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Steeling myself, I rap on the door and wait. There’s movement on the inside. Mira opens it, her hazel eyes piercing me like a dagger. There’s something about her gaze that makes me feel utterly exposed, like all my fears and insecurities are laid bare.
“Renxel?” she asks. “What’s up? I was about to go to bed.”
It’s then that I look down and realize that she’s already in her pajamas, fleece pants and a matching T-shirt. Her hair is down, no longer in her customary braid, and though she’d never admit to it, she looks adorable.
“Sorry,” I say. “But we really need to talk.”
She steps aside to let me in. It’s a cozy little place, one covered in furniture that looks old but comfortable, like she’d raided every secondhand shop she could find to furnish it. Knowing her, she probably did.
“You have a nice place,” I say as she heads to the kitchen to make us both something to drink. “I don’t think I told you that before, but it really is nice.”
“Thanks,” she replies, and I hear a note of fondness in her voice. “After my parents died, everywhere I went was someone else’s home. Never mine. So, when I settled here, I decided I would do everything I could to make this place my own.”
She putters around the kitchen for a moment. “Go ahead and sit where you’d like,” she calls while the food synth heats the water. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
I take a seat on the old couch. It’s patterned with red and blue plaid, something that doesn’t scream Mira at first glance but feels like her all the same. I take those few minutes to collect my thoughts on what exactly I want to say to her.
She emerges from the kitchen and sets the tea tray on the water-stained coffee table. “I hope Ciamber tea is okay. It’s the only one I have on hand.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, taking a mug and bringing the cup to my lips. The warmth and calming aroma of the tea settle something in me.
She takes an old wingback chair, leaning forward in her seat with her cup warming her hands. I wish she’d sit beside me on the couch, but I respect that she wants to keep her distance.
“So, what did you need to talk about?”
“Us,” I reply, and take a sip of the tea to soothe my suddenly dry throat. “I think I owe you an explanation.”
She nods. “I’m listening.”
“I think – no, I know that we’re fated mates,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “What?” Then, her face twists in confusion. “Wait, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You’ve met my parents. You’ve seen what they’re like,” I say. “They’re fated mates, but that doesn’t stop Mommy dearest from treating dear old Dad like shit.”
“I thought fated mates were meant to be perfect for one another.”
I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, that’s what most people expect when they hear about it. But Mom and Dad make each other absolutely miserable. I watched my dad go from someone full of life to an empty shell doing everything in his power to please my mom or at least make her happy enough not to tear him apart at the slightest chance. And that’s just verbally. I’ve seen him sporting black eyes with the classic explanation that he walked into a door.”
Mira’s guarded gaze softens as she listens. She reaches out to give my knee a squeeze. “That’s awful. Your dad doesn’t deserve that, and you shouldn’t have had to live with it.”
“Thanks,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. I set the tea on the coffee table so that I don’t spill it. “Do you want to know the worst part, though? The worst part is that no matter how badly Mom treats him, he can’t leave. That stupid fated mate bond is forcing them to stay together in an awful, loveless marriage.”
“And you’re afraid we’ll become your parents,” Mira says, her hazel eyes full of gentle understanding. It’s a statement more than a question, because we both know it’s true.
“I hate how much power you’d have over me as my fated mate. I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose, but it’s so easy for you to abuse that bond. Hell, or for me to do it.”
“I get it,” she says, and I blink in surprise.
“You do?” I half expected that she would argue with me and be offended by the implication that she might be anything like my mom, saying anything to try to convince me that I’m in the wrong here. But she, as ever, is the kind, understanding woman that I love.
“Yeah, actually, everything makes sense now.” She laughs to herself, apparently feeling as awkward as I do. “I mean, I knewyou had some issues letting me in. But the fated mate thing is a lot. There are all these songs and holostreams and books and plays about how life will be perfect once you find your fated mate. Not to mention all those questions of free will that get raised when you think about it.”
She shakes her head. “There’s a reason why streams about love triangles between fated mates and non-mated fiancés are so popular. And you, of all people, have seen how cruelly those stories can lie.”
She takes my hands. “Do you remember what I said when you took care of me after I sprained my ankle?”
I smirk, trying for some levity. “Well, I mostly remember what we did.”
