i love love love books. i also write little fanfics sometimes. my primary fandom is Throne of Glass, but i will absolutely write for any other fandom i enjoy. please feel free to request a prompt, i love prompts :) in fact, i co-run @rowaelinprompts with the very talented @thegreyj
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thank you all and have a lovely day
***update 08/2025*** so...i started law school, which means i’ll be quite a bit less present here. writing fanfic has been and continues to be one of my main creative outlets, so there will still be works posted, just less frequently. thank you thank you thank you to everyone for being here :)
I'd like to dedicate this chapter to @pricklyypear. The lack of feedback has been quite disheartening for me, and I don't think I would've continued this fic if you hadn't reached out 💗💖
Anyway, maybe smaller chapters will be better for consistency? We'll see
Warnings: none
Words: ~2k
Even though I understand the amount of camera work that goes into live broadcasts of these kinds of events, I’m still taken aback by how they’ve been filming Aelin and me non-stop.
None of us work in the film industry—I’m sure my appearance for my former team’s documentary doesn’t count. Shouldn’t they have better people to film?
Our publicists sent us here with a few of our friends as a “fun soft launch”—their words exactly—of our relationship. However, wearing this bow tie hasn’t been fun for me, neither is this relationship launch soft.
So far, it’s been a barrage of photographs and inquiries about our love life, despite her odd policy about not doing red carpets with men, just her girlfriends—I don’t get it, but it didn’t bother me either, so I let this rule slide.
Aelin tugs my arm. Sat beside me, she leans over my shoulder with one hand cupped to cover her mouth and whispers, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
I nod, find her hand and squeeze it. I take advantage of my height to press a kiss to the crown of her head, draping my arm over the back of her chair.
She freezes, the thin straps of her dress exposing her tight posture.
I chuckle and whisper in her ear, “We’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
The delicate tremble that marks her shiver is more than enough to lift my mood.
“Are you cold, baby?”
She squints her eyes at me, defiant and stubborn despite not being able to vocalize it. Tomorrow, there’ll be tons of lip readers going through our footage of tonight, trying to piece together every conversation we’ve had.
I cup her face, my thumb idly tracing her chin and cheek. “Lovely,” I say without cupping my mouth this time, and I mean it. She’s adorable when she’s mad or flustered over being attracted to me.
Aelin sighs and leans on me, focusing back on the host making a joke I should understand about a director with a funny name I should know.
I lean closer to Vaughan on my left and ask, “Who’s that?”
“He’s this super niche director from Eyllwe. Makes underground stuff.”
“Have I watched any of his stuff?” I ask, already sensing the answer.
“I don’t know, dude.” Vaughan laughs into his hand. “He doesn’t film cars blowing up, so I don’t think you have.”
My elbow meets his side; I’m now snickering as well. “Fuck off.”
Sinking back into my seat, I appreciate its size. It’s ironic; I’m usually the one who’s too big for the seats, but today I’m okay—it’s the tiny women in massive gowns trying to squeeze in.
The venue is so spacious, yet it feels cramped with the amount of people here, turning it into a fog of strong perfume and hairspray. When I checked out these events from the outside, people seemed chill and put-together—I’d never have guessed the atmosphere here is so thick with anxiety.
Some veterans easily sail through, but there’s always someone fighting their outfit, people tripping on gowns. Men with starched collars or women with too-heavy diamond necklaces, their necks being chafed raw.
The cameras and red-carpet journalists don’t make it any easier.
I wonder if the cameras can catch the damp mark on the host’s leg from wiping his sweaty hand. To his defense, stage lights’s warmth can be brutal.
“But hey.” Vaughan juts his chin towards my date. “What’s up with your girl’s girl?”
Ansel, who’s sat on Aelin’s other side. Aelin and I weren’t invited to this event, so technically I’m Vaughan’s date, and she’s with her actress friend.
“We just met.”
I’ve seen some of her movies and know she started out as one of those child stars, but I’m pretty sure my cinephile friend knows that too.
“Is she single?”
“Dude.”
“What?” Vaughan says in the same disbelieving tone.
He can call me selfish all he wants, but my chances with Aelin are slim; it’s not like I’m messing things up by introducing her friend to Vaughan. I've never seen him be serious with a girl. He'd say the same about me, but I'm not risking others for my shot—I went up to her myself.
“I’m not setting you two up. If you pull her, I want no part in it.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Just do this one thing for me. I’ll cover your ass in the last 10 minutes of the next three matches.”
I cross my arms, not quite believing him. But Vaughan’s not budging, and I’m almost believing he’s for real.
“You’ll do my defensive work? All the running?”
“Yeah, you can just chill there.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose—I’m actually going to do this, aren’t I? “Just don’t be a jerk, okay? I don’t want to piss Aelin off.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“Dude, I swear to God, if you ghost this chick—”
“Okay, okay! Got it. I won’t ghost her, geez.”
I squint at him again, studying his earnestness. Vaughan looks serious enough, so I lean into Aelin’s side.
“Hey.”
Her eyes remain locked on the stage, but the tantalizing curl on the corner of her red lips tells me she’s listening.
“So, is Ansel single?”
Her mouth flattens. “How does that concern you?”
“Because Vaughan’s interested, and he won’t leave it alone.”
“Oh.” Her chin dipped down for a second before she said, “She’s single, but she might not be for your friend. Let me ask.”
Aelin shifts away. Without skipping a beat, Vaughan pokes my side in a sequence of aggressive jabs.
When I comply and lean closer, he adds, “But don’t be too obvious.”
I nod and tilt towards Aelin, to my right. “Let’s not be too obvious,” I whisper.
She snorts. “Smooth. Got it.”
I give Vaughan a curt nod. He does the same.
As the night drags on, I get more and more antsy, and I’m doing my best to quit fussing with my collar. Perhaps I don’t appreciate how great my work uniform is, because I’d hate to wear a fancy suit all the time.
“And Aelin Galathynius is with us tonight, ladies and gentlemen,” the host says.
More cameras shift towards her. She gives a close-lipped smile, polite but not warm.
“I was going to ask if she plans to stay single, but her relationship status changed before I had the chance!”
My brain needs a beat to process what he said, that he actually said that on a live broadcast. My eyes dart back to Aelin, but she doesn’t flinch. She raises her eyebrows, unimpressed and with a bit of an attitude.
Why is she being so chill about it? In the field, my homies and I raise hell when someone’s half as snarky to one of us.
I’m keeping quiet because that’s what she’s going for—if a silent rebellion is what she wants, that’s what I’ll do. However, she can’t stop me from cradling an arm around her. I don’t look at any cameras or video walls with his face; my focus is on him alone when I tilt my head, staring like I could draw blood with my eyes alone. The posture I maintain is a threat and a dare: he can’t come because I’m bigger than him, and he can’t run because I’m faster than anyone inside this venue, even Vaughan or security.
Peripheral vision allows me to see my face plastered on the venue's wall-sized screens, which also means it's on millions of screens worldwide too. My focus remains on him alone.
It’s uncivilized and ridiculous in modern society, but triggering a primitive part of his brain is how to stop men with a way of thinking like his. I can be pretty intimidating—scary, even—when I need to be, and I'm hell-bent on making this creep wish he never brought her up.
“Uh-oh.” An uneasy laugh. “I think I pissed off her boyfriend, and he’s twice my size. Moving on…”
He quickly finds another celebrity to hassle, but my arm remains around Aelin.
We only relax when everyone’s attention moves forward—cameras and guests alike.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“It was nothing.” And I mean it. Her team clearly didn’t show her the brawl I was in when that preppy little shit from Bellhaven United called Connall a ‘faggot’. I never apologized—not to that fucker nor to the team suits and coach when the disciplinary committee expelled me for the next three games.
“Are we close to your bedtime, old man?”
“Past it, actually.”
“Wanna get out of here?”
“Yes, please.”
Aelin smirks at me and leans over toward Ansel.
My jaw sets again when her attention is elsewhere, and I barely have time to brood over what happened when Vaughan scoots closer to me.
“You really like her, huh?”
I haven’t really thought about how much I like Aelin—the person—rather than the prospect of finishing what we started on the night we met, but yeah. Depending on what ‘like’ means to him, I do like her.
My friend wiggles his eyebrows. “When are you bringing her to a game?”
I cock my head, surprised because I thought my answer was obvious. “Never.”
Vaughan doubles over, and I’m not sure what he’s laughing at.
“Dude, have you seen her? She’s like, Miss Universe type of shit. I’m not taking her anywhere near those fuckers.”
Vaughan’s not laughing anymore, but you can tell he’s about to crack up again. “Don’t you wanna see her cheering in your jersey?”
Shit.
Yes, I do.
In a short skirt, if I have any say in it.
Damn, I need to reconsider this.
Before I can continue my reevaluation, Aelin leans in once more.
“If we go now, do you think Vaughan can keep Ansel company till the party’s over?” Aelin grins. “She decided she’s single.”
My heads up and warning to Vaughan doesn’t last half as long as Aelin’s goodbyes to Ansel, and I can’t help but overhear them.
“Do not. Disappear. Again.” Ansel has a firm tone, her hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“I won’t.”
“I can’t believe you disappeared for a couple of weeks and came back with a whole boyfriend!” It’s hard to say if Ansel is distressed, confused, or amused. Maybe all of them. “You said both your dads are friends, right? Did he wait for you to be single? Was it a friends to lovers thing?”
Aelin has her face turned away from me, but I can see her shoulders shake with laughter.
“Every relationship I have is an enemies to lovers. I hate men.”
Her friend cackles at her antics, and I can’t help but chuckle as well. My hand gently skim over Aelin’s bare shoulders as I call her attention.
“I’m ready if you are.”
We both get up and push our way through the packed venue, my palm on her back. It doesn’t take long for us to grab the host’s attention.
“…and Aelin and her double-door-fridge-sized boyfriend are leaving. Tough crowd tonight, huh?”
That fucking host has the gall to address her again.
“I can’t hear you,” I yell, tapping my ear with my index finger. “Misogyny too loud.”
If the live footage didn’t catch what I said, I’m sure the lip readers will.
I pull her closer, wrapping my arm tighter around her, and guide her out.
It crosses my mind that I might never get invited to this again, but then I remember I wasn’t even invited to this one. It’s not like I’ll ever miss attending those things, anyway.
A Feminist King in the Making? Rowan Whitethorn Calls Out Misogyny During Varese Film Festival’s Opening Ceremony
Is Aelin Galathynius Reforming our Favorite Playboy?
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hi hello please accept this little thing i've cooked up during my absolutely batshit insane second semester of law school! for a tiny bit of context: lately, I've grown dissatisfied with how unrealistically graphic and lust-driven every popular dark romance book is (sorry, dark romance girlies...), so I wrote a little something to poke fun at what might happen in a slightly more realistic version 🤭
warnings: swearing, bad sex metaphors, even worse jokes
word count: 3.9k
enjoy :)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tessa Jones-Maxwell (“T. J-Max” to her closest friends) was making out with her gym crush in the sauna, and she honestly didn’t give a crap if any of the handful of gymbros grunting at the bench press walked by and saw her and the man who could lift her like a five-pound dumbbell playing tonsil hockey in the steam-clouded, red-lit room. In fact, she almost wanted someone to walk past; the dark little voice in the back of her head murmured, coaxing one of her most secret dreams into the front of her mind.
“Oh yeah baby!” she cried out, squirming like an eel in her search for a one-eyed trouser snake.
Giovanni da Colonna, the huge, muscled, darkly handsome Italian man she’d been crushing on for several weeks who looked like Michelangelo’s David with tattoos, chuckled against her lips. “I’ve been wanting to do this for weeks, babygirl.” He crashed his mouth into hers again. “You ain’t got no idea what seeing you in those big shirts and tight leggings slanging the weights around does to me, baby.”
Tessa pulled back, gasping. “What did you just call me?”
“Babygirl,” he murmured again, his voice dropping at least two octaves to a raspy near-growl.
Her jaw practically unhinged. “Oh my God. Oh my Godohmygodohmygod!” She managed to snatch a shallow breath. “That’s what you say in your videos. Ohmygod.”
He smirked, the red sauna lights casting his chiseled face in bad-girl-dream shadows. “Do you like my videos, babygirl?” She tried and failed to respond, and he let out a rumbling chuckle. “I can tell you do.” His quadriceps flexed against her hamstrings as she bucked her hips in his lap, putting on an admirable performance of riding a non-mechanical bull.
“Shut up and keep kissing me,” she finally gasped out. “I didn’t come in here to talk.”
“As you wish, babygirl.” And he spun them around so she was the one sitting on the bench, took one step back, and whipped out his schlong. It sprang in his meaty fist like a jack-in-the-box.
Tessa wanted—no, needed—it to jack in her box.
She couldn’t give less of a fuck that she barely knew the man.
~
When she pulled into her parking spot on Thursday night a good two hours after she usually did, Tessa couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with her apartment building. The garage looked like it always did; the concrete floor was cracked and the fluorescent lights bolted to the ceiling were too bright for her exhausted eyes that had already spent ten hours glued to her computer screen. She looked carefully around her car as she got out, but she didn’t see anything that screamed “danger,” so she went to the elevator and pushed the call button. The elevator doors slid open only a minute later, and she went in and punched the button for her floor. And everything went normally, until she unlocked the door of her apartment and realized that the lamp in the living room was on.
She always turned every light off before she left for work.
Tessa closed the door and bolted it, trying to convince herself that she had likely just forgotten to turn that lamp off in her rush to get to the office early that morning. Her douchebag of a boss had texted her at 6 a.m.—seriously, what kind of asshole did that?—and basically ordered her to show up at 7, and thank god that she was an early riser, because she’d never have made it otherwise. Since she’d been in such a rush, she’d probably just missed that lamp.
But then she smelled spaghetti as she was leaning down to take off her shoes, and she knew for a fact that her meal plan, which was color-coded in bright EXPO markers on the cute little whiteboard on her fridge, said that she was having salmon and rice for dinner.
Tessa stood back up and reached into her work tote, digging around as quietly as she could until her fingers wrapped around the glittery pink bottle of pepper spray she always carried. She pulled the little bottle out of her bag and clutched it in her fist as she took a few tentative steps into her apartment, scanning the…the empty space? That couldn’t be right. How the hell could there be a steaming pot of spaghetti on the stove, a light on in the living room, and nobody else in her apartment?
She moved sideways into the kitchen, still keeping a sharp lookout in case someone jumped out from behind the overstuffed green sofa in the living room. She glanced at her meal plan whiteboard, her eyes narrowing when she noticed that someone had crossed out “salmon and rice” and scrawled “NONNA’S SPAGHETTI” in blocky red capitals over it.
“Who on earth is Nonna?” Tessa mumbled, wondering if thinking out loud would help her sanity.
“Only the best cook you’ll ever meet, babygirl.”
Tessa screamed so shrilly she was shocked her windows didn’t explode and whirled around, jamming her thumb down on the trigger of her pepper spray.
Giovanni’s big, rough, tattooed fingers (whose echoes Tessa could still feel in her secret garden) just wrapped around the glittery little bottle before the spray could hit him. “Ciao, babygirl.”
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Tessa yelped. “You scared the—umph.” She was going to yell at Gio for scaring her out of her mind, but he leaned down and kissed her with a healthy dose of tongue before she could scold him.
“You were working overtime, and I wanted to make sure you had dinner ready when you got home,” he said in that gravelly rumble of his, giving her a wink that had no business making her stomach flip like that. “Can’t I take care of my girl?”
“Your girl,” Tessa echoed, trying to shake sense back into herself. “We’ve been on two dates.”
His other hand slid up from her waist to wrap around her jaw, tilting her face up to him. “Four if you count Saturday night and Sunday night.”
Tessa’s whole body blushed at the explicitly vivid memories of those nights. “I wouldn’t call an unexpected sleepover a ‘date,’ Gio.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining, babygirl.” He crowded into her space, backing her up against the counter. At six-foot-nine, he was more than a foot taller than her, but instead of feeling trapped, Tessa just felt the irrepressible urge to forget the spaghetti and have a different kind of protein for dinner.
“Gio…” she whispered, staring up at him with wide, hungry eyes.
“You’ve gotta be starving,” he said, suddenly taking a big step backwards. “Have a seat, babygirl. I’ll make you a plate.”
It took Tessa a whole two minutes to collect her figurative panties, which had flown right off her legs, and walk across the kitchen to take a seat at the little dining table that she’d thrifted for twenty bucks. It didn’t exactly fit with the more modern sleekness of her apartment, but she loved it anyway. Gio brought over a steaming plate of spaghetti, and she smiled up at him. “Thanks, big guy.”
“No problem.” He winked at her and sat down in the other chair, his hulking muscles a cartoonish contrast to the chair’s size. “I figured you wouldn’t want to cook after you stayed so late at work.”
Tessa paused mid-bite of the spaghetti. “How’d you…” She swallowed and cleared her throat. “How’d you know I was staying late?”
He tapped his forehead. “I just know, baby.”
She raised a skeptical brow at him.
He chuckled. “Alright, fine. I watched the security cameras.” He rolled his shoulders. “For such a big, rich office, you’d think they’d spend more money on keeping their security system actually secure. Only took me ten seconds to get past that half-ass attempt at a firewall.”
Tessa dropped her fork. “You’re stalking me at work? What the fuck?”
“Hey, hey, easy there, babygirl.” He held out his hands. “I’m just keeping an eye out for you, making sure you’re safe.”
She frowned. “You hacked into the security system at my work and watched me spend an extra two hours in my office. That’s a crime, Gio.”
“I like to think of it as working outside the rules,” he smirked. “But if it bothers you, baby, I won’t keep doing it.”
“Thank you.” Somewhat mollified, she picked up her fork again. “This is…I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Nonna taught me well,” he said, puffing up his chest. “She doesn’t have any granddaughters, and I was always hanging around the kitchen during Sunday dinner when I was a little boy, so she got me up on a stool and taught me all the family recipes.” Gio lifted his hand to his lips and kissed the silver ring around his forefinger. “Rest in peace, Nonna.”
Hearing one little story about Gio’s past had no right making Tessa’s pulse flutter like that. She shot him a soft little smile. “I bet she loved having you around.”
“Mostly.” A gleam flashed in his dark chocolate eyes. “She did throw a spoon at me and call me a zozzona when I was bringing different girls to dinner every week.”
“And she wasn’t wrong,” Tessa added, flicking her gaze up and down his big meaty body.
It took him all of ten seconds to spring out of his chair, round the table, spin her chair around, and cage her in against the glossy hardwood. “You calling me a playboy, hmm?”
She gave him a defiant little smirk. “If the little sock fits.”
“Mouthy girl,” he chided in a Sith-Lord-esque growl. “Wanna say it again? Make sure I hear it?”
“Playboy,” she whispered. Then she yelped as he swung her up out of the chair and into his arms, both of his big hands gripping her undulating hips, and strode down the short hallway to her bedroom with his lips attached to her neck like a wet, sexy barnacle.
~~~~~[this content has been redacted]~~~~~
“Baby, what’s all this?” Morning sunlight illuminated the glorious display of black-inked artwork covering the ripples of Gio’s muscular torso and arms as he strolled into the kitchen with a stack of yellow envelopes in his hands. “Found these in the mailbox.”
Tessa reluctantly dragged her attention from the hunk who was the reason her voice was gone to the stack of paperwork he carried. Her brows furrowed. “That looks like…” She picked up the top envelope, opened it, and tugged out the papers. “It is a noise complaint notice.” She held it up so he could see. “Huh. According to my lease, I’m supposed to get written notice from my landlord before a formal complaint gets filed, but I don’t remember ever receiving anything from him.”
Gio set the pile of envelopes down and shoved one tatted hand through his messy hair. “Uh…”
“Did you find a notice from my landlord?”
“Maybe.” He took a big step backwards. “I might have shredded it. And the other letters from your landlord and some other people who said they were your neighbors.”
Her jaw hung open. “Giovanni! Those were important!”
“I didn’t want you to have to deal with that!” he exclaimed. “I can make the complaints go away—it doesn’t have to be a problem like this!”
Tessa tore open the next envelope. Then the next, and then the rest. She scanned through the stack of papers, and when she looked back at Gio, her eyes were narrowed in anger. “You can’t make eight separate lawsuits just vanish, Gio!” She shook the stack of complaints at him. “Now we have to go to court, and all because my neighbors heard me—hmph!”
“Your neighbors are just jealous that they’re not the ones getting satisfied enough to scream like you, baby girl,” Gio murmured, his fingers clamped over Tessa’s mouth, muffling her protests. “Like I said, I’ll make the lawsuits go away. They’ll be willing to settle, I’m sure of it.”
Tessa bit his fingers.
He hissed and jerked his hand away. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, babygirl.”
“Or what, are you gonna make my neighbors add another count of disturbing the peace to their lawsuit?” She shoved herself off the couch, glowering at him. “I’ve got an idea for a third date, Giovanni daCazzo: you meet me and my lawyer at the courthouse tomorrow at ten o’clock to plead your case against several claims of stalking, breaking and entering, trespass, sexual coercion, and the eight fucking lawsuits my neighbors have filed against us.”
“You’re so sexy when you’re angry, bellissimma,” Gio murmured, staring down at her through heavy-lidded eyes (over the six-person tent pitched in his pants). “Makes me so—”
“Everything you say is being recorded to add to my complaint, big boy,” Tessa added.
Gio slammed his jaw shut. He opened his mouth again. Closed it. Opened and closed it again, goggling like a beached fish. “You’re serious, babygirl?”
“I am.” She flung her arm towards the front door. “You’ve received service. Now leave. I’ll see you in court.”
His eyes narrowed from arousal to amusement to animosity. “Fine. You wanna play the game? I’ll play the damn game.” He turned on his heel and stomped out of her apartment.
He skulked back in ten seconds later, unable to look Tessa in the eye. “I gotta put my pants on.”
It took all of her remaining willpower not to explode in laughter at his uncharacteristic sheepishness (and characteristic semi-nakedness), but she managed to keep her rigid stance in her living room, her arms braced across her chest, until Gio slunk back out of her apartment, this time fully clothed. Once the door closed behind his powerful thighs, she dropped her arms, grabbed the nearest pillow off her couch, buried her face in it, and screamed.
Then she collected her wits and the stack of lawsuit papers and stormed into her room to prepare.
~
Tessa strode into the courthouse at nine forty-five the next morning, armed with the fury of a woman scorned by her hookup, who shredded important legal documents before she could see them. She was in her seat in the designated courtroom at nine fifty-eight, her spine stiffer than a steel rod, when Gio sauntered in, sprawled out in the respondent’s seat, and grinned across the aisle at her.
“Morning, babygirl.”
The man sitting on his other side—a lawyer, from his checkered suit and gelled hair and general smarmy oiliness—stuck his elbow into Gio’s ribs. “Stop that!”
Gio sighed, rolled his eyes at his lawyer, and tried again. “Morning, Miss Tessa.” Tessa ignored him. His grin only widened. “So that’s—”
The bailiff, bless him, interrupted. “The court will come to order!” He opened the door behind the judge’s bench. “The honorable Reginald Jeeves, presiding judge!”
Tessa, Gio, the lawyer, and the handful of assorted witnesses rose for the judge, who entered, sat behind the bench, and struck the bench once with his gavel. “This court is now in session.”
“The court will now hear arguments in the case of Jones-Maxwell v. Colonna and Walker and Adams et. al. v. Jones, cases consolidated.” The bailiff gestured to Tessa. “Petitioner may begin.”
Tessa stood and tapped her microphone, which emitted a crackling rasp not too unlike Gio’s bedroom voice. Ugh. “May it please the court, my name is Tessa Jones-Maxwell and I have chosen to represent myself in these matters. First, I would like to concede to Ms. Walker and Mr. Adams’s claims of noise complaints, and I request that that matter be arbitrated.”
“Granted.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Tessa looked down at her papers and then back at the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. Colonna and I became acquainted at a gym to which we both have memberships. Some few weeks into our acquaintance, Mr. Colonna took me on a date. Regarding that portion of our relationship, I concede that the dating was mutual and encouraged on my part as well as his. However, I recently became aware that Mr. Colonna has been stalking me without my knowledge or consent. He has unlawfully accessed my workplace’s security cameras and watched me at work, and he has used his observations of my work schedule to unlawfully access my apartment. Without my knowledge or consent, he entered my apartment and used it for his own purposes.”
“I was doing you a favor!” Gio broke out.
Judge Jeeves remained implacable. “Mr. Colonna, you will have your chance to respond in due time. In the meantime, please refrain. You may continue, Ms. Jones-Maxwell.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. In addition, Mr. Colonna has also coerced me into, uhm, sexual acts.”
“Did he use words or actions?”
“Both, Your Honor. As a result, I believed that I was the one in charge, when in reality he had coerced me into a false sense of security in order to engage in sexual acts.”
“Did this occur on multiple occasions?”
“Yes, Your Honor, it happened several times, both at my apartment and at his residence.”
“Were you at his residence knowingly?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I was.”
“Very well. In regards to your other points, when did Mr. Colonna enter your apartment?”
“I found him there last Thursday when I came home from a late evening at work, Your Honor. I was not expecting any company, and he had not contacted me saying that he wanted to come to my apartment that day.”
“Did he inform you how he accessed your apartment?”
“Yes, Your Honor, he did. He told me that he had watched me through the security cameras at my workplace and come to my apartment to make sure there was dinner waiting when I got home.”
“But did he tell you how he entered through, I assume, a locked door?”
“No, Your Honor. He distracted me from the topic.” Tessa’s face heated as her traitorous mind trotted out the memory of just how Gio had distracted her.
“I see. Perhaps further inquiry is better suited for his testimony. Have you anything further?”
“No, Your Honor. I have no further statements.”
“Very well. Respondent, you may begin.”
Gio’s lawyer straightened the lapels of his plaid sport coat and leaned into his microphone. “May it please the court, I represent Mr. Giovanni da Colonna, and my client had Ms. Jones’s full knowledge and trust when he visited her apartment and therefore is not at fault. Furthermore, even if the jury should find for the plaintiff, my client wishes to inform the court that he was acting to benefit Ms. Jones.”
“Counsel, I find it difficult to believe that sexual coercion was ‘to the plaintiff’s benefit,’” Judge Jeeves remarked without intonation.
The lawyer’s well-oiled mustachios quivered with the force of his irate huff. “Your Honor, my client and Ms. Jones were engaged in a mutual and consensual relationship, which raises the presumption that any sexual contact between the persons occurred in the context of such a relationship.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” muttered one of the jurors from the second row of the jury bench.
The juror sitting next to the man who’d spoken elbowed his companion in the ribs, shooting him a glare that shouted, in glowing neon lights, Shut Your Stupid Trap!
“What?” The first juror rolled his eyes. “Look at the defendant—if he showed up in my house, I’d be disinclined to tell him no as well.”
“Would the honored jury kindly refrain from chatter?” sniped Giovanni’s lawyer, attempting to wrestle the courtroom’s attention back to him and his clearance-rack attire. “Thank yew. Your Honor, my client visited Ms. Jones’s apartment in order to surprise her with dinner, which is something that couples often do for each other.”
“Did your client have Ms. Jones’s permission to do so?”
“Of course, Your Honor.” Gio’s lawyer twiddled his thumbs. “Why would he not? It is perfectly common for couples to know each other’s work schedules, and it is equally common for one partner to notice when the other is delayed and wish to do her a favor.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tessa interjected, sneering at the lawyer. “It is not common for one partner to obtain the other partner’s schedule delays by hacking into her workplace’s security cameras.”
“Indeed not.” Judge Jeeves turned the question to Gio’s lawyer. “How does your client respond to that, Counsel?”
“Mr. Colonna?” The lawyer gestured at Gio, who cleared his throat and shifted forward in his seat, where he’d been lounging, eyeballing Tessa.
“I was concerned that my girlfriend wasn’t responding to my messages, Your Honor,” Gio said.
“Concerned, my ass,” Tessa muttered.
Gio heard, and a salacious grin crawled across his face. “I am concerned with your ass, babygirl.”
“Remember that you are in a court of law, Mr. Colonna,” Judge Jeeves said, without inflection. “Further comments of the sort may subject you to contempt of court.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.” Gio spread his arms wide, pretending contrition. “I see my girl and I hear her insult me with that pretty little mouth, and I can’t stop what happens next.”
“What my client means, Your Honor, is that he cares deeply for his girlfriend,” the lawyer all but yelled, flicking Gio’s microphone off. “If I may proceed—”
“That will not be necessary.” The distinguished judge turned his implacable gaze to the jury. “I have heard enough. Clearly, the defendant is of such diminished conscience so as to circumvent legal means of contacting his romantic partner, which demands the conclusion that he must be of the mind to act with little to no regard for the law in all situations. Let the jury be directed that no reasonable person could find in favor of the defendant, and a verdict is to be entered for the plaintiff on all counts.” He rapped his gavel against the bench. “This judgment is final.”
Tessa stood frozen at her podium, her brain still catching up with the verdict. As the news settled, a towering shadow loomed in the side of her vision, and before his lawyer or the bailiff or any other person with a modicum of dignity could stop him, Gio snaked his steroidally enhanced arms around her waist. “Babygirl, I think you just won your case.” He bent down to whisper into her ear. “Nothing hotter than watching you argue, pretty girl.”
“Wha—” She’d barely begun to retort before he was kissing her, because what else would a tattooed stalker in a dark romance do?
“Sweet Christ.” Gio’s lawyer picked up his twenty-dollar briefcase and fled, the jurors hot on his tail. The judge had already departed the courtroom. The handful of people in the gallery watched Gio and Tessa’s kiss slide from Almost Romantic down to Unsuitable For Children, and they too fled the scene.
As the last door thumped shut behind the last unfortunate spectator, the juror who’d commented on the nature of the couple’s relationship let out a flat laugh. “Who would’ve thought?” He jerked a hand towards the door, which muffled but didn’t mute the thuds of two bodies bumping against the furniture.
“Please, don’t,” the last man out of the courtroom begged. He brushed the fine sheen of sweat off of his forehead. “I…they…there were clothes flying off,” he gasped. “I nearly saw the place where the sun don’t shine.”
Inside the courtroom, the rhythmic thumping continued.
As he left the courthouse, the juror didn’t stifle his smirk. “Well,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “I suppose they both won something.”
~~~
TAGS: only tagging a few mutuals, lmk if you want to be tagged in whatever tf i manage to post :)
My primary plan for this evening was straightforward: meet Rowan’s team, see what they want and figure out his intentions.
However, that was before Quinn, Dad’s campaign manager, got held up at another meeting, sent both teams apology food, so now we have to make small talk and wait for him.
A bit awkward, but not for Rowan.
“Gods, I was starving,” he comments while smashing a whole-grain turkey sandwich with lots of veggies.
What’s left of his meal looks so tiny in his hand. His big, calloused hand that — “Are you cold?” he asks me.
“I…” I blink. “What?”
“Here.” Rowan hands me the jacket that was draped on the back of his chair. “You were like…” He trails while mimicking me rubbing the base of my throat and my collarbone. “I can ask someone to turn down the AC.”
“No need.” I smile and take his jacket, eager to change the topic.
He resumes eating, and when I look to my right, Lys is biting back a laugh, eyes focused on her sandwich. I kind of hate her at the moment.
Another reason fake dating Rowan sounds like a disaster to me: I can barely keep my cool around him. It’ll differ from dating objectively good-looking guys that are incapable of making my skin tingle.
How do I pretend I’m pretending to like someone I actually like, then kiss them in public and go home alone? When I don’t allow myself to see other people out of fear I’ll get caught, do I have any guarantees that I won’t be home reeling after a “fake” date? Because that’s what happened after Rowan and I’s real one—if one can even call that a date.
And why on earth would he propose a PR relationship, after all? He’s at the height of his career, and I’m at… the opposite of that. Strategically, I bring nothing to his table at this moment.
“You’ve barely touched your sandwich.”
My eyes rise to meet his. “I’m full.”
He frowns, and his eyes zero back on my half-eaten sandwich with what I interpret as barely contained longing. “And you’re just gonna throw that away?”
“Rowan…” I try to contain my grin. “Do you want my sandwich?”
“I mean.” He tries to play casual. “If you won’t eat it anymore, then sure. Why waste it?”
I hand him my plate, chuckling. If we meet again, I’ll make sure he gets extra food. He must require plenty of fuel to maintain all that.
When he leans down to eat, his broad shoulders hunch, and compared to his massive complexion and enormous arms, my sandwich looks comically tiny.
I cross my legs and look away. Damn. When I decide it’s time to focus on the fish swimming in the tank that serves as a wall, I see Quinn in his suit, coming our way.
My dad insisted that his campaign manager’s presence—or his own, as I’ve suggested—was unnecessary, but I insisted.
I fucked up his campaign enough, and the more forgiving Dad acts, the guiltier I feel. He attempts to reassure me, saying that supporting me shows his commitment to women’s rights, but I don’t see it that way. I can’t focus on the bright side like he does. All I can think of is that I shouldn’t be interfering with his campaign at all.
At every meeting with his team, I feel like screaming until my throat bursts. I don’t do it though—my family has been so understanding, I don’t want to bother them with my most inconvenient emotions.
So, I invited Quinn myself. Not because I wanted to, but because I can’t bear the thought of messing up my father’s job again—and his campaign manager is the best person to assist me with that.
If Rowan or his new publicist—Elide—seems surprised by it, they don’t show it.
She opens with, “After my client and Ms. Galathynius were photographed and hit the headlines, we—his team—realized what a unique opportunity it would be for brand synergy.”
She makes interesting arguments; I can give her that.
First, money. Done correctly, celebrity partnerships can be profitable; her graphics highlight Rowan's sales increase for both advertised products and his official jersey.
My fans are doing well enough to buy a jersey based on a picture of someone with my lipstick smudged on them. Good for them.
Elide can’t access sensitive information about my sales or streaming numbers, but she believes something similar might happen to me if I get talked about in a different circle—sports. I’m not sure about that, but my affiliation with the White Hawk’s star player has potential to make people take a kinder view of my dad. Bring in voters.
I do my best to dissociate when she approaches the next part, which is that my “relationship” with him is the only thing that’s being talked about me online in a positive light.
Yes, a PR relationship would divert attention. Yada yada. Beautiful fish next to me. No need to be reminded of something that I’ve discussed with my team for the past endless days.
And despite all the warnings about why I shouldn’t, there’s that undeniable fact: a stable relationship would tone down the slut-shaming that came with the Dorian and Chaol fiasco, which benefits both me and my dad.
She shows a media report just to back up her argument; I know it’s her job to do so, but it feels like she’s using sharp bar graphs and hashtags to stab my throat.
“I know my statistics,” I snap, my need for her to stop outweighing my desire to be polite. “But what does Rowan get out of it?”
Her understanding, apologetic smile triggered an overwhelming desire to scream an apology, to cry even—if she, like others I’d wronged, was kind to me once more, I might finally give in.
“That’s the point I was about to make.” Elide moves on to the next part as I asked her to. “Throughout his career, and because of his job, my client has been wrongfully associated with red pill content, along with other beliefs he does not share…”
I tilt my head, trying to understand this motivator better as she speaks. Rowan remains pretty neutral on the political scene—people speculate he has certain beliefs, but he has never spoken up about any of that. I hold a firm opinion of fence-sitters, but it surely worked out well for him.
“…but my client only became truly upset about it when Mr. Arobynn Hamel reached out to him, seeking a partnership.”
A frigid wave crashed over me, the world blurring as I desperately grasped for any sense of stability.
That motherfucker.
My mind goes from blank to racing.
Having Rowan pictured with me and then Hamel the next day… that’d be quite the talk. They could claim something caused him to flee and use it against my father.
I take a deep breath. Of course he’s gathering his team, formulating his strategies—it makes sense that he’s doing this now. Why would this make me even remotely distressed?
Elide’s explaining how Rowan’s association with me might aid him as a quiet statement when I get up.
"I'll be back in a minute," I said, already turning to leave.
The weight of the past two weeks sits heavier on my shoulder each day, making my tolerance for work meetings shorter each time.
I stop walking only when I reach a mesmerizing large hall. Marine life burst behind the curved glass of both walls and ceiling; the vibrant colors and varied species swam right before my eyes. It makes me feel like an insignificant dot, as if I’m the one in a tube watching other lives, not the other way around.
It’s quite soothing, after all.
Despite initially coming here to freak out in privacy, I take my mom’s advice and live in the moment immediately next to me instead of fretting about other aspects of my life. The room’s deep blue calms me, and I follow the path of an unhurried stingray with my eyes.
I envy the fish for a moment, but when my mind ponders the reasons, I pack the thought and let it go. It flows out in waves like the eel that swims past me.
“You good?”
The interruption snaps my attention to the entrance, where Rowan hovers, watching me warily. My welcoming, close-lipped smile is invitation enough for him. As he comes in, he says, “We can reschedule if you’re not feeling it.”
While I appreciate the gesture, I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll ever be in the mood for a long work meeting. Better get this over with now that everyone’s here.”
He snorts. “I know exactly what you mean.”
We don’t leave, though. He leans his back against the tank wall, watching the fish—and me—as I stare at the marine life on the wall he’s braced against. A gentle gurgle and the low buzz of the filter, undetectable when the aquarium’s open, fill the room amidst their silence.
“Are you considering Hamel’s offer?” My shoulder is next to his even though we’re facing opposite walls.
I feel the weight of his gaze as it shifts and settles on me, but I don’t move.
“No.”
Then he briefly explains to me what happened, and I can’t imagine being as chill about what happened as he seems to be.
Besides, I’m glad he’s sharing this with me. He could’ve lied to create a sense of urgency between me and my team, but he didn’t. I appreciate how he prioritizes transparency instead of pressuring my team.
Also, in my line of work, I have to tolerate enough people I despise. When I can pick who I work with, I do it wisely.
“You could take the easier route—have an actual girlfriend and make a statement online about your opinions like the common folk do. That’s not what you want, though.”
“Indeed, it isn’t.”
I turn at last, my gaze fixed on him. “You’re pretty hard to figure out, Rowan Whitethorn.”
Chuckling, he shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m a complex person. I’m just some dude with a shark team.”
“Humor me, then. Why are you doing this?”
He opened his mouth, but I added with, “And I don’t want you to recite any charts. The real reason.”
“The real reason?”
“Yep.”
“You want the true, unfiltered truth about star striker Rowan Whitethorn?”
“Hit me.” I cross my arms and press my lips together, trying not to laugh at whatever his game is.
“Okay, then.”
“Shoot.”
“I’m actually pretty boring.”
I can’t help it—my laugh comes loud and unfiltered. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m dead serious—I’m only cool on the field.”
“I’m sorry, but—” My shoulders still shake from the laughter. “You’ll have to elaborate on that.”
“Okay, so…” He absentmindedly scratches his shaved jaw, pondering his reply. “Did you see my social media and what people talk about me?”
“Briefly,” I lie. I totally stalked him like a lunatic.
“It’s all very…” He flails his hands, trying to find the words. “Shiny. Appealing. It’s… what people end up seeing as ‘my life’—it’s not a lie, but it’s such a small part of it. I mean, I like parties and fancy dinners as much as the next person, but I have my diet, my sleep schedule… I love my job, but I have to sacrifice some things for it, you know?”
I nod; while I can't fully relate to his circumstances, I still get it.
“Sounds like you don’t have space in your life for a relationship right now.”
“No! It’s not that.” He grimaces, scratching the back of his head. “When I find someone I like, she expects an experience I can’t offer.” He runs a hand over his face. “Regular dating things like grabbing drinks—I can’t do this at all. I don’t eat pasta on non-game days, but when I can eat pasta, I can’t stay up for long enough to call it a proper date night. I also rarely ever eat dessert, but I learned the hard way that I’m a jerk if I just buy it and don’t eat it with the girl because she’ll feel fat and—”
He groans, bowing his head to pinch the bridge of his nose.
I won’t tell Rowan, but I find his turmoil endearing in a twisted way. I figured he’d moan about gold-diggers, or similar issues that powerful men often bring up, but he’s concerned about how the woman feels when they’re together. It’s cute.
I rest my head against the tank wall, a soft smile on while I witness his distress.
“So, for you, having a fake girlfriend is easier than shattering a poor girl’s illusion of what dating you is like?”
He scratches the back of his head with an adorable boyish nose-wrinkling. “Kind of? I mean, I’ll have a better shot at it when they kick me out of the game—I won’t have my job for long, you know?”
“I… completely understand that.” Far too much. In a similar amount of time, the media’s attention will shift to a younger and hotter artist than me. I try not to be too bitter about it. “So you want to prioritize your job while it’s still yours?”
“Yup. You pretty much nailed why I suck at dating.”
I chuckle, even though I doubt that’s true.
“You’re Gilda, then?”
“Is that another singer I should know?”
I open my mouth, but close it again as I ponder. “No, not really. She’s a classic movie character, the ultimate femme fatale. The actress, Rita, said men fell for Gilda, but then, well, they woke up with her. It was like… I think her partners mistook the real woman for Gilda’s appeal.”
Rowan hummed and crossed his arms, contemplating the story.
“That’s one way to put it, I guess.”
For a moment, we do nothing but watch each other. His green eyes look darker under electric blue lights, and he has a searching gaze towards me that should unsettle me, but I’m too tired to be bothered by it—his silent presence is rather comforting, in fact.
“You look good in my jacket—I mean, the color, you know? This color suits you.”
As Rowan trips over his own words, a darker tone blooms in his cheeks. Adorable.
I’m smiling wider than I normally do when given praise. “Thanks.”
“Are you feeling better?” he asks, voice soft.
I blink, and my mind blanks out before I remember the reason I left the meeting.
“Yeah, sure.” I straighten my shoulders, snapping back into my professional demeanor. “Shit, I can’t believe we left them there for so long.”
He waves me off. “I had them go over some boring details while I came here.”
An inviting tilt of my head is all he needs to leave this gorgeous room with me.
“Isn’t she a new hire?” I ask as we return; our footsteps echo in the silent corridor.
He shrugs. “I trust her.”
“Good, but wasn’t too much trust what got you in a meeting with Hamel?”
I can’t imagine showing up with a new publicist, no agent, and trusting her to deal with your career unsupervised. Friend’s wife or not.
After a brief pause, he tells me with renewed conviction, “I trust her.”
The moment we re-entered the meeting room, the arguing and loud chatter we had overheard from the hallway had come to an immediate halt.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
Silence hung heavy, and each person at the table eyed one another, unsure of what to say.
“Don’t look at me.” Quinn raises both hands, palms out. “I’ve been shooting zombies on my phone for the past eight minutes.”
It doesn’t concern my dad’s campaign, then. I send Manon and Lys a silent plea.
My agent returns it with a pissy one and says, “We have a disagreement regarding the morality clause.”
I circle the desk, taking my time, and return to my previous seat beside my publicist. Once I’m comfortably seated, I lean back and ask, the words floating on the quiet air, “How so?”
The morality clause—a wave of bitterness overcomes me as I consider Manon’s words. Rowan just gave me an entire speech about how orderly his life is. If he throws a tantrum about not getting girls or partying without my team’s consent, that’ll piss me the fuck off.
I’m not apologetic about my demands. I’m a unique asset, and boys only come one at a time for me. To get the perks that come with dating me, they must walk the line.
“I believe the ‘No-Romance’ clause is a point of contention for my client.”
Rowan crosses his arms, brows creased. “What does it say?”
Manon cuts in. “It states that neither of you can pursue a genuine romantic, sexual, or emotionally intimate relationship with each other while it’s in effect.”
“Oh.” He ponders for a second, then shakes his head and says, “Yeah, I’m not signing that.”
Lysandra sags with fatigue, and she rests her head in her hands.
“Aelin,” he calls, his tone calm as he keeps his attention solely on me. “I have a question, and I need you to be totally honest—no sugarcoating. I won’t get mad, I swear.”
“Shoot.”
He swallows, and he takes a moment to plan his words. He’s got something on his mind, but it doesn’t seem to be easy to voice.
“Do you feel safe around me? I mean, does that clause make you feel safer about working closely with me?”
I still remember the night we met–how effortlessly he let me take the lead, never once objecting to the way the evening unfolded.
It’s not Rowan I’m concerned about.
“I appreciate your concern in the matter,” I start with an acknowledging nod. “But that’s not the case. Being with you has never made me feel unsafe or at risk.”
“Well, that’s lovely to hear.” His voice now has a playful and borderline predatory undertone. He leans closer, and my hackles rise. “The clause isn’t for me, then—it’s for you.”
Bingo.
As my lips part, I make the mistake of showing how startled I am at his quick observation. Both our teams vanish—there’s no one here but his conquering green eyes that pierce me to my chair, reading me way too well.
“Excuse me?”
He crosses his arms and leans them over the edge of the desk; the triumph in his gaze tells me he’s about to show me a royal flush.
“You know I won’t lay a finger on you unless you’re begging me to. So, why do we even need this clause, baby?” Rowan tilts his head. Smirks. “Can’t control yourself around me?”
His eyes never stray away from mine, and I hold his gaze with my head high.
“Remove the clause,” I tell my team, maintaining his stare without a flinch.
Manon says, “Aelin, I strongly advise you to—”
“I said what I said.”
Rowan leans back in his seat, a smirk twisting his lips. Just as one might leave their home under a cloudy sky and sense a storm on its way, his eyes twinkled with a wicked delight, and a feeling of impending doom crept into my chest.
Where is Aelin Galathynius?
After having all matters that require my presence settled in Doranelle City, I decide to work remotely and spend a handful of days at my parents’ country home.
I thought it was safe here, but is it?
All I know is that my enemies will receive no mercy from me, particularly when I recall the sting of their betrayal.
I show my cards when he least expects it, and the silence that follows is one of fright and respect.
“Oh, come on!” Aedion shouts as he snatches the four cards I just made him draw.
While Aedy isn’t looking, Dad and I exchange an amused look across the dining room table. Game nights are for family bonding, but I’m afraid they get too competitive and not-so-friendly sometimes. Though it’s not my fault that my cousin becomes a whiny baby every time he has to draw cards.
“You…” Aedion promises revenge, face stormy as he rearranges his deck. “Just you wait, Aelin.”
I chuckle, and it’s my dad’s turn to play.
Now that we’re actually playing, I can’t remember why I had such a hard time coming down from my old room to our family night. Even though I came to my parents’ to unwind for a couple of days, I was going over the last details for my next public appearance. However, if my dad can take a break from his senator and future presidential candidate duties to prioritize family night, I can postpone a conversation with my hairstylist as well.
My heaviest responsibility lies on my bedside table—not the one by my sleeping side, but the one I’m prone to disregard—the reviewed version of my contract with Rowan.
Dad slams his hand on the table.
A 9 card.
Aedion and I are quick to put our hands atop his. I grin at Mom, who never out-wits us at the 9 rule, always the last one to stack her hands atop ours.
"Shit!" she yells before drawing her penalty card, and her unusual swearing causes everyone to laugh.
I skip Aedion’s turn, and he threatens my life with such vivid language my mom feels the need to intervene.
A few more rounds and his insults will get as good as the hate comments on Twitter.
Gods, what a way to sour my own good mood.
My team is hopeful about the deal with Rowan, though—they’re hoping he’ll make me look cool again instead of me sinking his reputation along with mine.
I’m just not entirely sure I’m ready to sign it yet.
For instance, I might’ve told Lys I’m going celibate, but I’m not sure I meant it. To think that Chaol could be the only person in my bed this year… so depressing.
I need to focus on myself now that I’m canceled, and Rowan’s demand to remove the ‘No-Romance’ clause… it changes nothing, after all. I might have the tiniest crush on him, but we get along well, and I don’t want things going sour while we still need to see each other and pretend to be in love.
“Fireheart,” my mom calls. “It’s your turn.”
I blink, and the soft yellow lightning casts over everyone’s waiting faces.
Retrieving my deck from between my leg and the underside of the table—gotta watch out for the cheaters—I discard my penultimate card. “Uno!”
“You’re joking,” Aedion says, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
I shrug. “Not my fault you suck.”
It’s so good to be home and able to rub a hand over my face without fearing ruined makeup. I ditched it for meetings some time ago, around when the paps spotted Chaol—potentially—cheating on me. My team got quite used to seeing my eyebrows pointing in every direction possible.
I thought I’d figure Rowan out once we saw each other again—wrong, wrong, wrong.
He asked me out on a date, then proposed an arrangement where we don’t do any of that. What was that about? Was a work agreement all Rowan wanted to achieve when he asked to have dinner with me?
It looks like it, but he’d sounded flirty. Also, his motives for wanting to fake date me are good, but they aren’t enough to lock down six months of his life. He told me he’s not a relationship guy—unless he made up the other stories out there, it’s clear he’s no monk.
Still, the chances of him wanting me for real get slimmer the harder I think about it. We were alone at the aquarium for quite some time; he could’ve pushed, and something tells me I would’ve said ‘yes’, but he didn’t. We had a moment, and he did nothing—which makes me think, did we have a moment, or am I imagining it?
It would be so much easier to decide whether to sign it if I understood him better.
Who am I kidding? Everyone knows I’ll sign the damned thing anyway.
My mom discards a yellow 7—that number means we’re supposed to be quiet. Not for long, though.
In slow-motion, I pretend to discard my last card and quickly retrieve it halfway. I do it again. Aedion’s stare locks onto my hand, desperate to see if I’ll win or draw another card, and the 7 rule won’t allow him to tell me to drop the suspense and fuck off.
At last, I discard my last card, a red 7.
“No way!” he yells, and faces my parents while pointing at me. “She just bought a bazillion cards—there’s no way she won!”
“Yeah, and that was, like, a million years ago,” I point out.
His jaw flexes, and I don’t miss how his eyes dart to my crossed legs, the way I’m perched with my feet tucked beneath me. No.
Aedion lunges at me in the most uncivilized manner, and my childhood home becomes a blur as he lifts me from the safety of my seat to haul me over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes.
My parents in the table, the pets, the portraits on the wall—the motion turns it into a dizzying smudge as I curse aloud.
“Aedion.” Dad is trying to be stern but, even upside down, I can sense the amusement in his tone. “Put her down.”
I hear a chair scratching the floor, and I can pick up that my mom just got up.
“Oh, Fireheart,” she laments.
“What was it this time?” Dad asks.
“There are two cards on her chair.”
I scream, “No!”
Mom continues, “I think she hid those under her leg.”
“I fucking knew it.” Aedion drops me on the floor.
“Fuck off!”
“Language,” my mom lectures us.
Still sitting on the floor, I open my arms wide. “I don’t know how those showed up there—he framed me!”
Not even me and Aedion fighting can rouse Dina from her beauty asleep, but Fleetfoot takes advantage of my seated position and jumps at me. That dog is not aware of her own size and strength, because her lunge oozes the air out of me as my upper body falls to the ground.
The clumsy dog’s antics always crack me up, and I gasp for air as she licks my face—wet nose, sopping tongue, and all she offers.
“Fireheart!” My dad is our everlasting self-assigned croupier, too wary of Aedion and me both to let us shuffle the cards. “Are you coming for another one?”
“Yeah, just a minute.” I’m still trying to detangle myself from Fleetfoot—I don’t want to, but I want to see what Aedion’s next move will be.
Once I’m able to take a full breath again, I kiss my dog between the ears and get up.
When it feels like the world is against me and I’m down in the aquifer that feeds rock bottom, I’m grateful to have a place—people—that makes me feel normal again. More than any fame or fortune, my people are my luck.
The Biggest Rumors Surrounding Aelin Galathynius’ Personal Life
I signed the contract while nursing the bruise Aedion left on my knee with frozen cauliflower.
While I didn’t picture my makeup artist as the next person to get that intimate with the inner swell of my knee, at least it looks fantastic now.
The lack of traffic briefly made me feel better, but my nerves came back up when I heard the barricade of fans on the sidewalk opposite the venue. My driver parks close to the heavily guarded sidewalk, temporary tents and cobblestone flooring leading to the line of celebrities waiting for their turn on the red carpet. My insides turn cold.
Tonight is the first step of the carefully laid-out plan both our teams made, showing up separately at the Varese Film Festival, then soft-launching our “relationship” by holding hands and looking cozy inside.
The screaming gets louder when I step outside, and I hope I don’t get booed. I offer a quick wave from a distance, keeping it short. The dress I have on is a shimmering gold fabric; the skirt is lean, but the cut on the slit is as high as I could get away with without reinforcing my ‘slut’ status.
What can I say? I have nice legs and every right to show them off.
Right now, what matters is that my posture is perfect, my face serene, and even though I’m not looking down, I won’t trip over my dress. Just one step at a time, and—
My left foot won’t lift. The fuck?
Doing my best to look confused but light-hearted, I look down to find out why my foot won’t get up again, and…
Those fucking cobblestones.
I tug my foot up again, but it doesn’t budge, and I don’t wanna force it too much and risk ruining my shoe before the red carpet. I look around, seeing if someone looks free enough to help me, when I see a tuxedo-clad figure already jogging my way.
“Hi, baby.”
My insides melt.
The screams from the other side of the street get impossibly louder.
I try to give him a stern look, but I also can’t help my grin. “You were supposed to arrive after me.”
“For sure, but you see… I got here at the time I was told to, and you’re so late you’re the one who arrived after me.”
We ended up bumping into each other here, but these things happen, right? I may have run late for overindulging while getting ready, but I wanted to look extra cute for my first public appearance in weeks. Sue me.
“So.” He glances down, giving my foot a pointed look. “Need a hand, Princess?”
I try to lift it once more—it’s fruitless. “If you won’t mind.”
I’m not ready for it when he gets down on one knee before me. Rowan examines my exposed leg, his eyes tracing every curve in a slow, deliberate survey. His appreciative survey felt like a warm day, burning into my skin. At last, the slit ended, and his gaze reached the part that required his help: the shoe.
Reverent and entitled, he wraps his hand around my ankle. When his eyes seek mine, his thumb gently brushes my Achilles tendon, and I lose sight of my surroundings in the depth of his pine-green eyes. The air crackles with charged energy, a tangible current fizzling between us, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on end.
I look away. “Can you please hurry?”
“Why?” He cocks his head, smirking. “I thought you liked your men down on their knees for you, babe.”
Rowan gives my ankle the tiniest twist, and another tug causes my heel to pop out of the gap in the cobblestones.
With one last brush of his thumb against my ankle, he gets up, flicks the dust off his clothes and hands, and offers me his arm.
“Shall we?”
I don’t do red carpets with men, but considering the situation, arriving together seems like the most practical option. Then, we can take our pictures one at a time.
I take his arm, and the crowd goes wild when he kisses my cheek.
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i've been saving this for a month HAHAHAHA and i just turned in my draft brief and THIS IS MY REWARD
and
“You know I won’t lay a finger on you unless you’re begging me to. So, why do we even need this clause, baby?” Rowan tilts his head. Smirks. “Can’t control yourself around me?” AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH
In this oneshot, the plot point that connects Aelin, Rowan, and Maisie is a headcanon I came up with while initially outlining LAUN, and it feels crazy to me it's out in the world now
Also, as you read it, remember that I have way too much fun writing a knight in distress heheheh
Warnings: none
Words: 4k
Rowan knew letting his parents take Maisie on their Yulemas shopping spree was a bad idea, and his concerns got confirmed when he saw the amount of packages from the toy store.
Some of his cousins have kids, but not that many.
He greeted his family, wary as he descended the porch steps, then said, “I don’t think I have space under the tree for all this.”
Maisie hopped off the car, overjoyed as she tugged on a leash and wheeled a white dog stuffed on roller skates.
Rowan hurried to his father’s side to help him unload the Yulemas presents from the trunk. Owen held a large box that hid his son from view, which was quickly remedied.
He took the box from him and cautioned, “Dad…”
Unfazed by his own son, Owen got another box from the trunk and led them to the porch, laughing. “Don’t ‘dad’ me, Kiddo.”
After dropping everything in the living room, Rowan blocked his dad’s path back to the car.
“That custom stuffed animal shop from the mall is a scam, and you know it. Did she trick you into it?”
Already amused, the old man barked a laugh at Rowan’s uneasiness. “No, son, I didn’t get fooled by a three-year-old girl.”
“You know what I mean. Did she throw herself on the floor screaming or something like that?”
“No, she didn’t,” Rowan’s mom chimed in. “She only does that when you say ‘no’ to her.”
A likely thing for his mom to say.
Will showering her with gifts spoil her too much? But if he asks his parents to tone down the gifts, will it traumatize her?
He was grateful for his parents’ presence in Maisie’s life. They were an invaluable part of his support system, and they did that out of love. But what if that kind of behavior makes her think that receiving gifts equals love?
“Come on, darling.” His mom, hand resting on Rowan’s shoulder, softly asked him to go inside the house. “We took her out so you could rest, and it seems like you did none of that.”
However, he passed straight through the kitchen door and entered his daughter’s room. His little girl was still tending her new inanimate dog.
He grabbed a baby wipe from her closet and cleaned a few muddy spots on the floor, from the toy’s roller skates. Trying to get her to understand why she shouldn’t make a mess in the bedroom after playing outside was a waste of time.
“Did you like the new toy your grandparents gave you, Mais?”
“Not a toy, Daddy! It’s Princess Cottonelia.”
Rowan snorted. She liked it then. “Did you say ‘thank you’?”
She frantically nodded, blonde pigtails bouncing and owlish green eyes aimed at him. It never got old, how spontaneously she tugged his heartstrings tight. The smallest person he knew had him wrapped around her finger.
Crouching before her, he bumped the adorable bony tip of Maisie’s nose.
Her mother’s nose, but he pushed the thought aside as soon as it arrived.
“Very well.” He showed her the dirty wipe. “And what should Princess Cottonelia do after playing outside with you?”
"I told her, no shoes in the house!"
That sounds like something his daughter would do–blame it on a stuffed animal.
“So why don’t you go back to the door and help her take them off?”
Maisie eyed the toy’s pink skates, her expression longing. “But it’s so cute.”
To be fair, Rowan would’ve allowed it had she not walked it on post-rain grass before entering the house.
He pointed at her bedroom door. “Your grandpa’s in the living room; he’ll help you untie it.”
She huffed and left, but paused at the threshold.
“Ugh! Do I hafta listen to you forever?”
Rowan raised his eyebrows—what he actually wanted to do was laugh, but rewarding that kind of attitude with a positive reaction wouldn’t do.
“Until you die, yes.”
“You mean, ‘till you die?”
He couldn’t do it anymore. Rowan’s laugh came sharp and unconsented, and Maisie was already with Owen when he managed, “Let’s hope you’re right, Mais.”
Back in the kitchen where he was supposed to be in the first place, he found his mom already getting dinner started.
“Gimme.” Rowan had a hand out for the pan, but she wouldn’t hand it to him. “I don’t want you working on your vacation.”
“Honey, I’m retired—and live at a beach house. Life’s a big vacation for me.”
“I’ll help, then,” he stated—no room for argument, though he knew his mom would if she wanted t0.
They fell into a peaceful rhythm, Rowan stepping into the role of a sous chef because Rory was undoubtedly the best cook between the two of them.
He almost complained when she added a lot more butter and greasy ingredients than he would to the chicken spaghetti. Their dinner would be unhealthy enough tomorrow at the Yulemas dinner at Enda’s, so Rowan wanted to keep things healthy today; but his mother was already on his case about the worrying, so he kept his complaint to himself. She wouldn’t harm her only granddaughter on purpose, or at least that’s what Rowan chanted inside his head to soothe himself.
“What did you do after we left?” She leveled a silicone spoon at him. “And don’t tell me you rested, because you look as beaten down as you did this morning.”
“I deep-cleaned the windows and sorted through Maisie’s old clothes for donation.” Though ‘old’ might be a stretch. That kid grows too quickly for her own good. “Did anything exciting happen at the mall?”
Stirring the pan with the sauce, Rory played nonchalant. “Depends on what you call ‘exciting’.”
Not a good sign.
“Sounds like you’ll tell me either way.”
“I called Aelin.”
The rhythmic chopping sound stopped, and the knife’s handle made a loud thud as Rowan slammed it back onto the counter. With both hands braced on the surface, he gave his mom an incredulous look. “You did what?”
She didn’t back down, though. Straightening her shoulders, she used her scolding mom tone on him. “Called my grandchild’s mother. Do you have something to say?”
Rowan ground his jaw, knowing that crossing his mom would do no good. His co-parenting relationship with Aelin was strained, and he didn’t want his mom in the middle of it.
Partially because she adored Aelin—how could she not? She was a great mom with social skills enough to charm anyone, and Rory had never been on the receiving end of Aelin’s wrath. Or at least not that he’s aware of.
“Was she rude to you?”
“What? Absolutely not!” Lowering her tone, she continued, “Aelin might have her faults, just as you do, but I don’t think she’s unreasonable, darling. I think things between you two could be salvageable if you try hard enough—even if it’s just for Maisie’s sake.”
Her last sentence brought a bitter chuckle to his lips. “You’re just trying to marry me off to whoever’s nearest.”
“Well, you’re both on the market, and it would be ideal for your child if the person you marry is her actual mother.”
“Not happening—besides, Lorcan told me she’s seeing some hotshot doctor from work.”
“That’s as good as nothing without a ring on her finger.”
“Mom.”
“I’m just saying!” She turns her back to him to check the stove, a deep frown on her face. “I told you, Rowan, I told you when I stayed with you after Maisie was born—”
“I remember—”
“She’s not the kind of woman you find twice.”
Still braced on the counter, he bowed his head, feeling the sting of his mother’s words run through him.
Her infuriating ways aside, Aelin truly was the superhero Maisie believed her to be.
When she wasn’t saving lives, she was being the best mom their kid could have. He avoided thinking about her off-work, kid-free time—it was none of his business—but now Rowan knew for sure who she reserved it for: bright and tanned cardiologists.
And Rowan… he was still learning how to detangle Maisie’s hair without making her cry.
He considered asking how she did it and if she sometimes struggled like he did, but admitting his own flaws to a hostile co-parent was a dangerous game.
Rowan said nothing, waiting until the next blow came.
“You should’ve married her.”
“And we would’ve been so happy, shouting at each other every day like we do on pickups and drop-offs. A very healthy environment for Maisie.”
They try to be civil, at least Rowan does, but it never lasts long—one of them always sabotages it before it settles in.
He’s unsure of what motivates her, but him… he grows bitter. Politeness is fine, but whenever they set on anything remotely close to warmth, a simmering resentment boils within him, and bitterness overflows him. If they act friendly, he can’t help but look back and wonder if it means…
It means nothing after all.
“Well, I called her to ask what gifts she bought for Maisie to avoid a duplicate present, and she was perfectly pleasant to me. Even more so when I promised to bake her that chocolate cake she likes and send it the next… Maisie switching houses thing—whatever you call it in that modern parenting of yours.”
Resuming the chopping, he sighed. “Is that all?”
“I asked Maisie if she wanted to buy her mom a Yulemas present, and she was very excited about it. We picked it together, and I wrote from: Maisie / to: Mommy on the gift tag.”
Impossible woman.
~~
The skirt of Maisie’s new Elsa costume swept the floor like a broom, and Rowan intently watched her, afraid she’d trip on it.
“I’m so sorry,” Enda said, following his gaze. “I shouldn’t have gone a size up, but your kid’s just so tall.”
“She loves it, and I have a plan for the skirt. Thanks.” He turned to his cousin, hoping his gaze portrayed how thankful he felt. How much it meant to him, that people cared about his kid.
Enda waved him off and returned his attention to the girls nearby. Sellene, her daughter, Maisie and Enda’s sister-in-law discussed Disney princesses, and he finally relaxed. Rowan trusted Sellene enough to watch Maisie, so he did it less intently.
It was a relief that his kid could join him this year; Aelin was on call this Yulemas, so Rowan had her all holiday, and their kid would spend New Year’s with her mom. Too bad for Aelin, but it worked out perfectly for him.
Having a kid made gatherings with his extended family much more bearable. People asked him about Maisie rather than his love life, and she was cute and talkative enough to make up for his own lack of social skills. Now, most of the interactions with people he wasn’t close to revolved around her, which worked out great for him.
“No, you can’t be Tiana!” Maisie shouted nearby, dragging attention from both men and the family members nearby.
Enda’s sister-in-law tilted her head, amused and confused at the same time. “But she’s my favorite!”
“No! Pick another princess.” To be fair, Maisie seemed genuinely distressed by the claim. "Tiana has a job. You can't be her."
Rowan immediately ran over and picked Maisie up. Despite Sellene’s laughter, which she tried to hide with her hand, he gave the women a look of apology and then shifted his daughter’s focus.
“Hey, Maisy Daisy. Why don’t we hand out some presents?”
Just like that, the little girl’s attention was happily and successfully diverted.
She couldn’t read the tags yet, but once Rowan read it for her, she’d run over to whoever the recipient was—no matter whether they were busy or deep in conversation with someone else—and hand out the gift, showing off the tiny teeth she was just finishing growing. Most times, the person just smiled at her father, and he waved in acknowledgment from afar.
Best Yulemas ever.
She ran back to him, grabby hands eager to give out more gifts.
“We’re done, Kiddo.”
She squinted at him, suspicious of that information. “I find Mommy’s gift?”
Rowan straightened. His mouth opened and closed as he pondered his words. “I didn’t bring your mom’s gift because we won’t see her tonight, Mais. It’s at home, and you’ll give it to her…” A slight pause for the math. “The day after tomorrow.”
And that’s when she started crying. Loudly. Screaming for her ‘mommy’ between sobs, despite how much Rowan tried to calm her down.
He knew the entire party stopped to stare at the two of them, and it was easy to ignore this while all his mental energy went to trying to soothe his deeply distressed three-year-old.
Rowan knew that many people in his family were quiet critics of the way he raised Maisie. But first, he did not give a fuck. Second, while he agrees that shared parenting isn’t ideal, the people who judged him didn’t realize how much worse it would be to raise Maisie with Aelin.
His mom kneeled by his side and did her best to comfort Maisie, but the little girl was indomitable. The present she got for Aelin raised her hopes, which were now shattered.
“I’m calling Aelin.”
“No, you’re not.” Rowan glared at his mother.
This is co-parenting 101: do not rely on one another, for it may be perceived as a sign of weakness.
Struggling to deal with a toddler’s meltdown? Weakness.
His mother, however, might be the only person in the world he felt like explaining himself to. “Look, she’s never like this—I mean, sporadically, but she’s used to being away from Aelin. I don’t know why—”
“Because she’s a toddler, and she wants her mommy on Yulemas,” Rory said through gritted teeth.
Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. He’s never not splitting the holiday with Aelin again, no matter who he has to talk to in order to free her of her shift.
“Just call her.”
“She won’t answer. She never answers me when she’s at work.”
“Just try, okay? Maybe Maisie will feel better if she talks to her mom.”
“Mom, I don’t think—”
Maisie gave a bloodcurdling scream. Rowan grabbed his phone.
Aelin answered on the second ring.
He was about to greet her and explain when their daughter’s wailing spared him from coming up with words.
Aelin’s immediate response was, “Oh, no.”
“Yep.”
“What happened?”
“I think she just misses you. We’ve never done an entire Yulemas with just one parent, right?”
“Yeah, right. I…” A pause. “I can’t come to you. Do you think a phone call will do, or do you think it’s best to bring her here?”
“At the hospital.”
“No, at Uncle Orlon’s.”
“You…” He frowned. Wasn’t he supposed to stay with Maisie all Yulemas because Aelin was on call? Was he going mad?
“Is that Mommy?” Maisie asked, green eyes widened and aimed at him. She sniffed, but the prospect of her mother’s presence made her stop sobbing.
“It is.” He bumped his daughter’s nose, aware that Aelin could hear their entire exchange. “Shall we drive to your mother so you can give her a hug?”
~~
Rowan was thankful for the lack of traffic, which allowed him to have the streets to himself. After a quick stop at his house to grab the present, he could see Aelin’s car parked in front of Orlon’s house.
Maisie bounced with anticipation on her car seat the entire time. When she hopped off the vehicle, the lack of height to reach the doorbell didn’t deter her—she banged on the door with all the strength her tiny fists could muster until her mother answered the door.
“Maisy Daisy!” Aelin yelled, her tone high-pitched and overjoyed, and she swept her daughter off the floor with ease, hugging the squealing child tight.
It all happened so fast Rowan hadn’t even reached the porch himself. He stood halfway into the garden, watching the scene unfold as he held a gift he hadn’t purchased nor chosen.
After peppering Maisie’s face with kisses, Aelin whispered something that made the child bolt inside—probably to greet her mother’s family, who were somewhere inside, even if Rowan couldn’t see them.
Aelin didn’t comment on the package he held.
Instead, he said, “You told me you had a shift.”
“Technically, I’m still on call for the next…” Aelin checked the analog clock on her wrist, nose wrinkling. “Seventeen hours.” She shrugged and pointed at the enormous backpack leaning against Orlon’s living room wall. “I just have to stay within distance; they’ll call me if they need an ortho.”
“But you’re here.”
“Look, I would’ve demanded my half Yulemas with Maisie, okay? You know I would. But it’s Yulemas—everyone has their own plans. If—when—I get called, I’ll have no one to watch Maisie for me.”
No one except Maisie’s own father, who lived a block away.
Rowan stared, motionless, a question stuck in his throat: why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ask me?
He didn’t need to voice it, though, no matter how much he felt like screaming at her for it.
It’s co-parenting 101, after all.
As much as he wanted to scream at her for how dumb her plan was, Rowan couldn’t.
He knew he would’ve done the same.
Aelin stood before him, shoulders drawn back and chin high, waiting for a blow that would never come. What would he even say to her?
Before Rowan could think of something to break the deafening silence, Maisie barrelled back and crashed into her mother’s leg.
“Happy Yulemas, Mommy!”
“What?” Aelin snapped back into herself and looked around, feigning confusion with the overdone theatrics her daughter loved. “I thought we had Yulemas last year!”
“No!” Maisie yelled, giggling. “We have Yew-mas every year. It’s the laws of fiz-icks!”
The laws of physics. “Who taught you about that, Maisy Daisy?” Rowan asked, forever baffled by the little girl.
Despite this, she paid him no mind, pulling her mother into a drawn-out account of everything that occurred at tonight’s Yulemas dinner at Enda’s, and also mentioned Princess Cottonelia.
It was only then that he could pay attention to Aelin. She wore minimal makeup and no jewelry, ready to leave at a moment's notice the instant the hospital needed her.
It hardly affected her at all. Objectively speaking, there isn’t a time when Aelin is not breathtaking. Even when she was a sweaty mess after hours on end of strenuous training, Rowan could barely keep it in his pants.
In fact, Rowan had not kept it in his pants. Maisie was living proof of that.
The color she added to her cheeks wasn’t the same shade from when she gets riled up or after a run, and neither did the paint on her lips resemble the redness it gets after…
He shook off the thought.
What soothed him is that even an objective observer would find Aelin beautiful, perhaps even more so without Rowan's long-held but suppressed feelings. Which was what mattered at this point: Rowan was indifferent to Aelin’s staggering beauty.
Her looks were an objective fact about her, and it made sense that he felt attracted to the mother of his child—his body decided they’d produce viable offspring, which they did, and it made his dick involuntarily light up. This said nothing about his feelings, which he was glad of.
Getting over Aelin was the best thing he’s ever done for himself.
“Oh, wow, honey. You have a lot to say about this Yulemas party, huh?” Aelin interjected when Maisie took a slight break from her endless talking. If later she confessed to only grasping half of it, Rowan wouldn’t judge her; Mala knew that one of his side gigs was toddler translator—a role he didn’t quite excel at.
“My head is little, and there are lots of thinks inside! They hafta get out!”
Aelin hums and nods, doing her best to take the little girl seriously, keeping her lips pursed for a moment so she doesn’t laugh. “You’ll have to tell me everything, then.”
Still crouched down because of their daughter, she looked up at Rowan. “Don’t you want to come inside?”
Yes. At Enda’s, he was too busy with obligatory small talk and preventing Maisie from causing any damage—he was starving by now, and the food at Orlon’s was always delicious.
“Better not,” Rowan said instead. “Thank you, though.”
With his gaze fixed on Maisie, he cleared his throat and directed a meaningful look towards Aelin’s Yulemas gift. “Did you forget something?”
The child’s eyes became bright with excitement, and she was quick to correct her error by taking the gift and then presenting it to her mother.
“For Mommy! Happy Yulemas,” Maisie said as she clung to Aelin’s neck like a baby koala.
Aelin thanked her daughter, eyes brimming with emotion as she clutched the present to her chest. Her eyes lingered on the tag for a while, studying the written content and the crooked lines of Maisie’s hand-drawn heart.
“Tell Rory I said thanks.”
Rowan’s eyes bug out of his skull. “How—I mean—”
“Wild guess.” She grinned. “And it’s not your handwriting on the note—penmanship too good.”
Rowan had a history of taking offense at sentences like this; however, his handwriting was quite bad indeed. In his defense, it was a legible scrawl.
He snorted. “That’s fair.”
“I didn’t get you anything. Sorry.”
“I didn’t either.”
Aelin opened her mouth to speak, but Aedion showed up in the living room, greeting Maise in a loud and excited manner that sent the little girl into a fit of giggles.
“Look who’s here!” he cheered. “I couldn’t believe my ears when Darrow told me you’d just arrived.”
Aedion continued, “Come on in! Darrow and I were just telling Kyllian about Colonel Perrington’s affair with that new lieutenant. I bet you have all the juicy details.”
“Thanks, but I should probably head out. Call me if Aelin gets summoned, though.”
“What? Nonsense!” Aelin’s cousin slapped his shoulder in a friendly manner and practically shoved him inside the house, no questions or consent asked.
Well, his stomach wasn’t getting any fuller, and he had all the juicy details.
Rowan turned around, looking for Aelin’s face as Aedion led him inside. She held Maisie close to her chest, her eyes misted with appreciation and tenderness as she scented her daughter’s baby cologne.
Thank you, she mouthed.
A small tilt at the corner of his lips was the only response he gave her.
Rowan couldn't recall if he’d wished Aelin a merry Yulemas or not, but he knew she was having one now.
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literally for last year’s Rowaelin Yulemas Swap but uhhh….happy Yulemas @sassyhobbits ? LOL
Read PART I HERE
Word count: 5.5k
Warnings: talk of death and depression.
Aelin awoke with a gasp, having the remnants of green eyes and wisps of silvery hair lingering in her vision. It wasn’t enough to be plagued by thoughts of Rowan during the day, she had to be taunted with him during the night, too.
Aelin spent the day prior thinking about what Lysandra had said- she deserved to be happy. Aelin, on a fundamental level, knew that was true. But she also couldn’t help herself from feeling the need to run away. It wasn’t just that a relationship or caring for someone was scary, though that was definitely part of it. Her parents were gone, leaving her behind in a world that was not made for people to navigate alone. Aedion’s mom was gone, Dorian and Chaol, while still alive, were distant since the entire love triangle debacle in Rifthold a few years prior. The only constant in her life was Aedion but he was family, seemingly obligated to be there for her.
What if Rowan was the same as everyone else? What if he left her, her heart shattered in pieces with no way to clean it up? If he got to know her and found out that her baggage wasn’t worth the weight it took to bear it? She knew her therapist would tell her that she couldn’t think like that and that she was putting feelings and emotions into the situation that were only hypothetical.
No, she decided. She couldn’t start something with Rowan right now. Despite having decided on moving back to Orynth, the process could take quite a while. She needed to find a job, an apartment, needed to start her life back up here before she could get into a relationship or care about anything in that way.
Pushing thoughts of Rowan out of her mind, she put on her best pair of comfy leggings. Later that evening was the skate night in the town square but before they went there, she was spending the day baking with Lysandra and Gavryn, something she was wholeheartedly looking forward to. She just hoped her traitorous thoughts would leave her alone.
- - - - -
“Aelin, you literally just get on the ice. I promise you’ll be fine!” Elide yelled over the music and crowd.
Aelin was not going to be fine. She hadn’t skated since she was a teenager and even then, it never seemed to come easy to her. The crappy hockey skates that the rink had also didn’t help matters. She was going to fall on her ass and make a huge fool of herself by the end of the night, she’d be willing to bet money on it.
“I’m trying,” she ground out through gritted teeth.
It was easy for Elide to say, the smaller woman had her brute of a boyfriend to help steady her. Unfortunately for Aelin, that courtesy did not extend to her, the giant, crotchety man hating her for some unknown reason.
Tentatively, Aelin put her bladed boot on the rink, clinging heavily to the side board. She glanced a look at the crowd to make sure no one was in her way. Her cousin and Lysandra were skating with Gavryn between them, the boy doing way better than she currently was.
Elide reached for her hand as she and Lorcan glided by, catching it slightly only to slide away as Aelin still held onto the wall. The small gesture was enough to throw Aelin off balance and she wobbled back and forth a few times. She probably looked comical standing there on the ice but Aelin’s embarrassment would have to wait until later. For now, she just had to survive.
Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she could do it. It was just gliding on the ice, nothing more, nothing less. Dropping her hand from the wall, she gave herself a push to propel herself forward. Luckily, no one was in her path. Unluckily, no one was in her path and, therefore, there was nothing to stop her as she careened forward. Wobbling, she tensed every part of her body in the hopes that it would slow her down. It was no use, she was going to collide fully with the barrier at the end of the rink. A glorious crash and burn for the famous Aelin Galathynius. At least she got to mend things with Aedion before she died, she thought.
Before she could crash into the wall, a pair of warm hands gripped her waist, pulling back on her lightly while turning them away from the wall. The hands briefly left her waist before a flash of green and silver entered her peripheral vision.
“Need some help here?” Gods, his rough, accented timbre was enough to send chills radiating throughout her body. Rowan had a smile on his face as he made his way to her front.
She was unintentionally breathless when she answered. “I–thank you. Gods I thought I was a goner there.”
Rowan let out a deep laugh, the corners of his eyes wrinkling slightly. “No problem. Always happy to help a princess in need.” Aelin rolled her eyes goodnaturedly. “I do, however, find it hard to believe that you don’t know how to skate.”
Aelin let out a breath. “I know how to skate. It’s just been a while. Rifthold doesn’t really have cool enough weather to do this kind of stuff and the last time I went skating was–” Aelin paused. “Well, it was with my parents, I guess.”
A look of understanding crossed Rowan’s face, but his gaze held no pity. Instead, determination settled in his features.
“Take my hand, Aelin.”
“I really will be fine. I think I’m just going to sit down for a bit.” She was about to make for the wall but he quickly glided in front of her.
“Aelin. Take my hand.” His eyes were soft when she met them and his voice held a slight hint of humor. There was no judgement, nothing but softness and determination. Oh how the town will talk, she thought.
As if he knew her thoughts, Rowan raised an eyebrow. As if you truly care?
She narrowed her eyes and in that moment, she decided, fuck it. She placed her gloved hand into his own and as she did, a brilliant smile overtook his features.
Rowan’s grip was steady as he guided her through the crowded rink. It was all Aelin could do to hold on tight and allow him to pull her as he skated. It was nice, she thought, having someone looking out for her.
Rowan sped up slightly and skated directly in front of her, turning mid-skate to face her. A shock of anxiety shot through her. “You’re going to crash!”
Rowan chuckled. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about everyone else, just keep your eyes on me, okay?”
Aelin nodded, taking a shaky breath.
“Now put both of your hands into mine.” She did as he asked. “Close your eyes.”
His statement only made her eyes open wider. “What!?”
He smiled, somehow calming her with just a look. “Do you trust me?”
Aelin blinked, then nodded.
“Then close your eyes, Aelin.” She did as he asked, shakiness still lingering in her hands. She was sure Rowan was able to feel the nerves vibrating throughout her body. She never used to be afraid of skating. But it seemed since her parents died, even the smallest thing that gave her any type of anxiety made her whole body shake. Fear wasn’t just fear anymore, it was almost debilitating.
“Have you been on this rink before?” She was about to answer, half opening her eyes. “Don’t look. Just keep your eyes closed.”
“Yes, I have. Long ago.”
“So you know that it’s just a rink. It’s just ice and these people around you are probably people that you’ve known your whole life.” Rowan paused. “Tell me about them.”
“Who? The people on the ice that I can’t see because my eyes are closed?”
He huffed a laugh. “Your parents, smartass.” His voice was quiet, empathetic.
Aelin sighed, keeping her eyes closed. “They were the best. Dad was always a workaholic but he did it all for us, for my mom and me. And Aedion. He didn’t know his dad so my dad sort of stepped into that role. It’s why we’re like siblings.” A small smile made its way to her face.
“And your mom?”
“My mom was…she was the best. She was gentle yet fiery, strong yet emotional. My dad always said that I’m a lot like her. I mean, I look like her, for one thing. But my personality is so much like hers, too.” Aelin let out a huff of breath. “Sometimes, we were too alike. We butt heads a lot but it was never permanent. I actually got my nickname from her. Fireheart.”
With her eyes closed, she could see them–how they were back then, and how they would be now. Maybe her dad would be here, helping her skate. Or maybe she would never have become fearful of skating in the first place, making large circles around the rink on her own. Her mom, with small pops of grey spread throughout her blonde hair, would be watching from the sideline, saying that she was getting too old for skating, that she’d break a bone.
“I miss them,” she admitted. “I miss them a lot. We used to come to the rink every year around this time. I think that’s why I’m so anxious.”
“It’s normal to miss them. It’s normal to grieve and to shy away from doing things that you did with them now that they’re gone.” Aelin opened her eyes and met his green ones. “Everyone grieves in their own way, there’s no right or wrong way to do it. Sometimes, people feel ok after a month, sometimes it takes them years and years. Sometimes, they never get over it. It always sucks, though. No matter what.”
“You sound like you have your own story to tell.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
His eyes felt like they were boring into her, like they could see everything that she was and is. Yet he didn’t look away, except to make sure their path was clear. “Aye. My parents, like yours, died when I was young. And my girlfriend passed away, as well.”
“I’m so sorry, Rowan.” She meant it. She never wanted anyone else to feel the way she felt ten years ago and every year since, even if, selfishly, she felt a pang of jealousy at the mention of his girlfriend.
“Thanks. It was about eight years ago now. But it still hurts. I still replay every interaction we had, thinking that maybe if we hadn’t fought, she wouldn’t have been driving to her parents house. That she’d still be here with me.” He took a deep inhale. “But I also have to remember that it wasn’t my fault and that I deserve to be happy. I didn’t control her actions just like I can’t control anyone else’s now except my own.”
“Is that why you moved here to Orynth?”
“Yes. It took me a few years after her death to decide what to do. But I felt like I had no one left in Doranelle. I figured a fresh start was what I needed, so I moved here. Left my cousins behind, though I’ve since talked to them and they’ve come to visit me a few times.”
Understanding dawned on Aelin. “That’s why you look at me like that.”
Rowan’s brows rose. “Like what, Princess?” His tone sounded almost suggestive, probably to make up for the heaviness of their conversation.
But Aelin wasn’t having it. “Like you see me. Like you understand everything that I’ve done. And you don’t judge me for it.”
Rowan looked down, the first time it seemed like he was having a hard time meeting her eyes. But when he looked back up at her, his gaze was unbending, resolute. “I do. I see you, Aelin.”
It was her turn to avert her eyes. Shyness overtook her. She wasn’t used to men being so direct in their feelings with her.
Rowan inhaled quickly and she could’ve sworn she detected a faint tremor to his hands. “So, Fireheart, huh?”
Aelin’s heart swelled, hearing her old nickname. “Yeah, Fireheart.” She said nothing more, didn’t need to. She was sure Rowan could hear the wistfulness in her voice.
“Well then, Fireheart, are you aware that you’ve been skating on your own for the last few minutes?”
Aelin’s brow furrowed as she looked down to her skates. Rowan was still holding her hand but very lightly, more there for moral support than for actual balance. Aelin let out a laugh before the panic set in again. Now that she was aware, her balance once again became wobbly and her blade caught in a deep groove. She would’ve gone flying toward the wall if an arm didn’t make its way around her waist again.
“I’ve got you,” Rowan murmured. Once again in his arms, she couldn’t help but notice how good it felt to be held by him. Not only his strong arms, but his scent, his warmth, his unwavering steadiness. “I won’t let you fall.”
She couldn’t help but think that his words were a double entendre, a sign that maybe she could take this step with someone–with him.
The cheerful, upbeat music changed into a slightly soothing ballad and Aelin noticed that many people were exiting the rink. The ones left there were pairing off, families forming small huddles and couples embracing. She was about to suggest they follow suit and get off the ice when Rowan interrupted her. “Dance with me?”
When she looked at his face, she swore she could see a flush on his cheeks, not just from the cold. She nodded and allowed herself to be pulled into his strong arms. They didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. The song was a balm to both of them, allowing them to be content just as they were. Aelin moved so that her forehead was resting on Rowan’s chest, meeting only just below his clavicle. She could hear the beat of his heart and the movement of his breath. Calm. Soothing. Home.
Rowan’s cheek came to rest along her hair and she could’ve sworn that he placed a gentle kiss to her head. Then lower, his cold nose buried itself into her neck, his soft lips brushing the skin between her coat and her hat.. She never felt so…warm, content. It had been years since her mind had gone quiet like this. She couldn’t help but think that it was something she could get used to.
They stayed like that for a while, the soft melody of the song lulling them into a rhythm it felt like they’d been dancing to their entire lives. Surrounded by the sea of dancing couples and families, Aelin felt…hopeful. Not only did she not feel alone, she felt as if this was where she was meant to be.
But another thought crossed her mind right after the first. She couldn’t do this. She was leaving tomorrow, for fuck’s sake and she had no idea when she would be back. Sure, Rifthold was a 6 hour flight from Orynth and long-distance relationships had been done with more distance but it felt…wrong. She couldn’t do this to Rowan after he just told her the reason for his presence in Orynth was losing an ex-girlfriend. It could be months…years before she got all of her shit together to move back home.
She jolted her head back suddenly, reality rushing over her like a cold bucket of water.
Aelin knew what she was going to say; what she should say. But when she met Rowan’s confused gaze, she lost her words. “I–I..”
“Aelin? What’s wrong?” It was all she could do to hold herself back from bringing her fingers up to his brow to soften the furrow that appeared there.
“Nothing! I just…I need to go.”
Rowan cocked his head but didn’t let her go quite yet. She tried to back up away from him, forgetting that she was still on the ice and couldn’t exactly go anywhere. One of Rowan’s hands tightened on her waist slightly while the other came up to cup her face. “Take a breath, Aelin. You’re breathing fast.”
Aelin did as she was told but couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. “Can you please help me over? I just–I need to go.”
“Of course. But…” Rowan looked conflicted. “If I said or did something wrong, please tell me. I’m sorry if I was out of line asking about your parents or dancing or–.”
“No. You weren’t. I’m just…well, me. It’s not you.” Aelin felt as though she was going to cry any moment and she really needed to get to the bench so she could take these damn skates off. The lights were too bright, her skates too tight, the crowd too loud. She needed to be anywhere but here at the moment.
Rowan glided her over to the bench, helping her to sit on the near-icy surface with ease. He started to bend down to help her untie the knots in her laces but she quickly pulled one foot up to do it herself.
“I’m fine, really. I got this. Thanks for helping me tonight.” She couldn’t shake the tremble from her voice or stop her hands from shaking as she clumsily untied her skates.
Rowan was stoic and silent by her side. She swore that the expression he wore was hurt but she couldn’t be sure. Hell, of course it was hurt. She basically rejected the man on what may have been the nicest night she ever had in front of quite a few people.
As soon as she was done unlacing, she stood up quickly and started making her way to the skate return to get her shoes. She turned back only once, giving what she hoped was an apologetic smile, then hastily made her way through the crowd in nothing but her socks.
If she had turned back again, she might have saw the few staggering steps Rowan took in her direction.
- - - - -
Back at Aedion’s house, Aelin stared at herself in the mirror, at the streaked mascara now running down her face. Gods, why was she like this? She ran away from something that felt so damn nice the first chance she got. Rowan didn’t deserve that. He deserved someone who could give him everything he wanted. And while she would have liked to believe that could’ve been her an hour ago, now she wasn’t so sure.
A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door. “Aelin?” a distinctly female voice called.
Lysandra. Shit. She thought she’d be alone here, could wallow in the misery she continued to cause for herself.
“Aelin, I know you’re in there. Please open up?” The woman’s voice was loud enough to hear though there was no anger or disappointment in her tone.
Reluctantly, Aelin unlocked the door and turned the handle, taking in the stunning brunette on the other side.
“Oh, Aelin.” As soon as Lysandra’s arms opened for her, Aelin returned her friend’s embrace. She couldn’t help the sobs that escaped her chest. “Shh, let it out. You’re okay, you’re safe, I’m here for you. Just let it out.”
So Aelin did. It had been a while since she trusted anyone enough to hold her like this while she wept. If she had told 18 year old Aelin that the first person to do so in 10 years would’ve been her high school enemy, she would’ve cackled then keeled over. But Lysandra’s embrace felt like something that was holding her together, something she absolutely needed.
Once her sobs died down, Aelin pulled back slightly, looking into Lys’ green eyes.
“Let me make you some tea and then we can talk, okay?”
Aelin nodded once and allowed herself to be pulled toward the kitchen.
“Aedion and Gav are still at the skate night. I saw you make a quick exit and Rowan looked a little confused so I figured I’d come and see if you were okay.” Aelin flinched at the mention of Rowan’s name.
Setting a steaming cup in front of her, Lysandra took the seat opposite her and took a sip from her own cup. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to but I think it would help. Whatever it was that happened.”
“Nothing happened. And that’s the problem.” Aelin let out a sardonic laugh.
Lysandra just looked at her, no judgement on her face.
Aelin sighed, taking a sip of her hot tea and allowing it to ground her. “I ran. That’s what happened. I ran away from him.”
“Why?”
“Because…because I was feeling too much? Because I’m leaving tomorrow and it’s not fair to him? Because…because…” Lysandra waited patiently for Aelin to sort out her thoughts. “Because I could really see myself caring about him and I–I’m scared.” And there it was, the final piece of the incredibly messy puzzle that was her life. Maybe that’s the reason why it never worked out with anyone else. She was always a version of herself that she thought they wanted her to be. But with Rowan tonight…she was just Aelin. Just Fireheart. And that scared her more than anything.
“I can’t imagine what you went through these past years, Aelin. And I’m sure you went to hell and back before coming back to Orynth. But you’re one of the strongest people I know.” There were tears in Lysandra’s eyes, glistening in the low light of the kitchen. “I don’t know many people who would be able to go through what you did and come back home and still be a whole, beautiful, shining person. Because you are, Aelin. You might not think that about yourself but you are a light to the people around you. Just like you were a light 10 years ago. Hell, most of my favorite memories were when we were verbally sparring in debate class.”
Aelin let out a chuckle.
“When you first got here last week, you were…reserved. It was a little scary actually.” Lysandra raised a brow and had a slight uptilt to her lips. “I thought maybe you just grew up, got calmer. But then you started spending more time with us and I saw you light up again. And I think half of that was just being back here, being around your family again. But I think that a big part of that was also being around someone who knew loss the way you do. Maybe you don’t know him that well, maybe you don’t think you deserve him, I don’t know. But I will say that from an outside perspective that you’ve come alive since you’ve known him. What you do with that information is up to you, I’m no meddler.”
Aelin let out a watery laugh. “That’s a big fat lie.”
Lysandra managed to look a little sheepish. “Ok, maybe I’m a little bit of a meddler. But I would never do anything that you didn’t want me to do. So if you tell me to back off, I will, and I’ll never mention Rowan again.” Lysandra reached over to take her hands. “But if you want support, I’m here. You need a listening ear? I’m here. You just need a shoulder to cry on? I can be that for you.”
Aelin let out a strong breath. “I think right now, I just want to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. And I can figure the rest out later.”
Lysandra’s laugh was hearty, breaking through the relative silence of the house. “Now that, I can definitely do.”
- - - - -
She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry. She was not going to cry.
As she stood in the middle of the airport, locked in an embrace with her favorite cousin, she realized that Aedion, however, was indeed crying.
“I’ll be back soon, I promise.” If her voice gave a few hiccups, well…that was no one else’s business.
“I know. I just–I’m just gonna miss you.” Aedion gave a sigh and stepped back slightly. “I’m gonna miss you a lot.” He wiped the tears that were tracked down his face, not even the least bit ashamed of crying in such a public place.
“I’ll miss you too. But as soon as I get back to Adarlan, I promise that I’ll call and I’ll immediately start looking for jobs and apartments.” Because, yes, she had told her family her plans to move back to Orynth once they returned from the skate night the night prior. Aedion picked her up off the couch, spinning her around. So it was safe to say that he was very excited for her. Lysandra gave her a look that told Aelin she already had a suspicion. And Gavryn was quite literally jumping for joy. Or, he would’ve been had he not been tired out of his mind and immediately started crying. “I so happy,” were the exact words she could make out through his sobs. She rewarded his show of emotion with a bear hug and snuggles until the little man fell asleep in her arms.
“I know you will. But remember that you’re always welcome to stay with us. Especially if it means that you’ll get here sooner.”
Aelin let out a huff of laughter. “I know.”
She gave everyone a last round of hugs, saying her farewells and trying again not to cry. Waving them off, she stepped through security. Though her bags might feel heavier, her heart didn’t. She mended things with Aedion, got an amazing new best friend, and got to meet her nephew, all of which served to put a little ball of light in her chest.
There was still one piece missing, though. The piece that she was able to not obsess over only due to the hectic nature of the morning. Rowan.
She didn’t like how she left things. She was embarrassed to say the least. But she also didn’t have time to pack up her things and also say what she wanted to say. It was one or the other and, unfortunately for her heart, the packing had won out.
It was a regret she would have to live with–not fixing how she left things with Rowan. Maybe when she was back for good, she could try. Try to apologize. Try harder to open up. Try to be the person Rowan deserved.
Gods, she’d known the man a damn week and she was already a blubbering mess over him. This certainly didn’t bode well for her return to Adarlan.
So instead of thinking of all the ways she could’ve mended things, all the things she could’ve said, Aelin decided to get a giant, doughy croissant while she waited to board her flight. The croissant was heaven. It made her almost forget that she was leaving her family all over again. To commiserate, she decided to scroll through pictures on her phone.
Gavryn in his Yulemas jammies.
Gavryn putting the star on the tree.
Gavryn and his ginormous pink teddy bear.
Gods, she loved this kid.
The last picture took her by surprise. She hadn’t even meant to get the second figure in the picture, but he was there nonetheless. Gavryn was sitting at the table in Rowan’s shop, painting his little masterpiece. But leaning against the wall toward the back was a familiar silvery-haired man, watching her nephew with such a soft look on his face, it almost made her want to cry.
She wasn’t about to be a creep and zoom in on the figure in the middle of a crowded airport so she threw her phone in her bag and waited to board her flight. Time passed quickly as she was lost in her thoughts. Before she knew it, she was dragging her carry-on behind her down the aisle.
E, F, G…ah, here it was…row H. H1, the window seat, of course, her favorite.
She was prepared to settle in for a nice nap and one of her favorite playlists when the seat aside of her shuffled with a warm body.
She closed her eyes as she inhaled the familiar pine and snow scent. Home.
With that, her eyes popped open, whipping around to her seat neighbor.
“Rowan?!”
He gave her a sheepish smile.
“Wha–but you–how…what?” Great, she was back to being a bumbling mess.
He chuckled at her fumbling.
“You left without saying goodbye.”
“So you bought an entire PLANE TICKET?!”
Rowan rubbed at the back of his neck. “Well, Lysandra said–”
“I fucking knew it. Not a meddler, my ass,” Aelin mumbled.
“In her defense, I stopped by the house, hoping that you were still there and when she told me that you had left already, I was about to turn around and go home.” Rowan pursed his lips. “But then she said that there was an empty seat next to you on your flight home.”
“Lysandra is a certifiable sociopath, I swear.”
“And thank Mala for that. I prayed that I could get here in time. And here I am.”
“Here you are.” Aelin knew her features softened at the vulnerability in his tone.
A moment of silence permeated the air, neither of them knowing what to say.
“Rowan, I–”
“If you’re going to apologize, please don’t.”
“But I–”
Rowan’s warm hands came to cup her face. “Aelin, I get it. I promise.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
He sighed. “Probably something about how you were scared and overwhelmed and it was too much too fast. And I get it, ok? You don’t have to explain it to me, Aelin.”
“Actually, I was going to ask if you brought my requested Yulemas present with you.”
Rowan’s breath left him all at once in a huff. “Smartass.”
Aelin’s face quickly turned somber. “But yes, that is what I was going to say. Somehow you nailed it. Somehow you always nail it.”
Rowan’s thumb stroked her cheek. “I nail it because I get you, Aelin. You might have to put on a show for everyone else, but I see you. We’re so alike and Gods, this is going to sound crazy–”
“Crazier than getting a plane ticket after a week of knowing someone just so you could talk to them?”
“It was that or ask Lysandra for your number and I thought that would’ve been creepier.” The small dimple shone through on his cheek at his smile.
“Finish your sentence, Rowan.” She was surprised at the softness in her tone. Aelin’s eyes met Rowans, silently taking in the different shades of green in his iris.
His smile was shy. “I was going to say that it feels like we were always meant to meet. We understand each other in a way that couldn’t be anything but fate. And if this was anyone else, I would realize how crazy this all sounds. But I’m saying this with the utmost truth.”
Aelin took the hand that was stroking her cheek in her own, bringing it down to hover over her heart. “If it was anyone else, I would tell you how crazy you sound. But you’re Rowan.” She shrugged, as if his name was explanation enough.
“And you’re Fireheart.”
She smiled at that. At the nickname that laid dormant for so long. Rowan using it at that moment felt like a warm hug, like coming home.
“Can I kiss you?” Rowan’s voice was quiet, the hope in his voice threatening to stab her in the heart.
She nodded, tilting her face up toward his.
Gently, oh so gently, the softness of his lips met hers. It was the answer to a question she had been asking for so long. The quenching of a longing that transcended all time and space. It was over before it really began but it was enough. And to know that they now had a six hour flight ahead of them excited her. Just to be in his presence, to hold his hand, to fall asleep on his shoulder excited her.
He slowly drew his face back. “Everyone on this plane will start gossiping if we continue like this.”
She smiled at his cheekiness. “They already are, I reckon.” So she shrugged and pulled him back for one more kiss before settling down for the flight. She had no idea what the future would bring. When she would find an apartment. When she would officially move back. But it was okay because she knew that in coming back to Orynth, she came back to herself.
A/N: thanks for joining me for my first and last fic or 2025 😂 not sure if I’ll keep writing for Rowaelin since it’s sort of died down but maybe?
thank you so so much @mariaofdoranelle for beta reading <3 and enjoy this rare update!! love you all, thank you for reading :)
~~~~
The Lord of Skull’s Bay didn’t often frequent the docks at midnight, but when he did, there was always a princess-turned-siren involved.
Dark clothes and cloak blending him in with the alley shadows, Rolfe wove his way expertly through the meandering tangle of pathways that sprawled through the docks district, eventually turning down a pier where a fishing boat was moored. He knew the boat was never used—hell, he’d been the one to bring it there and tie it up so Aelin could use it as cover when she emerged from the sea.
When he swung himself onto the deck, he found the boat quiet and still, so he took a seat on an empty barrel and pushed back his hood. The night was calm, a handful of clouds skidding across the moon and casting rippling shadows across the bay waters. He watched the faraway silhouette of a merchant ship ease into the port, heading for a station in the center of the docks, closest to the market, and he was mentally cataloguing which of the expected deliveries that ship could be when the water beside the fishing boat sloshed and a siren swung herself over the rail.
Rolfe politely turned around and focused on the view of Skull’s Bay at night, giving Aelin some privacy to shift back into her human body. There was a muted flash of light and assorted sounds of rustling fabric and muffled cursing, and eventually, Aelin nudged him in the ribs. “Your modesty won’t be offended now, pirate.”
“Bold of you to assume I have any.” Rolfe turned back around. Aelin sat on an old, overturned crate, her back propped against the railing, her clothes and hair still damp. He gave her a brief dip of his head. “Evening, princess.”
“What’s the new development?” Aelin shifted in her seat like she so often did. She’d told him once, not long after she’d revealed her new siren self to him, that it took her a while to readjust each time she shifted.
“There’s a siren hunter in town.”
Aelin rolled her eyes. “I’m aware. He wasn’t very subtle when he tried to waylay me the other week. Or the fortnight before that.”
Rolfe raised a brow. “He’s a prince from Doranelle. He told me the king and queen of Terrasen sent him here—covertly, of course—to make a final investigation into their daughter’s untimely death.”
Aelin fell silent for a long moment. When she had first shown up in Rolfe’s office, several months after being turned siren, one of the first things she’d told him was not to say anything to her parents. She couldn’t risk them sending out a military-backed rescue expedition to “save her” before she’d figured out a way to turn herself back. “It’s been over a year since they sent anyone up here.”
“I know.” Rolfe tapped his fingers against his leg. “I suspect there might be a plan to announce a new heir to the throne if the prince returns empty-handed.”
“It’s been two years,” Aelin said softly. “I suppose that makes sense.” Part of her wanted to scream and rage at the thought of being replaced, but she had been raised royal. She understood the need for every monarch to have a visible, living heir.
“But for your parents to name an heir from Doranelle?” Rolfe prodded. “Even I can’t hazard a guess as to why they would do that.”
Aelin’s gaze shifted out through the small porthole window, over the darkened ocean. “The Whitethorn family of Doranelle has several princes, most of them cousins of varying degrees with little claim to the throne, but if my knowledge is still good, the queen of Doranelle cultivates close relationships with the cousins of her generation. Also, there’s the little fact that their navy is likely the best in all of Erilea. If my…if the king and queen of Terrasen want to forge a strong alliance, they would look for someone who is close enough to the queen to hold some sway but not close enough that Doranelle’s succession could get tricky.” She wrenched her gaze back to Rolfe, who watched her with an assessing glint in his eyes. “They wanted me to marry someone with that kind of status. They…they told me that when I returned from Skull’s Bay, they were going to introduce me to someone. A suitor.”
“The Whitethorn prince?”
Aelin lifted a shoulder. “I never knew. I suppose it’s possible.”
Pieces of possibility turned in circles in Rolfe’s mind. “In any case, you’ve met him.”
“That’s one way to put it.” A grin tugged at the princess’s lips. “To his credit, he was very blunt about his intent to kill me and every other evil siren in the sea.”
Rolfe snickered. That was the Aelin he knew, all barbed wit and sharp smiles. “He does have a particular set of skills, you know. He might be useful.” He’d been thinking about that possibility—the prince knew about the poison, and he seemed to have a desire to find its source and eliminate it.
“What do you mean, useful?” Aelin’s fingers drummed against the railing.
“We…ah, there was another siren body that washed up this morning.” Rolfe watched the shadow that brushed across Aelin’s face at the news. “I sent a runner to bring the prince to see it, and when we spoke about what he saw, he told me some very interesting things.” The prince’s words still echoed, uncomfortably, in his mind. “He said there was a scent like rot and death and sweetness, and he wondered if the siren could have been…addicted.”
Aelin flinched. “He’s perceptive,” she said, quietly. “Rolfe, do you…could you tell who she was? What she looked like?”
He felt the iron weight of regret drop around his shoulders, but he shook his head. “She was worse than the others,” he admitted. “She was—she looked hollow. Sunken. It looked like something had been eating away her flesh from the inside.”
“That rutting asshole,” Aelin hissed, her cadence dipping darker than human. For a moment, Rolfe swore her eyes shifted, glowing an iridescent green. “He will not die slowly.”
“Good.” Rolfe met Aelin’s gaze head-on, and it took everything in him not to recoil at the depth of her simmering fury. “He doesn’t deserve a silent death.”
Aelin swallowed, and her rage quieted. “I think we need to get into the estate now, rather than wait any longer. There could be answers there, and if not, then there will be revenge.” She straightened her spine. “In the meantime, I suppose we should accept the prince’s help.”
~
Rowan was beginning to think the Lord of Skull’s Bay was barking mad. Three days ago, Rolfe had handed him a note as he was leaving, and the only words on the bit of paper were a date and the name of that same godsdamned alley where he’d met the siren.
“I spoke with her recently,” Rolfe had said. “I think it would be wise if you did, too.”
Well, it would be awfully fucking hard to speak with the siren if she never showed up.
Just as Rowan decided that he’d been camped out in the damp, fog-shrouded alley long enough, the hazy screen of fog and greasy smoke from the nearby tavern shifted, and a graceful figure emerged. She moved like water, Rowan noticed absentmindedly, her steps fluid and easy, the ripple of her deep blue cloak like a night-darkened wave.
And once again, she was smirking at him. “Waiting for someone, pretty human?”
His hand flew for his dagger so fast he was shocked his wrist didn’t snap. “You were supposed to be here hours ago.”
“Was I?” She stopped a few paces away, the shadow of her face barely visible in the faint glow of the streetlamps. “I wasn’t aware there was an invitation to this meeting.”
Rowan clenched his jaw, clamping down on an angry retort. “Rolfe led me to believe there was an arranged meeting.”
“Rolfe enjoys making promises to one person and conveniently forgetting to inform the other of such plans,” the siren said dryly. Her head tipped to the side, regarding Rowan. “You must be cold from standing out here. Should we go somewhere more warm?”
“You…” Rowan blinked, caught off guard. “You aren’t cold?”
“We—I—do not feel the difference in temperature as acutely,” she said, and there could have been a tinge of wistfulness under her words.
“Come to think of it, a tavern or something would be nice,” Rowan admitted. “You won’t be in any danger, will you?”
The siren’s laugh spilled out of her in musical ripples. “No.” She drew a step closer, and Rowan swore to the gods he saw her eyes glow green. “No one will recognize me.” She turned and strode out of the alley, and Rowan followed her down the street and a few blocks over, until she stopped at the half-open door of a low-lit tavern and let him enter first.
Inside, the handful of flickering kerosene lamps gave off just enough light to make the place seem cozy rather than sinister, and the air was heavy with the scents of spilled ale and old leather and salt. Rowan went up to the bar and ordered two foaming mugs of dark ale, and he followed the siren to a table set in one of the nooks along the wall opposite the bar. It was private enough, half sheltered in the alcove, and he eased into the seat opposite the siren, momentarily stunned speechless as she pushed back her hood.
He had almost forgotten the otherworldly beauty of her face.
She took a long sip of the ale and then set the mug back down with a dull thump, her nose wrinkling with distaste. “As pleasant as it is when you aren’t blathering at me, why are you so silent now, prince? I thought Rolfe had mentioned that you had questions for me.”
Rowan nearly spat out his own ale. The drink was fine. But the question prodded at him, urging him to spill every question and thought and theory he had about the poisoned siren.
“Well?”
He cleared his throat. “Did Rolfe tell you about the…the dead siren we found?”
She nodded. “Yes.” Sorrow—there was definitely sorrow in her voice. He hadn’t known that sirens could grieve.
“I suspected there was some sort of poison involved,” he began, “but I was unable to identify it.”
“Spare me the details,” the siren interrupted. “Rolfe said you smelled something, pretty prince. What was that?”
Rowan couldn’t help how he tensed at her nickname for him, at the way she wielded it like a knife. “It was the body, siren. The body smelled like decay, but it looked like it had washed up too recently for decay to set in.”
“You could at least do me the courtesy of using my name, pretty prince.” She shot him a smirk that heated his very blood. “Out of that same courtesy, I’ll not use yours.”
“If you insist.” He paused, hesitating to say the siren’s name. “Aelin.”
Aelin Galathynius smirked wider at his obvious discomfort before her expression turned serious again. “Decay, then.”
“Yes.” Rowan took a long pull of his ale. “I smelled decay, rot, but also…sweetness. There was something sweet lingering beneath the rotten stench. It’s confusing, because I do not know of any poison that leaves that kind of scent.”
“It’s not a known poison,” Aelin said. “How could it be? It only affects sirens, after all. It was made for that purpose—to sicken and weaken and…and kill sirens.” Her voice shuddered. “I didn’t think I would come to feel any affection for the creatures who stole my life, but I watched my sisters sicken from that terrible poison, and I…” She stopped. “Never mind.”
“I am sorry,” Rowan murmured.
Aelin scoffed. “You hunt sirens, prince. I find it hard to believe that you could feel anything resembling sympathy for a dead one.”
“I hunt rogue sirens,” Rowan said, his temper flaring. “I follow reports of the sirens who prowl by coastlines and prey on innocent people. As of now, I hunt wild sirens, or so Rolfe calls them. I track the sirens he says are acting strangely, attacking randomly, leaving strange hollow bodies in their wake.” He drew a sharp breath. “Something is wrong, and I was sent to find out what.”
“They are poisoned,” Aelin said. “They act strangely because their instincts are not their own. That poison worms into the sirens’ minds and twists them, and the more they drink it, the wilder and more erratic they get.” Anger—fury—simmered behind her piercing eyes. “Do you know what the worst part is, prince? They never have a choice. He traps them, poisons them, and fucking studies them, and every dose of poison they take makes them crave more and more.”
He. There was someone behind the poison, and Aelin knew who it was. “Who?” he asked, little more than a whisper. “Who poisons them?”
“Where did you find the siren’s body, pretty prince?”
Rowan blinked. “Near the south edge of the bay, just past Arobynn Hamel’s estate.”
“And why would a siren ever travel that far south or that far inland?” Aelin pressed. “Surely Rolfe showed you where the sirens congregate on his map.”
“He did. The sirens stay towards the north. It was unusual to see one so far south.” Rowan’s brows scrunched together, wheels turning in his head. “There wouldn’t be a reason for a siren to hunt so far south, but…” Click. “But she wasn’t hunting, was she?”
Aelin shook her head. “She was seeking.”
Seeking. The siren was in search of something, and she knew where to find it. “Arobynn Hamel is poisoning the sirens?” Gods, it almost sounded ridiculous when he spoke the words.
“Yes.”
Rowan froze, his mug halfway between the table and his lips. He’d believed he might be out of his wits, or at least that being in Aelin’s ethereal presence had tangled his mind into a mess, but her blunt confirmation of his harebrained suspicion hit him like a caravan.
“I am not lying,” Aelin said. She pushed her barely-touched tankard towards him. “What reason would I have to hide the truth when you already suspect it?” Those otherworldly eyes sharpened. “Besides, Rolfe trusted you enough not to send you packing. The least I can do is extend the same courtesy.”
“I think I might be mad,” Rowan muttered, draining the rest of his beer in one long gulp and reaching for Aelin’s abandoned mug.
Aelin’s nostrils flared. “You are not. I’d be able to scent it if you were.”
For the second time in as many minutes, Rowan’s wits screeched to a halt. “What?”
“Sirens have a…a rather refined sense of smell, prince. Surely you’ve heard the saying that one can scent fear?” Rowan nodded. “It’s true. For sirens, at least.” Aelin’s nose crinkled. “It varies depending on the person, but it’s never pleasant.”
“I…you…that’s remarkable.” Rowan ran his thumb along the handle of his mug. “Is that why you—why they—choose certain targets?”
Aelin’s expression shuttered. “You’ve not earned the answer to that question.”
“But—”
“No.” She shoved herself to her feet, jerking her hood down over her eyes. “This meeting is over, hunter.” She tossed a few coins onto the table and strode away, and the door thudded shut behind her.
~
That was a mistake, Aelin berated herself as she stalked down the darkened streets of Skull’s Bay. She should have known that Rolfe would throw her into a conversation that she’d never be ready to have, and damn her human heart, she had been close to telling the siren hunter something she’d never even told herself. And as if her thoughts had summoned him, she heard Rowan’s footsteps behind her, half a block away but gaining on her thanks to his long strides.
Shit.
Aelin swerved around the next corner and picked up speed, weaving through side streets and back alleys and dodging trash and alley cats as she intentionally made her path confusing. She knew the tangle of pathways well, and as she raced through the docks, with that godsdamned prince still on her trail, she wished she hadn’t made that stupid promise all those months ago. She wished she could stop him in his tracks and sing his memory of their conversation away.
But she’d promised her sister that she would only use her song if she had no other choice, and she could not break that promise.
Because her sister was dead.
Aelin sprinted down the pier and whirled around, coming to an abrupt halt. A moment later, Rowan careened around the corner onto the pier, dragging in heavy breaths, and jerked to a stop when he saw her standing there. His hood had blown back during his pursuit, and the sliver of moonlight glittering in the sky cast the planes of his handsome face in silver.
“You can’t keep running,” he panted. “You promised you’d help Rolfe.”
She snarled. “Rolfe promised to help me, Rowan Whitethorn.” It was the first time she’d deliberately used his name, and she hated how easily it fell off of her tongue. “I made no promises of caving to his whims. Or yours.”
“You have answers that we both need,” Rowan said, moving one step closer to her. Two steps. Three. “Why are you hiding them, Aelin?”
She flicked open the clasp of her cloak and tossed the blue wool to the ground. “I don’t make a habit of repeating myself, but I’ll make an exception. You’ve not earned the answers.”
Before he could protest, before he could lunge the last two steps forward and catch her wrist, she leapt backwards, arcing her body into the water. The gentle ripples swallowed her, welcoming her back into their arms, whispering their secrets into her ears. Aelin clenched her jaw as she sank below the water, bracing herself for the white flash of pain that shot through her body as her legs fused together into a silver-scaled tail, as her fins tore through her sides, as her gills reopened in her neck, as the voices of her siren sisters clamored back to life inside her head.
She flicked her tail, propelling herself away from the docks, down into the deep waters and out to where Skull’s Bay poured into the Great Ocean. This time, she let the sirens’ sibilant whispers invade her hearing, drowning out the rest of her thoughts. She let the ocean pull her under its murmuring spell.
Better the lure of the sea than the prickles of the pretty prince’s questions.
~
One Week Later
The dockside district of Skull’s Bay sprawled along the city’s eastern edge in a ramshackle tangle of piers, byways, and centuries-old alleys winding through the haphazard mess of buildings that had cropped up over the years as the merchants, the navy, the travelers, the fishermen, and anyone else who owned a boat tried to wrangle the district into some semblance of order. The labyrinthine mess of roadways made the docks district an ideal place for hiding out, and it was an open secret that plenty of pirates kept storehouses in the docks of Skull’s Bay.
The abundance of hidden corners also made the docks district the perfect place for a princess-turned-siren to move between land and sea.
After she had made her siren presence known to Rolfe, Aelin had worked with the Lord of Skull’s Bay to set up a private hideout for her in the northwestern corner of the docks. She’d found a long-since abandoned guardpost building from at least three centuries ago—the last time Skull’s Bay had housed a military—and after Rolfe confirmed that it was empty, she’d slowly transformed the dusty old sandstone building into something resembling coziness. The upper floor was still unused, but on the ground floor, Aelin had a functional kitchen, a bedroom, an office that doubled as storage space, and even a washroom. Each time she came from the sirens’ lair to the city, she swam in from the north, skirted the line of merchants headed for the central docks, and shifted back into human form in the protective shadow of a fishing boat Rolfe kept tied up at an unused pier. Her temporary home was only a few blocks away, easy to access.
Standing in front of the dull mirror in her washroom, Aelin stared into her reflection, watching her gills disappear into her neck. They were always the last thing to fully shift and the first to reappear when she dove back into the ocean, except for the fangs. She smiled, the sharp curves of her pointed canines flicking over her lower lip, and then sighed, hiding the fangs. They were no use while she was in her human form; their only purpose was to make drunken, overly handsy sailors back the fuck off.
At least in this body, the constant thrum of her siren sisters’ voices was silenced.
Aelin pushed away from the sink she’d been leaning against and left the washroom, pausing to grab her cloak from its hook by the door before she left the building. She wove through the maze of alleys on silent feet, having memorized the district’s meandering paths long ago. She wrinkled her nose as she moved from the narrow alley to a wider, straighter street that marked the beginning of the market district, picking up the sweaty, oily reek of lust and hunger before her human senses picked up the acrid stench of spilled beer and piss. A siren could always scent emotions, even in a human body. She was half tempted to join in the bawdy song she heard pouring out of one jam-packed tavern’s windows, but decided that she’d have too much cleanup to do if her singing enthralled half the drunken sailors in the taverns.
It took her a good half hour to reach Rolfe’s office building, and once she arrived, she skirted around the corner to the nearest side door, kicked a small, flat key out of her boot, and slipped it into the door’s handle. The handle turned with only a slight squeak, and she crept inside, her tread still silent on the hardwood floors. She went down a hallway and up two now-familiar flights of stairs, cut through an unoccupied room, and flung Rolfe’s door wide.
“Hello, pirate.”
Rolfe jerked around in his seat—she’d conveniently entered through the side door that connected to a storage room he used for spying on “private” meetings—and sighed in open relief when he saw that it was her. “Princess.”
The man seated across from Rolfe spluttered out a cough. “Y-You…”
Aelin turned her gaze onto the man, instantly recognizing the cut of his face and the layered scent of his intrigue, confusion, shock, and fear. “Hello, pretty prince.”
Rolfe snickered. “It seems like no introduction is necessary, then.”
“I could have done with a bit of warning,” the siren hunter said hoarsely once he’d managed to regain control of his faculties.
“Ahem.” Rolfe cleared his throat grandly.
“Gods above,” Aelin muttered under her breath, leaning against the wall and crossing her arms. Rolfe always had been a bit too obsessed with spectacle.
“Princess, this is Rowan. Rowan, this is Crown Princess Aelin Ashryver Galathynius.”
“We’ve met,” Aelin drawled. “In fact, I had a lovely chat with Prince Rowan just last week, or have you already forgotten that you set up that little meeting, pirate?” The question was directed at Rolfe, but her lazy smirk stayed trained on Rowan.
The siren hunter’s posture went ramrod stiff. Royally stiff, the tension of someone used to hours dealing with bickering councilors. “I doubt Rolfe is prone to forgetfulness, siren.”
Aelin’s soft chuckle echoed through the room like the hiss of a drawn blade. She dipped her head in a short, graceful bow. “Pleased to meet you—in a civilized setting—Your Highness.”
The siren hunter—Prince Rowan Whitethorn—stood and stiffly returned the bow. “The honor is mine,” he gritted out, recognizing the hefty sarcasm in her tone. “And there’s no need to use titles.”
Rolfe was cackling. “Gods be merciful,” he wheezed. “A less intelligent man might think there was some sordid history between the two of you.”
“Perhaps sordid for him,” Aelin retorted. “I’ve encountered the prince a few times in these last few weeks, and each time, he’s foolishly insisted that I simply stop being a siren.” She shot a deliberately wide smirk at Rowan, who sucked in a gasp at the sight of her fangs. “I’m not quite sure how to express that it’s a work in progress.”
“You might have verbalized that,” Rowan grumbled.
Aelin arched a brow. “To what end? Would you have accepted that conclusion before Rolfe gave you the story?”
“I would—” Rowan cut himself off, his jaw tightening. “Most likely not.” Perhaps it was simply the difference of seeing him in an office instead of an alley, but Aelin sensed something different in the prince’s expression, something wholly unlike the rage he’d radiated when she first encountered him or the calculation he’d worn last week in the pub. There was another layer to the scents of his emotions, something that wasn’t just shock or anger or confusion.
If he was underwater, under her voice’s spell, she might have called it desire.
But she smothered that observation before it could take root and turned her lazy grin back to Rolfe. “So tell me, pirate. How are you and the prince going to steal Arobynn Hamel’s siren poison?”
We're finally getting into the thick of the plot!!!! I'm so excited 💓💓
Warnings: foul language, Arobitch
Words: 6,1k
When Coach Gavriel called my name, he didn’t look as pissed as he sounded.
He just dismissed everyone, and…
Oh, I’m the captain, aren’t I? I’m supposed to stay after the team meeting.
I trail back and sit on my assigned chair at the front, waiting until the room is emptied. It reminds me of a theater, except instead of a movie, Coach has an overpriced football software where we play, pause, draw on and loop video clips of every team we play against.
When the last player leaves the room, I have my nose on my handwritten notes over the tactical dossier, trying to memorize the opponent team’s pressing triggers and defensive shape.
“How’s everyone holding up this week?”
Two matches a week is now the norm for this part of the season. Being part of the job doesn’t make it any less tiring.
I stand up to meet Gavriel’s gaze. “We’re doing good. Connall and Cairn got past that… disagreement. Everyone’s focused on beating Varese.”
“Are you? Focused, I mean.” Coach folds his hand before him, brows furrowed in concern—which, for me, is worse than being pissed.
I’ll never tell him, but I’m not. Someone cast a spell on me, or maybe the first no I got in my adult life got to my head. It turned me into something other than myself, a hybrid between an obsessed moth around a flame and an abandoned dog—in heat.
A violent boom tells us that someone burst the heavy door open—or was shot, for the sound of it. Lorcan’s large figure burst inside, saving me from Gavriel’s inquisition, and Fenrys came in right after, aiming for the computer. Behind them, Connall and Vaughan also crash my conversation with the coach.
“What the hell is going on?”
When I track the coach’s line of sight to the big screen, I’m surprised with a presentation named after me.
Rowie Got a Red Card in the Dating Cup
We're Overturning the VAR Decision.
Under the title, I find an illustration of a tiny blonde person with one leg up. It’s not me, the footballer, doing the kicking, though—that’s Aelin, and my character is the one flying to the opposite corner of the screen, ass kicked and with faint, curvy lines to make it obvious I’m flying away because she kicked me to the curb.
I don’t need to double-check before I turn to Lorcan and say, “This is your fault.”
I was so shocked when I received Aelin’s text rejecting me, I couldn’t hide it from my friend—or his wife—when I arrived at his place.
Having one homie worried about me means all our homies will soon be worried too. They call it looking after one another; I call it being annoying as fuck—at least when it’s with me.
“Me?” Lorcan yells, hands pointing at himself in outrage. “Vaughan was the one who taught Fenrys that fucking Canva!”
It was Vaughan’s turn to say, “I was against the PowerPoint to begin with.”
“Dude.” Fenrys’ jaw drops as he stands next to the screen. “I dare you to look me in the eye and say this doesn’t look fucking sick.”
V throws both hands up in exasperation. “It’s not about how it looks! It’s about—”
When Coach Gav put two fingers in his mouth, his whistle was loud enough to shut everyone up and call our attention.
“You have twenty-eight minutes to wrap up whatever intervention you planned. You’ll start training at 10:40 sharp and give your best. My terms are non-negotiable.”
Coach left with that, and Fenrys hit play on the animation of Aelin kicking my ass.
I gesture to the screen. “Go on.”
I'd had the worst case of blue balls last Sunday, and I'd liked Aelin a lot that night, but she’d said no. Anything past this would be stalking, and my friends know that. My curiosity regarding this intervention is genuine.
Fen ducks his head. “This is it. I spent all night making the GIF for the cover and didn’t prepare the rest.”
It was now Connall’s turn to say, “The fuck, man?”
“Okay, you two calm down.” Vaughan gets up and moves to the side of the screen, opposite Fen. He unlocks his phone while mumbling, “I still have the key points somewhere around here.”
I trust V. He’s a reasonable guy. He went to college—was going to be a lawyer had he not signed a contract straight after it—but he keeps in touch with that side of himself through legal TV shows.
“Our whole idea to turn things around is because she ended the text with see you around. She left you a loophole. Maybe she wants to be chased.”
That’s what every stalker thinks. “I was chasing her. If she wanted to go out with me, she’d just say yes.”
“I think there’s more to it,” Connall cuts in. “She’s going through a lot with everyone calling her an inconsiderate slut. Maybe she thinks you’re just a himbo to fool around with, and you need to show you’re someone who can also support her.”
“Which leads to another topic we should discuss.” Lorcan gets up, arms crossed as he stares at me. “We know you’re not a relationship guy, but if you want to go further with this—dude, you can’t chase a woman this hard just to fuck and ghost her. When you asked Aelin out, what did you have in mind?”
I bite back a grin. “Is this warning yours or Elide’s?”
“Not relevant.” From the crabby squint of his eyes, it was Elide’s—which makes sense, because his wife is full of unsettling wisdom.
Figuring out what I want from Aelin is something that has bugged me these days. I’ve liked her for three days—it should’ve faded away by now, but it’s weirding me out that it hasn’t.
I’m not against relationships, but I keep remembering the reasons—other than lack of interest—that made me swear off them for a while.
Women see a pro-athlete buying them overpriced drinks and they often find it disappointing that my daily life isn’t half as flashy as people make it out to be: I work too hard, my diet and sleep schedule are sacred, and I’m most comfortable living below my means.
Most of all, I refuse to put a relationship before my job. It will be my priority someday, but my career is short-lived, and I want to make every season count before I retire against my will.
So, my ‘perpetually single’ status isn’t something I’ve longed for, but a situation I’ve resigned myself to.
“You don’t have to propose on the first date, but are you committed enough to see her repeatedly until you two can see where it goes?” Lorcan asks, still waiting for my response.
“I can do that,” I say, my focus back on him. “Stay and see where it goes.”
My friends relax and sigh, and I wonder what they must think of me.
Fenrys claps once, bringing attention to himself. “Now we figure out how to win her. No biggie.” The room is silent, and my friend shrugs. “A designer bag?”
“Isn’t she rich?”
“A car, then.”
“That’s trying too hard.”
“A designer bag that costs as much as a car?”
Sinking into my seat, I find my friends’ uncoordinated present ideas rather bland. “I don’t know if it’ll work."
It’s doubtful it’ll impress her, and I don’t want my wooing to look like I’m trying to buy her consent.
While the guys stick with that debate, I recall her text: I want to say yes, but I have a lot going on right now and not so much mental energy for dating.
This sounds like a timing issue, not something money can buy.
I can’t time travel, but I can make sure I’m there when she’s ready.
“Why would anyone spend that much on a purse when they could buy a sports car? What’s up with chicks and the fucking mansions hanging from their arms?” Connall argues, their debate still heated.
I’m not paying attention. My thoughts stumble over one another like bubbles in a boiling swirl—emerging, clashing and disappearing as fast as they go, an unruly mess.
If my issue is situational, I have to be present when the situation shifts—waiting from afar isn’t an option; she doesn’t seem the type to be single for long.
Can I shift the situation myself? Maybe I can buy off a few journalists and—no, better not. I don’t know her industry well, so it’s best if I keep to myself.
But being there in a non-stalker way until she’s ready… that’s a solid one. If I’m lucky, I can even speed up the process and seduce her—our issue was never physical attraction.
“Dude, you’re married,” Fenrys argues with Lorcan. “You’re supposed to know stuff like this.”
“First, fuck you. Second, I was born with everything I need to please my wife.”
“Boyo!” I shout, happy to interrupt the cars versus purses debate. “How often are you invited to those fashion weeks? Do you see Aelin there?”
That gets everyone’s attention. Fenrys looks apologetic when he replies, “It’s a big event, Ro, we don’t bump into each other like that. And I declined all spring/summer invites because of the biweekly games.”
Vaughan raises his hand and says, “I’m going to that dressy film festival in Varese. She was there last year. You could come with me.”
“Nice!” Lorcan points a finger at V, impressed. "Ellie knows a lot of people, I'll ask her to see what she can find out about Aelin's RSVP."
“Good idea,” I agree, but going with Vaughan to an event reminds me of something… an old story Lorcan told me once, on an off-season night after the rare occasion of us indulging in a few too many beers. “What was that deal you got? You mentioned something about the team’s PR making you go on dates.”
“No!” My friend stands up. “That was the worst nightmare I have ever experienced.”
Simultaneously, Vaughan cackled. “That was the funniest shit I’ve ever seen.”
Fenrys, Connall and I look between ourselves, each of us with different levels of confusion and amusement. We weren’t here when it happened, and Lorcan outlawed this topic after he got married.
“It all started when Lorcan was single and easier than scoring an open goal—I swear to Mala, he’d stick his dick in any hole he’d find,” Vaughan starts with a bang. “No one approved of it, but shit hit the fan with that group sex scandal. It all started when this married chick—”
“And that’s when the CFO and Sporting Director wondered if I was worth the trouble,” Lorcan interrupted with a glare. “The PR team—Ellie—and I smoothed things over, and part of it was pretending to be serious about this actress, playing the reformed bad boy. I hated every second.”
Skipping the gossip, I cut to the point. “And you went on dates?”
“Several. It was the whole point of our arrangement.”
Taking Aelin on date after date, endless chances to impress her until she gives in and invites me home after. That’s the best plan I’ve come up with so far.
Would she come to another game? I picture Aelin wearing my jersey, in a short skirt like the one from Sunday, and cheering from a private box. I have to erase the image before I embarrass myself.
Instead, I dial that pain in the ass, Tern.
While I wait for him to pick up, Fenrys asks Lorcan, “How much sex does Ro need to have before he gets one too?”
“People do that for different reasons; I don’t think he needs a crazy bender.”
“Sorry, dude.” The mournful glint in his eyes is genuine. “I tried.”
I have only time to chuckle before Tern picks up.
He greets me with, “Tell your secretary to make time for a business meeting with me in Mistward—if you haven’t grown bored with watching more money come in, that’s it.”
Mistward, where I’m off to tomorrow. I have a match there, but I’m not even spending 24 hours in that city. “I’m busy with my actual job. I can’t do any ads this month.”
“You’ll want to hear me out on this one.”
In his mind, I always will. “I called because I fear I have a terrible reputation—”
“You absolutely don’t—”
“And I need a PR relationship with Aelin Galathynius to clean up my image.”
For once, he’s silent.
He’s right about one thing; my image is crystal clear. I’m no monk, but I’m committed to my job and abide by a strict work ethic—I don’t drink or do drugs during the season, my only indulgence being sleeping around. Because of the sexist world we live in—even more so considering I’m in sports—the promiscuous use of my free time isn’t scandalous enough to cause me any trouble.
Unlike Aelin, who’s being dragged for seeing three guys within the same half-year.
Damn, that’s fucked up.
Tern scoffs. “Um, no. She is the one in need of that, and she’ll drag your name through the mud.”
I sigh. He’s the expert here; I know better than to argue about public relations with the shark PR I’ve hired to compensate for the knowledge I lack. “I’ll make time for whatever meeting you want in Mistward if you’re willing to discuss this with me. Thursday morning, you find a place.”
He agrees with me, and we hang up.
“I fucking hate that guy,” Lorcan says.
I look him dead in the eye and say, “Give me a number.”
We’ve discussed this several times. Any number she can dream of, and I’ll pay that so she takes over as my PR manager. That’s how I stole my personal chef from the team, but it never works on Elide—she works as a hobby ever since marrying Lorcan and, unfortunately for me, she fucking loves working with the White Hawks.
He shakes his head as if my agony is funny. “You say it like I’m the boss of her, man. I’m not the boss of anything in that house.”
Because I don’t trust Tern with my plan, I text Elide—despite her unwillingness to work for me.
I need your help
When I see the time on the bottom of the text bubble, I get up before my brain fully processes it.
10:42. Coach is going to eat us alive.
The Whitethorn Effect: Nike Collaboration Achieves Record-Breaking Sell-Out
“I got you a meeting,” Elide tells me—during a meeting.
I look around the beige and brown room the hotel provided us. That’s what we’re doing already, but she meant another one, and my groan echoes inside my head only.
Meetings being important doesn’t mean I dislike them less.
We’re side-by-side on two of the eight chairs available, and it’s a matter of time before Tern joins us to discuss whatever he wanted. I asked Elide for help with the fake-but-soon-to-be-real relationship plan, and she said she’d join us now to broach the subject with me once Tern is done with whatever he wants today.
I don’t know the subject of this meeting—because Tern is a jerk—or the one to come, which Elide is about to tell me all about.
Her pursed lips are twitching so they don’t break out in a grin. “I got you a casual, discreet meeting the Friday after the next.”
“You’re joking.” Leaning forward, I brace both hands on the edge of the desk. “That easy?”
“I called your agent—your actual one, not Tern, who likes to act as one—and he admitted the PR relationship could be beneficial, even though he didn’t like it. So I reached out to Manon—”
“Ma—who?”
By her tired expression, she had either told me this already, or I was supposed to know it. Or maybe she’s just that exhausted.
“Manon, her manager.”
“You know her?”
She shrugs. “We both work for A-list celebrities. It’s a small world. It’s just a meeting, though, not a deal—yet.”
Elide and I discussed this the other time we spoke. Aelin and I have already been presented as a couple, so she sees no harm in continuing the act. She might want to rest her image and focus on a big comeback, though.
Still, I'm sure getting this meeting was difficult, but not as difficult as my agent described it—never mind I’m paying him the big bucks to get things despite how difficult they are.
I’m not sure why I want this—her—so bad, but I do. And watching Tern walk through the door fuels my desire to cross him.
The poorly concealed disgust he aims at Elide hardens my expression. Little does he know I’ve begged her to keep his spot on my team.
He greets us and takes a seat on my other side, and I remind myself I can’t fire people just because I feel like it. It’s awkward enough to employ someone to do a basic task I lack the time to do myself, like my laundry. Most of these people have families or mortgages to pay. I can’t unemploy them like it’s no big deal.
Tern’s a hard-working guy, and he does his job well. Too bad I fucking hate his guts.
“So.” I gesture to the other side of the desk, all seats empty. Clearly, someone’s going to take these spots. “The fuck am I doing here, Tern?”
I don’t mean to snap, but losing a game and spending my only free time of the week with my despised PR manager ruffled my feathers. After today, I’ll send my team the memo: the only situation in which will be acceptable to make me work on a free day is to take Aelin on a date—which won’t feel like work to me, but they don’t need to know that.
Tern eyes Elide once more and sighs, knowing better than to argue with me about her presence.
“I got you a deal. A big, big deal. Your agent liked it, and it’ll get you a lot more money than your usual publicity gigs,” he says in a slow and cautious tone, as if I might bite him at any moment.
“And you’re all cagey about it because…?”
“It involves politics.”
“No.”
“I know, but hear me out—”
“Dude, ‘no politics’ was the one thing we agreed on.”
“You were seen with a Galathynius less than a week ago!”
“Because she was hot! And her dad is good people.”
According to my dad, who is too trusting for his own good, but I’m not mentioning that. And even if he weren’t, I’m not asking a chick if she’s associated with politics before a one-night stand—what kind of fucked up foreplay is that?
He shook his head and stared at me the way one does at a child. “I figured you wouldn’t mind since you broke our ‘no politics’ agreement, and at least you’ll get something out of this.”
I don’t let him know he’s struck a nerve. Aside from obsessing, I’m okay with the rejection, but I don’t want him to bring it up.
“How hot is she?”
He tilts his head, confused. “She?”
“You say this gig is better than dating Aelin, yeah? You better have found me a smoking hot piece of ass, Tern.”
He doesn’t know how serious I am, to my amusement. I’m not on board with his idea at all, and I only want Aelin for now. Still, the message I’m trying to send is true—I don’t take on extra gigs just for the money. My job is to play ball, and I’m not an eager pup anymore; if I don’t feel like doing something, I won’t.
Three knocks on the door interrupt us. Elide, who’s been silently listening to my argument with Tern, reaches for the door.
Behind whatever hollow assistant must be losing his soul to keep his job—Ben, as I learn during some quick pleasantries—I find the one man I hoped never to see again.
And I finally have a reason to fire Tern.
“Rowan, may I introduce you to—”
“Mr. Arobynn Hamel,” I interrupt my PR manager’s introductions to make clear I know damn well who this fucker is. Mr. Hamel misreads my quiet warning, and his grin turns smug.
Tern hides his surprise well—we both know my detachment from politics extends to my personal life.
“Striker Whitethorn, it’s a great pleasure to meet you.” Hamel extends his hand. “I’ve been a White Hawks fan since I was a boy. Last game aside, you’ve been building an outstanding season.”
I’ve shaken hands with a lot of gods-awful people in this industry, but having Arobynn Hamel’s hand embrace mine makes my skin tighten, as if it wants to crawl out of that contact.
I don’t return the compliment. Instead, I say, “We’ve met before.”
Hamel sends his campaign manager a dirty look. Uh-oh.
When we sit down, the explanation of our partnership proposal is quick and outrageous.
He wants to buy my endorsement for his presidential campaign. “Nothing too aggressive,” they say. “But your position has to be clear.”
Which includes dropping any kind of public relationship with Aelin, of course.
And there’s a bonus if Hamel wins: I’ll get to commit tax fraud for his entire term, and on his way out he’ll grant me a presidential pardon to wipe out the financial crimes.
I knew people endorsed monsters for selfish reasons, but having it laid out before me as if it’s a simple business transaction is revolting. Taxes?
I look over to Elide, and she’s silent beside me, eyes glued to the charts they brought out. So many numbers. My accountant isn’t here, but I was good with math once in school—I know they’re not the reason I feel dizzy and disoriented.
I interrupt them. “Much of this amount you’re saying I’d ‘save’ is the fine I’d pay for tax evasion, but I don’t do that. I pay my taxes. I don’t mind paying taxes.”
“You don’t, and I commend you for being a model citizen.” Hame continues without missing a beat, unbothered by what I said, to contrast with Tern and Ben. “This is why I want more people like you on my side, supporting me while I elevate this country to greatness. Tell me, is there any way I could help you in return?”
“I suppose our deal will be a spoken agreement?”
I could get his proposal in writing and expose him, maybe send it to a journalist, but his grin turns sharp as my words register.
“You suppose right. I expect my allies to trust my word.”
“Your word, huh?” I click the pen before me once, twice. I know it’s annoying, but I don’t care. “Have you ever been to Mora Market, the big one in northern Doranelle City?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
My chuckle is bitter. “Dreadful place, am I right?”
He leaned back, a slow smirk telling an old story of amused tolerance. “It is without a doubt a place one can only endure with a strong sense of… anthropological curiosity.”
“Well, I worked there for years at my uncle’s fruit stand. Not because I liked it, but because my dad was a long-hauler at the time, and he needed me to stay with someone when he was out of town, after my mother passed away—tell me, Mr. Hamel, do you have any policy proposals directed at the welfare of truck drivers?”
“Not particularly, but I can—”
“I figured. Anyway, I was fourteen when we first met, because you went slumming with us to grab some extra votes—am I refreshing your memory now, Mr. Hamel?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t let him. I was on fire, my veins buzzing with indignation. “You don’t remember me, but I remember you. You asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, and I told you loud and clear I was going to be a football player; then you looked over to my family and laughed, said, ‘kids, huh?’ and told me I should focus on school in case I needed to take over my dad’s vending spot—that was my uncle, by the way.”
“Mr. Whitethorn, I am so sorry for—”
I held up a hand to stop him. “That’s the reason I dislike you, Mr. Hamel, but not the reason I don’t trust you. That’d be because you promised a renovation: pavement, drainage, electrical installations—basic infrastructure, really—but you also promised to make it pretty. And when all those hard-working people who trusted you made you a governor, what did you do?
“Exactly—nothing. You didn’t do shit. You let years go by and came back with the same bullshit to get reelected; that’s what you did.” I lean over the desk towards him with my hands clasped and slow down my voice, using the same tone I do with my infant cousins. “Do you understand now why I don’t think you’re a man of your word, Mr. Hamel?”
That devil smirked.
“I’m confident we can move beyond this error in judgment, Mr. Whitethorn. I believe we’re having this agreement in a substantially different context.” Turning to his campaign manager, he said, “In addition, Ben, wouldn’t you agree that Mr. Whitethorn is deserving of more suitable compensation for his public endorsement?”
The thing about new-money folks is that sometimes people expect them to forget where they came from in order to fit in.
Not my fucking case.
“I think this meeting’s over.” Pushing myself off the desk on the whatever-they’re-called office wheeled chair, I can’t wait to leave this meeting room, and I don’t fucking care if it shows.
When my hand embraces the doorknob, I realize my friend hasn’t followed me. I turn around and see her still sitting, head high despite being unsure of what to do.
“Elide?” I try to tone down my anger when I address her. “Aren’t you coming with me? We haven’t finished that conversation.”
She politely says goodbye to the rest of the men, even though nothing remotely close to nice to meet you leaves her mouth.
After I close the door, we’re a few steps further from that damned room when she says, “You did good in there. I think that was the right call.”
“Thanks. I’d do that even if you didn’t.”
When I reach down to grab my phone, I realize my hand is shaking. I didn’t even notice I was nervous—or maybe I am just now.
He’s an incredibly powerful man. Could this get back at me? Does he know anyone on my team or in the league? I’m not naïve enough to believe my mild scolding will change the man, but I hope it bothered him; however, a minor, annoying, cowardly voice in my head hopes it didn’t bother him too much, for no reason other than self-preservation.
I take a deep breath. He can take away my spot on the team, but he can’t take away my talent. I got where I am licking no sleazy politician’s balls. I can keep my spot if I keep up the hard work.
In the end, I find comfort in the thought that he is a powerful man, but not a god.
Quick footsteps behind us make Elide and I turn. It’s Tern, self-righteous as ever and red as a beet.
“The fuck did you do in there, man?”
“I’m the one who should ask you that.”
He rubs a hand over his face and says in a condescending tone, “Look, I know he’s a bit of a jerk. You might not like him, but sometimes in business we have to deal with people we don’t like.”
Tell me about it.
I cross my arms. “Who knew about this meeting today?”
Tern’s spine goes rigid. He looks wary when he says, “Just me and your agent.”
Good to know.
“You can tell him you’re both fired. Immediately. Your next and final task is to call my accountant.”
He gapes at me as if he’s shocked to know that. Elide and I exit the hallway.
When the elevator doors closed, she leaned in and said with a chuckle, “I wonder if he knows he just handed us the perfect advantage for our deal with Aelin?”
My eyes widen, and for a moment I do nothing but stare at the cunning little strategist my friend married.
“You fucking genius.”
Rowan and Aelin: A Final Showdown Between Two Master Players. Place Your Bets.
It took me twenty-five minutes to get ready for the meeting with Aelin, and for ten of those I stood by my garage door, frozen because I couldn’t choose a car to meet her.
I have no fashion skills, so my teenage cousin organized my closet to make the clothes coordinate better. Getting dressed is easy. But cars?
I’m not vain or one to brag, but I’m no better than a girl and her shoe collection when it comes to my cars.
Aelin doesn’t seem to be the type to bat an eye at a sports car—definitely not those flashy, I’m-a-prick atrocities rookies love—but maybe she’d appreciate my quiet, tasteful ones. But this meeting was being kept under wraps, and my go-to daily car choice might be too recognizable.
And that’s how I ended up driving myself and Elide in a vintage Mercedes.
The sun was already setting, and I was dying to get out of this car and escape the smell of those damned onion rings she was eating on the passenger seat.
“There’s no need to speed up; we won’t get in until after the aquarium closes.”
And who the hell had the idea to hold this meeting at a closed aquarium, for fuck’s sake?
Already on edge enough, I eye Elide’s paper bag and wince at the deliciously crunchy sound of fried food; maybe I could…
No.
I am this season’s highest-paid player, a threat to my opponents. The overpowering scent of onion rings will not break me. I can handle a two-game week, Aelin, and my pre-game diet all at once.
“And have you thought about my proposal?” I ask Elide to distract myself.
“I wouldn’t consider a blank check a proposal, Rowan.”
“That’s how much of a lost cause I am.” My tone is teasing, but I’m not. “I’m not sure what you do, but I’m sure you’re the fucking best at it. Drop the team and work for me. Whatever they pay you, I’ll double it.”
“No.”
At the red traffic light, I make eye contact to show her how serious I am. “Triple.”
“Rowan, stop.”
“Why’d you want me to? Is it getting too tempting?”
“Kind of, yes.” She stares at me with an exasperation familiar to all White Hawks players. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to. I do. I just can’t take two full-time jobs.”
“Okay…” I trail and make a turn as I consider my options. “Can’t you get a team and delegate the least crucial tasks?”
“Do you want me to do the job or not?”
“It’s you or my younger cousin with the viral TikTok videos—I’m past the point of rejecting an intern or two.”
She curses under her breath. “Tern traumatized you that much, huh?”
“I’m not making that mistake twice.” My smile wavered, and my laugh came out harsh, echoed with furious resentment.
It’s been over a week, and it still bugs me when I think of it.
Was he trying to achieve something grand because I obviously disliked him, or did he push this agenda because I used to let him do as he wished? Am I the reason it got this far?
This week, every major agency and elite sports communications firm has bombarded me with offers—more places than I knew existed, to be honest. I’ve been spending a good portion of my limited free time reviewing proposals with my dad on his couch, and I’ve found a common denominator.
Most PR firms proposed highlighting my image of the strong, hetero man who smells like the woods and only lacks the eye plumbing that sheds tears.
If I want people like Arobynn Hamel to get off me, I need to change my approach. I’m a dude dude, and after that fateful meeting, Elide opened my eyes to the fact that the media has been associating me with some toxic masculinity shit I don’t particularly care about, but I also don’t wanna be tied to.
And maybe the solution might be to balance this out with a public figure who openly despises everything the likes of Hamel stands for.
“Okay.” Elide takes a deep breath. “I’ll take the job.”
I whip my head towards her, barely noticing what I did to make another car aggressively honk at me. “Are you fucking with me?”
“I mean it, but I’ll add some clauses of my own to the contract, and you’ll take it.” She pursed her lips. “And you won’t pay triple. That’s obscene.”
“Double, then.” I flash her a grin. “You’re the best, Ellie.”
I don’t question her change of heart. I don’t wanna push my luck.
She continues, “And I’ll assemble a team to help me out.”
“Good. Hire as many as you want and let my accountant know their wages.”
My anticipation and excitement were palpable on the last stretch of road, where the air felt electric with the energy of what was to come. I’ll finally see Aelin again after twelve long days, and Elide will help me out as my official PR strategist, not a temp.
“We’re here.” I tug the brim of my cap lower. “Any idea where the staff entrance is?”
“We’ll have to circle the block,” Elide says, “and go slow. I told you we’re too early.”
Indeed, we were. We were stuck waiting for most staff and visitors alike to clear out of the aquarium after it shut its doors.
The aquarium. I complained about it at first, but now that I think about it, it’s giving first date location. I consider the subtext behind it, and for the first time tonight I feel disappointed to have Elide’s company—a first date chaperoned by her manager and both our publicists. Right.
I have to stay parked with my head low for about thirty minutes before my friend’s phone lights up telling that the coast is clear.
Elide and I meet with the Head of Security by the staff entrance, and he leads us through room after room. I get to glimpse a lot of marine life until we reach our final destination.
I’m not sure what this room is supposed to be, but I’m mesmerized. One wall is a massive tank displaying colorful fish and corals, contrasting with the beige room, which is textured to appear like white sand.
Then I step far enough into the room, and Aelin already has her eyes fixed on me. Then I feel as aimless as the fish in the tank, lost in her turquoise siren eyes that could swallow me whole. The bluish lightning might blend with the color of her eyes, but it paints a darker shade on her pink, pouty lips.
I’d let her lead me to any corner of the sea she’d want.
Our eyes never stray away from each other as she walks to greet me. I might’ve looked clumsy when Elide cleared her throat to grab my attention and introduce me to Aelin’s team. I was still hyper-aware of her presence, and of her sudden focus on the fish followed by sneaking quick peeks at me.
“Lovely to see you again,” Aelin said after I’d been introduced to Lysandra and Manon.
I don’t know what comes over me. My grin is wider than I planned my facial muscles to stretch into, and I greet her with a clear, “Hi, baby.”
Instead of rejecting me, she tilts her head with curiosity. I delude myself into thinking her voice sounds breathy when she says, “Isn’t that a bit too forward? I haven’t made up my mind about the contract yet.”
“It is, but what comes before baby is a fetus, and I don’t think that’s a good pet name.” A beat. “Honey.”
That was one hell of a pathetic response, but the corners of her lips twitch from a suppressed smile, and I can’t help but feel eager to break her resolve.
See how compatible we are, love?
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Warnings: depictions of a d3@d body, references to poisoning, Arobynn ;)
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enjoy!! and a shout-out to @mariaofdoranelle for being the best beta reader 🥰🥰
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The siren’s body washed up on the south shore of the bay, barely a half-mile south of the sprawling grounds of the redbrick manor that sat on the southern edge of the city. Her tail, splayed limp on the sand, had gone a dull gray, and her shoulder blades and spinal ridges jutted through the near-translucent skin of her back. Dark strings of hair were plastered to her head and back, still damp as if her body clung onto the sea in some way. In the pale, foggy grey light of the dawn hours, she seemed little more than a skeleton wrapped in gauze, all sharp angles and crooked lines, none of the fluid grace Rowan expected of a siren.
One of Rolfe’s runners had knocked at his door when it was still dark outside, bearing a short, simple note telling Rowan that there was a dead siren on the south shore. He hadn’t expected to hear anything from the Lord of Skull’s Bay—let alone anything regarding siren activity—after the useless meeting, so he was floored when the note arrived. His body had taken over, and he’d thrown on plain clothing and strapped a few blades to his body and followed the boy down the silent, fog-clouded streets of the city, hiking all the way out to where the siren’s body lay limply on the damp sand.
Cautiously, Rowan crouched down and nudged the siren’s bony arm. It moved a few inches, nothing more than dead weight. Satisfied that the creature was truly dead, he eased his hands under the body and carefully turned it over onto its back. The siren’s shoulders were bony ridges in the front as well, and her collarbones protruded at sharp angles, her skin clinging to her bones as if there was nothing beneath, as if the life had been drained from her body long before she died. Rowan frowned, his gaze moving upward to scan the sunken hollows of the siren’s face, noting just how emaciated her whole frame appeared.
It almost seemed as if she’d died from the long-term effects of a potent poison like nightroot or faebane, both of which slowly starved the victim to death, but he had no knowledge of sirens or any other creature being susceptible to the effects of human poisons.
Behind Rowan, the boy cleared his throat, his feet shuffling in the sand. “If you’ve finished, sir, the lord wants to speak with you.”
Rowan blew out a long sigh and stood back up. “Very well. I’ve seen all I need to see.”
Far up on the hill, a redheaded man with frigid steel-gray eyes folded up the long spyglass through which he’d been watching the beach and signaled to the pair of black-clad men behind him. “Once the boy and the siren hunter leave, bring in the body. I’ve observations to record regarding her death.”
~
Rowan followed the boy back into the city, down a winding maze of streets and alleys until they reached one of the sandstone buildings marked with Rolfe’s insignia. The boy opened a side door and led Rowan up two flights of stairs and down a hallway that bent around more corners than a four-walled building ought to have and finally stopped at an unmarked office door and rapped his small fist against the polished wood.
Rolfe opened the door mere seconds later. “About damn time.” He nodded to the boy, who disappeared down the hall.
“We do not all have the luxury of keeping nocturnal hours,” Rowan snarked.
To his shock, Rolfe let out a short, dry laugh. “I knew there was a sense of humor hiding somewhere behind that stone-faced courtliness of yours, siren hunter.”
“You can call me Rowan.”
Rolfe sat down at his desk, folded his hands, and smirked. “Avoiding the Whitethorn name, are we?”
“You—yes.” Rowan cut himself off before he could spew any babbling about how Rolfe could have figured out his identity. The man knows things no other person ought to know. Of course he’d know exactly who’s in his city, you feather-brained idiot.
“I’ll admit, it took me half the day to match your name to your face,” Rolfe said. “You’ve clearly taken precautions.”
Rowan shrugged, sitting down opposite the Lord of Skull’s Bay. “To the public’s general knowledge, I’m not here.”
“Hmm.” Rolfe leaned back in his well-worn, cushioned chair and kicked his dusty boots up onto the desk. “At our first meeting, you informed me that King Rhoe and Queen Evalin had sent you here to look into the sirens’ activity, with special regard to potential involvement on the night of Princess Aelin’s presumed death. Why?”
“Because Terrasen deserves more than a replacement heir,” Rowan said, the words harsher than he meant them to be. “If there is any evidence, any indication that Princess Aelin could still be alive, I am going to find it and bring it home to the people.” He met Rolfe’s level gaze across the desk. “I may be insane, but I refuse to believe she died two years ago.”
“I thought she told me you’d met her already,” Rolfe drawled. “Twice now. Three times?”
Rowan’s jaw just about hit the floor. “You know?”
Rolfe arched one dark brow and wiggled his fingers. “I’ve got a tattoo that maps the location of every siren in the sea, Whitethorn, including the princess. Though she isn’t fully a siren—she was transformed.” He set his hands back down. “Furthermore, Aelin sought my help once she’d learned to control the siren form. It seems there’s something more than just wicked sirens at play here.”
“Explain.” Rowan leaned forward, bracing his palms flat on the desk, the single word packed with royal command. He paused, then softened his tone. “Please.”
~
One Year and Six Months Ago
The last person Lord Rolfe of Skull’s Bay expected to see sitting in his office in the middle of the goddamn night was a woman presumed to be dead. But there sat Princess Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, clad in a loose gray blouse and brown pants probably stolen from some family’s washing line, lounging in his godsdamned chair with her dirty boots irreverently propped atop his godsdamned desk, idly flipping a knife across her knuckles.
“What in the seven hells…” Rolfe breathed, frozen stock-still barely two steps into the office. “You…they said you’re dead?”
Aelin rolled her eyes, a movement he could see even in the darkened room. “At least try to shut your mouth, Rolfe. You look like a pufferfish.”
“You’re the embodiment of wit, as always,” he retorted, getting ahold of himself enough to walk over to the desk. “And you’re in my seat.”
“You always were sensitive about maintaining your image of authority,” Aelin drawled, chuckling a bit. “Good to see you, pirate.”
“Good to see you’re alive, princess,” Rolfe deadpanned. “What the hell happened?”
Aelin shrugged. “I followed a siren’s voice to see if I could chase her off. She turned out to be drugged by some kind of poison. She bit me, which apparently has the consequence of turning women into sirens, and it took me until about a week ago to learn about the siren body, abilities, and instincts.” She paused to take a breath, savoring the inhale and exhale like she hadn’t tasted seaside air for months. Which she hasn’t, you dimwit, Rolfe reminded himself, because she’s been trapped underwater in a siren’s body. “During that time, I discovered that a small number of the sirens have been experiencing a strange illness, which seems to be caused by exposure to a slow-acting poison. I do not know how they were exposed or what the poison is.” She stood up. “But I intend to find out, and that’s where your help would be invaluable.”
Rolfe sank slowly into the empty chair. “How in the world can I discover anything about an unknown poison that seems to only affect sirens?”
“You know Skull’s Bay better than you know your own damn head,” Aelin said. “If the poison is coming from here, you will be able to find it.”
~
“Over the next six months,” Rolfe continued, “I did in fact discover that the poison was coming from Skull’s Bay, and I tracked the paths of the sirens to see which of them came to the city more often. There were a few, perhaps six or seven, who came to the shores weekly, but there were no reports of dead sailors being discovered after the sirens’ visits, which I did not expect. Frequent visits should indicate an increase in their hunting.”
Across the desk, Rowan had recovered from the initial shock and was listening intently, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Did the sirens congregate in any particular part of the bay, or did they spread out?”
Rolfe’s expression went hard. “They congregated.” He tugged the glove off his left hand and watched one of the siren markings—the one that had faded from deep cobalt to pale cerulean early that morning—vanish from the tattoo. “They congregated at the far southern shore, just past the edge of Arobynn Hamel’s manor property.”
Rowan sucked in a gasp. “That’s where the siren body washed up this morning.”
“Last night, more likely,” Rolfe said. “My runners brought word just before the second bell. As fate or the damned gods would have it, I’d been thinking over what you told me when you brought your tight-laced ass into my office the first time, so I decided it might be useful if you had a look at the corpse before I had my men dispose of it.”
“Did your runners inform you that the body was desiccated?” Rowan asked. He leaned forward, bracing his hands flat on the scarred desktop. “Did the boys tell you that the siren was barely more than skin and bones? Did they mention the starvation? The way it looked—and smelled, gods above—like the life had been sucked out of it?” His breathing had gone shallow by the time he finished his tirade, his emotions a tangled storm of confusion, anger, horror, and bone-deep fear. Fear for the sirens, for whatever or whoever was poisoning them. Fear that the good people of Skull’s Bay might be suffering the unseen effects of a slow-acting poison as well.
Fear that the princess who’d become a siren languished somewhere in the depths of the ocean, the poison eating her life away.
Rolfe’s grave expression betrayed none of the emotions Rowan felt. “Yes. They told me that the siren corpse appeared unnaturally hollow. Based on their reports and what you’ve now said, I suspect some sort of poison. Are you familiar with this occurrence in any other clan of sirens, Whitethorn?”
Rowan shook his head, easing back into his seat. “No.”
“Tell me—you mentioned a smell. What kind of smell?” Rolfe retrieved a pen and a sheet of paper and tapped the pen’s tip against the page. “Was it recognizable as a poison?”
“I did not recognize it as a poison, but it was…wrong,” Rowan said. “It was a scent like decay, but there was a layer of sweetness hiding beneath it. Have you ever come across a beehive in a deer’s carcass?” Rolfe looked sharply up and shook his head. “That might be the closest I can come to describing it. Rot, death, decay, charred wood…and sweetness.” He swallowed. “I wonder, almost, if there is a poison at work, could the siren have been addicted to it?”
Rolfe’s scratching pen went silent. “By the gods, I fucking hope not.”
~
Some few miles to the south, Arobynn Hamel strolled a slow, deliberate circle around the emaciated siren corpse lying atop the canvas-covered table in his basement workroom. His gaze flicked between the body and the series of pages tacked to the far wall, a line of charcoal drawings of sirens whose figures ranged from lushly feminine to unearthly slender. Below each sketch, there was a second page of notes, observations tracked in chronological order over the last twenty-six months.
His greatest project to date.
Arobynn’s left hand slipped into his pocket, his long slim fingers withdrawing a simple glass vial with a small cork stopper. The liquid inside was slightly foggy, like salt not yet fully dissolved into water. He half expected the siren to jerk at the sight of it, to claw towards the dose of sweet poison that had taken over her mind.
Gloriella.
The product of many years’ study, development, and distillation of rare poisons, the opaque liquid was just diluted enough to only slow down a siren’s predatory mind and just potent enough to make her crave each successive dose. Arobynn had been fascinated by sirens since he was a young boy, and during his many years sailing the sea, he’d learned to maintain both a fear of the ocean’s deadliest creature and a primal urge to subdue the beasts, to bend them to his will. He’d developed gloriella at first only to slow down the sirens, to make them docile enough that he could study their reactions and figure out the source of their ungodly abilities and map out the effects their cunning magic had. As he was drawn deeper into the study, though, that desire to control the sirens began to dominate, and he began to experiment with the dosage to discover how much it took to make the sirens come willingly to his doorstep, craving the sweet high of the poison that both incapacitated them and heightened their predatory instincts.
Of course, a handful of the creatures had died in the process, but their deaths afforded him valuable information—how much gloriella a siren could tolerate before it killed her. It had been several months since the last dead siren washed up on his property, and that one was not nearly as desiccated as the one he now observed.
Then again, this one he’d been giving this one gloriella for several months longer.
“Interesting,” he murmured, stepping away from the table to jot down his observations and thoughts on the sheet of notes that laid on his work desk. The last siren to wash up on his shore had been bony, but she was not skeletal like this one. The last body had that same strange gaunt hollowness to its face, but this one looked even more hollow, as if the poison had eaten away her flesh. Rolfe’s boy and the cloaked man with him hadn’t disturbed the body, and it had been rearranged on the table in the same position as it was on the shore—face-up, tail limp, one arm barely gesturing outwards. Perhaps she was trying to turn herself around. Or perhaps she was reaching, reaching, reaching for one more taste of gloriella.
“Addictive quality confirmed,” he said softly, echoing the freshly inked words on the page. “Possibly intensifies towards end of life expectancy. Further inquiry to follow.” He looked back at the siren body, sweeping a cold, detached gaze over it. There was nothing remarkable about the corpse, nothing more than another dead siren on the table in his workroom.
He crossed the room and pulled open the heavy oak door. “Dispose of it,” he told the two bulky men standing sentry in the hallway. They nodded in unison and went into the workroom, the pair uncannily silent as they always were. Their muteness was half the reason Arobynn had hired them as guards in the first place—they never spoke, so his research remained secret.
As he climbed the stairs and strolled down the halls of his manor, Arobynn’s thoughts drifted to the one rogue variable of his gloriella equation, as they often did. Two years ago, only a few months into his research project, he had made a visit to the docks to bring a fresh dose of gloriella to one of the sirens he was observing at the time. She had taken it greedily, primal hunger flashing bright in her cesspool-dark eyes, and he had tucked himself into a shadowed corner to watch the aftereffects. Almost immediately, the siren started to sing, and it was not long before a cloaked figure came into view, walking slowly down the dock.
To his surprise, it had been a woman, a sharp-tongued woman who had taunted the siren into speaking human words in a hissing rasp. The woman had noticed the siren’s sharp frame and heightened hunger, and she had drawn closer, trying to puzzle out the cause. From his corner, Arobynn had watched as the woman faced the siren, dropping her hood. He had watched as the siren lunged for the woman. He had watched the woman thrash and scream as her legs fused into a silver-scaled tail and the call of the ocean mercilessly invaded her head.
He had watched his poisoned siren turn the crown princess of Terrasen into a siren.
And he had known then that his gloriella would make him a conqueror.
As they passed the weathered wooden sign that read, “Welcome to Orynth,” Aelin rolled down her window and inhaled a deep lungful of the crisp, pine-scented winter air. “Haven’t been home in way too long,” she murmured, mostly to herself, soaking the familiar sights of the town deep into her soul.
Rowan wanted to be the one Aelin soaked into her soul. Or her pussy. Either would do.
No! For the tenth time, Rowan gave himself a mental slap. Get your shit together, Whitethorn.
“Looks like we’re here,” he announced as he pulled into his family’s driveway, slowing to a stop behind his dad’s faded green pickup. “Ready to give my mom a heart attack?”
“You’re a naughty boy, Rowan Whitethorn,” Aelin teased, stretching her legs out as she climbed out of the car. The sky was darkening overhead, and the multicolored lights strung around his parents’ house cast a soft reddish glow over the porch. “When she screeches at us, I’m telling her that this was entirely your plan.”
Rowan stole a glance in the living room window as they slipped around the side of the house, heading for the side door. “Looks like your parents are here too, Ae.”
“Even better.” Her grin flashed bright in the evening dark. “We get to shock all of them at once.”
“Now who’s the naughty one?” he teased, refusing to acknowledge how badly he wanted to ask her that question in a lower voice. With far less clothing involved. And a tie around her—nope.
She poked him in the side, making him suck in a gasp. “It was still your plan.”
He just shook his head, huffing out a soft laugh, and cracked the side door open. When he’d made sure there was nobody in the mudroom, he opened the door and let Aelin in, following her into his house. She quietly stepped out of her shoes, poked her head around the corner, and gave him a thumbs-up.
And tugged him out into the living room. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”
there's a question that's been bugging Aelin for a long time, and on Beltane night she finally gets her answer
warnings: language | word count: 1.2k
masterlist
✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧
Goblet of wine in hand, Elide watched Aelin watch their mates with an assessing eye. Rowan and Lorcan stood on the other side of the central bonfire talking about gods know what. Her husband laughed at something Rowan said.
“They had to have been lovers,” Aelin said under her breath, meant for just Elide to hear. “I swear to you, they had to be.”
Elide groaned. Good gods, she had not had nearly enough to drink to be able to listen to Aelin’s madness for the umpteenth time. “Anneith above, not this again.”
“Centuries, Elide. Centuries! And you think they didn’t do anything with each other, not even once?”
“I personally don’t care if they did or not. It’s not my business to be sticking my nose in, and it’s surely not yours either.” Elide hoped that would be the end of it, for the time being at least. “As your elder, I beg you to drop it, Aelin, please.”
She did not drop the subject. Instead, she barreled onward with her train of thought. “Wait, that means by some confounded logic that Lorcan has fucked me.” Aelin shuddered, a disgusted look on her face.
Choking on her sip of wine, Elide coughed and spluttered. It drew her husband’s eyes and concern, which she felt more than saw, but she waved him off. She was fine, just shocked. Nevertheless, a few moments later a hand curled around her waist and Lorcan stooped to press a featherlight kiss to her temple.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
Elide leaned back into the comfort and solid warmth of his chest. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she replied at a normal volume. There was no point in trying to have a secret conversation with three beings of unnaturally good hearing around, even if one of them was her husband.
“Rowan,” Elide began, sick of Aelin’s conjecturing and wanting to solve the matter here and now, “I believe your wife has a question for you.”
Aelin’s golden eyebrows shot up. “I do?”
“Yes, you do,” Elide hissed through gritted teeth.
Silent war waged between the two women until the queen finally surrendered. Aelin waved a hand flippantly. “Fine, fine. Did you two ever, you know…?” She trailed off, gesturing between Lorcan and Rowan.
Confused, the king consort cocked his head and narrowed his green eyes. “Did we ever what?”
A flush crawled up Aelin’s cheeks and spread across her chest. “You know,” she repeated. When they did not, in fact, know, she huffed a sigh. “Fuck each other? Before Elide and I came into the picture.”
Silence stretched, filled by the sounds of their surroundings. Wood popped and crackled from bonfires near and far, smoke drifting up into the night sky. Pieces of conversations flitted by in the breeze, drowned out by the cheering and laughing as bonfires were jumped, kisses exchanged, wine poured. The Beltanes of Terrasen were tame compared to those in the south, where the Fae reveled until dawn and debauchery was king.
Then, Lorcan’s dark laugh rumbled through Elide. “Jealous, fire-breather?” he taunted. “I’m sure we could give you a little taste, for old times sake. What say you, Rowan?”
Rowan’s reply was low, his tone sultry and seductive. “Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve taken a third to bed.”
The queen of Terrasen could only stare at her husband and his former lover (now known for sure) in absolute and utter shock. It took Elide a few seconds to regain her composure, to make sure she had really heard them right.
“They’re kidding, Aelin,” Elide laughed. After closing Aelin’s mouth, she reached for the blonde’s hand, intending to drag her away, forcibly if need be. Turning to her dark-haired, dark-eyed husband, she said with a nervous smile, “You’re joking, right?” A heartbeat. “Oh, you’re not joking. Let’s go, Aelin.”
———————————
Rowan watched Elide drag his wife away, laughter bubbling up inside until he couldn’t contain it anymore. Clutching his stomach, he howled until tears pricked his eyes and he could hardly breathe. Lorcan was hardly doing any better himself, on his hands and knees in the grass. A deep wheeze from Lorcan sent them both giggling again.
“That was too good,” Lorcan said finally, slowly catching his breath after their fit of laughter. “Did you see Aelin’s face at the end there? I thought for sure she’d combust then and there.”
Hand outstretched, Rowan hauled Lorcan to his feet. “Thank you for that, by the way,” he grumbled. “Now I’ll never know another moment of peace.”
“You married her. That’s your problem.”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Rowan sniped, “Lord Lorcan Lochan. Does Elide put a collar around your neck and walk you like a dog, too?”
Lorcan grinned like a fiend. “Only when I ask nicely,” he confessed in a whisper. Rowan gagged and feigned throwing up. With a hearty laugh, Lorcan slapped Rowan’s shoulder before slinking off into the darkness. “Send the fire-breathing bitch queen my hatred, will you?”
Rowan aimed a rude gesture at Lorcan’s back before himself heading off to find Aelin and talk her off whatever ledge she had climbed up onto. The queen did have a flair for dramatics, and gods only knew how she would react to that news in private.
Only at dawn did Aelin return to their rooms, clutching the doorframe as if it was all that kept her upright. She hiccuped, face paling dangerously. Rowan lifted a brow as his wife, the esteemed Queen of Terrasen and a thousand other titles, managed not to vomit. At least, not until she had her face over the chamber pot. He slid from their bed, gathering her hair back and rubbing soothing circles on her back. This, she allowed. Once in bed, when he tried to pull her to him, she shoved him away.
“Keep your Lorcan-fucking hands away from me,” she spat. There was a slight slur to her speech. She was beyond drunk, and at this stage, there was no dissuading her of any ideas she’d gotten stuck in her head.
“You really won’t lay with me?” Rowan slept best with his mate beside him, if not half-sprawled across him.
Aelin stuck her lower lip out and lifted her chin haughtily. “No. You stuck your cock in that bastard. I won’t have you putting it anywhere near, or inside, me.”
Rowan sighed. “My my, fireheart, such crude language,” he responded, almost droll. She glared, arms wrapped tight around her chest, so far away she was one deep breath away from falling off the edge of the bed. He wanted to laugh but knew better.
Covers rustled as they both lay on their respective halves of the bed. Rowan glanced over his shoulder, confirming that her back was to him, golden hair messily braided so it wouldn’t end up a massive tangle when she woke. Thank goodness the curtains were drawn and their bedroom gloomy because even with his eyes closed, he could still see sunlight slipping through the cracks.
“Good night, buzard.”
“Good morning, fireheart.”
———————————
maybe aelin should've stayed curious (for her own good 🤷🏼♀️)
In my*very* limited free time as an overwhelmed 1L, I've been scribbling away. . .slowly. . .on a few little projects. At least one of them is rowaelin (teeheehee @mariaofdoranelle 👀) and I do plan to post it someday when I have time to breathe for more than ten seconds lol.
Another project is an original work---a lil fantasy novel with a cast of found-family characters who popped into my head one day a couple months ago and refused to leave until I wrote them and their angst antics down. Purely out of curiosity (and because i do in fact believe that the serial novel is a lost art form), would anyone want to read my slightly chaotic and probably insane story? please, be honest.
As always, thank you so very much for being here :))
With 3 days as exceptions, I wrote every day this month. I think my overwhelmingly slow pace is proof enough that I'm not putting AI to do my job lmaooo
This chapter covers the same day as the last, but from Aelin's POV <33
Warnings: foul language, Chaol
Words: 7,1 k
I’m conscious enough to discern that fuckass ringtone from my alarm sound. After the swift pain caused by my phone’s bright screen, it gave me crucial information:
1) It was my mom calling;
2) At 5:49 a.m.
“Mom.” Just one word, but the complaint in my tone is clear as day.
“Oh, hi, darling!” Her cheery tone is almost enough to melt my morning grouchiness. Almost. “How are you doing?”
“Asleep.”
“Oh…” A pause. “Oh my! I saw something and got so thrilled I jumped to call you—the sun’s fully risen here, I forgot it was so early.”
I close my eyes, and with a deep breath I gather the little scraps of patience I was born with. I love my mom, and she’s one of my best friends. However, as much as I love the self-discovery journey she started after Aedion and I left the house, I want to be as far away from her 5 a.m. yoga as possible.
“Anyway,” she continues, excitement laced in her tone. “Owen Whitethorn just texted your dad about your date with Rowan, because he forgot to ask for your number—darling, I could’ve set you up somewhere nicer than that party. You never let us set you up with our friends’ sons.”
I blink, still too sleepy to trust my sentience, so I confirm with her, “Dad and Rowan’s dad are friends?”
“Absolutely!” she says as if it’s obvious, and it sort of is. My dad has as many friends as there are grains of salt in the ocean, and he loves sports. Maybe he met the man once at a box or an event and kept in touch—it’d be totally on brand for Rhoe Galathynius.
And then I notice that I accidentally tuned off mom.
“…and he’s such a sweet boy!” she gushes over this stranger the same way she does to puppies on the street.
“Who told you that?”
“His father, who else?”
So, a completely different description from the ‘womanizing playboy’ narrative I’ve seen online. I have his dad and the media—two opposite opinions of him, two unreliable sources. Looks like I won’t figure this guy out before I see him again.
Last night, Rowan was a surprise. My initial plan was to have sex with him, but he was so unexpectedly considerate and magnetic that I… couldn’t. It threw me off-balance too much to follow through.
When I got inside his car, the small space stole the air from my lungs. I couldn’t stop thinking that I don’t know him. I don’t know his flaws, he gave me no red flags to guide myself. I was about to take my clothes off for a man I like, and I didn’t feel prepared for it in the least.
So I didn’t join him in bed. That doesn’t mean I didn’t take off my make-up thinking about how his trimmed beard would feel between my thighs.
“So,” Mom continued, “can I send him your number?”
Why the hell not?
“My work phone, not this one.”
After yet another display of joy from her, I wrap up the call, eager to sleep again, thankful that the sun peeking out from the blackout curtain is minimal. My constant crashing at Dad’s spare apartment made him turn the guest room into the comfiest cocoon.
I drip two drops of the lavender essential oil my mom left here for me and check my phone before drifting again.
My personal phone—the one for family and my few closest friends. The other one is pure chaos and doesn’t even enter my bedroom.
And there, in my only peaceful digital space, I find six missed calls from Lysandra. I call her back.
Just to be sure, of course. At this hour, I doubt she’s awake to—
She picks up on the second ring.
“Aelin, I could fucking kill you right now.”
Between Two Best Friends and Their Favorite Football Star! How Greedy Can Galathynius Get?
Here’s Everything About Aelin Galathynius’ Love Quadrangle!
Why Can’t Aelin Galathynius Keep a Man?
“Wow.” I stare at Lys’ curated media monitoring report. “That’s so rude. They should be asking themselves: Why can’t a man keep me?”
My friend and co-worker raises her coffee cup, saluting the statement as she reads some notes of mine after the dreadful morning at AG Management’s War Room.
“I mean it, Lys. Gods, straight men. The girls are on our own kind of world hunger map.”
I didn’t get to nap after Mom’s call, and also had to move my writing session with Ren to the afternoon so I could meet my team. All because I made a shitty situation ten times worse by being photographed with Rowan last night.
He texted me in the middle of the meeting, asking to see me again. Lys has my work phone for now, but she’s under strict orders to forward me if he sends me anything else, and I still have to reply to his last one, burned in my memory until now.
I had an amazing time getting to know you last night
When we said we’d see each other around, I was hoping it’d be around 7 p.m. this Friday, when I take you out to dinner
What do you say?
I’m still not sure what to reply to that.
Do I want to see Rowan? Yes. Maybe too much for my own good.
However, can I afford to get involved with someone else this soon, given my over-saturated image in the media and lack of mental energy?
Most importantly, Rowan didn’t know who I was when we met. Did he ask me out before or after he found out my reputation is in the mud?
Do I want to find out if he cares or not?
“You didn’t leave a note for Chaol.” Lysandra shifts my attention away from the football player, flips a few times the single page of phone instructions I gave her.
Chaol. The biggest risk and disappointment of my public life.
I wave it off. “You can block him for all I care.”
It’s already done on my personal phone, anyway. I don’t know if we’ll cut ties, but he sure isn’t part of my inner circle anymore.
Too bad I won’t ever see his reaction to my evening with Rowan—my cosmic retribution for last night’s recklessness.
Sinking into the seat, I ignore Lys’ wary gaze. I spent all the energy I didn’t recover keeping my chin high this morning, but I’m in such deep shit I could cry right now.
And Chaol is the cherry on top. My team thinks I like him more than I did because I risked so much to be with him, but at the end of our three-month unlabeled relationship, that’s all he means to me: a failed relationship.
I’m disappointed in him, yes, but not half as much as I’m disappointed in myself.
The disappointment I feel towards him
With my eyelids shut, I breathe deep as if the air may mend the weary and battered pieces of me. “I’m never fake dating anyone again,” I groan.
“At least don’t date your fake boyfriend’s best friend, yeah?”
“Seriously? Now?”
The team advised me against dating Chaol, so this would be the perfect time for them to give me a big I told you so speech. They must pity me too much to do it, though, which is worse.
She shrugged. “You say it like it’s Dorian’s fault, but everyone loved him: the team, the public, the tabloids. The problem started after the contract was over.”
Indeed.
Between evening kisses with Rifthold’s lights reflected on the Avery River and sneaking out of ballrooms with a champagne bottle in his hand, our relationship not only seemed perfect—spending that much time with Dorian was electrifying like a serotonin boost. Except our relationship’s true nature was never romantic; we were just two friends having the time of their lives while fooling hundreds of millions. And promoting a movie, of course.
“You’re right. Let me rephrase: I’m not dating anyone ever again, unless there’s a contract predicting our every move.”
Lys put down the papers she was reading, Doranelle City a blur behind her for the drive. The weight of her concern is borderline unbearable, so I focus on the indie pop song playing and the coffee smell that lingers after I bought some for everyone at the meeting.
“As your publicist, I wouldn’t mind that. But as your friend…” She leaned her head back in the headrest, glancing up to gather her thoughts. “I know how hard you try to be in control of what happens to you, but celibacy?” She paused. Surveyed me. “Things are bound to get out of hand regardless of your preventing it, so it might as well be while you’re chasing your own happiness.”
But that’s the problem with Lys and my mom: they correlate their own happiness to men, who nine times out of ten are the ones preventing you from finding it. For me, happiness looks like being able to do my beloved job without a bunch of parasites demanding answers about my personal life.
I look away just in time to see us turn onto the street where the studio’s located. Acknowledging Lys right now would mean digging deeper into what already feels like a bottomless pit, so I don’t.
My team asked me to lie low until they figure out a plan, so that’s what I’m gonna do. After they got pissed that I left Lys at the party and faced the paps with Rowan without consulting her—as if I’m a child—then I won’t do anything ever again. Let the fans hire a psychic to know what I’m up to; it’s not like they’ll be spending money on my album soon.
My entrance is peaceful and uneventful, but it’s quite a walk before I can meet my producer.
Sat in the front hall with his phone in hand, Ren looked between the front door and me.
“Should’ve figured you’d take the private entrance today.”
I open both arms, a crooked grin on my face. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the industry’s new cum dump.”
The joke was supposed to make me feel better, but my eyes grow hot and there’s a lump in my throat, almost as if it’s urging me to shut up. I swallow it back.
The twinge of Ren’s facial muscles portrayed several emotions—none were amusement at my joke. “Aelin, I’m so sorry—“
“Oh, so you have heard?”
“Kinda hard not to. And that was such a brutal way to call yourself a slut, I doubt it was in Lys’ report.”
“I read it on Twitter before she took my phone away from me.”
“Oh, honey, we’re getting so drunk today.”
“I thought we were here to work?”
He takes my arm and leads me away, to the booked studio. “You call the shots. I brought wine, and we can just play around if you want. Burn some money. Studio three’s ours either way.”
“Or…” I try to keep my tone and expression like I’m about to say something brash. “We could work for real.”
He playfully rolls his eyes, and for a moment the empty hallway is nothing but the sound of my heels against the wooden floor, until Ren stops to get the keys for the room we booked.
When he’s back, he asks, “Did you talk to your mom?”
Damn him and his questions.
Ren is my childhood friend, his grandfather being the one who introduced us to the industry. He’s worked with me on every album I’ve released so far and, modesty aside, we’re quite the duo for two nepo babies.
I replied, “Just when things were kinda bad.”
Not after I found out my reputation is a clusterfuck. I may or may not be avoiding her for the foreseeable future.
I’m also not prepared to look Dad in the face right now.
“You should see your mom. Spend, like, a month at that country house with her.”
“A month? I don’t even stay that long for Yulemas.”
“That’s why I’m telling you. Eva is the fucking best—she’s helped me do a lot of spiritual cleansing.”
Ren loves Mom because she’s different from the women we grew up amongst, a bit of a wild card. But that’s the thing—she’s quirky for a society lady. In the end, she’s still Mrs. Prim-and-proper-who-married-her-college-sweetheart.
“I—“ Squinting at Ren, I cut myself. “About cleansing, how’s your car?”
The last time I—almost—got inside it, there was a giant butt imprint on the leather seat. That was the day I learned he meets men from Grindr and uses his car for reasons other than transportation—that was also the last day I accepted a ride from him.
“Doing great, thank Mala. Aedion found me a great detailer; he thinks that what stained the leather wasn’t the sweat, it was lotion.”
“Because you’re so used to wiping butt sweat off your car?”
“I’m a neat guy, Ae. Of course I clean up after my date’s mess.”
While I’m not a stranger to one-night stands and far from a prude, there’s a certain—wilder—range of sex-related things I refuse to do with someone I don’t trust. Meeting a guy online and skipping the date to have car sex in the same afternoon? I love that Ren can pull it off and have fun, but I’m built differently.
When we reach the stairs, I say, “Hey, I’m just gonna—“
“Yeah, go get your chocolate,” Ren interrupts, too amused for my liking. “I’ll set us up.”
Hurrying to the vending machine, I consider my options.
I should tone down on the sweets. The last thing I want is to be on a speculative pregnancy cover. It’s easy to picture the Who’s the father?! cover with a montage of Dorian, Chaol and Rowan’s shocked faces.
However, when I’m pacing around the studio, thinking of a rhyme or a melodic direction, I’ll want to chew on something—and that better be chocolate.
I hear steps behind me, but I’m too torn between Snickers and Twix to pay attention. It’s not a matter of what I want now, but predicting what future stressed-out me will want in a few hours—a much harder job.
“Hey, there.”
I know it’s Chaol before I turn around to talk to him, and the stiffening of my back is the most I’ll show of my surprise and discomfort.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask, my surprise genuine, though my smile feels forced. I choose the sharing-sized Twix and say, “I didn’t know you had a big project coming up.”
“I don’t. It’s just, you know…” he trailed, both hands in his pockets. “You forgot to block me at the recording studio, so here I am.”
I nod. Cross my arms. “My work phone is with Lys, and my personal one is supposed to be my stress-free zone.”
You don’t belong there anymore, is what I don’t say but hangs in the air.
He looks around and opens the door of the studio closest to us. Checks it’s empty and says, “Can we talk?”
“I already told you everything I have to say.”
“When you dumped me through a text?”
His gaze hardens. Mine does the same.
“I think it’s fair, since I found out you cheated through a tabloid,” I reminded him, teeth gritted.
He tilts his head, gesturing towards the door. “Please?”
I comply, shooting Ren a quick text as I enter, telling him the reason our session might start a bit later.
Ren: Aelin NO!!
Ren: I already told you I think he’s a boring loser
Ren: Let’s avoid the awkwardness. Don’t take him back.
I put away my phone before my friend makes me laugh in a situation as serious as this one. It would be so rude and awkward, it low-key makes me want to text him again.
Beige and brown rugs covered the wooden floor, and the instruments and other equipment placed around the room reminded me of what I would do hadn’t my ex intercepted me.
“Whitethorn? Are you kidding me?”
I shrug. “He was there; I was there. He’s single; I’m single. You know I hate to waste time.”
“You can cut that act right now.” He looked away, swallowed. With one hand on his hip, it took him a moment to continue, “Yes, I was jealous. You ruined my game nights for the foreseeable future. My dad is pissed that my personal life disrupted his business deals. Are you happy now?”
“What do you want me to say? Those aren’t cons for me. Besides, I didn’t cheat—”
“Neither did I! I told you Nes is just a friend—“
“Nesryn,” I say, highlighting the unnecessary closeness with his ex by using her real name over her nickname. “Being your lover or not becomes irrelevant to me when you’re all cozy with her in public. What were you thinking, dragging my name into this—“
“Your name?!” he yells, and I thank Mala the room is soundproof. “Is this why you broke up with me? Because of your name?”
My laugh is harsh, sardonic and disbelieving all at once, and so strong I lean against the back of an armchair that sits in the middle of the room. “Look, Chaol, I’m not staying with anyone that puts my job in jeopardy like this. My livelihood depends on my name and my image, and when you were photographed with Nesryn, not only you didn’t protect me like a reliable partner would, but you also didn’t respect me as well.”
I manifested so hard for a ROTY—Record Of The Year—when I was last nominated; I think the gods got the acronym wrong and sent me Chaol instead as a Regret Of The Year.
He’s not that gorgeous, smart or funny, but his combination of these traits was enough to draw me to him. And look where it got me.
Pretending to be in love all day and coming home to an empty bed is a dangerous game to play. I spent six months brushing off my loneliness and pretending I hadn’t noticed my fake boyfriend’s best friend and his longing stares, and then… what I should’ve done was start therapy. Instead, I clung to the nearest lips and bet on the wrong horse.
“So you think this is all my fault?”
“Yes,” I lie.
His nod was slow, pissy. “Well, I understand you’re hurt—“
“Hurt?” I pause for a moment, letting the word hang in the air to check how it feels. “You didn’t hurt me, Chaol. I’m just not interested in you anymore.”
“Okay,” he trailed, pacing around the room as he gathered his thoughts. “So, this is about the tabloids?”
“I don’t condone cheating, but yes—in this case, it doesn’t matter whether you cheated.”
His nods were strong and purposeful, as was the way he gripped the back of the armchair I leaned on. “We can bypass the tabloids.”
“How so?” I try to hide my skepticism, because not even my expert PR team has managed that yet.
“About Whitethorn… we can just tell People he was your hall pass and move on.”
“What a great idea, Chaol! And who was your hall pass? Your fucking ex?”
I don’t mean to mock him, but the laugh that tore out of me is the first genuine one from today.
He doesn’t find it amusing, though. “You know what? At least I’m trying to fix things and take us back to what matters.”
“Okay,” I trail, regaining seriousness—trying t0, at least. “And what would that be?”
“Us—together. Love.”
My head tilts at the same speed a frown forms. Love? I liked him, but he’s so presumptuous to declare that what I felt in our relationship was love.
“And what made you think I was falling in love with you?”
That’s what does it for him.
I watch him shrink, arms crossed as he lifts his chin and locks his jaw to hide the dejected look in his eyes. It’s a long battle between anger and anguish within him, and I want to feel bad for dumping Chaol, but I can’t. That’s the deal with men: for them, a breakup isn’t about me or how their actions distressed me—they’re just spoiled pets, angry that I won’t give them their favorite snack.
And between choosing my feelings or their egos, I’ll pick myself over them as many times as it damn well takes.
Chaol turns away from me towards the door, but spins back before he’s gone.
“You know what, Aelin? When the whole world agrees you're a monster, maybe you should take a gods-damned look in the mirror and listen.”
With that sweeping exit and what he believes to be a mic-drop moment, the big diva I now call my ex leaves the room—and hopefully my life—for real.
I hope that’s closure enough for him.
Aelin’s Twisted Love Life: It’s Worse Than We Knew
“First, we break up, then…” I trail as Ren continues the chord progression on his keyboard.
“Then we hook up?”
“Hell no.”
He restarts. “First, we break up; then we… make up?”
I lay back, feet on the armrest. That’s not how physics works, but my body feels so heavy it could make the couch sag and never come back, perpetuating an Aelin-shaped monstrosity.
“You know how people treat my songs as a diary. I’m not implying that I ever took Chaol back just because it rhymes. First, we break up, then we stay broken up for eternity.”
“That’s a lovely idea, Ae, but we should trade it for something that fits.”
Because he’s right, I groan. “We can circle back to it later.”
“I mean…” Ren hesitates, turning on his stool so he’s facing me instead of the keyboard. “The breakup and makeup doesn’t have to be after the dubious infidelity. No one will think you got back with Chaol after that football dude, so you can let them assume, then just… say nothing.”
I stare up at the white ceiling, the canned wine Ren brought us still on my tongue. I don’t like to work drunk, so I just had enough to let loose—Mala knows how welcome it was.
I consider Ren’s proposal: do I want to imply Chaol and I were on an on-and-off thing for the sake of a rhyme? Do I even care?
“I don’t even know if I want to release a song about him. Does he deserve a song from me? Do I want to give him that kind of acknowledgment?”
“I’m sure Perrington will love to hear about that.”
My CEO. The label’s small, and as their biggest star, I deal with him a lot. He says that when the damage’s already done, the best thing I have left to do is profit off of it. Still, do I mind losing a few pennies if it means not giving Chaol that kind of relevancy?
Before I can ponder further on this, Ren’s eyes light up. “About Football Dude and loving to hear about things…”
“His name is Rowan.”
He throws both hands up playfully, scoffing at my correction. “Do I look like I would know the White Hawks players?”
I chuckle, shaking my head at his antics. “There’s nothing to tell. We met, sparks flew, he’s a great kisser, but I balked before we hooked up.”
“What—WHY?”
I shrug. “Wasn’t comfortable. Panicked? I dunno.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Distracted, Ren leans his elbow on the keyboard. The strident sound makes him jump up and sit on the armchair in front of the couch I lay on. “Damn, I’d start a full, raging war to have a man like that in my bed. I’d even let him call me Menelaus.”
“Spare me your kinks, please.” I try and cannot keep my face straight. “You’re kind of making me feel sorry for myself for not banging him.”
I try to be rational about my love life because if I were as driven by lust as my dear friend here, I would have created havoc on top of Rowan without thinking twice.
Ren continued, “We pretty people don’t understand the amount of privilege we have. The opportunity to jump that man’s bones is not something you pass up.”
My mind drifts back to the texts I haven’t replied to yet. I move to a sitting position and comb my hair back with my fingers.
“I have too much drama in my life right now to deal with him, you know? Adding a man to the mix. Just to think of everything I have going on… the last thing on my mind is dating.”
I don’t know if I’m explaining this to him or myself.
“Honey, you’re just depressed. That’s the best time to find a rebound to bounce on.”
“I’m not depressed.” I cuss out the last word almost as if it’s an insult.
“Yes, you are—maybe not pathologically? I’m not a damn shrink,” he digressed before amending, “but you do need your mom.”
Ever since we were kids, Ren hands me out to Mom whenever I’m feeling down. It’s cute when you’re seven, but it becomes insulting when you’re a full-grown adult.
“No, I don’t!”
Girl Gone Wild! What Happened to Aelin Galathynius?
I happen to need my mom.
The mental health foundation she volunteers as a yoga instructor is busy as usual, but she took one look at my face and rushed me into her office.
This spacious baroque building will never not amaze me. As my mom leads me through the first floor, I can see Ren in the courtyard, a few kids around him and his guitar. People give us quick greetings and head nods as we pass by—it’s still chaotic when I arrive through the front door, but the staff-only area is much calmer, especially now that mom’s coworkers got used to my popping in now and then.
The gift packages with signed notes, which my mom made me prepare for her coworkers—mostly for their kids or grandkids—also helped with that.
I don’t sit when Mom locks us in her office.
“How is Dad?”
He’ll start a new campaign soon. I’ll never forgive myself if my inability to control my image stains his own.
My mom has her back to me as she turns on the AC, but she pauses, remote in hand, as she studies me.
“Honey, how are you?”
“As good as the situation allows,” I say, trying to look composed to reassure her. I fail miserably.
“Oh, darling,” she laments; cradles my face between her hands, brushing my hair out. “And things were going so much better after you and Chaol were steady.”
I shrug and sit on the couch, not knowing what to say. Public break-ups are always messy; my relationship with Chaol was just trickier than most—because of Dorian, we’ve always walked on unsteady ground.
“And Dad?”
“He doesn’t know yet.”
“Projectathon?”
She nods, which means Dad is locked in his office, and will only get out after 24 hours. He does that when he needs absolute focus on something he’s working on.
For Mom to interrupt his “projectathons”, the situation has to be vital, and it has to be an emergency—fortunately, my disgrace doesn’t require immediate action from him.
She turns on the electric kettle and asks, “Is chamomile okay?
“Mom, I think not even ten bags of valerian would calm me down today.”
“Let’s start with one, huh?” Squatting to reach the tea cabinet, she grabbed two for our chat.
With the subtle elegance and modesty Mom pulled off without effort, she wore loose pants and a closer-fitting long-sleeved top that didn’t mark her sports bra; she still couldn’t let go of her trademark French twist in favor of a ponytail. In fact, she went as far as bringing hair products to her office so she never has one hair out of place.
Now that I’m older and understand the world better, it’s baffling that my parents’ marriage happened out of love, not convenience. Mom is the ideal politician’s wife. Ideal manners, ideal weight, ideal whiteness of her teeth.
Among the many genuine qualities and not-so-ladylike quirks that don’t get mentioned on social media, of course. Still, I’ll forever be jealous that Dad not only met the love of his life early in life, but that person also happened to be perfect for his public image.
“I have your dad’s phone,” she said. “Quinn wants to speak with Lysandra. Coordinate something together.”
My dad’s right-hand man. With my acquiescence, Mom commits to sending him Lys’ contact information.
The PR strategies used between a pop star and a politician are so different, he wants to make sure whatever we do doesn’t harm the campaign further—as he should.
They’re re-entering the most stressful experience I’ve ever witnessed, one that Dad said he’d never do again countless times. But after each vow to retire, something else comes up he must see to, and (in his overbearing head) only he can—whether it’s an unfinished project or political instability, he’s like a dog with a bone.
This time statistics say Senator Galathynius is the only one who can beat Arobynn Hamel, so there he goes in another campaign.
His first presidential campaign. The old man is going nuts.
I couldn’t be prouder of him.
When both mugs are ready, Mom hands me one and leans her hip on the side of her desk. “How was your day, darling?”
I sip some of the earthy, bitter tea while saying I’m fucked, then she complains about the language, so I explain how thoroughly fucked I am while dancing around the word itself.
The overall plan is to rest my image while doing some damage control behind the curtains, then plan a comeback for my next album. Mom listens with rapt attention, asking questions when she deems necessary.
“So you’re not getting back together with that Chaol kid, I take it?” she asks, too nonchalant.
“Gods, no. I’m retiring from boys—for real, not like Dad’s day-long retirements.”
“Are you sure? Because your father told me Rowan is a really good kid—and he doesn’t even know you two went out together yet.”
I give her a flat look. “Dad isn’t a very reliable source, Mom. He’s friends with Rowan’s dad and a White Hawks fan.”
“Aelin, we all know you’re not very trusting—“
“I trust the people who deserve it.”
She stares at me in a way I refuse to read into. “As I was saying, I thought you might need a little push, you know? To give him an actual chance.”
“An actual chance? What’s that supposed to mean?”
My mom thinks I don’t give men an actual chance and think of them as disposable. I have to disagree—I gave them so many chances I’m being called a slut, and about the disposable part… why should I keep something that doesn’t fit me?
She sighs at my defensiveness and kisses the crown of my head. “I’m sorry, darling. This isn’t the time to bother you with this.” She sits next to me on the couch. “Why don’t you stay with me and your father for a while? Fleetfoot and Dina miss you.”
My heart squeezes at the sound of my pets’ names. When I left home, with the amount of outings and touring I do, we decided they’d be better off in a house that’s bigger and lived in, making a mess out of my parents’ gardens.
I lean my head on her shoulder. “I might bring a bit of work with me.”
“If by work you mean Ren, then please do.” She pauses, a familiar devious spark lights up her eyes, and I can almost see the engines in her head working before she says, “Or you can invite another kind of male companion—the goal is to keep your head off work, right?”
My mom? She met Dad at their alma mater’s Institute of Technology. People think she left her career when she had me, but she never stopped planning, designing, working hard on projects of her own—she just stopped doing that to buildings.
I squint my eyes at the cunning engineer before me. “I can’t, Mom. The three-month rule, remember?”
No bringing people over before you’ve dated for at least three months—a rule imposed by my parents when a teenage Aedion thought it was fit to behave as if our home was a brothel.
She waves it off. “That rule died when your cousin moved into his own place.”
This is such a ridiculous idea, asking a guy to spend days at your parent’s house before you’ve even gone on a proper date. I won’t tell my mom Rowan would run off in a minute if I went on with her idea and proposed this to him.
There is though, something on my mind I don’t have the answer to. I know what she’ll tell me to do, but I feel like telling her about it anyway.
“Rowan texted this morning. Asked me out to dinner.”
“Is that so?” Mom keeps her face neutral, but the dunking of her tea bag exudes smugness. “What did you say?”
“Nothing yet. I don’t know what to reply.”
“You don’t have to write a sonnet, dear. It’s a one-word situation.”
I make empty gestures as the words fail me. “My situation is atrocious as it is, and every boyfriend I take in is a possibility of making things worse.”
She sighs and leans closer, one arm wrapping around my shoulder and stroking it in soothing gestures until I lean into her caress.
“He could be a disappointment worse than Chaol, or he could be exactly what you need in this phase of your life. Or even a bland, sad excuse for a lover that won’t make an impact in your life. You’ll never know until you try.” Mom leans her head on top of mine and lowers the tone of her voice. “Allowing yourself to try new things is as important as forgiving yourself when they go wrong, Fireheart.”
I breathe deep, eyes closed as I let her words sink in.
As usual, my mom is right.
I don’t know what Rowan will mean to me down the road, and if I give him a chance and things get worse than they already are, I’ll never forgive myself.
I can’t afford to date right now.
Aelin's New Victim: Rowan Whitethorn is the Latest Name on Her List
I’m clutching my phone in the bathroom, after putting on the sportswear I borrowed from Mom for the class she and Ren cornered me into attending.
Horny Aelin from the future will want to kill me for doing this, but it has to be done.
So far, I only have a greeting and a I had so much fun last night.
With a deep breath, I type, I’m sorry, but
I erase it. My goal is to be nice to him because he’s done nothing to deserve my wrath so far, but that doesn’t mean I’ll apologize for refusing a date. Never.
Without overthinking it, I type the most honest response I can think of.
I want to say yes, but I have a lot going on right now and not so much mental energy for dating
See you around x
It’s written. It’s flirty. It leaves an open ending in case he still thinks I’m hot next year.
I press send. It’s done.
Lys: THE FUCK?
Me: Will u please copy this and paste on my chat w/ Rowan?
Lys: no
I roll my eyes at her antics; working with my best friend gets tricky sometimes. I’m typing a response when she beats me to it.
Lys: jk it’s done
Lys: against my will tho
That’s good enough for me.
The class had already started when I entered the room through the back, and Ren was waiting there for me near the door, wearing a spare gym outfit he had in his car, with my mat laid out beside his own.
“Let’s notice the pattern of our breathing. How quick, deep, shallow… there’s no right or wrong, we’re just observing the flow.”
I sit down just in time for the reclined butterfly pose. After folding Mom’s towel I borrowed for some extra support, I lay on top of it with my feet together and my knees…
Regret came sooner than I thought, dammit. I’m beginning to wish it was someone else commanding me to spread my knees.
Focus, Aelin.
I concentrate back on my mother’s voice, in full control of the mirrored room she shares with the dance teacher.
“If you feel like taking deep breaths, allow it, but… let your breath respond to how your body feels. Let it connect your mind and body.”
Despite what she said, I force myself to breathe deep. If I’m gonna take a shallow breath, I might as well do it in the studio.
I force the air in… and the peppermint essential oil Mom chose for this class makes me want to chew some gum.
Which reminds me I didn’t eat my Twix.
Which reminds me I didn’t even get to write the chorus for that fucking track.
And isn’t anyone hearing the annoying drip-drip-drip of water behind me?
Squinting one eye open, I look for the source of the sound, and there it is—the AC leaking water into a tiny bucket.
How can Mom expect people to focus in a room like this? When I look around, Ren has his eyes closed, focused. Not focused per se, but in that state of being focused on not being focused? I wouldn’t know—I’m not built for yoga.
“Now we’re moving to the cat-cow stretch… inhale, we’ll look up, dropping our bellies… exhale, we tuck our chins and push the floor away with our hands.”
Is my mom intentionally putting me in poses that look like sex positions? That’s not very proper-and-modest society lady of her.
Or am I that horny?
I only became single yesterday—I’m pretty sure I got laid less than a week ago. Sex with Chaol was underwhelming, but not bad. He made sure I came once every time.
Rowan has this big-dick aura about him—he looks like he has a cock so big he doesn’t need a girl to touch herself during sex for her to orgasm… but he would tell me to do that for fun.
Where did this come from?
I blame this infuriating sound of leaking water. It’s doing strange things to my mind.
“Now let’s move to a more active cat-cow position…”
Ren opens his eyes to see Mom’s demonstration, and I kick his leg to get his attention.
What? he mouths, glaring at me.
I tap my ear with my index finger and frown at the leaking AC. Do you hear this?
He sighs and looks back at Mom. How rude.
Now it’s Downward Dog time. Gods, was this supposed to be relaxing? My wrists hurt, and the strain this pose puts on my upper body is insane. I’d much rather go back to one where I’m laid down.
And the drip-drip-dripping water is the icing on the cake, almost as annoying as Chaol showing up after he got booted off my life and personal phone.
Wait a minute.
I grab my phone from beside the mat and record the sound—or hope the sound gets recorded with Mom’s voice telling us to ‘listen to our bodies’. She eyes me, curious and maybe annoyed that I’m not following through with the mindfulness thing, but she’ll understand it; if she doesn’t, at least she’ll respect me.
We lay back down, and I’m thinking we’re doing my favorite pose, Savasana, when she tells us to extend one leg out.
This is hell. There’s only one situation in which I wouldn’t mind being stretched out like this, but I don’t dwell on that thought.
Sensing my restlessness, Mom tells the class to picture out thoughts being packed and sent away, then focus on our bodies and breath. I don’t dwell on it either.
Instead, when it’s time to change the leg outstretched, I kick Ren again.
He shoots daggers at me, but I don’t care.
I jerk my head towards the exit and mouth, Let’s go.
He looks at me slack-jawed, like I’m insane, while I fold my mat and gather my things. I snatch his bag on my way out so he follows me.
“I know you’re a bit of a psychopath, but some people actually like to calm their nervous systems.”
I look around the open courtyard the building was built around. I don’t remember which way the parking lot is, but I do find my security detail, wearing plain clothes, on a tree bench right outside the studio.
“Did you hear the AC?” I ask Ren.
“Um, no. It’s not like your mom got one of those abominations that sound like a jet engine, Ae.”
Indeed, Mom despises the idea of doing things half-assed just because it’s for charity, but that’s not what I mean.
“No, not the AC! I mean, didn’t you hear the water leaking from it?”
“Kind of? I was busy farming my aura, Ae.”
I tilt my head, connecting a few dots before I can understand the slang Ren’s using. “You watch too much TikTok. I blame myself for not making you busy enough.”
Ren rolls his eyes and finally tries to understand my mid-class intervention so I can stop mocking him. “What did the AC sound like?”
“Like a fucking sick beat—come on!” Maybe it could be a synth pattern? He’ll help me figure it out. “I also got a lyric idea when we were on our way here.”
I hold up my phone before his face, showing my Notes app.
If you miss me, buy a ticket to my show
At that, he laughs.
I tug him out of here by the wrist, and this new idea leaves him as excited as me.
I sent my mom a text apologizing for being a terrible student, and her response came as soon as the class was over:
It was doomed before it started
Remind me to group you with the 8-12 year-olds next time
Have a lovely writing session, darling
Behave.
Call me any time
I smile at her joke. She knows writing is my yoga, the practice that grounds me.
With my head filled with ideas for a new song, there’s no room for thoughts about my deteriorating career or potentially being the downfall of my father’s.
This might be a temporary fix for my problems, but some creative distraction is all I need until the clock strikes twelve.
You can get notified when I update by either turning notifications on for @mariaofdoranelle-fics or joining my (sometimes glitchy) one general tag list!!
*peeks over the law school trenches* hi maria i love you and i love this fic 🥰🥰🥰 sorry for how late this is lolll i am a little swamped rn
“I mean it, Lys. Gods, straight men. The girls are on our own kind of world hunger map.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHA i love them your honor
“You’re right. Let me rephrase: I’m not dating anyone ever again, unless there’s a contract predicting our every move.” *eagerly giggles in beta reader* a contract you say..........😏😏👀👀👀👀
AELIN AND REN ARE MY FAVES
I think the gods got the acronym wrong and sent me Chaol instead as a Regret Of The Year. yep this still makes me WHEEZE LMAO I ALMOST CHOKED ON MY COFFEE
“Damn, I’d start a full, raging war to have a man like that in my bed. I’d even let him call me Menelaus.” maria you little genius i love you so so much and my inner nerd is screeching
This is hell. There’s only one situation in which I wouldn’t mind being stretched out like this, but I don’t dwell on that thought. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
I'M GOBBLING THIS UP YUM YUM YUM much like aelin wants to gobble a certain football player up heheh
Posting this so late was 100% my plan. I did not get drowned by my own lack of time management and didn't take twice as long to write because idk shit about law and had to do research—Legally Blonde taught me everything I need to know.
Anyway, thank you for being my first and longest friendship in this fandom. From welcoming me with open arms to being the first person I go to when my wip's in trouble, I'm so very grateful for having you in my life ❤️💖💕💞💓
Warnings: insatiably horny Rowan but safe for work
Words: 1862
How it started:
How it's going:
“Objection!” Aelin shouts, reminding Rowan of his role today.
A judge. He’s a fucking judge who can only focus on how the buttons of this lawyer’s shirt are straining to keep her fantastic boobs tucked in.
“On what grounds?” He asked, attempting to recall Salvaterre’s words. Was it too obvious he wasn’t even looking at him?
“Well…” she trailed. Bit her lip—fuck. “I’m hotter than the opposing counsel.”
“Objection sustained.”
“The fuck, dude?” Lorcan shouted, his arms wide in protest.
How disrespectful. “Mr. Salvaterre, one more word like that and I will hold you in contempt.”
His friend went back to the principal argument and… gods, as a law PhD student, helping beginners practice turned out even more painful than Rowan predicted.
The reason he accepted this was currently being the biggest tease in her formal attire, even more so than when he met her months ago, wearing a skirt as big as her beer bottle.
Back at that party, Aelin’s plans consisted of using his body for a night to get back at her cheating ex and forget about each other the next day. It was perfect. It was the goal. It was exactly what Rowan wanted with every girl he hooked up with—sex without strings or expectations.
Except she absolutely blew his mind that night, and when Rowan was about to ask her if she planned to cheat on her boyfriend some more, he learned from Lorcan, who learned from his girlfriend, that Aelin had become faithful. In fact, her lack of loyalty was a one-night payback, and they got back together the same day she woke up in his bed.
What a blow to Rowan’s ego. Being used so rudely turned him on even more.
Lorcan cleared his throat—loudly. Shit.
“Ms. Galathynius, you may begin.”
Aelin got up from a chair in their makeshift court. From the firm expression in her eyes, Rowan felt certain she was already a lawyer—the certificate would be a mere formality.
“Your honor, yes, two people saw Mrs. Briarcliff carry trash bags similar to the ones that contained her husband’s body—so what? I can bring you twenty that didn’t.”
Lorcan yelled, “Are you for fucking real?”
“Mr. Salvaterre, you’ll have your opportunity for rebuttal,” Rowan interrupted. “Ms. Galathynius, you may continue.”
The thing about Aelin and Lorcan is, they don’t get along. Forever glued together by Elide, they were doomed to struggle to tolerate each other.
Which benefited Rowan, since that’s how he met and got information on her.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” She gave him a small nod of appreciation. “I must say that, even if I ate an alphabet soup, I’d shit out a better argument than the opposing counsel’s.”
~~
“You’re a shit judge, Ro.”
Ouch. Rowan wished his stern look showed his thoughts on Lorcan’s statement.
“I’m serious. I’m not asking you to play judge again if you keep this shit up.”
“This isn’t that big of a threat to me.”
He could sense why it was bad for Lorcan, though. Rowan was the only attorney he knew who remained on campus for a PhD, and finding someone else would call for people skills he didn’t possess.
Out of nowhere, Lorcan said, “You should ask her out.”
He blinked, wondering if he’d heard it right.
“Are you high?” Rowan agreed with it, but he wasn’t sure Lorcan agreed with himself.
“I’m not. You’d know that for sure if you’d actually listened to me speak earlier.”
He tried to ignore the guilt weighing down his chest. Despite desperately wanting to take Aelin to his bed again, it wasn’t more important than his friend’s education.
Looking over his friend’s shoulder, Aelin stood next to a desk, gathering her things to leave. Her golden hair shone even under the dull lightning, and although her shirt still enticed him, the sight of her backside called to him.
He tapped Lorcan’s shoulder as a farewell.
“Next time you lose, I’ll make sure it’s fair and square.”
The sound of Lorcan’s laughter drove him to Aelin.
She looked up to him, clutching her book before her chest—pity—and smiled.
“Hey,” Aelin said, “good job in there.”
Rowan held back a grimace; she was the only person who had reason to think so.
He returned the compliment, meaning every word of it. Her skills needed some work and polishing, but Rowan could see a ferocious path ahead of her. Aelin proved to be clever, daring and quick—it was a question of when, before she took Terrasen by storm.
Her smirk was knowing and bordering on predatory—something told him he was just repeating compliments she already knew, but enjoyed hearing anyway.
“Well, thank you, handsome.” Aelin’s voice came out honeyed as she trailed her index finger down his biceps. “Is there anything else you came here to tell me?”
“I—“ Rowan closed his mouth shut before saying it. So, that’s what’s up with the smug grin. Did she know he was into her? “Do you wanna go out sometime?”
She inspected her bare wrist the way one would do a watch. “I’m free now, if your research can wait.”
A blink was all Rowan revealed of the surprise he felt. “That doesn’t give me much time to plan something impressive, does it?”
Aelin cocked her head, then put her book on the desk beside her, leaning her hand and her hip on it as well. “You’ve already impressed me enough, but it’s cute that you wanna do it again.” The wiggle of her eyebrows contrasted with the casual tone of her voice. “I’m thinking about some flick and lick, if you’re up for it.”
Going straight to the point, are we?
Flick and lick. Was there any other way to interpret this?
The one time he asks a girl out on a date, she wants to skip to sex. How odd. Rowan sure wasn’t complaining, though. The tongue work she described was an accurate depiction of their activities that fateful night, and he was looking forward to more of it.
His hand flexed, the shape of her tit in his palm still burned in his muscle memory.
Rowan jerked his head towards the exit. “Let’s go, then.”
When she readied herself to leave, he slipped a hand on her lower back—for support, of course, since she carried such heavy books. It was only a perk that if she was still single, everyone would see the claim he staked; and if she was seeing someone, it would be a matter of time until she wasn’t anymore.
Aelin never shied away from his touch, and even stood a little taller as he walked her hall after hall to his car. It was mind-blowing, how everything about her turned him on—from the way she held her chin to the sound of her heels against the wooden floor. It was troublesome, his inability to keep it to himself around her and be a gentleman until their date’s end.
Rowan tossed the playbook out the window and accosted her by the car. A soft gasp was all he got from her when he put her book on the car roof and caged her in with both forearms on her side.
“Well, hi.” Aelin sounded deliciously out of breath.
“Hi.” Rowan pressed their foreheads together. “I missed you.”
“Yeah?” She grinned. “Ellie said so.”
“That traitor.”
They chuckled, breaths mingling.
“I’m closer to her than you,” she defended Elide.
“I know. I meant Lorcan.”
The joyful sound that came out of Aelin was heavenly to hear, and it was a dangerous realization, that making her laugh could feel almost as good as making her moan.
“Is this okay?” he asked while he slowly took hold of her waist. As he did it, Rowan got a weird sensation in his stomach—fizzy like his insides here made of soda foam—and he hoped it wasn’t food poisoning. Not today, of all days.
“Very okay,” she whispered and wrapped both arms around his neck.
Wasting no time, he kissed her. The campus faded out and his entire conscience narrowed down to her lips and tongue and curves under his touch. There were no cars passing by on this parking lot, her soft sighs muffled them all out.
This kiss was their best one yet. When Rowan first kissed her, he was too stupefied to throughly enjoy it. It’s much easier to appreciate something when you know beforehand how exquisite it is.
When they parted, Aelin kept hold of his neck. He took the moment in, eyes closed, and pecked her lips a few times. She nipped his lower lip, toying with him.
This girl.
With his thumb gently sliding over her cheek, he said, “Shall we?”
She nodded, and Rowan didn’t miss the surprised look on her face when he gave her book back. He’d forgotten about it too until he saw it there, still waiting to be rescued from his car top.
They took off, and he wouldn’t berate himself for being too forward when his goal was courting her, because that was one hell of a great kiss. Besides, she was the one to start with a sex proposal. What was an early kiss compared to that?
As Aelin guided him through the city, heading downtown. Weird.
He asked, “Don’t you live close to campus?”
“I do.”
Well, she’s from Orynth. When you live in a city as big as that, everything looks close in a university town like Perranth.
They were going to her place, right? Rowan doesn’t remember her saying it, but she proposed sex, so if they weren’t heading to his apartment, the destination was hers.
“We’re close,” she said, “you’ll just have to turn right… no, sorry! Not here. The next right. Yep.”
He thanked Mala the traffic was light today, or her shitty directions would’ve caused a car crash. Though it was a bit endearing, he had to admit.
The street in which they parked was highly commercial, but surely her building was hidden somewhere. He got the door for her, remembering his manners before the doors were closed and he could forget all about them.
Shit, mouth-watering was not enough to describe her right now, looking expectantly at him in this busy street. Aelin herself, their plans for today, his memories—it all build up to a newfound and cruel anticipation, his skin tingling with the need to touch her.
“Right there.” She pointed at a shop with a few tables on the sidewalk. “The flick and lick.”
When he read the big sign before this ice cream shop, it was hard to believe his eyes.
Stop in for a
FLICK N LICK
An ice cream shop.
Aelin invited him for ice cream, not sex.
Heat rushed to his cheeks, and Rowan stared at her with his mouth open, unsure of what to say.
Her smirk bordered on devilish.
“Oh, I know what you thought,” she whispered and kissed his jaw. “We’ll do my idea of a flick and lick first, and yours later.”
An outstanding argument—Rowan dare say it was the best he heard from her today.
You can get notified when I update by either turning notifications on for @mariaofdoranelle-fics or joining my (sometimes glitchy) one general tag list!!
^^^ actual footage of me reading this absolute beauty
“Thank you, Your Honor.” She gave him a small nod of appreciation. “I must say that, even if I ate an alphabet soup, I’d shit out a better argument than the opposing counsel’s.” STOP IT RIGHT NOW THIS IS FUCKING GENIUS BAHAHAHAHAHAA I'D USE IT IN CLASS BUT I DON'T WANNA GET KICKED OUT
“I’m thinking about some flick and lick, if you’re up for it.” 👀👀🤭👀🤭👀🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭
Stop in for a FLICK N LICK. An ice cream shop. Aelin invited him for ice cream, not sex. HEHEHEHEHEEHHEEHE OH MY GOD I'M ON THE FLOOR 😂😂😂😂😂😂
i love you so so much maria 😍😍😍😍 thank you thank you thank you for your genius mind and your friendship ❤️ this is fucking hysterical and the best thing you've ever written (......as dick awards slides to second place......)
Rowaelin Month 2025, Day 28: Second Chance @rowaelinscourt
Word count: 2.4k
Warnings: angst but it gets better i swear um, none ;)
✨happy birthday to me✨ enjoy!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a sweltering summer that had broken nearly every temperature record in Orynth's last century of weather history, the first truly crisp breeze of autumn curled through the air, and Aelin inhaled deeply as she pushed open the door to her favorite coffee shop. They'd been serving their fall menu for a good three weeks, but it was the first day she could really appreciate the cozy warmth of the cinnamon and maple scents that wafted into her nose from the counter.
There was a line at the register and a good number of people sitting at the tables that lined two walls of the cafe, and Aelin had to throw an apologetic smile at several people as she maneuvered the stroller carrying her fifteen-month-old daughter up towards the front. Lana was mercifully quiet, just staring wide-eyed at the few people who threw sideways glances at the young mom who was doing the perfectly normal act of getting a coffee.
When Aelin finally got to the counter, the barista who was running the register winked at her. "How are my favorite girls this morning?"
For the first time that day, Lana clapped and squealed, and Aelin smiled fondly at her daughter. "We're in a good mood, I think."
Lysandra, the barista who'd worked at the cafe for as long as Aelin had been going there, chuckled. "Yeah, it's so nice to finally not sweat my butt off when I open the door. Want your usual?"
"As always," Aelin said with a laugh. "But throw in an extra cinnamon bun, would you? My mom is watching Lana today, and I want to get her a little something."
"Of course!" Lys tapped in Aelin's usual order---in the autumn, it was an iced maple latte with a splash of pumpkin spice syrup and an apple-cinnamon muffin. Aelin usually gave Lana little bite-sized pieces of the muffin; her daughter had inherited her sweet tooth.
Aelin paid and moved off to the side, rocking the stroller back and forth while she waited for her coffee. "Ready for your muffin, honey?" she asked her daughter, smiling when Lana slapped her little hands on the stroller's tray. "I know, it smells soooo good!"
"Here you go, Ae!" Lys called, and Aelin picked up her coffee and muffin and called her thanks to the barista. There was an open table over by the far wall, and she wove through the line of waiting customers, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally got to the table.
She set the muffin down on the table and unbuckled Lana from the stroller. "I know, little love, you don't like being cooped up." She sat down, settling her daughter in her lap, and broke off a piece of the muffin for Lana. "Is it yummy?"
Lana munched on the bite and clapped, wiggling in Aelin's arms like she was trying to break free. "Ya!" she squealed. She knew a few words---ya, no, mama, ba-ba, and ga-ma, her word for her grandma. No was her favorite.
Aelin chuckled and gave her daughter another little piece of muffin. "I know. Everything they make here is amazing." She managed to take a few sips of her coffee while helping Lana eat the muffin, and she was brushing the crumbs off her daughter's chubby little cherub cheeks when a male throat cleared behind them.
"Excuse me, I was using that table."
"We were just..." Aelin's words failed as she stood up and turned around and came face to face with a man she never thought she'd see again. "Rowan?"
~
Five Years Ago
With only a few months to go until her college graduation, Aelin felt overwhelmed with the sheer amount of decisions she kept hearing that she absolutely had to make. Where was she going to work? Was she going to work? Did she want to to grad school? Would she move back home? Would she move out? What was her five-year plan? Was her boyfriend going to propose?
That last question unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Because lately, Aelin had felt like she and Rowan were on two completely different tracks, headed in two different directions.
They had met their freshman year, at the west campus gym of all places. Aelin had been looking for a quiet space to work out, and Rowan had been working out in the studio to get away from the puck bunnies who chased the breakout star freshman hockey player all over campus. They'd struck up sparks almost immediately, and it only took Rowan a few days to ask Aelin out. That first date was damn near perfection, and after her high school boyfriend broke her teenage heart, Aelin thought she'd met someone who wouldn't do the same thing to her.
For almost four years, she'd been right.
Somehow, though, senior year was taking a toll on both of them. Aelin wondered if it was the pressure on them both---Rowan was one of the top prospects for the NHL draft and there were at least four teams bargaining for his signature, and Aelin was buried in the more typical load of job applications, interviews, and possible offers from jobs she really didn't want to work, on top of her last semester of classes and the final projects she had to submit. She knew Rowan felt weighed down with the pressure; she'd asked him about it a few days ago and he'd admitted that his coaches were trying to convince him to sign with a team he didn't want to play for.
The front door of their apartment swung open, yanking Aelin from her thoughts. She was at the kitchen table, trying to finish a paper for her literature class. Rowan dumped his backpack by the front door and slumped through the kitchen.
"Hey," he mumbled, mustering up an exhausted smile. He went into the living room and flopped onto the couch with a muffled groan.
Aelin shut her laptop and followed her boyfriend into the living room. "Hey," she whispered, stopping in front of him. "Can I?" He nodded, laying one arm on the top of the couch, and she settled down beside him, propping her back against the armrest. "C'mere."
Rowan dropped his head onto her shoulder, his body melting against hers. "I'm so fucking tired," he said into her shirt.
She slipped her fingers through his hair, knowing how much that little gesture comforted him. "I'm sorry, babe. Can I do anything to help?"
"Only if you buy the NHL and tell them and Coach to fuck off."
"I don't know about that, Ro." She kissed his forehead. "But I did make lasagna for dinner."
"Hell yeah," Rowan mumbled.
Aelin moved her hands to his back, embracing him. The silence between them stretched, and she tried to fill it. "How's your shoulder doing?"
"Fine." He sat up abruptly, but before she could ask him why, his stomach let out a loud rumble. "Guess that's a sign," he said, that tired smile curling up his lips for an instant.
"I can get the lasagna for you," she offered.
"I'll do it, baby." He leaned over and kissed her cheek, just shy of her lips.
He hadn't kissed her properly since the day before.
"Okay." What did I do wrong? Aelin asked herself, her mind spinning through everything they'd done over the last few weeks. Did I piss him off? Why hasn't he asked me anything? She shook her head. Be reasonable, Galathynius. He's probably just stressed from his dumbass coach.
Rowan brought his bowl of lasagna to the kitchen table, and Aelin went back to her laptop, opening up her email in case any new notifications had come in. There was nothing.
"Oh." Rowan set his fork down. "You okay, Ae?"
She looked up. "Fine. Just busy, I guess. Nothing like you probably have to deal with."
He sighed. "Hey, don't do that."
"Do what?" She tried to tamp down her defensiveness.
"You're minimizing your stress because you don't want to make me feel bad," he said. "Don't do that to yourself, baby. It's okay for you to say that there's something going on."
"You know me too well," she said wryly. "It's really nothing---literally. I haven't heard from Random House at all, and it's been almost two weeks since I had that interview." She closed her laptop again. "I just don't want to be another college kid who gets ghosted by a job."
"I know." Rowan reached over and squeezed her hand. "You aren't gonna get left behind, Ae. You're the smartest person I know. You'll get a good offer, and anyone who turns you away is an idiot."
"Thanks, babe," she said softly. "I need to go to sleep, or I'll stay up away too late overthinking. Don't worry about waking me up; you know I sleep like a rock."
"Okay. Love you." He blew her a kiss as she went down the hall, and she fell asleep that night with a little more certainty in her heart.
That certainty didn't survive the week.
A few days later, Rowan signed with the Wendlyn Warriors, the team his coaches wanted him to play for. The hockey team did a short ceremony for him, and by the time Rowan came home, he was worn out from shaking so many hands and smiling for so many staged photos.
"I just needed it all to stop," he told Aelin that night, slumped in one corner of the couch with a pillow clutched to his chest. "Wendlyn is a good team, and Terrasen wasn't going to sign me anyway." His dream was to play for the Terrasen Staghorns, the local and very dearly beloved team that had been his favorite since he was a kid.
"You're going to do amazing in Wendlyn, Ro," Aelin told him, wishing she could just wrap him in her arms and make all of his messy emotions disappear.
"But it's so far away," he whispered. He looked at her, and his eyes were far too sad for a twenty-two-year-old. "What about that?"
"I love you, Rowan Whitethorn." Aelin met his sorrow head-on with every bit of wavering hope she could cobble together. "A bit of distance isn't ever going to change that."
"I love you too, Aelin." His voice wobbled, and she knew his next words before he spoke them. "I can't ask you to abandon your dreams just to be close to me." Tears glittered in the corners of his eyes. "And I don't know if I can survive the distance."
"What are you saying, Ro?" Her throat went tight.
He held the pillow tighter to his chest. "Let me go, Ae." A single tear broke free and trickled down his cheek. "I can't live with knowing that I took you away from your best life. Just...just let me go."
"You want this---you want us---to end because you're going to move to Wendlyn?"
"I don't want to trap you," he croaked.
"You could never do that!" she burst out. "What if I want to go with you? What if I want to support your dreams?"
"You deserve to have your own dreams come first!" Rowan threw the pillow aside and pushed himself across the couch, catching Aelin's face in his hands. "Please, Ae." His thumb brushed across her cheek, sweeping away the tears that poured down her face. "Please."
"I won't ever stop loving you, Rowan." Aelin looked into his shattered eyes, feeling her heart crack right down the middle. "Know that."
"I could never forget."
When he kissed her that night, it felt like goodbye.
~
Present
Aelin snapped her loose jaw shut and turned her attention back to the squirming toddler in her arms. "What are you doing here, Rowan?" she asked, untangling Lana's fingers from her hair.
"Got traded to Terrasen last month." His voice was deeper than she remembered. "One of the guys told me this was the best place to get a coffee, so I figured I'd try it out." When she snuck a glance at him, he was staring at Lana, and he flushed a bit when she caught him. "I...I wasn't expecting...um. You. Or her." His flush deepened as he stumbled through the words.
She clamped down on a smile at how godsdamned adorable he was when he was spluttering like that. It reminded her of their first date, how nervous he'd been because he was trying so hard to impress her. "This is my daughter, Lana. She's fifteen months." Aelin kissed Lana's rosy cheeks. "And, ah...her dad passed."
"I'm so sorry, Aelin." Rowan instinctively reached towards her with the hand not holding his coffee, then yanked his hand back.
"It's okay." Aelin shifted her stance so Lana could look up at Rowan. "Lana, honey, this is Rowan. Can you say Rowan?"
Lana's big turquoise eyes, just like Aelin's, stared up at Rowan. She patted her mother's arm, pointed at Rowan, and said clear as day, "Dada."
Aelin's face burned crimson. "I---I'm sorry," she breathed, mentally yelling at her traitorous, leaping heart to shut the fuck up. "She's never done that before."
"I'm sure it was just a fluke," Rowan said. "She's still learning to talk, right?"
"Yeah." Aelin looked at Lana, who gave her a big, wide, innocent grin. "You're so smart, my beautiful girl. Look at you learning new words!"
Lana squealed. "Mama!" She grabbed a fistful of Aelin's sleeve and flailed her other hand towards Rowan. "Mama, Dada!"
"No, sweet girl," Aelin said with a laugh. "Not quite." She gave Rowan an apologetic look. "I..."
"I never forgot," Rowan rushed out. "I never forgot, Ae."
"What?" She blinked, trying to remember their last broken conversation. "You...oh."
"Will you let me try again?" He looked at her with five years of hope in his face. "I'll be better this time."
She swallowed thickly, rocking her daughter in her arms. "I want to," she whispered. "I never stopped."
He set his coffee down on the table and stuck out his hand. "My name is Rowan, and you're the most stunning woman I've ever seen. Can I take you and your daughter to dinner?"
A whole herd of butterflies leapt in her stomach at how flawlessly he brought Lana into his plans. "I'd love that. My name is Aelin." She settled Lana on her hip, reached out, and took his hand.
This was just something I had rattling around in my WIPs and thought I could pull it off as 'First Meeting'. It just fluffy and cute and and infused with a whole bunch of personal experience. Please enjoy.
@rowaelinscourt
~~~~~
“Please welcome the Whitethorn family!”
At least six people stood along the colourful carpet of the atrium, waving and smiling, a few of them applauding. On the winding staircase that looked much too ornate to be on a cruise ship stood someone costumed as a humanoid dog, waving and blowing kisses. Rowan looked down at his daughter, her wide eyes trying to take everything in, and failing as her head frantically turned every which way. Being on this Disney Cruise was overwhelming for him, he could only imagine what it was doing to the mind of a 4 year old. Finishing their welcome party walk they reached the large window on the opposite side of the ship. At least five other families had been welcomed aboard behind them and Goofy had turned his attention to other guests. Ivy was still looking around with wonder, now peering out the window at the harbour they were docked in.
It was barely noticeable but Rowan could already feel the gentle swaying of the ship that would be their home for the next 4 days. Rowan took his own perusal of the place, the attention to every decadent detail even had him impressed and he was sure as they became immersed in what was offered on board he would only become even more so.
“What shall we do now, Ivy?” Rowan asked, swinging his daughter’s hand.
“It’s so big, Da,” she responded, not answering the question at all.
Rowan chuckled softly, and pulled out his phone to check the app all the blogs had told him to download and check immediately upon boarding. There it was, the entire schedule. Character meet and greets, trivia, a dance party on the main deck, times and locations that he would have to figure out. There was nothing too notable until they set sail, so he guessed it was time for lunch and a little bit of exploration.
The decision to fork out a small fortune for this cruise hadn’t been an easy one. Rowan had kept the idea to himself for a very long time, in fact not even telling his daughter about it once he finally took the plunge and paid the deposit. Being a single dad wasn’t easy and he had never really put in the effort for a big budget holiday. The excuse had been that Ivy was too young to remember anything, but now she was making lasting memories and he thought it might be time to blow a portion of their savings and do something crazy—like going on a Disney Cruise.
“Can we go up the elevator?” Ivy asked, pointing to the ornate, glass boxes moving up and down between floors.
“Of course, then should we get some lunch?” Because that was another thing the blogs had told him to do soon after getting on the ship. Rowan has spent hours researching the do’s and don’t’s.
Ivy nodded and then dragged her father in the direction of the elevators. “Which number, Da?”
“Whichever one you like, let’s go exploring.”
Ivy chose the next level up so it was a very quick ride. From there they were headed to the rear of the ship where one of the restaurants was open. Rowan thought it would be a better choice, less hectic than the buffet and less overwhelming for his daughter. He was glancing around, checking signage that they were going the right way, and didn’t realise Ivy had stopped until there was the tug on his arm.
“What is it, love?” Rowan asked, his glance sweeping down to her.
“Da, look,” she said quietly, stepping closer and holding tighter.
Coming towards them was a princess, the long, golden, flower bedecked braid giving away who she was. Rapunzel was Ivy’s favourite princess and she was utterly starstruck. He didn’t blame her, the woman was stunning, bright eyes and a wide smile, she practically skipped along whatever path she had decided she was taking. Rowan didn’t exactly know how this went, he knew the characters interacted with guests, never breaking out of the part they were playing, but could they approach one not in a scheduled meet and greet? He guessed they started by just saying hello?
Thankfully Rowan didn’t have to, Rapunzel must have seen the look of sheer wonder on Ivy’s face and took the initiative. “Well, hi!”
If possible Ivy’s eyes got wider. She didn’t respond, she just stared. For a brief moment the princess gave Rowan a knowing look that told him she saw this kind of reaction all the time.
“Did you just get on the ship? It’s so big, isn’t it?” Rapunzel asked, trying again.
This time Ivy nodded—that was a start. She was completely wonderstruck.
Rowan crouched so he could talk to his daughter. “Would you like to get a photo with Rapunzel, love?”
Ivy nodded then whispered a very soft, “Yes.”
“Can we get a photo?” Rowan asked the performer, or was it Cast Member? There was something specific Disney called their workers, he’d read it somewhere. Maybe he’d do a little bit more research before they dropped out of cell range. It didn't hurt to be prepared.
“Of course you can!” Rapunzel replied enthusiastically, beckoning Ivy over a few steps away so that Rowan could get a decent photo. “Come over here.”
Ivy followed, slowly and her hands clutching tight to her stuffed bunny, but she was smiling from ear to ear. Rapunzel stopped and held out her hand for Ivy to take as they turned to face Rowan. He pulled his phone out and flicked to the camera. “Ready?”
Rapunzel struck a pose while she smiled, one hand on her hip and holding Ivy’s hand in the other. Ivy beamed, sending a glance between Rowan and the performer next to her. Tapping a few times, Rowan felt himself smiling too, nodding his thanks as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. He expected Rapunzel to dash off, but she didn’t. Once the photo obligation was done she crouched down, having a quiet chat with Ivy. The conversation wasn’t loud enough to carry over to him. He was happy to watch how Ivy’s face lit up with each response she gave, and then Rapunzel opened her arms. There was a slight hesitation from his daughter and Rowan wondered if Ivy would refuse. But she didn’t, keeping one arm tight around her toy, she lent in and welcomed the hug. Over Ivy’s shoulder Rapunzel gave Rowan a knowing smile and a quick wink. She had a gift… or extensive training in how to deal with shy children.
When Ivy pulled back her cheeks were pink and her smile hidden behind the stuffed bunny that was her lifeline. There was, what Rowan assumed to be, a goodbye because Ivy walked over, immediately slipping her hand back into his.
“This is my dad,” Ivy said, surprising Rowan. His daughter was as shy as they came and the fact she was brave enough to start a conversation was amazing.
“A family holiday, then?” Rapunzel asked. “Dad and M—”
Before the woman could finish the sentence Rowan shook his head. It was just him. Had been since Ivy was six months old. Rapunzel’s bright turquoise eyes sent him an apologetic look.
“Dad and Ivy, that sounds like so much fun,” Rapunzel covered her near slipup flawlessly.
Ivy nodded. “Yep.”
“Well, I’ll see you around, I always love making new friends,” Rapunzel said, sounding incredibly genuine.
“Thank you,” Rowan replied, knowing Ivy might not be out of her starstruck state just yet to offer her own thanks.
“Oh, my pleasure. Remember Ivy, keep an eye out for Pascal for me.”
With that and a wave goodbye, Rapunzel was off to charm other guests. For a moment Ivy just watched her go, no doubt processing the entire interaction.
“That was quite an exciting start to our cruise, wasn’t it?” Rowan said, swinging Ivy’s hand.
“She was so pretty, Da,” Ivy replied, evidently still in awe. “Did you see?”
Rowan chuckled to himself. Honestly, she was very pretty, beautiful even. Her gentle demeanor made her all that more endearing and she had played the part of a princess so well. The thought of characters wandering around the boat had made him nervous, the painfully anti-social person that he was. He had expected the interactions to be rigid and awkward, but walking away from that Rapunzel he was halfway convinced she was the real deal.
“Come on, let’s get some lunch and then we’ll find our room,” Rowan suggested, and Ivy was more than happy to comply, a little skip in her step as she followed.
The first ten minutes of their cruise had been amazing so far, if the rest of their time here followed the same pattern they were in for the time of their lives. Well, at least it would be for Ivy. Honestly, Rowan was just here to cater to her every whim.
“I hope we see Rapunzel again,” Ivy said.
Rowan made a note to check for Rapunzel specific meet and greets on the app, there would have to be at least one at some point. It had been wonderful to see Ivy being gently coaxed out of her shell like that. He was sure the other characters would be just as good, but Rapunzel being the first Princess they met was special, something he hoped Ivy would remember for a long time. Rowan gave Ivy’s hands a reassuring squeeze, “I’m sure we will.”
~~~~~
Rapunzel from the Disney Wonder, if you're reading this you absolutely made our cruise a couple of years ago you absolute legend.
