nora brave seeker

It usually wasn't this insistent.

She stirred from sleep, hair a tangled wreath upon her head as she peered into the dim room. From her bed, she could see a bright blob of moonlight waxing nearly to its peak. It passed behind a midnight cloud before blinking back into the sky, as though winking at her. By its silver light, she could see that the brass latch of her window was still firmly secured.

Wind howled on the other side of the glass, but the room was otherwise undisturbed.

Her heart, however, was not.

In her chest, there was the usual steady rhythm. One she didn't take much notice of on a regular day. But on that early morning, under the light of the knowing moon, it was joined by a restless pounding. The hail of a war drum. She pressed a hand to her chest, marveling at the peculiar sensation, the way it pulsed through every vein, hooking them as if to manipulate her body by its strings, to draw her from the bed.

Elain obeyed. She always did, when the forest called.

No one would be walking the halls of the temple at this hour, but Elain crept silently out her window even so. She enjoyed the thrill of jumping from the ledge to the wide tree branch, feeling the swoop in her stomach as it swayed beneath her weight. She knew she wouldn't fall. The same way she knew that if she angled her head to the right, she would catch the silhouette of a grey owl with its wings spread across the swelling moon. Its cry pierced the air, masking the sound of the leaves crunching under her feet as she dropped from the tree.

The forest told her these things. It had since the moment she was young enough to understand them. Before then, too.

Her tutors still spoke with a shudder at her habit of crawling towards the forest edge the second their backs were turned. They feared they would lose her to the mist, that she would disappear into the hazy underbrush and never return. It wouldn't be the first time such a thing happened.

Those woods are cursed, she'd been explained when she was older. Too curious for her own good, they said. The trees disorient wanderers to feed on their souls.

At present, Elain tipped her head back to inhale a deep breath of the damp, loamy air. It felt clean in her lungs. Fuller than the breaths she could take in the temple. Her mind felt cleaner, too, all the details of the world so much richer. The chirping insects, the writhing soil, the dancing wind, all of it pulsing, bursting with life.

How could anyone get lost here? She often wondered, following the signposts the forest left for her. A stack of rocks, a croaking frog, a pointing branch. All of it as clear as if she were guiding her fingers across an atlas in Nesta's personal library. Turn right. Go straight. Turn left.

Then, the signposts became unusual. A set of footprints in the soil.

Elain paused at these.

As far as she knew, in all of her ten years of collected knowledge, she was the only person that frequented these woods. She'd never seen footprints before, not ones this recent. Not ones that the forest guided her to. That curious sensation in her chest grew stronger. A stumbling beat. A beckoning.

Go, the rustling leaves called to her. Go see.

At the bottom of a mossy knoll, slipping past a trickling creek, Elain saw what the forest was leading her towards.

A boy.

She had never seen him before, but Elain knew at once who he was. What he was.

A Vanserra.

There was no one in the temple with hair that color. It was braided in a loose tail down his back, though pieces of it escaped haphazardly, sticking to his clammy skin. He didn't stick out in the forest like she thought another person might. With his fox-like hair and his guarded posture, he looked like any cornered animal she might have found crouched in the sea of bluebells.

"Hello?" She called, keeping her volume hushed. The nesting birds didn't like when she raised her voice, and it was still too early for them to wake.

He lifted his head, and she saw that his russet eyes were red-rimmed, shining with tears. Snot ran down his nose, but he quickly wiped it away on his arm. His tears kept flowing, despite his efforts to mask them behind a glower.

"Who are you?" He bit out.

Thorns were never efficient deterrents to Elain. She didn't mind occasionally pricking her finger to admire a flower in bloom. Enduring the bite of stone on her skin if it meant feeling the earth beneath her feet. Tensions often ran high among the priestesses, and she'd developed a habit of meeting sharp teeth with an open palm.

It's why she didn't falter in her approach, even as the boy drew back his lips. The scent of copper stung her nostrils as she grew closer.

Elain stiffened. "You're hurt?"

"Go away," the boy sniffled, dropping his head into the knees he held bunched to his chest.

She waited, but the boy seemed intent on ignoring her. Elain recognized her youngest sister, Feyre, in the proud set of his jaw. She was too stubborn to admit when she was hurt, too.

"I'll go get help," she suggested, taking a step back towards the temple.

His head snapped up. "No!"

"No?" Elain tilted her head. "Why not?"

"They won't help me. Not my people, or yours."

She needed a moment to digest this answer, thinking through what she knew of the Vanserra family. They did not get along well with the temple. The High Priestess made no secret of her dislike, and Elain tried to recall the reasons why. How they were cruel. Scum of the earth. That they should rot at the bottom of the Mother's Cauldron. Though she had never been told why those things were said about the Vanserras, she thought the boy might be right. The High Priestess would insist on sending him back to his home on the other side of the dense forest that separated the seat of Autumn from its sovereign temple.

If they weren't willing to help, then Elain would just need to do it herself.

Check his back, the wind whispered, affirming her decision.

Elain crept along the dense carpet to find that his tunic was ripped, stripped away to reveal raw, angry flesh that had been torn into criss-crossing ribbons. Her breath hitched.

"Who did this to you?"

The boy didn't answer, his stare a sullen anchor in the undergrowth.

"What's your name?" She tried asking instead.

He glared at her. "Why should I answer? You never told me yours."

"Elain," she said, pulling a practiced smile across her lips. The scholars at the temple said pretty smiles helped alleviate tense conversations, and she would ascribe this one as such. "My name is Elain Archeron."

"Archeron," he repeated, practically spitting the word. "Go back to your temple, Elain."

"But you're hurt. Why would I leave you here?"

The boy looked at her as if the answer should be obvious. "Because I'm a Vanserra."

"Okay," she said, not letting her smile fall. "Which Vanserra?"

Not that it made any difference to her. She didn't know one Vanserra from the other, and regardless she would help him. She just thought it would be nice to know his name. He maintained his tense silence for a heartbeat. Then another. And then, Elain sensed a change, like a breeze rattling the leaves. Like a cracking branch.

The boy's expression faltered.

"Lucien," he said, voice dropping into a whisper. Like this was a secret he intended to keep from the forest itself.

"Lucien," Elain repeated, testing the new word with the same eagerness she approached most novel things. "I like that name. It sounds like…" She thought for a moment, replaying the sound in her head. "Rushing water. Or a crashing wave. Don't you think?"

Lucien looked bewildered. "What?" He dismissed the question with a shake of his head, replacing that momentary curiosity with yet another dark cloud. "Do the priestesses even know you're here, Elain?"

She had dealt with her sisters' sour moods frequently enough to recognize when someone was being intentionally difficult. It was a good thing she'd become accustomed to it.

"No," she said, coming closer to inspect his wounds. "But I gather your father doesn't know you're here, either."

"No, but I'm doing what he asked."

"And what is that?"

"Getting out of his sight," Lucien grumbled, ducking his head. "These woods seemed like the safest place to be."

Given what was said about the woods, and how gravely adults heeded those warnings, Elain took that to mean Lucien's other options of places to be must have been abysmal indeed. It had to be, if his wounds were inflicted on him there.

"I don't know much about healing yet," Elain admitted. "But I can run back to the temple and take supplies from the infirmary."

"Why?"

Elain was confused again. "Because you're hurt?"

"You don't know me," Lucien said, and he sounded a bit distressed. "You don't owe me anything."

"I know your name is Lucien. Like the sea."

His lips flattened. She didn't think he liked being compared to the sea. And she could understand why it could be an odd comparison. With his red hair and firey demeanor, water should be his opposite. But when she held her breath and listened, she knew that second beating in her chest was the sound of the waves crashing to shore. A proud, unstoppable force.

A lighthouse, guiding her here, to this moment.

She smiled at him, trying to shine that brightness back. "And I think that we owe each other kindness."

Lucien only huffed, bowed over his knees once again. Resigned to Elain's plan, or just whatever fate the forest had in store. Usually those things were one and the same.

"Wait here, Lucien. I'll be back soon."

"No one ever makes it out of these woods alive!" He called back to her.

Elain only laughed. She would prove him wrong soon enough.

-

"You came back?"

Elain beamed, which only seemed to sharpen Lucien's frown. "I told you I would."

He eyed the basket swinging from her elbow, russet eyes narrowing. In the time it took her to sneak into the palace and gather her supplies, a flush had swept across his cheekbones, gleaming under the soft moonlight.

"I'll have to be quick," she said. "You're starting to become feverish."

Lucien scoffed. "How do you know the first thing about treating wounds?"

"I don't." But the forest does.

Stalks of bluebell tickled her exposed knees as she knelt beside him. Nesta would scold her for wearing a nightgown in the unattended company of a boy, but Nesta wasn't there and Lucien was hardly paying attention. He looked like he was barely keeping himself upright.

"Drink this," Elain said, offering him a leather flask.

His fingers were shaking, but he had enough strength to snatch the flask from her hands and give it a distrustful sniff. "How do I know it isn't poisoned?"

"Because it would have been easier to leave you in the woods."

Lucien's nose wrinkled as he took another whiff. "What is it?"

"Willow bark tea."

She leaned closer to him, expecting he would retreat. His eyes only flicked to hers over the flask, monitoring each motion, each breath. The forest used to watch her like this too, when she first entered its mist as a curious intruder. Now she knew to keep her eyes on his, letting him read her intention as she slid her fingers into his hair.

Soft, she thought, absently spreading her touch to admire the thick tangle of silk. Like dipping her fingers into sun-warmed water.

"Drink." She tapped her other hand to his wrist, helping to guide the flask to his bloodied lips. "This will ease the pain of what comes next."

They held each other's gaze. Red and brown. Colors of the earth, clashing to determine whether it was easier to be soft or rigid. To fight the pain or yield. She understood why he resisted as staunchly as he did, because the moment he stopped, she watched the fear set in.

"It will be okay," she soothed, watching his throat bob around each determined swallow.

Lucien blinked at her in the aftermath. His scarlet brows drew a crease in the middle. "What… else was in the tea?"

"Shh." Elain hummed as she took the flask from him, setting it aside. She pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the strong heartbeat that she could hear in the back of her mind. It was slowing now. "All will be well, Lucien."

The look he cast her was stark with betrayal. His weight was beginning to slump against her.

"What did… you give me?"

"Sleep drought," she said, hushed. Like the voice her mother once used for singing lullabies. She stroked her fingers through his hair. "Just enough to knock you out, I promise."

His hand covered hers. She was sure the grip would have been crushing, if he had the strength for it. But all he could manage was a squeeze, a soft raking of his nails that was overall pleasant. She'd never minded thorns.

"I won't forget this," he swore.

"That's right." Elain began rocking him, imagining they were a ship lost in a sea of bluebells. "You will live to remember this, Lucien. And perhaps one day, you will thank me."

Elain waited until his body went limp and his heart became a slow timekeeper in her chest. Then she laid him down on his stomach, opened her basket of supplies, and began tending to his wounds under the instruction of the wind.

-

When Lucien finally woke, the afternoon sun was at its peak. Its dappling light filtered through the trees, shining over his body in warm clusters. Elain watched him stir from her hiding place in the trees.

He groaned as pushed himself up, and she winced to imagine how doing so would pull on those terrible lacerations at his back. She'd spent the early hours of the morning cleaning and packing his wounds, and though they were now dressed, they would still be tender.

Half of her was tempted to drop down from her hiding place and insist he put aside his pride so she could continue treating him. The other half knew that he would never agree after she had tricked him into drinking a sedative.

Surely, someone from his home would help him? If he could make it home, that was.

Elain held her breath as Lucien craned his neck to assess her work. He sent a searching hand over his shoulder, feeling at the bandages and the sticky poultice just underneath. A disgusted sound rose in the back of his throat, and he withdrew his hand to sniff at his fingers.

Would he smell the honey and yarrow? She wondered.

With a grimace, Lucien wiped the residue on his sleeve. She ducked behind the tree when his gaze pivoted, searching the clearing for any sign of his fraud healer. Only once she heard him shuffling through the remains of the basket did she allow herself to peek again.

Lucien quickly discovered the food and water she had left for him, but—as she suspected—his trust had vanished. With a huff, he cast her offerings aside.

"You want to help me, priestess?" He sneered. "Show me a way out of this Cauldron-forsaken forest."

I already have, she thought, removing the primrose tucked behind her ear. With an open palm held to her lips, she blew a gentle breath and watched it float into the air. Her timing was precise; it took only seconds before the flower was swept into the wind, coasting back-and-forth before it landed atop his crown.

Lucien immediately grabbed at the foreign object, crushing it in his first before he saw that it was not a bug. His tension relaxed, but rather than dismiss the crumpled flower, he continued to study it. Did he see that it was unlike any flower in the woods—all except the one Elain had tucked in the hollow of a nearby tree?

He tipped his eyes up, trying to track the flower's origin, as if it may have fallen from the trees overhead.

Keep looking, she urged him. Keep hold of that curiosity; it will be your salvation.

At last, he saw it.

Another primrose, its bright petals catching light from the dark cavity that had become its pedestal. Lucien went to it, plucking it from its intentional hiding spot with a scrutiny that she could tell was just bordering on a revelation.

With a frown, Lucien returned to the basket. He flipped it open, discovering the handful of other flowers just like it.

Well done, she wanted to say. You've discovered the source. But do you understand what I'm telling you?

Lucien's eyes were narrowed on the basket, then on the flower in his hand. He grumbled something under his breath, too low for even her sharp hearing to decipher. The forest must have heard, but it did not see fit to carry his words to her.

She almost laughed. Curse me all you want. I am the reason you will walk out of these woods.

His sharp eyes swiveled to her, and Elain quickly ducked out of sight.

"I'm choosing to trust you, Elain Archeron," Lucien announced. She bit her lip and gathered the courage to sneak another glance.

A smile was creeping at the corner of his lips. He was looking directly at her, and though she knew she was caught, he did not demand she come out of hiding.

He raised the primrose between two fingers, pointing it at the next flower she had laid for him. Just three trees away from the last one he had found, balanced on a branch. Then another, tucked under a rock. And another, all leading east.

A path of primrose, laid to guide him home.

"I won't appreciate being made twice a fool," he warned.

"Refusing my help will make you one," Elain called back. "If you're twice a fool, then that's twice I'll have had no hand in it."

She was surprised to find this made him laugh. Doubly so, when he finished chuckling to himself and smiled at her. A full, genuine smile that was so unlike the ornery glares she'd come to expect from him that it stunned her to silence.

"I hope we meet again, Elain."

Lucien turned, his gait stiff with pain as he followed her path from one primrose to the next. He didn't glance back at her, despite the uproar of birdsong and the chattering leaves. The sounds had no meaning to someone like him, but to Elain, they were an echo of the promise she could already feel pounding in her chest.

We will.

We will.

We will.

Present Day

Elain swallowed down the cold night air, raw against her throat as her lungs struggled to take in more, to expel it faster as she pumped her arms in tandem. She wasn’t wearing the right shoes for racing down a cobblestone alleyway—her ankles threatened to twist as she took a turn too sharply. She couldn’t afford to stumble now. She had to escape, had to—

“Clare?”

Elain whipped her head in the direction of the washroom door. A barmaid stood in the frame, one hand braced on the handle while the sound of music and raucous laughter flooded behind her.

Water dripped from Elain’s face. An odd sight, she was certain. She released the pooled liquid still cupped in her hands, listening to the water splash against the porcelain. It was how she grounded herself back in the moment. The caress of air against her wet face, the cool porcelain against her fingers.

Real. This was real. The alleyway, the chasing, the sore throat… she placed a wet hand against her neck, swallowing to ensure there was no pain.

All she could feel was her hammering pulse.

And the second, steadier heartbeat echoing underneath.

"I thought I saw you run in here." The barmaid clicked her tongue in a sound of pity, tossing a washrag over her shoulder as she rushed to Elain's side. "Did one of those drunken swines say something to you?"

As Elain began to shake her head, the barmaid caught her face between both sets of plump hands. She cooed and tutted under her breath, squishing Elain's cheeks together while she conducted her inspection.

"You're too pretty for a place like this," she said on a sigh. "It was bound to bring trouble eventually."

Elain maneuvered out of the barmaid's grip as gently as she could. "There's no trouble to be had. I was just taking a moment of respite."

There was something about a lie that could never sit comfortably on her tongue. They were like flightless birds stumbling from her lips, always a graceless plummet that drew everyone's attention.

"Mhm." The barmaid's eyes narrowed. She took a step back to re-examine Elain, paying close attention to her flushed cheeks. The damp around her face. She pursed her lips. "You're not pregnant, are ye? If you are, I can help."

"No." Elain waved away the suggestion with perhaps too much conviction. "Absolutely not. I've not—I'm not… There is no person like that in my life."

The barmaid snickered. "Well don't go around sharing that, duck. What good is a matchmaker who can't find herself a match? I'd tell people my husband died at sea." She grabbed the washrag off her shoulder and tossed it to Elain. "Now, clean yourself up. Innkeeper was asking for ye. Something about unpaid coin."

-

It was a busy night at the tavern. A group of traveling minstrels had just docked at the large port town, and that always drew crowds to the local drinking holes. Elain had been drawn, too, unable to resist her curiosity when she'd seen the fliers.

The Primrose Players were on stage, enrapturing the crowd with their story told through ballads, lutes, and fiddles. They were detailing a prince's journey across a treacherous sea, but she'd stopped listening when she felt that unmistakable sensation in her chest.

A second heartbeat. A battle drum.

A warning.

I'm coming for you.

It wasn't the first time she'd felt that pull over the years, but it was the first time it had been strong enough to send alarm bells peeling through her skull. She'd rushed to the bathroom when she'd felt the vision encroaching, and now she didn't know what to do with herself.

She'd been running in the vision, and she knew exactly who she was running from. But if she ran now, would she be careening herself straight into that destiny, or avoiding it?

"Clare!"

Elain turned to see the Innkeeper waving her down from behind the bar. With a sigh, Elain wedged her way through the crowd of people until she stood at the other side of the bar. Before the Innkeeper could open his mouth, she placed a stack of coins on the counter.

"Payment for yesterday, today, and tomorrow."

The Innkeeper fanned out the coins on the bar, counted the total in his head, then grunted his acceptance.

"I should be charging more, ye know." The coins scraped the wooden counter as he swept them into his apron pocket. "Do ye see how busy it is?"

"And how many are paying you in advance?"

His silence was the closest to agreement she would get. But seeing as how she'd be staying at his inn for another two nights, she decided to sweeten the deal by offering, "How about I add a free fortune telling?"

There was a staggering slap as the Innkeeper dropped his wet washrag on the counter. "I don't need yer quack fortunes," he said through a snort, focused on his task of rubbing the rag in wide circles. She wondered if he wasn't cleaning so much as dispersing the sticky residue across a wider area. "Just don't go scaring off my customers with bad news, witch."

Because Elain believed in the importance of regulating one's temper, she managed to excuse herself from the conversation with a deep breath and a tight smile. It also helped to imagine taking one of those tankers of watered-down ale and dumping it on his head.

Patience, she reminded herself. Causing a scene over a petty remark was not in her best interest.

On the other side of the tavern, The Primrose Players continued their story of the exiled prince, traveling the world in search of a way to reinstate his place by his father’s side. His ship finally made port, and it was there he would encounter the object of his desires. A quick glance around the crowd showed the most tavern-goers were transfixed in the story.

Having no interest in competing with the players for coin, Elain settled herself in a quiet corner and signaled at the barmaid to bring her the meal included with her stay. After dinner last night, she knew the Inn's stew was as cheap and watered down as the ale, but it was food.

She was halfway through her meal when a woman approached, her eyes wide and hopeful.

"You're the matchmaker?"

Elain forced herself to swallow the tough cut of meat she'd been grinding between her teeth.

"Yes," she said, wishing she had a napkin to wipe off the grease on her hands. "That's me."

"Please, will you tell me if I'll find a husband?"

The woman thrust her hand forward, not the least bit bothered by the mess. Elain still took the time to wipe her fingers off on her dress before she took the woman's hand.

Doing this always reminded Elain of the forest she'd walked through so long ago, as if by touching the woman's hand, she was transported through its mist. At once, the tavern faded. The music of The Primrose Players reduced into a distant hum. There was nothing here but the raw presence of nature.

Elain shut her eyes, listening as birds flitted overhead, darting from tree to tree. They sang to her as they passed, telling of the present, the future, the past. The wind swept her forward, taking her by the hand.

What do you want to know?

…Does this woman find a husband?

The birdsong tapered. Elain opened her eyes and saw a magpie perched before her, its head tilted to the side as it watched. She took a cautious step forward. The magpie shot into the air, letting out a call that was answered by another, further down the path. Elain followed as it darted through the trees, returning to the large nest where its mate waited.

The flight was short. This would be coming to pass in the near future.

"You will," Elain said, though her voice sounded so very far away. "Keep your heart open, and you will find him soon."

The woman dropped her hand, but not before Elain saw a primrose sitting in the hollow of the tree where the magpies nested. When her eyes rested on it, she heard a voice, bubbling up from a distant, forgotten memory.

I hope we meet again, Elain.

Her breath caught.

"What is it?" The woman asked, sounding stricken. "Did you see something bad?"

Elain was still staring vacantly at the spot the primrose had been, though the forest had vanished. There was only the crowded tavern and the minstrels still telling their story on stage. Her gaze had fixed on one of them, a player in a bronze mask whose only job seemed to be clapping and dancing along to the others.

"Not at all," Elain said, still waiting for the mist to clear from her vision. "I saw a future of mirth."

The woman followed Elain's gaze and made a knowing sound in her throat. "I see now. You're caught up in matchmaking of your own."

"Huh?" Elain frowned. "What do you mean?"

"That charmer in the fox mask." The woman shot her a conspirational grin. "Have you two been eyeing each other all night? Explains why he asked me to give this to you."

A primrose, as bright and delicate as she'd always known them to be, was cupped in the woman's palm. She extended it to Elain with a smile, and Elain shrank back as if she'd been met with a pointed blade.

The women's smile fell, but Elain no longer cared for keeping a pleasant image. There was no time for an explanation, let alone a goodbye. Her chair made a horrible screech as she scrambled to her feet, and she knew she was turning heads as she raced for the door, but it was already too late.

He would follow.

No matter where she went, he would follow.

Her only hope was getting a head start. With two heartbeats racing in her chest, Elain raced down the cobblestone streets of the small town, listening to her ill-suited shoes slap on the stone as she searched somewhere to run, somewhere to hide. Night had fallen, and most shops had already closed their doors, but there had to be somewhere to go. A horse, a ship, an unlocked cellar?

Elain turned down a dimly lit alley, feeling each of her great, gasping breaths saw down her throat. She wasn't used to running. It had been years since she last needed to.

Another break-neck turn at the end of the alley brought her to a dead-end. Elain swore under her breath. She'd go the other way, then. Whipping around the corner without looking, she crashed—hard—into the warm, tall body of the fox-masked player.

His arms stretched out to catch her from stumbling. The fox-mask was gone, leaving nothing to hide the smile already stretching his full lips. His scarlet hair was braided back from his face, the same way he'd worn it the last time she'd seen him.

In many ways, he was the same. Only older. Sharper. Wiser.

The scar across the left side of his face was new—new to her, at least. As if an animal had clawed his skin from brow to jaw. The russet eye she knew from memory had been replaced with a mechanical one that clicked and whirred as it focused on her.

She wanted to touch it. She wanted to scream at him. To weep in pity, to claw a matching scar on the other side of his face.

But most of all. Most of all. She wanted to pull this second heart out of her chest and give it back to him. It was too much of a burden to bear them both.

"People at the tavern tell me you're a fortune-teller." He smirked. "I've been looking for someone who fits that description."

Elain tried to shake away his touch, but his grip was iron-clad. "You shouldn't look for people who don't want to be found."

Elain attempted to walk towards him, but her legs were shaking so severely she began to stumble, grappling for the column to her left to steady herself. Keeping her eye contact with him, she slowly began to slide down to her knees, knowing that trying to walk in this state was futile. She mustered every emotion she could conjure, every last shred of the bond she could into their eye contact as she attempted to beg him with just that.

Please.

Whatever anchor had been momentarily holding him from crossing the room to her was released, and Lucien pushed off the door frame. In her peripheral vision, Elain could partially make out that everyone in the room had somewhat halted their activities, watching Lucien stride across the room in only a few steps and stop right in front of her. Before she could fully fall to the floor, Lucien circled a strong arm around her waist, crushing her to his chest to keep her upright.

She immediately melted into him, greedily inhaling his scent and running her nose up his bare pectoral like a woman possessed. Her lips grazed over his nipple, and she attempted to return there with her tongue when she suddenly was tipped backward, making space between her face and his chest. Whimpering at the loss of contact, she gazed up to see Lucien’s face staring down at her.

His expression was hard, there was a certain intensity simmering just beneath the surface that he was giving everything he had to control. She should be afraid. She should push him away. But all Elain was able to think as she stared into his eyes was how absurdly, unfairly beautiful he was. 

Her gaze fell to his lips, and her legs threatened to give out once again. 

“Elain. Look at me.” Her eyes rolled into the back of her head at the sound of his voice. “Elain.”

Fluttering her eyes open halfway, she met his gaze finally. “I need to hear the words.” 

She knew his meaning right away. Elain did not want to think about it right now. About the possible repercussions of crossing the line she so desperately wanted, no, needed to cross. For so long, she had been holding herself back, refusing to give in to anything that reminded her of how she was thrust into this new life. For so long, she had simply ignored any interest or desire she had that she deemed a step outside her comfort zone. A step towards becoming someone different than who she once was before the Cauldron. That is what gave her a sense of control, a choice. Then why did she feel more repressed than she ever has?

Slowly, Elain fisted her shaking hands into the front of Lucien’s tunic and yanked herself forward so she was nose to nose with him. “Please. I need you.” 

She practically breathed the words out as she shut her eyes again and attempted to lean in and capture his lips. Her attempt was interrupted by the arm around her waist sliding down to beneath her bottom and hoisting her up and over his shoulder. Hanging limply in defeat for a few seconds as they exited the room, the sudden realization of what was about to happen sent an intense jolt of excitement through her body. Her core pulsed, and she attempted to sit up on his shoulder so she could maneuver her body down and wrap herself around the front of his body, needing more contact.

She failed, and her attempt resulted in Lucien’s hand on the back of her thigh sliding up higher and completely underneath her night gown, tightening its hold. Even just the increased pressure on her skin made Elain’s entire body buzz and she felt the sensation in her core intensify to a steady throb, aching for his hand to slide even higher.

“Lucien-” He squeezed her leg again to silence her, his pointer and index finger inching even closer until they hovered just outside her fabric covered sex. Just the mere brush of the tip of his finger sent lightning right through her and Elain moaned loudly this time, wriggling in his hold to desperately try and get his fingers just where she needed them. She knew there was an unmistakable wetness soaking her underwear, there was no doubt Lucien had felt it. She wanted him to feel it.