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Feyre didn’t expect her life to end in a dark alley behind a nightclub. But it seemed that was how this night was going to conclude.
At least she’d broken up with Tamlin first. She hoped Nesta kept him from trying to attend the funeral. She hoped Elain kept Nesta from straight-up murdering him instead.
“Look, I told you, I don’t have a wallet with me,” she snapped. “Does this dress look like it has pockets? My wallet is in my jacket, which is back in the club’s coat check, so unless you’d like me to go back in there…”
“Surely you have something of value,” the man in the mask snapped back. “How much is your jewelry worth?”
“Like five bucks at CVS. Try again.” Fear had always made Feyre angry, an Archeron family specialty. But she wondered if she should be trying to get on this guy’s good side. Maybe he’d let her go. Maybe he’d kill her more for having annoyed the shit out of him in the middle of a mugging.
“Your phone?” he demanded.
“I don’t know, what’s a cracked iPhone 6 go for these days?”
The man paused. “Does that thing even work anymore?”
“Barely,” Feyre gritted through her teeth, wishing there was more light to see by in this gods-damned alley. “Now are you going to rob me, kill me, or just mock all my stuff for being cheap?”
“Aren’t you scared of me?” The man sounded somewhat dumbfounded.
Feyre glanced at her shaking hands. “Yeah. So?”
There was silence for a moment before the man lost his patience.
“Look, just give me something I can sell or trade for a fucking meal, or I will kill you!”
“Try and see what happens, asshole!” she shouted back, and in a moment of insane courage, or perhaps just insanity combined with reckless adrenaline, she shoved him.
He stumbled backward slightly and then, with an angry, desperate yell, lunged forward with the knife.
Before Feyre could react, a shadow darted out and pushed her away. She tripped over her heels and fell to her hands and knees with a cry of pain.
By the time she looked up, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, the mugger was unconscious on the ground, and the shadow—not a shadow, a man—was leaning against the wall and panting heavily.
“Are you alright?” His voice was deep. Feyre tried not to think of it as sensual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you to the ground.”
“Are you kidding? Thanks for saving me,” Feyre said, wincing as she picked herself up, still shaky with leftover fear and adrenaline. “I think a few scrapes are better than death. Are you okay?” She tried to peer at her scraped hands and knees, not able to see much in the darkness.
Her rescuer chuckled. She could make out his silhouette—a dark shape against the darker wall, framed against the dim light coming in from the street a few yards away—but not much else. “Oh, you probably wouldn’t have died. He was aiming too low to hit anything vital. Let’s just hope that knife wasn’t too dirty.”
“Who cares about his knife?”
After a moment, he said, “We should probably call an ambulance. Do you have your phone on you?”
“Um, yeah, but it’s a shitty phone. Can you call? Although this jerk probably deserves to lie here until he regains consciousness by himself.”
Another quiet laugh. She heard him shift against the wall and stifle a groan before light from his phone illuminated his face, briefly revealing sharp, handsome features covered in a sheen of sweat. He winced and lowered the brightness, then made the call, the screen going dark again as he raised it to his ear.
A mortifying realization was forming in Feyre’s mind as he did so. He hadn’t answered her question about him being okay.
“Are you injured?” she demanded.
“Shh,” he said. “Hello? Yeah, could you send an ambulance to the alley behind the Night Court Club? Three people. Not sure the extent of everyone’s injuries, but one of us is unconscious.”
Feyre’s mind was wheeling as he continued speaking calmly to the emergency operator, recalling snippets of what he’d said earlier. He was aiming too low to hit anything vital. Let’s just hope that knife wasn’t too dirty. We should probably call an ambulance. Not sure the extent of everyone’s injuries.
“Five minutes? Should we try to move closer to the street? Okay. What? Oh, a mugging. Well, an attempted mugging. Yes, a knife. No, I wasn’t the mugger, but that’s probably what a mugger would say. Why would I call you if I was the mugger? He’s the unconscious one.”
Feyre let out a hysterical giggle, starting to hyperventilate. Was it her imagination, or was his voice getting weaker?
“Ah, well, all three of us should probably go to the hospital first, and I can really only speak for myself, but I can give a statement to an officer later. Okay. Okay. Okay, thank you.”
There was another brief flash of light as he ended the call and put his phone away, exhaling with a quiet grunt.
“Ambulance should be here in a few minutes. Hey—whoa, hey, easy! Breathe, darling.”
“Don’t call me darling,” Feyre wheezed.
“Well, then, what do I call you?”
“Where are you injured? How badly?”
A pause. “I’m fine.”
“Motherfu—”
“Listen, darling, one of us needs to get out to the street before the ambulance arrives, and it should probably be you.”
“Oh?” Feyre asked icily. “And why’s that, if you’re fine?”
Another pause. “Alright, I might have been lightly stabbed.”
“I’m sorry, you were stabbed?”
“Lightly stabbed. I didn’t want to worry you.”
While Feyre’s mouth was opening and closing in silent outrage and shock, she started to hear a siren in the distance, growing gradually louder. Then there was a scraping noise followed by some colorful swearing. Squinting into the darkness, Feyre realized her rescuer must have slid from the wall to the ground.
“Look,” he said, panting. “I hate to ask again, but the operator did say one of us should make our way to the street if possible. I’d go myself, if I—”
“Hadn’t been stabbed,” Feyre finished numbly, forcing her feet to move. His voice was definitely weaker now. “I’m going.” She edged past the two figures on the ground, feeling lightheaded.
“Thank you, darling.”
“What did I say about calling me darling?”
As she passed, she heard a faint huff of amusement from the ground. “You never told me what to call you instead.”
Ah. Right. “Feyre. I’m Feyre.” The sirens were louder now. She blinked in the dim light of the street, realizing the nearest streetlight was burnt out. No wonder that alley had been so dark.
“Feyre,” he breathed, his voice like midnight silk despite its increasing weakness.
“That’s right.” Turning back, she couldn’t see the two still hidden in the shadows. “What’s your name?”
His breathing was labored, and the sirens were getting louder. She almost missed his response.
“Rhysand,” he said quietly. “Call me Rhys.”
⋆ * ・ ﾟ✧ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ✧ ﾟ・ * ⋆
Rhys was alarmingly quiet after that. Feyre thanked the forgotten gods when the ambulance screeched to a halt in the street just a couple of minutes later, but she was worried sick about the stranger who’d gotten stabbed saving her life.
But the EMTs were quick and efficient, and very soon, they had loaded all three of them into the back of the ambulance. Feyre wasn’t sure her insurance would cover the ride—in fact, she would bet that it wouldn’t—but there was no way in hell she was leaving Rhys now.
He’d been pale and unconscious when they’d gotten him in the ambulance, and Feyre experienced a dizzying bout of nausea when she saw the knife still stuck in his abdomen. But…
“Smart guy,” one of the EMTs commented, taking his vitals while the other took the mugger’s. “He must have known not to pull it out.”
They’d given her a cursory glance-over, but determined the other two were in more critical condition. So now, she was sitting down where they could keep an eye on her during the ride to the hospital, with a small bottle of water and an oxygen mask in her hands.
“Looked like he might have stayed standing for a bit though—probably too painful to try and lie down, but it would have prevented even more blood loss,” the other EMT commented, finishing up with the other guy and shifting to help with Rhys.
She stayed tense and quiet while the EMTs started working on him, wanting to stay out of their way. It was only when they started discussing in low voices whether to start a blood transfusion now or wait until they reached the hospital that she finally spoke up.
“His vitals are pretty stable, considering,” one pointed out. “We’ll be at the hospital soon. Losing consciousness was probably a vasovagal response or something rather than blood loss.”
The other was hesitant. “It would be safer to manage the transfusion at the hospital, but I’m not liking the color on him, even if his vitals are stable.”
“Would it help if I gave some?”
The two EMTs looked at her.
“Some blood,” she said, and instantly felt ridiculous for clarifying. “I—um, my blood type. It’s O-negative. Universal donor?”
“My salvation,” Rhys said, his voice muffled through the oxygen mask.
Everyone looked at him, but his eyes were trained on Feyre. His impossibly, unfairly gorgeous eyes, such a deep blue they were almost violet, framed by ridiculously thick lashes. Despite still feeling sick to her stomach with worry, all Feyre could think was, Are you freaking kidding me? This is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Good, you’re awake,” one of the EMTs said briskly. “Tarquin, check on the redhead while I patch up the girl’s scratches.”
“Not ‘girl.’ Feyre,” Rhys said. His breath fogged up the mask, and he still sounded weak, but he was apparently feeling well enough to send her a wink. “Darling.”
She glowered at him, all her worry disappearing in an instant.
“Alright, Casanova,” said the EMT, efficiently cleaning Feyre’s scratches and applying some ointment and gauze. “Now that you’re awake, let me ask you some questions. Name?”
“Rhysand,” he said, still smirking at Feyre. “My friends call me Rhys.”
“Full name.”
The smile disappeared, and his eyes turned to the EMT. “I’d rather not say.”
The EMT shrugged, finishing Feyre’s bandages. “Whatever. You know what year it is?”
Feyre tuned out as Rhys continued answering the EMT’s questions. There was a bit of color back in his golden tan cheeks, but he still looked pale and sweaty. Understandable, considering the light stabbing and the weapon still lodged in him.
“Alright, Rhysand, we’ll be at the hospital soon, and they’ll finish patching you up.”
“'Rhysand'? You wound me, Helion.”
“You are not my friend right now, you’re my idiot patient who got himself stabbed.”
“He calls this lightly stabbed,” Feyre put in. “You know each other?”
“I volunteer at a blood drive now and then,” Helion said, tidying his workspace now, “and Rhys donates regularly because his blood type is also O-negative.”
“A perfect match, aren’t we, Feyre darling?” Rhys purred, the effect slightly ruined by the mask and injury.
“Shut up,” Feyre and Helion said in unison. Tarquin laughed from where he was watching with interest by the other man’s head, monitoring his vitals.
“Oh, I like this one, Rhysie,” Helion said, laughing as well. Rhys scowled at him.
Feyre arched an eyebrow. “This one? Rhysie?”
“Wait ‘til you hear his last name,” Helion called over his shoulder as the ambulance came to a stop.
“What’s your last name?” Feyre asked, interested despite herself.
“Oh, look. We’ve arrived at the hospital. Helion, be a dear and remove me from this ambulance at once?”
Fortunately for Rhys, three more people in scrubs opened the ambulance doors.
In the flurry of movement that followed, Feyre lost track of Rhys and the still-unconscious man who’d tried to mug her. She realized she’d left her things at the club when the emergency department staff tried to check her in, so they took her contact information instead as they checked her vitals, her bandages, and deemed her good to go.
“You can come back tomorrow to work out the insurance,” they said, “or we’ll send the bill to your address and you can work it out with your insurance company directly. I’d recommend coming in, though. The Velaris General staff are good at handling this kind of thing.”
Trying not to think about the hit her meager savings were about to take, Feyre thanked the staff member and turned to go. But before she could, an officer stopped her.
“You the mugging victim?”
“Does it count if nothing actually got stolen and my only injuries are from falling over my heels?”
The officer chuckled. “Mind if I ask a few questions?”
It was going to be a long night. “No problem,” Feyre said with a sigh.
⋆ * ・ ﾟ✧ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ✧ ﾟ・ * ⋆
Stepping back into Velaris General the next day was an oddly surreal experience for Feyre. Had she really been here just yesterday after being rescued from a mugging by a handsome, infuriatingly charming stranger? It was the stuff of fiction, not real life.
She hadn’t even gotten to thank him properly.
Feyre sighed, digging around in her tote bag for the wallet she’d retrieved from the nightclub that morning. She pulled out the cards she needed and stepped up to the front desk, already wincing at the thought of how high the bill might be.
“Hello. Um, Nuala,” Feyre said, reading the nameplate in front of her. “I’m here to provide my insurance information and pay my bill for some care I was given yesterday.” She attempted a smile at the stunning, willowy woman behind the desk.
“Of course, I can help you with that.” Nuala smiled warmly back at her. “First and last name?”
“Feyre Archeron. F-E-Y—”
“No worries, I got it.” Something indiscernible flashed across Nuala’s face, her deep ebony lips pursing slightly. “Well, Ms. Archeron, I can still take your insurance information to have on file for any future care needs you may have filled at Velaris General, but your bill has already been settled.”
“What? Settled?”
“Yes, Ms. Archeron. I can print it for your records if you’d like as well, but there’s no balance left for you to pay.”
“That’s not… how?” The ground felt unsteady beneath Feyre’s feet.
“My records indicate it was paid earlier today by a Mr. Rhysand—”
Blood roared in Feyre’s ears, effectively blocking out the rest of what Nuala was saying. Through gritted teeth, with forced calm, she asked, “Is Rhys still here?”
Nuala pressed her lips into a thin line, but Feyre could have sworn the look on her face was amusement, not disapproval. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge patient information—”
“Please. I want to… thank him.”
Dark eyes assessed her, that odd look still on her face. “One moment please.” Nuala dialed a number on the phone in front of her. “Hello, Mr. Moonbeam? I have a Feyre Archeron here to see you.” She listened for a moment, then nodded to Feyre and scribbled a room number down. Feyre mouthed her thanks and rushed for the elevators.
Then she backtracked slowly, stopping again in front of the reception desk where Nuala was just hanging up.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say his last name was?”
This time, there was no mistaking the look on Nuala’s face for anything but feral, amused glee.
⋆ * ・ ﾟ✧ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ✧ ﾟ・ * ⋆
Feyre marched into Rhysand’s hospital room to find him sitting up in bed, eating chocolate pudding.
“Feyre, darling,” he said with obvious delight and a smile that she patently refused to admit sent a thrill shooting straight down to her toes.
“I told you not to call me darling,” she snapped. “Now what is this about you paying my hospital bill?”
His smile faltered. “What’s wrong with paying your hospital bill?”
“Why did you do it?” Feyre demanded. “Pity? Charity? I don’t need either from you. What’s your deal? Your motive?”
“Who says I have to have a motive?” Rhys ate another mouthful of pudding.
“No one does this kind of thing for no reason.”
A quiet cough from the corner of the room cut off Feyre’s next words. She wheeled around to find a smirking blonde in a red dress sitting in a chair by the window.
“Should I go?” said the woman.
“No,” Feyre said at the same moment Rhys emphatically said, “Yes.”
Feyre scoffed and said to the blonde, “Sorry to barge in. I didn’t expect him to have any other visitors. I’m Feyre, and this idiot saved me from getting mugged yesterday and then paid my fucking bill.”
“Oh, I know,” the woman said, grinning. “And while I agree with you that my cousin here is an idiot, I’m not quite sure he deserves your anger for the rest.”
“Morrigan, please,” Rhys groaned, thumping his head backwards against his pillow.
The woman—Morrigan—ignored him, focusing on Feyre. “Are you upset that he stopped the mugging?”
“Well, no, but he did get himself stabbed in the—”
“Are you upset that you don’t have to pay a hospital bill?”
“Not—not—that’s not the—!”
“Would you have even gone to the hospital if you hadn’t been concerned about this idiot?”
“I—well…”
“So you’re specifically, and only, upset that Rhysie paid the bill,” Morrigan said, tapping a manicured nail against her lips. “If it’s really just his motive that bothers you, I’ll vouch for him. You’re right that no one does this kind of thing for no reason, but Rhys isn’t just anyone.”
Feyre opened her mouth to argue hotly. But before she could say anything, Morrigan added quickly, “I know you don’t know me, but it’s the truth. He’d do it even without the massive crush on you.”
“Gods.”
“Shut up, Rhys. And if you need more proof,” Morrigan continued, crossing her arms now as she stared Feyre down, “you can go ask the guy who tried to mug you last night. Since this idiot offered him a job this morning.”
“What?” Feyre choked out as Rhys threw his empty pudding cup at his cousin. Morrigan caught it, grinning, and set it down on the tray.
“It was nice to meet you, Feyre. Rhys, behave. Az will pick you up when you get discharged later.” And with that, the blonde walked out of the room, leaving a stunned silence behind her.
Feyre was the first to break it. “Did you really offer that guy a job?”
“I might have,” Rhys grumbled, still staring at the door his cousin had just closed behind her.
“But…why?”
Rhys turned his gaze back on Feyre, and she felt a shiver under her skin. “His name is Lucien. His life is complicated. He’s trying to survive on the streets while taking care of someone he cares about. It…seemed like he deserved a second chance.”
Feyre couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. A few long, silent moments passed as she and Rhys regarded each other.
Finally, fidgeting, he asked, “Are you still angry?”
“I’m not really sure I have any justification for being angry,” Feyre admitted. “I actually meant to thank you until Nuala informed me you paid my bill.”
A soft smile tilted up the corners of Rhysand’s mouth. Feyre tried not to admire it as he said, “Nothing to thank me for, you know. And if you’re angry, you’re angry — no justification needed.”
She shook her head. “What room is that Lucien guy in? I’d like to talk to him, too.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to tell you,” Rhys sighed, “but as I’m stuck in bed, I suppose I can’t stop you from taking the little slip of paper on the chair Mor was sitting in, which conveniently has his room number written on it.”
Feyre stalked over to the chair, keenly aware of Rhysand’s violet gaze tracking her every movement. She grabbed the paper and headed for the door.
“Feyre?” Rhys said, stopping her before she left. He offered a small, apologetic smile when she turned to look at him. “For what it’s worth, if you’re really upset, I’m sorry.”
Disarmed, Feyre smiled back at him, and his own widened in return. “It’s alright,” she said. “Even if I had a real reason to be angry, I’m pretty sure Mor paid your debt by revealing your crush…Mr. Moonbeam.”
She couldn’t help but cackle like a gremlin as her parting words wiped the smile from his face as she closed the door.
⋆ * ・ ﾟ✧ ⋆ ☾ ⋆ ✧ ﾟ・ * ⋆
The lights in Lucien’s hospital room were off when Feyre entered, although he was awake and the window was letting in plenty of indirect sun. There was more light than there had been in the alley, anyway, so Feyre could see that the man in the bed had red hair, scarring around his left eye…and not enough meat on his bones.
“You’re Lucien?”
He smiled. “Yes. Who are you?”
Feyre pulled the small chair by the window over to his bedside and sat. “I’m Feyre. You tried to mug me last night.”
His smile disappeared instantly. Feyre almost laughed.
“Ah…sorry about that,” Lucien said hesitantly. “I…well, there’s no excuse, really, so let’s just leave it at sorry.”
“No, I want to hear your excuse,” Feyre said. “Rhysand said your life is complicated.”
Lucien blinked, scratching absently around the tape securing the IV line to his arm. “That’s a kind way of putting it.”
When all Feyre did was quirk an eyebrow in response, he sighed and continued, “My father sort of disowned me. He’s an abusive bastard, so I don’t really care—but my mother escaped with me, and I haven’t…I haven’t been able to…” his voice trembled, and he swallowed hard. “To take very good care of her these past few months. We haven’t had a roof over our heads, or enough food, and I…I got desperate.”
“You needed money to feed your mother,” Feyre said quietly.
“Yes,” Lucien said simply.
His chin came up the slightest bit as Feyre looked at him, trying to notice the details. His red hair was dull, his skin was sallow and dry, his cheeks were hollow. There was a bruise on one cheek where Rhys must have hit him, but a hit like that shouldn’t have so easily knocked out a strong, healthy man of Lucien’s stature—which he must have been at some point, but he was certainly not strong or healthy right now.
“Did Rhys really offer you a job?” Feyre asked.
Lucien laughed. “Yes,” he said again, shaking his head. “Not the reaction you really expect from a guy you recently stabbed. He paid my hospital bill, too, and even put my mother in a hotel room today, until I start working for him and we can move into his company’s sponsored housing. Kind of unbelievable, really. No one does this kind of thing.”
“No, they don’t,” Feyre agreed. But Rhys isn’t just anyone, she thought to herself, remembering Morrigan’s words earlier.
She stood abruptly. “I have to go,” she said. “But, Lucien…I forgive you.”
“What?”
“I forgive you,” Feyre repeated, shrugging. “I know what it is to be hungry. I don’t blame you for trying to be a good son, even if it made you act like a bad person. You’re not really a bad person, though, so just try not to go around stabbing people anymore, or I’ll do more than just shove you next time.”
Lucien looked confused for a moment before understanding flashed in his face. “That’s right, you shoved me last night while I had that knife in my hand,” he said, sounding somewhat awed. He shook his head. “I admire your balls, Feyre—I really do.”
“Or maybe it’s stupidity,” she said with a grin and another shrug.
“Whatever it is, I do admire it. And…thank you,” he added.
Feyre offered him a parting smile as she left his room, but mentally, she was already back in Rhysand’s room, her mind made up about what to do. Her pace increased as she approached, and she practically burst through the door like a battering ram.
“Go on a date with me,” she said, and Rhys snapped his head to her so fast she was surprised it didn’t fall off.
“What?”
“Go on a date with me,” she repeated, watching his blue-violet eyes widen in shock. A smile spread across his beautiful face like a comet streaking across the night sky.
“You’re serious?”
“Not if you make me ask a third time.”
He laughed at that. “Can I cook for you?”
“Gods, you can cook, too? What can’t you do? Actually, don’t answer that,” Feyre shook her head. “I regret asking already. I get the sense that ego doesn’t need any more inflating.”
“Too true,” said a new voice. Feyre startled, turning to find not just one, but two others in the room with them. What was it about Rhys and the way he drew all her focus, making everyone else practically disappear?
“I’m Cassian,” said the man who’d just spoken, an imposingly tall and burly specimen who somehow managed to give the impression of a friendly golden retriever and a quietly lethal griffin at the same time. “I just tagged along with Az here to pick Rhys up.” The other man—Az—inclined his head in a silent greeting, studying Feyre with unreadable hazel eyes.
“Um,” Feyre said blankly. “Hello.” She realized suddenly that Rhys was in regular clothes, now, and was sitting on the edge of the bed with one unlaced shoe in his hands. “You’ve been discharged?” She sent a silent prayer to the Mother that she hadn’t accidentally burst in while he was changing.
“Yes, as long as I promise to behave myself until these stitches are out,” Rhys said, putting his other shoe on. “So, can I cook for you?”
“I guess.” Feyre watched his graceful, feline movements as he finished tying his laces and leaned over to grab a pen and pad of paper from the bedside table. He scribbled something on it quickly and handed it to her.
“My phone number and my address. Tomorrow night, around six?” he asked, his eyes soft and bright.
“Tomorrow? What, scared I’ll change my mind?” she teased, slipping the paper into her bag.
“Oh, terrified. It would break my heart,” Rhys said easily. He flicked her nose. “I don’t think you will, though.”
“Hey!” She rubbed her nose and rolled her eyes. “Tomorrow, then. Is six-thirty okay, instead?”
“Of course, Feyre darling.” He offered her another smile, and she stood there for a moment, transfixed.
Cassian cleared his throat. “Should we give you two some privacy?”
“Yes, go away.”
“No!” Feyre said quickly, embarrassed. “I’ll—I’m leaving. It was nice to meet you two. Um, I’ll text you, Rhys.”
“I’ll be waiting,” he said warmly.
Feyre had barely shut the door behind her when she heard Cassian exclaim delightedly, “You dog!”
She flushed, but grinned when Rhys responded, “Shut up, she’s literally just closed the door—ow, ouch, unhand me, you fiend!”
Hurrying away quickly, Feyre couldn’t keep the smile off her face if she tried. Tomorrow night couldn’t come fast enough.