Chapter 83
The dog greeted him with a flurry of excited barks and frantic licks, his tail beating so hard against the floor that it made a steady thumping sound.
Draven laughed, unable to help himself as he tried to fend off the enthusiastic attention.
"All right, all right. I’ve been gone, not dead."
Bran answered with another bark and shoved his broad head beneath Draven’s hand as though demanding that he get on with the business of greeting him properly.
His muzzle had gone almost entirely grey now, and there was a stiffness to his movements that had not been there years ago, but none of that seemed to matter to the old dog at this moment.
Draven scratched beneath his chin, then rubbed along both sides of his head, finding the exact spots Bran had always favoured. The hound’s eyes drooped in bliss, though his tail continued to sweep enthusiastically across the floor.
"Look at you," Draven murmured, smiling as he ran a hand over the fur of his head. "Still making a fool of yourself, ye old bag of bones."
Bran gave an indignant huff, as though thoroughly offended by the accusation, before promptly licking Draven across the cheek.
---
Lunch was a pleasant affair, made better by the simple familiarity of being surrounded by people who at times knew him as well as he knew himself. People who undoubtedly owned parts of him.
Genie filled much of the conversation, as she always had, moving from one subject to another with an enthusiasm that suggested she had been saving every piece of news specifically for his arrival.
Draven listened more than he spoke, occasionally offering an observation in his brand of dry humor that sent his sister into fits of laughter.
Octavia watched them both with so much joy and satisfaction, it practically radiated from her pores. After all their family had been through, having them together like this lit her up from the inside.
There was only one detail missing, the final puzzle piece needed to complete them.
It was not until they had finished eating that Octavia finally asked about his affairs in the capital. Draven gave her the expected answers, careful enough not to burden their first hours together with matters of politics and military administration.
There would be time for those later.
For now, he was content simply to be home with the people that mattered most to him.
It was after lunch when he found himself hovering just beyond the sitting room where Genie was working quietly on her latest project while Octavia settled in an armchair with a book resting open upon her lap.
The scene was so peaceful that Draven lingered in the doorway, simply taking it in.
It was an ordinary domestic moment, almost painfully so.
He had forgotten how much he missed them.
Genie noticed him first.
"You are staring. It’s frankly off-putting. Best get in here and sit." She said teasingly.
"I was merely wondering if you’d finally managed to learn how to embroider properly. Your work was always a disaster." He returned the tease with a grin. A few hours in his sister’s company, and she had already coaxed out the boyish side of him, the one that answered every jab with one of his own.
She lowered her needlework and gave him an unimpressed look. "I have been doing this for years and I have improved immensely."
"And yet I remain unconvinced."
She smiled and shifted over to make room for him on the settee.
Draven sat beside her, and for several minutes the two of them maintained in pleasant conversation.
Then Octavia lowered her book.
She looked from her daughter to her son with an expression that immediately made Draven suspicious.
"I have just realized that I have two of my children under my roof for the first time in two years."
Genie glanced up from her needlework.
"An unusual occurrence," she agreed. "Who knows when next it’s going to happen."
"Indeed." Octavia folded her hands over the book. "Which means I may finally address a matter that has been troubling me for some years."
Draven already knew where this was going. He leaned back against the settee.
"Mother—" he began but the rest was lost when she swiftly interrupted him.
"I have been remarkably patient." Octavia carried on as though she had not heard him. "I am still waiting for a grandchild. I am not getting any younger and I want to carry them while I still can."
Genie’s needle paused. The brightness that had filled her eyes moments earlier dimmed noticeably.
"One would need to have a husband who remained in the country long enough for such miracles to occur," she murmured.
The words were delivered lightly, but Draven caught the bitterness woven deep within them.
He knew his sister loved her husband. He also knew how often duty had taken the man away from her. Five years of marriage had given her plenty of practice at pretending his absence did not hurt.
Octavia’s attention shifted toward Draven.
"You, however, have no such excuse. You are thirty-three."
"I am aware."
"And you are also not getting any younger."
"I am aware of that as well." Ordinarily, he would have dismissed the conversation or redirected it toward some less dangerous subject. For years, marriage had been one of Octavia’s favorite subjects and one of his favorite things to avoid.
But this time, he had an answer for her, one that she would find very agreeable.
A slow, beatific smile crept up his face.
"You are in luck, Mother."
Octavia narrowed her eyes on him, most likely wondering what he meant.
Draven allowed himself the smallest measure of satisfaction. "I have found a woman I intend to marry. If all goes according to plan, you may finally have the grandchild you have been lamenting over for years."
Octavia’s mouth fell open.
"Lamenting?" She huffed in offense.
"What else will you call it? You have brought it up often enough."
"Son, I make inquiries calmly and politely. I do not lament." She said, rolling her eyes.
Genie looked down at her needlework, but Draven could see the smile she was struggling to conceal.
If anything, Draven was glad their banter kept her in high spirits. Anything was better than allowing her to sink deeper into a pit of despair.
The look on Octavia’s face was a mixture of shock and skepticism.
"Who is she?" She questioned, nearly bursting with curiosity.