SJM kink meme

The tavern keeper was half heartedly sweeping the floor with a stiff broomstick, which was achieving little more than tossing dust into the air that tickled Feyre’s nose.

“You’ll still get your cut of it,” she grumbled, lifting her head to peer towards the heavy wooden door. She contemplated rushing towards it and slipping out of the tavern before the tavern keeper could say another word. She knew what was coming.

“With the way you’re driving off my customers, I expect my cut to be at least half.”

This was an endless conversation between them.

“Five marks for the week,” she said, gritting her teeth against the thudding in her skull to sit up straighter. “That’s our deal.”

The tavern keeper set the broom aside. Feyre wondered why he even bothered, when the tavern looked exactly as filthy as it had been when he started. Feyre was tempted to point out that if he was really so concerned about driving off his customers, he should start with a thorough wipe down of the sticky tables.

“Are you forgetting I charge for these rooms hourly? I could make twice that in a night if I kicked you and your whore sisters out and started renting that room.”

Feyre held back the snarl building in the back of her throat from how carelessly he used that word. It wasn’t a new insult, and there were inklings of truth to it, but never from her sisters.

She glanced towards the other side of the room, where Elain was situated at one of the circular high tables, sipping tea from a chipped mug and staring out a nearby window. Nesta sat beside her and paged through one of her romance books, head propped lazily against her fist. Her sisters tried hard to make an honest living. Elain tended to the gardens of the more well-to-do fae across the Sidra, and Nesta tutored some of the children by the docks. It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t as much as they’d make selling their bodies, but they were steadily saving up enough to move out of the tavern attic. And that was a start.

“Fine,” Feyre snapped. The tavernkeep looked satisfied, until she primly added, “With the money I won last night, I’m sure we can find somewhere else to stay.”

The tavern keeper crossed his arms, scowling at her like she was a stubborn child. “Seven marks. You’re not going to find a better deal than that. Not unless you’re willing to open those pretty legs.”

Red-hot anger ignited in her chest. Feyre slammed her hands onto the table. The old wood creaked in protest, but did not give. From the other side of the room, she heard Elain and Nesta scramble to their feet.

“If I’m ever going to open my pretty legs, it will be for more than a moldy mattress and a room I can’t even stand up in.” She narrowed her eyes at the male. “I’m paying five,” she said, continuing to stare at him. She imagined that she was dipping an arrowhead into her mind, lacing it with her willpower, before she trained that shot at him. She murmured, almost coaxing, “Isn’t that agreeable?”

The shot snapped forward. She could almost see it hit. The way he seemed to leer backwards, unsteady.

“Yes,” he said, dazed. “I think it is.”

“Good,” Feyre crooned, before turning towards the door.

Elain and Nesta immediately fell at her heels, rushing out the door to greet the blistering, too-bright sun.

As Feyre blinked back the sunspots and the splintering pain behind her eyes, Nesta grabbed her arm and hissed, “You need to be careful with those tricks. They’re beginning to attract attention.”

Feyre shook herself out of her sister’s grip. The headache was only exacerbating the leftover anger from the tavern keeper’s words, and she was in no mood for a lecture from Nesta. “The sailor only claimed I cheated because I wounded his pride.”

“And there is nothing more dangerous than a male with wounded pride.”

Elain chimed in, softly, from behind Nesta, “They’re starting to call you a witch, Feyre.”

“I’ve been called much worse.”

In fact, witch almost seemed complimentary compared to the insults that were hurled at her nightly from the leering drunks in the tavern. And it wasn’t far off from the truth.

“Stealing from drunks is one thing,” Nesta said. “But stealing from a merchant who works for the High Lord…”

“What’s he going to do, tattle on me? Gambling is legal in Velaris, last I checked.”

Gambling wasn’t just legal—it was a reputable form of business. Even across the Sidra, in the more refined establishments, the High Fae enjoyed their drinking and gambling and prostitutes. Even the High Lord was rumored to attend the pleasure halls on a regular basis. Feyre sometimes contemplated what it would be like to work in those places. If the conditions were tolerable, and the pay was decent, it seemed like easy money to lay on a bed and let the High Fae enjoy the novelty of bedding a half-human. But the one and only time she’d approached one of the pleasure halls, just to explore if it was an option, she was turned down at the door. Evidently, the High Fae preferred females who were freshly bathed. And even on days where they bathed in the Sidra, the scent of the brine clung to them. Regardless of how furiously they scrubbed themselves with soap.

“The point is that you're pissing off people with powerful friends,” Nesta said, still following Feyre as she turned down a road that led to the center of the city.

The sound of the morning market carried towards them across the river. With the arrival of the merchants, the Palaces were likely abuzz with new wares to trade from the faraway shores. Feyre stepped towards the marble bridge that would take her to the Rainbow, her favorite section of the city, but she was stopped when Nesta pulled violently on her arm.

“Maybe the High Lord is above these sorts of drunken squabbles,” she hissed, “but there’s nothing stopping him from looking the other way if his merchant chooses to retaliate.”

“I made twenty marks off him,” Feyre said, exasperated. “That’s a lot of money to us, but it’s nothing to people like them. Besides, if I kept making that kind of money, we could get out of the tavern. We wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor anymore.”

Over Nesta’s shoulder, Elain shifted her weight back and forth, darting her eyes between them like she was weighing whether or not a fight was about to break out. And whether she would be playing mediator, or bystander.

Nesta let go of Feyre’s arm, huffing under her breath. “I’m just telling you to be careful, Feyre. Maybe lay low until the merchant fleet leaves.”

Lay low meant not going to the market. She could see Nesta’s warning, unspoken and yet still communicated so fiercely in those frozen ocean eyes that were far too much like their mother’s.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, looking away. If only so that Nesta and Elain would turn around and go back towards the docks. She still had every intention of going to the market. It was one of the few sources of joy in her otherwise miserable life, and she wasn’t going to let some disgruntled sailor dissuade her from going.

It was a gentle head nod from Elain that eventually convinced Nesta to let it go. They wandered off together, back towards the tavern, while Feyre followed the scent of grilled meat to the city center. It was a pleasant torture, the way the back of her mouth salivated and the pang in her stomach became nearly unbearable. But it was worth it to wander along the stalls, staring with wide-eyed wonder at all the foreign merchandise, the paints and dyes and spices, all more vibrant in color than the last.

The more friendly vendors would usually chat to her, often sharing stories about each of the products and their origins. Some of the stories were likely embellished, but Feyre liked indulging the little girl who used to hover at the docks while her father’s crew prepared his ship. That girl used to stare out at the horizon, listening to the crew discuss the details of their journey while she tried to paint a picture in her mind of the places they would be visiting. Feyre had attempted to stow away more times than she could count, and when her father found her—as he always did—he used to promise that when she and her sisters were older, he would take all of them to the continent.

But then his ship sank, stranding Feyre, her sisters, and their grieving human mother on the shores of Velaris. And now Feyre was left to savor every story graciously offered to her from the market vendors, slowly filling in more detail on the wide, blank map in her head.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

This was not one of the friendly vendors, interested in sharing stories. Feyre could tell by the tense draw of her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered warily over Feyre’s clothes, lingering on the hem of her sleeves like she expected Feyre would slip something from the stall and run.

She wouldn’t be the first to make that assumption. And since Feyre promised Nesta she would lay low, she did her best to offer the female a reassuring smile.

“Oh, no. I’m just looking. Thank you.”

The vendor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she said nothing more. Feyre did her best to casually meander to the next stall without arousing any further suspicion, keeping her hands clearly in sight. She even rolled up her sleeves, as if that were truly the problem. But there was nothing she could do to obscure the state of her clothes, or the dainty curve of her ears.

The only problem with rolling up her sleeves—and the reason she usually wore them down—was that it revealed the blue-black whorls that snaked up to her elbow. Not unusual for this Court, but still easily identifiable in a crowd.

“That’s her!”

Feyre snapped her head towards the center of the market square, where a group of men in familiar uniforms had abruptly paused their conversation to turn their heads towards their friend, the sailor who had lost 20 marks to her just last night. Who was now pointing across the square towards Feyre, where she stood innocuously by a stall of handmade jewelry.

And oh. There was violence in the way that he was staring at her.

Feyre didn’t think her reaction through. She had done nothing wrong. It would have been better to stand her ground, to let them confront her in a public setting, where people may still have turned their eyes away, but at least there was the chance that someone would intervene.

Instead, she ran. She didn’t even consider where. She just saw a thin path leading out of the marketplace and she bolted that direction, dodging wandering patrons and vendors carrying trays of freshly baked bread and bouquets of flowers. The crowd was so dense in some places that she needed to elbow her way past.

“Stop, thief!”

Her pursuers were having no such difficulty. Onlookers seemed to part intentionally for them, either assuming that Feyre was guilty of whatever crime they’d decided she committed, or simply not wanting to intervene with the primal male rage that was trailing at her back. She counted at least six pairs of footsteps thundering against the pavement.

At a fork in the pathway, she veered right, hoping she would lose them in the crowd and they wouldn’t see her dart down the narrow alley. Feyre never wished she was capable of winnowing more so than when she was forced to grind to a halt at the end of the alleyway. She peered, desperately, up the stone wall that appeared to belong to a series of apartments. Clotheslines were strung from the windows, hung with tunics and trousers that would hardly provide her much of an advantage against the group of males that turned down the entrance, no longer running now that they could see their prey was trapped.

She considered screaming. Would the residents of the building come out? Or would they simply pop their heads out the windows to watch? The sailor at the front stalked toward Feyre and shoved her roughly by the shoulder. The stone met her back with a harsh thud, dislodging the air from her lungs.

“Going somewhere, little human?”

Feyre twisted her head away and tried to step out of his touch, but he held firm.

“Yes,” she said, baring her teeth. “I was just on my way to spend more of your money.”

He pressed his face close. Over his shoulder, she could see his friends crowding in, using their bodies to block what was happening from any onlookers.

“I’ve been thinking about that little trick you pulled last night.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said, leveling their gazes. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about me. You don’t want to hurt me. You’re just angry because—

Feyre gasped as he yanked on her hair. He wound it around his wrist like a rope, using his grip to angle her chin upwards. She felt a kiss of sharp metal, cool against her hammering pulse.

“No more tricks this time. We’re going to make sure I get my money’s worth.”

Don’t panic, don’t panic. There has to be a way out of this. Someone, anyone who can help—

“Leave me alone,” she bit out, louder and angrier than she’d intended. “Get your filthy hands off of me.”

“Careful—the more you run that pretty mouth, the more I’m tempted to put it to use.”

Feyre snarled, yanking her arms in earnest. The sailor, who was much stronger, rewarded her by pressing the tip of the knife harder, until it drew one single drop of blood that trickled down her throat. Salt and metal twisted in the air and from the fiendish grins staring at her like she was their next meal, Feyre assumed they got off on it.

“What is going on here?”

An interesting spectrum of emotions crossed the sailor’s face in that moment. First it was swaggering, arrogant anger, lips curling back into a snarl that someone would have the audacity to interrupt him. When he turned his head and saw the male who had come up behind them, that anger quickly curbed into awe, then fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

There was no obvious threat about him, except that he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He was wreathed in shadow, obscuring some of his face. Even in the day, with the sunlight slanting in from the roofs of the buildings overhead, the darkness clung to him. But his eyes. His eyes were bright, like violet streaks of lightning in the dark.

The other males quickly parted for him, all bravado suddenly forgotten. Like the male that had attacked her, their eyes were wide. Nervous. The sailor released his grip on her hair, pocketed the knife.

No one was saying anything. The male with violet eyes was staring at her, nostrils flaring, shock flashing across his features at whatever he saw on her face. Feyre stood to her full height. She tipped her chin, not bothering to wipe the trail of blood from her neck. The sailor and his friends were clearly threatened by the male. She wanted him to see what they were about to do to her.

“I asked a question,” the new arrival said, not looking away from Feyre. He spoke in a low voice. Even so, there was a quality to it that seemed to vibrate through the air, rattling with anger that wasn’t present on his face, but was trembling through the earth beneath them.

“H-High Lord,” the sailor stumbled out. Feyre froze. “Forgive me. This whore stole twenty marks off of me last night and I was simply getting even.”

“He’s lying,” Feyre said, though she doubted the High Lord would care. Like Nesta said, he was above these sorts of squabbles. “He gambled his money, and lost it to me in a fair game of chance.”

“You cheated,” the sailor seethed.

“I’ve heard enough.” They both went rigid at the raw command in the High Lord’s voice, sharp without needing to speak any louder than a whisper. He tipped his chin to Feyre, full lips curling, just slightly, into the makings of a wicked smile. “What’s your name, darling?”

“F-Feyre. Feyre Archeron.”

“Feyre Archeron,” he repeated. Feyre couldn’t explain the shiver that wracked through her body, or how the High Lord noticed, with an unsubtle interest that chased away the shiver with a flood of heat.

The High Lord stepped towards her, turning on his heel to slip a casual arm around her shoulders. He dipped his head low, speaking into her ear in a way that could have been mistaken for intimate, had his voice not been loud enough for the others to hear.

“Well the good news, Feyre darling—” he purred that moniker, a lover’s caress against her cheek— “is that money lost in a fool’s gamble is hardly of any interest. Whereas threatening the safety of a Night Court citizen, that’s an issue of much higher concern to me.” He raised his face from her neck, his expression hardening as he turned to face the sailor. “Tell me, captain, do you not trust me, as your High Lord, to try these issues justly? Who are you to mete punishment on my people? “

“M-my apologies, High Lord.”

The apology only seemed to rile the High Lord’s anger. His lips curled back from his teeth. Feyre swore the temperature in the air dropped and that even the buildings surrounding them shifted nervously. Steadfast, ancient stone, moving for the first time in centuries to shrink back from the High Lord and the rage that thickened the atmosphere. Feyre could taste it on her tongue, sharp and brutal.

“Velaris citizens are under my protection,” he said, his voice quiet and utterly deadly. He stepped forward, removing her from the shelter of his arm. Feyre watched the grown males flinch, some of them stumbling backwards at just that one, singular step. “A threat against them is a threat against me.”

There had been rumors of the things that the High Lord could do, and the face that he wore outside of this city. Feyre had only ever heard kind things from the people who had encountered the High Lord in the streets, but this… this was the face of death incarnate. This was the most powerful High Lord in history, the Illyrian warrior who had ascended the peaks of Ramiel, the cruel lord that presided over the Court of Nightmares.

She could see it on the sailors' faces. The uncertainty of whether or not they were facing their own deaths. Her heart thudded so violently that she could feel it in the back of her throat. Would he truly kill them? Would she want him to?

The High Lord paused when he came to the sailor who had attacked her—the captain. He reached forward, gently brushing the shoulder of the captain’s jacket, as if there had been dirt there he was kindly chasing away. The captain looked moments from bursting into tears.

He whispered to him softly, crooning like a lover, “You weighed Feyre’s life and decided it was worth less than twenty little marks. If you have decided that the value of her life is so insignificant, what is stopping me from treating yours the same, hmm?”

They were all holding their breath. The High Lord’s palm was still braced around the captain’s shoulder, in a way that could have been mistaken for friendliness, if they weren’t all aware that he was perfectly capable of ripping that shoulder from its socket.

“Tell me, Feyre darling,” the High Lord purred, turning his head to look at her again. The murder in his expression softened, just a bit, when their eyes met. “Should I kill him for it?”

He said it like he was hoping she would say yes. Like he was asking for her permission. Surely she was imagining it. A High Lord asking her permission to do anything was absurd, but he was still staring at her, waiting for a response while the sailors behind his back trembled in fear.

“D-don’t kill him,” she said.

He definitely looked disappointed. Feyre almost took her words back.

“Very well. Captain, that means your life is now in her debt.” In a fluid motion, he stepped aside and shoved the male forward. “Say thank you, Feyre.”

The captain met her eyes. She knew that it was purely out of self-preservation, and not any true remorse, that he stuttered out, “Th-thank you, Feyre.”

The High Lord knew it, too. His smile became vicious.

“Now, now,” he tutted, almost playfully. “That won’t do. Get on your knees. Kiss her feet and apologize.” His voice remained coaxing, soft, but she watched the wrath sharpen in his eyes as he added, “Be grateful that her boots aren’t splattered with your blood.”

Like his knees had been tied to great, heavy stones, the captain dropped to the ground and bowed his head to her boots. Even Feyre’s face heated from the second-hand humiliation as the captain placed a kiss on the filthy leather.

“I’d insist on keeping you there,” the High Lord said, “but I wouldn’t want you wasting any more of Feyre’s time.”

In an instant, the motion too fast for Feyre to track, the High Lord hauled the cowering captain to his feet and threw him towards his open-mouthed crew.

“Get out of my city,” he snarled at them. “Now. If I ever see your faces again, I may not have Feyre to convince me to be so forgiving.”

“Wait.”

She didn’t know why she said anything. It was stupid, so stupid, to draw any further attention to herself. Especially with the High Lord as angry as he was.

But the High Lord paused. The sailors, too, though Feyre was only paying attention to those violet eyes as they slowly turned to face her.

His brow was quirked. A smile played on his lips. “Yes, Feyre?”

“The card,” she said, tearing her eyes away to look at the captain. “He has the Cauldron of Fate card. I assumed he stole it from you.”

Intrigued, the High Lord turned back to the captain. “My, and the true thief is revealed.” He held his hand out expectantly. The male scrambled for the deck of cards in his coat pocket. Painted cards slipped from his hands, falling to the ground in his frantic search for the Cauldron of Fate.

Once it was found, he handed it to the High Lord like he expected it might detonate. A soft hum sounded in the back of the High Lord’s throat as he inspected the front and back, holding the paper delicately between two fingers. “I’ve been looking for this card for half a century.” He tossed a glance towards Feyre and smiled. “Thank you for returning it to me, Feyre.”

All it took was a small flick of his wrist.

The card whirred through the air and sliced across the captain’s throat in a single, precise line. He collapsed to the ground, gurgling on his own blood, while the High Lord continued smiling at Feyre.

“Now I suggest you leave,” he said to the others, without even turning his head to acknowledge them. “Before my generosity wears thin.”

They disappeared without any further prompting, not even bothering to take their slowly dying captain, who was laying just behind the High Lord’s feet, staring vacantly at Feyre as he bled out on the stone. Nausea curdled in her stomach.

All of this for twenty marks.

The High Lord was still watching her, and the stare of the captain was a grim reminder that she did not want to earn the High Lord’s ire. She swallowed down her fear. “Thank you… High Lord. For helping me.” She glanced, agitatedly, over his shoulder, towards the market just beyond the alleyway. People passed, blissfully unaware of the carnage that had taken place just around the corner. “I’m sure you have much more important things you should be doing. I don’t want to try your patience any longer, so I’ll just be on my way—”

She took a step, but the High Lord moved to block her, raising a friendly hand. “Don’t be hasty, Feyre.” His voice was a lover’s purr again, caressing every muscle and bone and nerve. Feyre tried not to shiver. She heard him use that same voice moments before killing the captain, though now she swore there was more warmth to it. “Now that I’m finally meeting our resident witch in person, I was hoping to satisfy some of my… curiosities.”

Curiosities. She knew exactly what that was code for, especially if the way his gaze was dipping was any indication. Her eyes flitted, unbidden, back to the body on the ground. Had she traded the sailors for something far, far worse?

“Maybe another time, High Lord,” she said, hoping her voice sounded firm and steadfast, and not at all like the shaky whisper that reached her ears. She took a breath, forcing more steel into her voice. “I need to get back to my sisters.”

“What if I pay you?”

She faltered a bit at that suggestion. “Pay me to… what, exactly?”

“Come back to my town house. Answer some of my questions.”

Cauldron forsake her.

“What kind of questions?” She pressed.

Just say it, she wanted to snap. Say you believed them when they called me a whore, and that you want to pay me to be your pretty toy for an evening.

“Easy questions,” he deflected. He was circling her now. “Just about who you are. I’m curious how you won that money off the captain of my merchant fleet, Cauldron rest his soul,” he said, smirking as his eyes slanted toward the captain’s bloody throat and the lifeless glaze in his eyes. “As well as every other drunk that stumbles across your path. How does a poor, half starving female garner such a reputation for herself?”

Such dangerous questions from such a dangerous male.

“Like I said,” she breathed, “I need to get back to my sisters.”

The High Lord offered a lazy smile. He stepped aside and waved his hand towards the too-bright entrance to the alleyway. She couldn’t imagine facing that sunny marketplace again.

“Another time, then.”

Feyre pushed her deck of cards across the table, to the male that had originally piqued her interest. He was a sailor—and not the type that usually frequented these taverns. A merchant sailor, one who worked for the High Lord, if the Night Court emblem embossed into the buttons of his navy jacket was anything to go by.

His kind usually slipped past the docks and stayed at the inns on the other side of the Sidra, where the rooms were more expensive but were met with the promise that the sheets had been cleaned since their last use. Given that this tavern charged its spare rooms by the hour, and its occupants hardly stayed through the night, Feyre had a feeling he was here for something other than clean sheets.

And if she couldn’t win money off of him through cards, then she could always work for it the old fashioned way.

“Shuffle the deck, then cut it as many times as you want. Once you’re satisfied, pick a card from the top. I’ll tell you what it is.”

The sailor narrowed his eyes. “I suppose all the cards are identical.”

Around him, the drunken males shifted. Some of them had seen her play this game before, and wore smirks that said they were excited to see someone else lose their money—which they would later be heckling her for. Others looked disapproving, suspecting some trick. Sometimes, that disapproval was directed towards the male falling into her trap. Usually, it was directed towards her.

Feyre tipped her chin. “Have a look. They’re ordinary cards.”

With slow, methodical examination, the sailor spread the cards face up over the table, allowing the tavern to witness the numbers and symbols that were standard of any deck.

The sailor paused. “These are not ordinary cards.” He pressed a finger to one of the face cards, Night Triumphant, to admire the portrait of a male crowned in stars. “These are hand painted.”

“All card sets are hand painted,” Feyre countered.

“No,” he was frowning. “I mean, yes, they are. But these were painted by you, weren’t they?”

She straightened a bit. No one had ever noticed that much about her cards. “How could you tell?”

“There’s a smudge of paint on your cheek,” the sailor said with a soft laugh. “And I doubt a female reduced to these parlor tricks could afford a deck of such fine artistry, otherwise. You’re either a thief, or you’re very talented.”

Maybe she was a very talented thief.

Her cheeks were beginning to burn. “I may have painted the cards, but they’re identical at the back. I won’t be able to tell which is which.”

The sailor smirked. With a graceful swipe of his hand, he arranged the cards back into a pile and pushed them back across the table.

“For my peace of mind, allow us to play with my own deck.”

“Fine.”

She watched him draw a collection of cards from his breast pocket. Unlike her own deck, these cards were almost certainly rigged. Which meant that he would bet with greater confidence.

Feyre smiled. “Cut the deck, then.”

He arched his brow. “You don’t want to see my cards? They could be a different set than you’re used to.”

She studied the back of the cards, marking their glossy, onyx surface and the serpent that coiled around the border.

“I recognize a Night Court deck when I see one.”

Now, it was the sailor’s turn to smile. “Very impressive.”

The tavern went quiet as they watched the sailor slide his fingers along the edges of the cards. She could see his lips moving, counting some metric in his head, before he paused and lifted the deck at its midway point. He placed the lower pile of cards on the top of the stack, then cut it twice more, each move seemingly well-calculated.

Finally, he looked across at Feyre, and he lifted a card from the top.

“I’m feeling generous,” he said. “I’ll give you five marks if you can guess it in under three tries.”

“How about ten marks if I can guess it in one?”

He pitched his voice low, just like his eyes, which trailed from her face to her breasts, and lower. “And what do I get when you guess wrong?”

“Ten marks, the same from me.”

Feyre didn’t have ten marks to spare, and from the way the sailor laughed in response, she could tell he knew it. And that he would demand something different, if she couldn’t pay her debt.

“Let’s make it twenty, then.”

Maybe he was hoping she would lose and he could force her to go back with him on his ship. She almost didn’t hate the idea. Seeing the world outside of Velaris, never worrying where her next meal was coming from, chasing the sea and sky and never looking back. If that freedom could be gained from fucking a male a few times each night, she couldn’t imagine it would be any less pleasant than sharing a filthy matress on the floor with her two sisters.

“Deal.”

She could scent the magic before she felt the subtle tingle on her skin. A small, delicate whorl etched itself onto her forearm, connecting to the pattern of blue-black swirls that stretched to her fingers like an intricate lace glove. A tribute to the many, many bargains she had made under this very roof.

They were a permanent mark of her poverty, and the things she’d needed to sacrifice to keep her family alive. Feyre was almost—almost—tempted to guess wrong, if only so she could go with him on his ship and spare another bargain from ever marring her skin.

“The Cauldron of Fate,” Feyre said, sitting back proudly on the bench. “A rare card. I’ve heard they’re hardly ever used outside of the playing halls for High Lords and their sons.” She cocked her head. “Did you steal it?”

The sailor’s face had slackened. A drunk male clamped a hand onto his shoulder, leaning to see the card before he howled, “No fucking way!”

A murmur swept through the tavern, though very few people were celebrating on Feyre’s behalf. Most of them were now likely contemplating how they’d win, or steal, the money off her.

“20 marks, please,” Feyre said with a slow smile.

“You cheated.”

“How?” She crossed her arms. “I didn’t touch your cards. Though, if there’s an issue, I’m sure the High Lord would be plenty interested to know how you came about—”

He whipped the money onto the table as he abruptly stood up. There was a dark look on his face that made Feyre edge back in her seat, just a bit.

“Thieving halfbreed whore,” he spat, swiping his tankard from the table and storming towards the door.

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, though she could feel the smooth curve of her ears burning as the eyes of the tavern turned their attention to her, to the features that marked her as other, even among the lesser fae. Feyre quickly pocketed the money and rose from the bench, elbowing her way through the crowd. She grit her teeth as she shouldered their passing jeers.

“Not gonna stay for another game, sweetheart?”

“Looking for more coin? I’ll give you another 10 if you let me take you upstairs. I’ve never had a halfbreed before”

Someone groped at her, and she yelped as she stumbled forward, into a male who spilled his tankard all over the front of her shirt. The ale had left him swaying and he only grumbled some nonsense about Feyre buying him a new drink before she was able to sidestep him, too, and quickly disappear up the stairs.

Their room was at the very top of the tavern, in the cramped attic that was as far away from the drinking and fucking as they could possibly get. They paid a reduced fee, since this room was hardly big enough to rent to customers looking for a quick fuck, and had otherwise just been used for storage.

Elain and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well since they would likely have something to say about the stench of ale. She’d bathe in the Sidra tomorrow. For now, Feyre just wanted to hide the coin she’d won and go to bed without thinking about the tavern-goers or the spiteful sailor.

-

The wind clashed heavily against the sea, scattering white-foam tips across the surface of the inky water. It chopped against the shoreline in persistent, arrhythmic assaults, occasionally crashing into the rocks so violently that it sent the salt water skywards. The mist rained down over Feyre, clinging to her skin, the salt beginning to sting—just slightly—as it was agitated by a cool, whipping gust of air.

Feyre wondered why she didn’t come to the shore more often, especially when it was storming. The world was so alive here. The churning water and the hissing wind and the screaming gulls. It all rushed past her, crisp against her cheeks, tangling in her hair. She could breathe up here. So far away from the cramped attic she had fallen asleep in, where the air was stale and leached with the scent of mold and alcohol.

By the sea, nothing could contain her.

She leapt from the cliff face, stretching her arms to feel the rushing air as the water surged towards her. She laughed, though the sound was quickly torn away before it reached her ears. Then, just as she was about to greet the roiling surface, large membranous wings snapped out from behind her back, pulling her upwards until she was soaring towards the gray sky.

A lock of blue-black hair fell into her eyes. She reached up with an unfamiliar brown hand to push it out of the way. Ferye jolted a bit, to realize that she wasn’t in her own body. This was someone else, flying over the ocean, and the joy she felt building in her chest was not her own. This was someone who was drawn to the sea. Someone who was sharing this moment with her, lending this feeling of freedom that she had never known existed until she tasted the skies.

“Break,” shouted the creative director, already leaning over the photographer’s camera to peer at the camera screen.

Elain resisted the urge to massage her cheeks, aching from the sultry, but not too sultry, smile she’d been forcing herself to hold for the better part of  an hour. She was sure there were thousands of pictures at this point, all with her at a slightly different angle, chin up a fraction, down an inch, to the left a hair, all in service of getting one perfect picture the perfume makeup company could slap up on billboards to advertise their new blush.

She felt bad for anyone who actually fell for it, since half the pan had been spread across her face in an effort to make some color appear, and whatever the final result was would still need digital enhancement. Even the makeup artist hadn’t been able to control her laughter at the attempt, shaking her head. “Guess I won’t be adding this to my kit.”

But a job was a job, and Elain needed the work to pay the bills. Bills that were suddenly a lot higher.

No, Elan scolded herself. She wasn’t allowed to think about it at work. That was the rule she’d had for herself two months ago when she’d had to lock herself in the bathroom to cry during a shoot. Despite her attempts to blot the smeared mascara away with toilet paper, the make up artist had been livid. Elain had only been spared by the fact that the photographer had liked it. Thought it was edgy and cool for whatever bland perfume they were selling to middle age house wives.

“Ma’am,” said one of the PAs on set, appearing at her elbow. PAs had a nasty habit of doing that, sliding behind her before she could notice, and nearly scaring her half to death.

“Yes,” Elain asked, pasting a pleasant smile on her face. Her cheeks barked in protest. But she was not going to be known as the model who was hard to work with.

“Your husband is here.”

In spite of herself, Elain couldn’t hide her glare. “I don’t have a husband.”

The PA glanced down at his clipboard, searching for the note he’d scribbled there. “It says here—”

“It’s fine,” Elain said, slipping past him and towards the room they’d turned into a makeshift dressing space. The company had rented an old house for the natural lighting and Victorian chandeliers, and they’d used the front parlor as a space to dump makeup and accessories. “I’ll go talk to him.”

She brushed past the curtain and there he was.

Lucien Vanserra. Her husband, at least on paper.

He looked good, and Elain hated herself for noticing. His red hair was shorter, only down to his shoulders, and slicked back. He’d made himself at home in one of the upholstered chairs scattered around the room, leaning back, one leg crossed over the other at the knee. It showed off the muscled thighs Elain was well acquainted with, hidden beneath dark was jeans. 

“You need to sign these,” Lucien announced, holding up a stack of papers.

Elain snatched them out of his hand.

The words at the top Decree of Divorce stood out in bolded font.

She turned around, grabbing the pen someone had left lying off the wardrobe-turned-desk. She scanned the text briefing, before jotting her signature down on each of the dotted lines.

“Just like that?” she asked, handing them back.

Lucien unfurled himself from the seat, all lanky limbs chorded with muscles, and took them back from her. 

“Just like that.”

He tucked them into the breast pocket of the black leather jacket he was wearing. Since when has he had that?

“Do you need a folder?” Elain asked, eyeing his chest suspiciously. “I doubt the judge wants wrinkled papers.”

Lucien snorted. “They’re fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“Of course you do,” Elain muttered. “Little Mr. Perfect.”

“What was that?” Lucien asked, taking a step closer to her.

“Nothing,” said Elain, smiling up to him with saccharine sweetness. “I just want to make sure after this I don’t have to see you again.”

“Don’t worry, beautiful, after this you never will again.”

Elain remembered a time when Lucien calling her beautiful would have her blushing fiercely, would no doubt result in him getting laid that night. Now it came out dripping with derision.

Elain rolled her eyes, pointing towards the curtain. “There’s the exit.”

“Nice knowing you,” Lucien said, striding toward the curtain and dipping under it.

Elain bit her lip as she watched his retreating back side. She ought to say something nicer, she thought. Before he was gone from her life forever, surely.

“Wait,” she called out after a long moment. But Lucien was already gone.

A part of Elain sighed in relief. What was she going to do if he stayed, explain why he came back from work one day to all his stuff packed in bags on the porch?

She huffed a sigh, blowing one of the strands of hair that had fallen into her face out of her eyes.

It was fine. She was going to finish her job and then go home and eat an entire carton of Halo Top. Maybe two depending on how sad the Hallmark movie on that night made her feel. Nowhere near as good as the real thing, but quantity over quality.

Elain glanced in the mirror behind her, to check that none of her makeup had smudged and that her eyes were crystal clear, not glassy, before following her soon to be ex-husband out.

Only to find him standing in the entryway with her sister.

“Oh perfect, I was about to send Lucien in to find you,” Nesta said, looking up from the email she was furiously typing on her phone.

“Do you have another job?” Elain asked. Nesta, on top of being her overprotective sister, was also Elain’s modeling agent. And a very good one. One wall of Nesta’s office was dedicated to all the magazine covers her models had gotten, right behind the Birkin bag she’d gotten as a gift from Anna Wintor on its shelf of glory.

“One day I’ll have a wall of Vogue,” had always been Nesta’s promise to herself and, at twenty nine, she was already well on her way there.

“Only the best for you,” Nesta said, sliding her phone into the pocket of her cleanly pressed slacks and brushing a kiss across Elain’s cheek. “And Lucien gets to join you on this one.”

“Oh,” Elain said, any excitement she had rapidly deflating.

Because she hadn’t actually told her sister she was getting divorced. It made her the worst kind of coward, something she told herself at every family dinner when she and Lucien sat next to each other and pretended things were going well, but she couldn’t bear to do it. Couldn’t stand to see the crestfallen looks on Feyre and Nesta’s face, the confused horror on her father’s. She was supposed to be the one who succeeded, married the nice boy from down the road and had a nice family.

Never mind that down the road was in a multi-million dollar mansion near Beverly Hills.

And after Elain told her family, she’d have to face the paparazzi. She was moderately well known, enough to get an occasional “who wore it best” shoutout in People (she always won), and Lucien was the son of Hollywood's most beloved silver fox.

A silver fox who’d run away with the wife of the state governor three months ago and was desperately trying to rehabilitate his image in the eyes of the press before his next movie. The media was out for blood, and Helion’s beloved son divorcing his pretty little wife wasn’t what anyone needed right now.

So Elain and Lucien had an unspoken mutual agreement not to tell anyone. When they showed up to Feyre and Rhys’ Sunday night dinners, whoever got there first sat in their car until the other arrived and they could keep up the appearance of arriving together. They sat next to each other and made a good show of acting like they didn’t hate each other’s guts. And then, when it was over, they left without another word and Elain pretended it didn’t feel like her heart was being stabbed over and over.

“You know the company you and Lucien used to book your honeymoon?” Nesta asked, too focused on whatever gig she had planned to notice Elain’s dismay. “They’ve been asked to plan the Greek princess’ honeymoon, which means Cosmopolitan wants to run a profile. And since the Royal wedding hasn’t happened yet, they wanted to feature another famous couple they worked with, and that’s you and Lucien.”

Elain’s eyes darted over to Lucien to see his eyebrows were high enough to touch his hairline.

“You want me to take pictures for a magazine spread?” Lucien asked. “I do have work to do. Not to mention,” Lucien gestured at the left side of his face, and the scars that raked down it, standing in stark contrast to his golden brown skin. A reminder of the car crash he’d been in in high school. “This.”

Elain had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something. She’d always thought the scars only served to make Lucien look more handsome, gave him a slightly dangerous air that lured her in, something that she reminded him of frequently, but her comments always seemed to fall on deaf ears. But it wasn’t her place, not now.

Nesta gave Lucien a scathing look. “The shoot is planned for two weeks after the California state election, so I’m sure you’ll have some time to take a week long, all expense paid vacation to the Bahamas.”

“We honeymooned in the Dominican Republic,” Elain interrupted.

Nesta whipped out her phone and tapped on it rapidly for a few seconds. “Yes, there.”

Elain barely contained her eye roll. She was sure Nesta could point out both countries on a map, and rattle off at least two or three facts about their geopolitical status, but asking her to remember where Elain went for her honeymoon was a step too far for her when she was focused on work.

“And the magazine is well aware of what your face looks like. It’s been enough places for everyone to know,” Nesta finished with finality.

Elain scowled. “We can’t just uproot our lives. We have things to do, I  have things to do.” Namely buying the ugliest pink couch she could find to put in Lucien’s old office as one last fuck you.

“All expenses paid?” Lucien asked, speaking over her.

Nesta smiled dangerously. “Flight included.”

Lucien crossed his arms. The leather jacket pulled up at the motion, the cuffs tight around muscled forearms. “And all we have to do is take some magazine photos.”

“And do an interview,” Nesta added.

Somehow, Lucien managed to arch one brow even higher. “And they want me, son of a currently disgraced movie star.”

“And potential senatorial candidate,” Nesta added.

“Rumors,” Elain interrupted. “All just rumors.”

“Which are good in this line of work,” was Nesta’s counter.

“I’m in,” Lucien said.

“We’ll think about it,” Elain corrected, glaring over at Lucien. He smirked at her in challenge.

Nesta sighed, glancing between the two of them, at last picking up the tension. “I need an answer by tomorrow, they want to book flights.”

Elain squirmed under her sister’s stare. This was exactly what she didn’t want, any cracks showing in her picture perfect life before she was ready to sit everyone down with a carefully rehearsed speech. 

“Elain?” Nesta asked.

In response, she leaned slightly towards Lucien, who obligingly pulled up his sleeve to show her his watch, a thick silver one she’d given him for his last birthday. At least he hadn’t forgotten that trick, since Elain never had a watch or phone on her at work. “My ten minutes are up,” Elain said, glancing at the time. “Gotta run.”

“I need an answer,” Nesta called as Elain slid backwards, towards where the photographer and director were still leaning over the camera, arguing back and forth over some detail or other.

“I’ll text you,” Elain promised. She almost felt bad leaving Lucien with Nesta. Almost, but not quite.

-

“I don’t know what to do,” Elain said on the phone later that night. “It would be a whole spread, at least ten pages, and a cover story.”

“Which would be perfect for your career,” Vassa finished for her.

“But then I would have to—”

“Spend a week with Lucien.”

Elain sighed. Vassa and Jurian were the only two people outside of their lawyers who knew Elain and Lucien were separating. It was unavoidable, since Lucien was living in their guest room for the time being. Looking for his own place would raise too many questions, and staying in a hotel for weeks would be an invitation for bored paparazzi.

“What would you do,” Elain asked, taking a bite of her ice cream. She’d splurged on Haagen Dazs, rationalizing that the encounter with Nesta had more than justified it.

“I’m not the one getting an all expense paid vacation.”

“With your ex-husband.”

“Technically he’s still your husband until Monday,” Vassa laughed. Because the court closed early on Friday and Nesta’s appearance had taken up too much time for Lucien to drive over to the court house.

“Not helping,” Elain growled. “And why would Lucien even agree? He loves to poke at Nesta’s buttons.”

“It would be good for him too,” Vassa said. “Future state Senator gets a fluff magazine article about him and his beautiful wife.”

“It’s a rumor,” Elain insisted. “He hasn’t even nominated himself. And anyway, it’s going to look a lot worse when he has to come out and say we’re not together anymore.”

“First of all, you know it’s more than a rumor. No political analyst gets called into a meeting with the head of the DNC for nothing, and second just pretend you’re still married, you’ve already been doing it for six months.”

Elain suppressed her groan. Vassa made it clear at every possible opportunity how much she disapproved of Elain’s current course of action. A “Congrats of Getting Divorced, Coward” Edible Arrangement had shown up on her door the day she moved to start the paperwork, and it had only escalated from there.

Although Elain figured she should be glad Vassa would still talk to her instead of taking Lucien’s side completely. She was distressingly short on friends who weren’t her sisters and it would be so easy for Vassa to blame her when Elain still refused to explain what exactly had caused her to kick Lucien out. But Vassa had just sighed, crawled into the mountain of blankets Elain had made for herself, and said she knew Elain would talk to her when she was ready.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Elain had given an emphatic no and that had been that.

“Ugh,” Elain sighed, flopping back on the couch. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve said that about twelve times already,” Vassa sighed. “We’ve been on this call for two hours.”

“Then maybe you’re not being helpful enough.”

“I’m not helpful? Fine then,” Elain heard a rustling on the other side of the phone as Vassa started thumbing through her room. 

“Oh you don’t need to…” Elain protested weakly.

But the sounds of video game weapons were already buzzing in her ear.

“Lucien,” Vassa asked, her voice muffled as she pulled the phone away and put it on speaker. “What are your thoughts on Nesta’s offer?”

There was a long, pregnant pause on the other side of the line.

“I’m in if Elain is.”

“Thank you,” Vassa chirped.

Elain waited until there was once again silence on the other side of the line to speak. “Traitor.”

“I accept you’re welcome, I’m forever in your debts, I could never repay you.”

“I hate you,” Elain snapped. “I hope your favorite tree burns down in the next wildfire.”

“Low blow,” Vassa protested. It was, based on how much time and energy Vassa spent caring for that orange tree.

“I’m hanging up,” Elain said.

“Text your sister.”

“See you at spin tomorrow.”

“Love you bitch,” was Vassa’s sign off, and then the line went dead.

Vassa was too smart for her own good, Elain thought. Because if Lucien was in, so was she. There was no way she was going to look like the coward in front of Lucien, like she wasn’t willing to do something he will.

So she closed the phone app and pulled up her text messages.

Nesta’s was at the top, several unopened messages demanding an answer waiting.

Emerie’s love life might have been nonexistent, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t silently seethe over how easy it should’ve been for Cassian to treat Nesta right. For fuck’s sake, anyone who actually cared about Nesta should’ve known how much she hated places like this. If it had been up to Emerie, she knew Nesta would’ve much rather spent the night at a bar where you could actually hear people instead of a thudding baseline. Or better yet, they could’ve just stayed in, ordered some food, and spent the evening curled up on the couch talking shit as they caught up on the latest garbage reality show. 

It wasn’t up to Emerie, though, so here they were. She sighed and took a sip of the overpriced drink she’d gotten at the bar as she surveyed the dance floor. She wasn’t going to leave Nesta’s side, but it never hurt to take a look. Nobody really caught her eye, though she of course noticed Cassian finally remembering his girlfriend was here as he pushed through the crowd to come back to their booth. 

“Come dance, babe,” Cassian yelled over the music once he was close enough. He was dressed in an all-black ensemble that Emerie had to begrudgingly admit he looked good in, and a thin layer of sweat covered his skin from all the dancing he’d been doing without Nesta. 

“I don’t want to,” Nesta yelled back, crossing her arms over her dark blue dress. Emerie pointedly didn’t look at the way the motion made Nesta’s cleavage even more pronounced. “I’m not dancing on you with all your friends watching.”

“Come on, don’t be boring,” Cassian whined. “We’re supposed to be having fun!”

Emerie had to suppress an eye twitch at his tone — there were few things more pathetic than a grown man whining — but thankfully, Nesta wasn’t moved. 

“You know I don’t like the club, Cassian,” Nesta snapped back. “This isn’t fun for me.”

“Then why did you even agree to come?” Cassian asked with a frown. “I don’t fucking get you.”

“Because I wanted to spend time with you,” Nesta ground out slowly, like she was talking to a child. “Clearly you don’t feel the same.”

“Obviously I feel the same,” Cassian retorted. Emerie couldn’t hold back her eye roll at that one, but it wasn’t like her opinion mattered much. “Why else do you think I came over here to ask you to dance?”

“Yeah, after I’ve been sitting here for almost an hour. What a gentleman.”

“You could’ve gotten up and joined me whenever you wanted, nobody made you sit here and fucking mope all night—”

“Oh, I’m moping now? Maybe if you hadn’t asked me to come somewhere you knew I wouldn’t like I wouldn’t be sitting here like that in the first place—”

Emerie just sighed and downed the rest of her cocktail, doing her best to tune out the arguing happening right next to her. They would eventually get tired of arguing and either leave to fuck it out or Nesta would decide she’d finally had enough and call an Uber. Either way, Emerie would probably get to go home soon, so she just wished they would get this latest argument over with soon enough so she could get away from them.

“Fuck this. Don’t call me tomorrow when you realize how you fucked this up again,” Nesta eventually snapped. Emerie barely had a chance to grab her phone before Nesta was snatching her purse and leaving the booth, her long legs carrying her quickly to the club’s exit. “Let’s get out of here, Em.”

Emerie didn’t bother to hide her sneer in Cassian’s direction as she followed Nesta outside. If Cassian replied, it got lost in the loud music and the crowd, and Emerie didn’t really care what he had to say anyway. She was far more concerned with making sure Nesta was okay anyway.

Once Emerie found Nesta outside, she pulled out her phone without a word and called an Uber back to her place. They’d gotten ready together there, and Nesta had tentatively planned to sleep over anyway since she lived further out, and part of Emerie was hoping she would still stay despite the way the night had turned out. She didn’t want Nesta to go home and be alone no matter how familiar arguing with Cassian was, and the more selfish part of her wanted as much time with Nesta as she could steal. 

Maybe it made her a bad person, but considering the way Cassian behaved, Emerie certainly knew she was at least better than him.

“That’s us,” Emerie said after a few minutes, pointing out their ride. She gently grabbed Nesta’s arm and steered her toward the blue sedan. “Come on.”

After she confirmed their destination with the driver, the silence of the car felt empty and stilted compared to the deafening music from inside the club. Emerie snuck looks over at Nesta as much as she could get away with, not wanting to be caught staring but simultaneously wanting to make sure her friend was okay. Nesta was staring out the window with her lips pressed together like she was trying not to cry, and Emerie would do anything to get that look off her face. 

Nesta was far too proud to admit when she needed help, though, so Emerie would have to settle with the subtle method of handling Nesta that she’d developed over the years. When their Uber arrived outside Emerie’s building, she quickly shepherded Nesta upstairs and back into her apartment before Nesta could make any noise about going home. 

“Can you stay here tonight?” Emerie asked immediately after she’d locked the door and taken off her shoes. “I don’t want to order takeout by myself.”

“Okay,” Nesta agreed quietly. She took off her heels and dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, not making eye contact with Emerie as she checked her phone. “Is it okay if I shower?”

“You know you don’t have to ask,” Emerie told her. She pretended not to notice how disappointed Nesta looked — Cassian probably hadn’t reached out, and even though Nesta said she hadn’t wanted him to, it still stung nonetheless — and instead opened up the UberEats app on her phone. “Chinese food okay? Or do you want something else?”

“Whatever you’re getting is fine,” Nesta muttered. She locked her phone and sighed heavily. “I’ll be in the bathroom.”

Emerie sighed as she watched Nesta disappear in the guest bathroom, hoping that a warm shower and putting on pajamas would help her friend’s mood until the food would arrive. She quickly put in their usual order at the place that stayed open late on weekends before sending off a quick text to Gwyn letting her know what happened. She didn’t expect a response this late, so she locked her phone and headed toward her en suite so she could shower and change too. 

By the time Emerie had showered and changed into a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, her phone was vibrating to let her know the food had arrived. She yelled out a goodbye as she shoved her feet into her slippers and quickly went downstairs to grab everything, and by the time she made it back upstairs, Nesta was sitting on the couch in an oversized law school sweater and biker shorts. 

“Thanks,” Nesta told Emerie quietly once they’d divided all the food. She’d turned on some Netflix just to have something on in the background while Emerie was downstairs, and the soft sounds of The Great British Bake-off filled the apartment as she cracked open the lid of her General Tso’s Chicken.

“Anytime,” Emerie replied just as softly, fiddling with the lid of her lo mein.

They ate their food in relative silence, the only sounds coming from the television and the occasional crinkle of a wrapper. They’d made through most of the episode they were watching when Nesta put down her food and paused the show with a heavy sigh. “This fucking sucks.”

“What?” Emerie asked, turning to look at Nesta. She put her egg rolls down and turned to give her friend the full attention she deserved, making sure to wipe any crumbs off her clothes. “What sucks?”

“Cassian,” Nesta replied. “I just — I don’t know. I don’t even know why I went out tonight, let alone dragged you with me.”

“We’re friends, Nesta,” Emerie answered evenly. “Gwyn would’ve been there too if she wasn’t out of town for her conference.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel bad about making you two do that,” Nesta responded. “And it doesn’t help that this is what he does almost every fucking time.”

“Nesta, you’re not making anyone do anything,” Emerie countered. She hated the idea that Nesta thought she was somehow burdening them with this. “We’re friends, Nesta. It’s what we do. Don’t feel bad about that.”

“If I didn’t feel bad about making you watch that, what kind of friend would I be?” Nesta fired back with another heavy sigh. “It’s so fucking embarrassing. Sometimes I don’t even know why I bother.”

“Aren’t you tired of that, Nesta?” Emerie asked quietly, not wanting to scare her off. She knew how prickly Nesta could be on the best of days, and this certainly wasn’t one of those, but Nesta had given her an opening and she wasn’t going to waste it. “Don’t you think you deserve better than this?”

Nesta just sighed heavily. “Who’s going to put up with all my shit, Em? My parental issues, the long hours at work, all my little quirks… I don’t exactly see people lining up for that.”

“First of all,” Emerie began, “no one should be ‘putting up’ with you. You have all this amazing stuff going for you, and anyone would be lucky to have you. Quirks and all.”

“Nobody wants me once they get to know me,” Nesta countered with a sad smile. “I’m just a pretty thing people like to look at, but the second I open my mouth? It’s game over.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Emerie retorted without hesitating. “And that has nothing to do with why you’re still with that dumbass.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be alone,” Nesta admitted quietly. 

“Who says you have to be?” Emerie asked just as quietly. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she reached out to grab Nesta’s hand, her fingers slotting in easily alongside Nesta’s cooler ones. 

“Thanks, Em, but there’s only so much friendship can do for me,” Nesta answered, her words going for teasing but falling flat considering how sad she still looked. She squeezed Emerie’s hand once before pulling away. “Even if it’s as amazing as yours has been.”

Emerie shifted closer so their knees were touching, moving the hand that Nesta had let go of to rest gently on Nesta’s lower thigh instead. “Who said I was talking about just friendship?” 

“What?” Nesta responded, her lips parting in total surprise. 

“I can’t keep watching you do this,” Emerie told her, terrified out of her mind but unwilling to stop now that she was on a roll. “He treats you like shit, and I just— I can’t do it, Nesta. Not when I know you deserve so much better, and definitely not when I know I could give that to you.”

At Nesta’s still-shocked expression and lack of response, Emerie was compelled to fill the stunned silence as the rest of her confession bubbled up and out of her. “You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you’re one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met. You’re gorgeous and you’re kind and you make everything better by just being here. How could I not feel like this about you? You’re the best person I know, Nesta. It’s not even close.”

Emerie petered off as she realized Nesta still hadn’t said anything. Was she staying quiet because she didn’t know what to say? Was she trying to figure out a way to let Emerie down easy? Or worse, was she about to tell Emerie never to talk to her again?

Fuck. This was easily one of the worst mistakes Emerie had ever made, and she had to fix it while she had the chance. 

“I—” Emerie started, pulling her hands off Nesta like she’d been burned once she realized they were still touching. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said any of that. We can just pretend it never happened, I promise I won’t be weird about it—”

“Emerie,” Nesta finally said. Emerie stopped her pathetic apology and closed her mouth so fast that her teeth practically clacked together, desperately afraid to hear what her friend would say next. “Shut up.”

The next thing Emerie knew, Nesta was grabbing her shirt and pulling her in for a kiss. Emerie’s mind went totally blank at the soft press of Nesta’s lips to her own, and Emerie gasped into Nesta’s mouth at the realization that Nesta Archeron was kissing her. 

Emerie’s brain thankfully didn’t let her sit there in shock for too long, coming just online enough to lean forward and kiss Nesta back. It was a little hesitant, almost like neither of them could fully believe this was happening, but Nesta’s lips were warm and she tasted like the spring roll she’d just finished eating. 

It was the best moment of Emerie’s life, and then she was pulling back to stare at Nesta with wide eyes. Part of her couldn’t believe that had just happened, but a much larger part of her was expecting Nesta to let her down easy despite having been the one to lean in first. “Nesta…”

“Shut up,” Nesta said before Emerie could pull a coherent string of words together. “Just— stop talking.”

Nesta’s fist tightened on Emerie’s shirt again, but this time she was the one to come closer. Her knuckles dug into Emerie’s chest as she pushed back, Emerie going willingly so Nesta could straddle her. Every thought in Emerie’s mind emptied out once Nesta’s long legs were pinning her in place, her biker shorts riding up to reveal even more of her thigh, and Emerie practically short-circuited at the feeling of all that smooth skin underneath her hands. She’d imagined this so many times, but absolutely nothing compared to the real thing.

Nesta leaned down to kiss her again and Emerie eagerly responded. A large part of Emerie still couldn’t believe this was happening, but she wasn’t going to squander the opportunity now that she finally had the woman of her dreams under her hands. Nesta was making the sweetest little sounds as they traded open-mouthed kisses, and Emerie wanted to burn them into her mind forever. 

One of Nesta’s hands was on Emerie’s shoulder for balance, but the other had snuck its way under the hem of Emerie’s t-shirt to rub teasing circles into the skin there. In retaliation, Emerie brought one of her hands up from Nesta’s thigh to cup her ass instead, squeezing the toned muscle firmly. Nesta moaned right into Emerie’s mouth and rocked her hips back into Emerie’s hand, turning the heat pooling between Emerie’s legs molten.

Fuck, this was moving quickly. Emerie wanted to unwrap Nesta like the gift that she was and learn every trick that made her scream, but the more logical part of her knew she needed to check in before that happened. 

“Wait,” Emerie said, panting as she broke their kiss. She hated to stop, but she had to make sure this was what Nesta really wanted. She didn’t think she could live with herself if she made Nesta even more upset in the long run, nor did she know how she’d survive knowing Nesta only wanted her for one night. “Nesta, Nesta, wait.”

Nesta immediately pulled away, looking at Emerie with concern. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, I just…” Emerie trailed off before taking a deep breath and forcing herself to get through this. “I don’t want to do this if you’re just gonna regret it and call Cassian in the morning.”

“Oh, Em,” Nesta breathed, reaching out to cup Emerie’s face and stroke her thumb across Emerie’s cheek. “How could I ever regret this? You’re the only one that I want.”

“Really?” Emerie asked. Between Nesta looking like a dream above her and the weight of the conversation they were having, Emerie’s heart was beating embarrassingly fast. She hoped Nesta couldn’t feel it.

“Yeah.” Nesta’s expression turned a little sheepish. “I feel kind of stupid not realizing before. Cassian would always complain about how much we hung out or how much I talked about you… I thought he was just being a controlling dick, but maybe he was right.”

“He is a controlling dick,” Emerie said, pulling a snort from Nesta, “but maybe he had a point.”

“A broken clock is right twice a day,” Nesta said back, rolling her eyes. “But I don’t want to waste any more time talking about him. He and I are done for good, Em. I just want you.”

Nesta leaned in to punctuate her declaration with a soft kiss, and Emerie felt like she could level mountains. That could wait, though. 

For now, she’d just settle for making Nesta happy.