Page 9 of Fate

If this was a new attempt at efficiency, wherein a man stationed himself outside the fete doors so he could interrogate each woman that passed by and stare at her in that peculiar way, she did not care for it.

Her lips thinned, and she was more than grateful that she felt no rush of joy, no prickling sensation that he was anything but an obstacle.

“Pardon,” Firen tried, hoping he would simply ease to the side and allow her to pass without fuss. She could hear the music. The sound of fabric and wings as the dancing had already begun. This was a fete—not some random home she was intruding upon without cause.

“Name and house, please,” he added, looking a little more disgruntled for the extra effort, as if it was his manner that had offended her rather than his bodily impediment. He pulled a booklet from the pocket and gave her an expectant look, and she took another step backward.

“This is the fete, correct?”

He glanced at her from the bottom of her hem up to the tips of her wings. “It is. And if you belonged here, you would know that answer already.”

Her mouth opened of its own accord, although words were sluggish to follow. She was not certain she had ever been so deeply offended. “Am I a Harquil?” she asked, her voice tight as she fought for calm. “Are they not for any unmated of our people to come?”

“Most, maybe. But not this one.” He glanced behind her, his expression changing from cold censure to one of friendliness. “Lucian, please, come in.”

Her skin prickled.

Just a little, and it was only because of the sudden feeling of someone else behind her. But it was enough for her to turn her head, all indignation and disappointment in ways that suddenly had very little to do with mating and bonds at all.

“And his qualifications are so superior to mine?”

His head turned, his brow already twisting slightly into a look of distaste, obviously less than appreciative of being drawn into an argument against his will.

“I know him. You, I do not. So unless you can give some sort of indication that you belong here, I suggest you move along home.”

She was listening.

Had been listening.

Should have been formulating retorts that reminded him of laws and how precisely mating was outside those laws and any sort of sanctions.

But her tongue wasn’t working. Her thoughts too grew sharp and focused, uncaring and unheeding of the silly man guarding a doorway.

Because...

“It’s you?” It was a question. But not a question. Not once he’d turned and looked at her. Not when their eyes had met, and her heart had started racing, and she felt that surge of absolute bliss that this...

This was who she had been waiting for.

She took a step nearer to him, a little breathless, a bit too giddy as the disbelief mixed with the sudden shift in her emotions.

He wasn’t at all as she expected. Not that she’d settled on some personal ideal—not exactly. But in her daydreams, he was warm. Smiled often, with eyes that crinkled about the edges when he laughed. Which he would, and often.

And now that she considered it, that description was a little too near her father, and that did not bear thinking about, not when...

He took a step nearer, and the obnoxious doorman was still hovering about, and her mate raised his hand and waved it sharply. “Go away.”

And rather shockingly, the man did. With a few more glances between the two of them, he retreated into the very room she’d been so intent on seeing only a moment before.

But she didn’t need it now though, did she? Because he was here.

Her shoulders relaxed. A peace she hadn’t expected spread through every bit of her. All would be all right now. For always. He’d see to it.

She wanted to touch him. To pull him to her and rub away that furrow between his brows with her forefinger. To see if she could coax a smile from him.

His features bordered on severe—a thin face, with pale eyes and hair so pale that it seemed to mingle with the light from the moonstones. His wings were so dark they bled into the inkyblack of his robe. Unusual attire, to be sure, but she would not pretend she did not find him handsome in it.

She could touch him, couldn’t she? They were mates. Every bit of her thrummed with the knowledge of it. The assurances that it was right and real and just as it was almost meant to have been.

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