Chapter 22 Bonus Scene
Summary: Searching the vault for a special piece of jewelry, Rhys and Feyre are hard-pressed to find what they're looking for. They discover sometimes the things you need are in the last place you'd remember to look.
Pairing: Feysand x reader
Read on AO3 | Masterlist
Jewels shimmer in velvet line trays, in an array of settings. Gold and platinum, brass and adamant steel so black it absorbs the light. All of them beautiful. All of them wrong. Feyre rubs a hand over her forehead, blue eyes flicking from tray to tray as unease grips her heart. How can their family possess so many incredible rings, passed down over generations spanning tens — if not hundreds — of thousands of years and none of them suit their mate? Her stomach rolls at the idea of looking at another ring today.
Rhys waves his hand with a sigh, returning the trays to their homes the moment she turns her back on them. He keeps looking at the watch in his pocket, the steady tick-tick-tick counting away their few available moments today to do this. He’d wanted them to select a ring tonight for a quiet proposal, just the three of them after everyone else has gone. “We could arrange for a private meeting with one of the jewelers in town-”
“No,” Feyre sighs, “I’m sorry this is taking so long. They’re just not…”
“Her.” He agrees, wrapping an arm around Feyre’s shoulders, pulling her into his side. “No, you’re right, they’re not.” None of them would look at home on their Dove’s finger. All of them too gaudy or the wrong color or too simple. And Mother forbid the stone had a flaw. Nothing in this room was crafted for her, and even Rhys isn’t confident they’ll find a ring in any court that would suit her. They could have any band resized or any jewel reset, but none of them felt right. “Maybe another day-”
“No. Please, let’s just…look again. I…well…”
“Yes, Feyre darling?” He tugs the ends of her hair, twirling the golden-brown strands around his fingers while she collects her thoughts.
“I wanted it to be something with significance.” Glancing at her own mating band with a rueful smile, she adds, “I know she wouldn’t accept mine, but I’ve always loved that it was your mother’s. I want her ring to be just as special, Rhys. To mean just as much.” Equitable, if not equal. Yes, he’d wanted to gift her something of that nature, too. Unfortunately, his mother had always been conservative with her jewelry, favoring only a piece or two beyond her mating band — neither of which would make an appropriate mating band. His father had gifted her a few gems over the centuries, and she’d collected a few on her own, hadn’t she? To make her own heirlooms for her children to pass on.
A lump forms in his throat.
The little black velvet pouches appear on the counter as if summoned. Twelve in all. Rhys unwinds from his mate to empty them, one by one, trying to remember what his mother said they were to represent. One for each century his parents had been mated: a Hewn City black opal and an Illyrian emerald. Two moonstones for each birth. A diamond from a very special Starfall. Two tanzanite stones in a shade of dark, violet-blue for each child’s first Solstice. A cobalt spinel and a sizable ruby that could only be for Cassian and Azriel. The last three, however, he doesn’t remember seeing.
“Oh,” Feyre whispers, plucking a sapphire from the table. It’s the same pale, lavender-blue shade of Nyx’s eyes. He’ll make her something from that one, a ring to honor their firstborn. His heir. “This is lovely.”
“It’s yours,” Rhys murmurs, kissing her temple. Her eyes cut to his, sparkling despite the wry grin on her lovely mouth.
“We’re not here for me.”
“No,” he agrees, sending the gem and its bag to his pocket realm before she has the opportunity to further object. “But it is, regardless.” The second gem Feyre picks up sends a chill down his spine. A red-orange garnet, glowing like a miniature blood moon in the faelight. She puts it down after a moment, shaking her head. No, not this one. Not for their dove. Feyre plucks the final gem from to counter. The stone is clear and pure as any of the diamonds in the vault, until the moment Feyre turns it towards the light. Faint, arctic blue shines on the surface, shifting to reveal hints of lilac and glowing, pearlescent white. An echo of moon dust and captured starlight, both of them twining together in a dance older than time itself until the gem shifts again, the color disappearing.
“What is this?” Feyre asks, turning it over in her hand. Wondrous. Beautiful. Rhys begins to answer her but can’t find a way around the lump in his throat. “Rhys? What’s wrong?”
He clears his throat, plucking the gem from her fingertips to examine it himself. “Nothing.” The jewel is rare, priceless by anyone’s standards. Mined many, many centuries ago from the heart of Ramiel and passed through his father’s line, given to the Lady of Night upon the consummation of the marriage or mating bond, however the title came to her. How had he forgotten it?
“They called it the Evening Star,” he explains, his voice taking on the same whispered hush his mother’s had the night she’d shown it to him, cuddled on her lap before her vanity. “Long before the Night Court was established, it was mined from the heart of Ramiel. The original stone had been as large as a firedrake’s egg. The moment it met the first light of dawn, it split, the pieces scattered across the land. All that remained — and, to my knowledge, the only existing piece of it to this day — was this stone. The first High Lord gifted it to his Lady, and on it went, passed down through my father’s line until he gave it to my mother. I saw it once as a boy, on a night when I refused to give my poor mother any peace.”
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Feyre teases, elbowing him lightly in the ribs, “in light of all of our sleepless nights.”
Rhys’s laugh echoes in the vault. “Let’s hope our son takes after you, Cursebreaker.” The world could use another just like her. Like either of his mates, truly. How he’d been given such kind, empathetic females to love, he still isn’t sure.
“I don’t know if that would be any better,” she huffs. “It’s a large gem, Rhys. Too large to for a ring.”
“Large enough for a ring and earrings,” he supplies, turning it over in his palm. “Perhaps a necklace, if we include a few diamonds.”
“Pearls might suit it better,” Feyre suggests. “Suit them both better. You’re sure it won’t shatter in the sunlight?”
“Oh, no. My mother insisted it was an old faerie’s tale.” He glances back towards the door. “We can always take it out and see.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Her slender, tattooed hand hovers just over the gem. Light gathers in her hand: first, the pale starlight Rhys is used to, gentle and cool. Ever a product of Night, the gem glows beneath it and the room fills with that light, refracting auroras over every surface. Briefly, the light flicks to fire, and the air fills with a discordant crackle. A flash of blue streaks across the ceiling: the spark of lightning before thunder. Finally, golden daylight fills Feyre’s palm, and the stone does not crack beneath it. Gold pools beneath its surface before the stone transmutes it, frosting over in shades of cream with the barest blue sheen to it.
“How strange,” she murmurs once the light has faded, and the stone returns to normal. “But lovely.”
“We should get it to the jeweler if we wish to have it ready by Solstice,” Rhys adds, carefully returning the jewel to its bag.
“Is there time?” Feyre plucks the watch from his pocket by its long, silver chain. “Barely. And we have that other thing you wanted to discuss.”
“We don’t need words for that, do we, darling?” She huffs at Rhys’s cheeky smile, batting at him when he drops a kiss against her temple. “Come on, let’s get out of here before we’re both significantly later than normal.” They will make time for the jeweler and this conversation, meetings with the Palace governors be damned. Everyone else gets so much of them, he and Feyre can have this. They can both have this.
What I do know for certain is that Nyx is a perfect babe, with his mother’s nose and his father’s cheekbones and chin. His little hand breaks free of his wrappings to grasp my finger, which he immediately pulls to his mouth to suckle. It has been a long time since I had a babe this small to care for. I gently pull my finger from his mouth to tap it against his nose, and his little dissatisfied grunts tug at my heartstrings.
I don’t know how long it is before I tear my eyes from his scrunched up face to look at his parents. The High Lord’s face is impassive, a long finger taps against his lips as he stares at me, and I don’t know what to make of it. But the High Lady? Feyre’s smile is blinding, she glances over at her mate, who nods decisively, like confirming some sort of unspoken agreement between them.
“When can you start?” Feyre asks and I sigh in relief, running the edge of my nail lightly down the side of Nyx’s face.
Detroit: Yuri’s done the math. He done the research and the consideration and the planning. This will be his last year of competitive figure skating, and this time next year, he’ll be moving on to grad school. No matter what, though, Yuri hopes to hold onto Victor in any way that he can. Even if he has to compromise and change his own dreams to do it.
St. Petersburg: Victor is tired of compromising. Tired of having dreams deferred, of stealing moments in the off season and after competitions to spend time with Yuri. The way he sees it, there are only two options: keep Yuri in competitive skating, or find a way to stay by Yuri’s side after this year is through. Because if there’s anything that Victor knows for certain, it’s that he’s never letting anything come between him and his soulmate ever again.
But how far are Yuri and Victor willing to go to protect the other’s dreams? And with a whole universe separating them, will a soulmate bond really be enough to hold them together when it matters most?
**Part Three of the Defy the Stars Trilogy**
Soulmates!AU • College! AU(kinda) • Happy Ending
Read Chapter Thirty-Two here!
In which Victor and Yuri feverishly hope that the other one will make the first move, and a stalemate ensues.
Posting every Friday (ish), chapter preview below the cut
Yuri was late to practice. In his defense, though, it had been a long flight, and a seemingly endless trip to the athlete’s village, and no sooner had he gotten to his room than Junichi was knocking on his door, peppering him with questions about how interviews had been and whether he’d managed to land a flip yet and by the time Yuri managed to actually eat something and change into practice clothes, he was supposed to be at the rink to start off ice warm-ups, and by the time he was there to start warming up, everyone else was already out on the ice.
So in the end he only got a weak warm-up in, nowhere near the amount of time he actually should have given it, and then an even weaker amount of time to actually get a feel for the ice.
And not just any ice. The ice. The main rink. Olympic rings below him. A scattering of spectators and media up in the stands to watch him, to speculate and criticize. It made Yuri want to throw up.
(How was it, just earlier today, that he’d managed to be excited for all of this?)
Seeing Victor standing at the other end of the rink, staring blankly at him, wasn’t any help. And Yuri didn’t have to wonder anymore if he had it in him to go up to his soulmate right away and reopen everything between them. He knew now that he didn’t have the courage to do it. And he was frankly relieved that Victor was the first person off the ice now that practice was over—while Yuri himself was still all the way at the other end of the rink—because that just meant he could put everything off for just a little bit longer.
Tomorrow, Yuri told himself. I can talk to him tomorrow.
Because one thing was for certain: even if Yuri’s cowardice and anxiety were swallowing him whole now, the moment he had seen Victor he had known in his soul that he didn’t want to let Victor go. He knew Patrick was right, that if he waited around to long, then Victor would move on. He had seen it in the way Victor was skating, before he’d come onto the ice. And Yuri didn’t want that. He wanted Victor to be happy, yes, but he wanted to be the one who made Victor happy. He wanted the life that Victor’s short program described.
Description: When astrobotanist Chanyeol gets the chance of a lifetime to take an expedition to an exoplanet, he doesn’t expect to fall for the engineer that tags along with him.
Notes: There will be a separate, two-part sequel to this chapter (as well as a bonus scene) I will be posting in the future. For now, I hope you enjoy the chapter it took me entirely too long to end. If you were following along with the original draft, this would be chapter twenty-six. I probably won't add that note to future parts, but it's been a while since we've had an update, and I don't want anyone to get confused.
A bowl of fluffy white frosting sits on the corner of the kitchen counter with a spatula sticking out of it like a child’s shovel in a mound of sand. Nyx wriggles in my arms, reaching for his aunt as Elain carefully stacks the layers of vanilla cake. I coo at him despite the ache it causes, rocking a little to keep him occupied as the contents of my mug cool in front of me. He grows bigger with each passing month, I can hardly believe he’ll be walking soon. Late autumn rains have given way to snow this week, bringing the first kiss of winter to us a full month before the solstice.
Time slips through my fingers like so much sand.
I feel every grain.
My sweater is normally thick enough to ward away the frosty chill permeating the windows, but not today. Goosebumps wander over my skin at will as heat curls in my joints, a warning that I’ll need to drink the medicated tea in my cup soon to keep the worst of the pain at bay. Unfortunately, Nyx has been grabby enough lately that I don’t want to risk drinking it while I hold him. I don’t know if I have it in me to just put him down and let him scream long enough for me to drink it.
“I can take him,” Elain offers, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel once the final layer is cushioned atop a thick layer of frosting. Her brown eyes soften as she reaches for the babe in my arms and I ease him into her grasp, eager to not have him hanging onto me for a few minutes. Accepting the mating bond seems to have brought on a clingy stage for him I thought would have ended weeks ago, but all he wants is to be held. With Feyre finally comfortable going back to her studio and Rhys easing back into the duties he’s neglected in favor of taking care of me, I’m the one he seems to want to cling to during the day — likely because I smell so much like them. “You look tired, Dove. Do you want to go lie down?”
“No,” I murmur, raising my mug to my lips. I am tired, more so than I had been even a few weeks ago. We’ve had no news from the various healers working on trying to fight against my curse while Day’s High Lord looks for a way to break it. The Dawn Court healer sent along this tea, a blend of herbs native to their territory that certainly eases the frequent flares of pain and nausea. “No, I’ll be okay. Just give me a little time to drink this and I should be fine.” Fine enough, anyway.
“It is alright if you aren’t, you know.” Elain bounces her nephew in her arms, kissing his chubby cheeks before her eyes shift to me, trailing over my face like there’s something she’s searching for. “Fine, that is. You don’t have to be brave about it.”
“What’s the alternative? Weeping over all of the things I cannot change?” I sigh, sipping my slightly bitter, minty tea. The flavor isn’t my favorite, but I suppose I’m not drinking it for the taste. Elain shakes her head, pulling her hair out of Nyx’s chubby fist as I sink onto one of the stools on the other side of the counter. The babe pats her cheek, babbling up at her with wide eyes, and his aunt nods wisely at him before her brown eyes slide to me once more.
“You’re so like Nesta sometimes,” she says. I tilt my head, considering her words as she continues her conversation with her nephew and I drink my tea. From what I know of the eldest Archeron sister, she’s very isolated up in that sprawling mountain house, training as a warrior and reading the smutty books Feyre occasionally ferries home. For all they have in common, it’s a wonder Feyre and Nesta don’t get along better. All three sisters seem to be finding a way to a more comfortable, loving middle ground now that their unpleasant beginning is so far behind them.
“Did Feyre mention when they would be home today?”
“Sometime before dinner. Mrs. Greaves will likely be in to chase us out soon so she can begin preparations. Beef curry with rice and roasted asparagus, I think?”
“Delicious.” Everything the housekeeper prepares is delicious. “Elain?”
“Yes?”
“May I ask how…how you and Lucien are doing?” I don’t know why I’m nervous to ask. Lucien has only been cordial, if not kind, to me every time our paths have crossed. Maybe it’s my own unwillingness to say more than necessary to him that bleeds into the way we interact. But I do…I do want to know. He’s one of the few people I know whose feelings about our home court are likely as complex as my own. It might be nice to have someone who understands.
“Of course.” Her smile is welcoming as ever, and she sways with her nephew as his little head rests on her shoulder. Nyx gives me a sweet, gummy smile that morphs into a yawn, and I note the red around his twilight blue eyes. Maybe he won’t fight nap time today after all. “We’re doing well. His own duties keep him away, I do rather wish I could accompany him, but…but with Koschei gaining ground on the continent, I’m more useful here.”
“Is he truly such a threat? Legends say he’s cursed to remain in that crumbling lakeside castle-”
“His body may be. His magic, however, is free to roam. Those under his spell may leave to do his bidding. And it’s- well, it’s rumored he has Montesere’s princess now.” My eyebrows shoot up at that tidbit of information and the Seer shrugs, rubbing Nyx’s back as he drifts off to sleep with a sigh. Truly, since the night that strange magic spread through Velaris, I haven’t heard much on the machinations of the world beyond these walls. Not that I could possibly be of service in that particular struggle. “I’m going to put him down for a nap. Enjoy your tea.”
“Elain?”
“Yes?”
“How do you stand having your mate so far away?” Rhys and Feyre can be in the same town, and I still feel a little uncomfortable in my skin until they’re home with me.
“We haven’t fully accepted the bond. I want a ceremony, and I don’t want it to be something rushed out of fear of what may happen. I don’t feel that longing as intensely as- as other mates seem to. Maybe the Cauldron made me wrong.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you’re the most well-adjusted of us all.”
She laughs at that, wrinkling her upturned nose, pink rising in her cheeks. Elain shakes her head, gesturing towards my cup before she heads for the stairs, and I test the temperature before downing the rest of it in a few gulps. It burns a little, but the relief that had slowly begun to trickle through my veins floods them, cooling the painful burn. I pay the price for the rush, though. I’m immediately lightheaded, the world going a little fuzzy at the edges. I probably should have just sipped it.
Leaning forward, I rest my head on the countertop, grateful for the cold seeping into my skin from the stone. Yes, I definitely should have just sipped it. The soft sound of Elain’s footsteps on the wood floor fades. My eyes are so heavy. Maybe I should just close them.
- - -
I wake to tendrils of late afternoon sun spilling across the sofa I’m curled up on. My head feels as if it’s full of lead. When I finally manage to keep my eyes open, the world around me is fuzzy. A few warm, knit blankets are draped over me, a thicker fur on top of them to ward away any chill. I glance to my right at Rhys behind his desk with Nyx curled in a tight ball on his chest, his little wings lightly fluttering in unison. The hand that’s not cradling the babe holds a stack of papers, likely some report he’s staring blankly at.
I must have slept for far too long if we’re on to nap number two.
“Sorry,” I mumble, pushing myself into a seated position. Rhys blinks, seeming to come back to himself as he sets his paper down. The smile he gives me is tender, but I hate the concern lingering in his eyes. I hate that I’m the cause of so much unnecessary stress for both of my mates. They should be able to leave me at home with Nyx without worrying what they might come home to.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Dove. You needed the rest. I should be apologizing. I left you to-“
“Don’t, Rhys. Please. You should be able to leave me, I…” I should be more capable. But I don’t say that. Mother’s sake, it’s his birthday, the last thing I need to do is pick a fight. I don’t know if it’s the weakness of the shield around my mind or something leaking down the bond, but he pushes up from the desk and I shift the blankets around so he can settle on the sofa at my side. His arm around my shoulders is a warm, welcome weight, and I lean into his side to bask in it while I can. His head rests against mine, easing the ache in my heart a little as I whisper, “happy birthday.”
“Thank you, my dove.”
“Has it been a good one?”
“It has. When Feyre comes home, it will be perfect.”
“How long has he been out?” I trail my finger over Nyx’s arm; his hand tucked beneath his chin as he sleeps. He looks so much like his father. What had Rhysand’s father looked like? Does he favor him or his mother? Did his sister look like Nyx when she was born? Heartache anchors in my chest like the deep roots of a weed. They should be here. He should still have them.
“Not long,” Rhys sighs, holding me tighter. “What are you thinking about that makes you so sad, Dove?”
“I was wondering about your parents. And your sister. I was thinking it’s unfair that they’re not here. I wish you still had them.”
“Was there something specific you wanted to know?”
I shrug, toying with the edge of the cashmere blanket peeking out from beneath the fur. I’m not sure what to ask, or if I even should. Why dredge up such awful memories on his birthday? Instead, I ask, “What did you do today?”
“I had a few appointments with local vendors. I’ll visit some of the villages to the west tomorrow. The farmer’s guild likely has a list of wishes or demands before next spring they’ve submitted to their territory lords for me to review and approve.”
“How thrilling.”
“Oh, yes. Life as High Lord is terribly exciting. Miles and miles of paperwork and budget approvals and fielding grievances. Have you fallen asleep yet?”
“Go on for another five minutes and I might do just that.”
“Mother forbid I bore my mate so thoroughly.” I laugh, rearranging myself to rest my head on his chest with my knees towards the back of the sofa. Nyx’s wing occasionally brushes against my temple as he sleeps on, oblivious to the world and its troubles. My mental shield flutters, straining the little magic I have access to before it crumbles. My eyes are so terribly heavy. Rhys slips in, his presence cool and soothing as water on a hot day. He curls around me there, shaped like a beast I can barely comprehend, teeth and talons tucked away for the moment.
“You’re always trying to protect me,” I grumble through a yawn. I want to tell him I don’t need it, but we’d both know that to be a lie.
“I always will.” The finality of that statement settles into my bones. Always, always, always. It’s what I agreed to — what we agreed to — when we accepted the mating bond. Always. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to come to terms with the notion that there are two people in this world who made a binding decision to love me for the rest of my days. To protect me. To care for me. It doesn’t feel real, all these weeks later.
Rhys’s voice floats between my thoughts, waving them away like gnats as the beast curls tighter around my mind. ‘Rest, Dove. It’s not long until dinner.’
“You’ll wake me?” My words are slurred with exhaustion, a mumbled jumble of sounds that Rhys chuckles at as he smooths a hand over my hair.
‘I’ve never allowed you to go hungry before.’
I want to argue that it’s not the same as waking me for dinner. I want to sit at the table with my mates and their family. I want to watch Nyx stuff fistfuls of mashed carrot into his little mouth, smearing it on his cheeks and chin. I want to laugh with them and watch Rhys open his gifts — the few that he allows, anyway. I want to be well enough to thoroughly celebrate him after. I want so deeply to be part of making this a special day for him.
All I can do is sleep. It’s all my body allows.
- - -
The next time I wake, it’s much darker. Still curled on the sofa, but the body tucked beneath mine is soft and slim. The hands in my hair smell faintly of linseed oil and soft, powdery lotion. Feyre’s breathing is soft and deep, her heart a steady beat beneath my ear, and I glance up to find her sleeping soundly beneath me. She must have changed when she returned home. The thin, black silk dress bunching around her thighs certainly is not what she left in. The lace straps and embroidery that make up the bust leave so little to the imagination, but it’s a beautifully crafted piece.
One that begs to be removed later.
The dark lashes against her cheeks look as though they’ve been dusted and tipped in gold. When they flutter open, revealing those lovely blue eyes still clouded with sleep, I lean up to kiss her pale pink lips just to feel them curve into a smile against my own. She tastes of pear wine, heady and sweet, spiced to match the season. Her tongue sweeps languidly against the seam of my lips, and I part them for her as she rolls me onto my back, trapping herself against the back of the couch.
The tattooed hand sliding beneath my sweater to caress my bare skin is so warm. I want her to touch me everywhere. Her free hand curves around the back of my neck as Feyre takes her time coaxing my mouth to open, allowing her to explore me as though it’s not an adventure she’s made a thousand times before. She knows every move, every flick and touch to make me feel like I’m coming alive beneath her hand.
It stops too soon. Her cheeks are rosy when she pulls away, and her eyes are sparkling with so much more than joy.
“Are they eating without us?” I ask, stretching as the hand against my ribs wanders to my hip.
“They’ve just started dinner. I told Rhysand we’d be a minute; I wanted to greet you properly first.”
“Bit longer than a minute, Feyre.”
“Well, now I want to take all night just to prove a point.”
“What point are you proving?”
“That the time I spend with my mate is never time wasted.” My mate. Mine. Possession drips from the word and I drink it like sweet Summer wine. I am theirs and they are mine and one day, I will not need to be reminded of it. One day, I will feel comfortable in the knowledge that only death can take them from me, that we are bound until the end of our days because we chose it.
“It is not,” I agree before those hungry blue eyes burn holes in me. “But it is Rhys’s birthday dinner, so we should probably join them.”
Feyre nods, acquiescing to my silent request, and together we climb off of the sofa. A cloud of steam forms around her hands as she smooths them over the wrinkles in the dress, straightening the fabric once more. Her hand is still warm when it slides into mine, and together we make our way from the study to the dining room.
We hear a low, rumbling snarl before we reach the stairs. The very foundation of the house trembles and Feyre tugs me along at a slightly more urgent pace. Amren’s voice carries over the roaring in my ears, but I can’t force myself to focus on what she’s saying long enough to understand it. Everything sounds slightly muffled, like I’m hearing it through glass. Something about Illyrian males…missing…something?
Feyre drops my hand, slinking into the dining room with her head held high, sleek as any mountain cat. I spot Nyx in Nesta’s lap, a fistful of peas halfway to his mouth. His little head bobs as he looks at his parents with a gummy smile, his few teeth shining white. Feyre’s hands settle on Rhys’s shoulders as she leans in to kiss his temple, but I feel the way she’s assessing everyone in the room. There’s a spot beside Azriel, his shadows shuffle back the empty chair for me as Feyre sinks into the chair at Rhysand’s side.
“I thought we weren’t discussing court business tonight,” Feyre sighs, breaking the tension with a little smile, her blue eyes darting between Rhys and Amren. Likely weighing the pros and cons of getting in the middle of whatever inspired the argument. Something silent passes between my mate and his second-in-command, and they both return to their wine, appearing to agree to drop the argument for the night.
Azriel picks up my plate, quietly serving me as I wave to the babe who has just noticed my presence. His face is covered in so much mashed food, it’s hard to tell what’s what, but his eyes and smile are so bright.
“Apologies, Feyre,” Amren demures, raising her glass to her lips.
“You’re looking well.” Azriel’s voice is low and soft as he sets my plate before me. He’s somehow figured out the things that don’t upset my stomach these days and has served them in small enough portions that I won’t make myself sick trying to eat it all. I give him a grateful smile, raising a spoon of rice to my lips as I feel Rhys’s eyes settle on me. I grin at him as brightly as I can muster, but it does not chase the tinge of heartache from his eyes.
“Thank you,” I murmur, turning my attention back to Azriel as Feyre leans in to kiss Rhys more soundly, earning a playful groan from Cassian. “I feel…” Not better. Worse, probably. But the tonics and potions and elixirs and whatever else the healers provide are still helping for now. “Well, I’m here. How have you been? Is everything…going well?” I don’t know what to ask him that isn’t technically court business.
“Yes and no. I’m fine, but we are…having a few hiccups.”
“Azriel,” Feyre warns, exasperation thick in her voice as those eyes swing in our direction. The shadowsinger raises his glass, toasting his High Lady with a rare wink before he throws back the rest of whatever’s in his glass.
“We were just wondering when it will be time for presents,” I lie unhelpfully, earning a snort from the male at my side. Rhys shakes his head, affection curving his lips as he turns back to his meal. The tension disperses the moment Nyx decides to fling his peas across the table, his little cheeks red with delight at the way they scatter. I tuck into my own plate as the little green vegetables disappear from the lace tablecloth. Each bite of rice tastes like ash, the beef tender enough but lacking the flavor of the rich spices I can see coating the top of it. Even the little bit of bread I manage to get down is flavorless, the butter in it merely a greasy coating on my lips and tongue.
Is this what dying feels like? A slow-creeping misery that takes and takes. I glance around the room, forcing my smile to brighten a little, trying to drum up some modicum of joy within me. It’s Rhys’s birthday and we’re all here together. That’s what matters now. The rest is stardust.
I don’t eat much more, choosing to listen to the conversation buzzing around me. Mor drags Feyre into a discussion about the new dressmaker on Silk Street and her Monteseran-inspired designs for spring. I can’t imagine Feyre in the yards of frothy lace I’m certain such a place inspires, but it might suit Elain well enough. Gradually, I feel that dark, ancient beast creeping around my mind once more, quiet and comfortable as it curls in around me. Rhys’s hand slides from the table towards Feyre’s lap, and down the bond flows a desire for contact, thick and sweet as honey.
What an incredible gift, to want to be touched. The abandoned dinner plates clear, the mess along with it, and Nesta passes Nyx to Feyre to be rocked as a small pile of gifts appear before my mates. The rest of us receive steaming mugs, Azriel’s appearing to contain rich, dark chocolate and something that smells faintly of coffee, while mine contains more tea.
I’d prefer what he’s having.
Instead, I sip my medicated tea and watch Rhys open his gifts, thanking and chastising the rest of the family in equal measure. The first is a leather case from Feyre, fill with beautiful glass planets and glowing stars that take to the air moments after the lid is off, slowly revolving and shining over our heads. Nyx turns his sleepy, lilac blue eyes skyward, babbling at the glass balls with his chubby cheek presses against Feyre’s chest. A slender, tattooed hand covers his head, smoothing his hair affectionately as his father leans down to kiss his forehead. I try to capture the quiet moment in my mind, wishing to keep it forever, locked away in my heart with everything else I hold dear.
I already miss them, and they’re just across the table from me. I can’t imagine a lifetime separating us, I won’t. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight I am alive and there are stars and planets spinning overhead.
Rhys leaves them there as he moves on to his next gift. On and on, he unveils books and trinkets to disperse around the house and a beautiful selection of blades he vanishes before Nyx gets a good look at them. Between swigs of my tea, Azriel nudges his mug towards me, and we share the chocolate concoction until there is only one small box left. A gift I had commissioned with Mor’s help, kept secret even from Feyre — a feat, considering how close the sculptor’s studio is to hers.
The box itself is plain, wrapped in brown paper and twine that’s gone in a matter of moments. The lid lifts away and a tiny tendril of magic removes a marble statuette from the silk-lined interior. It’s a replica of an unfinished piece I’d seen the last time Feyre and I went to look around: the goddess Nyx clad in a gossamer gown, pouring out a jug of stars to fill the night sky. A maternal smile lights her lovely face as she gazes down at a small, winged babe reaching towards the stars. It’s better than I could have imagined it would be, intricately carved with thin veins of gold in the boy’s wings.
“How perfect,” Feyre coos, kissing the crown of Nyx’s head as he dozes against her. “Enzo’s attention to detail is remarkable. I didn’t think he was accepting commissioned work at the moment.”
“He made an exception,” Mor teases, her brown eyes meeting mine over her own mug of hot chocolate. “We can be very convincing.”
“Mor is convincing,” I object, shaking my head head. “I simply made the request.”
“It’s wonderful,” Rhys says, vanishing the delicate statue along with the rest of the gifts, tucking them safely away. “Thank you both.” There it is again, that tug at our bond, more urgent than the last. I give my mate my most patient smile, watching Feyre settle against his side as she lowers the strap of her dress to allow Nyx to nurse. She’ll have him fast asleep in ten minutes, no doubt. “How is training with the priestesses going, Nesta?”
“Fine,” the eldest Archeron states, giving my mate a carefully blank look. Though they’ve made progress towards a place of neutrality, there’s this wall between them Feyre has admitted to being unable to crack. It seems to me what Nesta truly needs is for him to trust her judgment, and Rhys needs to find a way to give her that little bit of control.
“We should have two more Valkyries before the end of the year,” Cassian supplies helpfully. “Right, Az?”
Azriel nods. “If they can manage to cut the ribbon, yes. They both need more precision in their swing to manage it, but I expect they’ll be ready by the end of next week. They’re ready.”
Pride shines in Nesta’s eyes at the report, and Azriel manages a fond smile in her direction. He so rarely shows any hint of emotion, it’s nice to see a glimpse of his gentle nature beneath that cold exterior. It’s a wonder, though, that he and Elain don’t speak beyond a few niceties. I settle back in my seat, listening as Cassian launches into a story about the three of them as boys in the training camp, sneaking out for a late-night swim only to be caught sneaking back in by Rhys’s mother, still damp from the lake.
At the end of the night, once our guests have left and Feyre has put Nyx to bed, I find myself before the bathroom vanity with Rhys at my back, his chin resting on my shoulder as I stand in the cage of his arms, rubbing lotion into my skin. His eyes are dark, a possessive sort of hunger brewing in their violet depths, and I raise my brows at him as he turns to nuzzle the side of my neck. He paws at the nightgown I’ve only just put on, gripping the deep purple chiffon like he might shred it as his lips wander along the curve of my shoulder.
“Don’t you dare,” I grumble, tugging at his dark hair to bring his ministrations higher. “Feyre has something planned and I’m not sure what it is, but I do know I’m not allowed to be naked yet.”
“She hasn’t told you?” Rhys grins slyly, turning me in his arms. I rest my hand on the back of his neck, urging him to kiss me as he presses me against the counter. He grips my hips, drawing them against his own until I feel every inch of his desire twitch against my belly.
“Considering how worked up you are, I assume she’s told you.” I mutter.
“We may have discussed it this morning.”
“When?”
“Oh, we had a little time set aside to have important conversations.”
“And sex is an important conversation?” I huff. What else were they discussing in their little scheduled moment? Something tells me it certainly wasn’t court business.
His lips claim mine on the edge of a chuckle. My hand finds his hair as I slip the other between us, stroking lightly over the hard length of him through his trousers. My heart skips as he moans into my mouth, nearly melting against me while I touch and tease. He’s not nearly as demanding as usual, that innate dominance drained away, leaving something more pliant in its absence.
More…submissive?
I grip his hair, pulling my mouth from his, and he doesn’t chase my lips as he normally would. Hooded eyes flick from my lips to my eyes, and I give him a squeeze that has his lashes fluttering. And still, he doesn’t stop me. Is this their game tonight, then? Are we to be in charge?
The bedroom door clicks shut, and I look over to see Feyre heading towards us, a sly smile on her pink lips as she takes in the sight of us. Those starlight blue eyes linger on the hand lazily stroking his cock. She gives me a generous smile, leaning against the door frame as she turns her attention to our mate.
“You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you, Rhysand?” Even I shiver at the authoritative lilt to her tone. “Of course, I can’t blame you for being so eager. Our dove is so pretty in her nightgown, isn’t she?”
“Stunning,” he agrees, his cheeks ruddy as a schoolboy’s under her demanding gaze. “I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” Feyre reaches for me, and I let her draw me from his arms into hers, curious at the turn the night is taking. Her arms wind around my waist, pulling my body flush against hers. I feel it then, the anatomical shift she must have been working on while I prepared for bed, and I whine a little at the hardening line of her cock pulsing against me.
After the taste I had of it during our consummation, I’m beyond eager for more. But it’s not my birthday, so… I glance up at her and wait for further instruction. The kiss she gives me is light but lingering, drawing butterflies up from the depths of my stomach as her hands drift lower to grip my bottom appreciatively.
“Why don’t I get you into bed and warm you up properly,” Feyre says sweetly, kissing the tip of my nose. “Rhys, I want you at the foot of the bed, on your knees. Eyes closed.”
“Is this what you discussed at your little meeting today?” I ask tartly as she guides me to the mattress. Her answering laugh is husky, sensual, something reserved for dark corners of empty rooms. I feel my body’s immediate response as Feyre lays me back, settling me against the pillows while Rhys obediently takes his place on the floor.
“This?” she laughs, settling herself at my side, her hand stroking the curve of my hip. “Oh, yes. This and other things. Would you like me to show you what we discussed for the night?”
“Please?” I brush her hair back from her forehead, the golden-brown strands falling like silk between my fingers. Her lips meet mine again, and a scene plays out in my mind that has my toes curling. Oh. Yes, yes this is definitely something we’ll all enjoy. My hand slides over the dark silk to cup her breast, lightly squeezing the sensitive flesh as she grinds against my hip, her arousal trickling down the bond to join Rhys’s, fueling my own as I lie beneath her. Sensing my growing need, her hand slides up to the thin strap on my shoulder, guiding it down my arm as she slips from my mind, lowering her mouth to the soft peak.
At the foot of the bed, I hear a soft moan, and I know exactly what he must be seeing. Lovely, wicked creature, our Feyre. I’m sure there will be retribution of some sort for this little performance, and I can’t wait to see what it might be.
A/N: I'm not sure why I attempt to assume knowing where this story is going. Every time I complete a chapter, I'm surprised by what these people do (or don't do). I hope you enjoy it regardless.
A strange silence hangs in the halls of our typically bustling home when we finally return. Without the staff or Rhys and Feyre’s ever-present court — our court now, I suppose — the house has taken on a haunting quality. Cold, watery light filters in through the large windows, casting long shadows on the floor. The golden hue of autumn has faded, stranding us in a wintry stillness that’s come too soon. Standing next to Rhys in the grand foyer, I cross my arms over my chest and take it all in. I remember the sweet, spring sunshine the first time I crossed the threshold, following after Feyre’s sister. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined what my life would become in such a short amount of time.
Was it truly little more than six months ago?
It feels as though it’s been a lifetime.
“Are you alright?” Rhys asks, his tone too careful to be casual. I bob my head impatiently at the question and the ache behind my eyes flares at the motion. My skin feels too tight and his words, his very presence — something I’m aware I should be craving right now — is almost too much. I wanted so desperately to return home after our meeting, but now that we’re here it feels like the walls are closing in. “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I murmur, gathering my skirts in my hands. This lovely dress feels too heavy, an outfit for a role I can shed within these walls the way a serpent might shed its skin. I need to find a way to decompress before this headache becomes more of a problem. “I’m going to change.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I slowly, purposefully ascend the stairs and take the hall that leads to our room. On my way, I pass the closed door to Nyx’s nursery and nearly give into the urge to peek in. He’s not likely to be in there, I’m sure he’s with his mother. They’ve had precious little time alone together lately, between her own duties and the inordinate amount of care I’ve required in the last month or so. I miss him fiercely, but I won’t interrupt their moment until I absolutely must. Once I’m back in our room, I lean back against the closed door and breathe.
And breathe.
And breathe.
My trembling fingers find the clasp on my dress and the delicate fabric gives way beneath the slightest pressure, slipping from my body with the slightest shrug to land in a heap on the floor. The massive bed before me is freshly made and looks so inviting, I have to fight to keep from crawling straight into it and calling the day done. The ache in my heart won’t fade with sleep, only time, so I drag my dress to hang and change into one of the old, worn dresses I came to Velaris with. The soft fabric is a pale, starlight blue and so thin it does little to hide the shape of my body beneath it. It’s so comfortable I could never bear to part with it, though it’s past the days of being able to wear it in public. Once I’m dressed, I take a moment to rearrange my hair into a simpler style and the stress of the morning melts away in the routine, fading into something more pensive.
The face in the mirror is still mine, but it doesn’t feel like my own anymore. I lean against the counter and examine my features in a new light. Which of them are mine and which have been altered by my mother’s magic? If they break the binding spell, how much of me will change as a result?
Who will I be then?
Who am I now, really? Rhys and Feyre’s mate, a “lady” in a court I have no interest in ruling? How much of my own life have I chosen and what was designed by someone else? Who might I have been without this curse in my head, trapping my magic - trapping me?
I know I should be more grateful for all of the care that was taken to hide me away from Autumn’s High Lord. I saw the way his children twisted beneath the weight of his cruelty, the way the rot that spread through them flowed through the rest of that court. Beron Vanserra poisons everything he touches. His children, his wife, his court, my mother - my mother, who spread that rot to my father’s family, who planted it in my head. Am I ruined, too? My irises flash for just a moment, tainted the haunting, blood moon shade of my mother’s eyes. Surely it must be some sort of warning, an omen I don’t understand, counting down my borrowed time.
Shaking my head, I go to the nightstand at the far side of the bed and pull out one of the tonics to manage my headaches. My body warms, and I put the vial to my lips as heat flows down the mating bond. It’s an eager sort of desire that can only come from Feyre. How quickly I’ve learned the different flavors of their wanting: the starving, impatient hunger of Feyre’s youth versus Rhysand’s deep, driving need. Always pulling at me, drawing me in, a force I could never hope to withstand. She sparks like an ember in my chest, spreading her fire through our bond. Dropping the smoky shield around my mind, I settle on the edge of the bed and let her in, her presence in my mind a balm to the emotional wounds I can’t seem to stop poking at.
‘Where are you? Are you feeling alright?’
‘In our room. I’m fine, I came to change.’
‘Oh, I liked that dress. You were so lovely in it this morning, I had hoped to help you out of it myself.’ I snort at the echo of disappointment in Feyre’s voice, a small smile playing at my lips as I slip one of the little buttons on the bust free of its confines.
‘I doubt you’ll have many complaints about the dress I changed into. Where are you?’
‘In the office with Rhys, watching him sort through reports with a very grumpy babe in desperate need of a cuddle. He’s been looking for you since I fed him. Are you coming down, my dove? Or do you want us to come to you?’
‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
She retreats from my mind as quietly as she came, leaving only a burning ache in our bond as a reminder that she’s waiting. I don’t know if I’ll get used to being wanted like this, to feeling that need at the other end of the mating bond and knowing it’s for me. Because of me. Will they tire of me once the mating bond settles? Once that driving urge is sated and life returns to normal, what then? Without the pull of an unclaimed bond drawing them to me, will they regret their decision?
Will I?
The tattoo along the side of my hand begins to ache, drawing my attention to those little stars. A reminder of the promise I made to a small boy who, apparently, needs me in spite of having both of his parents with him. I think I need him, too. My littlest love. Unable to keep him waiting any longer, I make my way to the office on the opposite side of the house, cursing the long, artfully decorated halls and stairs between it and the bedroom. Rhys might have told Feyre to design the estate of her dreams, but did it really have to be so large?
The door is open when I get there. Angry baby babbling fills the air and I spy Feyre tucked into a chair near Rhys’ desk, her arms full of a wriggling, red-faced babe who seems to be giving her a piece of his mind. Nyx’s dark hair is a fluffy mess of little, errant curls waving in the small breeze generated by his furiously beating wings. Feyre, to her credit, nods very seriously at his furious, incoherent tirade, making little soothing sounds as she rocks him. It might have worked if the door hadn’t creaked the moment I brushed by it, drawing a pair of watery, dusky blue eyes my way.
That’s when the wailing truly starts.
“Oh, what’s all this?” I coo, quickly crossing the room to lift the grumpy boy into my arms. His little face rubs against my shoulder as I kiss the crown of his head, mindful of the wings beating against my arm. My hand finds the space between his wings with practiced ease, and I gently rub little circles into his back as the angry flapping settles. “Are you tired, my little bat? What a grumpy face.”
Thankfully, the ache in my hand ceases the moment Nyx settles in my arms, watching me with large, teary eyes. The pout on his little, pink mouth is so dramatic it might be funny if it wasn’t so pitiful. His hand closes around the low neckline of my dress, bunching the fabric near the buttons on the bust into his little fist with a surprisingly strong grip. The buttons strain, gaping as the thin thread securing them fights to keep them secured, and I wiggle a finger into his fist to keep him from tearing them off altogether. It wouldn’t be too much work to sew them back on, but I’d prefer to avoid the extra work if I can.
“Were the dramatics really necessary?” I murmur, rubbing his back until his dark lashes flutter against his cheeks and his breathing evens out. A warm, clever hand pulls at my hip until I give in, easing myself into Feyre’s lap without jostling the babe too much. It’s only then that the corners of his mouth twitch into a content, sleepy smile and I can feel him grow heavy in my arms, relaxing into me.
“You’ve met his father,” my mate murmurs, dropping a kiss on my jaw as her arms wind around my waist. Rhys huffs, but doesn’t dignify the comment with a response. His gaze flicks up from the paperwork before him just long enough to look at us, and I don’t miss the way the corners of his eyes crinkle with the fond smile spreading across his face. “And Mor. I’m afraid it runs in the family.”
“We both paled in comparison to my sister. Nyx is very like she was at that age,” Rhys murmurs absently, his pen scratching against the parchment as he makes notes on a report. I can't make out the words of his scrawling script, only the stark lines of ink like dark, bloody scratches against the thick, cream parchment.
“Is he?” Feyre asks, her expression softening as she glances down at their son’s sleeping face. I look at him, too: at the little thumb between his lips and the line of his furrowed brow, much too serious even in sleep. Unable to stop myself, I press little, fluttering kisses to his temple and forehead until he huffs the smallest sigh against my skin and begins to suck his thumb in earnest. In that moment, I wonder if my father- the male who raised me felt as tenderly about me as I do this boy. Had he loved me as fiercely, or was he merely driven by a sense of duty and needs of his own? I lose track of Rhys’s words as he recounts a memory from childhood, a life he never talks about, while the walls all seem to close in, suffocating me with my own uncertainty.
I don't know what to believe about my life anymore. What was the truth of it? Had I been genuinely cared for, or was it an illusion? Everything feels hollow now, a lie I was fed to cover a more insidious truth. The trouble is, I don't know if I would have been better off knowing the truth or not. I never will.
“I love you,” Feyre whispers, drawing me out of my dark, spiraling thoughts. Her eyes are soft, a blue the exact shade of early twilight, and for a moment I lose myself in them. There's no judgment in her gaze, only love and understanding and so much compassion that, for a moment, I do not feel ruined by the truth of me. “Are you alright?”
“I don't know how to stand it,” I murmur, anxiously nuzzling the top of Nyx's head. The sweet, powdery lavender scent of the soap Mor gets him clings to his hair. It’s normally so calming, but it does nothing to calm the way my heart pounds. Feyre doesn't respond, waiting for me to continue with a practiced sort of patience. “Existing in a body that doesn't really feel like mine anymore.” Inside of a life I am terrified will feel like a cage instead of comfort, but how can I say that? Truly, how can I even think it when all my mates have ever shown me is love?
“It is yours, Dove. Your body, your life, is still your own. You are not somehow lessened by anything you learned-”
“And yet I do not feel whole. What are we, if not the summation of our past? Our history? What am I now, if not some strange amalgamation of other people's lies and terrible circumstances? Who am I now?” All of my half-formed, existential fears flow from my lips like water, like poison.
“Who you always have been.” It's Rhys who speaks this time, reports abandoned atop his desk as he gives us - no, me - his full attention. The weight of his stare is not my mate's, but the High Lord's, and I have to fight against the innate urge to yield to the authority in it. “Nothing about our conversation with Eris changes how kind, generous, or gentle you are. The way you care for others, the way you move through the world, that is all you.”
“Your mother did what she thought she needed to do to protect you,” Feyre adds gently, smoothing back an errant curl from Nyx's forehead. “She couldn't have known what the ramifications of her choices would be. Truly, I can't say I would have done anything different, if our roles had been reversed. She wanted what any mother would want for their child, for you to grow up as safe as you could be.”
Safety, unfortunately, is not a substitute for happiness, but I don’t know how to tell her that. I might have been safe, but I spent my life with my head down, always trying to be better and failing in spite of my attempts. I might have been safe, watching my family burn from the middle of the crowd. I might have been safe in Day or in Winter, but I wasn't happy.
“I grew up believing I was a disappointment, Feyre, lacking even half of the power the rest of my family possessed. I never fit in anywhere I went, and I never felt like I belonged. My brothers loved me, but even with them I felt like an outsider,” I murmur, easing myself out of her lap to give myself the space to think. Nyx whimpers a little at being jostled, but he settles once I have him cradled against my chest. He's so long now that it takes both of my arms to hold him - how has he grown so much so fast? “At least now I know why. Perhaps the lie was kinder, I don’t know. I’m going to put Nyx to bed.”
Right now, I need the distance. I need to not feel like I’m coming apart at the seams. After that conversation, I’d wanted nothing more than to come home, to be surrounded by my mates and find comfort in the little family we’ve become. Now that I’m here, all I want to do is leave, to put space between us. Everything about that makes me want to scream. We’re newly mated, we should be enjoying each other - why can’t I just let myself have this? Must I taint everything I touch?
This is why I’ve never stayed anywhere past the point of being useful. What do I do now that all I have to offer is me, as ruined as I am? Who could that ever be enough for?
I barely register the walk to Nyx's nursery. He's heavy in my arms, sleeping so peacefully in spite of the acrid anxiety that must be coloring my scent. The nursery is quiet, the light filtering through the windows dances along the sea glass crescent moon hanging above his crib, bathing the wall in muted shades of blue. It's so peaceful here that I find myself leaning against the crib railing long after I tuck the babe in, watching him sprawl across the mattress with one hand gripping the foot of his bear.
I don't know how long I stand here, hoping the stillness will settle the flighty, anxious part of my soul, but I catch Feyre's pear and lilac scent before I hear the door click shut behind her. In the span of a few heartbeats, her pale, tattooed hands appear on the rail alongside my own and I feel the press of her slender form against my back.
‘Hiding?’ I jump at the question, not having felt her slip into the periphery of my mind. Her presence is like the fog that would slip through the orchards of my childhood, weaving through each gnarled tree trunk until it blanketed the land. How easily I forget that she is a daughter of every court, including my own. She feels like home, and I don’t know if that should be comforting or terrifying.
‘Breathing.’ Or trying to, at least. ‘I'm sorry.’
‘Sorry for what?’ Her lips brush against the back of my neck, warm and soothing. The dichotomy between my head and my heart is equal parts astounding and confusing. I want her to touch me more, to feel her hands on every inch of my skin; in that same breath I want to push her away, to hide myself somewhere dark and cold until my monstrous, traitorous mind is calm once more.
‘I wanted to come home and be happy for a few days. I wanted to forget everything I heard, but all I can do is remember, and it's ruining everything. I am ruining everything-’
‘You are doing no such thing. Turn around and look at me.’ When I remain as I am, staring stubbornly at the wall, those artist's hands grip my shoulders and turn me until my back is against the crib and I am trapped, looking into the depths of those grey-blue eyes until I am lost. ‘Your feelings are not an inconvenience, you are not an inconvenience. You are our mate, ours to love and protect and support through whatever life brings to our door. That includes this, too. Don't hide yourself away because you're hurting, Dove. Let us help.’
I want to tell her there is no help she can give, but I can’t find the words to tell her that I cannot be helped or fixed or saved from the weight of this terrible, crushing truth. I have to live with it and I don’t know how. Trapped in her unyielding gaze, I remember the promises I made to her, to Rhys, as sacred as any vow. My life, now, is about more than me - I might have run from this before, but I no longer have that luxury. I made commitments to my mates, to the babe asleep in his crib behind me, that I can’t take back. I will have to stay and face this-
‘You’re not alone.’ Her words break through the vortex of my thoughts the way a knife slides through butter. ‘I promise, we’re here, we aren’t going to leave you.’ But what if they should? What if I am a rot that will spread through this house, through this court, and destroy everything they love? What if I fester between them like a wound- Feyre’s hands find my face, warm and steady as they press against my cheeks, and I lean into the touch. She looks at me like I am precious, and when her lips meet mine, I pray that I am not a curse laid upon this house.
Finally, the answer to this question. To be read after the first chapter of Chasing Starlight.
He’d felt it when he walked out to meet her: that strange, familiar pull. Like he found something he hadn’t been looking for but had missed all the same. Of all the candidates the agency had gladly provided, she had been their top pick. Her letters of recommendation were nothing less than glowing. The little background information Azriel’s research yielded was troubling, but not for the reasons he’d thought it would be. He could understand the desire to unseat Beron Vanserra, so he couldn’t hold that against the long dead members of her family, and it seemed she’d been found innocent in the aftermath of the foiled coup. She had very few friends to speak of, mostly professional acquaintances who had only provided a few anecdotes from her time working.
Beyond that, she had no one and nothing to her name save the clothes on her back and the few items she’d carried from court to court. Azriel said her apartment was painfully bare, barely a step above the hovel Nesta had holed up in before…no. He wouldn’t think of that now. Couldn’t, when the moment he’d laid eyes on her, his heart lurched.
Standing in the beautiful, sunlit foyer of the home Feyre had painstakingly designed for them, it was like staring at a phantom. Too pale, in a dress that had certainly seen better days but was undoubtedly the best she owned, she looked as fragile as spun glass. She looked so small in that grand space, like it would swallow her up. And that damned housekeeper Feyre had insisted upon was doing far too good a job intimidating her.
No, that wouldn't do. Everything in him wanted to snarl at the female, to get her away from his- no. No. That would've been an overreaction.
Then the younger female looked at him, and there was a spark in her eye. The barest hint of an ember that, if nurtured, might flare into something truly beautiful. He dismissed the housekeeper with half a thought and guided that gentle, unassuming female back to his mate, feeling a little like a cat bringing its master a particularly fine gift. All the while ignoring that small, persistent tug at the very core of his being, the instincts that ordered him to protect, to nurture.
His. She was his, and he didn't know how to want that. If he even could want that.
Instead, he settled her across from Feyre. She was his mate, his wonderful, brilliant, strong mate. She was his.
The interview took far less time than he’d imagined it would. She answered their questions while he poked around the open expanse of her mind. She had no shields, nothing to protect her from any daemati who might seek to do her harm. No, that wouldn’t do. If she’d had any secrets worth keeping, they’d be painfully obvious in a mental landscape so open and bleak.
He saw the loneliness she’d built around herself like armor, how little she’d always had or wanted, for that matter. Pain and guilt flowed like a river in her mind, carving a wide path through fallow land, but there was hope, too. And the barest hint of healing magic, but…but there was something else, something he couldn’t describe that made him want to turn away, to look anywhere else but there.
Maybe it was the shame of poking around where he hadn’t been invited? But he’d never taken issue with that before. Not with strangers, especially not strangers who would be in such close proximity to his mate and their son. But she wasn’t just a stranger. No, she was…something that should not have been possible. He knew what that irresistible pull meant, but…
Had she always been there, waiting for so long to be found, tucked away in any court with a family that would have her? Or…he and Feyre had both died. Did the bond form then, in the brief moments they’d strayed beyond the living? Rhysand’s stomach twisted painfully at the thought. Once, it might have been a gift to ease the pain of a lost mate, but now…how was that fair to her? What could they possibly offer her when they already had each other? And how could he ever want anyone else? He hadn’t even looked at another female since meeting Feyre, hadn’t so much as entertained the thought of someone else. She was all he’d ever dreamed of. Surely, the Mother would not be so cruel to someone who had already experienced so much loss.
‘Is she the one, Rhys?’ Feyre's voice in the antechamber of his mind was soft as a spring breeze. Did she know what she was asking? ‘Or should we keep looking?’
‘No,’ he replied, trying to ignore the dread darkening the doorstep of his psyche at the idea of turning this female out. ‘If you think she's the right fit, Feyre darling, hire her.’ He would figure everything else out himself.
Then Feyre placed their son in her arms, and he steeled himself, expecting the infant to wail the moment he was away from his mother’s scent.
The cries never came. They wouldn't, not if he could scent the tentative bond between them. To such base instincts, this female would only register as family. Safety. Home.
She cradled him so gently that the moment Nyx settled, content in her arms, something in Rhysand settled, too. Down the bond, he felt a flood of relief and surprise from his mate. Did she feel the pull, too? That strange, impossible tug.
Later that night, tucked away in his study, he poured over books sourced from all over the city as the fire burned low. Every book that so much as mentioned a theory or even a brief history on mating bonds sat in piles on his desk, and so far, none of them had offered more than: mating bonds are rare. Instances of multiple bonds were only ever noted in the margins or a footnote, a peculiarity no one ever figured out the source of. Not impossible, but not likely either. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes when the door creaked open.
Feyre slipped in on quiet feet, and he pushed his chair back from the desk to make room for her and the babe she carried in his lap. Hadn't they just put Nyx down? The clock in the hall began to toll the hour, and he grimaced under Feyre's knowing gaze as the chimes stopped at two. He'd been down here far longer than he thought.
“A little light reading?” Feyre teased with a kiss against his temple as she settled in his arms. The babe suckling at her breast had yet to note the change of scenery. Rhys brushed a finger against the back of Nyx's pale, little fist and watched in awe as his fingers curled against Feyre's skin. Her eyes skimmed the titles of his books and the notes he'd scribbled on a spare bit of parchment with a satisfied gleam. “You felt it too, then.”
“I didn't want to admit it to myself,” he muttered. “Even the possibility of another…I never wanted that, Feyre.”
“Someone else?”
“Anyone else, anyone that's not you, I didn't…” He'd never considered it. Not even once. If he had...if he had, then he would have had to wonder if anyone else could ever truly want him or the life that came with his title, his power. Feyre had. Feyre had not once been afraid, and he'd loved her fiercely for it. But someone else? That was a risk he didn't know if he could afford to take. Not now, not with a family.
“But you felt it,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. And he could feel it then, the edge of her wanting. The faintest trickle of interest. “You didn't find anything in her mind to keep us from hiring her.”
“No. She's as harmless as she appeared on paper. Completely alone, with only a trickle of healing magic to contend with. I imagine there’s a little more to her than meets the eye, but…”
“But?”
“It’s probably cruel to say, but there's nothing extraordinary about her. Her magic is on the weaker side, and her mind was painfully open. I can’t understand why the Mother would give her to us-”
“What of her heart, Rhys?”
“Her heart?” he asked, drawing back to look into his mate’s starlight blue eyes. There was a shine to them that he hadn't seen in a long time, and when her emotions flooded the bond, he let them in. It felt like longing, like the urge to reach out a hand. Whatever his reservations about opening up to someone new were, Feyre wasn't afraid of it. She wanted it.
“Her heart,” Feyre said as she lightly stroked the dark tuft of hair on Nyx’s head. “You spent enough time in her mind that you didn't find worthy of note, but what of her heart? Her capacity to care for others, to put them before her own needs? Surely you heard the way she talked about the children she's cared for, Rhys. I don't think many people in this world have the capacity to love so many little ones, knowing they would eventually have to lose them. I couldn't do it. I think that's more extraordinary than any display of power.”
“You're as correct as ever, my love.” Rhysand nodded, kicking himself a little for not paying attention to that sooner. He hadn't cared about Feyre's abilities. He had loved her for her wonderful, human heart. He had wanted her exactly as she was. It could not be a bad thing that this new female and his mate shared a depth of compassion most could not fathom.
Ans though he and Feyre certainly weren't lacking in magical ability, but there was an aspect of their relationship that still called for balance. Another…another person would require them to discuss their feelings and their problems openly, rather than shouldering the burden alone. If they were going to consider opening their relationship at any point, they needed to be able to talk to each other about everything. No matter how painful or ugly it may be, they wouldn't be able to give into their urge to shield the other from any potential harm if they intended to be fair to someone else.
A lesson he should have learned when the complications with Nyx arose. And yet, here he was, realizing it all over again, like it was the first time.
Feyre laughed when he said as much. “We'll work on it, Rhys,” she said as Nyx unlatched from her breast with heavy eyes. His mate tugged the cloth she'd had thrown over her shoulder down a little and settled the babe atop it, rubbing his back with practiced ease. Motherhood looked incredible on her. “Let's get to know her first. She might not want anything more, or we might discover we don't. We'll just have to take each day as it comes.”
Rhysand hated leaving room for unknown variables in any part of his personal life, but Feyre had a point. Truly, there was no reason to rush this. They had time. Plenty of time. And more still to work out between the two of them without factoring in someone else.
But when he closed his eyes, he felt that pull again. In a sparse apartment in the heart of this city, their city, they had a mate curled up alone in her bed. Even the thought of her out there without them didn't sit right with him. No, all of those instincts came roaring back to the surface, and he knew then that she'd be theirs. It was only a matter of time. One way or another, she would choose them, and he…he would find a way to choose her the way he suspected Feyre already had.
