Page 162 of Griffin Food

I take it.

He leads me to his study without a word, Lark padding along at my side, nails clattering in a familiar rhythm against the flagstones.

The fire is already lit when we enter. The lamp on his desk throws a warm circle of light across the scrolls and ledgers that are his constant companions—the administrative weight of a pride and its communities, which does not pause for wars or grief or the complicated interior lives of Griffin Queens.

Lark takes up his usual place, lying across the entrance of the door… just in case… for my extra safety.

Atlas sets my book on the corner of his desk, pulls his chair out, sits, and then looks at me.

Then he looks at the cushion.

The damn cushion, just sitting there waiting on the floor.

Something in my chest loosens for the first time in eighteen days.

“I haven’t—” I start, thoughts a jumble and not entirely sure what it is I want to say.

“I know,” he says.

Well, alright then…

I gather my skirts and sink to my knees on the cushion beside him. The familiar pressure of the floor beneath my knees, the warmth of the fire at my back, the scent of him close—all of it is so known, so particular to this room and this man, that my eyes unexpectedly sting.

I drop my gaze to my hands in my lap.

His fingers find my hair. Not pulling, not directing. Just resting there, warm and steady, the way a hand rests on the shoulder of someone who is standing at the edge of something.

“You are very far away,” he says quietly.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The hand moves, slowly, smoothing my hair back from my face. “Just come back.”

Atlas

I have missed this.

I have missed my mate.

The moment feels right, her kneeling on her cushion. Submissive. Letting go. Accepting my touch.

Of course, that little spark of defiance when I nodded at the cushion didn’t escape my notice—and brought an internal smile. But that is what makes it all the sweeter when she sank to her knees.

She is my mate and my queen, and in many ways, it is I who kneels before her. Yet, I need this too, and from the very first time she entered my study, I recognized the beauty and the rightness of her kneeling like this for me.

Fenix

“We are to report to Atlas’s study,” Galeor informs me, gloating like he knows something I do not.

It sets my teeth on edge and sparks curiosity all at once. I haven’t fucked anything up recently. Also, why did Atlas not fucking ask me himself? Why does he need to relay through Galeor? If I’m going to get my ass chewed out, I’d at least like to know what the fuck for.

Galeor clacks his beak in amusement and immediately begins preening, the way he does when he thinks about…

I’m at the study door, so I go ahead and knock.

“Enter,” Atlas calls.

I do, and nearly trip over the mutt who is lying in the way. He gives me a look and heaves himself up. He usually gets out of the way, but I guess he is feeling stubborn today. I don’t linger on Lark and his antics as I’m hit by a wall of enticing scent belonging to a sweet little omega snack. There she is, kneeling on a cushion at Atlas’s feet. Her head is resting, cheek against his thigh, while his fingers are running through her hair in a light caress. He has a scroll open upon his desk.