Meera was stripping palmetto leaves with Ata. “Men are infuriatingly emotional.”

“I agree.” Ata split the palmetto leaves with her teeth and wove them into the sturdy basket between her legs. “I often told Akune that he needed to cool his temper.”

“He has been the one pushing to be mated ever since he found out we were reshon. And I wasn’t averse to mating, I just wanted to be sure he was certain of his feelings and not purely operating on fate.”

“Being reshon doesn’t guarantee a happy mating,” Ata said.

“Exactly!”

“It merely guarantees you are mating the person heaven designed for you. But if you’re a miserable person by nature, you still might be unhappy with that.”

Meera paused. “I’m not a miserable person.”

“You don’t seem to be. If Rhys is resisting the mating now, perhaps he avoids happiness.”

Meera frowned. “Rhys doesn’t avoid happiness. That’s not what this is about.”

Ata curled her lip. “He likes to complain.”

“But in a teasing fashion,” Meera said defensively. “He’s not a negative person. It’s just his sense of humor.”

Ata shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“He’s a very generous person. Miserable people aren’t generous.”

“You know him better than I do, so I will leave you to judge that. Perhaps he’s fickle and his feelings have changed.” Ata reached for another strip of palmetto. “You definitely want to avoid a fickle mate. His feelings would be changing all the time. You’d never be able to depend on him.”

“Rhys is very dependable,” Meera said. “He’s not fickle.”

“Odd for his feelings to change like that then.”

“It’s not about his feelings,” Meera said. Or was it?

“Don’t you understand it would kill me if you chose me because of an obligation?”

Did Rhys fear that Meera would regret their mating? That she would come to resent him? That he would someday be an obligation?

“He would never be an obligation to me,” Meera said.

Ata looked up. “Who said that? A mate is a gift. Especially a reshon.”

“Yes, Rhys said the same thing.” Her fingers felt frozen. He’d said exactly the same thing.

“I am your reshon, Meera. I don’t consider that an opportunity. I consider it a gift.”

She’d been surprised. Taken aback. No one but her parents had ever cared for her without obligation. The Tomir guarded her. The singers of Udaipur served her and learned from her. But Rhys… he didn’t owe her anything. Nothing at all. He wanted Meera for herself. He said he loved her for herself.

Meera didn’t know what to do with that love.

Ata reached for another palmetto strip. “Perhaps he is simply brooding. My mate did that occasionally. Men need to brood.”

“Maybe.” Meera picked up another palmetto frond. “That must be it.”

“Finish that frond,” Ata said. “And I’ll teach you another song.”

“Can I record it this time with my digital recorder?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Ata said. “But make those strips narrower.”

* * *

Hours later, Meera was loading the digital file of Ata’s weaving song into her computer, and Rhys still wasn’t back. She had asked Ata if she could sense him close by, and Ata had told her not to worry, so she tried not to.

She did more weaving.

She weeded the garden.

She made preliminary notes about the grammatical structure of Ata’s language, as much as she could discern from its relation to the Natchez language and the way the Uwachi Toma had tied their language and the Old Language together in spells.

She washed clothes.

She tried not to think about Rhys.

It was impossible.

He came back to the mound before sunset with a long string of fish held in his hand.

“Good work,” Ata said. “You stink.”

“I know. Is there water in the bathhouse?”

“Yes, and it’s already heated.” Ata held up the fish. “I have a stew going for dinner, but I can smoke and dry these.”

“Whatever you think best,” Rhys said. “I just needed some quiet.”

“And now you need a bath.” Ata glanced across toward Meera. “I’ll send your mate in with some drinking water.”

Rhys heaved a sigh. “Meera is not my—”

“Don’t care.” Ata turned and walked away, leaving Meera standing at the door of their hut, watching Rhys.

He looked at her. Opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it, then walked into the bathhouse without a word.

Meera went back into their hut and sat on the bed, unsure of what she should do. She hated feeling unsure. Hated it. From the time she was a child, she’d always known what to do and where to go. She’d always known her role and her duties.

Rhys didn’t want to be a duty to her. So what was she supposed to do with him?

Ata stuck her head through the curtain of their hut. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go bring the man some drinking water. He’s been out in the heat all day. I’m shocked he isn’t unconscious.”

Meera jumped up. “Okay.” Bring the man some water. She could do that.

She walked to the drinking-water barrel and dipped a large gourd in. Then she walked to the bathhouse rehearsing what she could say to Rhys to make him understand her confusion.

I want to be your mate and I know I will not regret it.

You could never be an obligation.

Just because a mating is logical doesn’t mean it’s unwanted.

I think I love you, but I’m not sure what that means.

You make me feel alive and reckless and a little crazy, and I want to feel that way for the rest of my life.

“Rhys?” She stepped into the damp air of the bathhouse where a fire burned in a potbellied stove in the corner, heating the stones that Rhys poured water over to fill the room with steam. He was naked to the waist, scrubbed clean, dressed only in ceremonial linen and his black-inked skin.

He was so beautiful Meera was struck dumb.

Rhys turned and saw her in the doorway. “Is that water for me?”

She nodded and held out the gourd.

He walked over, took it from her, and tipped it up to his lips, drinking so deeply it spilled from the corner of his mouth and dripped down his neck and chest.

He held out the cup. “Are you thirsty?”

Meera nodded, but her eyes were locked on his chest, following the drips of water that trailed down his neck, over his heart—bare skin waiting for a mating mark—and followed the ridges of his abdomen to disappear beneath the linen.

He put the cup down and reached for her, hooking his arm around her waist. “Meera?”

“Yes?” Her voice was thick with wanting him.

“Are you thinking about our argument this morning?”

She finally lifted her eyes. “Yes. And no.”

Meera couldn’t decipher the expression he wore. Sexual hunger. Tenderness. But with an edge of anger. Or was it frustration?

“Rhys, I think—”

“Don’t tell me what you think,” he said quietly. “Tell me how you feel. Right now. This moment. Tell me how you feel.”

“Greedy,” she whispered. “Rebellious. More than a little unwise.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Then he nodded and muttered, “That will do.”

Rhys took her mouth before she could speak another word, and Meera was glad for it. She didn’t want to talk or debate or reason with him. She wanted his body. Wanted his mouth. His hunger and desire. The longing was elemental in nature. She bit down on his lower lip, and Rhys’s hand came down on her backside in a hard slap.

He pulled away and cleared his throat. “Sorry.” Then he smoothed his palm over her buttock. “Actually, not sorry.”

Meera blinked in surprise. “Um… not sorry either.”

“Good.” His mouth took hers again, and he tugged at the buttons on her shorts until Meera unbuttoned them and shoved them down her legs. Her shirt was already off, and Rhys made quick work of her bra and underwear. He picked her up by the waist and walked her over to the warm basin of clear water where he dunked a washcloth in and squeezed the water over her shoulder, following with his mouth.

Rhys licked from her shoulder down to the tip of her breast, sucking hard and catching her as her knees buckled. His mouth and hand worked in tandem. Clean, kiss. Clean, bite. Clean, suck. He covered every inch of her skin with warm water and his lips before he stripped off the linen he wore at his waist and rubbed her from shoulder to toes, drying her off before he nudged her toward a low pile of furs and linen cloth in the corner.

“Remember how I said I enjoyed anticipation?” He pulled the hair at the nape of her neck, tilting her head back so he could kiss her throat.

“Yes.”

Her back hit linen, and Rhys came to rest between her legs, kneeling on the furs heaped on the floor of the bathhouse. Her body was ready for him. The hard line of his erection pressed against her inner thigh.

“That may go out the window this first time.” He leaned down and bit the side of her breast, his teeth scraping up the valley between her breasts as she pulled him closer and tilted her pelvis up.

“Please.”

Rhys braced one arm at her side, cupped her bottom in the other, and angled her hips before he drove into her in a long, steady slide.

Meera let out an aching breath. Heaven above. So good. So full. She’d been aching for this ever since he’d kissed her the first time.

His mouth came down on hers as he pulled out, then drove in deeper than the first time.

“Gabriel’s fist,” he muttered against her lips. “So good.”

“Yes.” She wrapped her legs around him and arched up, driving Rhys into her at the perfect angle. She saw stars behind her eyes. She felt raw, uncontrolled. There was no thought, only feeling and hunger and pleasure.

Rhys thrust into her with a steady rhythm, his mouth sealed over hers, stealing her breath and her groans of pleasure.

Meera’s magic rose up and embraced its mate. Her body and soul recognized him. She was heady with magic, drunk on his touch. She saw his talesm glow silver in the rising steam of the bathhouse, lighting the room and the gleaming drops of water that coated her body.

Her magic rose with her pleasure, cresting a moment before the climax clutched her body and she threw her head back. The vision of the cane field and the starry forest rose in her, and she threw it instinctively toward Rhys, sharing the vision with him as he began to come.

“Meera!” He sank his teeth into her shoulder and groaned when he spilled his pleasure into her. “I knew it was you.”

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close as his body came to rest in hers, the profound peace of his touch melting her bones until she felt weightless. Ephemeral. Her mind floated to the rustling cane fields where she felt a hand reach out and touch hers before it drifted away.

“It was you,” she whispered. “It was always you.”

Rhys turned his cheek, scraping the rough stubble of his beard over her cheek until their mouths met. “It will only ever be me.”

Meera closed her eyes and nodded, her legs still wrapped tight around his hips. “Good.” She didn’t want to let him go. Maybe ever. He felt like he was hers. The only thing that had ever been hers before.

He arched into her, still hard. “Our mating ceremony will be tomorrow. Is that enough time for you to write your vow?”

She nodded. “And you?”

“I’ve had my vow written since the night you told me we were reshon.”

She opened her eyes. “But you didn’t take anything for granted?”

“It wasn’t presumption.” Rhys smiled. “It was hope.”

* * *

She sat on the edge of the mound at sunset, shaking the satellite phone. It was freshly charged—they had a solar charger that worked well—but nothing was getting through. Nothing. Was it Ata’s earth magic? That was the only explanation.

An explanation that her mother would be wholly unsympathetic toward.

Shit.

Rhys sat next to her and grabbed the phone. “Shaking it isn’t going to do anything.”

“Logically I do know that, but since I don’t have a hammer, shaking it seemed like the best course of action.”

He smiled. “Still no signal?”

“Nothing.” She tried to ignore the flutter of panic in her chest. “Rhys, if we mate—”

“When we mate.”

She nodded. “When we mate…”

He frowned. “What are you worried about?”

“There are so many traditions we are ignoring,” she said in a rush. “I can’t even tell you how upset my mother and father are going to be. It’s not that I don’t want this mating. I do. But they won’t just be upset, they’ll be hurt. Mating celebrations in Udaipur…”

He grimaced. “Are elaborate?”

“So elaborate,” she whispered. “There are feasts and dances for days. Formal blessings that should be given to both of us. There are songs my mother has been preparing since my birth to sing over me before I bind myself to a mate. There are spells my father has written….”

“These are important to you.”

“No. Yes. But this mission is more important. I just don’t know how to make them understand that we have to—”

“Meera.” He gripped her hand. “We don’t have to do anything. I was being high-handed earlier because I want this. But there is no disaster. Yes, we suspect Bozidar is making a move to New Orleans, but there is no imminent threat. His Grigori aren’t waiting at the outskirts of the city.”

“Do we know that?”

Rhys said nothing because they didn’t know. They were isolated on the mound. New Orleans might be crumbling from Grigori attack, but they would have no idea while they stayed with Ata.

“We need Ata’s magic,” Rhys said quietly.

“I know that. I need to record more of her language and culture. I’ll even concede we need her to teach us the angel-slaying spell, and she can’t do that unless we’re mated.”

“I don’t want you to give up your traditions,” Rhys said, his voice still quiet. “This is important to you. I can tell.”

“Are you saying we should go back to Havre Hélène, have our mating ceremony there, then try to come back here? I don’t think we’d be able to find our way back.”

“And if we leave, it’s unlikely she’ll cooperate in the future.”

“I think…” Her heart sank. “We have to be here. We just have to have a simple mating here and my parents will have to understand. They’ll be disappointed”—disappointed wasn’t the word for it—“but they will understand.”

“Because they understand duty.”

“Yes.”

“So we could do that.” Rhys leaned back on his hands, squinting into the setting sun. “Or… I can give you everything you want.”

“That’s not possible.” She smiled sadly. “But thank you, Rhys.”

“These traditions? They are formal mating ceremonies of your people?”

“Yes. I have attended many mating celebrations. When Anamitra was alive, it was our responsibility to preside over any festival in the fortress.”

In her mind’s eye, Meera could see the yellow path of chrysanthemum petals her sisters walked upon as they sang the Anthem of Uriel joined by the elder singers. She could see the crimson-painted banners of the Tomir flying from the fortress ramparts, scribed with spells of safety and prosperity for the new couple.

Meera said, “Both the Tomir and the singers of Udaipur have very elaborate traditions. If we were having our mating ceremony at the fortress, the preliminary dinners alone would take days.”

“Days?”

“Maybe it’s better we’re not doing all that. It can be taxing.” She’d seen the stress those ceremonies put on the mated couple. She’d never envied the fancy clothes or being the center of attention—she’d always been the center of attention—but the idea of entering mated life without her mother’s song or her father’s blessing hurt Meera’s heart.

“They’re formal events though.” Rhys’s face was a study in concentration. “If we were in Udaipur, would political leaders and elders come to the ceremony?”

“Without a doubt. When Anamitra and Firoz mated, even human kings attended the feast. They were lavished with gifts, speeches, toasts. Over two thousand singers and scribes were invited.”

Rhys was nodding. “Yes. Formally invited.”

“Yes, it’s all quite formal. I don’t understand why—”

“And I’m sure it would have been a huge insult for any of them to refuse, correct? For a leader or an elder to be invited to the mating feast of the heir of Anamitra and then not to show up…?”

“If they had a very good excuse, I’m sure— Oh.” Meera’s eyes went wide when she realized the devious direction Rhys’s thoughts had turned. “Oh, Rhys. No. That can’t be a good idea.”

He turned to her and his grin was wicked. “She’s a leader. A chief. Even if her people are gone. She understands honor, formality, and tradition.”

“She is going to hate you,” Meera said. “So much.”

“Probably. But I don’t think she’ll say no.”

Meera shook her head. “No, Rhys. She’s found refuge here. I don’t want to disturb—”

“This is not a refuge,” he whispered. “She’s hiding. She’s not a wounded bird. She’s a warrior who has given up because her army was defeated and now she doesn’t have a battle to fight. She needs to come face-to-face with the world as it is now, because we need her. We need her knowledge and her skills. And she needs to stop hiding.”

“You may not get the answer you want,” she said. “I just want you to prepare yourself. She may kick us out, and then what will we have?”

“We’ll have ourselves. And a very strange angel who’s oddly attached to you. But you know I’m right about Ata. If this will force her out of this swamp, it’s the right thing to do.”

Meera was silent.

“Sha ne’ev reshon,” Rhys whispered. “I would deny you nothing. Pissing off cranky old warriors is something I do on a near-daily basis in the course of my duties.”

“The formalities aren’t necessary, Rhys. We can be mated without them. We can have a simple ceremony—”

“And have you leave your parents’ home without the blessings and songs they have waited your whole life to give you?” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Never. I would never take that from you.”

She looked up and met his steady gaze. “I am a very wise woman who does many wise things.”

He smiled. “I agree with you.”

“But to take you, Rhys of Glast, as my mate,” she said, “might be the wisest choice I have ever made.”

What was that in his eyes? Was it love? Rhys folded her in his arms and pressed her cheek over his heart.

“Come to bed,” he whispered. “Tomorrow we can piss off an ancient warrior, but tonight you’re mine.”