“Then give Zul the chance to earn your love as we earned yours,” he said, lifting her chin with his fingertip. “I have seen into his soul and he already bears you great affection.”
“You will find him most devoted,” Gil added.
Zul growled. “Stop. Cease attempting to persuade her to do what she is not ready to accept. If Ursula is ever ready to accept me as her Bridge, then I will be most honored. But I will not stand for coercion. I do not want a mate who does not want me.”
Ursula winced. Waves of raw pain radiated through the bond. Her throat raw with unshed tears, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Breaking beneath the weight of Zul’s pain and Bran and Gil’s disappointment, she fled.
“Aren’t you going to go after her?” Zul rasped as she disappeared around a corner.
“No, I think you should,” Bran said. Gil nodded in agreement.
“She does not want me.”
Gil sighed. “Shedoeswant you, but she feels conflicted.”
“She feels as though she betrays Crow and possibly us by accepting you as the Third in our triad,” Bran explained.
“After you’ve known her for a good while, you’ll realize that our mate is complicated. She is not as naturally submissive as an Ilmadrin female. She will need some time to consider this, but not so much time that she will convince herself accepting a new Bridge is betrayal.”
“I do not wish to cause her distress.”
“Your care for her speaks to your favor,” Bran assured him. He patted Zul’s shoulder. “Go to her. She’s most likely retreated to the courtyard or to her studio.”
“She won’t harm you,” Gil said, eyes gleaming with encouragement.
Zul would have objected. Ursula’s reluctance to accept him as her Bridge made him feel as though she’d ripped out both his hearts with her dainty hands. Shoulders tense, he headed down the corridor and followed her scent to her studio, a room he had never entered because it washerspace, private to her and solely for her use. It was a place he did not feel welcome.
He heard a slam when he entered the studio, easing the door open and sidling through. His horn nearly knocked the door when he turned his head to confront the violent noise only to see her peel the glob of pale pink clay off a flat stone surface, smash it between her hands, and throw it against the stone again. He waited a long moment, watching her as she slammed the clay against the countertop while tears trickled down her cheeks.
Zul knew nothing of pottery, but he thought she had abused the clay enough. Approaching her on silent feet, he settled his hand over both of hers. “Surely, you have punished it enough?”
She raised eyes shimmering with tears to meet his gaze. Her shoulders shook and she bowed over the countertop with a harsh sob. Zul lifted her hands from the clay and turned her toward him.Feeling both daring and awkward, he drew her against him and wrapped his arms around her as he had seen her do with her son. Ursula yielded to his control, accepted his comfort, and wept.
Sniffling, she finally said, “I’m sorry, Zul. I’m so sorry.”
He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, again as he’d witnessed her do with Crow and as Gil and Bran often did to her. Through their bond, he felt the honesty of her words and the candid insight of Bran and Gil’s words. Their little hybrid mate was indeed a complicated being. Unaccustomed to gentleness, Zul felt forgiveness swell within him. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he knew it was necessary.
“We do not have to complete the ritual now,” he assured her. “I will wait until you are ready; and” —he swallowed a lump of painful disappointment— “if you are never ready, then I will respect that.”
Ursula’s sobs resumed.
“I will not harm you,” he whispered, each word feeling like broken glass inside his throat.
His thoughts raced, conjuring and rejecting various options to persuade her to complete the ritual of her own free will. That was the sticking point: he wanted her to freely choose him without guilt, without regret, without sorrow. He knew he would neither force her nor manipulate her compliance. While any of the Triad could, they wouldn’t. Not this time.
As she quieted, the sobs dwindling into watery sniffles, Zul looked around the studio. He saw shelves stocked with hefty blocks of pink clay, the finest Uribern had to offer. He saw jars of pigments waiting to be mixed into glazes. A potter’s wheel was placed beneath a window which would capture the morning sunlight. Another wheel, the purpose of which he was not sure, stood nearby. Three more tables, one with what he guessed was a press, were placed around the room. Each had a cabinet he was sure was stocked with the implements necessary to achieve various decorative effects. He noted the four fat-bellied kilns near which were more shelves bearing various vessels and figurines, some drying and others awaiting their turn to be fired in thekiln. In the center of the room was an island with a large sink. Everything was tidy. The castrati maintained a high standard of cleanliness within the Fangrys household.
Feeling the need to make a connection with her that did not involve sinking his cock into her body and enhancing her feelings of betrayal, Zul hit upon an idea. “Will you show me? Teach me?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, pulling a handkerchief from an unseen pocket in her dress. Particularly after Crow’s birth, she’d adopted the habit of always carrying a handkerchief. They came in handy. Ursula blew her nose, feeling further embarrassed by the loud noise.
Zul gestured. “Show me what you do.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Do you truly want to know, or are you just trying to be nice?”
“I want to know. This is important to you; therefore, it must also be important to me.”
