7. Stay
Firen yelped—a distinctly unfeminine sound, most particularly when it accompanied the lurch and wriggle as she fought both the quilt surrounding her and the arm that was suddenly around her waist.
Lucian loomed over her, and there was a distinct tug of happiness through the bond that thrilled her.
“You jumped on me!” she protested, because that seemed the right sort of thing to do when she’d taken a moment to herself, only to be accosted with her eyes closed and her body almost ready to drift into an afternoon nap.
“Which would not have been possible if you were conscious,” Lucian argued, still keeping most of his weight on her. Which she should really fuss about, but didn’t. Yet. “Are you sick?” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her, and she rolled her eyes.
“Hardly. My eyes got tired, that’s all. Chains are fiddly work, but people do like to wear them.” Necklaces, anklets. Even the bracelets that dripped down daintily toward long fingers. Trinkets and gifts for special occasions. They sold well, even if she did not always care for the tediousness of making them.
Rings must be sized, making it all the harder for the buyer. But chains...
She shifted so that she could place both hands about his neck, smiling at him tiredly. “And what has you home early?”
If he minded she called the loft home, he did not complain. They were to leave tomorrow. Or... the week was ending. She wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t fallen asleep with an ache in her stomach the last two nights in trepidation of it.
Which had woken Lucian. And he’d grumbled and rolled back over to her, and rubbed at her skin until she warmed all over, and if they’d kissed and loved again, that was hardly her fault.
“You should not work so hard that it hurts you.” He smoothed at the line he must have found between her brows where the strain settled.
She smiled and nodded, all the while thinking of how many coins it could fetch her at the next market.
Fetch them.
“Forget about that. Tell me, is your good mood upon finding me already in bed and awaiting you, or is there something else that pleased you?”
He rolled to his side of their joined cots, and there probably should have been some sort of scolding about outerwear and boots and bedding—but she noted his feet were already off the end of the cot and she needn’t have thought otherwise.
“I finally met with Vandran.”
Firen did not so much as twitch, but she’d hoped one of the faceless names from the list would have caused his sudden shift in mood.
“Oh, yes?”
He reached over and pulled at a lock of her hair, twisting it about his finger absently. “Yes. At first, he stated his regrets that I had not been old enough to mate one of his daughters.”
Firen did not frown, but she wanted to. “Is that so?”
His eyes shifted ever so slightly in her direction, and he did not smirk at her, which saved her from having to shove at his shoulder in punishment. “It is. And I thought that rather a good start, as it meant he knew me well enough to think me appropriate for his family.”
Or had been. Before her.
“I’m glad he likes you,” Firen murmured. It was honest, but there was still hurt there. A wound that was going to be slow to heal.
He took her hand and held it on top of his stomach, fiddling with her fingers. To soothe her? It was working, which perhaps reflected rather badly on her ability to remain cross with him. “That is perhaps a bit strong. He thinks I have potential.” His grip tightened ever so slightly. “My father saw us speaking.”
Firen turned to her side, the better to look at him. “Was he angry?”
Lucian played with her fingers, his thumb moving over the delicate nail bed, the arch of each fingertip. “Yes.”
He did not elaborate. And perhaps she ought to have pressed him, but it seemed rather fruitless. Nothing Oberon might have said would do anything but hurt her. No, that wasn’t true. It could make her lose even more respect for him, make her hate the way he could affect her mate. Send him back into his surly attitude, back to glares and tense shoulders.
Flinching slightly at her unexpected touches.
She liked this one. Warm and pliable. That touched. Liked her touches in return.
His expression clouded, and the smile that had been easy on his lips faded. She curled into his side and hugged him close. “I’m sorry.”
Lucian huffed out a breath. “It isn’t your fault.”
But that was the trouble, wasn’t it? It was, and it wasn’t. Some days she felt the crush of guilt for it, mingled in with her private joys. Because he was here and he’d settled nicely into the family she loved so dearly.
Her brothers had come for supper. Had eyed him appraisingly and muttered about treating their sister well, and then asked why Da had never left them live in the loft when they were first mated?
To which Firen had shoved at both of them. “Because it has always been mine, and I’ll thank you to remember it.”
Lucian had watched them strangely. He did not glower or glare, but there was a look that, when paired with the twinge in the bond, had made her cross back to him and take his hand and smile at him. She did not ask what was wrong. Not then. She’d learned that already. He was amiable enough with her family—he asked them personal queries and answered readily when they posed polite questions in return. But when it came to how he felt, those talks were reserved for when they were tucked away in their loft. More often than not, a tangle of limbs and feathers. When the bond was pleased with their joining, and all was calm and quiet.
Then she could ask him.
And he’d clutch her a little tighter and remain quiet for a while. She’d grown anxious of it at first, but she was learning to be patient with him. To allow him to gather his thoughts, to set them in order before he made any attempt at answering her.
But this one was particularly slow in coming. She’d only asked what had troubled him at supper, if someone had said something or if he took her brothers’ threats too seriously. “They would not actually hurt you.” Which sat too near an untruth, not when she’d scuffled with them herself throughout the years, and bruises had been exchanged on both sides. But they’d grown out of it. Or... had. Surely. But Lucian had no siblings, so perhaps he did not know their ways. “They were teasing.” Mostly.
“They are right to be protective of you,” Lucian disagreed, his hand coming to smooth against her side. Over and over. Soothing, or being soothed? She could not quite tell. “You are... happy. With them.”
Firen’s brow furrowed, and she put her hand on his and squeezed it gently. “I love them.”
He groaned and shook his head slowly. “I love my family. My mother. That does not mean I am happy with them. I had not... recognised there was a difference. Before.”
A lump settled in her throat. And she’d wanted him to be comfortable here, wanted him to see her family as his own, but she hadn’t considered how it might hurt him. To know what a family might have been, and how... unique... his family truly was.
She wanted to say she was sorry. Wanted to hold him. To promise she would love him. Would understand him. Would not force him to endure loving her while feeling a misery that spread like rot through his very bones.
But her mouth was dry, and the words stuck, and she could only hold his hand to her and pray that the bond said all that she could not.
And now they were lying there again. Not after a family supper, but in the middle of the afternoon. And her head ached and her eyes felt the strain of tedious work, and she sighed into her mate and closed them.
Mating was not about fault. It was deeper than that. Some might claim it was about strong offspring and the betterment of their kind, but even that felt inadequate to encompass the whole of it.
“So you saw your father, and still return to me in a pleasant mood,” Firen countered, reaching up and allowing her fingers to drift through his hair. Just once, as he could fuss when she messed with it too much. She did not point out his hypocrisy, for he certainly liked to play with her hair with little regard for the state of it when he’d finished with her.
He’d also taken to hiding her pins and ribbons, which was another matter altogether.
“I have a housing prospect.”
She didn’t stiffen. Didn’t allow the sudden bolt of anxiety to blossom into anything at all. “Oh?”
She couldn’t keep him here. Not indefinitely. But there was some part of her, perhaps too entrenched in her girlhood, that liked the idea of it.
“At the Hall.”
Which was better than his family’s tower, although there was still a prickle of guilt for thinking it. “The Hall,” she repeated, because she was listening, and she wasn’t setting herself against it. She wasn’t.
“Not inside, of course. But near to it. I’m sure it is nothing opulent—they’re mostly for understaff and apprentices. But it would be ours. Assuming... assuming he would sponsor me.”
Not theirs, then. Because it belonged to neither family. But the city belonged to them all, did it not? So maybe that was all right.
His fingers skimmed over her arm so lightly that it tickled at her. “He would like to meet you. Before he gives his endorsement.”
Firen turned her head, and he had a guarded sort of look. “That displeases you? You think me so ill mannered I shall sabotage your efforts?”
It was an ungracious thing to say, but she had mostly meant it as a jest.
But Lucian flinched, and she was sorry, and she grabbed hold of his arm before he could retreat from her fully. “Of course he wants to meet your mate,” she soothed, rubbing her thumb against his knuckles. “And I shall be happy to charm him using every one of my wiles.”
He relaxed against her, but he brought his lips toward her ear. His voice was a low rasp against her. “Is that so?”
She nodded seriously. “I am determined that one person from your circle shall think well of me.” Orma did. But Firen did not think she counted. She was not truly one of them. More hostage than anything else.
He stilled behind her, and she hoped she hadn’t insulted him somehow. She’d meant only in a light and teasing way, although there was truth enough in it she felt guilty she could not call it solely a jest. “I am not certain that is a worthwhile endeavour,” Lucian cautioned, rolling onto his back and glaring at the ceiling.
She wouldn’t be hurt by that. Wouldn’t let it land with a sting of fault and blame. “Because I am so unlikeable?” She would not allow this to dissolve into a squabble. And that seemed an easier determination when she moved over him. If he found her habit of sitting upon him disagreeable, he had to chide her for it.
And she did so like the way his eyes moved over her when she did it. How his hands settled on her thighs, and ever so gently kneaded. Her eyes and head hurt too much to be much interested in loving, but she found his touches pleasant, and if it eased the way for their talking, then it could not possibly be so wrong.
“Your father is downstairs,” Lucian reminded her.
Firen rolled her shoulders before leaning down. Not to kiss him, because they were talking, not loving, but it allowed her to keep her voice even lower. Just for him. “That is fine, because this is not a seduction.” She sat upright again, her brow quirking slightly. “Or did you have intentions of me? When my head hurts so?”
His hands went to her waist, and he held her there. “You were the one that settled upon me. And yet you call me the brute that would impose upon you?”
She did kiss him then. Just once, upon his cheek, so it was hardly a kiss at all. But it was a bit of softness when his tone had grown too hard. A reminder that they were not enemies. Not in the least.
“You are not a brute,” she murmured, skimming her lips across his cheekbone. He relaxed under her, and she feared she had touched too near a genuine concern. She sat back and eyed him, perhaps a little too closely because his expression hardened as he set his attention back toward the ceiling. It was only wooden slats. With bits of soot they had missed from their night of scrubbing. “Lucian,” she urged, her fingers continuing what her lips had begun.
He looked at her. Eyes too grey and far too worried. It was nearly enough for her to slide off of him, but she was certain if she did so he would leave and pace and perhaps escape out the door entirely.
But no. That was what she would do.
“I was only teasing,” she promised him. “But I won’t. Not about this. Not if it troubles you so.”
He made to roll his shoulders to show it did not matter to him, but it did. She could see it plainly, even as he worked to cover his expressions as best he possibly could. “It does not matter.”
She touched her finger to his bottom lip and shook her head. “Lies,” she muttered, and watched his eyes harden. Which made her kiss him again, this time a brush of her lips against his. Soft when he was sharp. Gentle when he grew prickly. “If it matters to you, it matters to me. And you have been nothing but kind to me. Whether it’s in your bed, or here in the mishmash that makes up this one.”
Firen cupped his cheek and tried to bid him look at her. His throat was tight and his head only moved because he willed it. He wasn’t glaring, but it was a near thing. She did not flinch, did not mutter an apology. Just kept her fingers gentle as she leaned a little closer. “Did you think you wouldn’t be?”
His teeth ground together, and she hated the sound. Hated it so much that she gripped his face between both of her hands and kissed him much harder than she’d intended to, so long as it meant that his jaw would loosen and he would kiss her in return.
Which was a success, for it distracted the both of them. Made the bond hum slightly, urging gently that there were much better pursuits that did not require talking or thoughts of eyes and strain and anything but being together again.
But that was not the point.
They both knew it.
So he let her withdraw, her breath tight as she struggled to shove down the feelings he’d elicited. “Talk to me. Please. I don’t want to get this wrong.”
He huffed out a breath and raised his arm to hold over his eyes. Hiding from her as best as he was able when they were situated so closely.
She should move.
Give him space and the time he needed to collect himself. Perhaps it was wrong to mingle affection and difficult talks, but she had not known that it would be a difficult talk.
He sighed deeply.
Then took hold of her waist, and while he did not move her off him, he did lift her up enough that he could sit up fully, leaving her to wriggle and decide if she was going to keep on his lap or move to her own side of the bed.
“You want to be liked. By my circle. ”
She would not fret about the way he said that. As if it was so far removed from the realm of possibilities.
He reached for her, and it was his turn to cup her cheek and hold her steady while he looked at her. “You want to charm them and be accepted, and then everything will sort itself out. Yes?”
Her mouth was dry, and this was mean, twisting her words and making them sound manipulative rather than genuine. “I want to be a help,” she clarified, proud of the way her voice was clear and did not waver. “To you.” The rest mattered, but only in the vaguest sense. If he was willing to forsake them, she would not give them another moment’s thought. Her sleep would not be plagued with worry over their opinion of her. They would simply be the horrid lot in their high towers, that happened to birth and raise the man she held dear.
But he wasn’t.
Not yet, at least.
Not for good.
He smiled, but it was not a particularly happy thing. Just the twist of his mouth, and she wanted to rub it away, either with her own lips or the touch of her finger. But she didn’t.
“I think what you do not understand,” he continued, picking up the ends of her hair and playing with it between two fingers. “Is that they do not even like me. ”
Firen’s mouth opened, but she closed it again, uncertain what she meant to say. That could not be true.
“Those people. The ones at the fete. You knew them. They were your friends.” She remembered the way he’d stepped between them. Hid her from them. She’d thought it protective at the time, but she wondered at it now. He knew all of them. Just as she knew the ones at her own fete. Her friends and neighbours from the district. They’d grown up together, even if some could be considered merely acquaintances instead.
“Yes,” Lucian agreed.
She huffed and shook her head. “I do not understand.”
He brought the tendril upward and tickled it across her cheek. The line of her neck. The slight dip of her throat where her collar went low. “I know. Because you think about things like happiness and liking, and think that it matters.”
She swallowed thickly, realising they were navigating a game she was not at all prepared to play. “Because it does.”
He nodded, but it was indulgent rather than a true agreement. “Here, maybe. But I will admit the concept is... strange to me. That it should matter to you.”
She thought the strangeness quite the reverse, but she did not say it. Not when he suddenly glanced up at her, his mouth pulling downward at the edges. “Do you like me?” He blinked once, but he did not look away from her. “Since you think that matters.”
Firen stared at him. That he had to ask. That he looked as if he already knew her answer, was already beginning to nod and sigh and his hands were coming to her waist to move her away from him.
Which was all manner of wrong.
It was not a question she had ever imagined having to answer. There were grievances she could so easily call upon. Moments when no, she had not liked him in the least. Moments when the bond had itched and chaffed and felt a shackle rather than the most precious tether she would ever possess.
And he expected her to name them.
Expected her to tally them all against him. That she could accept the pleasure he gave her but not crave his presence. His affection. A cool transaction that perhaps one day would begrudgingly lead to children.
Because he expected her not to like him.
Because he thought no one did.
Commitment and obligation. Not wanting and loving and all the fondness that came from being with one’s other half.
He’d never seen better, had he?
Never felt it.
“I’m so sorry you have to ask,” she managed to choke out, hands clutching at him, holding him to her. Keeping him from moving her. “I’m sorry if I...” She stopped, because these doubts had been bred long before he knew her. She would not carry the weight of them, the burden of wounds she had not inflicted.
But she could be kindly toward the fears they’d left in him. “I like you,” she promised him. And it had become true. When he’d return home and wrap his arms about her from behind. When he consented to live in the shed just because it meant being with her . When he was respectful to her mother and courteous to her brothers. He did not have to do any of those things. But he chose to. Because...
He wanted to be kind to her. Whether in their bed or out of it. He might not know the way of it, might begin each attempt with a sort of awkwardness she hadn’t understood at first, but she was coming to.
She kissed his cheek just once and pulled back again. “Would you go somewhere with me?”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion, and while it might have bothered her even a week before, she felt only a mounting sense of fondness. But the sadness came, just as it always did. That he had cause to doubt her motivations, that he had to wonder if what was to come was a pleasure or a pain.
“Why?”
Because she asked it of him. Because it was a normal thing for a couple to do.
Because they needed to learn how to be with one another outside of these cots. When they were upright and had only words instead of touches to gentle their communication.
“Because it’s good for us,” Firen urged. “And I think we need it.”
He continued to eye her dubiously, and she smiled at him and tried to push all the reassurance she could across the bond. It wasn’t bad. He needn’t be frightened in the least.
It was just her.
Wanting him to venture out with her.
He was still looking at her as if she’d gone slightly mad, and perhaps she had. But she needed to move. Needed to move with him. To fly and be out in the suns and the fresh air, and he needed it too. Of that, she was certain.
“What of your head?”
“Never mind that,” Firen insisted.
“I see. So you’re well enough for dragging me to an undisclosed location, but not enough for...” His voice trailed off but his hand found her breast and held it, his brow quirked.
And she smiled. “Precisely.”
Maybe he huffed at her. Maybe he was only indulging her because he wanted to prove himself likeable. She did not much care as she tugged at her clothing to ensure she did not appear as if she had been napping the afternoon away. Then she did up the laces on her boots as quickly as she could and opened the door. “Well?” she asked, rolling her feet slightly so her heels raised and lowered twice as she saw him sitting on the bed, eyeing her as if she was some peculiarity he could not puzzle out.