Quincy
He knew it not to be true, not with how passionately they had reunited. But that was precisely why he owed her at least as much as she was giving him. Like a guest owed his host for the honour and comfort.
And then, on his second night there, she had come to him in his quarters after dinner and invited him to tea in her own.
It was then that he realised she could be dangerous too. He could have refused a servant with some excuse she would have had to pretend to believe, but he could hardly refuse her directly.
They were seated in a nook next to the hearth, on armchairs upholstered in a deep purple colour that contrasted with Mar's dark bronze skin and golden hair. He noted the fire was raging despite Saranians’ greater indifference to the cold.
“No chocolate for Lord Quincy,” she told the serving boy gently but firmly, as if repeating something she had already instructed him on. “Bring us some of those coconut pastries instead.”
He had not said a word, which meant she must have made it her business to find out his preferences.
“Quincy, may I be frank?” she asked him once they were alone and properly supplied. There was little chance he could make himself eat anything, but he appreciated the gesture.
He nodded, the courtesy a much more effective trap than a wall at his back.
“Valgar struggles to speak his thoughts sometimes, but he is very much aware that he could have handled his... Courtship of you better. He meant you no harm, but he did not ask you what you wanted, and he did harm you nonetheless.”
His eyes jerked to her face, heart thundering.
Her own gaze didn’t waver, then she frowned, squinting at him. “Oh,” she said softly, and shocked him even further by taking his hand on the table and squeezing it. “He can feel that,” she explained. “Don’t be scared.”
He couldn’t help it, he stiffened further. It was bad enough his mate knew what he was feeling, but if Mar could as well, he would...
And then, a wave of despair came at him through the bond, so strong a small noise escaped him. Mar’s eyes were full of the same deep sadness when she raised them again. “You see?” she asked.
He did see, it had been her own emotions, bouncing off their shared alpha’s own and finally arriving loud and clear in his own mind. He licked his lips, hesitating. “What were you thinking of?
She let go of his hand then and sipped at the small cup of yellow liquor the maid had poured for her. “The children.”
The words were as heavy as the emotions, a small wave of the pain he’d felt lingering still.
“I thought...”
Mar shook his head. “I conceived very fast, actually. We— We thought it was a good sign, but I could never... They never stayed long.”
He was on his feet and reaching for her before he knew it, pausing with his hand only inches from her slim shoulder.
And somehow, despite the heavy despair exuding from her every pore—he could no longer tell what was coming from the bond and what he simply got off her, a deep animal feeling that no words could explain and his gift could not keep out.
He let his hand land, his fingers curling around her upper arm.
“But you did,” he said, because it was true and he was glad of it.
He should have wanted her gone, out of his way and most definitely out of his head, but she had survived. She’d found the strength to go on, just like he had, and he could do nothing but want to remind her of it, to add to her strength with his own.
Her smile was watery, but sincere.
She did not hide from the pain of her loss, but neither did she allow it to rule her life. “I did,” she agreed and put her own small hand on his again. “And so did you.”
***
THEY HAD NOT SPOKEN of anything important afterwards, but he had stayed for a few candle marks all the same. It had been a long time since he’d had a close friend, he’d lost a few to marriage, some others to childbirth and yet more because alphas and omegas could not be friends.
She was the last person he’d expected to want to confide in, and in truth, he had said nothing much himself. But her own trust had opened a door between them, and... Valgar was another.
It wasn’t until the next day that he could put into words what he’d understood instinctively; she could not be indifferent to his suffering because it was as much her own as it was his.
And the same was true for Quincy.