Page 60 of The Longing

“How well did you know Warden, in the Night Lands?” I ask over breakfast, having made the decision to take matters which bother me slowly.

Fenrother has accepted me as a mate, he enjoys holding me through the night, and there’s no way I could sleep alone even if I wanted to, regularly waking up wrapped in the coils of a Wyrm, but he’s not talkative, presumably because there has been no one to talk to.

I’m no recent stranger to overwhelm, and given he’s still carrying my used knickers around with him like a security blanket, I’m going to have to break Fenrother in gently to a two-way relationship as well as myself.

Fenrother growls over a large chunk of venison.

“Warden was an enforcer. He liked the fight and the Night Lands,” he says cryptically. “That’s why he doesn’t agree with my decision to leave.”

“So, he ambushed you?”

“He can’t get into the castle.” Fenrother shrugs. “Not that many creatures bother to travel here.”

I contemplate his reply, spreading sweet heather flavoured honey on a hunk of bread and taking a bite.

“We fought together on occasion. He was a good fighter,” Fenrother offers. “As was I. We turned the battle and the battle was what he lived for.”

“Because he lost his mate?”

Fenrother shrugs again. “I’d rage if I lost you,” he says simply. “But I wouldn’t stay in the Night Lands. That’s the difference.”

“I got the feeling he wanted to talk to you about something else,” I say carefully.

“Probably about the assassin in Guyzance’s palace. Or the Barghest in the dungeon,” Fenrother says, as if he’s discussing the weather.

“What?” I put the bread down.

“There was a Bluecap assassin in the gallery, trying not to be seen.”

“I saw him,” I say and Fenrother nods sagely. “But what is a Barghest?”

“Black dog of death. Doesn’t surprise me he ended up in a dungeon. No one likes a harbinger,” Fenrother says. “Especially the Faerie.”

“Why would Warden want to speak to you about them?”

“Because they fought in the Night Lands too.”

So, if I was trying not to overwhelm Fenrother, it’s backfired on me completely. I’m the one whose head is spinning.

“What were you fighting in the Night Lands?”

Fenrother snorts and stares into the fire.

“You don’t want to know,” he says, getting to his feet and walking towards his study.

I contemplate his swishing tail and his flexing wings as he goes. Should I follow him, or should I give him space? Everything I do with this monster is brand new for him and me. Have I pushed him too far? Does it matter, given we’re stuck together anyway?

My desire not to upset anyone meant my aunt walked all over me, up to the point she decided she could take my inheritance and hand me over to the Yeavering. I didn’t want to be a doormat, but grief, the failure to deal with grief, the refusal by those around me to let me grieve—it turned me into something I was not.

I don’t have to be that person with Fenrother. I don’t have to be that person at all. My chair scrapes on the stone floor and I follow him.

“Did it occur to you I might want to know? Because apparently we’re mates and that means we’re stuck together,” I demand as I enter and find him sat at his desk, feet propped up and a book in his hand.

There are also more books on the shelves than last time I was in here, and I’m pretty sure Fenrother hasn’t been out hunting for them.

“Fate put you here for a reason,” Fenrother says without looking up.

Anger boils in my stomach. Arrogant Wyrm.

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