Did I Just Get Back To Service And Wifi After Months Of Work Travel With Sporadic Cell Signal At Best

Did I just get back to service and wifi after months of work travel with sporadic cell signal at best (after being LIED to that there was both cell signal and wifi available)?

Yes.

Did I plan for it to happen right before Elucien Week and Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)? (And also missed half of the Rise of the Pink Ladies that’s now apparently just gone?)

No, but I’m certainly not complaining (except for ROTPL. I am complaining about that. Bitterly). Let’s goooooooo!

Also, I missed this and everyone here and all the people I follow. 💖💖

Get ready for a bunch of reblogs.

Ah!!!!! they’re so precious!!!!

For Day 7 (AU), I wanted to commission something for the friends I've made since joining the ACOTAR fandom. Who would have known liking one little ship would result in meeting some of my best friends? What we've created in Unhinged Bookclub is so special to me, and I am so endlessly grateful for all of you.

This piece is in collaboration with @areyoudreaminof and her fic, I'll Take You To The Boba Shop

It was also drawn by at zolyna_ who is possibly one of the nicest people I've ever met

@elucienweekofficial

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.

DAY 3: SUNSHINE - ELAIN & LUCIEN

@elucienweekofficial

A little moodboard for today's theme, hope you'll enjoy it!

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 just KNOW that this is going to WRECK me.

The Fire Won't Burn Me

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

for @elucienweekofficial

Summary: Princess Elain Archeron wants nothing more than to be reunited with her missing youngest sister and to see her father finally emerge from the fog of grief he's been living under since her mother died. When her step mother arranges for her older sister to fetch her youngest to celebrate Elain's impending engagement to a neighboring prince, it seems like she'll get her wish. That is, until her father's fearsome huntsman steps in and wrecks it all. Now she's on the run, hiding in the forest to keep herself- and her heart- intact.

In her quest to understand why someone would want her heart carved from her chest, Elain will have to reconcile what it means to truly be the fairest of them all

Read on AO3

Prologue:

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all? 

Elain was nine years old when her mother died. She hadn’t known she was sick until the bells began ringing. Nesta scooped up little Feyre, only six at the time, eyes wide with surprise. Elain trotted after her, hands fisting her skirt. Stepping into the warm spring air, the three of them looked upward at the black spires of the palace they lived in, stretching like spider fingers toward the cloudless sky.  

Their father’s cry of anguish told them the truth. Eleven year old Nesta had hurried them inside. Shoulders squared, spine straight, she told them what would happen next.

“We need to stay out of everyone’s way,” she began, her severe gaze wholly on Feyre. Feyre wiggled from the little bench at the piano in Nesta’s room, already bored. “Everyone will be wondering what father means to do with us. If we are very good, he will let us stay.”

“Why would he send us away?” Elain demanded. Their father loved them. He said so every night when he came to her room to read her a story and give her a kiss. 

But Nesta was older and smarter and if she was worried, Elain thought maybe she was right to be. Elain reached for Feyre’s little hand, pulling her closer. “We can be good.” Nesta’s smile told Elain she didn’t think that was true. 

They tried, though. For three years oh how the little princesses tried. Nesta took to harassing their father into managing the small kingdom they occupied while Elain began learning all the duties her mother had once done. All Feyre was responsible for was her education, a thing made impossible when the tutors stopped coming.

Too unmanageable.

Unladylike.

A little monster.

Their father didn’t care. He didn’t care his youngest daughter wasn’t getting an education or that their kingdom was on the verge of bankruptcy. War had broken out on the border and by the time Elain was twelve, there were talks of marrying off Nesta to solve their problems. 

No one wanted a poor princess as a wife. Many, many offers were made for her—but none of them in good faith. Elain learned, right then, that the only way they were going to survive would be to stick together.

To take care of each other. 

Stick together, Nesta would say before grabbing both their hands and marching them to see their father. They only needed each other. And that was never truer than when their father announced he would remarry for the sake of the kingdom. It wouldn’t be love—his only love, his true love, had been buried years before.

This was for security. To give his daughters a future, he picked an incredibly beautiful women from the northern reaches of their world. Elain had been mesmerized the first time she’d seen her. Her hair was like ruby silk, her eyes the most stunning shade of brown, her skin unmarred alabaster. She’d walked to the three of them, pausing when she saw Elain.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she’d cooed before moving on with her train of ladies. 

“I like her,” Elain had whispered, squeezing Nesta’s hand. Nesta hadn’t responded. Feyre did, though.

“Well, I don’t,” she’d whispered. Nesta’s answering sigh had said enough. 

And in the end, Feyre and Nesta had been right. 

Present day:

Elain moved through the empty palace halls, skirts gathered in her hands. She missed the courtiers who had once crowded around, gossiping and sharing news of the kingdom. Elain missed the servants, too—nearly all of them had been dismissed. For the life of her, Elain could not figure out why. Only that her step-mother deemed it unnecessary and her father was too lost in the past to argue.

A lot of things had changed in the twelve years since her mother had died. Feyre was gone—and neither Elain nor Nesta could figure out where, exactly, she’d been sent. Only that ten years ago, when Feyre was nine, their step mother had informed them all Feyre could not read. That was news to Elain, though in retrospect why was she surprised? Their father had forgotten Feyre’s education and the tutors had left long before their step-mother ever arrived.

They’d spent ten years trying to track Feyre down. The only clue they had was Feyre was somewhere out by the wall, a mysterious place far, far beyond the borders of their own home. The wall separated the Illyrian Mountains and the Velarian woods from the rest of civilization. Monsters were said to roam, and if that was true, Elain couldn’t understand why a princess would ever be sent out there. 

Their father didn’t care. He wasn’t at the breakfast table when Elain arrived, though both Nesta and their step-mother were. They both looked at her when she entered though Elain kept her eyes on her slippered feet.

“Mother,” she said, ignoring the hiss of air that escaped Nesta. “Sister.”

“Did you sleep well?” 

Elain sat politely, sliding her skirts beneath her legs. “Thank you for asking. I did.”

Elain dared a look at Nesta, straight-backed as ever. Something Elain didn’t recognize flashed over Nesta’s pretty features, smoothed into placid nothing when their step mother began speaking again.

“I have two pieces of good news. Which would you like to hear first?”

“How could we possibly differentiate between them?” Nesta snapped. Elain said nothing at all, didn’t dare react. This was a familiar showdown between her sister and her faux mother. Their step-mother narrowed those cerulean eyes, brushing a piece of blonde hair from her face. She was still impossibly beautiful. Elain had always admired her. Time had begun to show, lining the severe frown of her perfect lips and creasing just beneath her lids. Elain had heard her screaming in front of a mirror months earlier over several silver strands of hair. She was dedicated to her looks and sometimes Elain wondered if she didn’t feel that way because of how little attention their father paid her.

“Your sister, Feyre, can receive one visitor–”

“I’m going,” Nesta said before Elain could volunteer. Elain spread jam over a burned piece of toast, thinking she never would have been allowed, anyway. Their step mother offered a rare smile.

“Yes, I thought you might say that. Of course, if you do go, you’ll miss Elain’s engagement.”

“Engagement?” Elain interrupted. That was news to her. “To who?”

“Prince Graysen of Lyonesse. Your father signed the treaty just last night. Did he not tell you?”

A cheshire’s smile told Elain she knew damn well their father had said nothing. “What is he like?”

“I’m told he’s exceptionally handsome,” she began, gritting out the words as though it pained her. Elain’s beauty had become contentious of the years. No longer did she coo that Elain was a pretty little girl. Now she looked at Elain like competition. Like Elain had stolen something from her. And no matter how often Elain wished she was less, nothing changed. Every year she became prettier and every year her step-mother became angrier. 

Elain supposed she ought to be grateful for this arranged marriage. She wouldn’t have to watch her father mope through the rest of his life. Sometimes Elain wished he’d died, too. That he could have followed their mother and Nesta had been made regent. 

“Is he kind?” Elain asked. That was all that mattered to her. She wanted love like her parents had before her mother died.

Nesta exhaled softly as their step-mother shrugged. “How would I know that? You should be grateful, Elain. Prince Graysen is far younger than all the other suitors your father considered.” More news that Elain had been unaware of. 

“When is the wedding?” Nesta interrupted, clearly trying to work out just how long she could be away.

“Six months from now,” their step-mother replied. “In the spring.”

There was time to get to know him, then. Time to figure the whole thing out, to make the best of it. Elain had been afraid it would happen in the next week and she’d be completely alone. Nesta, too, seemed to relax at the news. She’d get Feyre and bring her back and Elain would stay and try and wake their father from his endless melancholy. She didn’t need to speak to Nesta to know that’s what Nesta’s plan was. 

Elain offered their step-mother a smile. “Thank you for this. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

Her answering sneer made Elain wilt. “No trouble at all,” she replied, her tone very much implying it had been immensely troubling. The meal became unbearably silent, the three of them eating until their step-mother made a comment about Nesta’s weight that sent both sisters scurrying from the table.

“Even if the weather is rough,” Nesta began the mere second they were out of ear shot, “I won’t be gone longer than three months. That’s enough time to hold on, right?”

“What do you imagine is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Nesta admitted. “I’ve heard of Prince Graysen. People say he’s very nice.”

“And handsome?” Elain teased, bumping Nesta in the shoulder. 

“If you care about that,” Nesta replied, unwilling to take the bait. Of course Elain cared—Nesta did, too, though she’d never admit it. “I wonder why you…”

Why not me?

Elain offered Nesta a strained smile. “I’m sure she’s working something out for you as well.”

And that was the problem, because Nesta ought to have been first. The grimace on her older sister's face told Elain she wouldn’t accept an arranged marriage, regardless of how perfect that man might be for her. It could have been true love and Nesta would have rejected the entire thing on principle. Elain was the safer option. 

“Do you think this is about money again?” Elain dared to ask, following Nesta up a winding set of dark marble stairs. Nesta was going to the library again, leaving Elain to amuse herself once they reached those carved, oak doors.

“I think she just wants us out of her way. She’ll marry you, and then myself and Feyre and she’ll have this miserable palace all to herself.”

“Just promise you’ll be careful,” Elain urged, reaching for Nesta’s arm at the top of the stairs. “And you’ll bring Feyre home.”

Nesta rolled her eyes just like she always did in moments when

Elain’s worries were vocalized. “Of course I will.”

Elain remained at the top of the stairs, framed in a shaft of gray sunlight as her sister strode away. Imperious and self-assured as ever. Elain wished she had even an ounce of Nesta’s self-assurance. She didn’t, though. And Elain was afraid of what would happen when her sister was gone and she was left all alone with nothing but the ghost of her father. 

Elain wandered toward the garden, well-aware no amount of digging and de-weeding would save it from the ravages of winter. Autumn was upon them, bringing jewel bright leaves from the forest just beyond the garden. Elain was forbidden from going outside the gates of the palace—she’d never even seen the village at the very bottom of the hill. Sometimes Elain imagined strolling through the wrought iron just to see if there were truly as many wolves as her father had once claimed.

A bluebird trilled from a nearby branch, drawing a smile from her. Lifting a finger, Elain waited until the creature fluttered from the branch it had been hiding on before perching on her finger. Elain whistled softly, a little tune her father had once hummed to her when she’d been a child. Cocking its blue feathered head, the bird chirped right back. She might have sang to the creature all day had someone not cleared their throat. The sound caused her to jump, startling the bird back into the treetops overhead. 

Turning, Elain found her fathers huntsman—Lucien. He stood just outside a dying trellis of winding pink and purple lilies, his back facing her. He worked for her father technically, though the last time she’d seen him, he’d been reporting to her step-mother. He was a huntsman, or so they said. What he truly did with that sword hanging at the heavy brown belt slung over his hips, or with the knife strapped against his powerful thigh, Elain didn’t think she wanted to know. 

The wind caught his tied off auburn hair, blowing strands over a broad shoulder. She stepped closer, uncomfortable with his proximity. It was the way he never smiled, she supposed…or that trio of scars raking over one of his admittedly pretty russet brown eyes. He glanced over as Elain slipped past, murmuring, “Princess,” with a respectful bow of his head. Elain didn’t acknowledge him at all. And when she turned back to see if he was still watching, Lucien had vanished seemingly into thin air. She ought to have relaxed.

But Elain swore she could feel eyes on her. 

Watching her every move. 

–

Nesta set off the next morning. Their father managed to rouse himself from whatever stupor he’d been in to see her off. Standing hunched beside his beautiful wife, Elain thought time was being particularly cruel to him. He seemed twice as old as he was, his hair more gray than brown. Dull eyes stared at Nesta in her riding clothes as the remaining servants helped her load up her things and get into the saddle.

“I’ll be home by solstice,” she promised, not bothering to look or speak to anyone but Elain. “I’ll send word when I arrive.”

“We’ll miss you terribly, sweet Nesta,” their step-mother crooned. “Do hurry back.”

Elain wondered if their father ever looked at Nesta and saw his late wife. Of the three of them, Nesta favored her the most. She might have been alive in Nesta’s silvery blue gaze or the way she pressed her lips together. Nesta bit her tongue, swallowing whatever it was she wanted to say.

Elain knew it would be a week of hard traveling if Nesta wanted to reach the wall. A rolled up map, tucked beneath Nesta’s arm, was the only proof Feyre existed at all.

“Be safe,” Elain said impulsively, stepping from the stone to grab Nesta’s slim calf. She stopped herself at the last minute, only because she’d been about to beg her older sister not to leave her. It would have been a humiliation too great for either of them to bear.

Nesta nodded her head and then she was off, riding down the long, smooth drive on that coal colored horse. Elain wished she was leaving, too. Her eyes found the forest in the distance, with treetops so dense they seemed to form a blanket of orange, yellow, red and greens. Nesta would have to pass through that forest in order to find Feyre.

Nesta was brave enough to risk it. But Elain was not, and so she allowed her step-mother to loop her arm through her own. 

“Are you terribly excited for the prince's arrival?”

No. “Yes,” she said, smiling brightly. Her father barely reacted at all to her presence, though he fell into step beside her. Elain wanted to shake him. Wake up! We still need you! 

She’d read stories of kings who fell under spells, who needed nothing more than a kiss from their true love to come back to life. Elain had tried once, kissing her father as he sat in his chair. Gently, on the cheek, as she wished for him to be the man he’d once been. But his true love was dead and his spell was merely grief. There was no bringing him back. 

“I have everything planned out,” her step-mother pulled Elain from her thoughts. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“You’re so kind,” Elain told her, making a point to look her in the eyes. “I’m so grateful for this.”

There, just behind her painted black lashes, was that look of hatred Elain swore she saw from time to time. The nicer Elain tried to be, the more often she saw that look. 

“Anything for you,” her step-mother replied, a forced smile on her beautiful face. Elain left her then, hand on her fathers back as she led him further into the palace. Elain wondered if it bothered her, not having an heir. She’d only ever be consort—not even queen. That title was reserved for Nesta, passed down and promised by her mother when they’d been children.

Her father could have made his new wife his queen, which would have disinherited his three older daughters. And in the preceding months after his marriage, all three of them had expected that. 

He never had. For all his faults and failings, he’d ensured that Nesta would one day ascend, her husband a mere king's consort. Maybe that was why their step-mother was so reluctant to marry Nesta off. Their father was likely to abdicate in favor of Nesta, who was more than capable, especially if a continuation of their line was assured.

For all her beauty, for all her vivacious smiles and too-tight dresses, Elain’s stepmother had never once given their father the one thing he needed in order to secure her future—a child. And Elain knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when Feyre and Nesta returned, it would be to bury her for good.

Elain would continue with her engagement. In this war, there was no place for her. She was simply too soft-hearted to endure the constant fighting. Elain was equally unwilling to watch her father slowly march toward the grave. She wanted an escape. If Graysen was offering her a new home in a place filled with real people rather than memories, Elain would take it.

Anything was better than the constant silence. 

—

Prince Graysen arrived three days after Nesta left. Elain had been going a little stir crazy by then. Her stepmother had brought staff back into the palace with almost gleeful abandon. It was nice to not have to worry about drawing her own bath or restarting her own fireplace in the evenings—and Elain couldn’t pretend she didn’t appreciate the help dressing that morning. Elain was put in a gown of rich, cobalt blue—the colors of her soon-to-be fiance's crest. Her hair was woven around pretty white flowers and curled carefully under the watchful eye of her stepmother's new servants. 

“Is there anything I should know?” Elain asked one of the silent women. No one spoke to her, though she thought their eyes were filled with pity. With no one to guide her and no one she could lean on for support, Elain made her way toward the grand dining hall they’d once used to host her mothers lavish parties. It was strange to see the tables made up again, draped in shimmering white. The windows had been thrown open, allowing golden, autumn sunlight to stream against the immaculate ivory. 

Elain paused just outside the doors, ignoring the sound of her stepmother's delighted laughter in favor of looking at a family portrait still hanging just outside the door. She’d been so beautiful. So happy, too, if the soft smile on her face was an indicator. Elain didn’t linger, though she wanted to. Her stepmother’s raucous giggling drew her curiosity. Was the prince truly so funny? That was a good sign, she decided. If he had a sense of humor it was possible he was also a good conversationalist. And perhaps all that meant he was kind, too. 

Inside, she found her stepmother seated in her fathers usual chair, holding court with the retinue Graysen had brought with him. Graysen, she realized, was just at her stepmother's right. And he was handsome. Oh, but he was lovely with warm, brown eyes and hair that glinted gold in the sunlight. His skin was tanned and when he saw her come into the room, he stood, betraying him as tall and muscular.

“Princess,” he breathed, a smile gracing his face. One cheek dimpled quite sweetly, causing her heart to race. “I’d heard tales of your beauty, but to see it in person is quite different.” Elain didn’t know what to say to that. 

Elain didn’t know what drew her eyes to her stepmother. Far from smiling, she looked furious. Her rage was out in full force for reasons Elain couldn’t discern. Had something happened? Was she merely placating the prince until they were alone and could explain why he was a bad match? Elain was stiff when the prince approached, falling to one knee in front of her. With reverence, he took her hand and pressed a soft kiss along the back.

“How lovely to finally meet you, future wife.”

Elain curtseyed, eyes drifting toward her angry stepmother watching the scene. Elain had a flash of memory—of her father’s very public marriage to her stepmother…and how he’d forgotten her name up at the altar. The crushing disappointment that etched itself over her lovely face, smoothed out as she reminded him her name was, in fact, Amarantha. 

Elain looked back at Graysen, heart thudding for an entirely different reason. Anxiety flooded through her chest, threatening to drown her as she realized it wasn’t that Graysen was a bad choice—but merely her stepmother’s jealousy that Elain was getting what she did not. 

“Please stand,” Elain urged him, giving the prince her full attention. “You don’t have to kneel.”

Graysen did, his expression earnest. He didn’t drop her hand, though. Not until one of his courtiers began giggling softly in the background.

“How lovely that the prince is so taken,” someone commented, pulling the two of them apart.

“Who knew the princess would be so beautiful,” came another whispered voice. 

“Yes,” her stepmother said, rising from her chair. “Our Elain is quite pretty, isn’t she?”

Somehow, when her stepmother said those words, it sounded like an insult. Elain suddenly missed Nesta, who was still tracking down Feyre at whatever school she’d been sent to. Nesta would know how to handle this, what to say to stop the whole thing. 

Elain didn’t, though. So she smiled, pretending her stepmother paid her nothing but compliments. 

“It must run in the family,” Graysen began, though he didn’t take his eyes off Elain.

“She’s only my stepmother,” Elain blurted out. The room went silent under the implication of Elain’s words. Elain didn’t dare turn. Didn’t dare move, even when her stepmother's blood red nails gripped her shoulder. 

“Come,” her stepmother murmured, squeezing so tight Elain whimpered. Graysen didn’t notice which was a small mercy. Elain wondered if she’d be punished for what she said once everyone was gone. “Let me show you Elain’s garden.”

Elain dared to take a breath when Graysen laced his fingers through her own. “Well, my lady. Lead the way.”

LUCIEN:

Being summoned by the would-be queen was the bane of Lucien Vanserra’s existence. He worked for the king, not his obnoxious, meddling wife. In the years since the queen had died, Amarantha had taken over most of his affairs. And that included Lucien. In exchange for safety within King Archeron’s realm, Lucien was bound to his every whim. He’d been young when his mothers infidelity had been revealed—little more than a boy when he’d fled to avoid being killed. 

No longer a prince, but a huntsman who kept the forest cleared of poachers. Lately, though, he’d been summoned for more personal jobs. Threats to the regime, to the queen herself. Lucien hated her—hated her vanity, how she couldn’t take her eyes off her own reflection. Her obsession with her appearance, with being young. She couldn’t go five minutes without requiring some amount of self-assurance.

“There you are,” she said when Lucien stepped into her private chambers. “Tell me, what do you think of this shade of purple?”

Ugly, he wanted to say. She was a beautiful woman, he supposed, made ugly by how vain and self-obsessed she was. There was no use in being truthful. Not when his life hung in the balance. So he smiled, swept into an easy bow, and replied, “Stunning as always, my lady.” She didn’t look at him as she reached for her hairbrush, pulling at the strands of her ruby colored hair. 

“You swore once that you would do anything required of you to keep this kingdom safe.”

“Yes.” That was true. 

“I need you to take Princess Elain out into the forest,” she began, her eyes glittering. “I want you to bring me back her heart.”

Lucien paused. “Her heart, my lady?”

Amarantha turned, her smile twisting her face into something truly wretched. “Yes, huntsman. Her heart. I require it—”

“For what?” Lucien demanded. He barely knew the princess but she seemed harmless enough. Engaged, if the rumors were true. Amarantha would have had a hand in that given how distracted her father was. She’d be gone in a matter of months—Lucien had heard that the prince was quite taken with his soon-to-be wife. 

“Since when does the kings favored huntsman ask questions when given a command?”

Lucien didn’t bother to mention she’d never asked him to carve out someone's heart before, either. 

“Fine,” he said. What did it matter, in the long run? The princess was nothing to him, but disobeying risked being sent back to Beron where he’d be executed. The princess was nothing to him. If the queen wanted her heart—and Lucien suspected she wanted it for something perverse—that was no business of his.

“Good man,” Amarantha purred, turning back to her reflection. “Take her out close to sunset. I’ll tell her betrothed she ran away.”

“And how am I supposed to convince the princess to follow me into the woods?” Lucien demanded through gritted teeth.

“You’re resourceful. Figure it out.”

Great. With a final bow, Lucien extricated himself from her bedroom and the cloying, perfumed smell she wore. Lucien made his way toward the palace gates, encountering more servants than he’d seen since before the queen had died. He supposed that was in response to the foreign prince. Couldn’t let him know just how poor they were. Lucien knew the marriage between the king and his new wife had been somewhat fraudulent. She didn’t have as much money as her family had promised.

If they’d been smart, they would have married off Nesta the minute she turned eighteen. Smarter, to let Elain go through with her marriage to a prince so smitten he’d overlook what Lucien imagined was a very small dowry. Amarantha wasn’t smart, though, and the king was still lost to grief, the likes of which he was never going to recover from.

Which left Lucien to stalk through the garden like a wolf, looking for the trembling fawn that would be his prey. Elain sat on a crumbling marble bench, eyes glassy as she stared out into the distance. All he needed was a lie to lure her out. 

“Princess,” he began, bowing at the waist. What had she done, he wondered? What horrific offense had been committed? She turned to look at him, stalling the very breath in his chest. He’d never truly looked at her, but here, framed by the golden light of late afternoon, he was certain Elain was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The memory of her voice whistling to a bird in the garden floated through his memory. Lucien was quick to banish it. 

“Lord Lucien,” she murmured, averting wide, brown eyes quickly.

Ignoring the way his gut tightened, Lucien took a breath. She must be awful, he told himself. Why else would the queen want her heart? It was too personal, the sort of trophy one took from a hated enemy.

“Lucien is perfectly fine,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “I…”

Elain turned again, a loose curl falling over her shoulder. She was lovely in that amethyst dress. His chest restricted a second time—not because she’d called him lord, but because it seemed criminal to defile her in any way. For a moment, Lucien felt revenant, an acolyte meeting a god for the  very first time. Touching her would be holy—and forbidden. 

“It’s your sister,” he lied, scrambling to think of what he knew about Elain. She and her sisters had been close—he’d often seen them together talking quietly, heads pressed together. “She is injured in the woods. I can’t convince her to return home with me but perhaps you…”

“Nesta?” Elain asked, rising quickly to her feet. It was horrific how easy it was to lure her out of the palace. 

“Yes,” he lied, fingers brushing the knife strapped against his thigh. “Will you come with me? She’s not far from here. Thrown, I think, from a horse.”

“Oh, gods,” Elain breathed. Lucien kept waiting for the mask to slip—for some hint of the evil that lay behind her beautiful face. Why else would the queen want her to die? The princess was to be married, and would leave in five short months. 

No, it must be treason, he told himself. Something so heinously unforgivable that this was the only path forward. And Lucien did as he was told, regardless of his personal feelings. If the queen wanted the princesses heart, Lucien would deliver it to her. 

“It’s easier and faster to set out on foot,” he lied. It would have been faster to set out with a horse, especially if there was an injured woman involved. Elain didn’t know any better. 

“Can you carry her?” Elain questioned, looking him over. Lucien scoffed.

“Of course I can.”

She raised her palms defensively. “I wasn’t…I just…if it's a far walk, I just thought…” 

Her cheeks bloomed pink from her embarrassment while Lucien felt guilty. Where was the monster? He wanted to see some hint of whatever had offended Amarantha so unreasonably that she’d order the king's favorite daughter executed. 

“I can manage it.”

“Nesta can be…difficult, especially if she’s scared,” Elain tried to explain earnestly, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep up with him. Lucien took a breath of crisp air, trying to steady himself. She was trusting, which would make everything easier. Lucien led her through the garden, curious now.

“Difficult?”

Elain nodded, tucking hair behind her ears. “She means well. She just…doesn’t trust easily.”

“And you do?”

Red crawled up her neck. “I…”

Lucien forced himself to smile. “Relax, princess. I’m only giving you trouble.”

Elain’s shoulders relaxed, though some of the bounciness in her step faded. Lucien pulled open the gate at the far end of the dying garden, revealing the stone path that would fade to dirt once they reached the edge of the forest. Elain hesitated.

“I’ve never been allowed to leave before,” she admitted, biting her bottom lip. 

He felt like a miserable bastard as he said, “Consider it practice for your new husband.”

Elain swallowed and then followed him out, letting the gate swing closed behind her. She smiled, unaware of how the sight eroded a little more of his confidence. He could figure it out, he told himself desperately. He could untease it simply by asking careful questions.

“So,” he began, hands fisted at his sides, “are you excited to leave?”

“Um,” she began, toying with the strands of her hair. “I suppose I am. I’m looking forward to having someone to talk to again.”

“What about your sisters?”

Lucien knew very little about the royal family, mainly by choice. He didn’t want to be involved in their lives nor did he want to draw attention to the fact that he was, technically, still a prince of a neighboring kingdom. Beron likely thought him dead—and Lucien very much wanted to keep it that way. 

“Feyre had been gone for so long…and Nesta is…” she bit her bottom lip again. “They just prefer solitude. I miss having friends.”

She was strangely pathetic. Another surge of pity speared in his gut as Lucien realized they shared this in common. He missed having friends, too. Missed his home and just feeling like he belonged somewhere. 

“Well, that’ll change soon, right?”

Elain sighed softly. “I suppose. The prince is kind, he just—” She cut herself off, looking up at him as if she’d just remembered who he was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“No, please. He just, what?”

“He just thinks I’m beautiful,” she mumbled, her whole face the shade of a tomato. It was at that moment they passed into the forest, leaving the palace in the distance. His knife against his thigh was heavy, weighing him down like rocks tied to his ankles. 

“You disagree with him?” 

Lucien didn’t. Elain was beautiful—you’d have to be blind not to see it. 

Her eyes cast toward the leaf strewn ground, kicking them up like confetti. “No, I guess not. I just…hoped…for more than that.”

“What else is there?” he asked stupidly. Shadows covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible in the remaining shafts of light peeking from the treetops. 

“Friendship,” she said quickly, her words heavy. “Love.”

Lucien didn’t know what to say to that. Silent, he let her continue.

“My parents had that before my mother died. I guess I was hoping…”

Overhead, far in the distance, thunder rumbled. It was as if the very gods themselves were watching things play out between them and warning him to stay his hand. Lucien didn’t understand and he knew, without a doubt, that if she returned home the queen would merely find someone else to carry out this task. There were plenty of people who wouldn’t be moved by Elain’s beautiful face. 

“Your father has that with your stepmother, does he not?”

She scoffed, kicking more leaves into the air. “No. He chose her out of duty, not love, and I feel so badly for her. She must be lonely, too.”

Lucien opened his mouth only to close it again. 

“I’m sure once things get settled and he becomes accustomed to me, I’ll learn more about him,” Elain continued, blithely unaware of what was happening. Lucien needed to figure something out and get her far, far from the palace. While Elain continued speaking, he began scanning the forest for anything that might help.

Deer, he decided, noting telltale marks on the trees. He’d carve out a deer heart and present it to Amarantha. She wouldn’t know the difference. Elain would have to give up her engagement and her home, but at least she’d still have her life.

Lucien had a sinking, sick suspicion why Amarantha wanted her dead. Not because Elain was a monster…but because Elain was beautiful. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but nothing else made sense to him. That was nothing to die over. Especially when it was clear she valued her own looks so little in comparison to things like friendship and kindness. 

All he had to do was scare her a little. 

“Where did you say my sister was?” Elain asked when the silenced stretched too thin between them. Lucien reached for the knife strapped to his thigh, twirling it aimlessly in his hand. 

“Will you answer me something, first?”

Elain was looking only at that blade, dull in the rapidly falling dark of the forest. The scent of rain wafted through the trees. A storm would hide her tracks. Lucien could say he left her body in the river knowing anything would be washed out to sea. 

“Lucien–”

“Why does the queen want you dead?”

Elain froze. “What?”

“What did you do, princess? Why did she ask me to cut out your heart?”

Elain scrambled away from him but Lucien was quicker. Grabbing her by the arm, he shoved her against a tree. “Tell me,” he demanded. He just needed to know the truth—needed to know if he was right. 

“I don’t know,” Elain whispered, blinking rapidly as tears began to slide down her face. “Please, I—”

“I think she’s jealous of you, princess. I think you’re about to get the life she wanted and she can’t stand to see you happy.”

“Lucien, please,” she whispered, fighting against his arm pressed just beneath her collarbone. “Please—”

“You’re going to run,” he said, lowering his mouth so only she could hear him. “And you’re never coming back. Do you understand me?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I—”

“If I find you, I’ll kill you,” he lied. If she returned, Lucien knew it would be he who died. He could no sooner bring that blade down on her than he could do it to himself. Elain swallowed, nodding her head. Tears clung to her long lashes, glittering before those wide, gold flecked eyes. He wanted to kiss them away.

Lucien stepped far from her, still holding that knife.

“Go,” he ordered.

And to her credit, princess Elain turned her back and fled.