EM.

Summerhall burned without her.

Not with dragonflame, not with the great conflagrations his ancestors had commanded, but with a dull, suffocating emptiness that crept into every corridor, every chamber, every breath Aerion Targaryen took. The hearths were lit, the servants moved in their endless silent procession, his brothers' voices echoed somewhere in the courtyard and yet the world had lost all color. The very stones of the castle seemed to sigh, as though they too mourned the absence of their lady.

She had been gone three days.

Three days since Y/N had ridden for King's Landing with her escort, off to visit her family, off to leave him behind in this grey mockery of a palace. Three days since the sun had last shone, or so it felt. Three days since Aerion had last tasted peace, last drawn a full breath, last felt his heart beat with anything other than the dull, persistent ache of longing.

He stood at the window of their chambers, his chambers now, though he refused to think of them that way, staring out at the rolling hills of the Reach with an expression of such profound tragedy that any who saw it might have thought the realm had fallen. His doublet was carelessly fastened, half untied at the collar, as though he could not summon the will to dress himself properly. A goblet of wine sat untouched on the table beside him, which was perhaps the most alarming sign of all, for Aerion Brightflame had never been known to refuse wine.

His boots were still unlaced. His rings, the gold and onyx band she had given him on their wedding night, the small ruby she had pressed into his palm with a smirk and a command to wear it always so everyone knows you belong to me, sat in a small dish by the bed. He could not bear to put them on. Could not bear to look at them without her there to see them on his fingers.

He had not slept. Not truly. He would lie in their bed, in the hollow where her body should have been, and press his face into her pillow, breathing in the fading scent of her, something floral, something sharp, something that was simply her. He had forbidden the servants from changing the linens. When the maid had come that morning with fresh sheets, he had snarled at her so fiercely that she had dropped the bundle and fled, and Aerion had spent the next hour smoothing out the rumpled side of the bed where Y/N had last slept, arranging the pillows exactly as she liked them, preserving the shrine of her absence.

He was being dramatic. He knew this. He did not care.

"My prince," came a hesitant voice from the doorway. A serving girl, young and pale with fear, her hands clasped so tightly before her that her knuckles had gone white. "Your father requests your presence at the midday meal."

Aerion did not turn. His voice, when it came, was distant, thrumming with barely suppressed anguish. "Tell him I am indisposed."

"My prince, he was most insistent—"

"Tell him," Aerion's head snapped toward her, violet eyes blazing with such sudden ferocity that the girl took a stumbling step backward, "that my wife—my heart—has been torn from my breast and carted off to that stinking city, and I will not sit at a table pretending to enjoy the company of men who still have their wives beside them while mine languishes in absence. Tell him that I am in mourning. Tell him that the light has gone out of Summerhall. Tell him—" His voice cracked, and for a moment he looked less like a dragon prince and more like a man utterly undone. "Tell him that I cannot."

The girl fled. He heard her footsteps echoing down the corridor, a panicked staccato, and he almost felt a flicker of satisfaction. Let them all know. Let them all see what her absence had done to him.

He turned back to the window, pressing his palm flat against the glass. His breath fogged the pane, and for a moment he fancied he could trace her name in the condensation. Y/N. He traced it once, twice, a third time, watching the letters blur and fade, and something in his chest constricted so painfully that he had to brace himself against the window frame.

Gods, but he missed her.

He missed the sound of her voice, sharp and commanding, telling him his hair was a mess and to sit still while she fixed it. He missed the way she would sprawl across their bed as though she owned it, as though she owned him, with that imperious tilt to her chin and her feet bare and her hair spilling everywhere. He missed the fire in her eyes when she was displeased, which was often, and the way she would make him work for her smile, which was everything. He missed the weight of her hand on his arm when they walked together, the possessive curl of her fingers.

He missed her in the morning, when he woke and reached for her and found only cold sheets. He missed her at night, when the candles burned low and the quiet of their chambers became unbearable. He missed her at meals, when he looked to the seat beside him and saw it empty, and his stomach turned at the sight of food he could not share with her. He missed her in the training yard, where he had no one to impress with his prowess, no one to roll her eyes at his boasting and call him a preening fool in that tone that meant she loved him. He missed her in his blood, in his bones, in the very marrow of him.

She was perfection. She was the sun around which his entire wretched existence orbited.

When she walked, flowers bloomed. He had seen it himself, well, perhaps not seen, but he knew. The grass grew greener in her footsteps, the air itself became sweeter, the very sky seemed to brighten. Birds sang when she passed. The clouds parted. The Seven themselves must have looked down upon her and marveled at their creation. She was a vision of grace and gentleness, his lady wife, his dragonness, his beautiful, beautiful—

"Brother."

Aemon's voice cut through his reverie like a blade. Aerion did not bother to hide his scowl as the younger prince entered the chamber without knocking, as was his irritating habit. Aemon was ten, small and serious, and he looked at Aerion with the particular expression of a child who had long since grown accustomed to his elder brother's eccentricities.

"What," Aerion said flatly. He did not move from the window.

Aemon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a gesture that was far too old for his years. "The servants are saying you've refused to eat for two days."

"I am not hungry."

"You're always hungry. I've seen you eat an entire pheasant by yourself."

Aerion turned, finally, and the full force of his tragic countenance fell upon his little brother. His eyes were red rimmed, his pale skin even paler than usual, his jaw shadowed with the barest hint of stubble he had not bothered to shave away. "My appetite has departed with my wife. How can I be expected to eat when she is not here to grace the table with her presence? When I must look upon your face instead of hers? When every bite I take is ash in my mouth because she is not beside me to share it?"

Aemon's expression did not change. "She's been gone three days."

"Three centuries." Aerion pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in a gesture that would have been comical if he were not entirely sincere. "Three eternities. I have aged a thousand years in her absence. Look at me, Aemon. Look at what has become of me."

He did look. Aerion was, objectively, still the same sharp featured, silver haired prince he had always been, perhaps slightly more disheveled than usual but otherwise unchanged. Aemon seemed to reach this conclusion as well, because his eyebrow arched with the precision of a courtier twice his age.

"You look the same."

"I am wasted," Aerion insisted. "I am a hollow shell. A ghost haunting these halls. Without her, I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am—" He paused, searching for a word sufficiently dramatic. "—diminished."

Aemon sighed. It was a heavy sound for such a small boy. "Father is concerned."

"Father can concern himself with his own marriage." Aerion finally moved from the window, but only to throw himself into a chair with all the despair of a tragedy hero in his final act. He let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling, one arm draped across his eyes. "You do not understand. None of you understand. You have never loved."

"I'm ten."

"Age is no barrier to understanding true love. I knew I loved Y/N from the moment she threw a candlestick at my head during our first meeting. It was a magnificent throw. She has such strength in her wrist, such precision, such—" He let out a shuddering breath. "Such perfection."

Aemon, who had been present for that first meeting and had witnessed Y/N hurl a candlestick at Aerion's head because he had made some comment about her family that was, in retrospect, deeply offensive, said nothing.

"Do you know what she said to me, the night before she left?" Aerion asked, his voice going soft and distant. He did not wait for an answer. "She said, 'Don't be a fool while I'm gone.' And I said, 'I am always a fool for you, my love.' And she—" His voice cracked. "She laughed. She laughed, Aemon. The most beautiful sound in all the Seven Kingdoms. And then she kissed me, here—" He touched his lips "—and she said, 'I know.'"

He was quiet for a moment, lost in the memory. Then he surged up from the chair, suddenly animated, pacing the chamber with wild, restless energy.

"Her hair," he said, "do you remember her hair? The way it catches the light? and when the sun hits it just so, it glows, Aemon. It glows like embers. And her eyes—gods, her eyes—they are like nothing else in this world, and when she is angry they darken, and when she laughs they lighten, and when she looks at me—"

"She usually looks at you like you're about to do something stupid," Aemon observed.

"With love," Aerion corrected fiercely. "She looks at me with love. The love of a woman who has chosen me, who has bound herself to me, who has—" He stopped mid pace, a thought striking him with such force that he went pale. "What if she decides to stay longer? What if her family convinces her that King's Landing is more pleasant than Summerhall? What if she—what if she forgets me?"

"That seems unlikely."

"You don't know! You don't know the power of her family's influence. Her mother, that woman—she never approved of me. She said I was—" He lowered his voice to a pompous imitation. "—'volatile and overly dramatic.' As though those are insults."

"They might be."

"They are virtues," Aerion declared. "I am a Targaryen. Volatility is in my blood. And yet her mother looks at me as though I am a stain upon her daughter's gown. What if she spends this fortnight whispering in Y/N's ear? What if she convinces her to—to—"

He could not say it. Could not even form the word leave.

He sank back into the chair, all the manic energy draining out of him. His hands gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles went white. "If she does not return to me, I shall burn something. I don't know what. Something important. Something that will make them all regret taking her from me."

"She's visiting her family, Aerion. No one took her."

"They took her from me." His voice cracked again, raw and honest in a way he rarely allowed anyone to see. "They took her from me and I am here alone, in this cold place, without her warmth. Do you know what it is to share a bed with someone for a year and then have it empty? Do you know what it is to reach for someone in the night and find only a pillow? Do you know—"

He stopped. Swallowed. Looked away.

Aemon, to his credit, did not mock him. The little boy crossed the room and stood beside his brother's chair, and after a moment, he placed a small hand on Aerion's arm.

"She'll come back," Aemon said quietly. "She likes Summerhall better than King's Landing. She told me so. She said—" He paused, clearly debating whether to share what he had been told. Then: "She said the food is better here and her mother gives her headaches."

"She said that?"

"She said the roast lamb here is better than anything in the Red Keep. She said—" Aemon's voice dropped to a whisper. "—she said she married you for your family's kitchens."

"She did not."

"She did. I was there." Aemon's expression was solemn. "She said it to Mother when she thought you couldn't hear. She said, 'At least the food is good, even if my husband is a madman.'"

Aerion pressed a hand to his chest, overcome. "She adores me."

"She said you were a madman."

"A term of endearment." He was smiling now, a real smile, the first in three days. "She calls me a madman because she finds my passion invigorating. She finds my intensity—my focus—she finds it romantic. I know she does. She told me once that I loved her more fiercely than any man had ever loved anything, and that she—that she—" His voice caught. "She said she would not have it any other way."

He looked toward the window again, but this time his expression was softer, almost hopeful. "Do you think she misses me?"

Aemon considered the question with the gravity of a maester pondering a philosophical treatise. Finally, he said: "She said you were annoying before you left. But she also packed your favorite doublet. The blue one. She told the maid to make sure it was clean for you while she was gone."

Aerion closed his eyes, overwhelmed. "She does miss me."

"Maybe."

"She does. She packed my doublet. She thinks of me, even when she is away. She carries me in her heart, as I carry her in mine. We are bound, Aemon. Bound by something greater than marriage, greater than duty, greater than—" He opened his eyes, seized by a sudden thought. "I should write to her."

"You said you wouldn't. You said you wanted her to come to you first, to prove that she—" Aemon paused, clearly trying to remember the exact phrasing. "—'yearns for you as desperately as you yearn for her.'"

"I changed my mind." Aerion was already moving, crossing to the writing desk that sat by the window, the desk where Y/N usually sat when she wrote her letters, where her inkpot still sat and her quill still lay, where he could see the faint scratch marks she had left in the wood from pressing too hard when she was angry about something. He dropped into the chair—her chair—and pulled a sheet of parchment toward him.

His hand trembled as he dipped the quill. He had so much to say. So much. How could he possibly contain it all in a single letter? How could he capture the depth of his longing, the breadth of his devotion, the way the world had dimmed without her in it?

He began to write.

My love, my life, my dragonness—

He paused, reading the words. Too small. Too insufficient. He crumpled the parchment and threw it aside.

To the most beautiful woman in all the Seven Kingdoms, without whom I am nothing but a shadow, a ghost, a man already dead—

Too dramatic? No. No such thing. But perhaps she would roll her eyes, and he loved when she rolled her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him when he was being too much, because even then, even when she was exasperated, there was something in her gaze that said I see you, I have you, you are mine.

He wrote again.

Y/N—

I am dying. Not the slow death of age or illness, but the swift death of absence. My heart has stopped beating. My lungs have stopped drawing air. I exist only as a vessel of longing, a monument to my own foolishness for ever allowing you to leave my sight.

The sun has not shone since you departed. I have looked for it. I have searched the sky each morning, hoping to see it, and each morning I find only grey. The flowers in the garden have wilted. The birds have stopped singing. The very stones of Summerhall have grown cold, as though the castle itself knows that its lady is gone.

I have not eaten. I have not slept. I have not done anything but think of you, dream of you, ache for you. Your pillow still smells of your hair. I lie in your place in the bed and pretend you are beside me. I speak to you in the empty chambers, and sometimes, sometimes I can almost hear you answering.

Do not stay away too long. I fear I shall not survive it.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Come back to me.

Your devoted husband,

Aerion

He read it over three times, making small adjustments, crossing out a word here, adding a flourish there. Then, seized by a final impulse, he turned the parchment sideways and drew a small dragon at the bottom, breathing a heart shaped flame. Y/N had once told him his drawings were terrible. He had been offended. He was a Targaryen. Dragons were in his blood. The fact that his dragons looked more like deformed lizards with wings was entirely irrelevant.

He folded the letter carefully, pressed his seal into wax—his personal seal, the three-headed dragon encircled by flames—and held it to his lips for a moment before setting it aside to be sent.

"There," he said, satisfied. "Now she will know. Now she will understand the depth of my suffering, and she will return to me, and everything will be right again."

Aemon, who had watched the entire process with the expression of a child who had long since learned not to question his brother's peculiarities, picked up one of the crumpled attempts from the floor. He smoothed it out, read it, and looked at Aerion with an arched eyebrow.

"You wrote 'my dragonness' with two n's."

"It is spelled with two n's."

"It is not."

"It is when I spell it. She is not a dragoness, like some common beast. She is my dragonness. The extra n signifies—" He waved a hand vaguely. "—grandeur. Magnificence. The ineffable quality of her being."

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "Father wants to know if you'll be joining us for the rest of the week, or if you intend to waste away in here until Y/N returns."

"I shall waste away," Aerion declared, settling deeper into her chair, pulling her shawl, which had been left draped over the back, around his shoulders. It smelled of her. He breathed in deeply. "Let them bury me in my wedding cloak. Let them say: here lies Aerion Targaryen, who loved too much and too well. Who could not survive the absence of his beloved. Whose heart, like his ancestor's before him, turned to ash without the fire of his—"

Aemon, ten years old and already possessed of more sense than his elder brother, crossed his arms. “Y/N threw a book at your head the morning before she left.”

“It was a love note.”

“It was a history of House Targaryen. She threw it because you said her new gown made her look ‘pleasantly round.’”

Aerion clutched his chest. “And I was wrong. She is not pleasantly round. She is exquisitely formed. Perfect in every proportion. A goddess descended from the heavens to grace unworthy me with her—”

“She also called you a ‘silver haired fool’ and said she hoped the journey to King’s Landing took twice as long as usual so she might have some peace.”

The words landed, but they did not land as Aemon intended. Aerion’s eyes went soft, dreamy, a smile curving his lips for the first time in three days.

“She was teasing,” he breathed. “She does that. She teases me because she loves me. Her wit is so sharp, so brilliant—do you know how fortunate I am to be married to a woman of such intellect? When she calls me a fool, it is affection. When she throws things, it is passion. When she—”

“She broke your nose last moon.”

“A light passion.” Aerion touched his nose fondly. “It was an accident. She was aiming for the vase.”

Aemon stared at him for a long moment. Then, with the particular weariness of a child who has long since given up trying to understand his brother, he said: "She's going to be back in a fortnight, Aerion. Try not to die of heartbreak before then."

The door closed.

Aerion sat in silence for a long moment, wrapped in his wife's shawl, surrounded by her scent, her things, her absence. He picked up the letter he had written, unfolded it, read it again. The words stared back at him, inadequate as they were, but they would have to do. They would have to carry the weight of everything he could not say.

He thought of Y/N. Of the way she would wrinkle her nose when she was displeased. Of the way she would snap her fingers at servants and nobles alike, expecting obedience and receiving it because she was his wife, because she was his, because she was terrifying and magnificent and the most beautiful creature to ever draw breath. He thought of the way she would push his hair back from his face when he was brooding, the way she would kiss his forehead and tell him to stop being so much, the way she would say it like it was not a criticism but a compliment, like his excess was something she treasured rather than tolerated.

He thought of the way she had looked at him on their wedding night, with something like wonder in her eyes, as though she could not quite believe that this ridiculous, passionate, infuriating man belonged to her. He thought of the way she had said his name—Aerion—as though it was a secret only she knew. He thought of the way she had fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing soft and even, her hand curled against his chest like she was holding onto him even in sleep.

He missed her. Gods, he missed her.

He lifted the letter to his lips, pressed a kiss to the folded parchment, and set it carefully on the desk to be sent with the morning's ravens.

"Come back soon, my dragonness," he murmured to the empty room, to the lingering scent of her on her shawl, to the hollow space beside him in the bed. "The flowers are wilting without you. The sun has forgotten how to shine. And I—I am nothing without you. Nothing at all."

He pulled the shawl tighter, closed his eyes, and pretended, for just a moment, that she was there.

Meanwhile, in King's Landing:

You sat in your family's solar, feet propped on an embroidered cushion, a plate of honeyed figs balanced on your stomach, and a look of supreme contentment on your face. You were sprawled across a chaise in a manner that would have horrified your septa, one hand trailing lazily through a bowl of grapes you had commandeered from the kitchens, the other holding a cup of wine that you had refilled three times already.

Your mother, seated across from you with the rigid posture of a woman who had spent her entire life cultivating proper manners, watched you with the particular resignation of a parent who had long since given up trying to impose decorum.

"Must you sprawl like that?" your mother asked, not for the first time.

"I am comfortable," you said, not moving. "You should try it. Loosen your stays. Unlace your boots. Live a little."

"I am a lady of the court. I do not 'live a little.'"

You snorted. "Your loss."

You bit into a fig with relish, letting the honeyed sweetness coat your tongue. The figs in King's Landing were good, better than Summerhall's if you were being honest, though you would never admit it. The wine was passable, and your mother's servants were efficient and unobtrusive, and for the first time in months you were not being followed around by a silver haired shadow who watched you with the intensity of a dragon guarding its hoard.

You loved Aerion. You did. Fiercely. But the man was exhausting.

He looked at you like you were the sun and the moon and the stars all rolled into one. He followed you from room to room like a devoted puppy, except puppies did not usually compose epic poetry about the curve of your neck. He touched you constantly, your hand, your hair, your waist, as though he needed the physical reassurance that you were still there, still real, still his. He was dramatic and possessive and utterly, completely mad, and you would not have him any other way.

But seven hells, a fortnight without him was a vacation.

"You have been here three days," your mother observed, breaking into your thoughts. "Should you not be writing to your husband?"

You popped another fig into your mouth. "I will."

"When?"

"When I feel like it." You stretched, languid and comfortable, your arms reaching above your head in a gesture that made your mother wince at the impropriety. "He is probably moping around Summerhall writing me letters. He gets dramatic when I am gone."

"And that does not concern you?"

You considered the question. You thought of Aerion, beautiful, mad, your Aerion, pacing your shared chambers, composing florid verses about your eyes, refusing to eat, driving his family to distraction with his theatrical suffering. You thought of the letter that would inevitably arrive in a day or two, covered in his cramped, urgent handwriting, filled with declarations of undying devotion and descriptions of his agony in your absence.

A slow, pleased smile spread across your face. "He will survive. He always does. Besides, it is good for him. It reminds him what it is like without me."

"Y/N." Your mother's voice was sharp. "You are a terror."

"I know." Your smile sharpened, affectionate and wicked all at once. "He loves it."

You thought of the way Aerion had looked at you before you left, his violet eyes wide and tragic, his hands gripping yours as though you were being led to the executioner's block rather than a carriage. Do not go, he had said, and he had meant it, had meant it with every fiber of his being, had meant it so fiercely that you had almost, almost considered staying. Do not leave me. I cannot breathe without you.

You had kissed him, soft and quick, and told him to be good, and then you had climbed into the carriage and watched him grow smaller and smaller in the window until he was just a silver haired speck in the distance, and you had felt not guilt, exactly. Not guilt. But something that might have been tenderness, if tenderness was the sort of thing you admitted to.

You missed him. You did. You missed the warmth of him beside you at night, the ridiculous things he said that made you laugh despite yourself, the way he looked at you like you had hung the moon. You missed the weight of his arm around your waist, the sound of his voice calling your name, the way he would press kisses to your shoulder in the morning when he thought you were still asleep.

But you also enjoyed the silence. The absence of constant, overwhelming Aerion. The ability to eat a meal without being stared at. The chance to sleep without someone wrapping around you like a starfish.

You would go back. Of course you would go back. You would go back in a fortnight, and you would find him in your chambers, pale and dramatic and probably unshaven, with a stack of desperate letters on the desk and your shawl wrapped around his shoulders like a security blanket, and you would kiss him, and he would weep, and you would call him a fool, and he would agree, and everything would be exactly as it should be.

But for now, you were going to enjoy your figs.

Your mother sighed, the sound of a woman who had long since accepted her daughter's nature. "Your father wants to host a dinner tomorrow night. Several of the courtiers have asked about you."

You wrinkled your nose. "I do not want to see courtiers. I came here to escape."

"You came here to visit your family."

"I came here to eat your figs and sleep in a bed that does not contain a five foot man who radiates heat like a furnace and twitches in his sleep." You reached for another fig. "The family is a bonus."

Your mother's lips pressed together in a thin line. "You have responsibilities. Appearances to maintain. You cannot simply"

"I can," you interrupted, "and I will. I am the wife of Aerion Targaryen. If I want to spend a fortnight eating figs and ignoring courtiers, I shall. Who is going to stop me? My husband?" You laughed, bright and sharp. "He would thank me for resting. He would probably compose an ode to my repose. Behold my dragonness, who reclines in splendor, her beauty outshining the very sun itself." You pitched your voice into a ridiculous imitation of Aerion's dramatic cadence. "See how her fingers curl around a fig, how her lips part to receive it, how the heavens themselves weep with envy at her grace."

Your mother stared at you.

You grinned. "I am going to write that down. He will love it. He will probably frame it."

"You are both utterly mad."

"Perhaps." You settled back against the chaise, closing your eyes, a smile still playing at your lips. "But we are mad together. That is the important part."

You did not write to him that day. Or the next. On the third day, a letter arrived from Summerhall, sealed with red wax and Aerion's personal sigil, and you read it in bed with a cup of tea, laughing aloud at the extravagant declarations of suffering and the tiny dragon breathing a heart shaped flame in the corner.

You folded it carefully and tucked it beneath your pillow, where you could feel it when you slept.

On the fourth day, you wrote back. Your letter was two lines long:

Do not starve. I will be back when I am back.

Y/N

--

From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

To Y/N, Princess of House Targaryen, Lady of Summerhall,

I hope this letter finds you well and that your visit with your family has been pleasant. I trust the capital agrees with you and that you are enjoying the comforts of your mother's home.

I write to you now with a request that I offer with as much dignity as I can muster, which is to say: please come home.

I am begging you.

Your husband has been moping through the halls of this castle for a week now and I cannot endure another day of it. When you are here, Aerion is a terror. He picks fights with his brothers. He argues with the household knights. He sets things on fire when he is bored. He is loud and obnoxious and he drives me to drink. These are his good qualities. These are the qualities I have, over the course of his life, learned to tolerate, even to expect. They are the qualities that have prepared me for the indignities of fatherhood.

But this?

He has not argued with anyone in six days. He has not set anything on fire. He has not even raised his voice. Instead, he drifts through the corridors like a ghost wrapped in your shawl. He sits by the window in your chambers and stares at the horizon for hours. He refused to attend meals for three days, and when I finally forced him to appear, he sat in your chair and pushed food around his plate with the expression of a man who had lost his will to live.

It is unbearable.

I have seen Aerion angry. I have seen Aerion cruel. I have seen Aerion so drunk that he tried to challenge a horse to single combat. I have seen him at his worst, Y/N, and I have weathered it all with the stoicism of a father who knows what his son is. But I have never seen him like this. I have never seen him sad. I did not know he was capable of it. I thought the emotion was foreign to him, that he was built for fury and passion and nothing in between.

I was wrong. He is capable of sadness. He is capable of a deep, theatrical, utterly pathetic sadness that is somehow ten times more irritating than his usual behavior because at least when he is terrorizing the castle I can yell at him. What am I supposed to do when he looks at me with those violet eyes and asks if I think you still love him? What am I supposed to say when he tells me that the birds have stopped singing because you took the music with you? What am I supposed to do when my son, who once tried to drink fire, begins to cry because he found a hair ribbon of yours under the bed and it still smells like you?

I am not equipped for this.

I had to watch Aerion sit in the rain for an hour because he said the sky was crying with him.

The sky was not crying with him. It was raining. It rains at Summerhall. It rains often. This is a normal occurrence that has never before prompted my son to stand in the courtyard with his arms outstretched like a man awaiting divine intervention.

The servants are talking. The household knights are uncomfortable. Your brother in law Daeron has taken to hiding in the library, and I cannot blame him.

I need you to come back. I need you to come back soon. I need you to restore my son to his natural state of being an insufferable, arrogant, occasionally violent menace because I have discovered that I prefer that Aerion to the alternative. I prefer being terrorized to being mourned. I prefer the chaos to the silence. I prefer the Aerion who makes me want to lock him in his chambers to the Aerion who makes me want to hold him and tell him everything will be alright, because I am a warrior, Y/N, I am a prince of House Targaryen, I have fought in battles and seen men die and I do not know how to comfort my own son.

I am not asking. I am begging. Come back. End this. Save us all.

Your good-father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He has taken to sleeping with your shawl. He wears it around his shoulders like a cloak. I saw him walking through the garden at dawn with it wrapped around him, speaking to your favorite rose bush as though it might answer. I am not making this up. I wish I were making this up.

P.P.S. If you tell anyone about this letter, I will deny everything. I will claim it was forged. I will have you removed from the succession. I will do something dramatic and irreversible. Do not test me on this.

Letter the Second: From Prince Maekar Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Daughter Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

It has been three days since my last letter. I am writing again because the situation has deteriorated.

Aerion has begun composing poetry aloud. I do not mean that he is writing it down. I mean that he stands in the great hall, in the courtyard, in the corridors, and recites verses about your eyes and your hair and the way you walk. His voice carries. There is nowhere in this castle that is safe from declarations of his undying love for you and his profound suffering in your absence.

The servants are requesting transfers. Two of the kitchen maids asked to be reassigned to the Dornish border. The stable master has offered to take a pay cut if it means being sent to literally any other holding. I am running out of places to put people who do not want to hear my son describe the precise shade of your eyes for the fifth time in a single afternoon.

This morning, he cornered me in the armory to ask whether I thought you would be pleased with the poem he composed about your laugh. He read it to me. It was forty lines long. It described your laugh as a "silver bell that shatters the darkness" and "a melody that would make the Seven themselves weep with envy." I have heard you laugh. It is not a silver bell. It is a sharp, wicked sound that usually precedes someone being verbally eviscerated. I say this with affection. You are a good match for my son. But your laugh does not shatter darkness. It shatters egos.

I told him it was beautiful. What else was I supposed to say? He had tears in his eyes, Y/N. Actual tears. My son, who once laughed when I broke my arm falling from a horse, was on the verge of weeping because I might not appreciate his poetry about your laugh. I told him it was the finest poem I had ever heard. I told him you would cherish it. I told him I would personally ensure it was delivered to you with the next raven. He thanked me. He thanked me with such sincerity that I felt something twist in my chest, and I realized that I would rather have him set something on fire than look at me like that again.

Please come home.

Your good father,

Maekar Targaryen

P.S. He is now composing a poem about your hands. I overheard him telling Aemon that your fingers are "delicate as rose petals" and that he dreams of them every night. I do not know how Aemon tolerates this. I do not know how any of us tolerate this.

Letter the Third: From Prince Daeron Targaryen, Summerhall, to His Good-Sister Y/N Targaryen, King's Landing

Y/N,

Father does not know I am writing this. He has forbidden any of us from contacting you because he says it is "beneath the dignity of House Targaryen" to beg, which is ironic because he has sent you three letters already.

Do not tell him I wrote to you. He will be angry. But I cannot stay silent any longer.

I am hiding in the library. I have been hiding in the library for four days. I bring food with me in the mornings and I do not emerge until nightfall. The measters have stopped questioning it. They simply leave a candle for me and pretend I am not there. I am becoming friends with the dust. I am starting to understand the appeal of being a maester. Anything is better than being in the same room as Aerion right now.

He is unbearable. You know how he is when you are here. He is loud and arrogant and he follows you around like a dragon with a favorite treasure. It is annoying, yes. It is irritating. He picks fights with me for no reason. He calls me a drunkard. He says I have the personality of a wet scroll. He once challenged me to a duel because I suggested he might want to visit a brothel. These are the things I complain about when you are here. These are the things I tell Father I cannot tolerate.

I was wrong. I was so wrong. I would take a hundred duels. I would take a thousand. I would let him call me a drunkard every day for the rest of my life if it meant he would stop looking at me like that.

He does not pick fights anymore. He does not call me boring. He does not challenge me to duels. Instead, he finds me. He finds me wherever I am hiding, and he sits beside me, and he asks me questions. Questions, Y/N. He wants to know about my day. He wants to know what I am drinking. He wants to know if I am happy. He has never asked me if I am happy. I did not think he knew the word.

Yesterday, he put his hand on my shoulder. He has never touched me voluntarily in his entire life unless it was to shove me. He put his hand on my shoulder and he said, "Daeron, do you think she misses me?" And his voice was so small, Y/N. I did not know his voice could be small. His voice is always loud. His voice is always demanding. His voice is the sound of something about to be set on fire. But yesterday, his voice was small, and I did not know what to do, so I lied. I told him of course you missed him. I told him you probably thought about him every day. I told him you would be back soon.

He smiled. He smiled, Y/N. It was not his normal smile, which is sharp and cruel and usually means someone is about to be humiliated. It was a real smile. A soft smile. A smile that made him look like he was not a menace to society but just a man who missed his wife. It was the most unsettling thing I have ever seen.

I want my brother back. I want the brother who calls me boring and challenges me to duels and sets things on fire. I want the brother who makes me want to throw things at his head. I do not want this brother. This brother makes me feel things. This brother makes me want to help him. This brother makes me want to be kind to him, and I do not know how to be kind to Aerion. I do not know how to be kind to someone who has spent our entire lives making kindness feel like a trap.

Please come back. I am begging you. Come back and restore him to his natural state so I can go back to hating him in peace.

Your good-brother,

Daeron Targaryen

There were some phenomena you just couldn’t explain.

One would think being fae would come with the assurance of a perfect mindset—after all fae were a pretty perfect species. At least on the outside.

You were a part of a species that were unnaturally beautiful—a guarantee that all High Fae were born with. Even the lower fae were breathtaking in their own, unique ways—many that differed from the High Fae, such as yourself.

So you’d thought you’d escape unpleasant thoughts, self criticism. At least of the variety of surface level, shallow things.

But, you hadn’t.

You and Eris had only been together a short time, but had yet to be intimate. What had started as a pull to one another, a curiosity about each other—chemistry that neither of you could no longer deny—turned into something soft, romantic, something neither of you had expected.

You had yet taken him to your bed though—had yet to take that step. You’d wanted to, but at the same time you dreaded it.

For you were insecure about your body.

Which sounded silly to you, even if the thought only existed in your mind.

But you’d never been pleased with what lay in the mirror, something that happened every time you’d looked. You’d always found your mind wandering to others, unfair criticisms plaguing your mind.

Your stomach wasn’t perfect, too soft. Your hips too much. You’d never liked the look of your thighs—or your breasts for that matter.

You constantly compared yourself to others.

To Morrigan, who was proud of her body, had the confidence to embrace it and show it off.

To Feyre Archeron, who was lithe but strong, a warrior at heart with the body to show for it. One that could be powerful but also seductive—as you’d seen in her Hewn City ensembles. Similar to Mor, you envied her ease and confidence in her body.

To Nesta Archeron, who similarly to her youngest sister, had a warrior’s body—maybe even more so, lean muscle filling out her long limbs. Not to mention she was a dancer as well, so she was also lithe and strong in her own way. As ridiculous as it sounded, you often envied her for her well endowed chest. You couldn’t imagine ever being so blessed.

To Elain Archeron, who—even while being more modest—was lovely and had a beautiful figure. The soft, feminine curves she so effortlessly possessed, seemingly unaware of how beautiful she was.

Even Amren, with her sharp and angular features, her short stature, you found yourself envious of her beauty, of her seemingly perfectly proportioned body.

You—you felt like one of Amren’s puzzles, but you’d been put together all wrong.

You weren’t tall for the fae, not nearly as tall as Nesta, yet you weren’t incredibly short like Amren.

Everything about you just seemed average—seemed dull. There was nothing spectacular about you.

You’d tried to brush it off every time you’d stood in front of the mirror, tried to stop being unnecessarily harsh on yourself. Tried to convince yourself it was ridiculous to have such thoughts, such critiques.

It never fully helped though. They still lingered.

What was even worse was you were aware of how foolish it was. How you were being too hard on yourself.

It did nothing to help your mindset though. Even being desired by someone like Eris Vanserra hadn’t been a magical cure.

Which was how you’d ended up in the situation you currently were in tonight.

You sat on the edge of Eris’s bed—a visit to him having turned more heated than you’d anticipated. It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before. Stolen kisses, shared breath, wandering hands as heat built between the two of you.

But if he’d ever noticed the way you hesitated—your breath hitching for all the wrong reasons when his hand slipped under your shirt—hands touching bare skin—he’d never mentioned it. It was as if every time he touched you, those irrational insecurities flooded to the front of your mind.

You were terrified he wouldn’t like what he’d find underneath your clothes.

So, tonight, you’d done something reckless—maybe brave—but something that also felt stupid and foolish, currently. After pulling away self-consciously, right as things had gotten heated, he’d gently questioned you. You hadn’t known how to respond to him.

You’d stood, pulling your shirt over your head in one solid movement, shedding your pants and underwear in one smooth movement until you were bare in front of him.

He watched you intently with those beautiful amber eyes. The eyes that held so much in them, but also knew how to miss nothing. But he hadn’t watched you with desire as you’d removed your articles of clothing. Which made anxiety churn in your gut even more, preparing yourself for the worst.

You waited for the judgement, for the disgust—even worse, the disappointment. What you hadn’t expected was the silence you were met with.

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asked.

Your heart pounded harder. You felt vulnerable in all the worst ways. You fought the instinct to curl in on yourself, to cover the body that you’d just bared to him.

You trusted him, you did.

What you didn’t trust was yourself—how you would handle his reaction to you.

He spoke your name, pulling your gaze from the floor back to his face. But you didn’t find disgust, anger or disappointment there. You found tenderness so intense that it made your chest ache.

“Talk to me,” he whispered, “What’s going on in your head?”

“I’m not proud of my body.”

The words came out in a rush—you hadn’t even had a chance to vet them. To entirely consider the implication of finally voicing your deep seated insecurities.

“Okay.”

You blinked, not expecting the statement. You hadn’t necessarily expected him to rush to console you—it wasn’t a trait that Eris seemed to portray much.

You watched as his head tilted, strands of his long red hair shifting forward over his shoulder. You focused on the way the dim light seemed to bounce off the hue of his locks, making it glow—appearing even more ethereal than he already was.

He was so perfect, so beautiful and you were just…you.

“Why?”

You were thrown off again, not expecting him to actually ask.

“I— I don’t—”

It sounded bad enough in your mind—you didn’t know how you were going to voice the ugly thought out loud. But Eris didn’t press, he waited patiently.

“I don’t like it.”

I’m afraid you won’t like it, is what you really wanted to say.

“Why?” he pressed again.

“I—I don’t know.”

His face gave away nothing of what he was thinking, though it was gentler than you’d seen it before, that tenderness still present but with less intensity than earlier. His eyes raked over your naked form and you really had to try to resist the overwhelming urge to cover yourself, shield yourself from his piercing gaze.

When he spoke it was such gravity it surprised you.

“I do not see you with the same cruel lens you see yourself.”

Your breathing deepened, not in arousal, but in anxiety as he moved closer, a hand reaching out. He didn’t touch your body though. Instead, he cupped your cheek.

“You’re not going to try to convince me otherwise?” you whispered.

You hadn’t necessarily been shocked that he hadn’t tried to soothe away your insecurities. As you well knew, that wasn’t how Eris typically operated. But still, a small part of you ached that he hadn’t rushed to reassure you, to change your mind, only furthering that insecurity in your mind.

“No.”

It felt like something in your chest deflated, your eyes stinging. You weren’t going to cry. After all, this was utterly ridiculous. There were bigger issues to life than this.

Eris must’ve sensed your change in demeanor, the way your spirit seemed to deflate even further after his simple answer. His fingers brushed down your jawline gently, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger firmly. Not enough to be harsh or to hurt, but enough to draw your attention, pull your face and eyes up to his—to hear what he had to say.

“I wouldn’t change your mind with just a few pretty words.”

His whisper was filled with meaning, the sincerity in his tone somehow a balm to wounded spots deep within you. Ones that had ached from longstanding comparison and uncertainty about yourself.

“Changing the way you view yourself is something I cannot fix for you,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw, “Only you can do that.”

You tried to nod, blinking back tears that threatened. You felt ashamed and naked—in more ways than physically. It hurt to admit your long buried secret, it hurt to hear the truth you knew deep down within you.

Well meaning compliments and pretty words—as he’d called it—wouldn’t help you and you knew it. You wouldn’t believe him until you believed in yourself first.

“If it helps,” he uttered, a small smile tilting his lips upwards, "The way you see yourself doesn’t change my desire for you—and it never will.”

You really did want to believe him, but that small niggling doubt in your mind kept prodding you.

You startled when Eris dropped his hand from your face and abruptly stood. You were fearful for a moment that he was going to leave. Perhaps he’d had enough of your dramatics and didn’t want to entertain this—or you—any further.

So you were noticeablely thrown off when you saw his fingers unbuttoning his shirt. Your brows pinched in confusion as he undressed before you. You hadn’t assumed things would progress tonight, especially after you’d ruined the moment.

“You’re not the only one that carries shame for what you think your body displays,” Eris said lowly.

He shucked off the shirt and you inhaled sharply at the sight. In all the instances you’d been around him, you’d never seen him be anything other than immaculately dressed.

The sight was bewitching.

But if you’d thought that was divine, it didn’t hold a candle to when he was completely nude in front of you.

This time it was your eyes that raked over him, breathless and in awe of the strength of his honed body—the muscles, the absolute beauty of it.

He was just as freckled across his pale skin as he was on his face and it made your stomach flutter. But what you saw on his face made you pause.

He was hesitant.

The confident, sure-footed Eris Vanserra was nervous in front of you.

Then your eyes took in what you’d missed on your first passing look. Scars peppered his body, as many as the freckles on his face, his body. But these had been inflicted by horrors, by things that had happened to him.

Some were nothing but faint lines only visible at certain angles or under certain lighting—you could barely see some of them that were so thin and light they nearly blended in with his porcelain skin.

Others, though, were harsher, more jagged, like lightning strikes left on his skin—raised and ridged in such a contrast to the smooth skin.

You’d known his father was unnecessarily cruel to him—knew he’d been tortured before in an attempt to gain information, yet he’d chosen to protect his alliance with the Night Court instead. You’d never considered he bore so many of the physical scars that could be left behind. But here they were, a reminder on his skin of all the awful things he’d endured.

Eris was grimacing when your eyes lifted to his face again.

“I feared for the day you’d see these,” he said, as stiff as his posture was.

Then it dawned on you. He was as self-conscious about the markings on his body as you were about parts of your body you thought imperfect. It was then you realized just exactly why he was doing this.

This wasn’t about desire or arousal right now. This was a baring of secrets—it was a yielding to the deepest insecurities each one of you had held tight. It was showing you that you weren’t alone in your own harsh critique of yourself.

He was reassuring you in the only way he knew how to.

But, his point was made loud and clear—for as you looked at him, you didn’t see the scars. At least not in any way he feared you would.

They weren’t grotesque or unappealing to you—though the way they came to be permanently etched in his body was—their presence didn’t change anything you felt for him.

“You’re beautiful,” you breathed.

You couldn’t help as the words left your mouth in a rush, so similarly to your own confession from earlier.

You finally stood, eyes on his bare chest, fingers coming up to delicately brush over one scar just below his shoulder. It was a few inches long, one of the near invisible ones, but your fingers still traced it like it was a map.

“I know we said no pretty words,” you murmured, “But you are.”

You heard his sharp intake of breath at your touch—and your words. You peered up into his face again.

“I see what you mean,” you admitted.

His brows bunched just slightly, confused by your statement.

“You’re ashamed of them, are you not?”

His lips thinned and he swallowed hard before nodding tersely, just once.

“You shouldn’t be,” you said, other hand coming up to trace one that slashed more harshly over one pectoral.

You felt him flinch under your touch. Not recoiling, but from the ticklish and intimate caress of your fingers. A natural instinct rather than one born of insecurity.

Oddly enough, this display—his willingness to be vulnerable—had gotten through to you more than any of his reassuring words would’ve.

“I understand,” you murmured, lips coming to brush his collarbone, then over one of the raised scars, just to the left.

Your own self-doubt wasn’t going to disappear overnight, his own kind words not enough to stick until you chose to believe them. You were sure the same could be said for Eris.

“Your imperfections aren’t flaws to me,” you continued.

Your eyes locked with his as you repeated the same words he’d just uttered to you earlier.

“I do not see you with the same cruel lens, Eris.”

His eyes flickered shut for a moment as if your words were his own soothing balm his soul needed—to heal some deep part of him that was likely as weak and cracked as yours. Your arms came around his torso, bare skin meeting his own as you hugged him—holding him in your arms for comfort, just as much as you needed the comfort of him.

Your cheek rested on his chest, just under his chin, and one of his arms slid around you. His other hand lifted, cradling the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he held you close.

You felt the tension bleed from his body, his own truths and secrets laid out for you to carry—just like you knew he would carry yours.

There, bare before each other—both in body and soul—you and Eris learned an important lesson.

It was natural to have insecurities, but it wasn’t fair to punish yourself for them. Especially when they didn’t hold the same importance to others as they did to oneself. It was important not to get too caught up on those sorts of thoughts.

Sometimes it took a different perspective to truly understand.

Sometimes, all it took was a different lens.

"This is your first time in the Autumn Court?" Azriel asked.

You hadn't realized you'd closed your eyes while breathing in the air around you. Upon opening them, you noticed Azriel watching you curiously. You nodded. "I've always wanted to visit. Something about the colorful trees, the creeks, the animals..."

He only hummed, continuing to walk forward into the planned clearing. "All things we have in the Night Court."

The two weren't comparable; Azriel knew that. But you also knew being here made him on edge, and it wasn't just about the most recent situation in Illyria. He could never forget all Eris had done, even if a similar goal between Rhys and Eris allowed for a temporay alliance.

Stepping into the designated meeting space, you fidgeted with your hands. Nerves buzzed under your skin, and you tried to calm them. You felt silly -- like a young girl with a very naive and unrealistic crush.

You met Eris years ago. Despite being familiar with one another due to attending the same events, meetings, and Court proceedings, the two of you had never had the opportunity to truly get to know one another. The entirety of the Inner Circle warned of his ability to get under skin, of his mastery of charm, words, and manipulation. So at first you had just watched him, observing the way he held himself with such a belief of self-importance, the confidence and arrogance with which he spoke. And in watching him, you also saw the cracks in his facade. You observed the tenderness he held for his mother, the hatred for his father, the deflection of hurt and frustration through humor.

Eris had caught you watching. He had seen your curiosity and returned it tenfold, eyes narrowed and expression cold. You never seemed to fulfill whatever questions or expectations he had when he looked at you, but he continued anyway. And it had been like that for awhile. Curious eyes, unasked questions, and witty quips.

Until you had asked for him in that moment of vulnerability without even thinking about it. The night a voice awakened deep in your soul and spoke no other language but his name.

You rubbed at the spot under your ribcage absently.

"Are you ever going to tell me why you absolutely needed to tag along?" You attempted to distract yourself. These meetings were not uncommon as Beron's assassination loomed closer, but this was the first one you had traveled for.

Azriel moved to stand closer, his elbow just barely grazing your shoulder as he crossed his arms, surveying the trees and waiting. "No."

"That's it?" You nearly scoff. "No?"

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened that day in the kitchen?"

That day in the kitchen. The reminder caused your heart to anxiously skip a beat. Reminders of his smirk, his hands, his taste, his deep voice raspy and begging...

"No."

He sighed.

You weren't sure how Azriel knew of that night in the House of Wind. But this was Azriel: a spy master, a shadowsinger, and nothing if not protective. He would have found out somehow.

Silence consumed the two of you as you waited. You felt conflicted; half of your soul filled with anticipation for the Autumn male to appear, the other half calmed by the wind and scent wrapping around you.

Azriel did not move, did not falter. Ever the patient and still male. You did, though. As soon as a harsh bark broke through the wavering trees, you whipped around, arms already raising in defense.

The leaves shook as a hound half the size of you, sleek and gray, darted into the opening, its big paws digging into the dirt as it aimed straight toward you. You instinctually took a step back, but before it could touch you, it halted and sat perfectly still, as if it hadn't just sprinted out of the woods at breakneck speed. Breathing heavily and heart racing, you glanced at Azriel only to see him perfectly calm. In fact, he looked almost annoyed.

"It's not going to hurt you," a deep voice spoke from behind.

Lips parting in surprise, you turned to see Eris standing a short distance away, watching the interaction blankly. He had approached so silently that you understood the association between the Autumn Court and fox, both sly and quick. He stood tall and confident, his hands in his pockets as he looked down at you. Well, you and his smokehound.

You hesitated putting your back to the hound, standing in a way that allowed sight of both Eris and his animal equivalent.

Before you could respond or make some unintelligent decision, Azriel spoke, tone cold. "You're late."

"I had some things to take care of," Eris immediately responded, voice nonchalant but eyes never leaving your face. Then he tipped his head at you, those same amber eyes narrowing. "Is there a reason I see her injured more times than I do not?"

Your "injury" -- if you could even call it that -- was barely visible; the smooth skin of your cheek toward your undereye shone with slight bruising. It had faded since a training accident with Cassian the day prior, but apparently not enough to skate the Autumn heir's notice.

The corner of Azriel's lip turned up in amusement, his head tilting just barely as he observed Eris. Then the shadowsinger moved even closer to you, his palm coming to rest at the small of your back. Eris's eyes left yours to track the movement, and the muscle in his jaw clenched.

"You know how she is. Loves to wrestle with us 'brutes,' as you like to call us."

Eris's chest expanded in a deep breath as he reined himself in. Despite his attempt to do so, his voice still dripped with poison. "Right, the Illyrian brutes. Tell me, does your entire kind drug unwilling females for sexual satisfaction?"

You felt ill at the reminder of your previous predicament. Eris, as if he could sense the change in your thoughts, glanced at you briefly. Just a slight crack in his facade, a momentary glimpse of concern, before he hardened once again. His dark honey-colored eyes drifted back to the shadowsinger.

Azriel, for all his credit, did not reveal his rising anger to Eris. His face showed no offense at Eris's words, and you knew Azriel would never defend the Illyrians. But to be associated with them was worse, and you could feel the tightening in his muscles with his hand still on your back.

"I would enjoy nothing more than to discuss brutality with you, but that is a conversation better suited for the dinner table, wouldn't you say? Maybe even over a homemade meal." Azriel brought you into his side so suddenly, you nearly tripped. "This one makes an incredible fall bisque."

You felt your self-control waning, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their bickering and nonsensical back-and-forth.

Eris didn't respond to the odd comment or whatever hidden jab was within, either because he didn't have words for a response or because he had too many. His silence was abnormal, though, and for a brief moment you surprisingly saw what looked like sadness, maybe even some form of grief, cross his features.

The male swallowed, shifting his weight as the muscles in his forearm flexed. His fists must have been clenched in his pockets.

You removed Azriel's grip on you and gave yourself some space. "Alright-" you start, unsure what they were even bickering about at this point, but not liking that look of anguish on Eris. Only the male apparently decided to find his voice as soon as you spoke.

"I told you not to come here."

His angry tone hurt that spot in your chest, the sting sharp and barbed. The smokehound circled around you then to sit beside his master, and it felt as if you were their prey somehow.

"I don't take orders from you, Eris. I take orders from Rhysand."

Your voice had been calm, but it seemed to only make him angrier. "Rhysand and I had an agreement."

"Rhysand does not see this as a risk," Azriel cut in. "For once, you and I agree. Which is why I'm here."

Eris gave Azriel a look of pure hatred. "As if I trust an Illyrian to-"

"Stop!" Raising your arms in exasperation, you let out a condescending laugh. "What are we doing? Are we not here to discuss something much more important than whatever this is?"

Eris looked to the ground, his body tense in annoyance and thought before his head rose again to meet Azriel's gaze. "This does not happen again."

Then he was backing away, the beautiful smokehound sprinting into the woods behind him. "Leave my court. Now."

The pit in your stomach grew at his words, at his lack of acknowledgement as he spoke, at the power in that last sentence. The ribbon of pain in your chest pulsed.

As he disappeared after his pet, you felt Azriel take hold of your elbow, dragging your hand away from that spreading ache. You didn't know why, but as his shadows enveloped the two of you, obscuring your vision and transporting you home, your mind could only focus on one thing:

Beneath his composed -- albeit angry -- facade, since the moment he had arrived, Eris had been shaking.

The Autumn Court heir, whose power absolutely radiated from him despite not yet inheriting his father's throne, had seemed almost frightened. The concept was completely foreign.

It was a thought you couldn't get out of your head.

Even nights later, you stayed awake, tossing and turning in your sheets to the memory of Eris's anxiety. To the memory of sorrow flashing over his face.

He had never been anything but composed and snarky. At meetings with his father, staring down Rhysand, even in your bed while you took your own control. Seeing him so disheveled and shaken unnerved you.

You had tried to talk to Rhysand to figure out what exactly occurred that day in the Autumn Court. Azriel and Eris had seemingly bitten each other's heads off while speaking in some code, which wasn't necessarily uncommon, but to be left in the dark both before and during the meeting was irritating.

What was the agreement between Eris and Rhysand, outside of the alliance already known to you? Why was it known to Azriel, and not to you? What did any of this have to do with a stupid fall bisque?

While you knew there was confidential information and plans you were not privy to, you couldn't help but feel frustrated at the idea of not knowing something involving Eris specifically. It felt wrong not to be included when it came to him. A chaotic sense of ownership, of claiming, stirred in your gut at the idea. You had the male pinned by the throat in your bed only weeks ago, and now you were being kept in the shadows about him.

It made you angry. And it made that gods-damned ache in your chest scream.

You hated it. And you hated that Rhys would not tell you anything when asked. All he had told you was that it was not his information to give.

Which led you back to Eris.

Lately, it felt like everything led you back to Eris. Your late-night thoughts, the cool air whipping through your hair, a phantom touch, the smell of pine, of clove, a hint of smoke, the honey in your tea, the amber color in the sky.

And that ache, that pull, that tug, literally guiding you back to his court.

You felt on edge. Body humming with anxiety and discomfort. The peace you felt standing in the woods was nowhere to be found, and you just wanted him.

You were embarrassed. Embarrassed and scared. The inner circle didn’t trust Eris much. Maybe enough to ally with him for the sake of killing Beron, but anything beyond that was minimal. How much could you actually trust him?

You didn't even know what you wanted to trust him with. What did you want from him? Companionship? Sex? Information? Something unknown?

Your body wanted him near. But your brain moved a mile a minute attempting to comprehend what any of this newfound draw to him meant.

Shame, guilt, and naivety swirled in your gut as your limbs moved automatically. It had been days, and you were still in the dark, still aching, still lost. And it seemed like this pull to the Autumn Court may be the compass you needed to find what you were looking for.

So you moved quickly and quietly, changing into appropriate gear before leaving the House of Wind. The air outside of the property felt like friends, and family, and comfort. But it didn't ease that ache. Not like the Autumn Court did.

It didn't hold scents of clove and smoke and pine and a freshness so cool it revitalized you. It didn't twist itself around your body to dance through your hair like you once imagined Azriel's shadows doing. It didn't seem to lift you and your worries, lessening the weight of just existing.

You shook with uncertainty. Fingers trembling and heart racing, you breathed deeply and took a chance; you winnowed to the wooded entrance you remembered.

As you landed, you exhaled and somehow felt both empty and whole at once. Tears of relief immediately gathered in your eyes at your surroundings: the crisp breeze, the leaves dancing, the chitters of woodland critters, the slight smell of chestnuts, and the dirt compacting beneath your boots. It all settled deep within that hole in your chest, and you could finally really breathe.

The ache lessened. Not completely gone, but enough to control the trembling of your body. You oriented yourself, taking in the ground beneath your feet, the moon high in the wooded night sky. And then you just sat, knees pulled to your chest, and waited.

Despite your thoughts worrying of the opposite, there was a confidence deep inside you that said you knew Eris, and you decided to trust it. It would not be long for him to find you here, and if he didn't, then you knew you were wrong. That these feelings were wrong.

If they were, you would return home to Velaris. You would fall to your knees in front of Rhys and beg him for help. Beg him or Madja or someone to help with this ache in your chest, to help find where it is leading you or to quiet it.

In the meantime, you relaxed. Your constant discomfort lately had led to trouble resting, and the ground beneath you felt like a hug as you sinked into it without any tension. Your eyes fluttered and your fingers weaved through blades of fading grass.

Then a wet nose sniffed your cheek.

It made you smile, eyes still closed and fingers still feeling at the soil. The smokehound huffed through its nose, warm breath skating across your cheek before the cool Autumn air chilled it once again, and then it sat. Still as a soldier, it looked toward the trees and guarded, watching the surrounding woods and not giving you another glance.

It did not so much as blink when Eris stormed through the trees, his eyes wild and chest heaving. You did though; you couldn't help it. Legs moving automatically, you stood as he approached.

But the fire in his eyes had you taking a hesitant step back.

The smokehound's guard dropped, allowing Eris to burn a path directly to you. But with the chaos flaming in his gaze, you almost expected the hound to move in front of you in defense. You tried to prepare yourself as Eris's large form loomed over you, strong hands immediately coming up to grasp your forearms tightly, but you couldn't. He dragged you to him with a desperation that left you gripping his shirt for balance. His fire scorched your skin, traveling deep into your muscles, your veins, and warming your entire body.

Eris shook, and it brought back the memory of a few days prior, his hands trembling as he removed them from his pockets and kicked you out of this very spot. His night attire looked rumpled and his breaths came out staggered as he ducked his head to meet your gaze. The fire there held anger, but it held more too; fear and helplessness swirled in the depths of his irises, stoking the flames higher and higher and higher.

"Why are you here?" He choked out, and it sounded almost like a sob to your ears.

His grip was tight, fingers digging into the tendons of your arm, as he looked over you briefly. You finally found your voice as his haunted gaze met your own again. "I needed to talk to you."

His humorless laugh was quiet but impactful. His head hang low between his shoulders in exasperation, before he forced you to look at him. "You are tempting a fate you do not deserve. You need to leave now, do you hear me?"

"Eris, I don't understand any-"

"Please," his face crumpled for a moment, his hands leaving your forearms to grasp your cheeks and jaw. "I'm begging you."

If you thought Eris had unraveled that night in the House of Wind, this was his destruction. Previously, you had watched as he let his control go; now, you watched as he had it taken from him unwillingly. By you. And you didn't even know how.

His amber eyes shone, a wetness building in the corners that he gritted his teeth to hold back. Eris Vanserra was near tears, panic and frustration and fear flowing out of him in powerful waves.

A flame of worry rose up inside you, right next to that all-too familiar ache. It moved you forward, just like that night in the kitchen when you threw yourself into his kiss. Only tonight, you threw yourself into his entire body. An inexplicable need to be close and comfort one another overpowered anything else. That rope inside you took you there, acting as a rubber band to bury your head into his chest and wrap your arms around his torso so tightly your muscles hurt.

You breathed him in, and for the first time in weeks, the ache was completely gone.

Eris froze, hands still hovering in the air where they previously gripped your face. Then you felt him give in. His entire body collapsed into you, his weight both comforting and searching. He held you so tight. One arm wrapped completely around your shoulders to force you into him as close as he could while the other cradled your head, fingers tangling and gripping the hair there like a lifeline.

Those same earlier tears of exhaustion and anxiety welled in your eyes again. "I'm so confused, Eris."

"I know."

"I don't know what is going on."

"I know."

"I don't even know if I can trust you."

His voice cracked. "I know."

You buried into him for what felt like hours but was no longer than a couple minutes. It wasn't enough. You could have stayed there forever. Breathing him in, protected by the feeling of him, surrounded by his warmth.

Despite everything in your body telling you not to, you pulled back, keeping his shirt bunched up in your fist. The moon highlighted half of his face and his dark auburn hair looked nearly black in the night. It fell messily, just as frantic and unsure as the rest of him.

His thumb brushing a tear from your cheek disrupted your admiration of him.

You didn't understand anything. You didn't even really know him. But something in you did. Some part of you knew him just like some part of him knew you.

You had known when you came here that he would find you. And he did. Something was there.

You wanted to kiss him, to be so close to him that you combined into one. The thought of him not even being by your side soon had anxiety sparking low in your stomach.

"It's not just you." He spoke so close to you that his lips brushed against yours. The wetness from your tears transferred from your own lips to his, and they glistened, not mocking your emotion but sharing it between you somehow. You almost leaned forward to take the tears from him too. To share his with you and yours with him again and again and again.

Eris was looking at you so intensely. He was so beautiful. The moonlight, the spark in his amber eyes as if the stars were glinting off the gemstone just right, and the wetness on his full lips all mesmerized you.

You burned and burned and burned. Completely overwhelmed and flooding with a blazing longing. You had never experienced this before. It was foreign, all-consuming, almost sacred.

Sacred.

The word echoed in your mind.

Sacred.

Sacred.

Sacred.

Sacred.

The reverence. The possibilities. What it could mean.

Your voice was small, filled with vulnerability when you spoke, hesitantly searching those smoldering tear-filled eyes. "Eris..."

Lashes low, gaze attentive, he waited.

"Are we...?"

Then he kissed you.

Completely different from the times before with no expectation of sex nor guarantee of safety. With a passion you felt in your veins, his mouth claimed yours, completely swallowing your words. His long lashes fluttered against your cheek as his hands caressed your jaw. He moved into you with a sensual but powerful grace, and you could do nothing but melt back into him helplessly.

He consumed you, and you let him. You let him pull you in closer, one palm moving to your hip and gripping with a claim and a promise. You let him groan against your lips, tongue tangled in your own, wanting more and more and more. You let him take whatever he needed and you took in return. You bit his lip and ran your fingers up his sleep shirt. You dug your nails into his soft skin and hard abs, whimpering at his strength.

You didn’t want to ever let go. The ache was gone. That roaring pain in your chest finally silenced, and you felt warm, and happy, and safe.

But the tears falling from his cheek onto yours were cooling that wonderful burn, and you didn't want them to smother the flame. They melted into the soft skin and your body greedily absorbed them, feeding your lonely soul with his anguish, because you would take anything he was offering.

Eris let you go.

Slowly, he pulled his lips from yours, but he moved in to meet you once more momentarily -- as if some magnetized force worked between you two, as if he absolutely could not help it -- before pulling away completely.

The wetness in his lashes glinted in the moonlight as his eyes opened to meet your own.

He took a moment to just look at you. His amber eyes, brighter and more red than orange or yellow from his tears, swept over your face with a look of heartbreaking adoration. That look alone convinced you that what he said was true: whatever was happening here wasn't just you.

You could only imagine you looked the same as you watched him. His brows furrowed, lips trembling from either emotion or tightly held self-control. Then he lifted his hand and you watched it shake as he dragged a knuckle across your tear-stained cheek, just feeling you, worshipping your skin and your very existence in front of him.

He swallowed harshly before clenching his teeth in a moment of resolve, his jaw muscle jumping in response. The words looked like they pained him. “I need you to leave.”

It was a plea. A desperate, heart-wrenching plea. And you had never heard Eris Vanserra truly plea or beg.

Your body raged as you stepped back. Because even if you wanted to stay with him, that same voice deep down that said you knew him also told you to listen and trust him. Heart beating painfully, tears refilling, you lifted your chin to meet his gaze.

Just one more moment. One more moment of looking, just like before this all started. One more moment of peace.

A bark sounded in the distance. Eris hardened further at the noise, fists clenching at his sides as he took a step back of his own.

“Go.”

A command from the heir to the throne. The power it held was undeniable, but it softened as it reached you. He didn’t look away even as the barking grew in volume and lessened in distance. It was almost as if he couldn’t.

So you nodded. Another step back. You gritted your teeth, forcing your tears down. Looked at Eris's beauty, at his devastated expression, and held it. Then you tried to be strong, closing your eyes, and breathing in that cool air, allowing it fill your lungs and that empty space inside you. As you let it go, you winnowed back to Velaris.

An insistent knocking at your door dragged you from a deep sleep.

You groaned, stirring, wondering in your half conscious state who could be at your door so early. At least it felt like it was early. You had no idea what time it was when Eris had left last night, but you’d stayed awake long after.

You’d half expected to feel changed, renewed, like you’d come into being now. At least that’s what it had sounded like from Elain’s experience when she’d been found out to have acted on her feelings for Graysen a month before you, she and Nesta were turned.

Especially since she had been all glowy and had nearly floated around with a secretive smile on her face for days—at least before Nesta had managed to wrangle the information from her.

You didn’t feel anything of the sort.

You didn’t regret it exactly, but you couldn’t help but feel sort of…at a loss. Perhaps your experience was just more similar to Nesta’s—who’d taken a random male to bed to lose her maidenhead. But that hadn’t bothered her in the slightest.

You’d come to the conclusion that you were wary because of the fact you had no idea what sort of favor Eris Vanserra would require from you. Or the fact you were still stuck with the bargain tattoo—that tiny little outline of a flame on your right wrist a stark reminder that one of these days Eris would come call in that bargain.

For a favor of any size.

You’d also tried to ignore the fact that you seemed to mourn his absence from the moment he’d winnowed away.

Of course you hadn’t expected any sort of cuddling or anything, but you still cringed at the way you’d acted afterwards. You’d given him a handshake for Cauldron’s sake. A grand thanks for the sex and fulfilling your end of the bargain sort of handshake.

You wanted to groan and bury your face into the pillow.

Which you did as you shifted, wincing at the deep ache that’d settled in between your legs overnight. You’d been slightly tender and a little sore last night, but hadn’t thought much of it, until you’d seen Eris eyeing you before he’d left.

“Expect some soreness tomorrow morning.”

He’d said it with a cocky upturn of his lips—enough to make you roll your eyes and most definitely call him a cocky bastard.

Well, he hadn’t been wrong.

The knocking came again—louder and more insistent—pulling you even further from your blissful sleep. A sleep you apparently desperately needed to rest your sore body. It was sore in places you didn’t even realize could be sore.

You sighed deeply as you threw your legs over the edge of the bed and stood, padding to the doorway. You ignored the halfhearted hope that it might be Eris back again because that was just foolish.

Who you saw on the other side was the last person you expected to see.

Elain stood on the other side, her face set in a hard expression, displeasure lining her normally soft features. You blinked, trying to clear the sleep from your eyes, partially wondering if you were dreaming this.

Eris may have left you a tad exhausted—perhaps this was just a dream brought on by an incredibly deep sleep.

It was so odd to see such a look on your sister’s face though. You’d seen Elain annoyed and frustrated before—had seen her display anger before—but it was always in a more quiet and passionate way. It also tended to be more on the firm yet cool headed side. You’d never seen her expression so stony.

Somehow, this seemed much worse.

“What are you wearing?”

You peered down, realizing you were in the gown you’d donned the night before—prior to Eris’s visit—and had thrown on again after his departure.

You’d also managed to avoid your sisters ever seeing you in the garments you’d bought for yourself—always making sure to dress or cover up with a dressing gown if there was a chance they’d show up at your door while you were still in your sleepwear. Somehow, with the Mother’s blessing, you’d managed to avoid their discovery of it.

Until now at least.

“You woke me up to ask that?” you grimaced.

The brief break from the hard look that you’d been met with on your sister’s typically beautiful and pleasant face, returned.

“Feyre wants to see you.”

“She couldn’t come to me?” you sighed, already annoyed.

“No.”

The reply was curt and very Elain-like.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” you mumbled.

“At least I woke up clothed,” Elain retorted.

Oh, this was going to be a morning.

“Get changed into something presentable. She wants you in the study in five minutes.”

With that, Elain was gone, already heading down the hall before you could argue.

•••

It had taken you less than five minutes to quickly toss on a loose and billowy gossamer set that you’d likely once stolen from Feyre too. With its sheer sleeves that banded at the wrist and ankles, it was at least more presentable.

You’d likely nabbed the item in the first place because you’d simply liked the turquoise color of it.

You’d taken less time than you were allotted, not wanting to further worsen whatever situation you were walking into. Though you couldn’t for the life of you figure out what Feyre would want to see you so early in the morning for.

You were not prepared for what you were met with when you stepped into Rhys’s study.

More like who you were met with.

Positioned across the room waiting for you were your sisters, Rhys, Cassian and Azriel.

Rhys sat at his desk, Feyre on the chair nearby. Spread out on the couch was Nesta, Cassian and Azriel. Only Elain remained standing, closest to where you’d entered the room. You scanned the space for the other brother that was missing from the group.

“Did Lucien not get an invite?” you mumbled.

It was amazing Mor and Amren hadn’t either.

“You should be grateful he’s not here,” Elain replied cooly.

Your gaze cut to her. Her arms were tightly crossed against her chest, her mouth a hard line of irritation. You didn’t bother to ask where he was. You didn’t think it would distract from whatever was in store for you, nor would it delay whatever was coming.

Before you could even open your mouth to question anything, Feyre spoke.

“Was Eris Vanserra here last night?”

You instantly froze and prayed to the Mother—or whichever ancient gods of the fae you didn’t have any sort of knowledge on—that your face gave away nothing.

“How would I know?” you asked cooly, “It’s not like he informs me of his whereabouts.”

“He was here to discuss the Autumn Court’s border patrol issues,” Rhys said casually.

“So…you pulled me out to bed to ask me something that you could’ve answered for yourself?” you asked, exasperated.

“It’s time to cut the bullshit,” Nesta snapped from where she sat, blue gray eyes absolutely blazing.

You blinked, startled at the unexpected outburst.

“Why was Eris in your bedroom in the middle of the night?” Feyre asked.

Her voice was so icy—deadly in a way you’d never thought you’d heard before. She was truly the High Lady of the Night Court in that moment.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” you hedged.

You tried hard to wrack your brain for how they might know. You didn’t think either of you had been that loud. Besides, your room was in a completely different wing—at least a good distance away from anyone else’s bedroom, regardless if they resided here or just stayed for a few days.

At least everyone but…

“Az said he heard voices coming from your room during the early hours of the morning. One he recognized as Eris’s,” Feyre said stiffly, “Amongst other…unpleasant things.”

Your head whipped to the Shadowsinger, fury and betrayal in your gaze.

Did no one in this court know how to mind their own business?

He met you with a steely, unapologetic look. He wasn’t sorry for what he’d done, you knew it. He likely even thought reporting back to your sisters—to everyone was the wisest thing to do. Likely though he was just doing his part in keeping you safe.

The whole situation was almost comical.

Azriel was hardly ever here, always content to be on the go and take up residence wherever was the most convenient for him at the time. Last night just had to be the night he stayed at the River House?

You clenched your teeth, feeling cornered, feeling attacked. Six sets of eyes stared, waiting for an explanation.

Cauldron, maybe it was a good thing Lucien wasn’t here. You’d have wanted to have this conversation even less with his brother present.

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” Nesta said, that fury still trained on you.

You weren’t sure which you bristled further at—her tone or the glare she was sending your way.

“Nes,” Cassian urged, “Let her talk before you get angry.”

Nesta barely relaxed at his words though, still keeping her attention wholly on you. Clearly still furious.

“I just want to know why Eris Vanserra was taking advantage of my little sister,” Feyre said, calmly.

You felt anything but calm.

“I think you lot are blowing this way out of proportion. I don’t know what you think happened but—”

“For fucks sake his scent is all over you!” Nesta exclaimed.

You had no idea what she meant.

Your mind was spiraling, you felt like you were grasping at what little control you’d barely managed to hold on to. Now it was slipping through your fingers no matter how much you’d tried to lunge for it.

“If he hurt you, or forced himself on you in any way—” Rhys started.

You guffawed.

“Of course that’s the first conclusion you’d jump to!” you exclaimed, exasperated.

“Then please enlighten us as to why you were in such a compromising position with him,” Feyre followed up sternly.

“Why does it matter?”

You looked at Elain for help—the sister who was always the most levelheaded. But you were met with the same steely look she’d possessed at your bedroom door only minutes earlier.

Your eyes panned to Cassian, to Azriel, in hopes that someone would take mercy on you. Jump in and save you from this interrogation.

Even Rhys had little to say as your sisters kept hounding you. All you were met with was an array of stern and angry faces.

At this rate you truly didn’t know who they were more upset with—you or Eris. It wasn’t likely to get any better when you told them the truth, either.

“Answer me!” you exclaimed, “Why does this matter?”

“Because we want to know what business he had fucking our baby sister!” Nesta roared.

You actually flinched. Not only at her anger but at the words.

You felt like you were suffocating. Drowning.

Did they not realize this was exactly why you’d done what you had?

“I don’t see why this is such a big deal. You’re acting like I stole hundreds of gold marks from the court!”

“Did he hurt you.”

It was Azriel who spoke. The threatening low timbre of his voice promised nothing but violence and it sent a chill down your spine. There was a reason he terrified many.

You turned to him, spine rigid with anger and indignation.

“No!”

“You have never laid with a male,” Elain finally said, softer than you’d anticipated, though the fierceness remained in her voice, her expression, “And you expect us to believe that he didn’t harm you?”

Your cheeks heated, embarrassment and fury warring within you. Embarrassment at the private details of your life being so exposed in front of all of them. You’d thought if anyone would’ve respected your privacy, it would’ve been Elain.

Fury because they truly expected the worst from Eris. Truly thought he’d forced himself on you, forced you to do something you hadn’t wanted—hadn’t asked for.

You were about to open your mouth—perhaps to explain or deny, you supposed you’d never know—because it was Cassian that noticed the one thing that turned the situation from bad to worse.

“What. Is. That.”

It took you a moment to realize where the Illyrian’s gaze was leveled. It wasn’t until you looked down that you realized—discovering the cuffed wrist of your right sleeve had shifted upwards just enough to reveal the one secret you’d hoped none of them would discover.

You tried to tug the sleeve down, prepared to hide your wrist against your body, but Feyre—who’d hopped out of her chair faster than you could process—grabbed your arm, holding it so all of them could see.

“Why do you have a bargain tattoo?” Rhys asked—likely a lot more calmly than he felt from the way you could see the darkness deepening behind him.

Or the way the stars winked out in his violet eyes.

You swore the air in the room grew thick with tension. You saw how Azriel’s own shadows swarmed, looking ready to strike. Cassian and Nesta were ramrod straight. Elain had visibly paled at the sight of the ink at your arm.

The silence was deafening. Not even a rustle of Illyrian wings was heard.

“What did you do?” Feyre asked, horrified.

You finally yanked your hand away from her grasp, pulling the sleeve down to cover the tattoo.

You’d had enough.

So you looked at them all without balking, finally admitting the truth.

“I made a bargain with Eris.”

They stared at you with varying expressions of horror. You didn’t let it deter you from continuing. You figured you might as well expose it all because you knew when it all came out, there would be a storm of rage.

From all three Archeron sisters, the three Illyrians and likely Lucien—whenever he returned.

“I made a bargain with Eris that if he took my maidenhead, I would owe him one favor. Of any size.”

It was Elain that gasped.

Your eyes slid to the second eldest Archeron, noticing how she seemed to have grown even paler.

None of them appeared to know what to say. They were absolutely stunned. But it was Nesta who spoke first, the rage still in her tone, but quieter, deadlier, colder.

“Have you lost your ever loving mind?”

The rest were still gaping at you, as if trying to process what you’d revealed.

“Why would you ask Eris Vanserra of all people for something like that?” Feyre asked, sounding just as horrified as she looked.

They didn’t give you a chance to answer though.

“You have no idea what he could do with the knowledge of that. What he could ask of you!” she continued.

You’d realized that. But it hadn’t stopped you from making the bargain. You turned to Elain, not even bothering to ask, as it came out more like a blunt statement.

“Where is Lucien.”

“Busy,” Elain said, lifting her chin the slightest, “Verifying Eris’s side of the story.”

“What—you thought I’d lie?”

“We only want the truth,” she said, eyes flashing.

“I just told you it!”

You shifted on your feet, grimacing at the sharp pain.

Their eyes caught it immediately.

“I knew that bastard hurt you—you’re clearly in pain!” Feyre motioned to you.

“Yes, Feyre, because when you stick a cock in a place it’s never been before, it has a tendency to hurt!” you barked back.

You didn’t know whether they looked more stunned or furious at your crude language but you had stopped caring long ago.

“How foolish could you be?” Nesta snapped, “You’re not on any sort of tonic—do you know what sort of mess you’d find yourself in if you fell pregnant?”

You said nothing. You hadn’t considered that and while she had a right to point out your oversight, it still didn’t completely validate the way they were treating you.

“That alone is a precarious situation,” Rhys finally spoke for the first time in a few long minutes, all three males having remained quiet, “He could take you to Beron. Use you—or any potential child—as a bargaining chip. You, alone, could be nothing but a pawn in his twisted schemes.”

You turned blazing eyes to Cassian and Azriel.

“Are you really going to let them treat me like this?”

Their faces were as stony as your sisters’. You knew it was a lost cause. Rhys and Cassian wouldn’t go against their mates, Cassian and Azriel wouldn’t go against their High Lord and Lady.

“We’re trying to protect you,” Azriel said, softer than his face portrayed.

“You’re treating me like a child! I don’t understand why you think I’m too weak to handle my own life!”

This had spun so out of control that you no longer had a leash on your anger, your hysteria.

“Because you go and do stupid shit like making a bargain with Eris and fucking him!” Feyre erupted.

You felt it then—the tell tale burning behind your eyes. You couldn’t stop it nor ignore the sensation, the shame and hurt hitting you so deeply.

“What does he want from you?” Elain asked.

The firmness remained in her tone, but it was as urgent as everyone else’s. You couldn’t believe they were still assuming the worst about him. The Eris that had been with you last night was nothing like the male you’d been warned about time and time again.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice breaking, “He only said he’d call in his favor when the time was right. That’s all he said.”

Nesta just scoffed, folding her arms.

The shame burned even hotter in you.

Tears finally started streaming down your face—in anger, in frustration, in humiliation. The way your own blood was humiliating you in front of the rest of your friends.

It was as if they were taking something you’d chosen for yourself and turned it dirty, ugly. Shaming you for it.

You couldn’t stand to look at the anger, the disappointment and even worse, the concern on their faces. You couldn’t take the fact that you were being scolded as if you were still the child who’d once stolen cookies from the cookie jar—at least back when your family had food and money.

You wanted to defend Eris—everything in you made you want to. Maybe you were as foolish as they all thought you to be, but you couldn’t understand how they managed to be around him, deal with him all the time and still think so horribly of him. That combined with the male that was in your bed last night…none of it added up to be the same male they claimed him to be.

All you could remember was the ache and stretch of your body around his cock, the whispered praises, the uncharacteristic gentleness. The way he treated the entire situation with care and respect—with reverance.

You pulled your train of thought away from such subjects, unable to bear the thoughts of a night that had meant so much to you. Simply because it was something you’d done for yourself—but now it was being ridiculed and shamed.

“If I find out in any way that he assaulted you—”

Through your tears, you snapped, cutting off Cassian’s protective growl.

“Did you all ever stop to think that maybe I chose to do this because Eris saw me more than anyone in this room has?”

They all seemed to collectively blink.

“You’re upset,” Elain said, trying to reach for your arm, “You’ve been through a lot.”

You jerked out of her reach, chest still heaving from your emotions.

“We’re going to find a way to free you of this bargain,” Rhys said, sitting back in his chair, as if it was collectively decided for you.

“And what if I don’t want you to?” you rasped.

“It would be in your best interest to never owe Eris any favors,” Feyre said, mouth a hard line.

You just gaped, unable to believe that they still didn’t get it. That you’d screamed and shouted—mirroring the way your very soul seemed to be withering and dying from the constant battle of this treatment.

And still, none of it had gotten through to them.

Which made what was said next even worse—like it was a final nail in your coffin.

“Until this mess is figured out, you’re to stay here at the River House for your own safety. If you wish to go somewhere, Nuala and Cerridwen are to accompany you as you’ll be under their watch and care,” Feyre said with such finality it made your stomach drop.

“You can’t be serious,” you breathed, panic setting in even more.

“Oh, we are,” Nesta said stiffly, “At least it will keep you out of further trouble.”

A prisoner. You were to be a prisoner here.

Words left you. You had nothing more to say, you didn’t think you could find words to say. Icy dread filled you, quickly followed with an ever colder sense of numbness that soon spread throughout your entire body.

With those words—their demand of you—all hope died out of you. The damning truth repeating itself on a loop in your head. This was truly what the rest of your immortal life was going to be like.

And you were never going to escape.

•••

ERIS

The golden complected male—with hair in similar length and hue to his own—paced in an agitated line in front of Eris.

Eris, meanwhile, sat cool, calm and collected in his chair in the study, watching his youngest brother pace back and forth. His legs were crossed, an ankle bent over a knee, fingers laced over his stomach as he watched Lucien.

Of course, Eris’s unbothered demeanor didn’t spare him from the lecture he was currently getting.

“Do you realize what you have done?” Lucien finally asked, halting, facing him.

Eris decided now was not the time to be charming and return the question with a sassy remark. Lucien seemed in no mood to play games anyway. He’d never recalled seeing his brother so out of sorts.

“She approached me. What was I supposed to do—say no?”

Lucien threw up his hands, exasperated.

“A good male would’ve!”

Eris just tilted his head, hair falling over a shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, a sly smile forming on his lips.

“You fool yourself, brother, if you think I am a good male.”

Lucien’s hands fell to his hips, his gaze hard on him.

“You’re also a lot better than you give yourself credit for.”

Perhaps it was true. Though he and Lucien still didn’t always see eye to eye, Lucien was about the only person he’d ever let see enough of him to make any sort of judgements.

That was, until her.

The sheltered, innocent little dove of the youngest Archeron sister.

She’d surprised him though. She may have been naive, but she had fire to her. One that had piqued his curiosity—most definitely after she’d approached him with the bargain.

Eris’s eyes dipped to his covered right wrist. Beneath the sleeve was the identical outline of a flame—the perfect match to the tattoo on her own right wrist.

No one had ever trusted him with something so sacred. At least in the way she’d entrusted him, asked him for help, albeit in the scheming way he’d typically dealt with courtly matters.

Which was why he’d entertained her initially in that first conversation. He wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to agree to it—other than he’d have been foolish to let such a perfect opportunity go to waste.

Even if that made him sound like a lech.

But then last night had occurred.

No one had ever chosen him so shamelessly, so confidently.

Morrigan had fought against a betrothal to him so many centuries ago.

Nesta Archeron had rejected his marriage bid.

Then there was her youngest sister, the one who’d touched him like no one ever had before—in more ways than one.

It was the one thing that had haunted him constantly from the moment he’d left her last night. That gentle and caring touch on him. A kind he’d never truly experienced in such capacity.

He could still feel the ghost of her touch over his face as fingertips traced the freckles there—hear her quiet, awed declaration.

“Your freckles are pretty.”

It was baffling how one simple entanglement had him so twisted in knots. Typically, he preferred it a bit rougher, quicker, hotter and this had been the absolute opposite.

Yet this one encounter had stuck with him more than dozens of others.

“I assume you were sent here with orders,” Eris halfway sneered.

He could only imagine what the Illyrians—or worse, the Archerons—had ordered Lucien to do. He still had no idea how they’d discovered what had occurred.

“They sent me to talk to you to get your side of the story. Clearly none of them trusted anyone but me not to kill you right now.”

“I’m flattered that familial ties have outweighed the temptation for violence,” Eris drawled lazily, “But just because you let those Illyrian brutes rule your life doesn’t mean they get a say in mine.”

Lucien—usually levelheaded, having learned to control his temper long ago—absolutely exploded.

“She’s their baby sister!”

“So?” Eris shrugged casually, “You were sneaking off to see Elain when you weren’t allowed to be near her.”

Lucien’s brows narrowed.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Eris cocked a brow.

“Yes, she’s my mate! Besides, I wasn’t going around being inappropriate with her.”

Eris’s eyes hardened at the insinuation.

“Something that happened between two consenting parties is no one else’s business.

Lucien just huffed a disbelieving laugh, running a hand down his face.

“For Cauldron’s sake, Eris, between her sisters, Rhys, Cassian and Azriel alone, you’d think you’d be sensible enough to know that fucking her was a monumentally horrible idea.”

His anger sparked further.

“She didn’t ask for that sort of intense protection, you know—and the last I checked? She’s capable of making decisions for herself.”

“Clearly you underestimate them,” Lucien said, pacing again, “They were seconds away from waging war on you. I left before they dragged her out of bed.”

“How did they even discover I was there?”

Lucien stopped again, a pointed glare at him, like even he was angry at him, as well.

“Apparently Azriel heard some incriminating sounds coming from her bedroom in the middle of the night—your voice being one of them. He told everyone before sunrise.”

Eris winced. He could only imagine what was happening back in Velaris.

“So they know about the bargain too, I take it?”

It had been the wrong thing to say.

Lucien went preternaturally still and Eris mentally cursed himself. Lucien spoke so slowly, Eris knew he wasn’t going to slither his way out of this one.

“What bargain?”

Eris groaned, dropping his leg and finally standing. He was going to need a drink for this.

He walked to the cabinet where a crystal decanter of something old, amber colored and likely strong sat. He poured himself probably more than a couple of fingers worth—like he wisely should’ve done—and took a sip.

“Eris,” Lucien emphasized, “Answer the question.”

Eris finally turned, pulling up his sleeve enough to show the tattoo to Lucien. One russet eye and one golden mechanical eye dropped to Eris’s wrist.

“You made a bargain with her,” Lucien said slowly, not exactly a question.

“If I aided her by being the first male she took to bed, she’d owe me a favor,” Eris explained blandly.

He swore he watched his brother’s face pale before his eyes. Well, clearly, they hadn’t known that part and neither had Lucien.

“Mother spare you, this is so much worse than I anticipated,” Lucien groaned, dropping into the chair Eris had just vacated, “I don’t know if they knew of that, but that explains their plan.”

Eris took another sip of his drink, letting it burn all the way down his throat and warm his chest.

“Plan?”

“If I’ve been informed correctly by Elain, they’re telling her now that for the foreseeable future she’s to remain at the River House under the guardianship of Nuala and Cerridwen—for her own safety, apparently.”

Eris’s grip on the glass tightened and he sat it down hard, the sound of the glass hitting the wooden table loud in the space. Lucien winced in response.

“And you let them do that?”

“I don’t exactly get much of a say. She’s not my family.”

“She’s your mate’s sister.”

“So is Feyre and Nesta. I don’t have a say in their lives,” came Lucien’s rebuttal.

“Well that’s just the issue isn’t it? Feyre, Nesta and Elain gets a say in their own lives. Does she?”

Lucien seemed to have nothing to say.

“So that’s their solution? Just lock her up and continue to smother her?”

He could feel the anger burning within him, finally understanding the true motivation for why she’d made the bargain with him. Things like this were her everyday occurrences with her family.

“She’s not a child.”

His jaw clenched as he glared at Lucien. Lucien didn’t flinch from the anger though.

“You don’t get a say in that, Eris.”

Eris’s back was stiff as turned to pick up his drink again. His jaw clenched as he tried to rein in the anger he felt for her, the unfairness of how she was currently being treated.

He didn’t know how or why she’d gotten under his skin, how one simple night had resonated so much with him—didn’t know why he couldn’t seem to shake her. He feared he wasn’t going to any time soon, either.

He let the anger dissolve from his face, a cool indifference replacing the expression, controlling himself once again, even if he still remained tense.

“Perhaps not. But they fail to realize there’s just one tiny thing they cannot control, no matter how hard they try to,” Eris smirked.

Lucien looked hesitant, as if he were afraid to ask just what he meant.

“Which is what?”

Eris’s smirk morphed into a wicked grin.

“A bargain that I have yet to call in.”

•••

Quiet became your everyday life.

Not even a normal quiet. But absolute silence. An absolute absence of any sound or noise whatsoever.

If Feyre, Nesta or Elain had expected you to thrash against their orders, to fight, to throw a fit, then they were likely shocked when you did none of that.

No, you hadn’t done any of that. Instead, you’d completely shut down. Something had broken in you that morning. Something crucial, apparently.

You’d never felt more devastated and defeated before in your entire life. Even your anger from that morning had vanished—you didn’t have room to feel even that in the hollow cavity of your chest.

Instead, you moved around the River House like a ghost, as if you were no more than a wisp of shadow like the half-wraith twins.

You avoided meals with the others—you hardly did anything considering you didn’t even bother leaving your room, let alone your bed, most of the time. You barely ate either.

Nuala and Cerridwen had to force you out of bed on most days, but you never did much more than that. Most days, you didn’t bother even changing out of your sleepwear.

It wasn’t the nightgowns you’d bought yourself that you wore either. No, it was the more modest ones that Elain and sometimes Nesta wore. It felt like even that small choice had been ripped from you, too.

You didn’t even feel like yourself anymore—didn’t even know who you were.

There were many days you wondered how they managed to pass in a blur considering you did nothing but stare at the same four walls. Sometimes, you sat on the windowsill of your room—in the dark, with the curtains drawn.

You struggled greatly with thoughts that were too loud in those long, dark days.

How was it fair that your sisters got the happy life that worked out perfectly while you were forced to live a life you hadn’t wanted?

And you didn’t just mean becoming fae—though you’d made peace enough with that. But with the life your sisters clearly intended you to lead.

Even worse was how much you seemed to miss Eris. Which was ridiculous because you were sure he wasn’t even sparing you a second thought.

But he’d seen you. More than anyone had ever bothered to.

You had too much time to think in the silent darkness you’d submerged yourself in. You thought too much about that night.

Eris didn’t have to be respectful or make sure you were okay. He didn’t even have to agree to do it in the first place.

But he had.

Even if it hadn’t been as remarkable as you’d once been under the impression of, you still had images flash behind your closed eyes. Images of what he’d looked like between your legs, ripping the utmost amount of pleasure you’d ever felt from you.

The way he’d looked as he moved over you, his pale features that were normally cold and stony, filled with such bliss and warmth. You could remember nothing else but the way his cock had felt in your hand, inside of you, the way his lips had traced your skin, his hands following.

Maybe you had grown an unhealthy attachment to him for what he’d done for you. But it had been a short amount of time where you’d been happy, had been relaxed and almost carefree. You yearned for that again.

And unfortunately, for Eris, too.

When your cycle arrived, you were disappointed. A crazy, irrational part of you had almost half hoped you were pregnant. Maybe then your sisters would disown you or the Night Court would exile you.

Maybe Eris would’ve taken you away from here if there had been a child involved.

Which was foolish, you knew it.

At least a week of physical pain so excruciating —so much so that Madja had to be called in to give you sleeping tonics—passed at least a handful of your monotonous days.

You soon found sleep to be a blissful release from your misery.

When you weren’t asleep, sometimes Nesta, Feyre or Elain came to sit with you. You never uttered a word to them though.

Feyre opened the curtains one day and sat with you, working on a sketch. You sat silently, staring out the window at the rainy day.

You didn’t mention how you’d overheard Rhys and Feyre talking the day prior.

“There’s absolutely no way we can break this bargain is there?”

Feyre had been whispering to Rhys when he’d stopped by to check on you as well—during the time Feyre had come to sit with you. You’d laid facing the wall, away from them, curled up in a ball. You supposed they thought you were asleep—it was something you’d started doing more of, anyways.

“No. I should’ve known better before I started searching. Nothing could break ours, remember?”

“Nothing in Helion’s libraries?”

You’d heard the desperate edge in your sister’s voice. The sister that had always taken care of you—the one only a year older than you and still had managed to become a High Lady—the first High Lady in a very long time. Yet you weren’t seen as capable of anything more than being rescued from trouble by them.

“The only way to break a bargain is by fulfilling it.”

Rhys had sighed, sounding just as lost as your sister had. Your jaw had only clenched though.

You’d been glad they couldn’t find anything. Whatever Eris wanted from you couldn’t be any more horrible than this.

Now, you sat, staring at rain drops gliding down the window pane as Feyre sketched something across from you. Your eyes followed the path of the droplets rolling down the glass, wondering if the rain was half made up of all the tears you no longer had left to cry.

You didn’t make a sound the entire time Feyre was there.

Sometimes Nesta would come in and curl up on the window sill or in a nearby chair and read her latest book, always keeping an eye on her youngest sister. Half the time you didn’t bother to acknowledge her presence.

Even if you were too numb to feel it, you were still angry at them for doing this to you. No amount of sitting with you—in whatever support they thought they could offer—would change that.

Elain often came to visit with tea or something sweet she or Nuala and Cerridwen had baked. She was the one that tried to make conversation with you the most out of them all.

Possibly because she remembered when it was once her this withdrawn and lifeless, so long ago.

One afternoon—when you’d much rather have been curled up in bed in blissful sleep—Elain sat with you by the window, two chairs next to one another. You sat with the long cotton nightgown pulled over your legs, knees hugged to your chest. Your hair was unbound, likely a mess because it’d been a few days since you’d bothered to let Nuala or Cerridwen brush it.

“Why don’t you come down to the sitting room? Have some tea? It will do you good to get out of your room.”

You met her with silence.

“Or maybe even the library? Nesta says she has a pile of books that Gwyn and Emerie have left that you might enjoy. Romance and mysteries included.”

Gwyn and Emerie—Nesta’s friends. The ones that Nesta began training with long ago—the ones that had become the first Valkyries in centuries.

“Vassa and Jurian send their well wishes.”

You hadn’t even realized Elain had been gone from Velaris, though there would be days at a time she wouldn’t drop in to visit you. You supposed that explained her absence some days.

But all of this was just another painful reminder that your sisters had found their own paths while you were stagnant in coming into your own. Had been kept from even being able to.

It only made your frustration and helplessness grow more. Your thoughts—as they always seemed to do here lately—wandered to Eris.

You often wondered what he was doing nowadays. If he even bothered to remember you or if you were just another night to him, another female.

If Eris had been in the Night Court at any time over these last few weeks, you weren’t privy to that information. All in the name of keeping you safe from him.

But every time your eyes fell to the tattoo still clearly on your wrist, you remembered him. The woodsy Autumn scent like a crackling fire mixed with warm spices. The soft and gentle murmurs that had been unlike anything you’d expected from the male. Even the infuriating way the corner of his mouth could quirk up in arrogance—in such a way that made you want to kiss him.

It did no good to dwell on such things, but unfortunately for you, with so much time to think, he plagued your thoughts.

It was what Elain said that broke you from your reverie.

“Feyre said something recently. That once this…situation is resolved that perhaps we could find something for you to do. That you would enjoy. Some way to…help.”

Your eyes had slid to her face, but you said nothing, making a noncommittal noise. You’d heard variations of that sentiment before, but nothing had ever come to fruition. You didn’t know why you expected anything different this time.

Even if you’d heard your sisters’ whispers days ago.

“I’ve never seen her like this.”

That had been Feyre, the concern lacing her tone so much it made you want to cry.

“It’s like all the life has drained from her.”

Elain, sounding just as concerned and sweet.

“And the light has died in her.”

Nesta had made the final comment, almost devoid of emotion. But if you’d known any better, you swore you heard the concern masked even in her voice.

They’d not been wrong. You’d given up, surrounded in nothing but hopelessness and misery. You were a shell of what you’d once been.

You loved your sisters—but you didn’t love the way they’d be treating you or this situation they’d forced you into.

Which is perhaps why what was soon to come took everyone by shock.

Including you.

•••

It could’ve had to do with the fact you knew you couldn’t stay in your room any longer, but one day—despite feeling as heavy as you always did—you got out of bed and let Nuala and Cerridwen fuss over you.

You’d taken a long soak in the bathtub, playing with the bubbles of the aromatic soak they’d poured into the warm water. It didn’t fix things completely, but it’d lifted your mood a tad.

When your fingers were nearly pruned from the time spent submerged in water, you got out, drying yourself. Nuala had found another pair of the loungewear that Feyre had once worn in the Night Court in her first visits to it—back before you and your two remaining sisters had ever stepped foot into Prythian.

This was a dusty lavender shade, the gossamer just as loose and flowy as the set you’d worn on the morning you were met with six stern faces in the study. This, too, came with the long sheer sleeves that banded at the wrist. The loose and billowy pants were just as comfortable, banded together at the ankle. There was enough of gap between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband of the pants that a sliver of your stomach showed.

Looking in the mirror while Cerridwen brushed your hair, you realized you were thinner than you remembered.

“It’s lovely to see you in better spirits, miss. It’s been a while,” Cerridwen said softly, fussing over your loose hair.

You realized you’d lost all track of time. Had no idea how much time had passed since your confrontation with everyone.

“Thank you.”

When they’d finished, you sauntered off to the library, finally interested in some of those books that had been left for you, hoping they were still there.

Mercifully, they were. You weren’t sure how long you’d been curled up reading one of the books left when you heard the door open and a gasp.

You looked up and saw Nesta and Elain standing in the doorway, looking shocked.

“You left your room,” Nesta blinked, as if unable to believe her own eyes.

“Everyone will be so happy to see you!”

Elain flew to you and threw her arms around you. She pulled back before you could even digest the action. Her hands held your face as she looked you over, as if she, too, couldn’t believe you were actually right in front of her.

“I figured I might as well do something.”

Your voice was still raspy from disuse, but it was the truth. If this was to be your life for whoever knew how long, you couldn’t stay holed up in your room. Especially not with thoughts of a fiery heir haunting your mind.

“Can we get you anything? Tea? Something to eat? We should tell Feyre!”

Elain was already scrambling, but you grabbed her arm.

“I’m fine,” you said firmly, “I just want to read.”

She was already nodding, looking over at Nesta before speaking again.

“We can stay with you if you’d like?”

“Okay.”

That was all you gave them as you turned back to your book.

You didn't want them to think this was you forgiving them—it wasn’t.

You paid little attention to them as they settled, clearly keeping worried eyes on you. But at least it was better than the days you had been living here lately.

The three of you had long settled into some sort of slightly amiable silence—you a good few chapters into the book—when commotion and raised voices rose from the other room. Elain and Nesta were instantly on their feet, rushing to the door to see what was going on.

Your head turned toward the doorway, confusion bunching your brows—especially when you heard Rhys’s deep voice resounding from down the hallway.

“Stay here,” Nesta ordered, quickly leaving, rushing down the hall.

Elain followed.

You didn’t spare a second listening to Nesta’s instruction, instantly tossing your book to the side, scurrying after them. Thankfully, they’d already made it to the source of the commotion so they had no idea you’d followed.

If they wanted to find you a place in this family—this court—they’d have to let you witness some things, eventually.

You slowed your pace, unsure what you’d be walking in on—and you weren’t sure if you’d be easily spotted and sent away as per usual.

The closer you got, the more you heard bits and pieces of conversation. None of it made any sense.

“I don’t care what you say—”

“You are out of your mind if you think I’m letting my sister—”

The first two statements came from Nesta and Feyre, respectively.

“You don’t just get to appear in my court and make demands.”

You could feel the dark rumble of Rhys’s power almost instantly—before your mind could comprehend his words.

Then a voice came that you would’ve recognized anywhere. Slick, smooth, deep. Courtly with more than a hint of arrogance.

More likely than not to be laced with an edge of amusement, at times.

Eris.

“I do when I have every right to call in on the bargain I made.”

You finally peered into the room to see everyone flanking Eris—as if trying to provide a barricade between you and the male.

Four males, three sisters.

Everyone else’s back was to the door but Eris stood facing them, arms casually crossed, not looking the least bit worried.

He looked the exact same as he always did—as he did when you last saw him, albeit more clothed. Still unruffled, still as handsome as ever.

Something like relief swept through you at the sight of him, as bizarre as that was.

“What do you want.”

Rhys said the words through clenched teeth and a barely suppressed snarl. He didn’t have to be facing you for you to know he was likely trying to rein in his anger even more than he already was.

But Eris didn’t bother answering the High Lord of Night—for those all knowing amber eyes flicked behind the group that surrounded him. He seemed to straighten just the slightest, an arrogant smirk tilting his lips towards.

“Ah—there’s my dove.”

Seven faces—not including Eris’s—turned to you, definitely not expecting to see you standing there.

It was almost impressive how they all managed to whirl in one simultaneously smooth movement to face you.

“I told you to stay in the library,” Nesta hissed.

You knew whatever was going on had to be serious when you could see a hint of the silver fire in your sister’s normally blue gray eyes.

“We can take care of this,” Feyre assured you.

But you weren’t listening to them. You were frozen in the doorway, staring at the heir to Autumn.

Somehow, he felt like a lifeline. Your only chance to escape this situation you’d found yourself in.

Save me, you wanted to scream.

They were saying something to you—likely telling you to go back to the library or elsewhere. Again, you ignored them, your eyes locked on the pale face, the amber eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

You spoke to him and only him. His arms fell apart, hanging leisurely at his sides as he eyed you with that searing gaze.

“I came to call in my favor.”

Your breath hitched.

What would he ask of you?

Why didn’t it concern you more?

Probably because you’d do just about anything to escape this hell you’d been shoved into.

“Eris,” came Rhys’s growl.

Eris finally broke his gaze away from you, turning his head to the High Lord. You kept staring at him, taking in the sharp line of his jaw, the way his red hair seemed to shine even under the faelights of the sitting room. It fell over his shoulders so perfectly, it looked like he’d never had to consider it being anything but immaculately in place.

Except for one night when it hadn’t been—when it had been tousled and in disarray.

You’d been in such a state of despair lately, there were days you’d almost convinced yourself that everything that had happened with him had been nothing but a vivid dream. Something that hadn’t actually happened.

But it had and he was back, ready to ask for whatever favor he had in mind to fulfill the bargain.

“What is it you want?” Feyre asked, none too kindly.

His eyes slid back to you and your pulse raced in anticipation of whatever may be to come. His eyes dipped to your neck—to your pulse point—likely picking up on it.

“She’s to come with me to Autumn.”

“Absolutely not—”

“No way in hell—”

“You cannot do that.”

“Over my dead fucking body!”

“You make a move towards her, I’ll have this dagger in your gut before you can blink.”

Feyre. Nesta. Elain. Cassian, then finally Azriel.

All of their remarks overlapped, blending, contributing to the chaos that had erupted the moment Eris had uttered his wish. His favor.

Eris didn't look the least bit ruffled nor concerned with their outbursts and threats. In fact he looked amused, a brow twitching upwards as he took them in and then looked back at you.

“You’ve got quite the enthusiastic family, dove,” he mused.

“Eris, please don’t make this worse than it already is,” Lucien warned, golden eye whirring, as if it too picked up on the extreme levels of tension in this room.

You still hadn’t quite processed what he’d said.

“She is not going anywhere with you,” Nesta snarled, “And especially not to that godsforsaken court!”

Eris just looked at your eldest sister coolly.

“I do believe it’s out of your control, Nesta Archeron.”

You swore your sister actually bared her teeth at the male.

You had no idea when she’d moved, but Elain was suddenly standing in front of you, keeping you behind her like a mother protecting her young.

“You cannot just kidnap her from this court,” Rhys growled.

You were half amazed that Eris didn’t balk at the fury that was coming from Rhys. The rumble of his dark power was enough to make you want to shrink away.

“I am doing no such thing, Rhysand. The bargain calls for me to call in my favor—thus I am. Besides I have no interest in taking her forever.”

Cassian snorted. Lucien just monitored the entire situation carefully.

“You think that makes it any better?” Cassian sneered, “You’re still taking her against her will.”

“I’ll go,” you finally spoke up from behind Elain.

Everyone had seemed to forget you were even present—everyone other than Eris that was. It was Elain who looked to you first, whipping around so fast her long golden brown hair nearly hit you.

“Honey, no. You don’t know what you’re saying,” she cooed, taking your hand, “Come on, we can go back to the library, okay?”

You ignored her and looked to Rhys, your brother. That’s technically what he was to you. You willed him to see how miserable you were, that you would do anything, even this.

“There is truly no other way to break this bargain?” you asked clearly, firmly.

Rhys’s features were grim, mouth tight in a straight line.

“There is not,” he confirmed.

“Then I will go to the Autumn Court.”

“No,” came from all three Archeron sisters.

Your anger flared—bright and ferocious—for the first time in weeks. All the anger that seemed to have drained from you due to being so numb seemed to flood back into your body, as if truly remembering its purpose.

“This is my mess, is it not? You lot clearly thought it was weeks ago. Do you trust me so little that you won’t even allow me to fix my own messes?!”

Your voice rose with each and every word until you’d reached near shouting by the end. You could’ve swore you saw them all flinch.

All except Eris, who was watching you with an expression you couldn’t read.

“You’re angry, I understand,” Elain tried to placate you, squeezing your hand.

“No, you don’t!” you snapped, yanking your hand free, “Or else we wouldn’t keep having this conversation!”

“I refuse to let you leave with a male who corrupted you,” Nesta spat.

Fury burned hotter in your body.

“He has done no such thing.”

“Clearly he’s nothing but a bad influence because you’ve never exhibited such behavior until you tangled with him—quite literally!” Feyre broke in, gesturing wildly to the male who had still yet to say anything.

You turned back to him, addressing him alone.

“I’m sure this is tame compared to the things they’ve dreamed up you could ask for,” you huffed.

It looked like it took all his willpower to keep from reacting to your statement, but you still saw the way the lips twitched.

“Indeed.”

“Make no mistake in thinking we trust you with her,” Rhys snarled.

“I do believe you’ve made that rather obvious, Rhysand,” Eris drawled lazily.

“You truly expect us to just let you take her and think we’ll be okay with it?!” Nesta glared.

“I told you I will not keep her forever. It is but a mere visit. You can trust my word when I say I will bring her home safe and sound,” Eris uttered, matter-of-factly.

They all look ready to argue. Even Lucien, who wisely had kept his mouth shut. Somehow, besides Eris, he’d become your best ally in this situation.

Before they could argue further, you butted in.

“You either want me free of this bargain or you don’t. Unless you plan to wait around until Eris can think of something else you all will deem just as horrible, I will go willingly.”

They all seemed to hesitate—to realize there was truth in your words. And no way out of this but to give Eris what he’d requested.

“For how long?” Feyre pressed.

Eris finally pushed past the throng surrounding him, approaching you.

“That is for me to know. What fun would it be if I gave away all the answers?”

You inwardly groaned, knowing his non-answer would do nothing but irritate them further.

Elain was still at your side and both you and she watched him approach. But he surprised you when he dipped his head in your sister’s direction in greeting and respect.

“Lady Elain.”

Then he extended his hand to you.

“Shall we, dove?”

You peered around at the sea of faces—the varying expressions of barely concealed anger, concern and wariness.

Without a word, you put your hand in his.

Then, you and Eris disappeared into darkness.

•••

You hardly saw Eris that first day.

The moment your hand had touched his, he’d winnowed the both of you away and straight to the Autumn Court.

Straight to his bedroom too, it appeared.

It was a grand room, made of stone—which came as no surprise since you’d once heard Lucien say that the Forest House was quite literally built into rock. What one would normally find cold and detached was made warmer by personal touches made by the heir.

There was a large wall of windows that held heavy drapes of the deepest maroon—likely made of some of the finest material available. When they were pulled back, you could see a breathtaking view of miles and miles of Autumn Court trees, rich jewel toned leaves creating a sea of autumnal colors.

Intricately woven tapestries hung on one wall of the room. A desk sat underneath it, papers strewn on it. Not entirely a chaos of a mess, but not tidy either. Almost like an organized disarray.

Tall wooden bookshelves took up a lot of the space—as if there wasn’t a library in the manor and Eris had to store all of his books in here. Though you were sure there was still a separate library in addition to his own personal collection.

Rows upon rows of leather spines greeted you and you spent time walking past, brushing your fingers over them, just to feel them under your touch.

There was also a fireplace, a couple of chairs in front of it—likely where he preferred to read. A plush rug was placed right in front of the fire on the floor, making for a surprisingly cozy atmosphere in this little corner of the room.

The room was enormous, but his bed was just as impressive. It looked nearly the size of the ones back in the Night Court that were designed to fit Illyrian wings.

The male could’ve fit half a dozen females in his bed at once if he so pleased and still have plenty of room.

You’d scowled at yourself, unsure where that absurd thought had come from.

The entire room was made up of Autumn Court hues and it almost felt…homey.

Which wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t practically dumped you here.

The moment the two of you landed in his room Eris peered at you—at what you were wearing—a snarky comment already on the tip of his tongue, of course.

“They couldn’t have put you in Autumn Court colors?” Eris asking, looking amused at your lavender set.

You scowled at him.

“If I had realized I was taking a trip to the other end of Prythian, I would’ve dressed more appropriately.”

Amusement tinged his face, his lips just barely tilting, but it was overshadowed by something else as he took you in.

“I haven’t seen you in six weeks and you look like shit.”

You’d peered down at yourself remembering how thin you’d looked in the mirror earlier that morning.

“You’ve always had a way with words, Eris,” you sighed.

But six weeks—had it really been that long? You’d had no idea.

His gaze only roamed over you in response, what looked like concern and something else in his gaze. But he’d said nothing more, only telling you to stay in his room until he returned.

Which had been all day, apparently.

You’d somehow managed to amuse yourself, finding some sort of mystery in his collection of books to read. Two meals appeared too—lunch and dinner—which at first you wanted to refuse in simple anger and defiance for just being left here.

But the spread had looked so good, you’d gobbled both trays, instantly. You had no idea how Eris had managed to arrange for you to be fed. You never saw anyone, just discovered the tray of food at the door to his chambers—the sitting room separate from his actual room.

It hadn’t stopped your anger from growing the entire day though. The fury at being brought here to only be trapped the same way you had been at home, this time just in a different court.

Which is exactly how it ended up that you blew up on him the moment he’d returned.

It was late, the sun long past set. You’d drawn all the drapes and sat near the fire, staring into the fire more than you were actually paying attention to the open book in your lap. You hadn’t seen a hint of Eris since late morning when he’d left you here—with no idea that he was going to be gone all day.

It was only when you heard the door in the next room open then softly click shut—followed by the thud of booted footfalls—that you straightened, jaw clenching, anger rising within you.

The door to the bedroom opened and there he was, looking as pristine as he did earlier in the day, albeit tired. As if he’d carried the day’s weight on him. That didn’t stop your anger from sparking as you shut the book with more force than necessary.

“Well. It’s about time you showed up,” you huffed.

He eyed you—the book in your lap—as he sat on the bed, bending to remove his boots.

“I take it you found ways to amuse yourself today then?”

You scoffed.

“No thanks to you. What is the point of this? Bringing me here to sit around uselessly and be bored? I could’ve had this treatment at home.”

You stood, crossing your arms.

He sat one boot to the side while he removed the other before standing, taking and setting them by the door in his stocking covered feet.

“I had a busy day,” was all he said, turning, fingers working the buttons of his jacket.

You were so preoccupied with the conversation, you barely noticed what he was doing.

“Which would’ve been really nice to know instead of being left in the dark,” you retorted.

Something in his eyes flashed.

“There are forces here you have no idea about—that I’m trying to protect you from.”

“Oh don’t you start that bullshit too,” you snapped, gaze blazing on him.

“There is a difference between protecting you from the entire world and protecting you from dangerously close threats in one’s own court.”

He was calm, but his stiff posture was evident of his own anger—especially in the way he roughly pulled off his jacket. Your eyes briefly fell to the pale muscled form that was revealed to you, but you didn’t let yourself stay distracted, too furious with the entire situation.

“This is no better than being in Velaris!” you exclaimed, flinging your arms out, exasperated.

“You’re always free to leave,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

The conflagration burned hotter in you. He knew you weren’t skilled enough to winnow far distances—you hadn’t even been allowed to do much of it anyway. Though you’d only done it a few times, you weren’t actually sure you possessed the ability to even winnow long distances—not like Feyre, Rhys or Azriel could. Especially not like Eris could.

It was almost a cruel twist of fate that seemed to work out in your sisters’ favor that you hadn’t developed any Cauldron gifted powers. Only the simple ones most High Fae possessed. You weren’t exactly proud to say in the early days how much you made things float to you out of sheer boredom and a desire to explore what little magic you’d been blessed with.

It was as if the entire situation—your confusion, your tangle of feelings, the last six weeks—everything came pouring out of you. It all fell out of your mouth so quickly you hardly knew what you were saying.

“You’re just as much of an asshole as everyone tried to tell me. Mor was right about you. All you care about is taking advantage of virgins.”

Your fury was no longer loud, but of the quiet and deadly sort. You didn’t know if the anger was an attempt to cover the hurt, the disappointment, your desperation at the entire scenario you’d ended up in, or what. But all you did was lean into the anger.

His own shone in the flames that came to life in his eyes, but his tone remained as deadly calm as yours. In fact, it would be less awful if the two of you screamed at one another. This—in a strange sense—seemed even worse.

His jaw clenched at your words, something passing over his face. His voice, when he spoke, was cool and unbothered.

“I thought the official story was I torture virgins—which I did not do anything of the sort, nor did I take advantage of you. Do not forget you approached me. It is not my responsibility that you developed any sort of attachment to me.”

He was hitting all the soft, sensitive spots of you that’d you’d tried to hide. But you should’ve known better when it came to Eris. He’d always been able to see things in you that most others didn’t.

You just huffed—irritated and trying hard to mask the blow he’d just hit you with. You brought your arms around yourself, as if you could protect yourself from anything else he’d lob your way.

“Then why am I here? Clearly you care about nothing but control and having the upper hand on any member of the Inner Circle,” you spat forcefully.

Those flames sizzled in his eyes though he kept a leash on his anger as he stalked toward you, his hard gaze never leaving your face.

“If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t have brought you here.”

You barked a sarcastic, disbelieving laugh.

“Yeah—to keep me locked in your room from sun up to sun down!”

He was now close enough that he towered over you. You could feel the warmth of his body—his half naked body—extremely close to yours. You’d temporarily forgotten at some point during your argument that he was half clothed. The hard lines of his stomach, his chest, were mere inches from your touch.

Instead of thinking too much about that distracting fact, you tilted your head up to glare at his stony face, which was also in close proximity to yours.

“I will reiterate—because whether you realize it or not, there are just as many threats here as there are in the Night Court. Quite greater ones too, might I add. I’m trying to protect you the best way I can.”

Something in you thrashed at that word, chafed, howled.

Protect.

That was all you’d ever heard your entire life and here you were hearing it again. You couldn’t bear to hear it from the one person who you’d truly thought was different. Which was why the words you hissed at him probably inflicted more damage than you’d ever intended them to.

“You are no better than my awful sisters.”

You saw it happen before your eyes. The way something just…shut down in him.

His eyes shuttered and he stood back, away from you, putting space between the two of you again. He was colder, stiffer, as if he’d shaken off any emotion, only to resort back to the cruelty he was known to display. A part of you whispered that you’d gone too far. But you were too out of sorts to care, still rippling with rage yourself.

“It’s late.”

He motioned with his head to his bed.

While you’d noted it was large, earlier, you hadn’t paid much attention to anything else. Deep maroon and gold threaded sheets adorned it, the maroon a perfect match to the drapery. A similarly patterned comforter lay on top along with more pillows than he probably knew what to do with—in varying sizes. Some were for the bed, others looked more decorative—all of them in the same similar patterns.

There was plenty of room to sleep without being in close proximity but still…

“I’m not sleeping in your bed,” you glowered.

He rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed with your attitude.

“Just get in the damn bed. You need to sleep.”

He was already walking towards it, pulling back the covers.

“Why? For another scintillating day of being cooped up in here?”

Your hands were on your hips and you purposely looked away the moment his hands came to his pants to push them off—changing into more appropriate clothes for bed. When you looked back, unfortunately, he was still without a shirt.

He still hadn’t answered you.

“Well?”

“I don’t bother myself with answering stupid questions.”

You huffed, grabbing a blanket from one of the chairs by the fire and dragging it to the floor. He watched from his bed—having already slipped under the covers, though he remained sitting upright. He eyed you warily as you dropped to the floor on top of the rug.

“What are you doing?”

“I’d rather sleep here,” you mumbled, turning your back to him, pulling the blanket up over your shoulder.

All you heard was his sigh of exasperation like he was too exhausted to even deal with you. But he didn’t argue, the lights dimming a moment later before you shut your eyes.

You tried not to focus too much on the chilly, hard floor, not made much better with only the rug between your body and the wooden floor. The warmth of the fire on your face felt nice though and you let it lull you to sleep—the adrenaline of your earlier emotions finally fading away, leaving you exhausted to your bones.

Sleep came easier than you expected it.

At some point you could’ve sworn you dreamed of being lifted, a comforting warmth basking you before you landed gently on a soft cloud—where you slept peacefully the rest of the night.

•••

When you woke the next morning, you found yourself on Eris’s bed, the blanket you’d dragged to the floor to sleep with, draped on top of you.

As if even though he’d refused to let you sleep on the floor, he made sure to bring the blanket with you to make you feel more comfortable. Especially since he’d laid you on the opposite, still made side of the bed. You noticed a chair that’d been pulled up to the side of his bed—the side that’d he’d slipped into last night prior to you falling asleep.

But pillows were missing from that side, now laying in that chair, along with a haphazardly thrown blanket.

Eris had carried you to his bed and then—out of respect for you—slept in a chair next to his bed for the rest of the night. Whether in a small truce or apology for your fight last night, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t help the small kernel of warmth you felt at the gesture though, how much you appreciated it.

You didn’t have much time to process though because a commotion drew your attention to the door.

Just in time to see a flash of gray whizz past you and onto the bed. You yelped, scampering back against the pillows, unsure what had just happened.

“Smokey, I thought I told you to not jump on the bed.”

Your head whipped to the door to see Eris already dressed and ready for the day, standing with his hands on his hips, looking exasperated at the…

Hound. There was a smokehound on the bed.

You’d turned back to it, now taking it in fully. You’d heard the others mention Eris’s hounds before, but you’d never seen one for yourself.

You’d imagined ferocious, deadly beasts. But this one seemed almost akin to a cuddly pet. It sniffed you curiously, nose bumping your leg. You hesitantly held out a hand to it, letting it sniff you, assess this new individual it was unfamiliar with.

“Smokey?” you asked, slightly in disbelief of the cliché name.

“Apparently I was a child when I named him. It’s all I’ve known him as and it would be strange to rename him now,” Eris drawled.

You raised a brow but tentatively pet the hound, surprised at how friendly he was. Eris’s tone was brusque and he jerked his chin towards you.

“Get dressed. We’re going for a walk.”

“I can’t wear this?” you asked, looking down at the same lavender set you’d been in since yesterday.

“Sure, if you want branches and limbs to tear it to shreds. Not that I’d mind. You wearing it only makes it pretty.”

His lips curved upwards in a teasing, flirtatious smile. Your cheeks heated at the thinly veiled compliment. How different this version of Eris was from last night’s. That cold, cruel edge now replaced with teasing warmth.

“I don’t have anything else to wear though,” you protested.

He motioned to the end of the bed where a set of clothes appeared from thin air, made possible with a hint of his magic and a flick of his fingers.

“Cute,” you murmured.

He smirked, but didn’t say anything more. He just clicked his tongue and jerked his head to the door, Smokey instantly obeying his order. The smokehound bounded off the bed and took off for Eris, flying past him and into the sitting room.

When the door shut behind them, you sat, blinking for a moment. This certainly hadn’t been what you’d expected for today, but you weren’t going to complain. It was something to get you out of this room.

You made quick work of pulling on the tunic, pants and boots and ten minutes later you were walking the woods that surrounded the Forest House, with Eris.

Smokey trotted ahead, nose to the ground as he sniffed and explored.

“He’s rather playful for a big scary smokehound,” you quipped, casually.

“Well don’t let him hear you say that. He’s still got a reputation to maintain,” he tossed back, teasingly.

As if he knew he was being talked about, Smokey rounded back, making sure Eris was still behind him. Eris gave him a rub on the head, a small smile on his face as he did—more at ease than you’d ever seen him.

Satisfied his owner was where he’d left him, Smokey took off ahead again.

You held your hand out as you walked, brushing the leaves on passing trees, the ones on the ground crunching under both yours and Eris’s boots.

“And you?”

“And me what?” Eris asked smoothly.

“Do you still have a reputation to maintain?”

Like why you let my family believe the worst of you, you wanted to say.

“Did I not prove to you that most is idle talk?”

Yes, he had.

You took a breath, listening to the crunch of the leaves, catching one falling leaf in your hand and twirling it by the stem as you walked, trying to put your thoughts into words. Eris waited patiently and silently, as if he knew you needed the moment.

Your mind was still a mess of emotions you didn’t know how to work through, but one remained at the forefront and you knew that was the first that needed to be dealt with.

“I don’t really think you’re as much of an asshole as everyone claims,” you said softly, “I apologize for saying that.”

Eris merely shrugged.

“They all have their varied reasons for thinking that of me.”

You looked over at him, saw the way the sun shone through the tops of the trees, turning his hair into liquid copper. He was still facing forward, eyes on the distant form of Smokey.

“You never gave me any reason to think that of you.”

He finally turned towards you, giving you no chance to escape the wounded look in his eyes—or his intense stare.

“Even if I’m no better than your awful sisters?”

You winced, gaze dropping from his in shame. You dropped the leaf, watching it fall to the ground as you walked away from where it inevitably floated to the ground.

“I spoke in anger and I apologize for that too.”

There was a beat of silence before Eris spoke again.

“I apologize for making you feel like you were no better off than you were in Velaris. That was never my intention.”

He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“If my father or my brothers discovered you, the bargain, knew of your presence here—”

“I understand,” you blurted quickly, even if you didn’t fully.

You knew you likely had no idea the sort of things he faced with his own family. Likely things that made your own familial issues seem insignificant in comparison.

“I never meant to make you feel like I was smothering you, too,” he said, voice carefully measured.

Too—because he’d seen what Feyre, Nesta and Elain had been doing to you for so long.

He glanced sidelong at you and you turned, seeing eyes rake over you, as if assessing for something.

“How are you doing? Really—not just some excuses you think I’ll want to hear.”

You shrugged, knowing lying would do you no good with him. He would see through you all too well.

“I don’t know, really. I don’t know who I am. What I’m good at. My place in this world. I’ve never been given the opportunity. Never been given choice. That is why I did what I did,” you said, holding up your right arm, indicating the bargain tattoo that lay hidden under your sleeve.

His lips lifted in a half smile.

“Something I’ve always admired about you—your boldness.”

You didn’t laugh though because you knew even if this was a reprieve from your situation, you knew what awaited you back in Velaris.

An undetermined amount of time in the Autumn Court wouldn’t change your reality back home.

It was quiet for the remainder of the walk.

•••

Eris made sure you made it back to his room safely before taking Smokey back to the kennel.

You’d knelt, throwing your arms around the smokehound—probably throwing him as off guard as you did Eris.

“Thank you for accompanying us on our walk, Smokey. It was a delight to meet you.”

You’d given him a kiss on the head and pet his snout before you let Eris take him.

You’d kicked off the boots on your feet and curled up in a chair with the book from yesterday, expecting not to see him until nightfall just like the previous day.

Which was why you were surprised to see Eris come walking back in the room, shedding his jacket and boots, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Your brows rose as you watched him.

“I didn’t expect you to hang around—since you’re a busy male and all.”

You shrugged a shoulder as if shrugging it off—you still had many complicated emotions to work through, many that involved the male. You’d planned to start working on that to occupy the time he was gone for today.

So it made it much more difficult with him being present.

“I made time in my schedule to keep you company.”

Your jaw tightened as you stood, putting the book under your arm as you faced him. You heard it in his tone without him having to say anything.

“I don’t need to be coddled. I don’t need your pity,” you said firmly.

His brow rose as he watched you return the book to the shelf.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Is it not?” you huffed, standing on tip toes to try and slide the book back into place on the shelf.

Suddenly you felt warmth at your back as he reached up, taking the book from your hand, sliding it into its rightful spot. You froze for a moment, your breath catching, pulse skipping.

“No, it’s not,” he said, much softer this time.

You finally turned, crossing your arms, looking up into his face.

It was devoid of any of the cruelty or iciness you’d ever seen. He, in fact, looked hesitant, almost vulnerable.

“I truly had no idea until I appeared in Velaris yesterday just how bad it had gotten,” he whispered, “I just knew that every time I was in the Night Court you were never around. I figured they were keeping you busy.”

You snorted softly, the anger and hurt combining in your chest. You couldn’t pinpoint who it was aimed more at—your family or Eris. You looked away, shrugging a shoulder.

“Yeah. By practically locking me up.”

“I know. When Lucien told me, I knew it was time to call in my favor.”

You peered up at him, face guarded.

“I knew I was saving that favor for something important,” he murmured, eyes taking in your face.

“So it wasn’t just to be an annoying prick?”

You expected a smug smirk, an over confident retort, but you got neither. Instead, his voice was barely more than a whisper when he answered.

“No.”

You lifted your face a fraction more, looking at the honesty written all over his face, a bit taken back by the shift in his demeanor—especially when it was a drastically different reaction than you’d anticipated.

His tongue came out, slowly moistening his lips. He swallowed hard before he spoke again.

“I figured this was the only way I could help you.”

Your heart beat faster at his admission. You’d never once stopped to think that maybe he’d seen this as a way to help you escape your situation—if only temporarily.

That maybe he saw it as the one thing in his power that he could do for you.

“I will admit, that wasn’t the entire reason I called in my favor, either. I had selfish reasons, too.”

His voice had deepened, grown more raspy, as if he was desperately trying to restrain himself. At some point your breathing had deepened. You hadn’t noticed how close he’d gotten to you.

Your brows creased at his declaration.

“What do you mean?”

“I wanted to help you, yes, but…” he paused, hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of your face.

He tucked it behind your arched ear—the ones you’d learn to like quicker than your other two sisters, who’d been turned with you, had. A fingertip traced the arch of it, making you involuntarily shiver.

“But I also wanted you in my bed again,” he uttered softly, tracing the pad of his finger again along the arch of your ear.

Goosebumps littered your skin and your breath shuddered out of you.

“And I couldn’t say that without coming across like an absolute brute.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, the truth coming out of you more than you cared to admit.

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Because the truth of it was, you’d wanted more of him too.

His touch fell away and you felt a thumb brush your bottom lip a beat later.

“I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind and I can’t explain why. It’s been driving me mad. You’ve been driving me mad,” Eris said, sounding almost pained.

Your eyes opened again, seeing the pure devastation on his face—the desire barely concealed. As if for the first time in his life desiring something so badly had actually pained him.

“Besides, I don’t like leaving matters unfinished.”

He’d inched closer at some point—close enough for his breath to fan over your face.

“Unfinished?” you whispered, mind too fogged by his proximity to understand what he was saying.

“I left you unsatisfied last time. I tend to remedy that.”

He didn’t even give you a chance to reply because he finally bent, lips connecting to yours. His thumb had fallen from your lips moments before he’d kissed you, fingers delicately caressing your jawline.

It wasn’t the gentle tentative kiss like the one that started the encounter last time. This was like a breaking, an unleashing. Filled with weeks of yearning for more.

Your lips instantly parted under his before he could even initiate it and he groaned into the kiss. His hand slid into your hair, fingers tangling in it as his tongue brushed yours lightly.

It was desperate, hungry, as if you’d both been held back too long. Your hands had settled against his chest as yours and his mouth chased one another, pausing only long enough for breath before meeting again. You no longer held back as your fingers clutched at his shirt, body arching to press into his.

The hand in your hair tilted your head just the way he wanted, as he deepened the kiss, mouth slanting over yours. His opposite hand rested on your hip, fingers digging into it like he was afraid to let you go—fearful of this moment ending.

His hand slid upward along your side, thumb barely brushing the underside of your breast just as he retreated enough to nibble on your bottom lip. He pulled it between his teeth gently before releasing it, lips covering yours again. You moaned lowly, grip loosening from his shirt, sliding past the curtain of his hair, one curling around his neck. The other rested along that sharp jawline you’d just admired the previous morning.

You pulled him closer to you as your lips moved with his, ignoring the way the shelves of the bookcase pressed uncomfortably into your spine.

When you were kissing Eris, nothing else mattered.

He finally broke from your lips, mouth not straying far though. He kissed along your jaw, up to the spot right below your earlobe, placing a heated kiss there.

You let out a tiny whimpered moan, practically melting under the touch of his lips.

“Mm, need to remember that little spot,” he murmured with a husky laugh near your ear.

You instantly reacted to his words and action, nipples pebbling under your shirt, the pulse between your legs becoming more noticeable. Your body was practically alight with awareness, buzzing with arousal that’d arisen so quickly you knew you couldn’t even pinpoint the moment it’d begun.

He retreated, bringing his lips to your neck, leaving quick, hot, open mouthed kisses along it until he reached your throat. Your head automatically tilted back, moaning as you felt his tongue glide up the center of it.

The hand tangled in your hair fell from it, skimming down your spine, pressing you further into him even as you arched into his touch—mainly due to the ministrations of his other hand. His thumb had finally come up, rubbing over your peaked nipple, through your shirt.

“Eris,” you rasped.

He hummed, already beginning to back up, taking you with him. You weren’t sure how your body managed to move in sync and not trip over him, but you chalked it up to the mix of adrenaline and arousal.

His lips were still at your throat, nipping playfully when you saw the chair out of the corner of your eye. You immediately shifted, turning, pushing him roughly into it. He landed with a startled grunt, blinking at you before his brows immediately rose, a smirk already on his lips.

You didn’t even give him a chance to speak—though you were positive it’d be nothing but some sort of cocky remark. You bent, kissing him again, but not long enough for him to pull you into his lap, like you knew he was itching to do. You knew it was what he was aiming to do when you felt his fingers inching around your waist, but you had other plans in mind.

Breaking away, you asked him the one thing you’d not been bold enough to last time.

“Teach me how you like to be pleasured.”

“Why?”

You were taken back by his question, definitely not expecting him to question you.

“Because you spent the time pleasuring me last time. It’s only fair.”

Momentarily, the daze of arousal lifted and he looked at you sternly.

“You don’t ever do this—for anyone—just because you feel it’s expected of you or as a way to balance the scales. You do it because you want to,” Eris said firmly.

That fierceness that lived deep within you—often saved and used on your sisters—came to the surface again. Your determined gaze met his and as you looked at the heir of Autumn, genuine sincerity filled your voice, your every word.

“I want to,” you paused, then added, “This is my choice.”

He studied you for a minute then seemed to relax, giving you a slight nod.

He reached out slowly, taking your hand, guiding it to the bulge in his pants. He pressed your palm to it, groaning at the pressure. Heat swept low in your stomach at the feeling of the hard cock under your touch—one you hadn’t failed to remember how it felt in your hand and inside you.

“Just…touch me first,” he gritted out, chest already heaving.

You bit your lip, watching his reaction to you as you dragged your hand upwards, rubbing over the hardened length trapped behind his pants. His head fell back on a deep groan, hips bucking into your hand.

“Like that?”

Your question was answered as you dragged the heel of your palm over him again, his body instantly reacting, pressing harder against your hand. His head lifted, eyes blazing with desire.

“What do you think?” he quipped, sarcastically.

“Amazing how you manage to have time for snark, even during something like this,” you mumbled teasingly as you rose to hover over him.

He watched as you leaned in, but you didn’t aim for his lips. You bypassed his mouth, lips dropping to his jaw. Then dipped to his neck. Your fingers worked the buttons of his shirt, kissing down every inch of pale skin that became exposed.

Eris watched you intently the entire way, breathing becoming more labored the further south you got. Even more so when you finally dropped to your knees in front of him.

“It’s becoming glaringly obvious you do not require my instruction,” he breathed, sounding a bit frazzled.

“I still do,” you reassured, eyes on his as your fingers fumbled the button of those finely tailored pants he wore.

When you’d pulled his cock free you found yourself trying to remember how the hell it had even fit last time.

“No wonder I was sore,” you mumbled under your breath.

A deep chuckle came from above you.

“What was that, dove?”

“Nothing,” you murmured.

For all your confidence prior to this, you felt like you froze. Obviously you knew your touch was appealing to him, but you were still hesitant in your abilities, unsure of what exactly to do.

“I see you have a habit of overthinking,” he smirked lazily.

You scowled up at him, but he only gave you one of those deeply sensual chuckles, enough that your thighs inadvertently squeezed together.

“Here,” he murmured.

He took your hand again—so similarly to last time—placing it on his cock.

“Start like this,” he instructed, guiding your hand in a slow stroke.

Soon, his warm touch left your hand, leaving you to your own devices. You’d been so confident the last time when you’d touched him on your own and you were eager to discover that female again.

You tightened your grip just slightly on your next pass over him, squeezing just slightly the closer you got to the tip. He grunted approvingly and you took that as a sign to continue.

You took a little bit to reacquaint yourself with the feel of him in your hand, the solid warmth, hard as steel beneath your touch. The skin was so much softer than you could’ve ever imagined and it made you crave to have him in your mouth.

To have him in your cunt, again, too, if truth be told.

Your thumb brushed over the thick head, spreading the bead of liquid that had collected there. You heard a small noise above you, coming from deep in his chest.

“That’s—that’s good,” he cleared his throat, trying hard not to sound just as affected as he was.

You gave another pass of your hand, going on instinct and twisting your wrist just slightly. Another, more distinct noise came from him.

“Now, add your mouth.”

You blinked up at him, suddenly feeling at a loss.

“A kiss, a lick, whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You tried not to let your nerves show, tried to appear more in control than you actually felt. Clearly, you did a poor job because you felt a hand stroke down your face, grasping your chin firmly in his fingers.

“Nothing you can do will be wrong. Just do what feels right. Explore. Play. I can pretty much guarantee anything you’ll do will drive me wild.”

That heat curled hotter in the pit of your stomach and you nodded.

Then he sat back with a roguish grin.

“Do your best—or should I say worst, sweetheart.”

You tossed back your own saucy smile before you leaned down, licking across the tip, flattening your tongue against it. You heard his hiss of breath but you stayed focused on your task at hand.

You lowered your mouth over his cock, bringing it between your lips, tongue grazing the underside.

“Gods, are you sure you’ve never done this before?” he gasped out.

You peered up as you sat back, seeing the way his chest expanded from the deep breath he’d just inhaled at the mere touch of your mouth on him.

“Positive,” you smirked.

“Mother help me,” he mumbled.

You bit back a pleased smile, running your tongue up his length in one long drag. You moaned at the taste of him, thighs instantly squeezing together. You licked down the other side, making it inevitably easier for you to slide him into your mouth once again.

You truly didn’t know where it was coming from as you felt like you were guessing the entire time. You slid your mouth down on him, a bit shy of being too much, still testing your limits. You peered up at him, gauging his approval.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head immeadiately falling back against the chair the moment he looked down and saw your gaze on him.

It looked as if it took all the effort he had to lift his head again—and to speak.

“Just like that—that’s perfect,” he groaned.

You pulled back nearly all the way before swallowing him down again, relaxing, in an attempt to fit as much of him in your mouth as possible. You stayed there for a little bit, just repeating the action, tongue exploring as it swirled and licked over his length, developing what you thought was a steady rhythm.

“Slow down,” he murmured, fingers brushing your cheek again, “There’s no need to rush.”

You tamed your over enthusiastic motions, slowing it down a bit so it was a more languid move of your lips, your tongue, taking the moment to savor him in your mouth.

You withdrew to his tip again, gliding your tongue around it, gazing up at him from under your lashes.

His eyes hadn’t left you yet.

“Hand—” he rasped, “You could add your hand.”

You followed his instruction as you curled your fingers around the base of his cock, lips working in tandem with your hand. He groaned lowly, fingers curling into the upholstered arms of the chair, gripping it. You noticed the twitch, like they were itching to do something else but he was restraining himself.

Eris’s face was filled with such bliss that it made you moan around him, twisting and squirming in an attempt to provide some friction for yourself. You were throbbing, so aroused that you were already dripping for him, despite being fully clothed—him having barely touched you. You watched him as you moved. His eyes were shuttered, but for a completely different reason that they had been last night.

Those perfectly pink lips were parted, mouth slackened in his state of pleasure. His moans and groans made you only want to please him further. One glance at the strong column of his pale throat as his head tipped back again made you almost wish you were up there just to lick and bite it.

While you knew he was enjoying it, you could tell he was holding back.

You pulled off him, causing his eyes to open, a question on his lips. Your own heated eyes peered up at him, a question of your own on yours.

“How do you like it?”

He looked hesitant.

“I refuse to put you through more than you’re ready for.”

You were positive that irritation flashed in your eyes. It was excuses like this that you’d been met with your whole life.

“How will I know that if you don’t let me try?”

“Dove—”

“If it’s too much, I’ll stop you,” you said firmly.

He looked ready to argue, but you whispered the two words you knew would get through to him.

“My choice.”

His lips pursed, understanding your message and nodded. You leaned down, taking him into your mouth as far as he could go, relaxing as the tip bumped the back of your throat. You moaned around him again, just at the weight of him on your tongue. The taste of him that had been driving you wild since the moment your lips had first touched him.

One broad hand dove into your hair, hips bucking towards your mouth. You moaned your encouragement, lashes fluttering, thoroughly appreciating his enthusiasm. His fingers dug into your scalp, holding your head in place as he thrust his hips upwards groaning so loudly it had you moaning with him.

“Oh gods— Sweetheart— Fuck—”

He was utterly at your mercy as he fucked your mouth, the composed Eris you’d once known absolutely nowhere to be found right now.

“You probably should—” he gritted out, clearly trying to pull you off of him, the closer he got to release.

But you refused. You wouldn’t obey until his release was down your throat. The thought alone had you whimpering on him. You could tell in the change of his sounds, the frequency in them and the way he was gripping your hair that he was rapidly approaching that point.

With one last drag of your mouth, squeeze of your hand, he arced off the chair with a ragged groan as he fell apart, spilling down your throat.

You took everything he gave you, finally pulling your mouth off of him just as his grip on your hair finally slackened—before falling back to the chair once again.

“Fucks sake,” he mumbled breathlessly, staring at you in awe.

A pleased little giggle escaped you and you peered up, quite proud of yourself. He was still staring at you like he’d never seen you before.

“I would say that there was no way that was your first experience, but I’m rather at a loss for words right now,” he uttered.

“You’re saying plenty of words, Eris,” you pointed out, playfully.

He said nothing, just sitting forward, grasping your chin in his fingers, kissing you soundly.

“You did amazing,” he breathed his praise against your lips.

Those words simultaneously gave you chills and filled you with an odd sort of warmth.

You took the moment aiding him in pulling his clothes off the rest of the way, mouth watering at the body that was always hidden under immaculate clothes—unknown to most just how impressively powerful and glorious it was.

“This seems rather unfair,” he hummed, sitting back.

He lounged in the chair—completely naked—like he hadn’t a care in the world. You barely suppressed an eye roll because if that wasn’t the most Eris Vanserra thing in the entire universe.

“Well I guess this does call for evening the playing field a bit, now doesn’t it?” your lips curled devilishly.

He hummed his agreement.

You shimmied out of your pants, those amber eyes watching every single movement of yours. You took the liberty of ridding yourself of your underwear, too.

Though your bottom half was utterly bare, you waited until you’d climbed into his lap—knees on either side of his hips—before reaching down for the hem of the tunic, pulling it over your head. Right there in front of him.

“I think I love this side of you,” he breathed, almost in awe.

You chuckled, leaning down to kiss him again, but he stopped you.

“This time I want you to take charge,” Eris stated matter-of-factly, a fingertip tracing over your collarbone.

You blinked, caught off guard. You were half tempted to ask if he did remember this was only your second time doing this.

“I want you to discover what you like, this time,” he urged gently.

“Okay…” you responded, hesitantly.

“Just trust me—trust yourself, alright?”

That finger came up, tapping playfully against your lips and you smiled in reaction before he pulled you to his mouth finally. While you kissed, you experimented just a tad, feeling his hard cock so close to where you wanted him again. You dragged your bare cunt over it and you both reacted from the motion.

It felt so good you had to do it again, causing his lips to fall from yours in a pleased groan.

“Cauldron and here I thought I was the tease,” he mumbled.

His hands settled on your hips, lifting you enough to line you up properly.

“Put me inside you,” he breathed near your ear.

It took all your restraint not to moan at the command.

You reached down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. You tried not to be too proud at the way he groaned at even the barest hint of your touch.

As you notched him at your entrance, you briefly wondered how you were going to make this work. It’d been weeks since you last did this and you weren’t quite sure how it managed to actually fit the first time anyways.

“Take your time, dove.”

You looked down in his face, finding nothing but patience and understanding there—realizing he knew you needed a moment to work up the nerve. You took a breath, nodding before bringing his cock to your entrance fully, letting go and slowly sliding down onto him.

Your fingers likely dug into his shoulders as you did—though you weren’t sure he even noticed.

“Holy gods,” he breathed, head falling back, as it seemed to be in the habit of doing today.

Your jaw slackened at the feeling—so much better than the first time. While there was still an intense sensation—your body adjusting and stretching around his cock—it was more akin to the feeling of being so incredibly full than it was the discomfort of past.

“Fuck, you feel just as amazing as last time,” you whimpered, the sentiment slipping from your lips before you could vet it.

He chuckled, but it sounded strained to your ears.

You had to take a heartbeat just to sit still with him nestled deep within you—and that’s exactly what he was. So incredibly deep.

“If I’d known it’d be like this I would’ve made a bargain with you ages ago,” you mumbled, awestruck.

“Better late than never,” he responded, leaning forward to nip your jaw.

You gasped, feeling the shift of him inside you. You moved your hips experimentally, moaning lightly at the feel of him.

“Find what feels good to you,” he reminded you, hands sliding up your back.

You played around with it for a beat, shifting your hips in a circle a few times, then back and forth. It was only when you rose and fell again that you felt the drag of his cock against your walls.

“Oh,” you moaned.

“Yeah? That feels good?”

You nodded, repeating the motion, keeping your hands stationed on his shoulders.

It was amazing how little time it took for your body to truly get used to it—like you automatically knew what to do after one time. A sort of muscle memory that’d snapped into place automatically after that first experience.

Eris truly let you take the lead, discovering what you liked. Somehow your body managed to fall into a semblance of a rhythm—up, down, forwards, backwards. One provided depth and movement, the other kept him deep and provided friction against your clit.

Both seemed to affect him just as much.

“Look at you.”

Your teeth scraped over your lip, watching him through hooded eyes, those sensual lips of his tilting upwards in a smirk. But it was the pride in his voice that he didn’t bother to conceal that affected you the most.

You could eat him alive right now.

Taking the lead like he truly wanted you to, you pulled his hands from your waist and dragged them up to your breasts.

“Bossy,” he mumbled, chuckling when you tossed him a glare.

His hands came over your breasts, gripping them just like you’d wanted him to.

“Gods, Eris,” you moaned, head tilting back as you moved on him.

Your chest arched even more into his grasp, palms rubbing and massaging exactly as you’d hoped.

For that, you rewarded him with a particularly rough drop down on his cock causing a ragged groan to be pulled from him.

Your hair fell down your back as you arched, moving on him, completely lost in the sensation of how he felt. One hand slid up your back again, fingers tangling in your hair.

“Look at me,” he demanded quietly.

It was partially you that lifted your head, partially the aid of his hand pushing your head gently up again. Your gaze locked on him and you felt a zap of energy—unseen but the charge went through you.

You’d never felt so affected by a male. It was unreal.

You cried out as his hips tilted enough to shift the angle, hitting different places he hadn’t just been. His lips attached to your throat, sucking a bruise at the hollow of your throat as your hips sped up, chasing the release that was beginning to show signs of its impending arrival.

“That’s it, that’s my perfect girl,” he rumbled against your skin.

Your thighs had started to burn long ago, quivering with their continued movement, but you were too close to want to give up. His hands came to your hips guiding you on his cock, providing some much needed relief for your tiring body.

“Eris,” you moaned again.

One hand slid down to grip his bicep, the other gripping long strands of his red hair at the back of his head. The closer the two of you spiraled, the more desperate he seemed to get, mouth attaching to every inch of skin he could—your throat, neck, chest, collarbones, jaw.

Then he was crashing his lips against yours not even caring how messy it was—or the fact between the both of you there were more moans, groans and grunts than there was actual kissing. You still managed to press your lips to his long enough to give him some semblance of a normal kiss though.

You jerked away the moment you felt his touch between your legs, thumb on your clit, rubbing circles on it.

“Oh— Eris, I’m—” you tried to warn.

His voice was raspy and strained.

“It’s okay. Let go, fall apart for me.”

He lifted his hips, meeting your every movement, causing your moans to increase in frequency, the tsunami of pleasure threatening to overwhelm you at any moment. His free hand fell to your ass, gripping it harshly in his grasp, aiding you in your desperate movements. Moans streamed from your lips, your response to him immediate and instinctive.

Then he uttered the one sentence that sent you spiraling.

“Come on my cock, sweetheart.”

The gasped cry that came from you didn’t even sound like you. In fact, a tiny part of you didn’t even know you could make such a sound.

The rest of you didn’t care as your body tensed, trembling as pleasure overwrought all of your senses. You didn’t think you had ever grasped the concept of pleasure as great at this. You were positive you never could’ve without experiencing the sensations Eris was evoking in you.

You kept moving, rising and falling on his cock like you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. Distantly, you felt the sensation of how you’d tightened around him—almost to the point of pain—as your orgasm reached its peak.

You felt fingers dig into your hips, your only sign of his own unraveling besides the drawn out groan that fell from his lips as he came, filling you. Somehow, it seemed as if your body reacted even more to him—hearing his own reaction to you.

It took a little bit before you finally eased to a stop, as if your body was so used to being in motion that you had to remind it to relax once again. Your body tingled, still buzzing from your high as you tried to catch your breath. His hands remained firmly on your sides as he took you in, assessing where your head was.

What you ended up saying was clearly not what he was expecting.

“I can’t believe I came all the way to the Autumn Court just to fuck its heir.”

Eris’s head fell back against the back of the chair, a deep laugh rumbling from his chest, even as he tried to catch his breath.

“You’re truly one of a kind, sweetheart.”

You tossed him a tired smile, moving to separate yourself from him. You—unwisely—thought you could stand to gather your clothes, but the moment your feet hit the floor your knees buckled, your legs completely unable to hold you up.

“Whoa, easy.”

Cauldron bless the swiftness of the fae because he jerked forward so fast to catch you, you’d barely seen him move.

“I’m fine, really,” you tried to protest.

Even as your legs wobbled beneath you, completely like jelly.

You supposed muscles you’d never truly used before had given out, overworked and tired if the way they were trembling was of any indication. Eris only gave you a lazy, unamused look before he scooped you up into his arms.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

You tried not to show your surprise as he carried you to his bathing chamber, sitting you down on the marble counter, completely unbothered by the fact he was still naked. Though you took a long, appreciative moment for your eyes to gaze over him—the muscled back as he turned in search of a cloth, the biceps and equally as muscled stomach.

“You’re staring,” he mumbled, not even looking up from his task at hand.

You shrugged.

“So what if I am?”

He gave you a full smile this time, devastating, those amber eyes flicking upwards to yours. It hit you somewhere low in your stomach, causing it to twist.

“I never said I didn't like it,” he tossed back.

You just snorted softly as he dampened the cloth he found, hands gentle on your knees as he pushed them apart just enough to gently drag the rag across your still sensitive core. You flinched the slightest, still oversensitive and tender from your previous activities.

“You’re okay,” he soothed, pressure gentle as he ran the cloth over your thighs as well, “Of course this will do nothing for my scent on you.”

His voice was light and teasing but you blinked, trying to make sense of his words.

“Your scent?”

His eyes flicked up.

“Yes—because we were…intimate, my scent will be all over you. As yours will be on me.”

Nesta’s words from weeks ago came ringing back in your ears—how they could scent Eris all over you that morning.

“So that’s what they meant!” you exclaimed, putting it together.

He raised an amused brow.

“You didn’t know?”

“No, that’s just how sheltered I’ve been,” you huffed.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never noticed the shift in my scent when I’m aroused?”

Thinking back, you realized you had. The crackling fire and autumnal spices scent seeming to sharpen, deepen, grow muskier. You never had pieced together that’s what it meant.

“That’s a thing too?”

He just chuckled, low and warm.

“Yes, dove, that’s a thing too.”

You sighed deeply, realizing just how little you knew—stuff that was probably a good thing to know—kept from you.

You watched in silence as he rinsed the cloth.

“I think this helped me a lot,” you said solemnly.

You were grateful when he picked up on your demeanor, not making a joke of it.

“How so?”

“It’s taught me I know how to stand up for myself—that I know how to assert myself in defense of my choice. I’ve always known, I think…I guess I just lost it somewhere along the way. After so many years of being coddled by Feyre. And Nesta. And Elain.”

You shrugged.

“I know they mean well. But they can’t expect me to grow if they never allow me to search for what I need to grow.”

“That’s quite profound.”

You nodded, biting your lip thoughtfully as the thoughts swirled in your mind. You tried to sort through them, so preoccupied that you didn’t even feel the second pass of the cloth between your legs as Eris ensured you were completely clean. You were so lost in thought you missed the way his touch seemed to linger on you much longer than necessary.

“It’s also helped me realize that I need to have a long overdue conversation with my sisters,” you finally said after a beat of silence.

You knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but they needed to hear it—needed to hear it when you were calm, level headed and thinking straight.

Eris sat the cloth to the side, leaning his hands on the edge of the counter, peering down at you.

“The world is yours, dove, you just have to pursue it.”

With that being said, he straightened, carrying you back to his room, setting you on his bed where he wrapped you in the blanket you’d awoken under earlier that morning.

After your conversation with Eris, you made up your mind and knew what you’d have to do. When you returned to Velaris, you were no longer going to be the Archeron that was pushed around and coddled.

You were going to be the Archeron who pursued the world.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, taking the excuse to bend down closer to your ear.

You shrug your shoulders carefully, eyeing the staff member and strengthening your hold on Azriel. 

“Helion is a friend of the Night Court,” he explains in a way he hopes is soothing. “He’s friendly…maybe too friendly, even.”

You turn to look up at him in question and Azriel’s heart nearly stops; you’re one of the most precious things he’s ever had the luck to gaze upon, to walk beside. 

He wonders whether telling you that you’ll see what I mean is cruel or not before the grand doors to Helion’s personal study open up, and Azriel resorts to returning your hold instead, placing his hand atop of yours where it rests in the crook of his arm. 

“Rhysand! Feyre!” Helion greets warmly as the High Lord and Lady step in, prompting the High Lord of Day to stand and offer each a warm hug. “I was glad to receive your missive this morning. I must say, I do wish you’d take advantage of my hospitality more often.” 

“Thank you for having us,” Feyre greets in response. 

You tense when Helion’s eyes catch on you and Azriel. 

“Shadowsinger,” Helion croons, watching the way you shift further into the spymaster’s side as though hoping to take refuge in his ribcage. “What do we have here?”

“This is our friend, Y/N,” Rhysand supplies for you, a hint of sympathy shining in his eyes at what it can feel like to have the weight of Helion’s attention solely on you. “She’s who we wrote about.”

“The necromancer,” Helion hums in acknowledgement. “Spectacular. Extraordinary, really. Please, come. Have a seat.” 

Feyre and Rhysand do as instructed, and while Azriel tries to be a gentleman and pull your chair out for you, you don’t budge from his side. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting?” he murmurs into your ear. You merely hold him tighter. 

“I wouldn’t want to let go of him either, gorgeous.” Helion agrees, shooting you a wink. Azriel thinks your cheek might leave third degree burns where it’s pressed against his bicep. “So, what is it you have for me?”

“Well, the Night Court’s libraries don’t have any content on necromancy, and we’re hoping that Day might have more,” Feyre explains. “The goal is to get Y/N to a place where she can control her powers.”

Helion hums in understanding as he considers you.

“Apparently, Amren has seen this kind of power twice before,” Rhysand fills Helion in. “She was…unhelpful as to how to manage it.”

Azriel fights the urge to wrap his wings around you, recalling the meeting they held in Rhys’ study after having you seen by Madja and given calming tinctures to help you sleep. He’s not sure he’ll soon forget the way Amren’s bob bounced as she shrugged a flippant shoulder. 

“Historically, we drowned them. I doubt that option will interest anyone though, seeing as these two have decided to keep this one as a pet.” 

The subsequent attempted arson notwithstanding, they were able to come up with a game plan the next morning.

“Well, as you well know, Day’s resources are infinite, and I’ve had the perfect researcher assigned to the case.”

Helion’s words are punctuated by the sound of the doors flying open and a rather harried librarian rushing in with a stack of books and papers in her arms. 

She stops in the middle of the room and gawks at you. 

“Iara, thank you for joining us,” Helion greets the newcomer. “This here is the High L-”

“Is that her?” Iara interrupts, jutting her chin towards you. “Is that the necromancer?” 

Azriel’s grip on you strengthens before you even have a chance to strengthen yours on him. 

Helion offers his guests an apologetic smile. “Yes, this is Y/N, she-”

Iara comes surging towards you so quickly that you actually let out a nervous shout, and Azriel feels dangerously violent as his shadows billow out from his side and create a wall between you and the librarian.

“Iara, I ask that you conduct yourself with some decorum in the presence of our guests,” Helion chides patiently. “You are in the presence of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, as well as their Spymaster and their new friend.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Iara breathes, looking very sorry indeed though she still can’t seem to wrench her gaze away from you. “So sorry, my Lord. Lords. And Lady. I- I’m just-”

“Excited, yes,” Helion agrees. “As am I.” 

“Helion is known across Prythian as the Spell-Cleaver,” Rhysand supplies evenly to you. “He has a love for puzzles and study.” 

“And that’s putting it lightly,” Helion agrees, smiling kindly at you as Iara finally places her research in front of her High Lord and takes a seat beside him. “You’re an interesting case study indeed, dear Y/N.”

You let out a nearly silent breath of frustration that the other individuals in the room don’t catch but has Azriel biting back a chuckle. 

“So, most of the sources I was able to find on necromancy were archaic,” Iara begins, lighting up as she goes from seemingly zealot to academic in the blink of an eye. “Generally, fae were working to perform necromancy—to converse with the dead—rather than possessing the ability innately. But, it appears that there was once a race of fae who are said to have possessed the power.” 

“Fascinating, truly fascinating,” Helion hums. 

“They were particularly popular among the mortal populations who often sought them out in hopes of connecting with their lost loved ones. When promised with death more imminent than our own, it seems that necromancers brought mortals much comfort.

“There was some intermingling of the two species for a number of years before tensions between the beings began to fray,” Iara continues. “When the necromancing fae refused to enslave their human counterparts, they were killed alongside them.” 

Feyre hums solemnly. “Unfortunately unsurprising.” 

“I was able to find some first hand accounts of these fae—journals, interviews, the likes. Though they need to be translated,” Iara explains.

“We have a librarian who can handle that,” Feyre hums, turning towards you. “Would you like the journals of-”

Feyre hardly has the question before you’re shaking your head no. 

“You don’t think it’d be helpful to see the way someone with your power wielded it?” Helion asks gently.

You shake your head no, and Azriel pulls you further into his side. “Why not?”

You swallow thickly, eyes flicking to the members of the group as you work yourself up to speak. “It-” you pause to clear your throat, scratching from disuse. “-belongs to someone who has… passed.”

Helion considers you. “Is that how these beings approach you? With access to a personal item of theirs?” 

You shrug a shoulder noncommittally. “Sometimes.”

“But not all of the time?” Helion continues, endlessly patient in communicating with you. 

“Places,” you admit quietly. “People too.” 

“Very interesting,” he hums. 

“What if we had Clotho translate the sources for you? Could you read a translated copy without summoning the original author?” Feyre asks.

You seem unconvinced, but sway your head back-and-forth as if saying maybe. 

“I think it’d be worth a try,” Rhysand offers, smiling at you. “If you can’t read it, perhaps I can. And maybe once we learn how to control your powers, you’ll be able to read it yourself.”

“May I ask you something terribly personal, Y/N?” Helion asks then. Your eyes flit to Azriel’s before you shoot the High Lord of Day a cautious nod. “You’re a female of few words; is that because of your abilities?”

You look down in shame, offering a quick, jerky nod of your head. 

“How so?”

You sigh. “I don’t always know what… is real.” 

“If the person speaking to you is real or not,” he surmises with a purse of his lips. 

“And that was dangerous for you,” Rhysand fills in the gaps. “To be caught speaking to a being that couldn’t be seen by others.” 

“Can you summon them?” Iara blurts suddenly, stealing everyone’s attention. Azriel gets the feeling Helion is trying to figure out how to gently reprimand his enthusiastic librarian. “The dead; can you summon them?”

“Iara-” Helion begins, only to fall quiet at the first hushed syllable from your mouth.

“I don’t have to,” you murmur. Pride and grief alike taking flight in Azriel’s ribcage, finding you so brave for conversing and hating that you’ve been put in a position that you have to. 

“It just happens?” Iara asks. 

Azriel can feel you gathering up courage in your chest, nearly nauseous himself at the churning of your stomach and the assault of your pulse against your larynx. 

“Your mother is very proud of you,” you whisper. “She thinks you should be too.” 

Iara’s mouth falls open and her eyes fill with tears almost instantly. Azriel pulls you further into his side. 

“Thank you,” she whispers as the first tear falls. “I- thank you. Thank you.” 

Helion places a comforting hand on the librarian's arm and shoots you a warm smile. 

“You possess a rare and beautiful gift, my dear,” he tells you earnestly. “I hope one day it is less burdensome for you.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur, dipping your chin respectfully. 

“None of that, now,” Helion laughs. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

The look you shoot Azriel says you’re not quite sure about that.

After many thanks and a round of farewells—that you reluctantly partook in from Azriel’s side—Helion suggested Azriel seize the opportunity to take you for a quick walk around his court. 

Azriel could feel the intrigue stirring in your chest at the prospect of exploring, and he could also feel Eris’ laughter at Azriel’s inability to say no to you.

What reason would I have to deny her this? he asks Eris through the bond.

None at all, Eris hums playfully. It’s only that you didn’t even pretend to think about it. 

She wants to see Day, he explains defensively. I’d show her the world if she asked.

Careful, Shadowsinger, Eris muses. One day she very well might. 

Cauldron, I hope she does.

Eris agrees before the bond goes silent again.

You’ve since removed yourself from Azriel’s ribcage, though you’ve accepted his gloved hand and have yet to release it as the two of you wander through the streets of Day; children laugh and chase one another, bells chime above shop doors as people patron the businesses, and the two of you can hear the trickling of a fountain neither of you can see yet.

“Azriel?” you break the comfortable silence, almost startling the Illyrian as his hand tightens around your own.

“Yes?”

You swallow before continuing. “Where’s Eris?” 

He looks at you in disbelief. “Eris?”

You nod your head yes. 

“He couldn’t come, sweetheart.”

You consider his answer, your free hand rising to rub anxiously at your chest. “Why?”

“He…is the heir to the Autumn Court,” Azriel explains carefully. “His father is a terrible male. He’s not happy that his son is mated to someone from the Night Court, one of his greatest rivals.”

You keep your gaze forward as he continues. “Though Eris is able to spend some nights in our court, his father would see it as treasonous should he visit another court seemingly on Night Court business.”

He lets you digest that for a few moments before asking, “Why do you ask?” 

You look down at the cobblestone street seemingly almost embarrassed to be asked. But you must be feeling generous because you manage to grace Azriel with a response. “I thought maybe… he was upset with me.”  

Azriel feels his brows stitch in the middle, slowly coming to a halt in the middle of the square. “Of course not. Why would he be upset with you?”

You shrug your shoulders, now unable to make eye contact with him. 

He brings his hands up to cup your jaw and turn your face towards his own. “Eris cares for you an awful lot; we both do.”

Your eyes flicker between both of his own as though searching for something. 

“Yes,” you whisper eventually. 

Not an I know, not an alright, not even a why? Just…yes. 

“Is that okay?” Azriel asks softly, thumb trailing the line of your jaw as he fears your potential rejection. “That we care about you?” 

Azriel can’t really believe he has you like this; speaking to him, eyes searching his face, your face in his hands, the trust you’ve shown in him not only today but since the two of you met. 

He decides that—regardless of your answer—he will be eternally grateful for this moment with you.

“I’m not sure why,” you admit carefully, breaking Azriel’s heart in a completely different way. 

“Do we need a reason?”

“Yes,” you whisper immediately, like the idea of anyone loving you for just you is a completely foreign concept. 

Azriel’s trying to come up with an answer when your gaze flickers to something over his shoulder and you go rigid beneath his touch, eyes growing distant as the bond thrums with anxiety. 

“Y/N?” he asks, strengthening his hold on you. “Hey, sweetheart. What is it?”

You shake your head no. 

“Azriel?” Feyre asks delicately, she and Rhys suddenly behind you. “Is everything okay?” 

“I don’t know,” he ventures slowly.

What’s going on? Eris sounds in Azriel’s mind. Is she okay? 

I don’t know, he repeats internally. 

You don’t know if she’s okay? Where is she? 

“Azriel,” Rhysand hums lowly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is she alright?”

Azriel wants to shove his brother away from him, wants to scoop you up into his arms and fly you away where no one can ever touch you or upset you. 

“Let us help, brother,” he murmurs. 

“You have to ask her,” Azriel manages to grit out. 

“Of course,” Feyre agrees quickly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Y/N, it’s okay, alright? You’re alright; can I help?” 

You close your eyes in resignation and Feyre wastes no time letting herself into your mind. 

Her face falls for the briefest moment before it crumples in pity.

What’s going on? Azriel demands silently. 

She knows, Feyre sighs.

Knows what? Rhysand clarifies. 

About the mating bond, she admits, shooting Azriel a sympathetic look. She knows the three of you are mates. 

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, taking the excuse to bend down closer to your ear.

You shrug your shoulders carefully, eyeing the staff member and strengthening your hold on Azriel. 

“Helion is a friend of the Night Court,” he explains in a way he hopes is soothing. “He’s friendly…maybe too friendly, even.”

You turn to look up at him in question and Azriel’s heart nearly stops; you’re one of the most precious things he’s ever had the luck to gaze upon, to walk beside. 

He wonders whether telling you that you’ll see what I mean is cruel or not before the grand doors to Helion’s personal study open up, and Azriel resorts to returning your hold instead, placing his hand atop of yours where it rests in the crook of his arm. 

“Rhysand! Feyre!” Helion greets warmly as the High Lord and Lady step in, prompting the High Lord of Day to stand and offer each a warm hug. “I was glad to receive your missive this morning. I must say, I do wish you’d take advantage of my hospitality more often.” 

“Thank you for having us,” Feyre greets in response. 

You tense when Helion’s eyes catch on you and Azriel. 

“Shadowsinger,” Helion croons, watching the way you shift further into the spymaster’s side as though hoping to take refuge in his ribcage. “What do we have here?”

“This is our friend, Y/N,” Rhysand supplies for you, a hint of sympathy shining in his eyes at what it can feel like to have the weight of Helion’s attention solely on you. “She’s who we wrote about.”

“The necromancer,” Helion hums in acknowledgement. “Spectacular. Extraordinary, really. Please, come. Have a seat.” 

Feyre and Rhysand do as instructed, and while Azriel tries to be a gentleman and pull your chair out for you, you don’t budge from his side. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting?” he murmurs into your ear. You merely hold him tighter. 

“I wouldn’t want to let go of him either, gorgeous.” Helion agrees, shooting you a wink. Azriel thinks your cheek might leave third degree burns where it’s pressed against his bicep. “So, what is it you have for me?”

“Well, the Night Court’s libraries don’t have any content on necromancy, and we’re hoping that Day might have more,” Feyre explains. “The goal is to get Y/N to a place where she can control her powers.”

Helion hums in understanding as he considers you.

“Apparently, Amren has seen this kind of power twice before,” Rhysand fills Helion in. “She was…unhelpful as to how to manage it.”

Azriel fights the urge to wrap his wings around you, recalling the meeting they held in Rhys’ study after having you seen by Madja and given calming tinctures to help you sleep. He’s not sure he’ll soon forget the way Amren’s bob bounced as she shrugged a flippant shoulder. 

“Historically, we drowned them. I doubt that option will interest anyone though, seeing as these two have decided to keep this one as a pet.” 

The subsequent attempted arson notwithstanding, they were able to come up with a game plan the next morning.

“Well, as you well know, Day’s resources are infinite, and I’ve had the perfect researcher assigned to the case.”

Helion’s words are punctuated by the sound of the doors flying open and a rather harried librarian rushing in with a stack of books and papers in her arms. 

She stops in the middle of the room and gawks at you. 

“Iara, thank you for joining us,” Helion greets the newcomer. “This here is the High L-”

“Is that her?” Iara interrupts, jutting her chin towards you. “Is that the necromancer?” 

Azriel’s grip on you strengthens before you even have a chance to strengthen yours on him. 

Helion offers his guests an apologetic smile. “Yes, this is Y/N, she-”

Iara comes surging towards you so quickly that you actually let out a nervous shout, and Azriel feels dangerously violent as his shadows billow out from his side and create a wall between you and the librarian.

“Iara, I ask that you conduct yourself with some decorum in the presence of our guests,” Helion chides patiently. “You are in the presence of the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court, as well as their Spymaster and their new friend.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Iara breathes, looking very sorry indeed though she still can’t seem to wrench her gaze away from you. “So sorry, my Lord. Lords. And Lady. I- I’m just-”

“Excited, yes,” Helion agrees. “As am I.” 

“Helion is known across Prythian as the Spell-Cleaver,” Rhysand supplies evenly to you. “He has a love for puzzles and study.” 

“And that’s putting it lightly,” Helion agrees, smiling kindly at you as Iara finally places her research in front of her High Lord and takes a seat beside him. “You’re an interesting case study indeed, dear Y/N.”

You let out a nearly silent breath of frustration that the other individuals in the room don’t catch but has Azriel biting back a chuckle. 

“So, most of the sources I was able to find on necromancy were archaic,” Iara begins, lighting up as she goes from seemingly zealot to academic in the blink of an eye. “Generally, fae were working to perform necromancy—to converse with the dead—rather than possessing the ability innately. But, it appears that there was once a race of fae who are said to have possessed the power.” 

“Fascinating, truly fascinating,” Helion hums. 

“They were particularly popular among the mortal populations who often sought them out in hopes of connecting with their lost loved ones. When promised with death more imminent than our own, it seems that necromancers brought mortals much comfort.

“There was some intermingling of the two species for a number of years before tensions between the beings began to fray,” Iara continues. “When the necromancing fae refused to enslave their human counterparts, they were killed alongside them.” 

Feyre hums solemnly. “Unfortunately unsurprising.” 

“I was able to find some first hand accounts of these fae—journals, interviews, the likes. Though they need to be translated,” Iara explains.

“We have a librarian who can handle that,” Feyre hums, turning towards you. “Would you like the journals of-”

Feyre hardly has the question before you’re shaking your head no. 

“You don’t think it’d be helpful to see the way someone with your power wielded it?” Helion asks gently.

You shake your head no, and Azriel pulls you further into his side. “Why not?”

You swallow thickly, eyes flicking to the members of the group as you work yourself up to speak. “It-” you pause to clear your throat, scratching from disuse. “-belongs to someone who has… passed.”

Helion considers you. “Is that how these beings approach you? With access to a personal item of theirs?” 

You shrug a shoulder noncommittally. “Sometimes.”

“But not all of the time?” Helion continues, endlessly patient in communicating with you. 

“Places,” you admit quietly. “People too.” 

“Very interesting,” he hums. 

“What if we had Clotho translate the sources for you? Could you read a translated copy without summoning the original author?” Feyre asks.

You seem unconvinced, but sway your head back-and-forth as if saying maybe. 

“I think it’d be worth a try,” Rhysand offers, smiling at you. “If you can’t read it, perhaps I can. And maybe once we learn how to control your powers, you’ll be able to read it yourself.”

“May I ask you something terribly personal, Y/N?” Helion asks then. Your eyes flit to Azriel’s before you shoot the High Lord of Day a cautious nod. “You’re a female of few words; is that because of your abilities?”

You look down in shame, offering a quick, jerky nod of your head. 

“How so?”

You sigh. “I don’t always know what… is real.” 

“If the person speaking to you is real or not,” he surmises with a purse of his lips. 

“And that was dangerous for you,” Rhysand fills in the gaps. “To be caught speaking to a being that couldn’t be seen by others.” 

“Can you summon them?” Iara blurts suddenly, stealing everyone’s attention. Azriel gets the feeling Helion is trying to figure out how to gently reprimand his enthusiastic librarian. “The dead; can you summon them?”

“Iara-” Helion begins, only to fall quiet at the first hushed syllable from your mouth.

“I don’t have to,” you murmur. Pride and grief alike taking flight in Azriel’s ribcage, finding you so brave for conversing and hating that you’ve been put in a position that you have to. 

“It just happens?” Iara asks. 

Azriel can feel you gathering up courage in your chest, nearly nauseous himself at the churning of your stomach and the assault of your pulse against your larynx. 

“Your mother is very proud of you,” you whisper. “She thinks you should be too.” 

Iara’s mouth falls open and her eyes fill with tears almost instantly. Azriel pulls you further into his side. 

“Thank you,” she whispers as the first tear falls. “I- thank you. Thank you.” 

Helion places a comforting hand on the librarian's arm and shoots you a warm smile. 

“You possess a rare and beautiful gift, my dear,” he tells you earnestly. “I hope one day it is less burdensome for you.” 

“Thank you,” you murmur, dipping your chin respectfully. 

“None of that, now,” Helion laughs. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

The look you shoot Azriel says you’re not quite sure about that.

After many thanks and a round of farewells—that you reluctantly partook in from Azriel’s side—Helion suggested Azriel seize the opportunity to take you for a quick walk around his court. 

Azriel could feel the intrigue stirring in your chest at the prospect of exploring, and he could also feel Eris’ laughter at Azriel’s inability to say no to you.

What reason would I have to deny her this? he asks Eris through the bond.

None at all, Eris hums playfully. It’s only that you didn’t even pretend to think about it. 

She wants to see Day, he explains defensively. I’d show her the world if she asked.

Careful, Shadowsinger, Eris muses. One day she very well might. 

Cauldron, I hope she does.

Eris agrees before the bond goes silent again.

You’ve since removed yourself from Azriel’s ribcage, though you’ve accepted his gloved hand and have yet to release it as the two of you wander through the streets of Day; children laugh and chase one another, bells chime above shop doors as people patron the businesses, and the two of you can hear the trickling of a fountain neither of you can see yet.

“Azriel?” you break the comfortable silence, almost startling the Illyrian as his hand tightens around your own.

“Yes?”

You swallow before continuing. “Where’s Eris?” 

He looks at you in disbelief. “Eris?”

You nod your head yes. 

“He couldn’t come, sweetheart.”

You consider his answer, your free hand rising to rub anxiously at your chest. “Why?”

“He…is the heir to the Autumn Court,” Azriel explains carefully. “His father is a terrible male. He’s not happy that his son is mated to someone from the Night Court, one of his greatest rivals.”

You keep your gaze forward as he continues. “Though Eris is able to spend some nights in our court, his father would see it as treasonous should he visit another court seemingly on Night Court business.”

He lets you digest that for a few moments before asking, “Why do you ask?” 

You look down at the cobblestone street seemingly almost embarrassed to be asked. But you must be feeling generous because you manage to grace Azriel with a response. “I thought maybe… he was upset with me.”  

Azriel feels his brows stitch in the middle, slowly coming to a halt in the middle of the square. “Of course not. Why would he be upset with you?”

You shrug your shoulders, now unable to make eye contact with him. 

He brings his hands up to cup your jaw and turn your face towards his own. “Eris cares for you an awful lot; we both do.”

Your eyes flicker between both of his own as though searching for something. 

“Yes,” you whisper eventually. 

Not an I know, not an alright, not even a why? Just…yes. 

“Is that okay?” Azriel asks softly, thumb trailing the line of your jaw as he fears your potential rejection. “That we care about you?” 

Azriel can’t really believe he has you like this; speaking to him, eyes searching his face, your face in his hands, the trust you’ve shown in him not only today but since the two of you met. 

He decides that—regardless of your answer—he will be eternally grateful for this moment with you.

“I’m not sure why,” you admit carefully, breaking Azriel’s heart in a completely different way. 

“Do we need a reason?”

“Yes,” you whisper immediately, like the idea of anyone loving you for just you is a completely foreign concept. 

Azriel’s trying to come up with an answer when your gaze flickers to something over his shoulder and you go rigid beneath his touch, eyes growing distant as the bond thrums with anxiety. 

“Y/N?” he asks, strengthening his hold on you. “Hey, sweetheart. What is it?”

You shake your head no. 

“Azriel?” Feyre asks delicately, she and Rhys suddenly behind you. “Is everything okay?” 

“I don’t know,” he ventures slowly.

What’s going on? Eris sounds in Azriel’s mind. Is she okay? 

I don’t know, he repeats internally. 

You don’t know if she’s okay? Where is she? 

“Azriel,” Rhysand hums lowly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Is she alright?”

Azriel wants to shove his brother away from him, wants to scoop you up into his arms and fly you away where no one can ever touch you or upset you. 

“Let us help, brother,” he murmurs. 

“You have to ask her,” Azriel manages to grit out. 

“Of course,” Feyre agrees quickly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Y/N, it’s okay, alright? You’re alright; can I help?” 

You close your eyes in resignation and Feyre wastes no time letting herself into your mind. 

Her face falls for the briefest moment before it crumples in pity.

What’s going on? Azriel demands silently. 

She knows, Feyre sighs.

Knows what? Rhysand clarifies. 

About the mating bond, she admits, shooting Azriel a sympathetic look. She knows the three of you are mates. 

When the overwhelming wave of nausea finally abated, you slumped against the hard porcelain, only slightly cringing at where you had rested your head. At least it was your own bathing chamber.

In a magic house.

You huffed a half-delirious laugh, your ribs aching and throat burning as you slowly pushed away from the toilet. Your movements were sluggish, your limbs heavy and trembling as you fully lowered yourself onto the cold floor. Your cheek pressed against the chilled tile, eyes fluttering shut at the momentary relief. You curled in on yourself, exhaustion curling around you like smoke, and you begged it to take you away.

~ ~ ~

A gentle brush against your cheek made you twitch, your face twisting as you turned away from whatever had broken through your momentary reprieve. The touch still lingered, a featherlight caress that followed along your jaw up to your forehead, pressing gently against your sweat-damp skin. Their touch was cold and soothing—a harsh contrast to the bitter chill running up and down your spine.

You tilted your head up, chasing the touch you had turned away from seconds ago. Everything felt heavy. Hot. It was so hot.

“Y/N,” a deep voice murmured. Their tone was cool like their touch, a soothing balm over your inflamed mind cascading into hazy delirium.

You sucked in a breath, your face turning toward the voice. “Y/N,” they said again, this time a little louder, firmer.

You forced your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as light from the window made you wince. It took a moment for your vision to focus, for shapes and blurs to regain their sharp lines and definition—for you to recognize the massive figure kneeling beside you.

“Azriel?” you rasped. You swallowed hard, wincing at the burn in your throat and the acidic taste clinging to your mouth. “What are you doing here?”

There was a little crease between his brows as he looked at you, his gaze otherwise eerily still. “You’re burning up.”

You huffed a pitiful laugh that sounded more like a cough, your ribs flaring with pain. “I didn’t notice.” His palm was still pressed to your forehead, and you were still lying on the floor of your bathroom. Next to your toilet. The mortification that flooded you was almost hot enough to dull the chill nestled deep in your bones. “Did one of my sisters send you?”

Azriel scowled, the crease between his brows morphing into a deep furrow, his lips forming a flat line as his eyes flared with indignation. He pulled his hand away, leaving your flushed face entirely exposed to the stale air around you. You shivered, as if your body wanted to physically remind you that it was currently at war with itself. As if you had forgotten.

Azriel’s scowl disappeared as quickly as it had formed, even the crease between his brows smoothing out as he slipped a hand behind your back. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Let's get up.”

You let him guide you up, not that you really had to let him do anything. He was so large. Even kneeling on the floor with his wings pulled tight behind his back, he still dwarfed you. Everyone here looked like they could crush you with the toe of their shoe. 

The change in position sent a rush through your head, your blood pulsing in your ears as your vision danced with spots. You grabbed the edge of the toilet as another violent wave of nausea roiled through you, heaving your body over the bowl just in time to expel whatever little remains lingered in your stomach.

Azriel didn’t leave. As much as you wished he did, as much as you wished you could fall through the floor and weather this alone, he stayed. He stayed with a steady hand on your back that rubbed up and down your spine, the thin fabric of your nightgown a weak barrier between your skin and his.

It was ugly, and disgusting, and you felt like a frail shell of yourself when the heaving finally ended and you sucked in shaky desperate breaths. Azriel brushed the errant strands of hair plastered to your skin away from your face, the tie you had sloppily pulled it back in failing at its job.

“How long have you been like this?” he asked, voice quiet and restrained, as if worried about breaking the fragile stillness that had fallen over you.

You opened your eyes, still sucking in breaths with more effort than you would have liked. You glanced at the window, the sun streaming through with bright beams. You shrugged, sort of, and answered weakly, “It was dark.”

Azriel murmured under his breath, his ministrations on your back faltering. “Why didn’t you call for someone?”

Your mouth was dry. Your throat hurt. Your head ached. You really weren’t in the mood to be chastised. “Who?” you bit out. “How? No one is here. Cassian is away. Nesta is away. You—”

“I would have come. I did come as soon as—” his words cut off, Azriel seeming to think better of whatever he was about to say. You slowly moved your head toward him, lifting your head from where it was cradled in your arm still resting on the toilet. He met your gaze, his eyes wild with emotions you didn’t have the energy to tease apart. “I gave you that pen and paper. Told you my shadows would deliver any message.”

You remembered. Remembered the pitiful safeguard your sisters had likely forced upon Azriel to give to you as a sad Solstice gift. “That’s for emergencies.”

“It’s for anything,” he argued, his voice rising a bit. He sighed, shaking his head as his hand came up to cup the nape of your neck, the touch sending goosebumps across your skin. “Are you done?” he asked, voice much softer.

You blinked at him, your mind swimming from the fever and pain and his touches and his voice and the way you just noticed his shadows licking softly at your bare feet. You grimaced as you glanced at the toilet, reaching to flush the contents away as you pushed yourself up. “For now,” you murmured.

Azriel didn’t move, barely gave you space to sit back on your heels. You felt a bit detached from your body, your limbs shaky and heart racing as you struggled to keep your mind tethered to your arms and legs that were meant to carry you through this wretched illness. 

“Good,” Azriel said, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

You shook your head, immediately protesting at the thought of walking to your bed just to inevitably have to hurdle yourself back in here soon. “Can’t.”

“I will get you a bowl,” he said, like a man that was used to plucking solutions out of thin air without being challenged. 

Your bed would be nice. You were suddenly freezing after suffering through the wave of heat you had awoken to, and your ostentatious but undoubtedly soft mattress would inarguably be more comfortable than this hard bathroom floor. Your blankets, your sheets—

Your sheets. Embarrassment curled in the center of your chest, almost mistakable for another bout of nausea if you didn’t know better. Your sheets were uninhabitable after you had awoken from your sleep so suddenly, so violently, you didn’t have a chance to do more than throw the covers off your body before the nausea won over you. “My sheets are—”

“Clean.”

Your eyes snapped toward Azriel. “What?”

His lips curved slightly, into what might have been a smile if he was not kneeling beside you on your bathroom floor after watching you throw up in your toilet. You shivered again, a mixture of your self-disgust and the fever sending another chill through you.

His hands squeezed your arms. “Come on.”

You really didn’t want to stand up, but you did want your bed, and something told you Azriel wouldn’t leave until you got up off your bathroom floor. You nodded, head lolling a little too far forward as your vision swam and your ears buzzed.

“Okay?” Azriel asked softly.

You took a slow breath, willing the dizziness and fatigue away for just a few seconds. “Fine.”

Azriel had moved onto his feet at some point, but he was still crouched beside you as he watched you pitifully push yourself up using the toilet as leverage. Whatever blood and tension that had pooled in your head, making it feel heavy only moments ago, vanished once you stood.

You stumbled, reaching blindly for something to stabilize yourself with before two arms curled around you. “Okay,” Azriel huffed, then lifted you with startling ease. “That’s enough of that.”

He was still in his leathers, you realized, only once your cheek was pressed against the dark fabric across his chest. Where did he come from? How did he even know to look for you? Why did he care?

Your chest prickled with indignation as he carried you into your room, an undercurrent of anxiety running through your veins as you thought about just how vulnerable you were. Anyone could have found you in that bathroom. Sure, you were safe here, in this mountain you could never leave unless you asked someone. They said you were safe.

But you were still a human in the fae lands. You were a human in an enchanted house that was your only company for sometimes days on end, and you were weak and alone. You could never defend yourself if it came down to it. Let alone when you were sick and unconscious on your bathroom floor.

Azriel could have done anything he wanted. He could have—he could have touched you. He could have taken whatever he wanted from you, like the males in your village had once tried—had almost succeeded—and they were mere humans. Azriel was not only fae, he was a warrior, a spy, and he served alongside the most powerful high lord. He could—

He sat you gently on the bed, crouching in front of you as his hand came up to cradle your face with so much gentleness, his thumb hovering before wiping away a tear you didn’t know had fallen. “Hey,” he said, voice a gentle hum. “What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” His eyes ran over you, a little frantic. “Did I hurt you?”

Azriel would never. You knew that. 

You knew that.

A sob forced its way through your lips. Azriel’s eyes went wide, and before you knew what you were doing, you were falling into him. Your forehead pressed against his leathers, your nose inhaling the faint cedar scent that lingered around him. His arms immediately wrapped around you, one of his hands cradling the back of your head as you cried into his chest.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured.

The name weaved in between your ribs and coiled around your heart, squeezing tight as another ugly sob broke free. You wanted this. You wanted him. You wanted a life with your sisters. You wanted a mate, a love, like they had—and you never would.

“Hey,” Azriel murmured, holding you tight against him as he came up to join you on the bed. He pulled you into his lap, holding you in a way no one ever had before. Even as a child, you couldn’t remember a time someone just held you. “Breathe, Y/N,” he soothed, the words soft and gentle. “Take a breath. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted through broken and shaky sobs. “I’m so scared.”

Azriel held you tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmured. “Madja is coming. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

You shook your head, sniffing as exhaustion made your sobs die out, but tears continued rolling down your cheeks. “One day I won’t be,” you whispered, the soul crushing words burning your throat. 

“What?” Azriel asked softly.

“I’m human, Azriel.” You sniffed, turning your face into his chest. “One day, I won’t be here, whether because of illness, or age, or a stupid accident, because I’m human. I’m weak, and I’m alone,” you choked on the word, trembling as anxiety and exhaustion and lingering nausea scraped their claws through your chest. “I don’t want to die,” you whimpered, shoulders shaking. “I don’t want to die while everyone I love gets to keep living. I don’t want to grow old without my sisters. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Okay,” Azriel murmured, rubbing his hand over your head. “Okay,” he said again, the word sounding fragile. “You’re not alone,” he finally said, the words a soft rasp against the top of your head.

You scoffed, starting to protest, but he cut you off. “You’re not.” He squeezed you tighter. “You’re not alone, Y/N.”

“They have mates,” you argued brokenly, “I will never have that.”

“That’s not true,” Azriel assured, the words sounding a little strangled—like they might mean as much to him as they would to you. “I promise, that’s not true.”

You wanted to argue. You wanted to get mad, to yell, to tell him he couldn’t possibly know that. You wanted to push him away, you wanted to hide from whatever feelings you felt toward the man—male—who currently held you in his lap. You wanted to protect yourself from another inevitable heartbreak.

But like you said, you were alone, and you so desperately wanted not to be. You were sick, and shaking, and the fever was still clouding your mind in a dense fog, even as your volatile emotions started to evaporate under the pressure of exhaustion.

“I’m tired,” you murmured weakly, head lolling against his chest.

“I know.” His hand rubbed up and down your arm, and you might have been falling into delirium when you thought he pressed his lips to the crown of your head. “Do you want to change?” he asked, softly.

You nodded, hating the thought of climbing into bed wearing the same gown you had spent hours lying in on the bathroom floor. It was also thin, and short sleeved, and you were freezing.

“Okay,” Azriel said, shifting you gently off his lap. You might have whined, or whimpered, your body aching from the movement and your heart throbbing at the loss of him. He ran a hand over your head as he left you leaning against the many pillows along your headboard. “You’re okay,” he soothed. “I’ll be right—” His breath caught, his eyes snapping toward the foot of your bed. He blinked, his shadows pulsing once, twice, and you thought his ears might have turned pink—it was hard to tell in the dim light of your room thanks to your closed drapes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said instead, the words releasing some of the tension that had held your shoulders up to your ears. He reached toward the end of the bed, a navy sweater folded neatly at your feet. “Put this on,” he told you. “It will be warmer.”

You glanced at the sweater he had lain on your lap, the fabric absurdly soft and plush against the exposed skin of your thighs. It wasn’t yours.

And as much as you wanted to engulf yourself in Azriel’s sweater, to swaddle yourself in the lush fabric that would feel worlds better than the scratchy nightgown that was beginning to suffocate your skin—you didn’t want to move. You didn’t want him to see how your arms would undoubtedly shake, and you didn’t want to use every last ounce of your strength just to change out of a single article of clothing.

“I can help you?” Azriel asked, a gentle offer with only a hint of hesitation, his hazel irises dripping with sincerity and concern that made you flush all over despite the chills still crawling under your skin. 

This was—it was too much. You couldn’t ask him to do this. He should leave. He had done more than enough for you already, more than enough just by caring enough to check on you, for whatever reason that had been. You weren’t his to take care of, and he wasn’t yours to want him to—even if you did, with every fiber of your being.

You were human.

And he—

He was—

He sat down on the bed, his wings draping gently behind him, one covering your lower leg. He didn’t seem to notice.

You dragged your gaze away from the sight of his wing against your skin, forcing your eyes to meet his. He smiled softly, his lips turning up so gently at the corners. “Let me help you,” he nearly begged. Your eyes started burning again, and he reached up to wipe away the moisture that quickly escaped from your waterline. “No more tears,” he murmured. “Not tonight.”

You nodded, taking in a shaky breath as you stared at the sweater still on your lap. Tan and scarred fingers picked it up, setting it beside you on the bed. “It will take seconds if I help,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have to,” you whispered.

His hand cupped your face, your eyes immediately meeting his again. “I want to,” he murmured. A shadow crawled up his wrist to stroke your cheek alongside his thumb. “If you let me.”

“Okay,” you whispered.

Azriel’s hands immediately went to the hem of your gown that was already rucked up embarrassingly close to your waist. Then he paused, his eyes meeting yours, waiting for one last confirmation.

Something in your chest fractured. A fissure branching out from your heart and all the way down to your soul, another hit with the startling reality that this could be your life. If things were different, you could have had this. Him.

You could pretend to have him tonight.

You nodded, and Azriel’s lips pulled into another tiny smile as his eyes stayed on yours, and he pulled the gown up and over your head with gentle ease.

The soft sweater went over your head in quick succession, Azriel guiding your arms through the sleeves as the fabric fell down your torso and pooled around you on the bed. Only then did he let his gaze wander below your shoulders. “Oh,” he murmured, “here.” Then he gently coaxed you forward, and the pads of his fingers brushed the skin of your back as he did up one of the slats in the back of the sweater. 

Because it was his sweater. Meant for large, magnificent wings.

“There,” he said, satisfied, and then guided you to lie back into the pillows before standing up. He pulled the covers back, gently tugging them out from underneath your legs just to pull them back up to your chin as you scooted further down.

It had been a very long time since someone tucked you into bed.

Azriel brushed some stray hairs away from your face, and you didn’t even have the energy to care how you must look. He leaned down, his lips pressing to your forehead, and you were fairly certain you were not hallucinating this time—not when his kiss lingered, and he pulled away just to press a second quick peck a little closer to your hairline.

You watched him closely as he pulled away, watched how his shadows seemed to pour from his body and seep toward your bed, watched the way his wings twitched before he refolded them behind him. Watched the way his throat bobbed and his cheeks tinted the same shade of pink you thought his ears had earlier.

“You’re still pretty warm,” he murmured, the back of his knuckles tracing gently over your cheekbone, as if he couldn’t quite pull himself away.

When his touch finally fell away, and he took a half step back, panic squeezed the air from your lungs. “Azriel,” you rushed out, your panic poorly hidden in the rough and breathy words. “Please,” you said, swallowing once. “Please don’t leave.”

His face turned softer than you knew was possible, and you wanted to keep this version of Azriel to yourself for an eternity—even if your chest hurt at the reminder that his eternity would span centuries beyond yours. Tonight then. Tonight, maybe you could keep him, just until you were well enough to stand without crumbling to the floor.

“I’m not leaving,” he assured.

He kicked his boots off, soft thuds on your floor as they fell over. Then he started unbuckling sheaths and straps that held…who even knew what close to his body. “I’m not leaving,” he said again, before disappearing into your bathing chamber.

Your heart was racing. You glanced at the large bowl that had magically appeared on your nightstand, and you desperately hoped you wouldn’t need it. For the first time, you wondered if anyone else knew you were sick.

Probably not, unless Azriel told them somehow. You still didn’t understand how exactly they all communicated with each other.

You hoped no else knew, and that Azriel would stay.

He came out in a new set of clothes, his leathers traded for soft lounge pants and a plain t-shirt, his sock-covered feet carrying him back to you. You didn’t know where he got the clothes, just like you weren’t sure where his sweater you were wrapped in now came from, but you had learned to stop questioning every little thing since living here.

This time, he crawled onto the other side of the bed, his back leaning against the headboard as his wings flared out on either side of him. One of them grazed your cheek as he tried to extend it, then bumped the top of your head as he moved around. “I’m sorry,” Azriel murmured, almost embarrassed. “Do you want me to move?”

“No,” you answered a little too quickly. You shuffled closer to him, closing the distance between your bodies and making more room for him to rest his wing. “You’re warm.”

You had not meant to say that, not really, but Azriel seemed to preen from the possible half-compliment, if you could even call it that. Then his wing draped completely over you, a second cover that offered immediate warmth you were craving. The edge of his wing rested gently against your cheek, the membrane silken and smooth against your skin, and you wanted to touch it with the tips of your fingers—but you were not entirely lost to your illness, and still had some decorum, so you kept your hands tucked beneath the covers, and let yourself finally drift off into sleep as you breathed in the soothing scent of soap and cedar.

~ ~ ~

Later, when your room was darker and the sun no longer creeped out behind the edges of your curtains, you awoke with your head in Azriel’s lap, and his fingers gently drawing figures along your collarbone. His wing still covered you, an extra layer of protection from the outside world that you never wanted to leave.

Your head was spinning as you shifted around, sleep still clinging to the edges of your mind. Azriel’s fingers came up to lightly trace your jaw, the motion gentle and soothing in a way that had you melting back into him, allowing sleep to slowly creep back in.

Exhaustion reclaimed you, and you were dreaming again.

You must have been, when you murmured, “In another life, maybe you were mine.”

You and your High Lord had more in common than most knew.

Under the Mountain, your High Lord had made drastic sacrifices to protect his court, his people, his home and most importantly, his family.

While he had warmed Amarantha’s bed, you had warmed Eris Vanserra’s.

The only difference was you’d enjoyed it.

That and the fact that in contrast to Rhys’s forty-nine years of repeated assault, you’d only done it once—consensually, too.

You often wondered what would’ve happened if you’d fallen into bed repeatedly with the heir of the Autumn Court, if it would’ve complicated matters more than they already were. Maybe fate, the Mother—or whoever—had been looking out for you because the very next day was the day Feyre Archeron had shown up.

No one had known at the time that everything was about to change due to the human girl’s appearance.

In the three months that Feyre was a captive of Amarantha’s, life Under the Mountain continued in the same way it always had—just with an ever growing increase of talk as time went on. You kept your bargain with Eris, but after that night of heat, it seemed both of you resorted to just playing the part—you being his little whore for amusement, him being the cruel, arrogant heir.

It was intriguing to you when you’d started seeing Feyre appear at the nightly parties, always as Rhysand’s plaything—dressed even more scandalously than you’d been, ink as dark as the night painted in swirls on her body. You watched nightly as Feyre drained glasses of fae wine before she danced the night away for the High Lord of Night.

You’d doubted the female would remember much of her nightly activities come the next morning, anyways.

You’d once attempted to question Eris about it, but he never answered. In fact, other than when performing for him, he’d paid you little mind. He didn’t even seem to desire playing his normal game of cat and mouse with you.

You’d often wondered if given the opportunity if he’d have even wanted you again. For all you knew, he’d gotten a taste and was happy to move on.

You never found out for sure.

In hindsight, you concluded that he’d picked up on the stakes involved with Feyre’s appearance—something it took several weeks for you to piece together yourself. Maybe that was why he constantly seemed on edge. After all, forty-nine years of captivity would do that to anyone.

After three months Under the Mountain, of three trials and being broken beyond belief by Amarantha, Feyre Archeron had given her life to free all of the fae trapped Under the Mountain. In fact, she’d freed all of Prythian.

Nothing had been as horrifying as the moment you’d watched Amarantha snap Feyre’s neck.

That had been nearly two and a half years ago now.

After Under the Mountain, you’d found you had no place to go. Nowhere you’d called home. In the aftermath, you’d busied yourself aiding and assisting others with next moves and what to do now that everyone was truly free of Amarantha’s clutches. You’d been determined to help the fae organize the next steps. Many had been in such disbelief that you’d helped a little with emotional counseling and anywhere any of the High Lords needed you to arrange things.

It was when Rhysand had pulled you aside the night before everyone was to leave that he’d offered you a spot in his home of the Night Court, in Velaris. A city, at the time, that the rest of the world had no idea existed.

Though you’d been hesitant, still wary of him and his dark power—knowing what he was truly capable of—you’d hesitantly taken up his offer. After all, you’d had nowhere else to go.

You still weren’t sure what possessed your High Lord to trust you, to offer you a place in his court. Rhys had often said he’d seen the promise in you. You never quite puzzled out what he’d meant by that.

Rhys was also the only one to know that you’d slept with Eris in your time Under the Mountain. Considering he’d found you and Eris on the night in question, you figured he’d put enough together to at least suspect.

A lot happened in that godsforsaken place that the others had no knowledge of, some probably best never shared. There were some things one could truly understand only if they’d experienced it. The desperation, hopelessness and depravity of life there was unlike anything you knew how to describe. Survival there was very different from anything you’d ever experienced.

It had often driven people to make choices one wouldn’t normally, to become people they usually weren’t—just to live to see another day.

You knew your High Lord and High Lady knew what that was like. There were days you were still haunted by the horrors of things you’d witnessed, even now.

In the time since, Feyre had almost married Tamlin—she’d once thought she was in love with the High Lord of Spring. He was the whole reason she’d went Under the Mountain, had even died for that love. Even though she’d been resurrected by all seven High Lords and had become High Fae, the old version that had fit with Tamlin had died the moment Amarantha had snapped her neck.

That had only been the beginning.

Feyre ended up leaving the Spring Court after Tamlin had trapped her in his mansion, truly unaware of how detrimental it was to her in her state. He’d never even considered how traumatizing it would be to her, especially after her time in Amarantha’s dungeons. But in the fall out of that, your now High Lady had found a home, healing and a purpose in the Night Court.

She’d also found love.

She’d fallen in love with Rhys all without knowing that he was her mate. It had been a rough time when she did inevitably find out, though.

But they were mates and nothing could keep them apart.

A small, foreign part of you ached at that, as you’d witnessed the mates falling in love before your very eyes. It was a small part of you that you’d buried long ago, but it recognized something in your leaders you hadn’t wanted it to. Often, you silenced that small instinct—had tried to snuff it out.

Still, it lingered.

Beyond that was a whirlwind of events.

The ancient territory of Hybern had been waging a war for decades and it had amplified and grown closer by the day from the moment Amarantha died.

Feyre’s sisters—Nesta and Elain—had been kidnapped by the King of Hybern and forcefully turned into High Fae by the Cauldron itself.

Feyre became High Lady of the Night Court.

You, your friends and High Lord prepared for a brewing war, trying to recruit allies within Prythian and afar.

War happened, rebuilding happened, followed by more than a year of actual peace—or as close as it could get. There were still tensions with the Illyrians, not much improvement had been made with the humans and Beron Vanserra, as per usual, had been a thorn in everyone’s side.

In all that time, you’d seen Eris once, during the war. It had been at the gathered meeting of the humans and the fae, at the old Archeron manor located in the human lands—a day after the final battle.

A brief glance at the Autumn heir revealed he’d been staring at you. Your eyes had taken in the once familiar face—the one you hadn’t seen in nearly a year by that point.

So much history laid between the two of you—flashes of it briefly appearing in your mind before you’d forcefully shoved the memories away.

When you’d instantly spotted the brutal slice down his cheek and neck, your heart had pounded harder, your hands clenching into fists. Your nails had dug into your palms as you’d fought internally against instincts you’d never asked for.

He’d only inclined his head slightly—maybe not only to you but to the entire Inner Circle—before moving on. After all, he’d somehow become an ally to the Night Court during the war.

Mercifully, until that point you’d been able to avoid him.

You knew what he was—knew it was the explanation of the pull you’d felt towards him in all the time you were acquainted with him Under the Mountain.

You still hated him though.

Hated the things he’d made you do, the things he’d done to you, the way he’d treated you.

All that to say, it’d been a packed few years and that hadn’t even been all of it.

Now, with spring dawning, you and your family had just dealt with even more conflict, with more issues.

One of the human queens had jumped at the promise of immortality back before the war, promised by the King of Hybern. Briallyn had jumped into the Cauldron after the Archerons had been turned. Instead of youth and beauty like the vain queen had hoped for, she’d turned into a withered crone.

Nesta Archeron had stolen something from the Cauldron and whatever she had taken from it, it had stolen from Briallyn her most prized possession. After that, Briallyn harbored hatred for the eldest Archeron, clearly plotting revenge.

It was only in the fall, more than a year after the war did the problems finally arise again.

Briallyn had allied with a death-lord named Koschei. Beron had allied with Briallyn. Some of Eris’s soldiers went missing. Briallyn had been searching for a powerful trove of weapons once forged by the Cauldron, itself—the Dread Trove.

Feyre and Rhys announced they were having a baby. Nesta helped find the Mask and the Harp, two out of three of the items from the Dread Trove.

Nesta had ended up killing Briallyn only weeks ago, though technically with her power she’d Unmade Briallyn.

Feyre gave birth to a baby boy, nearly losing her life to birth the little baby with wings, which they’d named Nyx. Between all three items of the Dread Trove and some other kind of magic no one could truly explain, Nesta saved their lives.

It had been an exhausting six months, even if most of what you did to help was on the sidelines, closer to home. You felt like you’d lived at least three immortal lifetimes in these last few years.

Despite Eris still being a continued ally to the Night Court, keeping them updated on his father’s movements, you’d still managed to avoid the male the entire time. Even going to the lengths to spend the evening with Amren and Varian on the night of the Winter Solstice ball in the Hewn City—which he’d been in attendance for, amidst everything else that had happened recently. You’d been glad you’d stayed behind, considering you’d heard he’d danced with Nesta five times.

Then proceeded to ask Rhys for her as his bride.

Your mate had asked for Nesta Archeron as his bride.

As if you couldn’t hate the male any more—though he always managed to one up himself, it seemed.

At least that had answered your long standing question of if he had knowledge of the thing that had awoken in you the night he’d taken you to his bed.

Clearly not.

Nesta—very much in love with Cassian—didn’t even entertain the offer. Especially considering Cassian was her mate. Another one you’d seen coming from a mile away. Sometimes you half wondered if your determination to ignore your own made you that much more sensitive to everyone else’s around you.

Even though Koschei was still in play—his true plans unknown and no movements from him—things had slowed down again to normal life after Briallyn’s death. You were actually looking forward to the mundane court work and spending time just spoiling baby Nyx.

But, of course things weren’t going to remain peaceful and steady because Rhys had just walked into the River House.

With Eris Vanserra in tow.

•••

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the redheaded male, eyes raking over him as if assessing him.

It had been twenty months since you’d seen him at that meeting—a year and eight months. Nearly two and a half years since being freed from Under the Mountain.

He looked the exact same, all the way down to the knowing amber eyes and cold face of courtly arrogance.

Those same eyes met yours and the memory slammed into you before you could help it.

You gulped mouthful after mouthful of wine. You didn’t know how much you’d consumed, nor did you care.

You wanted to forget, wanted to erase the doubt you had for making this stupid bargain, the uncertainty that clawed at your gut, making you wonder if you’d made a grave error.

The dress you were in had appeared in your room on your bed sometime during the day, as they’d always begun to. It was always some different color, always thin and sheer to the point of being dangerously scandalous.

What choice did you have but to don it and go about your evening?

The purple looked too similar to the mulberry of the fae wine that was being served that night. It was what had inspired you to come grab a goblet and fill it to the rim.

It was nearly half gone when Eris found you. Fury shone in his eyes as he yanked the goblet from your hand, nearly spilling it in the process.

“Give it back,” you whined.

“No. I’m not letting you get drunk. One gets sloppy when they’re drunk,” he argued.

You shoved at his chest, trying to grab for the drink. You must’ve been more adamant than you’d realized in your tipsy state because you drew looks from a few individuals nearby.

He just bared his teeth, setting the drink on the table behind you. He moved faster than you could process in your state. He grabbed your face harshly, fingers digging into your cheeks hard enough to make you wince.

“You’re going to get us killed,” he hissed.

“No I—”

He cut you off with a snarl.

“There’s a price to pay for mistakes. There’s always a price to pay. You don’t ever want to know what that is.”

“I was a fool to ever make a bargain with you,” you sneered.

“If you want to live you will do what’s necessary. This is necessary,” he glared down at you, “If you want to live you will trust I know what I’m doing.”

He finally released your face and you stepped back a bit, glaring at him. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by your rage. You said nothing, crossing your arms in defiance. It only made his smug arrogance grow exponentially.

“Grin and bear it, pet. We all have to do things we don’t want to do down here. Get used to it.”

He eyed you, lip curling.

“Don’t let me catch you trying to drink yourself into oblivion again. I will not tell you twice.”

You blinked and the memory was gone.

He never let you drink more than a few mouthfuls after that—something you eventually complied with, realizing he was right. You’d seen many fools have their share of drinks and make a misstep, landing in trouble or even worse—becoming the target of Amarantha’s wrath..

Back in the present, you turned disbelieving eyes towards Rhys.

What is he doing here?

You never really understood how Rhys was able to pick up thoughts of others if he hadn’t initiated a mental connection first, but clearly he heard your thought.

As a token of good faith, I thought I’d give Eris a proper tour of Velaris. Unlike some, he’s not interested in conquest or attacking. He’s our ally, after all. Plus he gave Mor time, stalled Keir from visiting. Think of it as a thank you gift of sorts.

That was right.

In order for Rhys to ensure they’d have aid in Keir’s Darkbringers from the Court of Nightmares during the war, Rhys had to make some hard decisions. Which included making a deal with Keir—Mor’s horrible father and the steward of the Hewn City. Keir wanted to visit Velaris, have access to it.

He had no true desire to see the city, but instead had only wanted to latch onto something he knew would hurt his daughter the worst. Velaris was exactly that thing.

Eris had indeed managed to stall the male somehow, had kept him from coming to Velaris. Had sacrificed something big to keep the male from visiting. Something only Rhys knew of, apparently.

But still, this was Rhys’s bright idea?

Rhys’s voice popped into your head again.

Maybe I should let you continue to give him the rest of the tour.

Do you want a dead ally?

You scowled as your thought shot to your High Lord. There was a pause. His mental voice was softer, gentler, when he answered.

What happened between the two of you?

Nothing worth revisiting.

Honestly, too much had happened between you and Eris. You didn’t even know where to begin to unravel that mess.

Your eyes were pulled back to Eris, where you found his assessing gaze still on you. You felt the familiar sensations you’d experienced Under the Mountain, the inability to truly keep yourself from being drawn to him. Though you now knew why, it didn’t make it any less infuriating.

You swore your breath caught as he held your gaze for the second time in as many minutes.

This time, much different images flashed across your mind.

Hands grabbing your ass.

Mouths hot on one another.

The stretch of his cock deep within you.

Eris behind you as he pounded into you.

The sounds, the sensations, the surrender, you remembered it all.

He didn’t look smug, but you swore he was remembering the same things, especially as you caught the traitorous way his jaw clenched. It was such a minuscule movement though, you doubted anyone would even catch it.

Traitorously, your stomach swooped at the fact you both seemed to be sharing the same memories.

Now not only was your brain confused about him, so was your body.

“So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”

His voice was just as you remembered. That cold, deep timbre, the almost lazy drawl of indifference—calculated indifference, that is.

You’d heard it voice many, many things. From horribly demeaning insults—said with such boredom—to the downright filthy things he’d said to you that night in the safety of those four walls.

“Imagine my disappointment when you weren’t at the Solstice Ball last winter. I have firsthand knowledge of just how much you enjoy dancing.”

You grimaced. There was the bastard you knew. It was amazing how he always managed to piss you off.

“I hear you found other entertainment, anyways,” you said calmly, though something ugly still twisted in you.

“Ah,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “I see you heard about that.”

The fabric of his jacket stretched just enough to hint at the strength beneath. Something you’d felt time and time again—once more intimately than others, too. You watched as he folded his arms over his chest.

“It did delight me to realize some females have the sense to not be affected by your charm,” you quipped.

His eyes cut into you.

“Figures you’d delight in my suffering.”

You snorted. It was laughable to think he would suffer over a rejected marriage bid. Probably from wounded pride, surely, but not a broken heart.

“Please, the only thing that suffered was your pride,” you voiced the thought.

You could never tell what he could gather from you—what tells of yours he’d picked up over time. But whatever he saw on your face only made the corner of his mouth curl upwards.

“If you’re worried I’d replaced you, there’s no need to fret—you’re still far more entertaining.”

You had no idea what he truly meant by that, but you’d no doubt that it wasn’t complimentary. You shouldn’t have been shocked to know how easily he could saunter in here and do nothing but remind you of bad memories. As you looked up at him, you could hear the echoes of his past cruel words in your ears.

Whore.

Slut.

Pet.

Some belongings struggle to know their place.

I didn’t give you permission to feel anything.

That last one triggered another memory—it hadn’t been long after the drinking incident, still in the early days of your bargain. You remembered it like it was yesterday.

Hiccuped cries were muffled by your palm.

You sat in a darkened corner of a hallway, knowing it was likely that no one would easily discover you here.

It was all too much.

Last night had been the worst. Constant coldness, cruelty, nothing but a night filled with the expectation of you to exist only for his amusement.

You knew Eris’s reputation for cruelty, but the toll it was taking on you night after night wasn’t worth it. You felt like pieces of you were slowly crumbling away, the longer you had to do this.

You’d become numb the longer it went on. You didn’t know if that relieved you or terrified you more. Without the fae wine to help numb your senses, you’d started to do it naturally, just to get through another night.

The only thing that’d kept you going all these weeks were the sparks of anger—the hatred you felt for the male. It gave you purpose—fire—and it was better than feeling nothing. But tonight, you’d reached a breaking point and you couldn’t truly pinpoint why.

It was exhaustion. It was grief. It was horror at the entire situation.

Your shoulders shook as the sobs wracked your body, the deep etched pain feeling no less severe than if someone had stabbed you in the chest with an ash arrow.

Maybe this was your breaking point. Anyone would’ve broken after life Under the Mountain. Sometimes you wondered how more hadn’t broken under the cruelty of life here.

Your body tensed when you heard the steady thud of footfalls approaching. You didn’t glance up from where you were curled into a ball on the floor, your knees pulled to your chest where you sat.

Black boots appeared in your line of sight.

You didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

His scent filled your nostrils—a smoky, spicy scent, as if all the natural spices of Autumn had a fiery edge to them—a slight tinge of the smell of a crackling fire entwined with the woodsy spices.

You didn’t look upwards, but you could feel his silent judgement.

He waited, like he had all the time in the world. He would out wait you too, you knew. Slowly, your head rose from where your forehead had been pressed to your knees. Red, tear stained eyes met his of cold amber.

It was an anomaly, really—the male who possessed such a warm color of eyes—how they always managed to be so cold, so joyless. Even when the flames flickered in them occasionally, even that never brought any warmth to them.

“Stop crying.”

It wasn’t a gentle statement nor one said out of any sort of concern. It was stony, lacking any emotion. Hard eyes bored into you and every instinct in you made you want to flinch away from that coldness, the unfeeling nature he possessed. It was cruel, horrible and you didn’t want to admit it, but it sliced deep.

A brief thought flitted across your mind.

What did one have to endure to become as unfeeling and hard edged as the male above you?

“Get up,” he snapped.

When you didn’t move, he just huffed an exasperated breath, like he was wasting time even talking to you. He grabbed your arm and roughly tugged you to your feet. His grip was bruising and you shrugged out of his touch the moment you were on your feet again.

“How foolish you must be to let potentially anyone witness your pathetic weakness,” he growled.

You just glared, fighting more tears. You weren’t built for this—these games, this ruthlessness. You didn’t care what happened to you at this point.

You felt like you were breaking clean in two.

Yes, you’d spent decades under here, like everyone else had, but this was truly the first time you’d had to become someone else just to survive. The first time you’d had to sacrifice parts of yourself to see another day. While you’d witnessed horrors beyond belief in your time here, you’d survived long enough by keeping your head down.

Apparently that wasn’t going to work anymore from here on out. Starting from the moment you’d struck that deal with Eris.

More tears streaked down your face, the hurt embedding so deep into you, you knew you’d never be the same person ever again. Perhaps one day, you’d heal from this and become forged into a stronger, better version of you. That day wasn’t today.

Right now? Right now, the person you’d known—thought you were—was splintering and cracking into pieces, crumbling into dust right before your eyes.

Hands came up to your face, cradling it in his grasp. To any bypasser, it might’ve looked intimate, maybe even the touch of a lover, but it wasn’t. His harsh grip alone, fingers holding your face tightly, proving it was anything but heartfelt. His face was empty, devoid of any warmth as his thumbs dragged harshly across your cheeks, with more pressure than needed, smearing your tears away.

It was controlled viciousness, the action, as if he was punishing you for shedding them instead of comforting you. His lips curved upward in a derisive smile, sharp and thin, full of mockery.

“No plaything of mine has any reason to cry.”

He spat the word like it was an insult for him to witness such weakness. You could’ve spit in his face.

“I am not a toy to be played with,” you hissed through clenched teeth.

His chuckle wasn’t comforting. It was harsh, wicked, his eyes cutting to yours as his hands dropped your face. He stepped back, hands sliding into his pockets as his eyes traveled the length of you.

“Down here—for the foreseeable future—you’re mine. I will do as I please.”

He paused, jaw clenching—the only sign of his irritation. Other than that, his face was a pure blank slate, devoid of any emotion.

“After all, I didn’t give you permission to feel anything.”

Heartless, he was so incredibly heartless. His every word making the spark of anger that’d been kindling in you in the weeks leading up to this, grow in strength. You’d never felt such hatred for someone as you did for Eris.

Your breathing sharpened until it was heavy, your chest heaving with the heightened emotion. You were sure your glare could’ve killed, though it only seemed to amuse him even more. The smirk that graced his face nearly made you see red.

“I hate you.”

“Good, you should. Anger keeps you alert. Anger keeps you alive.”

You had no retort for that, only simmering anger.

“Pull yourself together, pet,” he chucked you under your chin, condescension in both the gesture and his words, “No one likes a weak link.”

Then he turned, leaving you in the darkened corner of the hall, fury having replaced the tears of despair.

You were pulled back to reality, finding Eris, still standing in front of you, clearly awaiting the answer to something he’d just said.

“What?” you questioned, having missed whatever he’d just said.

You looked around, noticing that apparently at some point, Rhys had left the room, leaving the two of you alone.

“I asked you if you’d developed an appetite for Illyrian brutes now,” Eris smirked, motioning to the surroundings, “Seems so since you now call this your home. I’m a tad insulted. If you needed a home place, I always had room to welcome you.”

“What—in your bed?”

You mentally winced. You hadn’t meant to open that can of worms, but there it was. Eris’s eyes only sharpened, the knowledge and memories clearly at the forefront of his mind as they’d just been in yours, earlier.

“If that’s what you wanted, yes.”

You said nothing, still trying to process the memory you’d been assaulted with. It’d been a long time since you’d thought of that moment.

Under the Mountain—after your bargain with Eris—you’d had no choice but to turn into something you weren’t, to preserve what little of yourself there was left of the true you. You’d sacrificed too many pieces of yourself because of that place and you’d refused to lose more.

He was eyeing you as if he was unsure what more to say.

How stark the contrast had been—between the cruel words he’d once hurled at you and the growls of pleasure murmured in your ear when he’d fucked you.

Your stomach tightened at that specific memory, your body once again betraying you.

If your body told the truth, it’d tell him that you’d not been with anyone in two and a half years. Not since him. If it had a say, you would’ve had him in your bed the moment you laid eyes on him earlier.

But you certainly weren’t ever planning to mention any of that to him.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

It wasn’t spoken cruelly, it wasn’t a verbal trap. It was a simple statement—something unusual for the male always ready to strike, always ready to slice with a properly timed insult.

You huffed.

“Glad to know those brilliant deduction skills have gotten you this far in life.”

You’d been avoiding looking directly at him too much, focusing somewhere around his shoulders, to the finely made seam of his jacket.

Which was a bad idea because all you could remember was the strength of them as you’d gripped them in moments of passion. Especially after that brief moment earlier when the motion of his shoulders rolling had sparked that specific memory.

That primal instinct flared brighter within you making you even more aware of his presence, his close proximity. It was as if you were now more sensitive to his scent, his existence, everything about him.

You could tell he was trying to puzzle you out. You wouldn’t give him the benefit of any help. You had little to say to him.

“I had my reasons,” he said, by way of explaining his actions Under the Mountain.

You stiffened, definitely having no desire to discuss this.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He just studied you, a flicker of something passing across his face—something that looked close to regret.

“Very well. Maybe one day, you will. And I will be prepared to tell you.”

To your surprise, he didn’t push. He simply walked away, heading to go find his host.

You watched him leave, ignoring the way that hole in your chest you’d learned to live with began to feel hollow once again.

•••

You had Az fly you up to the House of Wind like the coward you were.

You hadn’t wanted to risk any more run-ins with Eris while he was still in Velaris, so you’d fled to the House of the Wind, specifically the grand library of the upper levels—though the library the priestesses inhabited deep within the mountain would’ve been a great escape too.

Though Az didn’t ask why, you didn’t miss his raised brow when you’d asked for transport. He wasn’t completely naive to why you needed to escape.

When you’d arrived at Nesta and Cassian’s home place, they’d been no better.

You’d simply held up a hand as you walked past their curious faces, mid questions.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You’d holed up in the library after that, grabbing a book and a blanket, curling up in a chair by the fire.

Though even that reminded you of the male you wished you could forget.

Your encounter with Eris had left you shaken beyond belief simply because it made you face things you’d been happy to ignore for so long.

You hated him.

You didn’t hate him.

You were drawn to him in a way you couldn’t escape or control.

So, you’d taken the only control you’d had left and just avoided him. It hadn’t been all that hard after all considering the male lived all the way at the other end of Prythian, in a much different court.

It was an endless and tiresome tug of war that you’d long ago decided you didn’t want to participate in.

You were still in the library, busy trying to sort through your tangled thoughts when Rhys found you later.

“Nesta said you’ve been holed up here all afternoon,” he said, casually, leaning against the arm of the chair directly across from you.

Your eyes lifted from the book you’d been trying—and failing—to read for hours. Your thoughts had kept turning back to a familiar pale face, red hair and quick wit.

Your conversation with him earlier hadn’t lasted long enough for you to get much indication if he truly was the same male he had been Under the Mountain. The snark and sharp remarks were still the same, but that seemed to be a typical Eris Vanserra trait.

Your head told you to hate him—your heart urged you to soften—you didn’t want to even acknowledge what your body was trying to tell you.

Maybe you were truly no better than the bitch in heat he’d once called you.

“Been wanting to do some reading,” you said smoothly, holding up your book.

Rhys just hummed, not believing you in the slightest.

You couldn’t help the feeling of betrayal that had curled, ugly, in your chest as you faced your High Lord. At the fact that you’d had no warning that Eris was visiting. You’d felt blindsided.

“You couldn’t have told me he was coming?” you asked.

You ran a finger over the smooth edges of the book, not meeting the curious violet eyes on you.

“I didn’t quite realize that you’d have such a…strong reaction to him.”

Your eyes flicked upwards, leveling a steely look at your High Lord. You’d never figured out just how much he knew when it came to you and Eris. You wouldn’t have been the slightest bit surprised if you discovered he even knew of your little secret.

Rhys was nothing but resourceful when it came to obtaining information.

He finally stepped around to the front of the chair, sitting down in it. He reclined back in it, crossing his legs.

“Is there a reason you’ve been avoiding him?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” you lied smoothly.

You didn’t have to be daemati to know that Rhys didn’t buy it. Even though your mental shields were a fortress of solid iron, you still double checked them, not willing to risk any dangerous thoughts leaking out for your High Lord to be able to access.

He sighed, not particularly in exasperation, but with a weight to it, like what he was about to say was a heavy subject to discuss. You knew what was coming.

“You think I never witnessed some of the things he made you do?”

Your cheeks flushed crimson, shame filling you.

More memories flooded the chamber of your mind, your shields unwittingly dropping as the powerful and humiliating memory flashed in rapid fire bits and pieces.

You grinding on Eris’s thigh, the pleasure mounting.

The sound of Eris voice as he said, “You gonna be a good little slut for me? Get yourself off on my thigh?”

You could still hear the callousness of his timbre as if he were sitting right next to you, breathing it in your ear.

More intrusive flashes occurred.

Eris leaning forward, tongue licking a line up your throat. A deep, sensual chuckle in your ear that sent you reeling, crying out as release crashed over you. The sensation hadn’t cared that there’d been at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, watching your every movement, every gasp.

You were slammed back into reality by a fresh wave of anger and humiliation—the latter quickly worsening when you realized you’d practically projected all of those memories straight to Rhys in a moment of vulnerability.

And he’d seen it all.

If he hadn’t witnessed it that night, he had just now.

Rhys’s sharp gaze on you softened, knowing in his eyes as shame dug its ugly talons into you.

“I am not judging, nor do I hold it against you. It doesn’t make it right nor does it minimize the damage it’s done, but you and I both know there were a different set of rules Under the Mountain. Ones that would likely sound barbaric and horrendous to anyone who did not experience them.”

You simply pressed your lips together, heat pricking your eyes. You scolded yourself mentally, refusing to cry. You couldn’t recall ever hearing your High Lord’s voice being so soft as he continued.

“If anyone understands what it’s like to have ugly secrets—ugly memories—between them, it’s me and Feyre.”

You never knew the full story of how they’d crossed paths, what all their origin story entailed, though it didn’t matter. Some stories were meant to remain a mystery to most—the knowledge only shared between the involved parties.

You opened your mouth and closed it a few times, not knowing how to say what you wished to. Rhys didn’t rush you, giving you time to gather your thoughts.

You finally decided to be blunt and just say it.

“That night you found us? That was the night I fucked him.”

Unsurprisingly, Rhys didn’t look shocked. You didn’t dare elaborate. You were never going to admit to the debauchery that came from that night.

“I figured as much,” was all he said.

You didn’t know what you could add on to that and you sighed, looking down at your hands.

“Perhaps Eris and I are just trauma bonded and that’s all it is.”

“Do you think that’s what Feyre and I are?”

Your eyes snapped up to Rhys, the argument already on your tongue.

“Of course not.”

“How come? We went through awful things together and in quite a similar fashion that you and Eris did,” Rhys pointed out.

“It’s different for you two—you’re mates.”

Rhys only raised a dark brow.

“As opposed to?”

You swallowed hard. You had no way of knowing if Rhys had guessed or even somehow known of the one thing you hadn’t breathed a word of to anyone.

“I don’t know. It’s just different. She loves you—you love her. You had your reasons for the things you did, I’m sure.”

Rhys seemed to be thinking through something before he spoke again.

“I do not claim to know his motivations in all things—but I will say this: nothing Eris Vanserra has ever done was without reason,” he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I’ve seen that repeatedly. I assume it’s no different here.”

You scowled.

“So he says.”

He didn’t deign you an answer to that.

“He’s asked about you, you know.”

That actually surprised you.

“I’m sure he has. The male is nothing if not insufferable when he doesn’t get his way.”

Rhys watched you, catching your deflection.

“Can I show you?”

Your brows lifted, not having expected Rhys to want to actually show you—and maybe, you couldn’t help the way your curiosity was piqued.

You simply nodded.

Your gaze went unfocused as the slideshow of memories appeared in your mind, courtesy of Rhys.

You recognized the dark glass table of a Hewn City council room. Eris stood in front of you—in front of Rhys actually.

“Since we’re allies now,” Eris began, a cold smile on his face as he crossed his arms.

Allies.

This must’ve been prior to the war with Hybern, then.

Eris was saying your name.

“You remember her? She was Under the Mountain. High Fae, on the shorter side for the fae with a mouth on her to make up for it?”

You heard Rhys’s cool answer.

“Vaguely rings a bell. You don’t keep track of your playthings very well, it seems.”

Eris’s eyes hardened, fingers curling on his biceps before he dropped his previously crossed arms.

“I was simply inquiring if you knew what ever came of her.”

Rhys lied so smoothly, you’d have believed him if the topic hadn’t been about you.

“I can’t say I have that knowledge.”

You’d had no idea that Rhys had protected you, even when you hadn't asked him to. Then again, you’d had no idea Eris had even asked about you in the first place.

Eris simply hummed and looked away, pondering something before he only nodded once.

Then the image shifted to another scene.

“I seem to remember you telling me you had no knowledge of where my little pet ended up, Rhysand.”

Your eyes—Rhys’s eyes scanned the room. Music, dancing, there, a few feet away was Keir, trying to remain inconspicuous as he attempted to eavesdrop on Eris’s conversation with Rhys and…Feyre. That was Feyre next to Rhys.

The Solstice ball after the war—the one that Keir had invited Eris to. You remembered Rhys briefly mentioning it.

“So much was overlooked during wartime, Eris. It was an honest mistake,” Rhys drawled.

“Mm,” Eris hummed, “So she’s ended up here in the Night Court, then. Where, pray tell, is she then?”

“Her whereabouts are none of your concern, Eris.”

It was Feyre that had spoken. Eris’s gaze cut to the High Lady, clearly mentally turning over something before speaking.

“Don’t mistake me for someone who puts a matter to rest easily. I have no use for loose ends.”

“Of course. We’d expect nothing less from you.”

Rhys had just barely uttered his retort when the image faded and then shifted again.

This time, Eris was standing at the base of a tree—amidst white and pink blossoms. Sunlight leaked through the branches of the tree, shining off his red hair.

Even cool faced, looking truly faerie, he was a breathtaking sight to behold, rivaling the nature that surrounded him.

You managed to piece together that this must’ve been in the Spring Court, months ago, when both Rhys and Cass had gone to meet with Eris.

“How is she?”

“That is not for me to say,” Rhys answered, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Tell me, does she ask about me?”

“You can ask all you want, Eris, we still aren’t telling you a damn thing,” came from Cass.

Eris turned blazing eyes towards Cassian, sneering at his snide tone.

You hadn’t. You never had. You’d kept up to date when he became more involved with the Night Court, but never once asked about him.

A part of you felt a twinge of guilt at that.

“If you want to know so badly, it seems you’ll have to find answers yourself,” Rhys said dismissively, “Now, on to the reason you asked for this meeting.”

The image disappeared like a mist, evaporating all of a sudden and you blinked, vision clearing as you returned back to the library, Rhys already staring at you.

You had no idea what to do with the information. Frankly, you didn’t think you’d mattered enough to the heir to warrant him asking after you even once, let alone numerous times.

“Eris is…halfway decent,” Rhys offered.

Your brow quirked, a wry smile on your face.

“Don’t oversell it now.”

Rhys chuckled, the heaviness from earlier replaced with a lighter, easier mood.

“I just mean he’s our ally—a trusted one who’s kept his word and held up his end of every deal. For years now. That has to be good for something.”

You shrugged a shoulder.

“Maybe.”

Rhys finally stood, a conflicted expression flickering over his face.

“Do you know what the hardest lesson I had to learn after returning was?”

From Under the Mountain, he meant.

You shook your head.

He began walking, pausing briefly at the arm of your chair. He looked down at you, something like brotherly concern on his face—worry and concern from a male that’d become a friend and eventually like family, despite him being your High Lord.

“Sometimes healing means facing the things you’re running from the most.”

•••

You’d been sitting in the dining room of the River House, reviewing some correspondence as a favor for Rhys when a familiar scent filled your nostrils.

The mixture of a crackling fire and woodsy spices—the heir of Autumn, himself, his scent the embodiment of Autumn.

You didn’t bother to look up as you spoke to him.

“I thought Rhys had some sort of policy about repeat unwanted visitors,” you quipped, continuing to scribble on the paper in front of you.

A part of you wasn’t all that shocked that he’d returned—Eris never was one to turn away from a challenge. But you were surprised that it’d taken him so long. A few weeks had passed since his initial visit. Foolishly, you’d thought you were home free.

He leaned in the doorway, studying you. His voice was filled with his typical courtly arrogance when he finally spoke.

“I’d have been here sooner, but the Autumn Court does keep one busy. It’s quite dreadful actually—takes up so much energy and time that could be spent on far lovelier things.”

You rolled your eyes, not even hiding your annoyance. You finally looked up, taking in the male that hovered in your peripheral.

Some instinct—perhaps older than this world you inhabited—stirred awake at the sight of him.

Your body was a traitorous thing, the way your heart fluttered and stomach tightened at the mere sight of him. Today, he was dressed in a finely embroidered cobalt jacket, his hair a red curtain over it. He was too far from you to clearly see all the pinpoints of pigment scattered across the tops of his cheekbones, meeting across the bridge of his nose.

But you’d been in close proximity to him enough to have memorized the pattern by heart.

Your skin suddenly felt too tight as you noticed his searing gaze on you, too aware of it. Before you could even stop the subconscious reaction to him, the heat curled low in your belly. It was simply downright impossible to forget certain memories shared with him.

You scowled, ducking your head, focusing on the paper in front of you. Was this truly what it would be like every time you saw him? Flashes of one heated night constantly haunting you?

It was incredibly difficult to forget what Eris had looked like, sounded like—felt like.

“Such as?” you asked in a bored drawl.

“Such as you.”

He answered simply, no teasing in his voice.

Your eyes flashed as they cut back to him. You had a sneaking suspicion just exactly why he was here.

“I’m no longer bound to you—no longer expected to entertain you.”

If he thought you’d crawl into his bed again, he was sorely mistaken.

“I’m sure you’d have little trouble finding a willing female eager for a night of immoral pleasure with the notorious heir of Autumn.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Careful, you sound jealous.”

You sighed, turning fully to him.

“Why are you here?”

You weren’t in the mood to play games with him and decided to let him know that.

“Perhaps I wanted to check on your wellbeing.”

He finally straightened from where he’d been leaning against the doorway, strolling in. You watched him warily.

You stood from the chair, shackles rising, your defenses going up. You crossed your arms, not sparing him your glare.

“Don’t give me that shit. You never cared about my wellbeing at any point before.”

He shrugged, casually, as of no consequence, but you weren’t finished yet.

“You showed up here and delighted in further humiliating me by reminding me I’m good for nothing more than dancing and being your whore. So forgive me if I’m skeptical that you have the capacity to show any sort of concern.”

Anger flashed in his eyes and he slammed a palm down on the table next to you. You flinched, startled by the sudden movement.

He registered your action instantly and pulled back just the slightest, giving you space to breathe. A muscle ticked in his jaw as it worked, clearly holding back something. An array of conflicted emotions flickered over his face.

“That’s not what I—” he started, then stumbled.

Eris Vanserra stumbled over his words.

He started again, clearly expressing a different thought than the one he’d just begun. His eyes traveled over your tense frame. His voice, when he spoke, while softer around the edges than typical, still held bite.

“I would never hurt you.”

You actually snorted.

“You’ve given me no evidence of the contrary.”

He said your name, sharply, smoothly—as a way to get your attention, you supposed. Your spine instantly stiffened.

He’d never called you by your name—at least not to you.

It was always whore, slut, pet, or some other equally demeaning nickname. The only other time you’d heard him even breathe your name was in one of Rhys’s memories.

“No. You don’t get to do this.”

Eris having the audacity to speak you name like he even knew you made you angry. His cool amusement now only made the conflagration within you burn hotter.

“Just because you come crawling back now doesn’t mean I’m going to fall at your feet in gratitude for what you did to me!”

He gritted his teeth.

“As I’ve said before, I had my reasons for doing what I did.”

You struck back, equally as lethal as some of the remarks he’d flung to you in the past.

“No, I think you have your excuses. You just feel guilty now because you actually have to deal with what happened now that we’re no longer trapped there.”

He met your brutal retort with one that cut just as much.

“You mean in the same way you’ve been dealing with it?” he gave a bitter laugh, “Running from it seems to have served you so well, hasn’t it?.”

Your hands curled into fists as you glared up at him.

“You’re a bastard.”

His eyes just roamed your face, searching for what, you didn’t know.

“Maybe so. But I’ve never once lied about who I am.”

“And I have?”

His was still composed well enough, but the flames that sizzled in his eyes betrayed his fury. You couldn’t help but be delighted at him finally unleashing. It was odd how a shiver of excitement shot down your spine at the fact.

“Yes. You hate that you burn for me. You hate that you were weak until I taught you how to be strong. The female you are today benefited from my tutelage in times so dark when the old you would’ve rather cowered than fought to survive.”

You had nothing to say for you knew he was right. Eris wasn’t the entire reason you had grown as you had grown plenty from your own hard work and determination—but he had played a big part in your story, in your journey to the person you’d become.

He knew you couldn’t deny it, either.

Breathing hard, you mentally flailed for your next insult—your next barb—and came up empty. Instead, you opted for the truth. For one of the only things you’d yet to puzzle out in the years since.

Your voice had lowered, more controlled but had yet to soften. It was still breathy when you voiced the words, though.

“Why that night? Why just once?”

Amber eyes scanned your face, searched your own eyes. You tracked the movement as he swallowed hard.

“Maybe because I could no longer stay away.”

His voice was raspy, strained, like he was restraining desire and something else you couldn’t name.

But it was the wrong thing for him to say—a fresh wave of anger blooming in your chest.

“Don’t you fucking dare. You are not allowed to make anything that happened between us sound romantic. It was the furthest thing from that. It was cold, heartless and ugly. You did nothing but use me!”

“And you used me, sweetheart. You cannot be naive enough to not realize there were worse options than me, down there. Your High Lord could tell you that. If you hated it so badly you always had the option to fend for yourself—you didn’t though. You needed me and you used me just as much.”

You were positively vibrating with anger by this point.

“I’m not listening to this anymore,” you growled, pushing past him and storming through the doorway to the hall.

Unfortunately for you, Eris followed, hot on your heels.

“Why is it you’ve never entertained the idea of me explaining myself? You have no idea the sacrifices I’ve had to make.”

You whirled around, heart pounding, hands shaking.

“Because nothing you could say would ever make what happened okay! Nothing would erase what happened.”

Your chest was heaving, your mind racing, your body sending you so many mixed messages that it left you in a tail spin. You were furious with him, you wanted him. You wanted to be far away from him, you wanted to be in his arms.

Anger was so easily entwined with arousal when it came to the two of you—or at least, you.

You had no idea how Eris managed to pick up on your warring thoughts, the mental and physical battle you were fighting. His eyes were bright with something you couldn’t identify—maybe just simple knowing. After all, despite everything, he still had somehow managed to know you better than most.

“For a female that insists to have hated it, your enthusiastic moans sure betrayed your current denial. If you desire a repeat, I’m sure I can be persuaded into a second indulgence.”

His condescending words filled your ears and somehow, you lost control of yourself, of your body. You’d been pushed too far, too long—pushed over the edged—as you moved before you could even think.

A sharp crack filled the air as your palm met his cheek. For the first time in your entire acquaintance with the male, he actually looked stunned—at a loss for words.

Your palm stung and you stared, horrified. You’d slapped him.

It hadn’t made you feel much better in hindsight, though it’d made you feel just a shade better in the moment, but that was it. You didn’t apologize, but you felt tinges of guilt creeping in.

“I cannot forgive you for the things you said to me, the things you did,” you finally said.

His cheek had bloomed red, rivaling the shade of his hair. If it hurt badly, he didn’t let on. Instead, his gaze cut into you, his anger no longer hidden.

“Good. I don’t expect you to.”

His shoulders were tense, his entire body rigid with barely controlled fury. Good. You wanted him angry. His following declaration was delivered with a lethal amount of calm.

“I am not the same male I was Under the Mountain.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you scoffed.

“Sweetheart, you’ve never been a fool when it comes to me.”

“I very much seem to be because every time you’re around you cause me nothing but trouble.”

Anger banked just the slightest, the smug quirk of his lips accompanied with a flick of a brow upward, displaying just that.

“If I’m not mistaken you’re the one who tripped and fell on my cock.”

You threw your hands up in exasperation.

“Always back to this! Just tell me I’m good for nothing more than being your little whore and just leave,” you huffed.

“Tell me, why does that bother you so much when you were willing to get on your knees, willing to crawl to me—willingly fucked me?”

Heat filled your face, his crude words effectively embarrassing you—and even worse—stoking a fire of another sort in you.

Eris wasn’t finished though. He stepped closer, hovering above you. His face was mere inches from yours, which made his next question even more mortifying.

“Is your pride hurt because I came on you and not inside you?”

His voice was a mere whisper, breath fanning against your face. Your eyes traitorously flickered to his lips then back up to knowing, piercing eyes.

“You’re a prick,” you breathed, less conviction in your words than you’d hoped.

He only answered with a deep amused chuckle. His amusement quickly faded though, severity returning to his face, his tone.

“Nothing I did was with the intention of harming you,” he uttered, barely above a murmur.

“You certainly have a strange way of proving those claims,” you fired back, still defiant.

“You’re a fool if you think once was ever going to be enough for me.”

His voice was still that low cadence, dripping with that normal arrogance, but his words sent goosebumps skittering across your skin.

“I’ve wanted you in every way possible for a long time.”

You weren’t sure if he meant physically or beyond that. But you didn’t care. You were tired of fighting, tired of running.

The anger—the hatred that wasn’t entirely true hatred—was draining. You decided to succumb to the thing that had been gnawing at you from inside out for over two years now. The one that was whispering in you, so still and quiet, but insistent.

So succumb you would, even if for only one night.

Eris was still standing in front of you, awaiting a reply to his confession, though there was nothing more you could say. That familiar pull was so insistent, so loud, your body reacting to him even when you didn’t want it to. Just being angry with him had your heart racing, chest heaving—so similar to how one reacted when aroused.

All your senses were going haywire.

You wanted to claw at him, lick him, taste him. You wanted to—

Before you could even finish the thought, you actually acted on it

The humorous thing was it seemed Eris did the exact same thing, face swooping towards yours just as you tilted upwards.

Then your mouth collided against his in a searing kissing.

You were moaning the moment your lips pressed against his—in nothing but sheer relief. It was like a drink of much desired water after a hard training session, desperate for just one sip.

All irritation, all anger vanished, sliding away in an instant. In its place, a sense of peace filled you, an odd sense of belonging accompanying it.

As you kissed, his hand came up, thumb and forefinger caressing the sides of your neck, stroking it with his fingers. It wasn’t to choke like last time—as the weight of his hand didn’t settle there—but it still gave you chills nonetheless.

You practically melted under his touch, sighing as you kissed him, hands flattening against his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your right palm and you pulled back slightly, trying to ease the heat of the kiss—not to put a stop to it, but just to slow it, savor it.

He was chasing your lips the moment you parted from him and you met his again in a softer, slower kiss, though the heat remained. His hands came up, cradling your face.

It was a drastic difference to past times he’d gripped your face, brutal and uncaring. You felt his fingers skim lightly over your jawline as his lips glided along yours. You shivered at the touch, every bad memory of that harsh touch—the cruelty behind it—shattering into a million pieces, replaced by one tender moment.

He groaned against your mouth at your reaction to him. It was like he, too, felt the weight of so many memories crumble, losing their hold on you, melting off of you from this kiss alone. In a sense, you felt every awful thing that stood between you and Eris disintegrate.

Cruelty replaced with softness, pain replaced with warmth.

Anger replaced with acceptance.

Something deep inside you broke wide open—a vault that had been holding onto such pain, such grief and anger. They flew away like birds freed from their cage.

Your hand tangled in his locks as your lips parted, welcoming the brush of his tongue just as much as your heart was beginning to truly open to him.

Then he was lifting you as he kissed you, your legs coming up to hug his hips. Your lips moved with his methodically, not even concerned with the fact you were now in his arms. Your hands slid to his hair, fingers of one tangling in the locks, your other hand gliding along the side of his neck.

He held you with one hand on your back, the other just on your ass and you breathed a laugh into the kiss, surprised at the lightheartedness of the moment.

Then, miraculously, he managed to walk the two of you a few feet while still kissing you and not manage to bump into anything.

“Damnit, one second,” he murmured, pulling away from your lips, “I’d like to live long enough for me to be inside you again.”

You made a small noise of desire at his words, lips tracing kisses along his jawline.

“You make it to the bedroom and you can have me any way you want, Eris,” you breathed.

He stumbled, nearly dropping you. You gasped, clinging to his shoulders to keep from falling to the floor unexpectedly. You looked at him, alarmed, but he’d frozen, no longer moving.

“What is it?”

“You…you’ve never said my name before.”

You tried to wrack your brain, trying to remember. That couldn’t be right…

“You’ve never called me Eris before,” he murmured.

It’d slipped out so easily, you hadn’t even thought about it.

“I’m sor—” you began, but he interrupted you.

He pivoted, briefly pressing you against the hallway wall, kissing you so soundly it left you breathless. He only spoke again when he pulled back.

“All I want to hear is my name. Say it a million ways, moan it, scream it, I don’t care. I just want to hear it.”

“Okay,” you blinked, still trying to process what had just happened.

He took very little time transporting you the rest of the way to the bedroom—after you gave instructions, biting back a laugh.

“Down the hall, take a left, first door on the right,” you breathed by his ear, teeth sinking gently into the lobe.

He just gave a half hearted growl, more out of frustration than anything. He peered sideways at you as he walked, noticing the way you ducked your head to hide the small smile that was blooming on your lips.

You couldn’t hide nor deny the sense of lightness you felt—such a drastic difference from the heavy, negative emotions from just five minutes ago. You ignored his curious glance, pressing your lips to the sharp line of his jaw before you migrated to his neck, teeth scraping gently against the sensitive skin just below his ear.

You didn’t miss the way his breath hitched—or the way he most definitely walked a tad faster.

Your lips pressed gently to his pulse point, the direct opposite to last time when it was his lips against yours. The feel of the rapid fluttering of it beneath your lips emboldened you, tongue dragging over the area. You felt his grip on your legs tighten just slightly.

You fully expected him to put you down the moment he reached your room, but even as he kicked the door closed with a foot, he carried you towards the bed. His lips met yours again, blindly carrying you to the bed.

When he reached the edge of the bed, legs hitting the side, he simply let go of his hold on you causing you to drop to the mattress with a dramatic bounce.

A wicked gleam in his eyes accompanied the smug curling of his mouth.

“I won’t make you crawl to me this time,” he uttered, “This time, I’m crawling to you.”

Your breath quickened, turning shallow as you backed up against the pillows. You watched as he—true to his word—crawled to where you laid at the head of the bed.

His hands slid along your sides as he appeared in your line of vision, pushing your shirt upwards with the motion. But, he didn’t kiss you, not yet.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be patient.

Arousal was like a drum beat between your legs and your hands tore at the buttons of that cobalt jacket he’d arrived in. You vowed if he didn’t pick up the speed, it’d soon be cobalt ribbons.

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as his fingers replaced yours, effortlessly unfastening the rest.

“You’ve never been one for patience, have you?”

Considering the fact it’d been more than two years since he’d been inside you last, you had a good notion to remind him that you’d been patient—or maybe more like stubborn—long enough.

You watched, hungrily, as his arms and shoulders shifted back with the movement of him removing the article of clothing, sculpted pale skin coming into view.

Your eyes fell to his bare chest, noticing for the first time the clusters of freckles splattered across his pale skin. It was as if someone had taken a paintbrush and bent the bristles, splattering tiny dots of paint across his skin.

Perhaps you’d been too lost in the heat of the moment, the ferocity of the last time. Maybe it was the fact it was always so dim—even with faelight Under the Mountain—that you’d missed them. Fingertips were gentle as they traced paths over the unique markings.

You felt him tense and you looked up. But it wasn’t anger or judgment in his expression. He looked absolutely undone—like he didn’t know what to do with your gentle touch. Your stomach tightened at the sight, at just how easy it was for him to take your breath away with one simple look.

Those eyes that had faced you with no mercy, with such heartlessness were now soft and vulnerable. They still look guarded, but the cruelty you’d once seen every time you looked at the male was nowhere to be found.

You wondered if he ever let his guard down for anyone, even for himself. Something told you it was foreign to him.

His hands still rested along your ribcage, underneath your shirt, thumbs brushing the skin softly. Soft sweeps of his thumb arcing high enough to brush the undersides of your breasts. It was enough to make your pulse speed, to give you chills at his delicate touch.

It was such a strange thing, going from the heated animosity to this surrender. The heat still simmered, channeled into a much healthier outlet, but it was a tad disorienting. These thoughts shot through your mind at rapid fire speed as you both laid, staring at one another, hands so gentle on each other.

You couldn’t say what had gotten into you. You looped your arms around his neck, trapping the long, silky strands of his hair beneath your touch. You kissed him again, letting him fall in the space between your legs.

You let the kiss say everything you had no idea how to voice. Your lips pressed to his firmly, moving in perfect sync with his, submitting to him as he captured your bottom lip, sucking on it gently. You breathed a sigh against his lips, his name tumbling so effortlessly from your mouth where once it was replaced with nothing but mocking nicknames.

The kiss muffled the sound greatly, but the sentiment was received. His hips pressed against yours and your moaned gasp was all you could muster at the hot press of his cock.

“Do you feel what you do to me?”

His words weren’t smug, arrogant or even teasing. They sounded raw, vulnerable, strained as he pressed closer to you, despite layers of clothing separating the two of you.

All you could focus on was the feeling of his arousal against you, your mind absolutely short circuiting. Your legs lifted, thighs bracketing his hips as your own canted, rubbing against that hardness. He groaned lowly, head dipping.

Eris’s voice was hushed as his lips traced the curve of your jaw.

“You’ve always been my weakness.”

And he had been yours.

You arched into him, hands sliding down his bare back. His lips met yours briefly but parted from you quicker than you expected. You eyed him as he sat back.

Paying little attention to you, he made quick work of ridding you of your clothes. They disappeared so quickly, you half wondered if he’d burned them from your body again—like before—just faster than your mind could process.

Your eyes caught a flash of motion as he tossed your underwear aside and you bit back a giggle.

How strange it was—how different this encounter was from the last time.

Leaning over you, lips tracing along your throat, he murmured against your skin.

“I’m not sorry for the last time,” he paused briefly before continuing, “I am sorry for the male I was.”

His apology was sincere, face serious. You had half a thought that Eris Vanserra likely apologized for very little in life.

But he had for this.

He didn’t give you a chance to answer—to even think of what to say. His attention was already shifting to your breasts like he’d never experienced them a day in his life.

You murmured the comment, half sarcastically and he just chuckled, tongue dragging a path over one that led straight over a nipple. You moaned appreciatively, the simultaneous sensation of his hand attending to the opposite breast, palm gripping, thumb brushing the peaked nipple.

You were already reaching between your bodies, your mission to rid him of his pants, to free the cock you were aching to have inside you again.

Instead, Eris caught your hands, stopping you, a simple statement leaving his lips.

“Another time.”

Then he was moving on, kisses being dropped down the length of your body, hands trailing in his wake as he descended. You found yourself blinking, confused.

Last time, he’d been all about his pleasure, hadn’t seemed bothered if you got off or not, didn’t even seem to entertain the idea of doing something such as—

“Shit,” you inhaled, your stream of thoughts broken at the sudden feel of his mouth on you.

It was a featherlight lick, just barely a brush of his tongue against your slickness. He gave a mixture of a hum and low growl as fingers parted your folds, exploring.

“Damn shame I haven’t done this sooner,” he mumbled, as if to himself.

You shifted due to his teasing touch, body aching for more. Your legs fell apart even further and he snickered, a teasing glint in his eye as he peered up at you.

“I do believe you’re dripping for me even more so than last time.”

You wouldn’t doubt it. The ache, the throb had practically begun the moment you’d scented him earlier. Then there’d been the heated argument and well, the two of you had ended up here.

Eris had retreated though, tiny kisses being scattered across your inner thighs, closing in on the outside of your core. Your breath hitched the closer he got to where you wanted him, anticipation building to a breaking point.

You gasped out, back arching when you felt the slow drag of his tongue from base to apex. He paused briefly, tip of his tongue circling around that bundle of nerves and you hissed at the sensation, at the denial of full on stimulation.

“Gods,” he groaned.

This time it was your turn to peer down at Eris. The sight of that head of red hair between your thighs could’ve done you in alone.

“Do you like the way I taste, Eris?”

Apparently you’d lost all control of your mouth as well as your mind.

The blazing flames sprung to life in his eyes, pure desire in them as he gazed up at you.

Fuck, you loved when he did that.

“You’ll taste better when you’re moaning my name.”

Cocky bastard.

When he returned to his task at hand, he still didn’t give you what you wanted—kissing, sucking, licking, building more anticipation and arousal in you, though you were impatient.

But he was amazing at this. You shouldn’t have been shocked at the fact. Turns out the male was skilled with his tongue in quite a few ways.

You halfway thought about petitioning the use of his mouth for more of this and less snark, but your attention was diverted from your thoughts when you felt his tongue dip into your core. It was a playful, slight movement before he plunged it in fully.

You keened, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circled and explored you, light strokes of it making your eyes nearly cross.

You whimpered, shifting, trying to get closer, trying to achieve more, though you weren’t sure of what. He was already providing you with mindblowing pleasure. Every single motion was controlled and deadly, a single thread in a grand tapestry of euphoria.

Each of his present movements had his nose brushing your clit and you moaned, squirming, pressing closer to his face, pushing his tongue deeper into you. At some point you’d raised, propped up on elbows so you could see him better—and the sight alone was wondrous.

When he finally turned his full attention to your clit, he made sure to keep an eye on you, assessing your body for what felt good and what didn’t. One certain movement had your body jerking fully, an unintentional moan expelling from you.

You swore you felt his lips curve against you as he murmured against your core.

“Unravel for me, beautiful.”

The low, measured cadence of his smooth and deep voice had your eyes clamping shut, pleasure coiling tighter.

You were doing just that—unraveling, that is.

Your thighs shook, quivering under his hands the closer to release you got. He clutched them harder in his grasp, increasing fervor—not like he hadn’t already displayed his enthusiasm. He moaned against your cunt as you tugged on the strands of hair tangled in your fist.

You pushed on his head, not able to get enough, not when you were this close. Your back was practically permanently curved off the bed as you ground against his face.

“Holy gods, don’t stop— please— please—”

You sounded pathetic to your own ears but apparently the sound was pleasing enough to Eris because you felt the vibration of his moan against you. His tongue and lips worked in tandem over your clit and you were so desperate, your hips canting as you pressed and grinded closer.

The building pressure erupted so quickly that you had no control over your reaction or your volume as you shattered. Your thighs closed inwards, legs squeezing his head as your body trembled with release. Your hips bucked as the loud and unabashed moans left your throat.

One hand came up to grasp your breast as you practically rode his face, your head dipped back, your hair pooling on the sheets below. You heard his growl as he gripped your thighs harder, not letting up until he was positive every last bit of your orgasm had been wrung from you.

It took you a second to catch your breath when he finally pulled away and you lifted your head, hand falling from your breast. You reached for him, wanting him now, trying to pull him back up to you.

But Eris had other plans.

He hooked his arms underneath your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he dove in again.

“Eris, I—”

But your protest died on your lips.

His tongue was light and gentle, your body still recovering from the first release. His lips were soft on it, bringing the bud between his lips in a light kiss before he retreated, blowing cool air on it.

You gasped, hand clutching the sheets. His eyes cut to the motion, a small smirk on his lips.

“I believe I still owe you a debt.”

“What—”

But once more, your remark was cut off as he bent down, tongue dragging through your folds once again. The way he groaned, eyes falling shut, as if you were the best thing he’d ever tasted, had your cunt clenching, desperately wishing to be filled.

He hummed as he pulled back, soft kitten licks being left against you, never in the same place twice as he relished your previous orgasm, building another one.

“I always knew your body loved me,” he smirked.

Gods, did it ever.

It was embarrassing, the amount you were gushing for him. You were positive the sheets underneath you were soaked from what he’d done to you already.

He lapped at your entrance, a grunt coming from deep in his throat—whether at your body’s reaction, the taste of you on his tongue, or both, you weren’t sure.

Peering down, you saw the exact moment his head turned to the side as he started licking you in sideways strokes, tongue persistent over your clit. From this angle, you could see the way his strong jaw moved with each motion.

You nearly combusted the moment his eyes snapped up to yours, the sight so incredibly sexy you just barely managed to hold on a tiny bit longer.

“Gods!” you gasped, body arching, head falling back.

Your hand tightened in his hair, the long strands bunching in your grasp as you tugged and simultaneously pushed his head down further. Release was building even quicker this time and you weren’t going to last much longer.

“Eris— Eris—”

Gasps of his name, turning into moans, were all you were capable of. You couldn’t take it, you were going to explode.

His hand pressed against your abdomen firmly, holding you down, though you couldn’t help the way your body kept inadvertently squirming the nearer you got to your second climax.

When you were swept away by your second release, your gasps and moans filled the room, your hand inadvertently tugging more harshly on his hair.

He didn’t let up this time, working you through it, pushing you further than you thought you could handle.

A hand left your thigh, two fingers lifting and pushing into you. You thought you might’ve let out an undignified squeak at the feeling, suddenly being filled when you’d been desiring it. His mouth paused long enough to provide you with a few slow drags of the digits.

“Eris— I can’t—”

You were gasping, so overwhelmed, practically begging for mercy. The pleasure was so amazing, but you weren’t sure you could take much more. You were still tingling from the previous release that had yet to fully fade.

He curled them just as his tongue pressed flat against the sensitive bundle of nerves. A sharp cry left your throat as you came a third time, even more intensely than the last.

At some point, both of your hands had ended up tangled in his hair, bunching, tugging and absolutely wrecking it. You clung to it like it was the only thing still tethering you to the world.

You were panting, body so incredibly sensitive as your hands fell from his hair, legs falling from where they’d ended up half over his shoulders. You laid limp and breathless against the sheets.

You were sure you’d ascended, had seen the Mother herself. You were still floating above yourself somewhere.

“Eris,” you whimpered, pitifully.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He leaned down enough to lick another path along your center, much softer this time. You still yelped though, utterly and completely overstimulated. Your hips jerked away involuntarily due to the sensitivity. He simply chuckled, pleased, but left a kiss against each inner thigh as if in apology.

All you could do was try to catch your breath, your chest still heaving as you watched him crawl back to the head of the bed, hovering over you once again.

“Think you can take a little more?” he murmured, face dipping to pepper kisses along your jaw.

You didn’t think you could speak.

He pulled back to peer down at you, brows raised in question.

Yes, you still wanted him badly. All you could do was nod though.

Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t done that Under the Mountain. You might’ve caved in half of the mountain from your shrieks of pleasure alone.

He still gave you a moment to breathe, to recover. His hand came up to your cheek, cradling it in his palm. His murmur was so low, you almost missed it.

“Beautiful.”

That thing in your chest seemed to flare in interest, especially in response to the way his reverent tone left you nearly as breathless as the three releases.

Your eyes locked on his, gaze steady and unyielding, letting him know how serious you were.

“I don’t want you doing what you did last time.”

He just raised a brow, opening his mouth to speak.

“I want you coming inside me,” you cut him off.

His expression shifted, heat in his eyes as he swallowed hard at your filthy command. He sounded hoarse, strained when he answered you.

“I’ll come in you however many times you want, sweetheart.”

That comment alone lit a fuse in you as you lurched upwards, head raising enough to capture his lips. As your lips worked, you reached down, helping him remove his pants.

It truly was a shame that he wasn’t naked yet.

When he’d kicked the last remaining clothes off his legs, he pulled your legs apart a fraction wider, closing his hips against yours with the intent to tease.

He dragged his cock along your dripping cunt, your hips automatically lifting to press closer. Hands roamed over you simultaneously, touching and rubbing over your body like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His lips hovered over yours, without kissing you, uttering a promise you were sure he had every intention of keeping.

“I intend to keep you full of me.”

As if you hadn’t been aroused enough for him.

“Do it,” you whimpered.

He sat back and you fought the urge to whimper again, strung so tight despite what he’d just done for you.

With one hand wrapped around his cock, he dragged the tip through your slick folds making you whine.

He was a menace, delighting in such teasing. His teeth sunk into his lower lip as his eyes cast downwards, watching as he dragged his cock against your core. He brought it up, tapping the tip against your clit. You hissed, hips twitching.

He groaned in response, his actions just as torturous to him as it was to you, though it seemed like the more aroused you got, the more affected he was.

He finally brought his cock to your entrance, pushing in with a hiss of his own. You couldn’t help the way your jaw slackened at the feeling. You’d thought you’d never forget what it was like when he’d been inside you—you thought you hadn’t—but it was even better than you remembered.

The stretch was just this side of pain, your body instantly welcoming him after so long, molding to fit him. The feeling of absolute fullness was overwhelming—in more than one sense.

“Oh gods,” came your reverent whisper.

It wasn’t the first time you’d uttered the sentiment today, but it was the first time that it felt like it was ripped from you in sheer awe.

He bent forward again, hovering over you as his face dipped to yours, connecting his lips with yours. Your body came alive underneath him as he thrust slowly, shallowly to begin with. Your arms lifted from the bed where they’d fallen earlier, hands gliding along his biceps. Your legs rose, draping along his sides. Your hips rose with his movements and he pushed closer, grinding just slightly when he thrust the deepest.

Your head fell back, lips automatically breaking from his.

“Oh, fuck. Sweetheart,” he rasped, sounding the most undone you’d thought you’d ever heard him.

“I know,” you breathed, “I know.”

Not all that shockingly, he didn’t waste much time on slow and gentle—you didn’t want him to.

His hips pulled back before slamming roughly into yours again. You responded accordingly, body arching into his as your chest pressed against him. Each thrust sent your body rocking, moving higher against the pillows as your hands grabbed at his back.

The feeling of the strong muscles of his back flexing, underneath your fingertips, as he repeatedly thrust into you made you tighten around him, inner muscles fluttering without your permission. He groaned at the feeling. That in turn made you again clench around him.

Gods, you and he were utter wrecks.

His hands were soft on you, the direct contrast to his quicker pace. They were slow, one hand in particular gliding along your outer thigh until it reached the bend of your knee, pulling it higher on his waist.

The slight angle change was enough for him to thrust deeper and your legs tightened against his sides. Your hips rolled with his, meeting his every movement.

He was even better than you remembered, if you were honest with yourself.

He peered down, watching as his cock slid in and out you, groaning so gutturally it made heat shoot through your entire body.

“Look at the beautiful mess you’re making on my cock, sweetheart.”

Your eyes followed his and you moaned at the sight, heat flaring hotter within you.

“Eris.”

Your whine was incredibly undignified but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Your nails scratched down his back as he dropped to his forearms, mouth hovering mere inches over yours.

Momentary short brushes of kisses were exchanged, you feeling the whisper of his lips against yours time and time again. Shallow breaths mingled in the close space, warm exhales and soft pants mixed with the occasional moan.

The snap of his hips against yours sent a jolt of pleasure through you—it was brutal, hot and electric. You pulled him closer like you couldn’t stand any space left between you.

“You’ve— ruined me—” he panted, head dropping to hover near the crook of your neck.

“Please,” you uttered, not even sure what you were begging for at this rate.

One arm lifted from the bed, pinning one of yours to the mattress above your head. His hand slid into yours easily, fingers immediately entwining with yours. His other hand migrated south, fingers rubbing circles on your clit.

You cried out his name, eyes squeezing shut at the overwhelming amount of ecstasy. Your heels dug into his back, legs wrapping around his waist fully, pulling him deeper as he quite literally fucked you like he was desperate to make you feel everything.

A piece of you longed for him to feel everything you did.

You were completely tangled in him and you didn’t want it any other way as you both chased release. His voice was rough around the edges as he murmured half intelligible sentiments. You didn’t care that you couldn’t piece together his words—too far gone yourself to truly be able to process them anyway. Just hearing him as undone as you felt spurred you to release even quicker.

Your whole body trembled as release inevitably hit you, wave after wave of such incredible euphoria that you were left actually gasping for breath. Your body practically glued itself to him from the simple way your body arced off the bed and into his own.

It was like your body had come alive once again. After all, your body had always loved him.

Perhaps even before you realized you had too.

Even though you were still dazed, attempting to blink the remnants of your release from your blurry vision, his mouth crashed harshly into yours. The kiss was searing and messy, but you welcomed it anyhow. You felt his body stiffen under your touch and his lips fell away from yours.

“Fuuuck,” came his long, dragged out groan.

His hips stuttered before his own body trembled and you felt the tell-tale rhythmic pulse buried deep within you as he came, his release spilling hot in you.

Oh gods, the feeling was more amazing than you could’ve imagined.

Your lashes fluttered, feeling it already slickening your thighs, impossible heat and arousal building again.

Much to your disappointment, he pulled out quicker than you’d like, leaving a sudden emptiness behind

Then he was pulling you up, situating you in his lap. His mouth was at your ear, arms wrapping around you.

“I promised to come in you as many times as you wanted—I tend to keep my promises.”

You could’ve eaten him alive.

He must’ve seen the immediate hunger fill your face because a wicked smirk spread across his own as he lifted you enough to position you properly.

Before you even had time to think of what was happening—or the fact he was still leaking from you—he was inside you again.

“Two minutes too long,” you mumbled, already rolling your hips.

His laugh was deep, lighter than was usual for him.

“Wasn’t even two minutes, sweetheart.”

His mouth hovered over yours for a moment, eyes flickering to yours as he stalled before pressing his lips to yours softly. His hands glided up your back, pulling you closer as your hips circled and lips matched the same rhythm.

It was then you realized just exactly what he was doing.

He was replacing the tainted, harsher version of this from years ago, with this. A do-over of sorts, a second chance.

“Eris?” you breathed,

You almost said it, came close to admitting to that instinct you’d shoved down time after time. You almost confessed then.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

His eyes were shuttered, head leaning back to look up in your face. His hands situated on your hips as he helped move you on him—such a contrast to the male who’d cared only about himself once upon a time.

“I’m sorry.”

You leaned forward, hand tangling in his hair as you jerked his head upwards enough so you could kiss him soundly.

You didn’t know if he realized what you were apologizing for—Cauldron you truly didn’t know what you were apologizing for.

Maybe for losing your nerve—not being able to tell him in the end. Not like this.

Maybe for slapping him earlier.

Maybe for all the time you spent hating him.

Maybe for the years you avoided him.

Maybe for falling in love with him.

When you pulled away, you noticed the way his lips were red and kiss bruised—though they had been for a little while due to current activities.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he murmured.

You had been in his lap many times, even like this before, but nothing had felt this vulnerable, this intimate. Looking down at him now, you decided this was your favorite view, yet.

You told him just that and you watched something soften in his features even more.

His hand cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jawline. How odd it still was to feel such a delicate touch on you by his hands when you’d once received the direct opposite.

Perhaps it was his way of attempting to replace all those bad memories, in the only way he knew how.

Your hands curled over the curve of his shoulders as you rose and fell on him, every rock of your body causing the skin of your stomach and breasts to brush him. Every touch lit you like a fuse—as if he was transfusing some of his fire magic from his veins into yours from this mere connection.

Most of this time was spent moving slowly and gentle, mouths continuously finding one another. Soft whimpers and whispered words shared between you and him made the experience so achingly tender. That thing in your chest unfurled as if finally being allowed to see the light of day—you couldn’t have fought it if you’d wanted to.

His hands roamed from your thighs—to your hips, moving you faster on him—to the slope up your back. His lips were greedy on you, hot kisses left along the line of your throat. You felt the reverberation of his groan against your skin—not even from anything you’d done, but just his own overwhelmed pleasure.

You shared the sentiment.

“I could fuck you for days,” he uttered around a groan.

The comment seemed to slip free from him before he’d had a chance to vet it.

You moaned, low in your throat, completely fine with that idea, the debauched tone of his voice making your hips speed up.

“You promise?” you breathed.

His only answer was the way his grip on your body tightened.

Your thighs had begun to burn as you tired, having pushed yourself past your limit. Despite the last time—when he gave you no choice but to push through the ache if you wanted release—you were certain, this time, you’d falter long before either of you reached completion.

His hands slid back to your hips, lifting you slightly, his hips moving even just a tad to give you some relief.

You had no idea what possessed him as his lips dropped to your shoulder, your collarbone, leaving marks—biting, nipping, teeth scraping as you moved back and forth over his hard length.

Every breath drawn from either of you ended in a moan. With every drag of his cock, every slide as you moved in his lap you grew closer and closer not only to release, but unleashing the hidden threads of your soul that you’d spent so long burying deep.

It glowed so brightly in your chest, it was impossible to ignore.

Your lips pressed to his jaw, your body seeming to take over for you, quickening your pace. Strong arms came around you, holding you tight against him like here, in the safety of Eris’s arms, nothing bad could ever happen to you.

His mouth hovered near yours, his warm breath fanning over your face as he uttered his question.

“You gonna come for me again?”

You bit your lip and you watched his eyes flicker to the motion before meeting your own. Your hands tangled in his hair, a small, sultry smile blooming on your lips.

“Only if you do.”

He let out a rough, strained chuckle, almost in awe as his hands traveled over your body softly, seemingly trying to memorize it.

“You’ve always been my good girl.”

Release was gathering again and his surprising praise had you inadvertently tightening around his cock, earning a low growl from him.

Open mouths hovered over one another once again as you both chased release, the only sounds being your shared breaths and the sounds of your bodies meeting again and again. It spiraled tighter, winding closer until it finally broke like a band stretched too taut.

“Er—”

Breath was ripped from your lungs so swiftly, you weren’t able to even get the second syllable out. It was replaced with nothing but a gasped cry as you fell, arched perfectly against him like your body was always meant to mold to his. Hands clung to him as your hips rocked, wanting him to go with you.

Your name ripped from his chest in a guttural groan that had your grip tightening on him, ecstasy skyrocketing at the sound of your name so broken on his lips. You kept moving until well after he was finished filling you, the evidence sliding down your thighs, even with him still nestled inside you.

You finally slowed to a stop, hands having fallen to grip his biceps. Your eyes were still closed and you struggled to find the strength to open them again.

His hand threaded through your hair as his palm cupped the back of your head.

“Hey.”

The word was soft, his voice tired. Your lids finally lifted open to find him staring at you. The sight of him looking so ruined—because of you—did something to you. Your heart squeezed in your chest, that hopeful secret twining around your soul, tighter.

“Hey,” you repeated, raspy, still too dazed to think of what to say.

He didn’t poke fun at you, didn’t even make a remark. His eyes dipped to your lips as his thumb brushed the bottom curve of it, gently. You stayed still, letting him take what he needed.

You had all that you needed, having him in your arms and underneath you.

“Glad to know you’re still with me,” he hummed, absentmindedly.

Despite being worn out and sore, arousal and need still clouded you like a fog. It was utter insanity.

You didn’t want to move, but knew you needed to. The instincts beyond your control were nagging at you and the warmth in your chest still simmered, lingering.

You ignored it for the moment as you climbed out of his lap, finally separating your body from his. Eris watched you move like it pained him to watch you leave his embrace, his body.

You groaned softly as you collapsed on the bed, body buzzing from everything he’d done to you. You curled up on top of the sheets, pushing your feet and legs just barely under them.

Assessing eyes were on you, raking down your breathless and spent form.

“A bit cock drunk are we?”

There was no smugness in his tired voice—though perhaps a touch of pride—as the sheets rustled and he joined you, laying down beside you.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, eyes slipping closed.

You heard a soft exhale of breath, perhaps a small laugh as you felt a warm hand on your stomach, the gesture tender and caring as it slid to your side. You basked in the feel, not minding it one bit.

You were absolutely exhausted, wrung out physically and even a bit emotionally. That feeling that had burst free earlier to flood and fill your chest only strengthened and you knew you could no longer deny it.

You’d always known. But you’d denied it, pretended it didn’t exist, hoped it’d vanish. When it hadn’t, you’d shoved it deep, hoping it would wither and starve, deep where you’d left it.

It hadn’t. It burned within you and you finally relented, giving in, acknowledging it, letting the knowledge flood your mind, your soul.

Mate.

Eris was your mate.

You had no idea if you should mention it to him—how you’d even broach the subject. You were preparing to open your mouth, to say something, anything, when he beat you to the punch.

“I was trying to protect you.”

Your eyes snapped open, confusion clouding your features. Gods, he truly was beautiful. Even though his hair was an absolute wreck, tangled and sticking up from where your hands had been all through it, he still looked like the breathtaking male you’d always known.

His pale cheeks were flushed the prettiest shade of red and you wanted to lick it, run your tongue over the freckles that marked his upper cheeks. His lips were swollen and red, just as tantalizing—you wanted to kiss and bite them all over again.

Amber eyes, filled with fatigue, watched you—you knew he realized just how much you were staring at him.

You’d heard what he’d said and knew exactly what he was alluding to, but the rather random statement was startling. Your eyes lifted to his again—a silent statement in them for him to continue.

“One night, I overheard a group of males—three or four of them—discussing you. They’d—”

He paused, eyes going hard, jaw clenching as if trying to rein in his anger.

“They’d set their sights on you. They were discussing all the things they desired to do to you—against your will, I knew. They wanted a night—or gods forbid, nights—of immoral pleasure.”

All the lightness from earlier—from the bliss Eris had invoked in you—drained from you. You must’ve paled or something similar because his hand tightened on your hip.

“I’ve seen some of the worst things certain types of males can do to females,” he said, face grave, “I was not about to stand by and do nothing with that knowledge. If anything had happened to you, I would’ve never forgiven myself.”

“So you approached me with the bargain,” you filled in, connecting the dots.

“Yes.”

He had no idea, but you had a sneaking suspicion just where that instinct to protect you came from.

“You know how Amarantha was. She’d have encouraged it, herself.”

There was a bite in his tone that made you tense, flashes of horrible memories appearing behind your eyes. You squeezed them shut, trying to will them away.

You felt a soft brush against your cheek, saw his hand retreating when you opened your eyes again—his thumb briefly brushing it just to bring you back to the present.

“So you made the deal with me just so you could fuck me?” you asked, exasperated.

“I made it because I wasn’t going to allow those males to have what they considered fun with you. Turns out, I had the fun instead of them.”

“You thought it’d truly protect me?”

He didn’t break your gaze—answering a question with his own.

“It worked for Rhysand and Feyre didn’t it?”

Your pleasure riddled brain scrambled to keep up.

“What do they—”

But Eris interrupted you. Not to be rude, but to make his point.

“Where do you think Rhysand got the idea for Feyre?”

Other memories surfaced.

The nights you’d spent—month after month—watching Feyre, dressed in sin and cobwebs, dancing for Rhys, keeping him entertained. The only differences were the ink, black as night, that he’d had painted on her—to ensure no one else but him touched her. Inappropriately or not. The other was the fact he’d kept her drunk on fae wine, to have no memory of the things that happened at such awful parties of Amarantha’s. She’d been a mere human then. If the things you’d witnessed as fae disturbed and haunted you, you knew in that sense, your High Lady had been spared some of the pain and trauma.

“From us?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he answered, “He learned from watching me.”

You said nothing, turning the information over in your mind.

“You should know that we all had to be someone we weren’t down there. In fact, you would know better than most actually, considering who your High Lord is.”

He said the words with such weight that you knew this wasn’t something easy for him to do—to discuss this. But you listened, finally giving him the space to explain—finally in the place where you could listen.

It was possible that all of this had happened exactly how it was supposed to. Simply because if he’d tried to explain at any other time before this, you wouldn’t have listened.

But you were now.

He continued on, jaw working, as if he was nervous—hesitant to reveal such vulnerability. You reached out, palm resting flat against his chest—right over his heart. Your silent encouragement for him to continue.

“I don’t claim to be much better than the person I was Under the Mountain—but the male I was down there was born of desperation, survival and—” he paused, eyes flicking away from you.

“And a deep desire to make sure you stayed safe.”

“Was taking me to your bed ever a part of your plan?” you whispered, more curious than accusatory.

“No, it wasn’t.”

You raised a disbelieving brow.

“It’s not like I wasn’t interested, sweetheart. I’d watched you for months.”

You made a noise, low in your throat, knowing he was severely downplaying it. You’d known of Eris for a long time and had felt his eyes on you multiple times over the years Under the Mountain. But it had increased in frequency in the months leading up to the inevitable bargain you’d made with him.

“A lot longer than that, yes,” he gave you a knowing look, “But you always intrigued me. Always drew my eye. I could never figure out why or what it was about you. How you so effortlessly managed to draw me in without you seeming to even realize it.”

You swallowed hard, pulse racing.

You knew exactly why.

The singular word seemed to clang through your bones.

“So what made you change your mind that night?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Amarantha was bored. In search of someone to torment that night—maybe even torture, who knows? I heard your name and I swear it felt like my heart stopped. Even if you hated me—even if you infuriated me—I would never subject anyone to her attention.”

His eyes scanned your face, voice softening a tad.

“Especially you.”

You recalled how you somehow seemed to sense he was off—tense, distant, not his usual self.

“I knew something was different. You weren’t acting normal,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed soft sweeps over your hip before removing his hand, brushing some of your hair back over your shoulder. You shuddered when the backs of his fingers stroked down your cheek.

“I had every intention of keeping her attention off of you. Which meant removing you from the festivities that night. Until I realized I needed to broaden that net of protection—pull it tighter.”

You thought back to that night, running through images of what happened—bypassing the images from his bedroom that wanted to surface. It wouldn’t pay to stoke arousal again right now.

But then it dawned on you.

“Beron?”

Eris nodded gravely.

“It was a foolish oversight on my part. My father was never one to concern himself with what—or who—my brothers and I entertained ourselves with. When he sought me out that night, knowing exactly where to find me, with you, I knew I had to protect you from him, as well. From his cruelty.”

Which is why he’d treated you so coldly, with such careless cruelty. To make you appear as nothing more than a toy that was beneath him.

It was amazing how you were starting to see things you’d thought of as happening one way, in a brand new light now.

You remembered the other notable event from that night.

“And when Rhys caught us?”

“I was terrified that all my careful planning had been for naught.”

“I felt how tense you were. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what. Granted, I was a bit terrified, myself, of Rhys at that point. I mean I thought you were bad enough, but Rhys was worse.”

“I’m not entirely sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

His comment was wry, a hint of teasing lightening the gravity of the situation—very typical Eris.

“Rhys pretty much figured out what occurred,” you commented.

He gave you an amused look, the typical trademark of smug Eris Vanserra—lips curving upwards in a smirk.

“My hands were halfway down your dress—it didn’t take much to make that connection.”

You ignored his smart remark, continuing on.

“He never told though. He kept that secret. From Amarantha and the rest of our friends.”

Something flickered in Eris’s gaze.

“Was it something you were ashamed of?”

You could’ve been mistaken, but you thought you sensed a shade of hesitancy in his tone.

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” you admitted, “I don’t regret it, but I hate how it happened.”

You had replayed the scene in your head so many times. You hadn’t minded reminiscing on that heat, the chemistry that had been there. You could do without remembering most of his savagery. The crude remarks, the cutting words.

Even if that hadn’t been the real him.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t regret it either.”

Fingers trailed down your arm, over your side, tracing random patterns, his eyes watched the path his fingers took.

“Though I feel like I need a do over for that,” he mused aloud, maybe unintentionally.

You snorted, you couldn’t help it.

“Didn’t you just do that? Around—what was it—five times?”

He only smirked slightly, something more clearly still on his mind.

“That night…when I refused to finish in you—gods this is gonna make me sound all kinds of horrible.”

He ran a hand over his face before settling it back on your side—you instinctually leaned more into his touch.

“I wanted to, so fucking badly. But I wasn’t going to put my own pleasure over your safety. I wasn’t about to risk you falling pregnant down there. Especially not with contraceptive brews being so hard to come by.”

You were breathless at his confession—it was something you’d never once considered. Not when it was said it was harder for fae to become pregnant.

He still hadn’t been willing to risk it, though.

He blew out a breath, long and slow, as if relieved to finally have everything laid bare between the two of you.

Well, almost everything.

“So…there’s the truth. Whatever you do with it is your choice, but I figured you deserve to hear it.”

You weren’t sure how, but for the first time in years, you felt lighter. A majority of it was definitely from earlier, but to know his side of the story—to understand the forces that were in play that you’d never known—made a difference.

You accepted his truths—knowing for a male like Eris, voicing the truth was better than any sort of empty apology. You knew it was his apology.

And you would no longer hold the things of the past against him.

As you looked up at him, apprehensive amber eyes watched you, patiently waiting for you to process everything he’d unveiled.

Gods, you wanted to kiss him.

So you did.

You leaned up, capturing your lips with his soft ones. He grunted against your lips, bringing a hand to the back of your head as your mouth glided over his, tenderly.

You broke the kiss, breathing against his lips.

“I never hated you, Eris.”

You hadn’t. You thought you had for far too long.

But hatred had just been an easy excuse for something far, far deadlier—far more deep and rooted within you.

When you pulled back fully, his eyes were shuttered, looking dazed as he looked at you. Then, they widened, in surprise.

“You,” he breathed, voice cracking, slightly.

You didn’t have to ask to know what had just happened, you just managed to know. Perhaps it was because he looked just exactly like you’d felt that night, so long ago.

You watched the realization slowly bleed into his features. The explanation for everything that had occurred between the two of you, the hints of regret as he realized all that he’d done—while not knowing who you were to him. You saw guilt trying to creep in and you tried your best to put a stop to that instantly.

Your palm came up, cupping his cheek—the same one you’d slapped earlier. Your thumb brushed over the area that now looked perfectly normal, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t say anything, letting him work through the realization, just letting him know you were there, present with him.

You knew he’d have things to work through after coming to this realization and you’d be there for everything, in any way he needed you to be.

But right now, you simply smiled, having known all along—having run from it all this time. Your other hand replaced the one you’d moved to his cheek, pressing it against his bare chest as Eris stared at you like he’d never seen you before. One of his hands came up, clasping the wrist of your hand that cradled his cheek, just holding your touch there.

You didn’t hold it against him anymore. Hold any of your history with him, against him. It was what it was. Every day was a new day and the future looked bright—well if anything, it definitely looked a lot more fiery.

There would be time to explain, to tell him how long you’d known, when you knew. But that would come later.

You inclined your head, your small smile growing exponentially at the awe in his voice—the awe that was blooming on his face. Your heart reached out for your other half, the long buried thread coming to the surface again, in search of its equal.

You gazed up at him, confirmation and peace lacing your simple answer.

“Me.”