Page 61 of Fate

Lucian hummed. “Really? I cannot recall a single story that was not wrought with some sort of misery. Sacrifice isn’t always gentle. Not when it’s forced.”

Another prickle, another ache, and she raised her head to look about the room she’d been proud of just a moment before. He was used to so much... more. And this was all she had to give, and she wanted so desperately for it to be enough. “I don’t want to force you to do anything,” Firen added, her fingers curling into his shirt. Holding him. Hoping they wouldn’t quarrel because she couldn’t bear that. “I just want you to... want to stay with me.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and that was a wretched thing when she’d cried so much already. She did not want his pity, but she would gladly accept some of his compassion.

He reached down, his hand cupping her chin as he urged her eyes upward. “I am here,” he reminded her, and yes, there was a tinge of frustration at the edges of his tone.

She couldn’t be greedy. Wouldn’t be. She’d have patience and not expect more than his presence.

For now.

“Right. Yes, you are. Sorry.” She smiled at him and moved away so she could wipe at her eyes and push away her sudden upset.

“Firen...” he nearly groaned, and she shook her head.

“Would you like to make use of the washroom first? Or shall I?” She moved to her trunk and pulled out a shift and wrap as gingerly as she could. Her hands were not too grubby—she’d scrubbed them last of all with the last of the clean water, lest the clean linens risk being smudged with soot and grime.

His steps toward his own chest were heavy, and he opened the top with more force than was strictly necessary. She did not need the bond to tell her he was annoyed, and she gripped her shift harder as she struggled with what she might say to mend things between them.

Before she’d decided, he’d slid open the loft door and hopped down, his dark wings slowing the distance to the ground.

And then he was gone.

Which was better, she decided. So she could order her thoughts and he could see to his, and they’d come together and everything would be all right again.

It took longer for her eyes to stop burning.

Longer still for her heart to stop aching so fiercely.

And there was time enough for her to pin her damp clothing on the wash line in the yard to dry come morning.

And that was all right. Because he was coming back. He wasn’t leaving her.

She darkened a few of the lanterns, but left the lamp on so he could see his way back. Tucked her feet into cold sheets and wished she’d thought to take out stockings until the weather warmed, but it wasn’t worth the trek back to her trunk.

She could not admit her relief when she heard the workshop door open and close.

Could not admit that she was almost willing to fling herself at him when he walked back through the door of her—not her playroom. She grimaced at the word. Not that any longer. This was not one of her fantasies come to life. This was their room, if only for a week. Their quarters. Their...

Lucian looked at her with his jaw tight and his shoulders even more so. “Have I ever left you? Run off? Why must you incessantly pull at the bond whenever I am out of the room?”

He did not say it, but the accusation hung between them all the same. She was the one that did that. That told him she was leaving. Moving away. Returning home and he could do what he liked, and he could find her when he was more agreeable.

She plucked at her wrap and took a sharp breath. “I didn’t know I was doing that.”

He grimaced, dimming the lantern by the door as he went. “It is horribly distracting,” Lucian complained. “I hate to imagine how it will affect my focus if I’m ever allowed back into the Halls.”

It made her want to curl up into a little ball. To whisper her apologies and have him come hold her until she felt less guilty for just how much she’d robbed from him.

But she’d been robbed too.

The thought wasn’t a welcome one, but it was enough to keep her seated just as she was. To steel herself from crying and...

And being as pathetic as Oberon thought her to be.

He crossed over to the bed. She was tired. Sore. Overwrought and drained of nearly everything.

And yet when he settled into her old bed, she curled toward him. And when that was not enough to quiet the racing of her heart, she threw one of her legs over his lower half and clutched his sleep-shirt.

---