#eluzriel

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This is what I want, Azriel reminded himself. His scarred hands felt like blasphemy on Elain's soft curves.

Then Lucien was kissing her, and Azriel's fingers tangled in red hair just a shade too light, but still good, still like dancing flames. He pressed his lips to a muscled shoulder, closed his eyes to imagine a constellation of freckles there. He basked in the fire burning under the male's skin.

When Lucien turned to him, he was shocked to meet gold and russet instead of amber.

I want this, he thought stubbornly. This was safe.

It had to be enough.

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ACOTAR taglist (lmk if you'd like on or off, or if you don't want to be tagged for certain characters/pairings 💕)

     Azriel sinks to his knees before her, and he looks like he is confessing, but she can’t hear a word he’s saying. In her mind, there is a garden coming to life, and she doesn’t know if it’s a glimpse of a vision or her overactive imagination. But there is a garden, thick and wild, filled with flowers from across Prythian, from across the world. And they are there, the three of them – no, the four of them, there’s someone missing. It is a vision, but she shakes it away, pushing with all of the force she can muster to be here now. To be present.

     To live, in this moment, with her mate and their…their Azriel. Because he would be theirs, he won’t leave this apartment without knowing the way he is wanted. Needed. After all this time, she still needs him, in every way she always has and so, so much more. Elain abandons her book, leaning forward to cup his cheeks, to chase that agonizing guilt from the eyes she loves so much.

     She loves him. She does. She has for years. Not in the way she loves Lucien, not with the steady certainty of the bond that keeps them tethered, keeps them coming back together no matter how far he drifts. No, this is darker, as deep and wild as that garden in her mind, with teeth and claws that do not frighten her because she claims them. This is a love that could be ruinous, and she wants it anyway. She wants it.

     “Elain,” Azriel breathes, eyes fluttering closed as he leans into her touch, like it’s taken all of the fight out of him. All of the anguish she’d heard as he stumbled through an apology she didn’t care to receive, not when he’s right here , looking at her. Letting her touch him.

     “Enough,” she whispers, drawing his head into her lap. “Enough. Let’s be done with all of this pain, Azriel. I think we’ve all suffered enough.” Separately and together. The three of them had been a mess since her first breath as a High Fae, her complex feelings for them so wrapped up in the trauma of being snatched from her body, from her life, and folded into this new one…she hadn’t been able to see it clearly before. Not the way she sees it now.

     Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Lucien shift, like he might come towards them. Elain finds that bond in her chest, that golden thread stretching between them, and gives it a long, slow caress. Asking him to wait just one minute more. She doesn’t want to keep him out right now, she needs the reassurance of his presence that this is okay, that she can have this. They can all have what they want and it’s all okay . Lucien’s response is a light tug, a subtle reminder he’s there, that she’s free to explore this.

     But Azriel needs this moment, too. This connection with her. A chance to just breathe together, with his head in her lap, a quiet moment they haven’t shared since that night in her sister’s home. His hands grip the backs of her calves, hot against her skin. She runs her fingers through his hair, his loose curls gliding like silk between her fingers. Those large, imposing black wings droop as the warrior relaxes, unfolding like dark satin across the floor behind him. He looks a little like the seraphim she’s seen in books Feyre brought her from the library, angelic beings more imposing than Dawn’s Peregryn. She wants to run her hands along the framework of his wings and feel the strength in those bones; to stroke and touch in all of the ways she’s only read about in the romance novels Nesta occasionally forgets at the River House.

     Elain leans down, lightly kissing the top of Azriel’s head, breathing in his icy mist and cedar scent as his grip on her flesh tightens. If it bruises, at least she will have evidence this was real, that it wasn’t only happening in her mind. Lucien drifts closer, skirting the edge of Azriel’s wing to sit beside her on the bench. His arm slips around her waist, drawing her firmly against his side without jostling the Illyrian in her lap, and her heart sings at the way they fit together. It’s not quite enough to be complete, not yet, but it’s so much closer than the long, cold nights she’d cling to Lucien in bed and wish things had been different – that maybe she’d been different. Made different, perhaps.

     “You’re perfect,” Lucien whispers, resting his head against hers. Had he felt that flicker of lingering insecurity, that old wound she’s always trying to bury? That what she is, what she can offer, still might not be enough? Azriel hums, nodding his agreement from her lap, and she can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from her chest. “What?”

     Elain tries to stifle her giggling, the sound so bright with joy and disbelief, closing her eyes to try and settle herself. “Nothing, nothing, it’s…I can’t…is this real? Are both of you truly okay with- with all of this, with…with me?” She hates the way her voice breaks then, her final question a whisper in the stillness of the apartment. She can feel their eyes on her, feel them watching but she refuses to open her eyes, to find out if the tears gathering on her lashes are real or imagined. This could all be a dream, it could be-

     Lucien’s hand is in her hair, pulling her head back as his mouth claims hers. His kiss isn’t gentle, and she doesn’t want it to be. Azriel tugs at her calves, pulling her towards the end of the bench, and Lucien helps him along. He guides her head to his shoulder as he pulls back, his thumb sweeping away the tears that do fall when she finally opens her eyes, meeting his stare. He loves her, he loves her and it’s all there in the steady way he watches her. His thumb caresses her cheek, drawing a warm, soft smile to her lips before his hand drifts lower, towards the ribbon at the top of her nightgown.

     Yes, yes, she nods her assent as Azriel slowly, carefully spreads her legs a little wider, her feet brushing against the outside of his thick, powerful thighs. His warm, soft mouth presses against the inside of her knee. Her breath hitches at the sweet, slow kiss he leaves on her skin. Elain’s eyes drift from Lucien’s to watch his fingers tug at the end of the rosy, pink ribbon, pulling the bow free. The gathered collar loosens, slipping down her shoulders, baring her skin to two pairs of hungry eyes. Azriel turns his head, placing a mirroring kiss on her other leg as Lucien’s mouth ghosts along her shoulder, raising goosebumps along her skin.

     Her arousal scents the air, honeyed jasmine mingling with theirs until she’s overwhelmed with the scent of them, dark and sweet and sensual. Holy gods, it’s almost too much and they haven’t even started yet. Frothy layers of pale chiffon slide up her thighs as Azriel begins his ascent. Her dress slips lower, baring a breast that Lucien’s large, warm hand covers, squeezing and caressing as he kisses her again like they have nothing but time to enjoy this.

- - -

     Elain’s panties are ruined by the time Azriel’s tongue swipes over them. His mouth is achingly warm against the soaked fabric, and he lets out a low, possessive groan at the way she whimpers above him. She tastes divine, sweet musky, and he presses his face firmly into the apex of her thighs, pulling in the heady scent of her like she is all the air he’ll need. She is, he swears she is. His tongue darts against her in quick, firm strokes, enjoying the sweet noises she makes as much as the taste of her. He would have begged more for this if she hadn’t mercifully interrupted his fumbling apology. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, he’s sure of it, his cock straining against the waist of his breeches where Lucien had left tucked. The sensitive skin around his jewelry feels tighter – not uncomfortably so, not yet, but he’s going to need to ease this ache soon.

     Fuck, she tastes so good.

     Maybe he should just come like this. He certainly could, gods, they don’t have to touch him. He wants them to, though. Lucien lets out a harsh breath and Azriel lifts his head to watch Elain free his cock. Her small, pale hand strokes the thick, veined shaft, following the arched curve of his back towards the other male’s chest. He’s been with plenty of fae in the last five centuries, and Lucien probably has the prettiest cock he’s ever seen. Fuck. Fuck. He’s going to be ruined for anyone else, isn’t he?

     “Yes,” Lucien sighs, the back of his head thumping against the thick windowpane at their backs, and Azriel glances up to see that magnificent sky glittering behind them both. Then he catches Lucien’s eye and his auburn head bobs, all the consent he needs. He braces his hands against Elain’s thighs, leaning up between them as she shyly angles her mate’s cock forward, allowing Azriel to flick the tip of his tongue along the slit. It feels right for his first taste to be shared with her this way, for her to be the one to grant him this.

     Salt dances across his tongue as he takes Lucien in his mouth. Lucien’s hand falls from Elain’s breast to rest atop Azriel’s head, sinking into his hair with surprising tenderness. Elain’s fingers brush against his mouth with every slow, sweet stroke of her hand. Nothing about this is hurried, so unlike the couplings Azriel has had in the last several decades. It’s the prelude to a dance between the three of them, soft and easy, so he keeps his movements as languid as hers. Tasting, feeling the way Lucien hardens between his lips, how the Autumn male’s hips shift as they tease him.

     It’s divine.

     Mother above, he needs more, but he can’t ask for it. Can’t demand it of them. He’ll take what they give him-

    Lucien’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling his head back. A long string of spit stretches between his mouth and the dark, leaking tip of Lucien’s cock. Then Lucien is there, kissing him, sucking the taste of his arousal from Azriel’s tongue as he hauls him up from the wood floor. Whispers of chiffon fall through the air, Elain’s clothes landing at their feet as she stands, her nimble hands working the buttons on his tunic near the base of his wings. He doesn’t normally allow other people to do this for him, but she can. She can. He shifts as she needs him to, mindful of where her small form dances around him, even as Lucien’s hand slides back into his breeches. His thumb slides against the silver ring once more and Azriel moans into his mouth, bucking against his palm as Elain peels his tunic away.

     “So sensitive,” Lucien croons, his lips curving into a smile as their foreheads meet. They have matching lumps where the other male headbutted him earlier, and Azriel chuckles as a small jolt of pain reminds him of its presence. Bastard. “Is that why you had this done?”

     “No,” he whispers, tugging Lucien’s shirt over his head, keenly aware of the way Elain’s eyeing the bit of jewelry protruding over the top of his waistband. Fuck, fuck, he’s dreamed about her admiring his cock like this but never…never with such intense focus.

     “Then why?” she asks, her hand hovering between them. She’s close, so close, he needs her to touch him. He needs. He takes her wrist, guiding her hand but not…not forcing it. But she doesn’t pull away, He shivers as her fingers graze the heated flesh, shifting the piercing experimentally while he shivers between them, completely at her mercy.

     “Answer her,” Lucien murmurs, kissing him again to soften the authoritative edge in his tone. So much like Rhys giving a command, the power in his words is abnormal, even for High Fae. But fuck if he doesn’t want to obey anyway. He’d crawl for them if they asked, if Lucien commanded- fuck - “Azriel.”

     “I wanted it,” he breathes, too nervous to admit it too loudly. How is he supposed to explain this to them? Even after all this time, there’s still a little shame in the way he wants, the way he needs… “I liked the way it felt. I-I wanted to be hurt.”

     “Oh.” Elain says, tugging at his breeches. Unveiling the rest of him. “Oh.”

     “It- it doesn’t hurt now, none of it does, but- oh fuck, Elain.” Broken moans fall from his lips as she gives the ring a small, experimental tug. His cock twitches sharply towards his belly, revealing the neat ladder of silver piercings along the underside of his shaft. Cauldron, she’s going to kill him, before he can even be inside of her. Lucien whistles, running his fingers along the small, silver balls capping each bar. Azriel’s head drops to his shoulder as they explore, his breaths faltering while they tease and stroke to their hearts’ content.

     Elain’s body slots against his side, her bare breasts brushing against his overheated skin. He strokes a hand along her spine, reaching down to grab a handful of her glorious ass when her warm little mouth closes around the bar running through his nipple and sucks, pulling the most undignified whimper from his throat. Oh shit, oh shit. He’s leaking all over their hands, they’ll make him come if he doesn’t put a stop to this, he can’t. Not until they do.

     “Bed,” he pleads, lifting his head to look at Lucien, whose lazy, confident grin is maddening as he gives his cock a teasing squeeze.

     “You’re close, aren’t you?” The redhead croons, stealing the answer from his lips with a slow, gentle kiss. Lucien’s teeth graze his lips as they part, a nipping bite he wants more of immediately. “Elain, my love, we should take our bat to bed before we tire him out. He’s had a hard day being impossibly dense-”

     “Prick,” Azriel growls, even as Elain trails kisses along his abdomen, peeling away his breeches on her way down. His boots are a little tricky, but he manages to collect himself enough to help her, batting away Lucien’s insistent hand to return some of the blood flow to his brain. Once he’s undressed, they finish removing Lucien’s clothes, tossing them haphazardly as they stumble down the hallway and through the double doors leading to the bedroom, lit by a lone faelight lamp.

     He shouldn’t be surprised it’s decorated in shades of green. Dark, rich greens and lighter shades of clover, all tempered with cream accents that are achingly reminiscent of Spring. It had been his home for a long time, it’s natural he’d want to be reminded of it – even here, in a city dedicated to the dark, beautiful night. It reminds Azriel of the old, empty cottage at the edge of his mother’s property. There hasn’t been a proper gardener there in years, the grounds of the estate aren’t as maintained as they used to be-

     Lucien shoves him back with a low growl and Azriel allows himself to fall against the plush bedding, his wings relaxed beneath him. He doesn’t usually permit his lovers such freedom with his body, but Elain and Lucien…he wants to give them everything. Anything . He doesn’t need control, not with Elain’s sweet hands running over his skin as she straddles his thigh, the hot, wet heat of her nestled against his leg as she leans in for an experimental lick. Her tongue runs along each piercing before she gets to the tip, flicking the ring with her tongue until he moans, bowing up off the bed.

     Lucien settles near his head, languidly stroking his own cock while Elain experiments with him, giggling mischievously as she goes. Gods, gods she’s perfect. And so is he. And Azriel’s going to explode if they don’t fuck him.

     “Use me,” he says in invitation, eyeing Lucien’s cock as his hand finds purchase in Elain’s hair. It’s so soft between his fingers, thicker than he’d realized. “You can fuck my mouth-”

     “If I do that, I’ll be too distracted to watch Elain make a mess of you, won’t I?” Lucien says, gathering his own precome on his thumb to smear across Azriel’s lower lip, along his skin. “Now, be a good boy and just lie there, Azriel. We’re going to take care of you.”

      Be a good boy. He’s such a condescending bastard but fuck him if he didn’t want to come at the sound of those words on Lucien’s lips. He reaches up, wrapping his hand around the back of Lucien’s neck, pulling him down for a long, rough kiss. That takes all of the smugness out of the redheaded prick, at least for a moment. Elain’s soft moans are sweeter than any music as she straddles his hips, lightly rubbing the tip of his cock against her clit. Mother above, he can’t miss this. Lucien pulls back, breathing hard, fire burning in his russet eye as he drops a kiss on Azriel’s forehead. Together, they watch his mate sink onto Azriel’s cock before he can even think to ask if she wants any of his piercings removed. Thank the Cauldron she doesn’t, fuck – the feeling of her sinking onto him, the velvety walls of her pussy- he’s going to die, this is going to kill him.

     “Pretty female,” Lucien murmurs, crawling down the bed towards her, claiming her lips with a searing kiss. Their tongues slide together, Lucien’s fingers teasing her rosy nipples as she rides him, so beautiful Azriel can’t even think. He’s lucky, so lucky, oh fuck, her hips - “You’re so close, love.”

     “So close,” she whispers, reaching out for Azriel as she leans back against her mate. He threads his fingers through hers, mottled skin against her clear, perfect flesh, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

     “How does he feel?”

     “Perfect.” Azriel flushes under her praise, craving more of it as he tugs her down to him. She sprawls across his chest, not quite tall enough to reach him even from this angle. Leaning up on an elbow, he cradles the back of her head as he draws her lips to his. He savors the sweet flavor of her mouth, her scent wrapping around him like a blanket. Maybe he can convince them to let him stay tonight, to let him have this for just a little longer.

     Lucien’s tongue flicks against his balls and his hips stutter, falling out of rhythm as he moans into Elain’s mouth. Her mate continues his slow, sweet torture, sucking the taste of them from his thin, sensitive skin. The slick sounds of him seeking his own pleasure spurs Azriel to free his hand from Elain’s, sliding it between their bodies to circle her clit as Lucien’s mouth moves lower. He’s not prepped for this tonight, but he could make it work – he would make it work, if that’s what Lucien wants. He’ll take whatever he needs to for this sweet gift he’s been given.

     Elain’s orgasm tears through her fast and hard, her muscles clenching around him so tightly he has no choice but to come, too, Mother above. She curls against his chest, clinging to him as she grinds helplessly against his hand, lost to her pleasure. Her moans are delicious, a perfect compliment to Lucien’s as Azriel watches through hooded eyes as he paints her back with his release. His brain is fuzzy with post-orgasm bliss as Elain begins to relax against him. Beautiful, they’re so beautiful.

     Later, he’s vaguely aware of a warm, damp cloth running over his skin, cleaning them both before they sleepily wriggle their way beneath the blankets, the lamp extinguished. In a few hours, maybe, he’ll wake them for another round. Lucien slides in at Elain’s back, trapping her between them as Azriel’s wings dangle off of the bed. His hand is warm against Azriel’s cheek as his thumb strokes over his cheekbone, casual affection he doesn’t know what to do with. He’s not used to it, these sweet, loving touches. He doesn’t normally stick around this long after without it being previously negotiated. He doesn’t know what to do.

     “Sleep, Azriel,” Lucien murmurs, nuzzling the top of Elain’s head. “And don’t leave in the morning.”

     “I have to leave at some point.”

     “Yes, but I’m asking you not to disappear. Don’t run away, not from us. We want more than just one night.”

     “I won’t leave,” he agrees, reaching across Elain to rest his hand on Lucien’s side. “Go to sleep, you tricky fox-”

     “Clever, actually. Tremendously clever. Shame you couldn’t keep up.”

     “Smug bastard, more like.”

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

Enjoy this fic? Looking for another like it? Try reading my other Nessian fic The Hungry House.

Or, alternatively, check out my ACOTAR Fic Masterlists.

Thanks for reading! 💙

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