Chapter Text
It had been two months since Feyre returned to the Spring Court and found herself being married off to Tamlin. That was what it felt like—being “married off,” not finding nuptial bliss, not marrying the man—or Fae—of her dreams.
She didn’t know what her dreams were any more. Not since Amarantha, not since Under the Mountain. Feyre had fought so hard for Tamlin, her High Lord, and for herself. For their love. And although she had won, returning to the life she had dreamed of having seemed so much more like a loss.
She didn’t want to paint, and could barely eat or drink. It was difficult to turn to Tamlin for solace; he had his own nightmares of their time spent Under the Mountain to sort through. Besides, he was always going somewhere important, off to meet other Fae and see to settlements in the Spring Court. He often took Ianthe with him, and while the Priestess felt like almost the only friend she had, Feyre was not often sorry to see her go.
During the rare times when she sat down to a meal with Tamlin, or was allowed in an important meeting, it was like she was invisible. I feel like the Fae who I couldn’t see before Tamlin lifted that glamour, she observed gloomily one night. Those early days in the Spring Court seemed like a distant memory to her now, a life that belonged to someone else. She wished that she could talk to Tamlin about it, but he refused to allow her to join him on his errands, despite her frequent requests.
There was Lucien, of course. Out of everyone there, he was the only one who seemed to still see her. The only one who was willing to stand up to Tamlin, although even that had been minimal. Only that very morning, he had pulled Feyre to the side when she had shown every sign of ignoring Tamlin’s orders and heading straight to the stable for a horse.
"Give him time, Feyre,” Lucien had begged her. “He only wants to protect you. He saw you die, after all.” He looked at her with pain etched over his own face. “He thought he’d lost you. I thought I’d lost you.”
Was it just her imagination, or had he almost extended his hand as if to touch her face? He must have noticed the surprise and confusion in her eyes because he moved his hand away and put it on the door frame next to him.
Feyre bitterly acknowledged that if it wasn’t for Lucien’s interference, rare as it was, she would be a prisoner in her own home, not just in her new body. Still, Lucien was Tamlin’s friend before he was hers, and the way he had become subservient to his High Lord sickened her. What had happened to the rakish, devil-may-care Fae?
Although his biting sarcasm and droll insults used to grate on her nerves, Feyre had strangely become comfortable with Lucien during her stay in the Spring Court. His fierceness had seemed to unlock her own acerbic wit, and he was the first person to actually make her laugh, really laugh. There had been so many days and nights while Tamlin was away hunting that she and Lucien had dined together, gone riding together…
Now, Feyre was lucky if Tamlin let her mount a horse at all. Mounting him, however, that was something Tamlin was agreeable to, if not much else. Their lovemaking was hot and passionate, allowing Tamlin to unleash the beast that he truly was inside. Feyre wondered sometimes if the monster was Tamlin’s true self, and not the gentle person that Tamlin could be when he applied himself to it.
I wonder which one I fell in love with, and where he went, she thought miserably, then chastised herself for being unfair. Tamlin had his own trauma, yet whenever Feyre thought to bring something up, the baleful expression Tamlin gave her, along with assurances that they were now both safe, made the words die on her lips.
She was silenced, and Tamlin obviously never felt the need to ask her questions. He could even sleep through the nightmares that ravaged her, that led her to go vomit and shake on the bathroom floor.
It shouldn’t be this hard, she thought on more than one occasion. When you love someone, you love all of them. It seemed there was only one part of her that Tamlin truly loved. The rest of it, Feyre had begun to suspect, was just an obsession. A show of victory in winning the hand of Feyre Cursebreaker.
Not that it did him much good to show her off—outside of his manor, he went everywhere with Ianthe, the Priestess. Sometimes Lucien joined them, although Feyre suspected that he would have much rather stayed at home with her, counting how many marble tiles there were in the dining hall.
Ianthe had her eyes on Lucien, that much Feyre could see. She couldn’t blame the woman—Lucien was a very attractive male, with his gleaming red hair and sculpted physique. He was tall with golden skin, and the scar on one side of his face, along with the golden mechanical eye that offset his other russet one, only gave him an air of danger and mystery.
Feyre liked his scar, because she had scars, too. Not just the unmentionable tattoo from her ill-timed bargain with Rhys, but all of the scars she still had on the inside, the scars that she wasn’t sure would ever heal. How could she heal herself, when Tamlin never let her leave? When Ianthe made all of her decisions for her? Feyre wanted to protest, she wanted to scream and yell, but then those urges would suddenly diminish. What’s the point? She would wonder. The things I did to free Tamlin… I don’t deserve happiness. I don’t deserve forgiveness.
Still, she would try. She would demand Tamlin allow her to leave the estate. She would do it, if not for herself, then for them, so that they might heal together and feel something more than desperation as they clung to one another in the night.
Tamlin, she thought, was desperate to show his claim over her, to remind her that she was his, and that she needed to act accordingly. For her, she was just desperate to feel something again. Not just mindless sex, but the soul-connection she had once experienced with her High Lord.
Just when she had made up her mind to try harder, Tamlin announced that he had to leave for a week. Ianthe would go with him, and Lucien would stay. Feyre had a sinking feeling that the red-haired Fae was only staying to ensure that she wouldn’t try to leave.
Feyre spent most of her time in her room. She occasionally wandered the halls and would see Lucien there. Several times he seemed on the verge of asking her to accompany him on a hunt or a walk like they used to take when Tamlin was away from the manor, but instead, he would suddenly change the subject and wander off.
As the days went on, Feyre could sense Lucien watching her, more than he probably should. At first, she was certain that he just wanted to make sure she wasn’t trying to leave the grounds. But she noticed that even when she sat down for lunch or dinner, Lucien would watch her from across the table. They would carry on their normal banter, albeit a little more tense than usual, but… That roving golden mechanical eye seemed to penetrate deeper than her skin, and he would sometimes have a playful smile on his lips as he watched her over his golden wineglass.
What expression was there in his eyes? Concern, perhaps, but was there something else?
No, surely not. It was her own paranoia, her own fear of giving Tamlin something else to worry about. Lucian already had begged Tamlin to allow Feyre more freedom, but seemed to be more afraid of his friend becoming jealous than he was afraid Feyre might be truly unhappy.
Feyre still remembered how, on the night before Tamlin left, she had mentioned Lucien’s name in passing. They had just finished an exhausting round of lovemaking, and Tamlin was showing every sign of being ready for another.
It had been one of the rare times when Feyre had felt more like herself, and Tamlin had been giving her information—doled out, of course, between sensuous licks to her body, focused mainly between her legs. Tamlin had looked up, a murderous gleam in his eye, and said something about how he never wanted to hear another male’s name on her lips when they were in bed together.
Not that Tamlin needed to be jealous of her and Lucien, of course. Did he?
Although Feyre had thought about the red-haired son of the Autumn Court many times in her early days at the Spring Court—and in ways that made her glad his golden eye couldn’t see what she was thinking—it was clear that he had been acting as almost a matchmaker for Tamlin and Feyre. She knew now that it was because of the curse on the Spring Court, but sometimes Feyre wondered that, had there been no curse, would Lucien have tried to court her?
She wouldn’t let herself wonder too much what that would have been like. It wasn’t fair.
The next day, Feyre moved like a shadow through the hall, her hideous pink gown sweeping the floor with swishing noises. She hated the color, hated the style, but… Tamlin seemed to like it, and Ianthe had stripped her wardrobe of any other, useful clothing that Feyre might have liked.
As she turned the corner, she saw Lucien alone in the dining room, and she moved over to join him.
“Are you sure that gown isn’t too big to allow you to sit, Feyre?” He looked in amusement over his golden goblet.
“You seem to be in high spirits,” she said loftily, folding segments of fluffy tulle over her lap as she sat. “I wear this sort of thing daily, and you’ve not seen fit to ridicule me for it until now.”
“I got good news today.”
“Oh?”
“I’m going on a mission to a nearby village. They’re doing some rebuilding, and I’ll be away from this house, and that—” He suddenly looked nervous, and Feyre thought she knew what he was about to say.
That Priestess. The ones whose hungry eyes raked over him. The one who made every excuse possible to touch him, to move her hands over his hard body, down to his… Feyre choked on her wine.
“Are you all right, Feyre?” He smiled at her.
“How is it that you get to leave?” She replied grumpily, distracting herself from such dangerous images. “Why can’t I come?”
“Are you saying you’ll miss me?” He teased. Feyre watched the corner of his mouth turn upwards and her heart skipped a beat.
“Of course not,” she recovered quickly. “Why would I miss someone who barely notices me? I get enough of already. Except at night,” she added without thinking. Then it was Lucien’s turn to choke on his wine.
“Feyre!” His smooth voice was scandalized. “You shouldn’t discuss such things over dinner.”
She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the allusion to sex, or speaking ill of Tamlin that Lucien was censuring her for, but either way, she wouldn’t let it pass. Getting under each other’s skin used to be one of her and Lucien’s favorite pastimes.
“Why not?” She challenged, feeling suddenly exhilarated.
“Because for one, I am Tamlin’s best friend.” He wagged his finger at her. “He wouldn’t like to know you were speaking about such intimate things with me.”
“I haven’t said anything intimate… Yet.” She smiled at him, and his russet eye widened. “Not that he would know. He never asks me what I talk about or with whom, not even what I like to do, or how I’m doing.”
Lucien’s face fell. “Feyre, that’s—I’m sorry.”
“Don’t make excuses for him.” She picked at her food moodily. “Besides, you don’t really ask me either.”
“That’s not true.” He licked his lips nervously, as though he knew it was a lie.
“Aside from staring at me and making sure I don’t escape, you don’t want anything to do with me. I thought we were supposed to be friends.”
There, she’d said it.
“We are!” Lucien sounded shocked. He put down his goblet and leaned towards her across the table. “And that’s not why… It’s just… You don’t understand.” He sighed and ran his hands through his bright hair.
“Help me understand, then.”
“It’s—you—” Lucien seemed agitated.
“Cat got your tongue?” Feyre asked testily. Then she laughed, in spite of herself. “I can’t believe Lucien has nothing to say. It’s so rare such a thing happens.”
“I can’t talk to you seriously with that dress on,” he argued, which only made her laugh harder. Somehow, the laughter filled that hole in her heart, that void she’d felt ever since she’d heard those two faeries beg for their lives beneath her blade. The knowledge that she had been so somber for so long seemed to snap something inside of her.
“I can remedy that,” she said. Standing up and looking around to make sure no one else was nearby, Feyre began ripping at the garment, tearing the petal-soft fabric away from her.
I hate this dress. I hate this life.
She laughed as she tore huge panels of the skirt away and ripped off the puffy sleeves, almost oblivious to Lucien’s shock at her actions. It was almost healing, as if shredding the fabric was also shedding some of the burden she had been carrying.
“Stop, Feyre!” Lucien ran over to her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making you take me seriously,” she told him, gasping with her efforts.
“Feyre!” Lucien took her by the shoulders and shook her. “Stop this madness!”
Something in his eyes made her cease her movements, and her shoulders slumped.
Looking down, Feyre saw that her skirt was in shreds, one side of it ripped to her hip, showing her lacy pink underwear beneath it. Tulle and pastel fabric littered the marble floor in puffs and wisps. The dress was barely clinging to her shoulders now, drooping down to show the tops of her breasts barely contained in a tight bustier that matched the bottoms. Her nipples were almost visible through the thin lace.
She looked up. Lucien had stopped shaking her. His eyes roved over her body.
He must be shocked at the state of me, she realized, unsure what had come over her. His slender hand reached up to the side of her cheek.
“Feyre,” he rumbled. “I didn’t know.”
What? What didn’t he know? That she had already grown so distant from Tamlin that even their lovemaking was only a meaningless distraction? Or was it the fact that she could already feel heat pulsing through her body at his touch?
“Can you take me seriously now?” She whispered, looking up into his eyes, and something flashed between the two of them.
Lucien didn’t say anything, although Feyre saw a momentary agony in his eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. She kept telling herself to walk away, but her feet didn’t seem to be moving. Flames licked at her core as she stared at Lucien, and she felt her face redden. The agony in his gaze faded and a heated yearning replaced it; it started as just an ember, but as he dragged his eyes over her body, it kindled to a full flame as he leaned down and kissed her.
His sensuous lips crashed down on hers hungrily, drowning out any protests she might have made. Lucien’s tongue parted her soft lips, and Feyre found herself opening to him like a flower, encircling his tongue with her own. A shudder ran down her body at the fire that had sprung up between them. They explored each other’s mouths greedily, and Feyre almost came undone at the taste of him, the smell of him, the enthusiasm of his lips and tongue as he tilted her head back to gain access to her long neck.
Lucien’s arms lowered down to her waist, so small from her weeks of refusing food, and pulled her tightly to him. He licked his way down her throat, each inch making her shiver with desire she didn’t know that she could still feel. Wanting to taste him again, she caught his face in her hands and urged his mouth back to hers.
“Lucien,” she panted weakly as they both caught their breath. “I—I—” Feyre didn’t know what she would say, only that her core was molten at his touch, at the taste of him. Warming and filling and… She wanted him. Cauldron, how she wanted him. The knowledge of that desire rocked her, and just as she put her hand on his hard chest to steady herself, Lucien pushed her away from him roughly.
“Put some clothes on,” he hissed. “Before anyone sees you.”
“But—” She looked at him, biting her bottom lip.
“But nothing. I never should have done that.”
“I didn’t mind,” Feyre responded bravely.
“You don’t get it!” Lucien cried out, his brows knit together in frustration. “You and I—it can’t happen. Tamlin is expecting the mating bond to click into place for the both of you at any time. After that, things will be well.”
“Is that what he thinks?” Hot anger replaced the desire that had been burning her up. “That some magical mating bond will happen and make everything okay again? Nothing will be okay again, Lucien! Nothing will be change how he’s neglected me, how he ignores me, how we don’t even know how to communicate!”
“But when you’re mated,” Lucien said worriedly, “things will be different. Or if he gets you with child, you’ll—”
“What?” Feyre roared. “I never consented to that.”
Tamlin’s child. She couldn’t even imagine it. Yet she hadn’t been taking her contraceptive drink… She’d always thought Tamlin would take care of such things. What a fool she’d been to trust him.
“You wouldn’t want to sire a High Lord’s heir?” Lucien asked her, his eyes full of skepticism. “Most Fae females would beg for the chance.”
“I’m hardly Fae as it is,” Feyre hissed, turning her anger on the male that, moments ago, she had been seeing in a completely new light. “No, I don’t want his child. I’d rather anything but that. I’d rather have your child,” she said without thinking, and then put her hand up to her mouth. She didn’t mean it.
But then the image was suddenly in her mind of Lucien, his cock throbbing deep inside of her, filling her with his seed…
Lucien seemed aware of her shift in desire, possibly even scented it on her, because his pupils dilated as he looked at her, his breathing heavy. Then he shook his head.
“Don’t tempt me, Feyre.” He almost groaned, and then walked quickly out of the room.