write it in the dust, babe

“Has Lucien left already?” Elain asked, her eyes focused on the body painting in her reflection rather than noticing the oh so slightly possessive expression she was making on her stupid face. The two faeries exchanged knowing looks between each other. Then Rue answered as she continued her painting up Elain’s ribcage,

“Yes. He is acting Highlord.” There was a brief pause before she continued. “He will take his role as the hunter.” Sya paused her weaving when Elain angled her head towards Rue.

“The hunter?” Her voice was laced with confusion. Lucien hadn’t mentioned anything about that. Rue didn’t look up from where she was painting, keeping focus on the delicate intricacies of this particular vine.

“Yes my lady, it is the highest honor. He will hunt the stag for the great rite, and then he will hunt and pursue his maiden.” Elain stopped moving entirely, her body so still that Rue looked concerned at the lack of seeing any sign of breathing. Something cold and dreadful coursed through her body, sinking down into the pit of her stomach. She felt a chill climb up her spine, tendrils of icy rage at the thought of him seeking out another. Not directed at him, but at some vague feminine figure that dare touch what belonged to her. She could hear her pulse, louder than any of the drums outside— and the chant. Over and over again.

Setting the strange trepidation aside, she pulled the cookies out of the oven and frowned. A spiced aroma wafted upwards, taunting her with its familiarity. She gasped, wide eyes darting from the line of ingredients then back down.

Elain wakes as from a fever-dream - mouth dry, skin burning. She blinks the heavy haze of sleep away from her eyes to a world of frozen white.

Where am I?

First she feels the sharp jolt of frozen air pulled into her chest. A sensation that burns. The cold is like a tight string around her lungs. Next she feels the aching freeze of her toes. Her soft yellow silk slippers are dark with snowmelt and mud. Mindlessly, she marches.

Around her, everything is draped in glistening, pristine white. A low, muted sun barely pierces the veil of the hazy winter morning. She’s in a line - girls in layered cotton-white dresses just like hers trudging a path through soft, newly fallen snow. It has melted against their long skirts, the hems weighed down and stiff with frost.

How long have I been sleeping?

Elain stumbles forward, her mind racing in search of a memory - any memory. When had she last seen her sisters? When did she leave the safety of her room in the River House?

Is she being marched to her death? Panic starts churning heavy in her stomach.

There are no guards, no weapons. They are not needed. The eyes of the other women are glassy and empty. They trudge uphill, a treeline in black charcoal slashed up against the horizon.

The frozen ice over snow crunches beneath her feet, gives way, and she falls. Ice-cold needles stab her palms. Elain is jolted into a memory.

White light flashes in her skull. Another forest - a soft winter sun, setting early. She’s running. Running til she’s out of breath. Gravity grabbing hold, the cold wet of the forest floor seeping through her dress onto her knees. Her palms scraping on stone and sharp twigs, sinking into frozen mud.

A voice, so familiar. Anguished. Crying out, getting farther and farther away. Elain! Please don’t do this.

Elain!

A voice she knows - one that calls to her always, and she runs from all the same.

Elain blinks. Her hands burn. The procession of women, drunk on their enchantment, trudge past her, unseeing.

The cold is a terrifying thing. It brings back bad memories - frozen wind that found every crack in their cabin walls, running out of wood for the fire, her sister’s cold feet on the bed. Hungry stomachs and the howling of wolves throughout the long nights.

Elain breathes.

The line of women is ending. She gets up and trudges to the end, willing her frozen limbs just a little farther up the hill.

When they crest it, Elain gasps.

She is on the edge of the world.

It’s flat, frozen, and endless. A lake - a frozen lake as wide as the ocean. Frozen since the dawn of time. Nothing lives here, where winter never thaws and magic has woven its hold into the very rock and ore and bark of the trees. The ice is strong as magic, holding the entire landscape in its grip.

A name tugs at the back of her mind, like an itch. She cannot quite make out the letters.

But there is something against the endless white - there - red, bright fiery red, just a little ways across the snow, seated upon a throne.

A woman sits there, warm skin, a mane of lionesque hair, her shoulders draped in thick white furs.

A Queen. A friend. Her name -

Just out of reach.

And beside her throne, another one, dark as fresh coal.

Koschei.

The name is a whisper of malice in her mind. An echo of a vision of long ago.

Elain’s hot breath fogs in front of her as she pants. The sound of axes on wood echoes across the empty expanse. Flames burst high in front of her eyes and she startles. The smell of pine and smoke burning sap fill her nose as a tree is thrown onto a bonfire as tall as the townhouse.

It dances with magic - the flames too bright to look directly at, the heart burning black as night.

There is a threshold, a dome of heat from the burning Queen that radiates off her body. When Elain passes through it she takes a deep breath for the first time, the heat almost painful against her numb, frozen skin.

Although the circle round the thrones simmers like a warm summer day, the snow under her feet does not melt. The Queen’s face is blank and hard. She does not look at Elain.

The impotent frustration of flame that cannot melt a drop of snow, her magic held in the tight fist of the one sitting beside her.

Elain worries about being caught, but no one seems to pay much attention to the women in white, now thawing in the circle of magic flame. She takes the opportunity to look around. It is a strange, macabre party.

There is only silence, but some of the women begin dancing, a mindless, tuneless swaying. Tables are spread with food, but no one eats. A delicate coat of frost covers plump pheasant breasts, delicately iced cakes, bowls of fresh berries. It is a performance, like a sad memory.

Koschei is a god of death and he looks it, scowling and dead-still on his throne of ice. The skin on his face looks paper-thin and ice-burnt. His fingers are long and pointed, the tips blackened.

Her memory is still thick, as clear as rolling fog, but Elain thinks on a shudder that she remembers the feel of his frozen hands.

Think - she has to think.

Her mind scrambles back to whatever seems familiar. Her garden in the River House - everything drooping and browning in the late heat of summer. Dark stars overhead. Her eyes always looking for red in the crowds of Velaris. Finding nothing.

A cold bath with the moon watching from her window. Waking from a vision, shivering and weak. The bite of autumn’s chill creeping through the crack in her window. Dark wings, a request whispered in carpeted hallways.

The opening of a door - and eyes, one golden and one green, staring back at her.

The soundless swaying stops with a wave of Koschei’s grizzled hand. The milling entourage, witnesses in name only, have lined themselves up into an approximation of a crowd. Elain slips to the end of a line. She wonders the price of her freedom were she to be caught.

The Queen finally moves - turning her head as the death god stands.

She is all beauty and flame, but tempered, under lock and key. Like Koschei’s cold fist fixes around her neck. Her robes are snow white. She will not look at Elain. But even without her eyes, Elain feels the name bubble up from within, rising with the warming fires.

Vassa.

A vibrant laugh echoes in her memories, pinging against the walls of her skull.

Vassa - Vassa Vassa.

“You’re all right, little dove.” The voice is clear and warm, rising from her memories.

I remember you!

The visions are fast and bright behind her eyes.

Vassa coaxing her through one of her visions, her warm hand holding her tight like an anchor, Vassa laughing on the pink couch with Jurian - Jurian! - Vassa in the cold woods behind the manor, screaming in pain as she transforms -

But there’s someone else in that memory, laughter and joy in the sitting room, the fires always blazing bright, the pink couch, the old green carpet, the strangely lived-in squalor of a manor that made her feel warm, home -

Something tears in her chest - not the searing freeze of the air nor the iron-tang of magic but hot, insistent, burning.

Elain stops. Her head clears. She looks at Koschei, staring out into the lake, and follows his gaze -

Her lungs are pulled tight again. Red hair flashes, wisps in the frozen wind. A scar, deep purple against too-pale skin. Green and brown, the colors of autumn.

Lucien.

He shakes in the cold. The fabric of his fine shirt is ripped. Blood stains it, drying dark. He is bound, a mighty tree melted into the lake, his hands tied tightly behind it, his chest pulled tight against his open wound.

No.

Elain chokes on a sob. Her hands begin to shake. She takes one step out of line. Two.

A chill wind blows between them. It kicks up the fresh snow, revealing dark ice. It is eons old, older than the beginning of the earth, ice that will never melt.

And inside the glassy depths, there are faces, bodies, skulls - frozen crystal clear.

Koschei’s prisoners. His lake of souls.

The death god points a shaking hand.

Lucien lifts his head. His good eye is swollen, a lip split.

Bronze flashes in the pale sun as his gaze darts across the landscape - tripping over Vassa, the death god, the rows of enchanted servants knee-deep in snow.

Then his eye meets hers across the ice.

Something inside of Elain’s chest rips.

Hot and sure, her pulse beats hard, something powerful burning through the fog of her enchantment, memories rushing back like visions projected on her skull.

At the sight of her, Lucien’s face crumples.

Only one thing beats through her rapid pulse.

Lucien hovered uncomfortably in the corridor just before the garden. She was there, that much he knew. No matter the circumstances, one didn’t leave the High Lord’s service willy-nilly.

For the thousandth time since last night, Lucien cursed the heavens. Why did she have to be Dr Lin’s Jane Doe?

“Don’t just stand there. It’s unsettling.”

A lesser fae might have jumped. Of which, Lucien was decidedly not.

A lesser fae might have cowered in the face of the chill in Elain’s gaze. Again, not him.

Although, it was a mighty effort. Her sigh did not seem convinced of it. “Come on. We are not doing this here.”

With a look that broached no argument, Elain led them to her office. It had been tidied, any scent of what they did wiped away and left no trace of what they had done. Just the sharp tang of Elain’s magic that stung in more ways than one.

Elain remained standing with her back to him, her spine pulled rigid in a prideful stance that was reminiscent of her older sister. She stated matter of factly, “You left me.”

Cold and simple. Lucien realised this was unfortunately the only path left for them to take, and in many ways, it might even be the easiest.

“I couldn’t stay.”

“Maybe,” she shrugged, “but you did so anyway. You left me here. In the dark. Naked and alone.”

Lucien steeled himself, his keen hearing followed the elevated rhythm of her heartbeat. He replied sharply, “I couldn’t stay, as you must have imagined why.”

She whipped around and he nearly faltered at the red rimmed eyes. Elain still held herself straight but a clearer view of her now told him it was all she could do to keep the hurt at bay and continue moving forward. His fists balled tightly by the side of his body, nails drawing blood from where he dug them deep into his palms.

Stubbornly, Elain tilted her chin up in haughty defiance, “Yes, I do. Which is why I’ll be meeting Tamlin later. I’m ending the service today and we never have to see each other again.”

“One doesn’t break a bargain with the court so easily.” He reminded her coldly, almost in derision. “I’ll talk to Tamlin and take over your debt. It’ll be the same result with much lesser implications.”

She scoffed, muttering something indecipherable under her breath before replying, “Save your heroics. You don’t owe me anything. I guess, it should really be the other way round. Your dead wife’s heart is keeping me alive afterall.”

This time, Lucien did flinch. He seethed, “How dare you?”

How dare she say it like it was nothing? Like it meant nothing?

She shook her head, looking at him with an almost pitying gaze. Lucien hated it. He was furious. He did not need pity. Not from her.

“I dare. With the same audacity to keep myself alive just by continuing to live with her heart inside me,” her eyes then softened. For a second, it was the Elain he spent the last month with. Just for that same second, he wanted to throw everything to the wind and enveloped her in his arms. The second stretched, further and further, until it cracked and shattered. “but I don’t expect you to have to see me do that. It would be unbearably cruel and unfair so this is good bye, Lucien.”

She walked away, her posture perfectly straight and her every step resounding and resolute. With one foot out of the door, she turned back and said with trembling lips, “I just hope that this wasn’t all a mistake, and that at some point, there was happiness.”

His heart ached. He didn’t even know it still could.

She walked out when he said nothing. There was nothing else left to say and Elain Archeron, who up until last night had brightened his life, knew it the best.

***

Lucien knocked on Tamlin’s door and entered the office. He said briskly, “Tamlin, there’s something I need to speak to you about.”

“Let me guess, this is about a certain gardener we were just discussing about.” Andras asked from where he stood on the other side of Tamlin’s table.

Lucien raised a brow but did not let the statement detract him. “Whatever she promised, release her from it. I’ll take over her debt.”

“That’s some commitment from a female who dumped you.” Andras commented cautiously.

A hammering built up steadily at the back of his head. The taunts were truly the last thing he needed today.

Hackles raised, he snipped, “That’s not what this is about.”

“Whatever it is, forget about her.” Cut in Tamlin roughly, “Her debt has been transferred and the Archerons are no longer residents of the Spring Court. They’re deserters.” Wincing slightly at Andras’ not too subtle attempt in gesturing him to stop.

Bang, bang, bang. The hammering headache raged on. He asked impatiently, “What? What do you mean the Archerons are no longer residents of the Spring Court?”

“It is exactly what it sounds,” Tamlin explained, “Elain came earlier to dissolve the debt bargain with me. The penalty for prematurely ending the bargain to be paid out and transferred in full to the Night Court. Email assurances from Rhysand’s Office on the debt transfer and official applications for relocation for all three sisters, she had it all.”

Lucien fell silent, baffled at the update. Elain had never once hinted at a relation to Night and now they were all there? It made no sense.

Andras pat him on the shoulder in comfort. “You’re better off forgetting about her.”

Andras and Tamlin continued to speak but the words failed to register with Lucien. Bargains with High Lords were one of the most powerful magic to exist and Elain had hers willingly transferred to Rhysand of the Night Court? With their reputation?!

“I’m ending the service today and we will never have to see each other again.”

Cauldron’s ball sack, what has she done?

“Excuse me, I need to go check on something.” Lucien interrupted them brusquely. Whatever it was that she had done or promised the Night Court, Lucien couldn’t let her go through with it.

“Lucien!” He heard Tamlin call after him but he was already gone, the call fading into the fiery blaze of his winnow.

***

Lucien stared in disbelief at the ‘For Sale’ sign.

How could one person move this quickly?

Over the span of one work day, Elain had succeeded in quitting her job and magical contract with the High Lord, had said debt and services transferred to another Head of State, packed up her entire life belongings, arranged her move to a different court and put her family home on sale. It was frightening how efficient she was.

Lucien tapped his leg impatiently as he dialed her number once more.

“Hello?”

He nearly swore (in relief or any other relevant emotion, Lucien wasn’t sure. There would surely be time to unpack them later) at the familiar lilt of the middle Archeron coming through the phone.

“Elain, where are you? Tamlin filled me in. You don’t need to move to Night to serve out your debt with Rhysand. I told you I’ll take care of your debt with Tamlin.”

“And I told you to save your heroics.” She retorted, sounding annoyed. Even through the phone, he could see her pinched eyebrows and scrunched up nose. “Anyway, I need to hang up soon. I’m on the plane to Velaris and we are about to fly any minute now so listen, Lucien Vanserra: there is nothing left between us and I don’t see how anything else can come out of this. I have the debt matter sorted so you can leave me alone now.”

“And what exactly have you given to sort it out?” He demanded. The pressure behind his temples multiplied with every second and frayed his composure with it. “You’re upending your life in a single night, Elain.”

“Not that that is any of your business.” She snapped at him, “Now, if this is about the move out of Spring or on any other official matters, you can reach out to the High Lord’s Office. I’m hanging up now.”

He bristled. “Elain-“

She cut insistently, “High Lord’s Office, Lucien.”

The sustained beeping signalled the end of their call and left Lucien hanging. Inflight or not, Elain would not be taking any more calls. Not from him, at least.

***

“Ahhh, there we have it. The inevitable state of a dumped male: drunk at the bar.” Andras drawled as he slid into the chair next to Lucien.

“We weren’t together.” He clarified, almost pointlessly, slumped over the bar counter, nursing an empty glass.

“You fucked though.” The shifter stated as he gestured to the bartender for a drink of his own. He narrowed his eyes, nostrils slightly flared. “Her scent is still on you.”

Lucien chuckled in a new depth of self-deprecation. “That, we did. But don’t worry, we never will again.”

Elain made it clear in no uncertain terms and she wasn’t wrong. How could anything else happen, no matter how incredible that single time was, when she was the elusive Dr Lin’s Jane Doe?

Of course, Lucien wondered countless times during those endless nights, what sort of person that Jane Doe was. Sometimes, he cursed and wished for her to just be an awful person so that he could easily hate her. Many times he also wanted her to be kind, to be good, to be someone that deserved the heart she wore. It was a dichotomy that never resolved itself.

To now know that person was Elain dredged out the sludge of everything Lucien had buried in his bid to live with the grief, and left him lost beyond belief once more. She was good, so undeniably good and funny and kind. He hated that. But he also loved that.

“Why not?” Andras asked, pulling him out of his spiralling reverie. A bull of a loaded question.

“Fuck you,” he spat non-venomously, his head still cradled in his forearm and groaned. “It was all a lie. I thought there was a connection. Something so real it felt visceral.” It was uncanny, the way his entire body was attuned to hers. How naturally it followed hers through every ebb and flow. How twisted was it that it wasn’t her but the heart inside?

Andras lifted a perfect brow. “You’re not making any sense.”

“She is the recipient of Jesminda’s heart. She was caught up in the same accident as we were and survived only because Jesminda died.”

A swig of whiskey and a thud on the table where the glass landed.

“That’s fucked up, man.”

Lucien huffed. That it was.

“But don’t let yourself get caught up in a web of causality.” Andras said in a tone so sagely it made Lucien want to swing a closed fist at him. “Elain might have survived because Jesminda died but it doesn’t go the other way round. She could also have just as easily died despite receiving the heart or died without it. Where, then, my friend, would that leave you?”

Elain, dead? His brain couldn’t even comprehend the scenario.

A heavy hand clapped his shoulder in comfort and the two of them sat in silence until the sun peeked over the horizon, accompanied by nothing but the clinking of glass.

***

Lucien pulled the car into the road shoulder and got off. His hands shook by his side. As the linkway between Winter and Spring, the temperatures here converge somewhere between the two seasons. Yet, the cold did not cause the shivers.

This place, this bridge. The place that stole a lifetime of happiness from him. He had avoided this place for so long, terrified of the ghosts that lingered here. As he now stared at the panoramic view of the crystal lake and rolling hills of Spring, he waited for the barrage of unwanted memories. They played out in his head like a recording, only without the crushing agony that used to accompany them.

Perhaps the ghosts didn’t stay here, they trailed after him wherever he went. His dark shadow.

Lucien’s legs folded to the ground. He scrubbed his face, letting out a shuddering breath, watching distantly at the round wisps which followed the lengthy exhale. In his peripheral, he caught sight of a minor dent in the fence, feral scratches of paint embossed on it.

The dots were not difficult to connect. This was the exact point of the bridge where Elain nearly died. A light so bright, so very nearly snuffed out.

“Where then, my friend, does that leave you?”

*

“Did you know Feyre loves the night sky and all its sparkly stars?”

Lucien hummed uncommitally. He was too comfortable on his soft pillow to open his eyes.

Then his pillow beneath his neck shifted. “Feigning sleep?” She teased.

Lucien grumbled, “who says I’m faking?” He peered through half-lidded eyes, limiting his vision to just a beautiful face. “No, she never mentioned it.” He answered, nuzzling his face into soft rolls.

Slender fingers carded through his hair and Lucien nearly purred on the spot. “She was always painting them, even as a child, then poured hours reading about the ‘Other Worlds’ theory. It might have been the only scientific subject she was interested in.”

“Other Worlds, huh? Multiple worlds living in parallel with us.”

She corrected him, almost out of habit, “To be exact, it was worlds existing in inter-dimensional layers, all connected through a wormhole like a skewered stick.”

Lucien laughed, an image of Elain humouring little Feyre popped in his head as her ever-suffering tone reminded him of his own years bothering his brothers of never-ending facts of mythical creatures. “Would you ever want to go through such a tunnel? See all these worlds?”

“Me?” The soothing movement in his hair halted as Elain considered his question. She answered wistfully, “Nah. I’ve barely seen this world.”

“Would you want to?”

“One day, maybe. Explore caves in Vallahan, sunbathing on the Bharat beaches, strolling through the old towns of Montesere, take a road trip through Rasks and its numerous grand castles — and that’s just the continent!” She sighed.

Lucien reached out a hand to grasp hers. Chocolate brown eyes gravitated towards him, still glassy, caught up in unfulfilled dreams. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed them against the back of her palm. “Then let’s go.”

She smiled. “Just like that?”

He guided her hand back to his head in a subtle message to continue her earlier administrations. The gentle caresses through his hair resumed once more.

“Just like that,” Lucien closed his eyes. His heart at ease while his mind furiously compiled a list of destinations and must-visit attractions.

*

That night had been the first in a long, long time that Lucien made leisure plans for the future. His head buzzed with anticipation as he thought of all the places they could go and the things they could do. Suddenly, he was no longer just walking the surface of this world, getting by day by day. After years of barely keeping his head above the water, Lucien had begun to swim and gained distance with every stroke.

A small traitorous part of him whispered, why let it go?

He had wanted Elain from the moment he saw her. Who wouldn’t, in the face of such beauty? What he didn’t expect was how the feeling intensified with every walk. How he fell deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole. Effortlessly. Willingly. Foolishly.

Here, on the bridge where he lost his wife, was it wrong for him for his mind to be so completely arrested by the fear of almost never having met Elain? Was it wrong for his heart to feel gutted at the thought of never seeing her again? Of never getting to walk and laugh by her side again.

The idea wasn’t inconceivable, it was flat out unacceptable; the thought so sobering that he could only be grateful of the heart beating in her chest and keeping her alive.

Lucien held onto that realisation as he stood up. He remained stranded at this place between the two courts for long enough. This time, he could leave the ghosts behind.

***

The first thought that came to mind as Lucien was shown into the House of Wind was how immaculate the entire premise was. Classic Night Court architecture blended perfectly with the current century modernism, ceiling to floor glass windows accompanied by sleek wooden furnishing bleeding into the cavern structure of the mountain. Its grandeur lived up to its reputation as the official residence of the ruthless High Lord, and much like the lintless coats worn by Rhysand, there was not a single dust speck in sight.

Lucien settled into the middle seat of the plush and rich sofa, and waited. It wasn’t long before a familiar feminine lilt floated into the room. “I have to confess, I didn’t expect you to really reach out to the High Lord’s office.”

What else was I supposed to do? You won’t pick up my calls and neither would Feyre or Nesta, were one of the many lines that Lucien’s mind concocted in the weeks after Elain’s departure from Spring. They had stacked higher and higher like a block of towers, only to all come crashing down as Lucien landed eyes on Elain.

She hadn’t quite given in yet to the darker colours and more body fitting fashion of the Night Court, opting for a flowy maxi dress in muted olive. Her hair, swept into her usual half-do, was complemented by dainty flower crystal earrings and necklace, framed her face perfectly. She was stunning.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

His thoughts rendered down to single word sentences. His brain commandeered by the sharp and insistent tugging on his rib.

“You’re my mate.” He whispered, a realisation engraved into his very being as an unmistakable truth.

Elain’s eyes widened to spheres. Shocked by his quiet declaration (but not by the epiphany), she grabbed onto his hand and led him out of the room. saying firmly, “let’s take a walk.”

He followed Elain out onto the streets, hands still clasped together.

Ba-dum. Her heartbeat, elevated, anxious, fearful.

Ba-dum. Her breaths, slightly irregular, panting.

Ba-dum. Elain.

Ba-dum. Elain.

Ba-dum. Elain.

Elain Archeron. His mate. Subconsciously, his hand tightened around hers. He couldn’t see her expression but something in him warmed when she squeezed back.

After a few minutes (or it could be an hour, Lucien lost tracked), his mate pulled him into the observatory dome. Once they crossed the entrance, the ceiling disappeared, the darkness of the night sky enveloped them, leaving the surroundings lit only by the starlights above.

“A dark reserve. I thought this magic was lost to time.” He said in a hushed awe. Solar courts did not live in the eternal state of their namesake. While there had been records of magics which drew from the High Lord’s power and allowed them to keep an area in a suspended state, no High Lord in recent history had managed it. Until now.

The corners of Elain’s lips lifted. “Yeah, it almost seemed existential as a result of the light pollution of the modern age. I like it here. It reminds me of-” she cut herself off and abruptly let go of his hand. A perfect smile replaced the small smile she had worn. “It’s peaceful here.” She finished somewhat lamely.

Lucien stared at his now empty hand. This place reminded her of the night they shared together. He thought that may be what she wanted to say. He balled his fist, asking, “Is this a conversation not suitable for the House of Wind?”

“The magic of the House of Wind is unique.” She said carefully, “nothing is private”.

“And this is.” He finished, prompting a nod in return. “How long have you known?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“That night in the garden.” She swallowed heavily before clearing her throat, “before everything else happened.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You left the next day.”

Elain shrugged, her expression impassive. “It didn’t change anything.”

To most people, Elain’s act might have worked. It might have worked if Lucien didn’t notice the tiny hitch in breath before she spoke or the tiniest tremble of lips as she spoke. It might have worked if Lucien wasn’t so attuned to her, the way he had been from the day they met. Now that he knew why, the pieces finally fit.

“I might have lived the rest of my life not knowing.” He said, no, argued, as gently as he could.

“You might have been happier that way.”

“No, I wouldn’t. If not, I wouldn’t be here today.” He took her hand in his and lined their open palms together. “I wouldn’t have wondered why I felt so incomplete.” He interlaced their fingers and clasped them close. “I wouldn’t have wondered why the thought of never seeing you again could haunt me so badly.”

Their eyes locked.

“I wouldn’t have rejected the notion so desperately that I would do anything to see you again. Setting up the meeting through Rhysand’s office was an easy hurdle.”

She stumbled backwards, eyes beseeching. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

He held their joined hands to his chest. “I know.”

“It’s not an obligation.” She tried futilely to take back her hand. “I am not an obligation you have to bear.”

“You’re not.” Lucien said firmly, resolute. It felt almost strange how little the revelation that they were mates changed his views. “I just couldn’t bear the thought of not walking you home everyday, of being by your side everyday. You are not a burden, Elain. You are a privilege.”

Finally, the mask Elain wore slipped. Voice cracking and lips trembling as she asked, “yeah?”

Am I worth it? Am I worth being your mate? Am I worth wearing your dead wife’s heart? Am I worth receiving this happiness that was hers?

He let go of her hand so that he could cradle her face in his. Russet eyes sinking into a sea of chocolate brown. “Yes.”

To all of it.

He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss. Gentle but unyielding. Deep but affectionate. Chaste but eternal. Slender hand around the back of his neck and kept him close. The whole world narrowed to chocolate brown eyes, button nose and rosebud lips that curved into a small smile.

Then I’m going to hold it close for dear life.

Lucien felt himself smiling in return, his heart impossibly light and full at the same time. Their foreheads touched.

Okay, for life it is.

END

She’d been so lost in thought trying to curate each item that she’d actually forgotten to grab any of them, and turned so quickly she jumpscared Lucien, who tried to choke politely on the almond croissant he’d inhaled violently. Elain covered her mouth to smother her giggles, and leaned down to whisper as he wheezed: “Sorry, I was just–” she glanced down at the cart she hadn’t noticed Lucien grab, full of everything she’d meant to pull off the shelves. “...going to get a cart.” He coughed quietly once again and stood up, powdered sugar at the corner of his mouth and sprinkled down the front of his shirt from the errant croissant.

“No worries, I got it.” His voice was low and relaxed, if not a little gravelly from his recent choking episode. Elain clenched her teeth and stepped forward, irked by his nonchalance, and reached up to swipe the sugar off his collar. He froze under her fingers, and she could feel the pounding of his heart through his chest as she dusted him off. His shirt radiated heat, and she tried to ignore the firmness of his chest and instead stood up on her tiptoes, now laser-focused on getting the spot off his face.

Quicker than she could react, Lucien’s hand was around her wrist, gently holding it in place. His eyes were like flames in the moody lighting of the antiques store, and she was trapped under his gaze as he brought a thumb to the corner of his mouth, wiping it off. Elain was transfixed by the feeling of his skin on hers, and couldn’t look away when he licked the sugar off his finger. Heat rushed to her cheeks. This was so stupid; she was stronger than this, damnit.