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acourtofquestions · 3 months ago

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THRONE OF GLASS SERIES SPOILERS

While Aelin losing her powers is sad; primarily because she loved her powers and spent a long time without them, then fighting for them back, and accepting herself with it. And also they’re cool… but so is she (regardless :-)

It’s important to remember she never needed them. Not in this sense at least.

She carries the same power level of Heir of Fire, where she makes shields and daggers of flame, and can hold her own against Skin-walkers & terrors. Then in combination with Rowan as her Carranam she pushes past burn-out & wipes the Mistward slate clean of the Valg Generals; something she still maintains, only now imbued along with her own Cadre.

In the following book, these things remain, as Queen of Shadows sees her once again without magic, or fae form (meaning she’s more powerful now in a post-KoA world then she was than). It reminds us again, that she is more than capable of acting without them (and frankly kicking-ass; she takes out a lot of Valg with nothing but her wit & skill).

As she had for the prior three books: she got through all of those on her own, without fae strength, without firepower, she became “The Assassin of Adarlan” she won as the “King’s Champion” that alone was just her, without even a team or an army at her back. Or arguably one of the bigger strengths she gains; something worth fighting for.

And, as Kingdom of Ash takes time to show: she makes it through half the battles without her power at all. Anielle was greatly overpowered by her & the cadre, and not a lick of flame touched that battlefield. Only did it announce itself to save them from the dam (not from the fighting). Along with another demonstration/reminder that she began breaking out of the iron coffin without her power, that was pure fae strength alone (of which she maintains).

And in all of that she did keep the piece dearest to her: her mother’s magic, her droplet of water, of Mab, of healing. One that can grow over a thousand years, as Rowan said (albeit jokingly but truthfully). …And a gift of Mala, flame much like that of Essar… and now without the fear it once carried for her of “having no end”. Besides, her truest power always rested in Fireheart — a name not of power, but of her; her strength, her will, her intelligence. Herself. That was what mattered. And matters going forward.

Especially in this new world, where that plot was needed: without it, you would have an unchecked power-scale, in a reset world, with no villains to fight, no gods ruling, only her & Dorian with their powers at those levels without need; when the world desperately needed a reset so it didn’t collapse in a single battle between such sources. … And even more importantly you would miss the “Heroes Journey” of losing everything, of prices paid that are not all fixed (sad as it is; it is a price, no refunds). And more than anything, you would lose the arc; Aelin paid the price (and while I do not believe she had some debt due, that she owed Terrasen; because again SHE WAS EIGHT AND KIDNAPPED BY AN ASSASSIN… what was she supposed to do? But now any of those that were argued are gone… perhaps she needed that herself more than anyone else).

And while I know this led to frustration for some that “the hero” did not defeat “the villain” in the end… I’d beg to differ, and think it was important to the arc going forward: starting with the fact that Aelin had nothing to prove in it. Whether it be with her sword of flame & the assistance of her Carranam/Cadre (which did not make her weak or “dependent” on men; no this was strength in working together with her friends), or with her fists & nothing more, or with a gods’ arsenal of flame & power & starlight, the truth stays the same; we all knew her strength & capability. But her soul; her heart of fire (that we knew), had yet to live without that weight (of the world, of fate, of the power & sacrifice) all solely on her shoulders. To trust them in carrying that with her, for her, together. And to be fully be a part of the team that she assembled (somewhat accidentally) but threads pulled nonetheless. Aelin did not accomplish it alone, for she had never needed to. And for the first time that is shown. And she was not alone, never to be again. … Making it a huge breakthrough for all of them.

Because this was not a story of a singular hero… or even villain. It was rather complex in the latter to begin with. So this was crucial, especially for her character to have grown; to have asked for help, to allow it. And even the contrast to have The Assassin not be the one to deal the final blows; because that is not all she is, (will be, or has ever been). Nor was this her fight, not anymore. It had been so many people’s fights both before and after it was hers… from Elena’s, to the elder King Dorian’s, Marion’s, Josefin’s, even Sam’s… because they & that fight had led them all here. Them; the original trio of Chaol (his new-found wife), Dorian (his power another catalyst & hero), and Aelin (fully embraced in her name and story. And to the many they found through themselves; Yrene (as aforementioned), Manon, Lysandra, Elide, etc.

And because Erawan was not her death to take — if anything, it was Dorian’s. He needed it. It belonged to the threads & the lost children of it: it was Elide’s for her mother who died by the Assassin of Erawan to save Aelin to bring them here, it was Yrene’s for her mother Josefin who died to save her daughter from a fate Erawan set into motion & sent Yrene running into to unwittingly stop him, it was a team; Lysandra, Nesryn, all of them. From old to new. Those who came before. And those who will follow after (including the child Yrene is fighting for in these moments, just as their mothers had). Teams that can build a better world going forward (beyond this war), and set them up to bring the many broken countries together (now the leaders of Adarlan, Rifthold, Anielle, the Ferian Gap, Terrasen, Orynth, Perranth, the Wastes, the Southern Continent (all the way down to the Healers of the Torre & connections to Ellywe & the Far of Doranelle). — And one that they paid for together… They all carried a price too: Dorian whose power also got downgraded in check for the same reason as Aelin’s (though not to the same extent), Yrene who broke her oath to never take a life to save the lives of many others (& while the Valg King debatably didn’t break an oath as “life” within the Valg is very messy to begin with) she still gave an awful lot for it (& did it with help once again), Elide who faced it brave as her mother. As I said, this was theirs. — Dorian whose father was not the true villain yet would be remembered & forgotten as such, Dorian who needed to know, Dorian the King his country needed & his father had fought for, his father who was as forgotten & twisted & fallen as that very place. Yrene, who had been led here, who had followed the sound of where she was needed and braved it over & over, just as the Towers women had for centuries; it was their closure. Elide… who in combination with the latter represented the love that fought from day one, that did not yield, that gave their lives to spare their children all in hopes for a better world (knowing they would not live to see it; they paid that price). And in doing so, it repeated, every player on the board; another mother giving it all to build a better world for her child’s future, a son of King Dorian; of Gavin & Elena, who remembered their names, a daughter who was brave & unafraid as Aelin and mother that had taught them both that (Marion). The first children of the fallen, and the last to fall.

And when it came to Maeve; it was equal. It was Rowans, for Lyria, for his child, for all she had done to them; to Aelin, to his brothers, to him. Lorcan, for every dark, twisted misery he endured for her. Fenrys… the one Aelin offered the final blows too because after centuries of not knowing freedom, of losing everyone (much like herself) she knew he had felt it just as much as she had. And of course, Aelin, for Rowan, for Fenrys, for her Cadre, for the Lion, for Aedion, for her mother, for herself. And with their help, all together, even without power, they could do it; together only the arc does not end there, no, it is met with mercy within her end, facing it & rising above it.

In consensus: Aelin is still incredibly powerful. As is her court. This is a new world, a reset to the scale. This is a book with consequences, and those will always ache. But there is more than just that ache. Because this arc is beyond a hero and villain; it is a story of love, of friends, of family, of mercy, of kindness, of fighting & living & going on. And that will always hold magic. Regardless of if she is a firebringer, or human… regardless of who beat who in the end… they did; together; as who they are.

& For me, while hard to process in some pieces & sad, I actually think this was the only way to do it properly. Not some “epic failure of the hero not defeating” the “main villain”, but an inevitable arc of character growth that could not come without that teamwork & passing of things to fully flesh out the storyline. And as one that is true to the fact, it is full of many heroes.

Such as The Thirteen, who broke the curse, (and our hearts)… and while I wish they had not or at least Asterin had survived; even Manon said it earlier, the Matron was Asterin’s, for her, for all of them, for every Witchling that came before and would come after. The Thirteen (who were meant to save Manon) & to save the world; who defied every rule by how they loved, and lived… and who died as one. In a way, that was a well-written story, not a “cry points” death of senseless heartbreak (overwhelming, yes, but not a last-minute script change of insanity), nor was it one to (unfortunately) receive a reversal; because it was such a powerful moment to lead to the better end of broken curses & saved worlds… and I don’t know how the story would’ve gone otherwise… None of these moments were solely their own. Nor were they simple. This is how you do it in a story, one with many points of view and plots, and where “yes”: Aelin is “the hero” but she is not the entire story. … Or at least it’s what I’m pondering right now, lol.

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i-only-see-daylight · 11 months ago

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Rowan: Do you have a bobby pin?

Lorcan: Yeah. *searches in his hair* Lorcan: Oh, no, wait. I’m not a nine-year-old girl.

Fenrys: Really? Then why do ya throw like one?

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alice-bad-thoughts · 1 year ago

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I just realized a very funny and strange thing. If Gavriel were a mortal sin, he would probably be Lust. Lorcan would be Wrath. Connal would be Pride, Rowan would be Sloth and Fenrys would be Gluttony. I’m done. Move on, sleep easy, but don’t forget this shit.

#rowan whitethorn #throne of glass #gavriel #lorcan salvaterre #rowaelin #fenrys moonbeam #connall moonbeam #sjm #sjmaas #sarah j maas #the cadre

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leiawritesstories · 10 months ago

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PART EIGHT: AUGUST

Word count: 6.2k

Warnings: oh god swearing, scheming, angst, implied/referenced smut, mentions of grief, short depiction of a funeral, more scheming, Maeve, and angst (xoxo, Frederick)

all the thanks to @house-of-galathynius & @mariaofdoranelle for being the best betas ever <3

enjoy ;) i'm so sorry

Masterlist

Read on AO3

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Fenrys’s memorial was held on a brilliantly sunny, warm morning in early August. The sky was clear, pure cerulean, not a single wisp of cloud scuffling across its expanse, a mockingly cheerful backdrop for the somber group of people gathered in the cemetery. It was almost as if Fenrys Moonbeam, ever one to flash his blindingly bright grin in the wrong situations, had sent an especially bright day as a last vestige of himself.

Standing rigid and stoic-faced in his full Terrasen Special Forces dress uniform, Rowan was flanked by Gavriel, also in full uniform, on his right and Aelin, in a simple black dress and heels, on his left. Her slender fingers were linked closely with his, her simple touch and her steady presence lending him the strength he desperately needed to hold himself together. For the moment, his theories were suspended, and they were just Rowan and Aelin, just two people mourning the loss of a dear friend.

When he’d found out about Fen… Rowan barely had clear memories from that night, but he did remember one thing—Aelin. Her voice on the other end of his phone, holding him together. He’d raced to the Gal Inc lab complex after receiving a call from one of the lab’s security guards, and he’d stormed through that building, the room tilting and blurring the moment he stepped inside, caught a lungful of that sharp, scorching chemical scent, saw the ruined form on the ground, and known he was too late.

His call to Aelin was one of pure desperation, and she was the only way he’d made it home.

Gav lifted his chin slightly, and Rowan gently loosened his fingers from Aelin’s grasp and stepped up beside his commander. Beside the simple bronze urn. On Aelin’s other side, Aedion Ashryver linked his arm through hers, the cousins acting as each other’s support.

“We thank Lieutenant Fenrys Alastair Moonbeam for his service, and we commend his soul to the Afterlife.” Gav pronounced the words solemnly, his voice only slightly wavering, and he and Rowan carefully, reverently, lifted the urn into its open mausoleum. Rowan held his salute until Gav had placed the headstone, then stepped back to Aelin’s side.

The gentle squeeze of her hand spoke louder than any words. I am here. I am with you.

As the small group of people began to disperse, Rowan lingered, taking a quiet moment to lay his gloved hand on the headstone and silently scream. Dammit, Moonbeam, it was never supposed to be you!

“It’s already quieter,” Aelin murmured, coming to stand next to him.

Rowan nodded, throat bobbing thickly. “I’ll never get used to it.”

“I know.” She leant into his side, her unspoken sorrow recognizing his grief. “I love you, Rowan, you know.”

“I love you too.” He slipped his arm around her waist, partially for comfort and partially for support as they walked away from the mausoleum, the bright summer sun beaming down upon the stone and tile.

“Can I ask you something, love?” Rowan wasn’t even the smallest bit ashamed to admit he was laying on his girlfriend’s comfortable couch wearing sweats and an old t-shirt, his head in her lap, her fingers running soothingly through his cropped hair.

“Anything.” Aelin brushed her touch down the slope of his cheekbone, thumb stroking his jaw.

“How do…how did you know Fen?”

She swallowed, her eyes going distant for a moment. “Gav introduced us; you know how my dear uncle likes to meddle in my love life.” She chuckled. “Fenrys was…the first TSF man that I felt like I could be myself with, you know? He wasn’t a stiff-backed soldier, and he wasn’t lecherous, just flirty.”

“He was good at that,” Rowan agreed.

“Granted, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Fenrys—probably not since my company’s Christmas party, and Gav was busy parading men in front of me for most of that event.” A soft, sad smile curled the corners of her lips. “He could always make me laugh.”

“Fen made everyone laugh.” Rowan sat up, moving so he could pull Aelin into his lap and wrap his arms around her. “Gav complained about it, but he was never going to stop it.”

Aelin relaxed into Rowan’s embrace, the tension that normally lined her spine loosening, allowing her to sink into his warmth. She didn’t say anything else, but the soul-deep compassion he saw in her turquoise gaze burrowed into his heart, warming the coldness of grief. He kissed the top of her head gently, softly, and ran his open hands up and down her back.

She didn’t know how much time passed there, in comfortable silence, before she spoke again. “Will you write him into your tattoos?”

“Of course.” Rowan had told Aelin the story of his tattoos a few months ago, on a balmy spring evening when the two of them were sprawled in each other’s arms sans clothing. He gave her the stories behind the symbols, the meaning behind the ink he wore on his skin. In return, she told him about the dragon on her back, the piece a work of bold, fearless, unconquerable power, the image of a leader who was unafraid to spew fire if necessary. Her tattoo was a unique piece; she and her artist had worked on designing it for months before she got the tattoo done.

“Good.” She traced the fluid script on his chest. “He…no one should die so young.” She knew her words hinted at something beyond the friendship she’d mentioned, but she also knew she couldn’t just brush off Rowan’s questions. She had known Fenrys, and she’d been close with him. Celaena had been close with him.

She only hoped that Rowan wouldn’t discover Fenrys and Celaena’s ties for a long, long time.

Connall Moonbeam stood opposite the Queen of the Night and willed his expression to remain unruffled despite the gaping hole in his heart.

“Does it truly not concern you at all, ma’am, that my brother died?” He kept his question as neutral as possible, aiming his concern not at his brother, but at the coldhearted woman who’d sent Fenrys to his death.

Maeve hummed noncommittally. “There are certain risks involved with infiltrating a highly secure, tightly guarded space, particularly when that space is owned by a criminal who is jealous of her silly little tech. Fenrys knew and accepted those risks.”

Con gritted his teeth. “Certain risks? We had planned that he would be able to bypass all of the known traps, even the final one.”

“Clearly, that final security measure was altered. Sardothien most likely anticipated that there would be attempts made to steal her inventions.” Maeve fixed her icy violet gaze onto Con. “As it stands, we know that there is a trap rigged within the storage compartment itself, so that will need to be disabled when we return to the labs to take what we came for.”

“Do you think it will be a simple task?” You can’t kill her yet, he told himself. Not. Yet.

She shrugged. “Perhaps. But perhaps not. Sardothien is young, but she is not inexperienced.”

“Obviously.” Con put more sarcasm into that word than he’d intended.

Maeve arched one dark brow. “Connall, do you require some time alone? To plan, perhaps?” Her question seemed polite, but ice underlaid it.

“I believe I do, ma’am. Forgive me.” He dipped his head, and when she dismissed him, he left her office, quietly closing the door behind himself, and strode down the hallways to his small, simple, blessedly private room. He gave himself exactly five minutes to silently rage before he pulled his burner phone from his jacket pocket and dialed Celaena Sardothien.

She picked up almost immediately. “Con?”

“Boss.” He didn’t bother trying to mask the pain in his voice. “She’s going to stage another break-in at the labs. It’s barely been two weeks since my—since Fen—since my brother was buried.” Although his room was soundproof, he was careful to keep his words just vague enough for anyone who might be listening to assume he was speaking about Sardothien. Everyone knew the Boss was Maeve’s next target, so it made sense for her men to be discussing her schemes.

“I know.” Celaena’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle, nothing like the Boss’s typical commanding tone. “What’s she changing?”

“She thinks she can disarm the trap that…the bomb rigged in the storage compartment.”

“First of all,” Celaena drawled, “it’s not a bomb. I’m not a goddamn brute. Secondly, what do you want to do to counteract her plans?”

“Boss?” Con was confused.

She sighed. “Con, you’re thinking of a way to stop Maeve, aren’t you?”

“Never a day when I don’t think about driving my knife through her throat.”

“Alright. So, what do you think you can do—reasonably and subtly, because Maeve isn’t going to be easy to assassinate. Trust me. I’ve been scheming about how to do that for years.”

“Well, there’s always controlled doses of non-lethal poisons. You know, things that gradually weaken a victim but aren’t deadly. It’s the kind of thing that’s usually used when you’re trying to get the victim to a point where they’re easy to kill.” Con was half thinking out loud, but the plan took shape as he spoke.

“Do you have access to that kind of poison?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Celaena paused, and Con swore he could hear the Boss’s thoughts whirring. “Get her weak enough that you can easily tranquilize her and bring her to the river warehouse. I’ll let you do the honors there, if you want.”

“Believe me,” Con all but growled, “there is nothing I want more. She sent my brother to die.”

“Understood.” Papers rustled on Celaena’s end of the call. “Keep me posted, yeah?”

“Of course.” Click. The call ended.

Con took a deep, controlled breath, tucked his phone back in his pocket, and strolled out of his room, heading for the storage rooms. Maeve’s men were used to seeing him in that part of the building, since most of his work required supplies, so nobody batted an eye when he walked in. It only took a few minutes to find a bottle of the stuff he needed, and he plucked it off the shelf and tucked it into his sleeve.

It would probably take at least another two months, but Maeve would fall.

He owed that debt to his brother.

Aelin snapped her laptop closed with a frustrated huff and ran her hands through her loose braid. Gods. Only halfway through August, and she felt like she was being run ragged. She had a seller up her ass for a shipment that was one day delayed, her PR team kept asking when she was going to give that interview she’d promised to the Orynth Morning Show, Orynth PD and the TSF kept wanting to talk to her, and as if work wasn’t enough, she had a Boss crisis to deal with.

Because some asshole had gone and leaked Fenrys’s apartment to PD.

There were two security cameras at the Boss’s apartment, one at the front and the other at the back window, and Aelin got notified anytime one of the cameras picked up some suspicious activity. She had checked the camera feed two days ago and found, for lack of a better term, a shitload of cops crawling around the building. They were there for Fen’s apartment, but…she was only one floor below.

It was enough to make her already-bad insomnia worse.

Breaking through Aelin’s drifting thoughts, Elide knocked three times on Aelin’s office door and stuck her head in. “Hey.”

“Hey, Ells.” Aelin snapped herself back into work mode. “Is someone here?”

“You could say that,” Elide grumbled. “Some TSF grouch says he’s supposed to meet with you.”

Aelin raised a brow. “How about I come out to the main office and chat?”

“Sure.” Elide walked with Aelin out to the more open main area, where there was indeed a grouchy, scowling, massively tall man wearing a TSF jacket slouched against Elide’s desk.

He raised his dark brows into an expression of utter indifference. “Is this conversation going to happen in front of just anyone?”

Elide’s dark eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. “I work for Aelin.”

“You her cute little secretary?” Aelin could have sworn some kind of amusement crinkled the soldier’s face.

“Chief Operations Officer, actually. Gal Inc. couldn’t run without me.” She spoke lightly, but Aelin sensed some inexplicable kind of…tension…between the two.

“Mhmm. And I’m the god of the sun,” the soldier deadpanned.

“You’re just another disposable soldier, Salvaterre,” Elide returned, almost viciously. Salvaterre. That would make him Rowan’s captain…Lorcan.

Lorcan Salvaterre bristled. “I’m a ranking officer of the TSF.”

“And if you die on duty, you’ll be just another plaque in the ground,” Elide said sweetly. “Isn’t that what you just said about your supposed TSF brother?” She fixed Lorcan with the stare she used when she was bending investors to her will.

“Ummm…” To Aelin’s concealed shock, Lorcan actually blushed, stumbling for words, scratching the back of his neck. “In hindsight, that was callous of me.”

“You could say that.” Dismissively, Elide turned back to her computer. “Oh, Aelin is here. You said something about a meeting?”

Lorcan stood sharply up and, instinctively, saluted. “Salvaterre here.”

“The consummate soldier.” Aelin smothered her laughter. “I wasn’t aware I had any kind of meeting scheduled with the TSF today, Captain.”

“You can call me Lorcan,” he muttered. “And, uh, Whitethorn sent me.”

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“My god—” Lorcan grumbled under his breath. “I can show you the text if you want, but he didn’t tell me shit either. Just ‘go ask if Galathynius knows anything about Fen’s apartment.’ Fuck if I know what he meant by that.”

“You might want to remember that you’re in public,” Elide interjected, critiquing Lorcan’s uncensored language.

He scoffed. “I’m a soldier, Li, like you so astutely observed. Soldiers cuss.”

Salvaterre has a nickname for Elide?! Aelin forcibly tamped down her questions. “I’m afraid I have no idea what on earth my boyfriend meant, either. I’m sorry.”

“I knew you were going to say that. Screw Whitethorn for making me do this.” Lorcan frowned, which seemed to be his usual expression. “Alright, if that’s it, I don’t need to be here.” He turned on his heel with a soldier’s precision and strode out of the office, trying to mask the brief, intense glance he threw at Elide as he left. Clearly, Rowan hadn’t told him how observant Aelin could be.

When he was out of sight, Aelin braced her hands on Elide’s desk and stared at the petite brunette until she turned around, her face carefully blank. “So how long have you two been fucking?”

Elide flushed bright pink. “Aelin!” She swatted the taller woman. “That’s none of your business.”

“Not at work, maybe.” Aelin grinned, eagerly drumming her fingers on the desk. “You know I’m going to bother you until I get details, right?”

“And you’ll get all the details you want when we go out on Friday.” Elide composed herself and flashed a smug little smirk at Aelin. “I’ll only tell you one thing.”

“Gimme.”

Elide’s smirk turned wicked. “Last Monday, I worked remotely because I couldn’t walk.”

“Ells!” Aelin gasped, almost stunned speechless. “Actually, no. I can’t judge.”

“You sure as hell can’t.” Elide winked as she turned back to her computer. “It’s always the broody, grumpy ones.”

“Dear god.” Aelin laughed as she walked back to her office. Elide and Salvaterre—she definitely hadn’t seen that coming.

But the more she thought about it…the more she dreaded what could happen.

Rowan hated the industrial district.

It didn’t have anything to do with class politics or some bullshit superiority complex, but more with the eerie feeling of being watched he had every time he was in that district. There was also the little fact that one of his recurrent nightmares featured a memory from a training mission gone horribly wrong in this district, but that wasn’t something he intended to address. Typically, when the TSF or Orynth PD had a call for an investigation site down in the industrial sprawl of southeast Orynth, he would dispatch a team and tell them to bring back their report, but he couldn’t push this scene onto anyone else.

He had to go to Fen’s stakeout apartment in person.

The creaky, probably mildewing door groaned as Rowan pulled it open and walked into the simple, shitty, one-bedroom apartment that Fenrys had lived in while he worked for Sardothien. There wasn’t much in the place—a dark green couch and a pair of mismatched side tables in the living room, an old, worn dining table with three chairs, some random dishes in the cupboards, a bed with plain gray sheets and an offensively bright pink comforter that was purely Fenrys’s style, a nightstand with two drawers. Rowan was hesitant to open those drawers, knowing too well what Fen always bragged he kept in his room, but to his relief, there wasn’t much in the nightstand. The only things he found were some newspapers, a few knives, one stray bullet casing, and two cheap burner cell phones.

Two?

He shrugged, assuming Fen had bought another one for backup, pocketed both phones, and left the room. The kitchen, living room, and bathroom were already cleared out thanks to the team, and he tipped his head towards the bedroom, indicating that it was ready for cleanup.

When the team left the apartment, Rowan had to let Luca be the one to lock the door. He couldn’t bear to see the emptiness, the blank space, the visible mark of absence. Fen’s phones felt like hundred-pound weights in his pocket as he climbed into his SUV and drove away, leaving the industrial district no more than a gritty smear in his rearview mirror.

Back at his PD office, Rowan placed the cheap prepaid phones on his desk, turning each one over in his hands before he set them down and just stared, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do next. The investigator in him wanted to immediately search through the phones, the soldier in him wanted to just give the phones to Gav and be done with it, and the part of him that was Fen’s friend wanted to lock away all the evidence in a titanium box and bury the key. He dreaded what could happen, what would happen, when he eventually had to turn on the phone and hear Fen’s voicemail.

As a TSF soldier, Rowan was no stranger to death. Grief, though—that one was new.

His own phone buzzed, stealing his attention. He picked it up to find an incoming call from Lorcan Salvaterre. Groaning, he answered.

“What.”

“Am I supposed to thank you for sending me on some bullshit-ass trip?” Lorcan sounded at least mildly irritated.

“Don’t see how a legitimate question was bullshit, but sure. You’re welcome.”

“Fuck off,” Lorcan grumbled. “As for your answer, Galathynius doesn’t—”

“Her name is Aelin,” Rowan snapped.

On the other end of the call, Lorcan snickered. “Aww, is pretty boy lieutenant a little sensitive about his girlfriend?”

Rowan was about ten seconds away from punching his captain in the nose. “I don’t give a shit how superior you are to me, jackass, I’ll still kick your ass if you disrespect the woman I love.”

“Well, turn me over and fuck me raw,” Lorcan drawled. “Whitethorn’s in love. We should check the temperature in hell.”

“Fucking gods,” Rowan sighed, exasperated. “Yes. I’m in love. Tell me what you and Aelin talked about and then stop wasting my goddamn time.”

“Fine, fine.” Lorcan snickered some more. “Aelin and I talked for about sixty seconds, fuck you very much for making me ask her that stupid fucking question. I asked if she knew anything about Fen’s apartment, she told me she didn’t fuckin’ know what I was talking about, and her body language and expression and everything else checked out for her telling the truth. So I apologized for you being a dick and making me bother her, and then I left.”

Rowan grunted in frustration. “Yeah, I believe her too. There’s part of me that wants to keep pushing that suspicion, but I literally have nothing that proves any kind of link. She just mentioned that she sort of knew Fen, once, and I gotta cover my bases.”

“Makes sense. You could’ve told me that before I had to haul ass over to Gal Inc and bullshit my way past half the staff just to see Aelin Galathynius for two minutes, though.” Lorcan was clearly disgruntled.

“Where’d the fun be in that?” It was Rowan’s turn to snicker; he rarely got to push Lorcan’s buttons, and the few times he could give the man who was technically his superior a mundane task, he did it with glee.

“Fucker,” Lorcan grunted. “I’ll kick your damn ass at the gym for that.”

“And here I thought you had plans and couldn’t work out today. At least, not with me.” Rowan smirked. He had two hundred dollars riding on Lorcan’s “plans” being with a woman, though the tight-lipped asshole would never admit it outright.

“Turns out my plans are late enough to make the gym. See you there, asshole.” Lorcan hung up.

Rowan chuckled. There was really nothing like riling up an old friend to get his head off of things that he didn’t want to think about. Speaking of that…he reluctantly picked up one of Fen’s phones and pressed the side button, turning on the small screen. He knew the passcode, so he tapped it in and found the home screen fairly simple, with only a handful of basic apps. The list of contacts was brief and basic.

Whitethorn. Him, as planned.

Salvaterre. As a backup contact.

Help Center. An auto-programmed number for the phone company.

Boss. That was…surprisingly simple. Rowan’s finger twitched, but there was one more contact.

Ma’am. That was…confusing. If Sardothien was Boss, why was she also Ma’am? Some kind of ploy to distract anyone who swiped the phone? Some nonexistent fake contact?

His gut pointed towards the contact called Boss, since he knew from the few times he’d talked to Fen that Sardothien went by “Boss” among her circle of crooks. Hell, Fen had even called her “Boss,” no doubt to keep his cover intact.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Rowan tapped Boss. The phone rang, five times, before there was a click and a male voice answered.

“Who’s this?”

“I need the Boss.” Rowan pitched his voice down to a rasp, his mind whirling in circles as he tried to identify why the fuck a man was answering for Sardothien and why the fuck his voice sounded familiar.

Computer keys clacked faintly in the background. “Boss can’t talk right now.”

“Why not?”

“Boss can’t talk right now,” the man reiterated. “Keep trying.” He hung up.

That last suggestion sounded distinctly like a threat, mildly voiced but wrapped in something sinister that promised, I will hunt you down and kill you. Rowan shuddered a bit just thinking about it.

But why was there a man on the other end of that call?

He sighed, shaking his head sharply. Because Sardothien is a goddamn crime boss, you fucking idiot. Of course she doesn’t answer her phone without security measures. That made sense, except for a few things. First, according to Fen’s info, Sardothien trusted him enough that she would have probably answered the call herself if she’d seen his name. Second, there was something oddly familiar about the other man’s voice, something Rowan couldn’t place. And that bothered the hell out of him. Third, he still hadn’t looked at the other phone.

Something told him he might have better luck with the other burner.

He turned on the second phone, which was a near-identical copy of the first, entered the passcode, and opened the contacts. This one was an exact replica of the first contact list, except for one thing.

Con.

Fen’s twin brother.

Fen’s twin brother, who had last been seen over two years ago when he left for the Eastern Continent on what was supposed to be his last deployment with the Terrasen Navy SEAL team. Connall Moonbeam had been declared missing in action eight months after his deployment, and Rowan’s heart broke a little more just seeing Con’s name in Fen’s burner phone. It was a small but infinitely loud reminder of the man Fenrys had been—ever optimistic, always masking his darker emotions beneath a cloud of sunny laughter.

Before he could drift farther into memories, Rowan pushed away from that contact and tapped on the one called Boss. Once again, the phone rang multiple times before the same man answered and the same conversation happened. Nothing more than Boss can’t talk right now before the guy hung up.

Something was off.

And Rowan would get to the damn bottom of it.

“Boss.” The second Aelin picked up, Nox was talking. “He called.”

“How many times?” As soon as she’d found out that Orynth PD and the TSF had gone through Fen’s apartment, Aelin had given Nox her Boss phone while she was at work. It was less risky for him to answer that phone than for her to accidentally pick up a TSF or PD call at a time when she couldn’t hide behind her Boss disguise.

“Twice.” Nox was uncharacteristically quiet, no sounds of him working in the background. “Once from each number.” They both knew who he was. Rowan.

Aelin took a controlled breath. “So he’s been to the apartment.”

“Yeah, the cops came through on the 21st. I watched the footage.”

“I wonder why it took them so long to get to the apartment,” Aelin mused, thinking aloud. “Normally, there would be cops crawling around within hours.”

“I dunno. But Boss?” Nox sounded concerned.

“Yeah?”

He huffed a sigh. “I know you aren’t gonna like this, but please, please don’t answer any calls from Fen. I had your Boss phone earlier, so I answered both of them, but if and when Fen tries to call you again, don’t answer. It’s the cops, not him.”

“I know.” Aelin closed her eyes. “I…thanks for taking those calls when they came, Owens.”

“No problem, Boss.” Nox resumed typing on his keyboard. “Call me if he starts spamming you, yeah?”

“Of course.” She hung up.

If Fen calls, you can’t answer.

It’s. Not. Him.

The warning trickled through her blood like ice, cold and heavy. In her mind, Aelin knew that Fenrys couldn’t call her—she might see his name on her screen, but it would never again be Fenrys Moonbeam on the other side. In her heart, though, she still held a tiny spark of hope. There was always the slight chance that Connall could pick up one of the phones and call her. Yes, he had his own burner, but she knew how badly he wanted to collect Fen’s things, and he wasn’t afraid to get onto the wrong side of the law if it meant that he could bring his twin’s possessions home.

As if her thoughts had summoned him, Connall called, his name lighting up her Boss phone. She answered, but she let him speak first.

“It’s started.” As always, Con didn’t waste words.

“What’s the timeline you’re anticipating?” Relieved that it was actually Connall—maybe it made her paranoid, but she was beginning to feel the investigation clamp down around Boss Sardothien—Aelin kicked herself into work mode.

Con grunted. “Seven, eight weeks. Ideally six to seven weeks, but I don’t know if she’ll have built up any immunity as a protective measure.”

“True.” Aelin drummed her fingers against the windowsill of her shitty Boss apartment. “I’d be surprised if she hadn’t, but then again, we can’t discount her massive fucking ego.”

“Huh?”

She’d forgotten that Connall didn’t know too much about Maeve’s past. “She was Hamel’s lover for years. You can’t do that without an ego the size of the goddamn sun.”

“Well, shit.” Con hummed softly, probably scheming. “That explains why she pretty much just sits in her plush little seat all day, convinced that nobody can come and get her when she’s so far elevated above the rabble.”

“Accurate description,” Aelin chuckled. “Right. I trust you, Con. Update me if anything significant happens, yeah?”

“Sure, Boss. Will do.” Con hung up.

Aelin sighed, tucking away the Boss phone. She turned back to the window and stared out over the Orynth skyline, murky as it was from the constant clouds of vapors that the warehouses and factories down in this district churned out. To tell the truth, she was counting down the days before she could stop having to live in this shitbox apartment, but she had to keep it for Celaena’s purposes.

She’d give just about anything to move all of her shit out and erase Celaena’s presence from the crappy building, but there would be too many questions. Also, this place was conveniently close to the docks and the industrial sector of Orynth, both of which were key to her less-than-legal business.

And nobody cared if she walked out of the building with a gun on her hip.

Still…the ghosts that now clung to this building weighed down upon Aelin like a suit of iron, intangible but oppressively present. Now that the cops were done crawling all over the damn place, she felt safe enough to stay at the apartment occasionally, but she was triple-checking the locks and the security measures to make sure she didn’t have any unwanted guests. As much as she would enjoy shocking the fuck out of the cops and the TSF, she really didn’t care for the idea of being arrested, so she kept herself carefully cloaked behind her favorite armor: shadows and secrecy.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts. She plucked it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and did a double take, staring.

Moon Moon.

Fen’s contact lit up the screen.

Aelin’s finger quivered, itching to accept the call, but she forced her better judgment to win out and stopped herself. The screen went dark, only to start buzzing again only a minute later.

Interesting.

Once again, she refused to answer, instead waiting until the screen went dark before slipping down the short hallway into the bedroom and grabbing her custom-made leather mask from the nightstand. She wore it out anytime she went on a mission as Boss, and the filter built into the material disguised her voice, twisting it into a throaty rasp.

As she’d expected, Moon Moon’s incoming call lit up her screen yet another time. She let it ring until it was almost at its limit, then swiped left to answer.

There was a tense, drawn-out beat of silence.

Then, the voice on the other end shattered the quiet. “Boss?”

Fuck.

It was Rowan.

Aelin forced her scrambling wits back into place. “You’re not Moon Moon,” she rasped, the filter twisting her voice into gravel.

“He’s dead.” That was Investigator Rowan, cold and blunt.

She could be just as cold-hearted. “I know.”

Predictably, Rowan took the next logical step. “Who killed him?”

Aelin let the pause drag out, weighing whether to outright tell Rowan the truth or to simply leave him in silence as would fit the personality of Celaena Sardothien.

“Who. Killed. Him?” Rowan repeated the question, his voice tight and hard.

“Maeve.” Aelin’s response was short, blunt, and devoid of feeling.

She hung up and scrubbed the call from her burner phone.

Took a screwdriver and a heavy-duty plastic bag out of the drawer, pried the back off the phone, scratched up its inner parts, threw it into the bag, and beat the handle of the screwdriver into it until it was a wrecked pile of plastic, glass, and tiny circuit splinters.

Then she changed into her Sardothien suit, secured her mask and hood, laced up her boots, strapped her pack across her back, and slipped soundlessly out the window, locking it tightly behind her. In minutes, she was no more than another shadow fading into the summer night.

The recording was all of thirty seconds long, but it was all that Rowan had to work with, and for some reason, there was a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him that this was it. This was the piece he’d been missing. This call would be the key he needed to unlock the mystery of the Shadow Assassin.

Rowan shuffled through reports as he waited for the software to do its job. He was running a program that was commonly used in PD, a fairly straightforward piece of work that could reverse voice filters placed on calls. It had helped him and many others catch all sorts of criminals in the past, and he had no doubt that it would reveal the true voice of whoever the fuck he’d spoke to last night. Her voice was familiar, striking some kind of chord in his mind, and he’d been turning over the possibilities ever since he’d grabbed the recording of that call.

I know. Her cold, cruel response to the news of Fen’s death was…not what Rowan had expected. Then again, he hadn’t been expecting the Boss to answer, either, and look where that had got him. But that tone, that raspy drawl…why did he know it?

He ran a few other phrases through his mind, a trick he had learned would often trigger voice recognition in his memory. Boss, murder, I know, take care of it, don’t move—

“Don’t move.” Something clicked faintly, the first tumbler of a combination lock. Threats, then…where had he heard that voice give threats?

Move, and your next breath will be in the afterlife. The words slammed back into him with icy, steel-sharp recognition. The threat that the Boss had murmured to him when she’d caught him at her warehouse, knives to his throat and his…well…

Rowan’s computer pinged, indicating that the program was finished. Although the results were probably useless, since he’d just made the connection between the voice on the phone and the voice of the Boss, Celane Sardothien, one and the same. He turned back to the reports, his mind somewhat more settled, and managed to get through a good portion of them before he needed a few minutes to clear his head. He tapped on the file from the voice-filter reversal program, thinking he’d get a simple confirmation of what he’d already pieced together.

The voice that spilled from his speakers froze his blood solid.

“You’re not Moon Moon.” And then, coldly, “I know.” And finally, after he’d asked who killed Fen—twice—her answer. “Maeve.”

He knew that voice.

Knew it as intimately as he knew his own hand in the shower.

Knew the soft throatiness of the laugh that so often accompanied that voice.

Knew the caress of that voice as well as the caress of its speaker’s hands.

It was Aelin.

The world around him abruptly went utterly silent.

Rowan had been right—this call was the missing piece he needed in order to lay out the scattered puzzle of Celaena Sardothien. And he had also been horribly, horribly wrong—the revealed voice was not the unfamiliar rasp of a stranger, but the intimately familiar song of a lover.

Celaena Sardothien wasn’t in league with Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. She wasn’t blackmailing the CEO like Rowan had theorized. No—Celaena Sardothien was Aelin Ashryver Galathynius. She had the whole of Orynth, the whole of the goddamn world, duped into believing that the CEO and the criminal were two different people. Part of Rowan was awestruck by the sheer impossible intricacy of her scheming. The other part of him, the investigative part, the part of him that was focused only on capturing the Shadow Assassin, was completely and utterly shattered.

Aelin—Celaena—owned every jagged edge of his heart. And she had been murdering her way through Orynth while he fell in love with her.

The breath escaped Rowan’s lungs in a fractured rush. Fuck, even his heartbeat and his breathing knew Aelin, knew the impossibly calming effect she had on his ragged nerves. Had she really stood by his side at Fen’s memorial, black-clad and teary-eyed, holding his hand and keeping him together? Had she really been mourning, or was it all a ruse? Had she duped him along with the rest of Orynth?

Did her I-love-you’s mean anything, or were they part of her schemes as well?

Pieces dropped into place before Rowan’s eyes as he stared blankly into space, torn between the investigative desire to bury himself in the case and the sheer force of his heart cracking into a thousand porcelain shards at his feet. Aelin was Celaena; Aelin is Celaena. Which meant that not only was she behind a horrifically impressive string of murders, but also that there was a distinct possibility that her company and her lab were involved in her nefarious business. That would make sense, since the lab was the site of Fen’s death, and the cause had been some kind of booby trap.

Abruptly, Rowan laughed, the sound harsh and caustic. After eight months, he had his concrete proof, everything he needed to bring the Shadow Assassin down. But knowing who she was…

In his ten years in the TSF, Rowan Whitethorn had never once doubted his ability to capture a criminal. All he needed was a name, a gun, and his wits.

Aelin Ashryver Galathynius—Celaena Sardothien—had shattered his confidence.

In every possible way.

~~~

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highqueenofelfhame · 2 years ago

Text

a/n: i know what we’re all thinking: em, you really don’t need ANOTHER multichapter fic going. but you know what? suck it. this is fun to write and i’m having a good time so you’re getting another one goddammit. and guess what! nobody dies in this one! i hope you like it <3

When it rained in Wendlyn, it really fucking poured.

Most of the first week she had spent in its coastal capital city of Varese had been spent in tank tops and shorts when she wasn’t in the office. Each day was bright and sunny, the late August sun turning her skin a golden hue that she couldn’t quite achieve in Rifthold or Orynth. Back in either of her home cities it was always a little too overcast to really enjoy the sunshine. In Wendlyn, she woke up sticky with sweat if she forgot to turn the AC down while she slept.

Today, however, the sun was hiding behind a dark gray sky as the clouds opened up in a nearly torrential downpour. While Orynth produced rolling thunder storms and Rifthold was in a perpetual state of drizzly and wet, Varese liked to bottle up its feelings and let them all out at once.

Never having been to the country before, Aelin didn’t know that an overcast sky more often than not meant that a wyrd gate was going to open in the sky and dump an ocean onto the city all at once for several hours at a time. It was how she ended running down the sidewalk, yanking at a rusted door knob until she escaped the rain and found herself standing inside a dimly lit pub.

With every, step water sloshed in her running shoes causing her to wince at the trail of prints she left behind. Gods, the barkeep would probably want to throw her out for tracking in such a mess. That thought alone gave her pause while she scanned the mostly empty pub, her eyes finally finding the door for the gender neutral bathrooms in the back corner. Perfect. She could wring her hair out in the sink and try to get some of it out of her shirt, maybe her shorts, too, before she made herself at home on one of the barstools.

A few snickers followed her through the pub, her body weaving through the tables until she was safely locked in the bathroom and peeling her shirt from her body. It took three or four tries, but she managed to get enough water squeezed out that it wouldn’t be totally plastered to her torso. She followed suit with her shorts, thank the gods she had been out for a jog when the sky opted into a meltdown, and finally went to work on her ponytail.

“This is as good as it’s going to get,” she mused, adjusting her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. Aelin took a brief moment to swipe at the mascara that had gathered beneath her eyes. There had been times she looked worse. Now she just looked like a tourist that got caught in the rain. Which she kind of was.

Not that it mattered– Aelin knew a grand total of about ten people on a personal level in the city. The chances of her running into anyone that she really knew were slim, and if she did they would laugh with her about it. Even if she ran into some of the employees from her family’s charity that she didn’t know quite as well, it would just become another silly story of Aelin outside of work. Did she really need more of those on the roster? Not really, but she also didn’t take herself so seriously that she cared.

By the time she made her way back into the main room of the pub, a handful of others caught in the storm had stumbled in. It was nicer now that she was actually looking around. The lighting cast a warm glow over the worn furniture and walls, soccer jerseys and memorabilia covering every available inch. Behind the bar itself, shelves went to the ceiling boasting various types and flavors of alcohol. A neon sign hung in the center of it all that read The Neon Moon, blue light reflecting off all the bottles and glasses. It reminded her of her favorite bar in Orynth, the Staghorn, and she made a mental note to bring Lysandra here when she came to visit in a few weeks.

By the time she made it to the bar and slid into the seat, a stunningly handsome man with long black hair and bronze skin had appeared. A white dishrag lay over his shoulder as he came to a stop in front of her, bracing his forearms against the edge of the bar. A smirk tugged at his lips as he looked over at the door and then back to her, onyx eyes meeting hers. Aelin held up her hands in apology.

“I’m clearly not from around here, and had no idea that that,” she pointed toward the window, “was going to happen today.”

The man chuckled, “If it makes you feel any better, we barely know when it’s going to happen, either.”

Aelin was a simple woman: accents got to her. The Wendlyn accent was a lovely, lilting one, and she was already enjoying her time here immensely because of it. It made her swoon, even if the beautiful man before her wasn’t exactly her type.

“What can I get you to drink?” He asked, placing an empty glass between them as the bell above the door sounded at the arrival of another patron.

“Surprise me.”

“Make her a whiskey sour. And me one while you’re at it.” The voice came from behind her, and her stomach flipped at the sound. His accent was a little different, his tongue rolling through the r sounds, lips hugging every letter in between.

When Aelin looked over at the man sidling up to the bar, she almost wanted to get up and leave. To come back when she didn’t look like a drowned rat. He wasn’t as soaked to the bone as Aelin had been when she first ran in for safety, but his t-shirt was just wet enough to really show off his deliciously muscled chest. The short sleeves were bunched up just above his bicep, revealing golden brown skin and a tattoo that swirled elegantly all the way down to his fingertips. The same tattoo appeared to crawl up his neck, adding definition to his jaw that he didn’t need, but gods it really did him favors.

Unfortunately, his body had nothing on his face. From the sharp jaw and prominent cheekbones, to his perfectly straight nose and full lips. It was difficult to pinpoint the shade of his eyes with the pub being so dark, but she was certain they were green, maybe hazel. By the time she met his gaze, he was combing his fingers through his long, silver hair and working it up onto the top of his head similar to the style she had her own in. Gods damn him, but it looked way better on him than it had ever looked on her.

“Anything for you, captain,” the barkeep drawled, causing her new friend to roll his eyes as he slid onto the stool beside her. Out of her peripheral vision, she caught the dark-haired man giving a mock of a two finger salute before getting to work on their drinks.

“Connall’s surprises are usually accompanied by a vicious hangover the morning after,” the man said, leaning toward her like they were sharing a secret. “It would be a pity for that to happen to you.”

“Thank you for looking out for me, but I can usually hold my liquor pretty well.”

The man laughed, a deep rich sound that she felt in her bones. Maybe it was the lack of any romantic interest in her life for the past two years, or maybe every sound he made was really that perfect, but Aelin wanted to wrap his voice around her like a cocoon.

“So can I, but that last time we left our drinks wholly up to him, I couldn’t get out of bed for nearly thirty six hours unless it was to be sick.” Aelin’s nose wrinkled, incredibly thankful that someone had intervened on her behalf.

“I don’t have time to be bedridden for any number of days,” she conceded with a nod, looking over at the bartender– Connall. He sent a wink in her direction while he finished up their drinks, sliding hers a few inches down the counter until it was nestled in her hands.

“Nobody does,” the man beside her replied, tapping the lip of his glass against hers. “I’m Rowan, by the way.”

“Aelin.” He nodded, eyes tracing over her face before moving to one of the several televisions above the bar just as a soccer game between Orynth and the Red Desert. His eyes followed the happenings on the screen, never moving from the ball that was juggled from player to player. When one of the Staghorns made a goal, she didn’t miss how his hand clenched around the tumbler in his hand. “You really like soccer, huh?”

“Football,” he corrected, giving her a look from the corner of his eye, “But yes.”

“And who are you rooting for in this match?” Aelin brought her own glass to her lips and sipped through the two tiny straws. She was no novice to the game, in fact she had been raised around it. Aedion, her cousin, played the sport from the time he could walk until he tore his meniscus and ACL in one go his first year as a professional in the league.

Sports had never quite called to her the way the arts did. Growing up she had danced, and still did occasionally, played piano and guitar, even dabbled a bit with painting when she was in the mood for it. Fine arts didn’t hold her attention as much as the performing arts. She just wasn’t as skilled with a paintbrush as she was on a grand piano or with pointe shoes on her feet. As much as her father would have loved for her to chase a ball around a field, she just didn’t care to. The single year they’d tried to get her into a kids league she had spent her time practicing turns on the sidelines. After that, they’d given up on her potential soccer career and let her do what she loved most.

“My money says he wants Terrasen to lose,” Connall said, pointing at Rowan with squinty, accusatory eyes.

“As a Terrasonian, I take wild offense to that.” The irony made her want to smile, but she ducked her head down for another sip of her drink instead to stay aloof.

“It’s nothing personal, lass,” the bartender chuckled. “He’s got personal interest in the game is all.”

“And that involves hoping my home team loses?” Aelin’s brows rose and her hand fell over her heart as if she were wounded while she swiveled to look at the man beside her just as he stood and moved into the barstool directly next to hers. Their shoulders were nearly touching, warmth radiating off of his body. It might have been warm outside, but sitting indoors with air conditioning in damp clothes made her want to lean into him to steal his body heat.

“As he mentioned, it’s nothing personal,” Rowan told her, eyes drifting from the tv to her face as it cut to a commercial break.

“Besides, they won the world cup last year.”

“You watch the games?” Aelin snorted, occupying her mouth with her cocktail to choose her words carefully.

“Gods, no. But it’s hard to miss something like that when the entire city is in full on celebratory-party-mode for an entire month afterward. I do not get the hype of watching grown men perform cardio for several hours. I mean, that’s all it really is, right? Kicking a ball from one end of the field to another, dramatically collapsing when the opponent’s elbow hardly grazes a shoulder.” Aelin shrugged. All of it was true. Of course when it had been Aedion on the field, she had screamed until her lungs wanted to give out. But now that she didn’t have any personal ties to any players, it was so boring. The games lasted for hours and once Terrasen entered mid-November, it was entirely too cold outside to enjoy, anyway. Aelin had priorities, like keeping her fingers on her hands and not losing them to frostbite.

“It’s a bit more than that, don’t you think?” Rowan inquired, his–definitely green– eyes dipped down to her lips before coming back up to hers. A loose strand of hair fell from his bun to dangle over his cheek when he turned on his stool to face her completely. With one elbow he was leaning against the bar, his fingers loosely laced together in front of his stomach. His knee grazed along her upper thigh with the movement, and gods above she needed to get laid if something so small and insignificant was lighting fires in her blood.

“No.” She said it flatly, trying not to smile when he leaned forward to be just a little closer to her. Again, his eyes trailed over her body, all the way down her legs to her toes and back up again.

“You look like a dancer,” he said softly, head tilting slightly. “I want you to watch their feet. The way they can sprint up and down the field, juggling the ball from foot to foot without the slightest stumble. Watch the way that they spin around one another, the lines their body’s make when they pass the ball or shoot a goal. It’s a fast paced dance.”

Soccer had never sounded as sexy as it did when this man spoke about it. And sure enough, when the game was back on the screen she leaned forward and watched, looking for the things he’d said to her. More than once Rowan pointed things out to her, tilting his head so his lips were near her ear. Like he was telling her a secret that nobody else knew. Goosebumps erupted over her arms and legs and she didn’t think it had much to do with the chill of the room and her wet clothes.

By the time the next commercial break came around, she was ready to concede and agree. What the men on the field did was, in fact, a form of art. Not the kind that she loved, but she could see it still. The grace the men possessed, the way they looked like sculptures of ancient civilizations when their muscles flexed beneath their clothes. Just this once, she would admit defeat. Nothing would make her care that much about soccer, but she could appreciate the artistry they made with their bodies.

Rowan’s eyes had just met hers again, taking a brief vacation first to watch her lips part in anticipation of an answer, when something ice cold and wet hit her hands and then flooded from the bartop down onto her lap. Aelin shrieked in surprise, the cold shock of the ice against her skin jolting her off her seat and yanking a sharp, deep breath into her lungs.

“What the hell?” She all but shouted, immediately glaring at the friendly bartender she was becoming acquaintances with.

“Oh, shit,” he said loudly, throwing the towel from his shoulder on top of the puddle. Napkins appeared in Rowan’s hands as he pressed them into hers so she could press them to her lower abdomen. Instead of just watching, he bent down and began to press more against the rivets of water than ran down her legs. Connall, instead of cleaning up the mess he’d made, was watching the pair of them with a small smirk on his lips. If Aelin didn’t know any better, she would swore the bastard did it on purpose.

“She really didn’t need your help in the wet clothes department,” Rowan growled, standing to his full height and dropping the paper towels onto the wet counter.

“Perhaps she needs yours,” his friend fired back, and Aelin was positive her eyebrows had shot well into her hairline as he tossed Rowan a set of keys. “There are dry and clean clothes upstairs.”

“I’m going to kill you one of these days,” Rowan grumbled, his hand sliding into hers with ease as he led her around the back of the bar and through a door she hadn’t noticed before.

“You’ve been telling me that for years!” Connall shouted after them, but Rowan was already slamming the door shut and guiding her up the stairs. He paused on the top step, keys jingling as he worked the lock. Before she knew it the door was swinging open, Rowan tugging her up the last few steps. As soon as she was inside he closed the door and sidestepped several boxes to flip on the light.

It was a small room, clearly used primarily for storage. Boxes and crates were stacked in the first half of the room. From the look of it, most of them contained paperwork and several years worth of receipts. Two dark wooden doors were on the wall to her left, and what remained of the room was taken up by a queen-size daybed with a nightstand on each side. It didn’t look like anyone lived up here, more like it was used as a place to crash when they got too drunk to stumble home after closing.

Rowan was moving around the space with ease, going through the second door. Light from the setting sun illuminated it just enough that she could see it was a bathroom. He emerged moments later with a towel that he handed to her to really get her legs dry. By the time she was as dry as she could get while still wearing her clothes, he was walking out of the first door with a bundle of cloth in each hand.

“You’ll be swimming in these since they’re mine, but better my clothes than one of the other’s.”

Aelin took the shirt and pair of shorts from him looking from the door to the bathroom and back to the bed. After spending the entire summer surrounded by a schedule that gave her no wiggle room for fun or spontaneity, the choice was obvious. All summer long she had been working her ass off, and while she loved what she did and wouldn’t change a second of the time she had spent here, she needed a few hours of fun. If this was the only chance she was going to have for the rest of her stay in Wendlyn, she was going to let Rowan see what he would be missing if he played the role of the gentleman and waited patiently for her to change in the bathroom.

Maybe she was feeling reckless because she hadn’t had the chance to let the wildfire that fueled her soul burn. Maybe it was because she hadn’t had a single orgasm gifted to her by a man in two years. It was definitely Lysandra’s voice in the back of her mind, urging her to live a little and experience what Wendlyn had to offer. It had been said with a waggle of eyebrows and she knew she didn’t mean the sights or food. Lys meant the men, and she had one hell of one standing in front of her, his tongue wetting his bottom lip and eyes full of hunger. She may have been taking the advice that a little flirting never hurt anybody to an extreme, but she had the feeling that her best friend would approve. Whatever the reason, she found herself walking over toward the bed and laying the fresh set of clothes on the corner while she raised her arms to pull her hair free.

Long, golden strands tumbled down her back in messy waves, stopping at the curve of her lower back. When she turned to face him and boldly pulled her shirt over her head, Aelin was pretty sure she could hear him trying to swallow from across the room. As a beautiful young woman, she was used to being looked at with desire. But the way he was looking at her was different. Gone were the sparkling green eyes she’d seen downstairs. Now his pupils were so dilated that there was hardly any green left and his fingers twitched against his thighs.

“I think he did it on purpose,” she whispered conspiratorially. “He didn’t sound very sorry.”

“No,” he swallowed, “he didn’t.”

“Maybe he thinks you need to loosen up. And that I would be perfect for the job. Would you agree?” Aelin toed off her running shoes, peeled the socks from her feet. If the tension in the room hadn’t been so thick it could be cut with a knife, she probably would have winced at the slapping sound they made when they hit the floor. It didn’t seem to deter Rowan, though. He had only taken a step closer.

“Aye.” Just in that one syllable, his voice was deeper and far more gravely than it had been at any other point in the evening. Aelin shimmied out of her shorts, letting them slip down her legs and pool around her feet on the floor. Rowan was close enough for her to touch, so she did. Her fingers ran a straight line down his torso to the hem of his shirt.

“It’s your turn,” she whispered, fingertips grazing against his skin. He was quick to oblige her, grasping his collar at the nape of his neck and pulling his shirt off in one easy motion.

The audacity he had to stand in front of her looking like he was handcrafted by the gods themselves was going to kill her entirely. The tattoo that covered his left arm swirled over his chest and up his neck. Aelin wanted to follow those lines with her tongue, memorizing every dip and curve, every muscle along with the taste of his skin. That was a goal she would definitely achieve by the time they went their separate ways.

With a slight tremor to her hands, she brought her fingers to the zipper that held her sports bra to her body, but Rowan was quick to stop her. With hands that dwarfed her’s, he gently removed her fingers from the zipper and replaced them with his own.

“I want to do that.” So he did, slowly pulling it down until it fell open. Aelin shrugged it off, and before it even hit the ground his hands were on either side of her face, his lips pressed fully against hers in the hottest kiss she’d ever had. It was the kind of kiss that made you forget about everything. Where she was, who she was, who he was? None of it mattered anymore, not as his tongue swept into her mouth and claimed her as his.

It didn’t take him long to lift her by her thighs, Aelin’s legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, and carry her to the bed. Though she expected to be dropped, he lowered her carefully, crawling over her body until he was flush against her. They touched everywhere; their chests syncopating to the other’s breathing, one of his hands pinning both of her’s above her head. The fingers of his free hand grazed her inner thigh and she was spreading them wider for him, a sound coming from her throat that she would swear on anyone’s grave she’d never made before.

Despite the bar downstairs, he took his time, pulling not one, but two orgasms from her before he even got her panties off. Rowan made quick work with a condom he’d fumbled out of his wallet, ripping the foil with his teeth so he never had to stop touching her.

And then he was sinking into her, hitting places she thought were only a myth. Being substantially larger than anyone else she’d ever been with, than any of her toys even, Aelin was nearly overstimulated by how good everything felt. The ache between her legs soon dwindled to nothing but sheer pleasure as he took her, unraveling her until she had nothing left to give.

When he went over the edge, she followed him one final time, her thighs and hands shaking. It seemed like they were both trying to fuse their bodies together, Aelin pulling him into her while he chased his release as deep as he could possibly be inside her. After, he collapsed on top of her. Both were covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair spread out across her skin as he placed tired, sloppy kisses across her chest.

The next thing she knew, she was blinking bleary eyes and trying to make sense of where she was. At some point they had both fallen asleep, Rowan’s arm slung over her waist and his face pressed against her naked back. Soft light was beginning to creep through the window and she knew they had slept blissfully through the night.

Not wanting to wake the man behind her, she carefully slipped out of his arms, quietly tugging on her undergarments and then the fresh change of clothes he’d grabbed from the closet hours ago for her to wear. She skipped socks, pulling her shoes on and wadding her now dry clothes into a ball in her arms. As much as she hated to leave, she didn’t need to be one of those clingy one night stands, no matter how much she would like a repeat of the night.

As she was tiptoeing to the door, one of those old receipts caught her eye. A cup of pens was nestled in the box next to them and she took a short moment to scribble out a message before tucking it into the pocket of Rowan’s discarded jeans. He didn’t move or make a sound, his breathing still deep and peaceful. Long silver hair fanned out over his pillow, the hair tie he used around his wrist while he slept. The man truly was a work of art, she thought to herself as she slipped out the door.

Before it closed all the way, she took one last moment to get a tiny peek of his too-handsome face and that god-like body. Lysandra was going to absolutely die when Aelin told her about this one. She was pretty sure she had died at one point or another last night. Even now, her legs still shook from the force of all five orgasms he’d coaxed from her, his whispers of “Just one more for me, love,” branded into her mind forever. With any hope, she would see him again.

Their suspicions from last night about Connall not being at all sorry were confirmed when she stepped into the bar. He was already awake and tending to something on a computer, or perhaps he’d yet to get home after a night of running the bar during a game. A smirk spread across his lips as he took her in, eyes catching on the clothes she wore that were most certainly not hers, her golden hair that was surely a mess, and the healthy blush her cheeks sported. Nobody looked the way she did without having had the absolute best sex of their life. Connall winked.

“You so did it on purpose,” she whispered, not wanting her voice to carry up the stairs and wake Rowan. Instead of responding, Connall let her out the door.

“Terrasen won, by the way,” he told her, causing a laugh to bubble out of her as she stepped out into the early morning, a cool breeze kissing her skin that the rain had ushered in.

Yes, it most certainly seemed they had.

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