violetasteracademic - Tumblr blog

violetasteracademic · 2 months ago

Text

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (31/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~6k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21-30 | ch. 31 - blue dress on a boat

This fic turns two years old today! I deeply appreciate everyone reading, commenting, and kudos-ing, but I'm especially blown away by the people who've been sticking around since the very beginning. So many of my "regulars" have gone from nice internet strangers to people I'm so lucky to call friends. I love you all!

Some text in this chapter is lifted directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the thirty-first chapter below the readmore.

The slight chill of the air in Velaris gave away to dry, suffocating heat. Bright sun glinted off a turquoise sea, and the cooling breeze off the water did little to make the platform where we stood any more comfortable.

We'd emerged right at the base of a tan stone palace. It sat atop a mountain, not unlike the palace of moonstone I'd never visited but knew existed above the Hewn City.

High Lords and their affinity for elevated abodes, I supposed. Rhys, at least, had wings. But as far as I knew, Tarquin couldn't fly, so it seemed like an odd, impractical choice to me.

It did, however, look just like the illustrations I'd seen in the books on the Summer Court I'd devoured in the library, the layout of the mountain-island at the center of the half-moon bay identical to the maps I'd poured over.

But reading hadn't prepared me for the sight of so many ships—ferries and merchant vessels and barges and yachts. Or the squawking gulls overhead and the distant hum of a crowded, bustling city.

A half dozen or so people waited for us, framed by a pair of sea glass doors that opened into the palace itself. On our little balcony, there was no option to escape—no path out but winnowing away…or going through those doors. Or, I supposed, the plunge awaiting us to the red roofs of the fine houses a hundred feet below.

"Welcome to Adriata," said the tall male in the center of the group.

I remembered him from Under the Mountain. Even if I could forget that rich brown skin, white hair, and eyes of crushing, turquoise blue, I still had the occasional nightmare of the party where he'd been forced to watch as Rhys invaded his courtier's mind then snuffed out his life.

Rhys had lied. But sometimes my mind conjured up a version of events where Amarantha had seen the mercy killing for what it was. On those nights, I clung to Rhys tighter and reminded myself we'd made it out alive.

Rhys merely drawled, "Good to see you again, Tarquin."

The five other people behind the High Lord of Summer swapped frowns of varying severity. Like their lord, their skin was dark, their hair in shades of white or silver, as if they had lived under the bright sun their entire lives. Their eyes, however, were of every color. And now they shifted downwards, to where Rhys kept his fingers intertwined with mine, even as Amren pulled hers out of his grip.

Rhys slid his free hand into a pocket and inclined his head towards Amren. "Amren, I think you know. Though you haven't met her since your…promotion." Cool, calculating grace, edged with steel.

Tarquin gave Amren the briefest of nods. "Welcome back to the city, lady."

Amren didn't nod, or bow, or so much as curtsy. She looked over Tarquin, tall and muscled, his clothes of sea-green and blue and gold, and said, "At least you are far more handsome than your cousin. He was an eyesore." A female behind Tarquin outright glared. Amren's red lips stretched wide. "Condolences, of course," she added with as much sincerity as a snake.

Wicked, cruel—that's what Amren and Rhys were to these people. And as horrible as it was, that knowledge made me feel safe. They were with me, and no one would cross them.

Rhys gestured to me. "I don't believe you two were ever formally introduced Under the Mountain. Tarquin, Feyre. Feyre, Tarquin." No titles here—either to unnerve them or because Rhys found them a waste of breath.

I could have attempted to wear the same mask as Rhys and Amren. But there was no point in trying to intimidate anyone here, not when I was the only one for miles with no magic I could wield. To powerful immortals, I might as well have been a helpless kitten flexing its tiny claws.

Instead, I forced myself to smile. "I'm glad our official meeting is under such vastly improved circumstances," I said. Not sweet, exactly, but open. Friendly. I did genuinely mean what I said.

Our hosts remained stone-faced and stiff-backed. Tarquin seemed to weigh the air between my companions and me—I watched his gaze drift back to where my hand was still joined with Rhys's. "It seems you have a tale to tell, lady."

Even though it was proper, the honorific sounded all wrong when applied to me. It was a positive sign, of course. I was all-too-aware that Tarquin had seen me half-naked and writhing in Rhys's lap Under the Mountain, and this was an indication he didn't hold me in contempt because of it.

But I was still so unused to anyone treating me with courtly manners.

"We have many tales to tell," Rhys said, jerking his chin toward the glass doors behind them. "So why not get comfortable?"

The female a half-step behind Tarquin inched closer. "We have refreshments prepared."

Tarquin seemed to remember her and put a hand on her slim shoulder. "Cresseida—Princess of Adriata."

Her long silver-hair blew across her pretty face in the briny breeze, in that distinctly ethereal, fae way that didn't result in the strands getting stuck to her her face or blocking her vision. I didn't mistake the light in her brown eyes for anything but razor-sharp cunning. "A pleasure," she murmured huskily to me. "And an honor."

I didn't miss the slight grovel in her voice, yet another faerie interested in me purely as the Cursebreaker. A part of me wanted to shrug it off, but I doubted that was wise.

"Morrigan told me so much about you," I said instead. I wasn't quite sure how to play these sorts of political games, but establishing myself as on good terms with Rhys's Third seemed a good a strategy as any. "It's nice to meet you, too."

The others were hastily introduced: three advisers who oversaw the city, the court, and the trade. And then a broad-shouldered, handsome male named Varian, Cresseida's younger brother, captain of Tarquin's guard, and Prince of Adriata. His attention was fixed wholly on Amren—as if he knew where the biggest threat lay. And would be happy to kill her, if given the chance.

Amren had never looked more delighted.

We were led into a palace crafted of shell-flecked walkways and walls, countless windows looking out to the bay and mainland or the open sea beyond. As we walked, I slipped my hand from Rhys's and let him move to Tarquin's other side—we were a pair, certainly, but I didn't want to appear leashed to him.

It might not have mattered. High fae—servants and courtiers—hurried across and around them, most brown-skinned and clad in loose, light clothing, all far too preoccupied with their own matters to take note or interest in our presence. No lesser faeries crossed our path—not one.

I'd noticed the same thing in the Day Court. It set me on edge—if Tarquin didn't even allow lesser fae into his palace, then how I could I expect him to respect any humans?

My stomach turned to lead. It made a horrible sort of sense that the Summer Court had held off on joining a side until nearly the very end of the War.

If Rhys sensed my unease, he didn't show it. He and Tarquin were talking lightly, both already sounding bored, of the recent Summer Solstice festivities. Something about harvests and floral arrangements on display.

"We have four main cities in my territory," Tarquin said to me, looking over his muscled shoulder. "We spend the last month of winter and first spring months in Adriata—it's finest at this time of year."

I held back a snort. The time of year hardly mattered in a land of endless summer. "It's very beautiful," I said.

Tarquin stared at me long enough that Rhys said, "The repairs have been going well, I take it."

A warning, polite but firm, and he was so rarely possessive in this way. In truth, I didn't hate it.

And it certainly hauled Tarquin's attention back. "Mostly. There remains much to be done. The back half of the castle is a wreck. But, as you can see, we've finished most of the inside. We focused on the city first—and those repairs are ongoing."

Right. Amarantha had sacked the city. Rhys said, "I hope no valuables were lost during its occupation."

It was risky to use the bond, but I couldn't help it. Through the small opening in his shields, I whispered, That was far too obvious. Don't be an idiot.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a beast flattened its ears and lowered its tail contritely.

"Not the most important things, thank the Mother," Tarquin said.

Behind me, Cresseida tensed. The three advisers peeled off to attend to other duties, murmuring farewell—with wary looks in Tarquin's direction. As if this might very well be the first time he'd needed to play host and they were watching their High Lord's every move.

It made me feel the tiniest bit better. I wasn't the only one here out of their depth.

The others seated themselves at the mother-of-pearl table. I probably should have joined them. I'd spent so little time around the ocean, however, that the view from the wide windows captivated me. Stupid as it was, I wandered to the glass and let myself stare.

The vibrant water—cobalt, green, midnight—was beautiful. Objectively so. But something about it just made me regret that I hadn't yet visited any of the Night Court's coastline. Ridiculous, really, when my home was surrounded by the sea on three sides.

Tarquin appeared beside me and said, "This is my favorite view."

"You must be very proud," I said, "to have such stunning lands."

"How do they compare to the ones you have seen?" Such a carefully crafted question.

If I told the truth—that it rivaled Spring but nowhere was more beautiful to me than the Night Court—I might seem a bit too much like Rhys's sycophant. But I didn't want to hide that I was quite happy in Night, either.

I shrugged. "Everything in Prythian is lovely."

"Have you seen much of it, then?"

Another careful question. Azriel would probably praise Tarquin's subtle attempts to get information out of me. But at least this was another one that Mor and Amren had prepared me to answer.

"My position as Rhysand's emissary necessarily involves travel. I returned from a trip to the Day Court shortly before coming here to meet with you."

From her seat beside Rhys, Cresseida said, "Do you have much contact with the mortal realm, then?"

I took that as an invitation to sit down. They'd left a seat open for me, beside Amren and across from Rhys. The conversation moved on to other things—namely, the threat from Hybern and the possibility of an imminent war.

I picked at my salad and steamed shellfish, listening more than I talked. Rhys was the one who'd once commanded a legion in battle, so he took the lead on the discussion. We needed to have it before the delegation from Spring arrived and the entire visit could potentially go to shit, so Mor had arranged for us to arrive early.

Ultimately, Tarquin's answers didn't surprise me. If Hybern attacked, he'd fight. Otherwise, he had no intention of getting into a war at all.

It shouldn't have bothered me. Tarquin's own people were his first priority, which meant picking up the shattered pieces of his court in the wake of Amarantha's death. But I hated the thought of the Summer Court slowly repairing itself, reestablishing trade and becoming prosperous while Hybern pillaged the mortal lands to the south.

It was the choice I'd make if I were in Tarquin's shoes. But that didn't make it any easier to share a meal with him without snapping my teeth.

Rhys must have sensed my tension. Even as he discussed the possibility of an alliance in that detached way he had with outsiders, I felt an invisible hand rubbing soothing circles just between my shoulder blades.

The rest of the afternoon was easier—Tarquin led us on a tour of the city and allowed us to walk through a hall of treasure and jewels. I had the sense that his advisors intended him to boast about his court's wealth and beauty. He didn't quite manage it.

I didn't hesitate to pepper him with questions about the history and value of it all, the kind I remembered my father asking other merchants before we'd lost our fortune. Partially just to appear involved, more like an emissary and less like Rhys's little mortal pet, but also because I was curious.

He readily admitted when he didn't know the answers, even when it earned him a glare from Cresseida. With a sheepish glance at the ground, he'd said, "I haven't had much time to learn about it all."

I'd never known a faerie to be so…artless. Though Tarquin was old enough to be my grandfather, I could almost fool myself into thinking we were close in age. In other circumstances, I might have been able to call him a friend, someone who related to the way I felt out of my depth so often in Prythian.

But it ended all too soon. Tarquin excused himself to go greet the delegation from the Spring Court, and we were left with a brief window of time to get settled in our suite and freshen up before dinner.

I wasn't sure whose brilliant idea it had been for us all to have this discussion over a meal, but apparently we were all expected to pile ourselves onto Tarquin's pleasure barge and dine on the water. I suspected it was a calculated move to put some distance between all of us and the newly-repaired city if this meeting came to blows.

Rhys winnowed the three of us to the harbor fashionably late. The other six attendees were talking quietly amongst themselves as they waited, but the moment we materialized, they all fell silent. A slight loosening of Rhys's grip on his power, and the shadows cast by the setting sun lengthened.

Another subtle warning.

"Feyre," Tamlin said, his green eyes roving over me, as if in search of an injury. He'd left his customary bandolier of knives at home. Instead, a decorative gold sash adorned the formal green suit he wore, matching the crown that sat atop his head.

Perhaps Rhys was rubbing off on me because despite all the history between us—and the potential danger of our mission tonight—my first thought was that the cut of Tamlin's jacket was just a bit too boxy in the shoulders.

Lucien gave me a wan smile. "It's good to see you."

It was a far cry from the hug he'd given me when we'd reunited Under the Mountain.

My eyes landed on the final member of the Spring delegation. By now, I'd heard enough about Ianthe that it felt like we'd already met—once we'd confirmed Tamlin was bringing her to Adriata, I'd asked my friends in the library more about her. They'd shared plenty of stories about how she'd simpered and backstabbed her way into her current position as High Priestess, smiling sweetly even when she'd terrorized the other acolytes.

A part of me suspected Evelyn, Deirdre, Roslin, and the others hoped I'd return with Ianthe's blood coating my teeth.

She glided towards me, blue-grey robes billowing gently around her, and proffered a ring-adorned hand for me to shake. "It's such a pleasure to meet the Cursebreaker."

"I'm sure it is," I said flatly. I didn't take her hand.

Until that moment, I hadn't been aware Rhys could snort down the mating bond.

Tarquin's face had gone slightly ashen. It was Cresseida who said, "Dinner is waiting. Why don't we all get ourselves seated?"

Behind her, the pleasure barge bobbed in the waters of the bay. It was crafted of the finest wood and gold, and a canopy of tiles set with mother-of-pearl covered the dinner table on the main deck. A ramp extended from the dock to the side of the boat, its railing lined with a string of faelights shaped like fish.

My stomach flipped as it occurred to me that even though my father owned a fleet of ships, I'd never actually set foot on one before.

I looped my arm through Rhys's as we stepped aboard. Partly for support, partly to give in to my instinct to hiss and snarl and treat him like territory in need of defending.

Once we'd all arranged ourselves around the table, some invisible tether released itself. I made myself comfortable between Rhys and Tarquin as we sailed towards the bay. Tamlin look the space directly across from me.

For a while, no one spoke. A pair of servants in blue livery placed trays of appetizers on the table, opened bottles of wine, and poured us all a glass. In the quiet, the clicking and whirring of Lucien's eye seemed impossibly loud.

As much as I wanted to disappear, I needed to pull everyone's attention towards me and hold it there. I stared down Tamlin. His claws and magic and might meant nothing at all to me. This was the male whose carelessness with a glamour had nearly made Nesta go mad.

My sister would not want me to show the barest hint of guilt or fear.

"Go ahead and ask your questions," I said, picking up my wineglass. "I'm sure you have plenty, and I'd rather not let this take all night."

"How have you been?" Tamlin said, more gently than I'd expected from him.

It nearly made me falter for a moment—I'd been tensing up for a fight. But that wasn't the only strategy I'd considered before this visit, so instead of scowling, I plastered a smile on my face. Glowing with newfound happiness could work just as well as raising my hackles.

"I'm well," I said.

"Are you?" Lucien said, sharply enough that I had to force myself not to flinch.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you've spent the past few months living in a hellhole full of sadistic killers."

I narrowed my eyes. "You've always been rude, but I thought you knew better than to speak about someone's home like that, Lucien."

"Is that what the Night Court is to you?" Tamlin said, his blond hair falling over a shoulder as he tilted his head at me. "A home?"

He still spoke softly, but now I realized it was the same sort of tone one might use to coax a frightened animal. This was merely more of that obnoxious fae arrogance. I was a child to him, a victim Rhys took advantage of.

At least, though, I could answer Tamlin's question with more of the truth.

"It is. Everyone there has been kind to me, and I'm happy. Rhys especially has been wonderful," I said.

I let my gaze slide over to him. His mask of polished cruelty slipped just for a moment, and he smiled at me with a softness he never let show outside Velaris. I knew, down to the marrow of my bones, that Rhys had never looked at anyone else like that. That smile—along with every other inch of him—was mine.

Lucien muttered into his wineglass, "I'm sure he has."

I should have ignored it, but I snapped,"Considering your High Lord kidnapped me, I don't think you have a right to talk."

Tamlin's fingers flexed, as if he were forcing those claws not to appear. Perhaps I could goad him into ripping up the tablecloth—that would certainly provide enough of a distraction for Rhys to get into Tarquin's mind unnoticed.

Tarquin, Cresseida, and Varian had all stilled in that peculiar way of the High Fae, so I supposed whatever I was doing was working. Lucien had never really been able to keep his mouth shut—after all, he'd called me a murderer when he knew Tamlin was supposed to be seducing me. Perhaps I could use that to my advantage.

As I hoped, he said, "Don't I? What would you call your vanishing act on Calanmai, then?"

I reached for a plate of mussels, relaxing a bit as I slipped into the lie that I'd so carefully practiced the past few months. "An escape. When I trapped the Suriel, it told me that you'd lied about the Treaty. Since then, I'd been looking for a way back home. I slipped out on Fire Night hoping that with everyone else focused on the celebrations, I might manage to get away and start making my way back below the Wall.

"Rhys and I crossed paths in the forest. The black clothes and the lack of a mask made it obvious that he was Night Court. Your enemy. I asked him for help, hoping that he'd find it amusing to help your captive slip out right under your nose. He offered me a job instead. If I helped him overthrow Amarantha, then my family and I would have all the wealth and protection we could ever need. That's how I became his emissary."

I wasn't sure anyone else at the table was breathing. Trying not to squirm under the combined weight of their gazes, I merely broke the first shell in half and busied myself with removing the meat with a spoon. This was a dinner, after all. Not an interrogation.

When no one spoke, I continued, "We needed to buy time for me to prepare. He brought me to the Night Court and faked my death so no one would come looking for me. But I think you'll understand, Lucien, why I told you I'd been living in the forest instead."

"Rhysand killed an innocent human girl and passed her corpse off as your own. Did you know that's the sort of monster you swore allegiance to?" Tamlin said.

A memory flashed in my mind—Rhys the morning after Calanmai, handing me his jacket because the work to be done wouldn't leave him clean. I'd respected him for it then. I still did now.

"I lay the blame for that woman's death at Amarantha's feet, not Rhys's," I said.

Tamlin shook his head. "By Cauldron, do you even hear yourself? He's addled your mind so thoroughly that it's a wonder it's not a pile of mush."

"I ended up in this mess because I killed one of your men in cold blood, skinned his corpse, and nearly ate him. Before I met Rhysand."

I let my words hang in the air. For the first time all day, Varian pulled his attention away from Amren and regarded me properly. The captain of the guard seemed to reconsider writing me off as a nonthreatening human. Cresseida, who'd been about to bite into a bit of toast laden with vegetables, set her food down.

"Feyre," Tamlin said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. "I know this isn't you. There's a kind heart under that thorny exterior. It's why I fell—"

Ianthe made a noise that might have been a cough. Thus far, she'd been quiet, but now her eyes were flashing dangerously. Jealously.

From across the table, Amren caught my eye and smirked.

An ugly part of me wanted to make Tamlin hurt—to embarrass him as much as he'd embarrassed me. Developing feelings for my kidnapper was pathetic. Finding out invisible servants had watched me creep around for weeks was humiliating.

Back then, I'd been so willing to settle for scraps.

"It's probably unwise to finish that sentence in front of your new ladylove," I said. "Don't put yourself at more of a disadvantage. That hood of hers makes it difficult for you to re-use your line about her hair looking clean."

"It's not like that. Ianthe is a friend I've known since childhood," Tamlin said.

No one had ever glared at me in the particular way Ianthe was doing now, her face oddly tight and her clear blue eyes burning with hatred. I'd seen this expression directed at Nesta, though—by human girls when the men in our village stared at her tits.

I tried to emulate my eldest sister, hoping I projected half the confidence she did, as I said, "You've really known each other that long? The Mother blessed you with infinite patience if you've been pursuing the same uninterested male for five centuries, Ianthe."

Tarquin looked to Cresseida as if pleading for help. "We didn't invite you here because we were interested in hosting a catfight, ladies," she said tartly.

"Of course not," I said, taking an herbed roll from a basket and placing it on my plate. "I'm happy to answer any more questions anyone has for me."

Lucien was still studying me. "How did whipping me Under the Mountain fit into whatever scheme Rhysand dragged you into?"

"It didn't. I don't have the same strength as a faerie, so I thought you'd have a better chance of surviving if I took Tamlin's place. I didn't want to watch you die," I said.

"And I'm supposed to believe that after you lied to all of us for weeks?"

It was a stupid question—the circumstances were vastly changed with the curse broken and Amarantha dead. And the note of hurt in Lucien's voice rankled me.

But before I could tell him any of that, it was Tarquin who said, "I believe it."

"Do you?" Tamlin said.

"Brutius was my cousin, and we had forces gathering in all of our cities to storm Under the Mountain. They caught him sneaking out through the tunnels to meet with them. Rhys saw that in Brutius's mind—I know he did. And yet he lied to her face, and defied her when she gave the order to turn him into a living ghost. If the High Lord of the Night Court is capable of such mercy, then so is the emissary who works so closely with him," Tarquin said.

It sounded like the beginnings of a good-faith alliance. A rare gift. With the Night Court's fearsome reputation, opportunities to build bridges only came along once a millennium at best.

And here we were, setting it on fire as Rhys unraveled the defenses around Tarquin's mind.

Tamlin shook his head. "You are young, Tarquin. Take some advice from another High Lord who's sat on the throne for far longer than you've been alive—do not make the mistake of trusting Rhysand."

Cresseida shot Tarquin a look across the table, a raise of her brows that made me wonder if the princess had given him the same advice. I took another bite of my food and pretended not to notice their silent communication.

The mussels tasted like ash in my mouth.

"I'll take that under advisement," Tarquin said smoothly.

"I'm not even sure you should allow Feyre to return to the Night Court with him," Tamlin said.

Next to me, Rhys went as still as death. Before he could summon a single scrap of magic, I forced my thoughts down the bond. If I need protecting, Amren will play bodyguard. Don't let them distract you from the task at hand.

He didn't answer in words, just a mental growl of displeasure. But he did not fight me on it.

"I wasn't aware," Amren said smoothly, as if on cue, "that the decision was up to anyone other than Feyre herself."

"It would be if she was in her right mind. But he's clearly done something to her, and I won't pretend otherwise," Tamlin said.

Ianthe added, "You should see the propaganda I've received from my sisters in the Night Court. In their letters, Clotho and her acolytes talk about Feyre and Rhysand like they're a pair of sweet little lovebirds. It's honestly galling that they think we'd believe any High Lord, let alone one as wicked as him, could fall for a human. We all know he'll tire of fucking her when she gets her first wrinkle in a decade or so."

Above us, darkness blotted out the stars.

I'm handling this, Rhys. Back down.

"It's not my fault you're a crone whose womb shriveled up before you could bag a High Lord," I said aloud.

Lucien's gaze dropped back to my left hand. His metal eye began to whirr again, and the bottom seemed to drop out of my stomach. It was bad enough Helion already knew about the glamour covering me.

Ianthe snarled, lips pulled back from her teeth, "You ugly little mortal slut—"

Before Lucien could speak, I stood, tossing my napkin down and letting my chair scrape loudly against the deck of the boat. It didn't come close to covering the sound of Rhys's growl.

I could feel his power straining against his hold, a rabid dog barely held back by a leash, frustration mounting as its jaws closed around nothing at all.

If you kill any of them, I will never forgive you for taking away my chance to end their lives myself. Don't dishonor me like that. Finish getting through Tarquin's defenses.

It was, perhaps, the only thing that could have gotten him to stand down. Rhys was an Illyrian—he understood that a kill was something a person lay claim to. His face remained a mask of frozen rage, but the shadows retreated.

I had half a mind to launch myself across the table and throttle the Spring delegation one by one. But I wouldn't let myself throw the first punch. As Cassian always said during training, avoiding a fight was preferable to winning one.

"I won't tolerate being spoken to like this," I said. My back had gone ramrod-straight, and my hands fisted at my sides.

In other circumstances, I would have stormed off. It seemed pointless, however, when the farthest I could go was merely to the other end of the barge. Everyone else here could winnow or fly, but I was trapped until we docked again.

So stupidly human of me, just like everything else.

Rhys tugged gently on the mating bond, a silent reminder—one word from me, and we could go. If I wanted, he'd take me back to Velaris, Book of Breathings be damned.

I didn't need that from him, though. I'd see this through to the end.

"Even if Feyre hadn't saved all of your necks Under the Mountain, she is a member of my Inner Circle, who I brought here for a diplomatic visit," Rhys said. The words themselves were mild, but they held a threat nonetheless.

High Lords had gone to war for less.

I waited. Even the sea breeze had died.

Finally, Tarquin laid a hand on the table. "I expect my guests to behave themselves, Tamlin. If you and your retinue cannot, then I'll ask you to leave," he said. To me, he added, "It wasn't my intention to subject you to that, Cursebreaker."

"No harm done," I said, taking my seat again.

Tarquin hadn't been obligated to come to my defense. Especially not after I'd called Ianthe a barren crone. With the close ties between the Seasonal Courts, I would have assumed that if Tarquin stepped outside the bounds of the Summer Court's careful neutrality, it would have been to support Spring.

Our plan to steal from him later tonight only weighed on me more heavily.

One of Rhys's talons tapped my shields gently. Once. Twice. The signal we'd agreed on to indicate that he'd gotten everything he needed from Tarquin's mind. I held back a sigh of relief. Hopefully, we could end this dinner quickly and retreat to our room until most of the palace was asleep.

Tamlin sighed, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. Another High Lord struggling under the weight of his authority—of his failures. "I'm sorry," he said to me. "I should have protected you better, but I can't change the past. I can only make things right going forward. I will fix this."

The words sounded like a vow. My blood ran cold.

I just wanted the Spring Court to leave me alone. But Tamlin, it seemed, had decided I was some damsel in need of saving. I didn't know how to prove that wasn't the case, not when my High Lord could control minds. And for all his faults, Tamlin was too decent to write me off as a lost cause.

I had to try, though.

"I came here tonight with the intention of providing some closure. I've moved on, and I suggest you do the same," I said, more gently than I thought he deserved.

Lucien said nothing, but he stared at me with an expression I could only describe as stricken. Unable to face it, I went back to my food.

There wasn't much conversation after that. Varian managed to get Amren to speak just enough to fill the silence, with Cresseida and Tarquin joining in occasionally. But everything came out stilted and awkward as we all picked at the strawberry salad the servants brought out next.

When the main course was finished, no one breathed a word about dessert.

As soon as we were back in our room, Rhys and I ended up in bed together. I took full advantage of his wings being hidden, curling my body around his back and hooking an arm over his chest. He interlaced our fingers, and for a long moment, we just savored the silence together.

Guilt coated the mating bond, viscous and dark enough to leave a stain. But still shared, existing on the bridge between our souls.

There was a at least an hour to kill—we had to move quickly, while Tamlin, Ianthe, and Lucien were staying under Tarquin's roof to to allow him to offer hospitality, but not until closer to midnight.

It was most definitely not the time, but I pulled my hand from his and trailed it down the hard plane of his stomach, towards the waistband of his pants. "Can we…?" I breathed.

We needed it. I wanted to claim and be claimed, and I was sure that after facing everyone at dinner, he felt the same. Better to get it out of our system before embarking on the next phase of our mission.

Rhys's reply was nothing more than a small noise that emerged from the back of his throat. I let him roll us both over until I was pinned under him the way we both liked. It was odd, though, to see him above me without wings flaring out behind him.

He leaned down to kiss me, and the back of my skull came perilously close to smacking the headboard. As his lips brushed mine, a thought struck me.

Who are we sharing a wall with? I asked, using the bond so he wouldn't stop kissing me.

Amren is across the hall, if that's what you're worried about.

I'm not worried about anything at all. I punctuated that statement with a bite to his lower lip.

He pulled away, shifting his weight from his forearms to his knees so he could study me. I started to protest, but he began making quick work of the buttons on my dress. "Oh?" was all he said.

"Don't put a shield up to block the noise. I want to make a point."

His fingers, which had been loosening a button on my hip, stilled. The look he leveled at me was pure predator.

I merely raised my brows in challenge.

Our clothes were gone in an instant. For a short while, the world narrowed to intertwined limbs, skin-on-skin, mouths moving against each other, and the mating bond thrumming with pure rightness at our coupling.

When it was done, I felt like I had my head on straight again. Soon, it would be time to go, and we both slipped on the Illyrian leathers that Nuala had hidden in our luggage. I couldn't help but admire how we looked like a matched set, wearing the same scaled leather and identical red marks we'd just left on each other's necks.

As we changed, Rhys reached for Amren's mind, filling both of us in on the details of what we'd attempt tonight. A temple ruin. A guard tower to avoid. A lock in need of breaking.

And, riskiest of all, a further violation of another High Lord's mind if we wanted to accomplish any of it.

Light footsteps sounded in the hall, and Amren entered. Her nostrils flared, and she hissed in displeasure as the combined smells of Rhys, me, and sex hit her nose. I didn't bother apologizing.

Her lips were blood-red in the moonlight, but her voice was light as she said, "Care for a midnight stroll?"

#happy fic birthday!!!#fic toddler #they grow up so fast

26 notes · View notes

violetasteracademic · 2 months ago

Text

Yesssssss I've been waiting for this!

That's That Rhys Espresso (1/2)

Summary: Hoping she'll get an espresso machine as a rejection gift, Feyre invites a famous coffee influencer to her wedding…only for him to show up instead. Warnings: None Word Count: ~4k

I love a good group project (almost as much as I love my friends - go read their fics!).

My entry is inspired by this post by the brilliant @the-lonelybarricade and her beautiful brain. And a huge thank you to @thesistersarcheron for the beta read!

You can find the first chapter Here on AO3 or under the cut.

Honestly, the matcha was a red flag.

Feyre had nothing against it, but The Roasters Under the Mountain specialized in rich, dark, extra-bitter espresso. If someone wanted a latte that tasted like grass, the tea shops down the road would do a much better job of it. And yet, she found herself making one for Tamlin daily, the green drink a perfect match to his gorgeous eyes.

If Amarantha didn't threaten to flay her skin from her bones if she took too long filling orders, Feyre would have already written her number on his to-go cup. But under the watchful gaze of her bitch of a boss, she'd been forced to merely smile a little extra warmly at her favorite regular.

Once, when Amarantha had been busy firing Andras for calling out sick too often—health codes, food safety, and labor laws be damned—Feyre had a precious few extra seconds with Tamlin. As she'd slid him his drink, he'd blushed and stammered something about her hair looking clean.

She'd ridden that high for weeks.

Each day, Feyre left The Roasters Under the Mountain with aching feet, exhausted by entitled customers, public restroom shitstorms, Amarantha's threats, and the constant pressure to serve increasingly complicated drinks in less time. The early mornings left her so drained that she hadn't cracked open a can of paint in months. And despite the hard work, she still barely covered the rent for the ramshackle cottage she shared with her family.

So when another opportunity arose to ask Tamlin out, she wasn't exactly in the headspace to identify red flags.

She'd clung to him hard in those early days. It was impossible not to—after years of just scraping by, the relief she felt each time he rubbed her shoulders after a long shift or paid for a date was damn near euphoric.

And yes, maybe she should have been concerned when he'd asked her to move in with him after only a few short months of dating. And that he'd told her not to worry about the bills—he wanted her to focus on her art for now, and she could always pay him back later, when her career took off.

He'd always been so sure she'd make it as an artist. No one else had believed in Feyre like that.

Working her final shift at Under the Mountain had felt like such a victory. As much as Feyre wanted to just leave and never come back, she hadn't wanted to give up the chance to rub in the fact that she was moving on to bigger and better things.

On every latte she served that day, she'd drawn a penis in the foam.

It had been worth it, just to watch Amarantha seethe. Even better, her other favorite regular, pumpkin-spice-for-Lucien, who often arrived with Tamlin, had posted a picture of it and tagged her. It went viral, directing some of the traffic to the online store where she sold prints of her work, resulting in a nice little boost to her revenue that month, enough to pay down some of the credit card debt she'd amassed keeping the lights on at home during one of her father's hospital stays.

Things were looking up. So of course when Tamlin asked her to marry him, she'd cried happy tears and said yes.

Feyre let herself get swept up in the new whirlwind of wedding planning. It was easier than thinking about why she still woke up at 3 AM in a panic, convinced Amarantha would snap her neck for arriving late to her opening shift. Most nights, she ran to the bathroom with a racing heart and shaking hands and heaved the contents of her dinner into the toilet.

Tamlin never woke up. She tried not to think about it.

Once, Feyre stopped at their neighborhood coffee shop, intent on bringing home a treat, but before she could order, she'd found herself hyperventilating. She'd left. And when Tamlin came home exhausted from a long day at work, she decided not to tell him about the incident. It seemed so silly in retrospect.

Maybe when he'd added her to his health insurance after the wedding, she'd try therapy. For now, watching Black as Knight was healing enough.

Elain had sent her the first video she'd watched. Feyre's sister devoured all sorts of online cooking and food content at an alarming rate. Under a joke about the swill Feyre drank—god Feyre, Folgers??? you drink that BLACK??? you're worse than Nesta—Elain had included a link to a video of a coffee expert blind taste-testing bargain brands.

Feyre had opened it, not expecting that Rhysand Knight would be the most beautiful man she'd ever seen.

In the weeks and months since, Feyre had devoured every last espresso machine review, tiramisu recipe, and AeroPress instruction video Rhysand made. His voice was so soothing that she'd even taken to putting him on as background noise when she painted. With his trademark glasses, swoopy greying hair, and cocky smirk, he was utterly captivating to watch. And as a past winner of the world barista championship and pioneer of the third-wave coffee movement, he was incredibly knowledgable, too.

It was a small thing, perhaps, but if it weren't for Rhysand, Feyre doubted she'd ever manage to enjoy a latte without flashbacks to her time at Under the Mountain.

Once, she'd tried to get Tamlin to watch Rhysand's video detailing the different methods for decaffeinating coffee beans. Two minutes in, Tamlin had scoffed and told her to find something else.

"I just don't know how you can stand it," he'd said. "He's all 'notes of cinnamon' this and 'finely ground roast' that. It's just coffee."

A tiny, embarrassing wobble had creeped into Feyre's voice when she replied, "I'm trying to be better about remembering I can afford nice coffee sometimes. That I don't have to keep living like I'm poor now."

After that, Tamlin hadn't pressed the issue. Mostly. Feyre stopped trying to coax him into watching Rhysand's content with her—instead, she put up with the unfunny violin duo that Tamlin adored, though she could do without the endlessly repetitive you should be practicing jokes.

Sure, Tamlin never seemed to compromise and put on something she preferred. Annoying maybe, but making love last meant picking your battles, didn't it? Feyre could live with that.

But for some reason, the emerald ring on her left hand felt like a deadweight more often these days.

It might have been the reason Feyre put off building a registry as long as possible. But also, she'd never gotten over how presumptuous it felt to give her guests a list of items to gift. The price tags made her nauseous, no matter how many times Tamlin gently reminded her it was time to replace all her mismatched secondhand kitchenware.

"And maybe," he'd said with a wry smile, "that'll actually motivate you to learn to cook."

She'd forced a smile and tried to forget about the way he'd picked at the soup she'd made the week before, then ordered takeout after declaring it inedible. But with all the extra hours he'd been working at his high-pressure sales job, Feyre couldn't blame him for wanting a home-cooked meal at a reasonable hour every night.

Even if that meant cutting her time at the studio shorter than she could afford with her career just getting off the ground.

Feyre tried to put that thought out of her mind. Tamlin had blocked off the entire afternoon just so they could wander Williams Sonoma hand-in-hand. She intended to enjoy his company as best she could before he jetted off on a business trip for the week. Again.

They turned the corner, and in an aisle full of espresso machines that cost more than Feyre made in a month, Rhysand Knight's face smirked down at them from every box on the shelf. Apparently, that YouTube channel had expanded to a line of matte black coffee equipment.

Feyre glanced at Tamlin. And before she could even get a word out, he said, "Absolutely not."

"I take it you don't want to invite him to the wedding?" Feyre said, a teasing smile playing on her lips.

Tamlin didn't smile back; if anything, his frown deepened. "No."

"It's not like he'd show up—he doesn't know us. We'd probably just get an autographed photo and a nice card from his publicist. But who knows, if this kitchenware line is taking off, maybe he'd gift us an espresso machine. He can certainly afford it."

It seemed like the sort of thing a celebrity would do. Elain mostly sent their group chat bouquet inspo these days, but in the middle of all the aesthetic pictures of baby's breath, Nesta had said something about the host of her favorite game show getting wedding invites from fans. He'd joked about attending, and the internet had adored him for it.

A famous barista sending a top-of-the-line espresso machine to an couple who'd invited him to their wedding on a lark—feel-good stories like that always went viral.

And as much as Feyre loved her coffeemaker, it was still a far cry from the ones that would let her make specialty espresso drinks as home. Those cost thousands of dollars, more money than she'd ever feel comfortable spending on something unnecessary.

"We can get our own damn espresso machine if you want one so badly," Tamlin said through gritted teeth.

"I've heard that coffee tastes better when the machine you made it in was free."

Tamlin's glare made it obvious that he wasn't going to dignify that with a response. Feyre's smile dimmed. But they really did need to get their registry in order, so she looped his arm through his and let him drag her over to a different aisle to look at linens instead.

Tamlin only drank tea—Feyre suspected he would have reacted more positively if she'd floated the idea of angling for a gift they'd both use. But he wasn't the one carrying coffee-related baggage from the worst job of her life. Maybe he'd never really understand.

Feyre found herself glancing back at the wall of boxes emblazoned with Rhysand's stupidly attractive face. If he definitely wasn't attending the wedding, there was no need to pay for his plate. The only cost would be postage.

There wouldn't be any harm in sending him an invite.

Would there?

On the morning of her wedding, Feyre woke up with a knot in her stomach. Probably just the jitters—after all, she'd never liked attention or public speaking or posing for photos. And a proper wedding involved all of those things in spades.

She'd slept soundly, which was odd. Tamlin was staying with Lucien for the night; his other friend Ianthe had arranged for it. Apparently, everything would go to shit if the groom saw the bride before the wedding, so Feyre had elected to have the house to herself. Without Tamlin holding her as she drifted off, she thought she'd struggle to get some rest.

Instead, it was the best sleep she'd gotten in years. Perhaps the feeling of Tamlin's arms around her had been suffocating, not restful.

Feyre pushed that thought aside. She was marrying him today, and it was far too late to doubt that decision. Everything was paid for. Guests had flown in from out of state. She couldn't back out now.

Like every morning, she ground the beans, filled up the water tank, and hit brew. The familiar smell hit her nose, and Feyre just tried to enjoy the quiet while she could. To breathe while she could.

Her heart was already racing, but she hadn't even ingested a single milligram of caffeine. And it didn't stop, no matter how much she willed it to. As she poured coffee from the carafe to her mug, her hands shook, making the ceramic and glass clink together.

The feeling didn't dissipate, even as she brushed her teeth and threw on clothes. She probably should have had something more substantial for breakfast, but she wasn't sure she could keep it down. It was nearly a relief when her sisters arrived, and she could focus on the orders that Nesta barked at her on the way to the venue.

The concern in Elain's eyes was harder to face.

Feyre felt like a passenger in her own body while someone applied her makeup and someone else curled her hair. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. Tilt your head. Other way. The day had barely started, and she was already feeling overwhelmed from being poked at, plucked, and pinned within an inch of her life.

By the time they finished, a stranger was staring back at her in the mirror.

The photographer had arrived at some point, and Feyre grimaced her way through getting-ready pictures with her sisters in the matching robes they'd bought for the occasion. A feeling of utter wrongness crawled its way up her spine, despite the fact that this was supposed to be the happiest day of her life.

The prospect of getting into her dress didn't help, either. The endless layers of tulle made wearing it feel akin to being mummified, and today, the boning in the bodice reminded her of prison bars. Feyre had wanted to wear something more loose and flowing—why pay thousands for something she couldn't properly dance in at the reception?—but in the end, she'd let Tamlin and Ianthe talk her into something more traditional, feminine, and restrictive.

Sure, she looked like a cupcake with great tits and a snatched waist. But slipping on a gown wasn't supposed to feel like getting closed into a trap.

They staged a few pictures of Nesta lacing up the back of her dress. It was far from tight—the corset back was nothing more than an embellishment over a hidden zipper—but Feyre's breath began to come in pants.

"I— I think I need some air," she said.

"Did you remember to drink some water today?" Elain said, frowning.

Just coffee. But her sisters didn't need to know that. Feyre nodded, though Nesta's gaze slid to Elain anyway, as if they were having a silent conversation.

"Yes. I'll be right back, I promise. I just need a minute. Alone."

Feyre pushed past the photographer before anyone could argue. She fisted her hands in her voluminous skirts and barreled out the door, heedless of where she was going. It didn't matter. All she needed was to be out, with as much distance between her and everyone else as possible.

Her heels clicked on the tile floor as she ran. They'd gotten ready in some back room of the venue, a scenic country club with a golf course—Tamlin had picked it. There had to be an exit somewhere.

She was dimly aware of hurried footsteps behind her. Someone was calling her name. Feyre wasn't quite sure who—it was hard to tell with her pulse pounding so strongly in her ears.

She made a few turns, just trying to get away. With panic flooding her mind, she didn't think about signs or directions, just a need to get to safety.

At some point, she found herself running towards a pair of shiny metal doors, the kind that led to an industrial kitchen. Shit. She must really have gotten turned around again. Feyre wanted to scream or cry or both.

She glanced around, not quite sure where else to run. Perhaps it was time to give up, to pull herself together so he could force herself down the aisle and marry Tamlin with a smile on her face. Things would sort themselves out eventually.

A warm, broad hand closed around her upper arm. The grip was firm, yet gentle, and Feyre welcomed it like a drowning woman who'd just been thrown a life preserver.

"There you are," a sensual, strangely familiar voice said. "I've been looking for you."

Someone else was calling her name now, telling her not to make such a fuss. The stranger, whoever he was, seemed to understand the urgency, and Feyre let him lead her through another door she'd hadn't noticed in her panic.

Feyre didn't have it in her to protest, not when there was something about this man's touch that quieted her racing thoughts. She was hopelessly turned around, but he seemed to know where he was going. Perhaps he worked here. The catering staff probably dealt with more than their fair share of psychotic brides.

But he didn't take her back to the bridal suite. They stepped through door, and a breeze caressed Feyre's face. Outside. He'd brought her outside.

She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. The walls had stopped closing in around her, for long enough that something inside her cracked.

Feyre had never been much of a crier—there had always been too much that needed doing to properly fall apart. But for once, tears flowed easily, and her whole body shook with gasping, embarrassing sobs.

Feyre felt herself being gently nudged backward, then down onto a hard bench. The stranger was murmuring something to her, but she was too far gone to make out the words. Whatever it was, it was soothing.

And Feyre needed soothing. Badly.

Without thinking, she reached for the man beside her. He pulled her close, and she buried her face in the soft fabric of his jacket. Heedless of the possibility she'd ruin his clothes with snot and tears, she cried until she was nearly spent. The godsend of a stranger merely ran a hand up and down her back through it all, grounding her.

At some point, her sobs turned into words. Half-coherent phrases at first, until she finally said, "I can't marry him."

Voicing it aloud made it real. Feyre couldn't walk down that that aisle and vow to love Tamlin forever. Not when every instinct that she'd tried so hard to bury screamed danger.

"You certainly can't marry anyone in this state, darling."

Her mind snagged on that last word. Rhysand Knight had said it once in a video—he'd greeted his fashion-blogger cousin with a hello, darling and an air-kiss to the cheek in a collaboration video. Feyre remembered because it had sent a bizarre pang of jealousy lancing through her.

And yes, maybe she'd replayed those two seconds of audio more times than she wanted to admit. Rhysand just had that effect on people.

But that was neither here nor there. As much as Feyre wanted to shut out the world and re-watch the video where Rhysand compared immersion and percolation techniques, there were things she had to take care of first. Namely, leaving, changing out of her godforsaken pastry-shaped dress, and telling Tamlin she was moving on with her life.

"I just don't know how I'm supposed to face everyone after this," she said.

"Then don't."

"What?"

"I'll help you sneak out, if you'd like."

His eyes glinted with mischief. Now that her head head cleared, she realized she couldn't quite place his face. Those eyes alone, so deep blue they were nearly violet, would have haunted her if she'd seen them before, never mind his heartbreaking, ethereal beauty. But she had the strangest sense they'd met before.

Feyre wanted to go with him, more than she'd ever wanted anything. But she'd regained enough composure that another reality of the situation hit her. If she didn't recognize this man, he was a guest from Tamlin's side.

And she'd just cried on his shoulder about not wanting to get married.

"Sorry, but who are you exactly?" she said.

The man merely pulled a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket and slipped them on. "Recognize me now?"

Feyre blinked, not quite believing it at first. But after several hundred hours of watching his videos, she'd know those spectacles anywhere.

Rhysand Knight had actually come to her wedding.

"I— I thought you were just going to send a gift."

"I RSVP'd yes, didn't I?"

"But you don't know me. Or Tamlin. Why would you even bother?"

He picked an invisible speck of lint off the lapel of his suit jacket, heedless of the wet spot she'd left with her tears. "Would you believe me if I said I searched your name and found myself intrigued by that phallic latte art?"

"No."

"Forgive me for thinking that a woman who lovingly crafted a penis in steamed milk would be the sort of person to host a hell of a party for her wedding reception, then."

A teary laugh escaped Feyre. She wiped at her eyes, coming away with a dark smear of mascara on the side of her hand.

"Tamlin was so mad I didn't private those posts. He said they were undignified. Which was so stupid when he has that poetry account full of erotic limericks, if you can believe it. Amarantha, my boss at the cafe, was such a terror, so I put a dick in the foam of every drink I made during my last week."

"I'm sorry Tamlin didn't appreciate your sense of humor, then."

Rhys was looking with her with such softness in his eyes that Feyre was sure he meant it genuinely. Or maybe not. After all the times she'd replayed that AeroPress review to soothe her after a bad day or a fight with Tamlin, she couldn't be sure the wires weren't getting crossed somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind.

But there wasn't one iota of pity in his gaze. That much, she was sure of.

"Thanks," she whispered, then moved to stand up from the bench. Her foot wobbled.

She nearly screamed in frustration—she'd wanted to wear a pair of white Keds and be done with it, but both Tamlin and Nesta had agreed heels were so much more bridal. They saw eye to eye so rarely that Feyre had gone along with it, and now she was paying the price.

Rhysand reached towards her, intent on preventing her from face-planting into the flagstones. On instinct, Feyre lifted her arms to break her fall.

Her hands settled on his chest. His landed on her hips.

It might as well have been an embrace. The polite thing to do would have been to apologize and put a healthy amount of distance between them. But Feyre couldn't quite bring herself to.

Rhysand didn't move, either.

"Easy," he whispered, voice low. "Do you need help getting home?"

"I— I don't want to go back. I'm not sure if I can really. One of my sisters would probably let me stay with them, at least for a while, and maybe once I've taken a nap I can start thinking about getting my things from Tamlin's place, and—"

"You can hide with me, if you'd like. My offer to help you sneak out still stands."

In all honesty, Feyre wasn't sure what other choice she had. But it was awfully convenient that he'd decided to come to her wedding and that they'd crossed paths at just the right time.

More than convenient, really. This felt closer to fate.

"Alright. Maybe just until I can make some arrangements for something more permanent."

Rhysand actually tutted at her. "At least promise you'll stay long enough for me to make you a cup of coffee."

She could use a warm drink, caffeine jitters be damned. Besides, after all those miserable months making coffee for other people at The Roasters Under the Mountain, it was high time a handsome barista brewed something for her instead.

"I think I'd like that," she said.

After that, she found herself wrapped up in his jacket—"can't do much about a conspicuous white dress, but it's better than nothing"—and wearing his glasses. When she'd questioned whether it was all really necessary, he'd winked and told her that in the years since his channel had hit a million subscribers, he'd gotten adept at slipping out of places unnoticed.

It had drawn a giggle out of her. Feyre couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed like that.

She'd slipped her hand into his as they dashed towards the parking lot. Partially in case her heels gave her more trouble, but also��because it had felt natural. Like her fingers belonged intertwined with his.

They sprinted across the grass, laughing like children. With each step that Feyre took away from the wedding, she felt lighter. Freer.

Her phone and keys were still in the bridal suite. Tamlin had probably already convinced himself she'd been kidnapped. But Feyre didn't care.

All of that could wait until after she'd finished her coffee.

#feysand #feysand fic

65 notes · View notes