I WRITE ABOUT ACOTAR ATM but my fandom phases are always changing so i probably will stop soon LMFAO and start writing about other fandoms like harry potter, maze runner, obx, game of thrones, merlin and stuff if i have time! or not sike.
im a struggling uni student and this is my outlet guys HAHAH love you all <3 text me anytime about anything, i love talking about life and random things !!
personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.
Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything
Word Count: 9.1k
A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.
main masterlist
You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.
No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.
You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.
You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.
And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to.
Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.
There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.
He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.
And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.
As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.
You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.
And then there was Bucky.
With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.
Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.
So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.
And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower.
So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.
—
Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.
Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all.
“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.
You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day!
The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.
Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.
You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.
You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.
But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.
It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself.
You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.
You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.
But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”
You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”
He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out.
“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”
You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged.
But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.
“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”
He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”
You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”
“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.
“Correct.”
He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.
You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.
“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”
“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”
That felt like a punch to the gut.
You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands.
His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”
You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.
“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”
You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?
“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.
“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.
“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.
“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further. “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”
“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”
You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.
—
Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.
Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.
In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.
There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.
You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.
And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.
You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around.
But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.
You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.
You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.
It was a nightmare. And a daydream.
A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.
So you steeled yourself.
Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.
You nearly made it.
But of course, he noticed.
“Hey, wait—”
His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve.
He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.
You swallowed. “Yeah?”
He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”
A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.
“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”
The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.
It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.
God, you were pathetic.
Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—
He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.
“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”
“I’m running a bit behind today.”
“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”
“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”
He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”
You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem off.”
There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.
Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”
He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.
Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.
Maybe then he’d be yours.
Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.
“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”
His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”
“I’ll survive.”
Would you, though?
Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?
He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.
“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”
You blinked. “What?”
“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”
You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”
Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.
You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.
You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”
He paused. You could feel him thinking again.
Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”
But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity.
“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.
—
If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.
It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.
You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.
The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...
Of course he did.
Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.
“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.
Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.
“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—
You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.
It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.
This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.
“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.
Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.
“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”
“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”
“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”
He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.
Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.
You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Only going to get longer.”
You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.
And then your brain stopped working.
Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.
He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”
You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.
Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.
Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”
“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”
His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe?
“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”
The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”
Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.
“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”
You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”
She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”
You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”
The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”
Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.
“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”
You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.
“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”
The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”
You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.
From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.
“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.
The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.
“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.
Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush.
You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.
You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.
“Need a hand?”
You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”
You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”
“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”
You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.
You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.
“Sure,”
A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch.
The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.
He was savouring it.
His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.
“You’re trembling,” he commented.
You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response.
When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.
He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck.
“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.
You leaned in.
Only a fraction. Just enough.
He noticed.
You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.
And then he was gone.
He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.
The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.
You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.
—
Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).
You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.
The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?
No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.
Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.
You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.
Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.
The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—
Then someone slipped through at the last second.
Him.
Bucky fucking Barnes.
Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.
Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.
You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.
“Did I do something to piss you off?”
You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”
“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”
Shit.
He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.
“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”
The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.
“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.
“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”
“Bucky…”
“Please. Just tell me.”
You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.
“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”
And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.
“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”
He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.
“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”
His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.
“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”
“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”
Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”
“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”
“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”
His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”
“The bouquet you gave her.”
“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”
You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”
Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”
Your heart stuttered. “What?”
“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”
You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”
Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”
“Hey—”
“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”
He snorted. “You’re not serious.”
You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”
“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled.
“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”
“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”
His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”
“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”
As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.
You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”
But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.
And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.
The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.
Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.
“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”
“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”
“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.
“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.
He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”
You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.
And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.
“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”
You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.
He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.
“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”
Your breath hitched.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”
Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.
“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”
“Bucky…”
“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”
“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”
And then his mouth was on yours.
Hot. Messy. Desperate.
You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”
Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.
It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect.
“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.
“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.
“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.
But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In the goddamn elevator.
You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.
Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”
His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.
Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit.
You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.
“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”
You whimpered.
And then, he peeled your panties to the side.
The groan that tore from him was obscene.
“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”
And then, his mouth was on you.
Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.
“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”
Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.
His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”
His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—
Bzzzzt.
A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.
“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”
You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.
You could barely breathe. Could barely think.
This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.
Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.
He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.
You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.
Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”
Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.
There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.
“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”
You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.
Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.
You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”
Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.
A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.
“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”
The line disconnected.
The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.
Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.
“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”
You shattered.
It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.
Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament.
You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—
“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.
You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.
“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”
Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.
You nearly combusted on the spot.
“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.
You nodded quickly and wordlessly.
He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.
---
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Unseen, Unheard, Unloved- Initial Rhysand, Eventual Kallias x fem!Reader (2/2)
Summary: She had given him everything—her heart, her trust, and now, the child growing within her. But as Rhysand’s attention drifts elsewhere, as excuses pile up, and as whispers of a mortal girl turn into something far more dangerous, she begins to wonder: Was she ever truly seen? Was she ever truly heard? Or had she been unloved all along?
See masterlist
Part 1
Warnings: none I think
Azriel winnowed them inside the grand entrance hall of the Winter Court’s palace, and the instant her boots touched the icy marble, Y/n felt the air shift. Cold, crisp, and biting—but not in an unwelcoming way. No, it was different from Velaris’ warmth, different from the suffocating tension that had clung to her like a second skin. This was clean. It was fresh. It smelled of snow and pine, of something untouched and unburdened by the weight she had been carrying for weeks.
But her body was still heavy. Exhaustion curled in her bones, her limbs aching from both the winnowing and everything leading up to it.
Azriel set her bag down beside her, his movements careful, precise—as if handling something fragile. Which, she supposed, she was. But she wouldn’t break. She couldn’t break. Not anymore.
Before she could even take in more of her surroundings, a familiar, cool voice broke through the silence.
"Welcome to Winter, Y/n."
Kallias stood a few feet away, dressed in pristine white and silver, his platinum hair gleaming under the grand chandelier’s light. His sharp, glacial blue eyes softened as he took her in, as he noted the weary set of her shoulders, the way she clutched the front of her coat as if holding herself together.
Y/n tried to muster a smile, something resembling a greeting, but all she managed was a tired nod. “Kallias.”
The High Lord of Winter stepped closer, his gaze scanning her as if committing her presence to memory. “You must be exhausted.” It wasn’t a question.
Before she could answer, Azriel’s voice cut through, softer this time. “I’ll be checking up on you.”
She turned to him, the words lingering in the air between them. It wasn’t a warning, wasn’t a demand. Just a quiet promise. She swallowed hard, a lump forming in her throat. She wasn’t sure what she was feeling—gratitude, maybe, or guilt, or just a strange sadness that this moment, this transition, was real.
Still, she nodded. Then, before she could think too hard about it, she took a small step forward and wrapped her arms around Azriel, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.
Azriel stilled for half a second, then exhaled quietly, his own arms tightening around her in a silent promise.
"Bye, Az."
Her voice was barely a whisper, but it made his grip on her tighten. “Take care of yourself, little ghost.”
She let out a quiet breath. He hadn’t called her that in a long time.
He pulled away first, his hazel eyes flickering to Kallias.
A silent conversation passed between them. One that Y/n wasn’t fully privy to but felt in the tense set of Azriel’s jaw, in the unreadable shift in Kallias’ expression. It was an understanding. A warning. A promise.
Then, Kallias broke the silence, his voice cool but edged with something pointed.
“As long as she is with me, she will always be cared for.”
It wasn’t a simple reassurance. It was a statement. A reminder. And perhaps, a veiled jab at the one who had failed her.
Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. But he only nodded, only gave Y/n one last lingering glance before he winnowed away, the shadows swallowing him whole.
And just like that, it was real.
She was here.
Truly, fully here.
Silence stretched between her and Kallias before he exhaled softly. “Are you hungry?”
Y/n hesitated. “I—”
His gaze sharpened slightly, sweeping over her frame. His lips pressed into a frown. “Have they not been feeding you properly there?”
She blinked, startled by the question.
And before she could think of a response, he added, “I can see your collarbones.”
It was true. The months of stress, of sleepless nights and overthinking, had left their mark on her body. She had eaten, of course—but only enough to function. Only enough to get through the days.
But she couldn’t say that.
So she just shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Kallias’ frown deepened. And then, to her surprise, he reached out, placing a warm, steadying hand on her shoulder. Not forceful, not imposing—just a firm, grounding presence.
“Y/n,” he said, his voice softer now. “You’re pregnant. Carrying another life, giving your energy to them. Of course, you being well-fed is of the utmost importance.”
She opened her mouth, but he was already picking up her bag. “Come,” he said smoothly. “Let me show you to your rooms personally.”
She blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” There was no room for argument.
So she followed.
The halls of the Winter Palace were as grand as she remembered—tall ceilings, intricate carvings of wolves and swirling ice patterns adorning the archways. Everything gleamed in shades of silver, white, and blue, but it wasn’t an unfeeling cold. There was warmth woven into the design, into the soft glow of faelights lining the corridors, into the thick, plush rugs muffling their footsteps.
“You’ve made a few changes since I was last here,” she noted, her voice quiet but steady.
Kallias glanced at her. “Somewhat.”
"Somewhat?" she echoed, raising a brow. "There's an entire new wing on the east side."
His lips twitched slightly. "You noticed."
"I notice everything."
Kallias hummed. “It was necessary. We needed more space.”
Y/n huffed a quiet laugh. "For what? Ice sculptures?"
Kallias chuckled, the sound low, but real. “For expansion. Winter has been growing stronger these past few years.”
Something in the way he said it made her glance at him. “Stronger how?”
He slid a look her way, something amused but serious in his expression. “We’ve been securing better alliances. Strengthening our borders.”
Y/n tilted her head slightly. “So, politics.”
“Politics,” he agreed. Then, after a pause, “Which you’ve never had much patience for.”
She scoffed. "No, I just never had patience for stupidity in politics."
Kallias smirked. “Fair enough.”
A comfortable silence settled between them.
And then, more gently, he added, “You never answered my question.”
She frowned. “Which one?”
“If they were feeding you properly.”
Y/n exhaled, already tired of this conversation. “I ate.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She looked away. “It’s the only one I’m giving.”
A quiet beat.
Then Kallias murmured, “You don’t have to pretend with me, you know.”
Her breath caught for a moment.
She didn’t respond.
Instead, she focused on the hallway ahead—on the set of ornate doors that Kallias pushed open, revealing her chambers.
The room was beautiful—bathed in soft hues of silver and white, with a fireplace already crackling in the corner. The bed was large, draped in plush blankets that looked like they had been crafted from the softest furs. A seating area was arranged near the balcony doors, the windows opening up to a breathtaking view of the snowy mountains in the distance.
Y/n exhaled, the tension in her chest loosening just a fraction.
Kallias set her bag down by the bed. “If there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask.”
She turned to him. “This is… more than enough. Thank you, Kallias.”
He held her gaze for a long moment. Then, finally, he gave her a small nod. “I’ll send some servants to help you get settled in and bring you food.”
She wanted to argue, to say she could handle it on her own. But the truth was—she didn’t want to. She was tired. So, instead, she just nodded.
Kallias lingered for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he turned toward the door.
“Rest, Y/n.” His voice was softer now, quieter. “You are safe here.”
And then, with a final glance, he left.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, she let out a breath that didn’t feel like it was suffocating her.
The first thing Y/n did after Kallias left was sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The exhaustion in her bones was unbearable, but her mind wouldn’t let her rest. The quiet of Winter was so different from Velaris, from the ever-present hum of the city, the laughter of people she had once called family. Here, there was only silence, save for the distant howl of the wind outside her window.
The room was warm, but she still felt cold.
She had barely unpacked when the servants arrived, bringing trays of food—warm soup, roasted meats, fresh bread. Everything smelled rich and comforting, but the moment she sat at the small table and lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips, she set it back down. Her stomach twisted at the thought of eating.
The exhaustion finally won over the overthinking. She stripped out of her clothes, slipped into a nightgown the Winter servants had left for her, and slid under the thick blankets. The mattress was plush, the warmth inviting. Still, it took her a long time to sleep.
When she did, her dreams were filled with shadows and echoes of the past.
The soft sound of footsteps stirred Y/n awake. At first, she barely registered it, the warmth of the blankets anchoring her to the bed, her body still sluggish with exhaustion.
Then came a gentle knock at the door, followed by the quiet creak of it opening.
"Lady Y/n?"
Y/n forced her eyes open, the dim morning light filtering through the frosted windows. A young female stood at the threshold, her hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes bright but cautious.
"I apologize for waking you," the maid said, stepping further into the room. "But I was sent to assist you in getting ready for the day."
Y/n blinked, mind still sluggish from sleep. "Getting ready…?"
The maid offered a small, polite smile. "High Lord Kallias has requested to see you. He wishes to personally show you the palace grounds."
That woke her up.
Y/n sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. "Me?" she asked, voice raspy from sleep.
"Yes, my lady."
Y/n stared at the maid, confused. Kallias wanted to show her around? Personally?
Her first instinct was to decline. To stay buried in the warmth of the bed, to avoid whatever this new world was trying to offer her. But then she remembered Azriel’s quiet words before he left.
"Take care of yourself, little ghost."
The thought of him was enough to make her sigh, her reluctance softening just slightly.
"Alright," she murmured.
The maid nodded, moving to help her out of bed. Y/n accepted the assistance, stretching her limbs carefully before allowing the female to guide her toward the dressing screen.
"The High Lord wanted you to be comfortable, so he had clothes prepared for you," the maid said as she unwrapped a fresh set of winter garments.
Y/n hesitated before reaching out to feel the fabric. It was soft, warmer than anything she’d ever worn before, and lined with fur along the collar and sleeves.
"It’s beautiful," she admitted quietly.
"Everything in Winter is made to withstand the cold," the maid explained as she assisted Y/n into the outfit. "And with your condition, the High Lord was adamant that you have only the warmest materials available."
Her condition.
Y/n looked down at her stomach, her hands instinctively brushing over the swell of it. She had almost forgotten—almost.
A child. Rhysand’s child.
Her throat tightened.
"Do you need anything before we leave?" the maid asked gently, sensing the shift in her mood.
Y/n forced herself to breathe, to push those thoughts away. "No," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "I’m ready."
The maid studied her for a moment before nodding and leading her toward the door.
As they stepped into the hall, Y/n found herself exhaling slowly, steadying herself. She could do this. She would do this.
She was nervous, but there was something thrilling about wearing these colors—Kallias's colors. Winter’s colors. She had heard the whispers about how striking she looked in the ensemble, but it was Kallias's reaction that she had been anticipating the most.
As she rounded the corner into the main corridor, her heart fluttered at the sight of Kallias standing by one of the grand arches, his eyes immediately falling on her. He was speaking to a servant, but the moment his gaze landed on her, everything else seemed to fall away.
His lips parted, his jaw tightening for a split second before his eyes widened in clear awe. His posture straightened, and he seemed to forget the conversation altogether as he stepped forward.
Y/n felt her breath catch in her throat, suddenly self-conscious. His gaze was intense, as though he could see straight through the fabric to the very essence of her.
“You look…” Kallias's voice faltered slightly, his words tripping over themselves as he stared at her, clearly taken aback. “You look... breathtaking, Y/n.”
A warmth spread through her chest at the sincerity in his voice. She felt herself flush, the heat in her cheeks rising despite the chill of the palace around them.
“I... thank you,” she murmured, suddenly unsure of what to say. She wanted to dismiss his comment, but his reaction made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for. His gaze was soft but filled with admiration, and it made her feel special, cherished even.
“I’ve seen many dressed in Winter’s colors,” Kallias continued, still a little breathless. “But none wear them like you.”
Y/n smiled at that, feeling a strange giddiness inside her. “I... I’m not sure I’m used to it,” she said, her voice almost shy as she glanced down at the dress.
He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. "You wear them with such grace, as though Winter was made for you."
She could feel the heat of his gaze, the weight of his words settling over her like a comforting blanket. It was impossible not to feel seen, truly seen, in that moment.
Before she could respond, Kallias quickly cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. "Shall we? The palace grounds await."
They stepped outside, and the cool air of Winter immediately wrapped around them. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the sky, their icy touch brushing against Y/n’s cheeks as she walked alongside Kallias. He led her through the sweeping courtyard, the grandeur of the palace laid out before them like a kingdom untouched by time. The air felt still, the only sound being the crunch of their boots in the snow.
"I’m glad to see you settling in," Kallias said, his voice warm but with a subtle edge of concern. "Winter is... different, I know. But I’m glad you chose it as your place of peace."
Y/n glanced at him, her thoughts swirling. “I needed something... quiet. Somewhere to breathe,” she said, her tone soft.
“You’ve come far,” he observed, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. "But—" He hesitated, clearly unsure how to continue. "But why Winter? Why not the Night Court?"
Her stomach flipped at the mention of Rhysand, and she quickly deflected. “I think I just needed the distance,” she said, her voice a little sharper than she intended. “Rhysand has a lot on his plate, and I didn’t want to add to that.”
Kallias didn’t press her immediately, but his sharp eyes seemed to catch every tiny change in her expression, every flicker of discomfort. There was a brief silence, and then he changed the subject with a gentleness that surprised her.
“Well,” he said, his voice lighter now, “Winter may be cold, but it has its warmth in unexpected places. Take the ice gardens, for example.” He gestured toward the path ahead, where the glistening, frozen flowers seemed to sparkle like jewels in the sunlight. “The flowers are grown by our people, with care and patience. Something about them... they remind us of the resilience Winter offers.”
Y/n was entranced by the sight. The beauty of the ice flowers seemed to mirror her own thoughts—fragile, yet persistent. “They’re beautiful,” she said, her voice filled with wonder.
“They are,” Kallias agreed, his smile warming his face. “They remind me of my people. Of how, even in the harshest of winters, we find a way to thrive.”
They continued their walk, moving through the courtyard toward the training grounds. Y/n caught sight of some of Winter’s warriors practicing their skills, each of them moving with disciplined precision. There was a quiet power to them, a strength that seemed almost palpable.
“Winter warriors,” Kallias said, as if reading her thoughts. “They are the heart of our court. They defend these lands with their lives, and they do so without hesitation.”
Y/n watched them for a moment longer, her mind briefly wandering to what it would be like to be part of something so powerful. Her stomach tightened, but she quickly pushed the thought aside.
“They look... strong,” she commented, trying to distract herself.
“They are,” Kallias agreed with a hint of pride in his voice. He glanced at her, his gaze thoughtful. “I respect them deeply. They remind me that strength is not just physical—it's in how we weather the storms, how we carry on.”
As they continued, Kallias showed her more of Winter’s wonders: the grand library, where the ancient texts of Winter’s history were kept, and the quiet nursery, where young children played in the snow, their laughter ringing out like music to Y/n’s ears.
Seeing the children, Y/n’s chest tightened. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to watch her own child—her soon-to-be faeling—play and grow in a world that was, despite its trials, filled with warmth. The thought of their laughter, the innocence of childhood, made her heart swell. But just as quickly, that warmth faltered, a sharp pang of uncertainty twisting in her gut. She thought of the father, and the disappointment that would soon greet their child. The weight of that truth settled heavily in her chest, the lightness of the moment slipping away.
She let out a soft breath, unsure whether she should voice the thoughts swirling in her mind. But Kallias was beside her, his presence reassuring as always.
He caught her gaze and offered a small, knowing smile. "You'll find your peace here, Y/n. You’re not invisible to us. You never will be."
His words struck a chord deep within her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to believe it.
Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as she entered the breakfast room. The space was like something out of a dream—a vision of comfort and warmth amidst the icy landscape. The walls were adorned with intricate ice carvings that seemed to shimmer in the pale light streaming through the large, open windows. The soft, crystalline glow of the snow outside reflected against the glass, casting a cool, blue light throughout the room. Fresh, crisp air drifted in through the open panes, filling the room with the scent of winter—clean, pure, and invigorating.
The centerpiece of the room was an exquisite ice glass table, its surface smooth and glistening. It was shaped in a perfect circle, almost like the moon itself, and it sat near the grand window, offering a panoramic view of the Winter Court's sprawling grounds. Snow-covered trees stretched as far as the eye could see, and the distant mountains were crowned with frost, standing tall and proud in the winter sky. The soft crunch of snow underfoot could be heard in the distance, accompanied by the occasional call of a bird soaring through the crisp morning air.
Kallias stood by the table, his tall figure framed by the sunlight streaming through the windows. The warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the coldness of the landscape outside, but it felt so comforting. It was a sanctuary.
Y/n stepped in, eyes wide as she took in the serene beauty of the room. She was still adjusting to being here, still unsure of what to expect. But the peaceful atmosphere seemed to ease her troubled thoughts, if only slightly.
She hesitated for a moment, glancing at Kallias, who had already moved toward the table, preparing to sit down. He looked back at her, his brow slightly raised, as though expecting her to join him.
“Wait… You’re having breakfast with me too?” Y/n asked, her voice betraying a slight edge of surprise.
Kallias paused, a faint expression of confusion crossing his face. “Yes. Why wouldn't I?”
She shrugged slightly, not wanting to delve too much into the strange discomfort she felt about it. "Shouldn’t you have some more important High Lord things to do? I mean... shouldn't you be dealing with other matters? Running a whole court?"
Kallias didn't miss a beat, his smile warm but firm as he cut her off. “My priority is making sure you’re well. You’re pregnant, alone in a new place, and probably in need of some company. Why wouldn't I stay and keep you company?" He gave a small, almost amused chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if the idea of leaving her alone was incomprehensible to him. "I would think this is the least I can do for you.”
Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. She was surprised by how matter-of-fact Kallias was about it—how easily he dismissed her discomfort with something so genuine. She didn’t have an answer for him, but she did feel a pang of something in her chest, something warm that slowly began to ease her wariness.
Before she could say anything further, he spoke again, his voice quieter, softer. “You’ve been through a lot, Y/n. And yes, Rhys isn't here. You may feel lonely, I can imagine. But I won’t leave you alone unless you ask me to.”
The mention of Rhys made something tighten in her chest. Her throat constricted as her mind flashed back to the months before—how his absence had felt like a cold void in her life. His distance, the fact that he had retreated into his "duties" and left her with little more than empty promises.
Kallias was right. She had been lonely, even before coming here. But she couldn’t—no, she shouldn’t—talk about that now. So instead, she just shrugged again, her voice faltering as she spoke, though she didn’t realize it. “Well, no... not really,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the floor, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “He used to... he used to have breakfast with me every morning. But, since my pregnancy... he’s had more important things to do.”
Kallias froze, his hand still hovering near the back of the chair, and for the briefest of moments, his eyes darkened. His expression shifted from curiosity to something harder to define. But it was gone as quickly as it came, and he masked it with a soft, reassuring smile. “More important things...” he repeated, his voice filled with an edge of something she couldn’t quite place.
He stepped forward, placing his hand gently on her shoulder, guiding her toward the table. “Y/n,” he said, his voice low and protective, “you are never an afterthought here. Not by me. You are never a burden or an inconvenience.” His eyes met hers, sincerity written in every word, every glance. “You are a priority. And so is your child.”
Y/n’s heart squeezed painfully in her chest at his words. She had never heard them from Rhys, not since the pregnancy began. She had heard about his ‘important work’ and his ‘obligations.’ She had heard about everything else except her.
Now she knew why.
Kallias pulled out the chair for her, and for a moment, she stood there, uncertain, before taking a seat. The table before her seemed so foreign, but oddly inviting—something about the simplicity of it soothed her in a way she couldn’t explain.
He pushed her chair in gently and moved around to the opposite side, where he seated himself as well. The silence between them felt comfortable, not awkward, and Y/n found herself leaning into it, a small part of her grateful for Kallias' presence.
That little breakfast marked the beginning of a new chapter in Y/n’s life. Her time in the Winter Court, now almost a week into her stay, had transformed from uncertainty to something more comfortable, more familiar. Kallias had seen to it that she was well taken care of. The warmth of the palace, the crisp air outside, and the peaceful surroundings made the months of her pregnancy bearable. Each day felt like a healing step, both physically and emotionally.
Her bump, now at eight months, had grown rounder, more pronounced. It was impossible to ignore, and though it felt heavy at times, there was also a sense of pride that came with carrying this new life inside of her. She was doing this. Alone, yes, but she was doing it. She could handle it. Or at least, she told herself that every morning as she slipped out of bed and prepared for the day.
Kallias had been a constant presence, always checking in on her, offering kind words, and inviting her to walks around the palace grounds. He was thoughtful in a way that made her feel safe, yet distant enough to allow her space when she needed it. He treated her with respect, never prying too much, but always there with a comforting smile when she needed it most.
But beneath the surface of this peaceful life, the nightmares never stopped. They came in waves, uninvited and unwelcome, twisting her mind with their brutality.
Rhysand’s betrayal still haunted her, even here, in this foreign place. There were moments when she would find herself dissociating, her gaze unfocused as her thoughts spiraled. It wasn’t just the constant ache of her loss, but the sudden, unbearable images that would flash before her eyes. Images of that night. Of Rhysand and Feyre in her bedroom, kissing, their bodies pressed together in a way that left no room for doubt. The dream replayed itself in her mind constantly, a sickening reminder of everything that had been ripped away from her.
She would blink, and the memory would vanish as quickly as it appeared, leaving her breathless, her chest tight. She couldn’t escape it. And yet, despite her aching heart, she pretended she was fine. She told herself that she was healing, moving on. Each day with Kallias felt like another layer of protection, a cocoon she’d built around herself to shield her from the past. But deep down, she knew she wasn’t truly healing. She was only pretending, masking the pain.
And Kallias knew. He saw through the facades, though he never asked about the cracks in her armor. His presence was gentle but insistent, like a steady hand on her back, urging her to heal in her own time.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see the wounds.
One night, two weeks into her stay in Winter, she woke again to a nightmare.
The dream began like any other—a vision of Rhysand, of their time together, filled with love, tenderness, and hope. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, whispering promises of forever. She felt the warmth of his lips against hers, the love she had once known. It felt real. It felt like him. And for a moment, she allowed herself to believe in the dream—believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be the way they once were.
But then, as always, it turned. It warped.
His face twisted, his eyes cold. The warmth was gone. The love was gone.
“You’re not my mate, Y/n,” he spat, his voice cutting through her like a blade. “Feyre is. She always has been. So why don’t you just leave?”
Her heart shattered, her chest seizing with an unbearable ache as the words echoed in her mind. Why don’t you just leave?
She woke with a jolt, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. The room was too dark, too quiet, and the only thing that kept her grounded was the soft sound of her own ragged breathing. Her hands trembled as she wiped away the sweat from her forehead, trying to calm her shaking body.
But then, she felt it.
Warm arms—strong, steady—slid around her, pulling her against a solid chest. She froze, her heart racing, a gasp escaping her lips.
“Shh, it’s alright,” a soothing voice whispered, low and calm. “You’re safe.”
Y/n blinked, her thoughts hazy as she tried to make sense of what was happening. It took a moment for the fog to clear, and when it did, she saw him—Kallias, sitting beside her on the bed, his chest bare and his hair mussed from sleep. His worried eyes studied her face, his hands gently brushing the sweat-soaked strands of hair from her forehead.
“What... what are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice shaking as she struggled to regain her bearings.
Kallias didn’t answer her immediately, only pulling her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could absorb the pain she was feeling. His heart beat steadily beneath her ear, a rhythm that she clung to. She could feel the warmth of his skin against hers, but it wasn’t just physical warmth—there was an emotional depth there that made her want to melt into him.
“I felt your pain,” he murmured, his voice thick with concern. “I heard you calling out... shouting. You’re next to my room, and I couldn’t ignore it.”
Y/n blinked again, trying to process his words, the meaning of them, but her thoughts were foggy. He felt my pain?
But the thought quickly slipped away as she focused on the fact that he was here, now. Holding her. Her breath hitched as she whispered, “I... I’m sorry. What was I shouting? What happened?”
Kallias gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his eyes were still heavy with concern. “You were just shouting ‘no,’” he said softly, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand. “That’s all.”
Y/n’s chest tightened, but relief flooded her. She hadn’t spoken about Rhys. He didn’t know.
But then, as quickly as the relief came, the memories of the nightmare returned. The cruel words Rhys had spoken—the betrayal, the rejection—tore through her heart again. Her breath caught, and her face crumpled as the tears started to fall. Uncontrollable, heart-wrenching sobs wracked her body as she clung to Kallias, burying her face in his chest.
He didn’t question her. Didn’t ask why she was crying, didn’t ask about Rhys. He just held her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back as she cried. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, his strong arms never wavering.
Y/n’s chest shook with the intensity of her grief. It felt as though all the pain she had buried, all the hurt she had held inside, was finally being released. She wasn’t alone in this moment. Kallias was there, and he didn’t demand anything from her—he just was there.
She cried for what felt like hours, the weight of everything too much to carry. And when her sobs finally slowed, when the ache in her chest began to lessen, she pulled away slightly, her eyes red and puffy, her face blotchy.
Kallias’ gaze was soft, his worry still there, but now there was a quiet understanding in his eyes.
“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I’m here, Y/n. I’m here for you.”
And for the first time in months, she allowed herself to believe it. She allowed herself to believe in the comfort he offered, the tenderness, the care.
For now, it was enough.
And for the first time in a long time, Y/n didn’t feel invisible.
Snow drifted beyond the frost-lined windows of his study, the icy landscape of Winter Court bathed in a soft morning glow. The beauty of it should have brought him the usual sense of peace. Instead, Kallias found himself staring blankly at the papers in front of him, his mind elsewhere.
Or rather—on someone else.
Y/N.
He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. It had been a week since she arrived. Two weeks of watching her, observing the way she carried herself—like someone who was trying too hard to appear whole. At first glance, she looked well enough, but Kallias had always been perceptive. And Y/N… she was anything but fine.
She had come to Winter alone. Pregnant and alone.
That fact alone unsettled him.
How could Rhysand allow his supposed mate—his pregnant wife—to travel to another court by herself? If it were his mate, his wife, he would never—never—have let her out of his sight, let alone across Prythian.
The first day she arrived, he had noticed it.
Beneath the heavy cloak, beneath the graceful way she moved, something had been… off. She looked uncared for. Not in the sense that she was unkempt, but in the way a male should care for his pregnant beloved—fussing over her, ensuring her comfort, making sure she felt loved.
Kallias had tried to push the thought away. Surely, there was an explanation. Rhysand wasn’t a fool—he had always been a male who protected what was his. Yet, Y/N was here, alone. No messages from Rhysand. No sign of him even worrying about her absence.
Kallias drummed his fingers against the polished wood of his desk.
There were things he wasn’t being told. He could feel it.
And last night had only confirmed his suspicions.
The memory of her nightmare was still fresh in his mind—the frantic pull in his chest that had woken him, the way he had found himself running to her door before he even realized what he was doing. Her shouts, her fear. He had felt it like a blade to the ribs.
And when he found her, drenched in sweat and tears, sobbing into his arms…
His jaw tightened.
It had taken everything in him not to stay. Not to hold her until morning, until he knew for certain she would be all right. But she wasn’t his. She had never been his.
If only she knew.
If only she had ever noticed him properly before.
Kallias let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head at himself. Pathetic. After all these years, the feeling had never truly left, had it? Even when he was barely a young High Lord, he had felt it—that pull toward her, the way she lit up every room she entered. She had been his first quiet longing, his other half, even before he fully understood what it meant. But she had already belonged to someone else.
And now, here she was, in his court, in his home, carrying another male’s child.
Kallias clenched his jaw, shutting his eyes for a moment.
He would not make a fool of himself. He would not fail her. She had come here, had chosen his court for her solace. He would be the sanctuary she needed—nothing more.
“Dare I ask what’s making you scowl like that?”
Kallias opened his eyes to find Marek, his second-in-command, watching him with raised brows, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. The male stood across the desk, setting down a stack of reports.
“Nothing,” Kallias said coolly, straightening in his seat.
Marek gave a skeptical hum before sitting in the chair opposite him. “Right. Nothing. Which is why you’ve been glaring at your desk like it personally offended you.” He exhaled, leaning back. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the High Lady of Night, would it?”
Kallias stiffened slightly but kept his face impassive. “She is a guest in my court.”
“She is a pregnant guest in your court,” Marek corrected, studying him. “Alone. Without her partner. Which, frankly, is something I didn’t think I’d ever see.” He shook his head. “Strange, isn’t it? That the great Rhysand would let his beloved travel alone, stay alone—especially now.”
Kallias remained silent, his fingers curling slightly against the desk.
Marek wasn’t wrong.
“That surprises you too, doesn’t it?” Marek pressed, tilting his head.
Kallias exhaled through his nose, glancing out the window before finally speaking. “I won’t pretend to understand the affairs of another court,” he said carefully. “But yes. It is… unexpected.”
Marek studied him for a moment before his lips twitched. “You’ve been softer lately.”
Kallias turned back to him, brows furrowing. “Excuse me?”
Marek smirked, leaning his elbows on the desk. “Since she arrived, you’ve been… different. Softer.” His voice was laced with amusement.
Kallias scoffed. “You’re imagining things.”
“Oh, am I?” Marek drawled. “Because last I checked, you don’t usually look at guests like you’re ready to tear apart whatever put that sadness in their eyes.”
Kallias tensed but masked it with a blank stare. “You’ve had too much wine.”
Marek only chuckled. “Maybe. Or maybe I just see what you refuse to admit.”
Kallias gave him a pointed look. “Enough.”
Marek’s smirk widened, but he raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. Back to business.” He slid a set of documents across the desk. “The plans for the new army base. You wanted to review the latest designs.”
Kallias exhaled, pushing aside the weight in his chest. “Good. Let’s go over them.”
Marek didn’t say another word on the matter, but the knowing gleam in his eyes remained.
And even as Kallias turned his attention to the documents before him, a single truth echoed in his mind—one he was desperately trying to ignore.
He was getting too close to her.
And he didn’t know if he could stop.
It started during a healer’s visit.
The Winter Court had its own healers, and Kallias, in his quiet, careful way, had made sure that Y/N had regular check-ups. He never pushed too hard, never insisted she take the treatments, but the way he made sure things were taken care of spoke volumes.
Today, he was sitting by the large window of her quarters, papers scattered across the table in front of him, though his attention kept drifting toward her. She hadn’t been feeling her best recently—more tired than usual, more distant—but the sight of him nearby always seemed to soothe her.
The healer, a soft-spoken male named Hesperos, was gentle and methodical in his examination, pressing his warm hands to Y/N’s swollen belly, murmuring soothing words of a spell. The healing magic rippled through her, a cool, peaceful energy.
“The baby is strong. Healthy,” Hesperos said with a smile. Y/N exhaled in relief, her shoulders relaxing.
Kallias, however, didn’t smile. His focus remained unwavering, but something about the way he was sitting, so quietly intense, made Y/N feel as though he was seeing through her. She didn’t know why it felt that way.
She smiled at the healer, her voice soft. “Thank you, Hesperos. I feel much better after every visit.”
Hesperos gave a warm chuckle. “It’s our job to make sure you do, my lady.”
But then, his expression shifted. He blinked, his hands pausing over her stomach. Y/N’s gaze flicked between him and Kallias, her stomach tightening slightly at the sudden tension in the room.
“Is something wrong?” Y/N asked, her voice shaking just a little.
The healer seemed almost uncertain, glancing at her before looking toward Kallias. His gaze lowered, his hands falling back to his sides. “My lady… I need to ask… Have you been under any extreme stress lately? Or emotional strain?”
Y/N blinked, frowning. “Stress?” she echoed, forcing a laugh. “I mean, of course, I’ve been tired lately, but—”
“No, it’s not just the fatigue,” Hesperos interrupted gently. “This is something more than simple exhaustion. I’m detecting some… emotional strain.”
Y/N’s smile faltered, her mind racing. She quickly shook her head, a forced chuckle escaping her lips. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been resting well here. I haven’t been stressed. Everything’s fine.”
But there was a strange, almost skeptical look on Hesperos’s face. He leaned a bit closer, studying her carefully, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “What I’m sensing, it’s the kind of strain we see in those who’ve endured emotional trauma. Perhaps…during or maybe even before the pregnancy?”
A weight settled over her chest. She felt the breath catch in her throat, the room feeling suddenly too small. She could feel Kallias’s eyes on her now, sharp, calculating.
Y/N shifted uncomfortably. She didn’t know how to respond.
The healer, sensing her discomfort, withdrew slightly, his expression sympathetic. “It’s nothing too serious. The baby’s fine. But I would advise you to take some more time to care for your emotional well-being. Take it easy, my lady. Rest, and avoid any unnecessary stress.”
“Of course, of course,” Y/N replied quickly, nodding. “I’ve been resting plenty. I’ll take care of myself.”
Kallias hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved either. He was just staring at her, his jaw clenched, his hands folded on the table, his expression unreadable.
Y/N felt her heart race.
She looked away, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. She forced herself to look calm, to smile. “Nothing, Kallias. It’s nothing.”
But he wasn’t convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained calm. “You’re hiding something from me.”
She shifted uncomfortably. Was this it? Was this where it all ended?
“I’m not hiding anything,” she said quickly, her voice tight. “I’m just… I’ve been through a lot, that’s all. And I’m pregnant.” She shrugged. “It’s normal.”
But he was still staring at her. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion.
Finally, he stood up from the chair. The motion was quick, almost as if he’d made a decision. His expression remained unreadable, but Y/N felt the tension in the air.
He walked toward the door without another word.
“Kallias?” Her voice barely broke the silence.
He paused at the door but didn’t turn around.
She didn’t know why, but she found herself standing, moving toward him. The instinct to reach out, to stop him, was stronger than the part of her that told her to stay still.
But before she could take another step, Kallias turned sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet. “I’ll be back in a moment.” And just like that, he left the room.
The door clicked shut, leaving her in a sea of confusion. Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of his sudden departure. Was he angry? Disappointed? Did he think she was lying?
Why was he upset?
Y/N stood frozen in place, her heart heavy.
“Why does it feel like he’s mad at me?” she whispered under her breath. “What did I do?”
Her chest tightened with the rush of emotions.
She moved toward the window, staring out at the stark beauty of the Winter landscape, but it wasn’t the frozen scenery that filled her mind. It was him—Kallias’s withdrawn look, his darkened expression, the quiet fury in his eyes.
But maybe he was disgusted by her. Maybe she was too much of a burden. He’d been kind, too kind, and now, with everything she’d been holding inside, she probably had let it slip. He probably didn’t want to be around someone like her.
Just the thought made her stomach turn. She couldn’t hold on to his kindness forever.
Her gaze fell to the door, but just before she could even begin to move towards it, she was stopped by the healer, his expression soft and calm.
“My lady,” he said gently, his eyes full of understanding, “please, you can’t be running around with a belly like that.” He gestured to the comfortable chair by the window, urging her to sit back down. “Rest for now.”
Y/N nodded silently, sinking into the chair with a sigh. She was exhausted. Mentally, emotionally… physically.
But even as she closed her eyes and tried to push away her thoughts of Kallias, her mind kept returning to him. His departure had felt like something more than just irritation.
Was he disgusted by me?
Did he hate me now?
I’ve pushed him too far.
She closed her eyes tight, unable to stop the tears that pricked at her eyelids.
He barely felt himself move as he stormed out of the room.
His mind was spinning, his pulse roaring in his ears like a blizzard. The healer’s words echoed over and over again in his head.
Extreme stress. Emotional strain. Trauma.
And then—before the pregnancy.
Kallias’ hands curled into fists as he raced down the halls of his palace, his heart slamming against his ribs. His thoughts were a whirlwind, pieces snapping together, his worst suspicions solidifying into a devastating truth.
She wasn’t just struggling because of the pregnancy.
She had been suffering long before she ever arrived in Winter.
Kallias knew. He knew.
A growl ripped from his throat as rage flooded his veins. His magic surged, ice crackling at his fingertips as he barely managed to contain the violent storm building within him.
He wouldn’t contain it.
Not this time.
Not when she had been suffering in silence, not when she had been left like this, abandoned and alone, with his child growing inside her while she silently broke apart.
The halls blurred around him as he winnowed in a snap of ice-cold wind, the world bending to his fury.
The wards around the townhouse shattered the moment Kallias appeared.
The sheer force of his arrival cracked the air like a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the house.
Rhysand’s inner circle was gathered in the sitting room, locked in a heated argument, voices overlapping in tension and frustration.
“I can’t believe you—” Mor was snarling at Rhys, her hands clenched at her sides.
“She deserved better than this, Rhys,” Azriel’s voice was colder than night, his wings flaring slightly as he stood rigidly beside Cassian.
Feyre’s voice was tight. “I didn’t—”
“She probably hates us too because of the shit you dragged us into,” Cassian interrupted, his expression dark with disbelief.
And then, in a blink, the argument halted.
Because Kallias was suddenly there.
The moment he appeared, a bitter chill flooded the room, ice creeping along the floor, frost curling at the windows.
Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias launched at him.
“You little bastard.”
The words were venom, spat through clenched teeth, right before Kallias swung.
The impact was sharp, a solid hit to Rhysand’s jaw that sent him stumbling back. Gasps erupted around them—someone shouted Kallias’ name—but he wasn’t done.
Rhys recovered quickly, eyes flashing pure fury, and retaliated, his power snapping through the air as he tackled Kallias.
Fists flew, the sound of their bodies colliding shaking the very walls of the townhouse. Furniture splintered, ice and darkness clashing violently as Kallias slammed Rhys into the floor, his hands around his throat.
Rhys wrenched free, throwing Kallias off him with a burst of raw power. Kallias skidded across the room, but he was already back on his feet, already lunging again—
Cassian and Azriel intervened.
Cassian caught Kallias, hauling him back with an iron grip, barely keeping him restrained. Azriel stood between them, his expression unreadable but watchful, wings flared wide.
“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Cassian bellowed, struggling to hold Kallias back.
Kallias didn’t answer. His gaze was still locked on Rhys, both of them breathing heavily, murder in their eyes.
Until his gaze shifted.
Feyre.
She was kneeling beside Rhys, her fingers gently brushing over his jaw, her eyes wide, lips parted slightly in concern.
That was all Kallias needed to confirm everything.
His stomach twisted, something cold and ugly settling in his chest.
His muscles tensed, and he shoved Cassian off him.
“When you saved us all from Under the Mountain,” Kallias said, his voice deadly quiet, his cold blue eyes settling on Feyre, “when I gave you a part of my power… I never thought I would ever regret it.”
A muscle ticked in Rhys’ jaw.
Kallias took a slow step forward, gaze flicking back to him.
“But now, standing here, seeing this ugly, pathetic scene before me, I feel nothing but regret. And disgust.”
Silence.
Feyre’s breath hitched, but Kallias ignored it.
His glare returned to Rhys, who still held his furious, defensive stance, though something uneasy flickered across his face.
Kallias bared his teeth. “Do you even realize what you’ve done to her?” His voice was quieter now, but sharper than shattered ice.
Rhys didn’t answer.
Kallias took another step, his fury rising again.
“If you wanted to break things off, you should’ve done it before putting a child in her. Before making her worry, before leaving her to suffer alone.”
A thick, heavy silence.
Everyone was watching.
Even Amren’s expression was unreadable, her lips pressed into a tight line.
Kallias’ voice rose.
“She has been having episodes where she freezes, clutching her belly and staring into nothing—” He gritted his teeth.“And when I bring her back, when I gently bring her back to the present, do you know what she does?” His laugh was cold. Cruel. “She smiles like nothing happened.”
Rhys’ face remained unreadable.
Kallias’ voice turned into a snarl.
“Do you know she has nightmares every gods-damned night? Almost as if she’s being reminded of your disgusting actions?”
Feyre flinched.
Kallias stepped even closer, furious now.
“And do you know, Rhysand—” His tone was filled with nothing but pure wrath now. “—that she has been doubting herself every moment? She’s been trying to hide it, but it’s killing her. From within.”
Rhys’ expression finally cracked. A flicker of guilt.
Kallias sneered.
And then, his voice dropped into ice-cold steel.
“You better apologize. On your knees.”
His words struck deep, the weight of them suffocating the room.
“Beg for her forgiveness, because you still have a gods-damned faeling on the way, and you best hope you can be a good father—at the very least.”
He took in Rhys’ barely concealed guilt, the tension crushing the room.
And then Kallias turned.
His parting words were quiet, but lethal.
“Because if you aren’t—” he gave one final, piercing glare “—I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your immortal life.”
And with that, he vanished, winnowing away in a gust of frozen wind.
Leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence.
An hour had passed since the healer had left. An hour of pacing, of restless hands wringing together, of her mind spiraling with thoughts she could not untangle.
Kallias was nowhere to be found. She had searched, called his name softly in the empty halls, but there had been no response. And with every passing moment, the worry in her chest grew, coiling tighter and tighter.
So when she finally stepped out of her room, heart pounding, she nearly missed him—almost didn't see him slipping into his own chambers, his hand on the door, about to shut it. But the soft click of her own door opening must have reached him, because he hesitated, head tilting slightly before turning fully to face her.
Their eyes collided.
And the first thing she noticed were the bruises—small but unmistakable wounds marring his otherwise perfect face. Red marks along his jaw. A faint cut near his cheekbone. His lower lip was slightly swollen.
She inhaled sharply.
There was only one being he would have fought like this.
Kallias remained silent, waiting for her reaction, and she sighed as she slowly stepped toward him. His fingers twitched on the door handle, as if torn between shutting himself away or—
The door opened.
Silently.
An unspoken invitation.
Y/N stepped inside, and Kallias shut the door behind her, locking it with a quiet click.
Her gaze flickered around the room—cold and grand, yet undeniably his. The heavy drapes of silver and midnight blue, the dark wooden furniture, the ever-present chill of winter that clung to the air but did not touch her skin. A fire crackled low in the hearth, barely illuminating the carved designs along the high ceiling. It was neat, yet something about it felt untouched. As if no one had lived in it for too long.
When she turned back to him, Kallias was still watching her. Silently. Intently.
She exhaled, shaking her head slightly.
“Do you have any tonics or salves?” she asked, voice softer than she expected.
A slow, almost dazed nod. Then, without a word, he turned and led her toward an adjoining washroom.
She took what she needed—her fingers grazing along the neatly arranged bottles, picking out the ones that would soothe the swelling, heal the cuts. Then, guiding him back to the bedroom, she pressed gently on his chest, urging him to sit at the edge of the bed.
Kallias obeyed.
And when she stepped between his legs, pressing a cloth to his jaw, she felt the way his body stiffened beneath her touch. Not from pain—but from something else entirely.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.
Until finally, she whispered, “I take it you’re aware of the situation now?”
A slow nod. Then, just as softly, he whispered back, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her hand faltered for a second before she resumed dabbing at his jaw.
“What difference would it have made?” she murmured. “You and I… we weren’t that close.”
A mistake.
Because in the next heartbeat, his hand rose—gently but firmly clasping her wrist, halting her movements.
She looked at him, confused, but his grip did not waver.
“If only you ever gave me a chance,” Kallias whispered.
Her breath caught.
“What?”
His eyes burned with something raw, something centuries-old.
“If only you ever looked outside your bubble with Rhysand,” he continued, voice thick with emotion, “and saw me. Saw that I was there for you—heart and soul, every moment, wishing for you to be mine.”
The words slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs.
She stepped back, barely registering the cloth slipping from her hands.
“What?” she repeated, disbelieving.
Kallias stood, not letting her distance herself.
“Do you know what a painful feeling it is to watch your mate be in love and carry another male’s child?” His voice cracked—just slightly. But his expression remained steady, unwavering. “To give her heart to him?”
Her mouth parted, but no words came out.
Mate.
He knew.
He knew.
“You knew I was your mate?” she breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
A sad, almost broken smile touched his lips.
“I’ve known for nearly two hundred years.”
She felt dizzy.
“I felt it the moment I saw you,” he admitted, his voice dropping lower, more vulnerable. “And since then, I always felt you. Every moment. Every breath. During those fifty years under the mountain, I couldn’t feel you through Amarantha’s magic—but my thoughts were with you. Always with you.”
Her eyes burned.
“And after we were free…” He let out a shuddering breath. “You have no idea how overjoyed I was just to feel you through the bond again.”
He clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “The moment I was told you were pregnant, I wasn’t surprised. But I was still in pain. The weeks and months after that were no different.”
Y/N’s lips trembled.
“But that night,” Kallias whispered. “That night I felt great pain coming from you. And the next day, I had my reply sent to you.”
Her breath hitched.
“The night I found them kissing,” she murmured in realization.
His expression darkened, rage flickering across his face before he took a steady breath.
“I tried keeping this a secret,” he admitted. “I tried my best, Y/N. But…” His voice thickened with emotion. “I have already hidden this for two hundred years. I can’t do this anymore.”
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
“I understand if you need time to process it all,” he whispered. “But please, I hope you won’t be disappointed.”
She didn’t know what to say.
Didn’t know how to respond to this revelation that shattered everything she thought she knew.
“I…” She swallowed hard. “I need time to process. I am… I don’t—I don’t know what to say or do.”
Kallias held her gaze, his eyes filled with something unreadable.
“You don’t need to do anything,” he murmured. “Just be confident in your decision. Whatever it may be.”
She looked away, blinking back the tears.
Then, slowly, she turned toward the door.
She hesitated—just for a moment.
Then left.
And behind her, Kallias stood still in the center of the room, watching her go.
The days passed, but the weight of Kallias’ words did not fade.
If anything, they lingered. Clung to her skin, to her mind, to her soul.
She had not spoken to him about it since that night. Not because she didn’t want to—but because she didn’t know how.
Her mate.
Her mate, and he had known for nearly two hundred years.
She hadn’t known what to do with that information. She still didn’t.
So she had done what she always did. She buried it. She carried on. She let the days slip into nights, avoiding him when she could, enduring the unbearable tension when she couldn’t.
But she felt him everywhere.
Felt him in the way his gaze lingered on her across the dining table. In the way his presence filled the room the second he entered it, like winter itself bending to accommodate his power.
In the way her body, despite her protests, was aware of him.
Kallias, however, did not push.
He did not corner her, did not force her into another conversation about what he had revealed.
But that did not mean the tension between them had lessened. If anything, it had thickened.
And at night, when sleep refused to claim her, her mind would return to him.
How had she never seen it? Never felt it?
The way he looked at her. The way his voice softened ever so slightly when he spoke to her. The way his magic, cool and crisp as fresh snow, had always sought hers.
Rhysand had been her world for so long. She had loved him, given him everything. She had never once thought to look elsewhere.
But now—now, she had to.
And it terrified her.
So when another sleepless night came, when she found herself tossing and turning in her sheets, mind refusing to quiet, she could no longer take it.
A pull.
It tugged at her insides, restless and unrelenting.
She didn’t think. She simply obeyed it.
Throwing back her covers, she slid on a robe over her thin nightgown and padded barefoot out of her room.
The halls were silent, the moonlight casting long shadows along the frost-covered floors.
She didn’t need to wonder where she was going.
She already knew.
Her feet carried her straight to Kallias’ office, the pull within her intensifying the closer she got.
The door was slightly ajar, and when she reached it, she hesitated.
Then, taking a steadying breath, she pushed it open.
He was there.
Sitting behind his grand desk, head buried in documents, the glow of candlelight flickering against his sharp features.
He did not move at first.
But then—he stilled.
As if sensing her.
And when he slowly lifted his head, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers.
The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm.
And that was when she realized—
She had come in wearing only her nightgown and robe.
A thin nightgown.
One that clung to her, that left very little to the imagination.
His gaze ran over her, darkening as it fell to her now prominent belly, before slowly trailing back up to her face.
She swallowed hard, cursing herself.
His voice was quiet, unreadable. “Y/N.”
She forced herself to clear her throat. Forced herself to hold his stare, despite the way it made her entire body feel like it was burning.
“I…” She inhaled deeply. “I came to ask some questions.”
Kallias did not move. Did not look away.
His gaze remained fixed on her, heavy and waiting.
When she did not immediately continue, he arched a single, silver brow.
“Ask them,” he murmured.
She tried to collect her thoughts, tried to remember why she had come here in the first place.
“Why?” she finally breathed. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
His expression did not shift.
But when she kept going, words spilling from her lips in a desperate attempt to understand—
He cut her off.
Smoothly.
Calmly.
“Do you want the answers or not?”
She stopped mid-sentence, mouth slightly parted.
And then—slowly—she nodded.
Kallias rose from his chair.
Her stomach clenched.
His movements were slow, deliberate, as he stepped around the desk, rounding it towards her.
His eyes never left her.
With each step he took, he answered.
“I didn’t tell you,” he said, voice low, steady, intense, “because you were in love with another. Because I wanted you to choose me for me, not because fate dictated it.”
Another step.
“I didn’t tell you,” he continued, “because I saw the way you looked at him. And I knew you never looked at me the same.”
Another step.
Closer.
Her breath hitched, but she did not move.
By the time he stopped, they were chest to chest.
She was close enough to see the faint scar above his eyebrow, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold magic always humming beneath his skin.
Her heart pounded.
And when her gaze—without her permission—dropped to his lips, Kallias’ jaw tightened.
“Stop tempting me,” he murmured.
Her breath came unevenly.
“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered.
A low, quiet growl.
“Your existence is enough to tempt me,” he said, his voice raw. “Everything you do. Everything you wear. It tempts me.”
She didn’t know what came over her.
Perhaps it was the way his voice had turned rough, husky.
Perhaps it was the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if restraining themselves from reaching for her.
Perhaps it was the way her own body reacted to him, to his closeness, to the sheer, undeniable pull between them.
An urge.
A reckless, uncontrollable urge to kiss him.
Her fingers twitched.
Her breath mingled with his.
His hands fisted at his sides.
But instead—
Instead, she ran.
She took a sharp step back, nearly stumbling over herself as she turned away and hurried out of the room.
She did not stop.
Not when she reached her chambers.
Not when she collapsed onto her bed, heart racing, skin burning.
She did not stop.
But she cursed herself the entire time.
A month.
It had been a month since she had arrived in Winter.
A month since she had learned the truth.
A month since her world had shifted beneath her feet.
And now—
Now, she was nine months pregnant.
Due any day.
Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her swollen belly as she gazed across the gardens of ice and snow.
It was breathtaking. A masterpiece of nature and magic intertwined.
Frozen roses glistened beneath the pale sunlight. Delicate trees, their branches coated in frost, stood tall against the clear blue sky. The air was crisp, biting against her skin, but she welcomed the cold.
It grounded her.
Unlike her thoughts. Unlike the turmoil that had been storming within her since that night in Kallias’ office.
Since she had nearly kissed him.
Since she had run.
She had avoided him even more after that. Refused to be alone with him. Refused to give him the chance to speak to her about what had happened.
But it hadn’t stopped her from feeling him.
Hadn’t stopped her from being aware of him every time he was near.
Hadn’t stopped the dreams.
The ones where his voice, husky and low, whispered to her in the darkness.
Where his hands, warm despite his magic, held her.
Where his lips—
She exhaled sharply, cutting off the thought before it could fully form.
No.
No, she wouldn’t think of that.
She couldn’t.
Instead, she focused on the silence around her. The stillness. The temporary peace that came with the gardens.
Until—
She felt it.
Him.
His presence.
A familiar, steady weight pressing against her senses.
The air seemed to shift, thickening with something unspoken.
And then—
Slow, measured steps against the snow.
She knew it was him before she even turned.
And when she did—
Her breath caught.
Kallias strolled into the gardens with an effortless grace that only he possessed.
His white hair gleamed beneath the sun, tousled just enough to make her wonder if he had run a hand through it in frustration. His sharp jawline was dusted with the barest hint of stubble, making him look unfairly handsome.
He was dressed in his usual pristine attire, the elegant fabric emphasizing his powerful frame.
But it wasn’t just his appearance that made her heart stutter.
It was his eyes.
Icy blue, watching her softly.
Unwavering.
She turned away immediately, forcing herself to focus on the frozen roses once more.
She wouldn’t do this.
Wouldn’t stand here and pretend her body didn’t react to his presence.
Wouldn’t pretend her heart didn’t ache with confusion every time she looked at him.
So she did the only thing she knew how to do.
She tried to leave.
But the moment she took a step forward, his voice—deep, steady, commanding—cut through the air.
"You can't keep running away from everything."
She froze.
Slowly, she turned to face him, her hands tightening around the edges of her robe.
Her lips curled slightly. "I can try."
His expression didn’t change. But something flickered in his eyes.
A mixture of exasperation. And something else. Something deeper.
"You are impossibly stubborn," he murmured, stepping closer.
"And you are impossibly persistent," she shot back, lifting her chin.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "It seems we have that in common, then."
She pressed her lips together, unsure how to respond.
Kallias took another step, his gaze sweeping over her face, then down to her belly.
She expected him to stop there, but his eyes softened—so much it nearly hurt to look at.
"You're due any day now," he murmured.
Her throat tightened. "I know."
Another step.
Closer.
"Are you well?" he asked, voice quieter. "Do you need anything?"
The sincerity in his voice, in his concern, made her pulse stammer.
She opened her mouth, hesitated, then asked the question that had been clawing at her for weeks.
"Why do you care?"
Kallias blinked.
His brows furrowed slightly, as if the question confused him.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
"The faeling," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you care for my baby when you know they are from another male?"
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And then—
Kallias’ expression softened in a way she had never seen before.
Slowly, he stepped closer.
And before she could move, before she could stop him—
He gently grasped her arms.
His touch was careful. Warm.
And when he spoke, his voice was so quiet, so reverent, that she could hardly breathe.
"Because it is not the baby’s fault to have such a father."
Her chest tightened.
"Because none of this is their fault."
Her vision blurred.
"Because they are yours. And that is all that matters to me."
Her breath shuddered out of her.
Something inside her cracked.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
Kallias’ fingers twitched against her arms.
And then—slowly, hesitantly—he reached up and brushed the tear away with the back of his knuckles.
The touch was light. Barely there.
But it made her stomach flip nonetheless.
She parted her lips, wanting to say something—anything—when—
A throat cleared.
Both of them stiffened.
The moment shattered.
Y/N turned her head—and felt the breath get knocked from her lungs.
Behind the servant standing in the archway of the gardens—
Stood Rhysand.
Her heart stopped.
The servant bowed slightly before addressing Kallias.
"High Lord Rhysand of Night, Your Grace."
The moment the words left the servant’s mouth, Kallias went utterly, dangerously still.
Y/N barely had time to react before Kallias’ arm pressed lightly against her, a silent yet firm movement as he pushed her behind him.
As if shielding her.
As if Rhys was a threat.
Her lips parted, her entire body locking in place as Kallias stepped forward, dismissing the servant without even looking at him.
Rhysand’s violet eyes flickered between them.
Between her.
Between Kallias.
Between where Kallias had moved to shield her.
And in that moment—
In that heartbeat of silence—
She knew.
Everything was about to change.
The air was thick with tension.
Y/N barely breathed as she peeked out from behind Kallias' broad frame, her heart hammering.
Rhysand stood just beyond them, his violet eyes unreadable, his wings tucked in tight, his hands flexing at his sides.
But she saw it.
The hesitation.
The hurt.
The way his gaze flickered—between her, between Kallias, between the space Kallias had deliberately placed between them. Between the connection he clearly saw.
He swallowed, composing himself with a slow inhale before exhaling heavily, his face blanking out.
Finally, he spoke.
"May we…" His voice was quieter than she expected, rough.
A pause.
A hesitation.
He sighed before trying again, voice steadier, though there was something raw beneath it.
"May we have a talk?"
Y/N sucked in a breath.
She felt Kallias tense beside her, his body a solid wall of unwavering strength. His eyes never left Rhys, cold and sharp as ice, watching every move the High Lord of Night made.
But he didn’t stop her.
Didn’t argue when she stepped forward, gently brushing past him.
Still, before she moved completely out of his reach, she turned.
A small, real smile—one just for him.
"Don’t worry," she murmured, holding his gaze. "I need this."
Kallias’ icy blue eyes softened.
A barely-there nod. Understanding.
"I will be nearby," he promised, voice quiet.
But when he turned to Rhys, his gaze hardened, a silent death glare that sent a chill through the air.
Y/N ignored it.
Instead, she led Rhysand a little further away, her posture shifting.
Gone was the hesitance, the uncertainty.
The second she turned to face him again, her entire demeanor changed.
Her voice was sharp. Cold.
"Talk."
Rhysand exhaled, his expression twisting as if it physically pained him to begin.
But he did.
From the start.
From Under the Mountain.
From the moment Amarantha had taken him, from the moment he had felt something shifting deep in his soul, long before Feyre had even arrived to save them.
How he had suspected Feyre was his mate before she had even set foot in that cursed place.
How the bond had begun pulling at him, whispering, nudging, long before she had even known him.
How, during every trial Feyre endured, during every moment of her suffering, his instincts screamed at him—protect her, protect her, protect her.
How, by the time she had finally saved them all, finally broken the curse—
"By then," he murmured, his voice nearly shaking, "I already felt the bond snap into place for me."
Y/N stilled.
A cold, hollow silence stretched between them.
Rhys swallowed.
"So when I arrived back home—to you. To Mor. I already knew."
A sharp, bitter laugh left her lips.
Of course.
Of course.
Her heart clenched, but she smiled—a twisted, cold thing.
"I should’ve known."
Rhys flinched.
"Because you weren’t yourself from the moment you came back."
Her voice wavered, but she didn’t stop.
"Always hesitating to touch me. Always distracted. Always—" She let out another humorless laugh, shaking her head. "I’m surprised I’m even pregnant right now."
Rhys’ jaw clenched, shame clouding his features.
"Y/N—"
"Save it," she snapped.
But he didn’t stop.
He explained everything.
Why he kept disappearing at night.
Why he had been gone for days at a time.
How, when Feyre and Tamlin were about to be wed, the bond had pulled him to her so strongly that he had to interfere—had to take her.
How he had been with her every time he was not with Y/N.
And how he had hidden it.
Lied.
Made her doubt herself.
Her hands curled into fists.
Her voice was softer when she spoke next, but it was far colder.
"All this time," she murmured.
Rhys stilled.
"All this time," she repeated, her voice shaking just slightly, "I had eyes only for you."
Her breath hitched.
"And yet—"
She met his gaze, let him see the truth in her eyes.
"Kallias has been my true mate all along."
Rhysand froze.
His entire body went rigid.
"What?"
A small, cruel smile touched her lips.
"You heard me."
Rhys shook his head slightly, as if trying to process it.
As if he hadn’t even considered it.
"Kallias is my mate," she continued, voice firm.
And this time, she felt it—the truth of the words, settling into her very bones.
Rhys looked… devastated.
"I—" He faltered.
But she didn’t care.
"I understand," she said, voice cold, "that Feyre is your mate."
Her fingers clenched at her sides.
"Because now that I have found my mate—" Her voice wavered. "I know what it feels like."
Rhys opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"But hiding it?" Her eyes burned. "Making me doubt myself? Hate myself? Making me feel like I was losing you because of something I did?"
Her voice cracked.
"I won’t ever forgive you for that."
Rhysand flinched as if struck.
But she wasn’t done.
"But we have a child together."
His gaze snapped to hers.
"At least tell me," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "that you will be a good father to them."
Rhys’ lips parted, his expression crumbling.
"Of course," he breathed, "of course, I will—"
But before he could finish, before he could even take a step forward—
Y/N gasped.
Pain. Sharp and sudden.
She clutched her stomach.
Her knees nearly buckled.
"My—" She gasped again, her body tensing.
Rhys’ eyes went wide.
"Y/N?"
"My water—" Her breath hitched. "The baby—the baby is coming!"
Chaos erupted.
Before she could even register what was happening, Kallias was there.
Instant. Immediate.
Rhys barely had time to react before Kallias shoved him aside, reaching for her.
"I’ve got you," Kallias murmured, his arms strong as he lifted her effortlessly into his hold.
She barely registered Rhys following as Kallias carried her inside, barking orders.
Midwives. Midwives were summoned at once, servants scrambling.
She clung to Kallias, her breath sharp, her body burning as the contractions began to intensify.
"I’m here," Kallias murmured against her forehead.
Her vision blurred.
"You’re not alone, starlight."
Rhys followed.
Kallias did not acknowledge him.
Not as he carried her into her chambers.
Not as he lowered her onto the prepared bed.
Not as he whispered, over and over, words only meant for her.
Words of comfort.
Words of devotion.
Words that Rhysand would never say again.
The room was dimly lit, the scent of lavender and fresh linens thick in the air as Y/N lay on the soft sheets, utterly exhausted. But despite the ache in her body, despite the whirlwind of emotions that had led up to this moment, her heart was full—because in her arms lay a tiny, fragile miracle.
Her daughter.
She traced the baby’s delicate features, her small nose, her plump little lips, the faintest dusting of dark lashes against rosy cheeks. She was warm, impossibly tiny, and perfect.
Rhysand sat in the chair beside the bed, unusually silent. He had not left. He had not even tried to. Instead, he was staring at their child with something so raw in his expression that, for the first time in a long while, Y/N saw him not as her betrayer but as a father.
“She has your nose,” Rhys murmured after a long pause, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and emotion.
Y/N huffed softly, tilting her head. “But your lips,” she countered, smoothing a thumb over the baby’s pout.
Rhys gave a small, breathless chuckle, his violet eyes bright as he leaned in just a little closer. “And your cheeks. She’s going to be so beautiful, just like her mother.”
For a fleeting second, a warm, nostalgic peace settled between them. An understanding. An unspoken acknowledgment of the life they had created together.
Then Y/N’s expression hardened. “Now that you have a daughter, you better pray she never meets a male like you.”
Rhys inhaled sharply, clearly stung. But instead of responding with guilt, his lips pressed into a determined line, his violet eyes flashing with something fiercely protective. “I would kill any male who ever hurt my princess.” He softened immediately after, gently extending his hands. “May I?”
Y/N hesitated but eventually nodded. She watched as Rhys cradled their daughter in his arms, his touch reverent, as if he were holding something sacred.
He was utterly enchanted, whispering soft words to the little girl, pressing the lightest kiss to her forehead. And for a moment, Y/N could see the father he was meant to be—the father he would be.
But she could not let that soften her resolve.
“I believe by now you know,” she murmured, folding her hands over her lap, “that I will be staying here permanently. With my mate.”
Rhys visibly tensed. His gaze flickered to her, pain swimming in his violet eyes. “Y/N…”
She shook her head, unwilling to hear whatever argument he might have.
Instead, Rhys exhaled sharply, adjusting the baby in his arms. “When she comes to Velaris, you too—”
“Not now.” Y/N cut him off, her voice firm. “I won’t be coming anytime soon.”
His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to protest, but he swallowed it down.
Y/N, however, turned her full attention back to her baby, brushing a finger over her tiny fingers, smiling as they wrapped around hers. In a playful, sing-song voice, she cooed, “But Uncles Cas and Az, and Aunties Mor and Amren—they are always welcome here, aren’t they? Yes, they are.”
Rhys sucked in a slow breath. She saw the way it gutted him, the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly. But he nodded. “Of course.”
They spoke a little longer, quietly agreeing on how they would co-parent, what would be best for the child. But when Rhys finally murmured, “Y/N… I am so sorry. And Feyre is also—”
She didn’t let him finish.
“Save it,” she said coldly, her gaze snapping back to his. “You may leave now. You saw the baby. Come back tomorrow, if you will. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
Rhys looked like he had a thousand more things to say, but he only nodded slowly, gently placing the baby back in Y/N’s arms before standing. He hesitated at the door.
“Call Kallias in,” she ordered, her voice unrelenting.
Rhys turned to leave without another word.
And the moment Kallias entered the room, Y/N’s body instinctively relaxed.
He was by her side in an instant, his ice-blue eyes full of nothing but love as he settled beside her, tucking a strand of damp hair from her face.
“She’s perfect,” he murmured, gazing down at the baby. “Just like her mother.”
Y/N exhaled a soft laugh, her lips curving up. And as she looked at him, at his pure, unwavering devotion, she felt a shift deep within herself. A warmth. A certainty.
“I accept,” she whispered.
Kallias stilled, his brows drawing together slightly.
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I accept you as my mate, Kal. And I’m so sorry I never paid you the attention you deserved before.”
Kallias blinked, stunned for only a second before his expression softened into something radiant, something home. He reached for her free hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles.
“You have nothing to apologize for, my love,” he murmured, cradling both her and their child in his arms. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
A tear slipped down Y/N’s cheek, but for the first time in months, it was not from pain.
Kallias leaned down, brushing a feather-light kiss to her lips. It was slow, lingering, full of unspoken promises.
When he pulled away, he smirked, his thumb tracing circles along the back of her hand. “Get well soon, my beautiful High Lady. I have a coronation to plan for you.”
Y/N let out a disbelieving laugh.“You seriously would do that?”
He only grinned. “You deserve it. The Night Court never deserved you.”
Y/N’s heart clenched, and she leaned into him as he cocooned her and their daughter in his arms.
Kallias pressed another kiss to her temple and whispered, “But before that… our mating ceremony.”
a/n: sorry guys for the long assss wait, ive been on exchange in the uk so i have been busy living life hehe, still here and loving it!! hope you guys like this one, love you all cuties <33 also this isnt proof read so sorry for any mistakes! let me know what you think, i love all of your sweet messages !! eeeeeee
read : [part one] [part two]
-----🩷🧚♀️💗------
You woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache and a parched mouth, confused as to how you had made it to your bed from last night. The morning sun streamed through the curtains, casting a hazy glow over your room.
Groaning loudly, you cursed as you shifted your weight around, consequently turning your head to come face to face with Lucien's chiseled features, peacefully sleeping next to you. It took you a second to realize he was shirtless as well.
You screamed, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"
His mechanical eye swirled open, followed by his other. "Tell me we didn't."
"DID what," Lucien murmured, a small smirk gracing his features as he stared up at the ceiling. Amusement danced in his eyes as he stretched languidly against the sheets. His morning rasp tingled inside you and nicked at you annoyingly. This could not have happened. The headache of whatever liquids and maybe even other substances you had consumed yesterday hit you hard, and you fell back to face the ceiling as well, nausea threatening to overwhelm you.
"You little slut, you know what I meant," you groaned, rolling onto your front in a feeble attempt to quell the oncoming headache and urge to vomit.
You felt Lucien shift next to you as well, attempting to detangle himself from the crisp black sheets of your bed. "We must have done it."
"NO Lucien."
"YES."
"NO, I CAN'T-"
"…why not," Lucien breathed out. His demeanor had changed since you last saw him sober; something had happened last night, and you could not remember, but he was acting differently.
"All I am saying is that last night made me realize things about you, Y/N…" he continued, rising from the sheets. You raised your eyes in horror, ready to scream because you did not want to get flashed by fiery dick-
-a pair of orange breeches came into view.
"Oh."
"Upset that we didn't actually sleep together, Y/N?"
An unknown feeling of red-hotness spread throughout your face, turning your cheeks pink. "I hate you, Lucien," you hummed.
"What did you realize, Lucien?"
"That I pretend to not care the way Azriel and Elain make heart eyes at each other, but on the inside, it's like a knife twisting inside me," he deadpanned, and you couldn't help but let out a laugh.
"What???" he groaned, falling down next to you. "Nothing, Luc, I just feel sorry for us, that's all.
~
Azriel sat at the dining table, swirling the black coffee mindlessly. It was 2 pm, and his shadows had begun reporting how the others had finally begun stirring awake after their long night. They had gotten back at 5 am, the sun slowly beginning to peek through the trees and buildings of Velaris, and he had watched from afar as Lucien carried Y/N to her room.
He had not come out afterwards. His shadows had been in an unfamiliar frenzy, yelling to slip through and see what was happening in that bedroom, to investigate how good he gave it to her because Azriel just knew. He knew he could give it to her better.
He clenched his fists at the picture his shadows had painted for him of the events which probably had unfolded in her room. What was it with his sexual urges with Y/N all of a sudden? She was just his friend. She had always just been his friend. Maybe he had had a little crush on her before. Maybe when she would walk into a room and his palms would sweat, he would chastise himself for wearing too many layers. Or how when she used to make his heart beat irregularly, he would tell Rhys about anxiety. It was easier to let them think he had a disorder rather than admit feelings. Because maybe, just maybe he had had slight feelings towards her for centuries. But there was Elain now.
He liked Elain.
"Good Morning Azriel!" a sweet voice chirped, as Elain entered the dining room, a sweet tea held in her perfectly manicured hands. Even after a night out, she looked perfect. Her hair looked freshly blow-dried, and her lips tinted pink, looking fresh and kissable. He smiled gently, and her eyes brightened as she took a seat next to him, murmuring things about last night and how odd it was to see Lucien with Y/N.
"I just don't think he should have danced like that with her, what do you think?" she whispered, her eyes shining.
"I know it was disrespectful to you," Azriel nodded back, looking into her glassy doe eyes. Out of the corner of his eyes, he felt a sudden burst of movement from his shadows, but the warning wasn't quick enough as two figures walked into the room.
God, she looked horrible.
Elain let out a comical gasp, and the corner of his mouth lifted as Y/N walked into the room, her hair messy and disturbed, like someone had pulled on it, ran their hands through it. Her presence snatched on his gaze, it pulled it towards him, and Azriel found himself unable to look away.
Her eyes lazily dragged over Azriel, raking up his body, and never before had he felt so hot. But he did not break eye contact with her either, he maintained it, willing and daring her to break it first.
Their eyes met in a silent battle of wills, a tension simmering beneath the surface as they sized each other up. It was a fleeting moment, but it spoke volumes, leaving Azriel reeling in its wake.
"Lucien, can we talk?" Elain broke the silence.
Everyone blinked and looked at the innocent girl sitting down. Azriel watched as she looked into Lucien’s eyes, with her innocent look, and he mentally chuckled. She was doing damage control, and it was working because his shadows were reporting the increase in Lucien’s heartbeat.
“Of course,” Lucien whispered and pushed past Y/N, whisking Elain away out of the room.
Charged silence followed. Azriel went back to nursing his coffee which had gone cold now. He felt Y/N scoff and mutter something under her breath which sounded a whole lot like "bitch," as she moved around the place, into the connecting kitchen, trying to will the House to make her a cup of its strongest coffee. They didn’t say a word to each other, but Azriel could feel the tension in the air. He didn’t know where it had formed from, what abyss it had risen from, he just knew there was something that needed to be addressed between them before his head and his heart exploded.
“What was that from last night?” he let out a breath finally, his shadows jittering around the place. He looked up from his swirling black coffee to see Y/N cease her movements in the corner of the kitchen. Her short night dress, barely covering her ass, had ridden up as she had been bent over the kitchen bench. Azriel felt himself stiffen, so he looked away quickly, adjusting himself.
“What do you mean,” she replied, turning around with a neutral expression on her face, guarding her emotions. She carefully padded her way to the table, setting the coffee down and placing herself directly in front of him. Her scent wafted over him, and his jaw ticked, but he didnt show any emotion. His dark eyes bore into hers, his shadows fought to sift over her, wanting to know her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions. Alas, she showed nothing.
“You and Lucien…” he drawled out, pretending to ask nonchalantly.
“We just danced to Azriel, I was really drunk,” she whispered softly, placing her hands together on her lap.
“You emerged from the same room,” he replied calmly.
As she cocked her head to the side, her hair falling onto her face, time seemed to slow down. Her long eyelashes were stunning, and her deep eyes looked at Azriel with something so unsaid, that the raw intensity sent shivers down his spine.
Azriel knew at that moment that he could no longer leave these unanswered feelings of his left hanging. He wasn't a dumb male; if his body was responding to Y/N like this for so long, there was clearly a reason. And it was not a dumb crush.
He had forced himself to believe for so long, that Elain should belong to him. Three brothers for three sisters, that is what he would tell himself.
Yet something had shifted between them two, a subtle undercurrent that left Azriel reeling. It was something deeper, something undeniable. And as he met Y/N's gaze, he knew that he could no longer ignore the pull that drew him to her, the pull of something real, something worth fighting for.
Summary: After abandoning the refuge of Velaris, you, Morrigan’s twin sister, returned to the forsaken Hewn City fueled by a vision for a better future. Now, your estranged family seeks your help when rumors of rebellion spread at a time of utmost inconvenience. Torn between your anger and a desire to protect the good, you begrudgingly agree and are forced to face memories of a past life and the unsettling presence of Azriel– the first man you ever loved.
Warnings: inner circle being unable to emotionally regulate, y/n being a soft spot for mor, y/n being suspicious, keir (🤮), some necessary build up for future parts, men in general (🤮).
Word Count: 3.9k
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
It didn’t take long for people to get suspicious. You had planned for this, of course, you knew the nature of your people. It took a few years, but soon enough you had a system in place; a way to get around the skeptical and paranoid eyes of Hewn City– a way to avoid the power your father held. In the worst case scenario, you always planned to take your own life. Set fire to your information, to everything that revealed the acts you had committed. Your work would die with you. After all, you swore to protect it with your life.
You were caught one evening as you returned home, becoming aware of the man trailing behind you within moments of his appearance. Easily, your hand found itself resting on a dagger hidden in your sleeve, and you pulled him into an alley, holding him with your knife against this throat.
You recognized him, recognized his golden brown hair and bright green eyes. A commander. He didn’t struggle against you, nor did he make any moves to fight back. “Please,” He had said, his arms up in surrender, “Hear me out.”
They had spent weeks deliberating their visit to you, wondering if it was worth the effort— wondering if they really needed your help. With the plan underway, Feyre, Mor, and Cassian had stationed themselves, waiting with bated breath for Rhys and Azriel's return. They knew it was unsuccessful the minute both men entered. Rhysand’s usual grace was replaced by visible frustration as he stormed in, the failure of their trip clung to both him and Azriel like a heavy layer of clothing. Mor's gaze flicked between the two, an expectant look ingrained into her strong features. Wordlessly, Rhys moved swiftly towards his office.
"So, by your cheery smiles, I'm guessing it went smoothly?"
Rhysand shot Cassian a piercing glare as he walked past, causing him to recoil in his seat instinctively. Feyre watched Rhysand's retreating and frowned, turning towards Azriel. His hazel eyes met her gaze briefly before looking away. Saying nothing, Az walked to an empty chair and dropped himself down with a deep exhale.
Feyre sighed, and with a resigned glance, she handed her wine glass to Mor, who took it without a word. With a brief look back at her friends, she made her way towards Rhysand's office as Mor eagerly poured the remaining wine into her own cup and took a large sip.
The room remained in a hushed stillness as the mated pair retreated into the office. Cassian and Mor exchanged uneasy glances before they both drew their gaze over to Azriel. His posture, typically erect and poised, now sagged as he curled into himself, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he ran them up and down. There was a slight twitch in his wings as they settled behind him, slumped and slightly limp, reflecting a certain vulnerability– one of a man caught off guard.
It was a rare sight: Azriel, the Spymaster, usually shrouded in shadows and secrets, now laid bare before them. Az wasn’t one to wear his emotions openly, even in front of his family. He’d gotten good at it over the centuries— the practice of keeping his walls up just long enough for him to reach his bedroom, to welcome the sweet release of solidarity before he let his emotions breathe. But here he was, so evidently feeling. The sheer sight of it made Cassian uncomfortable, on edge, as if he should be prepared for an enemy to walk in any second and finish Azriel off.
"What happened back there, Az?" Cassian asked, his voice low and concerned.
Azriel hesitated.
“She called me a dog." He admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.
Cassian, taken aback, let out a sound of surprise that mirrored both a laugh and a scoff. He opened his mouth to respond, a teasing remark making itself to the tip of his tongue, but the burning intensity in Azriel's eyes, which were now on him, halted him in his tracks. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Cassian chose silence over a misplaced joke, quickly coughing to stop himself instead.
Then, he got up and slowly walked over to Azriel, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it can only get better from here, right?" He said, his voice carrying a hopeful tone as he tried to alleviate the suffocating tension that reeked in the air.
Azriel turned his head to look up at his brother, his expression a bold showing of both disbelief and deep irritation. Cassian continued.
“I mean… theres only up once you’ve hit rock bottom.”
Mor rolled her eyes. Annoyance etched across her features as she huffed audibly, setting her wine glass down with a clatter before making a swift exit.
"Well, everyone's making fun exits today, huh?" Cassian gave a wry grin, gesturing towards the space Mor had just vacated.
Azriel just sighed, sinking further into the couch, shadows swirling restlessly around him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw you again. Your face. Your eyes, your anger. He ignored the way his stomach clenched as he pushed the image of you away.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Rhysand was beside himself.
Feyre could see it written on his face, felt it even deeper in her chest. His emotions were burning through their bond, hot enough for a heavy discomfort to settle in her own heart. Rhysand wasn’t just frustrated, he was angry, sad, disappointed, and guilty— all at the same time. The emotions were mixing among themselves, swirling inside of him and replacing any ability for coherent thinking. Instead, he was spewing every thought, every irritation.
"She didn't let me talk, treated me like a stranger in her home!"
Rhysand's voice was loud, an icy anger laced in it. Feyre watched as he paced back and forth, his hands clutching into fists at his side as he continued his rant. She hummed slightly.
"Well, did you at least give your condolences? For Caladan?"
Rhys stilled. He turned around and looked at his mate, at her scrunched eyebrows and expectant face. Suddenly feeling as if he was a child just caught in a lie, he looked away in shame.
“No. I did not.”
Feyre released a sigh.
“Rhys,” She said, the disappointed sound of his name falling from her lips. “That was your in.”
She was right, as she usually was. He had rushed headlong into business, seeking favors, and demanding help, and in doing so, he likely sabotaged the entire plan. And any potential for reconciliation, too. The realization gnawed at him and a sense of regret colored his features.
“Come here,” Feyre said, beckoning him to where she stood. He took hold of her extended hand and sat at the edge of his desk, taking in her kind face, the patience in her eyes. Feyre moved to stand between his thighs, her hands gently running through his hair in a soothing rhythm. The quiet, comforting touch seemed to ease some of his tension as he let out a deep breath.
"You went to her as High Lord. Maybe it would have been more successful if you had gone to her as Rhys, her cousin. Cassian seemed to think so as well.”
Rhys shook his head, leaning into Feyre’s touch.
"Cassian wasn’t there,” He said. “He didn’t see how she was, how she spoke to us—of us. She disrespected you, Feyre.”
She looked into his eyes, a dark violet now, pupils blown wide, and gave him a small smile. Threading her fingers through his hair, Feyre spoke softly to him.
"Whatever she said, I’m sure I’ve been told worse."
He shook his head again, clenching his jaw. Then, he gently reached to where her hand lay on his cheek, grabbing it in his own and bringing them to his lap.
"We may have overestimated the connection she still holds to us."
"Let's not make any assumptions now,” Feyre said with a small frown, a crease forming between her brows. “It was only one visit, and a short one at that."
Rhysand replayed the visit in his mind, the memory now a fresh and painful wound. He walked himself through it, wondering what he could have fixed, where he might have been able to mend the fraying threads of the connection you once held to him. His mind fixated on the look etched on your face, the callousness with which you addressed him and Azriel – even Azriel.
The change in you baffled him. He tugged at memories of the girl he had grown up with, the one adorned with a soft smile and bright eyes. How had that radiant spirit transformed so swiftly? The answer immediately echoed in his mind – Hewn City, an insidious place breeding misery. It had claimed you, just as it had claimed the rest.
“I don’t know what I can do,” Rhys admitted. “She was just so…”
“Cold? Detached?”
The sound of Mor’s voice caused both Feyre and Rhys to separate, turning their heads to the blonde who leaned casually against the now open door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” She said flatly. She turned her gaze to her cousin. "So, am I right? Was she cold, detached, exactly like I said she’d be?"
Rhysand shared a glance with his mate but said nothing. He couldn’t find the right words to say, and wouldn’t take the chance of saying the wrong ones. Not when the situation was so fragile, so delicate— and especially not when Mor was looking at him with that hard look on her face. The one she only wore when it came to you.
Mor took his silence as confirmation and crossed her arms against her chest. "I told you," she declared with an air of exasperation, her tone laced with pride. "It’s no use. You’ll sooner find spring flowers in the Winter Court than ever get her to agree."
Feyre felt herself deflate. She wanted to believe you were good, wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps it was her relationship with Nesta, a woman that she knew with anger in her veins, similar to how Rhysand spoke of you now. Or maybe it was the few times she’d interacted with you, when you’d surprised her with your sweet tone.
Feyre casted a look at Mor.
“We will figure something out. Just be patient.”
Mor let out a small scoff, shaking her head. She pursed her lips before responding.
“Patience won’t thaw a frozen heart.”
Feyre watched as Mor lingered for a moment and then excused herself. But she didn't miss the subtle shift she saw in her friend's face. Underneath her anger and pride, Mor seemed sad… disappointed.
And Feyre was right. Mor was disappointed.
She had only seen you a handful of times since you returned to the hell that you both had escaped. Each of those times had been worse than the one before, an unspoken tension between you two, harsh glances thrown when you’d meet one another's eyes. Yet, deep down, despite her worst beliefs, a part of her had held onto hope that when Rhysand and Azriel returned, you would be with them.
It was a foolish dream, and now, having heard how Rhys spoke to Feyre about you, Mor felt like an idiot for ever entertaining the idea of you coming home. Well, the idea of you at all.
As she left Rhysand’s office, Feyre’s encouraging words echoed in her head. But she couldn’t feel them, not the way Feyre wanted her too; because Mor knew, deep in her heart...
You were a lost cause.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
You knew about the rumors.
Of course you did.
After all, you were the one who started them.
A part of you found it unnerving, how easily the lie rolled off your tongue. You knew that time had changed you, had hardened you to a certain extent. You wouldn't have been able to survive this city otherwise. And you'd lied a lot since your return. Your entire life was a lie.
But you had been so careful when it came to them-- to your family. You wanted to believe that you were better than the people you looked down on, better than Rhysand, better than Mor, better than the people in your life that were selfish and blinded. But maybe you weren't. Perhaps you had gotten so good at lying that you didn't even realize when you were lying to yourself. You weren't ready to face that reality yet.
Rhysand and Azriel weren't supposed to find you. They weren't even supposed to know- not yet, anyway. You had planned for more time, hoped that Rhysand would be busy with his new babe, that Azriel wouldn't be around to dig into your secrets. They hadn't frequented the Court of Nightmares recently-- preoccupied with their perfect city and the three Made sisters, you assumed. Your own sister was never a worry with her trips to Hewn City being short and far between, usually accompanied by the three men you once loved so deeply.
Azriel's stare lingered in your mind. The hazel color bore into you, made you feel like the memory itself could grab you and drag you back to a past you couldn't escape. You had dreamt of those eyes, of conversations left unfinished, of explanations that never came. Seeing him, when you had been so unprepared, so exposed, was a burning reminder of what you had lost and what you had become in its wake.
You wanted to bury the past even further into your brain, find a crevasse unfilled and stuff every thought of them into it. But you knew it would be a futile attempt. You would never be able to outrun what haunted you, not when those ghosts were still alive.
Your head pounded. You felt the urge to sit and drink your thoughts away, to find Evadne and smoke her specialty herbs. But first, you needed to protect yourself, cover your tracks. Your muddy, messy, and obvious tracks.
The night air in Hewn City was thick with the stench of filth and decay. Dirty alleys echoed with the sounds of bawdy laughter, predatory and wolfish. Occasional sounds of distress from unseen fae pierced through the night, quickly drowned out within the chaos of the city. The ground was layered with grime, and every step felt like wading through a cesspool.
You moved through the twisted streets, a heavy hood on in an attempt to go unnoticed. Still, catcalls and jeers followed. C'mere sweet thing. You continued walking. The man followed. Bet you'd be even more interesting without those pesky clothes, wouldn't you? You grimaced, swallowing the bile that rose a the sound of the grating voice. Quickly, you moved forward, avoiding his sight. Your shoulders fell in relief when you heard his retreating footsteps, followed by loud drunken complaints about how you'd ran off like a tease.
As you approached the hidden building your father had recently taken space in, the atmosphere changed. Your heart instantly felt heavier, and you began to mentally prepare yourself for the interaction. The heavy door creaked open. Keir, surrounded by a select few of his men, looked up from the table where he sat. His eyes, sharp and piercing, bore into you as you entered-- stern gaze irritated by the intrusion.
"Keir," you addressed him with a feigned urgency, "I need to speak with you."
Instantly, anger flashed in his eyes.
"Show me respect." Keir demanded sharply.
"Forgive me," You quickly corrected. "May I speak with you? It's urgent."
Keir's gaze intensified, his eyes narrowing. "How rude of you not to say hello to my men," he sneered, emphasizing each word. "It seems you've forgotten all your manners."
You forced a strained smile, acknowledging the men with a cautious nod. "Hello," you offered.
You casted a wary gaze around the room. Each man looked like a nightmare, their large and intimidating frames were adorned with scars and grimy features that bore witness to countless battles. Some wore smirks that reeked of arrogance, while others openly eyed you up and down, their predatory gazes unsettling and intrusive. Suddenly, you felt 17 again-- bare, defenseless, and vulnerable; subject to the leering gazes of those who saw you as nothing more than an object. It was a feeling you thought you'd left behind, a discomfort that dredged up memories you wished to forget.
You felt dirty, a sense of defilement creeping over you. You were a prize in their eyes, irrespective of any respect they might harbor for your father. These men, loyal or not, saw an opportunity to showcase you as a possession, a symbol of conquest. The thought of how they might do it sent a shiver down your spine, and you recoiled from the mental images that threatened to invade your consciousness. In that moment, you yearned to escape the suffocating atmosphere, to break free from the repulsive feeling that clung to you like an indelible stain.
Keir leaned back in his chair, a twisted grin forming on his lips. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
Your attention fixated on Thorne, one of your father's captains. You despised him-- despised the way he wore a sense of self-importance that trailed after him like a pet, despised how he spoke, even how he walked. His eyes scanned you slowly, sweeping up and down as if assessing your every vulnerability. The strength of his scrutiny ignited a simmering anger within you, and you gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to let your temper flare.
You envisioned an alternate reality – a world where consequences were fleeting, and you could seize control. The image of slamming Thorne's head against the table played vividly in your mind. The satisfying thud, the sudden silence that followed, and the triumph of asserting dominance over the predator before you.
But reality anchored you, and you took a deep breath as your fathers voice pulled you from your thoughts.
"Well? You've interrupted me, and now you've left me waiting.”
"I have news," you replied, a subtle unease settling in as you braced yourself for the next part.
"Well, speak," Keir gestured with impatience, and you sensed the collective gaze of the men fixed upon you. It dawned on you – this wasn't a private exchange. Your stage had expanded beyond just you and your father.
"I was just paid a visit by a certain spymaster," you began, your tone carefully modulated. You decided that you would keep Rhysand’s presence a secret— for now. It would bring up too much, too fast. One presence was enough. Azriel alone would do. Keir's gaze sharpened, and you noticed a subtle tensing in his posture.
"Oh, is that so?" He responded, his tone laced with a disdain that didn't go unnoticed. "And what did that deformed overgrown bat wish to talk to you about?"
You felt a strange primal urge to defend Azriel against his words. He doesn't need your protection, you thought, doesn't deserve it. But the same image from earlier came to your mind; where Thorne once was, your father had taken his place. With an internal struggle to maintain composure, you responded.
"He wished to speak to me about rumors of an uprising."
Your father perked up.
"And what did you say to this?" Keir questioned, his eyes narrowing, probing for information.
"I told him I had heard no such thing," you replied, choosing your words carefully. "That perhaps he had been listening to his shadows too much, started to hallucinate situations where he was needed."
As the words left your lips, an uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of your stomach. Each syllable felt like a burning confession, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. It was a calculated deception, a necessary statement, yet the words felt wrong – a sinister compromise that clawed at your conscience.
You needed to do this to survive, you reminded yourself, they deserve it. But nonetheless, it left a residue of self-loathing. You couldn't help but compare yourself to the men in the room – those vulturous gazes, the filth that clung to them like soil. The realization that you had willingly immersed yourself in their skills, ones of deceit and cruelty, left you feeling dirty-- like you had been tainted by the same darkness you claimed to despise.
Keir responded with a contemplative "Hmmm," and you seized the opportunity to further weave your narrative.
"I told him that there are always rumors in Hewn City." You paused for emphasis before adding, "He asked me to tell him if I heard anything else. I told him no."
Silence. You resisted the urge to look away from your fathers heavy gaze, but the idea of looking at any of the other men surrounded you was a worse fate.
"How can I trust you?"
You felt his skepticism hang in the air like a heavy fog, his eyes scrutinizing you for any sign of deceit.
The weight of his distrust settled on your shoulders, and you took a moment to consider the best way to allay his suspicions. As you looked at him, a twinge of pity tugged at you. Your father, for all of his power, was paranoid and weak. He trusted no one. And you couldn't help but feel sorry for the life he led – one constantly clouded by suspicion. But that pity quickly faded. Keir deserved to live in such uncertainty, deserved every bit of discomfort that it provided.
"I hate them too," you said with an energy that mirrored the intensity in his eyes. "I hope I have proved myself thus far, proved that I want nothing more than to see them get what they deserve."
A pregnant pause lingered in the room as Keir absorbed your words. You could almost hear the gears turning in his mind as he assessed the credibility of your declaration.
"Especially Morrigan."
By the way his face slightly relaxed, you knew your words had done their job, played into his vulnerabilities with a precision that left you feeling both triumphant and repulsed.
"I'll take this into account," He conceded, his gaze lingering on you. "I'm assuming he will not be making any more late-night visits to you?"
"No,” You shook your head. “If he does, you will know.”
"Very well," Keir acknowledged. "Leave us."
He dismissed you with a wave of his hand.
A part of you could have sworn you detected a glimmer of pride in his eyes – a sickening acknowledgment that you had played your part too well. The sense of dirtiness clung to you like a wet blanket as you navigated your way home. The streets felt colder and the shadows more ominous, as if each and every one of them were Azriel’s and they knew what you had done-- what you had become. You wished you could shed your skin, remove the evidence of your life here, become something cleaner, something purer.
In the deafening silence of your home, you curled up in bed and shut your eyes tightly. You tired mind slowly formed it’s own hands and pulled you to images of a life before, you thought of the stars, of Velaris, of Mor, and of Azriel and his hazel eyes.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
a/n: woo!!! its starting!!! im prewriting as much as i can for this so i can get it going but eeek!! im just setting some groundwork down so stick with me babes.
y/n will be the president of the “my father is the worst man alive and i am his favorite daughter” club and the queen of dealing with anger as a form of grief.
tag list (some weren’t letting me so lets hope it works)🫶🏻
PLEASE MORE SHADOWS AND DESTINY I AM SO INVESTED AND OBSESSED WITH THE SERIES
I usually don’t send messages but your work is too incredible for me to not tell you ✨
HHAHAHAH UR SO SWEET
I’ve been stumped for months as to where to take this story honestly 😭😭 I feel like it’s very cliche and I’ve read so many similar stories where azriel discovers his mate and then falls for them like I’m sorry I wouldn’t settle for that HAHAHAH your only with me because of a bond?? That we didn’t decide?? But then like
THATS soulmates and we were matched by the fates ?? So that’s cute and wholesome maybe
you know everyone on here is so. goddamn. nice and SUPPORTIVE AND ADORABLE I am just overwhelmed with simply how nice everyone has been to me !!
the support shown for my writing has me so so so happy and even tho I've only gotten like 5 submissions in my inbox asking about shadows of destiny and love for it, each single one has me beaming 🥹🥹
I can't wait to put out more work but seriously everyone, I see your support and your love and I can't put into words how grateful I am for your ideas about what I should write and words of love.
You know having come from places such as quotev and wattpad ( great but a bit toxic ) it's like a breath of fresh air!! I wanna hug you all and let you know that every reblog, every like and every comment and every ask means the world to me, as someone who is a sucker for validation HAHAHA
Your actions have such power and I hope you know it.
( Also I'm like 19 years old, on the verge of 20 and its freaking me out, just for context HAHA...so I'm emotionally unstable constantly so this is me being emotional HAHAHAHAHAH )
Finally got round to writing a part two to this after a sudden burst of inspiration. Here is Part One if you missed it.
This isn't proofread, so sorry if it's a pile of dicks. Enjoy!
Warnings: smuttysmutsmut 🌶️
✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･
The forest was undoubtedly beautiful. A place of sure serenity. Somewhere you’d always found peace.
Right now, you felt like nothing short of a thunderbolt in its flawless midst.
You shifted on your feet for what felt like the millionth time, pressing your back against a tree and crossing your arms over your chest. You wouldn’t be able to relax until this meeting was over with.
Rhysand’s violet eyes flicked over you, and he frowned. “Are you alright? Why are you so restless?”
Because we’re here to meet with Eris and the last time I did that I somehow, kind of, maybe ended up fucking him—
“Fine.” You quickly answered. “Pain. My cycle is coming.”
Rhys’s eyes softened. “We’ll make this as quick as possible. Once the prick actually deigns to show up.”
You didn’t have a shred of doubt that Eris’s tardiness was deliberate — a power play. And he could play all the games he liked, so long as he kept his damn mouth shut.
As if you’d summoned him with a thought, the Autumn male appeared out of a chill-kissed breeze, his crackling-fire-and-cinnamon scent enveloping you. You tried desperately to block it out — and the sinful thoughts that accompanied it. Of bare skin. Panting breaths. Moans—
“Afternoon.” Eris smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets. He offered Rhysand a cursory glance before turning his attention on you. “You’re looking radiant today, Y/N.”
You pursed your lips. Kept your mouth shut. You weren’t getting into it with him — weren’t giving him any ammunition to spill the truth of what had transpired a month earlier.
His lips twitched as he studied you. “What, no smartass response?”
“Cut the shit, Eris.” Rhys rolled his eyes. “Share your information so we can get out of here. We don’t wish to be subjected to your tedious company for any longer than is necessary.”
He cocked his head, and you hated that you noticed he’d cut his hair since you’d last seen him. “Do you not like my company?”
You knew his words were directed at you. He’d come here to play games, and you were having none of it. He allowed his gaze to linger on you for a second longer before turning to your High Lord.
“Well?” Rhys cocked an eyebrow.
Eris folded his arms. “The King of Hybern…”
You didn’t allow yourself to hear the rest of his sentence. For the first time in your career as Rhysand’s courtier, you tuned out, taking in none of the information that was being given. You didn’t hear a word of their discussion as you stared fiercely at a fallen leaf on the ground. You couldn’t.
Because it tortured you on a daily basis that you knew what the redhead’s voice sounded like when he was falling off that precipice into blissful release. The way it had hitched when he’d groaned deeply and spilled into you. It was all you could think about, and you couldn’t bear it.
Guilt had eaten away at you ever since. Guilt and regret. You should never have given yourself to Eris fucking Vanserra.
You only felt safe enough to tune back in when Rhys turned his gaze on you. He gave a subtle dip of his chin, and you returned it — the signal the two of you shared when you’d gleaned useful information to tuck away.
Never mind the fact that you didn’t have a single clue what that information may be.
“Alright, then.” Rhys spoke tersely to the Autumn lord. “Keep me updated. I’ll be in touch when I next need to meet with you.”
“Will it be you, High Lord?” Eris’s lips turned up. He glanced at you. “Or her? I must say, I find her far more appealing to look at.”
“I’ll keep it a surprise. Something to look forward to in your sad little life.” Rhys turned to you, holding out a hand. “Ready?”
You shook your head. “You go. I promised Madja I’d collect some herbs for her while I’m here.”
A small, pathetic part of you wanted to beg Rhys to stay; to keep you company and not leave you alone with Eris. But he was a busy male — far too busy for the drama you’d created for yourself. You plastered a smile on your face.
“I’ll see you at home, then.” He smiled. And without a goodbye to your tentative ally, he disappeared before your eyes.
Eris smirked as he turned to you. “And then there were two.”
“Leave me alone.” You pulled your foraging knife out, turning on your feet. You didn’t look back as you began to kick through leaves and twigs.
But, of course, he was hot on your trail. “That’s not a very nice thing to say to somebody who made you cum not once, not twice, but three times.”
You clenched your jaw, ignoring him as you knelt down in front of a cluster of plants. You would do better this time. You wouldn’t allow your mouth to run you down a path you couldn’t come back from.
He didn’t make it easy, though. Not as you tried to focus yourself solely on gathering the herbs Madja had listed. Despite the lack of conversation — or even acknowledgement of him — Eris pressed himself against a tree and watched you, absentmindedly cleaning his nails with the point of a dagger.
How could you ever have fallen into bed with him? You were such a damn idiot, risking everything for a few fleeting moments of passion. You tucked the herbs neatly away, pushing to your feet and brushing dirt and leaves from your breeches. You turned—
And stopped as Eris appeared in front of you. He smirked. “I’m still waiting, Y/N.”
You cocked an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For you to thank me for not spilling your dirty little secret.”
Prick. You shoved past him, ignoring his warmth, his scent.
He was at your side in seconds. “Aren’t you so relieved that I didn’t slip up and tell Rhysand about your little ride? I still could.”
Every last drop of your sensibility fizzled out. You couldn’t stop yourself from rounding on him. “Are you truly in a position to be threatening me? Both of us fucked up that night. What do you think Beron would have to say if he found out you’d bedded someone from the Night Court, of all places?”
“My father doesn’t care who I bed. I’m free to do whatever I please, so long as it doesn’t distract me from the ultimate goal.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
His amber gaze glittered, catching the sun. “World domination.”
You rolled your eyes. “How very cliche.”
You made to push past him again, to get the fuck out of there, but his hand was suddenly gripping onto yours. In seconds, he had you pressed against the body of a tree.
You clenched your jaw. “Get. The hell. Away from—”
The remainder of the sentence didn’t have a chance to so much as form as Eris’s mouth found yours.
The press of his kiss was hot and needy, and as his lips moulded with yours, he groaned.
It was that action that made you realise just how little space existed between your bodies. His hips were pinned to yours, keeping you in place, and the warmth of him seeped into you as your breasts brushed his chest. Within seconds — mere seconds of him kissing you — you felt him harden in his breeches. His groan seemed to vibrate through every part of him and into you.
And then he was tearing his lips from yours. Staring down at you. “Fuck, you taste amazing. I’ve thought about nothing but this,” he rolled his hips against you, making sure your attention went exactly where he wanted it, “for over a month, now. Tell me you’ve been just as crazed.”
You had been. Perhaps more so. But you swallowed. “I can’t.”
That didn’t deter Eris from slanting his lips over yours again. His tongue swiped out, brushing against the seam of your lips, and you were powerless against your need as you opened your mouth and allowed him to dip in.
You gasped at the first taste of him; something cool and crisp and smoky. And you knew you were done fighting, telling yourself you didn’t want this, as you grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and hauled him more firmly against you.
He grunted as the hard evidence of his arousal pressed against your stomach. His lips slid from yours, dragging slowly over your cheek, and then the cut of your jaw, down to your neck.
“You’ll be the death of me.” He panted, pressing quick, chaste kisses to the hollow of your throat. “Tell me to stop.”
You swallowed, knowing there was no chance in hell of that. “No.”
And that single word — as much as it pained you to say it — dragged such a delicious, guttural noise from him, that you forgot entirely about who you were and why this was wrong. Nothing else mattered in that moment other than what Eris was doing.
Your mouth went so very, very dry as he pulled away to meet your gaze. And then lowered himself to his knees before you.
He was utterly uncaring of the dirt and leaves that stuck to his breeches as he clasped your legs. And the hard press of his hands felt scorching through your own pants. You wouldn’t be surprised to find that he’d turned the clothing to mere ash he dragged his palms up the backs of your legs and cupped your ass.
“You’re fucking mouthwatering.” He dipped in, pressing a kiss to your stomach through your shirt. “I need to taste you.”
“Holy gods.” You cursed, your head falling back against the tree. “Do it, then.”
Like a male entirely starved and desperate, his nimble fingers moved to the buttons on your breeches, making quick work of getting them undone. The second they were loosened enough, he yanked them down with a feral command that had heat rushing between your legs.
And he could scent that. You knew it. He inhaled deeply, and his responding moan was sinful.
“This is wrong.” Your voice was weak, useless, as your head fell back.
“So wrong.” Eris hooked his fingers into the thin waistband of your undergarments. Tugged them down..
You made no move to stop him. “And stupid. And selfish. And—”
Your words turned into a moan as he dipped in and dragged his tongue up the very centre of you.
A satisfied grunt left him, and he lifted your leg, hoisting it over his shoulder. It had you at a better angle, closer to him, so he could feast on you.
And feast, he did.
His mouth and tongue were renowned for wielding wicked, barbed words, but this was a different language entirely. His fingers dug into your legs as he buried himself between your thighs, licking and lapping and fucking devouring. He made his way up, scraping teeth over your clit, the sensation both pleasant and unpleasant. Before you had a chance to react, he soothed over the area with the pad of his tongue, and a bolt of white-hot pleasure surged through you.
“Oh, gods.” Breathy words escaped your lips. Thank the Mother above for the mammoth tree at your back that gave you the support to move as you wished to move, undulating your hips, grinding against Eris’s face.
And from the way he growled and feasted on you harder, you knew he liked it. He was becoming coated in you, painting himself with your wetness. With the roll of your hips picking up pace, he didn’t falter once.
“Look at you.” He breathed, eyes flicking up to drink you in. “You’re a fucking vision.”
“Stop talking and make me—oh.”
Your hips bucked as he slid a finger into you, the friction of his callused skin like a sinful bite you wanted more of. You didn’t know if you vocalised that, or if Eris simply read you well, but he quickly added a second finger, pumping them in and out.
“Just as you felt around my cock that night.” He panted. “Squeezing me like that.”
You threaded your fingers through his hair, needing to just…to just grab onto something. He seemed to like it as you pulled, and he thrust his fingers faster in return.
“I’m going to make you come on my fingers.” His tongue stroked at you. “And again on my cock.”
Somewhere, some steeled part of you wanted to give a smartass retort. But you were far too gone, splintering into tiny shards of pleasure against that tree. There was nothing, in that moment, besides the sensations Eris Vanserra dragged from between your thighs. No long-lived feuds or tentative alliances or right or wrong.
It was just him. His fingers. His tongue.
And it sent you hurtling right off that blissful cliff edge into release.
As you came, you thought you maybe shouted loud enough to frighten the birds from the trees. Your pleasure was a fearsome force as it stormed your body, your mind, your soul, until you weren’t sure who you’d be without it. How you could survive not experiencing this weightlessness again.
And Eris…he seemed to enjoy your pleasure as much as you did. Even though his cock strained through his breeches, touched by nothing but torturous fabric, his tongue and fingers continued to guide you through your climax, and he peppered in filthy, scandalous words that you were far too fractured to make sense of.
Until he pulled back to look up at you again. “I’ve wanted you since the second I first saw you.” He said.
You weren’t sure you could deny, any longer, that this truly had been going on for that long. It didn’t start with that one night of bad decisions driving you into bed with him. It had been years and years of thinly-veiled threats and barbed words and insults and vitriol soaked in lust.
Every bit of hatred you’d ever directed at each other had been to try and avoid this — giving in to a carnal need that had existed between you since the first ever time your eyes had met.
You knew you didn’t have that strength, that resolve, anymore.
“I need you inside me.” Your voice was rough, raw. You reached down, shamelessly yanking Eris to his feet by the fabric of his jacket, not caring that your desperation showed. “Fuck me.”
You wanted it — him — hot and hard and fast and certainly not gentle. You wanted the bark of the tree biting into you as he pounded you from behind. You wanted him roaring as unguarded as you had.
“You’re a little brat.” Was all he responded. And then he was kissing you again.
You allowed him the control of your lips as your fingers tore at the front buttons on his breeches. Nothing was moving fast enough, and you were hot all over, desperate to feel him pulsing deep inside you—
Y/N. I need you back here.
Rhysand’s voice in your head was akin to be plunged in ice-cold water. Damn daemati. You froze in place, your hands falling still.
Eris didn’t seem to notice as he kissed his way along your jaw.
Y/N. Rhys spoke into your mind again. Get back as soon as you can. Need to discuss Azriel’s report.
You sucked in a breath, planting your hands on Eris’s arms. You pushed him off you. “I have to leave.”
He paused, surprise crossing his face. “What?”
“I can’t — I’m needed back home.” Clarity was dawning on you more and more, paired with guilt. You’d fucked up again. You tried to shake the feeling off as you yanked your underwear and breeches up in one go. “I can’t do this.”
“Seriously?” Eris cocked an eyebrow. “You’re leaving now?”
It was an effort not to glance down at the very unsatisfied bulge still pressing through his breeches. “Rhys just spoke into my thoughts. He needs me back.”
“How convenient.”
Of course he didn’t believe you. You had to admit, it didn’t look great — getting an earth-shattering orgasm out of him and then leaving.
But perhaps it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps she was stopping you taking it too far a second time.
“Believe what you want.” You pushed past Eris, buttoning your breeches up. “I answer to my High Lord first and foremost.”
“Go running back to him then.” Eris shrugged. And if you weren’t mistaken, you thought that a strange quality lay in his tone. Perhaps hurt, or…or jealousy. “He says jump and you say how high, right?”
“You have your High Lord, Eris,” you smoothed over the wrinkles in your clothes, “and I have mine.”
He pressed his back against the tree, watching with an unreadable expression as you checked yourself over.
And then the corner of his mouth tipped up. “You’ll be back, sweetheart.”
You shot him a glance over your shoulder. “That is a very, very bad idea.”
You winnowed out of there before he could respond.
just had to say that Shadows of Destiny has me HOOOOOKED!!! i keep checking for another update! you go, author 😉…. also you’re dragging me onto the lucien x azzie x reader chain…
AAHAHAHH THANK Y O U OMG 🥰🥰 this was totally meant to be an azriel x reader but fr I'm always a simp for Lucien so I think I might ramp things up from his end 🫨
I can't lie though like idk how to write happy endings HAHAH but I know we all want closure so I am gonna learn for all of yous 😘
What sort of ending are we all wanting though 🤔 LET me knowww !!
summary : jealous but confused azriel, yearning shadows and sexy lucien and sexy reader ;)
🧚♀️
a/n: 💗 WOW. SO MUCH SUPPORT ON THE FIRST PART BROOO GUYS I JUST OFCOURSE HAD TO WRITE PART TWO and def will have part 3 i guess? ngl i am an angsty writer so im not good at writing happy endings HAHA rip for u all.
this is so addictive ive already written 3 stories in a span of like three days HAHAH 💗
also most azriel stories i read are never from his perspective so im keeping it from his perspective to change things up! he is def a bit out of character because i havent read acotar for a while rip but enjoy! thanks for the support and let me know your thoughts !! also this isnt proof read cuz ya girls lazy >.<
read [ part one ] !!
---💗---
"What are you two doing?"
Lucien and you both looked up, shocked (but not really) , to find Azriel standing in the middle of the dance floor, clad in his black silk shirt and pants, with swirls of tattoos peeking through, his collarbone on full display. Fae moved gracefully around him, dancing and making out, carefully avoiding the famed shadow singer.
He stands in front of you two, just as you two had begun your pathetic attempts to drunkedly dance. Your short dress had ridden up to the top of your thighs, pressed against Lucien's pants, and Azriel knew it was entirely inappropriate. He observed as you raised your eyebrows and looked down at him.
He couldn't fathom how you two had crossed the line from friends, but he knew it was wrong. Over the eons, he had seen you with many men, but they had always been strangers to him and the Inner Circle. They had never been serious.
Were you and Lucien serious? The club fell silent to him, as he awaited your answer.
His shadows swirled around his feet, urging him to intervene. Some even attempted to caress your legs, but Azriel swiftly reeled them in, refusing to acknowledge how soft and sweet-smelling they might be. He couldn't bear to know how apparently tempting they were.
Azriel clenched his jaw as you gazed back at him with your kohl-lined eyes, their newfound seductive power nearly breaking his stoic demeanor.
He bit the inside of his cheek to quell the sudden effect your look had on him, not wanting to indulge in such thoughts; they could only lead to trouble.
"Uhhh... Dancing?" you drawled back finally, rolling your eyes in a way that he would have only have liked to see in bed with you, behind you, with his hands wrapped in your hair as he-
He blinked, the deafening thumping of the music returning to his consciousness, as the rush from his panicking shadows ebbed away, calming his racing heart.
What was he doing? Why did he even come here? A wave of guilt washed over him as he tore his gaze away from your captivating eyes, only to hear you laugh and giggle as Lucien whispered something in your ear, drawing you closer. A giggle Azriel had never noticed was so adorable and sexy at the same time.
Azriel shook his head, trying to make sense of the overwhelming emotions within him. It didn't make any sense. You were like a little sister to him, an integral part of his family.
Stupidly, he realized that he didn't know why his shadows urged him towards you, nor did he understand the sudden waves of jealousy coursing through him.
"AZ! SO NICE OF YOU TO FINALLY JOIN!" a voice screeched, breaking the tension that had enveloped him and the couple in front of him.
They weren't a couple, but they looked like one, and he couldn't stand it. He didn't know why he was acting this way, but he knew one thing for sure: he didn't like it.
He didn't like how Lucien's slender fingers gripped your waist with such familiarity and intent.
The voice that had called out before now manifested next to him as Cassian stumbled over, dragging Nesta along. Their interlocked hands taunted him once more, but Azriel forced himself to look up at Cassian.
"BROTHER!! LET'S DANCE!!" Cassian howled, reaching them and clumsily starting to move their bodies to the rhythm, grabbing Azriel's shoulders to mimic their motions. Azriel stumbled back, desperate to escape the situation, but Cassian persisted.
"Leave me alone, Cassian," he mumbled, brushing his brother's hands away with his gloved ones.
"Why don't you ever dance with us?" Cassian whined, oblivious to Azriel's attempts to withdraw.
Azriel burned with annoyance, returning his attention to you and Lucien. But then, a tender voice spoke out behind him, and he knew it was Feyre even before turning around to see Rhys drunkenly laughing with Cassian as the other couple joined.
“Az, what are you doing, staring holes into Lucien and Y/N,"
"I--" Azriel faltered, trying to make sense of his emotions and jumbled thoughts. "It's just wrong."
He blinked, wondering why he had even gotten up in the first place.
"They're just drunkenly dancing; Elain is fine with it. You don't have to defend her honor here, Az," Feyre assured him, patting him on the back before returning to her mate.
Azriel stood still, smoothing out his pants and running a hand through his tousled hair. The club's hazy atmosphere seemed to envelop him, and he realized that the fae wine he had consumed tonight had hit him hard. Perhaps he had gone too far this time.
"Yes, yes, of course. I just thought Lucien should respect Elain..." he answered hastily, though he knew Feyre had already left. Shadows informed him that Rhys and Feyre had retreated to their more secluded spot again, and Azriel felt a pang of envy.
A couple of fae rammed into him, slightly spilling their drink and apologising in a haste as they realised who they had just knocked into. He glowered down at them and shook his head, stalking back silently back to the booth.
He walked back to the booth where Elain was still seated, nursing a pink drink.
"What was that all about, Az?" she asked innocently, though her doe eyes betrayed her knowing nature.
"It was nothing."
"You were clearly distraught, Az."
"My shadows sensed something was wrong, that's all, Elain."
"Lucien and Y/N?" Elain asked gently, her hand reaching for his gloved hands.
Azriel looked down at her delicate skin brushing against his black leather glove and he felt a sudden overwhelming contrast between the two. He removed his hand from hers, realizing how mismatched they were.
Cassian and Nesta complemented each other perfectly, a match made from the Cauldron itself. Feyre and Rhys shared a love and trust so profound, it was interwoven within their powers.
But what did he have with Elain, other than a forced interest in gardening and her white and pink flowers?
"They're just dancing, it's fine," he told her, his voice numb. He couldn't help but look back at you and Lucien, still writhing against each other on the dance floor in ways that supposedly platonic friends shouldn't.
Lucien's hands were still firmly on your waist as you both gyrated, laughing and singing along to the music. You'd blame it all on the alcohol the next day, if asked about your actions. Azriel knew that, just as he'd experienced countless nights where Cassian or Rhys had kissed him during similar inebriated moments.
Beside you two, Nesta and Cassian mirrored your movements, seemingly unfazed by the intimate nature of your dance. The club's flashing colors continued to shift and flash all around Azriel, in strikes of pink, blue and green but all he saw was red, and he did not
Know
Why.
---
read part three here dearies !!
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