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I just KNOW that this is going to WRECK me.

The Fire Won't Burn Me

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

for @elucienweekofficial

Summary: Princess Elain Archeron wants nothing more than to be reunited with her missing youngest sister and to see her father finally emerge from the fog of grief he's been living under since her mother died. When her step mother arranges for her older sister to fetch her youngest to celebrate Elain's impending engagement to a neighboring prince, it seems like she'll get her wish. That is, until her father's fearsome huntsman steps in and wrecks it all. Now she's on the run, hiding in the forest to keep herself- and her heart- intact.

In her quest to understand why someone would want her heart carved from her chest, Elain will have to reconcile what it means to truly be the fairest of them all

Read on AO3

Prologue:

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all? 

Elain was nine years old when her mother died. She hadn’t known she was sick until the bells began ringing. Nesta scooped up little Feyre, only six at the time, eyes wide with surprise. Elain trotted after her, hands fisting her skirt. Stepping into the warm spring air, the three of them looked upward at the black spires of the palace they lived in, stretching like spider fingers toward the cloudless sky.  

Their father’s cry of anguish told them the truth. Eleven year old Nesta had hurried them inside. Shoulders squared, spine straight, she told them what would happen next.

“We need to stay out of everyone’s way,” she began, her severe gaze wholly on Feyre. Feyre wiggled from the little bench at the piano in Nesta’s room, already bored. “Everyone will be wondering what father means to do with us. If we are very good, he will let us stay.”

“Why would he send us away?” Elain demanded. Their father loved them. He said so every night when he came to her room to read her a story and give her a kiss. 

But Nesta was older and smarter and if she was worried, Elain thought maybe she was right to be. Elain reached for Feyre’s little hand, pulling her closer. “We can be good.” Nesta’s smile told Elain she didn’t think that was true. 

They tried, though. For three years oh how the little princesses tried. Nesta took to harassing their father into managing the small kingdom they occupied while Elain began learning all the duties her mother had once done. All Feyre was responsible for was her education, a thing made impossible when the tutors stopped coming.

Too unmanageable.

Unladylike.

A little monster.

Their father didn’t care. He didn’t care his youngest daughter wasn’t getting an education or that their kingdom was on the verge of bankruptcy. War had broken out on the border and by the time Elain was twelve, there were talks of marrying off Nesta to solve their problems. 

No one wanted a poor princess as a wife. Many, many offers were made for her—but none of them in good faith. Elain learned, right then, that the only way they were going to survive would be to stick together.

To take care of each other. 

Stick together, Nesta would say before grabbing both their hands and marching them to see their father. They only needed each other. And that was never truer than when their father announced he would remarry for the sake of the kingdom. It wouldn’t be love—his only love, his true love, had been buried years before.

This was for security. To give his daughters a future, he picked an incredibly beautiful women from the northern reaches of their world. Elain had been mesmerized the first time she’d seen her. Her hair was like ruby silk, her eyes the most stunning shade of brown, her skin unmarred alabaster. She’d walked to the three of them, pausing when she saw Elain.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she’d cooed before moving on with her train of ladies. 

“I like her,” Elain had whispered, squeezing Nesta’s hand. Nesta hadn’t responded. Feyre did, though.

“Well, I don’t,” she’d whispered. Nesta’s answering sigh had said enough. 

And in the end, Feyre and Nesta had been right. 

Present day:

Elain moved through the empty palace halls, skirts gathered in her hands. She missed the courtiers who had once crowded around, gossiping and sharing news of the kingdom. Elain missed the servants, too—nearly all of them had been dismissed. For the life of her, Elain could not figure out why. Only that her step-mother deemed it unnecessary and her father was too lost in the past to argue.

A lot of things had changed in the twelve years since her mother had died. Feyre was gone—and neither Elain nor Nesta could figure out where, exactly, she’d been sent. Only that ten years ago, when Feyre was nine, their step mother had informed them all Feyre could not read. That was news to Elain, though in retrospect why was she surprised? Their father had forgotten Feyre’s education and the tutors had left long before their step-mother ever arrived.

They’d spent ten years trying to track Feyre down. The only clue they had was Feyre was somewhere out by the wall, a mysterious place far, far beyond the borders of their own home. The wall separated the Illyrian Mountains and the Velarian woods from the rest of civilization. Monsters were said to roam, and if that was true, Elain couldn’t understand why a princess would ever be sent out there. 

Their father didn’t care. He wasn’t at the breakfast table when Elain arrived, though both Nesta and their step-mother were. They both looked at her when she entered though Elain kept her eyes on her slippered feet.

“Mother,” she said, ignoring the hiss of air that escaped Nesta. “Sister.”

“Did you sleep well?” 

Elain sat politely, sliding her skirts beneath her legs. “Thank you for asking. I did.”

Elain dared a look at Nesta, straight-backed as ever. Something Elain didn’t recognize flashed over Nesta’s pretty features, smoothed into placid nothing when their step mother began speaking again.

“I have two pieces of good news. Which would you like to hear first?”

“How could we possibly differentiate between them?” Nesta snapped. Elain said nothing at all, didn’t dare react. This was a familiar showdown between her sister and her faux mother. Their step-mother narrowed those cerulean eyes, brushing a piece of blonde hair from her face. She was still impossibly beautiful. Elain had always admired her. Time had begun to show, lining the severe frown of her perfect lips and creasing just beneath her lids. Elain had heard her screaming in front of a mirror months earlier over several silver strands of hair. She was dedicated to her looks and sometimes Elain wondered if she didn’t feel that way because of how little attention their father paid her.

“Your sister, Feyre, can receive one visitor–”

“I’m going,” Nesta said before Elain could volunteer. Elain spread jam over a burned piece of toast, thinking she never would have been allowed, anyway. Their step mother offered a rare smile.

“Yes, I thought you might say that. Of course, if you do go, you’ll miss Elain’s engagement.”

“Engagement?” Elain interrupted. That was news to her. “To who?”

“Prince Graysen of Lyonesse. Your father signed the treaty just last night. Did he not tell you?”

A cheshire’s smile told Elain she knew damn well their father had said nothing. “What is he like?”

“I’m told he’s exceptionally handsome,” she began, gritting out the words as though it pained her. Elain’s beauty had become contentious of the years. No longer did she coo that Elain was a pretty little girl. Now she looked at Elain like competition. Like Elain had stolen something from her. And no matter how often Elain wished she was less, nothing changed. Every year she became prettier and every year her step-mother became angrier. 

Elain supposed she ought to be grateful for this arranged marriage. She wouldn’t have to watch her father mope through the rest of his life. Sometimes Elain wished he’d died, too. That he could have followed their mother and Nesta had been made regent. 

“Is he kind?” Elain asked. That was all that mattered to her. She wanted love like her parents had before her mother died.

Nesta exhaled softly as their step-mother shrugged. “How would I know that? You should be grateful, Elain. Prince Graysen is far younger than all the other suitors your father considered.” More news that Elain had been unaware of. 

“When is the wedding?” Nesta interrupted, clearly trying to work out just how long she could be away.

“Six months from now,” their step-mother replied. “In the spring.”

There was time to get to know him, then. Time to figure the whole thing out, to make the best of it. Elain had been afraid it would happen in the next week and she’d be completely alone. Nesta, too, seemed to relax at the news. She’d get Feyre and bring her back and Elain would stay and try and wake their father from his endless melancholy. She didn’t need to speak to Nesta to know that’s what Nesta’s plan was. 

Elain offered their step-mother a smile. “Thank you for this. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

Her answering sneer made Elain wilt. “No trouble at all,” she replied, her tone very much implying it had been immensely troubling. The meal became unbearably silent, the three of them eating until their step-mother made a comment about Nesta’s weight that sent both sisters scurrying from the table.

“Even if the weather is rough,” Nesta began the mere second they were out of ear shot, “I won’t be gone longer than three months. That’s enough time to hold on, right?”

“What do you imagine is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Nesta admitted. “I’ve heard of Prince Graysen. People say he’s very nice.”

“And handsome?” Elain teased, bumping Nesta in the shoulder. 

“If you care about that,” Nesta replied, unwilling to take the bait. Of course Elain cared—Nesta did, too, though she’d never admit it. “I wonder why you…”

Why not me?

Elain offered Nesta a strained smile. “I’m sure she’s working something out for you as well.”

And that was the problem, because Nesta ought to have been first. The grimace on her older sister's face told Elain she wouldn’t accept an arranged marriage, regardless of how perfect that man might be for her. It could have been true love and Nesta would have rejected the entire thing on principle. Elain was the safer option. 

“Do you think this is about money again?” Elain dared to ask, following Nesta up a winding set of dark marble stairs. Nesta was going to the library again, leaving Elain to amuse herself once they reached those carved, oak doors.

“I think she just wants us out of her way. She’ll marry you, and then myself and Feyre and she’ll have this miserable palace all to herself.”

“Just promise you’ll be careful,” Elain urged, reaching for Nesta’s arm at the top of the stairs. “And you’ll bring Feyre home.”

Nesta rolled her eyes just like she always did in moments when

Elain’s worries were vocalized. “Of course I will.”

Elain remained at the top of the stairs, framed in a shaft of gray sunlight as her sister strode away. Imperious and self-assured as ever. Elain wished she had even an ounce of Nesta’s self-assurance. She didn’t, though. And Elain was afraid of what would happen when her sister was gone and she was left all alone with nothing but the ghost of her father. 

Elain wandered toward the garden, well-aware no amount of digging and de-weeding would save it from the ravages of winter. Autumn was upon them, bringing jewel bright leaves from the forest just beyond the garden. Elain was forbidden from going outside the gates of the palace—she’d never even seen the village at the very bottom of the hill. Sometimes Elain imagined strolling through the wrought iron just to see if there were truly as many wolves as her father had once claimed.

A bluebird trilled from a nearby branch, drawing a smile from her. Lifting a finger, Elain waited until the creature fluttered from the branch it had been hiding on before perching on her finger. Elain whistled softly, a little tune her father had once hummed to her when she’d been a child. Cocking its blue feathered head, the bird chirped right back. She might have sang to the creature all day had someone not cleared their throat. The sound caused her to jump, startling the bird back into the treetops overhead. 

Turning, Elain found her fathers huntsman—Lucien. He stood just outside a dying trellis of winding pink and purple lilies, his back facing her. He worked for her father technically, though the last time she’d seen him, he’d been reporting to her step-mother. He was a huntsman, or so they said. What he truly did with that sword hanging at the heavy brown belt slung over his hips, or with the knife strapped against his powerful thigh, Elain didn’t think she wanted to know. 

The wind caught his tied off auburn hair, blowing strands over a broad shoulder. She stepped closer, uncomfortable with his proximity. It was the way he never smiled, she supposed…or that trio of scars raking over one of his admittedly pretty russet brown eyes. He glanced over as Elain slipped past, murmuring, “Princess,” with a respectful bow of his head. Elain didn’t acknowledge him at all. And when she turned back to see if he was still watching, Lucien had vanished seemingly into thin air. She ought to have relaxed.

But Elain swore she could feel eyes on her. 

Watching her every move. 

–

Nesta set off the next morning. Their father managed to rouse himself from whatever stupor he’d been in to see her off. Standing hunched beside his beautiful wife, Elain thought time was being particularly cruel to him. He seemed twice as old as he was, his hair more gray than brown. Dull eyes stared at Nesta in her riding clothes as the remaining servants helped her load up her things and get into the saddle.

“I’ll be home by solstice,” she promised, not bothering to look or speak to anyone but Elain. “I’ll send word when I arrive.”

“We’ll miss you terribly, sweet Nesta,” their step-mother crooned. “Do hurry back.”

Elain wondered if their father ever looked at Nesta and saw his late wife. Of the three of them, Nesta favored her the most. She might have been alive in Nesta’s silvery blue gaze or the way she pressed her lips together. Nesta bit her tongue, swallowing whatever it was she wanted to say.

Elain knew it would be a week of hard traveling if Nesta wanted to reach the wall. A rolled up map, tucked beneath Nesta’s arm, was the only proof Feyre existed at all.

“Be safe,” Elain said impulsively, stepping from the stone to grab Nesta’s slim calf. She stopped herself at the last minute, only because she’d been about to beg her older sister not to leave her. It would have been a humiliation too great for either of them to bear.

Nesta nodded her head and then she was off, riding down the long, smooth drive on that coal colored horse. Elain wished she was leaving, too. Her eyes found the forest in the distance, with treetops so dense they seemed to form a blanket of orange, yellow, red and greens. Nesta would have to pass through that forest in order to find Feyre.

Nesta was brave enough to risk it. But Elain was not, and so she allowed her step-mother to loop her arm through her own. 

“Are you terribly excited for the prince's arrival?”

No. “Yes,” she said, smiling brightly. Her father barely reacted at all to her presence, though he fell into step beside her. Elain wanted to shake him. Wake up! We still need you! 

She’d read stories of kings who fell under spells, who needed nothing more than a kiss from their true love to come back to life. Elain had tried once, kissing her father as he sat in his chair. Gently, on the cheek, as she wished for him to be the man he’d once been. But his true love was dead and his spell was merely grief. There was no bringing him back. 

“I have everything planned out,” her step-mother pulled Elain from her thoughts. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“You’re so kind,” Elain told her, making a point to look her in the eyes. “I’m so grateful for this.”

There, just behind her painted black lashes, was that look of hatred Elain swore she saw from time to time. The nicer Elain tried to be, the more often she saw that look. 

“Anything for you,” her step-mother replied, a forced smile on her beautiful face. Elain left her then, hand on her fathers back as she led him further into the palace. Elain wondered if it bothered her, not having an heir. She’d only ever be consort—not even queen. That title was reserved for Nesta, passed down and promised by her mother when they’d been children.

Her father could have made his new wife his queen, which would have disinherited his three older daughters. And in the preceding months after his marriage, all three of them had expected that. 

He never had. For all his faults and failings, he’d ensured that Nesta would one day ascend, her husband a mere king's consort. Maybe that was why their step-mother was so reluctant to marry Nesta off. Their father was likely to abdicate in favor of Nesta, who was more than capable, especially if a continuation of their line was assured.

For all her beauty, for all her vivacious smiles and too-tight dresses, Elain’s stepmother had never once given their father the one thing he needed in order to secure her future—a child. And Elain knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when Feyre and Nesta returned, it would be to bury her for good.

Elain would continue with her engagement. In this war, there was no place for her. She was simply too soft-hearted to endure the constant fighting. Elain was equally unwilling to watch her father slowly march toward the grave. She wanted an escape. If Graysen was offering her a new home in a place filled with real people rather than memories, Elain would take it.

Anything was better than the constant silence. 

—

Prince Graysen arrived three days after Nesta left. Elain had been going a little stir crazy by then. Her stepmother had brought staff back into the palace with almost gleeful abandon. It was nice to not have to worry about drawing her own bath or restarting her own fireplace in the evenings—and Elain couldn’t pretend she didn’t appreciate the help dressing that morning. Elain was put in a gown of rich, cobalt blue—the colors of her soon-to-be fiance's crest. Her hair was woven around pretty white flowers and curled carefully under the watchful eye of her stepmother's new servants. 

“Is there anything I should know?” Elain asked one of the silent women. No one spoke to her, though she thought their eyes were filled with pity. With no one to guide her and no one she could lean on for support, Elain made her way toward the grand dining hall they’d once used to host her mothers lavish parties. It was strange to see the tables made up again, draped in shimmering white. The windows had been thrown open, allowing golden, autumn sunlight to stream against the immaculate ivory. 

Elain paused just outside the doors, ignoring the sound of her stepmother's delighted laughter in favor of looking at a family portrait still hanging just outside the door. She’d been so beautiful. So happy, too, if the soft smile on her face was an indicator. Elain didn’t linger, though she wanted to. Her stepmother’s raucous giggling drew her curiosity. Was the prince truly so funny? That was a good sign, she decided. If he had a sense of humor it was possible he was also a good conversationalist. And perhaps all that meant he was kind, too. 

Inside, she found her stepmother seated in her fathers usual chair, holding court with the retinue Graysen had brought with him. Graysen, she realized, was just at her stepmother's right. And he was handsome. Oh, but he was lovely with warm, brown eyes and hair that glinted gold in the sunlight. His skin was tanned and when he saw her come into the room, he stood, betraying him as tall and muscular.

“Princess,” he breathed, a smile gracing his face. One cheek dimpled quite sweetly, causing her heart to race. “I’d heard tales of your beauty, but to see it in person is quite different.” Elain didn’t know what to say to that. 

Elain didn’t know what drew her eyes to her stepmother. Far from smiling, she looked furious. Her rage was out in full force for reasons Elain couldn’t discern. Had something happened? Was she merely placating the prince until they were alone and could explain why he was a bad match? Elain was stiff when the prince approached, falling to one knee in front of her. With reverence, he took her hand and pressed a soft kiss along the back.

“How lovely to finally meet you, future wife.”

Elain curtseyed, eyes drifting toward her angry stepmother watching the scene. Elain had a flash of memory—of her father’s very public marriage to her stepmother…and how he’d forgotten her name up at the altar. The crushing disappointment that etched itself over her lovely face, smoothed out as she reminded him her name was, in fact, Amarantha. 

Elain looked back at Graysen, heart thudding for an entirely different reason. Anxiety flooded through her chest, threatening to drown her as she realized it wasn’t that Graysen was a bad choice—but merely her stepmother’s jealousy that Elain was getting what she did not. 

“Please stand,” Elain urged him, giving the prince her full attention. “You don’t have to kneel.”

Graysen did, his expression earnest. He didn’t drop her hand, though. Not until one of his courtiers began giggling softly in the background.

“How lovely that the prince is so taken,” someone commented, pulling the two of them apart.

“Who knew the princess would be so beautiful,” came another whispered voice. 

“Yes,” her stepmother said, rising from her chair. “Our Elain is quite pretty, isn’t she?”

Somehow, when her stepmother said those words, it sounded like an insult. Elain suddenly missed Nesta, who was still tracking down Feyre at whatever school she’d been sent to. Nesta would know how to handle this, what to say to stop the whole thing. 

Elain didn’t, though. So she smiled, pretending her stepmother paid her nothing but compliments. 

“It must run in the family,” Graysen began, though he didn’t take his eyes off Elain.

“She’s only my stepmother,” Elain blurted out. The room went silent under the implication of Elain’s words. Elain didn’t dare turn. Didn’t dare move, even when her stepmother's blood red nails gripped her shoulder. 

“Come,” her stepmother murmured, squeezing so tight Elain whimpered. Graysen didn’t notice which was a small mercy. Elain wondered if she’d be punished for what she said once everyone was gone. “Let me show you Elain’s garden.”

Elain dared to take a breath when Graysen laced his fingers through her own. “Well, my lady. Lead the way.”

LUCIEN:

Being summoned by the would-be queen was the bane of Lucien Vanserra’s existence. He worked for the king, not his obnoxious, meddling wife. In the years since the queen had died, Amarantha had taken over most of his affairs. And that included Lucien. In exchange for safety within King Archeron’s realm, Lucien was bound to his every whim. He’d been young when his mothers infidelity had been revealed—little more than a boy when he’d fled to avoid being killed. 

No longer a prince, but a huntsman who kept the forest cleared of poachers. Lately, though, he’d been summoned for more personal jobs. Threats to the regime, to the queen herself. Lucien hated her—hated her vanity, how she couldn’t take her eyes off her own reflection. Her obsession with her appearance, with being young. She couldn’t go five minutes without requiring some amount of self-assurance.

“There you are,” she said when Lucien stepped into her private chambers. “Tell me, what do you think of this shade of purple?”

Ugly, he wanted to say. She was a beautiful woman, he supposed, made ugly by how vain and self-obsessed she was. There was no use in being truthful. Not when his life hung in the balance. So he smiled, swept into an easy bow, and replied, “Stunning as always, my lady.” She didn’t look at him as she reached for her hairbrush, pulling at the strands of her ruby colored hair. 

“You swore once that you would do anything required of you to keep this kingdom safe.”

“Yes.” That was true. 

“I need you to take Princess Elain out into the forest,” she began, her eyes glittering. “I want you to bring me back her heart.”

Lucien paused. “Her heart, my lady?”

Amarantha turned, her smile twisting her face into something truly wretched. “Yes, huntsman. Her heart. I require it—”

“For what?” Lucien demanded. He barely knew the princess but she seemed harmless enough. Engaged, if the rumors were true. Amarantha would have had a hand in that given how distracted her father was. She’d be gone in a matter of months—Lucien had heard that the prince was quite taken with his soon-to-be wife. 

“Since when does the kings favored huntsman ask questions when given a command?”

Lucien didn’t bother to mention she’d never asked him to carve out someone's heart before, either. 

“Fine,” he said. What did it matter, in the long run? The princess was nothing to him, but disobeying risked being sent back to Beron where he’d be executed. The princess was nothing to him. If the queen wanted her heart—and Lucien suspected she wanted it for something perverse—that was no business of his.

“Good man,” Amarantha purred, turning back to her reflection. “Take her out close to sunset. I’ll tell her betrothed she ran away.”

“And how am I supposed to convince the princess to follow me into the woods?” Lucien demanded through gritted teeth.

“You’re resourceful. Figure it out.”

Great. With a final bow, Lucien extricated himself from her bedroom and the cloying, perfumed smell she wore. Lucien made his way toward the palace gates, encountering more servants than he’d seen since before the queen had died. He supposed that was in response to the foreign prince. Couldn’t let him know just how poor they were. Lucien knew the marriage between the king and his new wife had been somewhat fraudulent. She didn’t have as much money as her family had promised.

If they’d been smart, they would have married off Nesta the minute she turned eighteen. Smarter, to let Elain go through with her marriage to a prince so smitten he’d overlook what Lucien imagined was a very small dowry. Amarantha wasn’t smart, though, and the king was still lost to grief, the likes of which he was never going to recover from.

Which left Lucien to stalk through the garden like a wolf, looking for the trembling fawn that would be his prey. Elain sat on a crumbling marble bench, eyes glassy as she stared out into the distance. All he needed was a lie to lure her out. 

“Princess,” he began, bowing at the waist. What had she done, he wondered? What horrific offense had been committed? She turned to look at him, stalling the very breath in his chest. He’d never truly looked at her, but here, framed by the golden light of late afternoon, he was certain Elain was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The memory of her voice whistling to a bird in the garden floated through his memory. Lucien was quick to banish it. 

“Lord Lucien,” she murmured, averting wide, brown eyes quickly.

Ignoring the way his gut tightened, Lucien took a breath. She must be awful, he told himself. Why else would the queen want her heart? It was too personal, the sort of trophy one took from a hated enemy.

“Lucien is perfectly fine,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “I…”

Elain turned again, a loose curl falling over her shoulder. She was lovely in that amethyst dress. His chest restricted a second time—not because she’d called him lord, but because it seemed criminal to defile her in any way. For a moment, Lucien felt revenant, an acolyte meeting a god for the  very first time. Touching her would be holy—and forbidden. 

“It’s your sister,” he lied, scrambling to think of what he knew about Elain. She and her sisters had been close—he’d often seen them together talking quietly, heads pressed together. “She is injured in the woods. I can’t convince her to return home with me but perhaps you…”

“Nesta?” Elain asked, rising quickly to her feet. It was horrific how easy it was to lure her out of the palace. 

“Yes,” he lied, fingers brushing the knife strapped against his thigh. “Will you come with me? She’s not far from here. Thrown, I think, from a horse.”

“Oh, gods,” Elain breathed. Lucien kept waiting for the mask to slip—for some hint of the evil that lay behind her beautiful face. Why else would the queen want her to die? The princess was to be married, and would leave in five short months. 

No, it must be treason, he told himself. Something so heinously unforgivable that this was the only path forward. And Lucien did as he was told, regardless of his personal feelings. If the queen wanted the princesses heart, Lucien would deliver it to her. 

“It’s easier and faster to set out on foot,” he lied. It would have been faster to set out with a horse, especially if there was an injured woman involved. Elain didn’t know any better. 

“Can you carry her?” Elain questioned, looking him over. Lucien scoffed.

“Of course I can.”

She raised her palms defensively. “I wasn’t…I just…if it's a far walk, I just thought…” 

Her cheeks bloomed pink from her embarrassment while Lucien felt guilty. Where was the monster? He wanted to see some hint of whatever had offended Amarantha so unreasonably that she’d order the king's favorite daughter executed. 

“I can manage it.”

“Nesta can be…difficult, especially if she’s scared,” Elain tried to explain earnestly, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep up with him. Lucien took a breath of crisp air, trying to steady himself. She was trusting, which would make everything easier. Lucien led her through the garden, curious now.

“Difficult?”

Elain nodded, tucking hair behind her ears. “She means well. She just…doesn’t trust easily.”

“And you do?”

Red crawled up her neck. “I…”

Lucien forced himself to smile. “Relax, princess. I’m only giving you trouble.”

Elain’s shoulders relaxed, though some of the bounciness in her step faded. Lucien pulled open the gate at the far end of the dying garden, revealing the stone path that would fade to dirt once they reached the edge of the forest. Elain hesitated.

“I’ve never been allowed to leave before,” she admitted, biting her bottom lip. 

He felt like a miserable bastard as he said, “Consider it practice for your new husband.”

Elain swallowed and then followed him out, letting the gate swing closed behind her. She smiled, unaware of how the sight eroded a little more of his confidence. He could figure it out, he told himself desperately. He could untease it simply by asking careful questions.

“So,” he began, hands fisted at his sides, “are you excited to leave?”

“Um,” she began, toying with the strands of her hair. “I suppose I am. I’m looking forward to having someone to talk to again.”

“What about your sisters?”

Lucien knew very little about the royal family, mainly by choice. He didn’t want to be involved in their lives nor did he want to draw attention to the fact that he was, technically, still a prince of a neighboring kingdom. Beron likely thought him dead—and Lucien very much wanted to keep it that way. 

“Feyre had been gone for so long…and Nesta is…” she bit her bottom lip again. “They just prefer solitude. I miss having friends.”

She was strangely pathetic. Another surge of pity speared in his gut as Lucien realized they shared this in common. He missed having friends, too. Missed his home and just feeling like he belonged somewhere. 

“Well, that’ll change soon, right?”

Elain sighed softly. “I suppose. The prince is kind, he just—” She cut herself off, looking up at him as if she’d just remembered who he was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“No, please. He just, what?”

“He just thinks I’m beautiful,” she mumbled, her whole face the shade of a tomato. It was at that moment they passed into the forest, leaving the palace in the distance. His knife against his thigh was heavy, weighing him down like rocks tied to his ankles. 

“You disagree with him?” 

Lucien didn’t. Elain was beautiful—you’d have to be blind not to see it. 

Her eyes cast toward the leaf strewn ground, kicking them up like confetti. “No, I guess not. I just…hoped…for more than that.”

“What else is there?” he asked stupidly. Shadows covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible in the remaining shafts of light peeking from the treetops. 

“Friendship,” she said quickly, her words heavy. “Love.”

Lucien didn’t know what to say to that. Silent, he let her continue.

“My parents had that before my mother died. I guess I was hoping…”

Overhead, far in the distance, thunder rumbled. It was as if the very gods themselves were watching things play out between them and warning him to stay his hand. Lucien didn’t understand and he knew, without a doubt, that if she returned home the queen would merely find someone else to carry out this task. There were plenty of people who wouldn’t be moved by Elain’s beautiful face. 

“Your father has that with your stepmother, does he not?”

She scoffed, kicking more leaves into the air. “No. He chose her out of duty, not love, and I feel so badly for her. She must be lonely, too.”

Lucien opened his mouth only to close it again. 

“I’m sure once things get settled and he becomes accustomed to me, I’ll learn more about him,” Elain continued, blithely unaware of what was happening. Lucien needed to figure something out and get her far, far from the palace. While Elain continued speaking, he began scanning the forest for anything that might help.

Deer, he decided, noting telltale marks on the trees. He’d carve out a deer heart and present it to Amarantha. She wouldn’t know the difference. Elain would have to give up her engagement and her home, but at least she’d still have her life.

Lucien had a sinking, sick suspicion why Amarantha wanted her dead. Not because Elain was a monster…but because Elain was beautiful. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but nothing else made sense to him. That was nothing to die over. Especially when it was clear she valued her own looks so little in comparison to things like friendship and kindness. 

All he had to do was scare her a little. 

“Where did you say my sister was?” Elain asked when the silenced stretched too thin between them. Lucien reached for the knife strapped to his thigh, twirling it aimlessly in his hand. 

“Will you answer me something, first?”

Elain was looking only at that blade, dull in the rapidly falling dark of the forest. The scent of rain wafted through the trees. A storm would hide her tracks. Lucien could say he left her body in the river knowing anything would be washed out to sea. 

“Lucien–”

“Why does the queen want you dead?”

Elain froze. “What?”

“What did you do, princess? Why did she ask me to cut out your heart?”

Elain scrambled away from him but Lucien was quicker. Grabbing her by the arm, he shoved her against a tree. “Tell me,” he demanded. He just needed to know the truth—needed to know if he was right. 

“I don’t know,” Elain whispered, blinking rapidly as tears began to slide down her face. “Please, I—”

“I think she’s jealous of you, princess. I think you’re about to get the life she wanted and she can’t stand to see you happy.”

“Lucien, please,” she whispered, fighting against his arm pressed just beneath her collarbone. “Please—”

“You’re going to run,” he said, lowering his mouth so only she could hear him. “And you’re never coming back. Do you understand me?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I—”

“If I find you, I’ll kill you,” he lied. If she returned, Lucien knew it would be he who died. He could no sooner bring that blade down on her than he could do it to himself. Elain swallowed, nodding her head. Tears clung to her long lashes, glittering before those wide, gold flecked eyes. He wanted to kiss them away.

Lucien stepped far from her, still holding that knife.

“Go,” he ordered.

And to her credit, princess Elain turned her back and fled.

On My Vigilante Shit Again

Summary: At the High Lords Meeting, Rhys doesn't dress for friends-He's dressed for revenge.

Read on AO3

Thank you @velidewrites for the moodboard!

Note: This is what should have happened post High Lords meeting and you can quote me on that

-

“The moment you let him fuck you like an—”

Rhys was going to explode. Was going to kill him. Laws be damned, Rhys stared Tamlin down as he ripped through Tamlin’s feeble defenses and held his mind. Just his tongue, for now. But his mind was pliant, his will weak. Rhys could so easily rip his mind apart, make Tamlin beg and plead. Make him grovel before Feyre on his knees, head bowed so low he couldn’t breathe for the marble slammed against his nose.

Rhys’s hands shook under the table, his jaw clenched so painfully he could taste blood. Had he bitten his cheek or was he merely tasting what was to come? Even as he held Tamlin’s tongue, forcing the High Lord into silence, Rhys thought it wasn’t enough. This was merely a show to the five others watching what he was capable of should they test him.

Should they insult his mate, his wife, his life. Feyre was visibly shaken, freckles stark against her gray face. Her eyes were too bright and if he really parsed through the mingling scents of the room, he knew he’d smell salt gathering in the corners. Tamlin had succeeded in undermining her at her first meeting, at the first test of power and everyone knew it. Weakness wasn’t tolerated among High Lords and they’d be circling her like vultures now, looking for more cracks.

Rhys could kill them all. His eyes flicked toward Beron Vanserra, brown eyes locked firmly on Feyre. It was a dark impulse and yet…if they wanted to test him, he’d destroy all six of them and leave their territories in ruins as their ruthless courtiers fought and killed for power. He’d let them eat themselves alive and then sweet in benevolently and take all of Prythian for Feyre. He’d lay waste to the world and set all that power at her feet.

Did they not know what Rhys would do to keep the ones he loved safe? Happy? Rhys kept Tamlin’s tongue silent for the duration of the meeting with barely a second thought. But there, in the darkest recesses of his mind—the part Feyre never ventured, in part because she didn’t think to—Rhys knew what needed to happen next. And he knew how he’d justify it when the other High Lords came to him, furious and fearful.

Tamlin had opened the gates for Hybern. He was a traitor to them all. That’s what he’d say, anyway. Some of them might guess the true reasons—Helion, certainly, who had very loud fantasies about doing worse to Beron than Rhys intended to do to Tamlin. And some might not care very much at all so long as they were reassured they were in no danger. Tarquin and Thesan, certainly, would know he was a liar and not care—Tarquin especially. Though he wasn’t fond of either Rhys or Feyre, his anger for Tamlin burned so hot that Rhys had been able to feel it in the back of his throat.

Tamlin’s foolishness had cost him more lives than Tarquin was able to count. He wanted to see Tamlin punished, too, and couldn’t for the same reason none of them could—they were forbidden from interfering in the matters of other High Lords. Rhys simply didn’t care. Stalking the halls, he listened until he found Tamlin’s pathetic thoughts.

Where did you go? Feyre’s voice floated through his thoughts, her presence caressing his own as she asked for entrance.

Rhys had never once refused her, but he did then. Go back to sleep, my love. I’ll be back before you can miss me.

Rhys, her voice carried a warning, some of the sleepiness gone. Whatever you’re thinking—don’t. Come back to bed.

I can’t.

It was the truth. They could insult him. Call him a whore, a bastard, evil, Amarantha’s right hand—whatever they liked. Rhys didn’t care. Even if they said it in front of his family in their attempt to humiliate him, Rhys didn’t care. Let them say whatever they liked about him.

But how dare they say a word against Feyre. She was the reason they were able to speak freely at all. If Rhys had his way, they’d get on their knees and worship her like a goddess, not taunt her like she was lesser. 

Rhys!

Maybe it was better to let her see—not to shut her out, but to invite her into his mind. To let her see the lengths he’d go. He’d promised her he’d do this once, didn’t he? That he’d hurt anyone who hurt her and he’d take his time doing it. He’d enjoy it.

As Rhys turned the handle to Tamlin’s door, he dropped his defenses so Feyre could slip in. He could feel her peering through his eyes, settling softly just behind his eyes. Her presence was a comfort, reassuring him that this was the right thing to do.

Rhys found Tamlin standing by a window, hands folded behind his back. When Rhys slipped inside, Tamlin turned, green eyes glowing brightly for just a moment. 

“Have you come to gloat?” Tamlin asked, teeth sharpening ever so slightly.

“Not exactly,” Rhys replied, jamming his own hands in his pockets. 

Tamlin sighed, eyes rolling in his skull. “Have you come to defend your mates honor? Spare me—she has none.”

The hair on Rhys’s neck stood on end.

Don’t, Feyre pleaded softly, her voice a shade too high pitched for his liking. He’s not worth it. 

“She’s the reason you’re standing here,” Rhys reminded Tamlin, forcing himself to remain calm. If he alerted Tamlin to his plan, he wouldn’t get to say everything he needed to say. “You owe her your life.”

“I’ve given her enough—”

“You’ve given her nothing,” Rhys snarled, his magic swirling around him like furious vipers. Tamlin didn’t blink, didn’t blanche, thinking incorrectly that Rhys was all talk and no action. 

“Are you angry about what I said or angry I had her first?” Tamlin spat, a fool to the very end. 

“When I found her locked in your home, it was only her love for you that spared you. I would have ripped you apart piece by piece otherwise.”

Tamlin turned back to the window. “She’ll betray you, too. Feyre isn’t capable of loving anything or anyone but herself and her power.”

Rhys’s stomach twisted in knots. 

“She died for you. For that love.”

“And I tried to make it up to her—”

“You locked her away like a trinket!” Rhys snarled again as Feyre pushed closer against him, talons stroking against his mind lovingly. “You were satisfied to let her waste away so long as she warmed your bed at night. If that’s love, well. I’d say I shudder to think what your hatred feels like, but I am intimately aware of how hateful you can be.”

Tamlin only sighed. “When she leaves you—and she will—I’ll be waiting for your apology.”

Rhys raised a hand as Feyre gasped softly in his mind, understanding right then what he truly intended to do. Tamlin, too, realized the danger he was in. It was too late. Immobile, Tamlin’s eyes widened as Rhys cocked his head to the side.

“You can wait for that apology in the afterlife and we’ll see, when I arrive, who was right.”

“Rhys—!” Feyre burst into the room a mere second before Rhys snapped his fingers. Blood sprayed through the room, coating not just his skin, but Feyre’s too. Where Tamlin had once stood, now there were merely the remnants of a male who’d lived a pathetic half life unworthy of memorial. 

Feyre turned, still in her silken nightdress, eyes wide. “You…”

Rhys didn’t dare back down, though he felt a sliver of genuine fear. “Yes.”

“You shouldn’t…you didn’t…” Her eyes welled with tears as she approached him. Raising a hand, Rhys flinched, expecting her to slap him. Maybe that’s what he deserved.

Soft fingers caressed his jaw. “Thank you,” she whispered. Rhys exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“You’re not angry?” he asked carefully, eyes darting around the room. There was something delicious about his mate soaked in the blood of his greatest enemy. He wanted to strip her naked and lick her clean. 

“No one has ever had me,” she whispered, inching closer. The scent of her arousal slammed into him, nearly knocking him to the floor. “Not like you.”

That was all he needed to hear. Just the knowledge that she could see his worst, ugliest impulses and still love him for it was enough. Rhys needed her right then, so badly he was unwilling to even make the walk back to their shared bed chamber. She knew it, too.

Feyre surged upward on her tiptoes, their mouths crashing in a symphony of heat. Rhys groaned, snaking an arm around her waist to pull her flush against him. 

“I need you,” he told her, unable to add that what he needed was for her to confirm what he already knew to be true. They belonged together—he’d waited his whole life for her, would have waited centuries more. And it had all been worth it, in the end—to know it was her on the other end of all those sleepless nights, the years of misery, the loneliness that had plagued him. No one understood him the way she did, had ever truly looked at his very soul and found it beautiful rather than horrifying.

“You have me,” she told him, arching her neck so he could scrape his teeth against her soft, sensitive skin. “I’m never leaving.”

What would she say if she realized he wouldn’t let her leave? That his hatred of Tamlin was almost unjustified because Rhys understood why someone would want to lock her away and keep her all for themselves. Rhys felt the same urge, felt the same drive to snarl and snap at every male that dared to look at her without showing the proper reverence. They were too casual about her, didn’t venerate her the way they should. Feyre was more than just High Lady—she was a living goddess, the Cursebreaker herself. 

“Fuck,” Rhys groaned, tongue licking a path down her throat to taste the blood adorning her skin like rubies. If Rhys had known she’d taste so good coated in another male's blood, he’d have killed Tamlin at their wedding. That scrap of silk was soaked and when Rhys ripped it away, he found the skin beneath stained red, too. Rhys needed her more than he needed anything else.

They’d condemn him for this. When they found the remnants of Tamlin, they’d smell his arousal and what he’d done atop the bits that remained. Rhys didn’t care—he hoped Tamlin’s soul lingered so he could watch how well Rhys fucked Feyre. And if Tamlin were still alive, Rhys might have told him that he’d fucked Feyre so thoroughly she had no memory of his pathetic attempts at satisfying her.

You were inadequate, Rhys wished he could say. The problem was always you and never her. 

“I can hear your thoughts,” Feyre complained as Rhys sank to his knees. “Stop thinking about Tamlin and your witty comebacks.”

“I have so many things I didn’t get to say,” Rhys complained, pushing her gently against the very same bloodstained window Tamlin had been brooding beside mere minutes before. 

“You can say them at his grave,” she reminded him. 

“You’re so brilliant,” Rhys praised. “And beautiful. And you taste…”

He had his face between her legs as he spoke the words, raising one slim leg to hook it over his shoulders. Feyre exhaled, leaning her head back so her thick hair spilled over her shoulders, the tips teasing peaked, rosy nipples. 

Rhys almost stood back up but Feyre, the clever thing, pushed his head back down. “Focus,” she whispered. He’d forgotten she was still in his mind, listening to his thoughts and watching through his eyes.

“Can you feel how badly I want you?” he whispered, letting his breath curl like shadows against her wet cunt.

“Yes,” she panted, nails scraping over his scalp. 

Rhys let go of his power, drowning the two of them in darkness. His wings flared outward, enveloping the both until she was hidden from the world unless someone happened to be flying by the window her ass was pressed against. Feyre moaned loudly, unconcerned about anyone else hearing. Good. Rhys wanted her screams to echo off the vaulted ceilings, to keep them all awake. Let them hear—let them know how far Rhys would take it. That the true power in his home was Feyre herself.

Feyre was High Lady and Rhys was her sharpened blade. 

Rhys licked up the side of the thigh, cleaning the blood before switching to the other. Feyre was practically trembling by the time he reached her center, the taste of copper mingling with the sweetness of her arousal. Rhys reached upward, using his strength to hold her so she could relax and, perhaps selfishly, so he could spread her further apart. He liked to see her flushed pink with arousal, liked to tease her with his fingers without wholly penetrating her. He wanted her desperate for his cock by the time he finished with her. Rhys teased her with his thumbs, pulling her cunt apart to rub her clit with his fingers and his tongue while Feyre writhed over him, gripping his hair so roughly she was in danger of ripping them out by the roots. Rhys was so aroused it was making him stupid, the throbbing between his legs almost painful.

But he needed to do this. Needed her to see him on his knees before her, worshiping her the way the rest of the world refused to. Besides, the taste of her was soothing something wicked and angry in his chest, calming the raging beast threatening to go on a rampage.

Feyre’s breath hitched in her chest, her free hand coming to his shoulder to stroke the edge of his wing just the way he liked. He didn’t need her to touch his cock at all to come—if she kept her cunt in his face and her hands on his wings Rhys would be spent before he ever had her grinding against him.

Still, Rhys began to work faster, tongue flat against her just the way he knew she liked. Feyre began rolling her hips against him, her orgasm building. Ride her through it—that’s all he had to do, now. Rhys liked when she used him like this, taking her pleasure without concern as to what he thought about her. Daring to press into her mind, Feyre’s arousal slammed into him with enough force to nearly knock him on his ass. 

Her thoughts were a mindless chant of one word—Rhys, Rhys, Rhys, Rhys, Rhys—

If he hadn’t been so turned on, he might have wept. Unwilling to disappoint her in the final moments before she fell over that ledge, Rhys doubled his efforts, looking up as he licked her to watch her come. Feyre was radiant, glowing like silvery moonlight as she fell apart. Head thrown back, breasts arched toward the ceiling and her skin flushed, Rhys wished he could paint so she could see herself the way he did.

“Stop,” she panted, fingers sliding from his hair to cup his face. “I can hear you, I—”

“I need you,” was all he could manage to say. He could have laid her out on the bed if he’d wanted to, taken his time. But Rhys didn’t want to. He wanted her right then, right now, and he’d have her against that window or not at all.

Feyre clawed at his clothes, drawing forth a talon to slice open his shirt. Rhys didn’t want to think about the walk of shame the pair were going to have to undertake when they were finished. Perhaps he’d call Cassian and beg his friend for a favor and endure the inevitable teasing that would happen in the aftermath. It was well worth it—Rhys couldn’t wait to tell Azriel, Mor, and Cassian that he’d slaughtered Cassian. Unlike the rest of the ruling elite, his friends would find it funny.

“Now,” Rhys told Feyre, hoisting her up so her back was flat against the window. He offered no other warning before he slid his aching cock into her body. Rhys nearly lost himself, rutting into

Feyre like the animal Tamlin claimed he was without a care or concern for the female pressed against him. Her body gripped him so tightly, still convulsing from the orgasm he’d given her with his mouth. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” Rhys whispered, biting gently against her shoulder. “Sometimes I think you were sent to destroy me.”

“You should have run from me, then,” Feyre replied as she raked her nails down his back.

“Dying at your hands would be a gift,” he said, half delirious from pleasure. All Rhys could focus on were his hips, thrusting hard enough that the window rattled in time behind them. His words were merely his unfiltered thoughts given voice because Rhys had never learned when to shut his mouth. 

“There will be no death for you,” Feyre told him, lips gliding over his jaw. “Only me.”

Rhys shuddered, holding her so tightly against him he felt her ribs groan in protest. He needed her like he needed the air in his lungs, the sun on his skin, the wind on his wings. How had he managed so long without her? Rhys could barely remember that time before, the memories tinged gray with loss. 

How much different would every horror have been if he’d had her at his side? If he knew she was at his back, bow pulled taut, gaze focused and lethal on his enemies? Rhys tried to imagine Feyre going up against his father, against Amarantha in the first war, against Tamlin and his family.

His breath stuttered at the image. Gods, they would have been unstoppable. 

“Rhys,” Feyre breathed, holding his face so he had to look at her. “Come for me.”

Rhys was everything Tamlin accused him of being, but without any shame. He was fucking her like an animal because that was how Feyre liked it. She panted, nails clawing at his tattooed skin until the smell of his fresh blood mingled in the air. He was desperate and needed to feel her come again, wanted her wrapped so tight around his cock he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, could do nothing but wait until she released him.

Snaking a hand between them, Rhys rubbed circles over her clit—it took two, maybe three before Feyre cried out, allowing Rhys the pleasure of capturing the sound with his tongue and teeth. 

Taste yourself, he ordered, thrusting into her with brutal efficiency. Feyre was pliant in his arms, her cunt just as tight as he’d hoped it would be and twice as wet. Rhys couldn’t have stopped himself even if he wanted to, coming with a snarl so loud there was no way everyone in the hall didn’t hear him.

Rhys poured himself into her, half wishing something would take. He didn’t want to stop, even when he was spent, balls empty. He could have kept going if he took a minute to catch his breath.

Feyre, too, seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“You’re so beautiful covered in blood,” she murmured, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes.

Rhys suddenly didn’t care if someone watched him carry Feyre naked through the palace. Fuck everyone.

“Come on,” he purred, pressing a soft kiss just beneath her ear. “Let's get you to bed.”

Top Shelf Love: Prologue

A/N: So, if you know me, you know that I love hockey. But if there's one thing I don't love, it's hockey romances because they are always so inaccurate that it's take you out of the story SO QUICK! Like what do you mean the captain of this NCAA D1 team is undrafted? What do you mean she magically has access to an NHL locker-room in the middle of a game? So this is my response to that! A super self-indulgent Nessian Hockey AU. For additional hockey context: Cassian is a defenseman for the NY Rangers; Rhys is a center for the Montreal Canadiens; Az is a winger for the Nashville Predators; and Lucien is a winger for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Anyways! Hope everyone enjoys this prologue and this absolute meet-ugly! Happy final day of @nestaarcheronweek

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Next Part

Nesta

Nesta sighs softly, tilting her head back against the leather of the seat. Almost instantly, she scrunches her nose, the stale scent of cigarettes, of sweat and previous occupants, flooding her senses. Eager for a distraction, she peers out the window instead. The skyscrapers loom like shadowed giants on either side of the road, a cascade of colorful lights spilling from their windows and reflecting off the wet roads, the puddles from the earlier rain. Throngs of bodies move along the sidewalks, neither the late hour or the dark clouds still clinging above deterring them clearly.

The city that never sleeps indeed.

The cab jerks to a stop along the curb, the driver not even bothering to turn around and say anything to her, merely tapping the fare display. With a roll of her eyes, Nesta fishes her wallet out of her purse to pay before finally slipping out of the cab. At least the driver pulls her suitcase from the trunk, setting it on the sidewalk beside her.

“Nesta! You finally made it!”

It takes everything within Nesta to swallow back down another sigh, takes all her willpower to force at least a hint of a smile to tug across her face. She can feel her earlier annoyance still simmering just beneath her skin, can still feel the exhaustion weighing down her bones. She’d give anything to be back in her own bed right now, anything to slip beneath her pile of blankets and curl up with a good book, but she’s here for Feyre, here to celebrate her baby sister.

So Nesta rolls her shoulders and plasters on an even wider smile before she turns around. But she should have known better, should have known that despite the physical distance between them, there’s no fooling her sisters. From the way Feyre raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching up in the barest hint of an unimpressed smirk, it’s clear she sees straight through Nesta.

“Sorry,” Nesta winces, her shoulders drooping already. “Journey from hell.”

“Sounds like you need a drink,” Elain offers with an easy smile, stepping forward and taking the handle of Nesta’s suitcase.

“Or five,” Feyre adds with a chuckle.

Nesta rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t exactly disagree. A stiff drink definitely sounds appealing after the nightmare of the day she’s had.

“I saw online that a lot of flights were just straight canceled, so I think you’re lucky to have made it at all,” Elain comments, leading the way along the sidewalk.

“I don’t know that I’d call a six hour delay lucky,” Nesta grumbles, practically shuddering at the memory of being stuck sitting and waiting in an airport for so long.

Nesta follows her sisters inside the building, but they take the elevator down, rather than up, Elain leading the way toward a black SUV. She tells her sisters more about the horrible journey as they walk. About the surprisingly long line at security. About the storms in the midwest and the delays and havoc they wreaked on all flights. About the child that seemed determined to scream for the entire five hour flight.

Once Nesta’s bags are securely locked away in Elain’s car, they return to the elevator and take it all the way up to the eighteenth floor, the doors opening with a soft ding. There’s no stopping the way Nesta’s jaw slackens as she takes it all in. A large centerpiece extends from the floor and fans out into the ceiling, the lights embedded within it casting the entire bar and its occupants in glittering golds. Live music seems to be coming from somewhere, twining and molding with the laughter, the conversations, filling the space.

But it’s the windows that really draw Nesta’s attention. Floor to ceiling windows seem to line every wall, offering a truly panoramic view of all of New York City and the Hudson. It’s a picture perfect view of the twinkling lights and night sky through the rain droplets still clinging to the panes.

“Wow,” Nesta breathes, taking it all in. “This place is definitely nicer than I was expecting.”

“If you think this is nice, you should see their venue.”

It takes a few moments for Elain’s words to register, but then Nesta is snapping her head toward Feyre. “You have a venue already? Does that mean you’ve picked a date?”

“Yes,” Feyre answers, unable to bite back her grin. “Next summer. July specifically, after Rhys’s season has ended.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit optimistic to think he’ll still be playing through June?”

“Elain!” Feyre exclaims, reaching out to smack the middle Archeron in the arm. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“What?” Elain shrugs innocently. “It’s true. I mean what’s their current record again?”

“Because the Leafs do so well when they choke every year?”

“At least they make the playoffs.”

Nesta snorts softly at her sisters’ bickering. “Since when did you become a sports fan anyways, Elain?”

“I guess Lucien’s been filling her with more than just his dick.”

“Feyre!” Elain squeaks out, her cheeks flooding with a blush.

“Darling,” a deep voice practically purrs, interrupting them. “There you are. I was wondering where my beautiful fiancée got off to.”

“Rhys, this is my oldest sister, Nesta,” Feyre offers, sidling up against Rhys’s side, her fiancé’s arm settling over her shoulders with comfortable ease.

“A pleasure to meet you at last,” Rhys greets, holding up the glass in his free hand in a mock cheers. The gesture is a bit sloppy, some of the amber liquid in the glass sloshing over the rim and spilling across his fingers, and Nesta realizes there’s a haze to his violet eyes.

“It’s an open bar,” Feyre mouths, clearly reading Nesta’s expression.

“You don’t have a drink in your hand,” Rhys suddenly says, as though he’s only just realized. “We need to fix that immediately.”

Rhys turns on his heel, pushing his way through the various guests gathered to celebrate him and Feyre without a care. Nesta rolls her eyes, but Feyre has a wide, soft smile on her face as she watches him go, eyes practically sparking with fondness. It’s clear this is the man that makes her youngest sister happy, so she can’t fault him too much.

“He’s right, you know. You do need a drink still,” Feyre says, looping her arm through Nesta’s.

Feyre leads the way toward the bar built around the large centerpiece. She leans over and gets the attention of one of the bartenders with ease, ordering what she tells Nesta is the couple's signature cocktail. It seems to be some sort of margarita, a deep blue in color with edible glitter that looks almost like stars swirling through the liquid.

“So…” Feyre starts, taking a sip of her own drink.

“So…?” Nesta echoes, although she has a strong suspicion she already knows where this conversation is going. She knows that expression on her sister’s face all too well.

“Rhys’s brothers are here tonight.”

“And you need to stop being such a busybody.”

Feyre sighs, turning so her hip leans against the bar, facing Nesta fully. “Why? I’m an excellent matchmaker. Just ask Elain…” Feyre looks over her shoulder, but frowns, turning in a full circle with her eyebrows pinched low. “Wait. Where did Elain go?”

“She and Lucien probably found some dark corner to fuck like the bunnies they are,” Nesta answers dryly. It’s certainly the trend with those two, vanishing for a few hours before appearing again with slightly mussed clothes and hair, pink often clinging to the apples of Elain’s cheeks and a wide, shit eating grin plastered across Lucien’s face.

“That just proves my point! At least tell me you stalked his Instagram or something.”

“Emerie and Gwyn did.”

Her best friends had been trying to convince her to get back out there for a month now. Even with how much time has passed since everything happened, it still feels strange. Of course, that hasn’t stopped Emerie from dragging her out to bars for trivia nights and karaoke as if they’re the best places to meet someone new. It hasn’t stopped Gwyn from trying to tempt her to start a dating profile on at least one of the plethora of app options.

It hasn’t stopped either of them from hyping her up after they spent so long helping Nesta to piece together the shattered fragments of herself, of her life, back together. It’s why Nesta loves them, why she doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

But when Feyre had suggested setting Nesta up with Rhys’s adopted brother, practically raving over the phone about what a good fit the two of them would be together, it had been like blood in the water for Emerie and Gwyn. Nesta had barely hung up with her sister by the time Gwyn had tracked down his social medias and had them displayed on the television ‘for the best viewing experience.’

Cassian Valdarez.

Any other emotions aside, Nesta can admit he’s attractive, that much was clear from the photos and videos on his Instagram. With his dark, curly hair tumbling down to his shoulders, his bright hazel eyes. He had been grinning widely in most of the photos, golden skin of his cheeks stretched and crinkles popping beside his eyes. But even the one where his lips were tugged up in a lopsided, cocksure smirk had Nesta staring.

Nesta had done a lot of staring.

Staring at the photo of him in sunglasses and shirtless, lounging casually on some sort of boat, wide shoulders and swirling lines of ink on full display. The photo of him in a locker room, dressed only from the waist down, showing off the tantalizing lines of his abs, his v-lines. The Reel of him working out, chest heaving and skin glistening, biceps bulging with every lift of the weights. The reel of him stick handling with just gloves, in a tank and shorts, the muscles and veins of his forearms working with each flick of his wrist.

“Okay, and?” Feyre’s voice draws Nesta back to the present.

“And what?”

“And what did Gwyn and Emerie think?”

Nesta sighs softly, fiddling with the stem of her glass. “I mean, they said I should go for it.”

“Ha!” Feyre exclaims, loud enough to draw the attention of a few others up at the bar. “See? I’m right. A perfect match.”

“Feyre, don’t you think—”

“Feyre, darling, I keep losing you.” Rhys slips into the space behind Feyre, wrapping an arm around her waist. He dips his head enough to press his lips to her neck before raising his gaze to peer at Nesta over Feyre’s shoulder. “Sorry. Do you mind if I steal my fiancée away for a moment?”

“Not at all,” Nesta assures him, but it’s Feyre’s gaze she meets. “I’ll be fine.”

Feyre and Rhys vanish into the crowds hand and hand, and Nesta settles at the bar, sipping her drink. Her eyes flit around, but she truly doesn’t know anyone here outside of her sisters. And despite her earlier words to Feyre, all the people, all the sounds and the lights, are starting to grate against her nerves, prickling and dragging along her skin like nails. Even downing the remains of her drink doesn’t seem to help, the alcohol only weighing heavy in her gut.

Leaving her now empty glass on the bartop, Nesta spins on her heel and stalks toward one of the walls of windows. She glances around at the different tables set up, the booths that line the windows and offer the perfect seats for the views beyond. Maybe she can find a dark corner to hide in for a few hours, or maybe, if she’s lucky, Elain and Lucien will decide they want to leave early to continue whatever they’ve started in an actual bed.

“Looking for me, sweetheart?”

The deep voice has a shiver skittering up Nesta’s spine, warm breath fanning across her ear. She spins around and comes face to face with a pair of hazel eyes, a cocksure smirk she’s only seen in photo-form before. Cassian Valdarez, in the flesh. He doesn’t even bother for subtly as his gaze rakes over her, and Nesta has to swallow hard as she tracks the way he licks his lips.

“And what if I wasn’t?” Nesta dares to ask, raising her chin.

Cassian chuckles, stepping closer into her space. “I think we both know you were looking for me. Why wouldn’t you be?”

Cassian’s hand reaches up in the space between them, snagging one of the stray strands of Nesta’s hair and twisting it around his fingers. Those same fingers skate down her neck, across her collarbones, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch traces over her shoulder and down her arm before finally closing around her wrist, Nesta’s breath hitching at the warm of his hand, the size of it, and she can do nothing but follow along as he tugs her toward one of the booths by the windows.

He lets go long enough to fall back against the cushions, for Nesta to settle beside him, but then his hands are right back on her. This time, his palm slides against the skin above her knee, fingers teasing along the hem of her dress. His other arm stretches along the back of the booth, all but curling around her shoulders as he leans into her.

“You look gorgeous in this dress, you know.”

“But let me guess, it would look better on your bedroom floor?”

“You said it, not me, but I don’t disagree.”

Nesta snorts quietly, tempted to tell him that it was wrinkled when she yanked it out of her suitcase before she awkwardly changed into it in the airport bathroom. But she never gets the chance to. Cassian lifts his hand until his fingers curl around her jaw, tilting her chin up enough that he can slot their lips firmly together.

The kiss takes Nesta by surprise, but it doesn’t take her long to respond. She moves her lips against his, Cassian’s grip on her chin holding her exactly where he wants her. When his tongue slips into her mouth, she moans softly, fisting a hand into the front of his shirt to keep herself steady and to keep him close.

Cassian pulls back just enough that he can murmur, “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Right now?” Nesta blurts out before she can stop herself. She’s certainly not opposed to the idea, but with tonight being the first time they’re meeting, she thought he might want to get to know her more first. What exactly did Feyre tell him about her?

“You know what they say. No time like the present.”

“I should probably tell my sister I’m leaving then.”

Cassian’s eyes seem to glint, even beneath the low light of the bar. “Is your sister here? Does she want to join?”

Nesta is sure that she must have misheard him. “What?”

“It could be fun. Two sisters, one hockey player,” Cassian says easily, even daring to wink at her. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Nesta can do nothing but gape at him, her mind reeling with this turn in conversation, but then it hits her like a ton of bricks. “You don’t know who I am.”

Cassian chuckles again, that cocksure smirk of his never slipping for a moment. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”

“Do you even know my name?” Nesta snaps, pulling further away from him.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that, sweetheart. All that really matters is you knowing my name so you can scream it tonight.”

“You didn’t even want to ask for it before you kissed me? You don’t even want to ask for it now?”

“Look. We both know what you came here for, what you puck bunnies are always looking for, and trust me, sweetheart. I am more than happy to give it,” Cassian offers, the way his eyes dance over her frame again nothing short of a leer. It stokes the anger flaring in Nesta’s veins higher, until it burns bright and hot.

“Wow,” Nesta scoffs, pushing up to her feet. “Fuck you.”

Nesta doesn’t even wait to hear whatever sputtering response he might give before she turns on her heel and stalks away from Cassian, pushing through bodies to put as much distance between them as she can. She’s never felt more stupid, can’t believe that she allowed Feyre to convince her that Cassian was some great guy, that the two of them would be some perfect match.

She can’t believe that she had started to believe her sister’s words, that that damned hope had started to bloom and put down roots in the gaps between her ribs.

Because of course. Of course, Cassian is just like every other guy, only thinking with the head between his legs without a single care for what happens once the sun rises. He’s exactly what Nesta expects from a professional athlete, cocky and sure of himself, expecting every girl to fall at his feet ready to worship him and suck his dick.

She finds Elain and Lucien in one of the other booths near the opposite side of windows. Elain has her legs draped across Lucien’s lap, giggling around the straw of her drink. Lucien seems to be smirking through whatever story he’s telling, his arm stretched across the back of the booth, fingers toying aimlessly with the soft brown curls of Elain’s hair.

“Can we go?” Nesta interrupts, looking between the two.

Elain blinks a few times, but then she starts nodding her head. “Of course. You’ve already had such a long day.”

Elain pushes up and to her feet, wobbling just slightly in her heels, but Lucien is there right behind her, his hands spanning across her waist to steady her. She smiles over her shoulder up at him before turning her attention to her purse, rooting around with a frown.

“Wait. Where are the keys?”

“I have them, my love,” Lucien answers, holding up the keys dangling from his fingers. He turns his attention to Nesta, offering her a wink. “Don’t worry. She’s not driving.”

Lucien slides his hand into Elain’s, leading all three of them through the party and back toward the elevators. Nesta keeps her head down as she follows behind her sister and brother-in-law, and she certainly doesn’t bother to look back. Besides, it’s not like anyone is watching her. She’s quite confident a certain hockey player has already found some other poor, unsuspecting girl to capture his attention.

And as they take the elevators all the way down to the parking garage and back to the car, she vows to herself that she’ll never think of Cassian Valdarez ever again.

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

You're the Risk, I'm Going to Take It

A/N: It's here! It's here! Happy @cassianappreciationweek lovelies! I know I for one am super excited for all the content and fun in the cards this week. We're starting out this week with a fun little ficlet! Because flying on a rollercoaster totally counts as flying, right? Hope everyone enjoys :)

Read on AO3

In Cassian’s humble opinion, an amusement park is the perfect place for a first date. The rides provide the perfect amount of excitement and adrenaline rush all while offering a built-in conversation starter, no awkward small talk or uncomfortable silences that so often seem to come with a nice dinner. The lines give the perfect excuse to chat and get to know each other in between the excitement. The thrills give the perfect excuse to hold hands. The games even give the perfect excuse for him to show off.

What’s not to love about an amusement park date?

And so when Nesta Archeron finally agreed to a date with him, an amusement park was the easiest suggestion he ever made.

Honestly, he still can’t believe Nesta even agreed to a date with him in the first place. He’d been completely enamored from the very first moment he laid eyes on her. The very first moment those icy blue eyes rolled back in her head. Mother save him, he loved making those eyes roll. He loved the adorable scowl that took over her face anytime he called her sweetheart, and he loved their teasing game of back and forth.

He loved the first time he saw her eyes truly spark, the first time he made her laugh, and he swore he’d break his own back to see that expression, to hear that sound. Again and again and again if it were up to him. He’d give anything to find out if her lips taste as delicious as they look, to find out if he can make her blush a pretty pink beyond just her cheeks. He’d give anything to get a second date.

“Is this why you said to wear comfortable shoes?” Nesta asks from the passenger seat, tearing Cassian away from his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Cassian answers easily, throwing his truck into park. He slips out of the driver’s seat, quickly jogging around to pull open Nesta’s door, but she’s already clambered out before he can. Still, he holds out his arm in offering. “M’lady.”

“Idiot,” Nesta teases softly with a roll of her eyes.

The reaction just has Cassian grinning even wider, especially when Nesta settles her hand in the crook of his elbow despite her words. He leads the way toward the front gates, pulling up the tickets on his phone, and then they’re stepping inside. There’s various families, groups of friends, and even a few other couples milling about, their voices and laughter mixing with the melody of wheels on tracks and screams from the rides. The sugary sweet scent of fried dough floats on the breeze, flooding his senses.

“So, what do you think?” Cassian asks, turning his head so he can peer down at Nesta. “Start easy and work our way up?”

“Sure.”

Despite the response, Cassian doesn’t miss the way Nesta keeps her face forward, the way there’s not a single slip to her expression as though she’s purposefully keeping it neutral. Cassian tilts his head, curious what could cause such a reaction, but before he can ask, Nesta snaps her attention fully to him, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

Cassian chuckles easily and shakes his head, leading them both down the winding path and toward the large, wooden rollercoaster of the park. Luckily, the line is quite short, and they barely have to wait at all before they’re sliding together into one of the cars. Cassian pulls the black bar down over both their laps before slinging his arm across Nesta’s shoulders, offering her a winning smirk.

“Ready, Nes? If you need to hold my hand, you don’t even have to ask.”

“What am I? Five? Why would I need to hold your hand?”

Cassian gives her shoulder a teasing squeeze. “Because of all the turns and drops? Because I’m so attractive you can’t keep your hands to yourself?”

Nesta scoffs, driving her elbow right into Cassian’s gut hard enough that he lets out a pained gasp, curling forward over his knees. Of course, it’s at that exact moment that the ride goes rocking forward, the cars pulled along the track and up the large first hill. As the cars go cresting into the first drop, Cassian throws his arms up, laughing through every twist, every swoop of his gut as they go flying over another hill. By the time the ride is pulling back to the beginning, he feels breathless.

Breathless and ready for another.

He leads Nesta to the other wooden rollercoaster in the park, the one with two tracks that ‘race’ one another, and when they’re finished with that ride, it’s on to their first steel rollercoaster of the day. Cassian is buzzing as he secures the safety over his thighs, but when he glances toward Nesta in the seat beside his own, her grip on the metal handles is white knuckled. Her fingers flex as the ride operator begins his teasing introduction spiel, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“Alright, sweetheart?” Cassian leans over as best he can to ask.

“I’m fine,” Nesta snaps, not even bothering to meet his eyes.

Cassian doesn’t believe her for a second, but before he can ask again, the ride starts, the only sound filling his ears the click of the track as they climb up and up followed by the rush of wind as they crest into the first drop. But when the ride ends, he focuses his attention back on Nesta. On the way her shoulders slump almost in relief when she gets off the ride and her feet are back on solid ground. On the way she takes a deep almost steadying breath before pushing through the exit gate. On the way she holds her spine straight as steel like she can feel his attention as he follows her down the path and back into the main part of the park.

“Which ride next?” Nesta whirls on him to ask before he can utter a word.

“Are you afraid of coasters?” Cassian asks anyway.

“No,” Nesta answers too quickly, crossing her arms. “Why would I be afraid of rollercoasters?”

“You could tell me if you were. We could–”

“I’m not.”

Nesta raises her chin, her blue eyes blazing and narrowing on him. Daring him. I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast, that was what he named this look of hers. One of many that he has named in the time since he’s known Nesta. And in that time, he’s also learned just how stubborn she can be, that iron will and pride one of the many attributes of hers he loved.

“Aright,” Cassian concedes with a shrug. “Let’s go big then. Do the one with the big drop and all the loops.”

“Great.”

Cassian presses his lips together to keep from smirking. “Great.”

Nesta is quiet as they wait in line for their turn, and Cassian wonders if she’s trying to mentally psych herself up for the rollercoaster. He watches her carefully, waiting for the cracks to show, for her to finally cave and admit the truth. But perhaps he truly is underestimating her and her unwillingness to yield.

“Last chance,” Cassian offers when the small gate swings open, indicating it’s their turn to step onto the ride.

Nesta doesn’t even bother deeming him with a response. She strolls right through the small gate and to the first open seat of the ride for their row. She hops up into the seat, quickly pulling down the shoulder restraint. Cassian shakes his head with a chuckle, stepping over to the seat beside her and doing the same.

“Hold hands?” Cassian suggests again, holding his hand out palm up.

“I don’t need to hold your hand,” Nesta bites out. “I told you, I’m not scared.”

Cassian puts on his best pout, wiggling his fingers. “But what if I need to hold your hand? Please, Nes?”

Nesta makes a big show of sighing, but she carefully releases her grip on the metal handle of the shoulder restraint. Her fingers slide between Cassian’s own, and he curls his, daring to slide his thumb across her skin with a wide grin.

It’s at that exact moment that the ride surges forward, going from zero to seventy miles per hour just as the rollercoaster’s tagline promises. Nesta’s scream is blood curdling, her grip on his hand tightening enough that he actually winces. As they go soaring through the first loop, he chances a glance toward her, but he finds Nesta with her eyes squeezed shut, face scrunched in fear.

The high speed has the ride ending before Cassian knows it, laughter echoing from the seats behind them and a ‘whoop’ coming from a guy in one of the front row seats. But Nesta still has her eyes closed, still has a death grip on his hand, even after the ride comes to a full stop and the shoulder restraints release with a quiet whoosh.

“You have to let go of my hand now, sweetheart,” Cassian leans over to whisper.

It takes a moment, but slowly Nesta’s fingers uncurl and she pulls her hand away. She hops down from the seat, stalking toward the exit without a glance backward. Cassian is quick to jog after her, slinging his arm around her shoulders when he catches up.

“You know, that was quite a scream for someone not scared,” Cassian comments teasingly.

“Shut up. I hate you,” Nesta snaps, shrugging out of his hold and continuing forward.

“Come on, Nes.” Cassian continues after her, moving in front of her and halting her steps. “I’m sorry, okay? No more coasters, I promise.”

Nesta continues to watch him dubiously, those blue gray eyes still narrowed, but her shoulders relax at least. Cassian steps closer into her space, reaching up for one of the stray strands of hair that’s come free from her updo through the rides and now tumbles down along her temple. He twists it around her finger, tugging until that scowl finally vanishes, until the corners of her lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile.

“Forgive me?” Cassian requests, giving in to his own soft smile that he knows there’s no point trying to fight.

Nesta hums, clearly intent on denying him, but she can’t hide the spark in her gaze that gives her away. The reaction has Cassian laughing and shaking his head fondly. She’ll be the death of him, and he’ll die happy.

He glances around, spying one of the game booths just down the path from them. With a decided nod, he starts to walk backwards from Nesta, holding his arms out and shrugging in faux innocence. It earns him an eye roll, and he knows he’s won, finally turning full around and stepping up to the booth.

He hands over the money to the worker, awkwardly settling onto one of the low stools despite his tall frame. He squints at the small target, moving the water shooter up and down until he’s confident he has the right aim.

“I expect the biggest prize,” Nesta tells him from his left.

And Cassian intends to give her nothing less. As soon as the bell sounds for the game, he presses down the little red buttons with a single minded focus. He doesn’t spare even a glance toward the kids sitting to his right that he’s playing against. He doesn’t even bother to think about them. He stays focused on his target until the winning bell rings out, the lights flashing above his station.

“Let’s go,” Cassian cheers, pumping his fist and jumping up from his seat. He points toward the prize he wants, a large purple narwhal plushie, that the worker hands over, and then he whirls back toward Nesta, presenting it with a wide smirk. “M’lady.”

“You’re an idiot.”

She says the words, but she still laughs softly as she does, still takes the plushie to hug close to her chest. It’s a sight and a sound that has Cassian’s heart stuttering and blooming with warmth between his ribs. Has him grinning wide enough that he’s sure he really does look like an idiot. Not that he cares. Especially when Nesta leans closer, pressing up onto her toes and kissing him on the cheek.

“And now you’re forgiven, but no more rollercoasters.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies @freakingata

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

The pikis returned that evening and though they tried, Feyre refused to speak to either of them. Why, when they’d turn around and tell the horde king everything she said should it benefit them. Perhaps they were angling for a chance in his bed? 

Unlikely.

Nuala, with cheeks flushed with what Feyre assumed was embarrassment, spoke to her anyway. She explained the roles of pikis in-depth, perhaps thinking it would engender Feyre to her. As she bathed Feyre, she said pikis served the wives of the horde warriors, which made no sense to Feyre. She wasn’t the horde king's wife—she was his whore. 

It was apparently a custom for unmarried women—females, as they called themselves—to do this in order to attract a mate of their own. The unclaimed males would see how well they did, that the horde king had hand chosen them for his plaything, and apparently it made the other warriors find them marriageable. Feyre couldn’t imagine how, and part of her wanted to explain how humans did it.

There had been true customs in the past—she knew her father had courted her mother with money and gifts before they’d dated for a period of time, and then they’d married. Now, though, it was simpler. For either love or security—sometimes both—partners were chosen. There was no grand ceremony, no one to perform the rites. It typically happened among families behind closed door. One day they lived separately, the next they were together. 

Had Elain already reached out to Graysen, she wondered? He had connections to the federation—perhaps he could get her off the planet. Maybe Nesta would go, too. The thought made Feyre’s chest ache. She didn’t want to be left here alone, used up and discarded before dumped back in the village she hated.

She’d never get off. 

Feyre kept her eyes down as the piki prepared her for the brute she was saddled with. This was the promise she’d made him—and it was too much to hope he’d honor his word and not touch her until she healed. She supposed the piki had also told him she refused the salve. Perhaps he’d only said it to lower her guard, knowing he’d go back on his word just as soon as it suited her. 

When a mirror was held before her painted face, Feyre hated what she saw looking back. She barely looked human, let alone alive. Once again, Feyre thought she looked like a heathen gods plaything in her sheer night dress that covered nothing. The piki had somehow managed to set soft waves into her hair and made her face seem brighter despite the hollow hunger she could see gazing from her eyes. 

She doubted the horde king cared much about her own desire or interests beyond getting what he wanted. Still. Once it was done a few times, he might tire of her entirely. She couldn’t imagine, with a horde of women his own species to choose from, he’d stay interested in her for long. 

The piki left just as the sun had fully set, leaving Feyre kneeling on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down. She had but minutes before he arrived, and she intended to take advantage of it. She didn’t trust him not to hurt her, to maybe even kill her in the pursuit of pleasure. The horde king was careless—there were several sharp, curved daggers half hidden around his tent. Feyre stole one, sliding it beneath her pillow.

Just in case, she told herself.

The flaps moved just as she’d righted the pillows. Kneeling on the furs, she hoped she looked demure and submissive and not guilty. She certainly felt it. He seemed wary looking at her—perhaps it was the uncharacteristic silence she greeted him with. 

“I’m tired,” he announced. Feyre felt her irritation rise, though she swallowed it. 

Grit your teeth and bear it. 

She knew what to expect, at least. Did the Drakkari use any kind of protection, she wondered? Feyre had wedged half a lemon into her body before letting Isaac have her. Something told her the horde king wasn’t going to allow that. What would he do if she ended up with a half Drakkari, half human child?

She shoved the thought from her mind. Feyre very much doubted they were compatible that way. Surely this man—male, whatever—wasn’t the first to take a human woman. If it was possible, Feyre would have heard by now.

He dropped his belt without ceremony, turning toward her as she raised her eyes to look at him. He was trying to get a rise out of her, to provoke a little temper. Did he want her to fight him?

She wouldn’t. Not unless she had to, anyway, just to ensure she remained unrestrained for as long as possible.

“This was not how I imagined this moment,” he murmured as he came to stand before her. “Will you speak to me, kalles?”

“What do you want me to say?” she replied, hating how her voice betrayed her. “Take me, horde king, my body is yours?”

He cocked his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You’ll never hear those words,” she scoffed, hands forming fists at her side.

“You are mine,” he snarled in return, clearly frustrated. It had been a day, she wanted to scream—a day in which he’d examined her naked body, pinned her against him and forced her to eat, and dressed her up like his personal pet. Did he genuinely expect her to fall to her knees in gratitude?

Looking up at him, it was clear he did. For a moment, it occurred to Feyre that he might think he’d rescued her from her previous circumstances. It was arrogant of him to assume he’d saved her at all—that she’d required his presence, that he’d fixed her life.

All he’d done was made her more miserable than she already was. Feyre loathed seeing how the Drakkari lived, with all their opulent excess. No one was hungry here. Everyone was absurdly clean, they were safe, they were happy. She seethed with her resentment that she wasn’t even allowed to participate in it—only ever witnessed as an outsider, forced to obey the whims of truly cruel man.

Feyre only shrugged her shoulders before laying flat on her back with exaggerated boredom. She’d hoped to get away with not undressing, but he’d caught her.

“Stand, Morakkari,” he murmured, a strange reverence seeping into his tone. Morakkari. What did that mean? Feyre sat up, trying to hide her frustration as she did what he wanted.

“You swore to serve me,” he murmured, standing before her utterly naked. Feyre was trying not to notice his erect cock but it was hard. Even with her eyes fully on his face, she could see it bobbing from the corner of her eye. Must everything about him be so excessive? So large? 

Feyre lifted her chin, the little defiance she could offer when the odds were so against her. The horde king reached for her shoulders, brushing his fingers over the sheer material of the gown.

“Do you like this?”

“It’s clothes,” Feyre replied with a shrug. In truth, it was likely the nicest thing

His mouth dropped immediately, his frown prominent. “What would please you?”

Feyre didn’t dare answer that question to the naked male standing in front of her. “Just tell me what you want.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Take off your nightdress,” he ordered, removing his hands from her. His slow seduction had been ruined by her refusal to play along, but Feyre preferred it this way. The less touching, the better. Feyre dropped it, letting him once again look at her. There should have been lust—and perhaps there was—but it made her uncomfortable to see his concern.

“You didn’t eat today.” It was an accusation.

“And I never will,” she replied, heart pounding in her chest.

“I’ll give you something, if you do,” he said, catching her off guard. 

“What could you possibly give me?” she demanded, certain what he was offering hung between his legs. 

He seemed guarded—almost wary, as he said, “What do you want?”

Feyre considered this for a moment. “Anything?”

His brows furrowed, creating two creases between his eyes. “Do not order me to kill myself, kalles.”

Feyre hadn’t even considered that. Indignant, she said, “I wasn’t going to! I was going to ask…”

Feyre bit her inner cheek as he dared a step toward her, seemingly forgetting they were both naked. The Drakkari seemed more casual when it came to nudity—perhaps this was simply familiar to him. It seemed strange to Feyre, though. Intimate in a vulnerable way, even. Resisting the urge to cover her chest, Feyre said, “I want to know your name.”

He cocked his head, considering this. “Names have power, kalles. Are you asking to have power over me?”

“I just want to know what to call you.”

“No one can ever know,” he replied, perhaps assuming she was going to announce it to everyone she met. Maybe she would, if she felt so inclined, though some small sliver of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. 

“Who would I tell?” Feyre heard herself say, voice small and sad. “I only know you.”

There was a pause. “If I tell you my name, you’ll eat?”

“Broth only,” Feyre informed him, thinking he’d lay out a massive spread she’d never be able to finish without vomiting. Besides, she still felt guilty when she looked around at how nice everything was here, even if he was about to push her to the bed and have his way with her. 

“You’ll eat the portion I serve you?” he demanded. There was a trick to it, though Feyre was too tired to figure it out.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He swallowed, as if it pained him to say this. Perhaps it was just unusual given no one shared names, except for herself. Or maybe this was some kind of violation, telling his stolen whore his name only to have it used against him.

“My name is Rhysand,” he finally said, the words coming so softly that they felt like a dream. “But you, Morakkari, should call me Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she whispered, catching how his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “What happens now?”

“Exactly what I promised,” he said, though he hesitated as he looked down at her. “I’m…”

“Yes, horde king?” she pressed, certain he wasn’t going to now. He should, though. This was too intimate, too soft. Push her to the bed—force himself on her. At least she could go back to thoroughly hating him then. It would be so easy. 

He sighed, crouching for her nightdress. Feyre didn’t dare move as he fixed the fabric before sliding it over her head. Like a child, she held her arms up to get them into the sleeves. “Sleep with me tonight,” he murmured, climbing into the bed utterly naked. Feyre stood there dumbfounded.

“What about—”

“Veekor, kallas,” he murmured, reaching for her. “Sleep.”

He was warm, his hold strong. Feyre let him pull her against his chest, a million questions running through her mind. “Can I ask you other things?”

He groaned. “In the morning.”

Feyre felt him angle his pelvis away from her, well aware his cock was still rigid. It was a small gesture he didn’t need to make and it bothered her. “I have questions.”

“Yes, your questions are endless, I imagine,” he replied, his mouth in her hair. “I want to hear them. In the morning.”

“What did you do that made you so exhausted?” she demanded.

“I spoke with you. That’s enough.”

She twisted to find his unserious face smiling down at her. “You’re rude.”

“So you say, kalles.”

“Would you call me Feyre?” she asked him after a moment. “Where I’m from…female is an insult.”

He paused. “But you are a female.”

“No, I’m a woman,” she protested as he snorted.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. When…when human men want to put women back in their place and remind us we’re lesser, they call us females. It’s how you’d describe an animal. They’re more…elevated, I guess? But we’re little more than cattle.”

Rhys blinked. “Why would they want you to believe you’re lesser?”

“The same reason you took me to be your whore, I guess? Power?”

Rhys sat up quickly, the fur covering his body sliding to his waist. “My what?” he demanded, tone thundering. 

“Your whore,” Feyre repeated, careful to keep her tone even. “Remember when you exchanged my sisters life in favor of servitude—”

“I never said whore,” he replied, those violet eyes flashing. He was so strange to her right then with his tail, tattooed gold right before the little tuft at the end. Those dark, nearly colorless eyes were staring so intently that Feyre thought he could see right down to her bones if he wanted to.

“You said kasikkari,” she reminded him. “Whore.”

He spluttered then, murmuring what sounded like both curse and prayer to his goddess “It does not mean whore.”

Feyre stilled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought this up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperately wanting to avoid whatever came next. “We should—”

“It means mate,” he continued, determined she would hear him. “Blessed by Kakkari herself.”

“Rhys—”

“Not my whore. My mate, my wife, my Morakkari—my queen.”

Feyre was going to be sick. In a way, that was the best she could have hoped for, and yet…Feyre’s mind turned immediately to a man Nesta had a brief flirtation with—Tomas Sr. and his wife. He’d beaten her behind closed doors, taking his every little frustration out on his wife and no one had ever said a word because wives were the property of their husbands.

And she was the property of the horde king. Tomas had no power at all and still was allowed to do whatever he liked. The people here couldn’t even look at Rhys. If he wanted to harm her, who was going to help her? Her own piki told him everything she said. She had no friends, no allies.

Feyre felt her chest rising and falling, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. He was going to kill her, she realized. There was no escape, no way she’d convince him to let her go back home once he tired of her. All her plans were crumbling around her because wives couldn’t leave. 

She felt his hand on her back, rubbing a line down her spine as he murmured something she couldn’t hear. Blood roared in her ears and right then, Feyre was determined to escape, no matter the cost. She had the weapon under her pillow. She could wait until he was asleep and kill him before escaping on foot. She’d lay low for a while—maybe in the mountains? 

“Don’t touch me,” she managed, pulling further away from him. “Don’t ever touch me.” His jaw clenched, eyes going dark, but Rhys said nothing. Feyre gripped her knees, chin tucked against her chest as she worked to settle her racing heart. 

You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re safe.

It was an old mantra she’d repeated from the time she was young. It didn’t need to be true to settle her down, it just needed to be repeated. Feyre had never been safe a day in her life, and she certainly wasn’t here. But she had herself, and Feyre had never let herself down. Not when it mattered.

Rhys settled back to the bed, covering himself while he waited for her to make a decision. Every inch of him was taut, coiled like a waiting spring. He expected her to try and run and was prepared to grab her. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She knew better. It was pure hell to force herself to lay beside him, rolling to her side so her back faced him.

She heard him huff out a breath, like he wanted to say something before thinking better of it. Smart. Feyre knew if he tried to talk to her, her temper would get the better of her and she’d give away the only card in her hand. 

Just breathe.

“Feyre—”

“Not tonight,” she snapped, silencing him entirely. “Sleep, remember?”

He huffed again, clearly not used to being told what to do. He was silent, his breath steadying as Feyre laid beside him, counting slowly in her head in an attempt to make it seem like she was sleeping. Once, she’d started to move to her back and he’d made a soft noise, reaching for her before Feyre slapped his hand away.

If he felt it, he gave no indication. His breathing was even and slow and didn’t budge even when, this time, Feyre did move. She tested how deep he slept by sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. His eyes remained closed, his face soft. She almost didn’t believe this man—male—slept at all.

Pulling her legs back to the bed, Feyre reached beneath her pillow for the Drakkari blade. The metal sang softly against the scabbard it was sheathed in, causing her to suck in a breath as her heart pounded. Had he heard? 

Rhys didn’t move. 

Feyre crept closer, thinking of the people she’d killed in her village. She knew how to end a life, now. One decisive slide against his throat would keep him from screaming, and a second to his chest—piercing the hard breastplate—would stop his heart. He’d be dead before he knew what was happening, and she’d have the necessary head start to avoid his warriors. 

Still, her hand trembled as she brought that curved blade to his throat. Unlike the dagger that had been taken from her, this one was sharp—capable. Feyre took a breath, willing herself to move, but her vision was flooded with the sight of red blood as the echoes of the gasping filled her senses.

Fingers curled around her wrist. “Have I displeased you, kasikkari?”

His grip was iron-clad, keeping her from cutting him open but also preventing her from moving away. She’d been so lost in her memories that Ferye hadn’t noticed his eyes had opened and he was watching her. 

“I’m not your wife. Not yet,” Feyre hissed, trying to jerk back. The blade made contact with his throat, causing a thin line of flood to slide over his golden brown skin. The horde king didn’t react. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed, but Feyre did. 

“Where have you gone, kasikkari?” he whispered, his gaze burning against her skin. “I know that look.”

Feyre hated him for noticing. No one else ever had. Feyre tried to pull back but he was stronger, yanking her forward until he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His free hand held her in place, and fuck him, he was erect and pressed against her body. The only thing between them was her night dress, so thin there might as well be nothing at all.

Feyre’s body responded against her will and she knew he felt the rush of heat that flooded between her legs.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she snarled in response. 

“You swore to serve me in all things,” he reminded her, darkness creeping into his tone. “Answer me.”

Feyre managed to break free from his hold, falling off the bed as she did so. The knife slid from her hand and she could have impaled herself on the sharp blade had Rhys not caught it easily, flinging it across the room. The blade hit one of the golden chests at the far end of the tent, clattering loudly. 

“I didn’t swear to tell you all my thoughts!” Feyre replied, her voice rising in anger.

“You will do whatever I ask you to!” he growled, rising from the bed like a terrifying, dark king. Feyre was almost afraid of him at that moment, even when she reached for her sandal lined on the floor nearby. His eyes flashed. “Do not do whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, launching the sandal at his face. Rhys caught it easily, tossing it to the side as he advanced toward her. Feyre threw her other shoe, which he batted away from his face without blinking. “I’ll always hate you.”

“You will be my wife,” he breathed, reaching for her. Feyre stumbled back, nearly at the flap of the tent. “My queen! I will fill you with my heirs and you will bear warriors for the horde, and you will like it!”

“I agreed to be your whore!” she shot back, screaming her words loud enough that anyone near them could easily hear. “I never agreed to be your wife or your queen! You may have my body, but you can have nothing else!”

“Know this, kasikkari,” he breathed, reaching for his discarded trousers instead of her. “When the Black Moon rises, you will be my wife and I will have you in all ways—your body and your mind.”

He stormed from the tent, unconcerned with his nakedness. Feyre didn’t bother chasing after him to tell him he was wrong. Maybe he would get her body, but he’d never have her mind. Feyre would fight him until she died. 

Rhys didn’t return that evening and Feyre didn’t sleep, waiting for a continuation of their argument. Instead, the piki were back, regarding her with wary eyes as they coaxed her into the bath. Remind her of her promise to the Vorakkar, they brought a massive bowl of broth for her to consume. It was nearly too much and yet a welcome reprieve from nothing at all. 

She barely finished it, protesting when she had a third left. The piki merely regarded her without sympathy, informing her the Vorakkar would be displeased if she didn’t. He’d given her his name—this was the bargain between them. Feyre did, strangely satisfied by the end of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been full. 

“I’m not wearing that,” Feyre informed them when the small skirt was brought out. “I’d rather walk around naked.”

That was a lie, but the piki weren’t Rhys. They weren’t about to call her bluff, either. After they realized she would not put the clothes on, even with cajoling and several threats to get the Vorakkar, the two left, she assumed to bring him back so he and Feyre could have another go at each other. 

Instead, a different woman stepped into the tent. She had similar features to Rhys—and was easily just as beautiful. Feyre had never seen hair so blonde on Drakkari before, but this woman’s cornflower hair fell in glossy waves down her back. Her eyes were closer to the Drakkari gold so many others had, though a shade darker—almost brown. They reminded her of her sister Elain, if she was honest. 

“Hello,” she said in a sunny voice. 

Feyre was immediately suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Morrigan,” she said without an ounce of concern she’d shared her name with Feyre. “Do not tell me yours.”

“Because names have power?” Feyre asked in a huff. Morrigan smiled, a pretty thing even in the gloom of the tent.

“Exactly. You’re learning. I heard you refuse to wear the clothes I provided for you?”

Oh, was that what this was about? She’d offended the seamstress? “You made the clothes?” 

Tail swishing behind her, Morrigan looked around the tent. “And lent you some, yes. I saw the rags you came in with—I burned them, by the way.”

“Of course you did,” Feyre replied through gritted teeth. “And my dagger?”

“Some of the young are playing with it,” she said dismissively, eyes flicking toward the flap of the tent. “It’s not dangerous.”

“It was all I had.”

“That’s sad,” Morrigan replied, back to examining Feyre. “I would be surprised if the blade could slice through butter.”

“Did you come to insult me?”

“Why not?” Morrigan replied with a shrug, her gaze flicking toward the golden chests before turning back to look at Feyre fully. “You insult the horde so well. My cousin is unwilling to give you any back, but I am not so kind.”

“How have I insulted the horde?” Feyre demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Morrigan’s clawed, six-fingered hand unfurled so she could tick off the insults. “I hear you will not eat. You do not wear our clothing, you shout at our Vorakkar, you hide in this tent all day and night making your demands, you have—”

“He kidnapped me!” Feyre nearly exploded.

Morrigan wasn’t impressed. “You disrespect our goddess Kakkari, burn the land and then lie when our warrior come to repay the goddess. Lie, even. And then, I hear, you swear to serve only to turn around and act ungrateful for the mercy of my horde. Or do I misunderstand? I speak the universal tongue best of us all…but sometimes I do not get it right.”

“I agreed to be his whore—”

“Ah, yes, we all heard that,” Morrigan replied, tail swishing angrily behind her. “You are content to be a whore but not a queen. Humans are so curious—I should think being a respected member of our horde would be better than…that. But enlighten me, kallas. What is so offensive about becoming Morakkari?”

“I don’t want to be his wife,” Feyre retorted stubbornly, feeling a little shamed by Rhys’s apparent cousin. She saw it, then—the similar features, the near-otherworldly beauty. Even the way she conducted herself screamed royalty. Though if she was or not, Feyre wasn’t sure. She didn’t understand how someone became a horde king to begin with.

“Have a lot of suitors back in your human village?” Morrigan asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “Perhaps someone who puts our Vorakkar to shame? I would be careful if I were you—he’s likely to end them if he learns your feelings lay elsewhere.”

Feyre wanted to sink into the ground. “There’s no one else.”

“Then explain it all to me,” Morrigan replied, plopping down on one of the large cushions beside the table. “Perhaps I can ease some of your worries.”

Feyre stayed standing just long enough for Morrigan to huff out an impatient sigh. “Sit,” she ordered, and something in her voice compelled Feyre to comply. She left space between them, just in case Morrigan decided to attack her. Those claws, painted gold, seemed deadly enough. 

“I came to save my sisters. I thought…” Eyes cast downward, Feyre didn’t dare admit what the female beside her was piecing together.

“You thought you’d let him bed you a few times, he’d grow tired, and let you go?” she guessed. 

“Yes,” Feyre whispered, embarrassed by the whole thing. “Men have never been interested in me. I thought he simply wanted to punish me.”

“Males have never liked you?” Morrigan asked with slight disbelief. “Human males are blind, I suppose? You have been all the horde warriors have spoken of since we arrived—the human kalles and her great beauty. Well…and how you looked the Vorakkar in the eyes.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Feyre demanded.

“It isn’t done,” Morrigan replied casually, reaching across her chest into the satchel she’d brought. She pulled out a long strip of folded leather and laid it out in front of her. “I suppose the Morakkari is allowed. But the rest of us would be showing great disrespect to look him in the eyes.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” she said with a playful smile. “Though, he tolerates it on occasion. When we were children, I used to do it simply to remind him he wasn’t that special.” Feyre tried—and failed—to hide her smile. She didn’t want to like Morrigan.

“Is that why no one will look at me?”

“It is,” Morrigan agreed. “It would be disrespectful to you and our Vorakkar. I hope you don’t mind—”

“Please,” Feyre said, a little embarrassed by how badly she wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t so deferential. “At least…in private, it would be nice. Humans look each other in the eye to convey respect.”

“Interesting,” Morrigan replied, eyes shining. “And they take whores before they take wives?”

“Noooo…” Feyre dragged out the syllables, because she didn’t know how to explain that marriages as they’d once been simply didn’t exist here. “It’s complicated.”

“So you say,” Morrigan replied, sliding a razor between her teeth as she drew across the leather with a piece of white chalk. “Most things aren’t that complicated.”

“Oh yeah? Like the Vorakkar taking a human for a wife?”

“Exactly,” Morrigan said, words muffled. She pulled it out, urging Feyre to stand so she could measure her hips, waist, and legs. “He decided he would take a wife and that wife is you. Simple.”

“And everyone agrees with his decision?”

Morrigan grimaced. “Nik, they do not. But he is the Vorakkar, so he will do as he wishes.”

“And if people decide to leave?”

“They’re free to return to Dothik if they wish. No one here is a hostage…except, perhaps, you in your mind. They won’t, though. Everyone here would gladly follow the Vorakkar anywhere, even if he has a human Morakkari. They might even like you if you stopped screaming at him and left the tent.”

“Or they’d hate me more,” Feyre said glumly, not bothering to add that nearly everyone else in her life did. Even her sisters didn’t truly like her—seeing Nesta speak out in her defense had been shocking and unexpected. If she’d been Elain, perhaps it would have been different, but Feyre and Nesta had always been at odds.

“I like you,” Morrigan informed her cheerfully, jotting some things down on the leather with the white chalk. “And I came prepared to hate you.”

Feyre sat back down gingerly, her body measured for whatever Morrigan was putting together for her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you know of our goddess? Kakkari?”

“Very little,” Feyre admitted, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Morrigan pulled out heavy thread from her bag and a curved needle, threading it with deft fingers.

“Kakkari is all life,” she began in that soft, lilting voice of hers. “Think of her as the earth—all life comes from her. She is steady and solid. Her counterpart is Drukkar, who is her foundation. If she is steady and forgiving, he is the opposite. Violent storms, punishing droughts, unrelenting heat—all is Drukkars wrath. And still, Kakkari always opens for him and accepts him, and in return he loves her, protects her, and punishes all that would harm her.”

Feyre only blinked. Humans had once had gods, too, though she figured they’d been destroyed along with her planet. She didn’t know the stories anymore. Nesta did, and sometimes clung to them when they were younger, praying to this god or that, for all the good it did any of them. It all felt like stories meant to explain a confusing and harsh world.” It was clear that the Drakkari believed in their gods, though. Feyre kept her mouth shut.

“The Vorakkar is much like Drukkar,” Morrigan said when it was clearly Feyre had missed the subtleties. “He is still a male.”

Again, the whole conversation was lost on Feyre. “Oh. Okay.”

“If you want things from him, open up for him,” Morrigan explained, all but spelling it out for Feyre. She laughed to herself, shaking that head of golden hair “Drakkari males worship their females.”

“Rh—the, uh, Vorakkar doesn’t…”

Morrigan glanced over, pressing her lips into a line as Feyre’s mind betrayed her. She’d held a knife to his throat and he’d simply tossed it to the side. He’d threatened to have his way with her twice and stopped, both times because she was hurt and frightened. Even last night after their fight, he’d left rather than push her further.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Morrigan replied with a shrug of delicate shoulders. 

“Gone?” Feyre demanded. 

“Yes, gone. Out with some warriors. And do not ask me when he will return because that is something you should know. I am certain he will return—the Black Moon is nearly upon us. He won’t want to miss it.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” she said glumly.

“He’s ordered a tassimara,” Morrigan said, before quickly explaining it was something equivalent to a marriage. It seemed to be more of a festival than anything, but he’d make his intentions known then and there would be no argument or debate from anyone. The emphasis Morrigan put on that word implied that Feyre, too, would keep her mouth shut as well. 

Morrigan left not too long after that, promising to have a decent compromise for Feyre in the form of a pair of pants. Maybe she’d feel better if it was only her breasts that were exposed rather than all of her. Feyre turned over Morrigan's words—who later insisted she call her Mor—for the two nights Rhys wasn’t home. Heart pounding, she’d begun to think he wasn’t coming at all.

That something might have happened to him and she’d be trapped here in a hostile place, with no friends or allies save for his cousin.

But the night before the infamous Black Moon, she heard the ground thunder beneath the feet of the pyroki. Feyre stepped into the cold evening air, ignoring the chill to watch the eight of them ride in.

There he was.

The man who would be her husband. Their eyes locked for only a moment before he trotted on. He’d be in to see her soon.

And she’d be ready. 

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XVIII

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Lucien adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, wanting to look his absolute best during the dinner his father had decided to personally invite him to. 

The corridor was empty and quiet, Eris was his only company as they both waited for Elain to finish getting ready for the evening. Lucien could sense she was equally as nervous to be spending more time with his family. 

He bit the inside of his cheek as he straightened his jacket. 

“Stop worrying,” Eris snapped, voice cold and uncaring, as if he could not be bothered to reassure his youngest brother. Lucien thought It sounded more like an order than an attempt to settle him. 

He sighed as he faced the High Lord’s heir. “Are we late?” 

Eris rolled his eyes, the torches along the walls flashing momentarily. “Take a breath and stop fidgeting, this dinner is a peace offering.” 

While his brother had not actually answered his question, Lucien was almost sure Eris would have made an effort to rush them if they were at risk of upsetting their father. He had once believed wholeheartedly that Eris would not let any harm come to him. After Jesminda’s death, he had come to the conclusion that Eris only had his own best interests in mind. 

Lucien looked at Eris as they continued to wait for Elain, questioning if his eldest brother fell somewhere in the middle of his assumptions. Eris had gone out of his way to ensure Lucien had been released from the dungeons, and had proven himself an ally to Elain. 

Lucien’s golden eye clicked into place and Eris turned to face him. 

Eris frowned as their eyes met, almost as though he knew exactly what Lucien was thinking about. The torches flared once more as he opened his mouth to speak, but the doors to the chambers opened suddenly and they both turned to face Elain and Cora. 

All of Lucien’s thoughts about what Eris might have said had they not been interrupted quickly left his mind as Elain walked elegantly into the corridor.

Lucien straightened as she approached, her dress was lovely, the material fading from black to orange, her skirts looking like the forest floor as they dragged along the stone ground. Like most dresses in Autumn, it was modest, and very little of her skin showed. Elain had pinned her hair up with the comb of pearls Eris had gifted her, and Lucien’s eyes fell to the pale column of her throat. 

Elain Archeron was stunning, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and Lucien suddenly became very aware of the scars that marred his face.

Elain looked at him and blushed, she paused, skirts in her hands as she spoke. “Sorry to make you both wait, it took Cora ages to figure out the ties,” she laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of the corridor, echoing loudly in Lucien’s mind. 

“Did it?” Eris raised a brow at Cora as she shut the doors to the suite and walked to Elain’s side. 

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she said, “I hate Autumn Court gowns.” 

“Some lady’s maid you are,” Eris replied with a scoff, clearly intending to annoy her.

“Do all the clothes really need so many laces and buttons?” Cora clipped, gesturing to the back of Elain’s dress. “Hardly my fault the females here have to suffer in such a fashion.” 

Eris waved a hand lazily and Lucien watched with great interest as his brother’s lips tilted up at the corners, flames in his eyes. “You should have stayed in Night, where the nobles have much simpler tastes.” 

Cora looked prepared to bite back a response, but Lucien pitied the poor female for having to put up with Eris’s moods and spoke before the situation could escalate.

“You look beautiful, Elain.” 

His mate blushed an even darker shade of red. “Thank you,” she said softly, trailing her eyes from his booted feet to the high neckline of his jacket. “You look nice, too.” 

Lucien bowed his head, keeping their gazes locked. It felt as if just the two of them were in the dark space, that no one else existed beyond them. 

Lovely. 

Elain was breathtakingly beautiful, and Lucien questioned the cauldron’s decision to make them mates. 

Eris cleared his throat, shattering the silence between them along with the illusion that only Lucien and Elain were present. 

“You also look very handsome, Eris.” Elain added as she reached for Lucien’s arm. He offered it to her without hesitation, and she grabbed onto him with no consideration. If it were not for the amusement ringing in her tone, Lucien might have been irrationally jealous at the statement. 

Cora hummed in agreement, and Lucien could have sworn a flicker of shock flashed across his brother’s features as he glanced at the Night Court female. “Are family dinners always so… formal?” She asked none of them in particular. 

Eris merely shrugged in response, “It’s not every night you welcome back an exiled son.” 

Lucien nodded, keeping his expression serious. “I’m so flattered.” 

Elain giggled at his side and Lucien caught himself genuinely smiling. 

“Wish your lady’s maid a goodnight,” Eris interrupted, “we should be going.” 

“I’ll find you in the morning,” Elain promised, waving at her friend as Eris began to walk away.

“Enjoy yourselves,” Cora called after them and Lucien almost snorted, knowing the evening would probably be torturous. 

Elain was comfortable as she loosely held onto his arm, her heartbeat steady, nothing negative making its way down the bond. Eris slowed his steps, letting them catch up, and he walked next to Elain. 

As soon as they walked up a flight of stairs, ensuring there was enough distance between them and Cora, Elain used the hand that was not holding onto Lucien to swat his older brother. 

“You could use her name,” she scolded, "it's not as if you don’t know it.” 

Lucien’s mouth fell open in silent shock. He wondered when his eldest brother might have last been chastised, who might have been brave enough to dare. 

“Whose?” Eris said, disdain dripping from the one word, although it was obvious he knew who Elain was referring to.  

Elain hit him again, this time with more force. “You could be nice,” she suggested, disappointment lining her lovely features.

“Being nice might actually kill him,” Lucien mumbled, but they both seemed content to ignore his presence. 

“Stop hitting me,” Eris said, sounding unbothered.

As Elain raised her gloved hand one more time, Eris did not miss a single step as he winnowed to Lucien’s side, maintaining their pace effortlessly. 

Elain attempted to get through to him one last time, leaning past Lucien so she could frown at him. “It’s rude, Eris,” she observed. “You ought to know as much.”  

Lucien could have told her that arguing with Eris was akin to arguing with a stone wall, but he watched as they interacted, surprised at how comfortable they seemed to be with each other.

“Remember yourself at dinner,” Eris warned, “I’m not too sure that the rest of my brothers will appreciate your more violent side.” 

While Lucien could tell Eris was not being serious, he felt as Elain tensed, clearly worried by the words. 

Lucien shot Eris a glare, but his brother had already begun to speak, paying attention only to his mate.  

“You’ve managed to charm even my father, Elain Archeron,” Eris added, having noticed her change in demeanour, and Lucien was grateful as she straightened her shoulders back. She already looked more confident as Eris gave her a final piece of advice. “So keep at it.” 

Eris’s praise was enough for Elain to maintain an attitude that made her seem entirely at ease among the most important family in the Autumn Court. While the High Lord sat at the head of the rectangular table, no one else faced him from across the other side. 

Lucien’s mother was at his father’s left side, and Eris was on his right. Elain had quickly found her place sitting between Lucien and the Lady of Autumn, who she spoke with softly, answering all of his mother’s pleasantly worded questions while everyone else ate their perfectly cooked meal. 

Lucien was surprised with how well-behaved his brothers were, considering how he had witnessed more than enough brawls during their family dinners before he had been exiled. Beron watched with observant eyes, paying attention to the conversation between Elain and his wife. 

Eris had said very little, just like Lucien remembered, choosing to eat slowly and avoid meaningless small talk. Callum was expectedly next to their eldest brother, looking at the very least like he was carefully listening to Elain as she spoke. Ronan had drunk so much wine Lucien was wondering if he would be able to walk out of the dining room on his own, which seemed a bit unusual. Felix had his elbows on the table, head resting on his fist, decidedly choosing to be disrespectful. Lucien was surprised that their father had yet to say anything, knowing how much the High Lord valued appearances. 

“I was thinking of sending invitations out in the next couple of days,” Lucien heard his mother say, a repressed excitement in her voice. She placed her napkin next to her full plate. “Of course, Night will be receiving theirs first.” 

“Thank you,” Elain added, “We’d been planning a smaller affair, very few knew about it outside our little circle of friends.” She glanced to Lucien shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear endearingly before turning her attention back to the Lady of Autumn. 

“We could send Spring an invitation,” Beron added, voice quiet but authoritative. He looked at Lucien with a raised brow, “We wouldn't want to offend Tamlin.” 

“How considerate,” Lucien said, feeling his teeth grit in annoyance. 

“And we must invite the human queen and her general,” his father continued.

“I don’t expect them to travel into our court.” Lucien responded, wanting his friends to stay far away from the Forest House. 

“Why not?” Felix asked. “We have such a lovely court,” he flashed Lucien a grin daring him to argue. 

Lucien set his cutlery down with a loud sound as it hit against the side of his plate. 

“I don’t care much for Queen Vassa,” Elain interrupted before Lucien could say anything. There was honesty in her words, he could tell, perhaps even a hint of jealousy, but he knew she was only saying it for his benefit, 

Elain had come to his defence in the hopes that Beron would leave his friends alone, and the respect he had for his mate only soared at the thought.

Ronan chuckled, raising his glass in a salute towards Elain, which she returned elegantly despite her clear discomfort at being addressed directly. “I like your mate’s honesty, little brother,” he confessed before drinking deeply.

Beron hummed in response, placing his hand, palm up, onto the table. Lucien watched as his mother laced their fingers together, the gesture coming to them naturally. His much larger hand engulfed her smaller one, and Lucien had to fight the urge to wince.   

Everyone went back to eating in silence, and Lucien recalled the countless family dinners he had silently sat through. With Beron present, his brothers were achingly careful with their words and their actions, not wanting to upset him. It was like trying to walk in the woods without snapping a branch, nearly impossible without practice, but each of them had learned to read their father’s moods. 

As though Elain could sense the troublesome direction of Lucien’s thoughts, she placed a comforting hand on his knee. Covered by the table, no one else noticed the startlingly soft gesture. 

Lucien realised quickly that Elain’s action had not been for show, that it had not been a part of their roles, it was simply a moment shared between the two of them.

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXIV

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Lucien watched his mother carefully. 

The Lady of Autumn was leaning forward in the comfortable armchair opposite his own, emerald skirts flaring around the cushioned seat, a river of fabric along the stone floors. Her auburn hair fell in loose curls to her waist, held away from her face with golden clips fashioned to look like oak leaves. 

She hummed softly, the rubies on each of her fingers flashing in the light of the dancing flames within the fireplace. Her hand hovered above the chess pieces, pausing over the black rook. 

Lucien bit the inside of his cheek as his mother took another of his pawns. She raised a brow at him in challenge, sparks in her russet eyes. 

Lucien huffed a sigh, staring at the red and black board, at all of the remaining pieces on each of their little squares. He crossed both his arms, considering. “You’re really quite good at this,” he mumbled. Lucien decided that both Eris and Callum were going easy on him, perhaps throwing games on purpose. He would have to ask them to stop, he thought. 

The Lady of Autumn laughed, the sound soft as it fell from her lips. She smiled at her youngest son in a way she did not at the rest of her children — unguarded. It always managed to make Lucien feel special. “When you’re as old as I am, I suspect you’ll be just as good.” 

Lucien wondered how many years it would take to reach his mother’s age. At just over half a decade, he wanted to know how much more chess he would need to play. He moved one of his pieces, wincing as he saw the easy opening to his king. 

The High Lord’s wife clicked her tongue, reaching across the coffee table to ruffle Lucien’s hair. Everything about the gesture was tender, and Lucien leaned into the touch. “Little sunbeam,” she started, a small smile on her youthful face, “you know I don’t play to lose.” 

Lucien guessed he was about the age his mother had been at the time of his memory, and while he had changed much since then, the Lady of Autumn remained the same. 

She held onto his arm gently, long fingers pale against the brown velvet of his jacket. They were walking back to his and Elain’s shared chambers, and while Lucien was glad to be spending time with his mother, he hated leaving his mate alone for too long. The sound of their combined steps were loud in the empty hallway, soft echoes ringing around them as she spoke about the wedding. 

Lucien could hear the excitement in her tone as she told him about the decorations and the food they planned to serve. Cora had been helping with the floral arrangements, and his mother seemed to be quite fond of the Night Court female. The Lady of Autumn thrived at organising court events, and she was very pleased to have been given so much freedom when it came to the reception. Lucien could not help but feel a bit guilty that she did not know the truth of it all, but he did not want to upset her, or risk his father finding out. 

“Elain will be having her dress fitting tomorrow as well,” his mother continued. “And she insists on keeping you far away, you know, since she was a human, of course.” 

Lucien had no idea what tradition she was referring to, and briefly wished Jurian and Vassa were both there to help him. He had sent them a few letters, and had received no response. He guessed correspondence was simply being controlled by Ronan’s sentries, and while he was frustrated with the fact, he had come to accept it. He nodded absently, still wondering what human customs Elain had been adding to the wedding ceremony, barely listening as his mother began to recite a list of those who had not yet accepted their invitation. 

Lucien would ask Elain about it when they were alone. He found her easy to talk to, and he hoped she felt the same. He wanted his mate to share more about her life, both before and after she had been made fae. There was still so much about her that he wanted to learn, could spend a lifetime learning. 

Little sunbeam. 

Lucien remembered the childhood nickname, and yet he was unsure when it might have been the last time he had heard it. Eris used to scowl whenever it was uttered, despite how much affection was usually hidden beneath the words. He almost winced as his mother said it flippantly, realising she had asked him a question and was waiting for an answer. 

Lucien cleared his throat, patting his mother’s hand apologetically. “I wasn’t paying attention,” he cringed, adding a quick “sorry.” 

The Lady of Autumn raised an auburn brow, the expression all too familiar. “Thinking about your mate?”

Lucien sighed, offering his mother a sheepish smile. “Always.” 

She pulled him to a stop. Her brows knit together, her eyes going over him, searching. She held his gaze for a moment, pausing at his scar. His mother reached for him, hand resting on his cheek as her lips tilted up slightly. “I’m very happy for you.” 

The pride he heard in her voice was enough to make Lucien emotional. He would have pulled her in for a hug had he not spotted Cora rushing towards them. Elain’s friend seemed to have appeared out of thin air, her footsteps silent as she held her skirts in her hands. Her long hair was like a flag, dark and loose as she approached. 

Lucien frowned as he noticed the tightness around Cora’s mouth, at the tenseness of her shoulders. Unease washed over him, and his mother turned around as she sensed it. 

“Lucien,” Cora said, slowing down to quickly curtsy at the Lady of the Autumn Court. “Lucien, if you could come with me?” Beneath the veneer of her polite and courtly attitude, was concern. 

Lucien took long steps towards her, his heartbeat racing as worse case scenarios flashed into his mind. “What’s happened?” The female’s dark eyes flicked briefly to his mother and he redirected her attention. “Cora?” 

Her explanation was hurried and his mother watched with interest as she shared how Elain had crashed into Eris roughly. As soon as Lucien heard his brother’s name, all he could see was red. “Is she hurt?” He snarled, quickly losing all of his patience. 

“She hit her head on the doorframe and fainted,” Cora winced, glancing at the stone arch next to them. “She’s resting in my room, with the prince watching over her.” 

Lucien had not felt anything along the mating bond, and he could not understand why. He should have known if something was wrong.

“It must be the stress of the wedding, Lucien,” his mother reassured. She placed a soft hand on his back, the action grounding him as the bond urged him to run to Elain and protect her from all harm. “I’ll have someone send coffee to your rooms,” she continued, pushing him lightly in Cora’s direction. 

Cora grabbed onto his sleeve, winnowing them both seamlessly to a different part of the Forest House. Lucien had not known she was capable of such magic, but he was too consumed with thoughts of his mate. 

“What did Eris do?” He asked, voice low and accusing. Cora gripped his jacket tightly and dragged him towards the stairs that led to a different floor. “I swear if he—”

Cora interrupted him swiftly. “He did nothing but bump into Elain.” Lucien let her continue, frown deepening as he considered her statement. “She should’ve been fine, anyone else would have been.” 

Lucien was becoming increasingly frustrated and confused. “Cora, please tell me what happened.” 

“For a moment she was fine, I saw her, ready to give Eris a piece of her mind.” The lady’s maid bit her lip, shaking her head as she forced Lucien to turn a corner. “And then there was wind in a room with no windows, all of the torches went out, and Elain…” Her words trailed off.

Lucien felt panic choke him, “What about Elain?” 

Cora ran a hand through her hair, fingers getting caught in the strands. “Elain’s eyes rolled back until only the whites could be seen, I swear they were glowing, pale as moonlight.”

Lucien swore under his breath. 

Cora shook her head again. “She would have fallen if Eris hadn’t not caught her. He carried her to my bed with her eyes still open, I’d never seen anything like it.” 

Lucien finally understood why the bond between them had stayed silent. If it was simply a result of Elain’s magic, she would be completely fine. He glanced at the female still pulling him along, wondering how much information Elain had revealed about her visions and abilities. Cora had been looking for books on deciphering dreams with them, but he was still not entirely sure if she knew why. 

“It’s nothing,” Lucien said quickly, hoping Cora would not question him. 

She raised her brow, daring him to repeat himself. “I know what it is,” she declared, waving him off as he opened his mouth to respond. “Don’t bother lying again,” Cora stopped in front of the carved wooden door leading into her room. She shoved it open, and Lucien slipped past her to enter. 

Lucien did not know what he had been expecting, but it certainly had not been to see a very alright looking Elain chatting with his brother. He paused at the sight, shocked to see his mate sitting cross legged on the bed, skirts fanning around her. There was a glass of water in her hands, and they were steady as she held it in front of her chest. Despite looking slightly dishevelled, her hair falling from its pins and her dress wrinkled, she looked perfectly fine. 

Lucien halted to a sudden stop in the centre of the small space. Elain’s entire body relaxed, a lovely smile gracing her features as her eyes fell onto him. She said his name, and through the bridge between their souls, he knew she was glad to see him. He mirrored her expression, forgetting that others were there entirely. 

Eris cleared his throat, the sound breaking the silence. He stood up from his chair, patting the bed once. “Hello, little brother.” 

Lucien had to fight back a snarl at the taunt in his tone. “You don’t watch where you’re going?” There was still a small part of him that blamed his carelessness for Elain’s current position. 

Eris shrugged, eyes falling to Cora where she still stood by the door. He raised a brow as he turned his attention to Elain. “She’s so very small I suppose I didn’t notice her.” Elain’s mouth fell open in mock offence, but her gaze was still on Lucien.

He decided Eris was not worth his time, especially when all he wanted to do was take Elain back to their chambers so they could be alone. “You alright?” 

Elain nodded, placing her bare feet onto the floor. “I am, thank you.” She kicked at her slippers, putting them on as a blush rose to her cheeks. “Thank you for coming so quickly, I mean,” she added, breathing a small laugh. 

Lucien offered Elain his hand, and when she held onto him, she flashed a grateful smile. She stood up shakily, losing her balance. Lucien wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her. “Need me to carry you?” He was only half joking. 

Elain leaned into his side, lacing her fingers with his own. “I think I’ll be alright.” 

“Take it easy, Elain,” Cora said, walking up to them so she could rub a friendly hand on his mate’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Elain told both her and Eris. Lucien could only guess how worried they had been witnessing the vision.

They left and Cora shut the door with Eris still inside her room. Lucien frowned, knowing his brother would question the female and hoping she would be able to hold her own against him. He was quite confident Cora would do just fine, but a part of him was troubled when he thought about Eris knowing Elain was a seer. 

Lucien turned his attention to his mate, searching for any hint that she might not be alright. He tugged on the bond to check, and she tightened her hold on him. He chose not to winnow, deciding it was best if she was still a little unsteady. They walked in comfortable silence back to their chambers. Like his mother had promised, there was a tray with coffee, sugar, and cream on the table by the sofa. 

As soon as the door closed behind them and Lucien checked to ensure the wards were in place, he spoke. “You had a vision?” 

Elain nodded as he helped her to the couch. He added a teaspoon of sugar to her coffee, stirring as she ran a hand through her curls. “I didn’t like it.” 

Lucien handed her the mug, sitting next to her. She described her vision — the golden knife, the rose petals, and the howling wolf. Lucien agreed that it did not sound very good, but he did not know what it meant any more than she did. 

“You were right,” Elain added. “Holding back the visions isn’t working, and this one was stronger than the others.” 

Lucien rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ll handle Eris, he won’t believe a thing we say unless it’s the truth.” Perhaps it was his place as the eldest brother that made him very good at sensing nonsense. He knew from experience that Eris would not let it go if he suspected something was being hidden from him. 

Elain blew a stray curl from where it had fallen over her eyes, setting her mug next to the one Lucien still had yet to touch. “I told him.” 

“You told him?” Lucien felt like the stars had fallen out of the sky. He took a moment to spin the words in his mind, swallowing as he stared at a very calm Elain. “You told Eris about your visions?” He could barely believe it, hoping that she was making a joke. 

“It’s alright, Lucien,” she said seriously, placing a hand on his thigh. She inched closer so that their shoulders were touching. “I tried lying, but,” she shrugged, “he’s going to help, and I already made him swear not to tell anyone.” 

Lucien coughed, trying his best not to show Elain how anxious it made him that Eris knew. “What, exactly, did you tell him?” 

Elain looked up into his face, her dark brown eyes bright in the light of the flickering fireplace. “Everything. I told him about the Cauldron, and its gift to me, and my visions during the war.” 

Eris could not be trusted, it was something Lucien had strongly believed for centuries. He could already imagine Eris spinning this situation to suit him. “Elain,” he sighed, “I don’t know…”

She smiled and he paused. “I know.” Elain looked so confident, he could hardly argue. “And he’s so old, I’m sure Eris knows more about seers than the two of us combined,” she added, squeezing his leg.

“Alright.” Lucien returned her smile, taking a loose curl and tucking it behind her pointed ear. “I trust you,” he murmured, the pull of the bond magnetic. He leaned towards her, and she did the same, eyes fluttering shut. 

Elain brushed her lips against his, her hands rising up to grip the lapels of his jacket. Drawing him closer, she relaxed into his touch. Lucien kissed her more fully, cupping her head while tracing the smooth skin of her cheekbone with his thumb. 

Elain’s full lips parted beneath his, tongue slipping past them to ease a small sigh from the back of her throat. Lucien attempted to slowly move away, but she followed him, breaking their kiss to throw her arms around his neck in a tight hug. 

“I trust you, too,” Elain said softly, holding Lucien close. 

All You Have Is Your Fire - Part XXV

Find all previous parts on Ao3 :)

Summary: 'I can hear your heart beating through the stone.' For the briefest of moments, Lucien wondered if his mate would know exactly when his heart’s steady rhythm came to a sudden stop.

Note: A huge thank you to the lovely @sad-scarred-sassy who deserves all the credit for the post that inspired me to start writing this :) Another huge thank you to everyone reading! ALSO please look at this post, I gasped it's so lovely. All of @teddyhoneybear's moodboards are stunning <3

Tag List: @anishake / @nocasdatsgay / @mybestfriendmademe / @talibunny30 / @halfbutneverwhole / @wishfulimaginings / @goldenmagnolias / @emmers-bens123 / @cauldronblssd / @xirose / @rarephloxes / @thehighlordishere / @the-darkestminds /

Elain placed a hand on Lucien’s broad chest, stopping him right outside the carved oak door of the fitting room. The fabric of his brocade waistcoat was thick, but she could still feel the warmth of his skin on her palm. 

Elain knew she was blushing at the way his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. She wished for a moment that he was shirtless, the image flashing in her mind briefly before she shook her head to push the wildly inappropriate thought to the side. 

Lucien raised an auburn brow, amusement bright in his russet eye. His golden one whirred softly, the sound so familiar to Elain that she barely noticed. “I can’t even see the dress when you’re not in it?” 

Elain pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “Sorry,” she said, “not even then.” She pulled her hand away from him, still blocking his path with her body. She knew the fae did not have the same wedding traditions, but she was not about to test fate by ignoring this one. 

Lucien hummed softly, nodding. “You’re that superstitious?” He asked, no judgement in the question, just simple curiosity. 

“It’s bad luck,” Elain explained, chin tilted so she could look up at her mate.She traced the sharp curve of his jaw with her gaze. “I’m very determined to have a nice reception.” 

He smiled, an endearing dimple appearing on his unscarred cheek. Lucien leaned towards her, the action seemed almost involuntary. “Any other traditions I should know about?” 

“That’s the only one,” Elain reassured. She did not mention how most newly married couples in the human realm chose to have rice thrown at them, deciding that perhaps it was something the Autumn Court guests would not appreciate. She was having a hard time picturing Lucien’s brothers tossing grains of rice at anyone, let alone herself. “Now go, I’m already late, your mother and the seamstress were expecting me right after breakfast.” 

Lucien licked his full bottom lip, and Elain found herself tracking the movement. He inched closer, hesitant, but his intentions were clear. She was drawn to him, like a moth to flame, the bond urging her onto the tips of her toes. 

When their faces were a hair’s breadth apart, Lucien spoke, his voice soft. “I’m sure they can wait a minute longer.” 

Elain responded by pressing her mouth to his. With her eyes shut, she could conjure the illusion of privacy, could forget entirely that they were in a corridor where anyone might happen to walk by. 

Elain could not be bothered to care. Each stroke of Lucien’s tongue had her biting back a moan, and when he cupped the back of her head, heat pooled low in her gut. 

Elain braced her arm against the door. 

She could have spent an eternity with Lucien, his touch unbelievably gentle as their kiss deepened. Elain was dizzy with desire, his scent enveloping her, as comforting as any embrace. His canines grazed the skin of her lip, pulling a whimper from deep within her chest. 

Lucien broke their kiss at the sound, and Elain’s eyes snapped open. She glanced around them to make sure no one was walking towards them, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear simply to do something with her hand. It took all of her self control not to grab Lucien by the collar and pull him to her once more. 

“Have fun at your fitting,” he said, his voice a breathless rasp. Before Elain could protest him leaving, he pressed a featherlight kiss to her cheek, turning on his heel elegantly. 

Elain fell against the door, the wood rough through the fabric of her dress. Her knees were weak and she needed the support to keep her steady in Lucien’s absence. She stared at his back, absently bringing her thumb up to her lips. She traced their shape, breaking into a smile as her mate turned around for one last glance. Elain waved as he winnowed, the hallway filling with the golden light of his magic. 

She stayed there for a moment, hearing the Lady of Autumn’s laughter coming from the room behind her. 

Elain did not know how she would manage to get through the rest of the morning if Lucien was on her mind, but as time passed, she was able to focus on what was happening around her. 

Callista had ushered Elain in front of a floor length mirror. It was still difficult for her to refer to Lucien’s mother using her name, but the High Lord’s wife had insisted. With the help of Cora, the seamstress, and her young apprentice, Elain was helped into her wedding gown. 

The dress was stunning, beyond lovely, and more beautiful than any other clothing she had ever seen. Even incomplete, Elain knew that the final product would capture everyone’s attention. 

The bodice was a shining gold fabric, intricate laces in the back tied tightly but not uncomfortably. The sleeves were made of the same material, countless shimmering beads adding sparkle along her wrists. Like Elain had suggested, the long tulle skirts flared around her, highlighting the shape of her figure. Leaves cut from thin sheets of actual gold had been added in a careful pattern onto the gown, and when Elain moved, it looked like they were falling in a gentle wind. In a thoughtful nod to her past life, Cora had managed to convince the seamstress and the Lady of Autumn to keep the long train of the dress free of any colour and entirely white. 

The dress was perfect. Elain found herself unable to tear her gaze away from the mirror as the final details were added and the last few adjustments were made. 

Elain had just gotten back into her everyday clothes when there was a knock at the door. Cora rolled her eyes before Eris’s deep voice travelled through the thick wood separating him from them. “Elain?” 

Callista walked to the other side of the room, placing her fingers onto the handle. She raised a brow in question at Elain, who nodded. As the door swung open, Eris grinned in amusement. There were flames in his amber eyes as he spoke. “Why are you torturing my brother?” 

Elain snorted, forgetting for a moment that there were others present. She waved him into the room, inviting him to come closer. The seamstress and her apprentice slipped through the slim opening, shutting the door behind them quietly. “What makes you say that?” 

Eris shrugged, but he looked entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat that had caught a mouse. “He seemed a bit…on edge, I suppose.” 

Elain felt herself blush, muttering under her breath. “That’s ridiculous.” 

Eris cast a look around the room, gaze falling onto the nearly finished wedding gown. “Ready to be married?” 

Three more days. 

Elain could hardly believe it. To her, it was like she had arrived at the Autumn Court a lifetime ago. 

She nodded, hoping that she looked confident in front of Lucien’s mother. “I think we’ve planned everything.” 

“There is just one more detail,” Callista’s soft voice was commanding, drawing everyone’s attention. “If you could choose someone to walk you down the aisle, it can be anyone you like.” 

Elain paused, furrowing her brow. She considered the human tradition, where only parents were part of the ceremony in such a way. Perhaps her sisters, Elain thought. “Just one?”

“Traditionally,” Callista said with a smile. “Anyone will do.” 

Elain was not going to choose between Nesta and Feyre. Besides, she did not think it would be entirely appreciated by Beron to have another court’s High Lady walk her down the aisle. She looked to Cora, her constant support since they had left Velaris. Her friend made a horrified expression in response, one that made her opinion on the matter dreadfully clear. 

Elain had to hold back a laugh, offering Cora an understanding smile. She could have guessed that the other woman would not have been too keen on such active participation in the ceremony, since she preferred staying out of the spotlight.  

“Eris?” Elain’s decision had been made, and she sincerely doubted he would deny her wish. It was for the best to have the Autumn Court’s heir do this one thing for her, especially since she was entirely certain Beron would approve of it. 

Eris had been looking at Cora, humming distractedly as he faced Elain. 

“Eris, you’ll walk me down the aisle, won’t you?” Her question hung in the air, and she could practically see him turning it over in his mind.

He waved a hand in a gesture Elain could only describe as lazy. “Whatever you like,” he said flippantly, eyes flicking to his mother as he bent at the waist in the smallest of bows. “How can I refuse my only sister?” There was no usual bite to the words, only affection. 

Before any of the women could say anything more on the subject, Eris had winnowed from the room, embers falling to the carpeted ground. Shortly after the prince had left, Elain and Cora followed. 

Callista had encouraged her to spend the next couple of days relaxing and spending time with Lucien, which Elain was more than happy to do. Cora and her walked in comfortable silence back to their chambers, and when no one was around, Elain knocked her shoulder against her friend. 

“You didn’t want to walk me down the aisle?” She asked jokingly, surprised by the frown that fell over Cora’s features. 

“I didn’t think it was fair,” she said quietly, tugging on her braid in a gesture Elain had come to realise meant that Cora was feeling uneasy. 

Elain pulled her to a stop, holding onto her elbow right at the foot of a staircase, making sure no one else was near. “Why would you think—”

“I’m not a lady’s maid,” Cora interrupted, her words seemingly pulled from her as she blurted the statement quickly. The outburst seemed to have shocked them both. Cora’s dark eyes were wide, scarlet staining her light brown cheeks. 

Elain paused, looking over the other woman carefully. She considered the little information she knew about her friend’s life and could only come to one conclusion. “A guard?” 

Cora glanced nervously down the hall, releasing a long sigh as she pulled Elain into the shelter of the staircase. “Not a guard,” she admitted, a glamour falling into place so that no one else might accidentally hear. “A spy.”

It made sense, Elain could admit.

She took the time to go over some of the more obvious clues, hindsight making everything more clear. Understanding Cora would have no reason to lie, but still wanting to have a better grasp of the truth, Elain paused. If Nuala and Cerridwen had come to Autumn, they would have been doing the same. She had probably remained in the dark for her own protection, but the ever familiar frustration at being excluded in important matters washed over her for a moment. 

Cora was good with weapons, could sneak around anywhere, and was an expert at researching. She always knew what every member of the Vanserra family was doing, a fact that Elain had blamed on gossip between the workers in the Forest House. 

A memory flashed in her mind of the first time she had been introduced to the woman who would act as her lady’s maid — Cora glancing towards Azriel, almost as though she had been searching his expression for cues on how to behave. 

Elain took a breath, nodding. “Who were you sent to spy on?” She asked, wanting to understand. Her first guess was Lucien, since the Inner Circle – excluding Feyre – seemed to distrust him wholeheartedly. 

“Not you,” Cora rushed to clarify, hands held in front of her placatingly. “And I’m not supposed to say, Az will kill me if he finds out, but I just…” She shrugged, looking at Elain with an apologetic expression. “I hate keeping things from my friends.” 

The words hung between them, easy for Elain to reject. Even given the chance, she decided she rather liked having Cora as a friend. She raised a brow, offering the other woman a small smile. “So then who are you spying on?” 

Cora was quick to answer. “A certain prince, just in case he’s planning to use you for some nefarious plot.”  Cora laughed awkwardly, “highly unlikely, by the way.”

Elain could have sighed in relief, glad she had at least been right to trust Eris with the knowledge of her visions. She began to walk up the stairs, Cora following after her eagerly. “Are you really from the Hewn City?” 

Although she was unable to see the other woman, Elain knew Cora was nodding. “That wasn’t a lie,” she assured. “Everything I told you about myself was true if you ignore what I do for a living.” 

“And what is that?” Elain turned to look at her, skirts clasped tightly in her hands as they marched up the last few steps. 

Cora wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The High Lord has me gathering information on Kier and his supporters. Very boring, nothing’s changed in over three centuries.” She smiled, the expression suggesting she did not mind revealing a bit more about herself. “The last two weeks have been very exciting for me,” she finished.

Elain barked an inelegant laugh. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying yourself,” she clipped, wanting to know more about Cora and correctly guessing she would share out of feeling a bit guilty. “Rhysand sent you?” She confirmed, continuing only once there was a nod in agreement. “I was expecting one of the twins to come, I know Az sends them everywhere.”

“I look High Fae,” Cora said with a shrug. Elain’s eyes flicked to her friend’s pointed ears briefly before her attention was once more on the conversation. “And my mother was a lady’s maid before she met my father.” 

“Was she Illyrian?” Elain asked, noting the obvious lack of wings on Cora’s part. She shuddered, remembering how Feyre had almost died giving birth to Nyx, wondering why Cora was not born the same. 

She shook her head. “My father was part Illyrian and acted as an emissary between the Court of Nightmares and the cities in Illyria, hardly matters since she stopped working once they married.” Cora cringed, ”I may or may not have let the High Lord and Azriel believe I knew what would be expected from a female in this position.” She offered an embarrassed smile, one that Elain returned.  “Not one of my finer decisions,” she admitted. 

Elain had been so interested in what Cora had been saying that she had not realised they had returned to her and Lucien’s shared chambers until they were standing right outside the doors. 

“I’m glad you lied about your qualifications,” Elain placed a gentle hand on Cora’s arm, squeezing affectionately. “But I’m going to have to tell Lucien.” 

“Make sure he doesn’t share the news,” she laughed, sighing. “I should have told you sooner,” she replied, her regret a heavy thing. “I’m sorry, Elain.” 

At the genuine apology, Elain could not help but pull Cora into a hug. Despite being stiff in surprise initially, the spy returned the embrace. “Thank you for telling me now.” 

Once Cora had left to return to her own room, Elain waited a moment outside. She did not like the Night Court’s secrecy and had resented for years the way they all seemed content to shelter her. 

Lucien would never.

The thought came to her suddenly, quick as a shooting star and gone before she could take the time to truly consider it. She pushed the door open, nearly stumbling as she threw herself into the familiar space. 

Lucien looked up from the ancient and worn book he was reading from. There were two neat piles from the library on either side of the coffee table, a steaming mug balancing precariously on the edge of the wooden surface. His hair was tied away from his handsome face, loose strands falling to his broad shoulders. Elain’s attention was instantly drawn to the way he had rolled up his shirtsleeves, the veins on his forearms forcing her to hold back a swoon. 

He smiled as she shut the door behind her. “Did you have a nice time?” 

Elain could imagine her future so clearly, even without being a seer. Coming home after a busy morning only to find her mate sitting comfortably on the sofa, waiting for her arrival. Lucien listened to the things she had to say, constantly encouraging her to do as she liked. He never doubted her abilities, he was confident in her decisions. 

My mate. 

“Do you want to hear something interesting?” Elain asked, watching as he snapped his book shut. 

Lucien patted once on the cushion next to him, the gesture inviting as he replied. “Always.”

You’re A Cowboy Like Me

A/N: Imma be real honest, I just wanted an excuse to write Cassian being hot in a cowboy hat, and I don't think anyone should fault me for that. Also, I really wanted to write a fic that uses the unofficial Cowboy Hat rules. Anywho! Enjoy! And happy Day 4 of @nessianweek :)

Read on AO3

It’s like driving into a Hallmark movie. Or a western. Various small shops and cafes line either side of Main Street, each with quaint looking window displays and what appear to be hand painted signs declaring their store names. The tall branches of pine trees can be seen stretching above the roofs, and mountains reaching up to the sky almost perfectly align with the road, as though you can reach the peak if you simply keep going.

“Oh, this is so cute.”

Nesta snorts softly at the comment, but when she tears her attention away from the window and toward where Gwyn sits in the driver seat, the redhead has a wide smile on her face as she leans forward over the steering wheel to peer at the town around them.

“Eyes on the road, Gwyneth.”

Gwyn shakes her head fondly, but she leans back in her seat, readjusting her hands on the wheel. They continue down the road until Gwyn’s phone directs them to turn right, taking them off Main Street and along a neighborhood road filled with row houses of pretty, painted brick. 828 is on the end, right on the corner, and Gwyn pulls the car into one of the spots right out front. They both slip out of the car, but when they knock on the front door, there’s no answer.

“She must already be at the shop,” Gwyn offers with an easy shrug of her shoulders before grabbing Nesta’s hand in hers. “Come on.”

She all but drags Nesta back toward Main Street, continuing to gush about the charm of the town. They pass chalkboard displays along the sidewalk, looping colorful letters declaring sales and specials alike. They even pass an open door and a series of small tables that Nesta fully intends to revisit at some point during this trip to find out the source of the sugary sweet and chocolate scent wafting on the breeze.

But soon they’re arriving at their intended destination: Windhaven Farmhouse Market.

A striped red awning stretches over the door, wooden flower boxes beneath the large, display windows on either side. And when they step inside the shop, rustic looking wooden shelves line almost every wall and weave through the center of the shop to create a series of aisles.

“Hey, Em!” Gwyn calls out, stepping deeper into the shop. “We’re here.”

Even as Gwyn disappears from view amongst the shelves, Nesta takes a chance to really take everything in, slowly spinning in place. There’s jars of honey and baskets of apples to her left and what appears to be gardening gloves and tools to her right. It’s certainly an odd assortment of items to be sold together, and that sentiment only seems to grow as Nesta starts to wander between the shelves, spotting hats and scarves along with a small assortment of books.

She turns around another corner, just barely stopping short before she walks straight into a man standing in the center of the aisle. She has to tilt her head up to really take him in, the man standing a whole head taller than her, but it’s not just the height he has on her. His shoulders and chest are wide, stretching the flannel fabric he’s currently wearing, and the denim of his jeans clings to the thick lines of his thighs. Even with just seeing his profile, even with the curly strands of hair that hang down to his shoulders, Nesta can see the hard cut of his jawline, the stubble along the skin there.

For a moment, her mouth goes dry watching the man reach forward for a bag of some sort of farm feed. The large span of his hands somehow make the bag look small, and with the sleeves of his flannel pushed up to his elbows, Nesta has the perfect view of the muscles in forearm flexing as he hefts the bag off the shelf and over his shoulder. She’s sure the farm feed must be heavy, but he makes it look as though it weighs nothing.

He turns at that exact moment, practically starting when he notices Nesta standing there. “Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t see you there.”

He has exactly the sort of drawling accent that Nesta would expect from a town like this, his voice warm and deep. It pours from his lips like a glass of whiskey, practically curling around her limbs. Those same lips curve up into an easy, cocksure smirk, bright hazel eyes drinking her in.

“You’re certainly not from around here, are you?”

Nesta scoffs, crossing her arms. “That’s a bit presumptuous.”

She settles him with her most unimpressed look, eyes narrowed and lips twisted into a scowl. It’s a cool and cutting look that’s certainly sent plenty of men in the bars of Adriata turning and fleeing. But not this man. His smile only seems to grow, the greens and golds of his eyes sparking like sizzling embers.

“I think I know a city girl when I see one. What are you doing here in Windhaven?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“And what about your name? Can that be my business?”

“You wish.”

The man chuckles, the sound just as low and warm as his voice, and Nesta has to press her lips together tighter against the reaction that laugh threatens to draw out of her, straightening her spine against the shiver threatening to skitter up it. She won’t allow him to disarm her so easily, refuses to be affected by his drawl and his charm and those hazel eyes. Refuses to be affected by him.

“Nesta!” Nesta turns just in time to watch Emerie bound around the corner and into the aisle, Gwyn hot on her tail. “There you are.”

“Nesta,” the man repeats, as though he’s tasting her name, testing the weight of it on his tongue.

Nesta wants to hate how good it sounds, how his lips and his drawl curl around each syllable.

“Did you need something, Cassian?” Emerie asks, raising an eyebrow as her eyes flit back and forth between the two standing in front of her.

The man–Cassian–continues to wear that wide, teasing smile as he focuses his attention on Emerie, giving the bag of farm feed on his shoulder an almost loving tap. “Just this.” He dares to glance back toward Nesta. “For now.”

Nesta rolls her eyes at the blatant flirting, the clear implication, and pointedly ignores the way Gwyn stifles a laugh behind her hand. For some reason, the reaction has Cassian looking like he’s won, like getting Nesta to roll her eyes was exactly what he intended. What he wanted. She’s not sure what to make of that.

He follows Emerie toward the shop counter, chatting easily, and when the transaction is finished, he readjusts the bag of farm feed on his shoulder. He dips his head forward in the mock salute of a hat tip, those hazel eyes never leaving Nesta’s for a moment. “Ladies. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”

Nesta snorts softly. Only if he’s lucky.

~ * * * ~

Emerie slams the glass down against the wood, letting out a soft sigh as she pushes her hair away from her face. “What if I sold the place?”

“Would anyone buy it?” Nesta asks, swirling her own glass and the deep red liquid within.

Emerie shrugs a shoulder. “Maybe?”

“But will you regret it?” Gwyn points out, reaching forward and squeezing Emerie’s hand. “This is your father’s shop after all. And you already put so much work into it.”

“Exactly. This place was his dream. Maybe I should burn it to the ground. That will definitely have him rolling in his grave.”

Nesta grabs the wine bottle, emptying what remains into Emerie’s glass. “You know if you ever need accomplices for arson, we’re down. You can claim the insurance money.”

“And if the police question us?” Gwyn adds, her teal eyes alight with mischief as she presses a solemn hand to her chest and puts on a faux innocent voice. “We don’t know anything, officer.”

Emerie laughs, the sound bright even with the still lingering sadness tinging it, and she throws an arm around each of her friends. “I don’t know what I’d do without you bitches.”

“Probably have more wine,” Nesta answers dryly, shaking the now empty wine bottle in emphasis.

“We definitely need more wine.”

“There’s a tavern down the road!” Emerie exclaims, already stumbling up to her feet. “They’ll have wine. And shots.”

Nesta and Gwyn push to their feet as well, and all three of them go stumbling out of Windhaven Farmhouse Market and into the crisp night air. The sky above is a blanket of inky blue, and with how far the town is from the city, more stars than Nesta thinks she’s ever seen twinkle amongst it. A cool breeze seems to float down from the mountains, kissing her cheeks and tickling across her skin, and Nesta crosses her arms to help fight off the chill.

It doesn’t last long, though, Gwyn pulling one of Nesta’s arms free so she can link their elbows, doing the same to Emerie with her other arm. “Lead the way, Em.”

By the time they’re pushing through the doors of the tavern on Main Street, all three of them are breathless from laughing. They’re hit with music as soon as they step inside, some sort of country song heavy on guitar and twang and lyrics of heartbreak. Fairy lights hang in lines against the wooden slats of the ceiling, various neon beer signs covering three of the walls while a row of televisions line the fourth wall behind the bar.

It’s exactly what Nesta expects from a bar in a town like this, complete even with a large mechanical bull.

And currently atop the mechanical bull is none other than the man from the shop, Cassian.

His hair hangs in soft curls beneath his cowboy hat, the strands swaying and tickling that sharp jawline of his with his movements. He has one hand raised up by his head, but the other is curled around the leather of reins, fingers and forearms flexing almost rhythmically. His hips rock in time with the bull, thighs working and tightening beneath the fabric of his jeans to help keep his balance. And with the buttons of his flannel undone, fabric left to flutter at his sides, Nesta has the perfect view of the black lines and swirls of ink that curl across his pectorals, of the lines of his abs tensing and rolling to match the bull.

The sight is unholy.

“Nesta!”

Nesta clears her throat awkwardly, blinking rapidly and clearing her mind of the dangerous places her thoughts had begun to stray. She turns toward her friends, Gwyn’s eyebrow raised in exasperation making clear she had been saying Nesta’s name a few times. But it’s Emerie’s face twisted with that knowing smirk of hers that has Nesta rolling her eyes with a huff.

“Are we doing shots or not?”

She drags her friends toward the bartop, Emerie raising her arm in hopes of flagging down the bartender. Shouts echo up from the crowd, and Nesta turns around just in time to watch Cassian go sailing off the mechanical bull, landing against the inflatable cushions positioned in a ring around the space. He jumps back to his feet, the warm boom of his laughter reaching Nesta’s ears even over the music and distance. He flips off the operator of the mechanical bull, another dark haired man who looks more than pleased with himself based on the smirk, but that doesn’t seem to deter Cassian’s grin.

He tugs his hat from his head, dragging his fingers through his hair and pushing the curly strands off his face. The movement has his stomach stretching, drawing further emphasis to the cutting v-lines that disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. As though he can feel Nesta’s attention on him, his gaze dances over to her, but Nesta is quick to snap her head back around, focusing on the shot glass now being placed in front of her.

She doesn’t even wait for Emerie and Gwyn, quickly knocking back the clear liquid. She’s quite confident that she’s going to need it tonight.

She keeps her focus resolutely on her friends as they claim one of the high-top tables, but she can still feel Cassian’s attention on her. It scrapes across her shoulder blades, prickling the back of her neck. It’s like a caress, warm fingertips skating up her spine. And with each passing moment, it gets harder to ignore. So when it’s time, Nesta offers to get the next round of drinks, peeling away from her friends and stepping back up to the bartop.

“Did you enjoy the show?”

Nesta takes a moment, allowing that slow, warm drawl to wash over her before she finally turns. Cassian has re-buttoned his flannel, but the sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows, his forearm resting casually against the bartop as he leans against it. As soon as Nesta’s gaze meets his, golden sparks flare through his hazel eyes, his lips twisting into a wide, cocksure grin. She refuses to acknowledge the answering flames simmering low in her gut.

“I enjoyed watching you fall on your face,” Nesta tells him cooly, making a big show of tilting her head and pursing her lips. “Wasn’t much of a show otherwise.”

Cassian laughs easily, not even being subtle about his attention dropping to her lips. “I’d be more than happy to give you a repeat show, then. Maybe a private show?”

“In your dreams, cowboy.”

“Is that a promise?”

Nesta rolls her eyes. This man is clearly too confident and cocky for his own good. Just because she can, she reaches forward, plucking the cowboy hat right off of his head and placing it on her own. Cassian’s expression slackens, and pride swells between Nesta’s ribs at drawing out such a reaction, at finally knocking him off his axis. She doesn’t bother biting back her own smirk as she turns back to the bar, gathering up the drinks there and sauntering back toward her friends, leaving him to watch her walk away.

“Where’d you get the hat?” Emerie asks when Nesta returns to their table.

“I stole it from Cassian,” Nesta explains, setting down their drinks and sliding back into her seat. When she looks back up again, Emerie’s brown eyes are wide, and Nesta blinks a few times in confusion. “What?”

“You took Cassian’s cowboy hat? To wear yourself?”

“He could do with being knocked down a peg or two, don’t you think?”

Emerie presses her lips together, clearly trying to hold back laughter, but not in the way Nesta is expecting. She’s all too familiar with the amusement dancing in her friend’s brown eyes, knows exactly what it means. And it’s never good for her. It has Nesta shifting in her seat, has her hackles raising as she settles Emerie with an unimpressed look of her own.

“What.”

“You can’t just go around taking cowboy hats off men like that,” Emerie offers with a laugh, leaning across the table and giving a pointed look. “Don’t you know what that means?”

Nesta huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, excuse me for not knowing Windhaven has some weird rule, apparently.”

“It’s not a Windhaven rule.”

“It’s a cowboy rule,” Gwyn jumps in to add, nodding solemnly around the straw of her drink. “Wearing his hat means you're his.”

“And taking it off him means you want to take some other attire off him,” Emerie adds with a shit eating smirk.

There’s no stopping Nesta’s incredulous laugh. “That is not a real thing.”

“Sure it is!” Gwyn continues. “Wrangled My Heart, that cowboy romance I was telling you about? It was a whole plot point.”

“That is not helping your case that this is an actual rule.”

“Trust me, Nesta. The ranch hands of Windhaven take the etiquette and rules of cowboy hats very seriously.”

Nesta scoffs at Emerie’s words, but the sound is half hearted at best. She dares to look around the tavern, too easy to spot Cassian where he’s leaning against the wall. His eyes are pinned fully on her, and even with the space between them, there’s no denying the heat in them. She quickly turns away again, but she can already feel heat creeping up her neck and threatening to spill across her cheeks.

No point putting it off.

Nesta quickly downs the rest of her drink, pushing out of her seat and away from the table. She strides over to Cassian, already removing his hat from her head as she gets closer.

“I didn’t know the rule,” Nesta explains, holding Cassian’s hat out to him.

Cassian looks down toward his hat, but he makes no move to take it. “It looked better on you anyway.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

“Trust me, Nes. There’s no one as beautiful as you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say with the way Cassian’s grin only seems to grow. He finally takes the hat from Nesta’s hands, the tips of his fingers brushing across her skin as he does so. He steps closer to her, close enough that she can feel the heat that seems to radiate off his person, that every breath in has her chest pressing against his own. Close enough that Nesta has to tilt her chin up to hold his gaze. That she can count every green vine and golden fleck of his hazel eyes.

Her breath catches in her throat as Cassian raises his hand up above them, slow and purposeful. He settles his hat back on Nesta’s head, adjusting it until it sits how he likes.

“Much better, Nes,” Cassian tells her, tracing the backs of his fingers down her temple, her cheek, the side of her throat. “It’s important to always wear your hat straight. That’s another of the rules.”

Nesta swallows hard, trying to focus around her heart skipping in her chest. “How many rules are there?”

“More than you think.”

Cassian turns his hand, his palm pressing against her skin. The large span of it is enough to cradle her jaw and throat, and Nesta is sure that he must be able to feel the way her pulse flutters beneath his touch. His thumb drags across her bottom lip, Nesta’s lips parting with the movement. She lets her eyes fall closed, already leaning forward in anticipation, but nothing ever comes. When she snaps her eyes back open, Cassian is smirking again, and she rolls her eyes with a scowl.

“Don’t give me that look,” Cassian teases, even as he leans down enough for his nose to nearly bump against her. “You were the one who tried to give me my hat back, remember?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Nesta buries a hand in Cassian’s hair, tugging him down and finally closing that distance between them until his mouth crashes over hers. He kisses with the same sort of slow sensuality of that drawling accent of his, lips sliding against her own. He spins them around with ease, pressing Nesta back against the tavern wall. When he steps fully into her space, their bodies flush together, there’s no stifling the way Nesta moans into his mouth. She can feel every hard line of his body slotted perfectly against her own.

He uses the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth, curling and flicking at her own. When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn’t go far, dragging his lips across her jaw and throat. He finds that spot just behind her ear, and Nesta is puddy in his arms. His teeth scrape against the skin there, and she tosses her head back with a whine.

“If you keep making sounds like that,” Cassian breathes against her ear. “I’m going to have to take you right here in front of everyone.”

“On the mechanical bull?”

Cassian chuckles, pulling back fully, his eyes heavy lidded and pupils blown wide. “Another time.”

He kisses her again, holding her jaw just the way he wants her. Nesta feels dazed in the best way, only half registering the way he grabs her hand, leading her out of the tavern and back into the night. His truck is exactly what Nesta expects, beat up and red beneath the lights pouring out from the tavern.

It’s a short drive to Cassian’s farm, and despite the way she squints out the passenger window, Nesta can’t make out much in the darkness beyond a fence line and a looming building that she’s quite confident is a barn. The truck pulls to a stop in front of a gorgeous ranch style house with a wrap around porch. She’s so busy gaping at the house, that she doesn’t even register the passenger door being pulled open, not until Cassian’s arms wrap around her body, tugging her out of his truck and over his shoulder.

“Cassian!” Nesta exclaims, banging her fist against his shoulder blades. “Put me down. What are you doing?”

Cassian doesn’t say anything, instead continuing up the front steps and inside the house. When Nesta starts to squirm too much, Cassian’s hand comes down against her ass in reprimand, Nesta letting out a quiet yelp in surprise.

“Are you kidding me? I said put me–”

Nesta doesn’t even get a chance to finish her demand before her back is hitting a soft mattress and blankets. She sits up enough to take in the room around her, clearly the master bedroom. The furnishings are simple and rustic, all dark wood and a deep red bedspread.

“Beautiful.”

Nesta snaps her attention back toward Cassian, where he stands at the bottom of the bed, kicking his boots to the side. She can feel everywhere his eyes travel over her frame, goosebumps cascading across her skin at that caress. A shiver skates up her spine in response to the flames flickering amongst the hazel, and she stretches out more comfortably against the bed, really putting on a display. Cassian groans softly.

“You haven’t even gotten me out of my clothes yet,” Nesta comments, kicking off her shoes.

“I meant the sight of you in my bed,” Cassian explains, kneeling up onto the bed. “I might keep it.”

He settles between her spread thighs, leaning down and capturing her lips in a kiss. Nesta moans into his mouth as his body presses against her, his hips rocking down against her own. She cards her fingers through the dark, curly strands of his hair, using her grip to tug him closer still and deepen the kiss. Cassian’s own hands slide up beneath the hem of her dress, along her thighs, the warmth of his grip seeping into her skin.

It’s a bit awkward with the hat still poised on Nesta’s head, so she shifts enough that she can pull it free and set it aside. Cassian merely uses the opportunity to latch his lips back to her neck, each hot press of his mouth leaving an echoing heat simmering through Nesta’s veins. His teeth sink into the skin over her pulse point, and Nesta gasps, the sound quickly morphing into a moan when his tongue laves over the hurt.

She reaches for the buttons of Cassian’s flannel, but she only succeeds in undoing the first few before his fingers curl around her wrists, tugging her hands away and pinning them against the mattress by her head.

“Cassian,” Nesta whines, bucking her hips against him desperately.

“Patience is a virtue, Nes.”

He switches his grip to just one hand, using the free one to tuck his fingers beneath her chin, tilting her face back toward him and kissing her again, slow and deep. Nesta melts back against the bed as his tongue slides against her own, moaning softly when his teeth nip at her bottom lip, tugging it as he pulls back. He sits back on his haunches, gaze trailing over her again.

“Flushed so pretty.” Cassian’s hands push the hem of her dress up higher until it’s bunched around her waist. “But let’s see where else I can make that pretty pink spread.”

He continues to push her dress up and up, and Nesta sits up enough that he can tug it fully off, tossing it aside. He drags two fingers over her still clothed center and Nesta whimpers at the pressure, her hips jumping in response.

“And already so wet for me? Sweetheart, we’ve barely started.”

He traces a teasing circle across her clit, leaning down and swallowing Nesta’s moan with another searing kiss. He doesn’t break the contact as his hands slip behind her back, her bra quickly joining her dress on his bedroom floor. His hands slide to her breasts, fingers kneading the flesh and thumbs toying with her nipples.

He breaks the kiss, lips tracing a path down her throat, her collarbones. Nesta tosses her head back when his mouth’s attention turns to her breast. Her skin is already so sensitive there, and the drag of the stubble along Cassian’s jawline only adds to the sensation, sends electricity ricocheting down her spine.

“Cassian,” Nesta moans when his tongue swirls around her nipple, gripping his hair and holding him there.

“Keep moaning my name like that,” Cassian murmurs softly, switching to her other breast.

Nesta is a panting, squirming mess by the time Cassian finally pulls back again, by the time he’s pressing kisses down her sternum, down her stomach. He slides further down the bed until his shoulders are cradled between her thighs, his fingers hooking in the waistband of her panties.

“You know, it’s a bit unfair that you’re still fully dressed.”

Cassian chuckles, but he still pushes back up to his knees, fisting the back of his shirt and tugging it off. Nesta licks her lips at all that golden brown skin being on display again. The dim lighting of the bedroom cuts shadows across the lines of muscles, only seeming to add emphasis to the dark swirls of tattoos that Nesta now realizes curl all the way down to his elbows.

“Better?”

“Closer,” Nesta concedes, sitting up and reaching for the buckle of Cassian’s jeans.

But Cassian grips Nesta’s hips, tugging forward until she falls back again, splayed across the blankets. “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

He shifts his grip to the waistband of her panties again, pulling them down her legs and off. His fingers dig into her thighs, spreading them wide and exposing her cunt to him. The appreciative groan that tumbles past his lips goes right to Nesta’s head, and she revels in drawing out such a reaction.

“Look at this pretty cunt,” Cassian tells her, fingers flexing. “And it’s all for me.”

Cassian settles back on his stomach, Nesta’s toes curling in anticipation, at the warm breath fanning across her cunt, but then nothing ever comes. An unfortunate tendency with this man. She whines, squirming against Cassian’s hold, desperate for that pressure, for that delicious friction.

“Please… Cassian, please.”

“What a good girl, begging for it.”

Nesta keens at the praise, and then Cassian really rewards her. He presses the flat of his tongue against her, licking a long, thick stripe all the way up to her clit. He repeats the same motion, and Nesta can feel the vibrations of his answering groan, only adding to the pleasure building inside her.

“Oh, fuck,” Nesta gasps when Cassian’s tongue finds her clit and traces tantalizing circles there.

She buries a hand in his hair, nails dragging against his scalp as she holds him there, holds him right where she needs him. It draws another groan from the man between her thighs, his grip on them holding them open tight enough to bruise. Nesta tries to buck against it, tries to rock against his face, but he truly seems intent on taking his time.

Truly seems intent on undoing her and turning her into a whimpering, moaning mess.

It’s almost unfair the way he works his mouth over her and eats her out. The way he presses his tongue into her cunt and curls it. The way he sucks her clit between his lips. It’s almost unfair how attractive he looks doing it, dark curls tangled and unruly from Nesta’s fingers, hazel eyes swallowed whole by his blown pupils and pinned right on her face.

He releases his hold on one of her thighs, his hand sliding up to join his mouth. He sinks two fingers into her cunt, and Nesta arches up off the bed at the stretch. He quickly builds up a steady rhythm, pumping and curling his fingers, and Nesta’s cunt clenches and flutters around them, drawing them deeper still.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Cassian praises, pulling another long moan from Nesta’s throat. “Are you going to squeeze my cock the way you’re squeezing my fingers?”

Nesta is barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone speak one. All she can do is moan again in response. All she can do is give herself over to the familiar heat coiling tighter and tighter in her gut, the pleasure singing in her veins.

“How about you be my good girl and come all over my fingers.”

Cassian leans back down, his mouth working over her clit in time with his fingers, and Nesta can do nothing but obey. She moans Cassian’s name as her release tears through her, thighs shaking around his ears and cunt clenching down hard around his fingers. He works her through it, continues to rock his fingers and elongate her orgasm until the pleasure starts to melt into pain, and Nesta reaches her hand down, squeezing at Cassian’s wrist.

“Fuck, that was beautiful,” Cassian breathes, carefully pulling his fingers free and pressing soothing kisses to the inside of her thigh. “You’re beautiful.”

“Compliments will get you everywhere, cowboy.”

Cassian’s smirk is wide and cocksure as he slides back up Nesta’s body. He wastes no time sealing their lips together again, Nesta able to taste herself on his tongue when he presses it into her mouth. She slides her hands down Cassian’s chest, over the hard muscles, through the downy hair leading her to exactly what she wants.

He doesn’t stop her this time when she reaches for the buckle of his pants, shoving the waistband down his hips. He pushes up off the bed and to his feet, pulling his jeans and his boxers the rest of the way down and stepping out of them, and Nesta’s mouth practically goes dry.

She’d known from the stretch of his jeans that his thighs were thick, but seeing them like this is another thing all together. And then there’s his cock, hanging hard between them. He’s certainly larger than any of the men Nesta has been with back in Adriata, the girth of him wide. She can already imagine how the thick head will feel sinking into her, how the veins running along the side will feel dragging against the walls of her cunt.

“Enjoying the view, sweetheart?” Cassian asks, fisting his cock and stroking lazily.

“And what if I am?”

“You should see my view.”

Nesta smirks at his words, preening at the implication of them. She makes a big show of spreading her legs wider, tilting her hips up, to really give Cassian a view. She can hear the way his breath hitches, see the way his grip on his cock tightens, but she doesn’t stop there. She slides her fingers slowly down her chest, down her stomach, to the mess they’ve already made.

Cassian’s answering groan goes right to her head. Right to her cunt, already fluttering and desperate to be filled.

“Look at my good girl,” Cassian breathes, kneeling back up onto the bed. “Legs spread wide and ready for me.”

He reaches past her toward the bedside table, rooting around in the drawer until he pulls back with a condom between his fingers. Nesta watches through lidded eyes as he tears the wrapper open, sliding the condom on and down his cock. When he’s finished, he drags the head of his cock along her cunt, all the way to her clit, and Nesta whimpers, hips bucking up against him.

“Is this what you want, sweetheart?” Cassian asks, repeating the motion again. “Want to be full and stretched on my cock?”

“You have no idea,” Nesta tells him, shoving at his shoulders until he falls flat on his back on the bed. She throws one leg over his hips and settles astride him, gripping his jaw and forcing his head back enough that she can lean down and whisper in his ear, “but maybe I want to hear you beg for it.”

Cassian groans, his hands finding her hips and squeezing. “Trust me. I’ll do anything you want me to.”

Nesta hums, satisfied with the answer, and sits back up. She spies where she discarded Cassian’s cowboy hat earlier, grabbing it and settling it back on her head before she starts to rock her hips, reveling in the slide of Cassian’s cock against her, the way it twitches and jumps in response to her movements.

“Mother save me, you’re a dream,” Cassian sighs, his hands sliding down her thighs and back up to her hips again.

“Didn’t I tell you compliments would get you everywhere?”

She reaches a hand down between them, gripping Cassian’s cock, reveling in the warm weight of it against her palm. She raises up onto her knees, lining his cock up and sinking down inch by slow inch. She was right about how amazing the wide girth of him would feel, already feeling keyed-up by the time she bottoms out, her cunt already clenching hard around him.

“Oh fuck,” Cassian gasps, throwing his head back. “That’s it, Nes.”

Nesta tries to respond, but all that tumbles past her lips is a low moan, especially when she dares to rock her hips, Cassian’s cock sliding against the walls of her cunt, her clit dragging across his pelvis. She settles her hands on Cassian’s chest, using it for balance as she presses up onto her knees and sinks back down again, building up a steady rhythm that has her nerve endings sparking, her blood simmering with delicious pleasure.

“Gods, look at how you take me, how your sweet cunt squeezes me.”

Nesta whimpers, picking up the pace of her movements, circling her hips every time she sinks down and trying to get Cassian’s cock to press deeper still. She feels so full of him, but the need for more still claws up her throat. Still has her chasing that high, that precipice.

“Such a good girl, riding my cock so perfect.”

“Please,” Nesta whispers, reaching one of her hands to her own chest, squeezing her breast in hopes of finding that edge she needs. “Please.”

She doesn’t know how Cassian somehow knows what she’s asking, how he knows exactly what she needs, but with a growl, he grips her hips, flipping them over again, his hat tumbling somewhere off her head and the bed. He hikes her leg up high, spreading her open completely for him as he pulls his hips back and snaps them forward again. Nesta cries out as he sets a brutal pace, driving into her hard and just how she likes it.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” Cassian breathes right against Nesta’s ear. “Need my cock right where it belongs, fucking you deep and hard?”

“Yes! Don’t stop. Gods, don’t stop.”

Nesta grapples for purchase in Cassian’s hair, on his shoulders, unable to do anything but hold on. It’s almost unfair, the way he plays her body so well, the way every drag of his cock, every slam of his hips, has her melting into little more than a puddle of moans and whimpers of his name.

But she can’t find it within herself to care.

Not when her entire body feels ablaze. Not when Cassian continues to snap his hips, the wet slap of skin on skin mixing with her breathy pleas and his answering groans. Not when his hand slips between their bodies, fingers finding her swollen clit.

“We’re gentlemen here in Windhaven, you know. That means ladies first.”

Cassian continues to trace tight circles across her clit in time with his thrusts, and Nesta’s unable to deny his request even if she wanted to. She arches up off the bed, clenching hard and shouting Cassian’s name as she barrels through her second orgasm of the night. She’s half aware of Cassian groaning in her ear, of the way he continues to snap his hips a few more times before he shudders above her.

He pulls out and settles beside her with a soft sigh, Nesta taking a moment to catch her breath before she rolls over onto her side to face him. She finds herself tracing his dark lashes and the way they flutter, the pink that clings beneath the golden brown of his cheeks. Finds herself stuck on the pink of his lips, the way they tug up into a smile as though he can feel her attention on him.

He turns his head toward her, Nesta getting an up close look at the bright colds and twisting greens of his hazel eyes, the way they flare and simmer as his gaze dances over her face.

“Have I told you you’re beautiful?”

Nesta rolls her eyes, but she pushes herself up enough that she can lean over him, Cassian’s eyes tracking her the whole way. She dips her head, pressing her mouth against Cassian’s in the barest brush of a kiss, reveling in the way Cassian tries to chase her lips when she pulls away again.

“Careful, cowboy. If you keep up all these compliments, you’ll end up stuck with me.”

—

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