Page 9

He closed his eyes and saw her.

He remembered that last time before he slipped away—she was distant, occupied, slipping through his fingers.

The memory he avoided came to him as it had every night since he left. His sleep was no longer dreamless.

Fae beneath him, her skin warm, her body yielding as it always had. She had been there with him; she had responded as she always did because the matebond had them in its grip. But lately, something had been…absent.

A gradual withdrawal, so subtle he had missed it until all that was missing became glaringly obvious.

She did not curl into him afterward. She did not subconsciously drift to his side of the bed to burrow her tiny cold feel under his. She did not ask him to stay an extra day, did not trace idle patterns along his arm or press her face into his chest in those few minutes he allowed himself to hold her after a joining.

She had moved away too quickly, like she wanted to get away, while usually it was always he who moved away from her temptation. It was always he who held back when he wanted her a second time too soon after the first.

The last time, he remembered clearly, she had been staring at the painting on the wall while he lost himself inside her. She was there, but not, as though her body remained, but her mind had stepped elsewhere. She didn't ripple in helpless completion around him when he came undone in her arms.

And then, as soon as he had withdrawn from her, she had slipped from the bed altogether.

He remembered the hurried rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her feet on the stairs. She had muttered something about forgetting the breakfast preparations, and he heard her rush toward the washhouse as if the ghouls of the forest were on her heels.

He had drifted off into an uneasy sleep, unsure as to what had just happened. Had he hurt her? When he woke up to the clatter of pots and pans downstairs, he realized she hadn't come back to bed.

It had always been he who pulled away. Always he who kept the careful distance, who rationed tenderness like it was gold dust. And that night, for the first time, he had been the one left behind.

The fire crackled as fat spattered from the bird on the spit, bringing him back.

Blaidd tightened his grip on the fur.

The next morning surfaced in his mind with cruel clarity.

He had mentioned going on a fact-finding mission to the northern border. It was nothing unusual, barely worth comment. Fae had made a small, passive sound in response. A noncommittal murmur that might have been a yes or a no or nothing at all.

Rowena had been seated at the table.

She had leaned toward him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his arm. In the firelight, she had looked so much like Eira—his beloved daughter to the world—that for a heartbeat, his chest had squeezed painfully. She had the same colouring, the same delicate bone structure, they might have been twins.

Eira had begged him to let Rowena stay that first day he had brought her back from the woods—wounded, shaking, and fragile like a newborn fawn. Rowena was only four years older than Eira, practically a child herself. Eira was a child who had grown up without her mother. And not once did it cross Blaidd's mind that there was one person in his household who had tried to fill those shoes in vain, despite being rebuffed for years.

But that morning, Rowena’s gaze had held his own with something there that made him...uncomfortable. The slow drag of her finger down his bare arm had not been accidental. He had instinctively shifted away without comment, the wrongness prickling at his skin. Disgust crawled up his throat for some strange reason.

Now, alone in the cave, the memory curdled like sour milk.

Something wasn't right in those eyes. Those were not the eyes of the child he considered her to be; they were the eyes of a woman viewing him with intent, he realized belatedly.

He stared into the fire, teeth grinding as he wondered how he could have missed it as the realisation settled heavy and unwelcome. He needed to find Rowena a place in the pack—properly placed, away from his own home. He would speak to Maxen when he returned. He would speak to him now if he could reach him through the packlink, but he was too far away. Was this why Fae turned away from him? He didn't understand women, but he wondered what kind of mischief Rowena had been up to while he was away.

The snow showed no sign of relenting, but urgency crawled under his skin. His wolf was restless as always whenever he left Fae behind. He was never satisfied with the time Blaidd allowed the beast with his mate.

He reached for the mindlink again automatically, then stopped. He was too far.

A strange urgency squeezed his heart, as though something vital was slipping through his fingers even as he tried to sit still.

Perhaps, he thought, he would bring Fae with him on his next venture into the wilderness, or when he was deputised to a neighbouring pack. Suddenly, a memory flashed through his mind. A younger, hopeful Fae, lifting long curling lashes to look up at him and shyly ask him if she could come along for the trip. He couldn't remember what he replied, but he now realized that she never asked again. The restlessness in his chest only grew. She had been in her woodwork shed most days of late—retreating into the rhythm of tools and grain and shavings.

Sulien had built the shed for her a year ago. He hadn't been paying attention to her hobby because he forced himself to stay away so much, and another man had given her that gift while he put all his willpower into keeping his distance.

His expression darkened as another memory surfaced.

Passing by a sennight before he left for this trip, he had found them deep in conversation. Fae was bent over her work, crafting a wooden handle for one of the new swords. Sulien was explaining the drawing, his hands moving as he spoke. Their dark heads were tilted towards each other, and he was struck by what a harmonious picture they made.