Page 77 of Fate

“I love my mother,” Lucian reiterated, but it felt less like he was throwing it at her. A more wistful sort of remembrance. “I do not want her to lose another child.”

She wanted to say that Ellena made that choice with her own behaviour. That Lucian—and by extension, Firen herself—were not required to put up with just anything in order to keep her from that pain.

But that was harsh. Too harsh when she was talking with her own mate. Who spoke of his mother with the tone of one who had lost her. Mourned for her. He never sounded like that regarding his father. What love he had seemed to belong only to his mother.

He’d been disappointed. In Firen.

For not being more patient.

And he’d been trying with her family. And no matter the reasons she could throw at the guilt that bubbled within her—that his was mean and spoke of horrible, demented things so she could speak however she wanted about them andtothem and it should make no difference at all.

It did.

Firen turned, disliking how it pulled one side of her face into the cold, but needing to look at him. “How can I help with this? Would it... do you want me to meet with her? Or simply give you time to go yourself?” She smiled at him, thin and full of self-deprecation. “I would promise not to leave. Not without you, that is.”

He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his attention was fixed out on the waves, where foam was beginning to form as it tussled in the surf. “Our priority is Vandran,” he said at last. “Securing lodging.”

She opened her mouth to remind him they had a room as long as they’d want of it, but she closed it again. He wanted to provide it for her. For them. Wanted it to be theirs, tied though it was to a job she knew so little about.

“All right,” she agreed with a nod. “When?”

Lucian sighed as the wind blew harder, her hair already loosened from its braid blowing fiercely about them. She smiled a little and tried to manage it and hold on to her ribbon all at once, but it was a losing battle, so she simply held it and rolled her shoulders as she waited for him to answer.

But he didn’t.

He huffed out a breath and shifted, pulling her between his legs so he had access to the unruly mass.

His hands did not move with a certainty that suggested he was practised in the art of a woman’s tresses, but he was determined. First to smooth it all back until he could clasp it with one hand. Then he twisted, first one way, then the other, until it was coiled at the nape of her neck in some semblance of order. What he expected a single ribbon to accomplish, she hadn’t the least idea, but she handed it over demurely to allow him to wrestle with the problem at his leisure.

The coil dropped, and he settled on tying the ribbon at her neck, where at least the majority was out of her face and could not whip at him as they sat together.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Lucian answered at last, trying helplessly to smooth out the tangles he undoubtedly found. It needed a proper combing and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. But it could wait, and she eased back further, tucking her wings as best she could so as not to bother him. This was a pleasant posture. Would have been better still tucked in their bed with warm cups of tea, the blankets tangled about them while Lucian took all the pillows for himself. But that was a fair trade, since she got to use him as the largest pillow of all.

“All right,” Firen agreed. “Will it be... formal?” What she was really asking was if they were going to have to make another visit to the tailor. While the thought should have thrilled her, there was instead a lump of memory that hurt if she poked at it.

He smoothed his hand down her arm until he reached her hand. “No. Anything from your own wardrobe will be perfectly sufficient.” He picked it up, turning it this way and that, before he wrapped his hand about the whole of it. “You are cold,” he murmured into her ear. A warning, she thought. That he would soon insist they leave. Which was not a bad thing, not when they would go home again.

“Anything?” she teased, and felt him tense, felt herself shiver when his lips found her ear, nibbling lightly before he pulled back enough just so he could whisper.

“Are those part of the wiles you intend to utilise? To be liked?” His other arm came about her middle, holding her to him. And she really should protest his insinuations, but found that she couldn’t. He was teasing her. The bond was warm and urgent, but did not speak of a true resentment for any part of her nature. Of her body, for that matter. “Perhaps I shall have to sort through your clothing. Leave you only what is respectable.”

She reached up and cupped his cheek in an awkward pose, given his position behind her. “I should like to see you try.”

Which really should not have sounded as much of a challenge as she did. There was nothing wrong with her clothing—it had all been made by her own hands as soon as she’d been old enough to take over that chore from Mama.

He rumbled behind her.

Not a growl.

But...

A purr.

He hadn’t done it before, and she wasn’t sure what had prompted it now. But it was low and soothing, and it made her want to burrow further into his chest in want of more of it. To feel the reverberation against her cheek, to feel his skin, to touch him all over.

He was seducing her. Perhaps it was not intentional, or perhaps it was how he meant to win this game. She wasn’t sure which, and she wasn’t certain she cared.

Not when there was suddenly the desire to kiss him. To hold him to her so she could coax more of that rumble from his throat.

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