Page 48 of Foundling
“What if who I want to be is your mate?” he whispered.
She didn’t know if she could believe the question was an honest one, even if his tone and expression were grave. There was no play, no artifice, and yet…Leita couldn’t let herself truly believe.
“You’re saying that as someone looking for protection.”
“Yes. But I’m also saying it as your azai.” He nudged her shoulder with his, a rueful, genuine grin lifting his lips. “I do actually like you, Leita. Strange as you are.”
“You might be the first in a long while,” she murmured, not quite sure she truly wanted to say it.
His grin widened. “Well now, as twelfth born, that would be novel for me.”
She almost smiled despite herself and hid it behind her hand.
They lapsed into an introspective silence, one she found surprisingly comfortable. The afternoon had lengthened, and they really should be getting back, but Leita found herself loath to get up just yet. The breeze was pleasant, and so was his scent, a mixture of cinnamon and cedar, woodsmoke and musk.
Into the easiness between them, Attalus said quietly, “Queen or not, I would be honored to be your family, Leita. Had I found you in the southern wilds, in the streets of Bargarad, or anywhere else.”
Leita’s throat went dry and her sinuses ached, a sure sign she might cry. Instead, and she didn’t fully understand why, she leaned forward to kiss him.
It was quick, barely anything, and she pulled back before he could deepen it. Still, she took the brief touch for herself, if only to prove she could.
She came away from the touch with her blood positively sparkling, and she took to her feet. “We’d better go back,” she said, unfurling her wings.
Attalus looked as though he might say something, but then his attention snagged on the blue and purple iridescence of her wings. Sensitive to everything from emotion to air pressure, she preferred to keep her wings close to her back, but today, she felt like flying.
Whorls of ash and dirt swirled around her feet when her wings began to flutter. Leita lifted into the air, higher than his head from one breath to the next.
He cocked a brow, and Leita couldn’t help it, she laughed.
Then threw herself higher and sped off. She wasn’t about to surrender a headstart.
She knew he’d chase her, counted on it, and a little thrill zipped from ears to toes hearing the displacement of air his wings made beating against the ground. He took a running start, his footfalls quick and light, and then a mighty whooshing as his great wings pumped.
All the air whipped past her, none making it to her lungs, and so she breathlessly pushed herself to go faster. Although her heart pounded, she was lighter than air knowing Attalus followed behind.
12
What Leita took, if somewhat begrudgingly, from their talk at the border was that she and Attalus had more than a little common ground to stand upon. What he seemed to discover was a renewed determination to win her over.
In the following days, he waited for little openings to ask more about her. As she sat grinding up spices for that evening’s supper, he leaned down to ask, without any preamble, “How many younglings did you want to have?”
Leita nearly dropped the stone pestle on her foot. “Wh-what?”
He merely shrugged. “Matehood and bonding usually bring younglings, so I thought I’d better ask.”
Her cheeks burned as she doggedly returned to her work. She meant not to answer him, but he stood there waiting, long enough that she finally admitted in a grumble, “A few.”
“As in two? How many do fae typically have at once?”
“One at a time, usually,” she said.
He made a considering noise, and a peek up at him revealed that he did truly seem to be giving their future younglings thought.
“Four,” she muttered. “I think four is good.”
His brows arched and he grinned merrily. “Well now, a whole brood, I like that very much.” And with a kiss to the top of her head, he strode from the cave to stretch in the sunshine as he’d taken to doing most afternoons.
Did you want me to leave you alone in the cave tonight to get started, or…?
