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#Feysand fanfic
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The Other Side Of The Apocalypse
What would you trade the pain for?
Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.
Note: If you've missed Rhys being dumb and horny, then @separatist-apologist and I have a treat for you!
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Chapter 6/10: Hurricane Heat In My Head
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The chains returned to Rhysand in his sleep.
He knew, even as he thrashed against them, that they were not real. Suspended in darkness with no beginning and no end, there was only Rhysand and the icy slither of those chains, constricting around him like serpents of black, heavy stone.
They bit into his skin, drawing lacerations across his biceps, his thighs, his chest, and as he screamed into the oblivion that held him, there was no response. Not even the echo of his own pain.
Blood welled and dripped from his wounds. It was the only color he could see—a dark, foreboding red. The same that rippled in wine and glinted jewels. The color of sharp nails and long, draping hair. Where had he seen something like that before? He swore he could hear sinister laughter on the cusp of his memory, a phantom of a woman with a cruel smile.
She was not real. This place, these chains. None of it was real.
Except for the fear. He could feel it pulsing through him—a second, rampant heartbeat, as if he’d swallowed a war drum that rallied every dormant instinct inside him. Their singular cry pumped through his blood until it leaked out through his wounds, whimpering: Run. Run.
RUN.
Rhysand sat up in bed, gasping. Red light leaked over the horizon, spilling onto the sky and snow in both directions, warmer and altogether gentler than the scarlet that invaded his dreams, but… He placed a hand on his thundering chest, calling for it to still the way he might soothe a spooked stallion.
He was reminded of the stories he’d heard in childhood of men who wandered into Prythian only to be driven to madness. Was this how the minds of those men began to deteriorate? It was dreadful to think that a sunset could unnerve his unconscious mind so greatly. But he couldn’t deny he was apprehensive. A new court awaited him, and he could only assume its dangers were more perilous than the last.
This could be my last sunrise, he thought. He rubbed at his naked chest, absently tracing the whorls of ink and the dread he felt roiling beneath them. He wished, not for the first time, that Feyre hadn’t slept in a different room.
At least then, Rhys could have faced death knowing he’d had the chance to wake up beside her without the fear that one of them was dying. He resolved he would survive this next Court just to have that pleasure. He wouldn’t die without kissing her.
If nothing else, the Mother owed him that much.
He bathed and dressed, rueful that Feyre wasn’t there to taunt him all the while. Privacy was all he’d craved at the start of their journey—was one night apart really all it took? It was absurd and yet he was so agitated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Where she was, how she slept, if she was awake… if she had company.
The thought struck him violently, causing Rhys to shut his door with too much force as he slipped out of his room. A servant at the end of the hall gasped and dropped their tray of neatly folded bedding.
“Shit, I’m s—“
Their snow-white hair disappeared around the corner, fleeing the hall before he could finish his apology. That was another strange thing. Faeries wary of a human. Rhys supposed he had killed two of their High Lords, the most powerful fae in their lands. He had the marks to prove it, though they were hidden beneath his layers of fur-trimmed clothing.
He was reminded of his sister’s shrill cry whenever a spider had the misfortune of crossing her path.
Rhys! Kill it! Kill it!
They were such small, feeble creatures compared to the size and might of a human. He used to tease her for it.
What are you afraid it’s going to do? Eat you?
But he would always kill them anyway. Because she was scared, and he loved her, and he knew no matter how meager the threat, he’d quell it to soothe her fear.
Tarquin, Kallias, even Eris. They seemed to love their people.
He might survive Dawn, Day, and Night. He might very well liberate all seven Courts. But he knew, as he kicked the servant’s fallen silver tray aside and watched light streak off its surface, that he would not be returning to the mortal lands. Either a monster would kill him, or…
Feyre. He needed to see Feyre and talk to her about all of this. The need gripped him like a fist around his chest. He couldn’t breathe as it pulled him, some vestige of that infernal chain, begging him to find her, to see her, to ensure she was safe.
From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d felt an inexplicable urge to protect her. But it was worse now, after almost losing her. He knew the glaze of her eyes slipping from the world, and he would do anything to never witness that horror again. He also knew that if he revealed any of this to her, she’d gut him for assuming she needed anyone’s protection.
Rhys stopped outside the front hall, taking a moment to compose himself. The corridor was empty, and apart from the faint torrent of wind clawing at the palace’s bastioned exterior, his beating heart was the only sound.
Then, voices. Distant at first. But in the great, open hall, they carried to him easily.
“I just think we should give him more time before the Solar Courts.”
His heart rate quickened. That was Feyre’s voice, tense and limned in such rare candor that he couldn’t resist ducking through one of the many doors lining the hallway.
A deep, rumbling voice drifted through the thin gap Rhys left in the door. “More time for what, exactly?”
Cassian.
“To rest. We almost died in Winter—I almost died. He’s… we’ve both been through a lot. He needs time to restore his strength.”
Cassian’s voice was gentle if a little prying. “Or maybe you need time. What’s troubling you, Fey?”
“Nothing.”
Liar. Rhys could perfectly imagine the stubborn set to her jaw, the way she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in defiance. But there was no hiding the strain in her voice.
“He’s gotten this far,” Cassian reasoned. “I talked to him last night, and I swore I could feel the spirit of Enalius standing over his shoulder. He’s going to make it through all seven Courts. I can feel it.”
Silence hung in the air.
“Unless…” The word rumbled through the corridor. “That’s exactly what you’re afraid of.”
Feyre’s voice was hoarse. “Cass—“
“We need him, Feyre. He’s our only shot at freeing Nes—“Cassian’s voice cracked. He took a moment to clear his throat. “He’s the only one who can free them, Feyre.”
“I know.” She sounded miserable. “And that’s why I just think we should just give him time—“
“I don’t need time.”
They both turned as Rhys pushed through the door. Cassian raised a brow towards the study Rhys departed, looking uncertain whether to be angry or amused that he’d been eavesdropping.
Feyre was staring at him, looking exactly as stubborn and defiant as he’d imagined. He thought the thing lashing in his chest would settle at the sight of her, but it only pulled harder, twining so tightly that he thought he couldn’t breathe as those starry eyes dressed him down and narrowed to crescents. Her pretty, bow-shaped lips were pursed just enough that he thought he could kiss her scowl away if she let him close enough to try.
He mirrored her crossed arms in an attempt to reign himself in, and said with a cocky grin, “That was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. I’m ready to take on anything those High Lord bastards throw at us.”
It’s okay, he wanted to tell her. I already know they won’t let me live by the end of this. At least let me save your sisters.
Feyre pressed her lips flat together. Sadness flickered in her eyes, so brief he would have thought he imagined it had his heart not plummeted in tandem. He knew that grief. He still choked on it whenever he passed the ribbons shop in the village, confronted with the unbidden memory of crouching on a lowered stool, braiding satin through his sister’s hair until his back was stiff. The years could muddy the details—the colors of the ribbons and the words they exchanged in those long hours—but never the pain.
Rhysand dropped his arms, intending to comfort her, but whatever sadness had been in her eyes vanished. Only cold, glittering calm remained.
“If you’re ready, then there’s no sense wasting time.”
In reality, he would have very much liked that time with Feyre. Even just a day to know her without the threat of dying. But he would not be the one responsible for losing her sisters. He would do anything in his power if she could escape that grief.
“Let’s go,” he agreed.
Cassian punched a hand into his palm. “I hope it’s another beast,” he said, with an excitement neither of the humans in his company shared. “I’ve been itching to get back in action.”
-
They stayed long enough to have breakfast, a bountiful spread of hot and cold dishes presented to them in the High Lord’s personal dining room. Cassian helped himself to a sizable portion of each dish: smoked fish, pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and a collection of cheeses, each more potent than the last.
Rhysand ate a bit of the fish and bread in the interest of keeping up his strength, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. The gods knew what horrors he would face in Dawn and whether he’d even be able to hang on to his breakfast by the end of it. Feyre seemed in an equally sullen mood, pushing her food around her plate without saying much of anything to anyone.
Kallias seemed relieved to see them go and consequently was more than happy to winnow them to the door to Winter. The blizzarding snow had carried away any evidence of the creature they’d disemboweled. But Rhys could still hear Feyre’s scream against the wind, and he remembered the way her body crumpled against the pine tree, how the beast’s blood warmed his clothes.
She was fine now, squinting against the winter onslaught, her cheeks a bright, healthy color thanks to the benefit of warm clothes and fae healers. Even so, Rhys prompted her to enter the tunnel first, prepared to withstand the blow of any winter beast that wandered by.
There was only Kallias, his fair skin and lighter hair nearly blending into the Winter landscape at his back.
“Thank you for helping my Court,” he said, fisting a hand over his heart. He bowed low enough to make Rhys feel unsettled.
“Thanks for hosting us.”
It didn’t feel like an equivalent debt, but Rhys was unsure what else to say.
Kallias raised to his full height. “Good luck in the Solar Courts.”
You will need it was an unspoken addition, though expressed nonetheless in his grim smile. He nodded farewell to each of them, then vanished in a flurry of ice crystals.
“Shut the door,” Cassian complained. “It’s fucking freezing.”
Rhysand didn’t need to be told twice. He was happy to say goodbye to this Hell-sent Court and never look back.
“What were you doing in Winter, anyway?” He asked with a grunt as he hauled the stone door shut.
The howling wind immediately seized. Rhys blinked against the sudden darkness, taking in the vague, hulking shape of Cassian and Feyre’s much slighter shadow just a step away. It was a ridiculous impulse, but he found himself reaching out to press his palm to the small of her back. He considered it a victory that she didn’t immediately flinch away.
It was cold enough that Cassian’s sigh expelled a cloud of air in front of him. “Azriel and I were on reconnaissance, searching for… a cure. We got trapped in Winter when the borders closed.”
Rhysand frowned. “A cure for what?”
Against his palm, he could feel Feyre tense.
Cassian stared hard down the tunnel. At his side, his hands turned into fists so tight that the brown skin over his knuckles turned pale. “These seals you’re destroying, it’s true that their magic impacts the wellbeing of each of the Courts, but their true purpose was precautionary; to prevent us from lifting the curse placed on the Night Court.”
“And the curse—”
“Enough.” Feyre’s voice sliced through the tunnel. Cold and authoritarian in a way that sent a perverse thrill down Rhysand’s spine.
He didn’t have time to linger in the fantasy of how Feyre might use that voice in the bedroom before she was striding down the hall, each step reverberating against the stone walls.
Cassian winced before pitching his voice in a whisper, “Tread carefully bringing the curse up around her. Tamlin’s the bastard who betrayed all of us, but Feyre… She feels responsible for what happened to the Night Court. To her sisters.”
“I wish she told me,” Rhys said, watching her retreating figure with open dismay. Cassian offered a wry smile, clapping a sympathetic hand on Rhysand’s shoulder before he turned to catch up with Feyre.
Every time Rhys was starting to feel like he knew her, he uncovered a new layer of secrecy. He felt as if he were perpetually wiping the fog away from a mirror and it was beginning to feel doubtful that he would ever see a clear image of who Feyre Archeron was.
He only gave himself a moment to dwell on it. Then he was jogging to catch up with Feyre and Cassian, determined to be the first to step through the Cauldron-damned door this time.
In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, he asked, “No Eris to wave us off before the next Court?”
Cassian snickered. “I doubt Eris will be leaving his quarters for at least a week.”
“A week?” Feyre snorted. “If Az has any say, it will be months before we see Eris again.”
“Doesn’t he have a court to run?”
Cassian and Feyre shared a look. It was the sort of mutual understanding that could only be found through years of knowing another person. Rhys resisted the urge to ask, but the question burned his tongue. How long has Feyre’s life been intertwined with Prythian?
“You have no idea what it’s like,” Cassian said, finally. A shadow passed over his features. “To be separated from your mate for that long… it’s enough to drive even someone like Eris Vanserra to extremes.”
“Mate?”
Rhysand could guess what that meant. The way that animals found mates. But there was a reverence to the way Cassian said the word that gave him pause.
“A mating bond is the deepest connection you can have with another living soul. They’re your perfect match, your equal in every way. A bond more significant than any vow, even marriage.”
“I see.”
“I doubt it,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “You think you understand it, but…” He shook his head, a far-off look in his eyes. “It’s not until you feel it snap. Until one look at them brings you to your knees. Your entire world, reoriented to their gravity.”
Rhysand was putting everything together too slowly. “Nesta’s your mate.”
There was a strange mixture of grief and pride on his face as Cassian nodded. Rhysand didn’t have the courage to ask if that meant Feyre had a mate, too. Had it been Tamlin? He knew his glance towards her was anything but subtle.
Feyre was glaring ahead, the door to the Dawn Court now in view. It was carved from bright red stone, light spilling from its gaps as though it were single-handedly holding back the might of the sun.
“Are you ready?” Feyre asked, to no one in particular.
Rhys stepped forward, placing his palms against the smooth stone. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. He heaved the stone forward, exposing the tunnel to the torrent of red light waiting impatiently on the other side.
Squinting against the brightness, Rhysand’s hand fell to his sword, readying for another beast. There weren’t any tell-tale signs. No distant roaring or eerie quiet. He expected they would find themselves in another isolated area separate from the rest of the Court. But in fact, as Rhysand’s eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at the deck of a lowered drawbridge. Two guards stood on either side of the gatehouse, wearing royal red and gold livery.
The doors were open on the other side of the iron gate, revealing the fae milling about their day through the gaps in the latticework. The first thing he noticed was the flood of warm, humid air. Not quite as smothering as it had been in the Summer Court, but oppressive enough that he was already sweating in his fur-lined clothes.
After enduring the extreme weather in each of the seasonal courts, Rhysand had nearly forgotten that the Mortal Lands were in the peak of summer when he and Feyre left. Was Dawn also in summer eternal, or was it aligned with the changing seasons of the human realm?
Rhys angled his head toward the sky, marveling at the scarlet clouds that domed over the land in every direction, betraying not a single sliver of blue. Rhys was certain it had been midday when they left Winter, but he couldn’t discern if the sun was somewhere behind the glowing red haze or if it was still nestled beyond the horizon. He supposed that if seasons were eternal in the previous courts, then in the Dawn Court, it must always be sunrise.
Feyre was frowning at the sky, too. He might have studied the oddity longer had his interest not fixed on the way the red light painted her skin the most alluring shade of pink. Like him, she must have been overheating in the Winter clothes. He could see sweat shining at her temple, giving the impression she was glowing. And with her neck arched upwards, practically in invitation, he thought it would be all too easy to lean forward and trace the column of her throat with his tongue.
The only thing stopping him was the pair of guards quickly moving towards them. The blade strapped to her hip might have also been a deterrent, but he found he minded the idea of Feyre pulling a knife on him less and less.
She cast him a quick glance as the guards approached, one that read, Step away and keep your mouth shut.
As the guards stumbled to a halt midway across the bridge, Rhysand noticed they seemed a bit… frazzled. With the borders newly opened, he imagined they were among the first visitors that Dawn had received in years. Humans, no less.
“Feyre Archeron,” one of them said, with what Rhys thought might have been awe.
They ought to be awed at the sight of her. A firestorm of a human woman swallowed in white furs and staring down two armed faeries as though she had nothing to fear.
She tipped her chin. “Tell Thesan that the Cursebreaker is here.”
“The High Lord is expecting you already,” the guard answered. He shouted over his shoulder at the guards in the gatehouse.
A small commotion flitted through the slit windows of the barbican above the gateway, followed by the clink and drag of chains. The metal grating lurched, and Rhysand flinched at the screeching sound of stone scraping together as the golden gate ascended into the tower above. How the guardsmen could stand the noise with their fae hearing was a mystery.
The guard gestured them forward with a jerk of his chin. “The captain will escort you to the palace.”
Great, Rhysand thought upon seeing the male in golden armor, already waiting for them on the other side of the gatehouse. Another handsome faerie staring at Feyre like she was his next meal. Rhys found himself drifting closer to her as they walked through the gates, prepared to draw his sword if the faerie’s smile proved deceitful. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cassian hide a smirk.
“Oryn,” Feyre said with a smile that erred closer to politeness than familiarity. This wasn’t someone she knew well, at least. “Thank you for coming to meet us.”
The male’s wings shifted, tucking closer to his body. Unlike the wings Cassian and Azriel bore, Oryn’s were more avian in nature, feathered and shaped like a white dove’s. “I wish we were meeting under better terms, Cursebreaker.”
Feyre’s eyes drifted back toward the red clouds above. “The sky—”
“We’ll discuss it once we’re in the palace.”
Rhysand wanted to snap at the male for interrupting her, but Feyre chose to simply nod her head and press her lips together. She kept her eyes on the red mist above, cautious. As if she suspected a rift would open at any moment and present some horrible creature for them to slay. Rhys flexed his fingers above his sword. He trusted Feyre’s instincts. If she sensed something was wrong, he knew better than to question it.
The captain led them through a series of narrow pink-stoned streets. They were built on a steep incline and boarded on either side by red-roofed buildings. Some billowed smoke into the sky from their chimneys, and Rhys watched as the white clouds rose into the sky above, only to turn a foreboding scarlet color the moment it breached the layer of mist.
He stepped closer to Feyre and murmured to her, “I take it the sky isn’t usually red.”
“The Solar Courts adhere to the laws of nature,” Feyre said back, a certain tightness to her voice that sent warning bells blaring in his head. “The High Lords can’t control the sun’s path or strength. The Courts observe day and night the same as the human realm.”
Rhys exhaled a deep breath. “Please don’t tell me we have to fight something in the sky.”
Cassian, who had clearly been listening in, cut them a wolfish grin and flexed the batlike wings towering over his shoulder. “It’s a good thing you brought me along. Illyrians specialize in aerial combat.”
It was difficult to feel soothed by that fact when all Rhys could picture was needing to be cradled by one of the winged fae while he battled some beast on wings. Hardly the dashing heroics he’d want to recount to an audience once this was all over.
Feyre pursed her lips. She was scanning the city as they passed, tracking each of the fae that quickly moved aside, giving their retinue a wide berth. He noticed some High Fae, like Eris and Tarquin, but the far majority of them were lesser fae, sporting the same feathered wings as Oryn. Feyre didn’t say anything, but he practically heard the observation she was making—for a city filled with winged people, it was strange that there was not a single person in the sky.
Especially when the route to the palace proved to be rather… intensive.
“You’re kidding me.”
They stopped at the entryway to the palace: a double set of doors with stairs that spiraled up, up, up into the towering mountainside. Rhys craned his head to trace the towers and spires that rose high into the mountain, so tall that their peaks disappeared into the red mist.
Cassian let out a low whistle. “And I thought the steps to the House of Wind were brutal.”
“The great Illyrian warrior, felled by a few thousand stairs?” Feyre teased.
A few thousand was putting it lightly. Suddenly, Rhys missed Eris’s abrasive winnowing tactics.
Oryn grimaced. “We are a flying people, and as such, we have built a great deal of architecture above the clouds.”
Cassian eyed the captain’s wings, “And we can’t fly them up because…?”
The captain made no effort to hide his grief as he answered, “Because flying is forbidden.”
The red stones on Cassian’s gloves sparked and flickered, a mirror to the outrage blazing in his eyes. His chest puffed, and he took a deep breath as though he were about to demand an explanation when Feyre pressed a palm to his shoulder. It was remarkable to watch—how that small, simple touch from a human girl somehow managed to reign in the fury of an ancient fae warrior. Again, Cassian looked at her, a million things exchanged between them in that short glance.
He huffed, tucking in his wings as he strode towards the staircase. “Good thing I had a big breakfast.”
Rhysand supposed now was as good a time as any to begin disrobing. Perhaps it made him incivil as a visitor to this court, but if he was going to climb up an entire damned mountain, there was no way he was doing it covered in heavy fur. He was coated in sweat from just the walk.
“Really?” Feyre placed her hands on her hips as he pulled the parka over his head and discarded it on the ground. “You’re doing that here?”
“Were you hoping I would wait until I was in your bedroom?”
Over her shoulder, Cassian placed a hand over his mouth from where he’d turned to wait for them.
The blue in Feyre’s eyes was muted under the red light, turning them more gray than usual, but just as piercing. Rhysand held his breath as her gaze raked over his exposed skin, from the planes of his muscular chest, down his corded abdomen, to the slant of his hips, where he noticed her eyes track the path of hair that disappeared under his waistband. And lingered.
Rhys wanted to make a joke, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was still overwarm from the Winter clothes, and it wasn’t helping that Feyre was staring at him that way—as if she were debating dragging him into the nearest dark alcove to put her lips where her eyes were. It wasn’t a bad idea. He wouldn’t mind pushing Feyre against the stone wall and tangling her hair around his fist. Heat itched up his skin at the fantasy. It felt keenly as though he were back in the Autumn Court, confronting the firebreath of a dragon. Except then, his trousers hadn’t been so tight.
Finally, Feyre composed herself enough to twist her face into a scowl. He knew it was all for show. Her irritation didn’t pass any deeper than the surface of her features, and beneath it… beneath it, he thought she might have felt a kernel of the desperate, burning wanting that was flooding through him.
She said cooly, “I think I’ll save my bedroom invitations for men who know how to conduct themselves appropriately.”
“And you’re determined to climb all those stairs dressed like that?”
He eyed the fur trim of her parka, the excessive padding insulating her thighs and hips. It was impossible. She would overheat and leave one of them dragging her the rest of the way. Feyre crossed her arms, determined to make this as difficult as possible.
“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood to spend another day hauling you over my shoulder.”
“And here I thought you came to my gallant rescue,” she mocked. “No wonder you’re chasing after a bedroom invitation. It seems you can only undress women when clothing is an obstacle to survival.”
Rhysand cocked his head. “Do you want to wager on that, Feyre?”
He would bet there were a decent number of women in this Court who would be interested in the novelty of bedding a human male. And if catching their attention could make Feyre jealous, even better.
“Are you two done bickering?” Cassian was leaning against the archway to the great stairwell, a slit brow raised. “Or should I do this savior of Prythian thing on my own?”
A few steps away, Oryn muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, my thoughts exactly.
With a glare in Rhsand’s direction, Feyre stripped to her underlayers. He was used to the chemises and stays of the mortal realm—tight, restrictive underclothing that anticipated women wouldn’t be completing feats much more exciting than having children and keeping a nice household. Clearly, things were different in Prythian. Feyre wore a panel of fabric that wound around her chest, encapsulating and binding her breasts. The fabric knotted at the back of her neck, tight enough to keep her breasts slightly suspended. It was an effort not to stare, particularly as he noticed the sweat gleaming on her collarbone.
“Satisfied?” She demanded.
Not nearly. Not until he had the chance to run his mouth over every inch of her bare skin.
The hunger must have been plain on Rhysand’s face because Cassian warned him, “I wouldn’t answer that truthfully.”
Feyre only scowled and brushed past both of them, the first to take the stairs behind Oryn. Rhysand’s intention for darting in front of Cassian was hardly subtle; he wanted to be the one directly behind Feyre. Partly in case something happened and she truly did need his help, but also because it meant her ass was directly in his field of vision and he had a penchant for torturing himself.
The novelty only lasted until his muscles started groaning. Up and up, around and around. The stairway spiraled on and on, its monotony broken only by the colorful medley of arched windows through which he could see the city they’d emerged from, growing smaller and smaller as they ascended. The constant circles were beginning to make his head spin. Never mind the sweat he could feel collecting in every crevice of his body.
Through it all, Feyre carried herself as composed and seemingly unbothered as ever. Except Rhys could see the way her braid clung to her neck, and if he held his panting back long enough, he could hear her sharp little breaths that said she was winded, too. He was fascinated, and he passed the time thinking how much he would enjoy the sound of that breathing while she lay under him. What other sounds could he draw out of her?
They climbed on like that, no one wasting breath on talking, for what felt like hours. The scarlet mist obscured the sun and any chance of telling the time, but soon, the sounds and sights of the city disappeared entirely. They were high enough, now, that Rhys could see the adjacent wilted countryside and the long, winding river coaxing through it. Should one of them grow clumsy and tumble out one of the rose-tinted windows, at least they’d have quite the sight to behold while they fell to their death.
Above them, the dark red sky drew larger and nearer.
Finally, they reached an open-air chamber full of fat, silk pillows and plush carpets. A large fountain gurgled at its center, pushing out clear water that arched and fell into the pool below, sending ripples across the red sky reflected on its surface. At that moment, all Rhys wanted was to cup the precious liquid into his hands and douse it over his head.
A High Fae male stepped through the large door on the other side of the chamber. The wisteria draping the doorway swayed as the male glided past on soft embroidered shoes. His tunic was tight-fitting around his slender chest, but his pants were loose and flowing. He bore a smile that crinkled the brown skin around his upswept eyes.
Warm, Rhys thought as he looked at the male. He had the warmest eyes he thought he’d ever seen, the kind that begged him to trust the stranger, though he hadn’t spoken a single word.
“Welcome,” he said, his voice as rich and deep as his brown eyes. “I am Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court. Though most of you are already familiar.”
Oryn immediately detached from their group to join Thesan at his side. If the male was winded from their ascent, he hardly showed it. Thesan’s gaze slanted towards the captain for only a moment, but Rhys caught the open affection in the High Lord’s eyes. Thesan reached out his hand, the tension in his body loosening the slightest bit when Oryn threaded their fingers together.
Not just the captain of the guard, then, but also the High Lord’s consort. Mate, perhaps, though Rhys wasn’t certain how to identify such things.
“Thank you for receiving us,” Feyre said. Behind them, Cassian bowed his head respectfully at the High Lord, though Rhys noted that Feyre did not. So in turn, neither did he.
Thesan raised his brows at the impertinence. Rhysand saw no reason why he and Feyre should bow and scrape to adhere to their customs. If they were going to be made to climb up a whole damn mountain to free Thesan’s Court, they at least deserved equal respect. Equal footing.
Even if their current state of dress was admittedly pitiful.
“Thanks,” Rhysand echoed. His breath was still ragged from the climb, and he resisted the urge to wipe away a bead of sweat as he felt it trail down his chest. “Your home is lovely. It’s a shame so few can behold its grandeur, what with the deterrent of those stairs. Or is their ascent a pleasure you save uniquely for your most favored guests?”
He expected Feyre might have thrown an elbow in his side for being uncouth, but she merely turned her head to look at him, something unreadable in her eyes. Her braid was damp from sweat, and the short cropping of hair she wore across her forehead was mussed, the pieces clumped and sticking in places that he knew must be driving her mad, though he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. The observation struck him so acutely that he quickly glanced away, before he was tempted to do something foolish.
Thesan, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused. “This is my private residence,” he said, his voice betraying none of the usual guardedness of the fae. He seemed earnest, this High Lord. A bit like Tarquin but… wiser, Rhys sensed. Someone who had walked on this earth far, far longer than Rhysand’s twenty-odd years and saw no reason to rise to a human’s barbed words. “The deterrent of those stairs is intentional, as it were. I find it limits the risk of surprise visitors.”
There was a story behind that knowing smile, of the times when surprise visitors might have attempted to enter the palace without explicit invitation. Maybe there were a thousand stories, some humorous and some grim. The High Lord of Dawn looked as though he were reflecting on them all as he turned his brown eyes towards the sight of the sprawling Court below, peaking between the marble arches of the open chamber.
And above it all, the red sky loomed like the most peculiar storm cloud. Thesan assessed that, too, and then released an aggrieved sigh. “I do apologize for the exertion. My invited guests do not usually need to climb so many stairs—most can winnow or fly, and my palace boasts the most remarkable moving platform for those who can do neither. However, it’s operated in one of my highest towers, which has become… inaccessible, of late.”
Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “How so?”
“I’m certain the red sky hasn’t escaped your notice,” Thesan said with a frown. “It originates from this palace. From an enchanted lotus, gifted to me by a friend. Or who I once regarded as one. It sits in our highest tower and is responsible for this fog that has plagued our sky.”
“And this… fog,” Feyre ventured. Rhys was trying very hard not to look at her. “Is it dangerous?”
“Yes,” Oryn answered. He was standing at Thesan’s shoulder, still holding his lover’s hand. His expression darkened with a grief that Rhys felt he had no right to be witnessing. “Peregryns have been dropping from the sky since the day it arrived.” He tucked his wings in tighter. “Skilled flyers, suddenly plummeting to their deaths. We’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Is it poison?” Cassian asked. “If they were incapacitated—”
Oryn shook his head. “We have not ruled out poison. But we know they were conscious as they fell. We could hear them—” his throat bobbed.” We could hear them screaming.”
“There were some we were able to save,” Thesan said. “Our best healers could find no damage to their wings, nor any trace of known poisons. It was their minds that seemed altered—agitated by sights and sounds that no one else could witness. We’ve yet to find a cure.”
Not many people in the mortal realm lived to old age, but some did. Some, like Rhysand’s grandfather, who had reached such a state of mental frailty that he could be in the same room and occupy a completely different reality. Often, it was one of a past life, from a time before the plague had taken Rhysand’s mother and sister. His grandfather would relive the grief of that discovery almost every day, before Rhysand and his father decided it was better to play along, to claim that his mother and sister were simply out in the village and would be returning soon.
Rhysand had long thought he’d prefer to die young on one of his beast-slaying adventures than to live to an age when his mind deteriorated so much that he could no longer remember the people he loved.
He was thinking of his grandfather and the ever-distant glaze in his eyes, as he asked, “It turns you mad?”
Thesan nodded, expression grim. “We believe it’s inhalation that causes the illness. Contact of the skin does not appear to trigger the same symptoms, or at least not immediately.”
And there was no cure.
Rhysand’s head spun, trying to think of a way to reach the seal without compromising his mind to do it.
It was Feyre who cut in, voice surprisingly rigid, “Thesan, I would appreciate if you allowed us some rest before we ponder this subject any further. Rhysand and I could do with a bath and a change of clothes.”
It was as though Thesan had only just noticed that they were both half-naked and coated in sweat. He tore his eyes away from the skyline and blinked, before scraping them over Feyre from head to toe. Rhysand tried not to twitch at the scrutiny.
“Of course,” Thesan said. He lifted a hand in the air and a small bell appeared, pinched between his fingers. He needed to only flick his wrist and ring it twice before a flock of attendants flooded in, each dressed in similar loose clothing of blushing pink and orange and gold. “Please show our guests to their rooms.”
Even Cassian breathed out a sigh of relief at the promise of a bath.
They were led through the lavish, winding halls of the palace, all of it carved from golden stone and boasting open views of the valleys and villages below. It was a beautiful, well-decorated maze. Rhysand did his best to track every turn they made past urns filled with flowers, pillow-bedecked alcoves, and elevated courtyards with roaming peacocks, but he wasn’t confident he’d be able to navigate through them on his own.
Eventually they came to a suite built around a lavish sitting area and private dining room. All of it was carved from the same golden stone, identical in color to the first rays of the sun bursting across the horizon. He surveyed the jewel-toned fabrics and cushions, the thick carpets, and the golden cages filled with birds of all shapes and sizes. He was begrudged to admit that this was the nicest Court he’d seen so far.
The attendants directed each of them to their allotted rooms. When Cassian eagerly pushed through the door to his, muttering something under his breath about polishing his swords, Rhys suspected Feyre would do the same. But she stayed, hand mired to the doorknob so she might escape at any moment.
But she stayed.
He hadn’t had a moment alone with her since she’d kissed his cheek. A million things ran through his head of what he wanted to—and wished—he could say to her, starting with how badly he wanted to invite her into his room so they could bathe together. With the way she was drinking in his bare chest, her cheeks the most maddening shade of pink, he thought there was a chance she wouldn’t say no.
Rhys opened his mouth to ask, but she interrupted him.
“You don’t need to break the seal today.”
He needed more than a moment to reel in the fantasy of lathering soap over her freckled shoulders. “I… What?”
“It doesn’t need to be today, or tomorrow. You can take your time. Enjoy the luxuries of this court and your freedom before…” She swallowed, unable to finish her thought. But he knew what she was going to say.
Before you go mad.
It was the first time he thought she’d ever truly acted concerned about him. He asked gently, “What about your sisters?”
Feyre angled her head, staring hard at one of the faelights over his shoulder, blinking like she was holding back tears. “My sisters are frozen in time,” she said. “Literally frozen. They can wait. It makes no difference to them.”
Another time, when she didn’t look like she was about to cry, he’d ask her what that meant. Frozen where? How?
“But it does to you,” he said. “And to Cassian.”
She shrugged. “Cassian’s immortal. He has nothing but time.”
Rhysand strode toward her and was grateful to see her hand slip from the doorknob. She pressed it to his chest before he could get too close, keeping him at a distance, but that was perfectly fine by him.
She didn’t act the demure lady about touching his bare chest, and he wouldn’t expect her to. Though he was pleasantly surprised to see the flush climbing up her throat, and to feel the subtle flex of her fingers as though marveling at the firmness of the muscle beneath her palms. He wanted to feel those calluses scrape the entire length of his chest. Fuck. He wanted to feel them against his cock.
But now wasn’t the time. And he tried to shake those thoughts away, even as Feyre’s breath hitched and he watched her next inhale expand the swell of her breasts, that entrancing flush growing a deeper shade.
Her lips parted, their offer so tempting that he reached to grip either side of the doorframe, holding himself back just as much as she was trying to do with that maddening hand on his chest.
Maybe now was the time for honesty.
“I’m not worried about losing my mind,” he said to her, his voice rough and low like he’d never heard it before. “I’ve already been losing my mind for every damn day I’ve spent on this journey. Feyre, I am losing it rapidly by the second.”
Her next breath shuddered out of her.
“It’s happening too fast,” she whispered. “I just want—”
All of his focus, his entire being, narrowed in on those perfect lips and the words she held back.
“You just want what?” He was practically begging now. “What is it that you want, Feyre?”
He knew what he wanted. He wanted it so badly he would give up his mind for it.
Feyre stayed silent. What he would give to be able to see into her mind, to just know one thing that she truly thought about him.
“How about a thought for a thought?” He tried. “You tell me one thing on your mind, and in exchange I’ll tell you something on mine.”
She considered this for a moment before nodding. “You go first.”
A chuckle rasped out of him. How predictable. “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning in as much as her Cauldron-damned hand would allow. For once he had her full attention, and he wondered how any man was meant to endure the force of her gaze without wanting to fall to his knees. “That I have endured utter Hell since the moment I met you. And all of the beasts and riddles and even the fucking stairs weren’t nearly as agonizing as how I feel right now, trying not to kiss you.”
Her eyes fell on his mouth. Rhysand could feel his heart hammering against her fingertips.
Feyre flicked her tongue across her lower lip and he thought that might die right there.
Then she said, “I’m thinking we could both use a bath.”
He practically purred, “Is that an invitation?”
“No.”
It was like slamming face-first into a stone wall. Feyre dropped her hand like he’d scalded her, and before he could scramble for something to say, she yanked on her doorknob and shut the door in his face.
Rhysand blinked, still gripping the doorframe as he reeled from the rejection. Cassian’s door was still shut, but he swore he could hear cackling laughter behind it.
-
Thesan summoned them all to breakfast the next morning.
With the mist blocking any and all sunlight, it was impossible to tell if it was early or late in the morning, but by Rhysand’s account, it was much too soon. He’d stayed up late pacing his lavish bedroom, debating whether to knock on Feyre’s door to apologize for his brazenness or demand that she apologize for being so Gods-damned guarded. Was it really so hard to tell him one thing—just one—about how she truly felt?
Evidently so, if the way she was spearing fruit onto her fork was any indication of her mood. She’d taken supper in her room last night, leaving Cassian and Rhys to eat together in their private dining room. It was another night bonding over their shared exasperation of the stubborn, elusive Archeron women.
It hadn’t made him feel any better, though. Sitting across from Feyre, watching her javelin her fork at a piece of sliced melon, he still felt as though she’d slammed the door in his face moments ago. A night wouldn’t be sufficient time to get over Feyre Archeron. Nor would a year and, he suspected, even a lifetime.
The prospect of losing his mind to the red mist was sounding more and more appealing by the second.
“If the affliction is only caused by inhaling,” Cassian said. “Does that mean Rhys could just hold his breath long enough to destroy it?”
“Theoretically,” Thesan agreed. “Though it’s possible that a human would be more susceptible to contact.”
Feyre dropped her fork. “And there’s no cure?” When Thesan shook his head, her voice raised an octave. “The Dawn Court is best known for its healing abilities, and you haven’t been able to develop any sort of antidote?”
“My magic has not been able to remedy the afflicted. It’s possible that once the seal is destroyed, their condition will stabilize.”
“So,” Rhys said slowly, “I just need to keep a grip on my sanity long enough to destroy a flower?”
Thesan frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”
His voice implied it wouldn’t be so simple. Rhysand wasn’t fool enough to think it would be. None of the trials had been easy thus far, and he knew the lotus flower would be no exception.
Still, he rolled his shoulder and said, “I’ll take a flower over a dragon any day.”
“The lotus sits in the reflection pool at the center of the room,” Thesan said. “It should be easy to locate, provided your mind doesn’t lead you astray.”
Rhysand’s gaze nearly trailed over to Feyre as he mused, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” The pause in the aftermath was uncomfortably heavy. Enough for Rhysand to push his chair away and announce, “Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Show me where to get to this tower.”
Cassian nearly choked around his next mouthful of food. “Now?” He gestured with his fork towards Rhysand’s empty plate. “You’re not even going to eat breakfast first?”
It was easy to summon the boastful, unearned confidence to say, “You can all carry on without me. I should be back before the food so much as cools.”
The mask of arrogance was familiar to default back to, though it didn’t fit as comfortably as it once did. The lordling he’d been when he’d entered Prythian believed he had the tenacity to vanquish the fae and reclaim these lands for humankind. And yet with two High Lords slain, he couldn’t summon pride for his triumphs. Not while knowing that Feyre still mourned for one or both of those High Lords—that she might have withdrawn from him last night for that very reason.
Feyre stood from her chair, sending the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why risk the both of you?” Thesan asked, his brows pressed together.
For once, Rhysand didn’t mind the implication that he was the more expendable of the two of them. He agreed. If he failed, there was no point in them both losing their sanity.
Her expression hardened into uncompromising will. “Because,” she said, meeting Rhysand’s eyes. They were the same blue as a churning storm-swept sea. “We can look out for each other.”
“Okay.” Rhys held out his hand. “We’ll go together.”
She wrapped her hand around his, so much softer and smaller than his own. Holding it felt right in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And she didn’t drop it, not once, as Thesan led them up the winding spiral staircase on the other end of the palace, where they climbed up the bare face of a tower. Every step had Rhys bracing himself, but Feyre’s grip on his fingers remained unwavering. She did not falter one single step.
The scarlet mist became a deeper, more saturated color the higher they climbed, until they came to the final flight, where Thesan stopped.
“This is where I’ll leave you. The lotus is just through that doorway,” he said, nodding up to the large open doorway at the top of the stairs, where red mist poured out and plateaued in line with the highest step. He assessed them both, lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you trust each other?”
Rhysand didn’t need to look at Feyre to answer. “Yes.”
She squeezed his hand in what he interpreted as agreement.
“Don’t.” Thesan’s expression darkened. “Don’t trust anything while you’re in there, not even yourselves. The seal will try to protect itself, and it will use every trick in its arsenal to do so.”
With that inspiring speech, the High Lord nodded his farewell and turned to begin his descent back down the tower. Leaving Feyre and Rhys before the final steps to the open doorway.
“Feyre,” he started. “Just in case I don’t get another chance to say it—”
“Don’t.”
“Feyre—”
“No goodbyes.” She turned those stormy eyes on him, and all at once he was nothing but a helpless sailor succumbing to their pull. “Whatever you want to say to me can wait until after we destroy the seal.”
He didn’t know for certain he’d still remember. But he nodded.
“Don’t let go of my hand. No matter what.”
She raised her chin, staring down the immortal gloom like she might part the mist through sheer force of will. “Take a deep breath,” she said.
It wouldn’t be his last. Rhys knew that with confidence. Even if the fog carried away his conscious mind, his lungs would carry on breathing and his heart would continue pumping. So it wasn’t the gulp of precious air that he savored in that final moment. It was the smattering of freckles across Feyre’s cheekbones. She had more than he could count, but some stood out more than others—the one by the corner of her left eye, sitting in the crease of those rare moments she smiled, was slightly darker and bigger than the others. So was the one on the bridge of her pert little nose. Another, following the perfect arch of her lips.
One day, if she had the patience for it, he would map out every constellation hidden on her body.
He kept hold of that thought as they summited the final steps to the open doorway and plunged into the thicket of the mist. Feyre disappeared entirely from his periphery, shrouded in fog so thick that he could hardly distinguish his own fingers when held in front of his face. The only sign that Feyre was still beside him was the steady pull of her hand, guiding him forward over a long bridge connecting to the other half of the tower, where the lotus flower waited.
They felt their way forward slowly, fingers skimming the cool railing, twined in plants long wilted from the lack of sunlight. His lungs were on fire by the time they emerged into the open chamber, marked by a curved archway—its stone smooth beneath his searching palm.
Straight ahead, he thought. Just get to the pool in the center, crush the flower, and this can all be over.
There was nothing to feel to guide their path. Only empty, open air and Feyre’s hand intertwined firmly in his. Her steps wavered. They were entrenched in a void of red, stretching in every direction. It wasn’t clear which way, exactly, was straight ahead, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time.
His lungs were already seizing, desperate for air. He couldn’t imagine that she was in any better state.
Rhysand chose a direction and strode forward, pulling her deeper into the fog. She tugged back, digging her heels in. They couldn’t speak without wasting air, but he imagined she was telling him, not that way.
He paused, waiting for her to correct his course.
One beat. Two. He was beginning to feel dizzy.
Rhysand squeezed her hand. Which way?
Another beat. And then she began pulling him sideways. He stumbled after her, his vision spotting as his lungs rioted in his chest. He needed to breathe. Needed to soothe the burning before his lungs gave out. He was going to collapse on the floor if he didn’t.
His body betrayed him. He opened his mouth, polluted air flooding in. Feyre paused at the sound of his gasp. His vision swam, whirling from the sudden intake, his head pounding—
And then he blinked. The fog cleared, revealing a pretty chamber of polished marble and golden stone. Outside the open archways, the sky had cleared as well, revealing an expanse of blue sky stretching towards the horizon.
It was like seeing the sun for the very first time. Not because of the light streaming into the chamber. But because Feyre was standing before him, hand in his. Smiling.
The breath whooshed out of him anew. “Do that again,” he whispered.
She did, smiling just for him. It was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.
“We did it,” she said.
Rhysand shook his head. “We didn’t do anything.”
“Look.” She nodded towards the puffy white clouds drifting just outside the tower. “The mist is gone. It was another test.”
“We still need to destroy the seal,” he said, turning to look for the reflection pool.
Feyre stopped him with another insistent tug on his hand. He turned to face her and lost track of all thought when he saw the way she was beaming at him.
“We did,” she said, raising her freehand to his cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft, and he couldn’t resist leaning further into her touch. “You absorbed the seal when you inhaled it. That was all it needed.”
“That sounds too easy.”
Those smooth hands glided up his jaw. “The fae underestimated you. They thought a human would be too wary of the risk. Their pride is their greatest weakness.”
Her fingers were in his hair now, winding through the strands. She tugged against them, pulling him closer, and suddenly he couldn’t think straight.
“What now?”
Feyre leaned onto the tips of her toes to close the remaining distance between them. When she whispered, he could feel each syllable ghost across his lips. “What were you going to say to me outside the chamber?”
Something warm and golden unfurled in his chest as he looked at her. His arm slid under her back, holding their chests flush. “Tell me one thing, before I reveal it to you.”
Her smile was more intoxicating than his father’s finest wines. “Anything,” she promised.
“Tell me—” he pressed his forehead to hers. “Tell me, truly, if you might want this one day. Want me.”
“I do,” she said without any hesitation. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Rhysand. I want you. Desperately. I need—”
He should have let her finish speaking, especially now that she was saying everything he wanted to hear. But it was impossible. He was just a man and her lips were so close to his they were sharing breath and she finally admitted she wanted him, too.
How could he stop himself from kissing her?
The most delicate noise slipped out of her when their lips met. Like the sigh of a door being opened for the first time in years. Like relief. Finally, finally, relief. After so much pent-up longing, he was kissing her, and her hands were twisting in his hair, and his tongue was skimming her lower lip, and all he could think was:
Maybe salvation was real.
The golden warmth kindling inside him was growing stronger. He felt the first of its tug when they tore their lips apart, both of them gasping.
Feyre’s pupils were wide and wild. She was smiling again, which made it impossible not to keep kissing her. But first, he said, “I was going to tell you that I am yours, Feyre. I’m yours until my dying breath.”
A blush was rising to her cheeks, spreading beneath her freckles. He leaned to kiss her again, but she broke away with a giggle, tugging playfully at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll be yours, too,” she said, eyes shining. “But I won’t make it easy for you. You’re going to have to catch me first.”
The little vixen. She launched into a sprint, fleeing to the other side of the chamber, and he laughed as he raced after her.
“Rhysand!” She called, weaving between the wisteria-twined pillars. Sheer panels of blushing peach fabric drifted behind each of her shoulders, attached to the elegant golden pauldrons she wore on each shoulder. With the light of the skyline beyond haloing her lithe frame, he felt more as though he were chasing a celestial goddess than a human woman.
She called his name again, the second syllable tapering on the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard. He vaulted through one of the open archways, desperate to get to her, to taste that laughter beneath his tongue. He landed and slid across the smooth stone, nearly carrying him off the ledge were it not for his sharp reflexes. At the last second, he grabbed at one of the marble pillars and hauled himself back into the chamber.
The sight of the jagged cliff face and the sprawling countryside far, far below was enough to sober him.
He felt another tug. This one more insistent. As if the chain connecting him to Feyre had rematerialized. She was still dancing between the pillars, completely undaunted by the risk of falling if it meant taunting him.
But the tug didn’t pull him towards her.
Rhysand!
And that voice… it was hers, but it sounded so far away.
Another tug. Another Feyre calling his name.
Was it a trick?
“Come here, Rhys,” Feyre purred, turning to face him. Light bounced off the glittering panels of her dress, as if Thesan had seen it right to thread her in gold.
He stepped towards her, despite the taut thread pulling him in the opposite direction. “Tell me again,” he said.
“I’m yours.” Her eyes were like stars. Ceding the game, she prowled back to him, teeth gleaming so white in the full vibrancy of the sun. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”
Rhysand shut his eyes. He pictured Feyre in his mind. The stormy eyes and the withering glare and her beautiful, devastating face. It was an almost identical likeness. But as Rhysand opened his eyes, he searched for that freckle beside her eye, the one which was darker and bigger than the others around it. And it wasn’t there.
He released a heavy sigh. “You’re not real.”
Her soft palm pressed into his chest, void of Feyre’s hard-earned calluses. “I could be,” she said to him. “We could stay up here forever.”
Forever wasn’t tempting to him. Not without Feyre.
The moment he decided, the Feyre in front of him vanished. The scarlet mist returned, as thick and unnavigable as before. He could hear Feyre calling his name, voice raw and panicked. Likewise he could feel a golden tug in his chest, leading him in another direction.
He didn’t know which was real. He supposed they might all be tricks.
Not for the first time, and he suspected not for the last, he thought how much he missed that Cauldron-cursed leash.
Dropping to his knees, Rhysand elected to crawl across the chamber rather than risk taking a wrong step and plummeting to the bottom of the valley. He only hoped that Feyre hadn’t made that mistake, either. Was she also trapped in some blissful vision? A pathetic part of himself hoped he was in it.
Soon, his searching hands found a tiled pool filled with tepid water. He crawled into it, not caring that it would ruin the bright, loose-fitting tunic and trousers that Thesan had lended him. The thin fabric clung to his skin as he waded through the pool and skimmed his arms over the surface in wide, sweeping gestures.
He felt something bob against his elbow and quickly seized it. His fingers met the soft suede of flower petals and a thin, bumpy stem that resisted his initial tug. He yanked until the infernal thing came away with a snap.
Then the lotus flower, as fragile as the minds it twisted, crumpled in his fist.
Rhys had never imagined what it would be like to sit at the center of a stormcloud, but he imagined the experience would not be so different from the violent release of energy that swept through the chamber with a deafening thunder clap, Rhys at its epicenter. The water rippled through the pool and spread beyond it, dissipating the fog in a great sweep of wind that he imagined would carry through the whole of Prythian.
The skin on his chest and shoulder itched terribly. If he looked down, he would likely be able to see through the translucent fabric of his tunic that the tattoo was spreading. But Rhysand didn’t care about his tattoo, nor his wet shirt, nor the entire gods-forsaken Court he’d just liberated.
He only cared about Feyre. He could see she was curled up just a small distance away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were moving, over and over, shaping words he couldn’t make out.
“Feyre?” He leapt out of the pool with an urgency that sent a wave of water spilling over the sides of the reflection pool. Water dripped from his clothes, splattering haphazardly in his wake as he slid across the stone floor to reach her.
It occurred to him, as he delicately placed his hands on her shoulders, that this could be another mind trick. He had no way of knowing that he’d truly destroyed the fifth seal or that this was truly his Feyre in front of him, besides the inclination in his gut and the warm, inexplicable pull he felt to her.
Her entire body was trembling.
“Feyre?” He said again, softer.
“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “No, no, no, no. Not again. Not again, please.”
Her voice was scraped raw, as if she’d been screaming. This was the same woman he’d witnessed slay beasts and stare down High Lords twice her size. For whatever she’s seen to have terrified so greatly…
“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re safe now, Feyre. It’s over.”
Those blue eyes focused just enough to register that he was crouched before her. And then her lower lip started trembling, and she shook her head violently, scrambling back as she whimpered, “No, Rhys. Not again. Please.”
He floundered at the fear in her eyes. Whatever she’d been shown in the lotus mist, clearly, he had been part of the vision. And his heart shattered to think he’d been the one hurting her.
“It’s just me, Feyre.” He held up his open palms. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I destroyed the lotus. It’s done.”
Her gaze drifted from his open palms to the markings visible through his translucent tunic. A sob hitched her throat. “It’s over?”
Rhys nodded, extending his hand so that he might help her up. She stared at it a moment, perhaps sharing his earlier doubt that this was another trick. Then she looked at him, studying his dripping clothes and wet hair and what he hoped to be an earnest expression.
Then she launched herself at him.
The momentum barrelled into him was such force that he was sent sprawling onto his back, a surprise grunt pushing out his chest. He didn’t have time to reorient himself, or make sense of what was happening, before Feyre gripped his face between both of her callused hands and kissed him so hard he forgot there was a reason why people needed important things like breath.
He could taste the salt of her tears and the melon juice that was still on her lips from breakfast. Every ounce of rationality dissipated at that revelation, and all he could think was that he’d never had a favorite fruit until that moment.
With a groan, Rhys slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head while also angling her closer, so he could lick into her mouth and commit the taste to memory. He no longer cared if it was real or only a vision. He would gladly surrender to the madness if this was his eternity.
He might very well have flipped her over and made love to her right there. She would have looked beautiful flushed in the low light of the morning as dawn finally greeted its namesake. But towards the far entrance, someone cleared their throat.
That was how Rhysand knew this was real. If this had been a vision from the lotus, he would have continued kissing Feyre for eternity, and they certainly wouldn’t have been interrupted by Thesan standing beside an apprehensive-looking Oryn. Over their shoulders, Cassian was grinning like a fiend.
“Celebrating your victory?” He said with a suggestive quirk of his brows.
Rhysand never hated the fae as much as he did in that moment, when Feyre hastily scrambled to her feet. He already missed the weight of her body and her sweet lilac and pear scent. He took his time rising to his feet, and when he reached his full height, he offered her a heated look that said, This isn’t over.
She looked away, heat blooming on her cheeks.
That made it the first trial that actually did feel like a victory. He couldn’t help the pride swelling in his chest, and no amount of his cocky grin was forced as he looked to Thesan and asked, “Is breakfast still warm?”
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nightcourtseer · 2 months
Text
Let’s Rest Now
Summary: Feyre seeks comfort from a nightmare while Rhys is away.
Pairings: Elain/Azriel, Feyre/Rhysand
No warnings
Read on A03
They had been gone for 10 days.
Only ten days. Such an insignificant period of time in the span of their now immortal lives. But to Feyre, ten days without Rhys had seemed like exponentially longer. Nyx, still in his toddling years, had been exceptionally ornery at the absence of his beloved father. And Feyre was exhausted. Not from assuming the sole responsibility for Velaris while Rhys was quelling another would-be rebellion in Illyria with Azriel and Cassian, but from lack of sleep. She couldn’t sleep anymore, when the other side of the bed was cold.
When she was younger, she had dreamed of the day when she might have an entire bed to herself. But now, it felt unbearably empty without Rhys’ arms wrapped around her as they slept.
The nightmares always came back, while he was away.
His still form. So, so still, as if he was only sleeping. Although no even breaths lifted his chest, no drowsy eyes lifted at the sound of her calling his name, over and over again until she was screaming it.
Rhys, Rhys, Rhys!
Feyre woke in a cold sweat, her sleep set sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She reached for his dark form beside her, only to find his side of the bed untouched, the covers still pulled up to the pillow.
He was still in Illyria, for gods knew how long.
Nyx still slept soundly in his crib on the far wall of their room, and Feyre closed her eyes, desperately trying to slow her panicked, uneven breathing to her son’s small breaths.
But it was no use.
Not wanting to wake Nyx who was finally blissfully asleep, Feyre tiptoed out of the room and down the hall. Even if he did wake, the wards would alert her.
Elain’s usually unoccupied room waited for her at the end of the hall. After discovering that the pair had actually married in secret following the defeat of Koschei and Lucien and Elain mutually denying the bond between them, she and Azriel had moved into the empty townhouse. That had been over a year ago, although whenever Rhys and Azriel both happened to be away, Elain often came to stay in her old room to help with Nyx, and keep her sister company.
Feyre never admitted how relieved it made her to have her sister close by in those times. Even though as High Lady she felt guilty that she still wanted her older sister to lean on while Rhys was away, it comforted her all the same.
It was an unspoken agreement between them that the door was never truly closed in times like these. When either one of them would wake from a nightmare, they often sought the other out - Nesta too, if she was there. It turned out they would never be too old to find solace in each other.
Feyre was just slipping under Elain’s thick, sky blue bedding when her sister awoke.
“Az?” Elain mumbled drowsily, half-asleep. Her thick curls went in every which way as she turned her head, some tossed over her face and some tangled underneath her.
“No, it’s Feyre.”
“Feyre?” her voice was scratchy with disuse, and her hands moved to part the hair that covered her eyes. “Are you alright?”
“Bad dream,” Feyre explained simply, hoping Elain wouldn’t see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks.
But mercifully, Elain asked no further questions. Even though Feyre knew that she would gladly listen if Feyre wished to speak about it, Elain wasn’t one to press.
“Can I get you anything?” her older sister asked, a touch of motherly concern in her tone even though she had no children of her own.
“No,” Feyre willed her eyes not to fill with tears once more. “I just wanted some company.”
“Okay,” Elain watched her, unblinking eyes scanning her sister’s in the dark. “Wake me if you need anything.”
Feyre nodded, not trusting her voice not to break as she settled her head against the pillow, letting Elain’s warmth chase away the memory of her own cold bedside.
Elain reached out a hand underneath the covers, calloused fingers wrapping around the tattooed ones of her younger sister. The Seer gave them a gentle squeeze, before closing her eyes once more.
The night was still outside of Elain’s bedroom window, the moon full and bright - casting a blue glow onto the tidy but warm room. Little pieces of Elain remained even after she moved out - a wicker basket hanging on the back of the door, a blue cloak hanging on the door of the wardrobe. One day while looking for a small vase, Feyre had even discovered a dagger hidden away in the drawer of the bedside table. No doubt a gift from her husband.
The room felt all the more alive, with its original occupant staying there once more. And Feyre let that knowledge comfort her - her past and present colliding in a dreamy way that lulled her back to a simple dreamland. Her sister’s hand still held tightly in hers as she sought the peace of sleep, hoping the nightmares would stave off, too afraid to return and be blinded by the light of the gentle Kingslayer.
____________________
Azriel had not been expecting to find his High Lady in his bed when he returned just after midnight.
Exhaustion made him blink twice, shadows skittering out as they rushed to reassure him that Nyx slept soundly in his crib, and that nothing was amiss.
All seemed to be well, they reported back to him.
Quietly shucking off his leathers so that only his more comfortable clothes remained underneath, Azriel walked quietly to the far side of the bed where his wife was burrowed underneath the soft bedding.
He knelt down next to her, pulling back the covers just a bit so that he could see her face. Rosy lips parted slightly as she slept.
Instead of speaking, he chose to lean closer to press a soft kiss to her forehead, then to her cheek. He followed the action by reaching for her, resting one hand comfortingly on her shoulder atop the blanket, and the other tracing the path of his lips with his thumb, ghosting over the invisible mark his mouth had left.
“Hmm?” Elain mumbled after a few moments of his gentle caresses, her face tightened with a small frown as she struggled to wake. Eyes still stubbornly closed.
“Hi, I’m home baby,” he murmured soothingly, brushing a stray piece of unruly curls from her face, then stroking her sleep-flushed cheek. Skin unbearably soft and warm beneath the cool touch of his scarred hands. He breathed in her familiar scent of honey and jasmine - of home.
“Oh,” she sighed, as deep brown eyes finally opened at the sound of her husband’s voice.
At the sight of him, the relief nearly had her choking out a relieved whimper even as she struggled not to wake Feyre still sleeping beside her. “Oh, hello.”
“Hi,” he repeated softly, still stroking her cheek as if to reassure her that he was truly there, even as he watched her attempt to temper the rush of emotions that came flooding through her.
He reached in to brush a chaste kiss across her lips.
The shadowsinger was cold to the touch, and when he pulled away, Elain reached out in turn to stroke the deep circles underneath his hazel eyes.
“Are the others back?”
He knew she was asking not for her own interest, but for the female sleeping beside her.
“No, they should be back tomorrow. I just couldn’t stomach another night there.”
“I’m sorry,” Elain whispered, reaching around his neck to comb her fingers through the hair at his nape. Even half-asleep, she knew just how to comfort him - how to thaw the ice around his heart.
“It’s okay,” he pressed another soft kiss to her parted lips. “I’m home now.”
His gaze flickered to Feyre behind her.
“Is she alright?”
“A nightmare.” Elain’s brow furrowed. “I think she just needed company. Should I wake her?”
“No, I can sleep downstairs.”
Azriel made to pull away, but a small, iron grip locked around his wrist. Her pale skin contrasted against the darker, scarred flesh beneath in her hold.
“Please stay,” Elain pleaded, something in her doe eyes churning. “You just got home.”
He knew she wasn’t requesting this for her own benefit, either. She knew he wouldn’t sleep as well as if she was in another room.
“Okay,” he smiled softly, endlessly grateful for the kind, thoughtful female he had married. “I’ll take the chair. But first, you go back to sleep.”
Elain nodded, exhaustion coloring her dark eyes. He reached back out to continue stroking her cheek, and she reached for his other hand to interlace their fingers to rest on the bed between them, which he did without question.
Shifting his position, he settled in to rest his chin on his forearm. Elain’s heavy eyes began to close, with the reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“I love you,” she spoke softly, letting her eyes flutter shut.
“And I love you,” he replied in turn, hazel eyes churning as he spoke with the words with every ounce of conviction in his heavy heart.
As she fell back asleep, his dark voice hummed, and the comforting, familiar sound of it ushered her back to her dreams, which were infinitely sweeter with him watching over him. As if even her nightmares feared the male beside her - as if they knew he would destroy the world ten times over in her name if she only asked.
At some point, exhaustion claimed him too, and Azriel drifted off only to wake when the crick in his neck became unbearable, and his wings begged to be lifted from their awkward position half-splayed on the ground.
Stifling a groan, he made his way to the chair in the corner, willing Elain not to wake as he gently untangled their hands.
As if sensing that he hadn’t gone far, she remained sleeping.
Azriel took a deep breath as he settled into the armchair, grateful to be home.
_______________
When Feyre woke, her eyes went straight to the dark, winged figure in the corner of the room.
“Rhys?” she croaked, voice hopeful but hushed as Elain still slept soundly between her and the male asleep in the winged-back chair.
But as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Feyre saw that her brother-in-law slept in the chair instead, his shadows absent.
Hazel eyes opened as Azriel woke, ever the lightest sleeper among them.
“Feyre,” he breathed, “Do you need anything?”
“Is Rhys back too?” She didn’t bother to feel shame that she hadn’t answered his question, not directly at least.
“Tomorrow, I think,” Azriel replied, kindness coloring his normally even tone.
She tried not to show her disappointment. Making to sit up, she faced the fact that Azriel more than likely wanted nothing more to sleep in his own bed next to his wife, which she was currently occupying.
“Stay,” he murmured, no room for argument in his tone. He looked at her like Elain did - as if they could see through her thoughts, as well as any daemati.
“You can’t be comfortable in that chair,” Feyre whispered back, even though she paused, still half-sitting up. Even in her exhaustion, she let a small grin pull at the corner of her freckled face, eyebrow arching in indignation.
“I actually forgot how comfortable this chair is,” Azriel mused, leaning back further and adjusting his wings behind him. “Plus, I’m sure Rhys spent an obscene amount of money on it. Someone might as well get some use out of it.”
Feyre didn’t need her abilities to tell that he was lying through his teeth. Truthteller be damned.
“You lot are always complaining about your backs.”
“You must be thinking of Cass, I would never,” he replied smoothly.
Azriel gave her a wry smile. She knew there would be no arguing with the stubborn male, although Feyre didn’t miss the deep shadows underneath his eyes, the lines on his face that hadn't been there the week before. But even still, he insisted she stay so that she could get a good night’s rest when Feyre knew all he probably wanted was to be in Elain’s arms.
“Besides,” he chuckled softly, eyes glancing fondly to Elain as if he had tracked her train of thought. “Your sister kicks.”
“I know,” Feyre rolled her eyes. “Trust me.” Feyre couldn’t help but smile back at her brother-in-law, the memories more fond now than they once had been of waking up with bruises on her shins.
“Sleep, Feyre,” Azriel insisted. “Take care of yourself.”
She tried not to blink back tears at the reminder. How lucky she was, to have so many people who loved her, who cared about her wellbeing. When once she had felt so alone, now she was surrounded by those who noticed her, who comforted her after a nightmare. Who made sure she slept, and ate.
With that knowledge warming her heart, Feyre settled back in under the warm covers where Elain remained sleeping soundly.
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Traitors Never Win
Summary: When Feyre Archeron's father promises she'll marry notorious crime boss Rhysand Moreno, Feyre will do anything to get out of the arrangement…including framing him for murder.
Rhysand isn't about to let her go so easily.
Read on AO3 | Chapter 1
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The agent cooked. Feyre had never been a cook which made living on her own hell even now. She preferred things that could be dumped into a pan and heated up, preferably in the microwave. That first morning, Feyre woke to Rhys cooking waffles. He looked casual enough in jeans and a well-fitted t-shirt and the scene was strangely domestic.
She didn’t want to think like that. Wasn’t it bad enough she was sleeping with Tamlin? What would the rest of the agents think of her if word spread she’d sleep with anyone who came knocking on her door? The problem was Rhys and his stupid, perfect face. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life. It didn’t seem possible that someone could look the way he did. 
Tall, with thick, dark hair that gleamed blue in the sunlight. Starry eyes that seemed violet, especially in the dark, his high cheekbones, his full lips, his perfect jaw…not to mention how broad and muscular he was, how large his hands, just…everything about him was appealing. 
And he cooked, too.
It was his smile, though, that had Feyre really considering something purely physical. She and Tamlin had never made any exclusive promises to one another. For all she knew, he had someone in every city he visited. He was attractive enough for that sort of thing, certainly. He’d never told her not to see anyone else…though maybe he just assumed she wouldn’t try and sleep with one of his colleagues. 
All she knew was that if this had been her original agent, she would have tried a lot harder to answer some of those questions. 
Rhys set himself up in her spare bedroom which existed solely because agents occasionally stayed over before catching an early flight. Feyre fluttered around offering to help, but Rhys waved her off with that easy smile of his. 
He was on his computer in the living room for most of the afternoon, brow furrowed as he typed away. Likely letting people know he’d made contact and she was safe and whatever else it was he did day to day. Feyre was endlessly fascinated by him and found herself strolling into the room and plunking herself down on the opposite end of the cream colored couch.
“So are you a bodyguard?” she asked him. He was bigger than Tamlin and had the look of someone unafraid to take a life. 
Rhys glanced over, one brow arched. “Something like that.”
“So if…he…tries to—”
“I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. How about that?” Rhys offered, eyes returning to his computer. “You don’t need to worry about anything anymore.”
“All I do is worry,” she admitted with a heavy sigh. Of course, she couldn’t tell the agent that her worries had more to do with herself and her sisters than they did with Rhysand. If anyone ever learned the truth Feyre would go to jail for the rest of her life, and her sisters probably would, too. She needed things to conclude so she could put those anxieties to rest and finally get on with her life. 
“What do you worry about?” Rhys asked absently, typing again.
“Everything,” she admitted as she drew her legs beneath her chin. “I didn’t think this would go on as long as it did.”
He nodded his head, eyes glassy for a moment. “I meant what I said. Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m here to protect you.”
Feyre sighed. “I believe that.”
And she did, if only because he got paid to keep her alive. Still, any incentive was better than none, and his presence was strangely welcome. Feyre talked to fill the silence and this time, Rhys responded to everything she said, no matter how inane. And better than that, he asked her questions. Once he finished with work, Rhys made his way into the kitchen where Feyre liked to paint. The dining room was part of the spacious, open room. Feyre would open the patio door when it was warm and paint whatever happened to catch her interest. Today she was painting more trees as she tried to get her texture and shading just right. Something about painting park eluded her until she was left with a muddy mess topped in green. 
Rhys strolled in, peering at her work before looking up for comparison. “Mind if I watch?” he asked and she didn’t, really. People were often watching her work and if it inspired them to pick up a brush and try themselves, well that was even better. 
“Only if you agree to paint, too,” she said before ripping off a sheet of paper from the pad she was using. Rhys watched for a moment, unaware she was overtaken by a memory of her offering Tamlin the same thing. Tamlin had refused, cheeks darkening as he mumbled he had talent for painting at all.
Rhys took the brush. “Don’t judge me,” he warned her. 
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she promised. She thought of herself as a good teacher, so while Feyre worked on not making a muddy mess of her own painting, she watched Rhys too. It was always interesting to see what people chose to do first. How they anchored line and color to an otherwise blank world. 
Rhys, like so many others, chose a pale blue for the sky while leaving a space for a bright, yellow sun. Juvenile but not awful, either. Feyre saved a lot of those details for later, though she had lightly marked out her background with some color, just to keep herself rooted in her artistic reality. 
“I can feel your judgment,” he warned without ire. “You promised.”
“It’s not judgment. Just curiosity,” she replied. “You have some talent.”
“That’s a generous assessment of my abilities,” Rhys joked. “I don’t think it’s quite time to quit my day job, though.” 
“The trick to art is practice, you know. Everyone thinks its something innate—”
“I think there is an innate quality to it, though,” Rhys interrupted, turning those bright eyes on her. “Not everyone sees light and shadow the way you do.”
“You could teach yourself,” she replied, strangely breathless. 
“Sure. But that’s my point. You see it, and I don’t.”
Feyre didn’t know what to make of that. Ducking her head to hide the flush crawling up the back of her neck, Feyre returned to her painting and so did Rhysand. In the end, he put together something entirely workable—good, even, for someone who claimed to have no skill. And her tree trunks didn’t come out muddy, for once.
She supposed he was good luck. Ever since he’d shown up, things seemed to be going better. She had ninety days before Rhysand was set before a grand jury for indictment—when she’d finally tell the lie that started her down this road. He’d go to prison, his operation utterly dismantled, and Feyre would go home. 
She’d be Feyre again. Not Sarah. She could do anything, including nothing at all if she wanted. The idea was immensely appealing. Feyre went to bed that night dreaming of the life waiting for her.
She woke to the sight of Rhys nearly naked in the hall. With nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, Rhys stood in the hall rifling through the closet for something while Feyre…just stared. His whole body was pure, broad, golden muscle. Ink crawled up his shoulders and biceps, ending just beneath his collarbone and elbow. She supposed he wanted to present himself as someone clean cut given he was a federal agent. Lucien and Tamlin didn’t have tattoos—maybe they weren’t allowed to be visible.
Or maybe he knew how good looking he was and didn’t want to outwardly spoil it. 
Regardless, her eyes traveled over his toned stomach to the vee vanishing into the towel and oh. Oh no. She knew right then she wanted to crawl into his lap and run her nails down his chest and once again, guilt flared in her stomach. How well did he know Tamlin, she wondered? Tamlin had been her savior and she cared about him…though Feyre didn’t love him. 
And she wasn’t his girlfriend, she reasoned.
Still, Feyre cleared her throat, unwilling to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Rhys glanced over, throwing her an easy smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a clean razor?”
“Shelf above if you don’t mind pink,” she replied.
“I don’t mind pink at all,” Rhys said with that easy grin. Adjusting his stance to spread his legs ever so slightly, she watched him reach that muscular arm upward and pull down the plastic container holding the razor. What, she wondered, was he shaving? His jaw was smooth, though she knew the shadow would return before dinner, just as it had before.
She liked the clean cut man, though there had been something about the rough stubble that had been distracting while they’d eaten the night before. Maybe it was just his mouth that was distracting.
She looked back up, horrified to find his gaze pinned firmly on her. And judging from the expression on his face, he knew what she’d been looking at. What she’d been thinking. 
“How well do you know Tamlin?” Feyre blurted out, suddenly embarrassed.
All the ease evaporated from his posture. “Well enough,” he said, his tone suddenly frosty. “He won’t be returning.”
“What?” Feyre asked, following after Rhys into the bathroom. “How come?”
Running his tongue over his teeth, Rhys said, “I only know the rumors, of course.”
“About me?”
Oh God. Had their relationship gotten him fired? Was that why he hadn’t texted her? He was mad? 
“Worse, I’m afraid. He was on the wrong side of your investigation,” Rhys said.
Feyre blinked, looking at the white subway tile on the wall. He was helping Rhysand? The whole time? She’d told Tamlin so much…Feyre brought her fingertips to her mouth. She should have known, she realized. Should have realized why he wanted to keep such close proximity, why he fought so hard to remain her main contact. 
“He was going to take me back,” Feyre murmured. 
“We might have lost you forever had that happened,” Rhys told her gravely. “But I’m here now.”
She nodded, turning back to look at him. He was so tall, so serious as he looked down at her, one hand braced on the edge of the counter. He had her half pinned between both himself and the sink and if she’d wanted, she could have surged upward and kissed him.
But Tamlin…oh. Feyre couldn’t bring herself to do it. “I’m sorry, I…give me a second.” Feyre closed the door behind her so he could shave himself in peace before making her way to her bedroom. She had a gun tucked away in the drawer of her side table and right then, she wanted to use it. Wanted to press it up against Tamlin’s chest and fire straight through him. 
And then she wanted to hunt down the man who’d bought her and kill him, too. She felt helpless right then—caged. She couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t do anything. If Rhysand wanted to hunt her down, well, here she was. There was nothing she could do but hope Tamlin hadn’t told Rhysand where she was.
Feyre sighed, slamming the drawer shut. If she pulled a gun on a federal agent, she was likely to be arrested. She needed air—to take a walk and try and calm herself down. There was no need to tell Rhys she was leaving—he was just monitoring, not guarding twenty four seven. And she didn’t want to see him or his stupid, beautiful face right then.
It was too distracting and Feyre needed to focus. In the early days of her new life, Feyre had spent nearly all her time trying to figure out ways to escape. What routes she’d take, what she’d have to bring with her, where she’d even go. She’d been so heavily monitored back then that she knew she couldn’t bring a phone with her—that could be tracked. 
She’d have to buy a new one somewhere else.
What had stopped her back then was the fear she’d be running straight into the arms of Moreno. But maybe…maybe sitting complacent all these years had been the problem. If Tamlin was spying…why hadn’t Rhysand come looking for her?
It didn’t make sense—unless Rhysand had no interest in marrying her at all and was waiting for an opportune moment to kill her. Tamlin, who’d been supposed to bring her in, was likely waiting on those orders.
“Feyre!”
Feyre spun on the sidewalk, surprised to see Rhys jogging after her in a pair of black athletic shorts and a matching black t-shirt. She could see the outline of his gun in his waistband, proving once again what a fucking cop he was. 
“I’m walking,” she said when he reached her, strangely petulant. 
“You could have told me,” he retorted, running a hand over his jaw. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m going for a walk,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Alone.”
His eyes scanned the neighborhood, not finding anything objectionable among the rows of townhouses and sapling cherry blossoms. 
“Twenty minutes before I come looking,” he warned.
“Fine,” she agreed, though it wasn’t fine at all. Feyre probably wouldn’t have spent more than five minutes had he not given her a time limit. It wasn’t Rhys’ fault she was upset, either, though she couldn’t stop herself from marching away from him anyway. He didn’t say a word about it and when she dared to look over her shoulder, he’d vanished. 
Feyre returned exactly after twenty minutes. Rhys was in the living room, casual as ever as he typed away at his computer. 
“I’m back,” she told him with only minimal bite.
He offered her a smile. “Feeling better?”
She shrugged and Rhys closed his laptop.
“Want me to kill him?” he offered with a joking smile.
“Kind of,” she admitted, though it felt awful to say. “Would you?”
“Consider it done, darling,” he replied with a wink. “Have you ever shot someone?”
Feyre shook her head no.
“We should rectify that,” Rhys said in that easy going way of his. She had asked Tamlin—numerous times, actually. And every time he’d told her no, citing agency policy that must have been bullshit. Rhysand likely didn’t want her knowing how to use a weapon and she’d been so stupid to believe anything he said. She had the training she’d gotten as a girl from her father, though who knew how good it was anymore. 
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Rhys agreed, turning back to his laptop screen. Whatever waited for him drew a deep frown and the frantic clacking of keys.
“Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?” she asked impulsively. Raising his eyebrows, Rhys nodded.
“Yeah. After dinner. Pick something out. Whatever you like.”
And Feyre vowed to do just that.
RHYS:
Things were going too well. Better than he’d first imagined. Feyre returned to teaching the morning after they’d watched a movie together. And though she’d occupied one end of the sofa and he’d taken the other, she’d wanted to be around him. They’d passed two weeks like that, creating a little routine. He got up before her, used to being up at four or five in the morning to go over business before he went to the gym at six in the morning. He was still going to the gym while Feyre slept, but now his business centered around her. He, Azriel, and Cassian continued to talk like normal and texted in code. Azriel was having a hell of a time—he’d attempted to kidnap Elain and accidentally drove her straight into the arms of the federal agent watching her. Rhys found his antics rather amusing, truthfully. He expected the middle sister to be the easiest of the three to control and as it turned out, she was the most wily. 
Cassian, on the other hand, had taken the same route Rhys had and merely executed the agent overseeing Nesta Archeron and, like Rhys had moved himself in. To hear Cassian tell it, the pair were growing sourdough starter and doing yoga with the sunrise every morning. Rhys imagined there was something else happening there—but didn’t dare comment on it.
But if Cassian could keep the eldest Archeron docile, Rhys would have leverage when it came to the middle one. He suspected the three of them were protecting each other, though he couldn’t prove that. It was just a hunch, and Rhys had long learned to trust his gut.
After the gym, Rhys came home and made Feyre breakfast before she went to work. He wanted to make her lunch, too—but didn’t dare play that card. Not yet. She was still stewing over Tamlin, prone to little sullen outbursts whenever she remembered his betrayal.Rhys could admit he’d been loose with the truth and eventually she was likely going to have a problem with the way he’d phrased things.
That was future Rhys’s problem. Current Rhys merely had to convince Feyre to act on the attraction she so obviously felt before he whisked her away to his cabin in the mountains and fully made her his wife. He’d never tricked a woman into falling in love with him, so the finer points were a little messy.
But he figured if he could show her what their life would be like, she’d settle into it a little easier. He’d misunderstood her all these years, but Rhys understood her now. Feyre hated being told what to do. If he’d wanted her, he ought to have demanded her father keep the engagement a secret and courted her on his own.
Rhys couldn’t go back and undo the past, which left him in the present, sitting on the couch in a pair of loose sweatpants and a tight t-shirt. He had, perhaps manipulatively, gone without anything underneath the sweatpants and twice he’d caught her staring. 
Come on, darling. Climb in my lap. 
Rhys wanted to touch her so badly it was making him itch with need. Feyre maintained her position on the sofa even if her fingers twisted nervously in her lap and her eyes kept darting toward him. 
Rhys kept himself focused, legs spread ever so slightly with invitation. And still, he found himself alone that night again, fisting his own cock and frustrated with his inability to make real progress with the woman he was trying to marry.
He was on borrowed time and he knew it. They wouldn’t make it ninety days like this. Eventually whoever was supposed to show up would, and the whole thing would be up. Rhys really didn’t want to add another murder to his growing list of crimes. Each new mess made it a little easier to catch him. 
Rhys needed to do something. So the first morning Feyre was off, Rhys woke her up with coffee and eggs before announcing, “I’m taking you to the gun range today.” That was merely practical. One day she might need to know how to aim straight, to fire one shot rather than ten. He didn’t want to have to spend his time worrying that someone could get to his wife who would be unprotected when he wasn’t there. This was also a gesture of good will between them.
Can’t you see I’m better than he is? I’ll take care of you if you let me.
Feyre blinked up at him, her hair an appealing mass of loose curls. Rhys could imagine another scenario in which her hair was that tousled—he had to turn away from the sight of her before his sweatpants betrayed him. 
“Why today?”
Time is against us and I need you to be ready for what’s coming. “I should have done it sooner.”
Sooner, like the minute he’d agreed to marry her but he couldn’t go back. He wished he would have introduced himself back then rather than skulking around like a petulant child, annoyed with his own choices. 
Feyre dressed in a pair of leggings and a tight, athletic top that made it hard to drive. Hard to think, really. He was so used to seeing her in oversized shirts and dresses that hung shapelessly off her body. This was different—the fabric hugged every curve of her body in an obscene way and Rhys found himself walking slower so he could admire the view of her ass without her knowing. 
“You just point and shoot, right?” Feyre asked once they were tucked away in their booth. Of course she wouldn’t let him take care of her, shaking him off when he tried to come around her. Rhys did it anyway, if only to breathe in the sweet scent of her hair.
“Something like that,” he said, covering her small, paint stained hands with his own. Did she notice the little scars that nicked his hands? Did she wonder how he’d gotten them? “No hesitation.”
Feyre fired a round, hitting the center target every time with supreme satisfaction. She turned, eyes bright and eyebrows raised. 
“What were you saying?” she asked.
I love you. 
“I thought you’d never been,” Rhys replied.
“My father was mafia, remember? We didn’t need gun ranges…he had us shooting tin cans outside when we were old enough to stand. Besides, I did archery in high school. I think I can hit a human body if I need to.”
“You said—”
“That I had never shot a man,” she replied, the clever little thing. “And I haven’t. Yet.”
He imagined that Feyre thought she’d be shooting him. What did she picture, he wondered? Some aging creep hoping for a child bride? Whatever it was, she wasn’t imagining him. 
“You knew what I meant,” Rhys grumbled, trying and failing to be anything but amused with her. His clever woman. Rhys practically purred at the thought.
“Go on then,” Rhys said, nodding toward her bullet-riddled paper. “Do it again.”
And she did. It was, perhaps, some of the most fun Rhys had engaged in, maybe in years. They traded at some point, trying to outdo the other by mere millimeters. Rhys threw some of his shots simply to let her think she was catching up, only to utterly decimate her record moments later.
It felt like foreplay, if he was being honest. Feyre was competitive and clever and had a filthy mouth he was desperate to put to better use. 
He brushed the back of her hand with his fingers when they were back outside, careful to catch her eye when she looked up at him with surprise. Yes, he wanted to say, I did that on purpose. 
He swore he saw her blush.
Rhys took her home, disappointed when she vanished up the stairs before he’d managed to get his shoes off. He went to his computer to monitor his home and talk to Cassian and Azriel. 
Cassian:
Compromised yesterday- shot in the leg. N headed up to you, Az. Might be with civilians- don’t kill them. Just contain them until I arrive. Eta 3:25
Azriel:
Already found them via shotgun to my face. I can’t clean up your mess- fed took E back into hiding. 
Jesus fucking Christ. Rhys had days left, if that, before the feds were pounding on their door. He didn’t intend to go to jail because he got caught playing house with Feyre Archeron. They might have been fine had the middle Archeron not escaped with a federal agent. He’d check in, surely. Warn the rest of them as soon as he could? 
Still, Rhys was occupied all through dinner and the movie Feyre picked. He didn’t notice she’d scooted closer, nor did he realize why she lingered in the hall until he turned off the light. All he could think about was his escape plan. He had a multitude of houses, not all of which were in his name. He could take her up to his cabin in the mountains, he reasoned. She’d be pissed, but they’d be safe. Rhys wasn’t under house arrest and could be anywhere he liked.
Except, he supposed, with Feyre. 
Semantics. 
He’d take her in the morning, then. Lie and say they’d been compromised, get her off the grid, and continue his courtship until she was in love with him. And then he’d tell her the truth—or, maybe he’d marry her and then tell her the truth of the matter. She’d need to know her last name, after all.
And then it would be too late. Rhys liked that plan enough to get into bed wearing nothing at all. That was how he preferred to sleep though for the last two weeks he’d kept clothes on just in case Feyre climbed into bed with him. It had become glaringly obvious she wasn’t—he was going to have to crawl into hers—and Rhys wanted a good night's sleep before he packed Feyre up into his car and took a trip up the mountains.
He fell asleep to rain and woke to someone standing on the edge of his bed. Thunder crashed overhead, a match for his racing heart. He didn’t think—merely reacted, grabbing the intruder by the shoulders and flipping them to the bed. Rhys had a gun against their temple, thighs pressed tight around their waist to keep them from escaping, before a bolt of lightning illuminated the room.
“Feyre,” Rhys breathed, taking his finger off the trigger. “I thought…fuck.”
“It’s fine,” she said, her eyes bright like moonlight in the dark. “Next time I’ll knock.”
Rhys took a breath, pressing one hand against his naked chest. Naked body—Rhys looked down and found his cock pressed against the thin material of her shirt. Feyre must have known it, too, given the way she was looking firmly at the ceiling. 
“I ah…sorry,” he heard himself saying, sliding off her body with screaming reluctance. 
“It’s okay,” she replied breathlessly. 
Come on, sweetheart. Give me something I can work with. 
Rhys didn’t know what to do and settled for sliding beneath the blanket rather than stand up and let her see the erection he was now sporting. “Did something happen?”
“I ah…it was just a nightmare. I thought…I can go–”
“No!” he exclaimed, his heart racing for an entirely different reason. “No. Stay.”
“Should I take my clothes off, too?” she tried to joke.
“Only if you feel compelled to,” he replied, the words smoother than they felt. Rhys was breathless, too, and half delirious when she slid herself beneath the same blankets he was under. She turned to face him, head propped up on her elbow.
“You keep saying things like that,” she reminded him, a question hiding somewhere in the statement.
“One day you’ll take me up on it,” Rhys replied, unable to stop himself from brushing a strand of thick hair from her face. 
“I don’t think federal agents are supposed to sleep with the people they’re protecting,” Feyre reminded him. As if Rhys would have cared even if he’d been the honorable sort. 
“Who said anything about sleep, Feyre darling?” Rhys asked her, holding her gaze as the storm raged around them. “I can think of a million things I’d like to do to you that have nothing to do with sleep.”
Her breath caught. “Like what?”
Rhys couldn’t help but run his finger over her exposed collarbone. Lightly, he traced it over the lacy fabric, making his way between the valley of her breasts to the waistband of her shorts. “I could show you, if you like?”
Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes—
“Will you stop if I don’t like it?”
Rhys’s head emptied out, replaced with a violent buzzing. Vision tinged with blood, he whispered, “Has someone not?”
“No,” she replied, easing some of the white hot fury lashing through him. “I just wanted to know.”
“I’ll do whatever you tell me to,” Rhys vowed, wishing she understood the depth of his words. 
Feyre looked up at him with those moonlit eyes. “Show me.”
Oh, thank God. Rhys repositioned himself beside her, reached for her face and then, when he could all but taste her breath, he whispered, “I want to kiss you.” He didn’t give her the opportunity to respond. Rhys needed an answer to the question he’d been asking himself for the last five years—was she worth all this? In his darkest, most frustrated moments, he’d managed to convince himself this was all a mistake. That he ought to let her go and forget the entire thing and instead spend his time getting out of the feds little trap.
But morning always came, reassuring him that this was right. Feyre was his match and Rhys wanted her. Wanted every piece of her. 
He’d wait to fuck her, though his cock screamed in protest the moment the decision was made. Good things came to those who waited, and right now Rhys had the upper hand. 
Fuck, but Feyre tasted better than he’d imagined. Her lips were soft, her mouth minty and she smelled like sugared fruit. He wanted to lick his way down her body until he found himself between her legs where he’d lick some more. 
Rhys threaded his fingers into her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper. His mind had run away with him, undressing her gently in some moments, viciously in others. He wanted to rip her out of her clothes or better still, cut them from her body while teasing her pretty, perfect skin with his blade. 
A little pain, a little pleasure. 
And as he kissed her, tongue sliding along her own, Rhys thought about putting her on his face and letting her suffocate him, taking her pleasure at his expense. He thought about her sinking to her knees, delicate fingers wrapped around the shaft of his cock as she pumped and licked and sucked while he held the wall to keep himself upright.
Feyre moaned, running her hands over his biceps and drawing him out of his fantasies. He had time—a lifetime worth of it—and she was here, willing and pliant in his hands. She was kissing him back, it was her teeth nipping his bottom lip and her fingertips sliding through his hair.
Her parted legs made in offering, her knee touching his thigh. Rhys couldn’t help himself as he slid one hand up her thigh. Higher and higher while Feyre’s kissing slowed, her focus narrowing on what he was doing.
Deciding to stay over her clothes for the moment, Rhys moved his fingers between her legs and rubbed a slow deliberate circle. Do you like that?
Feyre exhaled softly, hips arching ever so slightly. It was Rhys’s turn to moan. “You’re sweet,” he whispered, teeth grazing her jaw. He kept his fingers circling against her clit, using the fabric as light friction. He wanted her desperate enough to forget everything but what she wanted so he could see her undone. Rhys wanted to hear her scream his name, wanted her to know that she belonged to him. 
For Rhys, it had been five years of nothing but his hand and fantasies and all he wanted was to bury himself inside her and fuck her just as long. He was so lost in his fantasies that he didn’t realize where her hand was going as it moved down his chest to his stomach. For all he knew, he was hallucinating her touch at all.
Her fingers curling around the base of his cock were very, very real. If he’d been asleep, that jolt of pleasure would have woken him up. Rhys stuttered out a gasping breath, pulling away to look at her. Feyre’s wicked smile told him everything he needed to know mere moments before her grip tightened and she pumped him in her hand. 
“Move the blanket,” she whispered. Rhys kicked them off violently so Feyre could look at him again. Her eyes moved down his body with appreciation, landing on the cock in her hand. 
“Do you like what you see?” Rhys asked her, nose brushing hers.
“Yes,” she replied, arching into his hands when he brought them to her breasts. “I think I like everything about you.”
Rhys could have come right then and there. 
“Fair is fair, Feyre,” he whispered, kissing a path down her throat. “Take this off and let me look at you.”
Rhys’s whole life narrowed to the moment Feyre leaned up and pulled her tank top over her head. Rhys groaned at the sight of her soft, lean body and the perky breasts heaving in the dark. He could have lost himself right there, fucking himself in the sheets, face buried between them. Rhys needed to focus.
“All of it.”
Feyre arched her hips, hair falling around her beautiful face. She was taunting him, running her finger up and down the waist band while he watched her like a starving animal. Feyre ceded inches at a time, revealing hips first, and then a peak of hair she’d neatly groomed. And then the shorts were on the floor beside her top and she was in his bed.
Naked.
Rhys forgot how to speak for a second, teasing one of her nipples while he stared and stared. Committing, he realized, this moment to memory. Just in case, he reasoned. Maybe they got separated or he had to leave her somewhere to keep her safe. He wanted to be able to come to this moment in his mind and recall it with perfect clarity. 
“Spread your legs for me,” Rhys ordered. Feyre slid a lazy hand down her body, resting her fingers just above her pussy. He could see her from the corner of his eye and that taunting smile as she widened her legs with that same slowness she’d employed when undressing herself.
She was driving him insane. 
“Show me how you like to be touched,” Rhys demanded roughly, taking his cock into his hand while he watched. 
“How about, I’ll show you how I touched myself last night while thinking of you,” she replied in a sultry voice.
Rhys groaned again. “Yeah. Show me that.”
Her fingers brushed over her clit, filling Rhys with the weirdest jealousy. He wanted to be there, could feel the phantom heat even from the space he occupied beside her. That didn’t stop him from sucking in a breath when those same fingers slid into her body, dragging the slickness of her arousal back up to her clit. Feyre exhaled shakily, knees falling wide open so Rhys could watch unimpeded. 
He sat up, still pumping his cock up and down. Feyre touching herself was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Rhys forgot what he’d meant to do, lost in the movements until his own arousal began to rise in his throat, threatening to spill all over his hand. She was going to come, too, and Rhys found the idea of not being the one to bring her to completion intolerable. She didn’t need her hands anymore—he’d do it for her, every night if she wanted.
Or, he hoped anyway.
Releasing his own cock, Rhys grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head. “That’s enough,” he growled, crawling over her body.
“I thought there were other things you wanted to do,” Feyre taunted, arching her hips so her slick pussy slid over the sensitive skin of his cock. Rhys shuddered, nearly abandoning his plan entirely to fuck her.
“Careful,” he warned before sucking roughly at her neck. “Or I’ll fuck that bratty mouth of yours.” Feyre arched into him again. “You could try…but I don’t think you’d fit,” she said, hand sliding down his stomach. 
Fuck he was in love with her.
“I’m sure you’d find a way to make it work,” was all Rhys could think to say. The thought of pulling her off the bed, head dangling, was tempting. He could pull her legs up to him and lick her while she fucking her throat raw. “You’re a clever woman, Feyre.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, tugging at the strands of his hair.
“Wouldn’t I?” he replied, licking down the column of her throat. “I think you’d like the things I’d dare to do.”
“I’m a lady—”
“You’re a nightmare,” Rhys disagreed, sucking one of her nipples between his lips. “My fucking nightmare.”
She chuckled, unaware of the truth. Right then, though, Feyre was everything. Angel, devil, nightmare, daydream. There was no going back now, no reversing what had begun. As Rhys continued his slow descent down her squirming body, he was resolved in his course of action. There was nothing that would keep him from her. No cell, no grave—nothing. 
Feyre was already slick with arousal, her pussy swollen and pink even in the dark. Rhys spread her apart to look, meeting her gaze from his spot between her legs. 
“What about you?” Feyre whispered, grabbing him by his hair and pulling rough. Rhys’s hips ground into the mattress involuntarily, responding to the force she’d used. 
“What about me?” he replied. If he had to fuck his hand in the bathroom again, that seemed reasonable enough. His cock would be wet soon enough.
“I want to taste you,” she whispered and just like that, Rhys had her halfway off the bed just like he’d imagined. There were more elegant ways to do this—ways that prioritized her pleasure, that were likely more comfortable if nothing else.
But he wanted her like this. After five years of waiting, Rhys thought he deserved to have her however he liked so long as she didn’t object. “Open your mouth, darling,” he murmured, looking down at her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She was eye level with his cock—all she had to do was open and Rhys would be inside.
“Rhys—”
“Trust me,” he murmured, vowing he wouldn’t hurt her. Not unless she asked him to, anyway. While he waited, Rhys leaned over, adjusting his weight and spreading his legs ever so slightly, so he could lick a path down her navel. “I’ll take care of you.”
He meant it literally, but he understood how she might have thought he meant in the moment. Truthfully, Rhys was too distracted by the pussy in his face to bother clarifying it for her. He could smell her and needed to taste her. For one glorious moment, Rhys forgot everything else. Gripping her by her ass to half lift her in the air, Rhys licked the length of her while Feyre gasped, pushing up so she was closer to him. Rhys licked again, forgetting he’d intended to edge her for hours.
Ah, well.
There would be other nights, he supposed. It was strange to realize he could have all the things he wanted. Or, at least have all the things he wanted with her. That was enough to convince him to keep going until she made a mess of his face.
He’d forgotten his cock until he felt her swallow it. She managed a good third before she gagged slightly and her hand began trying to make up the difference. 
“Good girl,” he gasped against her leg. “You can take me.”
He was in hell—her mouth was wet and warm, a tease of what would happen when he was buried inside her. Rhys pushed a little, testing how much she could take without work. He managed about half before she slapped his thigh, teeth lightly grazing his shaft in punishment. Fine, he thought. Anything was better than nothing, truthfully, and he was grateful she let him put his cock near her face at all. 
Rhys returned to his licking, desperate to get her off before he lost control of himself. He was punishingly close already and desperate to mark her in some invisible way. Like an animal, he wanted the rest of the world to know she’d been claimed and to stay away from her, regardless if it was right or not. 
It was tempting to pull himself off her and demand to know where she’d learned to suck cock like that. To force her to give him a list so he could track them all down one by one and punish them for touching his wife. Rhys might have, too, had he not been so desperate to get her off. Feyre squirmed, moaning around the cock she still had buried in her throat. It was too much—Rhys couldn’t think his way out of his impending orgasm. He should have masturbated before he went to bed just to take the edge off. She was going to think he was quick. 
“Feyre,” he panted against her, legs shaking with effort. Rhys redoubled his efforts, kissing and sucking until Feyre’s determined rhythm stuttered. And though his cock screamed in protest, his balls so tight he thought he might explode, Rhys kept at her until Feyre came, still gagged by his cock. She managed one suck, panting and moaning around him and that was all it took.
Rhys came down her throat, forgetting he’d intended to come on her face.
This was better, he thought, face pressed to her thigh as he bit at her flesh. Neither of them moved, still riding out the wave of pleasure rocking through them. He wanted to know how she felt—did the world seem different to her, now? It felt different to Rhys.
Carefully, he knelt beside the bed where Feyre still hung, her hair a waterfall around her. “That was…” he murmured, sitting with his back against the frame so he could kiss her cheek, “incredible.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “Really good.”
“Stay with me tonight,” he asked impulsively. He just wanted her near. Feyre nodded, leaning up as Rhys crawled back into the bed. He swore he meant to have her again, that he was only going to close his eyes for a moment. 
Rhys passed out, and when he woke, the bed was empty again. For once, Feyre had beaten him awake. Rhys didn’t mind. He took his time, showering and dressing himself while replaying the night before. Somehow he doubted that Feyre had made breakfast, but maybe he’d get lucky and she’d offer herself up to him.
Rhys made his way down the stairs where Feyre waited in another oversized t-shirt and a pair of tight leggings. She’d braided her thick hair over her shoulder again… and she was staring at his computer with those moonlit eyes he loved so much.
“Good morning, Feyre darling,” Rhys said, assuming the game was up. He should have known better than to leave his computer up and accessed so easily…but what did he care, truly, if she looked? He’d show her everything if she asked. 
Feyre stood as Rhys made his way to the kitchen, pouring coffee as the hammer clicked back on a gun. 
“You,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. 
“Me,” he agreed, positive she wouldn’t shoot him. Why wait, he reasoned? She could have shot him in her sleep if she’d wanted, but she hadn’t. She’d waited for him to come downstairs and explain himself and that was progress.
“You lied to me.”
Had he? Rhys couldn’t recall a time he’d been overtly dishonest. “You drew your own conclusions,” Rhys reminded her, turning as he blew steam from his mug. “I never lied to you. I told you who I was the day we met.”
“You—you let me think…” she stood, still pointing her weapon at him. “Did you kill Tamlin?”
“You asked me to, remember?”
“Because you said…oh my god…you said…”
Rhys was grinning. “He was keeping you from me.”
“So you killed him for doing his job?” she demanded.
Rhys smiled. “Oh, darling, I killed him because he touched my wife—”
“I’m not your wife!” she declared. Rhys finished his sip, setting his mug to the counter. As he walked toward her, Feyre backed up until she was pressed against a wall. She held that gun, even when Rhys took her hands in his and pressed the barrel firm against his chest.
“You are,” he replied, holding her gaze. “And if you’d come to me for help, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“I didn’t want your help,” she whispered. 
“No? Did you ever think that I could have paid someone to look at your story closer? To really examine that bat? I’ve kept you out of prison, Feyre.”
“You’re the reason he’s dead in the first place.”
Rhys had to resist rolling his eyes. “Shoot me then, Feyre. Pull the trigger and end this.”
They stared at each other for a beat—long enough for her to hesitate, and longer still for Rhys to yank it from her hands before hauling her over his shoulder. 
“We can unpack your shitty childhood later,” Rhys informed her as she kicked at the air. “For now, it’s time to go.”
“Go where?”
Rhys sighed with delight, thinking of his cabin and the time alone they’d have together. 
“Home.”
72 notes · View notes
velidewrites · 6 months
Text
The Daily Struggles Of An Art Student
Desperate to finish her male anatomy assignment before the deadline, Feyre Archeron finds a secluded corner in a cafe. Or so she thinks.
Pairing: Feysand
Tags: Modern AU, Artist!Feyre, Look folks I'm just going to say it: Feyre spends half of this fic looking up reddit [redacted] for a male anatomy assignment
Notes: Happy birthday the wonderful @the-lonelybarricade! I wrote you this definitely not unhinged one-shot as a little gift. Thank you for being such a great friend, and truly the most supportive person in this fandom. I cherish you!!
Read on AO3
Feyre was running out of time.
Deadlines, she decided, were really not her thing. What was that saying? “You can’t rush art?” Well, her professor at the New York Academy of Art would be inclined to disagree. Then again, Feyre wasn’t sure the blank page shining a soft, white light from her iPad could really count as “art.”
She sighed in frustration, shifting in her seat. As if the new angle could help, somehow. With exactly four hours and twenty minutes until she was to submit her assignment, the prospect of failing was quickly starting to look more and more like a reality. Feyre had always been bad at painting from memory, particularly when it came to capturing people. Her own cat, she could probably paint in minutes and be satisfied with the outcome. Or the view from her apartment. Or the honey-brown colour of her sister’s eyes, especially when she just saw Elain at dinner the other day.
Male anatomy, on the other hand…
Feyre needed a reference. Desperately.
It wasn’t unusual for an art student to spend hours on Pinterest, searching for the perfect pose, one that would be just right. Feyre had done it herself too many times to count. It was simply that…well, Pinterest could not provide a reference for everything. And Feyre would rather not use her own memory to capture a man’s physique in full.
She had just broken up with Tamlin, after all, and had very little interest in ever recalling their time together again. Lucky for her, he had moved to Boston last week to pursue his Master’s, never to bother her again. Hopefully.
Unfortunately, with Pinterest proving entirely hopeless, and Tamlin decidedly out of the picture, Feyre was left entirely out of options.
The worst thing about all this was that Feyre had only herself to blame.
There had been one option she simply pretended not to acknowledge, though she would have finished yesterday morning had it not been for her own stubbornness—or, as Nesta had called it, had she not been such a prude. Feyre certainly did not think of herself as one—it was just that…well.
Every morning, from 8 till 10:30 sharp, her class offered anatomy studies with a handful of volunteers from the student body posing for their life drawing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, they were completely nude, which was not something Feyre would have cared about in the slightest had their newest model not been Feyre’s best friend. And her sister’s new boyfriend.
Ever since she had told Lucien Vanserra the school was considering paying the volunteers for their efforts, his gaze lit up and, not even a day later, there he was, his name displayed proudly on the sign-up sheet. Feyre knew him long enough now to know the extra money in his pocket was just an excuse. Someone has to capture this body one way or another, Feyre, Lucien had told her a few days ago, a twinkle in his russet eye. She supposed he did make an interesting art subject, with the scar and all—but not nearly interesting enough to strut through the East Building proudly, letting both students and teachers alike gush on about his “cruel beauty.”
Elain, to her horror, seemed to support Lucien’s latest modelling endeavours wholeheartedly.
“He promised to bring a few of the sketches home,” her sister had told her excitedly at dinner. The best reaction Feyre could offer was a horrified, blinking stare.
It wasn’t that Lucien was lacking in the looks department—on the contrary, actually—but she’d always seen him as a brother, ever since the day he’d almost run her over on his motorcycle, her very first day as a college freshman. And so, for the past few days, Feyre would make sure to avoid the East Building like the plague.
Today, she ended up in a nearby campus cafe, a cozy spot for a senior art student seeking privacy, yet still crowded enough to make Feyre look over her shoulder every few minutes. She’d opted for a secluded corner near the restrooms, with no windows next to her table, just in case a nosy passerby caught a glimpse of what exactly Feyre was drawing. Or, rather, attempting to draw.
She glanced at her phone, an unpleasant sense of dread curling in her stomach once again as she realised twenty more minutes had passed. Had she really wasted all that precious time thinking about Lucien?
Feyre needed to come up with a solution, and fast. There was no way she was failing this class, not in her final year. She was planning to move to Paris next year and continue her education there—where better than the art capital of the world? She would not let a poor painting of a penis, of all things, ruin all of her plans and dreams for the future.
Relying on Pinterest for now, Feyre began sketching the unnamed man. His upper body posed no serious issues, and she found herself done with the clean lineart and three hours thirty minutes left to spare. The thighs, too, seemed to feature all the muscles in correct places, though upon further inspection, she had perhaps drawn them slightly too large for a regular, male specimen. Whatever. With Lucien as the current model, she doubted any of her classmates would submit perfectly proportionate sketches.
Good, Feyre decided. This was good. The only thing left for her to do now was to find a good reference for the final pièce de résistance. She could do this—there was no one around, after all, and she’d make sure her browser history would be wiped clean later. Ressina, her classmate from the Academy, liked to borrow Feyre’s iPad sometimes to try her skills at digital art—and Feyre wasn’t sure their friendship was well-established enough that she could explain without making a fool of herself.
With a deep, deep sigh, Feyre got over herself and fired up Reddit.
Well.
This was going to make things a whole lot easier.
It was honestly beyond her that this entire archive was out there, for free and simply waiting for her to download. Without wasting any more time, Feyre got to scrolling.
She hadn’t expected to be flooded with so many options, but soon enough, she found just the perfect reference—the angle matched exactly the pose she had already outlined, and from the ruler he’d so proudly displayed beside it, the man didn’t seem like he would mind. And so, with the image neatly placed in the corner of her canvas, Feyre began to add the sketch. Everything seemed to be coming together—and, her focus lost entirely to the penis before her, she was actually starting to believe she might just submit this thing in time.
“Friend of yours?”
“Shit!” Feyre jumped, pressing her iPad close to her chest as she whirled back.
The voice behind her—of course—turned out to be a man. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
“Well?” he asked, eyes twinkling. Were they actually violet, or was the soft light pouring through the window just that spectacular?
Feyre felt her cheeks heating. “You know, it’s rude to invade other people’s privacy,” she told him, anger slowly replacing the embarrassment coiling in her chest.  Who was this man, this stranger, to question her?
He only seemed more amused, though he lifted a defensive hand. “Hey, I was just leaving the restroom,” he said, pointing back to the staircase behind. “It’s not my fault you’re right out here for all to see. Who’s invading whose privacy now, hmm?” Before Feyre opened her mouth to retort, the man added, “Oh, no need to apologise. Mind if I sit?”
And with that, he simply plopped down on the chair beside her.
The audacity. 
Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t going to apologise,” she said, setting her now locked iPad on the table.
He ran a hand through his hair, raven waves soaking up the sunlight, and smiled again. “I was hoping you would say that.”
“Anyway, this isn’t my friend,” Feyre said, hoping there was enough mockery in her tone to wipe that stupid grin off his handsome face. “It’s a project. For art school.”
“Ah, yes” he mused, drumming his long, slender fingers on the polished wood. “I could tell from how precise your strokes were.” Something about the way he said strokes made the heat in her face nearly boil over. Get it together, idiot! He leaned back in his seat, as if he could somehow tell exactly what Feyre was thinking. Then, he proclaimed, “You’re an artist.”
Alright, Feyre decided. Not entirely a prick, then. “I’m not sure I’d call myself that,” she admitted honestly. Not yet, at least.
“I would,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling slightly as he added, “I’d like to call you many things, actually. Let’s start with your name.”
There it was. Feyre couldn’t help but flirt in return. Prick or not, she liked his boldness—and his good looks certainly were no disadvantage. “You first,” she demanded.
He flashed her a wide, brilliant smile. “My favourite subject.”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “That doesn’t surprise me one bit.”
“Rhysand,” he said. “But you, darling, can call me Rhys.”
Rhysand. The name was so unusual she almost didn’t register what he’d called her. Darling. It was then that she’d finally taken her eyes off his face long enough to take in the rest of him—the deep, English accent, lilting as though he wasn’t speaking to her but singing the smoothest melody.
Yeah—she really needed to get it together.
“What brings you to New York City, Rhysand?” she asked him, not giving him the satisfaction of using his clearly personal nickname yet. His eyes sparkled again, accepting the challenge.
He shrugged. “Research. The sights. Pretty girls drawing male genitalia at 1pm on a Tuesday.” Rhysand winked. “Greatest city in the world, huh?”
Feyre’s cheeks flushed again. “Research?” she questioned, desperate not to go back to that topic with a man she’d only just met.
Rhys chuckled. “Yes. I’m an astronomer—or about to be, at least.”
“Interesting.”
“It is,” he agreed, and she could’ve sworn actual stars flickered in his gaze with the words. “You’d be surprised just how much the night sky has to offer.”
“I paint it sometimes,” Feyre told him, unsure why she’d just admitted something that personal to a stranger. “Whenever I feel…down, I suppose.”
To her surprise, Rhys nodded. “I do the same.”
Her brows flicked up. “Paint?”
“I’m afraid I’m not that talented. No, I look up—watch the stars.”
Feyre smiled. “That actually sounds wonderful.”
Rhys angled his head. “You know, I haven’t had the chance to explore the New York sky yet. I could use some company.”
Something told her she was up for one hell of a first date. “Alright, Rhys,” Feyre said, his face lighting up triumphantly at the name. She chuckled, grabbing her iPad as she rose from her chair. “Meet me here at seven thirty tonight.”
“Wait!” he called after her. “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“Hmm, I don’t know,” she teased. “I’m not sure I’m ready to part with darling.”
The stars in his eyes twinkled. “Oh, I think we’ll work something out.”
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officialfeysandweek · 7 months
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Thank you so much to everyone who contributed to Feysand Week! Over the course of the week, we recieved an amazing variety of content—from playlists, to moodboards, to beautiful fanart! One of the most popular forms of creation, however, was fanfiction! We recieved a total of 43 fics in our Feysand Week Collection on AO3, as well as some fics that can be found exclusively on tumblr!
That's a lot of fic to read! To help you decide which fic would be perfect for you, and as a way of giving back to the fic writers that contribute so much to our community, we decided to create a little quiz that will help you choose the fic that's best suited to your tastes!
>>> Click here to take the quiz
And thank you once again to everyone who participated! We look forward to seeing you next year!
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temperedink · 1 month
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high in the moonlight
Feysand, pure smut, no plot, one-shot, 3K.
For @sjmromanceweek 2024.
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Basically if Moonlight by Kali Uchis + Partition by Beyonce had a sexy baby.
The High Lord and High Lady are due for a visit to the Court of Nightmares. They’re getting ready when they get…distracted by each other.
(Spoiler: They ain’t even gonna make it to this club.)
Read on AO3.
Thanks to @popjunkie42 and @bibliophiliaxvignette for brilliant betaing!
This is my first time writing Feysand, and they are my FAVE, so I hope I did them justice!
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popjunkie42 · 2 months
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Blossoming in Winter - Chapter Four
For my darling @witchlingsandwyverns, the next chapter of your gift exchange! I hope you enjoy! The angst is getting angsty.
Love and kisses to @witch-and-her-witcher, @temperedink and @wilde-knight for the beta reads, patience and advice!
Blossoming in Winter
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Chapter Four: Darkness Unescapable - read on AO3
Summary:
Five hundred years before Amarantha’s reign Under the Mountain, Prythian and the Continent were thrust into a brutal war to abolish human slave lands and the threat of the King of Hybern. Tamlin, third son of the High Lord of Spring, has rebelled against his father to fight on behalf of the human-faerie alliance. A fae archer in his personal guard, Feyre Archeron, makes a foolhardy decision that changes the tide of the entire war.
Rescued from torture at the hands of General Amarantha, Prince Rhysand has been sent to High Lord Thesan’s Hall of Healing in the Dawn Court. Frustrated, immobile and in disgrace with his father, Rhysand meets a fellow patient in healing who helps him see the days ahead, beyond the brutality of war. But can he make her see that future for herself?
A Court of Thorns and Roses AU set during the first Hybern war, inspired by the story of Faramir and Eowyn in Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.
First part of Chapter Four under the cut!
In her quarters, Feyre argued with her nurses until she had driven them from the room.
The nurses were a problem. They insisted on bandage changes twice a day. And she was starting to lose the strength to keep them away. Standing in front of the mirror, breathing deeply, Feyre began to unwrap her bindings.
White, withered skin revealed itself stripe by stripe in the mirror. It was dull and gray, as if it was dying on her bones. 
The pale wintry sun shone over the spread of newly infected flesh on her ribs. The skin around the edges was raw and red. Every day she felt it, the searing, frozen cold biting at her body. And then, nothing. More of her body given way on the battleground of her flesh.
Turning away from the mirror, she pinned a strip of clean bandage between her wrist and the table, and began awkwardly wrapping her arm. Hopes or wishes could do nothing now. The ichor spilled on her skin was claiming her body, inch by inch.
Feyre closed her eyes. Sometimes the memories felt so real she wondered if she ever really left the Middle. If that cursed blood that spilled on her had stained her mind as well as her body. The memory of the scent of wet earth and sweet rot hung heavy in her nose. She swore she felt wet moss trailing over her skin, the sound of rustling leaves drowning out the muted bustle of the healing hall. 
In the forest, she had not approached the god like a warrior, soldier, or High Lord. 
Feyre had hunted.
She was fortunate that his power was so vast it prickled the hairs on her arm, that she could sense it and keep to the very edges, out of his awareness. Fortunate that a small creature such as herself posed so little threat to an old god as to go unnoticed.
Magic had dripped off of him like morning dew. Her feet followed the path decked with new green buds on the trees, spring grass and flowers on the forest bed in the shape of his footsteps, quickly freezing and dying in the early winter cold.
Under the dark trees, she had circled for hours, scenting and tracking. And slowly, she set her trap - of wards and spells, and the more vulgar spikes and ropes. 
She didn’t lay eyes upon him until he had fallen into her trap. A towering figure, long of limb, so covered in sprouts and moss and vines it was impossible to see the skin underneath. His power not of good or evil but simply the endless, metamorphic cycle of a seedling sprouting and falling back to the earth as a rotted tree.
When he was caught, bound and covered in his own dark blood, and she finally stood in front of him, her only impulse had been to kneel.
She was a creature of the forest, was she not? 
In his eyes, in the draw of that vast power, older than time, she felt the world melt away. Felt how short a time these seven years were to an immortal. Grief over the dead on a battlefield was meaningless, as all would return one day to the earth to feed the trees.
And as he raged even in his death rattle, the burning blood had splashed from his wounds and onto her body. He sank to the forest floor and breathed his last as Feyre had screamed, her skin marked, cursed, by magic and fury. 
In her bedroom, Feyre winced at the bite of ice on her flesh. For a terrible moment, the numbness subsided, and she felt the burning pinprick screams of her limb so long asleep and starved for blood. 
She shoved the rest of the bandages in between her teeth and screamed.
Through the pain she repeated the awful truth to herself: she had already accepted this cost, for Tamlin, and by consequence, the rest of Prythian. The Suriel had foretold it, and it was just taking a little longer than expected. 
Wasn’t one inconsequential fae life worth the rest of them, of all Prythian? 
The pain subsiding, she tucked her wrapped arm under a large tunic and tied the sleeve, pulling it tight with her teeth. Then she pulled the fine night-blue cloak around her shoulders and tied it tightly around her throat.
She didn’t admit what was on her mind now. She was going walking, and it was best he didn’t see.
Read the rest on AO3
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FM2M Ch6 Preview
Ch 6: Dreams are Sweet, Until They’re Not
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Catch up on Ch 1-5 here
Ch6: here
Tag list: @beaumaismortel @s-uppertime @vulpes-fennec @the-lonelybarricade @panicatthenightcourt @coracrowart @starfall-spirit @freyjas-musings @vikingmagic33 @headcanonheadcase @hlizr50 @highladysith @valeridarkness @lokisllama @aldbooks @foreverinelysian @dxnniiix
Let me know if you want to be added 🥰
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vulpes-fennec · 1 year
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Prythian's Fantasia 🎪 (Ch. 1)
Summary: It’s 1889. Desperate to save her ailing mother’s life, Feyre strikes a bargain with ringmaster-witch doctor Amarantha. As the Archeron sisters join Prythian’s Fantasia and head for the World’s Fair in Paris, they begin to realize the circus’s magic runs far deeper than its enchanting nightly performances.
Read: Masterlist | AO3
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Friday, March 8th, 1889
***Nesta***
The rain had let up by the time 25-year old Nesta Archeron stepped out of the St. John’s Wood Road station. Taking the family carriage was preferable to clustering with all the grimy plebeians, but riding the Metropolitan Railway was considered en vogue for young adults in 1889. Besides, showing up to a suffragist meeting in a fancy carriage wasn’t very humble.
Political disagreements—revolving around Prime Minister Gladstone and Irish Home Rule—had left the budding suffragist movement in disarray. Still, Nesta’s particular group of women’s activists managed to meet every Friday. Which was why, even on freezing March days like this, Nesta was committed to trekking out to central London.
Central London itself was a veritable sludge of shit, coal soot, and rot. But she’d rather be wading through the mucky Victorian streets than walking up the front steps of the Archerons’ house. Nesta didn’t have issues with the four-story building crafted from warm red brick, with its ample windows and three full-time staff to attend to their needs. The home was even outfitted with running water—what more could she ask for?
Nesta had issues with her mother’s disagreeable presence. 
Nesta hadn’t minded being her mother’s favorite child when she was younger, for it meant receiving pretty dresses, compliments, and plenty of dance lessons. But as Nesta grew older, she realized Isabella Archeron cared only about social status. And once Nesta joined the suffragist movement, it became abundantly clear that her mother saw her as a marriage mart project—and never as an actual person. 
Isabella Archeron had fallen ill last spring. Her health failed to improve at their country home, at the southern coast, and even at the hands of their family doctor. So shortly before Christmas, Nesta’s father returned the family to London.
“The pollution is not ideal, but there will be better doctors in London,” he’d reasoned. “And better chances of finding a husband for you, Nesta.” Nesta had agreed to the move, but not because she wanted to get married. If she couldn’t go to Manchester, where the beating heart of the suffrage movement lay, she would find like-minded women in London. 
Society in the country moved at a snail’s pace, as things often did when the closest neighbors were a carriage ride away. Women’s suffrage was met with blank stares, and then revulsion once Nesta explained it in simple terms. Really, did no one find it illogical that in a family with three daughters, the father was the only individual with any say in matters of politics? The women in the family outnumbered him four to one! 
“Miss Archeron.” A maid dusting the vases in the front foyer gave a little bow as Nesta entered. Her brown eyes lingered on Nesta’s muddy boots. Though the servants turned a blind eye to Nesta’s comings and goings, she was certain they gossiped amongst themselves. 
“Hello, Bridley.” Nesta gave the maid a nod. Poor, poor Bridley, a sweet girl married at such a young age to a boorish man who drank and gambled away into the night. This was precisely why Nesta had no intention of getting married, for upper-class men were hardly any better.  
“Your mother called for you several minutes ago. I tried to borrow time, saying you were in a bath, but—”
“Yes, yes, I know. I must make haste.” Nesta waved Bridley off and ran up the stairs. She felt a bit guilty for tracking in street grime, but her mother was a woman who did not appreciate being kept waiting. 
Nesta hastily threw on a tea gown and undid her braid, making sure there was no dirt on her face before opening the door to her mother’s bedroom. “You called, Mother?” Nesta greeted cautiously. 
“Nesta, dear.” Only Isabella Archeron could make terms of endearment sound unpleasantly cold. “Come, sit by me.” Nesta entered and perched delicately on the edge of the four-poster bed. “Sit up straight, Nesta. You won’t attract any aristocrats with that slouch. And goodness, I know you just got out of the bath, but there is no reason for your hair to be undone,” her mother chided sharply. 
Nesta automatically tilted her chin up and squared her shoulders. Surely even Queen Victoria would not meet her mother’s standards for appearances and proper etiquette. “My apologies,” Nesta gritted out.
“Hmm…I just purchased the scarlet dress for you from the catalog.” Her mother’s attention flitted from one topic to the next like a butterfly, and she waved a ladies’ fashion pamphlet at Nesta. 
“Mother, I have five dresses that have not been worn in public yet. The scarlet dress is hardly a necessary purchase,” Nesta protested. Prices in those catalogs were astronomically expensive, but of course Isabella Archeron loved spending money like it grew on trees. 
Nesta refused to balk at her mother’s icy look. “Yet two of those dresses have already fallen out of fashion! You must make a stunning entrance at the Beddor’s gala next week. It’s the debut event of the season, and I heard that several families from the House of Lords will be there, with sons of marrying age.” 
Nesta suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s obsession with marrying up in society. Didn’t she realize that most courtships these days were based on love—not social and economic value? Did she ever think about how much potential was wasted when women were limited to marriage, children, and managing households? Clearly not. 
Her mother continued chatting. “...and Tomas Mandray should be a fine option. Did you know that Lord Mandray’s wealth increased by 40 percent since last year? He was so smart for investing in those railways…”
“With the Beddors hosting, it would be poor taste for me to upstage Clare,” Nesta said carefully. 
“Clare? Upstage her? Why, Nesta, that poor girl is so plain, even Bridley could upstage her in last season’s frock.” Her mother chuckled cruelly. “Oh, don’t give me that cross look. You know it’s true.” 
Nesta suppressed the urge to defend Clare. Perhaps Clare lacked remarkable features, but at least she didn’t possess a nasty personality like her stunning mother. Besides, vying for attention from men was as close to pathetic as one could get. “But Mother, how am I to attend the gala if you are unwell and Father is still away?”  
Isabella Archeron bristled. “Unwell? My dear girl, I am just a bit under the weather. I will be in perfect health to accompany you to the Beddors.” 
Nesta highly doubted her mother’s chronic illness would magically clear up in a week, but she chose not to say anything. 
Her mother pressed a pair of garnet and gold earrings into Nesta’s hand. “Wear these earrings to the gala, Nesta. They were your grandmother’s, and they will surely catch the eye of every man in the room. I know this to be true, because your father asked me for our first dance when I wore these 27 years ago.” Icy gray-blue eyes glinted with cunning. 
It was nauseating. What kind of mother expressed affection in the form of social-climbing strategy and materialistic goods? Where were the hugs, kisses, or warm words of comfort? Although the earrings were beautiful, they reminded Nesta of her fate: you will marry, just like the generations of women who came before you. 
“Thank you,” Nesta managed to say, closing her fist. 
“You may take your leave now, my dear. And tell your sister Feyre to join me for afternoon tea.” Isabella Archeron’s placid tone indicated she’d grown bored already. 
“Yes, Mother.” Nesta closed the door, gripping the earrings so tightly that the metal backings left pricks of pain in her palm. Days like this drove her to dance away her self-loathing in the parlor downstairs. The waltz, the tango, the metal pole…Nesta was a master—or should she say, mistress—of these forms. But first, Nesta needed to find Feyre.  
***Elain***
A colossal structure of wrought-iron stretched up, up, and up into the twinkling night sky. What a magnificent building! If Elain craned her neck, she could barely make out the tricolor flag of France fluttering from the upper viewing terrace. The grand lawn before her, a bursting promenade of shops, exhibits, and worldly wonders, invited her to explore at a leisurely pace. 
A solid arm looped over her shoulder, drawing her close to a warm body. Elain gasped, startled at the rush of sensations he—for the person was definitely a man—elicited. She felt warm, like she was sitting by a toasty fire. Secure, as if she’d come home. Elated, like champagne bubbles rushing through her body. Elain glanced to her right, trying to see who the stranger was…
Knock, knock, knock. Sharp raps on her door woke Elain from her nap. “Elain! Elain!” Her younger sister’s muffled cries sounded from the hall. “Are you in there?”
Elain stifled the urge to snap at Feyre when she opened the door. She was fairly certain her dream had featured the Tour Eiffel: the architectural wonder waiting to be unveiled this summer at the Exposition Universelle. Photographs of the attraction had been kept hush hush, but if Elain had just seen it in its full glory…that meant it wasn’t just any dream. It was a premonition. 
“Elain, look what I managed to get!” Feyre was excitedly waving three slips of paper in Elain’s face. With her mismatched servant’s clothes and faint smell of coal, Feyre must have been wandering the slums of London again. 
Elain blinked, trying to regain her post-nap bearings. “What is that?” She took the shimmering crimson slips of paper from Feyre’s hands. In gold lettering, the paper read:
Admit One | Prythian’s Fantasia
A magical night awaits you at the greatest show this side of Earth…
“Three tickets to see Prythian’s Fantasia!” Feyre gushed breathlessly, her blue-gray eyes shining with excitement. “Remember, the circus that arrived last week?” Ah, yes. The circus that Feyre had been raving about every spare minute.
“This side of earth?” Elain repeated. A craggy mountain with two branches of magenta amaranth flowers crossing below it was printed on the ticket. A strange choice of imagery for a circus. “What does that even mean?”
Nesta’s angular face appeared behind Feyre like a ghostly apparition. “Feyre! You’ve been out of the house again, haven’t you?” Nesta accused sharply. “It’s a miracle you haven’t been robbed, stabbed, kidnapped, or caught some venereal disease!”
Feyre’s expression soured. “Says the one who went to a suffragist meeting today!”
“Be quiet.” Nesta whipped her head around anxiously. “Unless you want me telling Mother about your dalliances.”  
“Look, Nesta,” Elain tried to diffuse the situation. “Feyre got us tickets to Prythian’s Fantasia.” 
Nesta’s icy eyes narrowed at Elain’s hand. “Where’d you get those from? Isaac Hale?” She spat his name like a bitter root on her tongue. Elain winced. Isaac Hale, the butcher’s son in the seedier side of town, was Feyre’s paramour. She’d met the man once, and found him relatively handsome and well-mannered. But she privately agreed with Nesta: Feyre could do better. 
“He gave them to me for free.” Feyre crossed her arms indignantly. “Why are you in such a mood today?”
“Nothing in this world is free. Especially between men and women,” Nesta scoffed. 
“Well, they’re for tonight’s show. Eight o’clock. Do you want to go or not?” Feyre jutted her chin out stubbornly. Eldest and youngest Archeron sisters faced off, like a viper versus a wolf, their matching blue eyes blazing. Elain held her breath, preparing to intervene again. 
“Fine.” Nesta was the one who relented. “By the way, Mother asked to see you for afternoon tea.”
“How is she?” Feyre asked, cooling down quickly from their verbal exchange.
“As superficial as she always is.” With that, Nesta turned and left. She didn’t have to specify that their mother only wanted to see Feyre. Isabella Archeron rarely asked for Elain. 
Perhaps all middle children were simply doomed to be forgotten. 
It was always like this: Elain meekly sandwiched between Nesta and Feyre, the two rebellious and squabbling women of the Archeron house. Nesta, who openly derided the male species and passionately spoke about women's rights. Feyre, who renounced high society by excelling at archery and sneaking off to the seedier parts of London. 
While Feyre’s artistic talent was her only refined hobby, Elain seemed the perfect lady, all agreeable manners and poised like a princess. 
But it was all a defense mechanism. Excelling as a high society lady prevented her cruel mother’s scrutiny. And if the peerage saw Elain as a docile, conventional woman, they would not suspect her of seeing the future. For what man would marry a woman who fell into fitful dreams, one who could predict his death and misfortunes? 
At least Elain’s visions only came when she lulled herself into a meditative state or dreamed. If she fell into random, episodic trances, she would definitely be sent off to an asylum for insanity. The future came in flashes and snippets, always cryptic but never subject to change. And with the number of startling—and sometimes horrific—premonitions she received outnumbering the pleasant ones, Elain would hardly call her ability a “gift”.
“Any news from Papa?” Feyre asked Elain. Reginald Archeron, a renowned merchant who sailed to the four corners of the earth to do business, had set off for Continental Europe just after Christmas. He still had not returned. 
Elain shook her head. “The postman didn’t have any correspondence.” 
“It’s unusual for him to be gone so long, and not send any word.” Feyre chewed her lip worriedly. “Perhaps we should alert the authorities?” 
“What good will that do?” Elain replied shortly. “We don’t even know what country Father is in.” 
“I don’t see how you can be so calm about this.” 
Elain blinked, trying to keep her expression neutral. Why worry about her father, when he was probably having the time of his life cheating on their mother? The terrible premonition arrived three years ago: Reginald Archeron kissing a woman with dark hair and emerald green eyes in a continental-style opera house. Possibly in Moscow. Or perhaps it was Berlin. 
The most striking detail was the ornate golden locket that had glinted in the woman’s hands. Elain went rooting through her father’s study when he returned from his trip, and she found the exact same locket, complete with the woman’s picture in it. Holding the offensive jewelry piece in her very hands had Elain tasting bile. 
Elain had been 21 years old and well aware that not all marriages were pleasant. Still, the realization that her own father was unfaithful had been a shock. That her loving Papa was one of those types of husbands. But Elain didn’t dare breathe a word of her findings to her sisters, who knew nothing of her abilities. Nesta…Nesta would probably tear their father apart with words alone. Feyre…Feyre, who valued their family unit more than anything, would be crushed.
Feyre sighed, not waiting to hear Elain’s response. “Well, I’ll see what Mother wants. Be ready for the circus by seven. We need to travel to the south bank.” Elain nodded, closing the door distractedly. 
Elain’s mind returned to that mysterious man from her vision. Oh, how she longed to return to that hazy dream, so warm and tantalizing it was! He existed somewhere. He had to. Elain didn’t catch any of his features, but she felt so sure that he wasn’t anyone she knew at that moment. The man was waiting for her in the future. In Paris, too!
Oh, Paris! The Continent! As her father’s favorite child, Elain was shown the goods he’d help procure, like beautiful fabrics, spices, rough-cut gems, and wood carvings. She had fond memories of spending hours in his office, staring at the large maps on the walls and devouring books about foreign lands. “I’ll bring you to the continent next year, Elain,” Reginald Archeron had promised. Then he promised again, the next year. And again, the following. Many years passed, a slew of broken promises in their wake.
Not that she would ever want to explore the continent with her father now, knowing that he spent those trips canoodling with mysterious women. But the London gloom outside her window had Elain wishing her life was different.
If Nesta and Feyre were shamelessly carving their own unconventional paths, why couldn’t she do the same? She didn’t need to wait for her father to take her to the continent; she was 24 years old, a modern woman with the means to travel the world. 
As if an answer to her thoughts, the mystery man’s phantom touch seemed to linger on her shoulder, urging Elain to make her way to the Exposition Universelle. To find him in real life. 
***Feyre***
Isabella Archeron had been a formidable woman just two years ago. Her golden-brown hair had been a luscious mane that shimmered even under England’s clouds. Her back had been ramrod straight, the sharp lines of her cheeks and jaw had nary a wrinkle. Flitting from one party to the next, Isabella Archeron was truly London’s finest social butterflies.
But her mother’s hair turned limpid, even gray. The pale hue of her skin was almost sickly, and the angles of her face only made her look hollowed out, older. Now, Isabella Archeron spent most of her time confined to the bed or the bath. 
Watching her mother’s chest rattle with phlegm-filled coughs and her frail hands tremble, Feyre wondered if something swift and sure like cholera would have been better. It would’ve been better than this gradual chipping away at life over the months. 
“How are you feeling, Mother?” Feyre asked cautiously when she entered the room. Although illness had dulled Isabella Archeron’s quick mind, it soured her temperament, leaving her prone to mood swings.
“Feyre. Pour me a cup of tea, won’t you?” 
“Yes, Mother.” Feyre dutifully placed a sugar cube into the dainty china cup, and poured steaming tea from the ornate teapot. 
She was about to stir the sugar and cream with a spoon, when her mother snapped, “And do not stir the tea. I may be ill, but I am not invalid.” Feyre set the spoon down cautiously and dutifully walked towards her mother’s bed, hating how her shaky hands rattled the cup and saucer. 
“Have you heard from your father?”
“No, Mother.” 
The difficult pregnancy had meant that Feyre would be the last Archeron child. Feyre suspected her parents hoped she would be a son who could inherit the family business and lead the household while Reginald Archeron was away for work. Feyre wasn’t a son, but her parents still expected her to be the “most responsible” of her sisters since early childhood. 
For example, ever since she was 16, her father assigned her to managing their bank statements while he was abroad. All Feyre had to do was sign the checks and record the transactions in the balance book, but at this point, she could forge Reginald Archeron’s signature in her sleep. Feyre had also tended her sisters whenever they got sick, bringing them warm soup and administering tonics. Thanks to those years of “experience”, Feyre was now charged with managing the rotating circle of doctors, household expenses, and servants ever since her mother fell ill.
Perhaps she was assigned this role of “caretaker” because her parents were reluctant to change their attitudes toward her sisters. Nesta, the first-born, could have easily been taught the tools of the trade. But Isabella Archeron was keen on shaping Nesta to be the wife of a lord or a prince, not a merchant’s apprentice. Then came Elain, who took after their father and automatically became his princess to dote on. 
That left Feyre at the scrutiny of both, but without the love from either parent. 
“Hmm. I’m feeling rather abysmal today. I fear these doctors are not helping me whatsoever.” Her mother gestured to the array of tonics and powders on the bedside table. Feyre’s eyes widened in alarm when she noticed a pile of brown-stained handkerchiefs. 
“Are you coughing up blood?” she said in alarm.
“Don’t be silly. Why would I be coughing up blood? I just spilled my tea.” Her mother sounded like she even believed it herself. But Feyre was doubtful; she’d seen those tell-tale colors on Isaac’s work apron numerous times. “Do write to your Aunt Ripleigh and ask if she could send some more of that rose and daisy tea. It was delightful.” 
Aunt Ripleigh had been dead for six years now. There was no rose and daisy tea in the house, either.
“Of course, Mother.” She made a mental note to ask Nesta if their mother had experienced another bout of memory loss during their session together. Isabella Archeron’s diminishing moments of lucidity were concerning. 
“Well, Feyre. You’d better hurry along and get ready for Watson's charity ball. I’ve already told Mrs. Watson that I’ve fallen ill, but your father should be able to accompany you three.” Isabella Archeron’s blue-gray eyes closed, and within moments, she’d fallen asleep.
The charity ball her mother spoke of had occurred two seasons ago. 
Hopefully she would sleep past supper and continue assuming her daughters were at a charity ball instead of a circus. Isabella Archeron considered anything below the opera or classical music hall a lowly performance unfit for their presence. Laughable, considering the Archerons were only wealthy merchants, not the aristocracy. 
“Yes, Mother.” Feyre said, even though she couldn’t hear her. She touched her mother’s hand before she left the room. It was deathly cold. Feyre didn’t love her mother, but she didn’t want her to die. Despair rose within her like the tide, as if it was her fault Isabella Archeron wasn’t getting any better. 
It was rumored that Amarantha, the circus ringmaster, was a powerful witch doctor. Apparently she learned her craft from the natives in the tropical latitudes and left a trail of miracles from town to town. Feyre had nearly laughed in Isaac’s face when he told her that. 
A female ringmaster? Impossible. And a witch? Those were from the Dark Ages. 
But now, Feyre was desperate. If modern science could not cure her mother, why not try other methods? The Archerons had money. Jewels. Exotic antiques. Feyre was quite confident she could pay Amarantha for a little healing spell. 
Nesta was wholly focused on the suffragist movement. Elain was swept away by the pageantry of fancy dinners and shows in London. Both seemed rather ambivalent about their mother’s health and their father’s suspicious silence over the last few months. Once again, it fell on Feyre to do something, anything that would keep her dysfunctional family together. 
Tonight, she would see for herself what this Amarantha was all about. Even if the ringmaster turned out to be a dud, at least she got a famed circus show out of it. 
Taglist: @velidewrites @reverie-tales @highladysith @shadowsxgwynriel @foxwithagoldeye @sunshinebingo
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itsthedoodle · 7 months
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This Love Is Alive Back From The Dead
Summary: The last time Feyre and Rhys saw each other was senior year when she abruptly decided to end things between them. Ten years later, they meet again at their high school reunion.
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: none
Read on AO3 from the beginning or continue with Chapter 2
@officialfeysandweek2023
Chapter 2
One day earlier
Rhys could not believe he was doing this. When Mor told him about the high school reunion and how it was going to be a revival of their prom, he had needed about four shots before he felt ready to unpack that plan and all its implications. Prom was part of the pile of thoughts he had shoved to the very back of his mind and absolutely refused to think about. 
He had promised Mor he would go, but with each mile closer to his hometown, the stitches of an old but still aching wound had started unraveling at a fast pace. 
Rhys was mature enough to admit he was nervous. The person responsible for that nervousness was the only one he’d ever loved, and he was also mature enough to admit he still loved her. 
He knew she hadn’t dated. There had never been anyone else. So why had she ended things with him?
He stepped through the door of his unsurprisingly empty childhood home, tossing the keys on the small table next to the spiral staircase. He didn’t bother calling his father—the man either never picked up or was always busy. The two of them had what one would consider a purely professional relationship, that of a CEO and CFO, and once Rhys took over as CEO, they would stop having a relationship altogether. 
His phone pinged, the screen lighting up with a message from Mor, asking him to meet in an hour. With no one to talk to and precious free time on his hands, he showered, dressed, grabbed his watch from where he had left it on the dresser, and stopped short in front of the middle drawer, where he put everything he didn’t want to see. 
The drawer of emotional baggage, as Mor liked to call it. 
He pulled it open, grabbing the only picture frame inside and turned it around. The faces staring back at him were full of love and joy, and unsuspecting of what was going to happen in just a few weeks. 
You were unsuspecting, said a small voice. She wasn’t. 
Shaking his head, he put the frame back inside, face down, and closed the drawer. He wasn’t ready to unpack that just yet. 
Heading to their meeting place, he saw Mor, sunglasses on, soaking the sun. Sunshine was the only way he could describe her, though she become vicious to protect what was hers. 
“Hey stranger,” she said, hugging him. “Long time no see.”
He raised an eyebrow, only turning his attention away from her to order a coffee. “You saw me yesterday.”
“That is an awfully long time. How did you manage to get through the last 24 hours without me?”
“By getting many things done, since I didn’t have you to annoy me.”
“Oh, Rhysie,” she pouted at him mockingly, lowering her sunglasses to give him her best impression of a hurt puppy. “You and I both know that is not true. Anyway, there is a reason I called you here.”
Rhys had been aware of that the moment she had messaged him. “Color me surprised.”
“So, you know how the reunion will be a revival of our prom, right? And everything has to be perfect.”
Rhys nodded. “Yes, the perfect part of it is an especially fitting revival of my experience with prom night.”
Mor conveniently chose to ignore him. “Yes, anyway, we need outfits.”
“Really? We need outfits? You want me to believe you waited until the day before to choose one?”
Waving him off, Mor went on. “There’s this new atelier I’ve seen with these amazing dresses, they’re so perfect you wouldn’t believe. Come with me? Please?”
He considered it for a second. He truly had nothing else to do with his time. He was not looking forward to locking himself home, and Az and Cass weren't going to arrive for another couple of hours. He certainly didn’t miss this town enough to go for a stroll. Nodding, he finished his coffee and paid for his and Mor’s drinks, tipping the waiter generously. 
An hour later, he found himself sitting on a brown chair, in an atelier decorated in every shade of cream known to mankind, with pops of earthy tones here and there.
Mor was twirling in front of a floor to ceiling mirror, examining her red gown. “What do you think?”
He thought he could feel an approaching headache but wisely kept that to himself. “I think you look beautiful-”
He never got to finish that sentence as the front door opened, revealing a man with long red hair tied in a low ponytail and a familiar pair of russet eyes. “Rhys?”
Rhys stood, smiling slightly. “Hello Lucien.”
Rhys and Lucien had shared the same space several times over the past few years but never went beyond a casual exchange of greetings. Rhys had known Lucien almost his entire life but wasn’t sure where they stood after what happened in high school. He had the feeling Lucien felt the same way. 
Lucien greeted Mor; Rhys wasn’t sure if they had met each other in the years since. Pleasantries and small talk were exchanged, Lucien helping Mor find a gown for the reunion and Mor in turn telling Lucien how Rhys didn’t have a proper suit for it. 
A total lie, of course. He had plenty of suits. He just didn’t have one fancy enough to meet Mor’s standards. He also wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect of going to the reunion but wisely kept that to himself as well. 
“Oh yes. I have just the thing for Rhys.”
He looked at them at the sound of his name. “What?”
Mor grabbed his hand, following Lucien into the private area of the atelier and dragging him behind her.
“This is where I keep my one of a kind works. Things that are single pieces, sometimes inspired by certain people, the designs of which are shredded after they’re brought to life. Consider this a peek into my midnight creations.”
Mor looked like a child on Christmas Eve. “Holy shit Lucien, this is amazing.”
Lucien smiled at that. “Thank you. These two pieces are my last creations. We finished them yesterday. This,” he said, placing his hands on the sides of a mannequin, “screams your name, Rhys.”
The tuxedo he was looking at was a black so dark it looked depthless. It was easily the most beautiful piece of clothing he had seen, and he had grown up with Mor. The lapels were ever changing, depending on the angle you looked at the suit from—from the front, a shimmery black and from the sides, a striking silver. The same detail was applied to the bottom edge of the jacket and the edges of the sleeves. The pants were the same depthless black with black satin stripes, but without the silver lining. 
Next to the suit was a nearly translucent gray sleeveless gown bedecked in crystals, giving the appearance of a turtleneck while having a very revealing backside, and a high slit on the left side. Both pieces complimented each other in a way Rhys could not explain. 
Like the dress was the stars to the tuxedo’s night.
The words were out of his mouth before he could reconsider it. “I’m getting it.”
Lucien’s smile rivaled the Cheshire Cat. “It’ll be delivered to your place later today. Are you staying at the house?”
Rhys nodded. “It’s just for a day, and the house is empty anyway. Might as well put it to good use.”
Lucien nodded, then his expression turned thoughtful. “Rhys, there’s something you should know about Feyre.”
Rhys froze at the sound of her name. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard someone say it out loud, his friends walking on eggshells around him when it came to her. “What about her?” he asked cautiously.
Lucien grimaced. “You might want to sit down for this.”
He did as was told, making himself as comfortable as he could, all things considered. Mor did not look curious at all, and he filed away that bit of information to reassess it later. 
“So back when we were in high school, you got approached by several Ivys thanks to your perfect academic record. And we were all happy for you, Feyre more than anyone. But then she broke up with you, telling you that she didn’t see a future for the two of you after high school.”
“I remember,” he said, trying not to let his annoyance show. How could he forget?
“Well here’s the thing… Feyre did see a future after high school. She had always seen it, you were the love of her life, but one day she overheard you tell Cassian and Azriel that you were going to turn down every Ivy, that you would instead stay here, and go to community college with her. She could not accept that, refused to let you sacrifice your education and future and be tied down to her. So she broke up with you.”
Rhys had stopped breathing about three sentences ago. 
When he didn’t respond, Lucien continued, “You didn’t understand where it was coming from, so you didn’t give up, and so on prom night, Feyre came without a date. She knew you’d go to her, try and patch things up. So she called in a favor with Tamlin, aware of the animosity between the two of you, of course. And when she saw you approaching her, she kissed him, giving you the impression she was leaving you for him.”
The silence in his head was deafening, and had he been standing, he was sure his knees would have given out. “What are you saying?” he half whispered, scared of saying anything more. 
Lucien looked at him sympathetically. “I’m saying it was all a ruse, Rhys. Feyre wanted you out of this town, somewhere new, where you could get a proper education, where you wouldn’t be forced to spend the rest of your days with her and not experience the world outside this town.” He gestured around. “She never stopped loving you. She still loves you. And she will never forgive me for breaking her trust but I cannot keep quiet on this anymore. It’s not fair to either of you.”
Mor hadn’t uttered a single word so far, yet when Rhys looked at her, she didn’t seem surprised.  “You knew?” he said. 
“Yes.” She sighed. “Lucien and I met a couple of months ago when I walked in here, needing a dress. We sat down for lunch, we talked about life in general, then we talked about you and Feyre, and he told me the whole thing. That’s when we planned the reunion—Lucien has been planning it with me the whole time. But Rhys,” she said, grabbing his hand, “I couldn’t tell you, that had to come from Lucien.”
Rhys nodded, more on autopilot than anything else. “So what now?”
“Now it’s up to you.” Lucien said, smiling. “I will not tell Feyre we met. As far as she knows, we haven’t seen or spoken to each other in years. She’ll come to the reunion tomorrow, and you can do with the truth as you see fit. But I’m done seeing her hate herself every moment of every day.”
Rhys nodded again, the only thing he could do at the moment. He did not know what to do with himself,  his thoughts, or his feelings. He paid for the tux, thanked Lucien, and headed home in a daze.
The moment he was back in his old bedroom again, he opened the drawer and pulled the picture frame from earlier, looking at his younger self and Feyre. He had his arms wrapped around her from behind, his chin resting on her head. Feyre’s smile was contagious, her eyes bright with the kind of starlight that had made him fall in love with her in the first place. 
Years. They had lost years because she had made a decision alone for both of them, had thought she knew what it was he needed and wanted. He had only ever wanted her. He didn’t know which emotion to feel first—he was angry she had taken this from them, disappointed she had not trusted him to know what he was doing, relieved she still loved him. His beautiful, stubborn girl had put him above her own feelings and needs, wrecking not only him but also herself in the process. 
There was a new ache in his heart, born of heartbreak and something else, something he recognized as very fragile hope. She still loved him, and God knew he had never stopped loving her. But would that be enough to put the past ten years behind them and start over?
Smiling fondly at the happy teenagers they had been, he decided the frame was not going to go to the drawer of emotional baggage anymore. He found a spot on his dresser and placed the frame there, a reminder of what they could have if he survived the anxiety that had been tormenting him for the past several hours. 
He could only hope this didn’t backfire on him. 
He arrived with Mor the next day, already finding a small group of people present. Mor—and he guessed Lucien—had decided the party was going to be held at their high school’s gym, where the original prom had been. 
It was weird being back. Everything reminded him of Feyre, the places they had laughed, the ones where they had kissed a hundred times, the ones where they had fucked each other senseless, the places where they’d made so many plans for the future. He was trying to keep an open mind. Feyre would come, he would see her, approach her, gently start small talk with her, stilted as that was going to be, and then he’d tell her he knew her secret. 
He felt like he was going to be sick. 
“Relax,” Mor whispered next to him. “She’ll come, and you’ll talk, and then you’ll see where that takes you. One step at a time. I’ll approach her first and then you can gently ease your way into the conversation.”
He nodded, physically present but mentally elsewhere. 
He hadn’t told Cass and Az yet. He needed to talk to Feyre first before he told anyone else. Needed to hear her side of the story, and where her mind had been at when she stole a decision from him. 
“She’s here.”
He nodded, hearing Mor leave and resisting the urge to look in their direction, lest his feet start walking of their own accord and take him to Feyre. He counted to one hundred, then repeated the process one more time before taking a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and turning around. 
What he saw took his breath away, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to kiss or kill Lucien. 
Feyre was wearing the dress from Lucien’s private collection, the one he had looked at and admired the previous day, the one next to his tuxedo. 
The stars to his night. 
He took in the expanse of her back, the back of the dress open to the base of her spine, dimples showing. He took in her arms, arms that had previously been too thin and were now toned. She wasn’t skinny and malnourished anymore. The person standing a few feet away from him was healthy, clearly worked out regularly, and had sunkissed skin. 
He cleared out his mind, repeating his personal mantra for the day. 
Be normal. Don’t freak out. It will be okay. 
He caught the end of their conversation about her dress and added “One of a kind, if Lucien is to be believed. Inspired by the very person wearing it.” 
He saw her freeze, taking small breaths she thought no one could notice. 
“Hello, Feyre darling.”
He could mentally kick himself for using his old term of endearment, knowing it probably brought back too many memories, but at the moment he also couldn’t give a fuck. 
Mor said something about him being dramatic but Rhys wasn’t listening. He could smell Feyre from the small distance between them, and the familiarity of the scent left a lump in his throat. She had always smelled of lilac. 
She turned around, her gray blue eyes meeting his, sparkling like stars, but with a faint something else that he couldn’t place, like melancholy but not quite. 
Her eyes felt like coming home. 
He catalogued every detail, every inch of her, starting from the way her hair spilled down in curls, to the red lips that made him want to kiss her, to the dress, to that damned dress, clinging to her so perfectly, like it was made for her and only her, which he supposed it was. 
Lucien, that sly fox, had known exactly what he was doing when he sold Rhys that tuxedo yesterday. 
His eyes traveled down, down to that slit, her long leg showing. He shoved down his rising lust, more than aware the chances of anything happening tonight were slim to none. 
Despite everything, looking at her now, he knew he loved her still, with the kind of madness that threatened to consume him entirely. 
He tried to make small talk, but all he could think of was the last time he had freely touched her, held her. She was nervous, he could tell. He could still read her like an open book. 
Could she hear his heart pounding, threatening to leap out of his chest, just so it could run to hers? Could she see how she still affected him, with her eyes, and the hair he longed to touch, and that stupid dress that had been brought to life just for her.
She asked him if he had come alone, and just because there was a part of him that needed to see that she still cared, he said “No.”
Her answer came simply in the form of an “Oh” so small and quiet he would have missed it had he not been attuned to her voice. Oddly happy to see her so obviously upset, he quickly put her out of her misery by telling her he came with his friends. 
Unexpectedly, she blurted “I’m sorry but why are you being so friendly to me? We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”
He cocked his head to one side. So they were doing this? Alright then . He tried to come up with the most neutral answer he could think of. “We’re adults. I thought we could both put the past behind us, especially one with a plan as well thought out as yours.”
Feyre blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”
He smirked, and she looked like she was… relieved? Like the idea of him smirking was something she took great comfort in. “That little plan of yours back when we were eighteen. Break up with me and have me catch you kissing Tamlin.”
She paled, her face losing several shades of color, and for a moment he thought she was going to be sick. Perhaps being direct had been the wrong move.
“Rhys, I-”
“To be fair, I’m mad at you,” he said, interrupting her. “Livid doesn’t even begin to describe it. But I’m trying to think rationally here and give you the benefit of the doubt. So, Feyre. We need to talk.”
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hlizr50 · 1 year
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Welcome back to the ACOTAR Writing Circle, organized by the incredible @azrielshadowssing!
For part two I was tasked with continuing the Feysand fic the story starts when it was hot and it was summer and by @damedechance (read part 1 on tumblr or on AO3) and boy did she know what she was setting me up for. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm that slow burn kind of girl, but we are in full banter and smut territory already for part two!
That being said, this fic is now officially NSFW!
You can check out the master list for this writing circle here and see what everyone is writing! Part 3 will be posted in two weeks!
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred sixty eight hours.
Ten thousand eighty minutes.
As Feyre lay sprawled on the tile clad in nothing but a bralette and panties, she contemplated trying to math out just how many seconds she’d been sharing this apartment with Rhys.
“No,” she chided herself, cursing to the empty, heavy, oppressive summer air. “Rhysand.”
She gave up on figuring out how many seconds had been in that week. Math wasn’t her strong suit, anyway.
It had become increasingly difficult to hide behind her crumbling wall of practiced distaste for the beautiful man. Which was why she’d been avoiding him for nearly three years. Feyre had come to know what lay behind that infuriating arrogance and smooth calculation once before.
At least, she thought she had. And then she’d slept with him, like an idiot.
About a month after she’d returned from her beach vacation with Mor, where she’d met the tall, dark, unfairly attractive man and had finally succumbed to the urge to jump his bones, Feyre had been giddy at the prospect of attending his company’s autumn banquet. She’d tried to keep her enthusiasm in check; she and Rhys – Rhysand – hadn’t exchanged more than adoring smiles and casual kisses before they left the beach house in separate cars, keeping their dalliance a secret. But it had been the best sex she’d ever had, and she saw those incredible luminous violet eyes in her dreams more often than she cared to admit.
When he strolled through the ballroom wearing an impeccably tailored suit and a bowtie, her mouth had gone dry as a desert. He’d looked like a movie star, with all the confidence that he so rightfully possessed, and the tall, striking redhead with her perfectly manicured fingers tucked into the crook of his arm was a fitting, beautiful, disgustingly perfect pairing.
Even now, as she did her best to cool herself on Mor’s living room floor, her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She was glad she could blame it on the sweltering summer and the broken AC. She had been a fool; one of those silly girls she’d always felt sorry for in college, panting after a pretty boy who had made no promises and had gotten what they wanted. When Rhys had come to greet her and Mor, she’d thought perhaps there had been a flicker of surprise, perhaps regret. But she knew the latter had just been the crushed hopes of a plain girl who had little to offer a man such as that.
Especially in comparison to Amarantha.
Her hair was silken waterfalls of wine. Her skin, pale and smooth and pristine. Feyre hated the way her ruby red, pillowy lips seemed to tick up, as if she knew the thoughts and despair that was racing through Feyre’s mind. Her dark eyes seemed so deep and empty and soulless, and Feyre found herself delighted that the woman had at least one singular imperfection.
Since then, the young artist’s walls had been solid as steel and black as onyx, constructed from avoidance and distraction. Tamlin had started as a rebound, but he had taken care of her in all the ways she had dreamed a man would when she was toiling to make ends meet for her family, working full-time as she struggled to finish high school. While her father wasted away under the blanket of his despair and his perceived shortcomings.
Tamlin should have been everything she wanted – everything she could have ever dreamed. His family was wealthy, and he was an up-and-coming attorney at his family’s prestigious law firm. Feyre had wanted for nothing when she had been with him, at least as far as worldly possessions went. And the sex was good… not like the night she’d had at the beach with Rhys. But she could live with that.
Things had started to go sideways when Mor had reached out to her about a job; she’d wanted to revamp her entire office and thought custom art pieces in the lobby, hallways, and conference rooms would be a nice way to keep the environment exciting and positive. Feyre had been so excited to tell Tamlin – her fiance of a few months – about the amazing opportunity.
But he’d only frowned and asked if she thought that was a good idea. After all, she had to start planning a wedding, and he had a lot going on at the firm. He’d need her support, when he was available to receive it within the constraints of his increasingly busy schedule.
And not that she’d needed his permission, but she had assured him that she could make it work. She could negotiate a reasonable timeline with Mor that would ensure that she wasn’t frantically working late into the night, and she could do most of that work from home. So she would always be there, in the apartment they shared, when he returned at the end of the day.
Things had only gotten worse from there. It was as if that first pursuit of her own dreams threatened him. He became increasingly controlling, demanding to know what she was doing at all hours of the day and night. If she didn’t answer his texts immediately, though she was often covered in paint, he would call incessantly and send line after line of cruel, pointed words to the tune of the happy chime of her phone. Tamlin knew exactly where to strike, too. He took care of her. She wanted for nothing. Didn’t she remember where she’d come from? How hard it had been to slave away to keep herself and her family housed and fed? Didn’t she understand that he just wanted her to live in comfort and be happy and not have to do that again?
She’d endured it all, had adjusted so many parts of her life, because he had a point. And she believed that somewhere, deep down, he did care. He thought that love meant shielding and protecting and preventing, meant providing ease and comfort. Feyre could understand that – she sometimes wondered why she didn’t feel like that was what she needed – but to her, love was encouragement and a safe place to land, in case the risks you took didn’t pan out. She’d thought she was making it work.
Until he started coming home later, but without the expectation of dinner being ready for him. Until she noticed a sickly floral perfume wafting from his hamper of button-down shirts. Until the red smudges on the collars were too numerous to ignore.
 All of the names he’d called her. All of the insinuations, the anger, the yelling and the deadly silence. Feyre had endured it all, had changed so much about herself and her life and her dreams to try to make it work. Because Tamlin was right, in his way: he took care of her and she should be grateful for that.
But when the towering blonde had just huffed a disbelieving laugh and shook his head and all but blamed Feyre and her “silly little art projects” for his infidelity, she’d thrown the colossal diamond engagement ring in his face.
And now she was here. On the smooth tile floor of Mor’s apartment, willing any modicum of chill from the stone into her body. Because the air conditioning was still broken after a week.
“Well this is unexpected.”
And just like that, she was frozen. Dread prickled her flesh, the goosebumps rising over her entire body. Squeezing her eyes shut, she took a deep breath. If she freaked out, he would only respond with that infuriating grin. She couldn’t let Rhysand know that he could get under her tingling skin so easily. So Feyre relaxed, willing her limbs to stay spread wide even though all she wanted to do was cover herself, and sighed.
“I’m not sure why. We’re on the top floor, in the middle of the summer, with no functioning AC. We’re basically next to the sun. Clothes aren’t practical.”
“Indeed.”
With the rustle of fabric that seemed to roar in her ears, Feyre knew she’d made a mistake. Her eyes flew open just in time to find Rhys pulling open the front of his charcoal button-down, revealing a chiseled landscape of abs and pecs and ink. Heat flooded her, and not because of the summer air, as she took him in. His body sure hadn’t gotten any less delectable. Damn him.
“What are you doing?” she asked before she could stop herself. God, she was an idiot.
“You said so, yourself,” he crooned in response, draping his shirt over the back of one of the barstools. “Clothes aren’t practical.” He practically sauntered toward her as her lungs struggled against his attention. The quirk of his lips was so damned sexy that she hated him for it, and she tried to cling to that disdain, even as her insides twisted with a want she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years.
Instead of pouncing on her, Rhys allowed himself to fall into the armchair to her left. Feyre couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed. As if he could sense her inner conflict he smirked down at her, violet eyes twinkling like jewels bathing in firelight.
“Ask me why I didn’t take off my pants.”
Feyre rolled her eyes and then willed them shut, trying to calm her racing heart and roaring blood. But her newfound roommate wasn’t content to let her be.
“I didn’t take them off, Feyre darling, because then I’d be completely naked. And I’d hate for you to feel like you’d have to remove those lovely underthings to even the playing field.”
She groaned, doing her best to ignore that he’d just informed her that only a few steps and a thin layer of fabric separated him from her. “Why are you so annoying?”
“You mean undeniably charming? It’s a curse, truly.”
“Yes, you are a curse,” she grumbled back, rubbing her hands over her face. “I think you’ve decided to stay here just to make me miserable.”
“As entertaining as that sounds, I told you that there are some major plumbing updates happening in my house. I scheduled it like this because I knew I’d be able to stay here,” he explained.
How convenient for him. On the contrary, it had been a total accident that she’d found herself single and homeless the day Mor had left.
“What?”
Her heart stopped and her eyes burst open, her gaze immediately snaring on his. Rhysand’s jaw had gone slack and disbelief painted the features that were usually so carefully controlled. 
She’d said it aloud. Oh, God, how was that possible?
Feyre scrambled to her feet, desperate to make a run for it, but Rhys met her chest-to-chest in the space between his chair and the couch. And she couldn’t take her eyes off of that broad expanse of tan skin and swirling tattoos, lifting and falling with the breaths that she could feel skating over her disheveled hair. It was fine that she was staring at his bare chest, because that meant she wasn’t looking at his face or into his eyes.
She cursed the world when she felt gentle fingers curl under her chin and lift, forcing her hand. The stare she met was not arrogant or mischievous, nor was it clouded with pity. No, Rhysand’s incredible starlit eyes were dark with intensity. Stormy with something she dared not try to identify.
“Single?” His voice stuttered, as if he could hardly breathe. Feyre gave a half-hearted shrug and jerked away from his hand.
“Tamlin was cheating on me.” Might as well not beat around the bush, though she didn’t feel the need to explain that she’d stuck around for the lies and the name-calling and the snide remarks about her body and her appearance and her work and… everything. Feyre bravely snuck a look back at Rhys, who was still just regarding her intently.
“And homeless?” God, why was he so intent on her laying herself bare at his feet? Didn’t he know how beaten down and humiliated she was already? Her shoulders sagged as she sighed again, her feistiness and annoyance replaced with exhaustion.
“Well, Tamlin’s name is on the lease, so…”
She didn’t have the strength to say anything more. Not to this perfect specimen of a man who could have anything he ever wanted at any time. A man who hadn’t wanted her. All of her bravado had faded away, and she realized that she was practically naked before him, both physically and emotionally. Taking a step back, Feyre folded her arms over her chest.
“I’m going to go get dressed,” she whispered, turning to flee.
She’d only made it two steps when a heavy hand fell on her shoulder. She spun, ready to ask Rhys what the hell he wanted now.
And then his lips were on hers.
Rhysand was kissing her. And she couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The hand that had been so forceful, had spun her around, now cupped her nape with such tenderness as his lips and his tongue set her aflame.
No matter how loudly and forcefully her mind screamed that letting this happen was not a good idea, Feyre couldn’t bring herself to care. Not with the warmth of his palm leaving a trail of goosebumps down her back. Not with the way his heaving, muscled chest rose and fell beneath her hands. Not with the way he was kissing her, as if she were his salvation.
Rhys moaned against her mouth as he lifted her thighs, sweeping her .up against him and his obvious need without breaking the contact between them. Feyre was too enraptured to even squeak in surprise. And then they were moving, even as their tongues danced and their fingers squeezed. She had the fleeting sensation of a bead of sweat crawling down her spine, but it was quickly replaced by the sudden free fall of Rhys tipping them over onto a bed. The heat of his skin radiated into her, boiling her blood as need roared through her veins and pooled in her core. She was caged beneath him, and in the back of her mind the last crumbling vestiges of her self-preservation were calling out to her, rambling through a list of reasons that this was a mistake that was going to end up with her crushed beneath the weight of this man’s saccharine smile again. But all of that fell away as his open-mouthed kisses started moving up her jaw and then followed the path of her heartbeat down her neck.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
Fuck, she was a goner, for sure.
And so her hands found the ridges of his obliques and trailed over the rippling muscles of his abs and up over his chest. As his mouth moved lower, she wrapped her arms over his broad shoulders and sighed, awash in the sensation of his soft lips on her burning flesh. His journey continued into the hollow between her breasts, still covered by flimsy lace.
“Can we take this off, Feyre, darling?” His question vibrated through her breastbone and sent shivers to the tips of her toes.
Feyre couldn’t recall ever having ripped off an undergarment with such urgency.
And when she was bare beneath him, his eyes had turned dark and stormy and desperate. “Fuck, you’re even more gorgeous than I remembered.” The way he whispered the words was nearly reverent, and they washed over her like a spring morning mist, chasing away the sweltering summer and leaving her skin prickling with anticipation. Rhys lowered his dark head and tongued at one of her nipples, his large palm sliding over her other breast. Feyre arched up into his sensual touch with a stuttered gasp and slid her fingers into his thick, midnight hair. It was so soft, so at odds with his hard body and his wicked mouth.
He sucked her nipple between his teeth and gave her a nip, and she yelped, surprised and delighted at how the short, sharp sting made her inner muscles clench. Soon the infuriating man shifted his attention, laving his tongue and lips over the other nipple whilst gently pinching and pulling at the one that was now standing at attention.
After another playful bite, the wetness of his mouth moved away from her chest, and Feyre felt bereft from the loss. But that trail of fire, ignited by his lips and teeth, moved down her stomach. Lower and lower and lower. Until she felt his fingers curl under the band of her panties. Blinking her eyes open, she lifted her head and gazed up at him, his unspoken question blazing in his starlit eyes.
“What are you waiting for?” she breathed. Rhysand’s lips tilted into a devastating, devilish lopsided grin as he chuckled.
“Nothing at all,” he crooned in response. Then he slowly peeled the veritable scrap of fabric down over her legs, his gaze keeping her pinned and breathless. Feyre could feel the color bloom upon her cheeks the further down he got, until she was fully naked on the bed and he had lifted himself up onto his knees to take her in. 
She couldn’t help but notice the way his slacks were tented in front, the considerable bulge only making her blush more. But she grinned lazily. Satisfied.
Tamlin had been critical of her body, though most of the time not pointedly. But he did love control, and that included watching her like a fucking hawk when they ate meals together. His comments about needing a wife who stays trim – who could easily shop at all the high-end stores that only sold sizes 2-4-6 – had eroded her self-esteem somewhat.
But the way that Rhys was looking at her now made her feel like the sexiest woman on the face of the planet.
“Oh, Feyre, darling. You look absolutely delectable,” he murmured softly, his tilted grin widening into a wicked smile. Rubbing his palms together, he made a show of licking his lips. Feyre would have rolled her eyes if she hadn’t been paralyzed by the implication of his words. “I think I’d like a taste.”
Rhys moved with surprising speed, and she barely had enough time to suck in a breath before he pounced on her, quickly hooking his arms under her thighs and diving in to feast upon her.
“Oh, my God!” Feyre gasped, her hands fisting desperately in the sheets. Rhys let out a feral growl that vibrated against her clit and sent her eyes rolling.
His mouth was unrelenting, his attention ferocious. Rhys ran the flat of his tongue over her sex and flicked the tip of it over the tiny bud that was swollen and needy and sensitive. He took his time to pleasure her in every way, plunging his tongue into her and fucking her with it, then pulling out and sucking her clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it. Feyre’s hurried breaths and gasps had grown into moans and cries and curses, her hands desperately searching for something to hold onto, to keep her grounded. Her fingers would sink into Rhys’s hair, then she would flail and clutch at the sheets, then she would lift her arms and grip the pillow above her head. But nothing could stop the torturous pleasure as her body wound tighter and tighter, this infuriatingly skilled man bringing her closer and closer to the edge.
“Rhys!” She could barely speak with the way her muscles were clenching and spasming. “Oh, fuck! I –” Her words pulled apart and mixed into an unintelligible scream as her orgasm surged through her. Rhysand’s tongue on her clit sent wave after wave of pleasure through her body, and he kept licking and sucking at her as she fell from the precipice. Feyre wasn’t sure that she could breathe or think as her sight and smell and touch and sound were overwhelmed by the ecstasy that his mouth was wringing from her. 
Her eyes were watering when Rhys finally took mercy on her, her chest heaving with deep, panting breaths. Feyre watched with a bleary gaze as this sex god stepped off the bed and hurriedly removed his pants. When his length sprang free, hard and proud in front of him, she could only manage a fleeting thought that he hadn’t been bluffing before. She must have been staring, because his smug, smooth voice drew her out of her haze.
“Like what you see, Feyre, darling?”
She scowled. “It’s… fine,” she grumbled.
“It’s fine?” Rhys balked. He crawled back onto the mattress and then slowly, languidly prowled over her prone form. When they were face to face, his arms caging her at her shoulders, he lowered his head. His words seared the shell of her ear. “I’m fairly certain that you know that my cock is much more than fine.” He pressed a deceptively chaste kiss against her jaw, then another on her cheek. When his mouth met her lips, he plunged his tongue between them, igniting the passion and desire that was still simmering after her mindblowing climax only minutes before.
Rhys pulled back, breathing hard, and stared into her eyes. “I’m all too happy to remind you how much better than fine it is.” Stars danced in her vision as he thrust into her, seating himself to the hilt. She’d forgotten how big he was, how deliciously he filled her – enough to steal her breath. Her back arched as her lungs kicked back to life, just in time for Rhysand to lift his hips and then push them back against her, burying himself deep inside her again.
And then he unleashed himself upon her.
Feyre’s breathing hitched and her voice cracked as she yelled any number of colorful words and cried his name as he pounded into her, her arms hooking around his neck and clinging to him. Her feet hooked around his thighs, opening herself further to his punishing rhythm. Fuck, she’d missed this: this deep, sensual connection of bodies and pleasure. Tamlin had never been able to make her feel like this. Hell, he’d hardly had the desire to try.
Rhys captured her lips in a hard, searing kiss. He pulled out of her and she whimpered at the emptiness she felt. But it was only long enough for him to grab her legs and bend them back toward her chest, pinning her knees down on either side of her torso. When he plunged into her again her eyes rolled back into her head, the intensity of the sensation almost too much to withstand. Rhys fucked her in deep, long strokes, drawing a tormented wail from her lips at the base of every thrust.
“Fu – uck. You – you’re s-s-so deep,” Feyre stuttered around the impact of his body against hers. Rhys hissed a laugh between clenched teeth.
“And how does it feel, Feyre?” he growled. “Does it feel fine.” He punctuated the abhorrent word with another stroke.
 “Oh, my God!” she gasped. “Oh, fuck, Rhys!”
“Tell me, Feyre. Tell me how it feels.”
Her vision was blurring as he pounded into her, the noises coming from her mouth things she didn’t even recognize. He was driving her mad, keeping her dangling perilously over the cliff’s edge. But the fall was just out of reach.
“Rhys! P-p-please!”
“Tell me how good it feels, Feyre, and I’ll give you the best orgasm of your life.” Somehow he still crooned the words, as if he were still in full control over his body and his mind. God, the power of his arrogance was truly mythical, but she couldn’t bring herself to care about anything other than claiming this climax.
“It – it feels – fuck!” She moaned again, desperate to get it out. “It feels… amazing. Rhys, please. Fuck, I’m so close.”
“Good girl,” he praised, and with the next surge of his hips he released one leg and circled his thumb around her clit.
Feyre screamed, but it was shredded and raw and broken. Broken like the rest of her shattered mind as everything unraveled and she was carried away in the unstoppable current of her orgasm. She felt Rhys, hard and thick inside her as he plunged in and out a few more times before unleashing with her name on his lips. He fell between her quivering legs, his cheek resting upon one of her breasts as they both came back to earth. In an instant the adrenaline disappeared and her muscles all seemed to fail. Her body went limp as her hand found the soft hair at Rhys’s nape. Her breathing grew deep and her eyelids grew heavy, and then she drifted to sleep.
~~~
When her blue eyes blinked open, Feyre was alone in the bed, and she couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that stabbed her in the gut. But as she blinked at the clock on the opposite nightstand, it read 8:03am, and she leapt from the tangle of sheets.
She was going to be late for work.
Her shower was quick, not allowing any time to ruminate over Rhysand’s departure without so much as a, “Thanks for a good time”. Perhaps, once again, it hadn’t been as meaningful to him as it was to her. It was exactly what her subconscious had tried to tell her the night before, but she was too desperate for him to listen.
Feyre’s sour mood lifted, however, when she finally made it into the kitchen and found a coffee mug – stamped with a scripty Hello, darling – on the counter next to a note:
You looked so peaceful that I didn’t want to wake you. Obviously, my FINE cock really tired you out last night.
If you need to stay home, I’ll be glad to inform my cousin that you were simply not ready for my sexual prowess. Just let me know.
I won’t be back until late tonight, but I wouldn’t mind finding you sprawled out on the floor again. Or maybe on the table? My own personal feast, perhaps?
~Rhys
God, he was going to be even more insufferable, now, wasn’t he?
Feyre shook her head, unable to stop herself from snickering, and made herself some coffee and packed her lunch. Then she carefully made her way down the many flights of stairs. If she fell down the steps, Rhys would give her endless grief about not being able to walk the day after they had sex. She was not willing to endure that.
She was breathing hard by the time she made it to the landing and walked out the door, and the summer sun was already beating down on her. Her car was just around the corner, though, and then she would have sweet, sweet AC once more. 
“Feyre.” The voice stopped her in her tracks and stole the air from her already struggling lungs. All she wanted was for her feet to keep moving, but they were frozen in place. When she heard her name again, her body turned in spite of her better judgment. And there, not ten feet away from her, stood a tall, perfectly groomed man with a green sport coat and glossy blond hair. Feyre lifted her chin, determined not to let him see the anxiety that rattled in her bones.
“Tamlin.”
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the-lonelybarricade · 29 days
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Take My Hand, Wreck My Plans - Chapter 3
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Summary: Fresh after her third, and final, breakup with Tamlin, Feyre decides a one night stand is exactly what she needs to get him out of her system. Except, her one night stand with a violet-eyed stranger ends up being far more than she bargained for.
Or; the one where Feysand gets pregnant from a one night stand
Read on AO3 ・Masterlist・Previous Chapter
-
“So—you still haven’t told him.”
Feyre kept her eyes held wide, careful to avoid stabbing them with her mascara wand, as she flitted her pupils to the corner of the vanity mirror and met her roommate’s disapproving stare.
Alis was leaning against the open doorway, arms crossed. Some evenings she neglected to leave the stern teacher role in her classroom, and over the last two weeks Feyre had begun to feel increasingly like one of her misbehaving students.
“There hasn’t been a good time,” Feyre said, returning to the delicate task of swiping the wand over her eyelashes.
“Mmhmm.”
Feyre grip tightened on the tube of mascara. A slew of defensive words rushed to the back of her tongue, but she held them, enduring another of Alis’s incredulous hums as she stepped into the room. She wasn’t one of Alis’s guilty students and she wasn’t going to act like one, even as Alis began surveying the diamond-studded hairpins Feyre had spent the better part of the morning arranging, the dissected makeup bag that hadn’t been touched in weeks, the elegant dress laid on the bed.
That was where Alis ended her inspection. The midnight gown was still in its protective casing from the dry cleaners, a new addition to Feyre’s closet. Alis pulled at it, and the plastic hissed as it slid over the bed—as if warning, begging Alis not to venture any further.
“And the art show this evening hasn’t had any influence on your decision?”
Feyre capped the mascara and whirled to face Alis, who held up the dress the way a lawyer might present a piece of incriminating evidence in court. Both the dress and the art show were a gift from Tamlin—an apology and a peace offering in one. It was his way of showing that he was ready to take her art career more seriously. Or at least, that was what he’d told her at the cafe, when she’d suddenly lost all nerve to tell him the truth.
“I’m not using him for the art show, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,” Feyre snapped. “It’s just…” her shoulders slackened. “He was so excited for this, Alis. He’d already paid for the venue and invited his colleagues. I couldn’t tell him no and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stand to start another fight.”
Feyre faced the mirror and it took all her self control not to cringe. The concealer had covered up the worst of the dark circles, but it couldn’t hide the exhaustion glazing over her eyes. Maybe it was all the changes in her body, but recently she’d just felt so… heavy.
With a sigh, Alis dropped the dress back onto the bed and approached Feyre from behind. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Feyre at last saw behind the mask of the stern teacher, to the concerned friend who clasped her on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m worried about you, Feyre.”
“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice scraped along the cusp of breaking. She swore that even her own reflection winced at the lie.
Alis clucked her tongue. “You’re trying to handle all of this by yourself.” When Feyre said nothing, Alis added, almost desperately, “Let us help you. If not me, then someone else.”
Besides Feyre and Alis, there were only two people who knew of her pregnancy. Two people that she had been admittedly avoiding since she’d blurted the truth to them outside the cafe. In a typical Mor fashion, Feyre had been bombarded with texts over the last two weeks, each of them cheerfully dancing around the pea-sized elephant in her stomach.
All but one.
I respect you and my cousin enough not to meddle. This baby stuff is between you and him and no matter what happens, I support you unequivocally. I just want to say one thing, then I promise I’ll never bring it up again:
Rhys is a really good guy, Feyre. You can trust him.
Anyway, you want to grab brunch this weekend? Bottomless virgin mimosas?
Feyre was fairly certain that a virgin mimosa was just orange juice, but it made her heart feel light enough that she’d pulled up Rhysand’s contact details and nearly sent him a message. But once it was typed out, her thumb waivered above the keyboard, and regardless of how hopelessly she willed herself to press send, her body resisted.
She’d only met Rhysand twice now, but each meeting had felt more akin to a collision, knocking her violently off her predetermined path, leaving her unmoored. Unsettled. It was too soon to see him again, when she was still barely keeping afloat the wreckage of their last encounter.
And if—when—she told Tamlin, he would almost certainly take issue with Feyre and Rhysand having any kind of relationship, no matter how platonic. In the long run, it was better to keep him at arm's length. Wasn’t it?
“I have my first midwife appointment tomorrow,” Feyre said, because she thought that might appease Alis enough to let this go. “Why don’t you come with me?”
Alis beamed and squeezed Feyre’s shoulder, hard enough that Feyre had to swallow a yelp, but that was Alis—unrestrained and a little heavy-handed, even in her affection. “I would love that.”
Feyre forced a smile. She’d never liked going to the doctors, and in truth simply making the appointment had been a nerve-wracking experience. There was no bump on her stomach yet, and besides the morning bouts of nausea and the wearing exhaustion, she could almost pretend she was the same Feyre she’d been eight weeks ago.
But an appointment made it real.
Bearing all of that to Alis felt impossible. She wished she could do this alone, so that no one would feel burdened by the weight she was carrying, heavier and heavier each day.
“You know,” Alis said, tone a little too casual. “They might want to know about the baby’s father tomorrow—his medical history, what his involvement will look like. It might be worth reaching out to him to make sure you have those details.”
Fuck.
“Right. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll, uh, try to call him later.”
Alis took enough pity to leave Feyre alone after that. But her words lingered, and Feyre spent the next hour staring blankly at Rhysand’s phone number, the sequence of numbers now so familiar she might have been able to recite them from memory. When she finally willed her thumbs to move, they tapped the letters out slowly, every word foreign. She repeated each sentence back, deleting the one that sounded awkward or clumsy or too inviting.
Hey, she eventually settled with. This is Feyre. I’m having an art show tonight at Brush and Chisel. 8 pm. Would you and Mor like to come?
Feyre hit send before she could think about how absurd it would be to have Rhys and Tamlin in the same room. But there was no taking it back. The message was read almost immediately, and Feyre’s panic set in when a small typing bubble popped up with little hesitation.
Rhysand: Sounds wonderful. We’ll be there.
Feyre: Please don’t say anything to Tamlin about… you know
Rhysand: He doesn’t know?
Feyre: Do you want me to revoke your invitation?
Rhysand: No need—my lips are sealed. Looking forward to seeing you again, Feyre darling.
Feyre: No calling me that, either.
Rhysand: No? What would you like me to call you, then?
It was close enough to the flirting they’d exchanged at Rita’s that Feyre thought he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he was trying to wind her up by forcing her to recall the different things he’d called her that night. Feyre darling… Baby… Good girl. The memory of them was making her cheeks feel warm, a sign she might have made a terrible mistake inviting him.
Feyre: Just call me Feyre.
Rhysand: Is that what your friends call you?
Feyre: I wouldn’t say we’re friends yet.
Rhysand: Well in that case, would you prefer I call you something more formal? Miss Archeron?
Feyre: Feyre is fine.
Rhysand: That she most certainly is.
Feyre groaned and resisted the urge to chuck her phone away. This was the man that Mor vouched for as a really good guy? One who couldn’t even control himself for five minutes?
Feyre: If you can’t behave yourself tonight, then I don’t want you there.
Rhysand: I assure you, I will be on my best behavior.
Somehow, that wasn’t very reassuring to her.
-
“Are you feeling nervous, Feyre?”
“Hmm?”
Feyre drew her eyes away from the double glass doors that comprised the venue’s entrance. She’d been staring absently at their reflection, but realized that Tamlin was leaning into her, his hand positioned supportively against her back—his touch was searing now that she was aware of it, though she couldn’t say how long it had been placed there.
He smiled, as though her response were answer enough. “I think it’s normal to be nervous. This is a lot more people looking at your art than you’re used to.”
That wasn’t empirically true. Outside of her instagram account—which had enough traction to keep her regularly commissioned—Feyre displayed her art fairly regularly in street art shows on the Rainbow. This was her first time displaying her art in a proper gallery, however, and perhaps two months ago she would have been nervous.
Presently, Feyre’s bandwidth on things to be nervous about was running low. There were only so many fears that could plague her mind at any given time, and occupying most of that real estate was the itty-bitty issue of her pregnancy and the baby daddy she’d so stupidly invited to the art show.
By comparison, what Tamlin’s business associates thought of her art was of trivial concern, particularly when they didn't even bother to speak to her. It was clear, by the firm handshakes and tactical segues into business deals, that most of the people in attendance were here to impress Tamlin.
“But hey,” Tamlin said, gliding his hand across her back until she was completely folded into his arm. “Hart was just telling me how much he loved that mountain piece. I think he might make an offer.”
Before she’d tuned out of the conversation, Hart had also been telling Tamlin how keen he was to get his investment proposal signed off. Conveniently, the mountain piece was also the only one in eyesight, and Feyre felt more like a corporate gift basket than a respectable artist.
Feyre didn’t say that, though. She smiled and said, “I love that piece.”
Tamlin hummed, as if he agreed. “Why don’t we go get a drink to calm your nerves?”
“Oh, no. I’m okay—”
“Come on, we’re celebrating!” Tamlin used his arm to urge her forward, guiding them both towards the open bar near the front entrance.
The bar was strategically placed, Tamlin claimed, because people were more likely to make impulsive purchases with a drink in their hand. Feyre couldn’t fault his logic, though she’d prefer for her art to be sold of its own merit and not because the buyer was drunk and trying to impress his boss.
“Really Tamlin. I’m not in the mood to drink.”
“You’re so tense, Feyre. A drink will help.”
Across the room, Feyre met eyes with Alis, who quirked a black brow when she saw where the two of them were headed. She took a step towards them, then stalled, and Feyre thought for a horrific moment that Alis was going to let her get buried alive in this hole she’d dug herself.
“Feyre!” Squealed a familiar voice.
Mor didn’t wait for Tamlin to step out of the way before she became a blur of red and gold, barreling towards her Feyre as if this was the first time they were reuniting in years.
She was squeezing so tight that Feyre’s responding, hi Mor, came out a little breathless.
“Mor,” Tamlin said. He’d taken a step away, either to give them space to reconnect or simply because he didn’t want to risk brushing arms with Mor. “Good to see you again.”
“Tamlin.”
Mor, by virtue of being her college roommate, was once privy to every fight and minor frustration between Feyre and Tamlin. As a result, she never tried to hide her dislike of Tamlin, nor did he give much effort to do the same in return. A polite cough behind Mor’s back prompted the tall blonde to peel herself away from Feyre and pivot to reveal Rhysand, who was withdrawing his hands from the pockets of his formal black trousers to extend one of them outward. Towards her.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said.
“This is my cousin,” Mor filled in, brown eyes twinkling. “Rhys.”
Tamlin chose that moment to turn to the bar and order two double vodka tonics. Feyre wasn’t sure which struck her with greater panic—how to evade drinking without raising Tamlin’s suspicion, or how to shake Rhysand’s hand without feeling like her whole world was shaking with it.
“Feyre,” she said. Her tongue felt like sandpaper. “It’s good to meet you, too. Thank you for coming.”
Rhys continued holding her hand a beat too long. “Thank you for inviting us. I’ve heard you’re a very talented artist.”
Drinks now in hand, Tamlin shouldered himself back into the conversation, pointedly holding a glass towards Feyre so that she was forced to let go of Rhysand’s hand. She accepted the drink with an exaggerated smile.
“Tamlin,” he said gruffly to Rhys, not extending a hand. He slid a possessive arm around Feyre’s shoulders—a statement that none of them misunderstood. “Feyre’s boyfriend.”
“Well met,” Rhys said cordially. If he was intimidated by Tamlin’s slow and evidently unimpressed assessment, he did an excellent job at hiding it.
Seeing it was her job to play mediator and hostess, Feyre saw her chance to kill two birds with one stone. “Can I get the two of you a drink?”
Mor’s answer was an immediate chirp of, “Wine, please.”
“She means a bottle,” Rhysand clarified.
Feyre laughed. “Oh, I remember. We’ll start with a glass for now, but I assure you there’s plenty more where that came from. What about you… Rhys?”
It was only his name, she told herself. Why did speaking it feel so intimate? She could still feel its shape on her lips from when she’d panted it into his skin, RhysRhysRhys—
Did he remember it too? Is that why he studied her for a moment, eyes turning a shade darker, before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m the designated driver, so it’s going to be sparkling water for me.” He glanced down at the vodka in her hands. “But do me a favor and ask them to put a lime wedge in it? I like to blend in.”
“Sure,” Feyre said, taking a step towards the bar. This was her chance to untangle herself from Tamlin and trade out her vodka for a sparkling water, too.
Or—that was the plan. Until Tamlin decided to follow, grabbing her elbow and seizing the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “He gives me a bad vibe.”
“You just met him,” she whispered back, irritated and not trying to hide it.
“I work in business,” he deflected. “You get good at reading people quickly.”
Feyre resisted the urge to roll her eyes as they came up to the bar. She repeated Rhys and Mor’s orders, noting with frustration that when the drinks were finished, Tamlin was the one who insisted on carrying Rhysand’s. She reminded herself that his fears weren’t unfounded—she had slept with Rhys after all, and she couldn’t deny that there was chemistry between them, even now.
Fortunately Rhys was unruffled, and he accepted the drink from Tamlin with a gracious thank you that really sounded like I’m the bigger man and I know it. Tamlin’s posture went rigid, and Rhys’s lips quirked, all smug satisfaction for getting under her boyfriend’s skin. Gods, what had she been thinking putting them in the same room together?
“Tam!” Lucien called, turning away from a small group of Spring Corp executives midway across the room. He made a gesturing motion with his hand. “Come here, Andras just came up with a brilliant new pitch for the Hybern deal.”
Tamlin pressed his lips together, surveying his present company like he didn’t trust leaving Feyre alone with them. And yet, he decided that was preferable to dragging Feyre along to whatever ad hoc business meeting was taking place at her art show.
“I’ll be just one moment,” he said, pressing a kiss to Feyre’s temple before he joined the group of well dressed men. The reprieve from his surveillance was short lived, however, given that he positioned himself at just the right angle to keep Rhys and Mor in his periphery.
It would have been less mortifying if she didn’t glance over to Rhys and see the way his smile flattened, having observed the same.
“He seems charming,” Rhys said.
“He…” Feyre struggled for an explanation that could possibly justify his behavior. “He’s just a little stressed. He really wants tonight to go well.”
“Funny,” Rhys said, leaning his shoulder closer. She found herself leaning in too, nervous he was about to say something she didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I would think that at an art exhibit, the artist would be the one worried about the night going well.”
“I…” Feyre didn’t know what to say. “I do want tonight to go well.”
Rhys raised his hand, fingers brushing over her white-knuckle grip on the vodka tonic. Heat jolted through her, and she resisted the urge to snap her hand back. Any sudden movement would surely draw Tamlin’s attention.
He pitched his voice into a whisper. “How do you feel it’s going so far?”
That was when his hand slid around the glass, gently easing it from her grip. And before she could summon any protest, or speculate as to why he’d decided to pry her drink away, he smoothly pressed his sparkling water into her vacant palm.
It all happened in the space of a second. Feyre was blinking, still processing what had happened, as Rhys leaned back and took a sip of the vodka tonic with a remarkably straight face. Between the lime wedge and the small, carbonated bubbles, their drinks looked identical. He winked, and she knew that he’d planned it this way. From the moment he’d overheard Tamlin’s order.
Feyre could have slumped in relief, were she not hyper-aware of the jade green eyes on her not ten feet away. She ducked her face into the glass of sparkling water to hide the laughter threatening to burst from her lips—it was the first genuine smile she’d managed all evening. All week, really.
“It’s starting to look up,” she said, once she managed to regain her composure.
She meant it, too, though she wasn’t quite ready to unpack the implications of that. Was she a horrible person, inviting him here? The list of things she was lying to Tamlin about was beginning to feel ever-growing. Insurmountable. Her mood quickly soured as she glanced down at the glass in her hand and realized it was just another deception. Someone had come to bail her out this time, but how long could she keep digging this hole until it buried her alive?
“Good,” Rhys said.
His eyes were dancing with a mirth that didn’t feel touchable any longer. Even if his grin was the infectious, wicked sort. The kind that could persuade a saint to deal with the devil. His gaze flicked over her shoulder, skimming the pieces on the back wall.
He jerked his chin towards the displays. “Which one’s your favorite?”
Feyre turned to consider them, though she already knew the answer. “Guess.”
A challenge. One he looked delighted to accept. As a group, the three of them drifted closer towards the art so that Rhys could study each of them with the intensity of a student expecting to be quizzed on their meaning.
Tamlin didn’t return until they reached the final piece. His expression was tight, though Feyre couldn't tell if that was the result of the conversation with his colleagues, or the fact that Feyre had wandered outside his line of vision. Knowing her boyfriend, it was likely the latter.
“What have I missed?” He asked.
“We’re trying to guess Feyre’s favorite piece.”
It was Mor who answered him, given that her cousin was far too busy studying the landscape before him—a hazy clearing of snow and skeletal trees and nothing else besides a curious pair of wolf-like eyes watching from the shadows.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Tamlin said, pointing two pieces down to a hand scooping incandescent water from a pond. The one she’d titled The Pool of Starlight. “That one’s her favorite.”
Feyre elbowed him for ruining the game. She might have done so more gently, if he’d actually guessed correctly. Tamlin offered her an exasperated look that said, What did I do wrong this time? Her tongue burned with the urge to correct him, but she said nothing, suffering the glance Mor and Rhys exchanged with each other. A shared disappointment of a game ruined, and something more. Something that left embarrassment itching up her neck.
Rhys glanced towards her alleged favorite painting and nodded good naturedly. “I understand why. It’s a beautiful painting, Feyre.”
Again, Tamlin’s arm fell over her shoulders. And he said, “That one’s not for sale.”
“Tam.”
He ignored her, continuing, “Feyre painted it as a gift for our four year anniversary.”
Mor muttered under breath, “Four years my ass.”
Tamlin narrowed his eyes. “Pardon?”
The whole room quieted for a stagnant beat, as Mor contemplated her response. Feyre widened her eyes, trying to silently plead with Mor to let it go. It didn’t matter that in those four years, they’d spent as much time broken up as they had in a relationship. What mattered was surviving the night, the week, the year ahead.
Mor tipped her chin, and as her red lips curled into a flat smirk, Feyre felt her stomach plummet.
“I said—”
A waitress stepped towards them, brandishing a platter full of mini quiches in offering. She was staring at Rhys, expectant. As if he’d been the one to call her over. He offered her a broad smile as he plucked one from the tray and promptly handed it to Mor.
Then he innocently looked towards Feyre and Tamlin. “Quiche?”
The smell of cooked eggs and salmon invaded her senses as the waitress swiveled the tray towards them. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and Feyre tried her best to swallow it as she politely shook her head.
“No thanks,” Tamlin said, his voice flat.
The waitress stepped away, wafting the smell under Feyre’s nose a second time. Nausea lurched violently in her stomach, refusing to be ignored.
Even Tam noticed the look on her face. He leaned towards her with a frown, pressing his palm into her shoulder. “Fey? Are you alright?”
Feyre feared that if she tried to speak, her stomach would upheave itself right then and there. She pressed a hand to her mouth, shaking her head before she turned and dashed for the bathroom.
The gallery became a blur of color and ambient sound. She thought she might have heard her name being called. Guests lobbed curious glances towards her as she brushed past, heels clinking urgently against the smooth concrete. The bathroom door swung open beneath her palms, and she didn’t spare the time to lock it before her knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet.
She hated this. The puking. The way her eyes watered and her body trembled and the sounds of her retching bounced endlessly off the walls. If anyone was waiting outside, they’d doubtlessly hear it.
Feyre panted as the first wave subsided. She knew that wasn’t the end, could already feel her stomach turning in preparation for the next unforgiving torrent of nausea. Was this how it felt to be at sea, so lost and unsteady, with nothing to anchor her besides the cool press of the filthy bathroom floor?
She hunched as the next onslaught began, grasping onto the porcelain bowl, already imagining the bath she was going to take in disinfectant once she got home. Over the stomach-curdling noise, she heard the bathroom door creak open.
Feyre’s hair was pulled away from her face a moment later.
“It’s okay,” Mor soothed. “I’ve got you.”
She traced a delicate hand along Feyre’s spine, up and down. Feyre shut her eyes as she heaved into the toilet, grateful that it was Mor who had come, and not Tamlin. Or worse—Rhysand.
“It’s like we’re in college again,” Mor teased.
Feyre felt too wrung out to laugh. But when the nausea finally ebbed, she managed a shaky smile over her shoulder. “Usually I was holding your hair back.”
“Glad I get to return the favor.”
The memory ached. Three years wasn’t a long time, comparatively, but the Feyre who’d once sat drunk and giggling in public restrooms with Mor felt like a completely different person to the one she was now. It was more than time that separated them—more than motherhood, too. Back then, she had been so carefree, so full of light. And now…
She was trembling like a newly born fawn trying to rise to her feet. Mor slid a supportive hand beneath her elbow, her other hand still holding Feyre’s hair away from her face as they shuffled towards the sink.
Everything that was once simple now felt like a million steps. Twist the faucet. Pump the soap. Lather her hands… Over her shoulder, Mor watched it all with a pinched expression. She didn’t need to say anything; Feyre could still hear Alis in the back of her mind. I’m worried about you, Feyre.
Noticing she’d been caught, Mor took to coyly searching through her clutch, murmuring, “I think I have a pack of gum somewhere…”
The tap stopped running. Feyre stared at her friend in the mirror, how her blonde brows pinched together as she feigned an intensive search. And then Feyre looked at her own reflection. At her wide eyes, gleaming with unshed tears. And she finally admitted the truth to Mor, to herself.
“I’m scared.”
Mor’s mouth popped open. “Oh, Feyre,” she whispered, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug.
A great, gasping breath shuddered through Feyre, the final resistance before her foundation cracked, and every wall crumbled to dust. The next thing she knew, she was sobbing into her friend’s shoulder while Mor held tight, the only thing keeping her tethered.
Now that she’d let the words loose, she couldn’t stop. “I’m going to be a mom.”
“You are,” Mor whispered, swaying them back and forth. “You’re going to be a great one.”
“I don't know anything about being a parent.”
“No one does. It’s the kind of thing you learn on the job. And you—Feyre, you have always been exceptional at adapting to everything life throws at you. Even this.”
Her lower lip trembled. The question came tumbling out of her, broken and small. “Did I make the right choice?”
“There was no right choice,” Mor said. “There’s just the choice you made, and the one you didn’t.”
Mor leaned back to swipe her thumb along Feyre’s cheek, chasing away the tear tracks and smeared mascara as best she could.
“Though, you know what I think?” Mor’s brown eyes shined under the fluorescents as she held Feyre’s gaze. “I think that one day, you’re going to look back on this moment, and you’re going to be so happy that you decided to become a mom.”
Feyre sniffled, pressing a palm to her stomach as she attempted to imagine a future Feyre who was confident about this choice. Happy. “And Rhys?” She ventured. “Does he really mean it, about wanting to be involved?”
Mor didn’t hesitate, not for one second. “He does.”
Her eyes drifted towards the door. Tamlin and Rhys would be waiting on the other side. She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel mortified by the thought of the two of them together, stewing in hostile silence. If she was lucky, Tamlin had already dismissed this whole ordeal as female dramatics and was entertaining more of his colleagues without paying any mind to her absence.
Luck wasn’t exactly playing in her favor recently. Feyre’s eyes shifted to the hopper windows on the back wall, contemplating if she could squeeze her body through one. “What do you think my chances are of sneaking out?”
Mor followed Feyre’s gaze and pursed her lips, assessing the windows like she were truly calculating the feasibility of such an escape. “I don’t think those windows open all the way.” Her eyes slid coyly back to Feyre. “So… Tamlin—”
“Don’t start.”
She couldn’t handle another lecture about telling him the truth—not now.
But where Alis clicked her tongue and gave disapproving looks, Mor only laughed and patted Feyre on the shoulder. “Fine, fine. Just let me handle this.”
Mor didn’t give her an option to refuse. Which was just as well, because Feyre would have spent the entire night holed up in the bathroom if Mor didn’t pull her by the wrist.
“Wait!” Feyre dug her heels, trying to slow the too fast approach towards the bathroom door. “My makeup—”
“You look beautiful.”
A lie. Feyre looked like a trainwreck in a pretty dress. Not that Mor gave her time to do anything about it as she pushed the door open and announced to the two men standing on the other side, “Feyre has food poisoning. I’m taking her home.”
“I’ll grab our coats,” Rhys said.
At the same moment, Tamlin said, “I’ll take her home.”
He shifted, trying to peer at Feyre where she stood at Mor’s back, but her friend stepped into Tamlin’s line of vision. Her voice was flat. Unyielding. “You’ve been drinking.”
“So what? I’ll call us a cab.”
Feyre took a deep breath and stepped around Mor. “Tam.” Those bright eyes pinned her in place, seeing far too much. She knew it was obvious that she’d been crying, and his jaw tightened as he processed the lie, and the way she silently begged him not to push. Not yet, not here. “I need someone to stay here and make sure the art show isn’t a complete disaster.”
He contemplated this for a moment, a muscle feathering in his jaw as he looked to Mor, then to Rhys. He released a heavy sigh. “I’ll come by once it’s over.”
It was like standing on a frozen lake and watching it crack beneath them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
They both knew what was coming. It had always been precarious, this thing between them. Never simple, never clean.
Mor looped her elbow through Feyre’s. “Come on,” she urged, rushing them towards the front entrance before Tamlin could change his mind.
The stares of Tamlin’s colleagues followed them as they went. Rhys peeled off to collect their coats, allowing Mor and Feyre to make a swift exit into the liberating embrace of Autumn. The cool breeze pressed against her flushed skin, and Feyre drank it greedily, feeling the air cut a path all the way to her lungs. Finally, she could breathe again.
Rhysand emerged a moment later, two coats hanging off his arm. And Mor chose that moment to look up from her phone and say, “Rhys, you go ahead and take Feyre home. The night’s still young for me.”
“Mor!” Feyre whispered, horrified at the prospect of being alone with him. So much for not meddling.
“What?” She asked innocently, though the look she exchanged with Rhys was nothing short of conspiratorial. “Between my wine and Rhys’s vodka, I have the perfect pre-Rita’s buzz.”
Rhys didn’t seem at all surprised by this news, nor did he seem the least bit phased by the prospect of being alone in a car with Feyre. He simply walked Feyre to his car and opened the passenger door. As she slid into the leather seat, he called to Mor, “Do you want me to at least drop you off?”
“No.” The blue light of her phone lit her grin, and she giggled, looking down at the screen as she said, “I have a ride.”
“Emerie?” Rhys asked, raising a brow.
Mor bit her lip, offering no confirmation one way or the other. With a shrug, Rhys shut the passenger door, leaving Feyre briefly alone in his immaculate car, which smelled vaguely of leather and plastic and… and—him. It had been eight weeks, and Feyre still couldn’t get over the way he smelled.
She took a moment to compose herself, to prepare for being alone with him for the full twenty minute drive to her apartment. Whatever further words he exchanged with Mor, she couldn’t hear. But she could see the way he was smiling, and when he glanced at the car over his shoulder, she had a feeling they were talking about her.
Oh god.
The driver's door opened, suctioning all of the air and replacing it with the site of his obscenely handsome face. “Looks like it’s just the two of us, Feyre darling.”
She was majorly fucked.
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xtaketwox · 7 months
Text
Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of - Ch 3
Summary: Everyone is born with an arrow on their hand. When you turn eighteen, your arrow points in the direction of your soulmate. When Feyre's arrow pointed away from her boyfriend, ending in a messy breakup, she swore she wanted nothing to do with soulmates, which was just as well since he never bothered to find her either.
Rating: Explicit (Teen for this chapter)
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4130
Based on this prompt
Read on AO3, Fic Master List
Chapter 3
Rhys’s sleep was dreamless for the first time in weeks. 
He had listened to Feyre’s soft breathing well into the night, afraid if he slept, he’d wake up to find the whole thing a dream. It wasn’t just that the sex had been good—better than good—it was the sense of right he felt with this woman he hardly knew.
Except he felt as if he had known her forever, as if she were already his best friend. It was disconcerting after a single night together, and yet her concern in the elevator had nearly done him in. Although his friends had let him know they were there for him if he wanted to talk, it was only with Feyre that he had been tempted to open up. Her concern, knowing she likely had at least an inkling of what he went through, had felt different than his friends’ concerns. It was as if, despite their instant sexual connection, she had been willing to just sit on his couch and listen to him talk. 
He swallowed, pulling her harder against him as she breathed evenly. His heart skipped a beat as he breathed in the scent of his shampoo in her hair. 
How was he going to let her leave?
She hadn’t said so, but he suspected Feyre thought this was just a one-night stand. After what had just happened between them, however, he knew it would never be just a one-night stand for him. If he wouldn’t look like an insane person, he’d ask her to marry him tomorrow. 
His gaze snagged on the black square tattooed on his hand. He had planned to get the tattoo removed, if for no other reason than it was a reminder of his time with Amarantha, but now he was second-guessing that decision. If it didn’t point at Feyre, then he didn’t want to know who it pointed to. He knew most people would call him crazy, because surely your soulmate was better than anyone else, but after his connection with Feyre, he didn’t think so. 
He drifted off to sleep in the middle of thinking and when he woke the next morning, it was to Feyre inhaling deeply, her fingers lightly playing with the sparse hair on his chest. He smiled, reaching a hand to lift her chin and place a chaste kiss on her lips. When he pulled back, he smiled as she placed a hand over her mouth. 
Kissing the top of her head he started to pull away. “I have a spare toothbrush you can use, if you like.”
Feyre sat up, biting her lip as she crossed her arms over her chest. Rhys found her sudden shyness charming as he walked naked to his dresser and pulled on a pair of silk boxers. He grabbed a t-shirt and another pair of boxers and tossed them to her. 
He sighed dramatically when she pulled the shirt over her head, earning him a laugh and teasing glare as she quickly pulled on the boxers, rolling them several times. They were far too big. Maybe if he was lucky, they’d fall down as she walked into his kitchen. 
He walked over, pulling her up by her hands and then placing his hands at her hips. “How about we throw your clothes from last night in the wash while I make you breakfast.”
Feyre’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’re just trying to keep me here.”
He smirked. “I’m not trying to be subtle about it, Feyre darling.”
The first time he had used the term of endearment had been entirely by accident. It had simply slipped out, but it had felt right immediately. 
He started to lean down, but Feyre quickly put a hand on his lips. “I’m not kissing you until I brush my teeth.”
He pulled back, feigning annoyance. “Very well, to the bathroom then.” 
He opened a cabinet, grabbing an unopened toothbrush and handing it to her,and then grabbed his own. He put toothpaste on and then passed the tube to her. As they brushed side by side at matching sinks, something shifted in his heart. A rightness settled over him as he looked in the mirror. 
He quickly leaned down, spitting out the toothpaste to hide the sudden emotion pricking behind his eyes. He grabbed a hand towel to wipe his mouth and then passed it over to Feyre. When she finished wiping her mouth, Rhys grabbed her hand and gently yanked her to him, immediately pressing his lips to hers. 
He groaned when she opened her mouth, her tongue sliding against his. His hands fell to her bottom, pushing her against his rapidly hardening cock. She pulled away with a gasp. 
“If we don’t leave this bathroom, we may never eat breakfast.”
Rhys squeezed her ass. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea, actually.”
Feyre rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t.”
Rhys blinked at her. “What?”
Feyre smirked to show she wasn’t being entirely serious. “You’re a man, so of course you think skipping breakfast for sex is a good idea.”
Rhys pulled away, dropping his hands entirely. “Well, we can’t have you thinking I’m like every man you’ve ever met, can we?”
Feyre must have seen the genuine hurt in his eyes before he masked it because she grabbed his hand. “Hey.” She waited until he looked down at her. “I was only kidding.”
He nodded. “I know.” He smirked. “Let’s go eat. I make a mean omelet.” 
He started to walk out the door, but Feyre tugged his hand, forcing him to stop. When he looked back, she said, “I mean it. I’ve never met anyone like you, Rhys. You’re not just any man to me.” 
Something tight eased in his chest as he nodded and gently pulled her hand. “Come on.”
He didn’t let go of her hand as she walked beside him through his bedroom and out into the main living space. He pulled her towards the island, pulling out a stool for her to sit on.
Feyre sat and folded her hands on the counter as he walked towards the refrigerator. He pulled out a container of eggs and a few other ingredients, turning back to her as walked to the stove.
“What do you like in your omelet?”
He paused when he saw her, face pale and mouth hanging open. He immediately walked over to her. “What’s wrong?”
She glanced down at her hand, and then quickly placed both hands in her lap, shaking her head. “Nothing.” 
He frowned at her. Something was definitely wrong, and she was hiding it. “I can see that’s not true. If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s perfectly ok. Just let me know that you’re ok.”
She swallowed hard and then nodded. “I’m ok, I promise.”
Something was definitely off, he could feel it. Something had spooked Feyre. He looked around, trying to figure out what exactly in his apartment could have startled her so much. 
She stood, backing towards his room. “I really should be going.”
He took a step towards her, “Feyre—”
She shook her head, as she turned towards his bedroom. “I forgot, I have a meeting today.”
“It’s Saturday.” He didn’t know if following her was a good idea, but he couldn’t help himself, standing in the doorway as she grabbed her clothes and hastily pulled them on, leaving his shirt and boxers in a pile on the floor. She stuffed her panties into her pocket and headed towards the door.
He didn’t move when she reached him, grabbing her shoulder. “Did I do something?”
She glanced at his hand and shook her head. “No. You did nothing wrong. I just have to leave. Please.”
Everything in him called for him to stay put, but he forced himself to move so she could slide past him, putting on her shoes without lacing them up. He could only follow her around, dumbstruck at how the morning had devolved.
When she opened the door, he finally spoke again. “I don’t know how to reach you.”
Feyre looked back and the sadness in her eyes took his breath away. “That’s probably for the best.”
Without another word, she left, shutting the door behind her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Feyre didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until she got into a cab outside of Rhys’s building. She had expected him to follow her, and could only assume—hope—that he was too astonished to move.
She gave the cab driver her address, knowing she was going to regret taking a cab once it came time to pay, but needing to leave as quickly as possible.
Rhys was her soulmate. 
She choked back a sob, refusing to cry in the middle of a cab. That at least explained why she had felt so instantly comfortable with him. And at least she knew now that he hadn’t had a choice in finding her when she turned eighteen. He was being held by Amarantha, the arrow on his hand likely already covered by a tattooed black square. 
She leaned her head against the window, holding her breath in an attempt to keep tears at bay. She had happened to look down as Rhys got out the ingredients for omelets, surprised to see the arrow on her hand pointing at him. When it had followed him as he walked to the stove, she had nearly fainted from the shock. It had felt like a pulse through her body as her heart rate stuttered and then raced. 
Maybe she shouldn’t have left, but suddenly every emotion she had ever felt towards her elusive soulmate had come crashing down on her and she knew she wouldn’t be able to hold it together. 
Feyre could barely keep herself together long enough to make it through the cab ride, but finally they pulled up next to her father’s house, the house she still lived in. She reached into her wallet, pulling out all her remaining cash and tossing it at the drive as she hastily exited the vehicle. 
She power-walked to the door, her vision blurring as she neared. She whipped open the door, ignoring Elain’s soft-spoken inquiry, all but running to her room and locking her door behind her. 
She slid down the door as the tears finally fell, resting her forehead against her knees as she wept. 
She had spent so long hating her soulmate, first for not being Tamlin and then for not bothering to want her at all, never showing up to find her. In the intervening years, she knew that whatever she had felt for Tamlin had amounted to nothing more than a youthful crush, but Feyre had still blamed her soulmate—Rhys—for the terrible fallout of their breakup. She didn’t even know how to process the fact that Rhys had had no choice. 
Even if he had wanted to find Feyre in secret, he couldn’t have, not when he couldn’t see where the arrow was pointing. She squeezed her arms tight around her knees, her fingernails digging into her skin as anger over what Rhys had been through raged through her. She could kill that woman. Suddenly finding out Amarantha was going to jail for life wasn’t enough. 
Shame washed over Feyre she thought of the look of utter devastation on Rhys’s face when she left. She had left without giving him a way to contact her. He didn’t even know her last name to look her up. How was she going to explain running away like she had?
She fell to the side, curled up in the fetal position as self-loathing washed over her. He deserved better than her, especially after everything he had been through. 
“Feyre?” Elain’s voice was hesitant as she gently knocked on the door. 
“Go away,” Feyre said, closing her eyes against how pitiful she sounded.
There was a beat of silence before Elain said, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Feyre shook her head, even though Elain couldn’t see her.
“Do you want some pancakes? I made some this morning.”
Feyre took a deep breath and sat up. Elain knew the way to her heart was food. “Yeah ok.”
She could hear Elain exhale in relief. “I’ll heat them up for you. Just come in when you’re ready.”
Feyre forced herself to stand and strip off her clothes, replacing them with comfy sweats and an oversized sweater. She quickly braided her hair down her back, breathing through her mouth when the scent of sandalwood hit her nose. She ran into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, wincing at how flushed her cheeks were, how puffy her eyes. 
Realizing it wasn’t likely to get better in the next several minutes, Feyre took a deep breath and walked to the kitchen she shared with her sister. Their father had passed a couple years prior from an aneurism, and she and Elain had shared the house since. They had hoped Nesta would return after his passing, but she had indicated she preferred her life as it was and they hadn’t pushed her.
Elain was setting a plate of pancakes on the table when she caught sight of Feyre. “Oh Feyre,” she whispered, hurrying around the table to wrap her arms around her sister. 
Feyre squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her lips together hard, though her shaking body gave her away. Elain rubbed her hands up and down Feyre’s back for several moments before pulling away. 
Her eyes were filled with worry as she gestured for Feyre to sit. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked. “Juice? Milk?”
Feyre sat, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. She didn’t think she had ever broken down like this, especially not in front of anyone. “Water is fine,” she croaked. 
Elain grabbed a glass and filled it as Feyre took a bite of her pancakes. Elain was a genius in the kitchen and even something as simple as her pancakes was simply divine. Feyre closed her eyes to fully enjoy the light hint of cinnamon and nutmeg in her mouth.
She opened her eyes at the sound of a glass being set on the table. She gave Elain a watery smile as her sister sat opposite her. “Thank you. They’re delicious.”
Elain gave her a small smile back, nodding her head. “Of course.”
Feyre returned to her food, pretending she couldn’t feel Elain’s worried stare. Feyre’s gaze landed on Elain’s gloved hand. Perhaps her sister could understand her.
Feyre took a large gulp of water to wash down her food and then took a deep breath. “Do you ever regret sending your soulmate away?”
Elain blinked rapidly for a moment, clearly surprised by the turn in conversation. “I don’t know,” she replied slowly. “Sometimes, I suppose.” She frowned. “Why do you ask?”
Feyre looked at the table, running her nail along one of the many scratches in the old table. “I…might have met mine last night.”
Elain’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. “What happened?”
Feyre’s head fell into her hands, lightly grasping her hair in frustration. “I had the best sex of my life.”
“Okay…” Elain paused, clearly trying to figure out why Feyre ended up in a crying ball on her bedroom floor. “Did he—do something?”
Feyre shook her head. “No. I just…I didn’t know who he was when we slept together.”
“Did he?”
Feyre was beginning to feel very stupid. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. His hand…he has a black square tattooed over his arrow.”
“That’s an interesting strategy,” Elain murmured, fingering the edge of her gloves. 
Feyre sighed. “It wasn’t his choice. He—” How did she explain Amarantha without Elain knowing immediately who Rhys was? “Someone forced him to get it.”
The silence was thick between them as Elain stared at Feyre. “What happened Feyre? Did he do something to hurt you?”
Feyre looked up at the surprising sharpness to her sister’s tone. Elain was never sharp. In fact, the last time her voice had sounded so cold had been the day her own soulmate had arrived on their doorstep. Feyre wasn’t even sure if Elain ever got his name before telling him she wanted nothing to do with him. 
“No. He didn’t hurt me.” She took a deep breath. Maybe if she walked through it, she could make sense of her instinct to bolt. “We met last night at Rita’s and…I should have realized who he was because I have never felt such an instant connection with someone before.” Her eyes glazed over as she recalled the events of the prior evening. “I went with him to his—apartment. I thought it’d just be a night of fun, just a one night stand, you know?” She glanced at Elain, well aware her sister wasn’t the one night stand type, but found her nodding in agreement. “I won’t, uh, scar you with the details, but my god the sex was good.”
Elain bit her lip against a smile and Feyre couldn’t help but chuckle before taking a deep breath and continuing. “This morning, he was making me breakfast. I happened to look down and saw the arrow following him and I just…panicked.” She rubbed her forehead. “I bolted. I didn’t give him my number or anything. I just left. He doesn’t even know my last name.”
“Do you want to see him again?” Elain asked, her expression curious. 
Feyre groaned. “I don’t know. Part of me thinks it’s better if we just go on without each other like we have up until now. I spent so many years hating him for things that weren’t even his fault.” 
“And part of you desperately wants to see him again?”
Feyre snapped her head up, narrowing her eyes at her sister. Elain straightened, hiding her gloved hands under the table. “Do you know his name?” Feyre asked the question she had been wondering for close to a decade.
Elain looked away. “Yes. But we’re not talking about me.”
“Elain—”
Elain sighed. “I think you should decide whether last night is enough or whether you want more. If you want more, just go back and tell him.”
Feyre leaned her head back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “You’re right.”
After several moments of silence, Elain said, “For what it’s worth, I think he’ll understand, even if you choose not to see him again.”
Feyre looked at her sister once again. Elain lifted her chin, as if anticipating Feyre’s question. “Did he understand?”
Feyre knew her sister must truly care for her, because Elain had never been open about her soulmate before, usually shutting down completely when the subject came up. 
After a long pause, Elain finally said, “He respected my decision.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rhys was frozen watching Feyre leave, taking his heart with her. He wanted to follow her, but also didn’t want to scare her, to act as if she owed him anything. So instead, he watched her go in stunned silence. 
Long after he heard the elevator doors close, he finally turned in a daze to put the eggs back in his fridge, no longer hungry. He didn’t understand what had happened. One moment everything was wonderful and then in the blink of an eye, Feyre was gone. He didn’t even know her last name. He had no way of finding her again. 
He leaned his hands against his counter, his head hanging between his shoulders. How was it possible that he would never see her again? He shoved off the counter, pacing to his favorite chair and falling into it. He ran through everything that happened, trying to find the moment it had all changed. 
He sat up when he remembered the way Feyre had hidden her hands. He began breathing rapidly as he stared down at his own hand, wishing not for the first time that he could see the arrow underneath the black square. 
It would certainly make sense if they were soulmates, with the way everything had felt so natural between them. It would explain why he had been so drawn to her, although part of him rebelled at the idea that he needed a soulmate bond to be drawn to Feyre.
He had to find her. He couldn’t handle the idea of never seeing her again. Even if she told him to leave her alone forever, he needed that closure. He needed her to tell him she didn’t want him or he’d never be able to move on. 
He snorted at the idea of moving on. No. There was no moving on, but maybe there could be closure. If he knew who she was, he could make sure she was safe throughout her life. He wouldn’t bother her, would even do as much as possible to make sure she kept her privacy, but…he could make sure she was happy. He thought he might be able to bear the idea of living without her if he knew she was happy. 
How did he even begin to find out her full name and where she lived? He could try asking Rita, but there were so many people who went through there, and it’s not like they all wrote their names in some roster of visitors. He glanced at his watch. It was still only nine in the morning. Rita would murder him if he appeared on her doorstep before three. 
He growled in frustration. He couldn’t sit here for another five and half hours. He’d go mad. He thought about calling Mor, but she also would murder him for calling at nine on a Saturday. She usually stayed at Rita’s until closing, and chances were Cassian and Azriel had stayed with her. 
Maybe he could run off his restless energy. The gym should be empty at this time of the morning anyway. He quickly changed and headed out the door. The gym wasn’t exactly close, but he was going to workout anyway, so he forwent his car and started jogging. 
He was about halfway there when someone called out his name. He stopped and was surprised to see it was Lucien Vanserra who had called out to him. He and Lucien were in that nebulous area between friends and acquaintances, their parents having run in the same circles, and it had been several years since they’d last see each other. 
“Sorry to bother you,” Lucien said. “You’re obviously on your way somewhere, but it’s been awhile.”
Rhys nodded, breathing heavily. Perhaps he should start running more if a few blocks was all it took to wind him these days. “Good to see you. I’m just headed to the gym.”
Rhys paused when he remembered that Lucien’s soulmate had rejected him. He didn’t know the details, as Lucien refused to talk about what happened, but maybe Lucien would be willing to help Rhys cope with the idea of Feyre rejecting him completely. Or at least point him in the direction of a good therapist. 
Rhys ran his hand through his hair. “Hey, were you heading somewhere?”
Lucien shrugged, “I was headed for coffee. Why, what’s up? Wanna come with? You can eat a bear claw and then go run it off.”
Rhys huffed a laugh. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
They walked to a nearby coffee shop, chatting about nothing important as they ordered. When they had coffees in hand, they walked to the outdoor patio and sat down.
“What do you wanna ask me?” Lucien asked, taking a sip of his coffee.
Rhys raised his eyebrows, “Who said I wanted to ask you anything?”
Lucien snorted, but his expression was amused. “Not once have you ever wanted to hang out when you didn’t have a favor to ask.”
Rhys frowned, not liking that Lucien was right. “I don’t come off well here if I do need a favor, do I?”
Lucien sipped his coffee. “It’s fine. That’s our dynamic.”
Rhys took a deep breath. “I know you don’t like talking about it, but…how do you deal with your soulmate rejecting you?”
Lucien froze, his expression becoming closed. Rhys rushed to explain before Lucien got up and left. “I’m going through the same thing.” He exhaled. “Or similar at least.”
Lucien sat back, considering Rhys with eyes that were far too cunning for Rhys’s liking. “You want to know how I don’t go mad.” The sentence was a question, but spoken as a statement. 
Rhys took a drink from his own cup, wincing when it scalded his mouth. “Yeah.”
Lucien looked away, his expression unreadable, although the fact that he wasn’t leaving was promising. “I suppose I just remember that it wasn’t really personal.”
Rhys kept silent, waiting for Lucien to continue. 
“She had just had her heart broken. She didn’t know me, so she wasn’t really rejecting me. She just rejected the idea of having a soulmate, I suppose.”
Rhys leaned forward. “Do you ever think about seeing her again?”
Lucien chuckled. “Every moment of every day. But she told me to leave her alone, so I have.”
“What if she’s changed her mind?”
Lucien shrugged a shoulder. “I gave her my name. I suppose she can find me if she’s ever ready.”
Rhys sighed. “But she didn’t know you.” 
“And yours does?”
Rhys’s responding laugh was hollow. “We just met last night. But yeah, she knows me.”
Lucien raised his eyebrows. “Good night?”
Rhys sat back, thinking back to the previous night. “Great night.”
“What went wrong, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“She realized we were soulmates.”
“And she didn’t know before?”
Rhys shook his head. “No. It’s been so long since either of us turned 18. She probably doesn’t look at her arrow anymore. And mine’s blacked out.” He held up his hand and Lucien’s expression turned angry. 
“That bitch deserves more than jail time,” Lucien said.
Rhys didn’t respond, although he certainly felt the same. Lucien also sat back in his chair, giving Rhys an assessing look. Eventually he said, “I can’t tell you how to navigate the situation except to say that the best thing you can do is respect whatever decision she comes to. She could have just been startled. Or maybe she doesn’t want a soulmate. I know it doesn’t help you, really, but that’s the best I can offer.”
Rhys nodded. “Yeah. I knew that. I guess I just hoped there was more I could do.”
Lucien laughed. “Believe me, so do I.” Rhys nearly winced at the open longing in Lucien’s expression before he hid it behind a smirk. He held up his coffee in a toast. “To a life alone.”
Rhys couldn’t toast to that. Just forty-eight hours prior, he would have been happy to spend the rest of his life alone. Not anymore.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It took Feyre a week to gather the courage to return to Rhys’s apartment. It wasn’t that she expected him to reject her or to be angry even. She strongly suspected, however, that she had hurt him deeply by leaving without even giving him her full name. He had no way of finding her, and while there was some comfort in being in control of the situation, she also couldn’t imagine how difficult it would have been on the other side. 
Plus, she had needed to work out what she even wanted. She had so many feelings to sort through, some to let go, such as Rhys never trying to find her, and others to pick apart, such as whether she would have even liked Rhys without their soulmate connection. 
In the end, she didn’t care if it was the soulmate bond. The strength with which she missed him nearly took her breath away. That is what propelled her towards his penthouse. She needed to see him again. 
Be brave. 
She chanted that to herself as she entered the building. She lied to security, telling him Rhys was expecting her. She remembered the code Rhys had punched in, and breathed a sigh of relief when the elevator started moving. 
She stepped out when the doors opened into the short hallway from the elevator to Rhys’s door. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her ears. She took a deep breath and then raised her hand to ring the doorbell. 
It took several moments, during which Feyre considered turning around and leaving, but eventually, Rhys opened the door. 
His eyes grew wide, his mouth parting when he saw her. 
“Hi.” Feyre fidgeted, looking away as her cheeks heated.
“Feyre,” Rhys breathed. 
They stood there for several moments before Rhys seemed to realize she was still standing in the hall. He moved to the side, gesturing for her to enter. “Please, come in.”
Feyre grasped the strap of her purse as she walked in. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Rhys closed the door, shaking his head. “No. I was just doing some work.”
“On a Saturday night?”
Rhys shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”
They stood awkwardly before Rhys spoke again. “What can I do for you, Feyre?”
Feyre took a deep breath and looked at Rhys. His stance was casual, but his expression was guarded. “I’m sorry.”
He blinked several times, and Feyre rushed on before she lost her nerve. “I shouldn’t have left like I did, especially without giving you some way to contact me. That was really shitty of me.” She paused to take a breath and swallow.
“Feyre—”
She shook her head. “Please let me finish.” He nodded. “That night was the single best night of my life, Rhys, and I just panicked. I spent so long hating you for not finding me, even though I never tried to find you either. I was dating someone when I turned eighteen and the breakup was messy and I blamed you for that too.” 
She took a step towards him. “You don’t know how sorry I am that I placed all that blame on you, knowing now what you went through, that none of it was your fault. I should have contacted you sooner, but I needed to sort through my emotions, to figure out what I want—”
Rhys placed a finger on her lips to stop her from speaking. “I’m not mad at you. You don’t owe me an explanation. You don’t owe me anything.”
Feyre shook her head. She did owe him an explanation. 
He dropped his finger from her mouth. “I found out who you were and how to find you before the day was out last Saturday.”
“How?” He’d known this whole time? Why didn’t he come find her?
As if reading the questions in her eyes, Rhys said, “I ran into an old friend who, as it turns out, knows your sister.”
Feyre frowned. “Nesta?”
He shook his head. “No. Elain.”
Feyre blinked at him, stunned. “You know Elain’s soulmate?”
Rhys nodded. “I wanted to find you immediately, but  that friend told me the best thing to do was let you come back to me. You knew how to find me and I didn’t want you to feel like I thought you owed me anything. So I decided to give you space.”
Tears pricked at Feyre’s eyes, her throat suddenly thick. She reached up, only hesitating a moment before placing her hand on his cheek. “I don’t owe you anything, perhaps, but you deserve someone who wants you, especially after everything you went through.” Tears fell down her cheeks when she saw Rhys’s eyes getting red. “I want you Rhys. I always did. It was never about not wanting you. I’m so fucking lucky that you’re my soulmate. I think that was what scared me. I didn’t do anything to deserve someone like you.”
Rhys shook his head, reaching to grasp either side of her face. “You have it backwards.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”
Feyre closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. When she thought she could speak without breaking down she looked up at her soulmate and said, “I think we’re both wrong. We both deserve happiness. We deserve each other.”
Rhys smirked down at her, his eyes glassy. “I think you might be right, Feyre darling.” 
Instead of kissing her, he pulled her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and tucking her head under his chin. Feyre wrapped her arms around him, inhaling deeply as a sense of familiarity and rightness settled deep in her chest. 
They stood there, both shaking with emotion until Rhys pulled away with a sniff. Feyre’s heart squeezed at the tear tracks on his face when he smiled down at her. 
“Stay with me?” he asked, brushing his fingers through her hair. “I never did get to make you an omelet.”
Feyre laughed, swiping a hand across her face to rid it of the wetness there. “You’re just trying to get me to spend the night.”
Rhys’s smile melted into a smirk. “I’m not trying to be subtle about it, Feyre darling.”
Feyre leaned up on her toes to kiss him and then grabbed his hand. “Lead the way.”
Rhys pressed a kiss against her knuckles and then pulled her towards his kitchen.
Life had never been so lovely.
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Text
The Great War
I vowed I would always be yours
Summary: Feyre Archeron's kingdom has been warring with King Rhysand for longer than she can recall. When, on an unlucky stroke, he stumbles upon her and her sisters locked in a tower, Feyre will do whatever it takes to keep him from finding them.
Even marrying him.
Happy @feysandmonth (but really LB appreciation month!) My only multi-chaptered offering.
Read more on AO3
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“Someone’s on the horizon.”
Feyre Archeron looked up from her chair at the far end of the tower she lived in. Her sister, Elain, sat on the open window ledge, head resting against the slate gray stone. Her lips were tinged blue from the cold, not that Elain seemed to care. She merely tugged the threadbare blanket tighter around her shoulders, brown eyes never leaving the horizon. 
Nesta leaned up from the fire she was keeping alive, her eyes pinched at the corners. They had been out of everything for months and it showed. Feyre could see her eldest sister's collar bone jutting from beneath a dress that had once fit her like a glove—it now hung like a sack over her too-thin frame. 
Endless war had convinced their father to hide them away, terrified his enemy to the east would one day try and steal one of his daughters. It was supposed to be temporary—he’d promised six months or less. Feyre’s eyes slid towards the wall where Nesta kept count. Eighteen months had passed without a word and their supplies had run out well before then. 
“Who is it?” Nesta asked, running her tongue over chapped, broken lips. Elain shrugged fragile shoulders. She, too, was suffering from starvation. All three of them were. “Is it father?”
“I can’t tell,” Elain admitted, squinting against the glow of sunset. “Who else would know where we are?”
Feyre and Nesta’s eyes met. He hadn’t come in so long they’d just assumed he’d forgotten—or worse. Sometimes at night, Feyre wondered if he hadn’t left them here to die. It was no secret that General Graysen Nolan was his preferred heir and that one of them would be married to him eventually. It would only ever make Graysen king consort, which irked the male-centric court of the north. Men had ruled in an unbroken line for centuries.
And then Nesta had been born. 
Followed by Elain.
And then Feyre.
There might have been more–more daughters for their father to ignore, to abandon in the too-small tower, had their mother not died. Even a new wife couldn’t usurp Nesta as heir to the throne, and so laws were squabbled over, abandoned when King Rhysand of Velaris attacked their border, drawing her father's attention to the military.
They’d all been spared political marriages, ones that would surely grind them all into dust. None more so than beautiful, docile Elain. Feyre suspected she’d be given to Graysen and Nesta wholly disinherited. She’d overheard her father's council of advisors suggesting Nesta be sent to a temple far in the mountains where she would remain unmarried, a devotee to the gods. And Elain, who was easier to control, who was sweet and lovely and uninterested in ruling, could take Nesta’s place and Graysen rule through her.
Until she birthed him a son.
After all, women died in childbirth all the time. It was such a strange thing, to hear these men hope that her sister might die bringing a male child into the world, so they wouldn’t be forced to serve beneath a lowly woman. Feyre knew Nesta would be far kinder to their people than Graysen ever would be—and Elain would do as she was told.
“Is it father?” Elain’s voice cut through Feyre’s guilty thoughts. She didn’t equate to any of his plans. His forgotten youngest child, she knew he’d offer her up to some noble in exchange for riches or military might. 
All at once, the three of them scrambled upwards. They were supposed to be locked in, unable to get out. Once they’d realized he wasn’t coming back, the three had set to work. Elain, sitting at the highest point of that massive tower, had made nice with a local fisherman’s son. He sent up fishing line and hooks when she told him she needed it for mending, along with the occasional fish and bread. 
That hook and string had helped them get the latch to the bottom door opened. Nesta collected firewood and Feyre hunted small game for them to eat. It was never enough, especially now that they were in the brutal season of winter. The fishermen were gone and so were most of the creatures Feyre meticulously hunted. They hadn’t eaten in days and Feyre was starting to get desperate.
Starting to think they should steal one of the boats left behind and take their chances in the frigid water. 
They hid everything they shouldn’t have, rearranging the tower so it looked exactly as it had when they’d first been locked inside. Elain straightened the navy rug on the floor while Nesta remade the bed and Feyre hid her little weapons behind a stack of lumpy pillows.
Elain slammed the shutters of the tower closed and grabbed her knitting needles. Nesta picked up a book and Feyre…Feyre merely stood there. She’d run out of paint long ago, just as Elain had run out of yarn and Nesta had read the book many times over.
It didn’t matter. They heard the grunting of whatever soldiers were yanking open that heavy iron door, followed by the sound of clanking chainmail and heavy boots on the winding stairs. None of them dared to look at each other, jumping when a pounding fist banged against the trap door.
“Girls?”
It was their father, just as Elain had said. Feyre came forward, her body heavy with exhaustion. She pulled back the rug Nesta had just arranged, yanking the iron ring with her limited strength.
Their father's head, adorned with a heavy iron circlet, appeared next. Hatred burned in Feyre’s gut at the sight of his full cheeks, of his glowing health. He certainly hadn’t suffered that last year and half. He climbed the rest of the way up, drinking the sight of them.
“There you are,” he murmured with relief. As if there was any doubt that they’d still be here. He looked from her to Nesta before his eyes fell fully on Elain. Feyre’s stomach knotted, nervous though she couldn’t explain why.
“Have you come to bring us home?” Nesta asked hopefully. Feyre, too, wanted to leave. The tower was perpetually freezing and they were hungry and exhausted. The fortress they’d grown up in wasn’t much better and yet they were at least well fed and warm bottles were placed beneath their bedding to keep them warm at night. 
“Soon,” he murmured, not looking at Nesta at all. His eyes were still fixed on Elain, a frown ghosting his features. They looked so similar, though, on their father, those rich, brown eyes seemed soulless whereas on Elain, they were filled with warmth. Starvation couldn’t dim Elain’s beauty, though her once bouncy curls hung limp down her back and her heart-shaped face was thin and drawn. Elain, too, could have used some sleep.
“I will return for the three of you in a week's time. We are so close to beating the east back into those empty mountains.”
As if any of them cared. Nesta’s eyes sharpened. “We are out of food.”
Their father didn’t flinch. “You have enough for one last week.”
“And then what?” Feyre asked, cutting Nesta off before she angered him. 
“Nesta will go to the priestess's temple at Sangravah and Elain will marry Graysen—”
Elain rose to her feet. “What?”
“Feyre will stay with me for the time being,” he added, ignoring Elain entirely.
“A priestesses temple?” Nesta demanded. It was all as Feyre had once heard. He’d decided it, then. Decided to sideline Nesta and hope Elain would be the easier-controlled ruler. Or worse, that she would die before him, giving Ellesmere the son he’d denied them. Elain didn’t respond at all, though her face was so pale it might have been bone. Graysen was not known for being kind or gentle. He would use Elain until she was nothing but a corpse, and her sister knew it.
“It’s been decided,” their father snapped. 
“By who?” Feyre dared to ask. She could have reached for her bone knife beneath the pillow and tried to bury it in his neck…but he was her father. 
And he had a broad sword hanging from his hips. 
“By me,” he told them. Nesta scoffed while Elain said nothing, her eyes glazed over as she imagined this new future. “And you will do as I tell you or you will suffer my wrath.”
“We are already suffering,” Nesta informed him, her hatred burning in her eyes. Of the three of them, she looked the most like mother. Perhaps that was why he disliked her the most—he couldn’t look at Nesta’s silvery blue eyes and her golden brown hair braided atop her head like a crown and not see his once beautiful wife staring back at him.
Banishing her to a temple was like exorcizing a ghost. 
“What’s a little more, then?” he all but whispered. Daring her to disobey him. Nesta couldn’t pick this fight. Not when her skin all but clung to her bones and not when he could have driven his blade through her chest with no repercussions at all. Feyre dropped into a chair, more exhausted than she’d ever been and Nesta followed suit.
To their father, who didn’t imagine they had any thoughts he did not permit them to have, it was an act of submission. 
“It was good to see the three of you in good health,” he said, walking to Elain and brushing his fingers over her cheeks. Elain closed her eyes, clearly trying to keep herself from bursting into tears. 
Feyre scoffed but said nothing else. 
“Just a week, and then it's over,” he told them. As if it would ever be over. A new hell was waiting just over the horizon and Feyre had no intention of meeting it. She wouldn’t be separated from her sisters, either. She wouldn’t leave Nesta to die in a temple and Elain to perish in a marriage bed. 
They waited until their father descended back down the stairs and that iron door slammed shut so hard it rattled the stones around them. They held silent and still, listening to the gallop of hooves and the accompanying silence as the sun finally set.
Elain broke first, drawing her knees up to her face with a soft sob. Nesta rose to her feet, pacing the floor, her hands outstretched before the fire.
“We’ll take the boat,” Feyre whispered. “We’ll take the boat and go south. They say their king grants asylum to those that make it to his shore. We can hide there for a time and make our way across the ocean.”
“We won’t survive,” Nesta said, her voice devoid of its usual emotion.
“I can spend the next two days hunting,” Feyre insisted. “We can scavenge for anything the fishermen left behind.” 
Nesta shook her head but Elain looked up, wiping her eyes on her sleeves. “What does it matter, Nesta? We either die at sea or we die at his hands. Either way…” her voice broke with a sob. “I don’t want to be married to him.”
“It would be a terrible way to die,” Nesta said, though Feyre wasn’t sure if she meant death by their father's design or death at sea. Feyre was willing to take her chances, though. They could bundle, they could take water and food, and any other supplies in the covered ship that had been left behind. They’d be as protected from the elements within it as they were in the tower, and could fish if they ran low on supplies. 
“It’s better than doing nothing,” Feyre replied.
Elain and Feyre waited. Nesta was always allowed the final say, their deference out of respect for the sister they’d always hoped would one day be queen. Those dreams were dead—they would live in exile or they wouldn’t live at all. 
Two days—that was all Feyre was willing to risk. While she hunted, Nesta and Elain gathered supplies for the boat. Elain cleaned it during the day and Nesta organized until the three fell into bed each night bone weary and exhausted. They barely ate, trying so hard to preserve their rations for when they were out at sea and would have no other recourse. 
Feyre went to bed that night feeling the smallest flames of hope. Hope that they’d make it to the southern border before their father realized what they’d done. That Helion, the king of that realm, didn’t decide to ransom them back. And most importantly, they managed to make it over the sea where they might live free lives for the first time since they were born. Unshackled by the chains of their father, or the monarchy, of the unfair expectations placed on women. Elain could choose her own husband and Nesta and Feyre their own fates. 
The sound of someone pounding on the iron door of the tower dragged the three of them from a drowsy sleep. Their father had a key and the girls their own makeshift one—whoever was below was an interloper. 
Elain flew from the bed, pushing open the shutters to blink into the dark.
“The east,” she whispered. “Rhysand.”
“How–”
“He followed father,” Nesta hissed. “He led them right to us.”
Feyre blinked as Elain wrapped a cloak around her shoulders and tossed the rope down the side. “We go now,” she hissed. “Before he makes it up here and slaughters us all.”
Feyre nodded, though in her heart, she knew she wasn’t going with them. Everyone was on their boat and ready to go. All Nesta and Elain had to do was pull the anchor and set out. Rhysand would follow them—would merely drag them back where they’d be imprisoned or worse. Someone had to slow him down. 
Had to distract him. 
“Go,” Feyre whispered, reaching for her own cloak and her bone knife. She pressed the knife into Nesta’s hand, pretending she was getting her quiver of arrows as Elain propelled down the side. “I’m right behind you.”
The door wrenched open just beneath. 
“Hurry up,” Nesta hissed. Feyre knew if either of her sisters had any inclination of her split-second decision, they would have stayed, too. The point was to go together or not at all. Rhysand was cruel—evil and terrible. He’d lock them in a frigid dungeon, would ransom them back for land and coins and whatever soldiers their father had taken prisoner. There were rumors he stole women from the bordering villages and passed them out to his own men to use as they liked. Nesta and Elain didn’t deserve that.
She thought, perhaps foolishly, that she could withstand it.
Heavy boots on the stairs drew her attention to the trap door. Nesta was gone, halfway down the tower even as the trapdoor beneath the rug rattled. She wasn’t going to help him open it. Fingers clenched to fists, Feyre pressed her back against the wall and waited for what would happen next. 
The wood trap door exploded violently, splintering over the once carefully kept room. Feyre pressed her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. The man who appeared was nothing like Feyre imagined Rhysand to be. She’d always pictured someone her father's age, someone who would look like the nightmare she’d been made to be afraid of.
Rhysand was young—early thirties at best. His dark hair seemed to gobble up the little light emanating from the fireplace as his violet-blue eyes swept over the room. They landed on her, crinkling at the edges when he realized it was just her. He looked like a warrior in his dark leather, a massive sword strapped against his spine. She tried to make herself smaller as he took a step towards her.
“Where are the other two?”
“Dead,” she lied as another man appeared. They could have been brothers—they shared the same warm brown skin, the same inky black hair. This man was perhaps lovelier in a classical sort of way, and far colder, if the stone cut of his face was any indication. 
“Cassian!” Rhysand, betrayed by the silver crown of stars around his head, bellowed down the stairs. His eyes were on the rope hanging from the window. “Bring me the other two!”
“RUN!” Feyre screamed out that window. Rhysand lunged for her, strong arms wrapping over her too-thin frame. She didn’t have the strength to fight him though the gods knew she tried. Feyre thrashed as his broad hand clapped over her mouth.
“So much for dead, huh?” Rhysand whispered against her neck. Feyre twisted, her foot kicking hard between his legs. He grunted but didn’t release her. “You look close to it already.”
He and the other man dragged her kicking and silently screaming down those stairs. Feyre endeavored to make it as difficult as possible, if only to buy Elain and Nesta more time.
It worked. By the time she was beneath that violet sky of stars, a third man was striding towards them. He was the biggest by far, tall and broad and terrifyingly imposing. A crisscross of swords over his shoulders made him seem more lethal than the other two men, though when he stepped into a beam of moonlight, she thought he had the friendliest face.
“They took a ship,” he said, amusement lacing his words. 
Rhysand pushed Feyre into the colder man so he could bind her wrists.
“Track them down. I can’t risk Archeron finding them first.”
Feyre kept her mouth shut. Her sisters had escaped Rhysand—they’d escape their father, too. Cassian—that’s what Rhysand had called him—looked her over, offered a smile that didn’t seem too threatening, and then turned to vanish back into the gloom.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked him, her wrists bound in front of her body. Rhysand turned back to her, eyes sliding up and down her body. It wasn’t predatory or appreciative. In fact, he seemed almost disturbed by what he saw.
“How long have you been here?”
silver-edgedFeyre lifted her chin defiantly. She didn’t have to answer that. He didn’t care, either. Rhysand dragged her over the barren, frozen ground towards a midnight black stallion and hoisted her into a silver edged saddle with ease. He swung up just behind her.
“Would you like me to help Cassian?” the other man asked softly, his voice as dark as the night around them. 
“I’ll need you,” Rhysand disagreed. “Cassian can handle two unarmed women.”
He nodded. Absolute obedience, just like Graysen ordered their father. Rhysand lowered his head until she could feel his breath on the back of her neck again. “Cassian will find them.”
“And then what? You’ll kill us as a family?” she asked him, twisting back so he could see she wasn’t afraid of him. It was a lie, of course. Feyre was terrified. 
He didn’t need to know that.
Rhysand’s smile was cold—cruel. “Your father has something of mine. Now I have something of his.”
“Good luck getting it back,” Feyre retorted. 
Rhysand only laughed. 
 
It was a miserable night of riding. Feyre, half-starved and exhausted well before she was ever put in that saddle. By the time dawn broke, Feyre was miserably sore and hungrier than she’d ever been in her life. Her ribs ached, her thighs burned, and her head pounded. She was too focused on keeping herself upright to even think of her sisters, out on the icy sea all alone while a terrifying warrior tracked them down. 
All she could think about was the constant twisting of her gut. As snow-capped mountains loomed, Feyre felt her vision slipping sideways. She blinked, trying to right the world, but once her lids clamped shut, there was no opening them. She heard a soft swear and realized she had tipped out of the saddle and Rhysand had been forced to catch her or potentially let her die.
She almost wished he had. Surely death on a mountain road was better than whatever he had in store for her. Still, Feyre was too exhausted to fight him when his thighs tightened around her and his arm became a steel lock around her middle. She didn’t stop herself from leaning into his solid strength, nor did she care when her neck inclined at a near awkward angle, bouncing off his shoulder each time the horse jolted.
She slipped in and out of sleep, roused when he’d grab her with a surprising amount of gentleness just beneath her jaw and demand she take a drink. At some point, she thought a blanket was draped over her body, though when she managed to pry open an eye, she realized he’d merely covered them both in his cloak. 
“Will you walk? Or am I going to have to carry you into my palace?” Rhysand asked her, pulling Feyre from a rather strange, brightly colored dream. 
“Go to hell,” she whispered, forgetting almost immediately what he’d even asked. It seemed like an appropriate response to anything and everything he might ask. 
“I think she’s half dead,” another man’s voice murmured and Feyre swore he said those words with pure amusement. “Archeron beat you to it.”
“Shut up,” Rhysand grumbled. Feyre didn’t stay awake to hear the rest. For an unknown period of time, Feyre was lost to pure nothingness. Just bliss—utter, dreamless bliss. She could have died happy and, if she was honest, almost wished she had. 
Coming back was hell. Feyre twisted against the tethers that kept her trapped in darkness, desperate to resurface. She needed to know where she was—what had happened to her sisters. And when Feyre managed to pry an eye open, she expected to find herself lying on the hard, stone floor of a damp, cold dungeon. 
She was in a bed. In a room at least twice as big as the one she had at home. Bigger than the whole tower. Feyre was propped against a mountain of pillows and tucked beneath a sea of black and silver blankets. Curtains were tied from tall, wooden bed posts which made her feel, strangely, like a princess.
“You are a princess,” she whispered to no one in particular. In name only. Her filthy hair hanging in strings around her face and itching scalp told a wholly different story. Feyre pushed from the bed, strangely embarrassed to be in it at all. Her bare feet touched a plush, cream carpet that stretched the length of the bed against dark wood floors. 
A fire crackled merrily in a large hearth across the room, keeping Feyre warm even after she left her blankets. She padded for the jutting, rounded windows that were curtained in more glittering silver. Pulling them aside, Feyre clapped a hand over her mouth. An ocean of icy snow blanketed the world around her, broken only by the rising mountainside she was currently trapped in. 
That would make escape trickery, though not impossible. Feyre was used to the cold, the dark. If he thought to disorient her with the nice, furnished room, he didn’t know her at all.
Ignoring the bathroom, with a tub big enough to be a pool and a wall of glass that let her stare out into the snowy expanse, Feyre marched the curved, double doors gilded in more silver. He clearly had a color scheme, if nothing else. He also hadn’t locked her in. Feyre stepped into an empty hall, painted a soft lavender and trimmed in cream. No servants, no guards. Like she was no threat to him at all. 
That infuriated Feyre. She marched down the hall, forgetting she hadn’t eaten in days—months, even, given the sparseness of what was available to them. She hadn’t passed out from fear, but from exhaustion and hunger. Her anger quickly evaporated into fear as blinding white spots bloomed behind her vision. Feyre reached for the wall, holding herself steady while her knees trembled violently. 
“No, no, no,” Feyre moaned, her legs giving way beneath her. She clutched for the wall, looking for any purchase to keep her steady, but there was none. Only the tilting world and the brief flash of pain when her head bounced off the floor.
And then darkness again. 
She came back the second time fighting. Feyre shot upwards, the heavy blanket of her bed pooling in her lap as she gasped for air. A tray of food was set on her night table and Rhysand himself sat in a chair by the window. He seemed irritated if the set of his jaw was any indication. She supposed he had better things to do than babysit her. 
When she woke, he turned his head until those violet eyes were firmly on her. He cocked his head, causing a lock of his inky black hair to flop against the middle of his forehead. He was the picture of casual elegance. Bored, yet graceful, nobility. They didn’t have his type in Ellesmere–slick, polished, and arrogant. 
“Good evening,” he offered, his voice rough. Feyre didn’t respond, though she did pull her knees to her chest. He watched the whole thing, no hint of his thoughts betrayed in his expression.
“You should eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He didn’t smile. “Sure. I suppose you like it when I carry you down the halls like an underfed corpse?”
Feyre felt embarrassment rise through her chest. “Who asked for your help?”
He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on powerful thighs. Feyre very much doubted he had ever missed a meal. She swallowed, hiding her hands beneath the blanket so he wouldn’t see how they trembled. 
“Maybe you should ask it, darling. If this is how your own father treats you, maybe whatever I have in store would be a kinder fate.”
She all but spat at him. Hatred bloomed in her chest knowing whatever fate he had planned likely involved her eventual death. The deaths of her sisters, her home, and everything she’d ever cared about. 
“How long do you plan to keep me captive?” she asked instead, pointedly ignoring what he’d told her.
Rhysand leaned backward, shrugging his broad shoulders. Clad in a tunic of black and silver that cut just beneath his jaw, he seemed strangely casual to her. No cape, no rings, no crown. Not even a circlet graced his forehead. 
“You’re hardly captive. More like my guest.”
“If I’m your guest, that means I can leave–”
“Feyre,” he interrupted patiently, “darling. You can barely walk down the hall. Where do you imagine you’re going?”
“Away from you,” she hissed, well aware she sounded like a petulant child. The curved smirk gracing his face told her he agreed with her silent assessment.
“Well,” he murmured, rising to his feet. She’d forgotten how imposing he was. Even without the leathered armor and the sword, he cut an imposing figure. “Maybe you should eat some dinner, first. It’s no fun to best you on a technicality.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, certain he was making fun of her. Warily, Feyre waited for Rhysand to respond. To mock her, as the courtiers back home always had. 
“Are you not the Huntress of the North?”
She hated him for his use of that nickname. It had only ever been sneered at her, her bow and arrows the endless source of amusement for the men in her father's palace. A princess who wielded a weapon was practically sacrilege. That she was any good? Well, they found ways to keep her in place.”
Feyre jutted her chin, determined he would not make her feel any smaller. “Yes. That is exactly what I am.”
There was no hint of mockery in his gaze. “Then eat.”
He strode from the room without looking back to see if she obeyed him. It was only after he left that she realized night had fallen, hidden as it was behind the semi-sheer curtains. How long had he sat there, waiting? It made her uneasy, to be so helpless in front of him.
And the thought of passing out, at being left at his mercy and hoping he’d be kind was enough to motivate Feyre into eating. She swallowed her guilt, hoping her sisters were safe and, if nothing else, not starving too terribly before she pulled apart a roll of bread. Steam curled around her face and Feyre nearly moaned at the sight. It had been a long time since she’d had anything hot. She tried so hard to go slow, so she wouldn’t be sick, but the vegetables were seasoned with spices she’d never tasted, and the meat and potatoes covered in a rich gravy that had her all but licking the plate. 
She could have kept going. She was tempted, even, to climb out of bed, find the kitchen, and ask for more. Instead, Feyre climbed out of bed, legs still shaky, and made her way to the bathtub.
Bastard as he was, Rhysand was right about one thing.
She’d never escape him in her current condition. 
Feyre very much intended to escape.
Just as soon as she killed him.
-
Feyre spent a whole week minding her own business. The decision had been more practical than anything–every time she stepped into the hall, a wave of dizziness sent her practically running back for the bedroom. She would be damned if Rhysand put his filthy hands on her again. Feyre’s pride wouldn’t let her be caught in a compromising position by her enemy, which in turn ensured she ate every meal that was brought to her. The first few days had seen her all but living in the bathroom while she adjusted, gulping water from the tap when she felt feverish. She slept, she ate, she bathed, and did little else.
She felt like a traitor. Her dreams were consumed by her sisters—were they safe?
Were they alive?
She had no doubt if Rhysand had managed to find them, he would have paraded them about like his trophies like he’d no doubt done with her. The thought offered the faintest amount of relief. Only she was here. 
Whoever left the trays just outside her door didn’t seem to know who, exactly she was. Or maybe they didn’t view her as a threat. Either way, she’d been provided a steak knife each night, and Feyre had begun to collect them. The silver alone would be enough to fund part of her journey, and the sharpened point sliced easily over her pointer finger. It would do well enough against anyone who put the fleshy parts of their skin too close to her body.
Feyre woke to an actual servant the dawning of that second week. 
“The king requests you dine with him,” an elderly, no nonsense woman declared. As if that were the end of things. Feyre knew, from growing up around her own father, that the king's word was law. She didn’t obey him, though. He wasn’t her master.
“And if I say no?” Feyre asked in her brattiest tone.
An arched brow was the only expression she got. “I hear a palette of straw is far less comfortable than a bed made of goose down.”
She hated that woman, with her severe gray bun and her unsmiling eyes. Still, Feyre begrudgingly got into the tub and submitted to her all the same. She allowed herself to be dressed in an, admittedly, a pretty amethyst gown made of gossamer silk. She said nothing while her hair was curled and pushed off her face with a pearl-lined headband, or when thin, silver earrings were looped into her ears so it looked as if delicate trails of starlight clung to her skin. Her eyes were coated and lined until they looked bigger—more pronounced. Her lips were made softer and painted the most delicate shade of pink.
It all irritated her. Like she was a doll for dress up, like her too-thin, sharp appearance was solely for his pleasure. “Is this what your king likes?”
“Hardly,” that servant snapped. Speaking to her like that in her own home would have gotten someone killed–not that Feyre would have tattled. Still, the sharpness took her aback. 
“Then why–”
“You have a problem looking nice?” 
Truthfully, Feyre had no problem looking nice. Her problem was the way she felt as if she were little more than a pretty object. She didn’t want to look nice in Rhysand’s kingdom, at a breakfast he almost certainly would also be attending.  He’d see her and approve of her, which was the opposite of what she wanted.
Feyre marched down the halls, and for the first time since she’d arrived, there was no danger she’d fall flat on her face. The hall led into a larger atrium, with a winding staircase that led both upwards and back down into the palace. Feyre tried to memorize her path, but the steps leading down only directed her into another branching hall of the same cream and lavender and arching doors lined in silver pulled tightly shut.
She’d expected a large dining hall filled with people. That’s how Feyre had always eaten. A dozen eyes were always on her, listening for any morsel of gossip they could run to her father with. When the doors were opened for it, Feyre found an intimate scene. A table for five people, perhaps, but no more. Round, with only two chairs decently separated and covered in a selection of food she could directly spoon onto a silver plate herself.
Rhysand, too, waited with his usual boredom. He was framed by a line of windows frosted over from the cold. Same black tunic and pants, to the point Feyre wondered if he owned any variations to that outfit. He had taken no food, and stood when she entered. He nodded to the servant just behind, which apparently signaled to close the doors. Feyre was trapped in the chamber with him.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing towards her chair. Feyre hesitated, her slippered feet sliding against the wood just beneath. It was the wafting scent of chocolate that sent Feyre to her seat. She hadn’t had anything sweet in so long, a terrible curse for someone who liked sweets as much as she did. 
“Eat,” he ordered once she was in her chair. Feyre tried her best to ignore him, scooping eggs and fruit, and cheese onto a plate. She took sausage and bread before she realized the scent of chocolate was coming from a silver pot. Hot chocolate. 
His mouth twitched, watching her pour it into her porcelain cup. Feyre took a sip, trying to suppress the moan that rose in her chest. She didn't succeed and in response, his eyes widened ever so slightly. 
“Are you always so adaptable?” he asked, only serving himself when she was finished. Feyre didn’t offer him a response, too busy shoveling food in her mouth. It was, as it always was, perfect. His manners were more refined, reminding her that the time she’d spent in that tower had made her wilder than before. 
The silence stretched between them. It seemed unbearable for him, because Rhysand set his fork back to the table, eyes pinned on her. “Why were you in that tower?”
“Who were you expecting to find?” she sneered. Rhysand raised those dark, immaculately groomed brows and she realized belatedly he’d never meant to run into her. Who had he been looking for, then? Clearly, when the opportunity presented itself he hadn’t been able to resist and still…Feyre wanted to know. 
“Answer my question.”
“We were there because of you,” she whispered, gripping the knife just beside her plate so tightly the whites of her knuckles were exposed. 
If he felt guilt, he didn’t betray it. “How fortunate, then.”
She was going to stab him. If she stood, Feyre could bury the blade in his neck before he could react. “Fortunate? Did you find my sisters?”
Another casual shrug. “Cassian hasn’t returned.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” she hissed. Rhysand smiled. 
“Maybe,” he agreed, his tone suggesting he did not agree. “Can I ask, darling, why I was the cause of such a slow, terrible death for you? Why not behead his daughters and be done with it?” Feyre’s heart pounded in her throat as she rose, her plate half untouched. He was fixated on her face, unaware she still had the handle of that knife fisted in her fingers.
“Our suffering amuses you?”
“Confuses me. If your father sent you to that tower to die–”
“To protect us!” Feyre interrupted, certain he couldn’t be that stupid. “To keep you from harming us!”
He reclined in his chair as she moved towards him, her knife hidden in the flouncy material of her skirt. 
“You believe that?”
“Who were you looking for? What did he take of yours?” she asked sharply, halting just in front of him. Part of her was desperate for any information, even if it came from his lips. She had never once been granted any she hadn’t stolen, and even then Feyre couldn’t be certain it was true or not. 
He assessed her. “Why would I tell someone hoping to kill me anything?”
“You’re stupid?” she guessed, inching closer. 
“I’ll trade you, darling. I’ll answer any question you have if you give me the knife in your hand.”
Feyre hesitated. “Do you swear?”
Rhysand nodded, that lock of dark hair falling against his forehead again. Pressing a golden hand to his heart, he said, “I swear it.”
Quick as a viper, Feyre lunged. Rhysand shouted, unprepared to have the blade of her knife buried in the back of his hand. She’d stabbed with all her pent up fury, all but pinning him to the table by the point of the serrated blade. 
His face was altogether too close when she turned to look at him, those violet eyes blazing with some unreadable emotion. “You never said how I had to return it.”
Blood dripped onto the wood as Rhysand used his other, unwounded hand to pull the knife out of his hand. She waited for him to go back on his promise, to call her names or punish her—all of which she deserved. Feyre straightened. 
Bracing herself. 
“I want Nolan,” Rhysand gritted out, unfolding a napkin to press against his hand. “Finding you was merely good luck. I can trade you for the General. As for what he has that belongs to me, well...” he raised his hand, as if to show her why he wouldn't be divulging that bit of information. 
Feyre laughed. “You could trade Elain for Graysen. Maybe. But me? You might as well kill me right here, right now.”
“I won’t be doing that,” he hissed, holding the napkin against his wounded hand. He didn’t move from his chair, though she expected him to. He merely sat there, his napkin blooming the same red that was still puddled just beside his plate. 
“Then what–”
“You will live here until you die,” he interrupted snappishly. Their gazes held and for a moment, Feyre felt as though his eyes had tied a string between them, immobilizing her entirely. She’d forgotten, for a moment, a bloodstained knife had punctured his hand and that she’d been the one who’d done it. Standing over him was wild–intoxicating.
He blinked and the spell was shattered.
“Let me go,” she breathed, swallowing hard. He crossed his ankle over his knee, one foot bouncing anxiously. “I’ll tell you anything–”
“You know nothing,” he dismissed, eyes cutting towards the door. “Another of your foolish bargains.”
“You can’t keep me here,” she insisted, turning her back to him. Feyre made a show of lifting her skirts, of stepping around the droplets of blood, all the while Rhysand watched. 
“You would be surprised at what I could do. What I might do, if provoked.”
She looked over her shoulder to his wounded hand, bound in that napkin and held for her perusal. There was a darkness to his gaze that should have unsettled her. Feyre thought she could have counted the constellation of stars within it—a dangerous thought, given who he was. It struck her only then that he was handsome. Too handsome.
Beautiful. Certainly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life. She’d been so consumed with hating him, with survival, to pay him any attention before. Now, though, as her adrenaline ebbed into fear, she saw him for what he was. Just for a moment—lovely. 
She stamped that thought deep, deep down. 
“Hardly a punishment, keeping me in finery,” she taunted, swishing her pretty dress around her to emphasize her point. It was then that he stood, and Feyre so badly wished he hadn’t. She stopped her teasing, her body flooded with cold at the sight of him. 
“No. You’re rather pretty, dressed in my things,” he began, holding his hand against his chest as he surveyed her. “I wonder how much prettier you’d be in my bed chamber–”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, her heart thudding in her throat.
“How even lovelier still, in my lap, on my throne—” “Stop it,” she half pleaded, half ordered. He raised a brow.
“Oh? Commanding me, are you? There’s only one person allowed to make such demands of me,” he said, stepping closer and closer until her back was pressed against the wall. Rhysand didn’t back down, his thigh sliding between her legs to pin her between them. Feyre couldn’t control her rapid breathing, hating how close he was.
How good he smelled.
“Ask me who,” he said. She shook her head no, unable to look away.
“I’ll tell you,” he continued, his tone far too heavy. “The only person who can give me a command is my wife–”
She slapped him, sending him stumbling back a step. He needed to learn what would happen if he invaded her space. “Under no circumstances would I marry you,” she hissed, slipping around him for the door. She’d just pulled it open, had all but begun running down the hall, when he called after her.
“Not to save your home? To end this war? To keep your sisters from being traded back to your father so I can hang one man?”
Feyre whipped back around, terrified of the intensity on his face. “I can’t trust you.” “I would shield them,” he all but whispered. He looked crazy, his shirt bloodied, his hand wounded. His face, was slightly ashen from how she’d hurt him and still decisive. “And you.” “How can you protect me when my greatest enemy stands four feet from me?!” she shrieked. He arched a brow, as if to call her statement into question.
“None of this would have happened had you not intervened!”
“There are things you don’t understand,” he protested, but Feyre took a step through the doorway, out into the hall.
“I won’t.”
“You will,” he replied, holding her again until his gaze tied a ribbon around her very soul. She shook her head, just to prove she could still move her body independent of him.
“I’ll kill you first.”
He laughed, then. 
“You may do whatever you like to me, darling.”
Everything they’d ever said about him was true. Feyre thought that as she turned her back to him, her body far warmer than she’d ever admit. Feyre knew two things with absolute certainty.
One, if she didn’t manage to escape and soon, she’d never be free of him.
And two—Rhysand wasn’t going to let her go. Not to her father. Not to the world.
Maybe not ever. 
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velidewrites · 5 months
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A messy breakup forces 20 year old Feyre Archeron back to her old hometown of Forks, Washington—back to the life she thought she'd left behind. What she doesn't know, though, is that Forks has changed in her absence, its blue-tinted fog stained by fresh, crimson blood. Luckily, Feyre is ready to join the hunt.
🩸Pairing: Feyre x Rhysand
🩸Rating: Explicit
🩸Tags: Twilight AU
Chapter 1/5 || Read on AO3
Or continue for a snippet below!
***
“Who’s he?”
Ressina follows her gaze—then smiles. “Ah, yes. Can’t blame you for losing your focus, honestly.” She leans in closer. “That’s Rhysand Blake. He’s…” she motions over her face, as if the movement is telling enough. It is. “Like I said. There’s no point in even trying.”
Feyre hums. Rhysand. “What’s his major?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t see him around much—not that I was looking, of course—so he probably takes evening classes. He’s somewhat of an enigma, really.” Ressina narrows her stare on her again. “Something tells me that did nothing to discourage you.”
Feyre flashes her a smile. “Who doesn’t like a little mystery?”
Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed, I’m basing it off the announcement post 💕): @azrielshadowssing @damedechance @melting-houses-of-gold @rosanna-writer @itsthedoodle @reverie-tales @sanfangirl @separatist-apologist @asnowfern @thelovelymadone @foundress0fnothing @thesistersarcheron @wilde-knight @popjunkie42-blog
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officialfeysandweek · 7 months
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AO3 Collection・Event Masterlist・Prompts ・Guidlines
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📝Fics:
Would You Like Me On My Knees? by @starfall-spirit
Accidentally In Love by @shallyne
Lost and Found drabble by @shallyne
Buried Alive Inside My Dreams by @separatist-apologist
Whatever Our Souls Are Made of by @xtaketwox
If I Could Hold You For A Minute by @darling-archeron
All By Design by @the-lonelybarricade
The Rite by @witch-and-her-witcher
The Dust of the Stars in Her Eyes by @rosanna-writer
Starchaser by @velidewrites
Of Threats and Bonds by @stay-forever-sunday
🎨Art:
Golden thread art by @whettpaint
Feysand in the Summer Court comissioned by @separatist-apologist and @the-lonelybarricade from artist @/jenna.draw
Feysand and Nyx art by @witchlingsandwyverns
Feysand mating ceremony comissioned by @foreverinelysian from artist @:mokkasimp
🎶Misc:
Nyx heir of rizz headcanon by @disturbingly-silent
Feysand fanfic recommendation - Darling Let's Run by @the-lonelybarricade recommended by @ultadverb
Chapter 54 Moodboard by @shallyne
Mating anniversary tattoos headcanon by @harperbrynne
Feysand acotar tweets by @shallyne
Feysand Incorrect quotes: 1 and 2 by @shallyne
Feysand meme by @shallyne
Feysand texts by @shallyne
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If we missed one of your contributions, kindly reach out to us!
🎨: @dreadart
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