2.4
He smiled at her. A soft upturn of his lips that made her stomach tighten strangely. “That is kind of you.” He shook his head, his hair falling forward slightly. It was overly-becoming and terribly impractical. A healer should have longer hair so it might be bound, or shorter so it would not become a nuisance either caring for a patient or during flight.
Not slightly longer about the top, so it might fall just so.
Perhaps he had no family to remind him to attend to his hair. Or no groom to come see to his feathers and his hair in a timely fashion.
Was that to be her job? Her mother saw to such things. Settling the appointments, changing them if Orma was too sickly to sit for the ministrations.
She was a woman in age, but not in responsibility, and it made her feel even more a failure as she sat and he held her hand and tried to tell her all the reasons they were the same.
Because he had a Brum and his profession was suspect.
She had visions and was half-mad and half-dead already.
“Have you much family?” Athan probed, squeezing her fingers lightly. “That you’d be reticent to leave?” Orma blinked slowly. “Only, I wonder why you think we should not live together. I should like to.” He smiled at her again, and it was a charming, practised sort of smile that made her frown deepen. “Just so there is clarity between us.”
Her eyes darted toward the window, the door, and he was hushing her before she was even aware of her desire for escape. “I was going to ask if I should tell them of your whereabouts tonight, but perhaps not.”
She nodded dumbly. She hated the idea of it.
Hated the disappointment in her mother’s eyes when she saw Orma had not magically transformed into the very picture of health.
Her father’s face when he realised his daughter had not joined with one of the other great families, adding another tower to their household estate.
Mama would censure him. Drag him into another room and she’d hear the snippets of raised voices and firm reminders that Orma was delicate. Special. And he should have put those expectations aside long ago.
Then they’d grow quiet.
And Father would appear chastened and Mama would look at him with a tinge of disappointment for a day or two, and then it would be over.
“Perhaps not,” she repeated, her throat tight and her heart sore. She rubbed at her nose and made herself look at him. “Have you a family?” She hated to think what they might say about her. How opposite she must have been to their hopes and imaginings.
“I did,” Athan answered, as if expecting the query and keeping his voice purposefully light. “Blight took them quickly. One after the other. And then I was apprenticed by the healer called to help them, and I dedicated myself to the craft.”
He said it with pride, and a tinge of apology.
It seemed an interesting thing to do when medicine had failed them. Blight was harsh and killed quickly, even when one was young and hearty.
Or so she’d heard. It had never come to her district, and if it had, she would have been carefully sequestered until all signs had been purged.
“I’m sorry.” She looked down at their hands. Squeezed lightly because she meant it. It must be a terrible thing to lose one’s family. Even if they could be wretched, could hurt as well as love.
Would she lose hers? Because of him?
She was supposed to be all right with that. To prattle off the wrongs done to her and stride away into her new life, pleased to be rid of the worst of it all.
But that wasn’t her.
She wanted to please them. To see them happy. To make up for the years of worry and strain she’d seen etched into the lines of their faces as they tried to make her well.
They sat quietly for a moment, sharing in a bit of peace and understanding between them, and it was far more comforting than she would have thought. The bond was there, not pressing and reaching and urging her for things she was not ready to contemplate.
It was just a warm presence in her chest. Whispering how right this was, that she was to be his comfort, and he was to be hers, and if she could simply stop being so afraid then all might be well...
He spoke first, shifting slightly. And she thought of his knees, and then of her knees, and how terribly they would have ached to be positioned against the hard floor for so long, and she tugged at his hand to urge him upward. “You shouldn’t...” she swallowed, wondering what she meant to offer. For him to share the bed? To rest with her?
The bond flared, insisting that would be precisely what she should do, and did he not look strong and capable of protecting her while she slept?
Her mouth was dry, and she had not finished her water, and her words were more a whisper than sound. “You should sit,” she insisted, tucking her legs closer to her so there was more room on the bed.
His bed.
Which meant he would have to sleep elsewhere if she did not permit his company.
Better it was her bed, so she did not have to feel as if she was stealing from him. He did not have a tower that boasted other rooms—and the ones he had might hold a Brum inside them, and surely he could not sleep when it was near? What if it grew hungry, and he was not awake enough to stave off a killing bite, and then...
Her stomach tightened.
She did not want him sleeping elsewhere.
Did not want him here, either, but the alternative was too gruesome to tolerate.
Athan got to his feet, and she waited for him to sit where she’d offered at the end of the bed.
“You should have your privacy,” Athan began, and her eyes widened, already full of objections. Most particularly, that she did not know the mechanisms for locking out the Brum, and if he wasn’t there, then she would not sleep at all because she did not wish to be eaten. He looked at her, drifting over every bit he could. “However, I am concerned for your condition.”
She relaxed, but only just. “You should stay. Not for... I do not wish to...” Her cheeks grew pale and words failed her, but she needed to be clear, needed to ensure she was understood.
The bond might have wants, and he might have expectations, but the very thought of...
He leaned down.
Cupped her chin with his palm, and he had no business doing that, not when her heart had finally calmed and now it fluttered rapidly back to its previous upset. “Consider this your sickbed until we are certain otherwise. It would be a poor mate indeed that would press advantage during such a time.”
This thumb touched her cheekbone just the once, and her mouth was too dry, and her skin was too sensitive, because it felt... it felt.
Not a hurt. Not an ache.
But a sweetness she did not know skin might feel.
She wasn’t sick. This was just... her.
But he did not know that. And it made it easier, for the moment. To let him dote and play the healer, and let him think he could find the right tincture, the right salve, and all would be right with her.
Before she could grow flustered, could blurt out more of her sorry history, he refilled the water cup and handed it back to her. Watched as she swallowed great gulps of it, thankful for the distraction, as well as the moisture for her parched lips. Her hand shook, but just a little, and there was a nervous fluttering in her belly that was strangely pleasant.
She might come to like him.
The thought did not feel intrusive, not as the bond often did. It was quiet, and hers, an admiration for his care and his consideration, and despite his unfortunate profession, perhaps he was a good sort.
She wished Lucian had seen him long enough to make his own judgement. That she might ask for his opinion and ensure it was not a girlish fancy—or a worse, the bond smoothing over the hard bits for the sake of the offspring they would make together.
Her throat tightened.
She looked down at herself, to the layers she surely should shed. She’d have to return home in crumpled clothing if she didn’t, and her mother would take one look at her and reach all sorts of mortifying conclusions.
She hadn’t noticed Athan rifling through his trunk, pulling out tunics and shirts and inspecting each one carefully before moving on to the next. None of them smelled peculiar, so it must not have been cleanliness that troubled him. Did he wash his own clothing? He likely could not afford a personal washer, but maybe there was a service?
Her nose crinkled, trying to imagine her clothing entering a vat with a bunch of strangers’ underthings, dried and folded and returned to her where she was not supposed to worry about contamination.
Her eyes narrowed, trying to make out what he was looking for. Perhaps the light caught some more than others, suggesting the fabric had worn thin in places. Others had suspicious stains, usually smattered about the sleeves.
Blood?
Such garments should be disposed of, surely.
He shook out another, nodding to himself before he turned. It was a dark grey, but appeared clean and with no marks, suspicious or otherwise. “Would you like to change? I’ve no women’s clothing, I’m afraid, but it is... fairly new.”
It was a simple shirt, with the customary ties to accommodate much larger wings than her own. It would gape at the neck unless she made a few extra knots to keep it properly closed, and her legs would be...
Beneath the covers, she told herself firmly.
It would be fine.
And better than appearing before her parents in anything but an impeccable state.
“Yes, please.”
He smiled at that, his shoulders relaxing. He... enjoyed doing right by her. She tucked that notion away to study later once she’d slept and could think properly again.
“Right. One more trip.”
He did not ask, just plucked her out of the bed and took her to the washroom. She should mind. She should tell him she was a woman grown and just because of a certain bond they shared, it did not mean he could carry her about however he liked.
But the truth of it was that she needed it, and the idea of asking for the privacy she desired was difficult.
He left her alone with no need to be shooed from the small room. Just lit the lamp quickly and shut the door behind him.
The bolt was on the inside this time, and she used it with an excitement that startled her.
She’d never had one before. In case of emergencies, she’d been told. If she should grow faint and fall, they must be able to reach her.
He didn’t know that.
So she bolted the door and removed her clothing, folding it neatly. Then there was the matter of his shirt. It hung nearly to her knees, but that left one of her scars on display, and...
There was nothing she could do about that.
He could ask whatever he liked, but she need not answer him.
She used the facilities and washed her face, and although the water was cold, it was clear and tasted of nothing in particular when she swished about her mouth in a haphazard attempt to attend her nightly ritual.
It made her feel better, in any case. More like herself. He was thoughtful. Patient with her. Even if he did like to pick her up too often. She really should say something about it.
Later.
She did not want to have to learn the layout of his house, or worry about tripping over a Brum in the dark.
She unbolted the door and peered out, fully expecting him to be waiting outside the door.
It wasn’t disappointment she felt. It wasn’t.
She was just over-tired, and had liked the idea of being transported back into a comfortable bed with no effort on her part.
She held onto her bundle of clothing, certain the Brum would appear to formulate his attack, and her heart beat wildly the longer she stood there. The light from the washroom cast long, ominous shadows, and she should have doused it, shouldn’t she? Except what if Athan needed it also, and then he would have to light it all over again, but maybe he didn’t and...
“Sorry,” he called, doing up a tie at his shoulder as he hurried from the bedchamber. He’d changed into his own nightclothes, looking her over to find the source of her upset.
His eyes lingered on the scar on her leg, and she did her best not to squirm—to stand straight and allow him to look, because she could not change it and the shame had no business flaring bright and new when its source was anything but.
“I didn’t know if I should dim the light,” she admitted, trying to bring his attention away from her bare leg.
“Oh.” It got him moving at least, and he brushed by her so he could attend to it himself before he picked her up again.
It was just the bond, that was all. It made her sigh just a little. To rest her head against his shoulder and let him do it, even when she was supposed to be reproaching him. The earliest days of a mating were most important—they set the precedence for all the ones to follow. Or that’s what Mama used to say. Back when she gave lessons about such matters, full of certainty that Orma would settle well, once she was old enough.
There was only one table beside the bed. The other was situated too near the wall, and it became clear he was giving her his preferred space. She should argue that too, shouldn’t she? It was an unnecessary gesture, because she refused to think of it as hers when it was his, but...
The water was here.
And she did sometimes awake with such a thirst it set her hands to shaking as she fumbled with the pitcher and cup beside her bed at home.
Long ago had her cups been replaced with fine metal castings, as the ones made of pottery met the impact of the floor too many times. Plush rugs could only offer so much protection, and she’d have to flutter out of bed, tearful and ashamed that she needed help to find all the shards and little bits that settled into the carpet.
He pulled back the top of the bedclothes. Which... were not the same as they had been.
He noticed her expression, and he made a sheepish nod toward the pile of linens. “I thought you’d rather sleep in fresh. That’s what took me so long.”
She swallowed. Hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, but now that she did, she found it yet another sweet gesture. He was trying—and she... wasn’t.
Or was she?
She didn’t know anymore.
He settled the bedclothes over her, and it should have simply been a kindness, but it made her feel somehow worse. She wasn’t doing enough, and none of it was the right thing. He’d been generous with her, and she’d blubbered and promised him nothing, and if their first night was to be a sickbed and a healer that was hers but also wasn’t, then she would like it to end with some nicety on her part.
“There,” Athan declared when he was satisfied she’d been tucked in properly. “Comfortable?”
Yes.
No.
He likely did not even need the bond to feel the anxiety pulsing off of her in steady waves—her expression would have shown it just fine.
A sickbed, he’d said.
With all the expectations that accompanied it.
Like rest, and many liquids, and minimal complaining when a tincture was particularly bitter.
“I’ll let you sleep. But for the sake of clarity, I shall check on you often. I would like you to keep breathing, at least until tomorrow.”
Humour. Said with a smile, as he looked at her expectantly for some sort of engagement.
Her lips quirked upward, but she was too consumed with her own thoughts to properly answer him, let alone offer him a jest in return.
“Athan,” she murmured when he nodded. Her hands were tight at the top of the bedclothes, and she was not a child, not a girl. She was a woman grown, and she could say what she wanted.
Or... what she thought was right.
And maybe those things would someday align.
“Yes?” He was near the door, and she wondered if he was off to another chamber, or would he sit up in the kitchen all night in between his checks?
She should tell him it was unnecessary. Even at her worst, she’d never stopped breathing. Never come close to dying, although she’d almost...
She stopped the thought.
She did not want to die. Not then, and not now.
“You could stay,” she managed to get out from a throat that felt too tight and a head that reminded her just how sore and heavy it had become. “You needn’t go very far then. To check on me.”
She adjusted the blanket, hoping he’s say no. Hoping he’d say yes.
That he would... want to.
It was a shameful admission, even in the privacy of her own mind. She wanted him to want her. To think her pretty, just as she thought him handsome. For him to have lingered on her legs because he thought them comely, and not because he wondered at the story behind her scar.
It was absurd. More bond nonsense, she knew. Making her think things, and wonder things—that had before now involved only a faceless entity. Not someone real, with a becoming smile and a kind heart.
She could not know that for certain. She’d spent far too little time with him to feel her judgement was born from more than relief that he hadn’t immediately shown himself to be a selfish brute.
But the bond still whispered she had the right of it. That it had picked well, and she should stop her worrying.
“I do not know if that is wise,” Athan answered, his words slow and carefully chosen.
“Oh,” Orma whispered, nodding to herself. She’d known he’d refuse. Was glad of it.
Better to sleep here alone. Far better.
She’d offered, and that’s what counted. A bit of bravery when she’d proven herself anything but.
Orma waited for the indulgent smile, the murmured goodnight. The one that would leave her feeling like the child she’d been. Even mated, even with the bond finally where it rightfully belonged, nothing had truly changed.
Just as she knew it wouldn’t.
He stared at the floor a moment, then seemed to come to some sort of decision.
“I’ll have you know, this is most unusual.” He made his way first to the lamp and lowered it as much as he dared without the flame disappearing entirely.
So he might check on her. As if the bond would not alert him if something was wrong.
She didn’t argue, her words stolen along with her breath that he was staying.
With her.
Because she’d asked him to do so.
“I shall be flattered, then,” Orma assured him, her heart racing as he shimmed beneath the linens beside her.
“Quite.” A little bemused, a bit... relieved.
She was careful with her wings, kept them tight so they would not accidentally catch him unawares with unconscious flailing.
“Orma?” he asked, seeming very far away and a great deal too close all at once.
“Yes?”
She waited for him to ask her to hold his hand. To kiss him. To do anything at all to test the affection that was meant to flow so freely with their new tethers.
“Who was that man with you? The one trying to pull you away?”
She had not considered how it looked, and she could not abide what conclusions he must have reached now that she pondered the matter. “My cousin. I... I can only imagine how it looked, but he was helping. He’d... he’d made me a promise, and I...”
She was the one that had failed him, not the other way around.
Had he gone to her parents? Explained to them? She hoped so, in more of her cowardly nature. Let him endure their worries and disappointments.
She hated herself for even thinking it.
“You did not want to find me,” Athan finished for her.
“I did,” Orma hedged, her head throbbing and her eyes burning. “I just wanted to know of you first. Before. But the bond... got away from me.”
He shifted, and she knew because the bed moved with him. Not a lot, but enough. Could she sleep through that? Would her bed at home have done the same, or was his frame of a lesser quality than hers?
Or maybe this was simply the nature of sharing a bed.
Which she was doing.
With her mate.
Whispers in the near-dark. As she’d dreamed of doing back when she cared to consider such things.
“Would it be so terrible to come to know me now?”
Orma’s lips quirked about the corners. “Now is for sleeping,” she reminded him. “But... maybe later it wouldn’t.”
He hummed, and she was left with the distinct impression he wanted to touch her. Just the brush of his fingers across her arm where it peeled out of the covers.
And she waited, a little breathless. Wondering if he might. If she wanted it. If she should reach out and pat his arm and thank him for his hospitality, because that would be the polite thing, regardless of their mating.
But before she could decide, he was rolling back, the cot dipping as he did so. “Have pleasant dreams, Orma,” he murmured. “And keep breathing.”
She did not laugh, but she wanted to.
She should ask him how he’d imagined his first night with his mate. Learn more of his heart and his mind and everything in between.
But she closed her eyes instead, and the bedding felt different and the pillow was not as soft, and she was not used to sleeping with a shirt that boasted sleeves long enough to cover both wrist and hands.
It should have made it difficult.
It should have made her squirm and roll about a few times as she sought some form of comfort.
But she didn’t.
Because there was a peace she hadn’t known in ages, and she did not have to wonder about bonds and threads and if she’d be cured.
She wouldn’t.
Hadn’t.
But for tonight, for that very moment...
That was all right with her.