by Chant, Zoe
Okay, this was going to entirely the wrong mental place.
She realized she'd missed all of what he'd just said. "I'm sorry, what?"
Heikon smiled patiently and said, "I was just going to get something to eat. I'm hungry. Would you like to join me?"
Temptation drew her with the strength of an undertow. But going out to eat felt like a date. Far too much like a date. "I prefer to eat in," she said, which wasn't precisely true—but now that she thought about it, had been increasingly true lately. She really was turning into a recluse.
And then her traitorous mouth opened and said something completely absurd: "But you can join me tonight if you like."
What. What. WHAT.
Heikon stared at her. If he'd said anything smug in that moment, she would have taken back her offer so fast it'd make his head spin. But instead, a look of startled warmth spread across his face, his eyes softening in a way that sent shivers straight down to her core.
"I'd love to," he said, in a voice as warm and gentle as his eyes.
Esme hastily turned away and began making little adjustments to the coffee cups that were already clean and dry and put away.
A whole evening with Heikon in her apartment! What was she thinking!
Yes, her dragon said, what were you thinking? What if our mate shows up and HE'S there?
A freshly horrifying thought occurred to her. What if her dragon was right? What if, now that the mate bond with Heikon was broken, she did have a mate out there somewhere? What if she fell in love with Heikon, and then met her real mate—
"Are you all right?" Heikon asked. Esme turned; he was holding out a hand partway, as if he wanted to touch her but had stopped himself. He took a breath and she could see him visibly gathering himself. "If you don't want to, it's all right. Really. It is."
And that was what made her put her mental foot down, right through her dragon's objections. He was being so careful with her. She had always thought of Heikon as forceful and arrogant—and he was, when it counted. But he was handling her with the most delicate touch. He had to be working so hard on it. Fighting was easy for dragons. To be gentle, to be kind, to hold onto something precious so carefully that it could escape if it needed to—those were the hard things.
She ... she didn't want to send him away.
"One condition," she said.
"Anything."
"I'm not picking up anything special for you. Dinner is going to be made out of whatever's in my fridge, and no complaining."
"Never," he said earnestly.
How was it that he could disarm her with the simplest statements? She turned away before she could give in to the urges consuming her—to reach out, to take his hand, to fall into his arms ...
As she took the lead to the stairwell, she wondered how she was going to get through this evening without doing any of those things. And she wondered, also, whether she really wanted to.
Heikon
Just inside the door of her apartment, Esme stopped and slipped off her shoes. Heikon followed suit, although he wasn't sure if it was one of her family customs or if she simply wanted to get out of her high-heeled dancing shoes.
Taking off his shoes made him feel oddly vulnerable. He wiggled his toes in his dark socks and then followed Esme into the kitchen, looking around curiously all the while.
Her apartment was build on an open plan, emphasizing its size and space and high ceilings. Up here the building's origins as a warehouse were more obvious than downstairs, where paneling and interior walls made it look like any ordinary convention space. In the penthouse, Esme had left the brick and woodwork exposed, giving it a raw and unfinished look, slightly old-fashioned and yet trendy, that Heikon found pleasing.
The juxtaposition of antique and modern, relaxed and upscale, continued throughout the rest of the apartment. She had a full-sized grand piano near comfortable-looking squashy couches and chairs, a state-of-the-art entertainment system with a giant, expensive-looking wall-mounted flatscreen next to colorful, framed folk art.
It was an interesting apartment. Some places had their owners' personalities stamped on them, and this was one of those places. Everywhere he looked, Heikon saw Esme. It made him wonder, for the first time, what aspects of him other people saw in his mountain.
"Wine?" Esme asked, rummaging in cabinets in the big open kitchen. "Coffee? Tea?"
"Wine would be appreciated. Thank you."
She poured a glass, and handed it to him. Her fingers did not quite brush his, but the glass seemed a little warmer where she had touched.
The kitchen was like the rest of the apartment, spacious and tastefully appointed. Heikon started to sit at the granite-topped kitchen island, then went to the window instead.
It was not, of course, as fine a view as the view from the top of his mountain. Not at all. But she did have a good view of the surrounding streets, spread out around her penthouse. From their vantage here, only four stories above the ground, it was possible to see all the details that would have been hidden from higher up. He watched a pair of humans come out of one of the shops, carrying bags and chattering to each other.
It was like the difference between flying over a forest very high, with the trees all blurring together into a green carpet far below, and soaring at treetop level, able to see each deer that sprang away, each small brook twisting between its mossy banks. From a great distance, the world became an abstract of shapes and colors—like the forests and valleys at the base of his mountain, spread out like a patchwork quilt. But up close, viewed from above, you could start to see how it all went together. You began to recognize the patterns of life there, the habits of its creatures, the changing ways of the seasons.
It was like gardening, in a way. From far away, the gardens were beautiful, but only as a tapestry of colors that might as well be a photograph. It was only up close, with your hands in the dirt, that you could begin to understand and appreciate them.
These streets, he realized, were Esme's garden.
"Something fascinating down there?" Esme asked. She leaned past him to look down at the streets glistening in the rain.
"Just ..." Seeing you. Maybe for the first time.
When he didn't finish the thought, she turned to look at him. Her eyes were very large and green, her face very close to his. There was a faint blush on her lips from the wine.
And then she jerked back. "Dinner," she said, as if reminding herself. "It's not going to be much. Just pasta and a salad."
"Can I help at all?"
"Sure." She took a lettuce and placed it in his hands. "You can make the salad."
They worked side by side in the kitchen, chopping ingredients. Just pasta, she'd said, but he could tell as she browned onions with an expert hand that it would be good.
"Do you like to cook?" he asked her. It was slowly dawning on him how little he knew about her. They had come together in a rush at the Aerie for a brief and wonderful affair, but now he began to realize how little they'd gotten to know each other as people. Her hobbies, her interests, her likes and dislikes were still largely a closed book to him.
"I have Italian blood. Of course I do." She smiled. "No, in seriousness, the urge comes and goes. When I first move to any new city, usually I relish the novelty of having new restaurants to explore. But a few years into it, I find myself cooking at home more often. I enjoy the comfort of it. The homeyness, you might say." She turned to scoop up a handful of the tomatoes and red peppers he was chopping. "And, of course, it was the way I grew up. Back in the old country, we had a private hunting preserve in the Alps, and Dad always insisted that we learn to cook everything we killed."
She stirred the sizzling contents of the skillet and reached up with the back of her hand to push her hair out of her eyes. It was still pinned up for dancing, but some strands had begun to work their way loose, straggling down on her forehead in the heat from the stove.
"What about you?" she asked. "I'm sure you had people to cook for you, back in the
mountain."
He had been so captivated by listening to her talk about herself—her every word, her every move—that he had to forcibly reroute himself to thinking about his own life. "It's more of a group effort. We have a rotating cooking roster, and yes, I take turns too."
"Heikon Corcoran, cooking for a crowd." She laughed, and it took his breath away. He had almost forgotten how beautiful her laugh was. "Now I'm picturing you peeling potatoes, like in those cartoons of humans being punished that way."
"I can't see what would be a punishment about it. It's peaceful—or it would be, at least, if the kids weren't flying in and out all the time, trying to grab a snack."
She laughed that delightful laugh again. "Our family get-togethers were always much more sedate. But then, we're a very small clan."
"You're from Switzerland, right?" He located her dishes in an antique-looking glass-fronted cabinet, and took down two plates.
"We're Italian-Swiss, yes. We have some little chalets up in the mountains. A separate home for each family. For the most part, when I was a child, it was just me and my parents, as well as a few staff. Of course, my cousins and aunts and uncles would visit. It was only a short flight." She smiled wistfully. "I envied you, with your big family in that mountain."
Heikon laughed. "Meanwhile, I sought out solitude in my gardens whenever I could. It can be a little bit noisy and crowded in there. Or at least I used to. All those years of—"
He stopped. He didn't like to think about those years, his exile years. He had spent part of that time living in caves in the mountains, healing and recovering, barely aware of the human part of himself. At first life had only been about surviving. Then it had been focused on revenge. His entire life had revolved around taking back what was his, reclaiming the life that was his.
"I think the pasta's almost done," Esme said, breaking the silence. Her voice was formal, and the easy camaraderie they'd fallen into had once again strained.
Because she'd gone through her own kind of hell in those years, hadn't she? Believing him dead, trying to move on with her life ...
Losing your mate was the worst thing that could happen to a shifter. Many didn't survive it. That Esme had not only survived, but thrived, made him aware of how incredibly strong she was.
They had both survived. And now here they were, twenty years later, picking up the pieces.
He laid out the plates, and Esme dished up pasta with a simple pan-seared mix of onions, peppers, and tomatoes. With some freshly grated parmesan and the salad on the side, it was simple and yet excellent. It occurred to Heikon that he'd had very few meals in his life that did not involve meat in one form or another, and before he could stop himself he'd already said so.
"I believe in exploring my options," Esme said. "The humans have such a vast array of recipes that don't involve meat at all. And the Internet is an excellent source of instruction. I've taken to watching cooking shows on Netflix to relax."
Heikon, who had not known that cooking shows were a thing that existed, merely nodded as he twirled spaghetti around his fork.
All in all, this was not the lonely, empty existence he'd expected. Her apartment was warm and nice and full of things she clearly loved. She didn't even seem unhappy.
Was there even still a place for him in her life?
But then he looked across the table at her, and caught the shadow of sorrow in her eyes before she dropped her gaze to her plate. He could no longer see her animal in her eyes, but he could still read her emotions as if they were his own. And her pain still hurt him.
"Show me," he said, unable to think of anything else to say.
She gave him a sharp, startled look. "Show you what?"
"This Netflix of yours. It's important to you. I'd like to see it and share it, if I might."
"I—It's not—Well, all right."
She reached for a slim black object on the edge of the table and pointed it at the flatscreen. Heikon jumped only slightly when the screen lit up. Oh right, remote controls. The mountain had a lot of this newfangled technology now because the younger members of the clan wanted it, and he had to admit that it was handy. But he didn't often use it just for fun.
Esme flicked through different options on the TV and soon there was a show with humans doing things with pie crusts and fillings. In truth, he was bored within a few minutes (his dragon was idly clicking its claws and muttering things about hunting), but what fascinated him was her obvious fascination. It wasn't quite as intense as when she focused on music, but he loved seeing that sharp interest and attention on her face.
"You really love this kind of thing, don't you?" Heikon said. "Cooking shows. Dancing classes. All of it."
"Well, it's my life, Heikon." Her eyes sparkled suddenly, a playful flare he hadn't seen in a very long time. "Don't you love your mountain? Your gardens?"
"Of course. I was thinking earlier ..." But then he hesitated, not sure if he wanted to share his mental comparison between the neighborhood and his own gardens; he didn't know how she'd take it. "It's not different," he finished weakly.
Esme laughed. "Of course not."
She got up and reached for the salad bowl. Heikon helped her put the dishes in the sink.
"We can do them later," she said, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "It's ... nice, having company up here. I don't often have guests, except when Melody and her mate are here."
That's right. He'd last seen Melody when she was a little girl. "How is your daughter? She's found her mate?"
"Yes, she has." Esme's eyes sparkled, her whole face becoming animated; her obvious love for her daughter shone through. "I have to say that I wasn't sure what to think when I first met him. He's an ex-con, more tattoos than you care to mention ... I just hoped he'd be good to my little girl. But he is. You should see them together. Oh here, let me show you a picture."
She pulled one down off the wall. The dark-haired woman in the photo was almost unrecognizable as that skinny girl Heikon had seen at the mountain all those years ago. A blond man in the photo had his arms around her.
"They look like a wonderful couple," Heikon said.
"They are. She's pregnant, can you believe it? I'm going to be a grandmother." She laughed softly. "I'm sure that's no big deal for you. You've had a long time to adjust to the idea. You have great-grandkids, don't you?" He nodded. "But it's new for me. It makes me feel old."
"Trust me, Esme," he said gently. "You're anything but old."
He reached out, prepared to withdraw if she said anything, did anything, to suggest she didn't want—but instead she leaned forward, and when the side of his hand brushed her face, she leaned into it like a cat leaning into a friendly caress.
It was only another step to close the distance between them, and then his lips touched hers for the first time in twenty years.
The mate bond might be gone, but her lips hadn't changed at all. There was no longer the fire lighting up the channel between them—instead it felt like coming home, like finding a place he'd lost long ago.
There was a vanilla-flavored sweetness on her lips, and she opened her mouth, inviting him in. The sensation of her mouth on his was like a rush of heat and honey, filling him from his toes to the top of his head. Dimly he was aware that he had one hand in her hair, the other on her hip, and her arms were around him, and he was home, home, home—
And then she pulled away.
The kiss broke. She took a step backward. He resisted for a bare instant, everything in him crying out against the loss of that homecoming feeling, and then he let her go and she took a few quick steps away, putting some distance between them again.
"Esme," he said. He was still breathless from that kiss, that kiss. "You can't tell me you didn't feel anything just then."
"It wasn't what we had before." She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
"So we'll make something new."
"Heikon ....." She reached for the dish towel and worked it anxiously between her
hands. "Why did you do it?"
"Why did I—what?"
"The mate bond." She was looking everywhere except at him, plucking at the dish towel, twisting it, wringing it. "Once it's gone, it's gone. How could you do that to us?"
And then it hit him, all in a shocking rush. She thought he'd done it on purpose.
"Esme," he said, stunned.
All these years, she thought he did it on purpose?
No wonder she was so furious with him. He now admired her self-restraint for not simply punching him in the face the first time she saw him at the Aerie.
She turned away abruptly. "Never mind. I don't know why I thought ..."
"Esme. No. Wait, listen—" He held out a hand, but all her body language said Don't touch, and all he did was brush it lightly through the air above her shoulder. As if she'd felt it anyway, she turned her head. "Esme, it wasn't me. It was my brother."
He could have laughed, and stopped himself only because he knew how it would sound to her. He felt giddy with excitement. If that was all that was keeping them apart, then just telling her the truth would fix it.
Could it really be that simple?
Esme turned to look at him full on, her green eyes dark with suspicion. "Heikon ..."
"It was Braun, Esme. He poisoned me with concentrated dragonsbane. I survived only because I managed to get away before I took a lethal dose." But close enough. It all rushed back to him: the pain, the disorientation, and most of all the feeling of Esme suddenly vanishing, as if the bond had been cut with a knife. "Braun thought I was dead."
"We all thought you were dead," Esme said. Puzzlingly, she didn't look like she was softening a bit. In fact, she looked even more angry now.
"I know, and I'm so sorry for that. I had to let people think so while Braun was in charge of the Aerie. The only person I dared trust with it was Mother—"
"You told your mother and not me?"
"I had to keep you safe!"
"I know that!" Her voice came out like a whipcrack. "I thought you were dead, Heikon! All this time ... all this time, I thought you were dead, and then I found out you were alive and you didn't even trust me enough to tell me."
