Page 33 of Fate

Lucian sighed and ran a hand through his hair as he looked at her plate briefly. “I do not know how to do this.”

It was a confession. One he did not wish to give—of that, she was certain.

He was distraught. Agitated. And it seemed as if it cost him something to continue sitting with her rather than to pace about the room.

Firen took another bite, then took up the napkin and the plate and went to the window.

That made him stand, eyes fierce and his jaw tight, and it took her a moment to reason why. “I’m not leaving,” Firen assured him. “But I would see you properly. Problems seem smaller when the suns are out.”

Lucian did not relax, his hands curling into fists as she opened the shutters and allowed bright sunlight to fill the space. Dust swirled gently, and she wondered how long it might have been since they were last opened fully. The hooks to secure them were heavy, black iron struck into the stone. Sturdy and perfectly willing to hold back the thick wood of the shutters.

“Better,” she declared, taking another bite of her breakfast. The light played with the room strangely. It had felt almost ominous the night before. Too rich and too masculine. But now...

It was just a room. Finely furnished, but not so very different after all.

“I prefer the fire,” Lucian muttered, sinking back into his chair in a way that—had he been one of her brothers rather than her mate—she might have thought him sulking.

But that was not generous enough for a mate, so perhaps he was simply... reflecting. Fiercely.

Another bite. This one larger, so the crumbs were kept to her mouth rather than the floor.

“What do you not know how to do?” she prompted, because if that was his main trouble, they might as well start there.

He groused low under his breath, and if she had been Mama, she would have gone to tap none too gently at his shoulder and insist that if he had a complaint, it should be vocalised clearly enough that the recipient could hear it and do something about it.

But she was just Firen, so she had to stifle her little prickle of worry, and smile instead and approach him and simply have faith that everything would sort itself out if they tried long enough.

“What was that?” she asked, and it wasn’t one of Mama’s taps, but just a little nudge with her arm in a way she hoped he knew was playful as well as a prompt to try again.

“I do not know what to do with you,” Lucian clarified, his hand back in his hair, tugging and pulling too hard to be comfortable.

Firen swallowed, her mouth suddenly too dry for pastry. She put the plate and the cloth back where he’d found it, ordering her thoughts as best she could. She could do nothing about the racing of her heart.

“We could sit in here and worry about it,” Firen agreed. “I’m not sure what will change about anything if we do. Wait until an egg catches, if that would help matters any.”

His eyes darted to her middle in something that could only be considered alarm.

She’d only been half-serious, but the hurt was whole and real if he was bothered by the prospect so greatly.

“I don’t...” he began, then groaned and looked toward the ceiling again. “No, it would not help.”

It wasn’t a rejection. Not of her and not of their young. She repeated it to herself over and over until her eyes didn’t sting as fiercely. She mustn’t get ahead of herself. “Right. Well, then whydon’t we simply go down and meet them? And then we can have all the messy business behind us.” Then when they went to her home and he could see how welcome he was, he’d love them all the more. “And yes, I will put my dress back on first.”

He snorted. Rubbed at his forehead and there was that muttering again. Firen stepped closer, but he stopped before she could make out any of it.

That habit would grow irksome with time, she was sure of it.

She could feel his anxiety pouring unfettered through the bond, making her tense and fidgety todosomething.

So she dressed. Not with the reverence she had the evening before. It felt like lifetimes ago rather than a few scant hours. She did not know what to do with her circlet—it was finery for a fete, not a trinket to be adorned after a lie in.

She settled on wrapping it about her wrist a few times, a bracelet far less conspicuous when hidden beneath her sleeve—thin though it was. Pretty in the way it fluttered as she danced. But she hadn’t danced, had she?

She was almost sad that they hadn’t gone in. Hadn’t found each other in the throes of a dance, following the movements together for just a moment while the bond settled and then their hands would have touched and it would have been beautiful...

Daydreaming, Mama called it. Fanciful nonsense when supper was burned because Firen was too busy in her own fantasies to remember she was supposed to be stirring the pot and minding the bread in the oven.

Firen had thought it would end when her mate filled her thoughts and heart, but maybe she’d been wrong.