Page 43 of Fate

She had ideas. Of ripping him out of a life and a family that seemed strange and miserable. Of letting her mother go to work at him, plying him with recipes plucked from generational cookery books that could put hisoldfamily to shame.

“I know,” Firen answered with as much patience as she could muster. “That there were glimmers. Last night. Even this morning. Of how good we might be together. When... when you let us.”

His head turned and yes, there was his glare, and she would not cry about it. Not when it was expected.

Which made her want to cry for wholly different reasons.

“I was perfectly clear about how you would be received. It is not my fault you chose not to believe me.”

Is that what she’d done? But thinking that there were families with grace and love between them rather than... whatever foreboding and absurd expectation seemed to ooze from his.

He loved them. She reminded herself of it as she took another breath and wrenched off her dress. The one that she’d donned with such care—then with such haste only a few hours before.

“I do not know where I will launder this dress,” Firen observed when it was off of her and instead between her hands. As unsuitable for the trunk as it was for the hamper, damp as it was. “I have no home but this one. Not until you give me another.”

He got to his feet so quickly that it startled her. “And you think it is different for me? When my entire future hangs on the success of a single supper. On a mate I do not know, who I donot trust not to flee the moment she hears something not to her liking!”

They stared at one another. And which anger was hers and which was his, she couldn’t tell. Not when it flowed so freely in such mutual agreement through the bond.

“You are upset,” Firen began after a moment of too-long silence. “That I left.”

“Yes,”he hissed, turning his back to her.

Not to leave. But to rest his forearm against the door, before his forehead came against his arm as well.

“You are upset that I left your mother?”

Another mate—a better mate—would have gone to him. Placed her hand upon his back and soothed him as she struggled with his own feelings on the matter.

But unfortunately, he was bound to her.

So she wrenched off her shift, the one that had felt so delightful in its sensuousness when they were undoing knots and ties together. When she could tease and nibble and delight in the only part of their union that was notabysmal.

If he turned, she did not care. Not when she wiped over her skin as quickly as she could, trying to get a hold of her own flaring temper. It was too hard, when she had his to contend with as well.

Ifhewas another mate, he would have come over. Taken the cloth from her. Smoothed it against her skin and followed it with his lips. Would have dried her with just as much care and then, when he asked for the claim of her mouth, she would not have dreamt of refusing him.

But Lucian sulked.

And she did her best not to cry as she drew out fresh clothing and situated her damp things on hooks along the wall.

Where trinkets had once been held, but were now carefully situated in her trunk. Because... she’d wanted this. Sought it. Like the naive girl she’d been.

She saw to her underthings. Then the soft leggings. The tunic overtop with its fiddly straps to accommodate her wings. Eris had always helped with those, as Firen helped her dress. Lucian was supposed to do it now, but he had forsaken his position at the door in order to stare out the window instead. It was not a very important view, but it was hers. Not the street—her brothers’ rooms got to see the bustle of neighbours. Hers looked out at Da’s workshop. With its continual stream of smoke out the chimney. To the room above, she’d offered to Lucian only that morning.

Ludicrous, to think he would have ever accepted.

Dressed. Armoured. Calmer, too, although she couldn’t think why. Her hair was next. Thorough strokes that saw every knot and tangle teased apart. Interspersed with little fantasies about mates and care and stolen kisses along with nicked combs.

Three braids. Then those plaited together. Twisted and tied with ribbons because that was her custom.

He wouldn’t know that.

Another pang, another ache. And those were becoming so wretchedly familiar that she wanted to cry again.

“She fought for us,” Lucian said at last. “And asked us to wait so we could meet with her properly. And you ran off nearly at the first moment.”

Firen swung her thick plaits over her shoulder and out of the way. “She fought for you. As a mother should.” She could allow that. Eyes shimmering with tears as she took in the both of them, standing in that horrid man’s library with all the coming threats of laws that Firen did not know and chose not to believe existed. “It does not follow that she thinks any better of me than your father does.”