Elain X Lucien - Tumblr Posts

Mama Archeron said that Elain will marry for love and beauty.

Jurian had his sword out, the two young women and one young man gaping between him and the others. Then at us, their eyes widening further as they noted Lucien’s cruel beauty.

Lucien fell in love with a faerie whom his father considered to be grossly inappropriate for someone of his bloodline. Lucien said he didn’t care that she wasn’t one of the High Fae, that he was certain the mating bond would snap into place soon and that he was going to marry her and leave his father’s court to his scheming brothers.

Wait, this just shows he had experienced love before

She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features. But he couldn’t breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. ... “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth. “From my sister’s stories. Her friend.”

I think I need something more recent

Cassian’s heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing.

Listen. LB is just taking all our hearts and BURNING IT DOWN.

I should’ve known from the Title and chapter title alone. But here I am.

My Kingdom Come Undone - (1/3)

Summary: There weren’t many ways Elain was allowed to want. Most things were decided for her, every path laid down before she’d even been born, where she was simply expected to follow. Lucien, with his cunning eyes and smart mouth, was something that no one had chosen for her. And even if she could never have him, that couldn’t stop Elain from wanting him. Desperately.

An Elucien Royal Guard x Princess AU for @elainweekofficial's Day 3: Blood and Water prompt.

CW: Explicit content, eventual non-graphic violence.

Read on AO3

-

“Elain—”

Elain quickly turned her head to deliver a sharp hush between her teeth, pushing a single finger to her lips.

As was typical of any man, the Lord ignored her in favor of hearing his own voice. He whispered, “Do you know where—”

“Shhh!”

The sound was made harsher by her irritation, and it wasn’t lost on her that the shushing was louder than the whisper itself. But Elain had planned this all so carefully, and she wasn’t about to let Graysen ruin it by being a clumsy fool who had always been given what he wanted, so he’d never needed to hone his stealth. She had chosen this path through the garden purposefully, so that the soft moss swallowed each of their footsteps, and the thick canopy obscured them from the guard tower in the stone turrets just above.

She parted the vines of a large weeping willow, where yesterday she had already brought over a blanket folded neatly into a woven basket. Graysen watched, a smile creeping over his face, as she laid it over the dirt and primly climbed atop it.

“Well,” she said, flipping a lock of curls over her shoulder, hoping to expose more of the decolletage from the dress that she had also selected with purpose. “Are you going to join me?”

Elain could track the exact moment where all thoughts vacated his mind, and soon Graysen was kneeling between her legs on the blanket, bracketing her body with his.

“Everyone told me that you’re a proper lady,” he said, clearly having a difficult time moving his eyes away from the swell of her breasts. They trailed up, slowly, to her lips. He smiled like a man in a stupor. “I’m beginning to think they have not known you the way I do.”

“Perhaps you are a bad influence,” she said, breathlessly. His lips were getting closer, reminding Elain that for all her exuded confidence, she had not actually done this before, nor did she have any intention to.

“I would be honored to influence you further.”

Graysen’s hand was clammy and Elain did her best not to recoil when he pressed it against her shoulder, following the slope upwards, past her fluttering pulse, so that he could cradle his fingers beneath her neck. She was beginning to think she had not planned this carefully, afterall.

“Your highness.”

Oh thank the gods, she thought, ignoring Graysen’s frantic scramble off her body as light flooded the dim space. They both turned to its source—to the man who stood at the edge of the willow, an arm held aloft to part its vines. Sunlight shafted past his shoulders, gilding his silhouette like he were forcing them to bear witness to his magnificence. Though, there was nothing magnificent about his face. At least not presently. Where Lucien’s face was usually lovely, now it was set into a harsh, disapproving frown.

His russet and gold eyes flicked between Elain and Graysen. They settled on Graysen, who was shriveling beneath that gaze with none of the bravado he had assumed when he snuck out with Elain in the first place. It was the scar, Elain thought. The way it slashed through Lucien’s brow and the corner of his lip made his frown look all the more menacing.

“Lord Graysen,” Lucien said, voice flat. She noticed his free arm shift, so that his long, elegant fingers rested on the hilt of his golden sword. A tad too threatening for a guard addressing his charge and her company. “Your father is looking for you. Something about a scandal and a hushed pregnancy with a scullery maid. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Cheeks growing redder by the second, Graysen mumbled an apology as he pushed his way out of the privacy of the willow tree. Leaving Elain, ever so briefly, in the company of Lucien Vanserra. His jaw was clenched, accentuating the muscle in his cheek. Elain knew he thought he looked very intimidating when he stared at her like that. And she would pretend it was shame that made her cheeks heat, so that he would never stop doing it.

“You didn’t need to embarrass him.”

Lucien snorted. “He did that without my interference.”

“Well,” she said, feigning obstinance as she laid back on the blanket. “It’s a shame you came all this way to interrupt us, because I intend to lounge beneath the willow whether the lord is in my company or not.”

With a long suffering sigh, Lucien ducked into the willow, letting the vines fall shut behind him. “Sounds like we have a lovely day ahead of us, then.” His voice was snide, like he was doing the opposite of what she wanted when he lowered himself to the ground.

Elain supposed, in a way, he was. She would have preferred if he sat on the blanket.

“I’m not stupid,” he added. Elain held her breath, nervous at what he put together, until he said, “I know the second I leave, you’ll slip right through those gates to sneak back into the village.”

“Hmmm, you caught me.”

Elain kept her voice elusive, knowing her unspoken satisfaction would cause him to stir. Because he hadn’t sniffed out her intentions—not even close. He still thought she had been sneaking out of the castle because she wanted to giggle and toss her hair at the pretty man who worked the counter at the confectioners shop. Lucien had been the one to barge in and drag her home, then, too.

It bothered her, a little, that he was so clueless. When she knew that he was clever and that she wasn’t exactly trying to be subtle. Making grand plans with dull lords for the chance to get a small, private moment alone with him. Sneaking out of the castle because she knew it meant he was the one who would need to chase her down. And yet he was tipping his head back against the great stump of the willow, finding the back of his eyelids far more interesting than the precious time he was made to spend alone in the company of the princess.

Elain knew Lucien hadn’t wanted this job. Not that he’d ever told her as much. He didn’t need to. With the exasperated way he conducted himself whenever she so much as blinked in his direction, it was obvious he resented his position at her side. What she didn’t know was why, when being a member of the royal guard was considered one of the highest positions for a knight.

“The confectioner, at least, has a skillset,” he noted, eyes still closed. Elain was grateful, because it allowed her to freely study his face. Even in the shade of the willow, Lucien seemed to glow from within—a copper fire that lived beneath his warm brown skin, so that he looked perpetually flushed with life. She thought if she could get close enough, she would be able to feel the heat of it, but Lucien always kept a careful distance between them. “And he could keep his sightline above your chest.”

She admittedly hadn’t liked that about Graysen, either.

“Perhaps I should visit him tomorrow.”

Nothing, not a flicker of movement on Lucien’s face to indicate that he cared.

Elain added, “I’m certain he has no affairs with a scullery maid.”

“That you know of.”

“He makes lovely apple tarts,” she tried, desperate for him to at least open his eyes and look at the low sweep of her neckline that she had selected specifically for him. He had once offhandedly mentioned that he found the lace trim appealing. Elain had even tugged it, slightly, so that if he did open his eyes, he would see the way the bodice pushed the tops of her breasts up, giving the illusion of cleavage.

“That he does,” Lucien hummed.

“Maybe we can share one.”

He opened his eyes, then. One after the other—dark russet, then gold. But they didn’t waver from her face, not even for a moment. The Queen’s guards were well trained. Though Elain had been often told she was beautiful, she wondered if Lucien even noticed.

Both scarlet brows raised to his hairline. “I’m included in this excursion, am I?”

“You’ll find a way to include yourself, regardless.” She sighed heavily. “You are incapable of turning a blind eye for even a second.”

“That’s my job,” he said dryly.

“To see that I’ll never be kissed?” She cried, like she wasn’t grateful every time Lucien interrupted.

He shook his head, causing his long red hair to fall over his shoulders. Today, half of it had been braided and tied into a knot at the back of his head, so that not an inch of his beautiful features were obscured. “It would be my head on the chopping block, if I let Graysen do to you what he did to that maid. Your mother has made it very clear who you’re forbidden from consorting with.”

“I don’t care what my mother thinks,” Elain grumbled.

“I do,” Lucien said. He pressed a hand to his throat. It was meant to be a dramatic gesture, but all Elain could think about was how much she wished to feel it wrapped around her throat instead. “I prefer my head attached to my body.”

“Well.” Elain crossed her arms, pushing her breasts up even further and still—still—Lucien’s expression remained neutral, his eyes trained on her face. “You’re not doing yourself any favors for the day I become Queen.”

“The Mother help us all.”

Elain scoffed. “I’m putting you first on the executioner’s block. For crimes against my patience.”

“Just as well,” he said, a smile playing at the corners of his full lips “That I will never be in a position to try you for similar crimes.”

She knew that she was an utter fool, to be insulted by a man and still feel butterflies in her stomach because he said it with a smile. It ought to have been offensive, and yet she wanted to giggle. She opted for grabbing a clump of dirt and chucking it at his shoes, instead.

“Treason,” she accused.

“Honesty,” he corrected, brushing the dirt off his polished boots.

It was like nothing she did could faze him. She wondered why she tried so hard, when it was clear he was uninterested and even if he was, there was nothing either of them would be able to do about it. Lucien hadn’t been lying, when he had said the Queen would have his head. Her mother was focused on finding Elain a suitable match to be the future King Consort, and a royal guard was several times removed from those plans.

But there weren’t many ways Elain was allowed to want. Most things were decided for her, every path laid down before she’d even been born, where she was simply expected to follow. Lucien, with his cunning eyes and smart mouth, was something that no one had chosen for her. And even if she could never have him, that couldn’t stop Elain from wanting him. Desperately.

Elain flopped onto her back, feeling the solid earth beneath the blanket. What would it be like, to be a flower with its roots stretching firmly into the earth, always grounded, never wondering what it was and what it wasn’t.

“Lucien?”

He had shut his eyes again, but this time she did not mind if he kept them shut. She admired the way his features relaxed when he wasn’t scowling—a rare sight, when they were together.

“Yes, your highness?”

“You owe me a kiss.”

“Pardon?”

A small peek over her shoulder saw that Lucien had sat up straighter, his brows drawn together. She would feel pleased she drew a reaction out of him, if it wasn’t clear he was disturbed at the prospect of kissing her.

“You interrupted me with the confectioner, which made me resort to sneaking away with Graysen.” She let some of her distaste show, wanting him to know that kissing Graysen truly hadn’t been a favorable option to her. A last resort that he had pushed her to. “And then you interrupted that, too.”

“I believe, princess, that your mother would have disapproved if you kissed the confectioner or the lord. I was acting in her name.”

Lucien loved to remind her, frequently, that he was not hers to command. It was her mother he reported to and Elain knew she constantly walked a fragile line of disobeying Lucien just enough so that she could steal these precious moments, but so that he wouldn’t be removed as her guard entirely.

“If my mother had her way,” Elain said, tasting each bitter word on her tongue, “I would remain chaste until the day she married me off to some man I’ve never met. I just want something that’s mine, Lucien. Something I’ve chosen for myself, that she won’t be able to take away from me. A kiss seems innocent enough.”

There was a moment of silence. She did not often speak this plainly with him, and she knew he was likely assessing this new information, trying to decide how best a knight should respond to his charge without betraying his loyalty to her mother. Ever calculating, ever dutiful. “Lord Graysen was intending to do more than kiss you,” he said, finally. There was an edge to his voice she found curious.

“I know.” Elain had not known about the maid, though, and she might have reconsidered if she had. “But I have the most annoying guard you’ve ever met, and I knew he would stop us before it got much further than that.”

“And if I had been late?” Lucien growled, fury twisting his once lovely features. “If I had been held up for whatever reason, and hadn’t been there to stop it from progressing beyond a simple kiss?”

Elain sat up, gaping at her guard. He had never used this tone with her before. She had seen him irritated, certainly, but never angry. Never at her.

“I knew you would come,” she said, simply. It had never crossed her mind that he wouldn’t—he always did. She had known it with more conviction than she had known where the sun would rise in the sky.

Lucien was still seething. It dripped into his voice, lacing its deep, honeyed warmth with gravel. “It was foolish to gamble with your body—“

“You weren’t this angry before!” Elain protested, feeling the backs of her eyes begin to sting.“You hadn’t seemed the least bothered when you saw him on top of me.”

“I had thought you wanted it!”

He stood, suddenly, pacing in the small space. Sunlight dappled through the willow vines, shifting across his uniform as he moved.

Elain suddenly felt angry, too. “Maybe if you stopped confining me, I wouldn’t be forced to take such drastic measures.”

“I am not the one confining you!” He snapped. His chest was rising and falling with rapid pace and his hands, though not rested on his sword, were clenched into fists. “I am keeping you safe. That is my only job. If you want to let some lordling fuck you in the dirt, be my guest. I will not be responsible for what your mother chooses to do in retaliation.”

Her lower lip began to tremble and Elain sank her teeth down in an effort to make it still. Lucien paused, his expression softening as he read her face.

“Elain—“

“I’ve had enough of the gardens for today,” she said, coldly. She pushed past the drapes of the willow tree, cringing against the sunny day they’d been evading. “I’m certain my mother is looking for me and she will be grateful that her most loyal guard has delivered me to her.”

It was unsurprising when Lucien stepped in front of her. So much taller that he was always catching up to her with burdensome ease. His posture had gone rigid, as unfeeling as his voice as he intoned, “This way, your highness.”

No longer her Lucien. Just any other guard, doing his duty and nothing more.

-

“Prince Koschei would make a fine match,” The Queen declared. She balanced a porcelain teacup delicately between pinched fingers, its saucer poised in her wrinkled hand below. The Queen raised it only midway to her mouth, never drinking, simply posturing like she might. Elain did not think the Queen was capable of enjoying tea. Of enjoying anything, short of her daughter’s misery.

“Prince Koschei is thirty years my senior,” Elain said, carefully. “Surely there are other, more appropriate matches—“

She was cut off by the clatter of porcelain as the Queen set the teacup and saucer down, hard, on the rich mahogany table.

“None so advantageous,” her mother said, sharply. “We’ve long had tenuous relations with our northern neighbors. An alliance through marriage could unite our peoples, promote growth for both our kingdoms—“

“And would he be content as a consort?” Elain interrupted, slamming her tea onto the table, too. It rattled in the saucer, causing the guards in the corner of the room to flinch.

But not Lucien. He stared straight ahead, eyes so distant she thought he likely wasn’t even listening to a word being said.

“It sounds more as though our Kingdom would simply be swallowed by another Rask monarch, merging as part of their territory.”

“Petulant child, you know nothing of which you speak,” the Queen said, crystal eyes narrowed. Besides her fair complexion, Elain shared little else with her mother. Her brown eyes came from her father, kind and warm in a way the castle had not known since his passing. And the golden brown hair tumbling in curls down her back had been passed down from him, as well. Not her mother’s straight platinum that, accompanied with her cool eyes and stern, narrow face, made her look better suited to rule a kingdom of ice than their warm, sea-faring lands.

“What about Prince Tarquin?” Elain asked, recalling the one time she had met him. He had seemed kind, more appropriate for her age, his claim to his own throne distant enough that she did not see him as someone vying for power. He would make a tolerable husband.

Her mother ignored her, pushing on. “Prince Koschei will be arriving tomorrow with a delegation from Rask. Perhaps meeting him will soften your opinions.” She met Elain’s eyes across the table, daring her to challenge. “If by the end of the week you have won his affections, we can begin discussing wedding preparations.”

Wedding preparations.

The tea curdled in her stomach, making Elain suddenly feel nauseous. She pushed from her chair, ignoring her mothers protests as she stumbled quickly out of the room. Elain had only the presence of mind to feel the wooden doors part beneath her palms, how the marble bit into her knees as she fell to the floor and puked into a potted plant.

A warm hand pressed into the center of her back, rubbing soothing circles as another gently lifted the hair from her face. Her mother, Elain thought, surprised to be comforted. But when she turned her head she glimpsed brown skin and scarlet hair and that turned another bout of nausea in her stomach.

Lucien was watching her puke. It was humiliating, but she supposed it didn’t matter now. She would likely be married against her will by the end of the week. Would he even still be her guard by then? The Prince would probably bring his own, insist his wife be policed by men he trusted, asserting his power when she was meant to be the reigning monarch.

When her stomach was emptied and Elain was left, gasping, her fingers grappling uselessly against the marble for something to hold onto, something to keep her upright, Lucien was there. Tugging her into his arms, lifting her from the floor. She was vaguely aware of being carried up the stairs, but was much more distracted by the feeling of being pressed against Lucien’s broad chest. He was warm, like she suspected, and he smelled like leather and metal and firewood. Not able to resist, she pressed her face against his throat, taking each breath greedily.

“Are you okay?” He murmured.

No—and yes. The yes was temporary. It would end the moment he set her down.

“That depends,” she said, shutting her eyes so she could listen intently to his pulse. Elain had estimated he was a man who was always steady, his every breath measured. But his pulse was beating wildly, too. “Can I hire you out as an assassin?”

He laughed, but the sound was humorless. “I don’t expect I’m skilled enough to assassinate a Raskan prince, not with all the men that would be guarding him.”

Elain bunched the fabric of his uniform beneath her fists, crushing the royal crest he bore above his heart. “What about me?” She whispered, only half joking. “You could do it in my sleep. I could go to bed peacefully, knowing I will not need to confront what tomorrow brings.”

“I could never lay a hand on you,” Lucien said, shutting his eyes like that confession pained him. “I have sworn an oath to the mother goddess that I would sooner die in pursuit of your safety.”

They were nearly to her room now, and the thought of Lucien setting her down was unbearable. She slung an arm around his shoulder, burrowing her face against the warmth of his neck. If she shut her eyes, if she willed this moment last, maybe she could stretch those next seconds into eternity.

One, two, three steps, where time passed the same as any other. Then they were through her bedroom door, and another few steps saw them standing above her bed. Her arms tightened around Lucien’s neck, the closest she would allow herself to begging not to be let go.

“Elain,” he said, gently. She liked it so much better than your highness.

It was the tremor in her arms that made her realize she was crying. That Lucien had said her name because he could feel it, wet against his neck. She thought he would pry her off of him, with that same cold distance he normally applied to their exchanges. But when Lucien saw that she wouldn’t detach of her own volition, he sat on the bed instead, cradling her to his chest. The gentleness shocked her, as did the hands that slid into her hair, lending comforting strokes while he held her.

He didn’t speak, and maybe it was the silence that mortified her because eventually she croaked, “I don’t want to marry him. I really would rather die.”

“And who would take the throne?” He asked, softly. “You have a duty to your people.”

“I’ll poison him, then,” she said. “I’ll slip it into his drink on our wedding night.”

“Now there’s something I finally would turn a blind eye to.”

Elain knew he was saying that only for her benefit, and she couldn’t resist a smile, which she hid against his chest.

Fingers still stroking her hair, Lucien said, “I’m not worried for you. Do you want to know why?”

She could hear the rumble of his voice in the back of his throat. Elain thought she would never be able to hear Lucien speak again, without thinking of how it felt to be pressed against him, to feel his breath at her temple, and those exquisite fingers curling against her scalp.

“Why?”

“Because you are clever, and so insufferably stubborn that I don’t think there’s a force on this earth that could bend your spirit.”

That was what finally coaxed her arm away from his neck, if only so she could pull away to glimpse his face. His eyes were burning, just like they had been beneath the willow when they were arguing. Glowing forges of copper and gold that made Elain swallow past the thickness in her throat. He was enraged, but not at her.

Her grip on his tunic loosened, releasing the now crumpled royal crest. She pushed her fingers out, stretching the fabric until her palm laid flat against his solid chest. His heartbeat reached up to greet her, reminding her with every improbable beat that she was in Lucien Vanserra’s lap, touching him. And from the way his eyes briefly shuttered beneath her too curious palm, she thought maybe he didn’t mind as much as he had always pretended.

“Thank you,” Elain said. It was little more than a whisper, but she felt as if she screamed it, for the way it scraped past her throat. She blinked, wetting her cheeks with the tears still clumped on her lashes. “For carrying me up the stairs, and for reminding me that I won’t be facing this completely alone.”

Lucien’s hand reached up, catching the few stray tears with his thumb. She could feel the scrape of his calluses—a texture she had never imagined when she thought of Lucien touching her face, yet all the more welcome for it. It made the moment feel more real, more tangible.

“It’s my job, your highness.” She could have wept again, that he’d defaulted back to her title, but he was still stroking her face. And he made up for it when he added, “So long as I am alive, you will never face anything alone.”

When he spoke like that, the temptation was simply too strong to resist. Elain caught his hand, so much larger and warmer than her own. She squeezed his fingers, leaning her face all the more into his caress. Elain shut her eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of his skin against her own. When she was lying with her husband and he was touching her, she wanted to retreat to this moment, pretend it was Lucien holding her.

She had almost worked up the courage to ask him to stay, so that she would have more than the memory of his hand against her face to draw from. But Lucien only allowed her to savor the intimacy a moment more, before he dropped his hands and lifted her off his lap.

“I’ll go fetch a maid to draw you a calming bath,” he said, with more stiffness than she would have liked. At his side, he was clenching and unclenching his fingers. Like he was trying to chase away the sensation of holding her.

Elain wracked her brain for something to say that could convince him not to leave, but Lucien was already striding toward the door. Leaving her with little more than the burning memory in her palms.

Soon the maids arrived, corralling Elain into a bath, and she didn’t see Lucien again for the rest of the day. At least, not in person. She saw him in her thoughts, occupying her mind while she let her body take control of her motor function. Breathing, eating, trying to make tentative peace with her mother at dinner. It was all colored by the unnamed emotion in Lucien’s eyes when he had swept his thumb against her cheek. It was much easier to think about him, and his callused hands, than the cruel Prince Koschei who would be arriving tomorrow with the intention of courtship.

So it was Lucien she tried to think about as she went to bed that evening, promising she wouldn’t be alone to face what awaited her. But even the phantom beat of Lucien’s steady heart wasn’t enough to keep back her anxieties. Try as she might to shut her eyes and imagine she was tucked against Lucien’s chest, sleep evaded her. Every time her consciousness started to drift, her mind conjured the face of a man more than twice her age, sharing this very bed with her.

Elain jolted upwards, pushing away the blankets that had become smothering against her damp skin. She was gasping, suddenly desperate for fresh air. Wearing only her nightgown, Elain climbed out of bed to follow the ribbon of moonlight that leaked in through the gap in the velvet drapes. She pulled the thick fabric aside, revealing the balcony doors and the bright stars that waited for her on the other side of the glass.

The handle was cool to the touch—startling against her sweaty palm, but a welcome reprieve. She pushed the door open, immediately greeted by a rush of night air that caressed her flushed skin, already doing wonders in calming her uneven pulse. Elain shut her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, to draw strength from the unyielding night sky.

“Your highness?”

She snapped her eyes open, whirling to see Lucien standing on her balcony. He was still wearing his uniform, the crest above his heart wrinkled from her earlier assault. He bore his golden sword at his hip and if that wasn’t enough to signal he was still on duty, then his rigid posture would have.

“Lucien?” Elain rubbed her eyes, wondering if she had fallen asleep after all. When she dropped her hands, he was still there, watching her warily. “I didn’t know there were guards posted on my balcony.”

Or that you were one of them. If she’d known all this time that Lucien was just outside her door while she slept, she may have come up with more inventive ways of getting them alone.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “Your mother wanted me stationed here tonight, in case you attempted to run away.”

Elain was almost flattered that her mother thought she was capable of running away. She’d entertained the idea, and had even stepped onto the balcony earlier to scout the best path towards the gates. But it wouldn’t be like sneaking into the village, where she knew Lucien wouldn’t be far behind to bring her back. She had no idea where she would go—if there even was anywhere she could go, where Lucien wouldn’t be able to find her.

“If I ran away,” she asked, studying his face. The way his eyes surveyed her, noting the way she was dressed. “Would you chase after me?”

An odd look crossed his face. His voice was a little strained as he asked, “Would you want me to?”

Elain hesitated, uncertain of her answer. She would want him to chase her, but not out of duty to her mother. “I wouldn’t want you to bring me back,” she said. “I would want you to find me and stay with me. Like you promised.”

“Then yes, princess.” Lucien's eyes met hers. “I would chase after you, and I wouldn’t rest until I’d found you.”

Emboldened by his words, and the way he was looking at her, Elain took a step closer. “Would you let me run away now?”

“Dressed like that?” He asked, with a roughness to his voice that made her shiver. She would blame it on the cool air. Lucien cleared his throat. “I would let you, if that’s what you wanted, princess.”

She took another step, hardly believing her own brazeness. The wind pulled at Lucien’s hair, blowing close enough that it nearly brushed against her cheek.

Elain whispered, just loud enough that it would remain a secret between herself and Lucien and the wind. “What if I wanted something else?”

He tipped his chin down, casting shadow over his features so that all she could read was the rasp in his voice as he asked, “What is it you want?”

Gods, where to start? Elain took another step forward, the last of the distance between them, and returned her palm to that crest above his heart so she could once more feel the rhythm of his pulse. It was more calming than any hot bath or fresh air.

She dared herself to say it. The words were on her tongue, but still the jitter of her nerves made her hesitate. Would it be too far? It would be something no one could ever take back, something that would always be hers.

“You still owe me a kiss, Lucien.”

Lucien released a large exhale of breath. She felt the shift in his chest beneath her fingers. “Elain—”

He started to step away and Elain fisted the fabric of his tunic, tugging him closer. “Please, Lucien. I do not care about my mother or the prince. I don’t care about duty I just…” she gasped, searching his face, begging him to understand. “I need something that’s mine. I want to be touched for the first time by someone I—” love. “Trust.”

Beneath her grip, he took another long breath. Then he asked, words so precisely measured, “Do you want to be kissed by someone you trust, or do you want to be kissed by me.”

“Both,” she said, quietly. Then, feeling like a coward, she admitted, “I want it to be you Lucien. I have—” she was interrupted by breath expelling rapidly from her lungs, an exodus of her body preparing for the burden of what she was going to confess. “I have always wanted it to be you.”

Lucien could have gotten more from her, if he’d pressed. She would have confessed to the crime of loving him, of constantly making a nuisance of herself to get his attention. It was probably for the better that Lucien took mercy on her, so that it remained a weight she alone carried.

Any of his remaining reservations dropped with his hands as he grasped her around the waist. He lifted her with the same gentleness he had demonstrated earlier, spinning them so that he could set her down on the thick parapet. It left them eye level, allowing him to wedge his body between her legs and venture dangerously close. One of his arms banded around her back to steady her, while the other crept along her jaw, encouraging her face upwards.

Their eyes met as he leaned in. She could see him hesitate, like he wanted to say something. Elain surged forward, terrified it would be something reasonable, wanting to smother his logic before it had a chance to make them wiser. He groaned the second their lips met, which she took as an encouraging sign. Indeed, there was nothing reserved about the way his fingers slid and notched into her hair, how his arm tightened at her back to draw her closer to his body.

His mouth was soft, moving slowly against hers while she became used to the sensation. She liked the way he tasted, rich and earthen, like the smoke of an autumn bonfire. When he licked his tongue across her bottom lip, she parted her lips for him, shutting her eyes as her senses became hazed and overwhelmed with Lucien.

Elain clawed, blindly, for a way to bring him closer, tightening her grip on his tunic while her other hand tangled in his silken hair. Lucien’s tongue swept her mouth, rattling Elain to her bones, knowing she would never be rid of the taste of him. She was attending her own haunting, and she accepted it greedily, meeting him for every stroke. Until she was so consumed with him she couldn’t breathe.

They parted just enough to leave a space for hot, shallow breaths.

“I have wanted to kiss you,” Lucien said, low and rough and breathless, “from the moment I laid eyes on you.”

Then they were kissing again, like he couldn’t stand another moment of breathing air, and neither could she. Elain scooted forward on the parapet, not caring that her nightgown was riding up, only need to get closer to him, to wrap her legs around his—

“Elain,” he groaned, utterly wrecked. The hand on her back dropped to her exposed thigh, curling beneath it to hoist her legs higher.

She felt like she was on fire when she felt his hardened crotch against her stomach. There was no sound past the rushing in her ears and the way he grunted, weak and not at all warrior-like, when she shifted against him.

“Elain,” he gasped again, still kissing her. “Elain, we can’t—“

“Says who?”

“They’ll truly have my head,” he said, pulling his lips away long enough to utter the words, only to fall back to her like gravity demanded it. “Mother condemn me, I shouldn’t want this.”

“I want it, Lucien.” She ground her hips forward to illustrate her point. “I want it more than I can breathe.”

The hand braced against her thigh was trembling. She could feel it beneath her palm, the way his heart had become erratic.

“You’ve never been touched—“

“I want you to be the first,” she insisted, before kissing him in an attempt to distract his protests, which she knew were level-headed and rational. There was no room for such things when she was sharing his breath. Not when her body was hot and aching in a way that was only familiar when she was under her bedsheets, thinking of him.

With a resigned moan, Lucien lifted Elain from the parapet and carried her back into the bedroom. Even as he moved, precariously, through the dark, they could not stop kissing. Every second not touching him was a second wasted.

Elain was certain if she had allowed him a moment to pull away, he would have laid her down on the mattress with more grace. Instead they fell in a tangle of limbs and lips and tongue. She knew little about what came next, but she knew Lucien was far too overdressed for it.

She snaked a hand beneath the hem of his tunic, feeling carved muscle and a patch of coarse hair that led beneath the waistband of his trousers. Elain pushed up, scraping her nails along his abdomen, needing to hear him moan again, to taste it on her tongue.

Strong fingers seized her wrists as Lucien swore softly under his breath.

“I want to take my time,” he said, lowering her wrist back to the bed. Lucien sat up, leaning back on his knees where they rested between her thighs. Warm fingers skimmed her legs as he began pushing up the skirt of her nightgown. “If this is my only chance to touch you, I want to do it right. I want to worship you in ways a spoiled prince could never fathom.”

“All talk,” Elain teased, growing restless for every moment that passed where his lips weren’t against hers. She tugged at his tunic again, but Lucien pulled back, laughing softly.

“No more talking, then,” he said.

In a fluid motion, Lucien slid his hands up to bunch the nightgown above her hips. Cool air pressed in, scalding her in every place her body felt the absence of his. Elain dug her fingers into the sheets, resisting the urge to fly them to her face as Lucien’s heady gaze swept over her bare legs and the wet, silken fabric at the peak of them.

She heard a breath rush out of him, like he’d been struck in the stomach. Then he fell upon her, kissing her hips, her stomach, her thighs. Where his mouth couldn’t caress her, he laid his fingers, lavishing his affection anywhere he could find, until Elain thought she might burst from the ache in her chest. She would never recover from knowing him this way.

“Lucien,” she whispered, releasing her iron grip on the sheets to replace them in his hair instead. She tugged, overwhelmed with the need to feel the heat of his mouth over hers again. “Please—”

“You said no more talking,” he murmured, hooking his fingers into the fabric at her hips. She couldn’t breath as he tugged them down her hips, apprehension building once he’d finished with the task of disrobing her and his eyes roamed back to the apex of her thighs.

Elain could feel his body slacken and, impulsively, she began closing her thighs, trying to hide the sight from him. His hands flew to her knees, gentle in stopping her.

“Cauldron save me,” he whispered, ducking his head back between her thighs. “I am a ruined man, Elain.”

She wasn’t certain what he meant, but when she felt his breath brush against the wetness between her legs, she was less inclined to ask. Nothing could have prepared her for that first lick. When she felt the first soft, velvet heat of his tongue, her hips bowed off the bed. Lucien had to press her back down, holding her to his mouth as he licked her again, a slow stripe all the way through her center.

The sound that came out of her was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, so loud that she finally did let one of her hands fly to her face, covering her mouth to prevent anyone from overhearing. Ordinarily, Lucien might have teased her for it, but he was utterly lost, his eyes fallen shut as he explored her with his tongue, groaning softly like he was the one gleaning pleasure from it.

Her thighs began trembling, held still only by Lucien’s conviction as he licked up and swirled his tongue languidly around her sensitive bud. Elain bit her hand to smother the cries begging to escape, but she could do nothing for the way her hips canted against him, silently pleading for more.

As he continued lashing her with his tongue, one of his hands slipped lower, gliding easily through the mixture of arousal and saliva. A finger teased at entering her, and she felt her heart thunder at that very first push. She felt him still, gauging her reaction intently as he slowly pushed his finger further, letting her accommodate to the sensation of having something inside her. Elain whimpered, tugging at his hair again. She didn’t want him to stop, needed to feel his mouth move against her. Lucien tongued at her clit in response, causing them to moan in tandem when her body tightened around his finger.

The more he licked, the more she relaxed, until he was able to begin moving his finger in rhythm with his tongue, coaxing a heat into her spine she had never encountered when touching herself this way. The pressure built as he slipped another finger inside her and he began rubbing against a cluster of nerves that had her seeing stars.

“That’s it,” Lucien whispered, voice roughened with lust. “Come for me, princess. Come on your guard’s fingers.”

Her entire body clenched, seizing with the sudden onslaught of pleasure that crested over her, large and inescapable as a tidal wave. She smothered a scream behind her palm, vision turning white as Lucien continued moving against her, working her through the ravaging pleasure.

She collapsed into the bed once it passed, gasping. Lucien withdrew his fingers and with a final, sucking lick that felt more for his benefit, he raised his head from her thighs to meet her eyes.

“Would you like to go to sleep now, princess?”

“No,” she whispered, reaching again for his tunic. “Not until I’ve seen you undressed.”

“So demanding, you royals,” he murmured, helping her frantic efforts to get the fabric over his head. He unbuckled his scabbard, letting his sword clamber to the ground. Then she was unlacing his trousers, staring at the swath of red hair beneath his naval, suddenly overcome with the need to trace it with her tongue. Lucien groaned. “I can’t think straight with you staring at me that way, Elain.”

“Good,” she whispered, tugging both waistbands down his hips. “It puts us finally on equal footing.”

Elain finally understood why Lucien sounded as though he’d been punched when he saw her naked for the first time. It was akin to how she felt, when she pushed the fabric past his erection and saw a man, entirely naked, for the first time in her life. He was beautiful, all golden brown skin and lean muscle. And the appendage between his legs was large—much larger than the two fingers that had been inside her.

She stared at the flushed, gleaming head in fascination, trying not to let its size intimidate her. Slowly, uncertain if it was allowed, she reached forward to wrap her hand around it, surprised to find the flesh soft and rigid. It pulsed beneath her hand, and Lucien grunted as she ran a slow pump down his length.

“Lay back,” he said, the words nearly garbled.

They were both far too distracted to relish the rare moment of Elain doing exactly what she was told. Lucien aligned their bodies, his mouth finding hers again as he began running his length through her slit, coating himself in her arousal.

“Are you certain about this, Elain?” He asked. She could feel him shuddering from the restraint of keeping his body still, prepared to seize himself if she denied him. Elain couldn’t think of anything worse.

“Yes, Lucien, I’m certain. I—” she almost said it. She wanted to say it, wanted him to know how much she cherished him. But was that selfish of her, to tell him she loved him, only to marry another man by the end of the week? A courtship and marriage that he would be forced to witness, as her impartial guard. “I want this,” she said instead.

She thought she might have seen something—disappointment, or maybe relief—flicker in his eyes. It disappeared the moment he notched his head against her entrance, just enough that she whimpered at the pressure. Lucien immediately kissed her, trying to soothe the ache of the stretch by holding her with such devastating gentleness. His hand found hers, their fingers twining as he continued sinking slowly into her body.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his breathing suddenly ragged. Elain squeezed her eyes shut, breathing through the strange, somewhat intrusive sensation. “Elain—” She liked the way he said it, like he was choking, so overcome with pleasure he couldn’t speak. “Fuck. You feel amazing. Does it—Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she whispered, with a small shift of her hips that caused Lucien to groan.

He slipped his freehand between their bodies, expertly rolling his thumb over her swollen clit. “Is that better?”

It was answered with a buck of her hips and a small keening noise as Elain’s discomfort shifted almost immediately into pleasure. Her body relaxed, allowing Lucien to push further, until his hips were flush against hers, and there was not a single barrier that existed between them.

Lucien’s tongue swept back into her mouth, allowing Elain to taste herself on his tongue. They stayed like that for a small eternity, kissing sweetly while he continued rubbing between her thighs, letting her adjust to the way it all felt, until the pleasure began to drive her mad. She dug her fingers into his back, rocking her hips against his to urge him to move.

She could feel him smile against her mouth. “My beautiful princess,” he murmured, slowly sliding out. “Say it again, that you want me.”

He was the one who was beautiful, with his hair falling over them in a scarlet veil, his cheeks flushed and his eyes heady with desire. Elain brushed his hair away to see more of his face, hoping that loving touch conveyed all the sentiment she couldn’t yet force herself to confess. Then she used her grip on his hair to bring his mouth back to hers, kissing him again and again—feverishly.

“I want you, Lucien,” she said, breathlessly, between those awful moments where his mouth wasn’t slotted against her own.

He was teasing her now, holding himself just outside her body while he continued those torturous circles with his fingers. “So obedient like this, princess,” he broke their string of kisses to whisper. “If only I had known all this time, I just needed to offer up my cock to get you to listen.”

“Don’t be crude,” she complained, half in scandal and half in her utter desperation to feel his tongue and cock inside her again.

His hips retreated further, the smile on his lips turning cruel. “You don’t want my cock, then?”

“Lucien.”

“Say it, princess.” The fingers between her legs picked up pace, driving her to madness. “Ask me to give you my cock.”

Elain dug the backs of her heels into his backside, trying to encourage him forward. When he resisted, she whispered, “Please Lucien.” And when that, too, was ineffective, she added, “Please, give me your cock.”

That earned her another sweet kiss. “As my princess commands,” he said, thrusting back inside her.

With the combination of his fingers, it quickly spun her over an edge she hadn’t known she’d been approaching. Elain’s scream was swallowed by his lips as she shattered around him, her nails scraping mercilessly over his scarred back. Lucien groaned, continuing to thrust and work his fingers against her while hot fire burst behind her eyes, through her veins, branding her soul in a way that felt irreversible, until she was little more than the drifting ash of a wildfire.

“That’s it,” he whispered as she began to come down. “You’ve done so well, Elain.”

Lucien’s own rhythm started to stutter, and to her dismay he pulled out of her body, crying out as hot, white liquid spurted from the tip and landed on her smooth stomach. His breathing was labored as he leaned down to offer her another quick kiss, before disappearing into the bathing room. He returned with a wet cloth that he used to gently clean the majority of the mess on her stomach and between her thighs.

When he finished, Lucien slid into the bed beside her, drawing her flush against his sweaty skin. His hands raked into her hair, stroking along her scalp, reminiscent of the way he’d held her earlier that day.

“How are you feeling?” He murmured, chasing the question with a kiss to her damp temple.

“Incredible.” It was the truth, ignoring all the anxieties and trepidation that laid deeper. They grew harder to ignore the longer Elain thought of what waited for her on the other side of the dawn.

Lucien seemed to know it, because he hummed like he wasn’t convinced. “You should sleep,” he said. “You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.”

Elain thought again of that man from her dreams, her mind’s overwrought projection of the one she’d meet tomorrow. Not yet prepared to face him, nor the coming morning, Elain shook her head and cured her face and against his chest.

“Will you stay?”

The words were muffled against his skin, but Lucien heard them well enough to answer, “I’ll stay.”

-

Elain woke to the sound of her chamber doors being thrown open. She scrambled immediately for the blankets, pulling them up to cover her naked body. The maid’s eyes were the size of saucers as she looked towards the bed. For a moment, Elain couldn’t speak past the panic that seized her, thinking they had been caught. The maid would surely tell her mother, and Lucien would be—

Gone. Lucien wasn’t there when Elain turned, expecting to find him equally exposed. The sheets were cold, telling her he had left long ago. Seeing as it had already been late into the morning when she found him on the balcony, she wondered if he had even gone to sleep at all. Had he simply slipped out the moment she drifted off? For some reason, that thought stung.

“Your highness,” the maid said, locking the chamber door before rushing to the wardrobe. She hardly looked at the clothes she threw over her arm. “You must get dressed immediately.”

The hairs on Elain’s arms stood on edge. “What’s wrong?”

She thought, in the distance, she might have heard someone scream. Her maid came to the edge of the bed, close enough that Elain could see her red-rimmed eyes.

“Prince Koschei’s men have stormed the castle,” the maid said. The crack in her voice made Elain wonder what, exactly, she’d witnessed in her race to get to Elain’s chambers. “They are on their way up, lady. You must run.”

The world seemed to slow down as Elain stumbled out of bed, every unsteady breath scraping past the heartbeat that rampaged her throat, her chest, her shaking fingers. She frantically shoved herself into the clothes and the accompanying cloak, the hood of which she pulled over her head.

Elain headed towards the balcony, intending to take the same route to the village she had once gone before, but the maid stopped her. “They’ll be expecting you to go that way, your highness.”

For a moment, Elain wondered if she was being naive following her maid out of her bedroom, towards the sounds of clashing metal and shouting men. Maybe she had been threatened to fetch the princess, and was sparing herself some awful fate through betrayal. Her fears ebbed as they snuck into a servant’s corridor together, the sounds of fighting abruptly cut off as the servant shut the discrete doorway.

“This way,” she whispered, guiding Elain through the narrow passage, down a set of stairs. On the other side of the wall, she could hear heavy, rushing footsteps heading up. They ducked into the servant’s quarters, which was frighteningly empty.

From far away, she heard someone shout, “The princess isn’t in her room!”

“Find her!”

Elain covered a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, trying not to let her mind wander as to what they would do once they found her. If they were already in her bedroom, had the castle guards been overcome? Was… Was Lucien—

She was pulled abruptly from her thoughts as the maid hurried Elain across the quarters, into the scullery. The back door was open, but Elain heard footsteps approaching and pulled the maid up short.

“Quick,” she whispered, pulling up a tablecloth that they both ducked underneath.

Peering through the narrow gap between the cloth and the floor, Elain could see two pairs of polished boots pause in front of the doorway.

“The princess has escaped,” said a deep, masculine voice that she didn’t recognize.

“She couldn’t have gone far,” said another. One she knew as honeyed and graveled and full of sweet, empty promises. “I know the precise route she would have taken to the village.”

Elain stopped breathing.

“Find her, Lucien.”

And that second pair of boots, the ones she had thrown dirt on just the day before, knelt to the ground and plunged a familiar sword into the earth. “I will, your highness. I swear it.”

Look, when they argued, was I mentally chanting “kiss kiss kiss?”

Absolutely.

Still A Sunbeam

Summary: As a child, Elain Archeron is pushed into a pond by the heir to the Day Courts throne, Lucien Spell-Cleaver, and vows she'll never forgive him for it. But as an adult, Elain finds that if she wants out of an arranged marriage to a Spring Court prince, she will need Day Court's help. More is at stake than a decades-old rivalry, and when their home is threatened, Elain and Lucien will have to set aside old differences and work together

Chapter 1 | Read on AO3

Day Court was beautiful. Elain had barely slept the night before, too busy sneaking around the palace with wide-eyed wonder. She’d stumbled on a late night party in one of the grand halls which sent her skittering back to her room. She didn’t need the Day Court prince to realize she’d seen him sink to his knees before a rather beautiful female and duck his head beneath her dress.

That sort of thing wasn’t done in Spring. She’d been warned about Day and Rhodes in particular. Killian, who seemed to think he’d claimed her, had protested when Amera Spell-Cleaver finally agreed to let Elain join them at court.

They’ll corrupt her.

Elain understood what really bothered him, though. She might allow another male into her bed when he very much wanted to be the first. Elain had insinuated he might be, if he backed down, careful to make no promises or strike any deals that would hold her accountable. She merely needed him to stop long enough for her father to agree. 

Now she was here, and had a year to figure out a way in which she didn’t have to return to Spring. Going back would all but cement the marriage rumbling between her family and the High Lord. Her father was pushing for it, hoping it would elevate his status at court. Killian, too, though Elain tried hard not to think about that. If she married him, he’d want her to join the other wives, sewing and party planning and gardening. And while there was nothing wrong with those things, Elain wanted to see the world. Killian was over a century old. Of course he was ready to settle down.

She wasn't. Not yet. And not with him. 

Though, if she’d known Lucien Spell-Cleaver would be put in charge of her education, Elain might have begged to go to Summer, instead. Nowhere was better than Day…and yet Elain suspected she was better off with Killian than she was Lucien.

She’d heard the stories about the spoiled party prince. It seemed Lucien hadn’t changed much from the boy throwing a fit over his older brother's needling…though, no one had mentioned didn’t look like a boy anymore. In her mind, Lucien was still the gangly, awkward, angry boy that had shoved her in the pond. 

Reality didn’t match any longer. Lucien was a man by every definition of the word. Tall, broad, and muscular, with the kind of face that likely brought both males and females to their knees. She’d been momentarily stunned—not that he seemed to notice. Which was for the best, as Elain didn’t need to give Lucien any more leverage than he already had. She’d come to work, not ogle him, and had no intention of being anything other than professional and polite. 

A knock on Elain’s bedroom was meant to wake her. She’d been up for hours, carefully selecting an off-shoulder, lavender dress before curling her hair over and over. She wanted the rest of the Day Court to love her, and in Spring, the easiest way to do that was to be pleasing to look at. 

Arina pushed into the room with sallow skin and her long, blonde hair pulled into a messy side braid.

“I’m so hungover,” she said by way of greeting, flopping onto a divan in Elain’s lounge. Elain had met her briefly the day before and wasn’t sure what to say.

“Should we reschedule?” Elain asked.

Arina groaned. “No. I said I’d show you the library and I meant it.”

Arina was, according to Amera, one of the best scholars in their court. Certainly one of the most knowledgeable. With a thousand libraries within the Day Court borders, Elain needed at least some instruction on how they worked and how to access information. Amera had shown her Helion’s personal library, which spanned six stories and boasted hundreds of thousands of texts. 

“Are you sure?”

“The library is quiet,” Arina said with a sigh, forcing herself into a sitting position. “And I can sleep in a chair while you read.”

Elain was out of her depth. Arina stood, wearing loose fitting pants and a matching blue top that showed off the majority of her toned midriff. Elain knew not all courts were as traditional as her own. She’d been excited for it, even—Helion had no shortage of female’s advising him, guiding his policy, and otherwise a part of his inner circle. 

It was one thing to want those things, and wholly another to see how it played out. No one paid Arina any mind as they plodded through the airy, bright corridors of the palace. She was hardly the most scandalous—more than a few females sauntered through in mere scraps clearly meant for swimming. 

“There is a pool,” Arina explained, catching Elain staring for the hundredth time. “Would you like to see it?”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Elain said, thinking of how carefully her mother had been, packing up her things. All of it had to be modest and appropriate for a lady of her stature. Elain wondered if her parents had known what Elain was walking into and hoped to spare her all but the educational parts to it. 

“I have enough to spare,” Arina replied breezily. Elain believed that, and didn’t know if she was brave enough to try on anything that came from Arina’s closet. “You can borrow one.” Elain offered a tight smile, spared a response by two sentries pulling open heavy oak doors with twin suns carved into the wood. Arina blinked, temporarily stunned by the darkness. 

Elain was stunned herself, though by the sheer size. The open atrium spiraled upward, trailing stairs that led up all six stories of stacks. 

It was hard to imagine Arina in that place, given how she was swaying on her feet. Elain cleared her throat. “Did uh…did you go to the party last night?”

Arina glanced over, eyebrows pulled toward her hair. “Were you there? Because that’s not how I normally ah…I just mean it was unusual for me to um…what did you see, exactly?”

“The prince,” Elain admitted, cheeks flaming at the memory. “I wasn’t there, I just um…I saw him in the hall and I heard the music.”

Arina exhaled. “Oh, right. Don’t judge all of us based on Lucien’s behavior.”

“What were you doing?” Elain asked curiously. 

“Dancing,” Arina said firmly, though her golden cheeks flamed pink. Elain didn’t push it, if only to preserve her own feelings. It had been ingrained in her since birth that ladies behaved a certain way, and common fae another. Ladies didn’t sleep around, they didn’t drink, they just barely danced. They were elevated, special. Delicate creatures in need of care. 

Though, neither Nesta or Feyre had never been described as any of those things. Still, Elain wanted to embody that and have at least one Day Court ally, and so she didn’t press on Arina any harder. Not when it was obvious Arina was embarrassed. 

Eain was a little curious. 

“Everything is arranged by topic, and then alphabetically,” Arina began, striding across the open floor, weaving through tables and chairs in order to show Elain. “And then by year. The higher up you go, the older things become, all the way to the first recorded words of our people. A lot of other courts send scholars to study mating bonds and how the magic of Prythian works—or even their own family lines. But if you just wanted, say, a history of our most current system, that’s just on the second floor, ten stacks back, middle section.”

Elain took a breath. She’d never seen anything like this, and for one moment allowed herself to appreciate just how small she was in the world. Thousands of people had come before her, had left their mark in the pages of the books now sitting before her.

Elain felt overwhelmed. Braced against the back of a chair, Arina looked at Elain with bright, pine green eyes. “What are you looking for?”

It was only ever supposed to be politics and history. Nothing more.

 But Elain had a secret. 

“Seers,” she breathed, looking up ahead. “Where would I find information about Seers?”

Arina blinked, straightening to her full height. This was the part where the scholar asked why she was asking such questions. Why she wanted to know. When she realized Elain’s father was from Hybern, and the magic was different there.

Strange. 

Old.

Feyre, Elain, and Nesta were, in appearance, no different from the High Fae of Prythian. Just beneath their skin, though, lay magic that had long vanished from the shores of the seven courts, marking the three of them with magic not bound to Spring—or any court, truly. Though, Elain had heard Seers once fell within the domains of Day before that magic vanished. 

Elain’s father knew, and her mother, too. Her sisters, by virtue of witnessing her fall to visions. No one else, though, could know. Her parents had been quite clear to all of them that their magic was to remain a secret. Courts would fight wars if they knew what was hidden in Spring.

Nesta, with her icy fire and Feyre, a daemati and elemental magic that made Elain think her youngest sister had been born from the very Mother herself.

And Elain, a Seer. 

Forbidden from speaking about it, Elain was left to the whims of the strange, unpredictable visions that forced their way through. She wanted control—wanted to know how to search those visions for truth and peer into the future without waiting for them to crash into her. 

Arina jerked her head toward the stairs. “Fourth floor. All the way in the back. Cassandra’s journals are still back there. You can’t take them out, but you can read them while you’re here.”

Arina took a seat in the chair, closing her eyes. Elain left her there without a glance backward. She’d start history tomorrow, she swore she would. She’d do everything she’d promised when she left. Today was for her. 

Elain was careful, walking up the stairs like she had nowhere important to be. No one paid her any mind, which was just as well. In a palace as large and busy as Day’s, foreigners were hardly out of place. It was so strange not to find someone waiting around a corner, demanding to know what she was up to.

The people here simply did not care. Elain went all the way back to the very last row, inhaling the smell of parchment and ink. In a case along the wall were, just as Arina promised, Cassandra’s journals.

And just behind her, lined up neatly alphabetically, were books and notes and compiled research on Seers. Elain swallowed, reaching for a fraying book of peeling leather. It was a first hand account of a female who lived right after the first age. She flipped open that first page, fingers tracing the words with reverence. 

Father says I am an abomination. 

Elain might have laughed.

“My mother thinks the same thing.”

LUCIEN: 

Lucien exhaled a breath, drumming his fingers on the wood grain table before him. He could be in the sauna, sweating out the alcohol from the night before. He could have still been in bed while a female with a name he didn’t remember rode his face into oblivion.

Instead, Lucien was dressed and waiting on Elain Archeron, who was half an hour late. Lucien ran his tongue over his teeth, his irritation mounting with each passing second. Fuck her, and fuck this, he thought angrily. He was still a prince—his time was still worth something.

Lucien stood just as the door to the study swung open. Elain stepped inside, red-faced and sweaty. She clutched a book beneath her arm, which Lucien supposed was the cause of her lateness.

He didn’t return to his chair, even when Elain took a seat. She was so obviously trying to catch her breath. Lucien took a breath of air, his heart pounding at the scent of sweat mingled with the floral sweetness wafting off her. Instinctively, Lucien took a step back to try and clear some of the air.

I didn’t help.

“You’re late,” he said, wanting to punish her not just for keeping him waiting, but for the way his body was reacting. It was as if he’d never seen a flushed female before. 

“I know, I—”

“I don’t care,” he said flatly, laying his hands on the table. Elain looked up with big, wide eyes. He wished she wouldn’t look at him. Wished she would leave entirely. Little hairs stood on end against his forearms and the back of his neck, offering a prickling awareness that Lucien didn’t like. She was no one. 

She was beautiful.

Elain blinked, hands fidgeting in her lap. “Oh.”

“I promised two hours. If you want to waste thirty of those minutes doing…whatever it was you were doing, it’s nothing to me. I won’t be the one humiliated in front of Summer Court dignitaries.”

He’d shamed her. Color crept up her neck as fire danced in those soft, brown eyes. Lucien continued. “I told mother you weren’t serious about any of this. Tell me, princess—is this just a little diversion before your pretty little Spring wedding?”

“No, I—”

“A distraction before motherhood?” he pressed, disdain dripping from every word. It was as if he could rid himself of his cursed attraction by hurting her feelings. 

“Your palace is large,” Elain said flatly, though her rapidly rising and falling chest betrayed her own anger. “I got lost.”

“Fascinating,” Lucien said sarcastically. “How long are you staying with us?”

“A year,” she gritted out. 

“Lucky me,” he grumbled, running through all the places he was likely to be over the course of a year. “In two weeks, I’m supposed to bring you to Summer.”

Elain bit her bottom lip.

“Tell me about their trade deal with Autumn,” he said, well aware she couldn’t. Lucien knew, by virtue of being his court's emissary, what Spring thought about females. Very little, if anything at all. Females were delicate and soft, in need of protection—creatures better suited to be wives and mothers. The fact that Elain had managed to end up in his court ought to have been a testament to her tenacity. 

Elain’s cheeks darkened further. 

Lucien nodded his head. “Why, exactly, is this even important to you?”

Defiance blazed from her features. “Is that part of your tutelage? Asking me about my personal motivations so you can mock them?”

The kitty had claws. Lucien raised his brows. “It would be nice to know this isn’t all wasted, but if you want to keep your secrets, be my guest. It makes no difference to me. Father will see how utterly inept you are and send you straight back home.”

Elain looked as if he’d slapped her. She looked him dead in the eye, and in a soft whisper, said, “I will tell your mother you said that.”

Lucien snarled softly. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“She swore you were a consummate gentleman. That you’d take good care of me. I’ll tell her everything you said, Lucien—”

“With tears in your eyes? Will you tell her I shoved you, too? Cry for your daddy—”

“You did shove me!” Elain retorted hotly, rising from her chair. “I almost drowned, you weren’t even sorry!”

“Oh, I was sorry alright. Sorry that–”

“Your brother intervened?” she demanded, lips curling over two rows of gleaming, sharp teeth. Lucien felt tight, like he needed to climb over that table, wrap his hand around her throat and—

“Get out,” he whispered, just barely restrained. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

He regretted his words the second Elain fled, throwing him the most furious look he’d ever seen. He didn’t doubt she wasn’t going to tell on him, nor did he think he was in the right. He’d taken it too far–-had suggested he wished she’d drowned.

Lucien’s guilt gnawed at him well into the night, keeping him from his usual crowd, even when he heard the thudding music in the distance. 

A knock on his door told him his mother had come.

Only, it wasn’t his mother—but his father, his face a mask of disappointment. Lucien’s leg bounced up and down as he gestured for his father to take a seat in the lounge attached to Lucien’s bedroom.

“Rough day?” his father asked after a long pause. Elbows braced on his knees, his chest bare and Helion Spell-Cleaver didn’t look like a High Lord. He looked like Lucien’s father.

“I can’t help her,” Lucien said with a heavy sigh. 

“All I ever hear is how charming my son is. How kind he is to the females at court. Perhaps,” Helion added with a twinkling expression, “too kind, even, for my liking. You can’t be your usual, friendly self with one Spring Court female?”

“I dislike her.”

“Yes, so she said. Loudly, as she pleaded with your mother for a different tutor.”

“Give her what she’s asked for.”

Helion regarded his son for a moment. “I could. There are plenty of people at court I trust with this task.”

Lucien exhaled, his relief short lived.

“None of them are my son. You know what the High Lord of Spring is like—this is all a novelty for him. A detour for Elain before she marries his son who is a century her senior and watched her grow up. No one is looking out for her—”

“Why am I supposed to?”

“Because I am interested in her,” Helion said gently. “Because I think Elain Archeron could be more than what her parents imagine for her. And more importantly, because she wants that. She believes you tried to drown her and yet she still met with you today. What offense has she committed against you, Lucien?”

Lucien looked at his hands, feeling like a child. He had the feeling his father understood entirely what it was that vexed him about Elain. “She’s difficult.”

His father suppressed a smile. “Your mother accused me of that, once.”

“Don’t,” Lucien replied, irritated that his father would dare. “You and Elain are nothing alike.”

“Will you do this for me, son? Can I trust you to sharpen her just as your mother once sharpened you?”

“And then what? Are you going to unleash her on Spring?”

His father smiled. “Maybe. Just—do this for me. Please?”

Lucien sighed. “She’s not cut out for this.”

“She is.”

His father stood, gold eyes pleading for Lucien to be agreeable when it came to Elain. Lucien could have said no—his father would have foisted her upon someone else. He could have had his nights back, could avoid her entirely.

“I can’t promise to make her sharp…but I can promise to keep her from embarrassing herself.”

His father smiled. “Your mother will be relieved to hear this is all a misunderstanding.”

“I’m not apologizing,” he said sullenly. Helion paused, causing Lucien to groan.

“Don—”

“I raised you better than that.”

Lucien looked up at the ceiling, exhaling hard. “Fine. Fine. Anything else? Should I marry her while I’m at it?”

“Only if you feel so inclined,” his father chuckled, pausing at the door. “Another thing—your brothers will be joining us next week for your mother's birthday—”

Lucien groaned. “All of them?”

“All of them. For three days, at your mother's insistence. You know how badly she misses them. I expect you to be on your best behavior so not to ruin this for her.”

“They’ll ruin it,” Lucien snapped, thinking of how awful the Vanserra’s were. Their behavior simply couldn’t be helped, given who their terrible father was. 

“So long as you don’t. Let's remind your mother why leaving was a good choice, hm? By proving we’re the better males?”

“Yes, fine,” Lucien grumbled. “I can do that.”

“I know you can.”

Lucien waited until he was alone, thinking he ought to go to bed. In the morning he could track down Elain, mumble out an apology he was certain she’d accept smugly, and begin her lessons. 

But he knew he couldn't. Not after everything his father had said and how, more than anything, Lucien hated disappointing his mother. 

He couldn’t remember, exactly, when he’d become aware of his brothers. Eris, Connall, Tanwen and Cadmus. All far older than him, all left to Autumn. What Lucien did remember from his earliest moments, was the misery that occasionally overtook her—how he’d hear her weeping in the bedchamber she shared with his father. Lucien had crept in when no one was around, snuggling beneath the blanket so she could hold him.

She used to whisper, my sweet, lovely boy.

How often had she spoken the words before him? To boys who hated her now, and made it known at every gathering they attended. What had their poisonous father whispered when she’d left with her mate, unable to have both Helion and her sons—and unable to keep her husband from killing her if she remained? 

Lucien had swore he wouldn't be like them. He wouldn’t disappoint her, wouldn’t be the reason she felt a moment's misery.  

He ignored the thudding sounds of music and the way his body pulled, wanting to forget his disastrous night and all his failings. He wanted to lose himself in pleasure until he was little more than a mindless beast. Still, Lucien walked until he found his parents' bedchamber. Praying his father was presiding over the evening's festivities—or working—Lucien knocked. 

A moment later, his mother answered. She had a thin robe wrapped around her figure, and her thick, auburn hair was braided over her shoulder. When she saw him, her eyes softened ever so slightly.

“Are you well?”

It was unusual for him to seek her out so late. Lucien had been a neglectful son as of late. “No. I disappointed you.”

Standing in the hall, his mother reached out one of her delicate hands to caress his cheek. “You have never once disappointed me.”

His heart ached. “I will do better with Elain.”

“I know you will,” she said, those russet eyes sparkling. Lucien nodded, taking a step back down the hall.

“You know,” his mother called, stopping him before he could act on his desires. “You might like her, if you ever forgave her for humiliating you in front of Eris.”

Lucien whirled, eyes wide. “I—”

His mother only shook her head. She knew. All those years of insisting he hated Elain for the lie, and his mother had known the truth of it. Eris, goading him into exploding like he always did, and Lucien, furious and desperate to escape the magic leaking out of him, had knocked into Elain. Had sent her into the pond, which would have been excusable had a starving water wraith not decided to make a meal of her.

Lucien had never forgotten the look of disgust on Eris’s face. His words, just before he dived in after her. Foolish baby Lucien. 

And for Lucien, who had always wanted Eris to like him—who wanted to be Eris, it had been a step too far. Elain had come up spluttering and sobbing, clinging to Eris like her savior and Eris had let her. He’d smoothed the curls from Elain’s face and saved her satin ribbon when it trailed out of her hair. He’d taken her straight inside to her father, handing her over with gentle care.

What was so special about her, then? And not Lucien, who was heir to his fathers court, just as Eris was? Eris, who wanted to see that magic but still hated Lucien all the same? Eris, who thought he was foolish.

Eris, who had been born first—the son his mother still mourned, despite all her happiness. Lucien wanted his attention and he’d gotten it, just not how he hoped. He couldn’t hate his brother. 

But he could hate Elain. 

His mother turned, a sad smile on her face, and closed the door. Lucien took a breath, eyes closed. He ought to go to bed. Ought to deal with the messy emotions roiling through him, if only to keep him from truly exploding one of these days.

He exhaled his breath.

And turned for the thudding music, and the company he knew he’d find waiting.

Masterlist

On My Mind, In My Heart

Summary:

Elain Archeron is tired. Tired of tiptoeing around people, tired of sleepwalking through life. Luckily, a diplomatic trip to the Summer Court gives her a much-needed chance to see the world beyond the Night Court. There’s only one problem - Lucien is there too, and she can’t avoid him forever. When he catches her alone, it will give them the chance to begin something new - or to tear it all down.

3.7k words, rated G.

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As Elain sat through dinner, she realized she didn’t quite regret coming on this trip. It was a surprise, considering she had been expected to be wracked with dread and anxiety the whole time.

The Summer Court was beautiful this time of year, even if the heat was stifling. The sea breeze provided blessed relief, a distraction from the sweat slipping down her spine. A distraction from the other things prickling her, too.

Keep reading

Happy @elucienweekofficial! I've been dying to share this one from @mellendraws since I first saw it!

WAIT WHAT! This sounds SO good. LB, you’ve done it again. I can already tell!!

A Blaze in the Dark - (1/7)

Chapter Title: A Faith Forgotten Land

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 1: Mates. This chapter gets very spicy 🌶️🌶️

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist

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Elain, I’m afraid I have a favor I must ask you. Do you recall the magic spell I told you about, the night I tried to run away? The one where you place a butterfly wing beneath your tongue so that you will meet your true love in your dreams? I’m afraid the context has become too complex and confusing to divulge to you in its entirety over letter, but I suspect that my husband is, in a strange turn of events, my true love. I know it is a gruesome task, but I desperately need you to send me a butterfly wing so that I can confirm it. Once you have a butterfly wing, I believe you will be able to send it to me by folding it into this letter. Add a lock of your hair and a trinket that reminds you of me, then burn them all, and this letter, after sundown. Don’t give up on true love, Elain. It’s still there, waiting for you. -Feyre

Elain twisted an aster stem between her thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur into a circle as they twirled. It had arrived with the letter from Feyre—the trinket, presumably, that had reminded Feyre of Elain. An aster flower, a symbol of afterthought, or the wish that things had ended differently.

It was a fitting gift, Elain supposed, though she doubted Feyre was aware of its meaning.

She was happy for her sister, truly. After spending so many days in grief, fearing for what was to become of her sister after Prince Rhysand stole her away to the cruel and oppressive North, it was a relief to discover her sister had potentially found a life with her true love, after all.

It was also difficult not to be consumed with envy.

The lone butterfly wing taunted her from where she’d left it, hastily discarded, atop the drawing table. She’d gagged through the entire ordeal of ripping it from the poor insect, and now that she’d sent one of the wings to Feyre, Elain was uncertain what to do with the second one. It seemed cruel to rip them from a living creature only to discard them, but the prospect of putting it beneath her tongue… Elain’s skin pimpled with disgust at just the thought.

It wouldn’t be practical, besides. Tomorrow, Elain would be marrying the youngest son of the Eastern Kingdom’s royal family. So really, she had no use for the folly of magic and supposed true loves. Even if she met her true love in her dreams, there would be no backing out of tomorrow’s ceremony. It was for the best to leave her fated other half unknown—it would be less painful that way.

Still, the wing rested on that table, just to the side of Feyre’s letter and the words that jumped out towards Elain.

Don’t give up on true love.

It was an easy assurance for someone to make once they had found themselves conveniently married to their true love. But Elain knew, with decided certainty, that such a fate would not apply to her own marriage. Not that she had ever met her soon to be husband.

From what she had heard, Lucien Vanserra was as cruel and miserable as the six brothers before him. Elain hadn’t yet decided what to make of the rumors surrounding the Vanserra men, but what she did find offensive was that Lucien hadn’t had the decency to so much as write her a letter since their engagement was announced. And given he’d made no effort to know her before their marriage, Elain had the sinking suspicion that she was merely the byproduct of a far more interesting transaction.

“You’ll be marrying a prince,” her father had told her proudly. “Just like Feyre. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my beautiful Elain.”

It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if she wanted to marry a prince, but why would it? Before Prince Rhysand had stormed into the manor, the best their father had hoped for was a Duke from their own Kingdom. Now he had letters spanning not just the Kingdoms of Prythian, but even from the distant shores of the continent. And with the abundance of interest in the unwedded Archeron sisters, it had become rapidly clear that their father had no intention of seeking his daughter’s input on their potential matches.

Nesta continued to rage against it, but Elain had been resigned to their father’s will. Despite his less than complimentary reputation, Elain hadn’t exactly loathed the idea of being married to a prince. But when she asked her father when Lucien would be visiting the manor to begin their courtship and he had frowned in response, Elain realized Lucien Vanserra had no interest in romancing his betrothed.

On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, the butterfly wing was inviting in ways Elain shouldn’t allow. She was not Feyre. She would never be brave enough to pack a bag and run away in the pursuit of true love. She was good, obedient Elain, who only ever stirred trouble for the sake of gardening. But this... this was not being scolded for “forgetting” to wear gardening gloves, this was magic. Magic that would only cause her heartache. It would only make tomorrow that much more unbearable.

Except the butterfly wing would go to waste otherwise. And it was easier to pretend she was a victim of her empathy than her curiosity.

When she went to bed that night, she did so with the butterfly wing placed under her tongue. And when she woke up, it was to darkness.

She sat up, feeling the slide of silk sheets and blankets that certainly did not belong to the bed she’d fallen asleep in. It was too dark to see anything. Even when she held her hand in front of her face, Elain could not distinguish her fingers from the gaps between. She frowned, thinking it was odd that Feyre had not mentioned this part of the spell. Had she done something wrong?

After a bout of blindly patting the mattress, she determined there was no one else in the bed with her. A relief, she supposed, though she was crestfallen to think her true love had decided he wanted nothing to do with her, too.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Light. Curious.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The footsteps paused.

“Who are you?” he answered, with an accent that was certainly not from the Southern Kingdom.

She wished she’d encountered more people beyond the walls of the manor, if only so she was better equipped to place where he was from. Even so, she could admire the richness of his voice. Warm, honeyed, but with a rasp that made her skin feel heated.

“I’m your true love,” she said.

He took a single step forward. Cautious. “Is that so?”

“Do you know anything of magic?”

“Yes, lady.” There was a lightness to his tone. A humor. “One could say I’m familiar.”

“I placed a butterfly wing under my tongue,” she said. “Apparently doing so will cause you to dream of your true love, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoed.

“And you are?”

He hesitated. Which Elain could not blame him, seeing as she had no intention of providing her own name.

“Are you married?” she asked, seeing no other reason for his reluctance to tell her.

“Betrothed.”

Her heart sank, despite knowing that even if he wasn’t, it would not change the fact that she was to be married tomorrow.

“It is not the sort of engagement I can easily break,” he added.

Elain mulled that over. “But you want to?”

It was a dangerous question. She could tell by the way he laughed. There was an edge to it that sliced through the dark space between them. “It’s not often I encounter a lady so direct,” he commented. “What’s your name?”

Direct was not how she would usually be described—that was for Nesta. Elain was the sister who was always polite, always poised. Always swallowing her tongue, so that every would-be sharp word cut its way down her throat instead. She imagined each bladed thought was slowly slicing away the undesirable pieces of herself and, one day, she would fit effortlessly into the mold of perfect Elain Archeron without needing to swallow anything at all.

Evidently, today would not be good practice.

If governess could see her, she would surely have a fit. Elain had already broken convention by simply being present. She’d used magic to be in the lone company of a man when she was to be wed tomorrow. What was being a little more direct, for an evening? Being someone other than perfect Elain.

“My name?” She asked innocently. “When you won’t tell me yours? That hardly seems equitable.”

He was getting closer to the bed, and she felt her pulse echo each step as the distance closed between them.

“Names are meaningless, anyhow,” he said, with a sort of wry amusement that she would hardly encounter in the stiff social circles of the Southern Kingdom. She found a smile drawing to her lips, leaning towards the open darkness like if she concentrated hard enough, his face would suddenly appear. “They describe nothing of ourselves, besides the people we are related to. A name carries too much prejudice. Instead, tell me about the person your name belongs to.”

Elain could agree on that much. Being an Archeron was wearisome on the best of days, and it was not helped by their father’s insistence of keeping his daughters shut inside the walls of the manor. It left the rest of society much too curious—a fact which Elain had only truly discovered on their societal debut, the night of the Solstice Ball, which had been spent seeking potential suitors just as much as it had been dodging a slew of prying questions. It didn’t help that a foreign Prince had stormed into the ballroom, magic aflare, demanding that he dance with Feyre. Nor did it help that King Beron of the East had taken an interest in the remaining two sisters once word of Feyre’s marriage had spread.

Regardless of where he was from, the name Archeron would be recognizable to her true love. And then he would know not only that she was to be married, but precisely who she was to be married to. If he was spiteful, he could inform her betrothed of their clandestine meeting and disrupt the ceremony, ruining her family’s name in the process. Elain could practically hear Nesta whispering in her ear, reminding her that was dangerous information to hand over to a man, even one that was allegedly her true love.

So she lied.

“I’m from a poor village,” she said. “The only daughter of a farmer—”

“That’s not who you are.”

Elain reeled back from the interruption. It was firm, though not unkind. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets, thumb absently working over the wrinkles to smooth them out, trying to decide what about her lie had given her away. “Wh—what do you mean?”

“Those things don’t define a person, not really.” She could hear a frown in his voice. “What I’m asking is, what drives you? What makes you happy?”

In polite society, one’s occupation and financial status seemed to be all that defined a person. She blinked into the darkness, wishing she could glimpse his expression. If only so she could measure how much space she was permitted to take up in her answer. Should she answer like a lady ought to, the way she had been primed by her governess, so that she sounded desirable and interesting? She could feign an affinity for playing the harpsichord, or something quieter, like sewing.

But his interest sounded sincere.

“Gardening,” she said. “I like feeling the sun on my face and the earth beneath my fingers.”

“Gardening,” he repeated, softly. Elain listened carefully, searching for the usual traces of disapproval. “Is that something you do in your leisure? Or do you help your father plant crops?”

Of course. Elain smothered a laugh at the mental image of her father lowering himself on his cane to plant crops into the dirt. He wasn’t a man well suited to manual labor.

“In my leisure,” she answered, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “I like to plant flowers.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Elain gave the question more consideration than it was likely owed. The Archeron manor was nestled in a region of the Southern Kingdom where spring bloomed eternal, and she was cautious not to choose a flower that grew exclusively in their lands. In reality, she had many favorites, depending on the quality she was using to assess them. Did she select a flower for its appearance, its meaning, or the ease with which she could care for it?

Don’t overcomplicate things, she chided herself. He was asking to be polite, and though she sensed the question was genuine, his interest in the answer would be surface level at best. Flowers did little to serve men outside of being a pretty, quiet object they could cast their eyes upon. Perhaps that’s why Elain felt such a kinship in them.

Perhaps that’s why she answered, “sweet alyssum.”

Worth beyond beauty. He wouldn’t recognise the flower’s meaning, she was certain, but he made a noise like he was familiar with the name.

“And why’s that one your favorite?” He asked, voice so close now that Elain was certain he was standing just in front of her. She couldn’t quite summon the courage to reach her hand out to confirm.

“Wherever they grow, the garden looks like it’s been covered in lace,” she said. “They’re also thought to preserve the sweetness of the soul. The ladies in our family are known for a wicked temper, so I used to dry the blossoms to brew them into a calming tea.”

“Is that so?” He must have leaned in, because the next words were so close to her ear that she jumped. “So which do you have then, a wicked temper or a sweet soul?”

“Can I not have both?”

She asked for the sake of the game, because she could tell that it intrigued him, but deep down Elain knew that the wicked temper belonged only to her sisters. The Archeron spirit must have skipped over her entirely, because she lacked the wildness of Feyre and the unbreakable rage of Nesta. Maybe she’d been spending too much time tending the sweet alyssum and the flowers had cured her of a temper—as well as any courage it provides.

“Certainly,” he said. She felt the softest tug at her scalp and thought he must have snagged a lock of her hair. “In fact, for a lady who enjoys gardening, I would expect nothing less.”

Elain cocked her head. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he murmured thoughtfully, “plants often have hidden dangers, don’t they? Thorns and thistles and poisons. A foolish man gets cut by a rose for choosing to only see its beauty.”

For a moment, Elain was stunned into silence. Then she asked, “and do you consider yourself a foolish man?”

“Not often,” he said wryly. “Though I have been cut by a rose or two. In the nature of learning.”

She found herself laughing at the unexpected candor. “It’s a hard lesson learned.”

“An important one,” he agreed. The hand at her hair dropped. She felt the lock fall back to her shoulder, a moment before warm fingers found her jaw. It was a light, barely there touch that raised her chin until her neck angled upwards, giving her the impression that her true love was tall. She wondered how far away he was from her face, if in the light she would be able to count his number of eyelashes.

In a low voice, he murmured, “Now I know how to handle a rose, should I ever come across one again.”

Elain was so caught off guard by the slight touch, that the implication of his words hardly registered until several heartbeats later, leaving her floundering for a response as she realized that he was flirting with her. It was an effort to smother the fluttering in her chest, reminding herself that he was betrothed and so was she.

“How fortunate for your wife to be,” she said primly.

He dropped his hand like she’d scalded him.

It should have been enough to leave it there, but the accusation fled from her lips before she could clamp down her anger, “Does she know that she’s marrying a rake?”

Elain knew it was unfair. She had summoned him, despite being betrothed herself.

He laughed. Dryly. “Wicked temper, indeed.”

“Tell me more about her,” she pressed.

A heavy sigh, strong enough that she felt it ghost over her scalp.

“It’s an arranged marriage. A means for my father to punish and control his unruly son.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised her. Elain straightened. “What did you do to warrant such a punishment?”

A sudden dip in the bed caused Elain’s weight to lurch sideways, pulling a gasp from her as their shoulders brushed and the entire side of her body prickled with heat. Painfully aware that she was in nothing but a nightgown, Elain quickly scrambled to the side, grateful to the dark for obscuring her reddening cheeks.

“Nothing heinous,” he soothed. “I became too comfortable in my liberties, set my sights on a lover that he didn’t approve of, and now he’s stepped in to remind me that he’s the one in control.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She could relate all too well to the pain of having her liberties suddenly striped away.

In a quiet voice, she asked, “is your betrothed kind, at least?”

“So I’m told.” His voice was flat. “I’ll be amicable with her, of course, but I’m not certain I could ever love her. Doing so would mean submitting to my father’s will, and I’ll never allow him to have that control over my heart.”

Just as much as Elain was envious of his betrothed, she found herself pitying the woman, as well. How painful would it be to have a husband so disinterested in their life together? It was the very thing she feared, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone—not even the woman marrying the love of her life.

“What about you?” he prompted, once silence had fallen in the space of her melancholy. “Any plans for marriage?”

After he had been so honest with her, it seemed unfair not to return the favor.

“I’m betrothed as well,” she answered, tangling her hands together in her lap. “My wedding is tomorrow, in fact.”

Another dry laugh, like the sound of cracking branches. “You’re kidding.”

“I also don’t want to marry him. It was all my father’s arrangement, and I’m expected to simply be grateful that I’m marrying so high above my station.”

“Ah.” There was scathing judgment cast in that sound. “A poor farmer using his pretty, weddable daughter to pay off debts?”

Elain squeezed her fingers tightly together, trying to contrast the sensation to the tension building in her chest, behind her eyes. But when worded like that… it was too late. She was rapidly blinking back tears as she sniffled, “Exactly that.”

A hand fell to her back, zapping her again with his heat as he traced a slow circle through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Is he kind, at least?”

She shrugged. “I know nothing about him, besides that he is older than me. I am… I am terrified, really. Of who he is, and how he might treat a wife that he purchased as if her opinion—as if she—didn’t matter at all.”

The fingers at her back flexed. “Do you know the nature of your father’s debt? I could arrange for—“

“No.” Elain shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “No, that’s not—that’s not why I called you here. I don’t expect you to pay my fathers debts. Nor do I want you to.”

“So then… why did you call me here?”

A question she should be asking herself, really. What was there to take from this meeting besides hopelessness, besides misery? Besides his hand against the back of her nightgown, warm and soothing and much too indecent for a woman about to be married.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “I guess I just… wanted to see what the alternative could have been. All my life I’d fantasized about marrying for love. Now I fear that—” she could hear her voice shaking. She forced herself to swallow. Tried not to let it break, but the words crumbled anyway. “Now I fear that is no longer possible.”

The hand at her back slid to her shoulder, coaxing her into his side. Elain took a sharp breath as she leaned in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and warmed apples. It was comforting to her, in addition to the circles he smoothed against her bare shoulder, down her arm.

He took a deep breath, and she was relieved to hear it was shaky, too. “That is precisely how I feel.”

“I suppose I can see how we’re compatible,” she said, a touch dryly.

He snorted. “I’ve never known fate to deal its hand kindly.”

Elain wondered what hidden pain lived beneath such a statement, but thought better of prying. Instead, she murmured, “Curious how in a world filled with butterflies, so many love stories are plagued by tragedy.”

He said, softly, “Your story doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

It was echo enough to the pacifications made by her father and governess that Elain turned her head away. They had asserted that love matches were rare, that she should make the most out of the arrangement and be grateful to have obtained a match so favorable. Perhaps even to her true love, she sounded like a horrid pessimist in assuming her married life would be miserable.

When she said nothing, her true love added, “What I mean to say is, I could help you, if it came to it. If he is unkind, you do not have to suffer through life with him.”

But he didn’t know. In his mind, she was a poor farmer’s daughter, marrying a Lord’s son at best, someone he clearly expected he was capable of buying off. In reality, her husband was a prince and whatever resources her true love possessed, she doubted they exceeded Lucien Vanserra’s.

“Thank you.”

It was all she could think to say. It must not have been a convincing show of gratitude, because he sighed like he was hollowing all the air in his chest.

“Of course,” he said, a gentleman resigned to her polite rejection. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know how to find me.”

Elain had the sense that it bothered him, the inability to help both himself and his true love out of their unfortunate circumstances. Guilt stirred in her chest, feeling like she had added to both their emotional burdens by summoning him here.

In the interest of searching for something to offer him, one request did cross her mind. An impropriety that was Feyre levels of bold and reckless. Elain faltered, uncertain if she was willing to risk offending him by asking. Or worse, that she would find the courage to ask and he might lack the sense to deny her.

“What is it?” he asked, picking up on the tension underlying her silence.

Elain played through all the possible variations in her head and only once she was certain that the choice to not ask him would be the most painful of, she murmured, coyly, “When you say anything at all, do you mean it?”

There was an allure to her voice that belonged to another woman, one Elain had never met until this moment, when his hand stilled midway down her arm and he asked, too carefully to be casual, “Are you insinuating that I am not a man of my word?”

A dangerous question. A promise that whatever she asked would be fulfilled.

“Certainly not,” she breathed.

“Then tell me, lady.” He moved closer, so that the next time he spoke, each of his words brushed the shell of her ear. “What is it that you’re after?”

His hand was searing where he still held it against her arm, unmoving. And as he waited for her response, she could feel every breath skitter over her neck, prickling her skin in its wake.

It was all a trick of some kind, to convince her to screw her eyes shut and blurt, “I want you to kiss me.”

Likely not the most sensual invitation he’d ever received. But her voice didn’t waver, and she counted that a victory. Again, Elain cursed the dark for preventing her from seeing his expression. Her sight could have prepared her for the hand that raised to her jaw, so startling in its heat that she gasped.

His fingers guided her gently, tilting her face to the side, then up.

She could feel him lean in, voice low and lovely, “Tell me what this means to you, and I’ll oblige.”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she said, resolute. “I want the first time to be with someone of my choosing.”

She thought she heard him swallow.

“I can understand that,” he said. Then, “It’s a shame it wasn’t my irresistible charms that persuaded you.”

If he was trying to ease her nerves, it only worked so far as to coax a curve at the corner of her lips. “Was this you being irresistibly charming?”

“Well, I’m in the company of a betrothed woman, so I’ve been more restrained than usual.”

“Than usual?” She hummed, feeling the warmth of each spoken word, her lips tingling with the promise of their proximity. “Do you use your irresistible charms on every woman?”

“Only those with sweet souls and wicked tempers,” he said with a small, tantalizing laugh that made her long to seize the game entirely so she could savor the sound against her mouth. “Tell me, lady, which will you taste like?”

“Find out,” she challenged, breathy and utterly unrecognizable to her ears.

Just as he promised, her true love obliged. His lips were soft and plush, warmed like he’d been lounging beside a fire before coming here. Or conversely, as if the fire lived beneath his skin, and now seeped into her body as the kiss deepened.

She tasted the smoke on his tongue, but it was countered by a sweetness that reminded her of burnt sugar. The taste made her feel dizzy, just as she had felt at the ball after one too many glasses of sparkling wine. Like the world was spinning, threatening that she might topple over or bubble right up to the sky if she didn’t grab hold of something.

His hair seemed like a good choice.

It was long, spun silk at his back, parting easily for her fingers to grab hold. She wondered absently what color it was, but the thought was abandoned once he groaned into her mouth in response to a curious tug.

Elain tugged again, to see what would happen.

He broke away, murmuring, “Is a kiss all that you seek this evening, lady?”

If her entire body hadn’t already been set aflame, the implication would have been enough to color her cheeks. Was a kiss all she sought?

“I—I—”

“I’ll pass no judgment on my part,” her true love was quick to say. “The Mother knows I haven’t saved myself for marriage. I expect regardless of what your future husband expects of you, he has not paid you that courtesy either.”

The idea of being touched for the first time here, where it was safe and lovely and tranquil… It had not occurred to her to betray her husband this way, but now the thought of seizing that small piece of control for herself felt comforting.

“Will—will he be able to tell?”

“Certainly not. I doubt a dream will leave any physical evidence. So long as you play the part of a timid, blushing bride on your wedding night, he will be nonethewiser.”

It would not be hard to play that role, since she was certain to be cowering beneath her husband’s touch. And that was precisely why she found she couldn’t turn her true love’s offer away, when his touch was so gentle, so inviting.

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth found hers again, and his tongue parted her lips open for an obscene taste that kindled a moan in the back of her throat, before he broke away. “You have my word, lady, that it will be nothing but pleasurable to you. And should my advances prove me wrong, you’ll have license to ensure I never receive a peaceful night’s rest again.”

“What about—what about your wife?”

He seemed to falter at that. She could feel him searching for an answer that was honest, but would still please her.

“I am not married yet,” he said finally. “And once I am, I’ll be discussing with my wife my intention to live separate lives. She’ll be well looked after and encouraged to take on lovers, and I think that will be agreeable for both of us.”

Elain, once again, was struck with sorrow for his soon-to-be wife, even as she agreed that his plan was considerate—generous, even, given that most men took mistresses while expecting their wives to continue to be faithful. She supposed she should be envious. No such consideration would be extended towards her. But then again, it wasn’t his wife that her true love grabbed at the hips and settled into his lap. This connection to him—this dreamworld—was something that would only ever belong to Elain.

It was perhaps the only thing in the world that was uniquely hers. The only thing that she had full dominion over. Not even her body was fully hers. It belonged partially to another man, but she still used it to slide her hands over her true love’s chest, feeling the strong, solid muscle obscured beneath his clothes.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I know the mechanics, vaguely. I’m to lie on my back and you’re to put—“

He chuckled.

Elain’s cheeks burned. Her voice came out sharper as she asked, “Am I wrong?”

“That’s one way it can be done, certainly.”

“And I’ve amused you because?”

“Because of course that’s all they’d tell you.” One of his broad hands found her hip, his steady fingers curling intimately towards her backside. The other hand reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Lie on your back. Be still. Try not to cry. Sound familiar?”

Elain flinched. Her governess hadn’t told her not to cry—but Nesta had. She wished she could deny it, but the silence was condemning, and her true love clicked his tongue in response.

“It’s shameful to tell you that there’s pleasure to be had in it. You’re meant to be afraid, to discourage you from seeking it elsewhere. They don’t want you seizing that control for yourself.”

His fingers brushed over the curve of her ear, sliding forward into her hair at the base of her skull, where he gathered the loose curls into a fist and gave it a deliciously slow tug. Elain allowed him to arch her head backwards, exposing her throat so he could leave an open mouthed kiss at her hammering pulse.

He said roughly against her skin, “But I want you to take that control. I want you writhing in pleasure. I want you desperate for it.”

Already, she was trembling. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Tell me what to do,” she said again.

“You’re doing it. You stay exactly as you are. Well—”

Using the hand at her hip, he tugged her forward until their torsos were completely flush. He was so solid, so shockingly warm. But what was worse than the heat seeping insistently through her flimsy nightgown was what she felt herself sitting on top of, pressing insistently against her cotton underthings. She could guess what it was and tried her best not to squirm in response as she shifted through all the new emotions that washed over her. Some she recognized—like shame and uncertainty and exhilaration—and others were harder to decipher, like the strange ache that was slowly coursing through her.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now you stay as you are.”

Elain knew if she opened her mouth, only stuttered nonsense would escape, so she elected to nod. With the fist in her hair, her true love would be able to feel it.

“I can’t see your expression,” he said to her. “So while we do this, I’m going to need you to use your words. Okay?”

Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue was stuck to the roof. She had to swallow before she managed, “Okay.”

“I’m going to touch you. I need you to tell me if you don’t like it, or if you want me to stop. And if you’re enjoying it—” she could imagine the smug smile that crossed his face— “then I want you to tell me that, too. Loudly.”

“W-wait.” He completely froze, his touch on her relaxing, though he did not withdraw. Elain trusted that if she asked him to, he would, and that comforted her enough to ask, “What should I call you?”

The silence turned considerate. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Love, my lord, sir.”

His voice lowered on the last word, and Elain filed that information away for a later time. There would no names, then. It was for the best, truly, though Elain still wished selfishly to know who he was.

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Then please, touch me, my lord.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Elain expected it all to happen suddenly. For him to pull her hair and crash their lips together as he ravished her with his body. Instead, it was slow as dripping honey. He kept his hands tangled in her hair, with just enough tension to keep her arched against him while the other settled back in its place at her hips, creeping ever-so-slowly downwards.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, once his fingers slipped past the nightgown and found the bare skin of her thigh. He stroked his palm in rhythmic circles, the breadth of his fingers spanning the entire width of her thigh, and then some. “How does this feel?”

It was nice. Soothing, even.

Elain released her breath in one short burst. “It feels good.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in, nose skimming across the slant of her shoulder. “I could feel you tense, but you’ve seemed to relax now.”

“It’s... I suppose I thought you would be doing more all at once.”

He released a small, breathy laugh. Like that was exactly what he’d expected her to say.

“The anticipation is half the fun.”

Actually, the anticipation was driving her mad. His hands were creeping up, pulling the hem of her nightgown with it, but it was far from where she felt all the ache and tension building, where she was beginning to realize she needed him to touch her.

“I feel…” she hesitated, not certain how to describe the sensation. The fluttering heat concentrated between her thighs.

“Go on.”

She settled on, “Flushed. Like I have a fever.”

“Feverish for me. Hmm.” His hands curved into her inner thigh, still leaving those idle strokes as they crept painfully higher. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Then his fingers stopped, just as his thumb brushed the seem where her underthings met her thigh. Then, he hooked his thumb beneath the fabric and slipped two of his fingers beneath the cotton.

She gasped at the same time he hissed, “This.” He swore under his breath. “I was expecting you to tell me how wet you feel.”

Elain hadn’t realized it, until he said it. Until he had his fingers there, slipping against more lubrication than she was ever used to feeling. Before she’d even gotten a chance to relish being touched so intimately, he withdrew his hand.

“Have I done something wrong?” She asked into the dark, feeling the way his chest had begun rising and falling more rapidly.

“Wrong?” he echoed. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even touched you yet. Believe me, lady, I am insufferably pleased.”

“Then—” she paused when his thumb found her jaw, tracing its shape until it arrived at the peak of her chin.

“Open your mouth.”

His voice was low, heated, and it made her feel as though someone had placed a glowing ember deep in her stomach. She obeyed with a breathless, “Yes, my lord.”

Fingertips brushed against her lips, slick with the arousal he’d found between her thighs. Elain’s eyes widened as she realized his intentions, but she kept herself still—and her mouth open—as he slipped those two fingers into her mouth.

“Close,” he said, resting them against her tongue. She did as she was told, and was rewarded with an exhaled, “Good girl.”

The words surprised her. How they made her body feel tight and hot at the same time, how she instinctively swallowed against his fingers and slanted her hips forward to writhe against the erection straining in his trousers. The relief was almost instant—and addictive. She rolled her hips forward again, shutting her eyes as the ache ebbed into pleasure.

His laugh was rasped. “I’ll remember that you enjoy being praised. Now suck on my fingers, sweet soul. Taste how wet you are for me.”

Elain lapped her tongue against his fingers curiously, finding that the taste of her own arousal wasn’t offensive—not nearly so much as the action itself, of having his fingers in her mouth at all. Just the thought of what they were doing, how lewd it was to be tasting her own arousal as drool collected at the corners of her lips, caused a moan to build in the back of her throat. Was this what it felt like to be bold, to be reckless?

“Do you taste good?” he prompted.

She nodded.

“Am I allowed to have a taste, too?”

Thinking it would mean he’d put his fingers back between her legs—where she was physically aching for him to touch—Elain nodded again. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, and she smothered the urge to apologize for the string of saliva that fell against her chin.

If he noticed, he was far too occupied with the task of lowering himself onto his back. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her steady as she balanced on his lap, where his erection continued to press into her. The urge to grind against it was quickly becoming insurmountable.

She was stopped by the hands at her hips tightening. “Come here,” he said, nudging her forward. “Crawl up my body.”

When her governess, who functioned more as a surrogate for their mother than Elain would have cared for, had given her a brief and nondescript overview of what she could expect on her wedding night, she had not mentioned anything about the man lying on his back. Nesta had attempted to fill in the gaps, afterwards, but even her explanations had lacked anything resembling crawling up the bed until Elain was half sitting on a man’s chest.

She paused uncertainly when the tops of her knees brushed the underside of his arms. His broad hands were still encouraging her forward, but Elain had nowhere else to go—unless she was to crawl over his head.

“You’re almost there,” he said, lifting her hips to guide her the rest of the way. Until she was kneeling over his face, trembling slightly at the anticipation of what he might do. “Good,” he murmured. His fingers teased under the lace at her hip bone. ”Stay exactly where you are.”

“W-when you said taste…”

He was tugging the lace down, now, working it slowly down her thigh. “Yeah?”

“Did… did you mean—”

His next laugh cut through the darkness, scraping her raw. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“I didn’t,” she protested.

Now that he was wearing her underthings like a necklace, and she could feel him ducking his head beneath her nightgown, his jaw scratching along her inner thigh, she had a better idea. When the heat of his breath caressed her, it was all Elain could do to keep her knees from collapsing on top of him.

“But you’re a clever girl, aren’t you?” He crooned. “What do you think I’m about to do now?”

Elain thought of his tongue slipping into her mouth, the way he’d stroked her like a promise for this moment. She fought a shiver. “You’re going to—” she struggled for a way to phrase it, all of the verbiage of polite society suddenly failing her.

“I’m going to pleasure you with my tongue,” he said. “And if that doesn’t sound agreeable, tell me to stop now.”

She couldn’t. Not as he angled his head up and, slowly, took that first lick of her.

Elain felt like she was on fire. Her hands flew into his hair, gripping tightly out of fear that she would come untethered right then and there.

His tongue explored her leisurely, parting her folds like he truly was doing so out of enjoyment of the taste. She wished she could see his expression to gauge how much of this he was doing for her pleasure—all of it, she would have expected, but from the way his hands flew to her hips to rock her body against his mouth, she thought better of it.

Maybe he did enjoy this.

And so did Elain. She had been warned to expect pain, but there wasn’t an ounce of it to be found here. It was only pleasure—pure, hot pleasure—building with every stroke of his tongue. Her fingers wound in his hair, yanking him closer as she was overcome with the sudden, unbridled impulse to chase it, to demand more.

His responding grunt was gargled by her arousal, but from the way he squeezed her thighs tighter and sucked her clit into his mouth, she thought that maybe he was telling her what his words couldn’t: Good girl.

“I—my lord—”

She wished, desperately, that she had the words to communicate how he was making her feel. What she wanted him to do.

A broken moan erupted past her lips. She settled with, “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Stomach tightening, Elain felt distinctly like a candle lit from within, her body slowly warming, slowly melting from the center, while the threat of collapsing became more and more imminent.

The motions of his tongue became hurried. He kissed her with urgent, open-mouthed strokes against her clit, before he sucked on her with such abandon that she keened, falling forward onto her hands.

His grip remained iron tight, sealing her bottom half to his mouth, even as she began panting, a hot flush spreading through body. She gasped, “I—I—” she didn’t know what she wanted. Her entire body was trembling and still he kept fucking her with his tongue. An embarrassing whimper built in her throat.

She managed a splintered, “Please.”

Blinding, white hot pleasure overtook her. Elain cried out as she half collapsed into the bed, fingers grappling aimlessly in the blankets like it might do anything to counteract the wave after wave of soul-shattering euphoria that crashed over her.

Ignoring the way her body twitched, now oversensitive, he continued licking her through the release. Sweat broke out on her body, now foreignly too-hot, and with her face buried in the mattress she pleaded, “My lord. It’s too much. It’s—”

He slowed, then stopped altogether. Briefly, she wondered what would have happened if she’d let him keep going. Would he have licked her to delirium, until she was sobbing beneath him? Though the idea wasn’t unwelcome to her, it seemed a curiosity for another day. Reality felt frayed enough as it was.

He lowered her gently off his face, allowing her to collapse on her stomach atop the bed. A moment later, a weight settled beside her, and a warm hand fell against her back.

“How did you find that?”

Beyond description. Beyond, certainly, any words that she could muster in that moment. She mumbled something unintelligible against the blankets.

“Was it too much?” He asked, and she could hear the frown—the doubt—in his voice.

Elain lifted her head. “No! Not at all. I’m just—” her breathing was still ragged. She needed to take a moment to catch her breath before she said, “I’m just recovering.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because he hummed, climbing over her to lavish kisses along the path of her spine.

“This worn out from just my tongue?” His laughter brushed against her back. The lightest, most decadent touch. “We can stop for now, then. I’ll let you rest before your wedding.”

Despite the promise of leaving her, his lips continue their path, now between her shoulder blades. Elain, having grown up in a house full of women, was well versed in the meaning disguised behind words. She recognized the question, as well as the challenge.

Do you want to leave? Are you brave enough to keep going?

His lips were at her neck now. She could feel his erection pressing into her backside. Elain wasn’t quite yet brave enough to tell him that she wanted to stay and find out what happens next, but she did find the courage to lift her hips, pressing into his with a stunted breath at how hard he was.

“Show me,” she breathed. “I want you to… to…”

“Fuck you?” He whispered in her ear, grinding his hips against her ass for emphasis.

Elain’s mouth went dry.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I want you to fuck me, my lord. Please.”

He groaned. “How am I to deny a lady with such nice manners?” He said, before pushing her nightgown up her back, exposing her backside to the cool air.

Buttons whispered against fabric as he quickly scrambled to free himself from his trousers. Elain thought it was likely for the better that she couldn’t see it. Better not to be intimidated before he’d even had a chance to touch her with it.

She knew when he’d finished unlacing his trousers because the next moment, something hard and smooth and warm was resting against her bare ass.

“Fuck.” He used a hand to direct himself between her thighs, thrusting forward so the length of him could slide through her arousal. His forehead fell against her shoulder. She could hear him breathing heavily in her ear. “Though you have the loveliest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of grinding my cock against, maybe it is for the better that you lie on your back.”

In response, Elain raised her hips higher, begging, “Why?”

He must not have expected the movement, because the head of his cock nudged against her entrance and he swore. “Because if I’m going to steal the honor from your husband, I should at least do it like a gentleman.”

Elain couldn’t help laughing. “Do you often fuck other men’s wives like a gentleman?”

She yelped at the resulting swat he laid against her ass, though it wasn't remotely hard enough to sting.

“Is this the famed wicked temper, then? What happened to my stuttering sweet soul?”

Truthfully, Elain didn’t know where that girl had gone, but she had certainly left far before the dream began. She would never have ended up here, in bed with another man on the eve of her wedding. She ought to be ashamed, but then her true love thrust his hips forward until his cock bumped against her clit, and she didn’t at all mind not being that girl for a night.

“If you’ve abandoned your modesty, then why don’t you ask me to give you my cock?”

Elain had never once uttered that word out loud. Indignantly, she said, “I’ve already asked you to fuck me.”

“Very well.” He slipped a hand between her thighs and teased her entrance with his forefinger. “I’ll fuck you on my fingers then. Or better yet, I’ll put you back on my tongue.”

“My lord—”

“Ask me.”

With a small, exasperated huff, she said, “Please give me your cock.”

“Good girl.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

Elain’s heart fluttered. She lifted her hips higher, grinding back against his fingers in the hope that he would hurry with whatever preparation he needed. But just as she felt him adjust his body over hers, like he might proceed in earnest, the edges of the dream began splitting into fragments.

“W—what’s happening?”

“I think one of us is waking up,” he said.

“No.” No, no, no. She wasn’t ready. It couldn’t possibly be morning. “No, please—”

“Hey.” A hand smoothed down the back of her head. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, you can find me here, and I’ll help you. Okay? No matter who he is. I promise.”

Elain pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.

“Sweetheart, please. I can’t leave you like this. Please tell me your—”

Even if she had decided to reveal herself to him, it was too late.

Dawn had come. And the morning of Elain’s wedding had arrived.

AH!!!!! This is so good!!! I love the banter, and I ADORE how feisty Elain is. Perfect!!!!

A Blaze in the Dark - (2/7)

Chapter Title: Promised to Another

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 2: Magic.

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

It was a lovely day for a wedding.

At least, that was what Elain’s governess had declared when she’d swept into the room at the break of dawn with a flock of maids in tow.

Elain was promptly thrown into a bath, where the maids crowded around and began their work without taking turns—one preening and plucking Elain of every hair below her neck while another scrubbed furiously at the dirt beneath her fingernails, dodging the work of the maid who was rubbing lavender soap into her scalp. All the while, Elain gritted her teeth, trying not to think too carefully about why the presentation of her body was given such precedence.

Only once she was suitably clean for a prince did they offer her breakfast. Elain turned it down, possessing no appetite, though she did accept a cup tea, which she sipped while staring absently in the mirror, watching as two maids fussed her hair into a traditional Eastern hairstyle that she might have paid closer attention to if she had the vacancy of mind.

Instead, she stared at the ruby encrusted hairpiece that was getting wedged against her scalp, and wondered what gemstone matched the color of her true love’s eyes. Not a ruby, surely, for she’d never seen a man with red eyes. But maybe emerald, or sapphire? Perhaps they were brown, like hers, the color of a steady, solid oak.

Not that it mattered, when she would never be able to glimpse them in person.

“What color eyes does the Prince have?” she asked the maids.

They blinked at her, and Elain supposed it was because they didn’t know either, before she realized it was the first thing she’d said to them in hours. And when they frowned, unusually hesitant to answer, she thought they might have been discouraged from speaking about him at all.

She asked, “Has anyone in the manor seen him before?”

When they shook their heads, she sighed. She would find out soon enough.

Any further questions, which were equally unlikely to be answered, were interrupted by an incessant banging at the bedroom door. The maid twisting Elain’s hair into a braid lept at the sound, which resulted in her tugging on the strands of Elain’s hair so tightly that she jerked backwards, spilling the tea on her lap in the process.

“Let me in this instant!”

That was Nesta’s voice, punctuated by several more bangs so furious in nature that Elain wondered if her sister was kicking the door.

In the mirror, Elain saw her governess roll her eyes. “Insolent girl,” she scolded towards the door. “I will not allow you to disrupt your sister’s wedding preparations!”

“There will be no preparations!”

Even with two maids dabbing cotton towels at her scalding wet lap, Elain flinched at the next assault on the door.

The governess clicked her tongue. “I will just be a moment,” she said to the maids. She didn’t bother speaking directly to Elain, who was little more than a doll sitting before her vanity in the eyes of her governess, ready to be dressed up on a whim. Hardly disturbed by boiling water and sharp hairpieces. She said, again to the maids, “See to it that Elain is put into her corset. The dress will be arriving shortly.”

The wedding dress was a generous gift from the Eastern Kingdom, she was told. To Elain, it sounded like just another piece of control that she was to forfeit to her husband. Never mind her quiet fantasies of one day wearing her mother’s wedding dress. Now, she was marrying into a royal family, and there were standards to uphold. Now, it was more fitting that the dress was provided for her.

A wedding sanitized of any sentiment.

Whatever Nesta had to say when the governess opened the bedroom door, it slipped past Elain entirely. Just like everything else. All sound and color became neutral as Elain allowed the maids to stand her from the vanity and step her into the corset. She hardly felt the bindings tighten as they pulled at the laces. The fabric biting into her skin was little more than a kiss on her ribs. She might have ordinarily complained, or at the least offered them a sour look, but all Elain could do was stare into that mirror and watch herself like it was a stranger reflected in the glass. Some other unfortunate girl who was being wedged into lace and ribbons. It was easier to pretend she was just an observer.

Elain was shocked back into her body when one of the maids touched her arm.

“Take some time to relax,” she said. “We’ll be back to help you into your dress once the delegation from the Eastern Kingdom arrives.”

Elain nodded, watching as they herded towards the bedroom door. Then it clicked shut, and she was by herself, left to nothing but her thoughts. That seemed very precarious.

If she listened carefully, she would likely be able to hear the screaming match Nesta was undoubtedly engaged in, but that would require listening past the muted buzz in her ear. Elain wondered if her eldest sister would be permitted to attend the wedding, or if she would be locked in her room for fear of offending their royal guests—among them, the eldest son who had allegedly taken an interest in Nesta. Nesta would surely be doing everything in her power to offend them for that reason alone, so that King Beron might back out of this agreement with their father.

It occurred to Elain that she could attempt to summon that same wicked temper she’d pretended to possess last night. She could make herself so disagreeable that Lucien Vanserra would decide he didn’t want her as a wife after all. She could scream the entire way down the aisle, but it didn’t seem wise to invite the anger of King Beron. As much resentment she carried for this arrangement, she did not want her father to become an enemy of the continent’s most ruthless ruler by presenting an unweddable daughter to his son.

Elain contemplated all of this as she stood at the tall arched window overlooking the gardens, where she could see the servants rushing back and forth to prepare for the arrival of their esteemed guests. There were so many people rushing about that she was certain she could don a ragged cloak and slip right through. If she was Feyre, she would have done so and attempted to sneak out the Archeron gates while everyone was distracted by the arrival of the prince.

But she was not Feyre, she was Elain. And she did not don a ragged cloak to slip through the gates of the manor. She doned a ragged cloak to slip into the gardens around the back, far enough from the chapel and the gates that no one would be paying much attention to the servant girl kneeling among the flowerbeds, hood drawn up to avoid the blaring sun.

The maid had told her to relax before the wedding, and this was the only way Elain knew how. A princess was likely not allowed to garden. With the rumored temperament of her husband, she suspected those rules would be enforced strictly—with severe punishment, if disobeyed. This was likely her last hour of true freedom, and that alone made it worth the wrath of her governess once she discovered the dirt beneath Elain’s fingernails.

“Pardon me,” said a masculine voice at her back.

Elain jerked her head up, startled at the unfamiliar voice. She hadn’t been keeping track of time, but a quick glimpse at the sky saw the sun at its peak, meaning she had been outside for far too long. Her stomach became leaden with dread, already imagining the state that the manor was in while her governess searched for her.

The Eastern Kingdom must have arrived, because the gentleman in front of her was certainly not from the manor, nor was he dressed in any fashion she was familiar with. He bore a deep burgundy tailcoat with golden leaf-shaped epaulets on either shoulder. His red hair was braided back from his face, though strands of it still hung over his shoulder and back. She’d never seen a man with such long, beautiful hair.

That was far from the most beautiful thing about him, though. Elain had to stifle a gasp when she dragged her eyes up to his face and glimpsed two different colored eyes. One dark russet, like the coat of a red fox, and the other as gold as the ornamental leaves on his shoulder. The latter eye was mechanical, though it tracked her as though it was no less functional than the other.

There was a scar on his face—three long slashes that cut through the scarlet brow above his mechanical eye all the way to his strong jaw. Had he gained that scar and lost his eye on the same day, she wondered? The medals fastened over the heart of his jacket were surely from the military, and it was likely the case that he’d received the injury during his service.

It was impolite to ask, so Elain smothered her fascination in place of a simple greeting. “Good day,” she said pleasantly, cautious to hide any notable affluence in her diction. “Are you in the company of King Beron and his sons?”

He was young by her estimations. Close enough in age to ease her concerns that he could be one of the seven princes. He didn’t wear a crown, either, though he was dressed in enough finery to make her father’s treasury weep in envy. A royal attendant, perhaps?

“Yes,” said the gentleman. The corner of his full lips pulled into a smirk. “We’ve just arrived, but we’ve been informed the bride is missing. Have you seen anyone come this direction?”

“I have not, my lord.” Elain ducked back into the flowerbed, hoping the hood had effectively obscured her elegantly woven hair that would surely give herself away. “It’s just been me in this part of the garden all morning.”

That didn’t seem a sufficient answer for him. She could sense him hovering, the toes of his polished shoes visible in the corner of her eye.

“Have you been the one maintaining this garden?”

“Parts of it,” she said noncommittally.

“I’ve recently developed an interest in gardening myself.”

At this, Elain turned her head, squinting into the sunlight to look up at his face again. “Is that so?”

He shrugged as though bashful. “As I said, it’s a recent interest. What’s the flower in your hand there?”

Elain glanced down at her hand, studying the green alkanet she’d been ripping from the bed, and the delicate blue flowers that sat at the top of their stems. “Forget me not,” she said.

“You’re pulling them out?”

“It’s a weed,” she grunted, ripping another from the roots before tossing it onto the pile at her side. “Not everything that’s pretty is worth preserving."

A broad hand crept into her periphery, prodding curiously at the flower petals.

“And I suppose their meaning is in the name? Forget me not?”

She snorted. “They’re a symbol of true love.”

His fingers paused where they were beginning to lift one of the plants by the stem.

“Is the Archeron family making a statement, then? Having these flowers removed on the day Elain Archeron is to be married?”

There was no accusation in his voice, simple curiosity, but Elain hastened to answer, “No! Heavens, no. They are just weeds, and I am pulling them out because that is what this garden requires.” She pulled another, perhaps with a tad more passion than was necessary. “And,” she added through gritted teeth, “because flowers have value beyond their pretty appearance or the ways we’ve named them. Therefore, my lord, there is no need to assign extra meaning to what I’m doing.”

She heard him huff. “And I’m the only one assigning extra meaning, am I?”

“The bride to be is not here,“ Elain said, returning his same haughty tone. “I do not know where she is, but perhaps you will have better luck finding her in a different garden.”

Whatever interest he’d possessed in finding the bride was quickly forgotten, because he chose that moment to sit on the pavement beside her. He grabbed the pile of weeds from the ground and plucked them into his lap with no care at all for the dirt that spilled onto his dark trousers.

“Since she is not here, tell me about her,” he said, beginning to separate the flowers from the long bristly stems. “Is she kind?”

“Some might say she is.”

“Would you?”

“I would say I hardly know her,” Elain said carefully. “Would you be able to answer the same of your prince? Is he kind?”

“Ah, well. Unlike you I have the misfortune of knowing the prince very well. Now, is he kind?” He considered the answer for a moment. “I suppose it depends on whether or not he has the luxury.”

A disheartening answer.

Elain frowned. “Kindness is a not luxury, it’s a basic decency. And if Prince Lucien possesses it in short supply, then I pity his wife.”

It was a foolish thing to say to a courtier from the Eastern Kingdom, but the sunlight was directly overhead and Elain was beginning to feel the heat smothering her, inescapable in its reminder that the time was upon her. The wedding was here. It was now. The man beside her, a token of the unknown people and culture she was about to be plunged into.

The man laughed. A warm, wonderful sound that drew her eyes back to his face. He’d tipped his head back slightly so that the sun fell across his bronze cheeks, illuminating the swirl of dark freckles hidden on his smooth skin as well as around and amongst the scars. His smile was wide and bright, and she wished she could stay here, undisturbed in the garden where everything felt natural. Familiar. Even him.

“You speak very freely,” he said, his amusement still curling at his lips.

He said it like a compliment, and Elain found herself smiling, too.

Until a small yellow butterfly flitted through the space between them, dousing her brief spark of joy as readily as a kick to the stomach. She noticed his eyes widen, tracking the butterfly’s movements as if startled by the sight. It occurred to Elain that it was winter in the Eastern Kingdom, and it had likely been months since the last time he’d seen a butterfly—if they were found naturally in the East to begin with.

Before yesterday, a butterfly would have felt like a good omen. A symbol of faith and renewal. Now, she could feel one of those wings beating beneath her tongue, and she was worried she might be sick in the flowerbeds.

“Too freely,” she said, hastily standing up while brushing the dirt off her hands. “I forget myself.”

The gentleman, who had been extending his hand towards the butterfly, paused. He was frowning. “I am not offended, lady. There is no need—”

“I must assist with finding the bride,” she said. “I’m certain Prince Lucien must be in quite the state to hear she’s missing.”

“He is inconsolable, lady.”

He said it mockingly, though Elain could not tell if it was said at the expense of the prince or herself. She didn’t have time to undress his meaning, or the rueful smile he offered her as she curtsied her goodbye. She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she left, noticing how the smile dropped, and how his eyes fell back to the resting butterfly.

-

Elain had nearly managed to sneak back into her bedroom before she was caught by Nesta, who tugged her by the arm into a nearby study.

“Don’t be a fool,” she hissed, quickly shutting the door behind them. “There will be no escaping this if you go back in there.” Her blue eyes narrowed into slits. “I thought you ran away.”

Only Nesta could say that like it was a bad thing Elain had returned. As if running away was an option when she had no means of surviving on her own. There was her true love, but…

Elain hugged her arms over her chest, like that might soothe the ache seeping from her heart. “I just needed a moment of fresh air.”

“It’s not too late,” Nesta said, gripping her shoulders so hard that her nails would surely leave divots in Elain’s skin. “You could go now. If there was ever a moment for bravery, Elain—”

“I am being brave now!” she protested. “By staying. For you and father.”

Nesta shook her head. “Whatever deal father’s struck, you’ll be paying us no favors by seeing it through.”

“You are only saying that because you don’t want to marry Prince Eris.”

“I am saying it because I am afraid.” Nesta’s voice rang out through the library, bouncing off the deserted tables. Her eyes were so wide, their color all the more shocking through her burning, unshed tears. “I am afraid of what will happen if you marry him. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Elain said, blinking back the sting behind her own eyes. “I am terrified, Nesta. But what can be done?”

Footsteps sounded down the hall, alarming in both pace and quantity. Nesta held her gaze as somewhere in the distance, a door slammed open. They were searching for her.

Nesta lifted her skirts and withdrew a small pouch from a pocket sewn in the inner lining.

“Find him,” she said, pressing the pouch into Elain’s hand. “If true love is real and Feyre’s spell is to be believed, then he would help you.”

With shaking hands, Elain pulled the fabric open to reveal a dozen butterfly wings, if not more.

Elain’s lips parted. She glanced up to Nesta—Nesta, who had always scoffed at the premise of true love. When Feyre had revealed the spell to them, all those nights ago when she’d attempted to run away to be with her true love, Nesta had called Feyre naive. She’d labeled the spell deceitful and had reminded Elain that magic was forbidden. They had sworn together, years ago, that they would always uphold that one, sacred rule.

Had so much truly changed?

Elain’s fingers curled protectively around the pouch, despite how she willed her fingers to open, willed her hand to return the gift. She wanted to say she couldn’t accept it. It was her wedding day and her true love was betrothed. It was already too late.

If anyone deserved the butterfly wings and the chance to escape their fate, it was Nesta.

“You should take this,” Elain said, inwardly wincing at the scratch in her voice. “You should try to be with your true love.”

“I have a while yet before I’ll be taken to a Kingdom in the depths of Winter. You take them, Elain. And use them. Wisely.”

There was no room to say anything more. No thank yous or teary goodbyes. The doors to the library were pushed open and they were inundated by a group of servants headed by their governess. Elain only had the sense to hide the pouch beneath her ragged cloak before she was yanked sideways by the arm.

“You foolish girls!” Their governess sent Nesta a baleful look, one that her sister returned in equal intensity. “Well done,” the old woman snapped. “You have effectively embarrassed your family before the Eastern Kingdom. Let us hope Prince Lucien takes kindly to the delay and the nerves of a new bride. Let’s go, Elain.”

In a matter of minutes, Elain was stripped of her clothes and plunged back into the bath. The water had gone cold, but Elain didn’t care and neither did the servants scrubbing her of any evidence of dirt. The water washed away her crime of autonomy, until she was once again her governess’s doll, listening mutely to the string of admonishments while a pair of maids kept her hair elevated from the water and ran a brush through the loose strands to cleanse them of any impurities.

Eventually, her governess took a break from scolding Elain to glance towards the freestanding clock in the bedroom. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“You were meant to be married an hour ago.”

Elain said nothing, which hardly made a difference to her governess, who preferred when Elain was silent. Children should be seen and not heard, she would often say, though it was unclear to Elain when children had morphed into ladies.

She continued to say nothing, burning in that same resentful silence she had endured since she was old enough to speak and clever enough to watch Nesta discover that thoughts spoken allowed could make others uncomfortable, could be perceived as a challenge. She stepped into the dress—a tiered satin gown dyed a rich burgundy color. It was embroidered in golden leaves that traced the hem of the skirt and climbed elegantly up the front. The sleeves opened wide at her elbow, hemmed in gold and rippling like water when she lifted her arms.

It was, all around, much lighter than she expected. Which was good, because every step towards the chapel felt excruciating, like someone had replaced the loose stones with shards of broken glass, each one shattering beneath her impractical shoes.

Her father was waiting for her just outside. His smile was rehearsed, just like his meek, “You look beautiful, Elain.”

But did she look happy? Elain swallowed the question, along with her pride, and stepped into the chapel with her father.

Elain had only been in the chapel a handful of times. She recalled hiding amongst the pews during games of hide and seek when she was younger, and there had been the occasional ceremonies they’d been dragged to attend as children. But none of them, not even their father, had stepped through the double doors since they had hosted their mother’s funeral just beyond.

It was fitting, Elain thought. She would say goodbye to her life in the very same place she had said goodbye to her mother. As the doors opened, the air felt just as heavy as it had all those years ago, though nothing about the chapel had remained the same. Candles were nestled into every space imaginable. The golden light flickered against the satin ribbons draped from pew to pew, where the ends of the seats were decorated with a collection of flowers—daffodils, red chrysanthemums, marigolds.

Marigolds. A symbol of mourning. Elain wondered who selected them, if perhaps it was a final slight from Nesta against their father. A brief scan of the crowd saw her eldest sister sitting near the front, scowling menacingly towards their father who pretended not to notice. Elain was surprised to see Nesta wasn’t making a scene, but perhaps the man beside her—a tall, red haired gentlemen who was studying Elain through an arched brow—was keeping her in check with the hand he had placed at her shoulder.

Elain couldn’t help straightening as their eyes met and his mouth widened into a cruel smile. A Vanserra. The eldest if she had to guess, from the proprietary way he leaned closer to Nesta and whispered something in her ear. Something that made her eldest sister stiffen.

She quickly averted her eyes, trying not to think too carefully about what Eris Vanserra could say, or do, to make even Nesta heel on today of all days. Everyone in the room was watching Elain, waiting for her to break composure. She turned her eyes to the aisle, over the carpet of blossoms scattered along the floor, then up. To the man waiting for her on the other side of the altar.

It was a wonder she remained standing. The whole world lurched forward. Or at least, that’s how it felt to be staring at the man from the garden, dressed in the burgundy tailcoat that was a perfect match to her dress. Elain gasped when she saw him—but for a moment, with his wide eyes and parted lips, she was convinced the sound had come from him first.

Around them, the crowd began murmuring, though the words became only a dizzying muddle in her head. She watched Lucien quickly regain his composure, smoothing his expression into a neutrality that hardly felt suited to a wedding. Elain did her best to follow suit, trying to give her body back to the Elain from the mirror, the stranger who was getting married. But now she felt jittery in a way that made surrendering her mind feel impossible.

She was marrying the man from the garden. Who had seemed… kind. If a little snide. But not nearly so close to the monster she’d conjured in her head. And what surprised her, more than their encounter in the garden, was that he was young. A year or two older than her, at most. And he was handsome—though she had already discovered that much.

Elain had not expected this. She had not expected the way his eyes fixed on her, watching her every step with an fixation that did not match a man who had neglected to court his bride. He hadn’t inquired anything about her, she reminded herself, as she felt the heat rise over her cheeks.

“Haven’t seen my bride, have you?” he said to her, quietly, once she’d joined him at the altar.

The only one close enough to hear them was the clergyman, an elderly man who slotted his eyes between them curiously but otherwise did not comment. He had been present to verify her purity just a few nights prior, and the memory of that humiliation sharpened the anxiety and anger she’d been struggling to push down.

She sniped, “There were no mirrors in that garden as far as I recall.”

Lucien laughed under his breath. “And you hardly know her?”

“I know only who she has been told she must pretend to be,” Elain said, raising her chin in the stubborn way she’d seen from her sisters a thousand times before. “I know nothing of the girl beyond the pretense.”

“I know she likes to dress up as a servant and act discourteously towards foreign royalty.”

“I did not know you were royalty,” she protested. Then with narrowed eyes and all the poison she could muster standing this close to the clergyman, she said, “Perhaps I was distracted by how inconsolable you were at the news of your missing bride.”

His eyes flashed. With what, she could not tell—ire, perhaps? It was excusable to speak to him this way as a servant ignorant of his status. But to be this insolent as his bride, standing at the altar before both of their families? She took a small, conscious step back. Imperceptible to all but Lucien, who appeared to be gnashing his teeth together from the way his jaw stiffened.

The clergyman cleared his throat. He was smiling pleasantly to the crowd, like the bickering of a couple about to enter marriage was hardly something new to him.

“Welcome all, blessed by the Mother on this joyous day, as we witness the promises of marriage between two souls. The seventh prince of the Eastern Kingdom, son of King Beron, Prince Lucien Vanserra. And his stunning bride, the second daughter of Lord Archeron, Miss Elain Archeron.”

Elain felt her heart thudding in her chest, an errant prisoner begging to be let out. Suddenly, this was becoming real. And inescapable.

“This commitment is between two people who will love each other, who will endure both tension and healing as they grow and change together in the years to come, and who will welcome each other’s growth with mutual love and respect.”

Perhaps the corset had been laced too tightly. That must have been what was trapping the air in her lungs, causing the room to spin as she struggled for breath, as her fingers tightened along the dethorned stems of the bouquet she clutched in her hands.

Her eyes met gold, then russet. He was frowning, brows pinched together while he studied her. She watched as his expression softened.

You can say ‘no’, he mouthed.

“Prince Lucien Vanserra and Miss Elain Archeron, do you declare before me, the Mother, and the witnesses present that you come here voluntarily and without reservation and that you are free by law to be married to each other today?”

Lucien was watching her expectantly. They all were. Elain turned her head to the crowd, finding Nesta, softly shaking her head. And her governess, gray eyes burning furious at the small hesitation. Lucien likely thought he was kind in offering her the chance to say no, here at the altar, where the burden of rejection would be placed upon her shoulders with everyone as witness.

“Y-yes,” Elain said.

Her husband, with a solemn look in his eyes, echoed her agreement.

“Before you are joined in marriage, I am to remind you of the solemn and binding nature of the relationship into which you are now about to enter. Marriage is the union of two people to the exclusion of all others, voluntarily entered into for life.”

The exclusion of all others, Elain thought, feeling the pouch of butterfly wings where she’d tucked them into a hidden seam in her dress. She felt a phantom hand trace the skin of her inner thigh as she recalled all the places she should have woken up with love bites this morning. Did the binding laws of marriage apply to her dreams?

A petal drifted aimlessly to the floor, shaken loose from the bouquet trembling in her hands. Elain watched as the clergyman removed a box from his coat pocket. The sun streaming in from the stained glass windows glinted against the precious metal of two golden rings—one more slender than the other, each adorned with twisting leaves and small red gemstones.

“The band of a wedding ring symbolizes everlasting love,” the clergyman said. “A ring possesses no beginning, just as it possesses no end. Prince Lucien, place a ring on your bride and repeat after me.”

Lucien removed the smaller ring from the box, pinching it delicately between his elegant fingers. He turned to her and reached out his free hand in offering. Elain’s hands tightened around the flower stems. She felt like she was being asked to put her own head on the chopping block, and in that moment she did consider bolting down the aisle—running as fast and as far away as she could, until she could slip one of Nesta’s butterfly wings beneath her tongue and hope her true love would be able to help her out of the mess she’d wrought upon herself.

The clergyman cleared his throat. Elain glanced up from Lucien’s waiting hand.

Those mismatched eyes were staring at her. Not at all impatient, like she might have expected from a man being forced to endure her inaction while his entire family watched, expressions likely wilting in disapproval.

But not his.

His gaze was level, encouraging but not overbearingly so. And when the clergyman went to clear his throat again, Lucien silenced him with a single, cutting glance.

Then those simmering pools of russet and gold were fixed on her once more. She wondered if it was the differing colors that had thrown off the maids when Elain inquired about his eye color. Did others find it offputting? Elain was reminded of flames dancing in a hearth, glowing brightest at the center and trailing into flickering copper. She could tell, by the way he held himself beneath her silence, that he was someone who burned steadily. Warm, reliable, capable of harming her if approached without caution.

Flowers and fires were not so different, she thought. Each was pleasant until mishandled. Elain decided that if she had spent her lifetime weathering the thorns in her garden without any gloves, so too could she endure the fire of Lucien Vanserra.

Elain placed her hand in his. She was unsurprised to find his touch was firm—enough so that he stilled her shaking from the observance of their families, whilst possessing a gentleness that managed to still her breath, too.

He slid her silk glove down her arm slowly. It would be odd to do so with haste, Elain reasoned, but there was unhurriedness to the motion and she couldn’t decide if it erred on indulgence or reluctance.

Either way, when the glove was removed and his fingers rested on her bare skin, Elain had to stifle another gasp. His skin was scorchingly hot. She would have feared he was feverish, if there was even the barest hint of a flush on his brown cheeks. He was the picture of health and composure as he positioned the golden ring at the tip of her finger.

“I call upon the mother,” he said, repeating the words fed to him by the clergyman, “to witness that I, Lucien Vanserra, take you, Elain Archeron, to be my wife.”

He slid the ring down her finger, reciting, “With this ring, I wed you. With this body, I honor you. With this name, I offer you my home, my land, and all my worldly goods. And with my heart, I provide you with love and faithfulness until my dying breath.”

Elain tried not to panic at the thought that the same would be asked of her. Love and faithfulness, both of which she had already betrayed.

The clergyman turned to her. “Elain Archeron, please place this ring upon the bridegroom’s finger and repeat after me.”

With the ring now fastened to her finger like the world’s smallest prison sentence, Lucien let his dominant hand fall to his side. The other, he kept extended, allowing Elain to slip her gloved hand beneath his own.

Her fingers shook so severely she worried she would drop the ring once she caught ahold of it. With none of the same patience, she quickly pushed it onto Lucien’s finger, securing the gold band in place before the clergyman had even fed her for the first line.

Without anything to do with her hands, she was forced to look up, into Lucien’s eyes, as she said, “I call upon the mother to witness that I, Elain Archeron, consent for you, Lucien Vanserra, to be my husband. With this ring, I wed you. With this body—” Elain swallowed, willing her voice level— “I obey you. And with my heart, I devote my love and faithfulness to you until my dying breath.”

The clergyman smiled. Lucien did not. He was watching her so intently, appraising her with an expression she could not begin to decipher. There was no pleasure on his face from what she could tell—but then, there wasn’t any on hers. They were strangers confessing love to each other, and their lack of conviction was entirely his doing.

“May the Mother and her Cauldron bless this marriage and guide you on the path that you now advance as one. Prince Lucien, you may now kiss your bride.”

Elain’s eyes widened. She looked to Lucien, who was still watching her so closely that none of the panic seeping through her veins could have escaped his notice. This was meant to be her first kiss. Would he be able to tell—would they all be able to tell that she had not preserved this act for her husband?

He stepped towards her. Elain swayed back, nearly taking a step away before his hand smoothed behind her back, pulling her closer.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “Close your eyes.”

A hand brushed over her cheek, smooth and large and oddly comforting. With her eyes closed, she could pretend she was back in the dark room from the night before. In the dark, it was her true love holding her.

“It will be over before you realize it,” he said, lips brushing the corner of her mouth. Then he tilted his head, and he was kissing her. Softly.

And it… it was pleasant.

So much so, that her lips parted of their own accord. And when she kissed him back, she heard him gasp. She swallowed the sound, feeling it flutter to her stomach. It was surely some kind of poison, taking root in her body, because it encouraged her to do strange things like catch his shoulders and pull him closer. Somewhere, she’d gotten so caught up in the memory of last night that she’d forgotten this wasn’t actually her true love.

The witnesses began to clap. The church bells peeled overhead. Elain supposed that was their sign to break away from each other, but Lucien kissed her a moment longer and Elain made no effort to pull away. A soft moan built in her throat, fortunately interrupted by the clergyman clearing his throat once again.

Elain opened her eyes to see Lucien drawing back. Lucien.

Her husband.

That reality felt startling to her, like she’d been doused with cold water. She was blinking as Lucien took her hand, the one now adorned with her wedding ring, and turned them to face the standing crowd. Instinctively, she twined her fingers through his, trying to avoid looking too closely to the right side, where King Beron watched the proceedings with a grim, set face. Five of his sons sat behind him, all of them sharing the same distinct red hair that matched the elegant lady sitting at King Beron’s side, who was staring at Elain and Lucien through wide, tearful russet eyes. The Queen of the East. Lucien gave Elain’s hand a tight squeeze.

There would be a small reception of afternoon tea in the Archeron ballroom. It was a humble event, surely not befitting of a royal wedding. Elain wondered if there would be an additional ceremony held more publicly once they returned to the Eastern Kingdom, or if the haste and secrecy of this entire affair was intentional. It was possible that, despite the arrangement, they believed it was shameful that a prince would not be marrying someone from a royal bloodline. Elain was well aware that they intended to leverage her relation to Feyre to form an alliship with the Northern Kingdom—but if that alliship was considered so valuable, why was this marriage being treated as though it was borne from scandal?

All questions she would refrain from asking her husband, who would be offended at best and untruthful at worst. But soon, she would be the lady of his estate and its staff would report directly to her. There was no better source of information about the master of the house than from the mouth of his own servants.

“Shall we?” Lucien asked.

Elain straightened her shoulders. She didn’t think she would ever be ready for what was to come—a steady procession of guests, each coming to congratulate them as she sat beside her husband and acted as the starstruck maiden who was obnoxiously pleased to be married to a prince. She only wondered what part Lucien would play.

“Do you feel confident you know the way, your highness?”

“You are my wife, you mustn't address me so formally,” he said, the corner of his lip downturned. “Lucien will do. And I feel quite confident—I became rather familiar with the layout of the manor while in search of my bride.”

“Yes,” she said dryly, “you must have searched tirelessly for her amongst the garden beds.”

They stepped off the altar. Elain kept her head straight as they walked through the crowd throwing handfuls of rice as they passed.

“As it happens, I was successful in finding her.” She snuck a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. Pieces of rice clung to his hair and she resisted the urge to brush them off. “Though you will forgive me that I did not hasten to force my reluctant bride into marriage. Please enlighten me, so I may improve my performance for the next time. Would you have preferred more force, a bit of rope, perhaps?”

They were out of the church now. Their families would follow in a procession, but they were far enough back that, combined with the ringing bells, Elain felt comfortable in saying, “If you didn’t want to force your bride, then perhaps you should have inquired to my willingness when you arranged this marriage.”

He barked a single, dark laugh. “You think I arranged this marriage? Praytell, do you believe that royals often have a say in marriages, that we’re allowed to freely choose our brides in the name of love?”

“I never said that I believe royals marry for love,” Elain said. The condescension in his tone was quickly tempering her anger, glowing like a red-hot poker in her stomach. “I’m well aware that your title provides its own set of limitations. But surely a prince could choose from a selection of fitting ladies—”

“I had no choice at all,” he interrupted. “King Beron decided that you would be my betrothed, and I was in no position to decline. Your willingness, or lack thereof, was not made known to me. And if it were, there was nothing I could do short of denying a direct order from my King—treason, if you’re unfamiliar.”

“Treason?” Elain laughed in disbelief. “You are his son—”

“You know nothing—” His tone had gone dark and cold. A glowing ember dropped into water, hissing and hardening into stone. “—Nothing of my family, or what it means to be the seventh son of King Beron Vanserra. I do not have the luxury of questioning orders. I know it must baffle you, as you have clearly made me out as the villain in your mind, but I had just as much a say in this marriage as you did. I did not delight in taking this choice from you, Elain.”

“You…” Elain blinked. “You did not want to marry me?”

“Had that never crossed your mind?” He clicked his tongue. “Such vanity.”

Her eyes were stinging again. Elain didn’t know why it mattered. But her heart ached at the thought that her husband didn’t even want her. She was dispensable to him, which was a fact she had always assumed. A pawn that tied his family to the Northern Kingdom and nothing more. But she had thought, with every ounce of the vanity he accused, that desire had played a role as well—that she had been sought for the beauty she was assured she possessed.

“Don’t act the wounded bird, now,” he chided. “You have made no secret of your reluctance to marry me. Am I not allowed to express the same sentiment?”

Elain bit her lip, preventing it from wobbling. They were nearly at the entrance to the ballroom and the second they sat at their table, she would need to face their families with feigned joy.

With a measured breath, Elain said, “You act as though my contempt is the result of my own naivety. I am well aware that most matches are made in the absence of love. I’ll have you know, I was resigned quite happily to this arrangement until you made it clear there would be no effort of courtship, not even a letter.”

Lucien’s silhouette was the picture of indifference, but she felt his hand tighten in her own. Their shoes echoed off the tiled flooring of the ballroom, which had been transformed into an elegant dining hall, laid with velvet-clothed tables and brass-sconce candles. At the forefront of the room was a small table decorated in golden ribbon, set elegantly for two.

Steeling her nerves, Elain continued, uncertain if she was determined to wound him or force an apology. “What I find offensive, your highness, was that you could not afford even the barest effort that was owed to our betrothal, formed in convenience as it may have been. You may paint me as vain and petulant, but my displeasure is well founded. It was me that you were slighting in your silence, not your father.”

They stopped before the table. Lucien pulled out a seat for her, shaking his head all the while. “I thought it was Eris marrying the outspoken sister.”

“I have no comment to offer in turn,” she grumbled, even as he pushed her chair into the table like a gentleman. “All my knowledge of you has been acquired only in the last few hours.”

“And what have you learned?” He crooned, sliding gracefully into the seat beside her. He propped an arm on the table to angle himself closer to her, and Elain hated how handsome he looked with the sunlight streaming in from behind, lighting the copper in his hair.

“That you are arrogant and insufferable.”

He laughed as though delighted. “If you are the passive one, I look forward to seeing what challenge awaits Eris.”

Elain said nothing, irritated by the change in his tone and frustrated that he had not offered an apology—or at the least, an explanation.

“What happens now?”

“We dine with our families—“

“No,” she said, cutting him off. “What happens in our marriage? You do not want me. Does this mean I will be cast away while you pursue a mistress and have illegitimate children? You have slighted me before we were even to be married, should I expect such treatment for the remainder of our marriage?”

“Cauldron, are we discussing this now?”

Across the room, the King and Queen stepped through the doors, followed by five of Lucien’s brothers. Elain smiled pleasantly at them, though none returned the gesture as they were escorted to their seats.

“Yes,” Elain said. “I would like to know your expectations so I am not deluded by pretense during our honeymoon.”

Lucien sighed. “I intend for us to live separate, amicable lives. My estate is large and we will each have our own wing, so we scarcely need to cross paths. You can occupy yourself with whatever will satisfy your happiness and to the rest of the world, we will maintain the illusion of a happily married couple—which means no bastard children. For either of us.”

He met her eyes intently, wanting the gravity of that rule to rest over her. As if the idea of having an illegitimate child wasn’t already appalling. No bastard children… He had, she noticed, elegantly sidestepped the question of mistresses.

“And you and I?”

“You and I what?”

Elain pressed, “Will we be having children? Fulfilling our marital duties? I assume we’re expected to produce an heir.”

“No,” he said, frowning. “You have no such marital duties, Elain. I’ve no intention of gratifying my father with an heir. In a few years we can say that we have tried and the doctors can conclude that I am sterile.”

They will not. Elain knew this with certainty. It was always the woman who was at fault in such situations. It would be Elain with the shortcoming, incapable of fulfilling the one duty that was expected from a wife. Not the prince of a pure, royal bloodline. She would be bearing the humiliation of not having children. As well as the isolation.

“So I will never be a mother,” she said, staring blankly at the guests filling the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lucien glance towards his own mother. “There are worse fates,” he said, not unkindly. “You will find fulfillment in other ways. I truly do seek your happiness, and I would like us to be friends.”

That was an easy suggestion for him to make, when he would be getting everything he wanted from this arrangement.

“Do you find this agreeable?”

No. Not if he’d be taking on mistresses, making a mockery of her while she passed time idly, fulfilled by neither children nor love.

Love…

Elain ducked her hand beneath the table, feeling for the pouch of butterfly wings she’d tucked into the in-sewn pocket of her petticoat. Her husband was giving her license to pursue her own happiness. By his own rules, so long as there were no illegitimate children, she needn’t feel guilty for the night she’d spent with her true love, or any that she might spend with him in the future.

Which did she desire more—children, or her true love?

Her freehand snagged at the stem of sparkling wine laid in front of her, taking a sip to buy herself time in answering. It bubbled on her tongue, lighter and freer than she could ever hope to be. And as she looked over the rim of the crystal-cut glass, she made eye contact with King Beron.

This time, he smiled. A cruel, vulpine expression that caused Elain’s skin to prickle down her arms and legs. She hastily set down the wine and averted her eyes back towards Lucien. If he was a steady burning hearth, then his father was the smoke and ash that remained once the flame was smothered. Elain could sense there was nowhere he touched that his mark wasn’t left, and that would include any future children she sired to his line.

Maybe Lucien had good reason to deny his father an heir. He seemed earnest enough. She could see him begging her with his eyes to trust him. Against her better judgment, she wanted to.

“I agree,” she said. “But I want your assurance of something in return.”

I haven’t gotten to this chapter yet (I’m on Part 4), but I am in LOVE with this. The premise, the dialogue, the pacing?! It’s phenomenal!!!!

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 5 - Leave My Body Glowing

Helion did not show up for breakfast the next morning. Elain ate in solitude, since Lucien had gone—well, only the Gods knew where. He’d been up before sunrise, the sudden absence of his heartbeat ripping her from sleep.

Strangely, no nightmares had plagued her last night. She’d woken up to the soft whoosh of the sea the palace overlooked, and the soft neighing of a pegasus somewhere above her bedchamber. She watched it roam happily in the sky as the sun had fully come into view, something like content settling in her chest as she snacked on the colourful pastries the maids had delivered earlier.

She’d asked for their help in dressing—there was no way Elain would ask Lucien for advice—and, to Elain’s utter delight, they absolutely delivered. She stood in front of her wall-length mirror now, her reflection almost unrecognisable as a new woman stared back.

Female, Elain reminded herself, though no bitterness seemed to accompany the thought this time. Her mind seemed too occupied with the change to resort to its usual storm of regret and anger, instead soaking up the light beaming from her reflection.

Elain looked like she’d been born to live in the Day Court.

Her corseted gown had been replaced by a flowy dress of rich sapphire—a thread similar to that worn by the High Lord yesterday, the colour resembling the surface of Day’s quiet sea as it soaked up the afternoon sky. The fabrics fell just below her knees loosely, flowing like a gentle breeze as she moved and revealing her legs—the golden sandals adorning her feet. Their heels clicked lightly on the marble floor with every step, making her feel giddy—like a sudden surge of joy rushing through her despite such simple of an accessory. She’d even asked one of the maids to line her eyes with kohl, a thin, slightly curled line at her lashes, pigmented with a colour similar to that of the gown, bringing out the brown of her eyes and making them look like pools of honey. She looked so different to the female from yesterday—and yet, it was still Elain looking back at her in the mirror. She still had her full lips, though they were curled up in an open smile now instead of their usual tight expression, her whole body relaxed and seemingly flowing along with the morning breeze.

It carried her all the way to the library as Elain walked to the High Lord’s famed collection, praying Lucien had not yet managed to find his way there, giving her at least a few minutes to do some research of her own.

A Day Court scholar she’d bumped into on the way—an elderly male carrying what seemed like a mountain of scrolls and texts, their combined weight surely exceeding his own—directed her toward the tall door at the end of a corridor decorated with sandstone walls and ivory statues. This part of the palace seemed older, somehow, more ancient than the marbled floors and pillars of her own wing, as though the foundations of the library held as much important history as the knowledge they stored.

Elain was not entirely sure what to expect from the space, but not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the sight unravelled before her.

Helion’s grand library spanned across what seemed to be the full height of the palace, climbing at least seven floors upward until she could no longer see anything but the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling—or rather the lack of it, as Elain realised, with no glass dome shielding the circular space. Instead, the sun shone freely into the halls, Helion’s own magic no doubt shielding the parchments and tomes from the weather and any other outside disruptions. Somehow, Elain doubted it ever rained here, the land seemingly covered in perpetual light and guarded by bright, fluffy clouds.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of heavy tomes and dried-up ink. There were so many books in here that she doubted even a lifetime of immortality would be enough to make her way through them all. Elain began making her way inside, through the endless walls of bookshelves and desks, with piles upon piles of documents stacked in every corner of the space, the overwhelming prospect of knowledge and information like a magnet pulling in her sight. Her eyes flickered from one shelf to another, growing wider and wider at the sheer amount, her heart quickening as she realised just how much there was to be learned about the world.

She hadn’t ever left the human lands beneath the Wall—and then, in this new life, she’d hidden deep in the Night Court, dreaming about the home she’d abandoned. She had no idea…

Her steps carried her to the second floor as thought with a mind of their own, and Elain did not realise she found herself in a secluded section of tomes shining a spectrum of vibrant greens and yellows, the texts practically calling out her name. She moved in closer, hands reaching for a heavy tome with an elegant, leathery cover of a grassy shade of green. A small gasp escaped her lips as she opened it, a hand-painted picture of tulips gleaming softly from the page.

The text beneath read, The Tulip Fields of Cordana—a small human kingdom bordering the faerie lands deep into the Continent. Elain’s heart quickened as her father’s words came back to life in her mind.

My dear Elain, I promise to take you there one day. The fields are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—other than my lovely daughters, of course, he’d added quickly, making Elain giggle.

Her mother died shortly after that, and then…well.

Her father was right, though. Elain didn’t need to stand in the fields to marvel at their beauty. The bright colours of yellow and pink and amethyst were vibrant even on the yellowed page, and Elain began reading through the fields’ history, nearly devouring the story of the young human queen who’d first planted them centuries ago.

She was just flipping the page when a smooth, quiet voice sounded behind her. “Tulips?”

Elain jolted—and winced as a sharp sting cut through her finger, the paper slicing her skin when she whined back.

“Shit!” she swore as droplets of blood began beading at the small wound, staining the old page with a fresh red.

Lucien chuckled. “I had no idea you were capable of such foul language,” he mocked.

She glared at him. “Helion is going to kill me—I hope you know I’m going to tell him whose fault this was.”

But Lucien did not seem to mind, his gaze elsewhere as he stepped back an inch, sweeping it over her form. Her own heartbeat picked up as she heard his breath catch in his throat, mouth parting slightly in surprise as he took her in—the long, exposed legs, the bare skin of her shoulders, the golden-brown hair framing her face in loose, cascading waves. The sapphire-lined eyes as she returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything before her cheeks truly and openly heated under his stare.

“You…” he started, the word no more than a gasp on his lips.

“Yes?” she asked, her own question breathless.

Lucien’s throat bobbed as he opened his mouth—but then, his gaze slid down to her hand.

“You’re hurt,” he managed to say.

“What?” Elain followed his gaze. “Oh. Oh—it’s nothing.” She looked back to him again. “Where were you this morning?”

Lucien ignored the question. “Why don’t you heal it?” he asked tightly, his body growing rigid with the question. He was holding himself back, she realised, something—that beast—purring in her chest as her Fae instincts responded to his own. He’d scented her blood, the same way she’d scented his during the War—and Elain knew that, unreasonable as it was, everything inside him screamed to protect.

Elain swallowed hard. “It’s fine—it’s just a cut.”

“Still.”

“I don’t—I mean, I simply don’t see the point—”

Lucien’s eyes flickered back to hers at that, something like surprise shining in his stare. “You don’t know how, do you?”

Anger simmered in her at last—finally, an emotion she was familiar with. She’d take it any day over this—over this hot breathlessness in her chest, one that would not stop burning until it got what it wanted. Touch him, smell him, taste him.

No, anger was good. “You have no right to speculate—”

Lucien laughed—actually laughed, a deep, throaty sound as though her frustration amused him. “Are you telling me they never taught you? It’s really quite simple, Elain.”

“I never asked,” Elain seethed now, “It’s not natural—”

She stopped herself before the sentence fully spilled from her tongue, as if some ancient magic was mercifully holding her back. 

Too late. Frowning, Lucien asked, “Not natural?” He stepped in closer, backing her into the sandstone wall. “Elain, magic is the most natural thing in the world. It’s part of you—“

“Stop,” Elain breathed.

“Why?”

“It’s not—it isn’t part of me,” she said, the words no more than a whisper—as that ancient magic could hear. “It can’t be. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for it.”

I didn’t ask for you.

Lucien said, his voice strangely quiet, “I know. But sometimes…sometimes we have to make do with what we’re given.”

There was something in his tone that made her pause—that made her want to ask him more. Had someone hurt him the way she’d been hurt? Had he lost, too, had it drowned him, pulled him into the same desperate darkness?

Elain couldn’t—could not do what he said. Could not simply accept it and move on—not when she was so close, so close to…to going back.

Lucien’s eyes softened. “Then allow me,” he said, and placed her hand in his palm.

He’d never touched her before.

Her hand was small against his, his broad warmth enveloping her, wrapping itself around the cut until she could no longer feel it stinging. Her veins pulsed as the golden thread began thrumming around her rib, pulling her closer toward him, begging her to move until their bodies became one.

Elain forced herself still, every nerve inside her fighting to keep from trembling.

Lucien strained against her, too, but his gaze remained focused on the bleeding finger, a soft glow starting to gleam from his hand. She watched, transfixed as the wound soaked up the light, waiting for the wound to close—except that, a few seconds after, nothing seemed to have changed.

Elain’s brow arched. “Quite simple, huh?” she teased, unable to help herself.

But Lucien’s attention remained fixed on the wound—the blood still thick at its hem. “It’s…not me.”

Elain froze. “What do you mean?”

A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. “I’m trying to heal it, but—it’s like your magic…there’s something in it that’s holding me back.”

Elain kept her face cool. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s like…” he continued, entirely focused on the feeling, “like a thorn in a rose. Like the stem will not smooth out until you remove it, but—” He frowned.

My magic is part of you now, little Seer, that silky voice slid into her mind with the memory. It will live in your veins, a symbol of our bargain, until you fulfil your end.

“—but it’s almost like healing is against its nature,” Lucien finished.

“That can’t be true,” Elain countered, her mind racing for an excuse. “I’ve been healed before—after…after Hybern—”

Lucien stilled for a moment. Then, “Hold on—just let me…” the words faded as he frowned again, his eyes closing as his palm emitted a new light—a golden light, like the the thread that connected their souls.

There was a tug—the tug—somewhere in her chest, and Koschei’s magic…it recoiled.

Elain tried not to gasp as the wound closed slowly, not even a thin scar creasing her skin—even the blood vanishing under the healing light.

A second later, and he was done.

“There,” he said quietly. “I know you asked me not to,” he added, knowing perfectly well she knew what he was referring to, “but I…I had to try.”

Elain swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lucien smiled, not entirely teasing as he said, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

Elain huffed, making him chuckle.

“So, tulips?” he asked.

Elain blinked, the spell gone entirely as she stepped back, her cover still intact. “It doesn’t matter.” The tulips were part of her old life—unlike him. She’d see them when she was turned, and Lucien…And she wouldn’t see Lucien again.

She wasn’t sure why her heart clenched at the thought.

Lucien’s face fell an inch. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I found something.”

Elain thanked the Gods for the change in subject. “Oh?”

Lucien nodded. “Come.”

She followed him a floor up, to what had to have been the darkest corner of the library—as though even the sunlight wanted to shy away from the secrets it held. The sandstone was older here, a deeper shade of beige, scraped by the passing years. There were no scholars roaming this wing—strange, Elain thought, when the tomes seemed to almost sing of the knowledge they possessed. Their subtle hum slid beneath her skin, stirring her blood, as though compelling her to reach out for them as she and Lucien stopped in front the bookshelf standing farthest from the light.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Lucien’s auburn brows knitted as he looked at her. “Hear…what?”

Oh.

“I must’ve imagined it,” Elain lied. “So what did you find?”

“Elain.” One word—not exactly a warning, but…a plea. As if it took everything inside him not to beg her to push him away.

She gave in—just this one time. “The books, they…” she hesitated, wondering how to best phrase the feeling without sounding like an utter lunatic. “I think they may be enchanted. It feels like they’re calling out to me.”

Lucien looked at her incredulously. “They know your name?”

She listened in—but the song seemed more of a melody than a language—and if it was a language indeed, it was not one Elain was in any way familiar with. “No,” she finally decided. “But…I think they can feel my magic, and it resonates with whatever the books had been spelled with.”

Lucien loosed a shaky breath. “That would make sense.”

Elain frowned. “How?”

He reached up for one of the brownish tomes, resting on a shelf far above Elain’s head—far out of reach. Elain’s eyes trailed the movement—focusing, to her exasperation, less on the book itself but on Lucien’s hand, the same one that had just been holding hers, his sun-warmed skin soft as it welcomed her touch.

She ran a hand through her curls nervously, Lucien’s own eyes darting towards them as he wordlessly handed her the book. “What is it?” she asked him.

Lucien did not look at her as he explained, “You’ve grown out your hair.”

That, Elain did not expect. “Oh. Yes, I—I suppose I did.”

There was a moment of silence, as if Lucien was weighing the risk of his words before he finally said, “It suits you.”

She could have sworn the thread glimmered in answer.

Elain swallowed the light, “So what’s in that book?”

Lucien hid it well—the disappointment. She tried not to let it affect her as he said, “Open it. Page two hundred forty-six.”

She did as instructed, carefully flipping through the nearly disintegrated pages—the books must have been centuries, if not millennia old, no doubt preserved by the library’s magic—until she found the one she was looking for.

“Is that…” she begun, unable to find the words. She’d never been there personally, but Feyre and Nesta’s stories had been painted vividly enough that she recognised the blurry image immediately.

“The Prison,” Lucien nodded. “And this,” he pointed to an old, wrinkled creature, its teeth sharp and exposed, “is the Bone Carver.”

Elain countered, “I thought he looked different.”

“He could appear as whatever he wished. This must be how the author saw him. From what this text says,” he added, pointing to the strange language Elain did not recognise, “the image haunted him until the end of his days.”

Elain asked, “How does this relate to the Trove?”

“Take a look at what he’s holding.”

She glanced at the page. “Well, obviously—a bone. But—” she looked in closer. “Oh.”

Lucien nodded. “This one is different. The bone is curved—like in the image I told you about.”

“The one Nesta’s friend found?”

“Yeah. That one was U-shaped, too. And, look—this one isn’t matted, or scraped, even. There are no old bloodstains, either. It’s too clean, too pristine to not be magical.”

“And it gleams, too,” Elain murmured.

Lucien looked at her weirdly. “It does?”

Elain shifted on her feet. “You don’t see it?”

He hummed. “No. This only confirms my theory—this bone is calling out to you, a Seer, even through the page. Like a pet to its master.”

Elain shivered. “I-I still don’t think we need the Bone,” she stuttered, repeating the same words she’d told him when he’d announced their sudden trip to Day. “We’ve been making progress—with Vassa, that is—I can do it, I can find out how—how to kill him, without it.”

“Elain,” Lucien pressed softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she argued. She needed to be back at the house—needed to find the box Lucien must’ve hidden before her time was up.

“Aren’t you tired of being in the dark?” he asked her, making her limbs grow still. “Of not knowing? This Trove could hold all the answers—could help you navigate and understand your visions. Gwyneth even said…she said it could alleviate the pain, too.”

Elain whispered, “You know about the pain?”

He hesitated.

“Lucien,” she urged.

“I feel it,” he said quietly. “I feel it when you sleep. Every night—your visions, all of endless pain. Of fire—and of death.” He released a long, long breath. “Elain—”

“We need to return to the Night Court,” Elain cut in, her voice unrecognisable even to herself. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—speak to him about the bond. Not when…not when it threatened to consume her.

Not when the idea started to no longer fill her soul with dread.

Lucien looked at her until she began to worry he might not speak to her at all.

“We need to visit the Prison,” she pressed.

Lucien sighed, resignation rolling off of him in waves. “We’re going to need an escort.”

Elain nodded, a new plan already sprouting to life in her head. “Alright.”

His eyes dimming, Lucien turned away, his voice quiet as he said, “I will contact Feyre immediately.”

———

“No,” Nesta said immediately.

Lucien chuckled.

“I’m going,” Elain pressed, shooting him a glare.

“Elain,” her sister repeated. “It isn’t safe—”

“Lucien will be there with me,” she said, and thought the words had been meant to appease Nesta, Elain found that they brought her comfort, too.

Surprise flickered from across the room, quickly followed by something else—a deep, intoxicating heat, like the midday sun warming her skin. Elain didn’t have to turn to know its source—to feel Lucien’s gaze on her, his mouth no doubt twisted in a purely male, smug smile.

Lucien was not the only one her words seemed to have affected—Feyre watched, too, from where she and Rhysand sat on the couch, little Nyx babbling happily as she bounced him on her knees. Her younger sister angled her head curiously, Rhys’s lips twitching beside her—Elain had no doubt the two of them were already passing their comments mind-to-mind. She sighed, exasperated—there was nothing between her and Lucien—other than the very unfortunate fact that he seemed to be the key to her finally getting what she truly desired.

Which was not a mate. Especially not an infuriating, cocky, completely improper—

“Elain knows what she’s doing,” came his response. He shot her a wry smile. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be safe with me.” Lucien looked at Nesta. “You have my word.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened as she turned to Elain. “And there is no changing your mind on this?”

Elain loosed a sigh of relief. “No.”

“Nesta,” Feyre interjected. “I will be there, too.” The Prison’s enchantments had always required the presence of Night’s High Lord—or Lady—to even enter the structure at all.

The eldest Archeron gritted her teeth. “I just—I don’t understand why you need to go there at all. The Bone Carver is dead—what good will going to his cell do?”

“Elain might find some answers there,” Rhysand supplied smoothly, “or clues, even. Revisiting his old…” he hesitate, “home—could potentially trigger a vision.”

“Potentially is not good enough for me,” Nesta barked.

“It is for me,” Elain said firmly. “We’re going.”

Her tone left no room for argument, and Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose—a habit she seemed to have picked up from Cassian, a fact that made Elain stir. She glanced at Lucien quickly, her gaze sweeping over his stance to see if it mirrored her own—but Lucien simply stood there, leaning against Feyre’s couch, his powerful arms crossed over his chest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, Elain noted, golden-brown muscles on display under the afternoon light.

Get it together, she scowled at the beast. It only smirked at her in return.

Feyre sighed, handing her son over to Rhys. Nyx cooed as his father’s arms wrapped around him, wings rising over his head as though preparing for flight.

Rhys chuckled, “Soon, buddy. I promise.”

Elain’s smile faded. Soon, Nyx’s aunt would be human again—when would she see him again? When would she see Feyre and Nesta? When would she see…?

“Are you alright?” Lucien’s voice sounded beside her. She didn’t even notice when he’d stepped in to her side.

Elain simply nodded, turning to Feyre. “We should go now. There’s no…there’s no time to waste.”

After all, she only had a few days.

Bring me the box, little Seer, and you will be human again.

Feyre rose, reaching out a hand. “When we cross the gates, we’re going to have some…company,” she said mysteriously. “Try not to listen to them. They’ll say anything to get you to try and free them.”

Elain nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.

Feyre’s blue-grey eyes softened. “Ready?”

“Wait,” Nesta stopped them. She took a step towards her, pulling something from the sheath strapped to her side.

Something long, and sharp. Gleaming.

“This is the dagger I Made,” Nesta explained, then looked at Lucien with a mocking smile. “Your brother had been quite displeased about it slipping from his grasp. I want you to take it,” she said to Elain, a quiet worry filling her gaze. “Just in case.”

Elain swallowed. She didn’t take well to knives.

“Please,” Nesta only said.

The word had never come easily to her sister—and perhaps that was why Elain silently accepted, Nesta’s shoulders loosening with relief.

Feyre nodded, slipping a tattooed hand into Elain’s. “You know where to winnow?” she asked Lucien, who nodded.

A thick, slithering cloud began forming around them—reality folding in on itself, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. The living room blurred out, and the last thing she saw were Nyx’s eyes, the crushing blue twinkling curiously at his family.

“See you on the other side, Cursebreaker,” Lucien grinned.

Elain closed her eyes and did not open them until a hard wall of wind slammed into her.

The Prison waited beneath the cliff, its very foundations thrumming with the power it contained. Elain let her gaze adjust to the building storm above, the dark waves crashing furiously into the rock. Beside her, Feyre seemed tense, as though lost in the memory of her last time there—or perhaps anxious for what laid ahead.

Lucien looked at them both, his long, auburn hair swept back and floating with the angry wind. “Shall we?”

Elain shivered. “We shall.”

They walked the pebbled path, Elain nearly slipping on the wet rocks as the sea spilled over. Lucien graciously offered his arm, no sly remark falling from his tongue—only his steady presence as they reached the iron entrance. The gates cried heavily as Feyre waved a hand, the ancient metal bending under the will of its High Lady, and finally, darkness enveloped them at last.

The very first thing Elain realised was how silent it was, not even a whisper of an echo as they descended down to the pit of the mountain’s belly. The shadows seemed to swallow every move, every breath, every bead of sweat from Elain’s forehead as she moved, her breathing falling flat.

Elain was not sure how long they walked. She clung to Lucien’s arm as he led them down behind Feyre, his soul the only source of light in the darkness. She could not see the light, perhaps—warm and golden, even in the coldest, most wretched of places.

“The Bone Carver rested beneath the roots of the mountain,” Feyre said quietly, answering the silent question she hadn’t dared to ask out loud. 

Elain nodded, though she doubted her sister could somehow see the movement.

“Do you need some water?” Lucien’s soft voice brushed past her ear. “Thank you,” Elain whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they entered. She could almost feel his smile as he drank. Yet another thank you in one day, his soul teased playfully. I should consider myself a very lucky male.

Elain rolled her eyes, though the tension washed down her body all the same.

“We’re here,” Feyre announced after a few minutes, though all Elain could make out was a smooth wall of stone.

But then her sister pressed her palm to it, and the stone trembled beneath it, tattoos swirling atop her skin. Both Lucien and Elain watched with their mouths agape as the stone shifted and morphed into bone, the ivory gates revealing another space of darkness behind.

Elain did not have the time to study the old markings carved into the gates, a familiar voice penetrating her, smooth and deep.

“Hello, little traitor,” Lucien said.

Elain whirled back.

“What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

Lucien frowned, the soft glow from Feyre’s palm illuminating his confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

A low chuckle. “I’ve never known Seers to be so blind.”

Elain shook violently, Lucien’s confusion shifting into concern. “Elain, what’s wrong?” he asked, placing two, strong hands atop her shoulders, her body instinctively leaning into his chest.

“Good,” Lucien’s voice giggled. “Good, little traitor. Lean into your mate before you burn his bones to ash.”

Her breathing came short, her hands trembling as she placed them atop Lucien’s chest. “I don’t understand.”

Feyre angled her head. “Is someone speaking to you?”

“I—I thought it was Lucien,” Elain panted. “He sounds like Lucien.”

“What did he say?” Lucien asked carefully.

“Tell him, Elain Archeron. Tell your mate you’re only here to betray him.” Another giggle—an ugly sound, one she’d never heard fall from Lucien’s mouth, one that seemed to claw at her very bones.

“Who are you?” she breathed.

Lucien squeezed her shoulders. “Elain—”

“Why does your heart race at your mate’s touch, pretty Seer? Does it not still long for another?”

“It does,” Elain said immediately, Koschei’s magic purring in her veins at the words. “It does—”

“What does, Elain?” Feyre asked, urgency rushing into her tone. “Who are you talking to?”

“Very well, then. I suppose you could call me…a memory,” not-Lucien said, the sound coming from somewhere behind her now.

“Elain—”

“From the past?” Elain asked, turning away from Lucien’s warm chest.

The voice clicked its tongue in disappointment. “How truly helpless you are, little Seer. You should know by now that the lines between past, present and future are as blurred as they get.”

Elain breathed, “What does that mean?”

His next chuckle came from behind her back. “It means you should finally open your eyes.”

Elain whirled again, meeting a pair of gold and russet, shining with concern.

“Tell me how to help you,” Lucien begged, desperation creeping into his voice—his real voice, grounding her to reality.

Elain loosed a breath. “I…I think it was the Bone Carver.”

Feyre stepped in closer to them both. “The Bone Carver is dead, Elain,” she reminded her, the cell sounding with a quiet laugh at the words.

Elain shook her head. “No—a part of him—a part of him is still…” she trailed off, finally calm enough to look around the cave.

“Now you See,” the voice purred.

She could make out the gleam beneath the earth even without the ball of sunlight shining in Feyre’s hand. It rippled as she approached, glistening an almost blinding white.

“Come closer, little Seer,” it crooned. “Come closer to me.”

“Elain,” Feyre’s warning came distantly from somewhere behind her.

Elain stopped an inch from the gleam. “It’s here,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

A warm presence enveloped her once more. “What is?”

But Elain didn’t respond, transfixed on the quiet hum coming from deep beneath, her mind once more being pulled into a daze.

“Touch me, pretty traitor. Take what you deserve.”

Elain crouched, reaching for the ground—

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist. “Elain.”

Elain blinked. “Lucien?”

He nodded, lacing their fingers together, her skin tingling at the touch. “What is it that you’re seeing?” he asked softly.

Clarity sucked her in once more. “Lucien,” she repeated. “We need to dig.”

“What do you see?” Feyre asked, parroting Lucien’s question.

“The Bone,” Elain answered. “It gleams beneath the earth.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.” She looked to the ground where Elain pointed, squinting as though trying to make out the supposed shine. “The Bone…but why wouldn’t he…?”

“We need to dig,” Elain said again. Lucien wasted no time.

His magic tore through the earth, the rock cracking beneath its weight, Elain directing its direction quietly. The Fourth Trove—all this time…It couldn’t have been.

And yet, with Lucien’s final surge of power into the rock, a curved, white bone was revealed, resting between the cracks of the earth. Unstained by as much as a droplet of blood.

“That bastard,” Feyre whispered. The voice chuckled again, the sound echoing off the stone.

Elain reached for it again.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “You shouldn’t—not yet. Not until we know it’s safe.”

Elain hesitated. “I think it has to be me.”

“We don’t risk it,” Feyre agreed. “We’ll take the Trove to the House—it’ll be safer without all those prisoners around us.”

That was enough for Elain to agree. If there was any chance the Bone’s powers could release the creatures that lurked in the Prison’s darkness, she was more than content to wait.

Feyre waved a hand, her magic making the Bone float upwards and into the High Lady’s palm.

“Bad call.”

The cave shook.

Elain started, “What is happening—”

“My purpose is complete. Good luck, little traitor.” A final, bone-shuddering laugh. “If you manage to get out of here alive, that is.”

The stone above their heads began to crack.

“Elain!” Lucien roared, and before she could blink, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her as they lunged forward. A second later, a rock the size of her head fell exactly to where she’d kneeled a moment ago.

Elain gaped at him. “Lucien—”

“No time,” Feyre panted beside them. “Let’s get out of there.”

Elain took Lucien’s hand as they ran out, the cave roaring behind them. Blood rushed in her ears, too hot and loud to hear Feyre’s shouted commands as she led them past the ivory gates, the same bones that had survived millennia now crumbling into dust, one by one. Elain looked back just in time to see the cave collapse.

The only thing Elain could see in the darkness was the faint gleam of the Bone in Feyre’s hand, the excited purring of the Prison’s captives leading them back upwards. There was no time to take breaks now, and even time seemed to pass by quicker as they ran, three heartbeats melting into one sound of pure, unrestrained terror.

The greyish light of the sky finally came into view, the Prison gates towering high above them as Feyre grasped at one of the iron bars.

“Feyre,” Lucien breathed. “What—”

Feyre shoved the Bone into Lucien’s hand. “I need to get Rhysand,” she panted. “Take her—take her to the manor. Take her to safety.” She looked him straight in the eyes, determination momentarily replacing her panic as the High Lady commanded, “Now.”

Lucien did not need to be told twice. His arms wrapped around her waist once more, and with that, the crumbling Prison vanished.

———

“We need to go back,” Elain told Lucien a second later.

Lucien ran a shaky hand through his hair. “We have a mission to complete, Elain.”

“Not yet,” Elain pressed, Koschei’s ticking clock no longer of importance. “Not until we make sure they’re okay.”

“Feyre gave me the Bone for a reason, Elain,” Lucien said, his expression pained. “We will go back as soon as we can.” He squeezed her hand, still placed safely in his own. “They have each other. They’ll be okay.”

Elain loosed a breath and closed her eyes. They would be okay—her sister and Rhysand both held a power she’d never been able to fully grasp, as though the very darkness coiled within their shared souls. If anyone could contain the magic ruining the Prison…it would be the High Lord and Lady of the Night. Together.

Elain opened her eyes. “Alright.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jurian asked, a shivering Vassa following closely behind him. It only took one look for the General to understand, his brown eyes wide as he saw Lucien’s face. “Get inside.”

Elain had to physically keep from running as they navigated the corridor, its dim light welcoming her back—so different from the sunlit halls of Day. This morning seemed like forever ago.

They finally reached the living room, Jurian gently leading Vassa to the couch. The sun had only just set, Elain realised—Vassa must’ve turned back minutes ago, if not less. “Are you alright?” she asked the queen carefully.

Jurian glowered at her. “A side effect from the elixir.” He looked at Lucien. “She’s cold.”

Vassa waved a hand. “It’s nothing worth mentioning,” she said. Jurian looked inclined to protest, and she added with a sigh, “Not yet, at least.”

That seemed to appease him enough. The Mad General turned to the two Fae in front of him again, his gaze immediately darting to the Trove in Lucien’s hand. “Is that…”

Lucien nodded. “We got it.”

Vassa seemed a little breathless. “Have you used it?”

“We’re about to,” Elain said. “There…there is no time to waste.”

Vassa nodded. “Do you need me?” she asked, reaching out her palm without a second of hesitation. Jurian growled lowly.

“I think…It’s safer if I do it myself.” Jurian grunted his agreement.

Lucien looked into her eyes before handing her the Trove. “Elain,” he began. “I…I’m here if you need me.”

Elain swallowed. “I know.” And with that, she wrapped her fingers around the Bone.

Tell me how to get what I desire, she asked it silently.

What appeared before her made her chest clenched so tight all the air was knocked out from her lungs.

She was still at the manor—still veiled in that old, dusty dimness, still waiting on the mole-eaten couch, except…

“Are you alright, Elain?” Graysen asked her, blue eyes shining with concern.

Elain only stared.

“I’ve asked for some tea to be made for you,” he continued, the words strangely resembling one of the last conversations they’d ever had. “Chamomile, right?”

“Jasmine,” Elain choked out.

“Oh. Right.”

She was back—Elain was back home, with her fiancé less than a few feet away from her. Making her tea. 

So why did her chest still feel so tight?

Elain's gaze fell.

An iron ring glinted atop her finger.

A pale-skinned palm covered it as it took her hand into its own. “I’ve missed you,” Graysen said. “You’ve been away far too long.”

She wasn’t sure she was breathing anymore. “You did?”

“Of course,” Graysen said, as if the answer was obvious. “All I ever thought about was having my beautiful Elain back in my arms.”

Something flitted in the window behind him, Elain’s eyes darting toward the movement.

Her heart stopped entirely as a large, tawny owl winked back at her.

Elain’s gasp made her choke on air, like a drowning person being pulled out from underwater. She coughed into her hand, the Bone discarded on the cushion beside her, a soothing hand on her back.

“Breathe, Elain,” Lucien commanded softly. “Breathe.”

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, but Elain couldn’t help but look past the window—and her shoulders fell as she realised that the only thing staring back at her was the starless night. “I think,” she breathed out, “I’m going to need some practice.”

“What did you see?” Jurian asked, wasting no time on letting her adjust.

What, indeed?

She’d asked the Trove to show her how to get what she desired—and the Trove, an object of a power so ancient had shown her her human life. Was that the future awaiting her? Had it meant…

Elain’s eyes burned.

Had it meant she had a chance?”

“Well?” Jurian urged.

But Elain looked at Lucien, his gaze still shining with concern—as though the Bone, the vision, mattered as little as the dust the Bone Carver’s legacy had turned into.

He was a good male, Elain realised—in some way, she had always known. He was cocky and infuriating, yes, but it was his presence that pulled her back when she needed it most. And if Graysen really was the future awaiting her, then Lucien…Lucien deserved happiness, too. Not a mate who’d been…who’d been thrown at him. Not a mate who was no more than a lie. A mistake.

The thought should have brought her peace. But all Elain felt was the suffocating dark as she told them all, “I know how to kill him. I know…I know how to kill Koschei.”

Vassa stifled a sob.

Jurian narrowed his gaze on her. “How?”

“Jurian,” Lucien cut in, his voice calm yet stern. “There’s no need to be so hostile anymore—Elain risked her life to find the Trove.” He looked at her with more certainty than anyone else ever had in her life as he added, “We can trust her.”

No, Elain thought, her heart rotting into mould her chest. You can’t.

She could no longer look into his eyes. She had gone too far now to even dare.

I’m sorry, Lucien.

“There is a box,” Elain told Jurian, her voice unable to keep from shaking. She could only hope they dismissed it for nervousness—not the cold, piercing guilt eating up the last of her aching heart. “Koschei’s soul is stored within it. The only way to kill him is to destroy it.”

Come on, the rot in her blood urged. Say you have it. Tell me where.

Elain was too weak to stop it.

Lucien, Jurian and Vassa exchanged one look before the decision was made.

“I stole it,” Vassa said thickly. “When your father struck a deal with Koschei—I took it from him and hid it, hoping that, one day, I could barter it back for what he took from me.”

Her humanity.

Elain would never atone for this.

Lucien waved a hand, a flicker of light appearing at his fingertips. A gasp tore from her as the onyx box came into view as though it had been crafted from thin air, floating downward until it rested atop the splintered, wooden table.

Well done, my sweet, the box seemed to purr.

Jurian simply said, “Tell us how.”

Bile rose in Elain’s throat with the lie, too quick to stop as she uttered, “You must place it atop Koschei’s lake. The magic beneath the water works against the laws of nature, crying out with the women he’d enslaved into swans. It will seek to punish him—it will weaken the box, allowing you to strike.”

The Band of Exiles looked at each other wordlessly.

“We must go to the Continent,” Elain managed before her throat gave out entirely.

Lucien only nodded, her command the only instruction he needed. “I will contact the Night Court immediately.”

———

“Rest, girl.”

Feyre shook her head, the movement alone making the world spin around her.

“Rest,” Amren pressed. “You and Rhysand have done enough.”

A warm hand rested at her back. “I will take her to bed.”

The female nodded, silver eyes sharp. “Cassian is on site. Nesta will join him shortly—for now, the wards are contained.”

Beside her, Rhysand loosed a shaky breath. “Good. Thank you, Amren.”

“Yes, well. You know how much you owe me.”

He managed a laugh, the sound strained even more than his depleted power. “Make sure to bill it to my office.”

Amren huffed. “You need to rest, too, you know.” And with that, she was gone.

Rhys sighed deeply. “Let’s go, Feyre,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “There’s not much more we can do now.”

She began to protest, but Rhys’s warm lips on her temple were enough to stop her in her tracks. “I’m so tired,” Feyre admitted.

“Let’s go to bed. We can stay there forever, if you’d like.”

Feyre nodded, taking a swaying step forward.

Forever did not last long enough—did not even truly manage to begin as the study shook, the snapping sound of Rhysand’s wards being cleaved in two their only warning as a blinding light erupted at its centre.

Helion Spell-Cleaver’s booming presence was enough to sharpen every last one of her nerves as the High Lord of Day appeared in their study, sunlight scorching around him without mercy. “Tell me, Cursebreaker,” Helion began, his voice just barely restraining his anger, “When were you going to tell me about my son?”

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Elucien Week Masterlist // AO3

Day One: Fated

A huge thanks to @elucienweekofficial for hosting and all the wonderous fun you've created for this ship and spreading so much love and fun in the fandom!

`warnings: angst with a happy ending, ~4.5k words

.*.*.*.*.*.

maybe these lights'll take you home

A street lamp flickers in and out as she drives down the old street that teeters along the edge of the main city.  The winding road passes through the neighborhoods that have either been abandoned or forgotten about as it roams along the bay that stretches out to the ocean.  The sides of the street are overrun by blackberry vines and ferns that haven’t been cut back in years and no one has bothered to complain enough about it for the city to clean it up.  Even here, there is a wildness to the world.  Even here, there is an unknown feeling that lingers in the back of her mind that tells her to stay awake.

It’s not like she has much choice, sleep has been fleeting and hard to come by.  Whether the stress or the general weight of being—Elain doesn’t know exactly.  She does, however, know that these sleepless nights of the past month have been slowly driving her mad, slowly beating her down, slowly leading her mind to places it shouldn’t be.

She’s never sure where she’s going on nights like this.  But when she wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed and dark house, she knows there will be no rest.

So here she is now, driving aimlessly among the trees and the silence.

That heartbreaking silence.

When a dirt road appears amid the foliage, Elain takes the turn, quick.  Gravel crunches beneath the tires of her car and she can hear the slight spinout that happens before everything is under control once more.

Not for the first time, she thinks that she really ought to slow down while driving especially if she’s going to take turns like that where there’s a ditch on either side of the narrow road.

Oh well.  Maybe next time.

She’s driven this road dozens, if not hundreds, of times before.  She knows it well and knows how the curves feel beneath her and when to avoid the deeper potholes that no one will bother fixing any time soon.

She lets herself get lost in the familiarity as the dirt road curls through the trees, slowly clawing its way into nothing.  The sky disappears into the overhanging canopy and the thick shrubbery along the side of the road closes up any pockets of open space on the ground.  She’s almost completely surrounded.

The yellow gleam of her headlights illuminates the way as the car crawls along.  There are the occasional turnouts to private property and turn around spots the deeper she goes.  Only a few people still live out here and they can be rather protective of their land.  But she doesn’t let that change her mind.  She’s driven up this way so many times before in the past that she feels immune to the wary stillness of the world.

When the road finally opens up to a clearing, Elain feels a thread of disappointment pull through her mind.  For now, her journey is over.

Patches of moss and grass encroach along the edges of the clearing in an attempt to reclaim the earth.  Soon the heat of the summer and the occasional hikers that stalk through the area will put a stop to any chance of new growth.  For a moment, Elain wonders how long it will take the plants to stop trying all together, for their genetics to realize that no matter how hard they try to change, to reprogram—it won’t happen.

She pulls her car to a stop nearly right in the middle of the clearing.

It’s the middle of the night, no one will bother to come out here.  

No one at all.

She tries to convince herself that she doesn’t care.  There’s only a scant possibility anyone would bother coming out here now.  And an even smaller chance of it being the one person she wants to see.

She gets out of her car and grabs a blanket from the back seat.  It’s still earlier enough in the year that the nights continue to hold a slight chill.  With the blanket wrapped around her, Elain settles herself onto the hood of her car.  She takes a moment to let the silence of the woods envelop her.  She’s always loved being out here.  There’s something about the trees and wildness that makes her feel alive.  And even in the middle of the night, she can still feel a bit of peace.  It would be better if it were the middle of day with an unencumbered sun filtering down on her, but she will take what she can get.

Leaning back, Elain looks up at the sky where dashes of stars are visible against the inky darkness.  Prythian isn’t quite in the middle of nowhere so it's not quite as brilliant as it could be.  But its enough.  For a moment she can pretend she isn’t there alone, sitting atop her car.  For a moment, she can pretend that there is more to life, to the universe, then just simply existing.  For a moment, she can pretend anything is possible.

And then the moment is gone when the soft rumble of another car makes its way up the road directly toward her.  There’s no other place for the car to be going, not this far up the path.  

Elain freezes, eyes darting to the side.  She hadn’t really been expecting anyone to come up here despite the silent hope of him.  Now, with someone approaching, she’s ready to get out of here.  Her solitude’s been ruined.  She hopes that she won’t need the pepper spray in the glove compartment.

She’s about to slide off the car when she realizes she knows the newcomer.  Because of course she does.  Of course fate would give her exactly what she wants when it terrifies her most.

Unmoving, Elain watches the white jeep (that really should be taken to a junkyard at this point) as it pulls into the gravel lot and comes to a stop, leaving plenty of space between the two vehicles.  It’s too dark to see through the windows but Elain watches anyway.

She watches as the driver door opens, the dome lights illuminating just enough that she can see he’s watching her too.  It takes several heartbeats before he moves again and gets out of the car with slow and deliberate care.  Elain swears she can hear his mind race, his heart thudding.  Or maybe it's her own mind that has turned to wild thoughts and her own heart that won’t simply be still.  She doesn’t know.

Because there standing maybe twenty feet away is Lucien Vanserra.  Summoned as if he could hear her thoughts, feel that inexplicable pull she always feels where he is concerned.  She doubts that he feels the same.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.  The shock is plain to hear and in better light Elain is sure she would see his face twisted in that confused way of his—utterly endearing but she won’t ever tell him that.

“I could ask you that same thing,” she says, desperate to remain casual in the way she’s sitting on her car.  

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t even shut his car door. 

The night practically clings to him in an unsettling way.  Lucien has always been light, he’s always been that one stark difference in Elain’s day, her entire life really.  Tonight is different.

“Come on, Vanserra,” she says and pats the space on her car that’s waiting for him.

He doesn’t move.

It has always been like this—this stilted silence, the awkwardness, the careful conversation.  They used to be friends.  They used to get on.  They used to simply be.

Elain has no way to explain it, but from the first moment she laid eyes on him nearly ten years ago when they’d been fifteen-year-old kids—she knew he was someone she would have in her life forever.  That he would be that constant presence, he would be someone to trust, to lean on.  There would be no getting rid of him.

They’d been friends in a fit of circumstance that slowly bled into necessity.  An escalation that she has no way to explain.  But Elain wouldn’t have had it any other way.  And she’d give anything to go back to the simplicity of youth where he was hers and she was his and nothing else mattered.

Time, of course, waits for no one and things inevitably change but she can still hope for some taste of what used to be.

And then they were eighteen with the world before them—just theirs for the taking.

And he’d left.

At the time, she supposed that was the way things went after high school, but Lucien—Lucien was supposed to stay.  She’d always thought he would.

And even if she had Graysen—a boyfriend she thought would be everything—it was never the same.  Graysen had been too good to be true and he left her with a broken heart and an uncertainty of the future.

“I don't bite,” Elain says when Lucien still won’t come closer.

“I don’t want to bother you,” he replies.

The words are soft but hold an edge sharper than a knife and Elain can’t help but recoil.  Barely.  He notices of course, he always notices.

“You were here first,” he adds quickly, but the damage is done.

Elain scoots back on the car hood, dragging her knees to her chest.  She looks away, off into the trees that hold onto the nighttime shadows.

“You’re the one that first brought me here in the first place,” she says.  She can’t help it.  She can’t help but to try and cling onto what used to be and hold onto the past as though it will somehow keep them both afloat in a raging sea of misery.

But she’s still hurt.  

Once he wouldn’t have hesitated in joining her.  Once his words would have been laced with humor and flirtatious undertones.

Once.

Not anymore.

Elain misses him.  Has for a while, but there’s been no way to tell him.  Not since he left in the first place and very nearly forgot about her aside from the occasional text.  There’s been no way to reach out to rekindle a friendship because there was Graysen and for whatever reason Elain felt guilty in even thinking about Lucien while she was still with another man.  

It’s fear, she knows.  Fear in the reality that things will never go back to what they once were.  And fear in the fact that he can still reject her.  Leave her again.  And she doesn’t know how to fix it, this rift between them that feels like a chasm.  

Elain misses him, though.  And it hurts like hell.

“Lucien,” she says when the silence grows too heavy.

She doesn’t know what else she wants to say or if there is even anything to say.  All she knows for certain is that it has been too long since she last spoke his name.

The headlights of the jeep continue to burn bright even as Lucien does step around the front of the car and towards her.  It’s good, she supposes, to not remain together in total darkness.  It’s far too easy to get distracted that way.

She watches him, entirely too tall with a lean build of muscle.  She knows he’s fit, has always played one sport or another and taken care of himself.  It doesn’t help that for some unholy reason he’s wearing a neat button up and slacks looking as though he just came out of a business meeting even at two in the morning.  His red hair is loose around his shoulders, only one piece hanging over his scarred eye.  He looks good, like she’d always imagined he’d be once out of the gangly teenager phase.  

“I thought you were leaving Prythian,” Lucien says.  He comes to a stop a few feet before her, hands in his pockets, head tilted to one side.  “You always wanted to.”

Elain laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I did.”

But Graysen hadn’t wanted to.  Said it would mess up his plans for law school too much.  There was no time for such frivolity and she should think so too.  And by the time she and Graysen were finished her motivation left too.  The thought cuts deep and reminds her just how little she’s accomplished with her life and how far she’s strayed from her hopes, her dreams.

Shaking her head, Elain turns away from Lucien and resumes her casual lounge on the hood of her car.  The residual heat of the engine has worn off and she’s more aware of the chilly spring night than she had been before Lucien’s arrival.  She draws the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she settles back and looks up at the stars.  

When Lucien’s feet crunch on the gravel coming towards her, Elain’s heart picks up pace.  As much as she wants to be immune to Lucien, she can’t.  There’s always been something about him that she cannot shake.  Even though she hasn’t seen him in almost a year since his last visit home, he’s always been on her mind.

Lucien hauls himself onto the car beside her, long legs stretched out before him.  His motions are so casual and easy that Elain wonders if he’s even cared about the time that has passed since they last spoke, if its affected him as much as her.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come back,” Elain says, because even though she’s not sure where they stand, she doesn’t like the silence, not now. “You hate Prythian.”

“I don’t hate Prythian,” he says, but there’s an edge to his voice and Elain thinks he’s lying.  At least in part.

So she calls him out. “Liar.”

He gives an undignified snort and glances over at her. “My, my, Elain, you’ve never been so blunt before.”

“And you’ve never been such a bad liar.” She narrows her eyes at him.  The force of her ire doesn’t seem to bother him though.  Lucien’s grin only broadens and he leans back, folding his hands behind his head as he stares up at the sky.

Illuminated by the lights of his jeep, Elain takes a moment to observe him.  She can’t see his scarred eye at this angle, instead all she can observe is the careful way he lays.  Just like she noticed before, he has a healthy look about him.  He has sharp cut jaw and straight nose (though she swears he’d broken it once after a fight with Tamlin Doyle).  His muscular frame is relaxed, for the most part.  Elain knows him well enough that he is still on guard, ready to leap away, to act, to move.  

“If you don’t hate Prythian, why did you leave?” Elain asks.  She isn’t sure why she asks, isn’t sure why it matters to her, but she can’t help it.  Besides, she still can’t help but be hurt by his decision to leave.  It’s been ages, she should be over it, she shouldn’t care.  But they used to be friends she deserves at least a little bit of closure.  Doesn’t she?

He doesn’t speak for a long moment.  Elain watches his chest rise and fall and light glint in the eye she can see.  Silence isn’t something that bothers her, not really.  She can appreciate the beauty in it, the connection.  But she swears there’s a distance between them, something like never before and that, that, is what she doesn’t like.

“You know why I left,” Lucien says. “Same reason you always wanted to.”

To live, to explore, to have something else in this life than the same rut of loneliness.  He knew better than anyone what it was like to want more out of life.  Just like her, he didn’t want to be defined by others' expectations.  Just like her, he wanted to be his own person.

“And was it worth it?”  She isn’t sure she wants to know the answer.  Even though there’s a bit of hope in her chest burning bright, nothing has ever worked out for her in situations like this.

Lucien continues staring up at the sky. “How’s Graysen?”

The question nearly knocks her over the side of the car hood.  He’s never asked about Graysen.  He’s politely listened or read her texts when she’s mentioned him, but he’s never brought him up before.  It’s no secret that Lucien doesn’t like the other man, but he’s been civil enough.  For her sake.  Because that’s Lucien.

Now Elain turns her attention to the stars.  She doesn’t want to answer him.  Doesn’t want that finalized truth ringing through the night.  No matter how badly she wants to forget about that part of her past, she can’t.  And when Lucien finally shifts, his gaze boring into her, she feels her chest constrict.  

“I don’t know,” she says, “he left me.”

The words are slow and painful as they rip from her.  It feels like she’s admitting to a failure, that she’s laying too much bare that she’ll never get back.  It’s a confirmation that she never was good enough—no matter how hard she tried.  Still tries.  But no one really knows her now and no one really sees her.  She’s just another cog that spins out of control and no one knows how to help her realign.

His gaze burns into her.  It’s inescapable and real, always has been.  But she can’t look at him.  If she does, she knows the tears that are burning behind her eyes will start to fall.  And if she starts crying now she won’t stop.  And she knows from Graysen that tears and crying and emotion is a certifiable sin.

“I never liked him,” he says.

“I know.”

Lucien may have tried to hide his dislike of the other man, but she knew.  She didn’t know the semantics and exactness of the why, but she knew.

“Elain,” Lucien begins, the soft scrape of his voice is too gentle.  Too gentle. 

“Don’t,” she says.  She can’t bear to hear his pity; she doesn’t think she can handle it.  That will most certainly push her over the edge.  Because it’s Lucien and where Lucien is concerned, she always tends to lose her mind, just a little bit. “It doesn’t matter anyways.”

“Of course it matters.”

He wraps his hand around hers then, his fingers lacing between hers.  Elain stiffens at the action.  She certainly wasn’t expecting it and the heat of his skin and rough glide of the calluses on his skin.  The contact takes her back to the early days: when they were just kids trying to get through messy high school days and instead winding up on the bathroom floor while Beron was on a drunken rampage.  It takes her back to road trips through the dead of night only to wind up wondering if any of it was worth it.  It takes her back to saying good-bye and feeling as though her heart was ripped straight from her chest.

Over the years she’s felt as though something is missing.  And she’s known, even while trying to ignore it, she’s known it’s been Lucien.

And just that contact, just that feel of his skin against hers (no matter how innocent) is enough to remind her of what never was and what never could be.  Because they’d both made their choices.  And there was no going back, was there?

“It doesn’t matter,” Elain says again, voice harder than she intended.  She has to protect herself, after all.  

She tries to pull her hand from his but he won’t let her go that easily.  His fingers tighten around hers and she can feel his warmth radiating through his palm straight through her skin until it’s as though her own blood is sitting under a heat lamp.  She should have known he’s impossible to escape.  Impossible to forget.  No matter how hard she has tried in the past all she can think about is him.  How he’s endured these years, if he’s alright and happy with the way things have gone. 

She tells herself it’s because they’re friends and she cares for him like that.  But she is a fool.  She’s always been a fool when it comes to him.

“Don’t pull away from me now,” he says.

She has no choice but to look at him, he has that gravitating effect about him.  No matter how hard she tries—it comes back to him.

Even in the dark she can make him out, his strong jaw, the concerned furrow in his brow, the way his hair never quite stays contained in the band he uses to tie it back.

I’m not going anywhere, she would say if she could.  If she had that bit of strength within her to admit.

It’s the fear of rejection that keeps her quiet though.  She already put enough out on the line with Graysen.  He so fully wrecked her that she doubts she’ll completely recover.

Never good enough.  Never good enough.  Never.  No matter how hard she tried.  In the end, him leaving is the best thing to ever happen to her, really.  Though, it still feels like she is missing pieces of herself.

“You’re just as annoying as before, aren’t you?” she says.  She needs the distraction, something to take her mind away from those paths it dares to wander.

Lucien scoffs. “Not as bad as you.”

“I am a delight.”  Whatever anger or resentment or pain she’s holding onto dissipates, somehow.  And she tries, and fails, to hold back a smile so she turns away from him to settle back onto the car.

“Right,” he drawls, “which is why you blackmailed Feyre into helping you replant your entire garden?”

“Is it really blackmail if she deserved it?”

“Yes.”

Elain grunts a dismissal. “Whatever.”

Lucien throws his head back and laughs.  The sound of it warms Elain straight to her marrow.  She’s missed the sound of it; rich and full and complete.  And she’ll do anything to keep it with her.

I miss you, she wants to say.  But the words are stuck on her tongue, her lips, and they wait.  Just like they did ten years ago.  Just like ten years ago when he was getting ready to leave and she had the chance to tell him to wait.  To stop.  To just stay with her.

But she couldn’t.  Because there was her dad and Graysen and—

“I miss you.”  This time the words spill out before she can stop them.  

It’s the horror that does her in first.  Horror that she actually admitted it.  And then it goes into embarrassment because why, why, would she let the words even be a fleeting thought on her mind.

So, it’s with the utmost lack of grace that she tries to launch herself off the hood of the car.  She doesn’t make it very far because she is still holding Lucien’s hand.  Or maybe he is still holding on to her.  She isn’t clear on that front.  All she knows is that there is no escape from this mess that she finds herself in.

Hanging half off the car—her car, dammit—she looks up at him, the overhead lights inside the car bright enough to brighten his face to where the shadows have fled and his eyes are bright, so bright, as they watch her.

“Elain,” he says softly.  Too soft.  Soft enough that her heart threatens to shatter right there in that space between them.  

“I-I don’t,” she begins, not sure what she’s leading into saying but now that the initial admission is out—the floodgates remain open. “I don’t know why I said that.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

Why did she let him sit on the roof of the car with her?  

Because now she only has two options of escape.  Shove him over the edge and into the dirt.  Or get in and start driving hoping the momentum of a moving vehicle will fling him off.  Neither are very good solutions.

“Elain,” Lucien says again, his fingers tightening around hers.  

She feels like a deer in the headlights as she stares at him.  Her two options of escape are ludicrous and won’t do her much good if her body won’t move.  All she can do is watch him watching her while her heart beats so heavily in her chest and the warm night becomes too tacky and she can feel sweat bead against her back.  

“I wasn’t supposed to say that,” she whispers.

“But you did.”  He raises one brow to punctuate his words and the unspoken question hangs heavy in the air.

Her mouth goes dry and she considers shoving him off the car again.  But the man is built like a brick wall and she doubts she could even move him an inch.  She doesn’t know what to say—if she can’t shove him out of the way, she has to say something.  Anything.  Maybe that’s good, though.  Speaking has never been her forte.  Acting has never been her forte either.

But she does now.

She doesn’t think as she leans forward, snaking her free hand around Lucien’s neck and tugs him closer to her.  Before she can think and talk herself out of it—Elain kisses him.

She’s thought about it before.  For years.  Even back before there was that driving wedge of Graysen and growing up.  Back when they used to be kids who stayed up late trying to figure out life.  She’s thought about it when she was with Graysen while she wondered why things weren’t clicking the way they should have been and while she wondered why she always missed Lucien so much more.  She’s thought about kissing him when she’s been alone and wishing that things had been different.

And she thinks now, that reality is so much better than her imagination.

His body is hard against her—muscles firm and strong.  And she can taste a hint of apple lingering against his lips, mixing with the woodsy scent of his cologne.  Beneath her fingers, the ones curling against the back of her neck, she can feel his soft hair and the warmth of his skin.  

It is then that Elain comes to her senses.  Because really—what the actual hell is she doing?

When she tries to pull back though, Lucien doesn’t let her get far.  His fingers twine with hers against the hood of the car in a vice like grip that she wouldn’t have been able to break even if she’d wanted to.  He leans in close, his nose brushing hers, their foreheads grazing.

“Didn’t mean to do than either, I guess?” he says, amused.

Elain narrows her eyes and pulls back enough to shoot that glare at him but Lucien doesn’t seem to notice or care as he captures her lips with his again.

For the first time in nearly ten years, Elain finds that she’s right where she wants to be.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Not in love with the ending but my eyes are tired so here we are.  Happy elucien week friends! Love you all! Follow @writtenonreceiptswrites if you want notifs for my writing.

Elucien family ❤️ Ivy is my favorite baby to draw 🥹

I‘d like to draw more fictional families in the future. I hope I get the time for that…

‼️READ MORE‼️

This is one of the families that are in urgent need of help. The Elawa family is trying to raise money to evacuate from Gaza, and I’m trying to help them reach their goal. I‘m asking you to please donate. 1€ is more than enough if you can’t donate more. And if you can’t donate at all, please share the link:

gofundme.com

Spende für Urgent : Help my Family Evacuate Gaza, organisiert von Osama Elawa

Dear humanity, Firstly, I would like to tell you that we are not accusto… Osama Elawa braucht deine Unterstützung für Urgent : Help my Fa

Last but not least: I’ve decided to include a fundraiser with each artwork I post. From now on, I ask that you include the fundraisers when you repost my artworks + credit.

Hope you understand!

We rest our case, your honor

Azriel and Elain can't be together because he has short hair...

How is our girl suppose to braid flowers into short hair!?

TO CLARIFY

I've been getting a lot of comments of people telling me how immature is that I don't like Elain because in a past post I said that I hated her and that she'll be petty with Gwyn,

BUT I WANTED TO CLARIFY

After that post, I retracted what I said and I said that Elain and Gwyn are going to be friends a d that Elain is going to slap shadow man when she sees what he did with the necklace.

However, I do believe we'll see some level of pettiness from Elain. Why do I believe this? Because she wants to reject the mating bond and she wanted to be with Azriel to reject it. I think that when she sees the amount of connection Gwyn and Azriel will have, she'll feel frustrated because she'll feel that she has no control in whom she likes.

Do I like Elain? No, I do not. I don't like her because the character that she is makes her be too protected by everyone and I find that annoying, I also don't like how Rhys seems to forget that Nesta wasn't the only one that allowed Feyre to go into the forest .

That's a post for another time.

Thing is, I do not want to pin Elain and Gwyn in a stupid fight, but I want it to be clear that Elain is willing to do whatever it takes to get rid of the mating bond. Even if she'll accept it eventually .

That's it. I love Gwyn, and I'll probably love Elain when her character expands; before that? I don't like her a lot, and that's okay.

I hope people can understand this.

I have this Elucien scene in my head where they are already together and exploring all their sexual tension and then Elain drops the words "Oral" and Lucien feels he is losing it.

But then, he discover Graysen had never tasted her and had actually made her think that she would probably taste awful and now she has that fear so he calms himself and goes "Let's just try it and if you don't like it then I'll stop" But Elaine is nervous and she goes "I'm afraid you won't like how I taste" and Lucien is just like, WHat? I would love how you taste! Let's try it.

And then there they are, Lucien kneeling with his face between her legs while staring at her and thinking she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and meanwhile Elain is just so freaking nervous. But then Lucien takes a long lick and stops and while it felt amazing Elaine is just so nervous because he is not moving, not talking, not saying anything so she goes "Lucien? Is it bad-" But she can't even finish because Lucien lets out the most unholy growl ever and proceeds to devour her because her flavor is the most amazing thing he had ever tasted

Just saying, it would be a nice scene t0o have on the book

I will not be afraid to say that I voted Elucien/ Gwynriel/ Jassa because they ARE MEANT TO BE

This is a burner account that I created so I am not affiliated with any ship. As such, it is possible that the results may not be representative if not a lot of people see this poll. In anticipation of that, I am opening this poll for one week so that hopefully more people can see it.

I wanted to include all the prominent ships and I apologize that for the second option (Elriel/Vassien), I really could not think of any other ships that characters Gwyn and Jurian are involved in, besides their predominant ships of Gwynriel and Jassa respectively, to make both sides equal in number. I am aware that Jassa has another ship name (Vassian), but I thought it was too similar to Vassien and might confuse people reading this, which was why I picked Jassa over Vassian. The order of which side of the ship war would be placed as the first and second option was decided by a coin toss, which is also the order of the ship tags' appearance in this post. Within each option, the order of ships was determined alphabetically.

This poll is conducted out of curiosity. I am aware that it cannot possibly encapsulate everybody's opinions in the fandom as not everyone uses Tumblr.

The Mother and the Cauldron - creating Elucien

@elucienweekofficial2024 here is my contribution for elucien week 2024! Hope you enjoy!

The Mother: Cauldron, come forth.

The Cauldron: What do you need, Mother?

The Mother: I have a question.

The Cauldron: Nothing new.

The Mother: May I ask the question?

The Cauldron: You are strangely polite today but sure, you may.

The Mother: we know hybern has the Archeron sisters

The Cauldron: Yes, we do.

The Mother: And we know that in about five seconds, Elain will come out of the Cauldron as a Fae.

The Cauldron: Still wondering why I am an actual Cauldron, but yes, she will.

The Mother: And you found her beautiful

The Cauldron: I did, she's nice and scared

The Mother: so you gave her a nice gift

The Cauldron: I did. She's a seer.

The Mother: wonderful. So I was thinking: My calculations about mates are always right, so I did some work and she will find her mate as soon as she comes out

The Cauldron: She will? That's nice, they usually have to put a lot of work for it. Who's it gonna be? Cassian? Tamlin? Azriel?

The Mother: Not Cassian, he already has a mate.

The Cauldron: Right, I forgot. Tamlin?

The Mother: No, I have something else in store for him.

The Cauldron: Then...Azriel? He's been waiting for 500 years.

The Mother: no, no. Not him. That would be more toxic than Hybern.

The Cauldron: so whom? And if you say the King of Hybern I will open up and swallow this universe-

The Mother: Calm down, not him. I was thinking about a handsome red head with a russet eye and fire in his blood...

The Cauldron: ....

The Mother: what do you think?

The Cauldron: didn't he have a mate?

The Mother: I honestly don't know who gave him that impression, but no. He is mateless.

The Cauldron: well, that ought to mess him up. Angst, fluff...I mean, it could work?

The Mother: Right? She can braid flowers into his hair...

The Cauldron: And he can bring her to the continent...

The Mother: and she can go to spring...

The Cauldron: And she is a flower so she needs sunshine...

The Mother: yeah, and he is the heir of day...

The Cauldron: I see it working.

The Mother: Right? The fox and the faun

The Cauldron: The spell breaker and the seer...I like it. I see the plot

The Mother: yeah, impossible to miss the clear signs

The Cauldron: Yeah, they're made for each other. Here comes Elain!

The Mother: okay, to your position. We have a story to start!

So I found this on the news and what bothers me is the fact that they banned milk and honey because it's "indicent" as if a book of poems is the problem and not their toxic mentality and ACOTAR? A book that presents characters development and complex trauma? Like? Is Utah okay? Full article down

https://amp.theguardian.com/books/article/2024/aug/07/utah-outlaws-books-by-judy-blume-and-sarah-j-maas-in-first-statewide-ban

me waiting for Sarah's announcement

I haven’t painted a fanart in ages, what a nice feeling to paint something that I don’t have to!

Elain is wearing Lucien’s shirt. And his pearl earrings. 

I love them your honor. 

i think about this often… this right here

is very interesting when you look back at this

About a possible Gwyn/Rhys friendship...

I mean, they do have a lot in common and could totally be friends...but hear me out:

✨ a Lucien and Gwyn friendship ✨

They would be wonderfully chaotic together and I'm here for it.

Firstly, they have so many similarities and even though this applies to Gwyn and Rhys as well, I don't know if they could relate completely, not like Gwyn and Lucien. I mean, who could relate more to the feeling of having a loved one executed in front of them? Of feeling extremely guilty about it? Of losing everything they knew as family and home and having to move to a foreign court/city?

And then, I'm dying to see their sexy-chaotic-sarcastic redhead duo dynamic. Just imagine those interactions:

"Don't talk to me about mating bonds. You were oblivious of yours for 4 years"

"You didn't even know who your father was!"

"Like you know who is yours!!"

"At least I never stood one foot away from him thinking 'Wow we really look alike'"

"Oh shush"

And imagine the We're-not-really-a-part-of-the-inner-circle-but-we-still-need-to-participate-in-dinner-gatherings-because-of-mates gossip sessions. Lucien judging everyone's outfits and moms and Gwyn being too polite to comment but silently agreeing with everything, even more so when it comes to her fashion-wreck of a mate ("I already told this overgrown bat he would look amazing in white but he simply refuses to wear anything other than black" "hide his clothes 😌"). Emerie can join the group and they become the "Outer Trio" (as in opposition to "Inner Circle").

Oh, and if Azriel or Elain lose them from sight for more than 1 minute, there's chaos. Like "Oh dear Mother we lost our fire-starting Autumn Court offspring of mates, Gods protect this city" type of chaos. In the end, Gwyn was simply showing Lucien the new Valkyrie techniques she found and asking if she could bore some books from Day.

And I may have gone overboard with this. Sorry not sorry.