“Appreciate later. I’m tired. Some random Demon Lord stole all my sleep.”
“Blame the ritual,” I murmur, brushing my lips across her forehead. “Not the not-random Demon Lord.”
“Bold of you to assume there’s a difference.” Her eyes soften, the sharpness melting into something that makes my chest ache. “What time is it?”
“Too late for more sleep,” I say, though I want nothing more than to keep her here, in this bed, for the next century.
“It is the first day of Sowing. We have a feast to host. Blessings to give. And we are expecting guests.”
She groans and buries her face in my chest.
“Guests? Oh! Right, your brothers. Their mates. The whole ‘save the worlds’ committee.”
I cannot help the small huff of laughter that escapes me.
“Something like that.”
A knock sounds at the chamber door.
“Come,” I call.
The door opens a crack. Brianne peeks in—sharp-featured, practical, unflappable Brianne, who has served The Barrow since I first took the title.
Her braid is coiled at the nape of her neck, her apron already dusted with flour and dried herbs.
“My Lord,” she says, eyes flicking to the bed before dropping with proper deference. “Lady Alina’s garments for the Sowing Feast are prepared. With your leave, I’ll help her dress.”
I feel Alina stiffen slightly beside me.
“You’re leaving? And why does she keep calling me Lady Alina,” she mouths, as if she cannot believe the word applies to her.
My mate.
My viyella.
Lady of the Marches.
I curl a hand around the back of her neck and squeeze gently.
“You will meet my brothers and their viyellas today,” I tell her quietly. “The farmers, the quarry foremen, the elders. Sowing is the start of our year. Its blessing must be given by the Lord of Earth and his new viyella.” I hesitate, the old fear sliding sharp under my ribs. “If you do not wish to?—”
She cuts me off with a look that could cleave stone.
“Dagan,” she says. “I didn’t cross dimensions and let you bite me just to hide in a tower.”
My mouth twitches.
“Very well,” I say solemnly. “Brianne, she is yours. Do not let her fall back asleep.”
“I make no promises,” Alina mutters.
Brianne smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “Up with you, Lady Alina. We’ve work to do.”
I leave them reluctantly, pausing in the doorway to glance back.
Brianne is already fussing with my mate’s hair, muttering about braids that will hold up to wind, while Alina argues half-heartedly about “not needing a walking architecture project on my head.”
The bond hums between us as I step into the corridor, tugging at me, reluctant to stretch.
