A Quiet Fire (chapter 2)

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Quincy

Quincy had nearly convinced himself the Saranian lord had simply wanted a captive audience when he received a second note summoning him to the great hall. He stared at it, letting the serving girl who had brought it get a good look at his shocked face before he composed himself enough to send her away.

What could be the meaning of it? Omegas didn’t attend council meetings, and he wasn’t important enough to speak to—or be spoken to—in a public setting.

He had no choice, naturally. He changed into a fresh tunic, brushing and retying his long dark hair into a low ponytail, austere and proper without any curls allowed to escape. The way an omega looked was the only way he was allowed to express himself at all, and Quincy had learned from his mother to fade into the background so he could retain the little freedom that provided. No one needed to know that he’d spent all day in his rooms curled up with a book he wasn’t reading and staring out the window and thinking of home.

Home, which hadn’t felt safe in well over a year, but which was the closest he had to long for anyway. They had summoned him to the earl’s castle for the introduction, but until now he had assumed they had simply forgotten to tell him that he was free to go.

Outside the great hall, the murmur of voices reached him through the closed doors, and he met the attendant’s eyes in silent question. The beta shook his head, not necessarily a reproval. Quincy couldn’t ask and the attendant couldn’t say, it was all. Maybe he didn’t know.

Maybe there was nothing to know, and it was just another formality. In the twenty years he’d spent with Yara in his own home, Quincy seemed to have forgotten how many of those there were at court.

He was announced and bowed in the direction of the high chair—the Earl of Veolia was old, cranky and traditional. Rumour said he’d wanted to go back to war after losing his foot, but had been prevented from it by the council who’d demanded he stay and ensure the lineage instead, sending his younger brother in his stead.

Quincy could have felt almost sorry for him, knowing how much Yara would have struggled with the situation, but the old man seemed determined to make everyone around him as miserable as he was. All that was left was to be careful and deferential and hope the earl forgot Quincy existed.

“Quincy val Sim,” the earl said, and Quincy’s blood went cold at the use of his childhood name.

He’d been Quincy val Avlen for over two decades, still was as far as he was concerned. He’d given himself to Yara and her family, and although he had never given them a child that was not any less true.

It was bad enough that he risked a quick glance around the room, heart skipping when he recognised the Saranian lord.

No, not a lord, he saw, because now the young man wore the collar that identified him as an earl.

What was the head of the Saranian dynasty doing talking to the likes of him?

“The Earl of Saran has done you a great honour,” the old man went on as Quincy fixed his gaze on the far wall and did his very best to stay upright.

This could not be happening. He was forty years old, and he had never been a great beauty; no one could want him, but specially not a man in desperate need of an heir and—

“Kneel.” This he heard, and it came with a helpful hint of alpha will that meant he nearly fell to the ground.

Strong hands caught him by the elbows and slowed his descent. And then he was there, right where they wanted him; half collapsed on the faded rug, its intricate patterns digging into his knees, throat tight and looking up into unfamiliar violet eyes, brain scrambling for words, body ready to roll over and run.

If there had been anywhere to run at all.

Valgar

Valgar did not think he could do it. He had consoled himself with the thought that the omega he had selected was at least not a young person, not someone who could have justly expected to be courted and loved. To become the centre of Valgar’s home and heart.

That which belonged entirely to Mar and always would.

Lord Quincy had been married for twenty years to a high-level officer and widowed for nearly two.

And he had no children, which in all likelihood meant he could not have them at all. It was not a kindly fate Valgar was offering, but the omega had looked interested when Valgar had told him about his lands, so perhaps he could find comfort there and even joy.

Somehow, he had convinced himself of this fantasy, and now he could clearly see he had been in the wrong. Quincy was trembling under his hands, clearly shocked by the announcement that Valgar wanted to take him as a mate.

And it was as much a done deal as if he had sunk his teeth into the tender skin of the omega’s neck. Withdrawing the offer now would be unforgivably rude. What possible reason could he give the other earl?

No one expected a noble marriage to be made for love, and he’d already spent more than the usual time with Lord Quincy to assess compatibility...

“You look unwell, my lord,” he said aloud. “Come sit by the fire, and we will call for some warm wine to help you compose yourself.”

The omega allowed himself to be helped back up and led to one of the chairs in the cosy nook in the corner. Valgar turned to the Earl of Veolia, who looked impatient of all things, and got a sigh and a look at one of the attending servants that sent two more people scrambling.

When he looked at him again, Quincy’s attention was firmly on his lap, where he held his own hands in such a way as to disguise his fingertips. His skin was already so pale that it was hard to tell if he was truly feeling faint.

“It’s alright,” Valgar risked whispering. The omega did not move, only a tiny twitch revealing he had heard.

Mar was going to have his head for this, Valgar thought with a sinking feeling. And he would deserve it, too. He should have asked the man when they had met, except of course you could not ask an omega to be your mate because an omega could not consent to any such thing.

If the chaperone had got wind of it and reported it, Valgar would have been obligated to go through with it regardless of what either of them wanted.

Precisely the situation they were in now, only at least Quincy would have known... What? That Valgar cared if he hurt him?

Little good it would do him when Valgar had to do his duty anyway.

All he could hope for was to make it as painless as possible. Promising anything else would be cruel.

A servant brought a cup of the fragrant dark tea that Veolians favoured. Wine would have been better, but Valgar supposed its familiarity would comfort Quincy. “Is it sweetened?” he checked, and got a nod that was almost a bow.

“Lor— Quincy,” he said quietly. “Can you drink?”

For a long moment, the other man didn’t move and then, because he was watching, Valgar saw his hands relax as he pulled them apart and cupped them in almost ceremonial gesture. Valgar carefully placed the teacup on them and watched as Quincy brought it to his lips and wet them—his mouth was plump, a rosy pink that suited the rest of his colouring.

“Lord Saran,” the Earl of Veolia called out from across the room, the high honorific barely making up for his tone.

Valgar stood to face him, face blank. He wasn’t about to cause a diplomatic incident, but the man was getting nothing more than civility.

He could have warned Quincy and asked him what he wanted. In fact, it was solely his responsibility. If Quincy was his to give away, then it meant he was the head of Quincy’s family in one manner or another. They couldn’t have been related closely with the way the earl was behaving like this was nothing but an inconvenience, but that excused nothing.

“Shall we proceed?”

Valgar gritted his teeth against an answer that would not have done any of them any good. He’d given his word, he reminded himself, and his word, of course, was his bond. Honour demanded it, but more than that, his magic required he remain pure in his actions and words—for an elemental mage, breaking a promise would be much the same as breaking his own power.

“It is not our custom for omegas to find out about an engagement in public,” he said as neutrally as he could manage. “Perhaps things are done differently in Veolia, but we find their delicate natures don’t withstand shock well.”

The Earl of Veolia snorted. “Shock? Come now, Saran, why should he be shocked? You were introduced as an interested candidate, were you not? He should have expected to be chosen, if he had any pride in himself and his house.”

Valgar swallowed, missing Mar like a limb. She’d have known how to respond to this gracefully and somewhat come up on top while putting the bastard in his place. But all he had was himself and the one thing he would not stand for was for someone in his care to be mistreated. “Be that as it may, you will forgive me for imposing my own criteria on my omega.”

It was a fine line to walk; the ink was barely dry, and Quincy wasn’t his in fact yet. But he was the Earl of Saran, and his counterpart hesitated, like any bully, he was not that confident with someone on his level.

Finally, he waved his agreement, looking bored. “Do as you will with him, he is yours, as you say.”

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A Quiet Fire

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