#sjmromanceweek

"Go ahead." She finally said to him making Cassian's head lift in response, his eyes still flared with the fire she had seen in them earlier that day. she refused to back down from it.

"What do you want me to say Nesta? That I'm upset? You know I am, but somehow I doubt you care.”

"What was it about my decision that made you so angry? Even Feyre knew why i did it."

"I'm not Fyere, Nesta."

"Neither am i." Nesta argued, her hand clenching the table, "And yet when i make a decision that Feyre herself would have made, I'm punished and reprimanded for it. Why is that?"

Cassian gave her a leveled look, crossing his arms over his chest as he answered,

"I've been mad at Feyre plenty of times for throwing not just herself, but all of us in danger. You should have seen how angry I was when she decided not to tell any of us that she was High lady and decided to go with Tamlin to the Spring Court."

She briefly remembered that time, had remembered some of his anger, but mostly during that time, she had remembered him doing everything to keep her sane. Even if it meant provoking her anger in the process so she had something else to focus on then her own reality.

"Stop trying to change the subject, you owe me an explanation. I know why Rhys was mad, he's the High lord of these lands, Nyx is barely four months old and I already know he detest me, but I still can't figure out why my mate, the person who's supposed to understand me the most is angrier at me than my own brother in law is."

Cassian stood abruptly as Nesta stood up to meet him, crossing her arms over her chest. there was no way in hell that she would let him avoid this conversation. No matter how unpleasant it made both of them feel. She was tired of whatever the hell was happening between the two.

"You want to know why I'm pissed at you, why I'm furious that you gave it to that-that female." Cassian spewed out stepping closer to her so there was no space between them.

"I'm here waiting for an explanation aren't I?" She pressed.

"You are the most infuriating female I have ever met, you know that?"

She gave a low laugh at that,

"In that way we're evenly matched."

She expected lot of things, for him to yell at her some more or for him to walk away, she did not expect him to pull her in, whined his hands in her hair, and press his lips to hers.

She met his furious kisses, stroke for stroke, taking her own fury at him out in her kiss as they battled for dominance. He pulled away, leaving her breathless but still tilted her face up to meet that fire in his eyes as he breathed out,

"I'm angry, because that female had the audacity to ask my mate for a favor after she had already put your life in danger. I'm angry because the woman I love, put her life and safety at risk to help save others who would not do the same for her. I'm angry because-"

"Did you just say that you love me?" Nesta questioned, his declaration catching her off guard as he breathed pausing in his expiation blinking in confusion.

"Of course I did. You're my mate, why wouldn't I-"

He paused considering, contemplating their time together. the words he had uttered to her in their love making, she knew he loved her, had felt it in his kiss, in the fierceness of how he showed it to her, but she had never heard him utter it out loud, not until this very moment.

"I'm an asshole." He finally admitted, sorrow and regret in his eyes and a hint of shame. "I'm a selfish, cowardice, asshole, and some days I do not deserve you."

She closed the very narrow distance between them, standing on tip toes to press her lips to his, her hands gently caressing his face as he kissed her back with the desire of a thousand universes.

"I love you too." She whispered, losing herself in his strong embrace, her lover, her best friend, her mate.

"I should have said it sooner." He whispered to her in between their urgent kisses.

"The past is the past, Cassian. I'd rather live in the here and the now, for however long the Mother and The universe gives us, I want you by my side."

He grasped her hand, intertwining their fingers as he said,

"I wouldn't want it any other way, Nesta Archeron."

She smiled, capturing his lips once more as she mused,

"We should take this to the bedroom that way you can show me how much you love me."

She felt his smile between their kiss as he lifted her up in his arms, a giggle escaping her as he grinned,

"I thought you'd never ask."

It wasn’t until the silence had finally settled into Rhysand’s office that she realized she’d been dismissed, dismissed from her own life. The tightening of her jaw extended into her standing, mumbling out a perfunctory goodbye before slipping out the door.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

Lucien’s expression softened as though he’d heard the thought through the bond. Still, he said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head—a small, empty gesture—and walked out the door. No second glance. No words.

Elain exhaled shakily and turned toward the garden, the only place where her thoughts didn’t feel like they were spiraling out of control. She laid down in her nook, tilting her face to the sky. She enjoyed the quiet. It was comforting, and she fell asleep without noticing.

She had left her garden when her eyes opened again.

Rather, she was standing in a huge city with a smoky, chaotic atmosphere. Overhead, a massive glass palace with jagged spires that gleamed like knives.

A quiet but anxious voice called her name. She turned abruptly.

Lucien put out his hand and stood a few steps away. His face was tense with anxiety, and the wind was ruffling his ruby red hair. “The boat to Doranelle leaves soon,” he said, his golden eye glinting in the pale light.

She stared at him. “What…?”

He stepped closer, closing the space between them. His hand brushed hers, warm and steady, as though he could anchor her.

“My heart,” he said softly. “We don’t have much time.”

Her fingers trembled as she slipped her hand into his. He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms as a chill wind swept through the cobblestoned streets. His warmth pressed against her shivering frame, but it did little to quiet the fear she felt.

“Are you sure?” her voice barely more than a whisper.

His jaw clenched. “They’ll sack Terrasen. We need to go now.”

“Lucien, I’m—” Her voice cracked.

“Do not be afraid, my love,” he said, pressing his forehead against hers. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She sniffled, and Lucien tugged her closer to wrap his arms around her as though to shield her from the world. The noise of the city seemed to dim, melting into a distant hum until it was just the two of them—just the bond and the steady, grounding weight of him. His breath brushed her ear as he whispered softly, “I’ll keep you safe.”

It was such a soft, intimate statement that her breathing hitched. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of his voice settle over her. And when she opened them again, the world had shifted.

It was still Lucien. But not. His hair was woven into intricate braids, the ends tipped in beads of copper. Tattoos curled along the sides of his neck, trailing down to vanish beneath his shirt, and a small silver hoop glinted in his nose. He seemed both entirely foreign and completely familiar, the bond between them thrumming as if to remind her that no matter the form, this was him.

Elain blinked down at herself. Her dress was gone, replaced by a strange garment that clung to her body like a second skin: a pair of pants—stiff yet soft, hugging her legs down to her ankles. They were a stormy blue, faded in places, and patched with tiny frayed holes. Above them, a top bared her midsection, her skin catching the light of some unseen source. And there, nestled in the hollow of her navel, was a tiny jewel.

She touched it absently, still reeling, her voice taking on a coquettish edge to mask her confusion. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” she said, her eyes meeting Lucien’s. “The drop is just … scary. It’s some Asteri bullshit to keep us in line.”

But Lucien just smiled—sharper, hungrier than she was used to—and closed the space between them, and his lips crashed on hers with a fervor that stole her breath. It wasn’t the soft, tentative affection she was used to. This was raw, consuming. And she met him with equal intensity, her hands tangling in his braids as though this version of him was a male she’d known forever.

When they broke apart, she was breathless, her head spinning. A laugh bubbled out of her, giddy and reckless, and she said, “Okay.” Her heart raced as if it were leaping ahead of her, knowing something she didn’t. “Okay. Whatever happens, as long as I’m with you forever.”

Lucien’s hands framed her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. His voice dropped to a low, steady vow. “I am your anchor,” he said. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Her laugh burst into a delighted squeal as if she’d shrugged off every burden that had ever weighed her down. But then—then the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her stomach plummeted, her breath caught in her throat, and the world began to unspool around her, spinning apart into fragments of color and light.

She was falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she landed with a soft thud. The fall ended not on hard ground, but on something worn and familiar. A couch. She blinked, disoriented, her breath catching as she realized she was curled up against Lucien. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from some sort of strange box directly in front of them, flickering with moving images. His hand had been laid lightly on her waist, and somehow she was draped over him, her body nestled comfortably against his.

“Did you fall asleep again?” His voice was a soft murmur, teasing but warm.

“No,” she replied defensively, even as her face heated. “You’re just really warm.”

A pause. Pregnant and heavy, though she couldn’t quite say why. She shifted to look up at him, catching the faintest curve of a smile on his now-human face. He reached for a small, smooth rectangle beside him, pressing a button that made the flickering images vanish into black.

He turned to her, his expression softer now, quieter. “You know that I’ll support you,” he said, the weight of his words pulling her from the haze of sleep.

“I know,” she replied unsurely. “It’s just... restaurants fail all the time. Even the good ones. What if it doesn’t work out?”

Lucien shook his head, brushing her hair back from her face with such tenderness that she stilled. “And what if it does work out? You’ve landed the job of your dreams, Elle. We’ve been saving for this. For you. You can take this chance.”

Her throat tightened as tears welled in her eyes. “Loosh...” The gratitude, the fear, the love—it all swirled together.

“No matter what happens,” he said as though it were a vow, “I will always be by your side.”

Even as the dream threatened to fall apart once more, she was grounded by his familiar words. She leaned forward and kissed him, closing her eyes. For an instant, his warmth tethered her, steadied her.

Because when her eyes opened again, the world had shifted once more.

They were no longer on the couch. No longer in the quiet glow of that strange, cozy room. Now they stood on the deck of a massive ship, the scent of salt and sea spray in the air. Her hair wildly whipped around her face in the wind, and when she looked down, she realized she was in a swashbuckling corset, her belt adorned with a gleaming cutlass.

Lucien stood beside her, his ruby red hair tied back in a loose queue, a few strands escaping to frame the sharp angles of his jaw. His left eye was covered by a worn leather eyepatch, lending a rakish edge to the cocky grin curving his lips. His open collar let a glimpse of his chest show beneath the sun bleached skin. That sight alone was enough to curl her toes.

Her body reacted instinctively, the heat pooling low in her belly as a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She had no idea what was feeding the hum of energy within her except that it needed to find release.

“Ah, well, love,” he drawled, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Ready for our next adventure?”

“Not quite,” she said in a coy invitation.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she leaned back against the ship’s railing. She liked this aspect of herself even though she didn’t recognize it. Intentionally and purposefully, she reached out and let her fingers slide over the front of his trousers, her lips curling into a slow, playful smile.

His single visible eye darkened with interest, his grin sharpening into something wicked. “Oh?” he asked, his tone a mix of challenge and promise.

Her fingers gave him a firm squeeze, and the next moment his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. Her hands slid to the curve of his ass, pulling him closer as he pressed her back against the railing. His lips moved to her neck, suckling and grazing the sensitive skin there until he elicited a moan from her lips.

“Lucien,” she gasped. “I need you.”

“Not yet, love,” he murmured.

She barely had time to process his words before she heard his knees hit the wooden planks beneath them.

Her breath hitched as his hands slid up her thighs, steady and reverent. And then his tongue swept against her, deliberate and skilled, sending waves of pleasure through her that made her body tighten. Her fingers curled around the railing behind her, the rough wood grounding her as her head fell back.

“Lucien,” she gasped, her breaths coming fast and shallow, her body trembling as the pressure inside her coiled tighter and tighter—until it wasn’t.

Her gaze dropped to him, and he looked up at her, his russet eye burning with unwavering intensity—like she was the only thing in his universe.

“Show me what comes next,” she breathed, caught between the moment and the possibilities beyond it.

Lucien rose to his feet, and when his lips met hers, she tasted herself on him. Heat coiled low in her stomach at the intimacy of it, at the way his hands tightened at her waist, tracing slow, deliberate patterns only she could decipher.

When he pulled away, she didn’t understand the flicker of disappointment that followed. Didn’t understand why she had expected—anticipated—more. Why the absence of him inside her felt like something withheld rather than something simply not given.

She needed him.

Impatience flared, sharp and insistent.

“Wherever you want,” he murmured against her lips.

She hummed, her thoughts spinning between destinations and adventures, the endless possibilities stretching before them. Lucien grinned, as though he could read her indecision, as though it delighted him.

His hand brushed a stray strand of hair from her face before he whispered, “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

Before she could reply, the ground beneath her shifted. It gave way like sand pulled out by the tide, and she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling…

Until she found herself cradled in his arms. He carried her effortlessly, dressed in a sleek tuxedo, while she looked down at herself in a flowing white dress. She blinked as they walked through a crowd of laughing people tossing rice into the air. The grains danced like tiny stars, glittering in the golden light.

“You’re my husband?” she asked with disbelief as an unexpected thrill raced through her.

He smiled down at her, that familiar smile doing its work with her heart skipping a beat. “That way, no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

She shut her eyes and leaned in for a chaste kiss, tears of happiness blinding her eyes. And in that moment, the world seemed complete and at peace.

But when she opened her eyes again, everything was different.

And now they faced a peaceful farm shrouded in mist. Beyond their small house, rolling hills stretched on and on, covered in fog that blurred the edges of the world

She glanced down at herself, taking in the simple woolen dress that clung gently to her pregnant belly. Her hands instinctively cradled the bump. She looked up again and nearly burst into laughter.

Lucien was standing by the door of the cottage, his arms crossed, his red hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He was wearing a skirt—a plaid pattern of deep red and green that swayed lightly in the breeze. Somehow, it suited him perfectly, as though he belonged here more than anywhere else.

He turned to her and grinned, a flash of white teeth and easy confidence. “Ye shouldn’t be on ye feet,” he said, his tone playfully chiding.

She answered with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “You don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aye,” Lucien said, stepping toward her. His gaze softened with concern. “Ye ken I worry about you. And the bairn.”

She didn’t really comprehend the weight of the words that hung between them. Or perhaps she didn’t want to understand. She felt a quiet, irrational fear stirring in her chest, like if she looked too closely at the moment, it might break apart.

Lucien knelt slightly, his large hand brushing over her rounded stomach with the lightest of touches. The tenderness in the gesture was enough to make her throat tighten.

“I told you,” he murmured as she closed her eyes. “No matter what happens, I will always be by your side, ken.”

When she opened them, he was light itself.

His red hair glinted like sun rays, his skin aglow with an otherworldly brilliance. The golden threads in his robe seemed to shimmer around him like beams of buttery sunshine. She looked down at herself and found she too was transformed. Her body felt timeless, eternal. Her dress was a gown of rich greens and browns, vines and flowers blossoming along its seams. The ground beneath her bare feet pulsed with life.

“Solas,” she whispered as she opened her arms to him. The taste of the name was as ancient as it felt like home, something that always resided in her mouth. “It has been a year, my love. I have missed you immensely.”

His mismatched eyes eased as he drew closer, softly entwined his fingers into her locks. “Cthona,” he murmured, his voice like sunlight warming her skin. “A year too long.”

Their kiss was the same as it had always been—an unbroken promise, a memory of all they had been and all they could be. It consumed her, grounding her and unmooring her all at once.

As they parted, his hands cradled her face, wiping away the tears that trickled down her cheeks with his thumbs. He added in a low voice, “No matter how many years pass. No matter how many lives we endure, I will always be by your side. You are the beginning and the end of me, Cthona. You always have been.”

His words were both heavy and light as they buried deeply into her chest. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to his, relishing the instant, the assurance, and the eternity in his arms.

She opened them again, and the world flickered as her eyes met his. The golden glow fractured into shards of color and light, spinning faster and faster as though the universe itself were turning pages too quickly for her to keep up.

She watched as the flickering slowed, revealing hundreds—no, thousands—of versions of him. Lucien, over and over, in lives she hadn’t lived but somehow knew by heart. 

Lucien the knight in shining armor, with a billowing red cape as he knelt before her, sword in hand and devotion etched on every plane of his face.

Lucien the scholar: ink-stained fingers trailing across the pages of a worn leather-bound book, looking up at her in quiet wonder.

Lucien the musician, sat cross-legged with a lute balanced on his knee; deft hands coaxed a melody that seemed meant only for her.

Lucien, waiting for her at a café, his hand around a steaming cup, his eyes locking to hers with a tentative, heart-stopping smile.

Lucien, his calloused hands wiping the sweat from his brow, his golden eye glinting as he shared a small, secret grin just for her.

Lucien in finery fit for a king, his crown tilted slightly askew as though he’d just removed it for her.

Each version of him looked at her the same way—with devotion that burned through time itself. With longing that reached across lifetimes.

Her heart beat furiously at the kaleidoscope of him. She could feel it in every thread of her being: no matter where, no matter when, he was hers.

The images blurred together, their faces melting into one until there was only him. Only Lucien.

And in every life, every version, his voice rang out a promise she could never forget.

“I am glad that I am in a life where I am yours.”

Her breath hitched, and just as she reached for him, the world went pitch black.

Then, slowly, the light returned.

She was standing in a bustling market, surrounded by the scents of autumn—crisp leaves, spiced cider, and freshly baked bread. Fae farmers called out their wares, laughter and conversation filling the air in this market. The colors of the Autumn Court blazed around her, vivid and warm, but her heart froze as her gaze landed on him.

Lucien.

He stood by a stall, leaning close to a female with delicate butterfly wings that shimmered in the sunlight. Perched on his shoulders was a little girl with the same ruby red hair, her chubby hands gripping his hair for balance. A boy stood on the other side of the female, holding her hand as she pointed at something on the stall.

Lucien’s expression softened as he listened to her. His voice was low and full of care, full of love. Elain couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She wanted to blink, to squeeze her eyes shut and will herself into the next dream—but nothing happened.

This wasn’t a dream.

Her feet carried her toward him before she could decide whether it was the right thing to do. Every step felt like threading molasses. She stopped beside him, and time seemed to stretch unbearably as Lucien turned toward her.

His hands slackened at his sides, his face draining of color. “You’re my mate,” he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What did you say?” the female beside him asked, her delicate face wrinkling in confusion.

Elain blinked rapidly, trying to keep her tears at bay, but the words rang in her head like a bell she couldn’t unhear. She hadn’t thought—hadn’t considered—that there might be lives where he wasn’t… hers.

She turned to run, unable to face it. The market faded, turning into a forest and she collided with him. His arms closed around her, and her lips found his with desperate eagerness, as though she’d been starving for him.

“Elain,” his voice was strained, raw with anguish. “You and I can’t be—”

“But we are mates,” she sobbed, clawing at him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as though holding on could stop the world from tearing them apart.

“In another life, Elain,” he said, his voice breaking under the weight of the words. His russet eye shimmered with unshed tears, his hands trembling where they cupped her face. “You are my mate. You are everything. But they’ll kill her if I leave… if I leave them.”

The words slammed into her, hollowing her out.

This was cruelty. This was torture. If Elain was shown worlds where she and Lucien lived and loved, then now, she was forced to endure those where Jesminda lived—and Lucien wasn’t… couldn’t… was forced not to be hers

Not if he didn’t want Jesminda to be killed. Not if he didn’t want them to be killed. Not if he didn’t want to break apart the family he had made, the home he had built—the home that shattered the moment his face paled and his voice, broken and haunted, whispered that he had been wrong about his mate.

Stolen moments that rarely saw the light of day.

And it always ended the same way before she was dragged into the next scene.

She shook her head violently, the word slipping from her lips like a plea. “No… no…”

As though anchoring himself to her one final time, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. His breath trembled as he whispered, barely more than a rasp, “No matter what, I will always be by your side, even when I cannot.”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. She gripped his arms, her fingers digging in, desperate to keep him close. Desperate to change the ending.

But before she could reply—

The world yanked her away.

Escape. That was all she could think about as she rushed down the stairs. Maybe she’d get an apartment in Velaris. Or another court. Or maybe—her mind reeled, wild with desperation—maybe an entirely different continent.

Her garden. If she could just make it there, she could breathe again. But she stopped short at the base of the stairs.

Lucien stood by the entrance.

Their eyes met, and their mating bond buzzed faintly in her mind. His head dipped but the longing in his gaze was unmistakable. She didn’t need to see it etched across his face. She felt it humming along the bond, slipping into her heart without permission.

Elain could feel her chest tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d known why she was called into Rhysand’s office, known what was discussed. And yet, knowing didn’t make her feel any less trapped.

She didn’t want this. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want the invisible chains of this bond dictating the rest of her immortal life. She’d had so little freedom in her human years, and now, even that was gone.

No.

“So you made a decision,” Lucien said quietly.

This didn’t happen.

“I did,” Elain said, her voice tight as she avoided his gaze.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

This didn’t happen.

Lucien looked down at the floor and nodded slowly.

THIS DIDN’T HAPPEN.

Time stretched unbearably, each second sinking heavier into her chest. Her stomach churned with dread, her body frozen as though trapped in amber. She wanted to stop it, to speak, to reach for him—but the words stuck in her throat, strangled by fear.

Lucien looked up at her one last time, his russet eye filled with something she couldn’t name—something that both softened and broke her. A bittersweet smile curved his lips, fragile and fleeting, like a memory already slipping away.

“Perhaps in another life, lady,” he murmured, his voice low and aching, “I would have loved to be yours.”

He turned and walked away.

The door closed behind him with an unbearable finality, the soft click echoing in her mind like a thunderclap. It shattered something deep inside her, something fragile and vital, leaving her hollow.

He didn’t… he didn’t say it.

The thought spiraled, tearing through her. He didn’t say the words. The words she needed. The words that had anchored her through lifetimes and dreams.

Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as if the very air had turned heavy and toxic, pressing down on her chest. The ache swelled, unbearable, until it broke free.

The scream tore from her throat—raw, feral, endless.

She screamed.

She screamed.

She screamed until her lungs gave out, until the sound tore through her and left her shaking. Then, as if pulled from deep water, she jolted upright in bed, gasping for air.

Her breaths came wild and jagged, her chest heaving.

The room was dark, the edges blurred, her mind still clinging to the shattered fragments of unfinished dreams. The sheets beneath her were damp with sweat, tangled around her legs as if they, too, had tried to hold her in the nightmare.

“Lady?”

His voice cut through the haze, soft and hesitant, a lifeline pulling her back into the present.

Her head snapped toward him. Lucien was seated in a chair beside her bed, his posture rigid as his knuckles turned white from gripping his knees. His red hair was untied, a few unruly strands framing his face as lines of the worry etched into his features.

“Lucien,” she croaked. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” he said soothingly, his russet scarred gaze steady on hers. But there was something beneath the calm surface of his voice—something taut, uneasy, as if he were afraid of the answer.

She pressed her palm against her forehead, trying to focus, trying to make sense of the images that still swirled in her mind. The pirate ship. The chapel. The endless lives. His words. Perhaps in another life...

A sob broke free before she could stop it, raw and wrenching. The ache of the last dream lingered like a phantom, overshadowing the fleeting joy of the happier ones.

The idea he wasn’t hers. The idea he couldn’t be. The idea he … didn’t want to be.

Lucien moved quickly, pouring her a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table. She accepted it with shaking hands, chugging it down until her parched throat eased. When the glass was empty, she set it aside and sank back into the pillows, her chest still tight with grief she couldn’t fully name.

She could feel his gaze on her, the quiet weight of it. She turned her head toward him and saw it—etched in every line of his face, in the tension of his shoulders, in the shadows that darkened his expression. Worry.

“What happened?” she asked again, her voice stronger now but still unsteady.

Lucien shook his head slowly, exhaling through his nose. “I couldn’t feel you,” he admitted, his voice low, as though saying it aloud might make it worse. “It was like you were taken from me. I went to your alcove to check on you, and you were dreaming—restlessly, violently. There was something about it…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as he struggled for words. “It didn’t feel right. So I carried you up here.”

Her throat tightened at the image of him finding her, of his concern pulling her from whatever darkness had held her captive. “Did Rhys…”

Lucien shook his head before she could finish. “I thought he’d be the last person you wanted to see.”

They sat in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken truths. Elain turned her gaze to the ceiling, her tears slipping down her temples as she reoriented herself. But the one constant, the only constant, was him. Lucien. His love had followed her through every version of existence.

“You came for me,” she said quietly. “Even when you knew…”

She didn’t know how to finish her sentence. Didn’t know how to properly express the enormity of what she felt, the gratitude tangled with sorrow. But Lucien didn’t hesitate.

“I would have,” he said softly, his voice steady, unwavering. “Because no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

This quiet conviction in his voice was the final pull of threads, and she came utterly undone. A sob tore from her chest as she sagged, burying her face in her shaking hands, her grief and the relief of being found when still so lost, breaking her completely raw and open.

And then… warmth. From their bond.

She turned toward him, and a shared understanding passed between them—silent, familiar. Like then. Like in a thousand lives before. Like now.

Wordlessly, he stood from the chair. It was the first time in this world, but hundreds of times before, that he kicked off his shoes and slipped beneath the covers. She shifted without thinking, making space for him. Always on the same side. Always with the same arm tucked beneath her.

But for the first time in this universe, she turned into him. Pressed her forehead to his chest as his hand found her back, tracing slow, steady circles.

She exhaled, feeling the tension leave her body, but when she looked up at him, she caught it—the flicker of confusion in his gaze. As if he had never done this before, yet somehow knew exactly how to.

“Was it a bad dream?” he asked softly.

“It could have been.”

His fingers stilled for just a breath. “Is there something I can do to make it better?”

She couldn’t help but smile, just a little. “Maybe if you were to get a tricorne hat.”

Silence. Then a chuckle—low, warm. She looked up at him again, finding the amusement lingering in his mismatched eyes.

“Promise?” she whispered.

His smile softened. “Promise.”

A promise.

---

wishcamper lore: when i was a college student (re: lost as fuck, re: no long-term thinking) through a series of random events i ended up on an archaeological dig in Cyprus. much of this fic is inspired by that summer, including a lot of the details of dig life, schedules, antagonistic animals, and how it ping-pongs from utterly boring to genuinely life-changing. and while i was unfortunately too consumed with my shitty boyfriend to hook up with the hot boat captain, fiction has the power to right all wrongs. and now: her.

(See the end of the work for more notes!)

Nesta sends a curse to whatever god made the sun so fucking hot.

She hopes it isn’t the one the ancient peoples of this island once worshiped, because she really needs this dig to be productive. But six weeks in the Cesere summer and all they have to show for it are a few shards of pottery, a blank amulet, and a fuckton of dirt. Not enough to write anything publishable, and nowhere close to what she needs to get funded for another year.

Nesta makes another pass over her three-by-three section, pickax chipping away one centimeter-thick layer of red earth at a time.

The trappings of a productive site are all here—isolated island off the mainland, no way to reach it except by boat. The ruins even abut a protected wildlife area, some ancestral seagull nesting ground, though the birds haven’t gotten the memo about leaving their side of the island alone. Every surreptitious trip into the high grass to use the bathroom becomes a WWII style air raid, feathery Luftwaffe dive-bombing from above.

She sends a curse to them, too.

“Let’s break here,” Nesta pants, and Gwyn nods from where she squints over her theodolite. At least they’ll have a CG map of the building’s visible walls by the end of the summer, if nothing else.

“I can’t tell if my eyes are wobbling or there’s an impeding earthquake.” Gwyn swipes a freckled arm across her forehead.

“It would get us out of explaining this fucking fiasco.”

A sharp pull on the whistle around her neck and a relieved groan echoes across from every corner of the excavation pit. Sweat-soaked students pour the last of their water bottles over their heads before they begin to pack all their equipment into thick black tubs. Nesta makes her way over to their makeshift staging area under a tarp to survey the artifacts from the day: more random shards of pottery, and a rock vaguely shaped like a triangle.

“I thought it looked like an arrowhead,” a sandy-haired boy offers as he hovers behind her. She should really get better with names.

“It’s a rock,” Nesta assures him. “And no one used stone arrows in the era we’re studying, anyway.”

Whatshisname deflates. Then works himself back up again, clearly having practiced whatever speech comes next.

“Dr. Archeron, do you think we could have the day off tomorrow?” he asks.

Nesta feels the expression fall over her face—the one that sends students shuffling from her office mumbling apologies after she makes her stance on grade-grubbing very clear.

“No.”

“It’s just that there’s this concert in Greater Cesere tonight, and we've already figured out the carpool—”

“I don’t care how hungover you are. You’re expected at the dock at 5:45, just like every morning.”

“Yeah. Of course.” His eyes go shifty. “We’ll all be there.”

This is the part of the dig when the less-dedicated get squirrely, when they get tired of instant coffee and dirt in their teeth and lizards in their beds. Nesta knows it’s normal, but she feels the heat rise in her throat, their mission on the edge of a chasm of underfunded failure. It would feel good to tear into him, but there are course evals to think of, after all.

“Go help Dr. Berdara with the surveying equipment,” she grouses instead.

“Yes, Dr. Archeron.”

Whatshisname scurries off. Nesta can’t help but smirking to herself, knowing she’s just given him enough fodder to become the prince of whatever night out they’re about to have, enough sympathy to get laid, even.

As a woman among arrogant Indiana Jones cosplayers, the scary reputation is a necessary evil. As is the horrid plod down the side of the island where their boat awaits, laden with trowels and tarps and empty jugs of water.

The Ceserean Historical Bureau earns the curse for that one.

Everything in, everything out, every day.

What a fucking mess.

But nothing this summer compares to the utter disaster that waves from the bow of the modest motorboat. Every six-foot-four, tanned, tattooed bit of him.

“Find any treasure today?” Cassian asks, as always. Nesta ignores the hand he offers to help her onboard, brushing past to take her usual seat in the back.

She made the mistake the first morning of sitting on the bow of The Windhaven, wanting to be visible among her students, a guidepost. But it put her directly in the line of burning hazel eyes, ones that danced with all of the terrible things Nesta would let him do to her if she gave less of a shit.

She needs to ask Emerie about curse tablets after the next department meeting.

“There’s a legend about this island, you know.” Cassian hops up onto the side of the boat and braces against the center console, students streaming to and fro. “That it used to be the nest of a great bird. One day an egg appeared, only it never hatched. A wave came and swept it into the sky, where it became the moon.”

“Charming. Wish the birds up there now had a bit more reverence.”

“Are you using the trick I taught you?”

She boarded one afternoon with a nick on her ear from not dodging quickly enough. Cassian advised her to hold a metal dustpan over her head. Nesta felt like an idiot the first time, but even she had to admit that it worked.

What didn’t work was how flustered she got when he insisted on cleaning her cut, weathered hands so gentle when they brushed her skin.

“I see.” That idiotic smirk made her cheeks heat. “You are, but you’re mad about it.”

And as the boat bumps through the surf back to shore, Nesta tries to convince herself of anything but that.

After their first week on the dig, she and Gwyn shared a very drunken and giggly night when Nesta confessed her attraction to their roguish captain. It’s been a while since she’s really had her world rocked, and the breakneck pace of the semester left opportunities for dating thin on the ground. Gwyn decided he would manhandle her like the flowing-haired men on the covers of grocery store harlequin romances. They’d laughed and laughed as the bottle of brandy drained, quoting their favorite lines from the days they’d get stoned with Emerie and do dramatic readings to stave off grad school delirium.

His growls of pleasure filled the tent,  drowning out the screams of the wounded and dying.  

“But Cassian would definitely put those big-ass hands to good use,” Gwyn affirmed. “Respectfully. Like pulling up an anchor.”

What a horrible mistake. Now it’s all Nesta can think about as the big-ass hand in question closes around her upper arm once they disembark, once the students are busy grumbling in the apothiki.

“Go out with me tonight.”

Cassian is smiling crookedly, as if ready to protect his face with a dustpan if this doesn’t go well.

“No,” Nesta answers without thinking. It’s not worth the trouble, especially with her own crew on the verge of mutiny. It's not the first time he's asked, and it won't be the last. Cassian’s smile widens, undeterred.

“Stay in with me, then.”

A huff escapes her, and he’s still holding her arm, somehow hotter than the sun that's driving rivulets of sweat down her back.

“Your students will all be gone, I heard them talking about that show in Greater Cesere.”

Nesta swallows.

“No one has to know.” He’s inches from her now, so tall he casts a shadow over her face. “You should see the things we do in my dreams.”

Fantasies flash through her mind, that strong body pressing her back against a door. Cassian’s full lips on her neck, hands roaming lower.

Wanting, wanting so thick and sharp it almost hurts spears its way through her. The desires Nesta pushes away come roaring back, an angry sea kept at bay by the levees she’s built around her heart. The hard outer shell, the layers of dirt under which she’s buried the very idea of wanting.

It’s an escape for her, rifling through the lives of people long-dead. There are parts of the past she’d like to let go of. Childhood shit, disappointing men. Hurts too unwieldy to even think in words. Her sister Feyre says Nesta is an ice queen, but she feels more like a golem, a being of earth and stone piloted only by what’s expected of her.

Nesta doesn’t get to want this. Can’t stand the idea of it being used against her.

“Ignorance is my only refuge, then.”

His eyebrow quirks, and there’s a scar through it, she notices, a tiny slash where the hair no longer grows. Cassian is looking at her like she’s just revealed something, though she can’t imagine what. A lemon-scented wind blows through the docks, setting the boats to rocking. Setting her heart to galloping.

What a mess.

“See you in the morning, Dr. Archeron,” Cassian says before releasing her, sauntering back toward The Windhaven to prep it for the next day.

After clearing the bathroom of its resident lizards, Nesta spends the next hour letting a cool shower hit her in the face, trying to determine what on earth he’s just discovered.

At dawn, the dock at is deserted.

“Of course. Of fucking course!” Nesta grouses as she throws her hands in the air. “I’m failing all those little shits.”

“Cmon Nes,” Gwyn says blearily, rubbing at her eyes. “We’ve been going nonstop for weeks. They deserve to let off a little steam.”

Good professor showing up again to play her part. Gwyn has always been the more forgiving of the two of them. Nesta rips out the rubber band to redo her braid, hair already frizzing in the humid morning air.

“They can do that at the dig wrap party. At this rate there won’t be anything to celebrate.”

“What are we celebrating?”

As if summoned by her ire, Cassian appears then, swinging his boat keys on a long lanyard. Curly black hair flows down to his shoulders, hips loose in the swagger of a man who’s either been up for hours or never went to bed at all.

Gwyn beams. “The dig party next week! You’re invited! Everyone who’s helped out can come, not just us. We couldn’t have done this without you!”

“Which isn’t saying much. Can we get going?” Nesta says impatiently. “I’d like to get this day over with before I want to kill anyone else.”

Cassian grins and fall into step with Nesta as they trudge toward the storehouse, murmuring, “I thought I was the only one you wanted to kill, sweetheart.”

Nesta has to concentrate hard on the rocky path beneath them, to keep from tripping.

It takes a while to shuttle all the equipment from the apothiki with only three of them, and by the time the mainland starts to recede Nesta is sweaty, grouchy, and already plotting the anti-recommendation letters she’ll write when asked.

She doesn’t want to care this much, to be this hurt. Maybe that’s why she accepts Cassian’s offer to help them disembark after only two refusals. It’s definitely not because his biceps look delicious when he hefts a plastic tub full of Gwyn’s surveying equipment over his head, tanned thighs flexing under faded shorts as he climbs the steep slope.

And how is she supposed to refuse his curious questions after that, when he’s looking around the empty dirt pit like he’s never seen something so interesting? When he picks up a chisel and says, Put me to work, Doc, in that magical, wavy accent, how is she supposed to say no?

Nesta blames her students.

They go to work in the same corner where she was toiling yesterday. Nesta shows him how to read the earth for signs of disturbance, the right pressure to apply to his pickax. He’s a fast learner, thank god, and he tells her about his childhood on the mainland while they sift through layers of nothing, leading to a very unfortunate discovery.

Cassian is funny. And not like the men in Velaris she’s used to who think they’re funny, who took an improv class once and think that qualifies them to muse about taking up stand-up comedy for the next decade. He’s quick, unruffled by the heat and the boredom, perfectly content to narrate their work from the perspective of the seagulls like the two of them are subject of a nature documentary. Nesta thinks the day would be entirely wasted if not for the laughs he pulls from her creaky lungs, the ones no one outside her close friends have heard in years.

It's dangerous, to get so carried away. The earth blurs before her, panic igniting even as she never wants this to stop.

Until she chips away in one spot, and a pinkish shard of pottery emerges.

The piece is strange, disjointed. A seam runs through the middle as if it’s been repaired, three small holes drilled in a triangular pattern. She picks up another piece and finds the same just as Cassian brushes away at a grooved stone, a pair of praying hands etched into the surface.

“That’s the symbol for the Mother.” Bits of information whiz through her brain, snippets of lectures and articles. She’s seen a piece like this before at the National Museum of Velaris, in their room dedicated to the ancient Cesereans.

“It’s a hearthstone.” The kind that only sat in permanent dwellings, the heart of a house. Nesta can’t hold back the tremble in her voice when her eyes connect with Cassian’s and she says, “We’re in the kitchen.”

Excitement crackles.

As if traveling through time, Nesta sees in her imagination how it must’ve risen around them.

And the pottery shard she’s still holding starts to take shape too, the form of a bowl following the curves, layers of time peeling back. And despite what her undergrad Classics professor said, peering into the past is not at all like looking down into a well.

It’s like a hand reaching out and grabbing hers. Thrilling and terrifying, the long stretch of history condensed to a door that’s just been opened.

“Look at this,” she says, tracing the line as Cassian hovers over her shoulder. “It broke, and someone repaired it. Turned it into a strainer.” No visitor would’ve bothered. “Think about the last person who touched this.”

Nesta pictures a woman washing apricots, like the ones candied in sugar she eats from the fruit stall when they get off the dig site every day. Of the mug Emerie bought her on clearance in an airport that says I’m a pretty big deal in the spearfishing community, the one she glued the handle back onto because it makes her laugh so much. She pictures someone digging that mug from the wreckage of Velaris two thousand years from now, holding that mended handle and laughing, too.

Cassian’s eyes are bright when she steals a glance back at him, emotion shimmering.

“I could be related to them.”

“You could.”

He swipes at his face, arm coming away wet. Clears his throat. “Why would someone come all the way out here?”

“That’s the question. It must’ve been significant.”

Her theory is that some ritual activity occurred here, she tells him. Watches a quiet admiration creep across his face as she details her rationale. Whether he understands a word of it or not, she can feel the pull between their bodies, the dusty air charged between them.

“They had lives and feelings,” Nesta finds herself saying. “They wanted things. I think that deserves to be remembered.”

Cassian keeps staring at her in that sun-bright way, and Nesta doesn’t know what they’re talking about anymore. Doesn’t know what to do when he reaches to take her hand, closing his own around it and the pottery shard she still holds.

“Thank you for this.” Gravel lines his voice, and she wants to run it through a sifter to find all the meaning inside. “I’m glad none of your students showed up today.”

“Why, so you can take credit?”

“No. I don’t want to share this with anyone else.” He’s blocking out the glare now, leaving her cool in his shadow. “You make me feel greedy, Nesta.”

A gull cries far-off, but Nesta can only hear the sound of her own heart racing. Cassian tips his head toward the sun and it shines down on his smiling face, warming down through the stone.

It’s only the beginning, more and more pieces unearthed from the ruins of the kitchen over the rest of the morning, a veritable treasure trove. He helps them load everything into apothiki once ashore, whistling as he carries out Nesta’s militant instructions. With an eye on the door for hungover students, Cassian pulls her in with sea-rough hands and kisses her like he wants to do much more.

His mouth tastes like earth.

Nesta doesn’t sleep that night. Instead she catalogs every piece as a high moon rises, a waxing gibbous near to hatching.

The dig wrap party is euphoric, and not just because everyone’s been over-served. There are bigwigs from the Historical Bureau here to marvel over their finds, a whole kitchen’s worth, and the students can see the dollars raining down like the leaves of the cypress trees strung with lights.

It should feel good. Better than this, anyway, because as Nesta nurses her lone glass of wine, she can’t help wondering why the place inside her that should be swollen with pride is empty.

An old feeling, one she’s never been able to make sense of.

“Is your boyfriend here yet?” Gwyn smirks when Nesta shoves at her friend’s shoulder. They don’t have to wait long before a crowd of students forms around one end of the bar, a familiar curly-haired head poking well above the rest.

“Can I steal you?” Cassian says once he finally makes his way over, after extricating himself from a gaggle of doe-eyed undergrads. Nesta feels like she’s swallowed a huge dirt clod, but Gwyn answers for her.

“Of course you can! Nesta hates these things, don’t you, Nes?”

“I do,” Nesta barely manages before his big-ass hand is closing around her own, pulling her out back of the restaurant they’ve rented to a small goat path that leads toward the sea.

The Windhaven bobs in the current, bumping gently against the dock. After many reassurances, Nesta lets him pilot them to a secluded cove, the hull cutting through the black water like a sharpened blade, the past and present dividing.

“The land speaks to you here,” Cassian says when he tosses down the anchor at last, pulling the extra line taut. “I thought you might like to hear what it has to say.”

“Why?”

The wind tugs at the hem of her sundress.

“It’s probably saying thank you. For not letting those people be forgotten.”

He says it so simply, like it’s nothing. Nesta braces her hands against the bow, trying to find some sense in the spaces between the stars.

It’s completely cloudless, and this far out there’s no light pollution, so she can see meteors cascading across the sky like rain. Cassian comes to stand beside her, shoulders brushing.

“Look look, it’s the space station!” he says after a moment, tracking a finger across the sky before he raises a hand and waves. Nesta snorts.

“You know there’s no way the astronauts can see you.”

“I know,” Cassian says, shrugging, and god she wants to kiss him. “But just in case, I don’t want to leave them hanging.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Nesta asks, more harshly than she means to. His answering smile is nervous, tight.

“Cassian.”

“No, I mean—never mind. It doesn't matter.”

It’s a very early mid-life crisis. It must be. Why else should she be so fixated on the way this weird-ass man’s mind works, how he seems to find wonder in the smallest things? And why is she jealous?

This is a mistake, undoubtedly. Nesta has ground herself down to the bone to get where she is. Fought her way through school, through the sludge of academia, been called difficult and prickly and a bitch in her quest to be taken seriously. Worn every label as a badge of bloody honor. Suffocated the part of her that just wants to let go and say fuck it all, to do something she wants instead of what she has to.

"Doesn't it?"

Cassian is backlit by the half moon glinting off the water, stray curls springing free from the bun atop his head.

And then he’s kissing her, and his mouth tastes like lemon and something else, something addictive. It’s the brandy sours that are as bizarre as they are popular here, that Nesta now doesn’t know how she’s gone so long without. Her fingers skate down skin so warm, like it’s drunk in the sunlight and trapped it inside him.

“Nes,” he breathes once they finally part, and she digs her nails into his shoulders, drawing a sharp inhale.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, Dr. Archeron.”

Exhaustion collides with her better judgment, and Nesta pushes him back to sit on the bow, swings a leg over his hips so she’s straddling his lap. Plunges her hands into all that lush, dark hair, and says, “Fuck it.”

It all flows from somewhere deep within her, the brush of hands against skin, lips against lips. She stays so locked away, never allowed to feel the good things she works so hard to achieve. Locked up, locked out, looking into everything that feels like it should belong to her but she can never reach.

Nesta doesn’t know why this is the moment everything shifts for her, and even when she looks back years later it’ll never quite make sense. The alchemy of the island breeze, the deep black night between the stars, all greater than the sum of its parts.

And she lets herself have it. Each wicked, wild bit of her comes out of their dark corners and she’s laughing, head tipped back in euphoria and who the fuck cares that she has no idea where her bra is, whether or not she’ll get tenure. It doesn’t fucking matter. There’s value in being stupid, she thinks, wondering why she’s tried all this time to be so smart.

“You look like you’re swimming in a sea of stars,” Cassian says, looking up at her. Nesta smiles when he tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, fingers of his other hand tangling with hers.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a poet.”

The half moon hangs above them, cracked open.

“Every man can be a poet with the right inspiration.”

His hands are on her breasts then, pinching and squeezing, and she doesn’t have to force the moans that travel up her throat. They sound different like this, when they’re not for show.

It’s a kind of madness, being touched by Cassian. Like he’s weaving some spell through every cell in her body, enchanting them all to crave him, to want more more more even as she can barely take it.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he insists between nips at her throat, the sensitive spot behind her ear.

“No, but I’m feeling good about myself tonight so I’ll guess it was the first time you saw me.”

He laughs against her chest, hands squeezing her hips. “Close. It was the first time I watched you walk away.” Cassian squeezes her hips again for emphasis, roaming down to grab a handful of her ass.

“I should’ve left you on the island.”

“Good. Then you’d have to come back for me.”

Of course he has a condom in the boat’s center console, and he grins when she rolls her eyes.

“Sailors have to be prepared, I suppose?”

“I’m a poet, not a saint, sweetheart.”

The boat rocks them both as she sinks down onto his lap again. All velvety, warm softness in the night air, the breeze dancing, swirling upward, igniting.

They both want to go slow, want to savor it, but their discipline is beginning to tire. Nesta can’t help picking up her pace, fissures of pleasure splitting her apart. She tells herself there will be time to indulge later, hoping it’s not a lie.

It’s not.

Students trickle out over the next few days, flights home or to other far-flung destinations to decompress before fall semester. Nesta pushes her flight back once, and then again. It’s hard to remember why she wants to go back, when everything she’s been looking for is right here.

They swim in grottos, pick lemons from the tree outside his door and spritz them over fresh-caught fish, in the brandy sours she’s finally perfected. One night he licks the juice off her finger before hoisting her onto the counter, going to his knees between her spread thighs a moment later, his favorite place to be.

“I’ll visit you,” Cassian promises against her skin when they’re splayed out in his bed later, her temporary home the last two weeks. “I’ll do whatever it takes so this doesn’t end here.”

I love you, Nesta thinks as they stand outside his car at the Arrivals gate. Doesn’t say it, because this isn’t a fucking Hallmark movie. You haven’t been able to see someone off inside the airport in twenty years. No one is running past families and old ladies and men with briefcases, but they still kiss just as desperately amidst the smell of gasoline from idling cars, the unrelenting eye of the midday sun.

I love you.

She’s not ready to unearth it yet. It sits quietly beneath to soil of her mind, waiting to be dug up.

But the shape of the thought must reach him, for when he pulls back, Cassian smiles like he already knows.

Nesta smiles too, in case whoever’s strainer is packed in her carry-on can feel it travel down her arm through the handle, in case the astronauts are up there somewhere in the blue, smiling back.

Notes:

The sweating had begun the second she reached the security line which was never a good sign. Nesta tried to act calm, tried not to keep glancing over her shoulders at the security agents as they scanned bags and bodies. Every damn time she made the machine bleep despite ensuring she had no metal on her, as if the machine knew she was panicking and wanted to enhance her worry. True to history, the machine went off and she stepped onto the painted feet for a guard to wave their wand over her. She didn’t know why she was so worried about the security part; Nesta wasn’t smuggling drugs.

Two hours of agony followed.

The duty-free shops didn’t hold her appeal although she’d toyed with buying alcohol to take the edge off things. She’d taken a Xanax already and mixing wouldn’t go well. A book. A new book to keep her occupied, that would do. She checked her gate, double checked it then triple checked it. Lurked near it way before it was boarding time with her new book clutched in her clammy hands. Nesta mentally catalogued her day. She’d watered the plants, Gwyn already had the spare key to water them when needed, she’d turned everything off, locked the door because she’d checked multiple times, had her travel documents on her phone and printed, had only taken hand luggage so it wouldn’t be lost. Everything would be fine. Of course it would be. She was a planner. But she couldn’t plan who was piloting the plane. Couldn’t plan the weather. Couldn’t plan if a freak bolt of lightning struck the plane and zapped them off the face of the earth. Nesta swigged down mouthfuls of sparkling water. She hated it but it made her burp and that alleviated her churning stomach.

When the agents called for boarding, Nesta was first in the queue. Priority boarding had been purchased so she could panic in her seat. Her legs trembled up the metal stairs to board the plane. Planes flew every day. Hundreds of them. All crisscrossing across the sky. And she’d be on the unlucky anomaly. Because of course she would. Nothing ever ran smoothly in her life.

With an eye mask on and a mindfulness podcast blaring in her ears, Nesta tried to block out the rest of the boarding. She was vaguely aware of bodies moving down the aisle or slipping into seats behind or in front of hers, the judder of chairs or slam of the overhead storage. When an elbow knocked into her to take the seat, she didn’t react, just kept listening to the soothing voice telling her to focus on her breathing.

Fingers tapped on her arm repeatedly until she peeled off her mask.

A man with dark-hair tugged into a loose bun at the nape of his neck was gesturing to her headphones. An air steward was watching, life jacket held aloft for the display. ‘Switch to airplane mode or turn off your devices for take off please.’

Nesta fumbled with her phone, hands trembling to change it. She listened to the safety warnings, terror soaking in.

‘Can we swap seats? I don’t want to look out of the window.’

‘Sorry, sweetheart, but I need to leg room in the aisle.’ The man gestured to his broad thighs and long, muscled legs.

Nesta knew well enough that if she even dreamed of closing the hatch on the window, a flight attendant would snap it back up so she could see just how high they were. Once the safety demo had finished, Nesta plugged back into her bubble. Her belt was on but what use was that against a plane crash?

As soon as she felt motion, Nesta was gripping her seat belt as if clinging onto it might save her. Her hands trembled, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth in her fear as the plane approached the runway.

Then a hand reached for hers. Calloused fingers slid against her own.

Nesta ripped her mask and headphones away in one fell swoop.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘You seemed nervous. Thought you’d want a hand to hold.’

The man’s hazel eyes fell to their hands, still entwined then Nesta yanked that away too.

And then the plane was barrelling along the runway, the force pinning her to her seat so she grasped for that hand again. He gave a low chuckle and cradled hers with both of his. Nesta screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to glimpse the moment they took flight or the way the land below would become more and more distant. At Emerie’s encouragement, she’d watched take offs on YouTube, had even tried to play a flight simulator but both of them had freaked her out just as much.

‘Is it just take off or landing too?’

Her words wouldn’t come out. The whole thing was traumatic. The only reason she was flying was because her sister was due to a drop a baby boy any day and Nesta had agreed to be there for the delivery and first couple of weeks of his life. Without a maternal figure, Feyre had decided that Nesta was the closest thing – ignoring the fact neither of them had a clue about babies.

‘What does that beeping mean?’ she hissed.

The man just brushed his thumb in a circle against the back of her hand. ‘It means we can take our seat belts off, sweetheart.’

Reluctantly, she forced open her eyes. People were already releasing their belts and heading to the bathroom. She had held her own urination on every flight. Only poor planners didn’t go before take-off. It would be just her luck that a plane would meet a fiery end whilst she was sat on the toilet.

He leaned over to slide the hatch down, hiding the outside world from view then his fingers headed towards her lap. Nesta was too stunned to react even as he undid her belt.

‘And what happens if this plane starts to plummet from the sky?’

‘I’m sure you can figure out how to put your belt back on,’ he replied, an easy grin on his face. At her terse look, he added, ‘Relax. This plane has never crashed before.’

Nesta busied herself with her book despite the undercurrent of fear threatening to drown her every time she thought too deeply about how the plane remained airborne. The man next to her read the in-flight magazine then began drumming on the fold-out table.

‘Do you mind?’

‘Have you got a request?’

Nesta’s brows drew together. ‘Stop drumming. It’s irritating.’

When the trolley of beverages was a few rows away, he turned to her. ‘What are you having?’

‘Nothing. If I drink, I will need the bathroom. I am not getting up or going there and tempting fate.’

He gave a bellow of a laugh. ‘You’ve thought of everything. You know if the plane crashes, it will make no difference if you’re sat by me or on the toilet.’

Her face must have paled because he added, ‘But it will fly safely to our destination.’

A handsome, swaggering smile was offered to the air stewardess when she approached. ‘Two coffees, chips, M&Ms and whatever drink has the most sugar.’

There was a veritable feast laid out in front of him, but a coffee was placed on the little table that he unfolded at her seat. The M&M pouch was torn open and shook in front of her face.

‘Go on, treat yourself.’

‘Do you just fly around the country and trap women in airline seats so they can’t get away?’

He ran a hand against his black hair. ‘Should I have gotten the peanut ones?’

Nesta took a few and tipped them into her mouth.

‘Careful, sweetheart, you don’t want to choke while the plane is crashing.’

‘You are not funny,’ she complained.

‘When they need to identify your body, what name will go with it?’

This time, she nearly did choke on her handful of M&Ms. ‘Are you serious? Is that how you’re asking my name?’

He spread out his hands, evidently pleased with that terrible line, awaiting her answer.

‘Nesta.’

‘Cassian.’

They chatted as the plane continued on its journey, drinking their coffee and eating his snacks. They shared the can of coke, her inhabitations well and truly lowered by the Xanax if she was willing to swap saliva and drink from the same can as a stranger. At the first signs of turbulence, Cassian was there to hold her hands and murmur embarrassing stories about his friends to stop fear paralysing her.

Once the cabin crew had swept through to collect the final few items of rubbish on the short flight, Nesta was clamming up again. She knew what was to follow.

‘Cabin crew, prepare for landing.’

Clouds streamed past the window, adding to the turbulence. Nesta was too scared to even reach for her mask which had fallen on the floor.

Cassian wound his fingers into hers. ‘I’ve got you, sweetheart. It will be okay.’

Every bump had her gritting her teeth so hard, it was a wonder that one of her molars didn’t crack. Cassian just kept talking in a low voice about inane topics to try and shave the edges off of her fear. His arm wound around her shoulders, forehead touching her temple, whilst his other hand still held hers.

‘This is the nicest first date I’ve ever had.’

That snapped something in her. ‘This is not a date.’

The nose of the plane dipped and her stomach lurched from the motion.

‘We’ve had coffee and snacks. We’re holding hands. You’ve shared your deepest fears of dying in a blazing crash. To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die.’

Nesta ground out, ‘I hate the Smiths.’

‘Everybody does,’ he said.

With a bump that made her squeeze Cassian tighter, the plane landed. It sped down the runway and Nesta kept her eyes firmly shut for the entire duration until Cassian murmured that they had stopped.

‘You see, a safe flight after all.’

‘Fortune was cruel enough to put me next to you. A crash would have really tipped it over the edge.’

Cassian lifted her bag down for her, his black t-shirt rising to expose a strip of his taut muscled stomach. His own was a well-used duffle which he slung over his shoulder.

They walked together towards the airport building.

‘Do I get your number then?’

Nesta cocked a brow at his boldness. ‘Absolutely not. I’d rather be the one that got away.’

‘Every flight I’ll think of you, wondering if you’re stealing another man’s snacks.’

Nesta pressed her fingers to her lips and blew him a kiss as they parted into two different lines at security.

The man had to be mad, she decided as she passed through passport control. No sane man would just start holding a stranger’s hand – and she was an idiot for reciprocating that touch. But it did sting a bit that he’d accepted her refusal so easily. After how tactile and caring he’d been, she thought maybe Cassian would have pestered her again for her number or her socials. Whatever. His loss.

Her fear of flying meant that she’d sweated through her deodorant so she hurried into the bathroom to change her top, clean her arm pits with a baby wipe then slather on more deodorant to appear a little less dishevelled. Nesta spotted Cassian waiting at the baggage carousal for more belongings to come rolling around so she scurried past, avoiding his attention. Fantasy was more fun than reality. Maybe he’d be her one that got away.

After passing through anything to declare, Feyre was waiting for her. The huge belly wasn’t a surprise but it was still a shock to see her little sister so heavily pregnant.

‘Wow, look at you!’

‘I am peeing every ten minutes,’ she replied, holding up her belly.

‘Hi, Rhys.’

‘Nesta,’ he said, swooping to press a kiss on her cheek.

They’d met once. And it had been awkward as hell when Nesta realised he was eight years older than her. He wasn’t the sort of man she’d ever choose, but Feyre seemed happy. They were on “Christmas Card closeness” usually so Feyre’s call asking her to come and be close for the birth had meant a lot. Meant enough that she was willing to fly two days later.

‘Where’s the rest of your luggage?’

‘I had it sent ahead.’

Feyre patted Rhys on the arm. ‘Nesta hates flying. Everything is planned to an inch of its life. No detours, no unnecessary waiting. On the plane, off the plane.’

Even being in an airport, with its constant business, had Nesta itchy. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Do you want to head to the car, ladies? I’m worried about you standing for so long, darling.’

Feyre shook her head, golden hair cascading from the motion. ‘I’m fine. Cassian won’t take that long.’

‘Cassian?’

Nesta could practically hear the alarm bells ringing in her head.

‘My brother,’ said Rhys.

‘He works on an oil rig but he’s home for a couple of months now so you two can argue over who is the best uncle or auntie,’ teased Feyre.

There he was, striding through the doors, duffle bag slung over one shoulder while pushing a cart loaded with three more bags. His eyes snapped straight to her, a slow grin spreading over his face.

They said their greetings, Nesta and Cassian pretending that she hadn’t just been clinging to him in terror on the flight here then they fell into step together, walking slightly behind Rhysand and Feyre.

‘Fortune favours you,’ he murmured.

‘Did you know who I am?’

Cassian gave a hearty laugh that had Rhys glancing his shoulder at them. ‘Not at first. You looked familiar then you said your name and I realised you were Feyre’s sister.’

‘Lucky me,’ she grumbled.

The low lighting the uber had at night only called more attention to the cold, churning mess that was Aelin’s stomach. It was the lack of something to focus on when what she needs right now is sensory overload. The smell of alcohol, loud music, strobe lights.

Aelin wanted to focus on anything that wasn’t her destination—or who she’d meet there.

It was fine. She was fine.

It was Fenrys' birthday. The cheeriest of Aelin's cheery friends. Aelin definitely couldn't miss his birthday. Today was about Fenrys, and not the ex-boyfriend who was also invited.

But Aelin was fine. It wasn't a big deal. It’d been more than a month since they broke up, and Rowan even texted her asking if she’d be comfortable if he brought his new girl tonight.

How considerate of him.

But Aelin agreed, with no regrets. The only thing she regretted was merging her group of friends with her ex-boyfriend when they were dating. That was something she’d keep in mind for the next time she met someone.

Out of the car and in front of the bar, Aelin let the cool summer breeze wash her nerves away. He was probably in there already, always on time. She knew this would eventually happen when they broke up and decided to stay friends for the sake of the gang. There was no need for her to freak out—good thing she wasn't. And if she acted weirdly today, what would Rowan do a month from now?

The crowded place was booming with laughter and drunken yells, busy waiters running around the place, barely paying attention to the graceless group of friends singing Bohemian Rhapsody at karaoke.

A large hand gripped her waist, turning her towards the source, and Aelin met a smiling pair of onyx eyes.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

“Fen!” She hugged her friend and handed him his present, wishing him a happy birthday.

“Everyone’s at a big table back there, and…” Fenrys trailed, trying to read something on Aelin’s expression. Whatever words he was about to say died in his throat.

Aelin crossed her arms. “Spill.”

He shrugged. “You’re hotter than her.”

Lyria, he meant. And Aelin agreed, she was definitely hotter. It wasn’t hard to find Rowan’s new girl on Instagram after she commented a red heart on his last picture like a dog peeing on the comment section for territory. She found out about it even before he told her himself.

Aelin narrowed her eyes at Fen. “I’m over him.”

He shrugged. “Just thought you’d like to hear it.”

Her smirk was met with a similar one from Fenrys. He knows her too well.

Then Aelin shook her head, chastising herself for such thoughts. She was the one to end things, due to her… distressing circumstances. She had no right to shame Rowan for settling for a less hot person.

It’s not like she cared, anyway.

Stepping onto the back of the bar, Aelin quickly spotted the table and greeted everyone—including the lovebirds.

Rowan was stiff like a robot, and Lyria was polite. Bland. Guess he lied when he said he liked Aelin’s fiery personality and the way they clashed, since his new girlfriend is the total opposite. He’d probably still be his dutiful self to her in a month, and Aelin would be in Suria with rows of men—or vodka, most likely—lying at her feet.

She sat beside Elide and ordered a non-alcoholic beer—the doctor had cleared her to drink alcohol with moderation by now, but she didn’t want to risk it. Connall decided to restart whatever work gossip he was telling to keep Aelin in the loop.

She was paying attention, or at least she was trying to, but—why did Rowan shave off his beard? God, she loved his jawline. How it looked so firm by far, but felt so soft under her lips and teeth. Aelin could still remember how his beard tickled against her skin when he decided to grow it, or even better, the feeling of it against her thighs when he--

"Ace, are you alright?" Elide whispered in her ear, "You look a little lost."

Aelin blinked, trying to focus on her friends. Apart from Ellie, no one noticed she'd zoned out. Looking back at her friend, Aelin nodded, a small smile on her lips.

Her friend arched one eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

Rolling her eyes, Aelin chuckled. "Of course."

Looking back at everyone, she caught Rowan’s eyes on her. Busted, the only thing left for him to do was send her a small, close-lipped smile and tip his head to the Heineken 0.0% she clutched. Aelin raised it and took a long swig, letting the bitter beverage go down throat, the feeling so close to the real thing.

He feels proud of her growth. Not a big deal when he keeps a perky brunette under his arm.

But she knew this feeling was just an initial clash of their lives apart. Aelin was fine, she truly was. Her feelings towards Rowan would never be the same she had to a regular friend, because the nature of their memories together was different. Erasing their history was impossible, so it was either fully leave or learn how to live in the shadows of what they used to be.

This hollowness she felt in her chest was just an initial shock, an adjustment. Aelin wasn't the only person in the world to lose the love of her life, and some of them even did great after that, with their second-best significant ones.

No one can keep every good thing that happens in their life forever. Even if said good best thing is right there, standing in front of you.

Actually, she was wrong. Aelin did keep Rowan in her life. As a friend. Which was enough, and just what she needed.

“…Right, Ace?”

Aelin blinked, being dragged out of her thoughts back into the conversation. “Excuse me?”

Elide sighed. “The birthday cake, Fenrys got it from Emrys’. Isn’t that the place you recommended to him?”

“Oh.” Aelin blinked. “Yes. Absolutely, yes. They’re the best.”

Ellie gave her a quick look that was hard to decipher, but maybe it was time for Aelin to pay attention.

And pay attention she did. She leaned on the table and held her chin under her palm. Turns out the owners of Emrys’ are regulars at the motel Fenrys works at. Disgusting news to hear, and Connall agreed with her unshared thoughts. Fenrys accused his brother of being homophobic, since they’re talking about a gay couple. Connall retorted, saying that he can’t be homophobic if he’s gay, and it’s not prejudice if he hates everyone equally.

The twins bickered on and on. Rowan watched them as if it was a tennis match, with undiluted attention, while Lyria seemed endlessly amused by it.

Aelin wished she had stayed home.

But she came here for Fenrys, and for Fenrys she stayed. And stayed and stayed and stayed until that fucking song started playing. For Mala’s sake, today was not her day.

Aelin looked around, trying not to be too obvious that she was looking at them. Trying not to look too much or too little.

He's got a one-hand feel on the steering wheel, the other on my heart.

Rowan took Lyria's hand and held it against his chest.

Just like he used to do with her.

Aelin swallowed, her chest shrinking. She was going to be sick.

She excused herself and got up, walking to another section of the bar near the restrooms where she couldn't be seen from the table, and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes.

Breathe in.

She could still feel the shape of Rowan’s lips against hers.

Breathe out.

She could still feel the weight of his body above hers.

Breathe in.

She could still feel his calloused hands caressing her bare back in bed.

Breathe out.

Her heart was beating just as much as on the day she finally got the courage to cuddle him after sex, almost two years ago. When she first rested her head on the crook of his neck, Aelin scented her favorite version of Rowan’s smell because it was completely ingrained with hers. And she did it again. And again. And again. Her hand could trace the shape of him even that long after the last time they were together. She hated how much she'd cling to those small details, and she hated even more that she cared about this. Because she did. Aelin would barely admit it to herself, but of course she did.

She took a deep breath, ignored her quivering stomach and schooled herself, walking to the bar's counter.

The man next to her leaned on the counter so much he was half laid in it, but he still managed to turn his piercing blue eyes at Aelin and smile.

"Can’t find a bartender," he complained, his speech slurred. "I need a beer."

Aelin chuckled, leaning her forearms on the surface too. "And I need water."

He raised his head a little. "I'm Dorian."

"Aelin." She looked at him up and down, from the fumbled hair to the rumpled clothes and untied shoes. “Are you sure the bartenders aren’t bartending you on purpose?”

“I’m sure they are.”

“Huh.” Aelin scanned the liquor selection, tempted. She really was doing better with this new medication, and Dr. Hafiza cleared her for an occasional drink. She could definitely use a drink now. Instead, she tilted her head at Dorian and said, “Did you lose a puppy or something? Or this is just your usual Friday night?”

He ran a hand through his hair and grinned at her, so confident it reminded her of Fenrys. "My answer depends on whether you're giving me your number or not."

Aelin snorted. She thought of how satisfying it would be to watch Rowan watch her leave the bar with someone else, but a drunk wouldn't do. Besides, this wasn't a competition. Aelin had already lost.

"Not a chance. Spill."

He sighed and slumped again on the countertop, hitting his head against it.

"My situationship doesn't see me as dating material."

Aelin grimaced. "That sucks"

He waved a hand, dismissing her pity. "You?"

Her mind went back to a year ago, how he stood by her side, red-rimmed green eyes when Aelin became a shell of herself. How his anxiety skyrocketed when hers did too. How well he was doing now that she wasn't his problem anymore.

A bitter chuckle left her lips. "My sadness is contagious."

Dorian rolled his eyes. “I just bared my soul to you, and this is what you tell me?”

“You did not!”

“I’m gonna get another drink if you don’t entertain me.”

“Is this a threat?”

“Absolutely, yes.”

Aelin sighed, looking up while she gathered her thoughts. “I broke up with my boyfriend.”

“Obviously.”

“Because I was bringing him down. No drama. We decided to not break up our group of friends.”

“No drama, you said?”

“He’s with his new girlfriend at the back of the bar and all my friends are schmoozing with her now.”

“I sense drama.”

“And we have a trip booked for next month we didn’t discuss.”

“Paid it all before the breakup, huh?”

Aelin nodded and ordered two waters before they traded stories about their pathetic love lives. She didn’t know how long they stayed there, neither if she liked Dorian or just this escape from the table from hell, but being here was a respite.

They were about six Tinder horror stories in when a hand landed on Aelin’s shoulder, making her jump, heart racing with surprise.

Rowan stood beside her with his trademark frown. “It’s been a while since you left the table.”

“Yup.” What was she supposed to say?

He jutted his chin towards Dorian. “Is he bothering you?”

“Not at all.” She squared her shoulders, trying to find a light way to describe their pity party. “This is Dorian. I’m getting funny dating stories out of him before I call an uber and send him back to his world of heartless women and tawdry men.”

“I see,” he trailed, eyes trained on them, and took a step back. “Okay. I have to go back there, but if you—“

“I know.” She waved him off. He needed to be at the table and be a good boyfriend to someone else, she got it.

Aelin was fully aware that her mind was going on a petty path, but she couldn’t help it. Yes, Lyria was nice. Yes, Lyria had been nothing but polite to her the entire night. The only problem was that Lyria was dating the wrong person. Or the perfect one, if Aelin wanted to address her issues more directly.

She banged her head against the disgusting counter, resting there to contemplate this rare moment of self-pity.

Aelin dug her own grave.

Dorian had his eyebrows raised. “Damn, he’s hot.”

“And thoughtful.”

“I wasn’t thinking about his thoughtfulness when he murdered me with his eyes.”

“He did not.”

“He did. And you know why.”

“I do not.” Aelin sipped her water. “Anyway, what happened to the guy who was cheating on his wife with you?”

Dorian’s eyes sparkled with the memory of this unfinished divorce story, and she was thankful to get the spotlight of the conversation away from her.

Unlike Aelin, Rowan had his shit together and was happy. She wouldn't—actually, she couldn't—disturb this little peace he found after she cut him off.

Her selfishness only went so far.

Read part 2 here

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Lucien grabs Elain’s hand again, but this time, he starts to lead her across the grass and the field and toward his family’s estate. With their fingers laced firmly together, Lucien guides them both to a door along the western wing, yanking it open and tugging Elain inside.

Elain expects them to have stepped through a servants’ entrance, perhaps to have snuck in through the kitchen or even the servants’ quarters, but instead it appears to be some sort of drawing room overlooking the gardens. Lush rugs cover the floors, thick, gorgeous curtains framing the tall windows along the walls. Whether Lucien notices Elain’s shock or confusion, he doesn’t stop, pulling Elain out of the room into the main hall beyond and toward the large staircase.

“Lucien,” Elain hisses, squeezing his hand tighter. “Aren’t you worried someone will see us?”

“Let them see,” Lucien offers over his shoulder. “They should get used to the sight anyways.”

Lucien turns back around, continuing up the stairs and pulling Elain behind him. It’s just as well. It means that Lucien doesn’t see the way Elain’s face falls, the way she swallows hard. She supposes she should have known. Of course, someone as beautiful as Lucien, a Duke’s son, was sure to have the attention of many in the ton. Of course, Elain isn’t the first person to pass through these doors with him. After she walks away, she’s sure that she won’t be the last.

“Elain,” Lucien’s voice draws Elain out of her thoughts.

Elain blinks a few times and realizes that they’re now standing in a bedroom. It’s like stepping inside an autumn wood. The walls are hues of oranges and reds and golds, curtains fluttering in the early evening breeze of the opened window overlooking the lake. A large four poster bed of dark wood sits in the center of the room, dark green blankets draped across the mattress.

“Elain,” Lucien repeats, his fingers gentle beneath her chin. “If you’ve changed your mind, we can–”

“No,” Elain quickly cuts him off, curling her fingers into fists in her shirt. “No, I want this. I want you.”

Lucien groans again, burying his nose against her hair. “Hearing you say those words… it’s going to be the death of me.”

“Perhaps that’s my plan all along.”

“What a way to go it would be. I’d meet the Mother smiling.”

“You really are a scoundrel, Lucien Spellcleaver.”

Lucien’s smirk has Elain’s heart thudding harder still between her ribs. “Your scoundrel, Elain Archeron.”

Before Elain can even really think on those words, Lucien’s lips are back on hers. One hand curls around her jaw, holding her exactly how he wants her, the other curling around her waist and pulling her close again. His tongue slips into her mouth, curling and drawing a moan from her, as he presses her back against the wall.

He pulls away but he doesn’t go far, trailing his lips along her jaw, down her neck. Heat fires down Elain’s spine, and she presses her thighs together against the flare of warmth low in her gut, as his teeth nip right at her pulse point, sucking the skin between his lips. His hand finds the sleeve of her dress, pushing it down her arm and exposing her collarbones for him to trace his lips across.

“Lucien…” Elain whispers, her voice breathless and chest heaving.

Lucien lifts his head, and Elain is quick to draw him back in for another kiss, already drunk off the taste of him. Already desperate to keep him pressed here against her, their lips sealed firmly together.

“Keep saying my name,” Lucien murmurs against her lips.

“Lucien,” Elain moans, her head falling back against the wall as Lucien’s fingers knead her breast through the fabric of her dress.

He drops down to his knees, Elain blinking in confusion and able to do nothing but watch as Lucien gathers up the skirts of her dress, ducking beneath them. She nearly jumps in surprise when she feels his fingers on her ankle, his touch slowly sliding up over her calf, her knee.

“What are you doing?”

“Something I have long dreamed of,” Lucien answers, his fingers making surprisingly quick work of her undergarments.

Elain feels truly exposed, and she can’t decide if it’s better or worse that she can’t quite see Lucien beneath her skirts. But she can feel him. Feel the heat of his gaze burning straight through her skin. Feel the way his fingers curl into her thighs. Feel his hot breath where it fans out across her cunt. She can feel her own arousal damp and sticky against her thighs, a thrumming need that matches the pace of her pounding heart.

She lets out a squeak of surprise when Lucien licks a thick stripe over her, the sound spilling over into a moan when his tongue finds her clit. Lucien repeats the motion again and again, and Elain has to press a hand over her mouth to keep in the choked out sounds threatening to escape. Especially, when Lucien lets out a groan of his own against her, Elain able to feel the vibrations all the way down to her toes.

“Oh my gods,” Elain sighs, starting to rock her hips against Lucien’s mouth and his ministrations.

Lucien’s grip on her thighs tightens, lifting one of her legs and settling it over his shoulder. It fully opens her up to him, allows him to feast like a starving man, like this is the only meal he’ll ever want. The magic he works with just his mouth draws endless moans past Elain’s lips. It’s licking long, slow stripes and then swirling his tongue in circles over her clit. It’s sucking her clit between his lips and then his tongue breaching and fucking up into her.

Each change up, each groan from Lucien, has Elain grateful for the wall at her back holding her up. Time slips away from her, every point of her body and mind and soul focused on Lucien and the way he works her body. Her toes curl, that heat low in her gut tightening like a coil, like a bow being strung back and ready to strike. Blissful release seems within reach, glittering just ahead of her outstretched hand.

“Lu… Lucien… oh gods.”

It’s the only warning Elain is able to give before her orgasm sends her tumbling down headfirst. Her thighs squeeze around Lucien’s head, her back bowing forward off the wall, as heat rushes through her veins. The hand over her mouth does little to hide or disguise her loud choked off moan, and somewhere in the back of her mind, Elain only hopes there aren’t too many people in this wing of the estate.

Lucien slips out from beneath her skirts, his lips and chin shiny and slick. Elain can feel embarrassment beginning to flood through her cheeks and heating the tips of her ears, but then Lucien makes a big show of licking his lips, eyelashes kissing the golden skin of his cheeks as his eyes flutter. Somehow, he makes the obscene sight beautiful, and all the heat in Elain’s face quickly simmers and begins to flush down her chest instead.

Lucien clambers back to his feet, crowding into Elain’s space again. His hand comes up to cradle her cheek, thumb dragging across her bottom lip. “Elain Archeron, you are something else.”

“You better mean that in a good way,” Elain fires back, daring to nip at his thumb in retaliation.

Lucien chuckles, Elain able to feel it where their chests are pressed together. “Always.”

Before Elain can say anything else, Lucien kisses her again, deep and thorough. Elain moans against his lips, able to taste herself where he slides his tongue with her own. Without breaking the kiss, Lucien’s deft fingers work at the fastenings of Elain’s dress, tugging and untying until her dress is nothing but a puddle of fabric at their feet. The tearing of her bodice echoes in her ears before that too joins the discarded items. He only pulls back enough to tug his shirt off and toss it aside, and Elain has never been more grateful when he dives back in for her neck only because it allows her to simply stare.

Elain is surprised no one has painted Lucien before, that there aren’t statues of him cast in glowing marble. There should be. Hard cutting lines of lean muscle make up his chest and his arms, golden bronze skin on full display. Elain wants to dig her fingernails in and scrape down all those lines. Wants to lick all those lines. Especially the v-lines, like a tantalizing arrow leading beneath the waistband hanging low on his hips.

Lucien’s hands find her thighs again, and Elain lets out a squeal of surprise as her feet leave the ground, Lucien lifting her up with ease. She wraps her legs tightly around his waist, her arms scrabbling to curl around his shoulders. Lucien walks them over to his bed, depositing Elain against the soft blankets and pillows.

He wastes no time covering Elain’s body with his own, the heat and weight of him pressing her back against the mattress. His lips kiss and nip along her neck, traveling down across her collarbones until finding home at her now exposed breast. His tongue moves in those same delicious circles he used on her clit, swirling over her nipple until Elain is arching up against him with a choked moan. He switches to her other breast, laving the same attention, before he continues his path downward. Along her sternum. Down her stomach. Across her hip bones.

“Wait… shouldn’t we–um…” Elain trails off, not quite sure how to say it. It doesn’t help that Lucien’s lips keep distracting her. “Don’t you want me to do something… for you?”

“What makes you think this isn’t for me?” Lucien asks, spreading her thighs wide until she’s on full display for him. “Did you already forget when I said I dreamt of your cunt?”

“If you keep saying things like that, you’ll never beat the scoundrel allegations.”

“Who says I want to?”

Like a true scoundrel, Lucien smirks and dares to offer Elain a wink before he delves back in between her legs. He focuses his mouth’s attention on her clit this time, his hand coming up to join. He sinks one finger into her, the slow drag leaving Elain gasping. She’s still coming down from the previous orgasm, clenching and fluttering around that single digit, and when Lucien starts to move and curl that finger, she bucks up against him with a shout.

Lucien presses in a second finger beside the first, scissoring and curling them, as he builds up a steady pace. Elain’s head feels dizzy with pleasure, her hand reaching down to grip Lucien’s hair, tugging in time with each moan of his name that tumbles past her lips. She can already feel that heat building again, dangerously quickly. Lucien’s name feels like a chant heavy on her tongue. Or maybe it’s a prayer. Either way, there’s no warning to give this time before release yanks her hard over the edge.

Elain slumps back against the blankets, eyes closed and chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She feels Lucien shift, feels him slide back up her body and settle over her. His nose slides up her neck, along her jaw to her ear.

“Alright, my love?”

Even with her eyes closed, Elain can imagine his smirk, can hear the smugness coloring his tone. “Don’t sound so proud of yourself.”

“Tired out already?” Lucien continues his teasing despite her warning.

With a huff, Elain opens her eyes just so Lucien can see her roll them. She curls her fingers around his shoulders, digging in and pushing until Lucien falls onto his back beside her. Before he can move, she slings a leg over his, settling astride his hips. She leans forward and pins his wrists above his head, her hair a tumbling golden curtain around both their faces.

“Does this look tired to you?” Elain challenges, raising an eyebrow.

Lucien’s smirk turns into a full blown grin, those golden and russet eyes sparking and burning. The sight is enough to have Elain’s thighs tightening around his hips, to have heat licking up her limbs despite the two releases she’s already had tonight. Lucien breaks the hold on his wrists easily, gripping her hips but not moving her. Like he enjoys having her exactly where she is.

“So feisty,” Lucien comments, his voice almost reverent. “Go on then, Elain. Take what you want.”

Elain settles back on her haunches, but suddenly, she finds herself feeling nervous, unsure. She’s certainly out of her element. She traces a finger teasingly along the waistband of his pants, relishing in the way Lucien breathes in sharply, the way his whole body seems to shudder beneath her touch. It makes her feel powerful, daring. She shifts her hand to press her palm against the hard length still tucked away, watching the future Duke groan and toss his head back.

“Not so talkative now,” Elain notes, moving her hand down before sliding it back up.

Lucien’s answering chuckle is breathless and strained. “And yet, I could have sworn it was you chanting my name mere minutes ago.”

“Perhaps I want you chanting my name.”

“Oh, you don’t even have to ask for that.”

He says the words with enough definitiveness, enough casual ease and without an ounce of doubt, that Elain can feel another blush threatening to spill across her cheeks again. She instead focuses on the laces of Lucien’s pants, a distraction for her hands. When she gets the fastenings loose enough, she tugs his length free, curling her fingers around it. It’s heavy and warm in her palm, and Elain just prays her surprise doesn’t show too much on her face.

She had some idea what to expect, had snuck some of Nesta’s romance books out of her eldest sister’s room, but seeing and feeling are completely different to words on a page, and she’s quite confident that Lucien is what many would consider large.

Steeling herself, she tests out moving her hand, noting what pace, what grip, gets the most reaction from the man splayed out beneath her. True to his word, Lucien starts to chant her name beneath his breath, a harmony to the groans Elain wrings from him. Spurred on by the reaction, Elain bows forward, tentatively licking at the liquid glistening on the head.

“Oh, fuck,” Lucien swears, fingers flexing hard enough against her hips, Elain thinks there may be bruises tomorrow. “If you keep that up, this will end before we’ve really started.”

“Then finish it.”

Lucien’s grin is practically feral, all teeth and burning gaze. Before Elain can even blink, his hands are sliding up to her ribcage, one of his legs kicking out to trap her own. He flips them over until Elain is flat on her back, blinking up at Lucien’s looming figure. Somewhere in the move, he’s fully kicked off his pants, strong thighs now fully on display where they’re cradled between her spread thighs.

“This may hurt,” Lucien offers, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the way he drags the head of his cock through the wetness pooled between her legs from her two releases already tonight.

“I know,” Elain tells him, and she does. She heard the way the lady maids spoke before they were dismissed, but this is what she wants. What she came here tonight for. So she lifts her legs and wraps them around Lucien’s waist, locking her ankles at the small of his back.

Lucien closes the distance between them, locking their lips again, just as he lifts her hips up slightly to a new angle. It’s clearly a distraction tactic, but there’s no distracting from the stretch as he sinks in inch by inch. It’s certainly a new and uncomfortable feeling, but it’s also addicting, pleasure cloying through Elain in a way she knows she’ll never get enough of.

She moans into Lucien’s mouth, toes curling against his back. She digs a hand in the red strands of his hair, clutching and tugging as that pleasure only grows, until Lucien is buried to the hilt, their hips pressed flush together.

“Fuck, if I died right now, I would be a lucky man,” Lucien groans, dropping his head into the crook of Elain’s neck. “Wrapped in your delicious, tight warmth.”

Elain can do nothing but whine high in the back of her throat. She clenches and flutters around him, hips rocking up in a desperate chase of friction.

“Do you like that, my love? Telling you what you do to me? Telling you how I’ll never get enough of your sweet cunt.”

Lucien pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward, building a steady rhythm as he sinks into Elain again and again. And again. She feels dizzy on the pleasure he coaxes from her body, each drive of his hips hard and deep, the drag of his cock dissolving her into a puddle of moans and choked off gasps. She slides her fingers down his back, nails biting against the skin, and tries to meet each thrust with a rock of her own hips.

“Gods, the way you squeeze around me is better than any dream,” Lucien continues, lips slipping against her skin. “You were made for me, weren’t you, Elain? Made to take my cock?”

“Yes,” Elain shouts, giving in to the heat pulling her under. “Yes. Don’t stop.”

Lucien’s hand sneaks between where their bodies are pressed together, reaching down to where they’re joined. His fingers find her swollen clit with ease, tracing tantalizing circles to match the snap of his hips. Elain feels powerless to the way he plays her body, to the fire racing through her veins and pooling low in her gut.

“That’s it, Elain. Come for me again. Come all over my cock.”

One more hard thrust, one more stroke of Lucien’s fingers against his clit, and Elain can do nothing but follow the request. With a shout of Lucien’s name, she arches up against him, clenching hard as an orgasm tears through her hard enough that tears prickle the corners of her eyes. She feels weightless, feels like she’s floating.

Lucien continues to rock his hips against hers, stretching out her release as he chases his own. His thrusts start to pick up in pace, start to become sloppy, and then he stills above her. He groans Elain’s name, warmth filling her where he’s buried deep.

Lucien all but collapses against her, and they lay there still joined as they catch their breath. Elain swears that she can hear his heartbeat, swears she can feel it matching the steady beat of her own where their chests are pressed together. She whimpers quietly when Lucien finally pulls back, sinking back against the blankets with a satiated sigh.

Her body feels wrung out in the best way. She’s half aware of the mattress shifting beneath her as Lucien clambers off the bed. Half aware of the sound of footsteps fading and then returning. Only when there’s pressure between her legs do Elain’s eyes fly open, peering down to find Lucien gently wiping a cloth against her.

“What are you doing?”

“A gentleman always takes care of his lady.”

Lucien sets the cloth aside, kneeling up onto the bed and over Elain. Fingers beneath her chin lift her lips to his. The kiss is gentle, sweet even, and Elain’s allows herself to sink into it even as her heart shatters and cracks in her chest at the gesture. She knows that she should leave, that now is the time to cut ties and walk away. But then Lucien is climbing back onto the bed, his arms curling around Elain’s waist and tugging her into him, and maybe… maybe she can allow herself just one more moment.

He pulls the blankets up and over their still naked bodies, arms holding Elain close. She rests her head on his chest, her ear over the song of his heartbeat. Lucien’s fingers trace patterns up and down her spine, curling a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Elain…” Lucien begins, turning his head so his lips brush against her forehead. “What I was trying to tell you before…”

“Later,” Elain dismisses, pressing a placating kiss to Lucien’s skin.

Lucien sighs softly, but his arms tighten around her. “Alright, my love. Rest and then we can speak.”

Elain nods her head, focusing on keeping her breathing even, on getting her body to relax. It’s not particularly hard with the weight of Lucien’s arm across her waist, the warmth his whole body seems to exude. Not hard with the safety and contentment wrapped up here in these blankets, in this room, with this man.

But it can’t last.

She counts in her head until Lucien’s own breathing evens out, clearly having fallen asleep, and then she counts fifty higher just to be safe. Slowly, she extricates herself from his grip, slipping off the bed carefully to avoid too much jostling. She snatches up her discarded dress and cloak and pulls them back on, running her fingers through her hair and hoping for the best without any sort of mirror. At least the sun has set and the darkness will help hide any dishevelment.

She tiptoes to the bedroom door and pulls it open, peeking outside to make sure there’s no one in the hall. She turns and looks back at Lucien’s sleeping form on the bed one last time, swallowing hard around the pain twisting and writing between her ribs, threatening to rise in her throat like bile. The heat of tears is a familiar prickle behind her eyes, but she pushes that down too, reminding herself that this is for the best. One final huff of determination and Elain steps out into the hall, the door closing behind her with firm finality.

—