to expect the solitude of her room rather than be disappointed when no one stayed for long.

“Yes, well,” Athan started, and she was left with the distinct impression he was nervous. Which was strange, and she really should try to riddle it out for herself, but that seemed like far too much effort. He leaned over for the tray, hovering and fussing until he was certain nothing would slosh anywhere.

Her eyes narrowed. There was a mug filled with soup, as she’d suspected. But surrounding it were a great number of things that most certainly might make up food, but had never graced her plate in their current form. A few had foots still attached, others with green tops that were lacy and perhaps she’d seen garnishing a joint of roast. She picked up one of them, eyeing both it and Athan curiously. “Am I meant to eat this?”

She would, if he thought it would be good for her, but it did not look particularly appealing.

He grimaced, or perhaps it was a half-hearted attempt at a smile, but he shook his head. “I don’t want to presume about your wellness. And if you’d rather eat and sleep longer, that is perfectly all right.” He drew a hand through his hair, frustrated and flustered, which was rather a strange look compared to his usual composure. “You were so sad about your cookery lessons. So I thought I might bring one... to you.”

He glanced up at her, and this time his smile was a little more genuine. Hopeful. That maybe he’d done right, but fully prepared to be told she didn’t want it.

She swallowed, putting down the vegetable—if indeed that’s what it was—and picked up the mug. There was a spoon tucked beneath the rest of it, but she ignored it. Took a sip. “All that is in here?” she asked, squinting into the cup.

Athan nodded. “Either in the stock, or chopped and cooked down into the soup itself.” There was a bit of excitement in his voice, but he tempered it quickly. “You’re sure your head is well enough for this?”

“For soup and you telling me about vegetables? I think I can manage.”

It was a balm she didn’t know she’d needed. To be poorly, and have someone for company. To not be left to her own thoughts and discomforts, to be certain, not merely hope, that this was precisely where he wished to be.

He wouldn’t tire of her. Wouldn’t push and wheedle for her to do more than she was able. He would take her as she was, whether that was full of life and love and desire, or pale and sickly.

Which was...

Far more than she could ever have hoped for.

◆◆◆

She was in the kitchen. Not perched on the counter, offering him nibbles in between washing up, but seated in a chair, watching him work. He had a whole list of things to be mindful of when scrubbing out the cook-pot. Most particularly how it must be dried thoroughly afterward, and really she should just wait for him to do it because he worried her arms would snap off if she tried to handle it herself.

To which Orma rolled her eyes and sipped at her tea, Brum batting at her leg with his long tail as he happily looked between his people.

He had such a way about him. He did not talk down to her with his instructions. There was no embarrassed squirming in her stomach that she felt like a child, and their relationship was somehow tainted by her rather stunted education.

He simply... talked.

And she listened.

And would likely need to be told at least three more times before she felt remotely proficient at any of it, but that wasn’t the point.

She’d tried to tell him she was well enough to help with the cleaning, but he insisted the first lesson should always be observation first. Hands-on training was far down the line.

He got a glimmer in his eye when he said that, as if the words weren’t really his. “Is that how you learned?”

He finished with the cook-pot and returned it to its usual place on the stove. “Under my master’s tutelage.” He paused, as he often did when he spoke about his past. She didn’t feel guilty for poking at the bond, trying to see what troubled him about it. It wasn’t hesitation for her sake. But rather...

He hadn’t done it for so long. Perhaps the memories did not come as easily any longer. Tucked away and left to themselves. Shoved aside by other, more relevant matters. It made her hurt for him.

She would listen. To anything he cared to share with her. So maybe they could become real to her as well.

“My parents... they preferred to involve me in whatever I desired. Which led to a few burns along the way, since I was determined to learn to cook as my mother did. Well. It was the sweet things, mostly. Because if I knew how to bake them myself, then how could she refuse me eating as many as I pleased?”

Orma smiled, waiting to feel a tinge of envy for the life he’d known before. The one so decidedly different from her own. But she found she could listen. Could appreciate the parents he’d lost. The childhood he’d clearly loved.

“It made for more than one lecture when I started my apprenticeship. Always wanting to jump in before the foundation was set. That’s what he said, anyway.” He turned to her, looking far too handsome as he dried his hands on a cloth. “And how is your foundation?” he asked, quirking his brow and attempting to look stern.

“Abysmal,” she answered, knowing it was true and feeling surprisingly all right with it. “But better today than it was yesterday.”

She smiled at him, and she was rewarded with a returning smile, full of all the affection he felt for her. She was trying, and her efforts were noticed and appreciated.

Orma leaned back in her seat, using her one free foot to rub at Brum’s back as he lounged on his cushion. The other was tucked beneath his girth and was steadily growing numb.

When Athan had brought her down, the table was empty of all evidence of medical notes and texts. She really should ask what happened to them—if he’d taken them back to her father without her notice, or if he’d stashed them away in the storage room upstairs. Or maybe they’d been absorbed into his father’s library.

But she found she did not much care, not so long as they would be kept private—and she even trusted Athan more than her own father on that front. Her father had overridden her wishes more than once if he deemed her judgement faulty. Athan hadn’t. Wouldn’t.

She waited for the niggling doubt to come. To steal away the peace she’d found sitting here at their table, watching Athan go about teaching her household tasks.

But all was quiet.

“What?” Athan asked, giving her a curious look.

Her head tilted to the side. “What do you mean, what?”

Athan’s eyes narrowed at her. “You are looking at me most strangely.”

“Oh.” Orma shifted in her seat and continued rubbing at the Brum, who rolled over so she might access some of his belly as well. “I was thinking about what happened to the books,” she tapped against the tabletop so he might know which ones without her having to bring up that particular subject again.

“Ah. They’re upstairs, if that’s what was worrying you.”

Orma took a breath. Smiled again. “I wasn’t,” she answered, far more truthfully than she imagined she would.

Athan looked at her as if he found her very strange indeed, and that was all right. It was a private revelation, and she could have those, even with the bond bright and coiling between them.

He shook his head at last, mumbling something to himself about silly mates and strange looks, and began a lecture on the importance of prompt attendance to kitchen messes, lest a host of sky-lint be drawn through the shutters and overtake the space.

“I know what those are!” Which should not have pleased her so greatly, and almost startled Athan with her enthusiasm for them. They weren’t terribly exciting at all—just tiny little flying insects that swarmed in great plumes in the summer evenings, catching the last of the sunlight and reflecting off their shimmering wings. She’d loved to chase them when she was little, her sister sitting primly off to the side, too old for such nonsense. Her brother had been older still, but he would scoop her up in the air and fly with her as they drifted higher than their mother cared for her to go on her own.

There was always a wistful sort of pang when she thought of her siblings. They deserved their own lives, their own families. They had proper mates and provided the heirs, and they were busy with work at the Hall.

While Orma...

She took a breath. Let it go.

Athan drifted toward her, squeezing her shoulder lightly. “How do sky-lint make you sad?” he asked, a little bewildered but always gentle with her feelings. “Frustration, I could well understand.”

She swallowed, turning her head to glance at him in what she hoped was a reassuring fashion. “I was thinking of my siblings,” she admitted. “They were so much older than me. I miss them, but I also... don’t. Is that awful? I hardly know them any longer. Which is probably my fault. I rarely went to them. I couldn’t help when my sister had her babies. And I always felt a nuisance to my brother’s mate.” She rolled her shoulders, trying to push back the sudden melancholy. There was no need for it, but it tried to settle, anyway. So she diverted. Back where it was safe. Where she felt sure and certain of herself.

So she leaned into his touch and thought of how he asked for her to tell him she loved him. How he needed to hear the words, not simply rely on the bond for reassurance. “I trust you,” she shared, feeling his heart swell to be told so. “That’s what I was... before, before. That I didn’t need to ask where my books ended up because you’d take care of it.” She paused, sighing a little as the moment settled. Of Brum at her feet. Of Athan at her side. “You’ll take care of me.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head, his wing coming to wrap around her along with his arm. “Most happily,” he promised her, and although there was a part of her that would dispute that—that no one would choose a mate on purpose that was anything less than hale and hearty...

There was no mistaking his sincerity. He enjoyed doing it, strange man that he was. He liked tending to her.

“Now,” Athan asked, standing back to his full height. “Do you require anything else to eat, or is tea sufficient?”

She nodded to the chair across from her. “Just tea, and you in your chair actually getting to enjoy yours with me.”

He hummed, his own mug next to the sink where he’d taken intermittent sips. But it wasn’t the same as sitting and sharing, and he could not convince her otherwise.

He retrieved his mug and poured a fresh helping from the pot before he sat. It was... nice. Just to be. The last of the pressure in her head was easing, and her stomach was full and her heart equally so from the company she kept. Even if her foot had entirely surrendered under Brum’s weight, utterly neglected in circulation.

“Better?” Athan teased, easing back in his chair and watching her carefully. Not because he expected her to burst into tears again. Or to flee out the front door and disappear into the dusk. But just because he liked to look at her, or so he claimed.

She didn’t mind. She liked to look at him, too.

And in her opinion, hers was the better view.

◆◆◆

Orma paced in the garden, Brum watching her from his head tucked into his front paws—distinctly irritated.

Athan had not been wrong when he said his time watching the fish in the stream was a serious business. She was a distraction with her movements, and he did not seem to appreciate it.

“Sorry,” she mumbled for the third time.

Athan had left her that morning. Which was fine. She’d told him to. There was a patient he particularly wanted to see, and although she’d felt better the night before, he’d insisted on another draught to banish the rest of her headache before it had a chance to return.

Which was sensible.

But it also meant she fell into a deep sleep, despite how much rest she’d had the entire day. And it meant when he’d woken her, full of apology and a heavy-laden breakfast tray, to occupy her time when she awakened for good.

He’d asked after her. Of course he had. If she was as poorly as yesterday, he wouldn’t leave at all. But that would mean more potions, and she would not begin that habit anew.

So she’d told him she was fine.

And she’d almost meant it.

As she’d slept another half-hour, then drank tea kept warm by a covered cloth. Ate smoked fish and a piece of bread thickly buttered.

The idea of remaining in bed afterward was less than appealing. The bed needed attention—to be aired, at least, if not stripped and the linens replaced. Then she needed a bath, which was not such a terrible thing, except she missed him even in that. Even undressing was enough to make her think of him, although it had only happened the once.

If he’d been there, he would look at her as something precious, leaning against the doorway as if certain he’d be ejected if he came a little too near. Maybe he might have been, before. When she was shy and uncertain of both herself and of him.

But now she was sorry for his absence. That he could not watch as she smoothed fragrant soap along her limbs. That she would even lean forward and ask him to attend to her back and wings.

He would swallow. Would do as she bid, because the request had been hers and he would deny her nothing.

His touch would be chaste—he would do only what was asked of him. He wouldn’t stray, would not capture a handful of breast simply because it was there and available.

But he wasn’t there, and all she had managed was to get herself flustered and bothered.

She dressed. Stripped the bed.

Stared at the pile and hadn’t the least idea what to do with it. There was always someone else to come and whisk away the rest—presumably either to wash or take to a proper laundress. But there was only her, and she was not about to risk ruining perfectly good linens by tossing them in the bath and scrubbing at them with soap meant for people rather than fabric.

She found more linens in a cupboard in the hall, and that felt an accomplishment. Making the bed was less so. She fluttered back and forth, tugging and tucking until it was suitable, but it was all much harder than she’d expected.

Which was good. Better to be huffing and puffing over hard work than... other feelings that she could not satisfy.

Satisfied with the bedroom, she took the rest down to the kitchen and left them in a pile in the corner. Athan would know what to do. Perhaps even Brum did—or perhaps he was interested in the linens themselves, because he nosed through the lot before curling up in the centre of them—eyeing her with far too much gratitude as if she’d meant to give them as an offering at all.

She should push him off. Surely it would be harder to scrub sheets when they were also covered in fluff.

She chewed at her lip. Athan could do that. When he was back. Her accord with the Brum was far too new to disturb him and still preserve their friendship.

There was more she could do. Or... more that another, knowledgeable woman might do while her mate was attending to important work. She wiped at her forehead and settled on another cup of tea. Better to rest in between her labours, lest she overtax herself and waste the rest of the day tucked into clean sheets with a pounding head.

But then the tea was gone, and she was alone again.

Which was supposed to be fine.

Except he’d woken this part of her, and it really was horribly unfair of him.

The Brum had tired of her as the day wore on so he’d escaped to the garden. She’d left him be for a while, then she ached for even his company, so she followed.

And paced.

And wondered if perhaps he’d loved her a little too well, if she could be this distracted when there were other pursuits that should occupy her time.

Except there weren’t. Not yet, anyway. She had no responsibilities. No household tasks to call her own.

Which left her with far too much time and far too many feelings.

She sat down on the bench. Which really did not help her mood, because they sat there together, and he wasn’t there, and why had she not thought to bring a book out with her? Not one of the awful medical texts, but something nice. A story. Perhaps about mates finding each other against all odds, or the loveliness of everyday life, or...

She groaned, pushing her head back and letting the sunlight war with the coolness of the breeze, heating and cooling her all at once.

She’d take off her shoes and put her feet in the stream, except she did not know if that would disturb the fish and therefore the Brum.

Flustered and terribly bothered by even her own thoughts, she shifted, turning so she could lie back on the bench and stare up at the sky, willing herself to sleep. Which she couldn’t, of course. But she could try.

But she found herself willing the backdoor to open, instead. For Athan to come back, to pick her up, to tell her he’d missed her.

She did not expect for him to open the window up above her.

Did not expect for him to suddenly be there, looming above her as her eyes opened and she was too surprised to sit up quickly enough.

“Do you know,” Athan asked, his voice low and not angry... not exactly. Frustrated, perhaps? Or... “How terribly distracting it is to complete an examination when my mate is bothered?”

Which was mortifying. Or might have been, except he was suddenly kneeling at her side, his hand coming to the back of her head to cradle it from the hard surface, but also to keep her still.

While he kissed her. Off-centre and askew from his awkward place beside her, but no less wonderful.

There was no keeping still. No placidly accepting his kiss while she lay quiet and receptive.

Her hand moved without thought, delving into his hair and holding him to her, unwilling to relinquish him now that he was hers again.

But breath eventually became a necessity. And when he pressed his face against her breast and she smiled in triumph, certain she should be sorry but utterly unable to conjure anything of the sort, she skimmed her fingers through his hair and was rewarded with his shudder. “Do you know what it’s like to have your mate doing important work and feeling bothered just at the memory of him? Of wanting him back so badly, but trying not to be selfish.” She nuzzled against the top of his head. “I want to be selfish,” she admitted. “I want to keep you all to myself. To use my good days to their fullest.”

He made a strange, choked sound and she pushed his head back so she might better assess what was wrong with him. Which evidently was unacceptable, because rather than let her look, he took her in his arms instead. “You have been bothering Brum,” he reminded her. And she could lie and say that hadn’t, but that would be foolish.

“I was lonely,” she said instead, because that was true.

“You could have visited you mother,” Athan suggested, somehow managing to open the door without her assistance. “She would have liked that.”

She’d considered it. Briefly.

But she’d be alone, and her mother would ask with that hopeful glint in her eye if they’d mated fully yet, and look over Orma with all the expectation that she was better. Truly better.

And Orma didn’t think she could handle that yet.

“Yes, well. I thought of that before my bath. Then I started imagining what it would be like to have a bath with you, and visiting became far less interesting.”

They passed through the kitchen, his steps hurried by the gentle movement of his wings, adding speed to each half-step. “We will tear down the washroom wall,” Athan explained, as if it was a serious suggestion. “Expand it so there will be room for the both of us.”

She laughed, except his eyes were serious. As if... as if it was of supreme importance they make that a possibility. “Athan, that’s absurd!”

He quirked a brow at her and pushed open their bedroom door. The shutters were open, the breeze pushing away the last remnants of her previous day. “Is it? Why?” He leaned down and ran his lips across her temple, and she shivered lightly. “I should like to have you in a bath. All warm and soft with oils.”

Orma swallowed thickly.

“Well... that would be... that might be...”

He placed her down on the bed and gave her no time to formulate her objections to the scheme. It would take time, and resources, and surely it would be intrusive to have someone come in and knock out a wall, even for something as appealing as a bath large enough for two...

Orma’s eyes widened because a sudden thought distracted her from the steady pulse of her blood. “You didn’t leave a patient up there, did you? Because if you abandoned one just because of me then we can’t possibly...” she was pushing at his shoulders, ready to shoo him back, but Athan held firm, kissing one cheek. Then the other.

“They left,” he promised her. “But I saw you out the window, and it seemed far too much effort to go around.”

“Oh,” Orma murmured, letting the urgency fade in favour of relaxing against the mattress, her arms soft as they twined about his neck. “All right, then.”

He chuckled at her. Kissed her deeply.

As if there was nothing else he would rather do than be there with her. To kiss her. To relish the moments when she was well, and love in different ways when she wasn’t.

There was no hurry. For all his bursting through windows and kissing her on benches, he did not push. Did not delve beneath her clothes or push between her legs. He wanted to be just like this, luxuriating and only when her grip on his hair tightened—when the bond flared and she whispered his name, did he allow his hands to travel.

Which she could have allowed. Let him play with the threads that coiled and tightened at his simplest touch. Even now, the merest whisper of his fingertips against her wrist was enough to make her breath catch in her throat. To fight the urge to squirm and pull him closer. She did not think she needed as long to be ready for him as she had before. Which meant if there would be fewer explorations, then they were going to be hers.

She reached for his shoulders. Pushed lightly, then a little more firmly when he merely gave her a quizzical look before he moved back with far too great a concern.

He thought he’d frightened her. Silly man. With the bond warm and pulsing between them, he would know she wasn’t. He’d done nothing wrong, so she leaned forward and kissed him as she pushed him onto his back.

He had his boots on.

So did she.

And these were clean linens, so that was hardly suitable.

And he’d been at the infirmary, which meant...

She nibbled at her lip, wondering at herself. At conflicting desires and the want to get on with things and satisfy this newfound ache that was far more pleasurable than the ones she’d known before but no less distracting.

“Stay,” she insisted. “Just... stay.”

She hurried for the supplies she wanted. If they couldn’t have a proper bath together, there could still be warm water and a clean cloth, and she could watch his skin pebble as she worked.

“Orma,” Athan called when the water took longer to heat than she wanted.

“Stay!” she repeated.

He would. Because she’d asked it of him, and because she could feel him peering at the bond, trying to work out her whims.

That was all right. Let him look and wonder.

She was careful with the pitcher so she did not slosh, even in her haste. She had a cloth for washing, and another for drying. He’d removed his boots and undone the laces of his shirt, but one knot at his wrist was giving him trouble.

“That was going to be my job,” she chastised, putting down her supplies on the night table before coming to stand in front of him. “You’re spoiling my fun.”

“If your fun includes leaving me alone when I could have you in the bed with me, I question your taste.” He brought his free arm to wrap about her middle, pulling her toward him. His legs had opened, so she was nestled far more closely than she ought to, and his hand was trying to find that particularly sensitive spot on her hip through her clothing.

“You’re making this much more difficult than it needs to be,” Orma protested, knowing full well if he insisted on teasing her, she would quickly lose her resolve to properly dote on him.

“Am I?” He pulled her even closer, crushing their arms between them as he nuzzled his head between her breasts.

She scratched lightly through his hair, trying to pull him back to look at her. “Yes,” she insisted, bending down low enough to kiss him just the once lest he think she was truly cross. “You are. Now keep still while I work.”

She pushed at his chest, and his lips twitched as he did not move at all, even at her prompting. Orma rolled her eyes, but made use of it and removed his shirt.

Knots conquered, she smoothed her hand across the lines of his stomach, eyeing him almost shyly. “Lie back, please.”

She would not indulge the parts of her that clung to modesty. He was going to lie naked as she’d been before, and he would let her do as she liked and then she would have her way with him.

It was nice to be decided. To feel the heavy weight in her middle as parts of her swelled with enthusiasm at what was to come, but it was a pleasant sort of awareness. Not urgent. Not pressing and forcing. But very much present as she tugged his trousers free and watched his throat bob as he watched her.

“Are you going to disappear again?” He asked, and she really should have asked if this was all right. The suns were bright in the window, and their neighbours were far enough that the view would solely be for her. But perhaps he had his own modesty to contend with.

She chewed at her lip, considering.

“Do you mind?” she asked, gesturing over him. “Would it help if I...” her cheeks flamed that her compromise would have her remove some of her own clothing, but there it was.

“Yes, please,” Athan urged, not at all looking as if he was bothered in the least, his hands coming to tuck behind his head while he waited for her to strip off her dress.

She really should rescind it. Keep him at her mercy while she was perfectly chaste and covered. But it would only grow colder for the rest of the season. And there would not be warmth left for lying about without blankets and thick shawls, most especially without a hearth.

A larger bath.

A hearth in their bedchamber.

Her heart fluttered to think of the changes they might make. That they had the freedom to do so.

There were rules about the tower. The preservation of history. Of culture. Tapestries could be exchanged, but only when the others were cleaned and properly stored for future generations. Rooms must be maintained—freshened with new upholstery, but not with renovation.

But here...

She made a great show of loosening her hair. Of running her fingers through the length. Seeing to the ties at her throat down to her navel. Her shoulders. Then shimmied out of the dress itself with heat in her cheeks and a flutter in her heart to see him so... interested.

She kept her shift on. Indecent, but covered for the moment. She feared if she took it off too, he’d lose what little remained of his self-control and wouldn’t let her have her fun with washing him. So it stayed, and she pushed him to lie back, and he did so, still watching. He was on her side, which shouldn’t bother her, but it felt... wrong. So she came to stand on the other side and waited for him to move to his own pillow, and he chuckled softly as she obliged her. “So particular,” he insisted, and she rolled her shoulders.

“You love me anyway,” she reminded him, knowing full well the truth of his answer.

But he hummed, and reached for her, and while she took his hand briefly, she would not let him distract her. She re-situated the pitcher on his table, made sure the water hadn’t cooled too much. She wouldn’t like to be doused in tepid water, and while this was for practical purposes, there were also parts that most assuredly were not.

The ones that wanted to touch him. To look. To be as nosey as she liked, to understand all the parts of him in ways that other mates might. Not hiding behind lowered lids and modest blushes. Bold and...

Free.

His breath caught when the cloth first touched him, and she hesitated. “Too cold?” she didn’t think so, but perhaps she’d misjudged.

“No,” Athan assured her, doing his best to take on a more at ease position. “Just fine.”

She shook her head, amused and something else that had... very little to do with amusement.

She didn’t know she could find a form so fine as she did his. For her eyes to be drawn to a slim waist, strong hips. To find the curve of his wrists and the strength in his forearms strangely alluring.

She had the advantage, of course. She could swipe the cloth and mild soap across threads she could see. Could feel the bond respond in turn, could marvel at the way his muscles bunched and tensed as he waited to see where she might go next. Not to push, not to hurry, but full of anticipation.

It did not take long before he stood ready for her, and there had been no need of teasing or coaxing at all to have him there.

Should she wash there too? He did. Always fastidious about his hygiene. But perhaps this had little to do with cleanliness at all. Maybe it was about pleasing him as he did her. Of learning what made his blood race, of what could turn his vision black. Could steal his breath and make him wholly hers, for just a single moment.

“Orma,” Athan murmured, and she’d been staring in her indecision, and that should have been mortifying enough, let alone to be caught at it. There were taut lines about his neck as he struggled with the strain, and she was... tormenting him, she realised. With long, slow passes of wet cloth against skin. Of heat that pooled and spread—through her and back to him.

Over and over.

“Come here,” he urged, and she hadn’t even got to dry him yet, and this was her seduction and she would do it how she pleased.

But then she looked at him.

Looked at his eyes.

Found the entreaty there. The need for her. Not to stand and play at nursemaid, but to be with him. In the ways she’d wanted only the day before, but been denied.

She meant to crawl over him to get to her own side, pitcher and cloth forgotten on the table. He could dry in the sunshine, and perhaps that was nicer, anyway. But before she’d cleared him entirely, his hands found her hips, gripping and tugging until she straddled him.

Not tucked up high as she’d been before.

But lower.

Letting him nestle between her from the start.

She gasped, eyes wide, because that was bold and highly presumptuous of him, but she could not deny the way her own pulse heated. The way she warmed and fought down the urge to squirm. To move. To take him in hand and...

Why did she need to wait?

Except that he was holding her. Keeping her still. Waiting for her to look at him. “Are you still sore?”

Oh. She had been, hadn’t she? But that was yesterday, when the world was tainted by pain and discomforts. Today was different. She shook her head and smoothed her hands against his torso. Watched his muscles clench and relax at her slightest touch. Over the threads that twined up and around his hips. He had no cluster of bond where she did. His was farther up, just beneath his ribs, and if she cared to, she could scoot further down. Could lie on top of him and press a kiss there, just to watch him be the one to squirm.

“Orma,” he repeated, his voice low and needful.

“Athan,” she answered, as his hands moved over her hips. Over scar tissue. Too-tight muscle. Smooth skin.

“I should like to...” he began, then stopped. Hesitated. As if she would deny him. Would complain and make him wait.

Was there more that should happen first? A set time, an amount of kisses to be shared before culminating in the more?

She didn’t know. Could only take a breath and run her finger down his chest and watch his eyes burn as he took in the view of her. “Like to what?” she asked, feeling horribly wicked for asking when she knew the turn of her own thoughts. She was teasing him, she realised. But also teasing herself. Testing her self-control. If she could be patient.

He was.

She however...

She didn’t expect him to break first. For him to suddenly sit upright. To catch her in his arms as she nearly fell backward. For his eyes to dance with good humour and desire in turn as he crushed her to him. Kissed her deeply. While she was wedged and suddenly far more needful than she’d been a moment before.

It was the angles. Or maybe the way he’d pounced at her. Claiming and holding, his hands caressing her sides, holding her waist. The way he—she swallowed thickly, her breath catching in her throat—moved his hips just once, pressing up at her.

“I want to have you,” Athan murmured into her ear.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and the threads between them sparkled and shone in the sunlight.

“Then have me,” she urged. Not a taunt, not a tease. A promise.

He made a strange sound at the back of his throat and brought one hand to cup her head and hold her in his kiss. The other delved between them, urging her to rise just enough that he might join them.

In her mind, he would lay her down first. Would make it like it had been their first time.

She hadn’t expected to feel him prodding at her, seeking entrance with her perched in his lap. Wondered at the mechanics of it, wondered if she should move or keep still, should offer to lie back and let him do as he’d done before.

She did so want to be helpful.

But then he caught. Sank or pushed, or maybe it was a pull if she was the one on top of him, and she did not want to move, needed to adjust to the feel of him like this, her hands tight on his shoulders as she tried to make sense of the sensations.

It was pressure, firm and tight, made all the more because of the angle of his body against hers. She felt too sensitive to move, Athan’s breath a warm pant against her shoulder. “You all right?” he asked, smoothing circles into her waist with his thumb.

Then not her waist.

Toward her hip bone. Where he knew that cluster of bond to be, awaiting attention.

She gasped, finding it all a little too much, and she very nearly got off of him entirely.

She pushed at his hand, and that was better, the movement rocking her ever so slightly. Distracting her. “I...” she started to answer him, because that was important. To connect, to answer his queries because he cared about her comforts, and she had been sore, but now...

She made another, experimental movement.

Then another.

While he abandoned his grip on her hair so he could smooth his hands over her back, her hips. And it felt much less like he was the one taking her, and instead...

He shifted back ever so slightly, and she couldn’t question about pillows or if his back was straining and they ought to move over. But it allowed her room to do as she pleased, which had been the point after all. Even if it meant not getting to dry him properly, even if she had forgotten to remove her shift and it was tangled and scrunched up between them.

Those things should matter.

Would. After.

Once she...

If she could only just...

“My Orma,” he murmured in her ear, pulling her into his embrace, obviously not caring for the increased distance between them.

The bond flared.

Pulsed.

And her blood along with it, her muscles tensing, coiling, then releasing all in a rush that left her dazed with it all.

She didn’t remember Athan’s pleasure, too consumed with her own. It seemed to stretch on far longer than it should have, so maybe that was his, as he coaxed out of the last of her satisfaction while he submitted to his own.

It had all happened so quickly. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she’d simply grown too lost in the whole of it, where time mattered little, and there was only him and her.

When she had calmed enough to pay attention to more than the ebb and flow of her own emotions, she opened her eyes. Reached up and cupped Athan’s face. Kissed him once. Waited for him to look back at her. “Are you all right?” she asked, stroking her thumb against his cheekbone.

She thought he would turn on his side. Would nestle her close. But he did not seem ready for even that, instead curling his arms about her and holding her in the most intimate embrace she could imagine. “I love you,” he said rather than give a proper answer to her question.

That was just as well. She’d never managed one of her own, either.

And because he needed to hear it, not just feel it echoing between them, she hummed. Brushed her fingers through his hair. “My Athan,” she murmured, and felt him shudder. Felt him retreat, which was a strange and alarming sensation as he slipped free of her.

But he didn’t pull away. Just held her close.

And she let him. For as long as it was needed.

◆◆◆

He wasn’t sleeping. Which would have been fine, except something was tugging at her. He wasn’t doing it on purpose, but it was there. The persistent awareness that pushed through her unconsciousness, rousing her from sleep.

She didn’t bother opening her eyes. She reached for him first, worried he’d left her to go sit in the dark kitchen, worrying over things that didn’t matter anymore.

But no, he was there. “Did I wake you?” he asked, reaching out to pull her to him. Which was better. Especially since it quieted some of that insistent pull that woke her in the first place.

“Not awake,” she disagreed. Because she was somewhere in between. “But you are?”

They’d had a fine day. A lesson in breakfast foods before he’d gone to the infirmary to tend to patients. Tea with her mother in the afternoon.

They’d seen her father briefly toward the end of their visit. Her brother had been with him. Was that it? He’d greeted her with his usual politeness, leaning down to press his cheek to hers as a sign of familiarity rather than warmth. He’d given Athan the shallowest nod possible before he’d taken his leave. It was cordial. Expected.

By her, at least. Perhaps Athan had taken greater offense to it than she had. Perhaps he’d held out hope for a greater welcome.

But he’d seen perfectly ordinary when they got home. Attentive as always. Content with a fire in the living room and a quiet evening of separate reading.

Before she’d invited him over to share her chaise. Which then meant the book was not nearly as interesting as it had been a moment before.

And it had taken little coaxing at all before he laid her back on the chaise and kissed her all over.

“Just thinking,” Athan answered, his fingers combing through her hair. “I’ll try to stop.”

She snorted out a laugh, shaking her head as she nuzzled closer to him. He’d doused the light ages ago. Or what felt like ages. Which meant he couldn’t turn off his thinking quite so easily, or he would have done so. “And what has you so preoccupied?” She asked, reaching her hand over him and trying to give him a pat. It didn’t land on his chest as she’d meant for it, and she was fairly certain it was his shoulder. But he didn’t mind. The bond promised her that.

“I find... time with your family brings up questions. That I know shouldn’t matter, but...” She heard him swallow. “You should go back to sleep.”

There was the discordant pull on the bond again, and she readjusted her hold on him so she could pinch at his nightshirt and tug at it to regain his attention. “Do I have these answers?” Orma asked, because that mattered. He could tell her and they could lie awake, wondering together if it would make him feel better, but she would ply a little harder if it was simply a matter of him gathering courage to ask her. “Or would it take a midnight visit to my father to answer them for you?”

“I don’t...” Athan started, and she could sense him pulling a hand through his hair, his agitation mounting. “I don’t want to upset you.”

Orma wriggled. She truly didn’t want to sit up. Didn’t want to reach for the light. But she would if he was troubled. “If you’re upset, I’m upset.” Which might not be rational, might not be how things were supposed to be, but it felt true enough in the moment. There was no sleeping while he was bothered, and he would not leave her distressed, most especially if he had the power to set her mind at ease. She settled for nudging at him. For pushing all the love she felt for him through the bond—even if he did inadvertently wake her from her sleep. Which might mean a pained head and a sickly stomach in the morning, but she wouldn’t will that into being by bracing herself for it now. “Talk to me, Athan,” Orma urged, setting a lilting tone to her voice to coax him to share with her. “How bad could it be?”

Bad. She knew that. There were plenty of terrible histories for him to pull from, but she wouldn’t distract him by panicking herself. She must be steady and sure. Offer him reassurances rather than grow frightened and require from him instead.

“I just... wondered today. If... circumstances had been different,” her eyes closed and her grip on him tightened. “Do they only allow me to be involved in their family because we cannot have children?”

Orma grew very still.

“I keep telling myself it should not matter. I am grateful for their welcome, but I... wonder.”

He leaned down and placed a kiss to the top of her head. “I am sorry.”

Orma swallowed, her throat tight. “For what? It is a fair question. Only... it is one that I am loath to answer.”

Athan sighed, nodding into the dark. “I supposed as much.”

She hated how he simply accepted it. He’d convinced himself even before he knew her, before he thought anything of old families and high towers. A healer was well respected, valued, but not for one’s daughter. All those people, the time shared...

But that wasn’t why. And she didn’t want to explain it. The thought of it dried her mouth and made her angry for the old lessons that had been drilled into her before she’d even grown her flight feathers.

It was all right to play with the help’s children, but only because the rest of the family was so much older. Orma mustn’t grow too attached. They were not her friends, not of her circle. Those would come later. Didn’t she want to please her parents and find someone of appropriate blood? Have him work in the Hall as was proper? Where he could devote the proper time and attention to her and their children, not like the ones that had to scramble for coins in the market.

Orma had nodded because it was expected of her. Had never questioned if perhaps there was something nice about working there. Of knowing people. Of being known.

She did not fit with those of her circle. They’d been cordial to her, and even now when her presence was required and she could not even feign a fever to get out of it again, she would go and they would press a cool cheek against hers in greeting before wandering off into their respective corners. Ignoring her.

“Do you know why this city was built?”

Athan did not take long to consider his answer. “Why is any city built? For shelter. For its citizens to prosper.”

Orma hummed. Made a little pattern with her finger against his chest. “Not this one. According to the oldest history books, at least. It was an experiment. For rehabilitation of convicted criminals.”

She couldn’t see his frown, but she could feel it. “I’ve heard nothing like that.”

Orma’s wings rose and fell before she purposefully tucked them back in closer to her back. “Well, that’s not a very nice story, is it? That my family, the ones in the towers. The keepers of the Hall and their offspring. They... weren’t. Prisoners, that is. They were to keep order, and take notes on the successes of the city, and keep it all running smoothly. Which they did. Until they didn’t.” She didn’t want to go into the messiness of it. All the children born to the towers had to learn the histories, and they were bloody and involved a revolt, and much negotiation, in order to keep hold of what power they could.

“That is...” Athan began, voice as stilted as his fingers through her hair. “Absurd.”

Orma tilted her head, trying to catch some hint of his expression. “Which part?”

He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “When was this?”

Orma laughed, although it truly wasn’t funny. “Don’t ask me for dates, please. I never could remember them.” She rolled so she could drape herself across him. Because they would not quarrel about this. They would not let old troubles influence them now. She reached up and found one of the ties of his nightshirt and tugged it open. Burrowed in and found warm skin and kissed him there. “A long, long time ago,” Orma offered, because that’s all she could. There’d been talk of moons and cycles and how years were separated into lifetimes of the judicators, but he’d need a book for all that. It meant nothing to her. Hadn’t then, and certainly didn’t now.

“Well then, how can it possibly matter?” Athan asked, his hand coming to cup the back of her head while she nuzzled about what bits of skin she could find.

“It doesn’t,” she agreed. “Or at least, it shouldn’t. And obviously,” she continued, finding another tie and tugging it free. “The Maker agrees with me, because my mate wasn’t in one of those towers, was he? He was a healer. Born of two perfectly ordinary people that I am so very sorry I was not privileged enough to meet.”

Athan swallowed, and she kept going. Another tie, this one closer to his throat as she kept making her way up his body. It wasn’t even a hunger for pleasure that kept her moving. Kept her kissing. It was for connection, for him to know they were all right. To soothe and be soothed, because she couldn’t bear any upset between them.

She could tell him about the garlands hung across the ancient arches at the solstice. Could tell him how they’d once been the supports for the great cage that went across the top of the city, torn down during the revolt.

But she wanted to see the city through his eyes. Experience their first festival with moonstones glittering in heavy boughs all across the city sky. Enjoy the beauty of it, not have her joy polluted with talk of lesser men and their attempts to bring false meaning to what had been.

So she didn’t.

Pulled free the last of his knots and kissed at his throat, feeling his thoughts whirl and tug and try to decide if he should pry further or give in her attempts at seduction. They needn’t do it again. They’d already indulged earlier. And then they’d have to wash— again —and she really should sleep if she didn’t want her day to be ruined come morning, but it was so very tempting to do this instead.

“Do you have any more questions?” Orma asked, knowing she could say the rest of it. That no, her siblings would not sit at a table with the two of them if there was the chance of children. That they were hard-hearted, that they cared too much for power and station, with little room for even the Maker’s will if it interfered with tradition.

She could tell him she was sorry. That she would change it all if she could. That he deserved to be loved by her family for the whole of him. Because of who he was in all his parts, not despite perceived failings of birth.

There was much she could say, and perhaps she would, eventually. Because some things needed to be spoken aloud.

But there was time for that yet. And for now, she needed to kiss him. “Well?” she prompted, because she wouldn’t have him lying there in the dark, needing more answers. She would pry into the recesses of her memory if it would help him.

“I do,” Athan affirmed, one hand behind her head, the other coming to cup her cheek. “But I think they can keep.”

She’d talk of Lucian later. Remind him there was family they might visit that was kinder. Did not hold to the same traditions as the rest.

But for now, she hummed.

Smiled.

And this time, her lips met his.

And if she paid for it in the morning, so be it.

For now... they would have this.

◆◆◆

“We should stop somewhere,” Orma fretted, wringing her hands and pacing the kitchen floor. “Where does one buy food? Not ingredients. I know where those come from. But prepared things. How often is market day? Should we try there?”

Another lap. Brum raised his head and gave her a look, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop, even for him. Back and forth. She made to give another peek at the oven, but Athan halted her with a word.

“You let the heat out every time you do that,” he chided, with far more patience than she deserved. “And what does a pie need to bake?”

Orma’s throat tightened, giving the stove a worried look. “Heat and time,” she repeated.

First she’d watched.

Then, when she could name all the ingredients herself and their measures, she was allowed to practise, with Athan there to give advice over every step.

Then, was to do it herself. Without him there to stand over her. To point and correct when she went wrong.

Because she needed to build her confidence, not only her skills.

Which didn’t mean it had to be today. But Athan had suggested it. And talked a great deal about family and how proud he was of her and all she was learning, and that really wasn’t fair.

It was just a supper.

Well. It was. And it wasn’t.

It was supper at Lucian’s house. Because they were kin, and she owed him a great deal, and it had been too long since they’d visited.

Firen hadn’t met Athan at all. Which wasn’t fair, and weighed on Orma enough that Athan had pulled her into his lap and insisted he wished to meet more of her family.

She thought of her sister. Her brother. Of subjecting him to more judgement, and she couldn’t bear it. It would come later, she knew. But for now, she wanted something pleasant. Something nice.

Perfect, even.

Where she might offer him the family he lacked.

They could be the outsiders. The annex on a long and lauded family tree.

So there was pie. Made by her. Silently observed by her mate just in case she poison the lot of them.

They weren’t late, but she kept checking the sundial as if they were.

Or maybe it was to keep from opening the stove and checking on the pie. Which had been bubbling when last she checked, and it had been good she looked at it because the crust was browning too quickly and...

“Perhaps we ought to bring Brum,” Athan mused, and she glanced in his direction, horrified at the suggestion. He might be a fixture in their home, but that did not mean every house could accommodate him. Most especially since Firen and Lucian lived in lodgings provided by the Hall, and surely they had rules about half-wild beasts within their dwellings. Athan was leaning down in his chair, Brum sitting in front of him as he received rubs about his neck.

Her mouth opened, full of reasons the idea was preposterous, only to feel the flood of humour about the edges of the bond. “You jest,” Orma observed dryly, fighting down the urge to check. Again.

She wouldn’t go so far as to sit down at the table. Better to keep here, where she might smell if the edges caught enough to burn.

“I am,” Athan assured her, giving Brum’s head another pat. “Leave our home undefended? I think not.”

Brum’s tail made a loud swishing noise across the clean floor.

She did not ask who those invaders might be, and she didn’t need to. He’d distracted her, which was his aim, and she sank against the counter, fiddling with the cloth she’d grabbed to pull the hot pie from the oven—heedless of Athan’s warning it would not be ready so soon. “I want tonight to be nice,” Orma confessed, giving him a miserable sort of look.

“It will be,” Athan assured her.

“For you,” she insisted. “I want... I want you to like them. Because they’re the best family I’ve got, and if I can’t charm you with the best, then that just leaves the rest of them, and they make you worry about...” she stopped, her wings wilting.

Athan did not rise. Did not come and take her by the shoulders and tell her everything would be all right.

“Come here,” he said instead, more firmly than she’d expected of him.

She made a half-hearted gesture toward the oven, and he shook his head. Beckoning her toward him.

She sighed, not knowing why she felt a knot of dread, as if she was about to receive some sort of reprimand. Athan wasn’t like that. Never had been, and never would be.

Her lips twitched when he took hold of her wrists as soon as she was near enough to do so. Helped her negotiate around the Brum, who seemed perfectly pleased to have his charges situated so close to one another.

Then down onto his lap, where he tucked his arms about her waist and perched his chin upon her shoulder. “If they were beastly—which they won’t be. If they were wretched and mean and served only the most hideous meal for our supper, I would love you no less.”

“But...” she began, ready with talk of regrets and how much better he deserved.

“Not a bit,” he insisted. “And we would go to see them as long as it made you happy.”

A knot tightened in her stomach. “I want you to be happy,” she murmured, turning her head so she could look at him. “I want to give you what family I can.”

And that was it, wasn’t it? When she saw how sweetly he taught her. When he spoke with such reverence of his parents and his master, she could picture him with a child. One to help and guide. To teach about healing. To make sure there was someone as kind and compassionate for the future generation of Harquil.

“I shall have an apprentice one day,” Athan said after a moment’s consideration. “Perhaps younger than I was. And if that is not sufficient, we shall see about a mate for Brum. Or a host of little orphans to trouble him.”

His grip about her tightened, and his lips met her covered shoulder. “We will not want for family. This, I promise you. Whether by blood or by choosing, you will be loved. Will have someone to love.”

Her eyes watered. And it was the stress of baking, that was all. It wasn’t the way she warmed all over when he spoke to her that way. When he knew what she needed to hear and gave it freely. Not pretty lies to serve as a balm for now, a punishment for later. Always genuine.

He was happy to have whatever life, so long as it was with her.

She shifted further so she could wrap her arms around him. Could hold him to her and let the bond suffuse with all the affection she felt for him. “I’m happy for it to be you, for now,” she murmured. “And the Brum.”

His lips quirked upward, and his hands were soft as they smoothed up her sides and around her back. “How fortunate am I,” he observed, pressing her close. Breathing her in.

The old her would have snorted at that. Would have listed off all the reasons he was ridiculous, how much more he deserved.

But this Orma, the one that was loved. Loved in return...

She could nestle close. She could smile and accept his words as truth.

Because she felt entirely the same.

Then sat upright. Couldn’t even take time to glower as she lurched off his lap and hurried back to the oven. “My pie!”

While Athan laughed, and that really was wretched of him, but her heart was light even with her momentary panic.

And when she opened it, the fruits were bubbling nicely, and the crust was golden. A little lopsided perhaps, where it had swelled more on one side than the other, but no less appealing as she placed it on the counter and stared.

She’d done that. With her own two hands. With knowledge in her own head and skill in her hands, no matter how new it might be.

“Well?” Athan asked, still seated at the table. “Will it do? Or shall we venture out empty-handed?”

She turned, her smile wide and her eyes a little misty. “I made this,” she declared. “I did.”

His eyes were fond as he nodded. “I never doubted you.”

She had. Over and over. But he was steady and sure, and somewhere along the line she trusted his judgement beyond her own.

She fluttered back to his lap. Where she pulled him close and he was laughing at her enthusiasm, and that was all right, because she could quiet him easily enough when she tugged at his collar and kissed him.

Thoroughly.

Because he was right, and she had been very wrong, and it was easier to accept when they were kissing.

They could indulge. In a flurry of clothes and movement, there could be time enough. But she wouldn’t. She would simply celebrate her victory how she pleased. Would fly part of the way to Lucian’s, and walk the rest, so her hair and dress were smooth and tidy for when they arrived.

Her pie would be covered in cloths and tucked in a basket. Firen would open the door, because her excitement would have her peeking through the window for a first glance of Athan.

She would pull Orma aside. Whisper how handsome he was. And Orma wouldn’t shy away, but would nod and state her agreement. Would tell her he was clever, and wonderful, and she could want no better.

And Firen would cry just a little, because that was her way. Would hug her close and tell her how happy she was before she approached Athan and began asking him all sorts of questions about himself.

Which would leave Orma to keep Lucian from peeking inside her basket, and he wouldn’t listen, then would ask where she’d bought it because certainly she hadn’t made it herself.

Then she would smack his arm and accuse him of being horrid, because she most certainly had.

Because she was capable. And was more than a sickly creature confined to her bed.

Perhaps some days she would be. And that was all right, too. But on the others...

Whether for a day, or an hour, or simply a moment...

She had things to do. And the want to do them.

She had a mate to love. To be with.

A Brum to pet and sneak nibbles to when Athan wasn’t looking.

She had parents that loved her. That had done their best, and perhaps it had been inadequate. Perhaps there was more they might have done, or less or...

She did not even know.

And maybe it mattered. Maybe she’d talk with them one day about how they’d hurt her with their choices. With taking hers from her.

Or maybe not. As she flourished in the life she wanted, perhaps the past would fade. She might remember it, but not dwell there. Not when the alternative was to be here instead. Tucked in Athan’s arms. In her own kitchen.

That had only two storeys. Had an infirmary built at its side.

Not a tower. Not steeped in a history of bloodlines and greatness.

But was precious all the same.

Not only for what it was, but for who lived there.

And most of all, because it was home.