Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re not working late on purpose, are you?”

Lucien’s pen paused over the letter he was trying and failing to write, and he looked up. Feyre had poked her head in from the hallway, a gloved hand propped on the doorframe. She was bundled up against the cold, strands of hair poking out from her winter hat, scarf draped generously around her chin and neck, but he still noticed how tired she looked. New parents have it rough.

“Just wrapping up this letter. I’ll close up the office when I’m done,” he assured her.

Feyre folded her arms across her chest, making her coat puff out around her. “Lucien. I don’t need to be a daemati to see what you’re doing.”

He sighed and shifted in his seat, catching the papers before they could slip onto the floor. “And what is that?”

“Avoiding the holiday.” She shook her head, as if he were committing a grave offense. “Why don’t you join the others at Rita’s tonight? I’m sure you’ll have a much better time than brooding around here.”

Lucien wasn’t at all sure, but he didn’t feel like getting into a drawn out debate with Feyre about whether he was truly welcome amongst her Inner Circle, or whether surrounding himself with happy romantic couples was really the way to take his mind off his own loneliness. “Don’t worry about me. Go enjoy,” he said gently. “You deserve a night off with your mate.”

Feyre smiled, suppressing a yawn. “I don’t know how long we’ll last. Nyx has woken us up every night this week. I think he’s teething again.” She cocked her head to the side, as if listening to some silent communication, then sighed. “Rhys wants to know what’s taking so long. So impatient.”

“Get to it, then,” Lucien said, with forced cheerfulness.

Feyre stood for a moment longer, watching him silently. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, too breezily, then tugged the hat further down on her head, shoving strands of hair into her face. “Just…” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely, then squinted at him in concern. “You’ll be ok alone?”

He yanked back on his shock at being asked such a thing, forced a calm, neutral expression. Since when does anyone care if I’m alone? “I’ll be fine,” he said tightly. “I am fine.”

Feyre looked at him skeptically, but nodded.

He waited until she had padded out the front door, snicking it shut behind her, before he huffed an irritated sigh and went back to his letter. He’d started and re-started it many times, each time crossing out his lines in frustration, grimacing at how stupid and inadequate his words sounded.

Darling Jesminda,

Another year has come and gone

I miss you terribly

I don’t know how I’m going to deal with

Nothing has changed, and I can’t

He balled up the paper, then incinerated it with a tiny lick of flame, catching the ash in his cupped palm so as not to dirty the immaculately decorated interior of the River House office. Feyre and Rhys had spared no expense on this place, and he always felt like he was intruding when he visited. He hadn’t failed to notice that he was always carefully steered towards the “business wing” of the mansion, never towards the family rooms. He didn’t need to ask why.

I didn’t even want a mate. I wanted Jesminda.

Lucien was sick of the disappointment, the dashed hopes, the humiliation, the awkward silences and pitying looks — all of it. He wished he could be strong enough to just reject the mating bond, to walk out of Elain’s life and this court for good.

Suddenly the office felt small and suffocating, like the weight of his isolation was crowding in, pressing down on him. He dumped the pile of ashes — all that’s left of my relationship with Jesminda — into the wastebasket, and went to get his coat.

Chapter Text

Elain rocked the carriage gently, hoping to lull Nyx back to sleep. He’d been cranky and out of sorts all afternoon — a natural consequence of his teething and lack of sleep the past few days — and her sister had looked positively drained when she’d handed him off to Elain. Supposedly Feyre and Rhys were going out for a romantic dinner and a stroll through the Rainbow, but Elain doubted they’d be able to stay awake that long.

Nyx wailed, and she jostled the carriage with a bit more energy. He usually liked the movement, but it only seemed to agitate him. She reached around for a toy to give him, or a pacifier, or something, but everything she tried only seemed to irritate the poor thing.

Elain had promised Feyre that she and Nyx would be fine. That Feyre could go enjoy her romantic evening with her mate as a couple without having to worry about her baby. It’s normal when babies cry, she tried to tell herself, but she cringed at the idea that Feyre or Rhys would sense that the baby was uncomfortable or in distress and cut their date short, rushing home.

I don’t do anything around here as it is. If I can’t even watch a baby for a few hours, give them a chance to relax…

Elain sighed and cast a look out the window. The snow glittered on the lawn outside the River House, bathed in bright moonlight, the air crisp and clean. Elain appreciated the beauty of Velaris, the sparkling energy, the colors and sounds and life, so different from the mortal lands she’d used to call home. But there was something melancholy about her life in this place — too dark, too cold, too tinged with loss and regret.

She’d come here after she was Made, ripped forcefully and violently from the life she’d known and the future she’d been so excited for. She’d wandered through those early days in a haze of sorrow and fear, overwhelmed by her new sharpened senses, homesick, confused, plagued by strange visions, her insides aching and empty, as though something vital was missing.

Slowly, she’d emerged from her stupor, only to be thrust into the terror of war, and the shame and heartbreak of losing Graysen once and for all. She’d thought she found solace with Azriel, whose quiet beauty and gentleness called to her, but she’d obviously been wrong about that. Mistake. It was all a mistake.

The city was bustling tonight, full of movement and music, for all the happy couples celebrating Valentine’s Day. Her friends were probably already at Rita’s, draining bottles of wine and dancing the night away. She was grateful that she’d had an excuse not to go — she couldn’t handle all the innuendo and public displays of affection, not tonight.

Not that she ever went to Rita’s — it was Azriel’s place to hang out with his friends, and she wouldn’t intrude on that. He’d made it very clear, since last year’s Solstice, that he wanted nothing to do with her. And now that he’d found Gwyn, the stunning warrior-priestess who’d captured his heart, Elain knew that her presence would only make things unnecessarily awkward for them all.

She scooped Nyx out of the carriage, fingers caressing the plump velvety softness of his cheek, and propped him up so he could look out the window with her. “All yours, Nixie,” she told him in a singsong. “Look at the pretty lights.”

Nyx cooed and reached out a chubby hand, swiping at the window with his fingers. “Yights,” he repeated happily.

“Yes, lights,” Elain cooed, sighing with relief that he’d stopped crying. “Should we go for a walk? Go see the lights?”

“Yights,” Nyx chanted in agreement, and Elain hoisted him up higher on her shoulder, careful not to jostle his little wings, as she wandered around the nursery suite, looking for warmer gear to bundle him in. Perhaps the fresh air would do them both good.

Chapter Text

Lucien walked briskly, buffeted against the cold by his warm cloak and hood. He could head straight back to his apartment in the city center — mostly empty and unfurnished, since he traveled so often — but he needed a change of scenery. He was a child of Autumn and the outdoors, still not accustomed to being hemmed in by four walls. Spring had been a much better fit for his temperament, with its verdant woods and fields, its lush gardens. Less wild and untamed than Autumn, but alive, natural, beautiful.

Between Hybern’s occupation, and Tamlin’s own tantrums, it was all ruined now. Lucien stopped by often, out of guilt and foolish hope that he could help, but each time he found things more decayed and broken than the last. Tamlin was struggling, and Lucien knew he was partially to blame. He’d abandoned the Spring Court without a word of explanation or a goodbye, chasing after his mate like a lovesick pup.

I should have stayed behind.

It was too much to think he could have prevented Tamlin’s descent into depression and madness, the total destruction of the manor, the utter rot. But he’d left Tamlin all alone, abandoned him to his heartbreak and ruin. Some friend I was.

But the mating bond had been roiling inside him, clawing into his thoughts day and night, demanding that he find Elain, take care of her. He couldn’t stop replaying that awful day at Hybern in his mind, how she’d been screaming in terror, how she’d disappeared into the Cauldron, how she’d come out wet and freezing and sprawled out on the hard floor. His heart ached for the raw fear he’d felt from her, the confusion and pain, and he desperately needed to see her again, make sure she was all right.

In the end, he supposed, he’d done the right thing, even though it had all gone wrong later. Feyre had wouldn’t have made it home without him, not with her magic suppressed, not with his fucking family on the prowl. He shuddered to think what Beron would have done with her, since he evidently believed the rumors she’d spread that they were lovers. His father would have delighted in getting revenge on Lucien by torturing another of his partners. And once Beron discovered she possessed Autumn fire — his gut revolted.

Don’t think about that. You’re away from there. You’re free.

No one had ever acknowledged his help or thanked him. They’d hovered around him, seconds away from dragging him off to a dungeon, and Rhys had threatened to rip out his throat for some fleeting facial expression. Then he’d been stranded in the House of Wind with his mate but forbidden to see her.

But he supposed that was to be expected. This was Rhys’s court, and the High Lord had always made it quite clear how little he thought of Lucien. He sometimes wondered if this court's attitudes had influenced Elain, if she would have given him more of a chance if anyone else deigned to respect him.

Now he and Elain were in the same city, drifting in and out of the same buildings, interacting with the same people, but she seemed further away than ever. And his heart couldn’t take much more of it.

He stomped through the snow, kicking his frustrations away, breathing in great ragged gasps, his exhalations creating puffs of steam in the air. I’ve got to calm down, or I’m going to set something on fire.

The city lights wavered in his vision, seeming to laugh at him in their sparkling finery. Every restaurant and bar in town would be filled with couples tonight, every store full of hearts and gift displays. It was all artificial, anyway, all contrived.

Lucien sighed, and headed down the hill. He warmed the air inside his coat against the chill winter wind. The wide open expanse of the public gardens spread out before him, and he headed in that direction, figuring it was as good as any.

In the morning, I can file my last report, and get out of this freezing, lonely city.

Chapter Text

Nyx writhed in her arms, and Elain set him down on the lawn. She wished she could have brought the carriage, but the uneven terrain and piles of snow made it impossible. So she’d carried him down the hill instead, diaper bag bouncing awkwardly against her lower back and hip, pointing out the city lights and bright moon.

Nyx had been content at first, cooing and babbling, slipping in the occasional word she could understand, but once they’d reached the public gardens and the snowy fields, he’d wanted down so that he could fling the snow in the air, burbling and cackling as it fell back down. Thank the Cauldron she’d dressed him in his snowsuit, though like the other Illyrians she’d known, he barely noticed the cold. Elain, on the other hand, was positively chilled.

She wished she could be like her little nephew — entranced by the wonder of it all, by the way snow sparkled and melted and fell from the sky no matter how hard it was propelled in the air. Nyx loved the world and everything in it, explored each new sight and object with pure delight.

So young, so innocent. I was like that, once.

Nyx rolled onto his back, squealing as he kicked his legs in the air, and Elain chuckled. “Silly Nixie, you’ll get your wings all wet.” I’d better get him home before he catches a chill. She leaned forward, extending her arms. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

But Nyx flung his foot out, spraying snow in the air. Elain brushed stray flakes from her cheeks and upper lip, then tried again. “Nixie,” she crooned, leaning forward, tickling under his chin, eliciting giggles and gasps. “Let’s go, little Nixie. Papa and Mama will be home soon.”

It was the wrong thing to say, for the baby’s little face scrunched up in confusion. “Mama?”

Elain mentally kicked herself. Why did I remind him? As he got older and more aware, Nyx had developed distinct preferences for who he wanted and when, and lately his mother always topped the list. Nyx had clung to Feyre when it was time for her to leave, crying and carrying on so that Elain had been worried that her sister would cancel her evening on the spot.

“It’s just a phase,” Rhys had reassured her, gently prying Nyx’s fingers from her sweater. “He’ll be fine as soon as we leave.” And that had been true — Nyx had quickly calmed down once his parents were out of sight and Elain had distracted him with games and songs.

But now Nyx was wailing, “Mama, Mama,” kicking his little legs, rolling away every time Elain tried to scoop him up. She breathed hard, trying not to get frustrated, knowing he was still so little and wasn’t being difficult on purpose. He just didn’t understand.

She felt the annoyed stares of passers-by on her, hoped they didn’t recognize her or Nyx. How embarrassing for the High Lord and Lady.

“Come on, Nixie,” she said, making her voice lilting and easy, though her heart was starting to pound. She had to get him out of here — had to get him home, and dry, and preferably without him screaming and attracting attention. 

Nyx gave a sharp cry, shoving a grubby hand into his mouth, and Elain wondered if he was feeling teething pain. “Time to go home, sweetheart,” she said, more firmly, grasping his wriggling torso and extracting him from the pile of snow he’d rolled into.

Nyx screamed in protest, and Elain felt her face flush hot.

“Now, now,” she said, for the benefit of anyone watching disapprovingly as much as for Nyx, “you’re just wet and cold and teething. Let’s go home, get you settled. It’s okay.” The baby howled louder, and she cringed. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she chanted, hoisting a slippery Nyx up by her shoulder, wincing when his foot connected with her ribs, but she managed to keep him from sliding back down her torso to the ground, even as the diaper bag slipped off her shoulder and dangled, dropping bottles and blankets and teething toys onto the snowy ground.

“One second, Nixie,” Elain panted, tightening her hold on the squirming baby as she bent down, trying to flip the bag back over before it could spill anything else, gathering up as many of the dumped-out items as she could. Just get it all in and get out of here.

But Nyx curled his fists in her hair, keening, “Mama, Mama,” and Elain’s eyes teared up from the pain. She dropped the bag entirely as she tried to gently unwind his fingers. “No hair, Nixie,” she said, “that hurts. Ouch. All done, no more hair.”

“Hair!” the baby exclaimed.

“All done, sweetheart,” she panted. “Let’s just —“

“Nooooo,” Nyx whined, bursting into tears again.

Elain smoothed back her hair, sure that it was tangled and tousled to the point where she looked ridiculous. She felt the judgmental eyes of everyone on her, and wanted to shrink away.

She hoisted Nyx back up, ready to abandon the bag and everything in it and just make a run for it up the hill.

I’m never coming back to this park again.

She took a hard step forward and almost stumbled, misjudging the depth of the snow, and stifled a yelp as a pair of strong hands caught her, steadying her before she could fall. She looked up, startled, then caught her breath, clutching the baby tighter against her chest.

Of all the people, it just had to be him.

Chapter Text

Elain wished she could step into the nearest pile of snow and disappear.

Lucien was the last person she wanted to see — tonight, or any night. His bitterness and disappointment every time they interacted, which thankfully was seldom, left a sour taste in her mouth, an oily guilty feeling that led to anger and resentment. He was just a stranger, an acquaintance from Feyre’s past. What gave him the right to have that effect on her?

She had never wanted to be fae at all, much less tied to a mate, a supposedly sacred connection. And why did it have to be Lucien, who wasn’t even a member of this court? Why not Azriel, so Elain and her sisters could be with the three warrior brothers? It would have made everything so easy.

If not for Lucien, Azriel might have courted me. And not just Azriel - she supposed that any male would hesitate to approach her. No one would want a female who had a mate, who was already claimed by someone else.

“Why don’t you just reject the bond and get it over with?” Nesta had asked her a few times. But that had been before Nesta accepted her own mating bond, when she was still miserable and chronically drunk and uncomfortable around Cassian. She never rejected the bond with him, even when she claimed to hate his guts. Now Nesta could barely keep her hands off him.

Why don’t I reject the bond? Elain had asked herself that many times, and never quite had an answer.

Elain steadied herself, found her footing, and hoisted a protesting Nyx up higher. She felt Lucien’s fluttery confusion and embarrassment, and cringed at it, hating that the bond between them forced his emotions on her. It was intrusive and awkward, especially when he was so close, though sometimes she thought she could feel flashes of despair and loneliness even when he was far away.

She averted her eyes, pointedly saying to the baby, “Let’s go home, Nyx, it’s getting late,” and began to purposefully walk away. Her footsteps crunched in the snow, almost drowning out the drumbeat of her heart pounding in her ears. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Wait, Elain,” Lucien called out from behind her, and she almost ignored him, almost kept walking. But she paused, waiting while his footsteps grew closer, then flinched as he stepped up behind her.

She didn’t look at him, didn’t turn, but felt a sudden warmth in the air as Lucien stepped close to her, then gentle pressure as he draped the strap of the diaper bag over her shoulder. Then he stepped back, the warmth of him retreating.

Just leave. Just walk away.

But she had only taken a few steps forward again when Nyx began to wail.

Elain’s ears burned as she bounced Nyx in her arms, hating that Lucien was seeing this, how much trouble she was having. “It’s okay, Nixie,” she murmured, but it wasn’t. Not for her, anyway.

Nyx’s wails abruptly turned to cooing and giggling, and Elain paused, looking at the baby with confusion. “What’s so funny?” she asked him.

“Yights,” Nyx babbled, scrambling up to peer over her shoulder.

Elain surrendered to curiosity, and turned around.

Lucien was standing on the path, hood thrown back, one glove off, tiny flames fluttering from his outstretched fingers. Nyx gurgled and gasped with delight as Lucien wiggled each finger, making the fire appear to wobble and dance. When he saw Elain warily watching him, he hastily flicked his fingers, making the flames disappear into wisps of smoke.

“Yights,” Nyx commanded, waving a hand at Lucien. When nothing happened, he began to pout. “Yights!”

Lucien took a few tentative steps forward, then ignited his fingers again.

Nyx started to laugh, twisting around so he was fully facing the light show, and reached out with both hands.

“Ah-ah, little one, we don’t know what kind of magic you have yet,” Lucien said to him, his tone light and teasing — so easy, compared to the stilted, strained way he usually spoke whenever Elain was around. “You might be fireproof like your mother, but I don’t want to find out the hard way that you aren’t.”

He wiggled his fingers again, pulling the flames just out of Nyx’s reach, then closed his fist around them to mold them into a swirling ball. Elain couldn’t help but stare at it, at the red and orange and yellow flames intertwining, melding, and then breaking apart into tendrils again.

Beautiful.

Then she remembered she was trying to ignore Lucien, and quickly looked away.

By now the light show had attracted curious onlookers, and a gaggle of small children came running up the path, whooping and yelling. “Throw it to us!” they called to Lucien.

Lucien grinned and faked them out, lobbing fireballs high in the air, safely out of their reach. The younglings oohed and ahhed, and Nyx squealed in Elain’s arms, jostling to try to get closer. She huffed softly, giving in, and strode closer to the impromptu show.

Now the children were tugging on Lucien’s coat, bursting with questions.

“How’d ya do that?’

“Can you teach us?”

“Are you from the circus?”

Lucien laughed, snapping his hands shut, gently extricating the hem of his coat from the tugging hands. “It’s just my magic,” he shrugged, but then frowned thoughtfully, adding, “You’ve never met someone from Autumn before.”

“You’re from another court?” an older boy cried out. “How’d you find your way here?”

Elain was puzzled at that, but then remembered that Velaris had been hidden from the world up until quite recently. Despite the city’s dizzying variety of faeries, they were all from the Night Court, and always had been.

“Oh,” Lucien said, his cheerful voice faltering as he glanced toward Elain, “that is a long story.” 

Her gut twisted. He came here for me.

She tried not to ever think about that, how he’d abandoned his home and friends, how he’d risked his life to get to her. I didn’t ask him to do that. I didn’t want him to.

But it made her feel strangely tingly inside, all the same.

The mischievous grin was back on Lucien’s face, and he raised an eyebrow at the children. He lifted his hands, conjuring a bluish flame, then made it swirl around like it was an ocean wave. “I was a pirate, stowing away on a merchant vessel —“

Some of the children were leaning forward eagerly, settling in for the tale, but an older girl folded her arms and snapped, “Lord Rhysand wouldn’t let a pirate in our city.”

“You got me,” Lucien chuckled, snapping his hand shut, making the flames sputter out. “I’m a dragon tamer, specially called in to tame a wild one that lives in the Sidra.” He put his hands together in the shape of a mouth, then blew an orange flame out of them, making the children squeal.

“There’s no dragons here,” a young boy tsked sagely.

“Not anymore,” Lucien winked at him, “not since the War.”

Elain chuckled, despite herself. He means Amren, I suppose.

Lucien ran a hand through his braids. “I can see there’s no fooling you lot. Fine. The truth is, the High Lady and I made a daring escape through the woods and mountains of Autumn, fighting my fire-lord brothers along the way. Then we were flown away by two Illyrian generals, and —“

“No you weren’t,” the children chorused, laughing and calling out denials over one another. “Silly male.” “You’re making that up!” “You don’t know the High Lady!”

“There you all are,” came a scolding voice from down the hill. The younglings’ mother, Elain guessed, from her stern expression as she looked at them. “What have I told you about running off where I can’t see you?”

“We just wanted to see the show,” a younger girl complained.

“Maybe next time,” the female said, eyeing Lucien warily.

For some reason, her suspicious glare bothered Elain. Before she quite knew what she was doing, she stepped forward, silently lending her support. Nyx waved his hands excitedly and reached out for Lucien, who caught him and lifted him up, then turned back to the female apologetically. “Sorry if I —“

“What a beautiful babe,” the female cooed, now focused on Nyx.

Lucien looked down at Nyx, who was happily tugging on one of his braids. “He is, isn’t he,” Lucien said.

“You must be so proud,” the female gushed.

Lucien gaped at her. “I —“

The female’s gaze shifted to Elain. “How old is he?”

Elain squinted, trying to remember. “Ten months?”

“What a cute age,” the female said. “I miss the baby stage, though it’s so much work! Are you getting any sleep these days?”

A male called from further down the hill, apparently the children’s father. “I’m taking them for hot chocolate!”

“I’ll be right there!” the female called back, then smiled at Lucien and Elain. “Enjoy every moment. They grow so fast. And don’t forget to enjoy each other, too.” Then she turned away, heading back toward her family. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“You too,” Elain managed, hoping that it was dark enough that her furious blush wasn’t obvious.

Lucien was stock still, all liveliness and humor gone, staring down at Nyx, who was trying to gather as many braids as he could into his grip. Elain could feel his sudden spike of longing, of despair, and it knocked the air out of her.

Like he’s given up hope.

“Well,” Lucien said dryly, finally looking up, “that was different.”

“It certainly was,” Elain said breathlessly. She slung the diaper bag higher on her shoulder, then cleared her throat, totally flummoxed as to what to say. “I… should get him back home. Feyre and Rhys —“

“Of course,” he said abruptly, wrapping his broad hands gently around Nyx’s middle and handing the baby off to her.

Except Nyx wouldn’t let go of the fistful of braids.

“He likes hair,” Elain said stupidly.

“I saw,” Lucien chuckled, gently tugging at Nyx’s fingers. He managed to get Nyx’s right hand unclenched, but Nyx simply grabbed on again. “Strong-willed little one,” Lucien murmured,“just like your parents.”

Elain rummaged around in the bag for something to distract the baby, but all the contents had been shoved back in randomly, making it impossible to find anything. And she certainly wasn’t about to empty the contents on the ground again. “I thought I had a toy in here,” she grumbled.

“Well, it’s getting late, and it’s pretty dark,” Lucien said, a bit strained. “Maybe I should walk with you. I’m sure he’ll get tired of my hair by then.”

Elain opened her mouth to decline, but Nyx giggled with delight. “Hair!”

She sighed, relenting, and handed the baby back to Lucien. “I hope so, because he needs a bath.”

Chapter Text

Don’t stare. Don’t make it weird.

But Lucien was staring, and Cauldron, was it weird.

He’d never been alone with Elain for more than a few moments, had never exchanged more than a few tense sentences with her, but somehow he’d ended up on the bathroom floor, the knees of his pants soaking wet and suds dripping off his nose and fingers, trying to keep Nyx upright in the tub while Elain crouched on the other side, washing his wings.

Elain’s cheeks were rosy from having come in from the cold and from that adorable flush that crept down from her ears every time she got flustered or embarrassed. Her golden-brown curls were wild and tousled around her face, her simple sweater tugged to one side, exposing a pale collarbone and a hint of her shoulder. She was covered in soap, and baby formula, and dirt from the park, and Lucien thought she had never looked more beautiful.

Nyx gurgled, splashing energetically, flinging soap suds in all directions. Lucien dodged most of it, but ended up with a splotch of bubbles over his left eyebrow. He couldn’t risk letting go of the slippery little rascal in the tub, though, so he just leaned forward, letting the suds slide down, his mechanical eye whirring as it was covered.

“Oh!” Elain exclaimed, suddenly noticing. “Some got in your eye. Do you need me to hold him?”

“It’s fine,” he shrugged.

With his good eye, he could see her wrinkle her forehead in skepticism. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“It doesn’t feel anything,” he said. “It’s just metal and a bit of healing magic.”

Elain bit her lip. He could sense the questions rising up in her, the shy curiosity, and it annoyed the hell out of him that she couldn’t just ask. It wasn’t out of sensitivity for his feelings, or propriety, which usually prompted new people he met to dance around the topic until he chose to bring it up.

No, Elain’s problem was that she didn’t want to show even friendly interest. She was so determined to keep him at arm’s length that she couldn’t have a simple conversation, could barely sit in a room with him, and yet she hadn’t rejected the bond, and it had been years.

He couldn’t understand why she insisted on dragging this out. If his very presence offended her so much, why didn’t she just let him go? It would hurt like hell, but he couldn’t imagine that it would be much worse than what he was feeling now. At least it would be honest.

His mechanical eye started clicking rapidly, and he lied, “Actually, I should go dry it off, it’s acting funny.” He waited until her hands closed around Nyx’s slippery torso, carefully placed to avoid brushing his fingers. Then he stood up, a bit too quickly, almost slipping on the wet floor, and maneuvered himself around the bathtub and out the door.

He was halfway down the hall when the singing started.

Lucien froze in mid-stride, forgetting where he was going, why he’d been angry.

Elain’s honeyed voice echoed through the bathroom and down the corridor, washing over him like a wave. She was singing to the baby, some wholly unfamiliar tune that he guessed was an old lullaby from the human lands, something bright and sweet, but melancholy.

All the human stories and songs seemed sad to him, even the ones crafted to comfort children — they were always tinged with loss and fear. Humans understood those things much better than the fae, due to their short life spans, their constantly looming mortality.

Elain was young, so very young, yet knew those things intimately. She’d lived hunger, regret, pain beyond anything as she’d been ripped from her human body, violently remade. She’d faced the endless depths of the Cauldron, the terror of nothingness and creation. Only her sister Nesta, and he supposed Jurian, had any notion what that truly meant. Even Lucien, who’d walked with fear his whole life, couldn’t fathom it.

But Elain sang with the voice of one who knew death, yet lived, had chosen to live, and he lost himself in it.

Her song wasn’t polished or perfectly in tune, nothing like the practiced virtuosity of a concert hall performance or the ethereal beauty of a prayer service. It was real, like a stray part of her had escaped her careful guarded exterior.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He wasn’t supposed to be hearing this - he wasn’t even supposed to be here. He should leave now, make himself be satisfied with this little glimpse of his mate, this strange interlude where she’d looked at him without flinching, spoken words to him.

Don’t get greedy. Don’t push your luck. 

As if I’ve ever had any any.

“Lucien?”

The sound of his name on her lips snapped his resolve. When had she ever said his name, even in passing, in conversation? And now she was calling him, using it, and he was helpless to resist. He understood all over again what it meant to give someone your name, the power it wielded.

His body was moving before he realized it, back towards the bathroom where Elain was bundling Nyx into a towel. “I’m here,” he said, a bit breathlessly.

Elain was up on her feet, cradling the baby, who was staring up at her adorably, one curl balled tightly in his fist. She carefully avoided his gaze as she murmured, “I forgot his bathrobe, can you get it?”

He nodded, like an idiot. “Where?”

“Bedroom. The blue door,” she said, pointedly still staring down at Nyx.

He sighed. A bathrobe. That’s what she wants from me.

But he found it, draped on the couch in Nyx’s immaculate nursery, as if it’d been left ready - a soft terrycloth thing with two slits for Nyx’s tiny wings. There must have been some magic spelling the room, for Lucien had never seen a child’s bedroom look so organized. There were volumes of toys and fat little books and charming little knick-knacks artfully arranged. Rhys and Feyre clearly doted on their youngling, spared no expense. But they also loved their little boy, and that made all the difference.

He slipped back down the hallway, bathrobe in hand, then drew up short when he encountered Elain and Nyx coming back the other way. He held the robe out, and Elain took it, eyes flicking over him briefly before nervously looking away. I make her uncomfortable. I should go.

“Well,” he said, too cheerfully, addressing the baby because he couldn’t bear to look at Elain right now, “all cleaned up, you little rogue. Don’t you cause your aunt any more trouble.”

Nyx beamed at him. He had Feyre’s steely blue eyes, though the rest of his face was pure Rhys. It was disconcerting. Lucien sometimes still felt flashes of fear and revulsion when he looked at the High Lord, though he was careful not to show it — although their relationship had evolved, settling into a truce and the occasional hint of friendship, he couldn’t so easily forget fifty years’ worth of threats and violent incidents. But when he looked at Nyx, he saw Rhys as he surely once was, vulnerable and innocent.

 “Yights?” Nyx cooed, waving his hands in the air.

Lucien smiled. “Not indoors, little one.”

Nyx pouted. “Yights.”

I’ve got to practice my fire tricks. This little one’s demanding.

Elain suddenly said, “I’ve got to get a diaper on him. Can you…” She trailed off.

“Sorry.” He stepped back. He was in the way, distracting them from their evening. He had meant to go. Why hadn’t he?

Elain headed towards a room he hadn’t been in, calling over her shoulder, “Before you come in, can you grab a bottle from the fridge?”

Oh. He blurted, “Sure,” and was moving again, almost running.

By the time he got back, Nyx was diapered and dry, but fussing, and Elain plucked the bottle from his hands without a word. Nyx twisted in her arms, protesting, shoving it away even as he greedily sucked it. “Overtired,” Elain sighed, “wound up. He hasn’t slept well in days.”

“Hmm,” Lucien said stupidly, having no idea what to do about that, then blurted, “Maybe you should sing again.”

“What?” Elain’s eyes widened. He cringed as an embarrassed flush spread across her cheeks. Now you’ve done it.

“He liked it,” Lucien plowed ahead, aware that he was probably making the situation even more awkward, but he was too far down this road to safely backtrack now. “Was that a lullaby?”

“I suppose. My father used to sing it sometimes,” Elain said, looking at the floor.

“It must have sounded quite different. He had a deep voice,” Lucien observed.

Elain’s eyes snapped back up to him. “How did you know that.”

“Well, I knew him,” Lucien said, crinkling his brow in surprise.

Elain’s chin wobbled. “When? How?”

“I thought you knew the story,” he said quietly. “When I went to the continent, before the War? I met up with him when I found Vassa. He was —“

The baby started to wail.

“Do that fire trick,” Elain said, flustered.

Lucien frowned. “Rhys will gut me if I burn his house down.”

Nyx shoved the bottle away again, and it fell, thankfully not splattering. “Then do it carefully,” Elain hissed.

Lucien looked around nervously, then caved. He ignited little embers on each of his fingertips, keeping the flames cool and low, then sighed with relief as Nyx stopped wailing and grinned goofily.

“I’ve got to clean this,” Elain said, scooping down to pick up the bottle. “Can you take him for a few minutes?”

Lucien nodded, and she carefully held Nyx out to him. The baby gave him a big smile, flashing four tiny teeth. “Hair?”

Lucien chuckled, thankful that he’d thought to corral all his braids well out of the way. “Not this time, you little rascal.”

Elain’s fingers slid against his as he took Nyx, and the brief, soft feel of them left his skin tingling. Then she was gone, disappeared.

He should have been used to that — she slipped out of rooms often enough, on the rare occasions they were thrown together. He should have been immune to it by now. Instead, it pained him more than ever.

He sighed, muttering to himself and the baby, “I am in so much trouble.”

Chapter Text

Elain lingered in the kitchen, rinsing Nyx’s bottle for the third time, too fluttery and conflicted to consider going back upstairs. Lucien was up there, and she didn’t know what to say to him, how to be anything but cold and silent in his presence. Tonight had been awkward and embarrassing, and she hoped she could get Nyx off to bed and Lucien out the door before Feyre and Rhys returned and found them together.

Not together. Lucien was still nothing to her. Nothing had changed. Just because they’d spoken here and there, because their fingers had touched, because the baby adored him…

She tried to brush that off, even as her own fingers tingled where she’d touched his. What little child wouldn’t love seeing fire sprout from his fingers?

But she’d seen Lucien with the younglings, his gently joking manner, how easily his nimble mind spun stories. A pirate. A dragon tamer. The corner of her mouth tugged upwards, a small smile creeping across it.

His true story was the most unbelievable of all. She knew the tale, of course, had heard her sister’s version of it, all about how Cassian and Azriel had swooped in and saved them. But she hadn’t thought about Lucien fighting his brothers, struggling to keep himself and Feyre alive in hostile territory. Brave and valiant. He doesn’t get enough credit.

She sighed and turned to the stairs, suddenly aware of the minutes ticking by. It had gone suspiciously still and quiet, and she reached out tentatively through that strange connection she and Lucien had — the one she always ignored, or tried to — only to sense a peaceful silence on the other side of it. What could be going on up there?

Elain tiptoed back up towards Nyx’s room, dreading his bedtime routine, but was greeted with more silence when she got to the top of the stairs. She peeked her head in, frowning at how dark it was, then slipped in through the doorway. “Nixie?”

“Shh,” Lucien whispered, “I think he’s sleeping.”

Elain looked around, confused, then saw that Lucien had stretched himself out on the couch, boots off, sleeves rolled up, with Nyx curled up on his chest in a ball. The baby’s cheek was pressed to Lucien’s shirt, his little hands balled up in the fabric, and Lucien had rested his hands on the baby’s back, underneath his little wings.

Something about it was so utterly charming, so pure, that Elain almost couldn’t stand it.

She suddenly understood how the female in the park could have mistaken Lucien for Nyx’s father, though they looked nothing alike. She had also assumed Elain was his mother, that they were a couple, had told them to enjoy each other.

Don’t think about that.

“Well, now you’re trapped here,” she blurted, then felt a hot flush creep from her ears to her neck.

Lucien’s metal eye made a strange buzzing noise, and she could feel his flustered reaction through their bond, but he only smiled and said, “I’ve been trapped in worse places.”

She was startled at that, but couldn’t think of a safe question to ask. Her mind was still stuck on the thought of him trapped on the couch, in the room with her, but what worse places did he mean? Who had trapped him before?

He seemed to notice her bewilderment, for he added reluctantly,  “Feyre must have told you about Under the Mountain.”

“A little,” she said, shuddering slightly. “That’s where you —” and she indicated the left side of her face, drawing an imaginary scar line.

“That, among other things,” he murmured. Then he glanced around nervously, adding, “Shouldn’t talk about that here.” His metal eye clicked, as if chiming in in agreement.

“Why?” she breathed, careful to keep her voice low so as not to disturb the baby. She searched around for a place to sit, settling on Feyre’s nursing chair, a short distance from the couch. She sat uneasily, aware of how close he was, his warmth, the hint of his scent.

“Rhys and I,” he began, then looked down at the baby and frowned. “We have a history. I try not to think about it, especially when I’m under his roof.”

And cradling his baby. She wondered if Rhys would appreciate that, then felt a pang of sadness for Lucien that it would even be a question. What was it like having to inhabit this strange space, being firmly tied to the court, but always an outsider?

It really is like he’s trapped here.

“You and Rhys were enemies?” Elain guessed.

He frowned at that. “Feyre didn’t explain it?”

Elain cringed. “Not really.”

Lucien sighed, keeping one hand perched on Nyx’s back while rubbing his good eye with the other. “Well, that’s perfect.”

Elain bristled at that, at the implied criticism of her sister, but he quickly added, “This is Rhys’s Court, Rhys’s house. His version is the one that matters.”

Elain supposed he was right. Rhys was the High Lord here, surrounded by his chosen friends and family. Of course everyone would see things his way. It had never occurred to her to want to seek other perspectives, to question anything.

It suddenly seemed to Elain that talking to Lucien was dangerous. That she would hear things, find out things that challenged Rhys and Feyre’s preferred narrative. Lucien seemed to know more about Prythian and the continent than any of Rhys’s circle, had seen things that the others hadn’t. Maybe that explained the subtle discouragement she sensed from her sisters and their friends when it came to Lucien being her mate. Maybe they see Lucien as a threat.

It was only natural for a court to demand loyalty, but it raised her hackles. Who were they to decide who she should or shouldn’t trust? If their point of view was so obviously correct, why would they be threatened?

The whole thing made her curious, made her want to ask a million questions. What do other courts think of Feyre marrying Rhys instead of Tamlin? Why does Rhys act one way in the Hewn City, but a totally different way in Velaris? Is Feyre’s position as High Lady for show, or does she have real influence?

But she only said, a bit defensively, “We’re allowed to have our own opinions.”

Lucien said, quietly, “That has limits.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He would know.

She thought about Nesta, sequestered in the House of Wind for her self-destructive drinking, spending habits, and sexual antics. But part of the problem had also been Nesta’s nastiness, her insistence on arguing about everything, her bad attitude, her resistance. Elain couldn’t help feeling like Nesta had been treated like a naughty child, sent to her room without supper for disobedience. Would they do something like that to Elain, if she disagreed too openly? Had Lucien been threatened with something similar, or worse?

Lucien must have seen her discomfort, for he added, “Don’t get me wrong. Considering everything, where my loyalties were before, Rhys has been more than generous.” He patted Nyx’s back. “He trusts me more than I would have expected.”

His eyes raised to hers, as if in silent question.

Elain couldn’t help shivering the tiniest bit as their eyes met.“They all think you’re sneaky.”

He grinned roguishly, russet eye gleaming in the low light. “Oh, I am.”

“You don’t sneak around me,” she suddenly said, then mentally kicked herself. What possessed me to say that?

But he regarded her seriously. “That’s different.”

Elain had no idea what to say, how he thought differently about her, so she looked down at the sleeping baby. Nyx looked absurdly comfortable, in a deeper sleep now, his hands unclenched and resting softly on Lucien’s chest. “The baby’s happy,” she commented.

“Cute little rascal,” Lucien said, tenderly patting Nyx’s head. He experimentally lifted the baby’s arm, then smirked as it dropped limply back down.“He’s really out. We can probably move him to the crib without waking him.”

And you’ll leave.

“Well,” Elain said, but then fell silent. What could she say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous? “Here, I’ll take him.”

She got up from her chair and padded over to the couch on silent feet, then gingerly reached out and collected Nyx into her grasp. The backs of her fingers brushed against Lucien’s shirt, and his breath hitched at the contact. Her fingers tingled where she’d touched him — accidentally, she assured herself, just trying to pick up the baby — and tried to ignore her pounding heart.

Or maybe it was his heart that was pounding. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Elain whisked the baby away, settling him into the crib in the same position he’d been in, then covered him with the lightest of blankets and stepped back.

Nyx stayed quiet, his little wings vibrating with even exhalations. Good. Maybe he’ll stay asleep for once.

Elain took a step back, then whirled around and nearly collided with Lucien. He’d gotten up silently from the couch, boots already back on, and she suddenly noticed how tall he was, how muscular, how absurdly handsome. His hands were outstretched, ready to catch her if she lost her balance, but what if he just touched her? What if he didn’t need a reason?

He abruptly pulled his hands back, as though he’d thought the same thing. Does he not want to touch me, even by accident?

“You’re going?” she murmured, the words almost catching in her throat before she could speak them.

Lucien’s eye clicked as he stared down at her. “Well, I…” He swallowed hard, and tried again. “Am I?”

Chapter Text

Lucien’s heart pounded as he stared at Elain, so near, so warm, her honey lavender scent wrapping around him. His fingers curled into fists as he fought to stay calm through the blood roaring in his ears, the mating bond writhing and clawing inside him to touch her, hold her. But he forced himself to stay still, to keep his hands well away from her soft pale skin, her flushed cheeks, her silky hair —

Is it possible to die from too much loveliness?

Elain looked at him with those deep brown eyes, examining him for — what? He couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t tell if she wanted him to leave, if he was making her uncomfortable, if she wanted him to say something that he didn’t have the words to explain, but she was looking at him, not averting her gaze for once, and a strange fluttery anxiety washed over him.

Say something. Don’t just stand there.

“I think —“ he began. 

There was a rustling sound from the crib, and he peered over Elain’s shoulder at baby Nyx, who had tossed his blanket aside in his sleep. Please, please stay asleep.

“I think we’d better go in the hallway,” Lucien said, lower.

Elain nodded tightly, whirling around and striding out ahead of him, her gloriously tousled curls gently swaying down her back as she walked. Her clothes were rumpled and soaking wet in places, and he had a sudden urge to offer to dry them, but thought better of it. You oaf, you’ll make it obvious you were staring at her body.

He got through the doorway and into the hall, reaching around for the door handle and easing it closed as unobtrusively as he could. Then he turned, half expecting Elain to have disappeared again, but there she stood in the middle of the passageway, fingers twisting around the hem of her long sweater, looking up at him expectantly.

Gods, what does she want?

He didn’t care what it was. Anything, he’d give anything, if she would just keep looking at him like that, like he was someone and not some inconvenient obstacle to avoid or ignore.

“I,” Lucien said, all coherent thoughts flying out of his mind. “Well.” He swallowed hard, shoving down his nerves and confusion, trying to clear the haze of desire and longing that was fogging his mind. When had he ever had a conversation with her like this, when she’d wanted to talk to him? When was he going to get this chance again?

“You’ve probably had a long day,” he finally said. “Nyx is cute but exhausting. Not that you look exhausted, I didn’t mean it like that, just, if I’m intruding, I could go, or I could cook something if you haven’t eaten, or I could stay here and watch the baby, or whatever you want.”

Stop talking. You’re so awkward.

But his words were tumbling out, too fast for him to stop. “If I’m making it weird, I can leave, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, I never wanted that, I know it’s been weird for you, and I’m sorry if I’ve made it weird, and —“

“You can cook?” Elain interrupted.

“Yes?” he said.

She studied him for a moment, contemplating, then said with the barest hint of a smile, “Cooking’s more than lighting things on fire, you know.”

A startled laugh bubbled out of Lucien before he could squash it, and her smile grew.

“I haven’t had time to eat anything, Nyx skipped most of his afternoon nap,” she went on, fingers twisting in her sweater again. Nervous. I’m making her nervous. I should go.

But Elain said, “The kitchen’s this way,” and turned, heading down the stairs, as if expecting him to follow. Lucien cast one final look towards Nyx’s closed door, praying the little rogue would grant them some uninterrupted time to — he didn’t know what he hoped to do. Talk? Eat? Stare awkwardly at her when she wasn’t looking?

Gods, I’m a wreck.

He tugged on his braids, trying to snap himself back to reality. Don’t get your hopes up. She barely tolerates you. And you’re leaving in the morning.

“Lucien?” Elain’s voice floated up the stairs to him, and he realized he hadn’t budged. The sound of his name in her sweet voice got his legs moving, and then he was in Rhys and Feyre’s spacious kitchen with no memory of how he got there.

“I think there’s soup,” Elain was saying, rummaging through the fridge. “I could heat some up.” She asked over her shoulder, “Do you like tomato?” and emerged from the fridge with a large container.

Every muscle in Lucien’s body seized up in sheer panic, and he almost stumbled in his haste to get the soup out of her hands before she could accidentally prepare it. “Um. Let me,” he said abruptly. He willed his hands not to shake as he took it from her.

She was looking at him oddly, and his heart sputtered out as he took in her confused expression. “Um, it’s a whole thing. A mating thing. Feyre can explain it,” he stammered, certain that he was blushing as red as his hair.

“Oh,” Elain said, eyes widening, and his gut twisted wretchedly, hating that the mating bond even existed, that it made everything so awkward. Why couldn’t they just have a normal evening, without everything meaning so damn much?

Lucien turned away, unable to look at her beautiful face, and plopped the container down on the counter too forcefully, sloshing the contents. He winced, willing the liquid not to spill everywhere. Then he dumped the soup out into a pot and flicked his fingers over the stove, igniting a roaring flame that he quickly yanked back to a low, simmering level.

You idiot, don’t burn the house down.

Suddenly he noticed that Elain was hovering near him, peering at his fingers. “How do you do that? Make fire?”

“Oh, it’s my magic,” he said, “it’s an Autumn Court power, from my mother —”

But he trailed off, mouth going dry, as she reached out and took one of his hands, pressing her smooth, cool fingers to the inside of his wrist as she examined his fingertips. “Not burned at all,” she said, mostly to herself.

“I… control it,” he stammered, distracted as hell by the gentle pressure of her hands on his. He was afraid to make any sudden movements, to disrupt the spell they were under, so he forced himself to stay still, to surrender to her touch.

“So it could burn you?” she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“We're trained as younglings,” he said, “as our power grows. So by the time it’s strong enough to do harm, we know how to handle it.”

“Oh, that’s lucky,” Elain said distantly, and he puzzled over that, until she added, “To get your power a little at a time.” She sighed. “It’s overwhelming when it happens all at once.”

She looked down at her hands, as if suddenly realizing that she was holding him, and she hastily released her grip, her hands fluttering back to twist into her sweater.

Lucien sucked in a breath, trying to quell the wave of disappointment that washed over him — stupid, what did you expect — and said, “That must have been… disorienting.”

Elain nodded, her eyes growing silvery, and Lucien wanted desperately to comfort her, brush her tears away, something. “It’s like my body wasn’t mine anymore. Nothing felt the same,” she said softly.

“How did you deal with it?” he dared to ask.

Elain tilted her head to the side, as if confused by the question. “I really didn’t,” she said. “Not for a long time.” A bit of pink crept into her cheeks, and she added, “You saw me then. You told them to get me out of that fortress, bring me outside. That helped.”

She turned away, seemingly lost in thought, and Lucien cast about uselessly for what he should say. He grabbed a spoon and stirred the soup, more to have something constructive to do than because it needed stirring.

After what felt like an impossibly long, awkward moment, he summoned his courage. “I am sorry. For the part I played in it. When Tamlin contacted Hybern, I had no idea — he had no idea — that any of this would happen. But it was wrong. I was wrong.”

Elain looked at him then, her eyes flashing with accusation. “You didn’t know about me and Nesta. But you knew the rest. You were going to kidnap Feyre.”

Lucien’s face burned. Wretched fool that I was. “I thought I was saving her.”

Elain folded her arms, her brow furrowing, and he hastily went on. “I won’t make excuses. I shouldn’t have interfered. If I’d known she was happy, that she had a mate and a family here, I would have stayed out of it, but all I knew of Rhys was how he was Under the Mountain, and I thought —“

He broke off, glancing around worriedly. This is Rhys’s house. Don’t speak ill of him here.

“You thought what,” Elain spat.

Cauldron damn it. He gritted his teeth, praying Rhys’s daemati powers didn’t extend to the walls themselves.

“Well. I thought he was controlling her. Making her think and say things.” When she just squinted at him, he hastened to explain. “Rhys can control people’s minds. That’s one of his powers. He can make them lie, or see and believe things that aren’t real.”

Elain’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said urgently, needing her to understand. “It’s no secret. You can ask Feyre. Rhys can control someone’s mind, or shatter it, or just kill them outright through his thoughts. Feyre can do it too, since she shares his power.”

Elain went pale, but stayed quiet.

So he plowed ahead. “You don’t have to forgive me. Hate me if you must, I probably deserve it. But you should just know who’s around you. What their powers are. What they’re capable of. Not that Rhys would ever harm you,” he hastened to add.

Elain glared at him, and he desperately wished he had a fraction of those mind powers, so he could have any idea what she was thinking. But after a moment, she admitted, “I didn’t even know such a power existed.”

Feyre should have told her. What else doesn’t she know?

Lucien stirred the soup, feeling more miserable by the moment. He hated how badly he’d misjudged Feyre’s situation, how it had led to so much ruin and pain. If only he’d known then what he knew now.

Too late for all that.

He couldn’t look at Elain, but heard her ask, “Did Rhys ever — do that — to you?”

Lucien couldn’t help the full body shudder that roiled through him, the dizzying nausea that momentarily engulfed him as he recalled those moments Under the Mountain. “Once,” he said quietly.

“Was it… painful?”

“It hurt like hell,” he grimaced. His throat burned, and he said, “He was following Amarantha’s orders. She wanted me to give up Feyre’s name, and I wouldn’t do it, so she told him to —“

“Wait,” Elain said, and his head snapped up. She was staring at him, brow crinkled in that adorable way she looked when she was puzzling something out. “You were protecting Feyre?”

He nodded, gulping, and would have turned back to the soup had she not stepped forward, lower lip trembling, and repeated, “You were protecting my sister.”

Lucien said guiltily, “I failed. She saw that I’d be killed, and gave her name to that queen. She saved me.” He ran a shaky hand over his face, hating the revulsion and horror that the memories dragged up in him. “I tried to repay her, help her out, but I got punished, and by the time I healed enough to go check on her —“

Elain slammed a hand on the countertop, making him jump. He stared at her, frozen to the spot, as she exclaimed, “No one told me any of this.”

He cringed, but said, “Maybe they thought it would upset you.”

Elain looked outraged. “I’m not made of glass.”

“No,” he murmured, averting his eyes to the floor, “no, you certainly aren’t.”

She huffed a sigh. “They just said you helped Feyre. They didn’t say you almost died.” A moment, then she added, more softly, “Or that it was Rhys who almost killed you.”

Lucien’s gaze shot back up to her, and before he could think better of it, he was in front of her, hands clasped as if praying. “Don’t hold it against him. We were enemies at the time. He and Tamlin were old enemies, and I was Tamlin’s friend. Tam saved my life and took me in after I had to flee from my family, and I didn’t know Rhys like I do now.”

Elain stared at him for a long moment. “At the Hewn City,” she said thoughtfully, twisting strands of hair around her fingers. “The way he and Feyre act all threatening, like they’ll kill anyone who looks at them wrong. That’s how you saw him.”

Lucien nodded. “That’s what we all saw.”

“Did everyone think Rhys was evil?”

He gulped. “Yes.” He struggled to decide how much to elaborate, then settled on, “A lot of things happened in those fifty years. A lot of… damage done. I’ve been spending a lot of time trying to help him unravel it.”

“Damage,” Elain repeated. “Like killing?”

He nodded.

“And Feyre knows that?”

“Feyre knows everything,” he said.

Elain stood quietly for a long while, twisting her curls around her slender fingers and staring thoughtfully over his shoulder. He willed himself to stand in place, to breathe, to let her process it. Then she looked back up at him and said, “When you went to Hybern… you thought Rhys was hurting my sister.”

He nodded again, biting his lip.

Elain whooshed out a breath. “And when you came here?”

Lucien fought hard to keep his voice even. “I didn’t know what to expect. Feyre said you were safe and cared for, and I wanted to believe that. But I had to see for myself.”

“You weren’t afraid?” Elain asked.

He chuckled bitterly. “Oh, I was terrified.”

Her cheeks flushed. “You came here anyway.”

Lucien’s voice was barely a whisper. “Of course I did.”

Elain took a step forward, and she was so close to him that it took everything he had to not tremble. “You didn’t even know me.”

He swallowed hard. “I wanted to.”

Her eyes searched his face, as if she were trying to find the answers to her questions there. “Why?”

Gods, don’t ask me that.

His mechanical eye whirred softly as he struggled to answer. “Because when I saw you in that throne room, I felt a connection. Like I was meant to know you.”

“Because of the mating bond,” Elain said. Her tone was flat, unreadable. “You wouldn’t have cared otherwise.”

“You’re Feyre’s sister, of course I would care,” he argued.

“Like I’d care for one of your brothers?” she challenged.

He couldn’t prevent his lips from twisting in disgust. “My brothers would never deserve that.” Don’t think about them, this conversation is miserable enough. He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “Why wouldn’t I care about you?”

Elain scrunched her eyebrows. “What kind of question is that?”

A very, very stupid one.

But then Elain said, “I was an ordinary mortal girl, and you’re a fae prince.”

“Ordinary?” Lucien burst out. “You think you’re ordinary?” He was so stunned, he forgot to argue that he wasn’t a prince, that he had no court to inherit, and in any case, he had no desire to rule anyone.

Elain was blushing deeply, staring at the floor, and Lucien impulsively reached for her hand, grasping her cool slender fingers and marveling at the tingly warmth that spread through him just from that simple touch. “Elain,” he said, voice rough, “you were never ordinary. Not as a mortal, and certainly not now.”

Elain looked up at him, and he braced himself for her to yank her hand away, or recoil from him, or he didn’t know what. But instead, she said, so softly that he had to lean in to hear her, “You’re not ordinary, either.”

Lucien’s heart pounded wildly. Calm. Stay calm.

Before he could begin to think of a response, the kitchen door banged open.

“I think she’s in here. Elain?”

And Lucien cringed as Feyre and Rhys appeared in the doorway.

Chapter Text

“Elain, how was everyth—“ Feyre called out, stopping abruptly when she noticed Lucien. Rhys swept in behind her, silent, shrewdly observing.

Elain felt Lucien’s spike of panic through their bond, a slight trembling of his fingers, and her stomach twisted. Why should he be nervous?

“Lucien,” Feyre said, his very name a question.

Lucien winced, but turned to face the door with a deceptively calm expression, and nodded a greeting to the High Lord and Lady.

“Thought you were heading home,” Feyre said, with forced lightness.

“I was,” Lucien shrugged, smiling tightly, not quite casual. His fingers loosened on Elain’s, as though he were considering dropping her hand entirely. Worried what Feyre and Rhys will think. She impulsively clutched his fingers, and felt his hand curl around hers in response.

Rhys leaned against the doorframe, sliding his hands into his pockets, but said nothing. Elain found that disconcerting. She hadn’t believed Lucien at first when he’d said Rhys could invade minds, but now that she knew, she couldn’t help but look at him differently. Had he ever tried to see into her thoughts? Could he be doing it right now, without her knowing?

“Nyx is sleeping,” she said breathlessly, wanting to break the tension. She didn’t like the way her sister was looking at Lucien, like he’d snuck in, like he was an intruder. “He had a bottle, and a bath. I think he’s still teething.”

“Hope he didn’t give you any trouble,” Feyre said, eyes still fixed on Lucien.

Elain felt anger rising in her throat, especially when she felt Lucien shift, like he was thinking of bolting from the room. “None at all,” Elain declared, tugging his hand closer.

“Well! That’s good,” her sister said breezily, running a tattooed hand through her hair. “Thanks again for helping out. We really needed the break. Did you eat?”

Her eyes wandered to the stove, where the soup was still simmering, and got an odd look on her face that Elain couldn’t interpret. Rhys still said nothing, but his violet eyes glittered.

“Not yet,” Elain stammered, suddenly confused. Why were they acting so strangely?

Lucien had gone stock-still, almost vacant, his hand slack in Elain’s grip. Her eyes shot to Rhys in alarm — he, too, had gone motionless, eyes staring at nothing. Is Rhys saying something in his mind? Is he meddling?

Elain burst out, “What are you doing?”

Lucien jolted, then pulled his hand away, stammering in abject embarrassment, “It’s fine, I was just leaving —“

“Actually,” Elain said, yanking the spoon out of the tomato soup and shoving it toward him, “you were cooking.”

Lucien reflexively took the spoon, then hovered uncertainly, glancing uneasily between her and Rhys, metal eye whirring, seeming not to notice the soup dripping down his arm and onto his shirtsleeve.

“Elain,” Feyre said gently, too gently, as though she were talking to her young child and not her older sister, “it’s late.”

“And I haven’t eaten dinner,” Elain snapped, ignoring the shock on her sister’s face, and the flash of irritation in Rhys’s eyes, “and you haven’t answered my question.”

“Elain,” Feyre exclaimed, in surprise and alarm.

Lucien plunked the spoon back in the soup tureen with a nervous thunk, then grabbed a towel and bent down to clean the splatters that had dripped onto the floor.

Rhys sighed. “No, it’s fine.” He stalked a few paces closer, saying calmly, “Lucien and I were just having a little chat.”

“What did you say to him,” Elain hissed, with surprising vehemence.

“Elain, really,” Feyre said sharply. “That’s private.”

Lucien tensed, towel pausing in mid-swipe, then began furiously wiping the same spot twice as fast. Elain sensed his frustration, his anger, his shame, and she hated it.

“Not if it’s about me, it isn’t,” Elain said stubbornly. She folded her arms, feeling a rush of boldness. She never made a fuss, never refused her sister anything, never defied the High Lord of the Night Court, but this was too much. 

Lucien stood up, nervously twisting the towel, murmuring, “He was just looking out for you.”

“I can do that myself,” Elain said flatly, suddenly annoyed with him. Why was he letting Feyre and Rhys make him uncomfortable? She yanked the towel out of his hands and tossed it on the counter.

He flinched, averting his eyes from her to the floor. That upset him. She made a note to ask him about it later, and added, more gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Lucien’s eyes shot back up to hers, the metal one clicking rapidly, with a mix of terror and gratitude.

Elain drew herself up and said, as levelly as she could, “Keep cooking. I need to talk to my sister.”

He nodded wordlessly, turning back to the stove. Elain marveled at how calm he could make himself look when she could feel his emotions roiling inside him, agitating, threatening to overwhelm him.

Elain marched towards Feyre, who plastered on a nervous smile and motioned to the hallway. Rhys smoothly stepped aside, then followed them.

As soon as the door closed, Elain whirled on both of them. “What was that all about, really?”

Feyre glanced anxiously at her mate, then said, “Elain, we’re just… surprised, that’s all. We thought you didn’t like him.”

“That’s my own business,” Elain said, flustered. She twined her fingers in one of her curls, then frowned at her own nervous habit and dropped her hand. Don’t let them make you nervous.

“Of course it is,” Feyre assured her glibly.

Rhys picked an invisible speck of lint off his jacket, which made Elain bristle. Like my concerns are a piece of fluff he can flick away. “You have to admit, this is sudden,” he said placidly.

“What’s sudden?” Elain shot back.

Feyre put her hands on her hips, her calm mask slipping. “Oh, come on, Elain. You’ve been avoiding Lucien for years. So you have to admit it’s a little startling to find him here in the house, alone with you, acting so familiar. We just wanted to make sure he wasn’t imposing.”

Elain’s ears burned. “Imposing?” she shrieked, then lowered her voice, hoping Lucien hadn’t heard from the kitchen. “He helped me with Nyx, and offered to make dinner. How is that imposing?”

“Why is he even in the house? He told me he was heading out,” Feyre said defensively.

“If you must know, I ran into him in the park when I took Nyx for a walk,” Elain said.

“Was he following you?” Feyre asked.

“What?” Elain cried.

“Darling,” Rhys murmured, “he wasn’t. He showed me his memory —“

“You two,” Elain huffed, “you really thought Lucien would sneak around and follow me? When has he ever done something like that?”

Feyre glanced at Rhys, who simply stood calmly, no hint of any emotion on his face. That bothered Elain, somehow.

“Lucien has only ever respected my wishes,” she stated. “He’s never insisted on seeing me, never tried to corner me or put me in situations where I had to talk to him. He’s always kept his distance.”

That got a reaction from Rhys, who snorted, “He moved all the way to the human lands to avoid you, Elain.”

“Exactly,” Elain said, her cheeks flushing.

“You’re right,” Feyre said haltingly, “it’s just, I saw the soup on the stove…” She trailed off. “It sounds ridiculous to even say it.”

“Darling,” Rhys murmured again. “He wouldn’t trick her like that.”

It’s a mating thing, Lucien had said. Elain blushed with embarrassment.

“You’re supposed to be friends with him,” Elain said. “Aren’t you happy that we’re getting along?”

“Of course,” Feyre said with irritation.

Rhys was eyeing Elain carefully. “So you’ve changed your mind about him?”

Elain huffed in exasperation at the intrusive questions. “I haven’t had an opportunity to find out.”

“Okay, okay,” Feyre said, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. “We’ll back off, Elain. You’re right, it’s not our business.”

“Except he is our emissary,” Rhys said pensively. Feyre shot him a disgusted look, but he said, “Well? It does impact whether he continues to work for us.”

Elain stared at him for a long moment, piecing together his meaning. “You liked it when I ignored him,” she breathed.

Rhys’s eyes darkened as he drew himself up. “Elain, I’ve been tolerant. I know you’re upset. But —“

“Rhys,” Feyre cut in, tugging on him. Then they both went still, as if having some silent conversation. Elain stared at them, fear pooling in her gut. He’d better not be controlling her thoughts.

A wail sounded from upstairs, and they all cringed.

“Go check on him,” Feyre ordered Rhys. After a tense moment of silent staring, he obeyed.

Feyre turned back to Elain, putting a consoling hand on her arm. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“Didn’t he?” Elain asked tensely. “If I reject Lucien, he’ll leave for good. But if I accept him, and we decide to travel, or move —”

Feyre blurted, “Move? Why would you want to move?”

“Feyre,” Elain said, willing herself to stay calm, explain herself patiently, “I’ve never been anywhere.” Hybern doesn’t count, she added ruefully to herself. “You saw other courts, and you chose to live here. Maybe I would too, but I never got to decide that.”

Feyre looked at her warily. “I thought you were happy here.”

Elain clasped her sister’s hands. “You and Rhys have been so kind to me, all your friends too. You got me through my roughest time, gave me a home, a family. There’s a lot I love about this court and this city. Maybe I’ll see the rest of Prythian and realize how much better Velaris is than anywhere else, but I won’t know until I see for myself.”

Feyre looked like she was trying and failing to smile. “Did you have someplace in mind?”

“I don’t know where I might want to go, whether I end up with Lucien or not,” Elain said. “Maybe Day? All that sunshine, perfect for growing a garden.”

“Of course, you’re a grown adult,” Feyre said softly. “You’re free to do whatever you want. It’s good that you’re speaking up.” She didn’t quite look like she believed it, but Elain squeezed her hands in appreciation anyway. She’s trying.

Rhys appeared behind Feyre again, his hair tousled and jacket rumpled. “Baby’s back down,” he reported with a grim smile. “That was an effort. He’s stubborn.” He looked at Elain. “How’d you manage?”

Elain chose not to be offended. “He fell asleep on Lucien.”

Rhys barked a laugh. “He what?”

The kitchen door swung open, and Lucien poked his head out. “Soup’s ready.” His gaze rotated from Rhys, to Feyre and finally to Elain. “Um, I’ll just —“

“Lucien,” Feyre said quickly.

The briefest wince crossed his face, quickly replaced by a neutral expression.

“We’re sorry,” Feyre said. “We didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.” She looked at Rhys expectantly, then narrowed her eyes at him when he didn’t speak up right away.

“I hear you got the baby to sleep,” Rhys said. Not an apology, Elain noted with irritation. “We’ll be adding that to your emissary duties. You can take the couch in Nyx’s room —“

“Rhys. Off to bed,” Feyre barked at him. “You’re so sleep deprived, you’re delirious.”

Rhys made a sweeping bow. “As you wish, High Lady.” He nodded to Elain and Lucien, then disappeared.

Feyre huffed a sigh. “Anyway. You should go eat. It’s getting late, and you must be starving.” She looked at Lucien for a long moment, then said, “The guest bedrooms are all empty. If it gets too late, you could stay. Have breakfast with us in the morning.”

Lucien shifted uncomfortably. “I could just winnow —” Then he stared at Feyre for a long moment, evidently hearing some silent message.

Meddling again. But this time, Elain found that she didn’t mind. A peace offering, for being a jerk to him earlier.

“Well,” Lucien finally said, metal eye clicking as his gaze darted from Feyre to Elain, “well, I’ll see.”

Feyre nodded briskly. “I’ll tell Nuala and Cerridwen to have it ready, just in case.”

Lucien nodded in thanks, his gaze slipping to his soup-splattered boots.

Feyre slipped down the hall, leaving Elain alone with Lucien, and she cringed when she saw how flustered he was.

“That was ridiculous,” she sputtered. “The nerve of them.”

“It’s their house, I suppose,” Lucien murmured, still avoiding her gaze. “And they really do care about you, Elain. I can’t fault them for wanting to make sure you’re safe.”

Elain’s heart cracked open at that. “They can do that without insulting you.”

He just shrugged. “I try not to take it personally.” He looked up at her again, his russet eye blazing. “I’ve never heard you argue like that.”

“They made me mad,” she grumbled. “I hope it wasn’t too bossy.”

Lucien shook his head. “It was magnificent.”

Elain felt a tingly flush, especially when he leaned forward and added with a wink, “I like Bossy Elain.”

She tried and failed to suppress the grin spreading across her face, then pushed the door open, tugging his sleeve. “Then get in the kitchen. The soup’s getting cold.”

Chapter Text

“Who, me?” Lucien pressed his hands to his heart in feigned shock. “I would never do such a thing.” He scooped up a mouthful of soup, then added, “…When anyone’s watching.”

“I knew it,” Elain teased, “I knew you were trouble.”

Lucien chuckled, letting his spoon clatter into the mostly empty bowl. “My brothers deserved it, every time.” He leaned his chin on his hands, gazing at Elain as she daintily sipped her soup, trying to keep his focus on her eyes and not her lips pursed around her spoon. “I’d never burn anything really important.”

Elain raised an eyebrow, and he added sheepishly, “Actually, I did torch all of Finn’s undergarments once.”

Elain looked stunned, but then she started laughing. “What did he do to deserve that?”

“Oh, any number of things,” he said vaguely, grimacing a bit at the memories. Finn had always been cruel, delighting in provoking him, and eager to jump in on any punishment his father meted out.

Tamlin put an end to that when he sliced Finn open. Lucien quickly shoved that bloody memory from his thoughts, and focused on his story.

“As I recall, Finn tossed my lesson books into the river, and I was forced to write out replacement copies for months afterwards. So, I retaliated.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “The best part was, he thought it was Killian. They brawled for hours.”

“Wicked,” Elain pronounced, “you’re wicked.”

He hung his head in mock shame. “Guilty as charged.”

But he didn’t feel guilty in the slightest. If I’d known what they would do to me, to Jesminda, I would have burned a lot more than just undergarments.

He usually hated talking about his family at all, about anything having to do with his past. It always led to thoughts of tragedy and ruin. But with Elain, he found there was room for the less fraught memories, the occasional charm of a childhood in the woods of Autumn, happier tales of traveling to the other seasonal courts. 

They’d been talking for he couldn’t tell how long — it could have been mere minutes, or hours, for all he knew or cared — and if it hadn’t been for the night waning toward dawn, and the occasional yawn Elain snuck when she thought he wouldn’t notice, he could have talked for hours more.

“They mistreated you,” Elain said suddenly, quietly. It wasn’t a question.

Lucien gulped, the back of his throat feeling raw. “Yes.”

Not that his fucked up family or his father’s predilection for torture was a great secret, but he almost asked how she knew, until she said, “When I grabbed the towel, how you reacted…”

That. He winced. “There was this one time, Tallon and Finn chased me into the kitchens, I forget what I did to piss them off,” he explained. “And I tripped, and I bumped into one of the cooks, and a tray spilled, and of course they told my father, and I had to clean it all up with a towel, and then he took the towel, and lit it on fire, and —” He cut off abruptly, heart pounding.

Elain was watching him carefully, her lower lip trembling slightly. 

“That was a long time ago,” he said quickly. “I don’t think your great grandparents were even born yet.”

“That’s a long time to have to live with bad memories,” Elain said softly.

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Immortality is funny like that.” He smiled wistfully, patting her arm. “But you get used to it.” Mostly.

Elain asked, “Do you see your family often now?”

“Ah, no,” Lucien said, an oily dread seeping into his limbs. “There was an… incident.” Seeing her concerned expression, he added, with a lightness he didn’t feel, “It’s not a very good bedtime story, I’m afraid.”

Elain’s forehead crinkled adorably. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Lucien said. “Just… in daylight.” He didn’t want to go down that dark road, his brothers’ deaths and Jesminda’s murder, not if he wanted to get any sleep at all.

He looked at Elain anxiously, hoping she wouldn’t be put off.

Her answering sweet smile warmed him from the inside out. “I understand.”

A flash of sadness across her face, a hint of a pained memory, a sharp pang he could feel inside his ribs, told him that she really did. She had haunting memories too, stories that felt safer to tell in the daylight.

And he wanted, desperately, to know them all.

Elain pushed up from the table and walked around it, gathering both of their bowls, hand slightly brushing his arm as she reached in front of him. He yanked back the impulse to grab for it, for her — she was so close he could feel her warmth on his back, her curls dangling onto his shoulder.

Then she was gone, clattering dishes in the sink, and he stood up on wobbly legs, suddenly conscious of the late hour. “You must be tired. I should, um. ” 

He stopped abruptly, realizing that he didn’t know what he should do. He’d been mortified by Rhys and Feyre’s scrutiny, by the implication that he’d trespassed some essential boundary. Whatever apologies had come afterwards, the fact was that they suspected his motives. Part of him wanted to flee to his apartment, avoid any further fraught encounters.

But then he looked at Elain, and his resolve shattered. He couldn’t refuse her anything, not after how she’d scolded Rhys and Feyre. Defending him, no less — it was so incredibly alluring, so far past what he’d ever allowed himself to hope for, that it had taken all his self control not to fling the door open and collapse into a puddle at her feet.

Would she want him to stay? He couldn’t assume anything. He might just have this one evening, this one conversation, before she came to her senses.

Elain turned at the sink, her arms covered in suds up to her elbows. “You should what?”

“Um,” he said stupidly, before his brain thankfully clicked into gear. “Um, I can help.” He strode to the sink and spread out his hands over the dish rack, trying to look calm and not flustered as he felt Elain’s eyes on him.

Elain turned the water off and reached for the towel. “That’s a neat trick,” she said.

He grinned, but then frowned at her wet sleeves. “I can dry those,” he blurted.

Elain gave him a wry smile. “Don’t set me on fire.”

Oh, gods. Lucien swatted away the filthy retort that sprang into his mind, feeling like he might combust if he allowed his thoughts to stray in that direction.

“Um, here,” he said, holding out his hands. She nodded, suddenly looking away as if shy, but took a tentative step towards him. He lightly grasped the wet edge of her sleeve in one hand and gently warmed it with the other, trying not to be distracted by her uneven breathing, the fluttery tension in his ribs that could have been her nerves or his, he couldn’t tell. Two of his fingers were pressed against the inside of her wrist, and he could feel her rapid heartbeat through them.

Lucien released her sleeve and she silently held out the other, peering up at him earnestly, and he found he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers as his fingers sank into the woolen fabric. He warmed her other sleeve, trying to keep his own fingers from trembling. 

“There,” he finally said, voice straining to sound natural.

The mating bond tugged insistently in his chest, as though it would physically drag him toward her, and he wondered if she felt it, if it disconcerted her the way it once had, long ago, when he’d tried to tug on it, get a reaction out of her when she’d been so disconnected, so spiritless.

That Elain had been startled, maybe even repulsed. He couldn’t exactly blame her, not when she’d just been in the Cauldron, when he’d been the first face she’d seen afterwards.

This Elain looked at him with — he didn’t dare guess what.

But it made him feel a surge of hope, whatever it was.

She was so close that he could just lean down, just erase those last few inches, and kiss those rosy lips he’d been trying not to stare at all evening.

But he knew he shouldn’t overstep, shouldn’t press his luck any further, so he reluctantly unraveled his fingers from the sweater. He wouldn’t take advantage, wouldn’t be creepy or justify her family’s suspicions.

He went to step back, to give her some space, to mutter some awkward phrase or other, when Elain reached up and trailed her fingertips along his cheek, tracing one of his scar lines. He stood, mesmerized, his focus narrowed entirely to her gentle touch.

She whispered, “Do these hurt?”

“Not at all,” he said, his breath hitching as her other hand came to rest on the side of his neck, and she pulled him down lower. His hands shook in the empty air before coming to rest on her shoulders. “They’re ugly, but they don’t bother me.”

“They’re beautiful,” Elain said, pressing her fingers against the jagged lines. He opened his mouth to protest, but she said, “Hush. They are.”

He began to quip, “I suppose I can’t argue with such airtight logic —” and then was abruptly stopped, silenced by the brush of her lips against his.

Lucien was startled into stillness, but managed to lean into the soft, sweet warmth of that tentative kiss, his hands tightening on her shoulders. She pulled back, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she looked up at him, smiling, before she leaned in and kissed him again, her arms going around his neck and shoulders, drawing him down towards her. Lucien’s hands slid to her waist, and then he was kissing her back, savoring the feel and taste of her.

He’d never allowed himself to really imagine touching her, kissing her. He was always afraid she would feel that desire through the bond, that it would freak her out, and a small voice inside him warned that she could still be scared off, that it could end badly. But he gathered his arms around her anyway, held her close to him, memorizing the way she fit in his embrace, how her curls tickled his neck, how her slender fingertips trailed a blaze of tingles and heat as she caressed his skin.

“You’ll stay,” she murmured in his ear, the warm vibration of her breath making him shiver.

“Yes,” he breathed, not caring if she meant for the next five minutes, for breakfast, for all time. 

He trembled under her touch as she traced her finger over his ear, especially as she whispered, “I like these,” and pressed a tingly kiss to the tip.

“Am I the first fae you’ve ever —” he began to ask, then promptly shut up as she tugged on his braids, drawing their mouths back together, and he forgot everything except Elain and the rush of pleasure that flooded him, desire and relief and joy mixed together.

* * * *

It was nearly mid-morning by the time Lucien stumbled back into the kitchen, overtired and bleary-eyed, and he was relieved to find Feyre and Rhys in a similar condition. He’d dreaded encountering them and their questions, but found that they were too dazed from another night of interrupted sleep to bother much about him. Rhys just took a gulp of tea, then waved his cup vaguely at the spread of dishes on the table, while Feyre was too busy wrangling spoons of some pureed slop into an unimpressed Nyx’s mouth to even notice he’d come in.

Lucien’s eyes swept the room, seeking Elain, who’d left him at the door of his guest room with a final, breathless kiss that had kept him awake thinking about her for hours afterwards. She was at the counter cutting up fruit with expert speed, humming softly to herself, and she cast him a smile over her shoulder as he entered the room that lit up his senses, tugging him toward her before he could decide to be shy or tentative.

“You made it,” she said, “I thought you might sleep right through breakfast.” And she stood on her tiptoes, pressing a discreet kiss to his cheek, but so close to his lips that they tingled anyway. “I was going to make you take me out for lunch to make up for it.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can manage some sin to atone for,” he said gallantly, and she giggled.

That musical sound got Nyx’s attention. “Yights!” he squealed.

“That’s your cue,” Elain murmured, her eyes sparkling.

He sighed, but said with a grin, “I suppose that little rascal deserves my thanks.” He kissed her forehead, wishing they were somewhere other than Feyre and Rhys’s kitchen, that they didn’t have an audience, so he could kiss her properly.

Nyx’s spoon clattered to the floor. “Yights.”

“What’s he saying,” Feyre asked irritably.

Elain tugged on his arms, whirling him around, just in time for him to see Nyx in the high chair, reaching out for a fistful of his mother’s hair as she bent down to retrieve the spoon.

Lucien flicked his fingers, conjuring a tiny flame, and Nyx mercifully forgot about Feyre’s hair. “Yights,” he cooed, waving his gooey hands in the air.

Rhys rubbed his eyes. “Little fox, why are you on fire?”

“Nyx likes it,” Lucien said.

Rhys shrugged, and went back to his eggs.

Feyre finally grabbed the spoon and came up, far too quickly. “Watch the —“ Lucien said, but it was too late. She bonked her head on the table, and swore. “Ow! Cauldron damn it.”

“Dammit,” Nyx cooed.

“Now you’ve done it,” Rhys said wearily.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” Nyx chanted happily, kicking his little legs against the underside of the tray table.

Lucien clamped his lips shut against the laugh that threatened to bubble out of him. “Now, little one,” he said with mock sternness. “What did we talk about? I thought we agreed you were going to behave.”

Nyx plopped his hands back onto the tray of his high chair, smearing more gooey breakfast around. “Behave,” he pronounced.

Lucien tugged out the seat next to Nyx, studiously avoiding stepping in the gobs of puree that splattered the floor like an abstract painting. “Well, you’re already more civilized than half the High Lords in Prythian,” he said, and began to pile food onto his plate, suddenly starving.

“Which half?” Rhys said, with a catlike grin. “Am I in that half?”

Lucien decided not to answer that.

“When do you head back south?” Feyre asked him, still rubbing the back of her head, and his appetite disappeared just as abruptly as it had appeared.

Lucien became acutely conscious of Elain hovering behind him at the counter. “Well.”

Rhys’s gaze sharpened on him. “You were going to file your last reports this morning.” He gave Lucien a shrewd smile. “I’m assuming you need an extension.”

Elain came up directly behind Lucien, pressing against his back as she plunked a huge platter of fruit slices down on the table. “Yes, he does,” she said sweetly.

“I do,” Lucien agreed.

Elain slid into the chair next to him. “What’s south?” she asked.

“Everything,” Lucien said nervously, hating that he had planned to leave so soon, when he had finally made a connection with Elain, but skittish about impulsively canceling everything and putting pressure on her that she wasn’t ready for.

It was one evening. Don’t rush things.

“That’s very specific,” Elain said dryly.

Rhys chortled between sips of tea.

“Well, I’ve got to check in with Spring,” Lucien went on, cringing a bit at having to mention that particular place in front of Feyre, who still harbored angry feelings towards Tamlin. “But I was going to stop by Dawn, have them examine my mechanical eye for a check up. Dawn’s a beautiful place, very healing. Lots of songbirds,” he added, remembering Elain’s sweet, haunting lullaby.

“Songbirds,” Elain said dreamily.

“You could come with me sometime,” Lucien said, biting back the impulse to say Now. We could go now. “Or I could put you in touch with Nuan, who invented my eye. She’s a wonderful host, very knowledgeable. She could show you around.”

He felt Elain’s fluttery excitement as she breathed, “Where else.”

“Of course, you must see Adriata. It’s a city on the water, in Summer,” Lucien said. “I spent a lot of time there as a child, since it neighbors Autumn. They’re still rebuilding after the war, but it’s beautiful. I could mention it to Cresseida in my next letter.”

“Emissary, babysitter, and tour guide,” Rhys remarked, twirling his fork between his fingers.

“Don’t forget circus performer,” Elain teased, and Lucien’s ears burned as she said, “You should have seen him in the park last night.”

“Yights,” Nyx agreed.

Rhys and Feyre were both staring at him now, and Lucien huffed a sigh. “I am not doing fire dragons at the breakfast table.”

“Nyx has a first birthday coming up —“ Feyre began hopefully.

“No,” Lucien said.

Rhys folded his arms across his chest. “You should really reconsider, little fox. Or I’ll tell Elain about the time at Rita’s when you —“

“Fine,” Lucien huffed, turning a brighter shade of red.

Rhys beamed. “You know, Feyre darling, this could really work to our advantage.”

Lucien made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, and Elain slid an arm around his back. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “I’ll just ask Mor.”

“Mor wasn’t there,” Lucien gritted out, sorely tempted to blast Rhys with a fireball.

“You can tell me over lunch,” Elain said sweetly.

“Told you I’d find something to make up to you.” Lucien managed a smile. “Any excuse to see you again.”

“Did you mean that? Because it would really help if you put Nyx to bed tonight,” Feyre said. “Or any night, really. We could stock more soup in the fridge.”

Cauldron boil me, she’d better not be serious.

Elain laughed. “You’re assuming I want to share him.” And she leaned in and kissed him, right there at the table.

“Behave,” Nyx snapped, flinging his spoon at them.

And they all laughed.