Page 22 of Heartsong
He looked her over, and slowly that smile faded.
“You are in different clothing.”
“Well, yeah. I changed this morning.” Where was he going with this?
“You left.”
Oh. This.
Anna stepped out of his grip, all the warm fuzzies leaking out of her, and turned back into the kitchen.
“I went to work, yes.”
“My mate,” he said, voice gone to a growl, “Itold you,you cannot.”
7
He’d displeased his mate, that was abundantly clear. The clang of their cutlery on her fine white ceramic dishes were overloud in the sucking silence of the meal.
Normally, Frey would’ve been humbled and effusive in his praise to eat a meal prepared by his own heartsong. Feeding a mate, a partner, the one with whom you raised younglings, was sacred amongst his kind; it was protection, caring, sustenance. It was a basic principle of being a mate worth a damn.
He recognized the chicken and the taste of heavy cream, though the noodles and types of vegetables and spices she’d added were new to him. Frey didn’t care for the way the vegetables went slippery as he chewed, sliding down his throat in a mushy glide, but he said nothing. He was alive and awake, his belly full of warm, real food, and he sat across from his heartsong.
If only she’d stop scowling at him.
And if only he knew what to do with the cutlery she’d given him. The blunted knife was useless and the spoon was far too small for much. He mastered the fork quickly enough, though it was inadequately sized for his hand.
Still, he made do, as well as many appreciative sounds. It wasn’t the finest meal he’d ever had, but it was the best because his mate presented it to him. The vegetables notwithstanding.
Soon, he would prepare her a proper meal. He’d prove to her what a good mate he could be. He may not yet understand this modern world of hers, but cooking, feeding one’s partner, was essential, elemental. He didn’t need the intricate machines littering her kitchen; just a fire and a will to please.
Maybe that will soften her scowl.
Not that he disliked her scowl—far from it, he found her spark of ferociousness mightily attractive. What he didn’t appreciate was that he hardly deserved it for being right. She shouldn’t have left and put herself in danger.
Tonight, he had to endeavor to convince her to stay within the safety of the dwelling where he could…
He had to persuade her now, so that if he was again confined to his stone prison, he could at least be at ease knowing she was safe.
The memory of being ripped away from his mate and the living world again soured his stomach, and he pushed his plate away.
“Done?” she asked, not waiting for an answer to whisk his plate away into the kitchen.
Frey turned in his seat to keep her in his sights. The chair gave an ominous creak under his bulk, and he dared not even twitch his wings for fear of splitting the wood in two.
Finding adequate furnishings and cutlery would be their first task when they made a nest of their own.
He couldn’t help a pleased rumble at the thought of making a nest for his mate. Back within the clanhome he shared with his kin, he had a large dwelling, full of caves ready to be filled with a heartsong and everything she could need. It’d been lonely living in such a place after the deaths of his mother and sister, so Frey had spent much of his manhood collecting everything a mate could need. Since he didn’t know what she’d like, he’d gathered a bit of everything.
There was so much lost to him and his kind, but he felt the loss of his dwelling most keenly then. Frey had to hope she wouldn’t hold his lack of preparation against him. He had nothing to offer but himself now, and it would have to be enough. He would strive to be enough.
Frey didn’t yet know her well, but Anna pleased him greatly. A meek mate would never have been for him. She was quick with her words and wit, as well as a sharp cut of her gaze from the corner of her eye. Her brows were always moving, a tell to her moods. And although they were often downturned at him, he enjoyed her fire.
He watched her in the kitchen, admiring her lovely form. She was all lush curves and rich brown hair. Round, plush lips tempted him to nip with his fangs, and the luscious flesh of her backside would fill his palms perfectly. Yes, he couldn’t wait for the time when she would come to him happily; rather than attacking the plates under a stream of hot water, she’d round the table to him and lower herself into his lap to receive his kisses and nips and lascivious promises whispered into her—
“My bosses, the ones who own the museum, they think two statues were stolen,” said Anna from the sink. “You and another one. So those guys did make off with one of…your people.”
Her words sobered him. “Why would they have stolen one of us?”
