Page 35 of Fate

That part was muttered beneath his breath. She could brush it away. Could ask why it wasn’t enough that they would betogether and they’d make whatever life they could and it would be beautiful.

But she didn’t.

If she thought for a moment that her parents would not love him...

If she faced losing access to her childhood home. Perhaps even the family she loved, all because of her mate...

Her throat tightened, and her hold on his hand tightened. “I’m sorry.” And it was true. Not for being his mate, but because he should never have to face any of the troubles that so clearly plagued him. Never had to worry that family was temporary.

They should have started with hers. Then he could be certain they’d be well cared for as they shifted and grew.

But he sighed deeply and pushed open the door, and it was too late to make a full retreat. So she shoved away her mounting worries. If Lucian was going to be anxious enough for the both of them, she could be calm. Would be calm. And friendly, and maybe they would surprise him.

She wished he’d told her who they were to meet. If there would be sisters or brothers, or if his mother was deceased after all.

But he hadn’t.

She’d expected a kitchen. It seemed a practical place for one. But she supposed the steps had been too heavily ornamented for something so common.

Instead, there were books. What light came from slivers of windows built into the shelves themselves, muted by some sort of covering, so there was no true light, only a glow. Then there were the moonstones, punctuating the cases themselves and lending an even eerier light.

There were no lanterns. No lamps. Not even candles. The only firelight came from the hearth on the left, the embers low, the log within charred and battered. The room itself was large,and she suspected each one would be. Shelves reached up at least two storeys, but perhaps it was even three. There was a balcony separating two sections, with chairs—a desk? And there were tables every so often with tomes so large they required such ample space simply to open them.

And in the midst of all of it, a figure. He did not raise his head to greet them, did not give any indication at all that he’d heard their approach. He simply continued to scrawl across a scroll of parchment. Ascroll.Not a simple pad where one might scribble out a list for the market and hand it to a daughter and insist she not forget a single item on it.

This was a room for important business. For governance and law.

“I was not aware we had a meeting scheduled.”

Lucian dropped her hand, and she would not pretend she wasn’t sorry for it.

She looked between both men, startled at how they were with one another. Something was terribly wrong in such a family. It had to be.

“Yes, well. There was an... incident. Last night. That requires your attention.”

The man looked up, but even that was slow and clearly at his convenience. And with it, Firen was granted a glimpse into her mate’s appearance in later years. Hair the same colour. A fair bit longer. Wings the same inky black.

His attention drifted from his son to her. And lingered.

While she had to fight down her urge to squirm. To tuck herself behind Lucian and tell him she didn’t mind if they were both disowned, most especially if it meant she did not have to see this man ever again.

Which was absurd.

It was only a feeling. It would pass. He was a stranger, and the setting was ominous, as was his manner, but did not make him anything but her mate’s father.

Which was a lie, and she knew it.

“I... see.”

Firen stood tall. Let him look. Let him take in whatever faults and assumptions he liked. She had no shame, not in her breeding and not in her bond with his son, and she would not pretend that she did. She might have wished they’d fetched her trunk first. That she’d braided her hair and perhaps added a ribbon or two.

But they hadn’t. And she didn’t. And they were relations now and he could choose to accept that or not.

“A fair morning to you,” Firen offered, as neither of them seemed intent on proper introductions. “What is left of it,” she added with a rueful glance toward her mate.

He did not look back at her. Continued to look at his father, which was better than glaring at the floor, she supposed.

She did not go so far as to approach him, but she placed her hand on her chest and bowed her head slightly, a sign of respect for his age and position.

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