Chapter 12
Balar planted his fists on his hips and lifted his head to take a good sniff. It only confirmed what he already knew—Imogen wasn’t home.
Surveying her property with a frown, he searched for any clue as to where she could be.
The goats and Chestnut the donkey were safe in their paddock, happily finishing up the remains of breakfast. The runner ducks had been let loose amongst the garden, a temporary fence erected to keep them in and predators out.
Nothing seemed amiss. Shadow the dog was missing, too, so he supposed she at least had some protection. Wherever she was.
Grumbling, Balar tried hard not to seriously pout. He was the one who’d been away for two straight days without a word. Had it gone into a third, he would’ve sent whichever brother he could catch to Imogen, along with his apologies.
Thankfully, the worst of the ruffled otherly feathers seemed to be smoothed over for now.
With winter approaching, most of the village had decided it was best to keep Balar in his mayoral position.
Although, that decision came with many a warning scowl not to keep disappearing and shirking his duties.
He was resigned to it—he’d taken up the mantle and had to see it through.
But he’d gotten away today, at least for the morning, and he was desperate to see his kigara and how she’d languished without him.
So it was more than a small disappointment when he arrived to find her gone.
Scratching behind his ear, Balar tucked his wings and marched to the front door again. Knocking louder a second time, he pressed his ear to the wood, intending to catch even the scurry of a dormouse.
Nothing.
Looking around again and seeing no sign, Balar tested the handle—and found it unlocked.
His ears perked, and gathering his courage, he pushed the door open a few inches. He’d only ever glimpsed the inside of her cottage. He also had never been invited inside, and so Balar didn’t cross the threshold.
Still, he opened the door wide enough to poke his head inside.
“Imogen? It’s me, Balar,” he called.
Silence met his greeting.
The air inside the cottage was cool and still, the fireplace empty. It smelled of her, though, and Balar took a long pull of it, letting the scent fill his lungs.
The main room of the cottage was long and multipurpose; the front was a small mudroom, the threshold covered in a sturdy thrush mat.
Imogen’s coats and cloaks hung from pegs, and her spare pair of boots sat beneath a narrow bench for sitting to don her shoes.
Further along was a workspace, a large fireplace and mantel set into one wall and a worktable set against the other.
He couldn’t quite discern her current project, a few tools and leather scraps strewn across the table.
Next came a comfortable living area, a padded bench and armchair set on either side of a low table. A small bookcase was overstuffed with books and folios, and a dark lantern sat atop it. Across from the leisure furniture was a door, leading to the bedchamber he supposed.
Last was the kitchen. Countertops laden with glass jars, ceramic cups, and stoneware pitchers were clean and orderly.
Used but sparkling clean pots and pans hung above the oven, and many of the cabinets looked full of ingredients and supplies.
Three battered chairs sat round a circular kitchen table, a small bouquet of wildflowers kept in a chipped vase.
It was a small space, but he could easily see Imogen in it.
Everything about it spoke to its mistress.
Neat, unassuming, sturdy. There was little in the way of decoration or frivolity.
Other than the little bouquet and a lace doily on the low table, there were few trinkets or knickknacks to liven the rooms.
Would she enjoy a few pretty things? Balar himself had a soft spot for trinkets and prettiness.
When they had finally decided to put down roots here in the Darrowlands, some of the first purchases he’d made for his cabin were a set of embroidered down pillows and a luxurious blanket that was on one side the softest wool and on the other lambskin.
His cabin was still fairly basic, his own tables and chairs just as battered as Imogen’s.
He didn’t see a point in procuring anything more than sturdy with how rough he knew his brothers would be on the furniture.
But when it came to little luxuries, Balar was known to indulge.
The finest leather for new kilts for him and Kiri.
Fine pewter tankards and good wine and ale to pour into them.
He enjoyed sachets of lavender and cedar to scent a room and good spices to flavor meat.
Even those few luxuries seemed excessive compared to the humble contents of Imogen’s cottage. It was apparent she had everything she needed. Everything in here looked well-loved. But what did she like just because? Flowers? Bells? Pretty lace or soft silk?
Balar was determined to find out.
Rustling to his right had his ears swiveling, and Balar quickly pulled his head outside again and the door shut. He had just enough time to step away from the door before Imogen appeared from the forest.
“Good morning!” he called.
“Good morning,” she replied, joining him in the meadow.
The color was high in her cheeks, and he could see the fast beat of her pulse in her neck.
Pupils dilating with focus, Balar asked, “What’s the matter, urisá?”
Shaking her head, Imogen patted her cheek. “I was picking blackberries down by the river just now and a bear came by.”
Balar’s gaze shot over her head. He took another great sniff, trying to detect any sign of the threat.
“It’s gone now,” Imogen told him. “It was fattening up for winter, I’m sure. We just surprised each other.”
Balar had never heard Imogen blather before. This truly must have shaken her.
Cupping her arm gently, he reassured her, “You’re safe now, urisá. Stay here, I’ll go frighten it off.”
“No need,” she said, gripping his fingers with her own.
Awareness zipped down Balar’s back. It was the first time she’d initiated touch.
The blood rushed in his ears so loudly, he almost didn’t hear her say, “It’s strange.
Shadow and I watched it approach—I’m sure it knew where we were—but then it turned to a tree, took one sniff, and ran off quicker than I’ve ever seen.
I’ve never known a bear to do that. Bears are the biggest thing in these woods. ”
“That’s not true. At least not anymore,” he said with a toothy grin. “That bear recognized a more dangerous predator.”
Imogen frowned. “He scented you?”
“Indeed. I’ve taken the precaution of marking the rough boundary of your property with my scent.”
Utter silence met his declaration, and Balar couldn’t help running a nervous hand through his mane as those sharp eyes of hers stared at him.
“You did what?” she asked, voice dangerously low.
“For your protection and my peace of mind. I marked the trees and underbrush to ward off predators.” And any male stupid enough to think to steal you away.
“I see.”
Why am I suddenly nervous? He wouldn’t apologize, for he wasn’t sorry, but he could regret that he hadn’t foreseen that she might not like him marking her land. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything.
Thinking fast, he asked, “What’s your favorite color?”
Imogen’s brows arched nearly to her hairline. “Uhm…green, I suppose. Why?”
“A good color. Lush, hearty. Mine is gold, which also looks very fine with green.” He smiled wide, avoiding answering her question.
But he was mistaken to think that his sharp mate would be distracted. He could admire her for it, even if he did grimace when she said, “You marked my land.” Not a question.
“I did, yes.”
He watched her lips thin with growing trepidation. Kud, if she found out he’d peeked inside her cottage, she might banish him entirely.
“Why?”
Balar thought he’d already answered that, but he did as she asked and explained, “I knew it would deter predators, and it seems it’s done just that. I fear for you out here on your own. If I cannot be here myself to protect you, at least my scent can provide some small defense.”
Her expression didn’t change—no softening, but no scowling, either.
“Balar, what is it you want from me?”
It was his turn to raise his brows. He’d definitely explained this, too.
“I want you, urisá. For my own. Saba em pash-ket. I was beginning to despair of ever finding you.”
“But what does that all mean for you?”
Balar didn’t immediately answer, considering her, searching for clues. What had happened these past two days to make her unsure of him again?
“It means I wish to share a life with you, kigara. I wish to know you, every part and bit, and for you to know me. I know it’s the human way to court first, and so we are courting now. I’m a patient manticore, and I’m enjoying getting to learn about you.”
If he’d been hoping for reciprocation or compliments, he’d be disappointed.
“Then you should know that this won’t go away.” Pushing back her hair, she bared the reddened half of her face at him.
It shocked Balar—not the mark itself, but that she revealed it. Always tugging her hair down, she seemed determined to hide it as much as possible.
But she demanded he look at it, and so he did.
The mark again. Is it why she questions me so?
“I’ve always had this. It’ll probably get bigger with time. There’s no covering it up or getting rid of it.”
Angry tears flashed in her eyes, and Balar hated it. Oh, urisá. Her pain was as bare to see as the birthmark, and Balar’s chest ached with it.
Slowly, so, so slowly, he stepped forward and reached for her. Gently, he cupped her cheek in his palm. The warmth of her skin nearly burned him, another zing of awareness sparking between his wings, but he put it aside.
“I know this,” he said. “It’s as much a part of you as your eyes being brown.”
Her brows snapped together—not quite a frown, but something worse. Something frustrated, pained. “But it’s—” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t find the words.
An unhappy sound rumbled in his chest as he watched her struggle. Her feelings over her birthmark affected her so deeply, she couldn’t put them into words.
He’d underestimated her pain.
Drawing the pad of his thumb across her red cheek, Balar told her softly, “When it’s time to name a new pride leader, there’s a ceremony.
The new erēz has her face painted in ochre to symbolize her power, her reign.
That’s what I see when I look upon this mark, kigara.
An anointed erēz in command of her pride. ”
Imogen’s eyes rounded, the irises completely surrounded in white. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, but Balar quickly wiped it away. There was no need for her to cry, not if he was there.
“Kurun-inanda we call it. The goddess mark. It means you are blessed.”
Her lips scrunched, and for a moment, Balar worried that she would sob. But in the next moment, she shut her eyes and wiped at her unshed tears. He watched as his mate shored up her defenses, pulling back her hurts.
He admired her strength, but it gutted him to see it all the same.
I will have her hurts one day. They will be mine just as much as her smiles.
Those hurts wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
“It’s never felt like a blessing,” she muttered.
“You humans have strange ways,” he said, attempting levity. “It’s just some color upon your skin.”
Imogen hummed, neither agreeing nor denying. Instead, silence stretched between them, but Balar was just grateful to have seen and met her fears—and for the chance to get to touch her.
Clearing her throat, Imogen lifted the basket she was carrying, presenting him with a wealth of fat, juicy blackberries.
Purring in pleasure, he scarfed down a few, making a show of it and heaping compliments on her harvesting skills. “A woman who can pick such perfect berries is invaluable.”
She didn’t laugh, but a reluctant smile did touch the corners of her lips, rounding her cheeks.
Feeling bold, Balar bent and placed one berry-flavored kiss upon her red cheek. “Kurun-inanda,” he whispered against her skin.
Her other cheek pinkened in a lovely blush.
Balar grinned, and, wrapping his wing around her, he led her toward the cottage.
“Now, I unfortunately only have the morning to give you, so tell me all about what you’ve done and how much you’ve missed me.”
“That won’t take long.”
Her lips twitched, and Balar threw his head back and laughed. A rare joke! Ah, his sah-zenda always enlivened him with her wit.
“Very well, then I will tell you all about mine, and I did miss you very much, so it might take all morning.”