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Growing up, you had dreamed about having a mate. 

Someone to love you and hold you and take you away from the terrifying brutality of the Court of Nightmares. Someone kind. Gentle. Strong. 

What you hadn’t expected, was that he would be the High Lord’s spymaster. 

Azriel Shadowsinger. 

The Illyrian bastard who tortured the High Lord’s enemies deep in the mountain you called home. 

You watch him wearily as his hands shake—reaching out to you slowly, carefully—as if at any moment you’ll pop like a soap bubble. Gone forever from his grasp. 

You aren’t sure what to say to him. Everything had happened so fast. One moment you had been milling about amongst the throng at the base of High Lord Rhysand’s throne and then the next…you remember someone shoving you, tripping before the High Lord and his confidantes and then…a shocked gasp. Wide hazel eyes staring into your own. 

And now here you are, standing before this male wondering what you're supposed to do. To say. One thing was certain: you were his now. There would be no arranged marriage for you, as your parents had planned. Who would even have you knowing that you were the mate of another?

No, not another, his.

Azriel’s. 

“I have…” he said softly, unable to tear his eyes away from you. “Been waiting a very long time for you.”

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You remember the first time your husband surprised you. 

Your marriage to Eris Vanserra was a political one. Your father had desired power and privilege and High Lord Beron had required a broodmare for his son with a prestigious bloodline. Everyone had gotten what they wanted. 

Except for you and Eris of course. 

He was not a terrible husband, all things considered. You saw the way High Lord Beron treated his wife and counted yourself lucky that his heir had not grown to emulate such behavior. In fact, compared to his father, Eris was better than you could have ever hoped for. He never beat you. Never said so much as an unkind word to you. Rarely called upon you to warm his bed. He made all the appropriate gestures of fidelity and stilted affection required of him in public. Truthfully, outside of court functions and family gatherings he mostly ignored you. 

Perhaps some wives would have been crestfallen at the lack of warmth or trust from their husbands. But not you. You were more than happy to wile away your days in the library or the gardens, unaware and uncaring of your husband’s sly schemes and carefully laid political machinations. Frankly, the less you had to care about Autumn Court politics the better. At the very least, it kept you away from the brutality of Eris’s father. 

Unfortunately it wasn’t the High Lord you should have been watching out for. 

You weren’t sure who he was. A soldier perhaps. Or maybe a servant. Whoever he was, he had seemed quite delighted to get his hands on you, gripping your wrists until he left wine-dark bruises there. 

“Come on love,” he slurred, the sour scent of too much wine on his breath. “I just want a little kiss. Pretty thing like you, I know you want it…”

In the end, you only escape his drunken grasp when the slam of a door down the hall startles you both. It was all the distraction you needed to wrench your wrist free and escape out into the hall—nearly stumbling straight into a maid. 

It’s only later, in the safety of your rooms as you stare down at the fresh finger-shaped bruises on your arms, that you realize the precariousness of your situation. 

Would Eris cast you out for this? Demand a divorce? Send you back to your family in disgrace like your older sister? She, after all, had suffered far worse at the hands of a male not her husband, and had still been discarded like so much trash by both her husband and her father. Last you had heard, she’d ended up seeking shelter in the Night Court. 

Poor thing. 

You desperately hope that won’t be your fate. If the stories you’d heard were anything to go by, perhaps death was better than that place. 

But unfortunately for you, Eris had the eyes of a fox. 

“Who did it?”

His voice was soft. Steady. But you weren’t fooled. You had been his wife long enough now to recognize the fury simmering underneath the surface. It was a voice he used often with his father. 

You tug your traitorous sleeve down and swallow. “It’s nothing,” you insist, an easy lie on your tongue. “I fell.” 

Eris’s eyes narrowed. With careful fingers, he peeled back your sleeve until the garish marks were revealed once more. 

“‘Fell’ right into someone’s grasp did you?”

“It’s nothing,” you repeat softly, as if saying it will make it so. 

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He pulls the story out of you eventually. Say what you will about your husband, he is patient. 

You expect him to lash out then. Like his father. Like your sister’s husband. Screaming. Threats. Beatings. 

He does none of these things. 

In fact he does…nothing at all. He simply nods at you. Rubs a salve into your bruises. And then puts you to bed the way your mother did when you were a child. 

You find out his real response a week later. 

You see the other male again, struggling to hold a spear at his post at the gate. His hands are burned. The skin blistered and melted like candle wax. And even though the male never speaks to you. Never tells you who did this to him…you know. 

“…Why?” You ask Eris later, at breakfast. 

He looks you straight in the eye as he sips his tea slowly. 

“Because he touched what didn’t belong to him.” 

And it is in that moment that you see your husband for the first time. Eris Vanserra. 

The real Eris Vanserra. 

And you smile. 

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They grew up despising each other. Azriel, the moody outcast. Eris, the privileged son of a senator. Never were a pair of boys more diametrically opposed than those two. They went to different classes, had different friends, and might as well have existed in two entirely different worlds. The few times they interacted in public they went out of their way to advertise their disdain. 

But, as everyone knew, there was a fine line between love and hate. 

A very, very fine line. 

“I fucking hate you,” Azriel grunted, shoving Eris’s pretty, pretty face into the bed as he sank in deep. 

“Likewise,” Eris replied with a shivery gasp, fingers clutching at his sheets like a lifeline. 

He’d had sex. He liked sex. But never…like this. Like he was just a thing to be used. 

It felt…it felt…

His orgasm rushed through him so fast he barely had time to realize what was happening before he was coming all over his expensive sheets. 

Azriel laughed. 

“A little quick off the draw huh?” He panted in his ear. And then he was following suit, pumping Eris full of his cum and all the other boy could do was take it. 

“I still hate you.”

Azriel, hummed in response, nuzzling into the back of his neck. 

“I know.” 

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Feyre awoke to her new life with a hunger that was nearly painful. 

“I need…” she had gasped as she clawed at her maker. “I need—”

“I have what you need,” Rhys had murmured, helping her onto his lap and pulling her face to the hollow of his throat. 

The first taste of his blood was a revelation. Hot and sticky and salty-sweet. It drugged and invigorated her in equal measure. Made her flesh sing. Her breath come in hard and fast. It made her want to be filled by her maker. With his blood. His flesh. She would not be content until she had merged herself with him until they were one and the same. 

And Rhys was only too happy to comply. 

She sank down on his cock, slow and sweet, and suckled on his neck in greedy little pulls. And all the while her maker clutched her close, arms wrapped around her like he couldn’t stand for them to be apart. 

“That’s it,” he murmured sweetly, fingers threaded through her hair. “Take what you need.”

And she did. 

His blood filled her stomach the way his cock filled her cunt and for once in her life…she was at peace. 

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Nesta stared up at the Titanic with ill-disguised contempt. 

“Beautiful isn’t she?” Her fiancé exclaimed, oblivious to her inner turmoil as usual. She wanted to scream, but settled for looking bored. 

“I suppose,” she drawled. “It doesn’t look nearly as big as the Mauritania.” 

Tomas scoffed as he held out a hand to Nesta’s mother. “Your daughter is impossible to impress my dear.” 

“She just knows she deserves the best,” she said, stepping down from the car and giving Nesta a look that silently indicated just how poorly she thought of her eldest child’s behavior. 

Nesta knew exactly what her mother planned to say to her later, when they were alone. ‘You’re supposed to charm him, not deride his every opinion. Do you want your poor sisters to starve?’ 

As if Nesta needed reminding of their dire financial circumstances. She was all too aware of what was at stake. 

It was why she was here after all. 

She watched on as Elain and Feyre were helped out of the other car and stared up in wonder at the behemoth of a ship, ready to ferry them all back to America. Back to society. To fortune. 

To bondage. 

Behind her, she heard Tomas and his valet direct the porters on where to send their luggage. 

“Come along girls,” their mother commanded in that quiet, lady-like way of hers. Elain and the maids followed obediently with Feyre trailing after, head in the clouds as always. 

Nesta sighed and stared up at the ship once more. 

I hope it sinks. She thought darkly as her fiancé offered his arm to her. 

It was a petty thought. Vicious. A desperate cry for help from a woman who felt more like a trapped animal than a human being. 

She couldn’t have known how prophetic it would prove to be. 

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“Lord Noct?”

Officer Beddor—a stout man in his forties—studied Rhys’s ticket and then his face with a puzzled expression. The man in question smiled back placidly. 

“Yes?”

“There must be a mistake.”

“Oh?” Rhys raised his brows. Behind him, Azriel looked on, far less congenial. 

“Is Mister Noct running late?” The officer asked, glancing past the two as if this mysterious man was hiding behind them. 

Ah, he thought. So it’s like that then. 

“Lord.” Azriel corrected, eyes narrowed. “And he’s standing right in front of you.” 

Mr. Beddor blinked at Rhys again, eyeing him up and down skeptically. 

“You ain’t English.” 

“Ah,” Rhys sighed dramatically. “I confess, I am not.” 

The man looked a strange mixture of vindicated and confused. “Then—”

“I’m actually Scottish.”

“But you’re so…” Mr. Beddor trailed off as he eyed Rhys and Azriel’s swarthy complexion—several shades darker than his own. 

“Rich?” Rhys said as he reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “I get that a lot.” 

He handed the man a five pound note, hoping a tip would help him see reason. In his experience, money usually did. Mr. Beddor, however, only seemed intent on doubling down on his bigotry. 

“This can’t be right—”

“Oh I assure you, it’s quite right. I purchased the Millionaire Suite. The best rooms on the ship, I was told. Unless, of course, I was misinformed…?” 

“Rhys,” a familiar voice drawled. “What’s taking so long?” 

At his elbow, a beautiful blonde appeared, dressed in a daring red frock. 

“I’m dreadfully sorry Miss,” Mr. Beddor said, demeanor changing instantly at the sight of the pale beauty at his side. “I’ll get you into your room as soon as I’m done dealing with these gentlemen.” 

He said the word gentlemen with no small amount of incredulity. 

“Oh?” She said, all innocence. “Is there a problem with my cousin’s ticket?” 

At the word ‘cousin’ all of the blood seemed to drain from the man’s face. He looked between the two and suddenly seemed to notice the faint similarities between them. The same pointed chin. The same cat-like eyes. 

“Cousin, Miss?” 

“Yes,” she said sweetly. Rhys knew better though. Mor was a viper if he’d ever met one. “My cousin, Rhysand Noct.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, all girlish flirtation. “He’s a Lord you know!” 

The man suddenly looked quite faint. “Is he…?” 

“Oh yes! Lord of Velaris Castle! He owns half of Edinburgh. Or is it three quarters? I forget.” 

“I…yes. Of course. Lord Noct. I see. So sorry for the confusion my lord. I’d be happy to show you to your rooms.” 

“Would you?” Rhys said, his grin shark-like. “How kind of you.” 

As the man stumbled away, Rhys leaned in towards his cousin. 

“My hero.” 

“Mm,” she agreed. “You can thank me by buying me lunch. I hear there’s a restaurant on board.” 

“You wish is my command.” 

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“Champagne Miss?”

A waiter offered Feyre and Elain a pair of delicate crystal flutes as the former stared down at her treasure trove of paintings like a dragon inspecting her hoard of gold. 

“Such a waste of money,” Tomas murmured dismissively from the doorway of the sitting room, glancing at a beautiful landscape with disdain. “I don’t see why you felt the need to bring these with us. They would’ve been just fine in the cargo hold.” 

The words ‘where they belong’ went unsaid but heavily implied. 

Feyre squinted at her future brother-in-law like a particularly annoying insect. Her smoky eyes—so much like Nesta’s—narrowed in barely-disguised dislike. 

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand,” she replied cooly. 

“Hmm,” Tomas lifted one of the canvases to stare at it with disinterest. “At least they were cheap.” 

As if sensing her younger sister’s outrage from the other side of the suite, Nesta suddenly appeared in the doorway, laying a hand on her fiancé’s elbow. 

“There you are dear,” she exclaimed, half pulling, half leading him towards the exit. “I heard there’s a library aboard. Won’t you escort me? I’d like to catch up on my reading.” 

And Tomas, ever the condescending ass that he was, smiled down at her indulgently. “You women and your fanciful pursuits.” 

“Oh, you know me my love,” Nesta said with an icy smile that seemed to sail right over the man’s head. “I do love my books.” 

Feyre waited for the two to disappear around the corner before she turned to Elain. 

“I hate him.” 

“Oh he’s not all bad!” Her sister insisted gently. “He bought you all these paintings didn’t he?”

“To buy my loyalty,” Feyre said, unconvinced. 

“He means well.”

She gave Elain an unimpressed look. “Does he?” 

“At least be nice for Nesta’s sake,” she urged. “It’s been hard for her.” 

And why do you think that is? Feyre wanted to say, but bit her tongue. She knew her words would only fall on deaf ears. Elain had been nothing but welcoming toward their would-be brother-in-law, falling so easily into step with their mother’s scheming. 

After Father had died, their mother had been ruthless in her quest to regain the wealth and status lost to them. Like an enterprising teapot she had poured all her hopes and ambitions into her two most marriageable daughters and dangled them before every rich gentleman they came across. 

It had sickened Feyre to the core. 

After one particularly dreadful night—one where Nesta had been forced to play the pretty, glittering bauble for a man older than their father—she had confronted her mother over her horrid strategy. 

“This isn’t right!” She had cried indignantly. 

“Neither was your father leaving us penniless,” her mother had retorted, unrepentant.

“There are more important things Mama!”

But her mother wouldn’t be swayed. 

“Do you want to be a seamstress?” She had asked her youngest child coldly. “Would you have us begging on the streets like paupers? Is that what you want?” 

But Feyre, the free-spirited wild child of the family who spent more time climbing trees than attending her etiquette lessons, couldn’t understand her mother’s fears. 

“What’s so wrong with being a seamstress?” She had replied stubbornly. 

Her mother’s response was to pack her daughter off to boarding school. Months later, when Feyre had finally returned home during her summer holiday…she found Nesta engaged to one Tomas Mandray—heir to a railroad fortune. 

All it had taken was a single evening in the man’s company, watching him leer at her sister like a thing he owned, for her to decide then and there that she hated him. And no gentle cajoling from Elain, no beautiful paintings from her favorite artists, and no quiet fury from her mother would ever change that. 

“Hmm,” she hummed noncommittally, turning back to her paintings. 

Perhaps, if she was lucky, Tomas would trip and fall overboard on the journey home. 

One could only hope. 

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Fuck, Cassian thought as he raced across the docks. 

It would be just his luck, winning a ticket onto the Titanic only to just miss her as she sailed off into the horizon without him. 

“Excuse me!” He yelled, dodging a cart and several unsuspecting porters as they sputtered obscenities at him. “Sorry!”

He spied the doors at the top of the gangway begin to close and thundered up the ramp noisily, shouting as he went. 

“Wait!” He waved his hands wildly, catching the eye of one of the men. “I’m a passenger!”

At the top of the ramp, one of the officers—a man who looked to be barely older than Cassian himself—peered at him suspiciously. Cassian held his ticket up cheerfully, hopefully, like a peace offering. 

“Have you been through the inspection?” The man demanded hurriedly. 

“Of course I have!” He lied breezily, “You think I would be here if I hadn’t?”

The officer’s eyes darted from the ticket to the man who held it aloft. 

“Anyway,” Cassian continued, seeing he needed more convincing. “It doesn’t matter because I’m an American. Can’t you tell by my charming Yankee accent?” 

The man hesitated, clearly thinking it over as he eyed Cassian’s ambiguous Mediterranean looks. But Lady Luck, as always, was on his side. 

“Of course,” the officer conceded, backing up and sweeping his arm out in a familiar gesture. “Welcome aboard.”

With a grin Cassian leapt across the gap. 

I really am one lucky son of a bitch, he thought. 

Next Chapter

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Guilty Pleasure

Feyre blinked at the scene she encountered upon opening the door to her washroom. 

Rhys stared back, his eyes wide like a deer that had just spotted the hunter. 

“…What?” She blinked, sure she was seeing things…but no. That was definitely Rhys with his face covered in some sort of green goop and...was his hair tied up with…ribbons?

“I can explain.” 

“Okay.” Feyre nodded, still blinking. Maybe if she blinked fast enough the image before her would start making sense. 

“It’s just…things have finally quieted down,” he began. “And with the war I just didn’t have any time to get back into my normal routines…” 

“Your…routines?”

“Right, like my skincare routine.” 

“Your skincare routine…?” She repeated skeptically. What in the Mother’s name was a skincare routine? Some kind of torture? 

Her mate pursed his lips. “Yes. A skincare routine. You think I look this good naturally? Oh no darling. Good bone structure will only get you so far. I worked hard for this face.” 

“Uh…huh…” Feyre hummed, unable to really come up with a better response. It was hard to take him seriously when his face was still green. 

“Everyone needs a fifteen step skincare routine,” he insisted defensively. 

“Fifteen?!” She barked in disbelief. Surely not! That would be ridiculous…right? Right?!

“I’m surprised they didn’t make you start one in the spring court.”

Suddenly, Feyre recalled all those times Alis attempted to force a bevy of bottles on her morning and night. So that’s what those were…

“Don’t you just need…soap?” 

Rhys let out a gasp of horror. 

“I can’t believe I married an uncivilized heathen!”

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t hear you complaining about that this morning—”

With another outraged cry, he pulled her into the washroom. 

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Your Villain

Everyone sees Azriel as a villain. 

He is the terrifying shadow that hovers behind the High Lord’s throne. Always watching. Always listening. Always ready to do violence and spill blood in the name of protecting his court. 

Everyone, that is, except you. 

Because you know what he truly is. 

Your hero. 

You still remember the way he cut down the males who hurt you. To those same fae, he was a horrifying portent of doom. But to you? He was an avenging savior sent by The Mother. He had held out his hand, still dripping with the blood of your captors and you hadn’t even hesitated in taking it. 

“Is it safe?” You had asked. 

And he had just smiled at you, his face gentle and kind despite the bloody aftermath around you both. 

“It is now.”

You had followed him ever since. 

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