Page 35 of The Surrender

“Come along now to the kitchen. We may not have the angelic delights they have in your fancy fortress, but my adequate fare will fill your belly,” she emphasizes while scrutinizing my girl.

When Quintessa doesn’t respond, her eyes too lost in the slumbering softness in her arms, I smile at Zephella and press a hand to my chest in thanks. “I believe her trance may be too strong, Mother. But if you will be so kind as to serve the food here, I will feed her.”

What has my brows threading in surprise is when she stiffens and blows a snort through her mouth. “I will not. You gods and you mollycoddling of your pampered pets!” All my muscles tighten as she advances toward Quintessa and tugs on her chin, wrenching her eyes from the child. “Now, then, I won’t have you spending all day all starry-eyed on my settee. You will come to the kitchen now, so I may feed you. Gods know you need it to keep up with four rakish rulers. All that moaning and groaning,” she quips, beak turned down and pointing like an arrow.

Quinny turns a delicious shade of red, and her bedroom eyes have me wanting to skip brunch and go straight for dessert. Especially when she purses her lips, swings her eyes to mine for a moment before redirecting her attention to the sleeping form.

“Could I-could I use the sling?”

Fuck, her question is so soft, cracked, and pleading. Her silvery eyes glisten while she cradles the newborn’s head, caressing the fine fluff sprouting there. Blood rushes to my cock, but Shadow thrashes in my being and surges a host of memories of Erya into my consciousness. Gritting my teeth, I wince and tighten my feathers, hoping Quintessa didn’t see. Thankfully, her eyes are still on the infant.

Heaving a piqued sigh, the mother fetches the sling and helps my little pet to secure the babe inside it and binds it tightly to her chest. Quinny rises but keeps one hand on the child’s back. Then, she turns to me, her eyes glowing and glassy. Gods-damn! Yes, damn me, damn all of us! I’ve spent hours memorizing all her expressions. Her adorable anger when she wants to defend us. Those quiet, deep moments of introspection where she parts her lips with a vacant expression, though the inside of her mind is anything but. And her brows lifting to bare her curious wide eyes right before a shy blush paints her cheeks and suffuses her lovely breasts. I’ve followed the path of all her scars and the trails of ink upon them.

Nothing compares to this moment—to her eyes shining like diamonds beneath black moth-wing lashes, her smile soft and aching as she swallows. Every time I think of this, it will tear my pulse to thrash through my veins like a windstorm.

So, I have no qualms about touching one finger beneath her chin, lifting her face, and humming the vow, “I will put one inside you soon, Quinny dear.”

Her eyes light up all the more, but she doesn’t respond before Zephella huffs, takes her by the arm, and leads her into the kitchen. I draw my wings tight, following and learning the mother has not yet prepared anything.

For the next few minutes, I simply lean against the wall, observing as Zephella puts our little pet to work. Cutting slices of crusty bread, frying fresh fish on the mother’s stovetop, and even fetching an assortment of nuts and fruit from the nearby closet. I imagine my brothers must be wearing holes in the treehouse balcony with their pacing. Now and then, my feathers flutter whenever Zephella scolds my pet if she cuts the bread too unevenly, leaves the fish too long on one side, or brings the wrong fruit.

Quintessa cows every time, lowering her head in a meager nod. My chest tightens, and I screw my brows low because I want to banish those insecurities and gift her with the freedom she needs to fly as she was meant to. The multitude of scars is evidence of her excruciating need to please while her ink proves how relentless she is in her pursuit of beauty and reclaim. More impressive is how Quintessa minds the babe the entire time: hand supporting her head and careful not to get the bundle too close to the fire.

And then, Zephella jerks a finger to the rope handle in the center of the floor with a faint, rectangular outline surrounding it. “You get some eggs from the root cellar,” caws the mother.

Quintessa freezes.

I come off the wall, reading that expression of wide-eyed, white shock, goosebump-inducing fear. A nightmare storming her waking thoughts and shuddering her limbs. A painful burning in my throat confirms that I am not the one who may help with that. My partner is the one who will drag her down into the darkness of her soul, so she has no choice but to face her demons.

Drago is for fire and fun, Mayce is for roots and relationship, Merikh is for blood and baptism, and I—

“I’ll fetch them,” I insist, distracting Quintessa from whatever demons gnash their teeth in her mind.

Her shoulders relax. Thankfully, Zephella doesn’t object to my help. And we soon sit down at her small oak table to eat.

During the meal, which Quintessa practically wolfs down despite the grand breakfast we treated her to earlier, the babe sleeps.

“I fed the fledgling before your arrival,” Zephella explains at the meal’s end while my pet strokes a finger across the child’s cheek.

“She’s amazing. Such a sweet sleeper. She-”

“She is named Sylie.”

Quintessa beams from ear to ear. And my cock throbs to hard life in my breeches. Damn it all to hell, if she does that again, I’ll need to fly her right out of here and fuck her on the nearest clifftop.

“I was there at so many births,” Quintessa shares, and my heart fucking stumbles in its beats as her eyes fill with tears of regret, of misplaced shame. It makes my stomach sink to the fucking floor. If only she could see herself as we do and not as the demons written into her scars.

Before she may continue, the door to the treehouse bursts open. I rise, stiffening all my muscles from the unannounced visitor: a brown-winged man, young, striking eyes filled with alarm and breath quickening. My first instinct is to move closer to my girl, and I register how I was never so protective, nor possessive with Erya.

The man freezes in his tracks at the sight of me. And bows. Then, he pins those eyes to Zephella and nods frantically.

She gets to her feet and juts her chin at Quintessa. “Would you like to be at one again?”

26

“Show them your light!”

QUINTESSA

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