Chapter 7
At least Maeve needed to watch her footfalls in the growing darkness as she walked the path home; it was something to do. Soren the Mysterious Manticore lived up to the sobriquet she’d given him, as he remained stalwart in his silence as he walked beside her.
She was indeed safe, as she’d quipped back in the schoolroom; there was no denying that any predator would think twice about taking on a hulking manticore.
Shoulders rounded with muscles, arms and thighs bulging with them too, he was the epitome of masculine strength, the low light of the lantern catching on the many ridges of his body.
Safe too from him, it seemed. It’d been a bit of a gamble she took, accepting his offer, but a necessary one.
If she hadn’t, she might’ve been escorted—if not carried—home by at least five or more of her new students.
Although her pride certainly enjoyed the admiration, having so many big bodies crowding close, anxious to earn her attention had been a bit overwhelming.
Thank fates the windows had been open to air out all the male pheromones.
Maeve didn’t want a tryst or dalliance right now. It sounded like a complication, honestly. And she’d heard enough from Sorcha that these otherly men weren’t usually the tryst or dalliance kind. No, they seemed the bed, wed, and bred kind.
Absolutely not. Perhaps in the distant future, but Maeve still had so much to do, so many places to go. Far too much to be snapped up by a man who’d keep her tied to her childhood demesne, no matter the fantastic breadth of his shoulders.
So really, perhaps it’d been a good thing that Soren had run from whatever mate-bond he might’ve felt.
When they next made it to a flat, wide part of the path, Maeve glanced his way from the corner of her eye. She found him already staring at her, although that stopped immediately when he saw her looking.
Clearing his throat, Soren said quietly, “I apologize, Miss Brádaigh.”
“Whatever for, Mister Soren?” Sure, she much preferred conversation, but she could handle silence.
He winced. Yes, she would make him say it. She wanted the truth after all this mystery.
“For the way I acted…before.”
Nodding, Maeve turned her attention back to her footfalls. Perhaps he’d be more comfortable talking if she wasn’t looking at him.
“Is it true, then? About the feather?”
She heard his audible swallow. “Yes.”
When he said nothing else, Maeve was forced to look at him again. “I think I’ll need a little more.”
A rumbling hum emanated from his chest, a sound of assent or consideration, perhaps.
It snagged Maeve’s attention, drawing her gaze to his chest and the tuft of hair spilling over the vee neckline of his shirt.
He was covered in hair, of course, a sleek coat of tawny brown-gold fur that looked suspiciously soft.
Why an errant tuft just above his neckline should preoccupy her so, she couldn’t say.
Maeve had never truly gone for a hulking man.
She preferred lithe men, tall and slender and sinuous.
The kind who looked like he could be a fencer, a dancer, a poet, or all of them.
With a weakness for swooping hair that flopped into their eyes, long lashes that curled nearly to their brows, and square hands with long tapered fingers, Maeve had… a particular type.
Which made it really no surprise that when she found all of this in one man, she’d gone for him wholeheartedly.
Padraic Boros had been one of her instructors at Queen Angharad; a newer teacher and not much older than the graduates, he’d been popular with most of the students.
Maeve had known what such a relationship would look like, but she’d pursued it anyway.
Padraic had been everything she wanted; with the soul of a poet, they spent long, warm evenings in front of the fire, sipping wine and discussing poetry as they slowly made love.
For the first time in her life, Maeve thought she’d found something worth staying for. The way she felt about Padraic was how Sorcha described her love for Orek. Surely it must be real then, she’d thought. Surely he must feel it, too.
He said he did. But he told several other girls the same thing.
When it all came out, Maeve had been the one named and blamed.
Padraic was quietly relocated, and many of her fellow students held it against her.
It’d convinced Brianne Kewleigh that Maeve was exactly the sort she’d thought her all along—a country slag, looking to sleep her way into fortune in the capital.
They never let Maeve forget—and worse, she never heard from Padraic again.
For a time, she’d thought it was perhaps because he’d been forbidden from contacting her or anyone at Queen Angharad, but an afternoon spent tracking him across the city to a different university found him already engaged to the daughter of a wealthy mason guild master.
His fiancée wasn’t necessarily wealthier than Maeve or the Brádaighs. She didn’t have a university education. She certainly wasn’t as pretty as Maeve.
And yet, he’d chosen her.
Maeve had been mortified. Honestly, she still was.
Padraic and their time together were constant reminders to Maeve that one had to be careful what they wished for.
She peeked at Soren again, considering. No, he was nothing like the men she’d dallied with before.
Serious, shy, big—she honestly didn’t quite know what to do with such a man.
She’d never considered the beauty of a mane before, nor how interesting bifurcated lips might feel against her own, nor what it might be like to hold a paw-hand.
But she could admit to herself that Mister Soren did have nice shoulders.
There was that going for him, at least.
Fates, she’d asked him to explain himself and she was barely paying attention!
“The feather is a sign that the goddess has chosen a mantii’s mate. Their kigara,” he was saying. “To have fled from you…it is a great shame for me.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” she hurried to say. “I’m sure it was overwhelming.”
Maeve waited patiently for him to say more.
It seemed Mister Soren was a sensitive soul, not unlike Blaire.
Maeve rarely had the patience to cater to such sensitivity—it was exhausting tying oneself up in knots trying to say something while not hurting someone prone to being hurt.
Still, she found herself softening a little toward him; it was plain to see how badly he felt about that day.
Soren nodded. “I never thought I would be blessed. My brothers have all searched for their mates, but I’ve never entertained the hope.”
Something about the way he said that, in his deep, rumbling voice, tugged at Maeve’s heart. Why wouldn’t he expect to find someone—if not a fated mate then a lover, at least? Plenty of women, and men too, enjoyed a hulking physique, especially when it came with a shy soul inside it.
“And now that you have?” she asked, voice gone whisper soft.
He tugged at his ear. Rather than look at her, as she beseeched him to with her rounded eyes, Soren shook his head.
“You need not worry,” he assured her. “I know you didn’t choose this. I know you wouldn’t choose me otherwise. I never intended to find my kigara, and although I have, I still don’t intend to take a mate.”
Maeve blinked up at him surprise. That…wasn’t at all what she was expecting.
So, he hadn’t expected to find a fated mate, but even though he had, he still wasn’t going to accept it? Because he didn’t want a mate, or because he didn’t want her?
Well now, what a polite, roundabout way to be rejected.
Those pulled heartstrings snapped back into place, leaving her chest smarting and pride stinging. Turning her head to watch their path, she realized they were very near the property line of her family’s lands.
“That’s a relief to hear,” she said, affecting an airy tone, “for I don’t intend to stay here for long.”
Her remark garnered a frown from him, and his gaze nearly made it to her shoulder.
“You’ll leave?”
“Yes.”
“But I hear the children are fond of you.”
“And I’m fond of them. But there’s no opportunity for advancement here. I mean to transfer to Dundúran at least, if not another city when I can. I intend to see out the year with the children, of course, but in the meantime, I’ll be making inquiries.”
“I see.”
That was all he had to say to her declaration, and that was just fine. The walk was nearly at an end anyway, and soon they were bidding terse goodnights.
Maeve absolutely didn’t stomp all the way to the manor house, and she definitely didn’t feel the sting of tears in her eyes.
Absolutely not. She didn’t want a fated mate, either, did she.
No complications or anchors. He wouldn’t burden her with his goddess’s decision, so she wouldn’t worry about it, either.
Perfect.