Page 40 of Foundling

Which left Attalus with few choices.

Conniving as it might be, his best hope was to successfully woo his powerful fae mate. He contented himself that it could be a wholly pleasant task, and that he meant to be a good mate. Attalus never had the luxury of mourning what could’ve been—plans and fortunes changed.

So the sooner she returned, the sooner he could get to courting Leita properly. And save his own scales.

10

Attalus wasn’t surprised about Leita’s fiery demeanor when she returned. In fact, he met it with his own sour mood.

She hadn’t said she’d be staying away for two nights, leaving him to worry alone over the gorgoroi, her wellbeing, as well as a growing ache in his limbs. It seemed he wasn’t quite as healed as either of them had thought, and whatever residual magic of hers remained inside him had weakened with distance.

So when she marched moodily up to the cave three days after leaving him, a scowl on her face and determination stiffening her shoulders, Attalus met her head on, arms crossed and tail lashing.

“Where have you been?” he asked at the same time she demanded, “Why are there dragons above my lands?”

The ferocity of their respective outbursts made the other blink.

Attalus was the first to recover, stepping into Leita’s space. “Your lands?” he purred. “Well, well, what aren’t you telling me, phetala?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she retorted, each no coming with a vicious poke at the center of his chest. “You’re going to tell me exactly what’s brought you here—and why you’re being followed.”

“We don’t know for certain those dragons were looking for me.”

Leita let loose a derisive snort. Yes, Attalus didn’t think there was much hope in that argument, either.

“So you saw them, too.” Not a question. “Who are they? What do they want? And why are you here?” Again with the poking.

Attalus snatched up her attacking hand, giving the offending finger a little nip in retribution. He grinned to see her surprise—he’d stunned her silent, at least for the moment. Giving in to temptation, Attalus nuzzled her palm before kissing the center and placing it on his cheek.

“I’ll tell you everything, agae, as a good mate should,” he crooned, reeling her further into the curve of his body. She rocked forward, so close they shared breath. He watched her plush lilac lips part and appreciated the delicate swoops of her lashes. Damn, what’d he been angry about again?

Daring to run the tip of his nose along the bridge of hers, Attalus whispered, “I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours, too.”

Leita’s head jerked backwards, but he kept firm hold of her hand, not letting her fully escape.

“What are you talking about?”

Now who’s being obtuse.

“Controlling rainstorms, communing with the faelands itself…these aren’t the actions of an average, everyday fae.”

Leita frowned, and he watched her thoughts whizzing quickly by in her eyes. Truly, this creature had no guile. It made playing with her all the more fun—but Attalus reminded himself this wasn’t a silly game. It was a game with high stakes that he couldn’t afford to lose.

“You don’t know that,” she muttered without much conviction.

“I may be the most charming of my siblings, and the least cutthroat, but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid, agae,” he told her, an edge to his voice. He’d happily be all charm and smiles for her, but it was necessary she understood he wasn’t a fool.

Her glare was so baleful, it might’ve disintegrated lesser men. Luckily for her, he was made of sterner stuff. Still, for a moment he thought she’d refute him. That, in her eyes, he wasn’t charming but indeed stupid. The idea made him ache worse than the venom. Considered a fool by his own true mate wasn’t something Attalus would ever want.

He couldn’t say what she found as she searched his gaze. Attalus stood strong against the inspection, a shiver running up his spine to realize just how important her assessment was to him.

Rather than answering him, she stepped back to give herself room to pull a bulging bag from her back. “I brought you things from town.”

Attalus took the bag when she handed it over but didn’t open it—valiantly fighting his acquisitiveness.

“Thank you, agae, but first I think—”

She pointed at the bag. “Trou first, and then we’ll talk.”