Page 6 of Sunder

Not yet.

A flutter, the burst of unnatural wind as wings pushed downward in a descent, and she glanced upward.

“You look disappointed.”

Lucian. Not his mate, as she privately had hoped, but she supposed he would do well enough. He’d gentled since Firen had come to him. His face had softened from the harsh lines he’d worn with such distinction.

He was happy.

“It is not my fault that I favour your mate.”

He hummed, coming and settling beside her on the bench. “You hold a grudge against any of our blood, admit it.”

She rolled her shoulders, her wings settling neatly into place. Not that they’d been missed—she knew how one of their line should sit. How she should behave, whether in the walls of her ancestral home or out of it. “Maybe.”

She didn’t mean to. Didn’t want to. Everything was such a tangle of hurts and love that she wasn’t certain what was reasonable to feel any longer.

She was withering. That’s what Mama called it. Like one of those mates that wasted away after the death of a spouse, unable to cope with the absence.

It wasn’t needed any longer. Couldn’t she see that? If she would simply approach him, simply be done with it, perhaps she would grow stronger.

“You look awful,” Lucian observed, and she barely suppressed a roll of her eyes. Her fingers tapped instead at her book, which he took in much the way he would have when they were children, simply for the fun of stealing from her.

“Have your interests turned to poisons?”

She blinked. Frowned. “Perhaps.”

His eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with far more intensity than was comfortable. “Orma,” he warned.

She fluttered her feathers again and did not meet his eye. “Lucian,” she repeated, with as much mockery as she was able. “I took it without thinking. Company, in case your mate was unavailable.”

It should have appeased him, but the sound he made was one utterly lacking in conviction. “For one of our fathers, perhaps? Or are you finally going to do me in?” It was a jest, but only just. They’d shared that sort of macabre humour when they were younger, but they’d set it aside when it felt too near to the truth. “Or one of your wretched healers?”

He nudged her with his shoulder, and she jostled more than was reasonable, his hand coming out to steady her immediately.

“I’m fine,” she responded crisply, because he was about to fuss, and she couldn’t abide that. She knew how slight she’d grown. Knew how shadowed her eyes were. Knew that her bones felt near to breaking, brittle and hollow. Like a single gust wouldbe enough to sweep her away forever, and she’d lack the strength in her wings to take her back where she belonged.

“Liar,” Lucian countered, handing back her book.

Her younger self would have bristled. Would have found a good many other names to fling back at him in turn. But she could only muster a sigh. “You’re intruding on my bench.”

“Yours, is it? Have you taken up residence? Begun work at the Hall?”

She crinkled her nose, because he was being rather cruel, even if his tone was light as he did it. He knew she hadn’t. Had done nothing at all.

“You could, you know. You’re clever.” His voice grew soft, and that was somehow worse. A little too near to pity.

She did not tell him that her wits had little to do with it. That there were days her body was so sore and uncooperative she could barely steal from her bed.

That there was a reason her visits were sparse and often short.

“I think there is quite enough of our family at the Hall,” she offered instead. “You seem to being doing well there.”

He settled his weight braced on one hand against the bench, trying to appear at ease when the effect was but. “I suppose,” he agreed, his attention shifting away from her and back toward the house.

His house.

Because he belonged there and she did not.

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