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Dinner at the River House was, indeed, very interesting.
The long dining table was set in perfect, almost ceremonial elegance - Feyre’s taste clearly at work, down to the candlelight flickering through faceted goblets and the way the crystal decanters caught the glow like tiny stars. Roast meats steamed on gleaming silver platters, their scents mingling with faelight vegetables simmered in honey and herbs. Fresh bread sat nestled in napkin-lined baskets, courtesy of Elain and the twins, along with butter whipped with lavender and sea salt. Cutlery gleamed beside snow-white linens, and bowls of late summer berries glistened with sugar.
Elain sat wedged between Feyre and Mor, a glass of wine mostly untouched at her elbow, her cheeks far too warm for the temperature in the room. Conversations were lively around the table, and her gaze was going back and forth to everyone except the male sitting in front of her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to look at him - heaven knows she would look at him the whole night if she could. The problem was that every time she so much as dared to look at him, even for a second, she found his eyes already on her, with the same intensity as always. One that screamed mine, yours.
She was suddenly pulled out of her reveries.
“So,” Nesta said, swirling her wine as she leaned back in her chair, two seats across from her, “did you end up picking that blue dress after all?” Her tone was neutral, her face innocent. But there was a glint in her eye that had Elain instantly wary.
“I - yes,” Elain said quickly, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “It’s a nice color.”
“It is,” Nesta agreed with a slow smile. “And you managed to get dressed so fast. Must not have needed help with the zipper after all.”
Elain nearly choked on her food.
Across the table, Azriel’s head remained bowed slightly, shadows trailing around his shoulders like lazy smoke. He hadn’t said a word in nearly ten minutes, other than a polite nod and a few words when Feyre had asked if the training with the new recruits in the morning went well .
Cassian, never one to let an opportunity die, grinned at Elain from his seat beside Nesta. “Well, someone had a noisy afternoon.”
Elain looked up too quickly. “I, I was opening the window,” she blurted, far too fast. “There was a wasp.”
Cassian wiggled his brows. “Sure. Did you chase it or something ? Sounded like a whole bookshelf went over. Or a bed.”
Feyre blinked. “What?”
“It’s happened twice this week,” Cassian proclaimed, pointing a lazy finger across the table. “Both times in the afternoon. Elain’s room gets real enthusiastic with the ambient sounds.”
“I knocked over a vase!” Elain said, nearly squeaking.
“Mmhm,” Cassian drawled. “Bet that vase was named something like Kal, or maybe Thom. You know, something sturdy. Dorian, probably.”
Elain’s jaw dropped.
“Oh, so not the mysterious stranger we’re all placing bets on?” Mor chimed in with a wicked grin, clearly enjoying every second.
Feyre blinked. “Wait, what bets?”
Amren, sipping bloodred wine with the air of an amused cat, said, “Mor and Cassian started a pool. On who Elain is sneaking around with.”
Feyre’s brows shot up in surprise, Elain and her shrieking “Seriously?”.
“Completely,” Cassian said proudly. “My money’s on that healer from the Sidra infirmary. Tall, shy, looks like he blushes if someone breathes near him. Very Elain type.”
Elain gaped. She could feel Azriel tensing in front of her, half his shadows already engulfing her legs while the rest lingered around Azriel, ready to strike. “He reset my wrist once - ”
“Exactly,” Cassian interrupted with a wink. “Small touches, lingering hands. Classic origin story.”
“I voted for the Rainbow seamstress’s son,” Mor added with a sip of wine. “The tall one with the freckles? He’s always slipping her little smiles when she picks up gowns. Last week, he offered her a ribbon, saying it would complement her silky hair. So sensible, a real catch Ellie ! “ She feigned a swoon over her words.
“He’s barely eighteen!” Elain said, utterly scandalized.
“Sweetheart,” Amren said dryly, “that hasn’t stopped half this table from collecting lovers.”
Feyre laughed into her drink, clearly torn between amusement and sibling sympathy. “I thought it was the guy who always gives her those rose bouquets. He works at the café across from the gallery.”
“Oh, the flower guy!” Mor snapped her fingers. “You did blush last week when he said your dress matched the sky.”
“I blush all the time!” Elain cried, cheeks aflame now.
Nesta let her glass clink gently on the table. “All right,” she said loudly, “enough bets on my little sister’s sex life.”
Cassian pouted. “It’s a harmless tradition.”
“It’s nosy, inappropriate, and borderline creepy,” Nesta said, eyes glittering as she looked at him. “ If any of you want to keep your tongues, you’ll stop throwing random names around every time she so much as steps outside.”
Mor held up her hands, laughing. “Hey, I’m just here for the entertainment.”
“And for the record,” Nesta added with a feline smile, “if Elain was sneaking around, you wouldn’t know until she wanted you to. Which clearly, she doesn’t.”
Cassian threw up his hands. “Well now the mystery’s just going to eat me alive.”
Azriel still hadn’t spoken. But his shadows had grown darker. Thicker. His hand, gripping the wine glass, had gone white-knuckled. When he finally brought it to his lips, the rim cracked. A soft, precise snap that earned a pause from everyone closest to him.
Feyre, closest to the sound, flinched and looked over. “Az?”
He blinked, seeming to return from far away. “Sorry,” he murmured, gently setting the cracked glass down on the table. “Slipped.”
Only Elain saw the truth of it. The way his jaw had gone tight when the healer was mentioned, how his shoulders had stiffened at the talk of smiles and bouquets. His shadows, too, betrayed him - writhing like serpents every time someone tossed out another name. She could feel the tension rolling off him in waves, feel the sharp restraint it took to not react. To not claim. Under the linen tablecloth, her hand found his. She didn’t say a word. Just traced a slow, steady circle on the back of it, then another. And another. Azriel didn’t move. But his fingers relaxed beneath hers.
Nesta caught it, of course. Not the hand beneath the table, but the quiet exchange, the stiffening, the way Elain’s voice faltered less the longer her fingers traced those invisible paths. But Nesta said nothing. Always their secret to tell, never hers. So she just watched over the rim of her glass, her mouth curling into something unreadable.
Cassian, now stuffing a roll into his mouth, mumbled, “Still voting healer. Or maybe the pastry chef from the city square.”
Elain cleared her throat, face pink. “I like my alone time, thank you very much.”
“You and me both,” Amren muttered.
Feyre, ever the peacemaker, added quickly, “Let’s talk about something else. Has anyone seen Nyx’s new sketchbook? He drew a three-headed gryphon with a crown.”
“I helped him pick the glitter for it,” Mor said proudly. “Only got some in my eye.”
Cassian smirked. “The same eye that seems to keep spotting Elain’s alleged suitors?”
“Cassian,” Nesta warned, voice like silk over steel. She promptly slapped him behind his head.
He held up his hands, finally conceding - just as Elain, under the table, gently laced her fingers through Azriel’s.
Azriel didn’t smile. But his shadows loosened at his shoulders. Softened around his boots. The rigid line of his jaw eased slightly. And no one noticed how his thumb brushed - once, twice - against the back of her hand, tracing a slow, steady circle in return.