Chapter 227

Alara did not send word. She simply appeared.

Though, to be fair, she had reason. Winter was nearly here. The sky had turned pale and heavy, the air sharp with cold, and a storm was coming. Everyone could feel it. The wind had picked up through the morning, and by afternoon the first snowflakes had begun to fall, drifting down slow and light, dusting the ground in white. It would be a bad one, the elders said. A wind storm, with heavy snow behind it.

And that was why Alara had come. Because once the winter settled in, the mountains would close, the passes would fill, and travel would become impossible. The hawk folk would retreat to their own lands and stay there, tucked away in their nests, sleeping through the worst of the cold in a kind of half-hibernation until spring. She would not see us again for months. So she had come now, one last time, before the snow trapped them all.

She arrived on that crisp winter afternoon, the sky pale and heavy, the air sharp with cold. I was on the porch, mending a tunic, the children scattered around the yard, the whole village going about its ordinary business. And then, without warning, the birds went quiet. The whole village went quiet, actually, the sounds of work and chatter falling away as every head turned toward the east.

Because there was something in the sky. Something enormous.

A distant rush of wings, growing louder, closer. A great swelling sound, like a storm coming in off the sea. And then they appeared over the ridge, in a swirl of copper and gold, a flock of hawks so large they blotted out the pale sun.

Alara led them, her enormous hawk form wide-winged and magnificent, riding the rising wind. Behind her came her sons, four great hawks, and little Kestrel, and two of her mates in their own beast forms. The whole flock descended on the village like a falling sunset.

The children came running. The warriors came to the walls. And the whole village gathered to watch as the hawks spiraled down, landing one by one in the great clearing before the gate.

They shifted as they touched the ground, one after another, a ripple of copper light and feathers becoming flesh. Alara first, tall and proud, her belly round with her newest pregnancy, her copper hair blazing in the pale light, snowflakes melting on her shoulders. Her sons after her, four tall grinning boys. Kristoff, Airent, Nerian, and Cassian, shoving each other and laughing. And behind them, her daughter.

Kestrel.

She shifted mid-air and landed lightly on her feet, her copper hair flaring, her golden eyes bright, her smirk already in place. She scanned the village like a predator surveying its territory. And then she spotted Chase.

And she was off.

"Pretty boy!" she called, striding across the yard like she owned it.

Chase, who had been sharpening a blade with his brothers, looked up and immediately scowled. "Do not call me that."

"What should I call you then?"

"Chase."

"That is boring. Pretty boy is better."

"It is not."

"It is."

Chase’s brothers were already laughing, the traitors, shoving each other and whispering. Jasper was practically doubled over. Ryder was wiping his eyes. Even Atlas, the composed one, was grinning.

"Hi, Kestrel," Atlas said pleasantly.

"Hi, Atlas," she replied, then turned back to Chase. "So. Spar with me."

"Now?"

"Now. I want to see if I had improved."

Chase sighed, long and deep, the sigh of a male who had already lost the argument. And then he stood, and picked up his blade, and followed her to the training ring.

Krys watched the whole exchange from the porch, and sighed.

And she was not the only one watching.

Across the yard, a cluster of village girls had gathered, and they were staring. Staring at Kestrel. And their expressions were not friendly. They were the expressions of young females who had been circling Chase for months, who had been gathering their courage, who had been waiting for their chance. And now, out of nowhere, a copper-haired hawk girl had swooped in and stolen his attention.

The side eyes were impressive. The glares were worse.

"Something wrong?" Alara asked, settling onto the porch beside me, a cup of wine in her hand.

I took a moment to answer. Across the yard, the sparring match had drawn a crowd, and at the center of it, Kestrel had my son on the ground. No doubt Chase was going easy on her.

"Do you not notice," I said slowly, "that your daughter is eyeing my son?"

Alara looked. She watched Kestrel sparring with Chase, watched the way her daughter moved, the way her eyes followed the boy, the way her smirk softened every time he looked at her. And Alara sighed, long and deep.

"Yes," she said. "I noticed. I believe she is smitten with him."

"Smitten."

"Completely. Hopelessly. She talks about him constantly. It is exhausting."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "She is not even of age."

"She will be," Alara said. "In another year. She is about the same age as your Levy. A few months younger." She paused, tilting her head. "Do you think my daughter is lacking? For your son?"

"Lacking?" I repeated. "No. Not at all. She is beautiful, she is fierce, she is clever. Any mother would be proud."

Alara smiled. "But?"

"But I will be honest. I do not want my children finding a mate just yet. Any of them. I want them close. I want them mine." I looked out at my sons, at the four of them, at the whole chaos of my enormous family. "But maybe, in a year, I would be more open to the idea."

Alara laughed, the sound warm and bright. "Well, with sons as handsome as yours, I would be hesitant too. Look at them. Look at the way the girls circle. You must lose your mind daily."

"I do."

"I would too."

I shook my head. "Your sons are handsome too, Alara."

Alara considered this. "Yes. True. They are fine boys. Strong, clever, good." She took a sip of wine. "But compared to yours? They are lacking a bit."

"They are not."

"They are. It is not their fault. It is yours."

"Mine?"

"You made those boys with that golden lion of yours. What did you expect?" Alara gestured with her cup toward Ravin, who was across the yard, laughing at something Leon had said, the pale winter sun catching his hair, his whole body gleaming like he had been carved by a divine hand. "Look at him. Look at that face. That is not natural."

I looked.

I could not help it.

Ravin stood in the soft light of the winter afternoon, his mane of hair catching the sun, his amber eyes bright, his jaw sharp, his shoulders broad, his whole body the picture of masculine beauty. He was laughing, his head thrown back, and even in that careless moment, even in the simple act of joy, he was stunning. He was my first mate, the man who had started it all, the one who had found me first, claimed me first, loved me first.

My handsome golden prince. A face that could rival Adonis. A body that could rival a Greek god.

"See?" Alara said, watching me. "You see what I mean."

"He is handsome," I admitted.

"He is devastating. And your sons got all of it. Every drop."

"I know."

"It is unfair to the rest of us."

"Alara."

"It is."

I laughed, and shook my head, and looked out at my family, at my sons sparring and laughing and living, at my daughters dancing and giggling and growing, at my mates scattered across the yard, each of them beautiful, each of them mine.

Sure, my sons were handsome. But so were others, surely. So were Alara’s boys. So were half the young men in the village. Perhaps the world was simply full of handsome people, and I had just not noticed.

Or perhaps my sons were simply exceptional, and I was simply fortunate, and there was nothing to be done about it.

It was not my fault they looked like their father.

It was Ravin’s.

And somewhere across the yard, as if sensing my gaze, Ravin turned. He found my eyes, and smiled, that slow, devastating smile, and my heart turned over the way it had the first time I ever saw him.

Alara laughed. "You see? Devastating."

"I see," I said.

And I did.

Across the yard, Kestrel had Chase pinned in the dirt, her knee on her chest, her smirk triumphant. And Chase was looking up at her with an expression that was half fury, half something else entirely.

But I knew my son. And I knew that he had let her win. He was faster than her, stronger than her, more skilled than her. He had trained with his fathers since he was old enough to hold a blade. There was no way, in any world, that a girl a year younger had genuinely put him on his back.

He had let her win.

And from the look on Kestrel’s face, the smug satisfaction of a predator who thought she had claimed her prize, she had no idea.

The girls of the village were still glaring.

I sighed and took a sip of wine. It was going to be a long few years.