Page 112 of Sunder

8. Home

She was supposed to wake with a smile. Full of anxious enthusiasm as she woke Athan and insisted they begin her cookery lessons.

After she dressed, of course.

Or, if perhaps a different sort of appetite woke first, she was going to reach over for her mate and see if it was all right to indulge when the suns were up.

She was not supposed to have a terrible pressure in her head that made her squint and flinch when Athan opened the shutters. She was also not supposed to be achy in her hip and sore between her legs.

Those were ails for a different Orma. This one was supposed to be shiny and new and cured of all her ails. Because mating was magical. It brought people together and... and...

She burst into tears.

Which brought Athan back to her side, the bond echoing the concern she saw in his eyes when he coaxed her to look at him.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he prompted. His eyes darted as he fought the urge to look her over for himself. Because she did not want him as a healer. How many times had she said that? She hadn’t much cared if it hurt him at the time, and for that, she was deeply sorry. She’d just been so frightened, and he’d...

He’d understood. Eventually. The more he’d learned, the gentler he’d become in that regard.

But he could ask, and he was right to expect an answer, even if it was foolish. “My head is going to split open,” she explained. “And I’m sore, and I... I don’t know why I thought...” she couldn’t say it. It was too absurd.

But it had been a last hope, she realised. That once the bond was fully satisfied, everything would be different.

He laid a hand over her forehead. The pressure was a welcome counterbalance to what she felt inside her skull, and that made her blub harder.

“I will get you something,” Athan promised her. “For the pain.”

Denials were at the tip of her tongue. Reminders of old arguments. That he could bring her old elixirs or nothing at all.

But she stopped. Took a breath. “Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes again and turning onto her side, where she buried her face into his pillow.

He made quick work of dressing before he disappeared.

The guilt trickled in slowly. He’d been robbed as well. Of a gentle waking. Of a mate still full of contentment from the night before. Which made it worse when he returned, and she was feeling wretched and terribly sorry both for herself and for him.

She was not expecting Athan’s stern look. For the way he tugged her to a seated position and handed her a bottle of something murky and a deep green. She didn’t want it, but she wasn’t about to say so. Not when he’d gone to the trouble of fetching it for her.

She should ask what it did. If it would make her sleep, make her lethargic. All the usual penalties for some form of relief.

But surely it would show her trust in him if she didn’t? And she wanted to please him, to make him feel loved even when she felt so poorly.

“You can ask,” Athan reassured her. He was settled on the side of the bed, a cup in his hand. Water to wash the taste down after? Or had he taken the time to fetch himself tea? “You should ask. These are your pains, and your medicines. You should know them better than anyone.”

Orma smoothed the bottle in her hands, watching the concoction swirl. “How will I feel?” He could rattle off the contents, but it wouldn’t help anything. She didn’t know about herbs and their powers. Didn’t know how they interacted with one another. She wanted to learn how to make a meal, not set her hand to potion making.

“We will put a spoonful in this cup,” Athan explained, satisfied with her interest as he took the bottle from her. “I’ve half-filled it with water, yes?” He tilted it so she might see, and her head really did hurt but she tried to care about the dosage since it seemed to matter to him. He demonstrated, the spoon clinking against the side of the cup as he stirred. She did not appreciate the noise, but she kept quiet, letting him work. “At this amount, you might feel a little tired, but it should not force you to sleep if you do not want to.” He handed her the cup and watched her as she drank it down. It wasn’t nearly as bitter as she’d expected. It tasted of bright herbs and a hint of something sweet.

“Thank you,” she said as she offered him back the cup. He nodded to her, and he almost moved off the bed, likely to begin his day. Which she wanted to do with him. Wanted to make a terrible start at their breakfast and make him sit at the table while she placed a singed plate of food in front of him and watch him smile at her as if she’d done perfectly well.

She’d rub his shoulder and kiss his cheek, and promise she’d do better the next time.

“You started to say something, before,” Athan murmured, his attention flickering from the empty cup and back to her. “What was it?”

She’d hoped he’d forgotten. She couldn’t say his potion was helping yet, but she wanted to pretend it was. That her head was muzzy, and she needed sleep, and they could talk of this later. Or, better still, not at all.

But he was waiting, and he was patient and wonderful, and he’d go downstairs alone and fix her meal and come back and kiss her softly and promise he wasn’t disappointed—he just wants her to feel better.

But she was. Deeply so.

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