Page 71 of Fate

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, andthen 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 notactuallyhurt 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.