Feyre’s eyes drifted towards the ceiling. She didn’t need supernatural ability to know the grunting she heard just above was Lucien Vanserra thoroughly losing himself in her older sister. If Rhysand heard, or if it bothered him at all, he gave no indication. He was pacing the kitchen while Feyre attempted to make lunch. How hard could heating soup from a can really be, she wondered with a frown? Harder than she thought, she realized, looking at the back of the can for instructions. She’d forgotten to add milk and now pureed tomato was burning the bottom of the pan. It wasn’t too late, she reasoned. She dashed to the fridge and eyeballed a can’s worth.
“I think you’re supposed to stir,” Rhys commented, one eyebrow raised. It was the first thing he’d said since Tamlin’s ghost vanished. Feyre blinked, utterly stunned before rushing for a wooden spoon.
“The kitchen is Elain’s domain,” she admitted, flinching as she stirred. “I can’t cook.”
Rhys nodded absently, sitting in one of the light wooden chairs at the round table in the kitchen. Feyre watched him from the corner of her eye, stirring as though her life depended on it.
“Feyre I…” His voice trailed off, choked by whatever he was thinking.
“I don’t blame you,” she said in a rush, heart pounding in her chest. Feyre had never been in the position she was now, where a man might leave her. She stirred soup terrified, wanting to head him off. She’d been leaving men first before they could ever leave her in an attempt to avoid being hurt. She might have loved love, but Feyre realized she’d never really been in love. Was she any better than Nesta or Elain? At least they were honest and admitted they were afraid. She’d been so young when her father died she’d barely registered the grief her mother felt.
Rhys toyed with the edge of one of her paintings, the elbow of his cable knit sweater practically in a plate of her half-dried paint. “I would leave me too,” she murmured with a sigh.
Rhys looked up at her sharply. “Leave you? Feyre, I’m in love with you, I–” He took a sharp breath as he worked to compose his thoughts. “I’ve been dreaming about you my whole life. I didn’t know it was you, I mean but I do now…I knew when I saw you for the first time. I know I sound crazy–”
“You don’t sound crazy,” she assured him, her heart pounding in her throat. “It’s probably my fault, actually.”
“I don’t care,” Rhysand said adamantly. “I don’t care if it was magic of fate or some other shit I can’t explain. After a lifetime of failed relationships and wishing for you, now I have you. I don’t want to lose you, Feyre. I’m in love with you.”
“You love me?” She half whispered, pouring her ruined tomato soup into a bowl for him.
Rhysand nodded. She offered it to him, remembering he probably needed a spoon as she sat the delicate white porcelain bowl in front of him. By the time she returned, Rhys had swallowed half the soup, bowl to his lips.
Rhys nodded and Feyre decided it didn’t matter. After all, they hadn’t summoned the men to love them. No spell could make someone genuinely and truly love another. Hadn’t Amarantha learned that? Elain knew, given how enthusiastically the thudding just above them seemed to be occurring.
“Eat,” Feyre ordered, handing Rhys the spoon. He accepted it, though he went back to chugging the liquid, surely burning his mouth in the process.
“I’m not leaving you. I’m quitting my job,” he said instead, setting the bowl in front of him, arms outstretched. She walked to him, scarcely daring to believe the words coming from his lips. “I’m all in, Feyre. I have been since the moment I saw you.”
“I can’t ask you to quit,” she murmured even as he kissed her.
“Good thing you didn’t, then,” he replied, smiling against her lips. “I want you. Say you want me too.”
“I want you,” she whispered moments before Rhys hoisted her up onto the table, spreading her among her paint and other things. She heard the bowl clatter loudly to the floor, not that Feyre cared. Let them ruin everything, the house, themselves, the world. Feyre didn’t care, as long as she had Rhysand.
A tube of paint squelched loudly beneath her body and Rhysand laughed at the noise it made, raising a hand covered in blue and green. “I’m covered in you, Feyre.”
Warmth flooded through her body and Feyre yanked her shirt over her head, tossing it in the dining room. Reverently, Rhys lowered his hand, stamping his print over her bare, freckled stomach. “And I you,” she murmured, unable to take her eyes off the largeness of the handprint spanning her body. The air hung thickly between them and Feyre, unable to help herself, said, “I would go to Arizona with you.”
Rhys chuckled. “Fuck Arizona. I hate that place. Besides, do you really want to leave your sisters?”
“No,” she admitted, relief filling her stomach. She was tired of chasing men all over the world, men who never cared if she missed home or her family. Rhys did, though. He saw her, maybe for the first time ever. Feyre understood how her ancestors could hope so vehemently against the curse, could love despite knowing the doom waiting for their lovers. She, too, genuinely believed her and Rhys could defeat the Archeron curse.
Rhys lowered himself gently, his mouth covering hers, his tongue driving away any lingering doubt she might have. “I always hated that job,” he told her between kisses, drawing a near hysterical giggle from her throat.
“What will you do here?” She asked, sighing beneath his hands as he covered her in more paint. Rhys unbuttoned her pants, his starry eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Wasn’t your sisters ex an apple salesman? That sounds perfect…but this, too, wouldn’t be so bad.”
He slid his hands down her body, his mouth hot against her skin. He stood between her thighs, forcing them apart with his large, muscular body.
“Someone will see us,” she gasped when Rhys surfaced for air. He hooked his fingers into the band of her pants.
“Let them.”
*
“What the fuck do you mean, you quit?” Cassian demanded, staring Rhys down. Rhys shrugged.
“I mean I’m not going back to Arizona and I let Helion know earlier. Don’t tell me shit about this case because I don’t care. We all know Tamlin got exactly what he deserved and if you’re still planning on bringing the three of them in, you should know I’ve already talked to an attorney,” Rhys replied, shoving his clothes into the suitcase he’d brought with him. Cassian blinked for a moment before rounding on Lucien.
“And you?” He demanded. Lucien shrugged, sitting on the edge of a floral stained bedspread.
“I’ll wrap things up,” Lucien said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “But ah…”
“But you fucked one of the Archeron’s and now you can’t think straight.”
Rhys surged towards Cassian, stopped only by Lucien throwing himself between the two men. “Whoa, Cassian, c’mon. That’s not what I meant at all.”
“Did they tell you about their spell?”
Lucien frowned but Rhys rolled his eyes. “The summoning spell? Give me a fucking break. It doesn’t create love. It just summoned us.”
Caissan frowned. “What the fuck you do you mean?
Rhys shrugged. “Do I look like a magician? This is all new to me. Feyre said it can’t make someone love another person, it just…summons the right one. It’s not like they created us, at any rate. Feyre said she was nine when they made the spell.”
Lucien huffed out a breath but Cassian’s mind was reeling. If Feyre was nine, that made Nesta eleven and Caissan, having combed through Nesta’s records, knew for a fact he was a good five years older than her. He would have been sixteen by the time she’d cast the spell but he’d been dreaming of her much, much earlier. He could recall dreams as a child, of a little girl with a scowl and blue-gray eyes the same color as the salty Atlantic ocean he’d seen only once before.
Cassian let out a dry laugh as he realized that, for better or worse, Nesta had rebuffed him because she was scared. He wanted to chase her down and tell her she was wrong but he’d tried, more than once, and she’d thrown up impenetrable walls. If Lucien and Rhys had better luck with Elain and Feyre, good for them. Cassian was officially done.
“I’m leaving,” he told them after more silence. Lucien’s eyes became sympathetic while Rhys rolled his. “I want a new assignment.”
“Give her time,” Rhys counseled.
“Keep holding out your hand,” Lucien added. Cassian scowled.
“I know when I’m not wanted,” he told the pair of them. “I won’t say anything about Tamlin but…I’m not staying.”
Lucien clapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Big fucking mistake.”
“You’d know,” Cassian bit back, though he was grateful when both Lucien and Rhys stayed out that night, giving him space to sleep without having to think about how he’d failed where Lucien and Rhys had succeeded. Cassian was in a foul mood the next morning as he packed, viciously shoving his clothes into his bag. He had to force himself not to abandon his plan and see Nesta again, to fall on his knees and beg her to see what her sisters saw so clearly.
She was waiting for him just outside his rental. Cassian paused when he saw her, her usual immaculately braided hair falling in long waves down her back. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so undone. His body ached at the sight. He pretended like he didn’t care and hoisted his duffle bag over his shoulder. Nesta stepped forward, tucking that golden brown hair behind her ear nervously.
“You’re leaving?” She asked, biting her bottom lip. Cassian popped the trunk and dumped his back inside.
“Yup,” he replied, as if his insides weren’t screaming in protest. She stayed where she was, her brown shoes glued to the pavement beneath them. The wind picked up, blowing her hair around her face as the hazy sun overhead crowned her goddess of the world around them. She’d always been, at least to Cassian.
“Why?”
He couldn’t help the incredulous laugh that slipped past his lips. “Why not, Nes?” He demanded, half begging her to give him a reason to stay. Tell me you want me.
She said nothing and Cassian walked to the drivers side, yanking open the door angrily. In the game of silent chicken they were playing, there would only be losers. Even if he left, solely to prove a point, he knew he’d spent the rest of his life wishing he’d stayed.
“My mom died when I was eight,” she said suddenly, taking a step forward. Cassian froze, turning to look at the slender woman standing mere feet from him. “She died of a broken heart. Archeron women are cursed. Any man we love is doomed to die. Ask Elain…she’ll tell you.”
Cassian took a hesitant step towards her. “I don’t give a fuck about some curse.”
Nesta threw her hands up. “I know you don’t. I care, Cassian. I care.”
He took another step, heartened by how she remained exactly where she was. “I’ve been dreaming about you since I was a little boy,” he told her softly. “For as long as I could remember, I have been looking for you.”
She looked desperate. “It was the the–”
“It wasn't! I was sixteen when you were eleven, Nes. Sixteen! I’ve been dreaming about you for as long as I’ve had memories. I’ve had your face memorized since I was ten, your voice memorized, your body, the way you sing, how you dance, everything long before you ever thought to cast that stupid spell. For you, maybe that was when you realized you needed me but I’ve known from the moment I stepped into the world. I’ve been looking for you far longer than you have been looking for me. My feelings aren’t the result of some half-baked spell you and your sisters dreamt up. They’re real. I’m in love with you and I always will be.”
A tear slid down Nesta’s face and Cassian couldn’t resist. He closed the last remaining gap between them, brushing it with his thumb.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, so vulnerable it broke his heart. To the world she was icy Nesta, her shields impenetrable but to Cassian he saw the warmth just beneath. Her fragility, her vulnerability.
“I know,” he murmured, crushing her to his chest. “So am I.”
“I don’t want you to die,” she confessed, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Cassian would be the first to admit he didn’t know shit about witchcraft or magic, though seeing Tamlin speaking through Feyre and nearly murder Lucien had certainly made a believer out of him. If Nesta thought it was real, then Cassian did too. And if she thought there was a curse on her family, then maybe she was right.
“We’ll figure it out. Together,” he added, kissing the top of her head softly. Nesta nodded, looking up at him with those beautiful, wide eyes. Cassian couldn’t resist. He hauled her up against him, relishing how her legs wrapped around his body. He kissed her roughly as he began walking towards the room he’d just checked out of. Rhys was still staying, which meant he could use it if he wanted. Cassian very much wanted to, he decided, his eyes fluttering shut as her tongue swept into his mouth.
It was clumsy, Cassian’s attempt at getting Nesta back into the motel but worth it when he dropped her onto his bed. She was perfection if there had ever been such a thing, spread out and gazing up at him with eyes that promised to ruin him. He didn’t bother telling her she’d wrecked him well before he’d ever actually met her and instead knelt between her legs like he’d always been meant to do.
“There will be no one else,” he told her, sliding her dress up her legs. “For either of us. Say it.”
“No one else,” Nesta promised. And as Cassian buried his face between his thighs, he realized he was home.
At long last.
*
“Tell me about the spell,” Lucien asked Elain, seated at the kitchen table while she washed the mess of dishes he’d made at breakfast. Feyre and Rhys were upstairs, so noisy it would have been funny had he not been trying to have a conversation. Elain winced at the sound of shattering glass before she turned to look at him. Lucien flushed, remembering how she’d ridden his face just the night before.
“Which one?” She finally asked, her brow furrowed with confusion. He blinked for a moment, still stunned by the light of her beauty, illuminated by the bright morning sun pouring through the glass window just behind her.
“That ah…wished for us?”
She winced again. “The summoning spell.”
“Yes, that.”
“It was silly,” she said with a rush, her pretty cheeks flushed in the most enticing of ways. “We were just little girls. We didn’t know what we were doing.”
Lucien needed to know, though. “My feelings…?”
“Real,” she said quickly. “We uh…it wasn’t a love spell.”
He knew that much like he knew his own name and yet it helped to hear her confirm that what was happening was real to her just as it was for him. Elain submerged her hands in the sink, her hair curling sweetly against tendrils of steam rising from the soapy water. Lucien stood, resting his hands on her slim shoulders, ignoring Rhys’ muffled cries of pleasure floating from somewhere above them.
“I wished for you too,” he murmured, kissing just behind her ear. That was true, at least. He’d been looking for her his entire life, though he hadn’t known it was her, exactly, he searched for. Something had been missing in his life, an empty hole punched in his chest at birth he’d never been able to fill. Elain chewed on the bottom of her lip and Lucien waited for her to tell him she didn’t want him the way he wanted her or to give him all the reasons why this was a bad idea and would never work.
“Archeron women are cursed,” she told him after a moment. “Any man we love is doomed to die.”
Lucien scoffed, certain she was joking. It was clear, from how wide and solemn her eyes were, that Elain fully believed the words that had just escaped her lips.
“Elain,” he said, working to keep the exasperation from his tone. “Curses only have power if you believe in them.”
Elain laughed then, a pretty sound that seemed to bubble straight out of her stomach. “I thought that once, too.”
Lucien was reminded that Elain had been married once. The apple salesman who’d died when he’d been struck by oncoming traffic. He was curious if she believed that man’s death was the result of a curse and almost asked her. Lucien changed his mind abruptly, deciding he didn’t care much at all.
He thought it was crazy to tell her he might be in love with her. She was trembling beneath his fingers, her eyes huge and wary. He couldn’t–not yet. Not until he went home and kept anyone else from poking around, from re-opening Tamlin’s case and realizing the Archeron women were guilty. He had to keep her safe or a confession of love was worthless.
Lucien let himself kiss her instead, reveling in the feel of her soft skin, of how pliant she was the moment they touched. She opened her mouth for him, her tongue darting into his mouth and Lucien responded with a groan. He hoisted her up against the counter, reveling in the squeal that escaped her lips when he accidentally planted her in a puddle of soapy dish water. She carded her fingers through his hair as Lucien made a quiet decision. He’d quit, too. He had enough savings to live comfortably, he could find work here.
I believe I am the only one with any... Noteworthy stories. There was Daryan, and everyone knows how that ended. Before him, though, I dated a woman who was... For lack of a better word, crazy. She was very controlling and just not a good person in general. Daryan actually helped me get out of that relationship. I will always be thankful for that~
Sif stalks through the cavern slowly, more painfully awake now than she wanted to be, and yet her limbs would gracelessly waver as if still halfway in sleep's throes. Against all hope, she'd find her quarry seated by a lit censor, speaking quietly to the twin god as a friend, where she saw Him as just another thief on a grander scale.
Staring into the dark with her hand on her blade, she could but remind herself that instinct was a harsh teacher, and Thal, ever watchful. She breathes a quiet sigh as she lets go of the wall, steeling herself for what she could not yet see.
The ever present reflex of a knife in hand was hard to ignore; Harder still when in the throes of memory. Somehow he could hear the sounds of multiple approaching, the sight of lights rounding the turn, a whisper in his ears that told him now, jump free and-
The clockwork blade was loosed into the head of one of them, a horrid miss judging by the screech of steel against stone and the scream of his flesh; The flash of metal blue, not black, the sound of clockwork jagged, not smooth. A momentary stutter of memory and reality as they collide in senses and thought, ink blotting in the air between and the spaces between his eyes. Flames stuttering as they fell into their sconces.
Dugald staggers, a hand pressing to his eye, the other still holding a blade as the world swims. Phantoms? People? Where was he? He could still hear the whispers of someone approaching, he could still hear something akin to penance, sleeplessness, delirium- He brandishes his other blade in his confusion, glazed-over eyes attempting to find purchase on whatever threat there was to face.
Sif turns too late, the blade whistling past her as she finally notices the figure in the shadows step out to strike first. Nary a reaction is wrought but to freeze in place, her own knife drawn, the echo of steel against stone ringing in her head. She stares a moment longer, caught halfway between a decision to flee and risk the chase, or shout at him and try to fight off whatever retaliation came—for however long she could survive it.
It’s that thought that shatters her resolve, stumbling back a step before finally turning on her heel and peeling for the road with a burning in her veins and panic in her breath.
Chell: She let me in so readily. Chell: She even gave me a haircut! Chell: And all I have to do is some non-lethal tests... Chell: You understand if I have some doubts.
