#tmhwmp

"Yes," Feyre said, but she cringed at the way the s slid through her teeth. Like a hiss. Like the sound of a whirring spindle, unwinding her composure until it was a tangle of loose thread in her lap.

Rhys paid no mind to her urgency. He acted like someone who had all the time in the world, methodical as he smoothly brought the car to a stop, switched gears, and turned out of the gallery parking lot.

It was only then that he turned to her. When it was too late to get out. Like he knew that finding his eyes in the dark, twinkling in and out from the passing streetlights, would be too reminiscent of that night.

For the first time in weeks it was just the two of them, in such a small space, and it felt like an electric storm collecting overhead. Feyre could feel all the warning signs: the rising hair, the thrumming pulse, the static crackling in her ear.

"What are the ground rules, then?" He asked, clearly unaffected.

Feyre reasoned it was the quiet making things worse. Tension couldn't build if there was no room for it, right?

She held up two fingers, ignoring the electric charge burning on her tongue as she said, "No talking about Tamlin." She waited until he nodded. "And no talking about the baby."

Rhys glanced towards her. A long glance. The kind that was full of meaning she couldn't hope to decipher, and also made her antsy about how long he was taking his eyes off the road.

He swivelled his head back before she could snap at him for it. Then he said, far too casually, "And has that been going well for you? Not talking about the baby?"

"If you're going to be a dick, I can walk home."

She watched his grip tighten on the wheel. Tighten, then relax.

He said, softly, "We'll have to talk about the baby eventually."

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself, hoping it could be another shield, knowing it would be just as useless as the first.

"I know," she whispered, slumping her shoulders. "It's why I invited you in the first place. I just… not tonight, okay?"

"Okay," he said, after giving her another one of those long stares. "Fine. No Tamlin, no baby. What about your art? Can we talk about that?"

Feyre, admittedly, didn't want to. It only made her think of the disaster of an art show they just fled and the carnage that would be waiting for her when she got home. Barring another topic of conversation felt like overkill, though. And it was safe enough.

"What about my art?"

"You're very talented."

Feyre was grateful his eyes were on the road and it was too dark to see her expression. She'd never been very good at reacting to compliments, and Rhys somehow managed to make them sound so much more… personal.

"Careful," she said, trying for lightness but finding the shape of it was too sharp. Less a feather, more a blade. "If you keep saying that to me, I'm going to think you're being insincere."

Rhys flashed her a sideways smile. Everything was coming out wrong tonight, but he hardly seemed phased by her sour mood.

"I keep saying it because I mean it."

Sure he did. The same way Tamlin's colleagues meant their compliments—because they wanted something out of it. A business deal or a pay bump or, in Rhysand's case, a baby mama who didn't try to ignore his existence.

Maybe his motivation wasn't such an awful thing, by comparison. Maybe it was… sweet that he was trying.

Maybe she should let him try.

Feyre sighed. "Thank you. I'm sorry for—"

"May I establish a ground rule?"

She blinked, surprised and a little annoyed at being interrupted.

"Sure."

"No apologizing. For anything."

Feyre assessed him out of the corner of her eye, measuring his intent. "Even if I puked in your car?"

Rhys looked alarmed. "Is that a possibility? I can pull over."

"No." Feyre shook her head. "No, it's just that this car is so meticulously clean, I figured that'd be a big deal to you."

It'd be a big deal to Tamlin. He still refused to pick her up from her studio after the time she accidentally got paint on one of his seats. It was only water-based, and they'd been able to get it out with a wet cloth as soon as she got home, but sometimes anger left a stronger stain than paint.

Rhys shrugged. "It's just a car, Feyre. I can get it cleaned. And honestly, you wouldn't be the first. Cassian and Mor have puked in my back seat at least a handful of times."

"Cassian?"

The name sounded familiar, but she was having trouble putting a face to it.

"My brother," Rhys said, affection plain in his voice. "Not by blood, though. He was a foster kid my parents took in. Along with Azriel."

"I didn't know you had brothers." But then again, how could she? It's not like they exchanged much small talk when she had her tongue down his throat. "I have two sisters."

Rhys smiled. "Older?"

"How did you know?"

"The light in your eyes is too bright for an eldest child," he joked. "And your art—you had one piece that was titled as a family portrait."

Feyre knew the one he meant. She'd recreated her mother's old wardrobe and attributed each of the drawers to one of her daughters.

"But I didn't paint my sisters," Feyre said, dumbfounded he could have guessed she was the youngest from that piece, of all things.

"I know. I was trying to make sense of it for a while. But each drawer represents one of you, right? Fire, flowers, and stars. I assumed it was by birth order."

"How on earth did you know I was the stars?"

"They're everywhere in your art, Feyre. Like a signature. How could you be anything else on that dresser?"

He did that thing again. He turned his head and looked at her. Like he was seeing her for all she was.

It was a frightening thing to be looked at by a stranger and feel seen.

"The fire is my oldest sister, Nesta," she said, swallowing past a building lump in her throat. "The flowers are Elain. She's gentle and kind in ways I don't think I'll ever be able to emulate."

"You're bright and guarded," Rhys said thoughtfully. "Like the stars."

"Lonely, too."

She didn't know why she said that.

She absolutely shouldn't have said that.

Feyre cleared her throat, rushing into the silence before Rhys could think too carefully about that horrifying admission.

"Do you think we could stop for ice cream?"

He must be an athlete, accustomed to changing direction at neck-breaking speeds, because he only huffed a laugh and asked, "Do you have a place in mind?"

"Anywhere that has vanilla soft serve."

He shot her a cursory glance. "And that won't make you feel sick?"

"Recently, it's one of the only things I know I can keep down."

Without another word, Rhys switched on the indicator light. Its soft click filled the silence as they rolled to a stop and waited for the opportunity to turn.

"Is that normal?"

"I think so?" Feyre shrugged. "I keep googling everything, but the amount of information gets pretty overwhelming. I was going to bring it up at the appointment tomorrow."

"You have an appointment tomorrow?"

She didn't point out he was breaking the no baby talk rule. Mostly because she found herself wanting to tell him.

"It's my first one. I'm a little nervous. I… don't like doctors very much."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

The offer sounded so earnest it nearly subdued her knee-jerk rejection. Nearly.

"No, I'll be fine. My friend Alis is coming with. She's my roommate."

"Yes," Rhys said, and she could hear the smirk in his voice. "I remember."

She remembered it, too. Unfortunately. Even when she told herself she should stop remembering it, that husky voice came back to her, urging her to be quiet, to be a good girl.

Feyre bit her lip. Time to steamroll straight through that train of thought. "She did remind me of something earlier, though. She said the doctors will probably want to know about your medical history."

"Sounds like I should be there, then."

"Or you can just tell me now."

Rhys flipped the indicator again, filling the car with that soft click, click, click as he waited for the opportunity to turn into a McDonalds. She couldn't tell if he was silent because he was focused, or because she refused to let him go to the appointment. Tamlin always gave her the silent treatment when he didn't get his way.

"I'll tell you what," Rhys said as he slid into a parking spot. The car jolted forward as he put it into park. She felt her stomach jolt with it. "I'll run inside and get ice cream while you think about some of the questions they might ask you tomorrow. You can interview me once I'm back."

"Okay," she said, hardly believing it was that easy for him to let it go.

Rhys leaned closer, fiddling with the center console. "Warm enough?" He asked, holding his hand in front of the vents. "Or, too warm?"

"Too warm."

He nodded, lowering the temperature. "Better?"

She snorted at the unexpected coddling and nudged his shoulder. "Go get the ice cream. I know how to work the AC."

With a laugh, he retreated back to the driver's side. She watched, curious, as he unbuckled his seat belt and slid a hand into his front pocket, keys jingling as he withdrew them.

"Here." He held them out to her. "In case you need to lock the doors. Or sound the alarm."

Feyre raised a brow. "You're only going to be a second, aren't you?"

"Just take the keys, Feyre."

"Can't promise I won't drive off with them," she teased, taking them from his hand. She ignored the way their fingers brushed, how her skin tingled from just that brief, accidental touch.

"And miss out on ice cream? I think you're bluffing."

Feyre poked her tongue at him as he pushed open the car door. He laughed—the kind where he tilted his head back.

She thought of her sisters, how they used to spend hot summer days playing with the garden hose. Sometimes it would get stuck, lodged beneath car tires and fences, and the water would dissipate into a languid drip until the kink was smoothed out. Feyre thought that must have happened to her at some point, a dozen sharp twists and light pinches slowly building up until her happiness was just a suffocated trickle.

It wasn't new, the realization that she was unhappy.

But it may have been the first time she realized how far she'd deviated from the girl she used to be. Rhysand laughed like it was easy. She wanted to feel that way again—so badly it was like a craving.

"I'll be right back," he said.

She nodded, digging her fingers into the armrest as she waited for this unexpected longing to fizzle out. It only felt worse once she was alone. The solitary silence threatened to bury her alive.

Her hand fell, unconsciously, to her stomach. The baby was still barely bigger than a pea. Would she feel less lonely once the baby was here, or would it feel like losing more of herself? It terrified her that she didn't know.

Rhys returned minutes later, ice cream cones procured in each hand. He nudged his elbow against the passenger door as a form of knocking. She debated locking the doors just to fuck with him, but ultimately her desire for ice cream won over and she leaned over to unlatch the door.

"Vanilla soft serve, as requested," he said, proudly presenting one of the cones to her. Once he was certain she had hold of it, he gracefully slid into the driver seat, pulling the door after him. "So," he said, turning to her. "Hit me—what's the first question?"

"Hmm." Feyre stalled for time by running her tongue along the rim of the cone. It wasn't lost on her, the way Rhysand's eyes darkened. "Any hereditary illnesses I should know about?"

Rhys grinned. "Nope. Clean bill of health. Well, besides my right knee, but that was a sports injury so I think we're in the clear."

"Oh? What sport?"

"If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a personal question," Rhys said lightly. "I thought this was strictly clinical."

"I thought you wanted to get to know each other," she countered.

"Any question relevant to the appointment you get for free. But if you want to ask something personal, I get to ask something, too. No grounds rules."

Feyre gaped. "Yes, ground rules!"

"Then no personal questions."

"Are you always like this?"

Rhys clicked his tongue. "Ah, now that sounds like another personal question."

"Unbelievable," she grumbled. "Okay, fine. Do you have any allergies?"

"Cats make me a little sniffly, but otherwise, no."

"I'm more of a dog person, anyway," she said, as if that mattered. "What about… medicines? Were you taking anything at the time of, erm, conception?"

Feyre felt like she was burning as she met his stare. She'd flipped the AC unit to its lowest temperature, but the cold air blowing on her face still wasn't enough. Not when she could practically see the memories dancing behind his eyes.

Holding her gaze, he took a long lick of the ice cream. She realized she couldn't be angry with him for doing it—it would melt if he didn't eat quickly enough—but the slow flick of his tongue felt suggestive of those memories.

They both knew he had taken something that night. Thoroughly. Passionately.

"No," he said, a glimpse of the ice cream still visible in the cradle of his tongue. "Needed a few pain killers for the day after, though."

"Hangover?"

There was that infuriating smirk. "Claw marks."

"Moving on," Feyre said quickly, clearing her throat. "What about your mom and dad? Grandparents? Did they have any health issues?"

Rhys considered. "My grandfather died of lung cancer, but he was a smoker. Not sure if we need to be too concerned there. My grandmother lived a long life, though—one hundred and two. Survived him nearly forty years."

"That's so sad," Feyre whispered, thinking of her father, and the way he deteriorated after her mother died.

Grief was supposed to get better with time, but sometimes she thought it was just like burying a capsule in dirt. It didn't matter how many layers were added, it was still there. And when it opened, it was as fresh and raw as the day it was buried. Like an abscess that never healed.

"She wouldn't think so," Rhys said. "Used to say it's what helped her live longer."

His eyes were creased like he was telling a joke, so Feyre forced a laugh. Inside, something in her withered.

She always thought love was so tragic. Every person she loved, she would one day lose, either through circumstance or death. Neither outcome seemed particularly happy. And in the chance where she was the one who died first, there was still the burden of knowing she would leave that wound festering in someone else.

And that was assuming the love wouldn't sour before that point. There were plenty of stories like Rhysand's grandmother's, where the promise of being with someone until the end of your life felt like more of a burden than a gift.

Lingering on those thoughts too long was painful, like pressing fingers to a bruise.

"What about your parents?" She asked, changing the subject.

The humor in Rhysand's expression dampened. "No health issues that I was aware of. I can't ask them, though. They died in a car crash a few years ago."

"Oh." Feyre's mouth popped open. "Rhys, I'm so sorry."

He waved it away and teased, "You forgot my ground rule, Feyre."

"I'm—" She pressed her lips together before she could apologize for apologizing. Like an idiot.

Rhys grinned. "I think I should get to break one of your rules. In the interest of fairness."

"How is that fair?" She sputtered. "What am I supposed to say when you tell me your parents are dead? Good riddance?"

He was shaking his head, grid spread wide. "I don't make the rules, Feyre."

"Yes. You literally do."

"Come on, humor me. One question, no ground rules."

She glared at him. "Fine. What is it that you want to know so badly?"

When Rhysand's expression shifted, assuming a gravity that sucked the air from car, she knew to brace for a question she absolutely did not want to answer.

"Does Tamlin make you happy?"

Her eyes darted to the button that controlled the passenger window, reaching for it because she needed the fresh air to feel like she could breathe, and also because it bought her a moment to compose her thoughts.

It was damning, she considered, that her answer was not an immediate yes. If she was going to lie, then her chances of sounding credible plummeted in the time it took to roll down the window, suffocating her with every second she waited for the glass panel to disappear into the hollow of the door.

Night air rushed in, greeting her like an old friend with a kiss on her cheeks. She gulped it down greedily, hoping that Rhys would drop the question if she simply pretended he hadn't asked.

"I'm not trying to interfere," he added, gratingly gentle. "And it's not a judgment. I just assume that if he's around, he'll be playing a role in our baby's life, and I want to understand what that role will be." There was something about those words—our baby. It implied an intimacy that sent her chest thumping. "And… I just want to make sure you're happy. Because honestly, Feyre—"

"Don't," she warned, trying her best to tamp down on a flare of anger. She hated that the question made her feel defensive. It wasn't as if she owed anyone an explanation, even him.

"You're right," he said. "It's not my place."

Feyre swallowed. Not really sure what to say to him. Whether to be honest or spiteful or find some way to articulate the maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions that had been plaguing her for the last eight weeks. They all felt too personal—too tightly wrapped in the fist she kept clenched around her heart.

"Tamlin is all I know," she said, finally. "We met in college when everything else in my life was falling apart, and he was the one who collected all my broken pieces and helped me fit them back together. He's… familiar."

Like an old hoodie, she almost wanted to say.

"But you broke up?" Rhys asked. "Mor told me that when we, uh—met, let's say—that you weren't with Tamlin anymore."

"We were broken up," she admitted, feeling a bit pathetic for it. "I found messages on his phone. There's this woman at his work… he promised it was nothing, but the messages didn't seem that way."

She bit her lip and snuck a glance towards Rhys to gauge his reaction, but his face was so hard to read. It felt dangerous to let the silence sit. It was too easy to probe, to ask a question that would be just as damning as the last.

In a rush, she explained, "He showed up at my door a few days after… you know. I didn't know I was pregnant, obviously, and he was so adamant that everything was going to change. He's told me that before, and I didn't really believe him, it's just…"

Rhys leaned forward. "It's just what?"

How did she even begin to put words behind the numbness she'd felt, standing on her doorstep, listening to Tamlin explain why they should get back together again? Words were too precise, too clean. Nothing Feyre felt was easy to draw distinct lines around, it was too blurred, too muddied, like watercolors that had run together.

"Sometimes…" Feyre chewed at her lip. She knew how it sounded, and she knew it wasn't right, but the closest she could articulate was, "Sometimes I feel like I'm too scared of living."

Those violet eyes, near black in the dim light, darted over her face again and again, as if trying to convince himself he'd heard her wrong.

His voice was hoarse as he whispered, "What?"

He sounded devastated.

"Not like that!" She insisted, squeezing her eyes in frustration because she just wanted to make him understand, but she didn't know how. "It's like… when I used to take swim lessons as a kid. We always had a break in the middle where all of the girls would rush into the hot tub, but I would stay in the pool. Because I knew that once I felt the hot water, the pool would feel twice as cold. Once your body's acclimated, it's just easier not to get out at all."

"And Tamlin…" Rhys puzzled out. "He's the pool water?"

"Life is the pool water," she said, feeling her eyes begin to sting. "Everyone talks about love like it should be this deep, all-consuming feeling, but then what happens when you lose something like that?" She thought of the ever-present grief in her father's eyes and shook her head. "I don't think I could survive it. Tamlin is…" Her bottom lip wobbled. "He's safe."

She could feel Rhys watching her. Maybe it was finally occurring to him that she was a mess, that something in her was broken, and that he didn't want anything to do with it. Did he regret driving her home?

"If Tamlin is safe," he said quietly, "then why haven't you told him about the baby yet?"

It was the question she dreaded more than anything else. She liked to think she could handle it like an adult—tell him it was none of his business, or make some evasive comment. She was going to be a mom. It was important to be able to handle these things.

Instead, Feyre burst into tears.

She wished that the breeze lapping against her cheek would take mercy and swallow her whole. It would be so much easier if she broke down in a pit of darkness that only she was witness to—at least then she wouldn't feel so mortified, wouldn't be trying to cover her face with a neglected ice cream cone that was already dripping down her wrist.

Warm fingers brush against hers, gently prying the ice cream out of her fist. Through blurry vision and soft, hitching breath, she watched Rhys place the melted cone in the cup holder of the center console. That in itself was almost enough to still her tears—his utter disregard for the mess it would cause.

Then he was pressing a napkin into her palm, gentle as he gripped her wrist, maneuvering it this way and that so he could wipe the sticky residue from her fingers.

Feyre didn't think she'd ever been so pliant in her life. She reasoned it was from the shock of his reaction. She was sobbing in his car and he wasn't asking her why, or telling her to stop, or insisting that it would be okay. He wasn't saying anything.

Once he was satisfied that her hands were clean, Rhys set down the wipes and opened out his arms in offering. It was wrong, wasn't it? To accept. She should have curled her knees into her chest and cried there like any other self-respecting woman.

Self-respecting women had resolve. The last of hers had been spent holding back her tears, and now that it had collapsed entirely, there was nothing to prevent Feyre from burying her face in his collar. It smelled like him, the scent she'd been trying to push out of her head for weeks. Just when she thought she was on the cusp of success, here she was, inhaling deeply with each ragged sob. She feared it would settle inside her lungs and never escape, tinting every breath with his presence.

This was what the soil must feel like, she thought. When it could feel the roots taking hold, binding and shaping it to the will of another. Rhys had the kind of touch that would need to be uprooted from her soul.

And she felt, as his hands smoothed down her hair and back, that it was already too late for her. She was already in the hot tub, feeling the slosh of warm water as he rocked her in a slow, gentle motion.

He didn't shush her, not once. He just held her until the tears quieted. And kept holding her, still.

"Let me know when you're ready for me to take you back," he murmured.

It would be a while until she was ready to feel that cold again.

-

Tamlin was waiting for her.

She'd been expecting it. But seeing Tamlin's car parked in the drive, it felt like a clawed hand rising out of an abyss and grabbing hold of her legs to drag her down into a cold, foreboding dark.

The car came to a slow, rolling stop.

Rhys turned to her. His expression was guarded, difficult to read. "Want me to walk you inside?"

There was something hidden in that offer, she was sure. Want me to make sure he doesn't bother you?

Feyre shook her head. "No," she said, rubbing at her cheeks to make sure the tear tracks were gone. "I'll be fine. Thank you for driving me home."

His gaze landed on the pickup truck parked in her driveway. His mouth tightened. "You sure you'll be okay?"

"I'm fine," she snapped.

With a sigh, Rhys shifted his car into park and unlocked the doors. "You'll call me if you need anything?"

Feyre knew he was only being kind. But she could sense that beneath the offer, he was worried, and that grated her. She hated that everyone treated Tamlin like he was some volatile explosive. It felt just as much a judgment on her as it was on him.

The smile she offered Rhys was tight. "Thanks for the ride."

Rhys returned her tight smile, giving a small wave as she slid out of the passenger seat and shut the door behind her.

It was likely her imagination, her anxiety spiking from the anticipation, but she felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck once the door was closed.

She knew Tamlin was watching her. Either from the truck, or from inside the house. He'd probably been monitoring her location the entire time. Feyre chewed the inside of her cheek, careful not to look back at Rhysand's car as she crossed the road.

Passing Tamlin's truck, she saw there was no one in the front seat. Alis must have let him in, then. She dreaded to think how long he'd been waiting. It couldn't have been that long, right?

At the front door, she paused to check if Rhys was still there. She could see him, watching from the driver's side for her to get into the house safely. Her heart swelled with gratitude for that small gesture, and the inexplicable courage it gave her to know that he was watching.

With a deep breath, Feyre stepped into the house.

"Where have you been?"

Tamlin stood on the other side of the door, blocking the hallway. His expression made her stomach tighten. He was furious. And drunk. A bad combination for anyone, but especially Tamlin.

Staying as calm as she could manage, Feyre began slowly unravelling her scarf. "Rhys drove me home."

"I didn't see Mor in the car."

An accusation, more than a question.

"We dropped her off along the way," Feyre said.

"Oh?" Tamlin shoved his phone inches from her face. The screen was open to a picture of her location. "Mor lives at McDonalds, does she?"

Feyre gave him an incredulous look. "You're angry we stopped for food?"

"I thought you had food poisoning. Isn't that why you rushed out of your own art show?"

"We stopped for ice cream," she said. "It's the only thing I thought I could keep down."

"Bullshit."

After hanging up her coat, Feyre turned to him and crossed her arms. "So what don't you believe exactly, Tam? That I was sick? Could you not hear me puking in that bathroom?"

That stumped him for a moment, which confirmed Feyre's suspicion that he and Rhys had been able to hear her retching through the bathroom door. Her cheeks heated, somehow far more embarrassed about Rhys overhearing than anything else.

"I believe you were sick, Fey," he said, eventually, "but you told me you were heading straight home."

She shrugged. "I was starting to feel better and wanted ice cream. Is that such a big deal?"

It was starting to work. She could see Tamlin mulling over the explanation, his irritation still plain but with increasingly less justification. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long sigh.

"Something feels off here, Feyre."

Feyre made the mistake of hesitating. They both knew that the real reason he was angry was that she went home with Rhys. That she spent time alone with him.

But he was also right. Something was off. And Tamlin wasn't an idiot; he could sense it, even if he couldn't figure out what was off. And if his suspicions involved Rhys, they likely weren't too far from the truth.

Tamlin's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"

In her mind, she tried to play out how this would go if she just told him the truth. He would be angry, and that would be a justified reaction. But he was also drunk, and already jealous of Rhys, and the way he was leaning over her… she worried that anger would escalate.

"I'm tired," she said in a soft voice. Once she found herself frequently using when he'd had too much to drink. "Can we talk in the morning?"

"Talk?" He was getting worked up now. "What do we need to talk about, Feyre?"

When Feyre tried to step past him, he grabbed her shoulder and pushed her back. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to say, we're done when I say we're done.

Her hand absently found her stomach, cradling the invisible bump.

I just assume that if he's around, he'll be playing a role in our baby's life, and I want to understand what that role will be

When she was seven, she'd been sent to the principal's office for biting a boy who tried to corner Elain at recess. She'd always been fiercely protective of her sisters, but she'd never felt a protectiveness as intense as the one that surged through her in that moment.

At just that small act of acknowledgement that her child was beneath her palm, and that she would be damned if anyone threatened their safety. Tamlin may not have been an immediate threat, but he certainly didn't have the temperament of someone she'd want around her baby.

Feyre tilted her chin up. "I think we should break up."

"What?"

"You heard me, Tam. I don't think we should be together. And I mean it this time. We're not good for each other."

"Is this because of Mor?" Tamlin demanded. "Did she say something to you?"

"This has nothing to do with Mor." Feyre met his eyes levelly, begging him to stay calm. "This is about us, Tam. The fighting, the distrust, the secrets. I can't deal with it anymore."

"You can't deal with it?" He demanded. "Funny, you seemed happy to deal with it a few hours ago when I was bankrolling your art show."

Feyre clenched her teeth, her temper getting the better of her. "Don't go there with me. You and I know damn well you only booked the art show because you felt guilty about what happened with Ianthe."

"God dammit!"

Feyre barely had enough time to stumble out of the way as Tamlin whirled and crashed his fist through the wall. Plaster crumbled to the floor, covering his fist in ivory dust.

"Tamlin!" Feyre screeched. "Holy shit!"

A door slammed down the hall, and seconds later Alis came racing towards them, her eyes wide as she took in the scene before her.

Even Tamlin looked shocked by what he'd done. He straightened slowly, withdrawing his hand from the wall with what looked like shame. He looked at her, the anger gone from his eyes. "Feyre…"

She didn't need to hear it. This apology would be just like the hundreds of others, all delivered with the same sad eyes. Please don't hold me accountable, they begged.

But she was a mom now. That outweighed everything, even her empathy.

"Get out," she said.

When he didn't move, Alis warned, "You have ten seconds before I call police."

Tamlin kept his gaze pinned on Feyre, and she realized he wasn't just begging to be rescued. He was expecting it. Somewhere along the line, she'd taught him that he could behave however he wanted so long as he pretended he was sorry for it.

Well, not anymore. Not ever again.

Feyre met his eyes, making sure he could see every ounce of her resolve as she told him, "Get the fuck out of my house, Tamlin."

His jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle sticking out. He said nothing else as he shouldered his way past Feyre, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut.

Alis came to her side immediately, putting one hand on Feyre's back and the other on the deadbolt, pulling it across. They held their breaths until they heard the engine start up and the oversized tires kick up gravel as he pulled out of the drive.

"Oh my god," Feyre whispered once he was gone. Her eyes and throat were beginning to sting, her only warning before a sob wracked up her throat.

"Oh honey." Alis pulled her close, cradling Feyre's head against her shoulder. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrifying."

"It's over," Feyre said, uncertain who she was trying to console—Alis, herself, or the baby.

So she said it for each of them.

"It's over."

"It's over."