Chapter 9
Maeve hadn’t exactly planned on filling the thirty or so minutes of walking home with idle chatter, but after a few silent walks, she just couldn’t bear it any longer.
Really, it was mostly just Maeve talking and Soren listening, but she didn’t get the feeling he minded.
That was a relief—she’d found most men didn’t really listen but instead merely waited for their time to talk again.
Meanwhile, Soren the lion-man listened carefully, a little line of concentration between his brows, as if he’d be tested later about what she’d said.
It was charming in a way, and so Maeve indulged.
She hadn’t really had anyone to talk to in ages.
She had a few friends in university, but it was more out of survival instinct, strength in numbers, to keep safe from the worst gossip and maligning.
And besides, no one wanted to be deemed guilty by association with her, and so once Brianne Kewleigh marked Maeve out for scorn, few stood by her.
She’d had plenty of friends in and around Granach; she was always planning get-togethers or matchmaking for them.
She disliked the word meddling, but whatever anyone called it, Maeve was excellent at it and enjoyed keeping a lively social circle.
However, strangely, none of these friends had come to see her.
They were busy, she supposed; what letters she’d received from home told of weddings and births she’d missed.
Even though she believed most were still nearby, she’d yet to see anyone from before university.
Without anyone else to talk to, Maeve had to improvise. Although some might think it a strange arrangement, since neither intended to pursue the fated mate matter, she considered Soren a safe enough ear. He was a quiet soul and didn’t speak much at all; she needn’t worry about errant gossip.
To be sure, there were a dozen otherly men in her evening classes who’d gladly listen to anything she had to say, but there again, she couldn’t be sure they weren’t just hoping for some tidbit to use later. Soren, at least, in his indifference, she could trust.
Such a strange situation we’ve found ourselves in, Maeve couldn’t help thinking.
Still, it passed the time well enough, and it was nice to put to words so many of the things she’d been thinking.
“Of course, underestimating Brianne was my own mistake,” she admitted to him on that night’s walk home. “I just didn’t think correcting her form would upset her so much. It was all the way back in our first year. Maybe even the first month. She hated me from then on.”
She could’ve avoided Brianne’s grudge and retribution by keeping quiet, of course, but Maeve didn’t see the point of ignoring when someone or something was wrong.
Why not call attention to it so it could be corrected?
And it wasn’t as if she spoke to Brianne in any particularly cruel way—she said it as she’d say it to anyone.
Maeve hadn’t anticipated Brianne was the sensitive type, like Blaire, but her rival had proved herself the vindictive type, certainly.
Soren made a considering noise and added a rare comment. “Sometimes, others’ words get stuck in the head and just won’t come out.”
That could be true. Although, Maeve couldn’t think of something someone had said about or to her that’d leave such an ugly scar. She just didn’t care that much about what others said, and honestly, it seemed like the better way to live.
Perhaps she might’ve cared what Padraic said about her, but he never got the chance to break things off—he simply disappeared from Queen Angharad and her life, never to be seen nor heard from again.
Perhaps that was worse.
If their positions had been reversed, Maeve would have at least found a way to see him and state clearly why it was over. She’d always had this rule for herself with any sort of dalliance, tryst, or relationship—be final. Even if it’s a blow, make it a clean blow.
“You could be right,” she allowed, “but all she had to do was say something and I’d have apologized. Instead, she waged a secret campaign of slander and undermining for the next three years. I’d honestly be flattered if it hadn’t ruined my prospects.”
“She truly had that power?”
“Apparently,” Maeve sighed. “Another fatal underestimation of mine. Her family were powerful within their guild, but I didn’t realize they had such reach. I suspect quite a few…exaggerations were made about me, too.”
A rumbly, growly sort of sound erupted from Soren, nearly making her jump. Clapping a hand over her own chest, Maeve stared at him in surprise.
A frown, darker than the gloaming, shadowed his eyes. In the low lantern light, the reflective green of his eyes looked positively ghoulish.
“They insult you?” His voice seemed different then, as if it came from somewhere far deeper in his chest.
“I’m sure they did. Although, I doubt it was overly creative.”
His head cocked to the side in question, and Maeve had to bite her cheek to keep from smiling. The expression, along with his clear offense on her behalf, was endearing.
“Calling someone an incompetent slag can ruin most reputations, no creativity needed.”
His frown only deepened, and he grumbled—and she grinned—all the way to the property line.
When they arrived at the usual spot where they bid goodnight, Maeve turned to him to do just that but was surprised to find him observing her quite seriously. Was he…upset?
“I hope you know, Miss Maeve, that you’re none of those things.”
She couldn’t help her smile. “I’ve been called a slag before, it doesn’t bother me so much, but I’m far from incompetent.”
Maeve could almost see his blush through his fur despite the darkness. Ears flicking back and forth, Soren cleared his throat.
“Indeed not.” And with a curt bow of his head, he said, “Goodnight, Miss Maeve.”
“Goodnight, Mister Soren.”
All in all, once Maeve got used to it, she didn’t mind having Soren around.
The children certainly loved him, and he was a great help on those days when Briseis was called away to mayoral duties.
He kept the schoolhouse and its grounds immaculate; the paint was never chipped, the foliage never unkempt.
He let the children clambered all over him; their favorite was when he’d take an afternoon break after luncheon, sitting in the sun patiently as they climbed him like a tree.
Biting her lips together to keep from laughing, Maeve joined them one afternoon, laying down a blanket to sit on and securing the ribbons of her wide-brim hat. While she enjoyed Sorcha’s many freckles, she didn’t want them for herself.
The students’ laughter sweetened the already beautiful afternoon, although Maeve did have to pull one little bug off of Soren’s tail.
“Not too rough,” she told Dervla, the second-youngest of her students. “Pulling tails isn’t nice.”
Dervla nodded gravely before turning to pounce on her older brother Emrys.
As Maeve covered her snort, Soren assured her, “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”
“Manticore tails aren’t sensitive?” She remembered learning cat’s tails, especially the base, were packed with nerves, and Briseis had commented before that the base of her own tail was quite sensitive.
“Not particularly. It’s the ears that…” Said ears swiveled back and forth before laying flat against his dark, thick mane.
“I see. And the paws, are they as sensitive as human hands?”
They both watched as he lifted a hand, turning it up to reveal thick fingers studded by rounded pink pads. They were the perfect combination of a human hand and cat’s paw, tipped in claws that retracted nearly to the tip. Those had to be handy when he had a particularly bad itch.
Maeve held out her own hand to compare. Her next breath was a sharp inhale; she hadn’t expected what a striking sight their hands made side by side. His positively dwarfed hers. Although vaguely similar in shape, the differences were marked.
“I can’t say,” he nearly whispered, “I don’t have human hands.”
Because old habits died hard, Maeve couldn’t help the lightest, gentlest touch to his palm pad with the very tip of her finger. She watched his reaction through her lashes, gratified when his throat bobbed on a hard swallow.
A choked sound caught in that throat. “Ah, they’re sensitive, yes.”
“Mm.”
After another moment, she took pity on him and ceased her teasing. When his gaze managed to make it up to hers, she smiled, hoping it wasn’t too evilly. He was just so easily flustered, her Mister Soren.
“And what about manticore wings? Are they sensitive?”
He tugged at an ear and his slitted pupils dilated. Ah ha, she’d discovered something else.
They both startled when they heard Soren’s name called from the schoolhouse. Briseis waved at them. “Could I speak with you a moment?” she called.
He didn’t have to look quite so relieved as he jumped up with a muttered, “Excuse me.” Maeve hid her amusement behind her hand.
She waved at Briseis as Soren marched for her, and the dragoness returned the greeting. Maeve was about to turn back to watching the children but noticed the way Briseis’s gaze softened when it fell on Soren.
Interesting.
Maeve pulled the brim of her hat a little lower, trying not to be too obvious as she blatantly watched the manticore and dragoness.
She was sure it was merely about this maintenance or that repair, but with how they spoke and looked at each other, it seemed overtly intimate.
She’d suspected they harbored a fondness for each other; although she didn’t see them together too often, the way Briseis spoke of Soren, like he could do no wrong, certainly caught Maeve’s attention.
When Briseis had first talked about Soren to her, Maeve had half expected her to introduce him as her beau.
Dragons took mates, too. Were said to be quite fierce about it. Neither Briseis nor her half-brother Theron had felt the pull toward anyone, although Briseis assured her that the mate-pull wasn’t necessary to form lasting attachments.
Soren doesn’t want a mate. He’d made that clear enough.
Maybe Briseis didn’t either.
Maybe neither wanted mates—but they did want each other.
And then Maeve had arrived, Soren’s feather had fallen, and Briseis had stepped aside.
She might’ve swooned from the delicious drama of it all, had she not been directly involved in the tragedy, too.
Stomach swooping, Maeve looked away, turning her unfocused eyes to the playing children.
Fates, what if she’d come between them? She hadn’t even considered…
But would Briseis have really stepped aside so easily? Why wouldn’t Soren have said something or explained the situation to Maeve if he and Briseis were already involved? Could their bond truly be that strong if it was given up so easily?
Those questions and others buzzed round her head louder than the fat bees that pollinated the meadow.
Maeve would of course step aside herself if that’s what they wished. Who was she to stand in their way? She was a human, didn’t feel the mate-pull. Soren owed her nothing at all.
And yet…why did her chest feel so tight?
Maeve rubbed at it, not liking the feeling at all.
Surely, if whatever was between Soren and Briseis was anything serious, one of them would’ve said something by now. Maybe it was only Briseis who felt something; from the way Soren spoke of it, he didn’t seem inclined to have any sort of romantic partner at all.
Somehow, that made Maeve feel even worse. Poor Briseis. She was sweet and kind. Honestly, the type of match that would likely suit shy Soren well.
I knew coming back home was a bad idea.
Sighing, Maeve rested her chin in her hand, trying not to fret too much. This wasn’t worth worrying about, really. Eventually, she’d leave here, and then maybe Briseis and Soren could rekindle…whatever it was they had together.
The thought didn’t fill her with the reassurance she’d hoped.
The afternoon quickly cooled, and Maeve peered up at the sky, watching as the last curve of the sun disappeared behind a cloud.
Or, perhaps, he truly did want to remain alone. No companion in Briseis nor mate in Maeve—just…alone.
That thought didn’t reassure her, either.