Wicked Games - Day 2 (Feral)
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Summary : Elain can no longer ignore the bond, so she comes up with a flawless plan and hopes Lucien doesn’t object. Of course, spending more time together leads to a hopeless romance <3
Note : Happy Elucien Week and thank you to the amazing volunteers that organise @elucienweekofficial I have been so so excited for this event!!! This is a short multi-chapter fic that was heavily inspired by the various Regency and Victorian romance novels I’ve read over the last few months :)
Lucien had long ago concluded that humans possessed an almost religious conviction that no matter of consequence should be discussed before breakfast.
Wars might be declared before dawn. Kingdoms might collapse before luncheon. Ambassadors might arrive bearing impossible demands and exceedingly high expectations.
None of it, apparently, excused beginning negotiations before food had been passed around the table.
He had resisted the custom precisely once.
Vassa had regarded him over the rim of her coffee mug with all the patience one reserved for particularly intelligent horses and informed him that treaties concluded by hungry people tended to require amendments before the end of the year.
Jurian had agreed with suspicious enthusiasm.
Lucien had since learned that it was simpler to surrender.
This morning's conference regarding the eastern timber roads had therefore commenced, not with maps or legal charters, but with blackberry preserves, smoked trout, and enough oatcakes to sustain a regiment through a siege.
The delegates from the Continent had looked faintly bewildered.
By noon, the treaty had been signed.
Lucien set his seal beneath the final page and leaned back in his chair.
The library Vassa favoured for official business had once possessed more shelves than books, although she had made certain that was no longer the case. There were books and scrolls everywhere, piles of ancient tomes on little carpets and various maps strewn all over the tables. Afternoon sunlight poured through open windows, warming the worn oak floorboards until the room carried the scent of old paper and pine resin. Somewhere in the courtyard below, Jurian was arguing with someone, laughter following his louder comments.
When Lucien had first come to live amongst humans, he had expected perpetual vigilance, suspicion, and old resentments.
Instead, he had found people who quarrelled over card games with the same determination they applied to statecraft, and who believed every disagreement could be improved by feeding those involved.
He had become absurdly fond of them and their ways which were often very different from those of the High Fae.
He reached for the treaty once more, reading it with careful attention. Outside, a cart rattled across the stones, somewhere in the manor a dog barked, and nothing demanded his immediate attention.
It remained one of the more surprising developments of the past year.
There had been a time when silence unsettled him, when every quiet moment invited the bond to fill it. He had measured days by it then, and while he might not admit it out loud, he had begrudgingly accepted that it had been an exhausting way to live.
Time, however, possessed a talent for accomplishing what determination could not. Or, he considered, perhaps the credit belonged wholly to Elain.
She was always writing him letters.
Sometimes she wrote because she'd discovered a new plant native to a city she’d only visited for the first time. Others because Feyre had attempted baking and Nyx seemed endlessly determined to prefer Elain’s muffins to hers. Once because Nesta had accidentally frightened an entire group of children with her magic and refused to admit responsibility despite, as Elain delicately observed, there being no alternative suspect.
Many of her letters were in regards to their arrangement.
Lucien answered every one, and when Elain beckoned, he could do nothing but go to her.
Elain had become wonderfully easy to understand. If he wished to know how she was feeling, he merely waited for the next letter, and their bond remained mercifully silent in response.
He found that infinitely preferable.
A knock sounded against the open library door.
Lucien looked up at Jurian without lifting his pen. The human general sauntered inside carrying a single envelope between two fingers.
"This," he announced, "appeared on the front steps."
Lucien frowned. "The front steps?"
"No one saw the messenger."
Lucien set aside the treaty.
The envelope was unremarkable, no name on the cream parchment and no courtly seal, only a narrow ribbon of deep green silk tied with infuriating neatness. Beneath the knot, there was a pressed sprig of jasmine.
Lucien reached for the letter, and Jurian watched him with undisguised curiosity, dark eyes narrowed as he handed it over.
"I have never," he observed, "seen anyone look at correspondence with quite that degree of devotion."
Lucien rolled his eyes, the golden one whirring softly. “That’s ridiculous.”
"I had assumed whoever writes these mysterious letters merely improved your disposition."
Lucien loosened the knot. "They do, I suppose.”
Jurian folded his arms. "I now suspect they're entirely responsible for it."
Lucien fought the urge to throw something at his head. Instead, he slipped one finger beneath the ribbon, taking considerably more care than the knot required.
The jasmine had flattened during its journey, but only slightly. Enough fragrance remained that, when he untied it, the delicate sweetness escaped into the room, entirely at odds with the ink and paper surrounding them.
He laid the flower upon the desk before unfolding the paper.
Lucien,
Your brother has written to invite me to the Equinox celebrations at the Forest House.
I accepted before remembering I ought perhaps to have behaved as though I intended to consider the invitation.
I trust this does not inconvenience whatever very important diplomatic occupation has most recently convinced the human kingdoms that they cannot possibly survive without you.
If it does, I regret to inform you that I possess only a very moderate capacity for remorse.
Feyre has developed an alarming enthusiasm for reorganising libraries and Nesta has decided this enthusiasm deserves encouragement.
The River House has become impossible.
Under the circumstances, I concluded exile to Autumn was preferable.
Do try not to negotiate away your time before I arrive.
I have already promised myself the first dance.
The second, should you prove unusually well-behaved.
Yours,
Elain.
Lucien read the signature twice.
Yours.
It had begun months ago. The first time she had signed a letter that way, he had spent half an afternoon wondering whether she had intended it. He had eventually concluded she had since Elain rarely stumbled into anything.
"Vassa suspects those letters are from a secret admirer." Jurian's voice intruded with cheerful inevitability.
Lucien folded the letter with the same care she'd used writing it. "Vassa needs to mind her business." He tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his coat.
Jurian nodded toward him. "Good news?"
Lucien considered. It was, objectively, merely an invitation. The Equinox Ball had occurred every year in the Autumn Court when his father was still alive, and he saw no reason why Eris might stop the tradition.
Guests travelled, people danced, it was nothing remarkable. Except for the fact that Elain had claimed a dance with him in a manner that was undoubtedly public.
Something unexpectedly warm settled beneath his ribs.
"Yes," he said at last. "I believe it is." Jurian's brows climbed as Lucien reached for his travelling gloves. "I think I’ll leave this afternoon to get to the Forest House for the Equinox."
Jurian made an inelegant sound. "You were planning to remain here until the week's end."
"I've changed my plans." Lucien said flippantly.
"Curious." Jurian leaned one shoulder against the nearest bookcase, watching him with the unmistakable satisfaction of a man observing a theory confirmed. "What shall I tell Vassa?"
Lucien settled the letter securely inside his coat, over his heart without quite meaning to. He glanced toward the open window. Beyond it, the first leaves of autumn had begun surrendering to the wind, copper flashing against the deep green of the pines.
"I suppose," he said, unable to prevent a smile, "you might tell her there is a lady in Autumn who appears to have reserved me for two dances."
Jurian laughed. "I will tell her precisely that."
* * *
The forests in Prythian differed greatly from those bordering the human territories. There the pines stretched endlessly toward the horizon, solemn and practical.
Autumn's woods possessed considerably more vanity.
Every mile announced the season more extravagantly than the last in various shades of copper, crimson, and gold.
Lucien found himself smiling at the thought that the trees themselves might have considered modesty an unfortunate failing of lesser forests.
The grounds of the Forest House were no different, the oldest trees creating a canopy so dense one might not even notice the estate were they not looking for it.
Lucien took a deep breath, allowing himself just a moment to remember his life over a century ago.
Apples.
There were so many apples ripening in orchards he had once climbed with hands perpetually stained by tree sap and stolen fruit. The sweetness lingered beneath everything else.
Home.
The word presented itself with irritating confidence and Lucien regarded it suspiciously.
The Forest House had been his home once, and it was strange to think that it now belonged entirely to Eris.
His horse slowed of its own accord as the avenue opened before him. The redwoods gave way to ancient beeches and maples blazing with colour.
Lanterns had already been hung from the lower branches, though dusk remained an hour away. Their amber glass caught the sunlight and scattered it through the trees until the entire path appeared threaded with fire.
He remembered helping decorate them once, in preparation for similar celebrations.
He and Eris had argued for the better part of an afternoon over whether the lanterns should be arranged symmetrically. Lucien had insisted symmetry was dreadfully dull and Eris had informed him asymmetry suggested moral weakness.
Lucien still wasn't entirely certain whether he'd been joking.
A groom hurried forward the moment he reached the front steps.
"My lord." Lucien surrendered the reins. "Welcome home."
Lucien fought the urge to wince. He thanked the groom and mounted the broad stone steps.
The great doors stood open, as they always had. His father had once claimed it demonstrated confidence.
Lucien suspected it had merely spared servants the effort of opening them every five minutes.
He crossed the threshold and stopped. The entrance hall had not really changed, he thought. The pale stone still gleamed beneath centuries of polishing, antlers still crowned the enormous hearth, torches still lined the walls leading down the various corridors like the roots of a particularly ancient tree.
Lucien could not help but feel that something fundamental had shifted. A maid carrying armfuls of branches laughed as a young footman nearly collided with her. They exchanged embarrassed smiles, and continued on their way.
He stood very still. He had never seen servants smile in this hall.
"You're staring." The voice drifted down from the gallery above.
Lucien looked up.
Eris rested one hand upon the carved balustrade, regarding him with a raised brow, amber eyes bright. A circlet of gold rested carelessly against his auburn hair, as though he'd remembered he was High Lord only after leaving his chambers.
"I was thinking," Lucien said, "someone appears to have stolen my eldest brother."
Eris descended the staircase without haste. "I should hope they ask for a high ransom."
"I'm beginning to suspect they've replaced you with an impostor." Lucien lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug. "The original was considerably more insufferable."
One corner of Eris's mouth lifted. He reached the final step and neither of them hesitated to reach out. Their forearms met in a brief, firm clasp. No witnesses would have called it affectionate, but Lucien knew better.
"You didn’t accept my invitation," Eris observed.
"I came directly from the Continent."
Eris released him with a hum. "The human queens are saying rather flattering things about you."
Lucien grimaced. "How unfortunate, they already have high expectations."
"A dreadful burden, being consistent and dependable."
For a heartbeat they simply looked at one another. It struck Lucien then how different Eris seemed as well.
His brother turned without ceremony. "I've had your rooms prepared."
Lucien fell into step beside him. "I thought High Lordship might have driven lesser matters like that from your mind."
Eris's expression remained perfectly composed. "The east wing is being renovated."
The western gallery overlooked the lower gardens. Lucien had expected to find them precisely as he remembered. Instead, the old yew hedges had gone.
In their place stretched broad terraces overflowing with chrysanthemums and newly planted apple trees. The roses were the only thing that remained, their petals so dark and lovely.
Gardeners crossed the gravel walks carrying baskets rather than tools, and children ran laughing after one another between the orchard rows while nurses made only token efforts to catch them.
Lucien slowed. "There are children in father’s gardens.” He paused only a moment to look down at the scene before him. "You opened them."
"They were wasted, sitting there empty all day and night.” Eris waved a beringed hand to show he was no longer interested in explaining himself.
Lucien remembered Beron trimming flowers no one was permitted to admire.
Now an elderly female sat beneath one of the apple trees reading while two little boys attempted, with admirable determination, to climb it.
After a while Eris said, "She arrives tomorrow." The words were delivered with precisely the same inflection one might use to discuss the weather. "I assume that influenced your attendance ."
"I had already intended to come."
"Liar."
Lucien couldn’t help but laugh as he looked down into the gardens.
* * *
Lucien had nearly forgotten how Autumn celebrated.
The great hall’s beams rose in sweeping arches like the boughs of some ancient forest, disappearing into shadow before emerging again beneath cascades of ivy. Amber lanterns hung amongst the leaves, their mellow light softened further by the hundreds of candles drifting overhead. Wherever one looked, flame found polished oak and returned itself a dozen times over, until the stone floor seemed strewn with liquid gold beneath the dancers' feet.
Most likely his mother, if he were forced to guess, had insisted upon chrysanthemums rather than roses.
The flowers were everywhere, their bronze and saffron heads tucked amongst the greenery with studied carelessness. They lent the room a gentler fragrance than roses ever had. Apples and vanilla lingered beneath it all, rich enough that, for one fleeting moment, he was a child again, slipping unnoticed between court ladies while the kitchens prepared the harvest feast.
The orchestra occupied the gallery above the ballroom, where violins carried the melody and the cellos answered in measured conversation. Crystal stemware flashed in servants' hands as they threaded elegantly between the guests, each glass catching the candlelight as though filled with gemstones instead of wine.
Lucien had spent the better part of the evening enduring the spectacle of the Autumn Court. There had been far too many bows and introductions. He had smiled often enough that his cheeks had begun to resent the effort.
None of it had truly occupied his attention. Against all reason, some quieter part of him remained fixed upon the entrance. He told himself it was simple courtesy.
Elain had travelled a considerable distance. It was only natural to wonder whether the journey had proved kind to her.
The excuse survived scarcely long enough to be examined. He knew very well what he was waiting for.
Conversations faltered as heads turned with that peculiar unanimity found only in crowded rooms. One gentleman abandoned his sentence halfway through. A lady lowered her fan.
Lucien looked up almost despite himself.
For a singular, absurd instant, the ballroom disappeared.
Elain stood at the head of the staircase.
She had come unattended, entirely alone.
The gown she wore startled him.
Lucien had grown accustomed to soft colours upon her, the pale blues and faded roses that suited gardens and walks along the Sidra. Tonight she had chosen autumn itself, her skirts a deep brown silk, while threads of antique gold wandered through the skirts in delicate sprays of hawthorn branches, so subtle that one noticed them only when she moved.
It was not a timid gown. Neither, he thought with a curious flicker of pride, was the woman wearing it.
As though sensing the weight of his attention, she lifted her gaze. There were dozens of people between them, but she found him immediately. She smiled brightly at him.
The expression began slowly, almost shyly, before settling with unmistakable certainty.
He was moving before he had made the conscious decision to do so.
Lucien had scarcely crossed half the ballroom before she descended the final step.
He had intended to meet her at the foot of the staircase.
Instead, she came the remaining distance herself, unhurried despite the number of curious eyes that followed her progress. There was confidence in that, though of a particularly quiet sort.
She stopped before him.
"You came." The words escaped before he had thought to improve upon them. Immediately he regretted the way they sounded, breathless even to his own ears.
Of course she had come.
A smile stirred at her mouth. "So I did."
Lucien bowed over her hand. Her smooth skin was cool beneath his lips, though her pulse fluttered once beneath the delicate bones of her wrist.
When he straightened, he noticed that colour touched her cheeks.
"I've caused a commotion," she murmured after a moment, glancing discreetly around the room.
Several guests were still pretending not to watch them.
Lucien followed her gaze. "You look beautiful."
"I've been looking forward to speaking with you before anyone else claimed your attention." Her lashes lowered as one finger traced, almost absently, the embroidery stitched around her sleeve.
"So have I." For one impossible heartbeat Lucien had the peculiar sensation that the entire evening had drawn itself inward until it consisted only of the woman standing before him.
He hoped, with all the discipline diplomacy had ever taught him, that his expression remained composed. Lucien felt his smile deepen despite every effort to restrain it.
The first notes of the waltz drifted through the hall.
Neither of them moved. At length he offered his arm.
"Shall we?"
Her answer was not immediate. Instead she looked down at the space between them, almost as though considering something invisible. Then, with the smallest nod, she rested her hand upon his arm.
She had always touched him delicately, as though she feared claiming more of him than she had any right to. These days she no longer hesitated quite as long as before. It was, Lucien thought, a very dangerous thing to become accustomed to.
Around them, couples began to move toward the centre of the floor.
He became absurdly conscious of every point at which they touched. Together they stepped into the slow current of dancers.
His hand settled at the small of Elain's back.
She met his gaze as she held onto his shoulder, her head tipped back so that her throat was bared to him. "You look terribly serious."
"I am endeavouring not to tread upon your feet." Lucien offered.
The music gathered them into its measure before either of them spoke again.
The rhythm carried them forward with deceptive ease.
Lucien guided her through the first turn, his hand steady against the small of her back, the silk beneath his palm impossibly smooth. The dance demanded propriety. A measured distance. Precisely the width of a gloved hand between their bodies.
It was remarkable how intimate such restraint could become. Her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly where they rested upon his shoulder.
Another turn carried them through the centre of the ballroom. Candlelight skimmed across the gold thread embroidered through her skirts until she seemed wrapped in firelight itself. Every slow revolution offered him another glimpse of her face, another impossible temptation to forget that what existed between them was merely physical.
The scent of jasmine followed her as she moved.
The orchestra swelled, drawing the dancers closer before releasing them once more. As they turned, the room dissolved into blurred colours beyond her shoulder. Dresses, jewels, polished floors, curious faces, it all became indistinct.
There was only Elain.
Her hand was warm now against his shoulder.
"I've missed you," she admitted quietly
His next step faltered enough that she noticed.
"So," she whispered, amusement glimmering in her eyes. "The famous Autumn Court dancer does tread upon feet."
"I”m sure I’ll recover." He mumbled.
Elain snorted inelegantly. "Will you?"
"I was not prepared." Lucien replied.
"For what?"
"You." The answer escaped him before caution could interfere.
Colour bloomed delicately across her cheeks. "You've seen me without this gown."
"I've seen you with considerably less." Lucien murmured, lowering his head so that they were closer.
Her breath caught.
Lucien wondered if she too was imagining the way the brown silk might look abandoned upon a chair.
He forced his attention back to the ballroom with considerable effort.
The hand upon his shoulder shifted almost absently, her thumb brushing once against the fabric of his coat.
"You are unbelievable," she finally managed. "You enjoy making me blush."
Lucien could only offer a hum in agreement.
The next figure of the dance drew them closer than etiquette strictly required. Their joined hands lowered. His palm settled more securely against the curve of her waist as the line of dancers narrowed.
There was scarcely room enough to breathe between them.
His thumb moved before he thought better of it, a single slow stroke against the silk below her ribs, so slight no one watching could possibly notice.
Elain inhaled sharply. Her gaze flew to his.
"Lucien."
His name had never sounded quite so desperate.
He should have apologised. Instead he leaned the smallest fraction nearer, their noses nearly touching. "Elain."
She looked as though she wished to say something. Instead her fingers curled more firmly around his shoulder.
The world beyond them seemed impossibly distant.
"Little Lucien Vanserra."
The voice landed like cold water, instantly recognizable despite the many years since he’d last heard it. Lucien closed his eyes for the briefest instant.
When he opened them, Lady Aspasia Lioraen stood just at his elbow, wearing the expression of a woman who knew perfectly well she was interrupting something and had decided to do so anyway.
Hair pale enough to border on silver had been gathered into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, though several loose strands had escaped to soften what might otherwise have been an intimidating face. Her eyes, however, possessed no such softness. They were ruby bright, and perpetually amused.
They settled upon Elain with immediate interest.
Lucien's hand lingered at his mate’s waist for one heartbeat too long before propriety forced him to let her go.
Aspasia inclined her head with effortless civility. "Elain Archeron of the Night Court."
Elain answered with an inclination of her own chin, every inch the perfect lady. "I don’t believe we’ve met."
If the words carried the faintest suggestion that she would have remembered such an acquaintance, her smile concealed it beautifully.
The older female regarded her for the briefest moment. Her face revealed nothing beyond impeccable politeness. “I’m an old friend of your mate’s.”
Elain's brows did not so much as twitch. "Oh?" she replied pleasantly. "He’s never spoken of you."
The two ladies regarded one another.
Lucien, who had once negotiated a ceasefire between human kingdoms on the brink of open war, experienced the profound and humbling realization that he had wandered into a conflict for which centuries of diplomacy had left him entirely unequipped.
He cleared his throat.
“An old friend of my brother’s,” he added. “Aspasia has known Eris for centuries.”
Neither female looked at him.
Only after another measured pause did Aspasia shift her attention.
"I believe," she said, "you still owe me a dance."
Lucien blinked. "I do?"
"You promised me one." The elegant corner of her mouth curved upward.
Before he could determine whether she had simply manufactured the obligation, she extended one graceful hand toward him. Rubies gleamed upon nearly every finger, their crimson depths catching the light of the candles overhead.
Lucien glanced instinctively toward Elain. She stood precisely where he had left her, hands loosely folded before her skirts. She smiled sweetly. "You promised me the first dance," she said. "Not every one."
It was impossible to object to the words or to the smile, yet something beneath both gave him pause.
A subtle tightening of the bond, a sensation no stronger than the brush of fingertips across his thoughts.
Aspasia noticed his hesitation immediately.
"Oh, Lucien," she laughed lightly. "Do stop looking at her as though she has condemned you to execution." Before he could formulate a sufficiently polite refusal, she slipped her arm through his. "I shall return you to pretty Elain in perfectly respectable condition."
Lucien allowed himself to be led onto the floor with all the dignity available to a male being managed by a female nearly twice his age, strongly suspecting he had ceased making decisions several minutes ago.
Aspasia danced precisely as one imagined she conducted every other aspect of her existence, not a gesture wasted.
"Your mate is lovely," she observed after several turns of the room.
Lucien resisted the impulse to look for Elain. “Have you returned to the Forest House?” He asked instead.
"I have." The answer was simple. She regarded him with quiet amusement before continuing. "I thought that, now Eris has finally succeeded in removing the last of your father's faithful counsellors, there was little reason to continue avoiding it."
Lucien huffed a laugh. "And I thought all these years you’d been avoiding him."
The orchestra carried them through another sweeping figure.
"I imagine your brother will be pleased," she said after a moment. "He has wondered whether you were happy."
Lucien frowned. "Did Eris send you to inspect my disposition?"
"Hardly." She glanced beyond his shoulder. "It simply happens to be rather obvious."
Without intending to, he followed her gaze.
Elain stood near one of the wooden columns overlooking the dance floor. Someone had pressed a crystal glass of wine into her hand, but she was watching the dancers.
Their eyes met across the crowded ballroom.
The music, so clear only moments before, became oddly distant. The conversation surrounding him seemed to soften.
One by one, nearby voices faltered altogether.
Lucien felt the bond between them tighten.
Elain had begun to cross the ballroom. The crowd yielded before her almost unconsciously, elegant nobles stepping aside with murmured apologies they scarcely realized they were making.
She arrived before them precisely as the orchestra reached the end of a phrase.
The musicians continued without interruption.
"So sorry," Elain said with a gracious smile directed entirely toward Aspasia. "I hope you will forgive the interruption."
"Certainly." Aspasia's answer came at once. "So long as it’s important."
"It is." Silence settled briefly between them. Elain looked at Lucien. "I believe," she said quietly, "I should like my second dance now."
Lucien realized, with startling clarity, that she was not asking.
Aspasia appeared to realize it as well.
She released his hand at once. Lucien could have sworn she had possessed every intention of retaining it only moments before.
With flawless grace she stepped backward. "I won't keep him."
"No," Elain agreed. "You won't."
A curious shiver travelled the length of Lucien's spine.
Aspasia merely inclined her head. There was unmistakable amusement dancing within her dark eyes, perhaps even approval.
Elain took his hand, her fingers closed around it with surprising firmness.
Lucien looked down instinctively. She did not relinquish him once. Not while they crossed the ballroom, and especially not while astonished nobles moved aside. Not even while they passed Eris.
The High Lord of Autumn stood with a glass in one hand, Aspasia having returned comfortably to his side. His expression was one of entirely unconcealed satisfaction.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. Eris only smiled wider, lifting his glass.
"Elain?"
She offered no answer. Instead, her fingers tightened around his.
Warmth unfurled low within his chest.
Possessive.
The realization startled him nearly as much as the emotion itself.
By the time they reached the guest corridor, quiet and blessedly removed from the orchestra, he had abandoned the comforting illusion that she merely wished to speak privately.
She selected a door without hesitation, and drew him inside. The latch settled into place behind them with a crisp, decisive click.
Lucien had scarcely turned before she closed the distance between them. Both palms settled against his chest with quiet insistence.
He yielded to her touch, his shoulders meeting the oak paneling of the door with a muted thud.
Elain remained where she was.
She looked up at him without speaking.
Her breathing had yet to steady. One chestnut curl had escaped the careful arrangement of her hair, resting against her temple. Another had begun to loosen at the back of her head, the curl looping towards her jaw.
He had never seen her quite so disordered.
For a fleeting moment, he realized she had stopped trying to hide how very much she wanted him.
It was almost enough to undo him.
She lifted one hand. Her fingertips traced the line of his collar with exquisite slowness before slipping beneath it, warm against the skin of his throat.
Lucien's breath caught. Only then did she rise onto her toes. Months of restraint dissolved beneath the familiar press of her mouth.
His hands found her waist at once. She answered by stepping closer still, until there remained scarcely any space between them at all.
Mine.
The thought flashed across the bond with startling force and it stole what little composure remained to him.
His grip tightened.
A quiet sound escaped her, and she kissed him again, slower this time, as though rewarding him.
Lucien discovered, with no small measure of alarm, that he rather liked being rewarded.
Her fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, guiding.
The room blurred at its edges.
The velvet of his evening coat gathered beneath Elain's fingers as she drew him away from the door. There was nothing hurried in the movement, and he followed without resistance
A faint sound left her lips, scarcely more than an impatient breath.
She slipped one hand beneath the edge of his coat, urging the heavy fabric from his shoulder. It surrendered at once, gliding slowly down his arms before pooling in an untidy heap upon the carpet, forgotten almost as soon as it had fallen.
Her loosening curls brushed the underside of his jaw as her lips found the line of his throat, lingering just below his ear, warm enough to scatter every coherent thought from his mind. Her fingers followed, smoothing over the linen at his collar before catching lightly in the fabric of his shirt, drawing him nearer.
She drew back only long enough to look at him. There was colour high in her cheeks now. Her lips, softened by his own, curved almost imperceptibly.
Elain reached behind her head. One by one, she removed the combs from her hair.
Lucien watched in silence.
The chestnut curls sprang free at once, tumbling to her shoulders. She shook them loose with an absent little motion, one curl falling across her face. Without thinking, he reached for it. His fingers slipped through the silken strands.
Elain closed her eyes, took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she was smiling, as though she had been waiting to see whether he would touch her.
A dangerous suspicion stole over him. There was something almost unfair in the quiet confidence with which she watched him, almost as if she had arranged this moment long before he realized he had been walking toward it.
The thought lingered only briefly.
A game, perhaps.
If it was, he had the distinct impression he was already losing.
He found he did not particularly mind.
The scent of jasmine surrounded him.
She stepped closer once more until her knees brushed his. His own met the edge of the bed behind him.
The unexpected contact tipped his balance. He sat with a surprised laugh.
Elain came with him. One knee settled beside his hip, her skirts spilling over his legs in rich folds of brown silk.
She rested one hand lightly against his shoulder, looking down at him with an expression that made him feel, absurdly, as though he was staring up at the sun.
"Elain..."
She answered only by bending to kiss him again.