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rosanna-writer · 6 months ago

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Love at First Sight's for Suckers (5/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally...

Warnings: None

Thank you again to @itsthedoodle for beta-ing my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 - Guts and Glory | Ch. 4 - Dead or Dreamin' | Ch. 5 - Something to Believe in

You can read the fifth chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

A mating bond was a massive, overwhelming thing. Feyre didn’t have the words to talk about it—didn’t even know where to start. It all seemed safer if her suspicions stayed suspicions.

The moment she voiced them aloud, her whole life would change.

For just a little while longer, she wanted to stay Feyre-the-newsie, not Feyre-the-prince’s-mate. And it felt good to give in to the urging of the thread in her chest—her mind went pleasantly blank every time Rhys’s lips touched hers. She wanted to drown in him and forget about everything else.

She started to reach for the buttons of his jacket, but a broad hand covered hers. “Mother above, Feyre,” Rhys murmured, huffing a soft laugh, “we don’t have to do this on a rooftop.”

Feyre started to protest—after all, they’d have even less privacy if she brought him down to her crowded, shared bedroom in the tenement below—but before she could get the words out, her feet were off the floor. Rhys had slid his hands beneath her knees and shoulders to scoop her up.

Her stomach flipped. If being cradled against his chest didn’t feel quite so nice, she would have wiggled her way out of his arms. She still had half a mind to do it, just to spite him for not giving her any warning.

Rhys snapped his wings out wide. She felt the slight bend in his knees, as if he were about to— “Don’t take off without telling me where we’re going,” she said quickly.

“The House of Wind,” he said, as if it should have been obvious.

A blush crept up her cheeks. “You’re…taking me home?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not an ill-mannered brute.”

They shot into the sky, and the rushing wind drowned out any of Feyre’s further complaints. All she could do was loop an arm behind his neck and cling to him even tighter.

Feyre was built for the shadows—not the open skies. As the city fell away beneath them, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on the hard warmth of Rhys’s body against hers. With each beat of his wings, she could feel the powerful muscles of his back and chest at work. An Illyrian warrior exactly where he belonged.

But still, it was something of a relief to feel the world fade into mist as he winnowed them. He was impatient, she realized. The flight wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but apparently that was too long to wait.

In the space of a heartbeat, they were in the sky again, this time directly above the House of Wind. Rhys held his wings out as they descended past the wards in a smooth glide. The balcony rushed towards them, but Feyre barely felt anything as Rhys’s feet touched the stone floor.

She didn’t feel like she belonged in the palace—especially not after the High Lord had called her there earlier just to intimidate her. Feyre spent her life on the streets, never anywhere this opulent. She couldn’t shake the feeling, ridiculous as it was, that they’d be caught any moment and she’d be forced to leave.

Rhys set her down, and on instinct, Feyre made herself incorporeal again. He hadn’t dropped her hand, and the shadows skittering along her skin extended down her arm, enveloping him, too.

“There’s no need to hide,” Rhys said. “In case you’ve forgotten, I live here, and I invited you.”

“Don’t be a prick. There might be problems if we run into someone,” Feyre said. She was sure the High Lord wouldn’t be thrilled to see her again—and she was fairly certain Rhys’s sister was also somewhere nearby.

“After all those headlines about how many people I’ve brought to my bedroom, no one will be scandalized, I assure you.”

Feyre growled, and perhaps that should have embarrassed her. But it was a relief to stop pretending she hadn’t been envious of everyone the press had linked to him romantically over the years.

Something sparked in Rhys’s eyes, an excited gleam that made Feyre’s toes curl in her boots. He’d liked that low, possessive sound when it came from her.

“I thought it would be obvious by now,” he said, “but apparently I hadn’t made myself clear before. You are the very last person I’m bringing to my bed and the one I want there the most.”

She knew why. But she still said, “Prove it.”

In an instant, Rhys was tugging her through walls and furniture. He seemed completely unbothered by temporarily becoming incorporeal, which was unusual—Lucien had always complained the shadows felt like spiders crawling all over his skin. Maybe it was different for mates.

Feyre let the shadows fade when they reached a room that could only have been his—bed large enough for wings, desk covered in paperwork and the sword she’d seen him brandishing the other day, curtains rustling gently in the glassless window.

Curiosity got the better of her, but only for a moment. Rhys had used their joined hands to pull her against him, and his tongue was already pressing its way between her lips again.

Perhaps his way of proving he wanted her there was just…devouring her whole.

Not that she was the sort of person to just stand there and get devoured. Feyre had heard all the rumors about Illyrian wings, so she reached for his, brushing a hand against the membrane just to see what would happen.

Rhys groaned, and they were pressed so close that Feyre felt every inch of his full-body shudder.

So there had been some truth to the stories she’d heard, then. She reached out and pressed a little harder against his wing—the taut skin was cool to the touch, silky and surprisingly soft. Slowly, she dragged her hand down.

Rhys’s hips bucked against hers, and Feyre couldn’t help but giggle. “Did you just…” she said.

“No, but I will shortly if you keep that up.”

That sounded like encouragement, so she stretched her hand out again. Rhys snapped his wings back before she could touch them.

“If you can’t last very long, I promise I won’t leak the story to the press.”

“My stamina isn’t an issue,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again. It was softer than on the rooftop, his hands settling gently on her hips. “As I told you, I’m not an ill-mannered brute. Ladies first.”

Before Feyre could respond, he was already on his knees. Splaying one broad hand across her stomach, he pressed her back against the door, then hooked one of her legs over his shoulder.

There had been a flurry of headlines about Rhys refusing to kneel to his father in protest, then several more after an interview where he’d revealed the mountain and stars tattooed on his knees—that they meant he’d bow to nothing and no one but his crown. It had been dangerously close to declaring an intent to kill his father and take the throne.

But he’d knelt for her without a second thought. His crown and his—

No. Feyre wouldn’t let herself think it again.

Besides, Rhys was already hooking his fingers in the waistband of her pants. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes. As if now, she might actually change her mind. She’d never known him to look unsure of anything.

She nearly managed to say what they were to each other, just to wipe the doubt from his face. But Feyre wasn’t quite brave enough to manage it. Not yet.

“Keep going, please,” she said, hoping it was enough.

Rhys peeled the threadbare leggings down, and Feyre gripped his shoulder to steady herself as the fabric stretched around her knees. But that hand pinning her to the door wouldn’t let her fall.

He pressed a kiss to the bottom of her abdomen, and Feyre couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so soft with her.

There was nothing hesitant in the first sweep of his tongue, a slow stripe up her center. Too much, but not enough. Feyre whined and canted her hips closer.

With a satisfied growl, Rhys feasted on her in earnest, licking and sucking every part of her he could reach. Feyre writhed, her hand on his shoulder digging into the fabric of his jacket. A wave of knee-wobbling pleasure was building within her, and the fingers of her other hand scraped uselessly against the wooden door.

The relentless strokes of his tongue didn’t slow despite his hand reaching up to interlace his fingers with hers.

Feyre squeezed his hand with enough force to crush his fingers as release crashed through her. Breathing hard, she started to slide her leg off his shoulder. The hand on her stomach pressed her back into the door, holding her in place.

His voice echoed in her head; with his tongue already slipping inside her again, Rhys couldn’t speak aloud. You taste too magnificent to stop after just one.

There was nothing to do but let him wring more pleasure from her. Rhys seemed to be intent on making her climax as many times in a row as he could, at least until Feyre finally managed to whisper, “I want the next one with you inside me.”

She kicked her leggings the rest of the way to the floor as he stood and lifted her up. Without his mouth on her, her head finally started to clear, and it suddenly seemed massively unfair he was still completely clothed.

He carried her towards the bed, and once her shaking legs were locked around him, Feyre tore at the buttons of his jacket. The rest of their clothes disappeared with a crackle of magic.

Quite a lot of ink had already been spilled about Rhysand’s chest. Since he’d won the Blood Rite and earned his tattoos, he’d favored plunging vee necklines to show them off, and it wasn’t unusual for him to stumble out of Rita’s missing the tunic he’d gone in with. Feyre had certainly never complained—not when that chest splashed across the front page sold so many papers.

But none of that prepared her for how good it would feel to run a possessive hand down the expanse of hard muscle.

Feyre couldn’t make promises—not with a one-way ticket to the Continent in her pocket. If she was leaving, it wasn’t fair to snarl and call him hers and no one else’s.

She wanted to, though. Cauldron, she wanted to.

He was staring down at her like he wanted the same thing, and it was all too much. They were coming dangerously close to blurting out a confession, so she plunged her fingers into his hair and dragged his lips towards hers again.

It was another hungry, open-mouthed kiss, and it felt far better than talking. Feyre tipped her hips up, a silent plea to keep going. Her clit brushed the underside of his cock, drawing a mewling sound she made right into his mouth.

Needy little thing, aren’t you? The words floated into her head as if carried on a night-kissed wind.

I’m not needy, you’re just slow. I told you what I want.

The thread tying them together—that Feyre was still trying very hard to ignore—seemed to hum with wicked amusement. She lifted her hand from his head and stretched it over his shoulder.

She could feel the rumble of his low laugh as he tucked his wing out of her reach. His hips shifted, and his considerable length slid into her.

The stretch was ecstasy. There was no way around it—Rhys’s cock was big, just like the rest of him. He moved slowly at first, and Feyre let her eyes flutter shut as she just savored the feeling of him filling her up.

It was nearly too much, but at the same time the instincts driven by the bond in her chest pushed her to take him deeper and demand more. She pressed her hips up, taking every inch of him she could.

It was all the urging he needed to go faster. Suddenly, Rhys was fucking her like his life depended on it. He was far from Feyre’s first partner, but she��d never had someone chase her climax so relentlessly. There was nothing to do but give into it until she shattered around him.

He was breathing hard when Feyre came back to herself. She knew she should have smirked, said something blasé to make it clear this was just a bit of fun before she left for the Continent. Made it clear this was casual so she could ignore the bond in her chest just a little while longer.

But no, whether it was the mating bond or something else, Rhys had just utterly ruined her for anyone else. And based on the way he was looking at her…he felt the same way about her, too.

Leaning down, Rhys rolled them both over until they were on their sides. The mess they’d made disappeared from between her legs with half a thought.

“Stay,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Please.”

Feyre let herself believe he only meant for the night. After all, she’d have to be back here in the morning for the start of negotiations anyway. Not forever.

“I will,” she whispered back, pulling him tighter.

Even during bombshell tell-all interviews, none of Rhys’s lovers had ever mentioned his wings, and most of them had stumbled out of his bedroom or bid him goodbye before he skittered home. Feyre pillowed her head on his massive bicep, tangling her legs with his as his wing blanketed them both.

Warm and safe, she drifted off and let herself dream.

Out of habit, Feyre woke just as the eastern sky began to lighten. She wanted to linger a bit longer—she couldn’t remember ever sleeping on a mattress free of lumps before—but years of poverty had shaped her into an expert at dragging herself out of bed.

She started to wiggle free of Rhys’s hold, but he let out a sleepy, irritated growl. The arm around her waist tightened.

“I can’t be late for my own strike. Don’t be a prick,” she whispered.

His reply slipped into her mind, as if he weren’t awake enough to speak aloud quite yet. You can’t be late when you’re already here.

She still needed to bathe and change. Pulitzer and the High Lord would laugh her out of the room if she arrived at the negotiation table in yesterday’s clothes and reeking of Rhysand and arousal. If word got out, that would certainly—

Did you really plan on taking all ten thousand steps instead of just using my tub? Rhys asked, interrupting her train of thought.

She had. It seemed easier than asking to use his bathing chamber and borrow some clothes. Feyre didn’t regret what they’d done last night, but she’d get her head on straight easier in the familiar territory of the Rainbow instead of staying in the House of Wind a moment longer.

And Feyre needed to be sharp today.

Before she could protest, one of Rhys’s legs joined the arm twined around her. Something deep within seemed to purr in satisfaction as he pressed her flush against him. Stay. You can sleep for another hour and still have plenty of time to make yourself presentable.

It made sense. And even if it didn’t, Feyre suspected the thread in her chest would pull her right back to him. A contented little noise escaped her as she tucked her head under his chin and closed her eyes.

Golden light streamed in through the glassless window when Rhys nudged her awake again. Feyre lifted her head and spotted a gown folded on top of a chest of drawers. Someone—Rhys, presumably he didn’t allow servants in his room while he slept—had placed her cap atop it.

“You needed something to change into,” he said, answering the question before she could ask.

This time, when Feyre pulled away, he let her. To her immense relief, Rhys didn’t try to kiss her good morning. Feyre’s mind was already on business, and she didn’t need him setting her head spinning.

After pointing her to the bathing room, Rhys set off to handle breakfast. Probably just because he was making himself useful. Feyre did need to eat, after all.

Definitely that, and not to head off any possibility that she might be the one to find food and offer it to him.

Feyre thought that she’d feel more herself after she’d gotten something in her stomach and washed her face. But the flaky, layered pastry and impossibly fluffy eggs were nothing at all like the porridge she usually breakfasted on, and the fine fabric of the gown must have cost more than she’d ever make in a lifetime of selling newspapers.

It fit perfectly. Just a bit of good luck—Rhys certainly didn’t know her measurements, even if as the heir, he probably kept a small army of seamstresses on retainer. Feyre supposed his sister or Mor had just lent her a spare gown. Probably.

Their eyes met in the mirror as she slipped the newsie cap onto her head. Just like at home, it was the very last step Feyre took before venturing out for another day of hawking papers. It had never made her feel quite so much like a knight slipping on a helmet before battle.

“Are you ready?” Rhys said, offering his arm to her.

Feyre took it, oddly grateful for something steady to hold onto. Her hand brushed the fabric of his tunic, and she realized their clothes were made of the same cloth. As if the two of them were a matched set.

A pair, equals matched by—

She cut off that line of thought before she could finish it. Rhys didn’t blink; her shields must have been intact, and she thanked the Mother for that. Besides, there wasn’t time to be distracted, not when they were already headed towards the meeting rooms in the more public sections of the House of Wind.

They paused at one of the main balconies, where Feyre and Nesta had agreed they’d meet the other day. It was empty. Feyre stared at the door, hoping Nesta was just late.

It wasn’t like her sister to forget. Not when there was money on the table.

The sound of rustling wings pulled Feyre’s attention to the window. An Illyrian. And in his arms…Nesta. She’d tucked her head just under his chin, resting it against his chest, as if he often cradled her like this.

Feyre recognized the male, another war-hero friend of Rhys’s, who’d graced front pages since the war. They’d never met, Feyre remembered shouting the headline about the building that he’d leveled in Adriata. That one had sold more papers than all the stories about his courage on the battlefield and swift promotions through the ranks. Cassian, if she wasn’t mistaken.

As the pair landed, Rhysand slipped into Feyre’s mind again. I wasn’t aware they knew each other.

Neither was I.

They’d discuss it later. Nesta was already dropping gracefully to the floor and smoothing out her skirts. “Work has already halted in Illyria,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “They’re following through on their promises of support.”

The faint sound of chanting floated all the way up to the very top of the House of Wind. Hundreds of newsies and their lesser fae supporters rallied at the base of the stairs, accompanied by Illyrian war drums. Feyre could just barely make out the words— minute by minute, that’s how you win it.

When she turned to her sister, Feyre’s smile was grim. “Then let’s go hand Pulitzer his ass.”

***

For Rhysand, watching Feyre negotiate was exquisite torture. She handled herself like a queen—like a High Lady, really. A businesswoman who’d gotten down to brass tacks as soon as everyone was seated.

“The Illyrian warriors have chosen to lay their weapons down in solidarity with the newsies of Velaris,” she’d said. “We have you surrounded, and Lieutenant Cassian can confirm. Until we sign a fair contract, the Night Court will be without an army.”

But as much as he admired the efficiency, Rhys couldn’t help but hate it, just a bit. She’d be gone when the strike ended.

He tried not to think about it, instead choosing to observe his father. Rhys had expected far more bluster from the High Lord—the newsies had, after all, essentially arranged for insubordination on a massive scale. But the High Lord had gone strangely quiet.

To Rhys, that spelled danger. He knew from experience that if the High Lord wasn’t making a show of power in front of others, it was because he was waiting to do something more devastating in public.

Rhys tried not to shiver when ebony claws speared his mind, ripping down his shields. His father never bothered to knock out of courtesy.

You can keep her. The words rang with ancient power, and Rhys tried not to bristle at the way his father spoke about his mate as if she were a stray dog.

Then what was the point of that one-way ticket to the Continent?

If she doesn’t use it, a daughter-in-law I can send to beat the governors of the Palaces into submission would be useful. Merchants often get cocky and mistake their wealth for true power. And if she leaves the Night Court…well, you won’t see me complaining if the trash takes itself out.

Rhys growled, low in his throat. The negotiations ground to a halt as every head in the room whipped in his direction. On instinct, he reached towards his hip for a sword, though he hadn’t carried one since coming home from the war.

His eyes flicked to Pulitzer. “I agree with Feyre,” Rhys said evenly, covering up the fact that he’d been speaking mind-to-mind with his father. “That proposal would be unacceptable.”

He’d been too distracted to hear what the proposal had even been, but it seemed to be the right answer. The talks resumed, even if Feyre did shoot him a brief confused look.

The High Lord didn’t invade Rhys’s mind again, but he didn’t need to. He’d made is position clear. Instead, Rhys sat back and continued to marvel at how well Feyre held her own as the details of the agreement were hammered out.

Nesta communicated with the rest of the newsies, making sure there would be support for the contract when they put it to a vote, working in tandem with Feyre, who dug her heels in with Pulitzer.

He challenged her on every single aspect of the deal, a transparent attempt to wear her down. A sound strategy, considering the resources at his disposal. But fortunately, the well of Archeron stubbornness was infinite.

Eventually, they came to what Feyre termed “a compromise we all can live with.” To let Pulitzer save face, the price of papers would still go up, if only by half of what he’d originally planned, but in return, the publishers would buy back the unsold papers at the end of the day.

A victory—fewer losses for the newsies to eat when papers didn’t sell on slow news days.

The sun had long since set by the time they finished it all—the back-and-forth, the voting, the signatures, spitting into palms and shaking over deals, celebrations with Elain and Nesta and Lucien and the rest of the newsies. By some miracle, Feyre had allowed Rhys to stay at her side throughout all of it.

Once it had all ended, they found themselves alone, walking along the Sidra. A last look before Feyre left. Rhys wanted to mention it—and perhaps try and change her mind—but the words caught in his throat each time he tried. He’d thought about offering his arm, but Feyre had kept her hands jammed firmly in her pockets.

If last night had merely been a distraction before a long day…he understood. Watching the lights glitter on the surface of the Sidra with Feyre nearby was more than enough.

It wasn’t Rhys who finally broke their companionable silence. He tensed at the sound of hurried footsteps behind them, then the abrupt silence as whoever it was winnowed to catch up.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” Mor said, materializing on Feyre’s other side.

Rhys glared at her over the top of Feyre’s head, irritated by the interruption. “Have you now?” he said, voice icy.

“I was positive you’d be at Ressina’s, but when I asked around, no one there knew where you’d slipped off to.”

“And you didn’t consider that might have been because we didn’t want to be found?”

Mor stuck her tongue out at Rhys, earning a laugh from Feyre. “I needed to catch Feyre before she left,” Mor said. “Ressina let me have the stack of paintings you were going to leave behind. There was a portrait of your friend, the one with the mechanical eye. Apparently he’s quite the charmer—flirts with them all when they buy their daily paper. They were horrified to hear the High Lord sent him to the Prison. After the fuss they made, Rhys’s father is going to start sending petty thieves somewhere more humane than an island full of monsters.”

Feyre stopped in her tracks, so abruptly that Rhys nearly walked into her. For a moment, she stood rooted to the spot, blinking in surprise.

“All that because of my art?” Feyre said slowly.

Mor nodded. “I wanted to make sure you knew. That was just one portrait, so just think of all the good you could do. And congratulations on the victory today.”

“I—”

Before Feyre could get the rest of the words out, Mor pulled her into a rib-crushing hug. Rhys raised his brows, locking eyes with his cousin over his mate’s shoulder. Mor winked and flashed him a grin.

“Safe travels, Feyre,” Mor said, giving her one last squeeze before winnowing away.

“She’s right, you know. Your paintings could do a lot of good here,” Rhys said quietly.

Feyre merely nodded, her gaze flicking back to the lights of the Rainbow. She seemed to be staring at the view as if she were trying to memorize it. They were silent, and it took all of Rhys’s willpower not to slip into her mind to find out what she was thinking.

“I should get home and pack,” she whispered.

“So should I.”

Feyre stilled. For a moment, Rhys thought she might disappear into a shadow. But she said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t aware you held a monopoly on leaving for the Continent tomorrow. Unless you don’t want company.”

“But don’t you have obligations here? Work, your family?”

“Don’t you?” Rhys said. When Feyre said nothing in response, just opened her mouth and closed it—he knew he’d won. More softly, he added, “If you want to get out of the city, there’s somewhere I’d like to show you. We can leave now if you want.”

Feyre’s cheeks went pink, but perhaps that was just the cold night air. “Alright.”

She reached out a hand, clearly expecting that he’d take it and lead her somewhere. But Rhys scooped her into his arms instead. To his surprise, she didn’t protest, just looped an arm behind his neck to steady herself, comfortable and familiar.

Rhys let his heart swell before winnowing them to the cabin in Illyria.

This far north, it was even colder, and Feyre shivered, pressing herself closer as Rhys glided to the ground. They could have walked from the edge of the wards—it was only a few yards. But it had been a long day, and some part of him wanted to carry Feyre instead of putting her back on her feet.

“What is this place?” she said, finally wiggling out of his arms after they’d crossed the threshold.

“Traditionally? It’s where the wayward youths of my family have been sent for ‘reflection’ for millennia. But I thought you might want the peace and quiet,” he said.

Rhys waved a hand, and a fire sprang to life, lighting up the cabin and warming it. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but out of habit, he toed off his shoes and placed them near the door. Feyre did the same, apparently following his lead. She sighed, and Rhys could practically feel the tension melting off of her as she closed her eyes.

“Thank you. It’s like I can finally hear myself think.”

It was exactly what Rhys suspected she really needed—a break. Even if a new life on the Continent seemed appealing, everyone she loved was in Velaris. But if Feyre didn’t agree…there would be no forcing her to stay.

He couldn’t let her leave without telling her the full truth, either.

Rhys forced himself to say, “We need to talk, and no one will disturb us here.”

“I think we do.”

There it was again—that tug, right behind his heart. The first time, Rhys had hoped he wasn’t mistaken, and after feeling it again, he was more sure. Feyre knew. And hopefully she wasn’t about to rake him over the coals.

He ushered them into the living room and gestured for her to sit. Out of habit, his movements had gone stiff and formal, though he longed to pull her close and share a blanket. But he wasn’t sure that would be welcome. Instead, he kept a careful distance between them as he sank onto the sofa.

“Feyre,” Rhys said, forcing himself to look at her. Each word felt like it was dragged out of him. “You’re my—”

“Mate. I know.”

Rhys flinched—the words sounded like a rebuke. And there was a harsh finality when the words were spoken aloud for the first time. They couldn’t be taken back. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry that we’re mates? Or is there something else you’re about to confess to me?” Her voice went sharp, and Rhys wished he could disappear.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” he said quietly.

“How long have you known?”

“The bond snapped a few months after meeting you. That day our fingers brushed as you handed me the paper—I think the contact triggered it.”

Another tug. This time, Rhys pulled back, just because there was no fear of being found out this time. Feyre’s hand flew to her chest, eyes going wide.

“It’s real, isn’t it?” she said, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I felt the spark that day, too. But you were such a flirt—with everyone —and I didn’t want to be some deluded girl who convinced herself it was more than a bit of fun.”

“I thought you would have noticed the headlines about my love life stopped after I met you.”

“I did. I just…didn’t think it had anything to do with me. At least not until recently. And then we were in the middle of the strike, and it’s not as if you had an opening to tell me.”

“I didn’t want to burden you with it.” Rhys still didn’t. It was honestly a wonder that Feyre hadn’t rejected the bond already; she’d shouted headlines about enough kidnapping and assassination attempts to know what a life with him would be like.

Feyre slid her hand across the sofa, interlacing their fingers. “It’s not a burden, but I need time. Can it be just us for a while? No High Lords, no labor unions, no newspapers.”

Word would get out eventually. They’d been seen together often enough in the past few days, and Rhys could hardly slip out of Velaris unnoticed. But if they stayed at the cabin, they could put it off for a while.

He pressed a kiss to their joined hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Another tug, but not behind his ribs this time. Feyre was pulling him closer, until Rhys lost his balance and they became a tangle of limbs and nearly tumbled off the sofa together. Her breath tickled his ear as she let out a peal of laughter. Rhys hooked a leg around her waist, twisting until she was on top of him the way he liked.

It was a while before they actually made it to the bed. And even longer until he finally fell asleep with a wing blanketing them both.

Rhys woke to a claw poking at his shields. Not hard, but insistent. His father would have just pushed his way in, which meant the daemati who wanted his attention must have been his sister.

He opened a crack for her, one just wide enough to say, Go away.

I’m outside.

Go. Away.

I’m coming in. Make sure you’re decent.

Truthfully, he was lucky Rhiannon hadn’t pounded on the door to wake up Feyre, too. Rhys bit back a snarl and slowly slid out of the bed; hopefully, he could get his sister to leave before Feyre even realized someone else had been there. With a flick of his wrist, Rhys summoned a robe and slipped it on, hurrying to the door.

Rhiannon was already in the entranceway, running a hand through windswept hair. Her dark cheeks and the tip of her nose had a pink tinge from the early morning cold—she must have flown here.

“Mother’s tits, how the hell did you two make this place stink so badly in just one night?” Rhiannon said, making a face.

“What are you doing here?” Rhys said.

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. “Meeting my new sister because you couldn’t be bothered to introduce us before running off.”

“She’s not your—” A shuffling sound from the other room cut him off; Feyre must have woken up. Rhys snarled, then slipped into Rhiannon’s mind to add, Do not ruin this for me.

Ignoring the sound of her snickering, Rhys turned to see nothing more than the faint outline of Feyre creeping through the shadows. She’d gone incorporeal, probably because she was shy.

“We can go back to bed. Rhiannon was just leaving,” Rhys said pointedly.

Rhiannon pushed past him, nearly smacking Rhys in the face with a wing. Feyre materialized fully and, still a bit groggy from sleep, blinked at them both owlishly.

Rhiannon reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a copy of the Herald . “I’m just here to make a delivery, and I’ll be out of your hair,” she said, holding it out to Feyre.

Feyre took the paper and unrolled it. Rhys stepped closer, reading the headline over her shoulder. Newsies Stop the Presses: Historic Lesser Fae Coalition Secures Labor Win. The accompanying picture had been taken just after they’d inked the deal, a smiling Feyre flanked by her sisters and Lucien in the House of Wind.

Rhys heard his mate’s breath catch, and he decided that perhaps he wouldn’t kill his sister for this after all.

“After all that time you spent selling the paper, it just seemed fair to bring it to you when you’re finally in it,” Rhiannon added, a bit more softly.

Feyre smiled. “Thank you.”

To Rhys’s shock, Feyre accepted a hug from his sister, and true to her word, Rhiannon slipped back out after that. Thank the Mother she hadn’t insisted on staying for breakfast.

Once the door shut and they were alone again, Rhys said, “I suppose if we head back to bed, tomorrow’s headline will be about the mountains shaking.”

Feyre laughed and took her cap off the hook where she’d hung it near the door. Pressing a kiss to Rhys’s cheek, she put the cap on his head. “We’ll make a newsie of you yet, mate.”

It was only a matter of time before he made her a High Lady, too.

#feysand #love at first sight's for suckers

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