I AM BEING SO TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT THIS

I AM BEING SO TOTALLY NORMAL ABOUT THIS

Violence Against Nature

Summary: After six centuries of living, Eris Vanserra is convinced he's the most dangerous thing prowling the streets of Velaris.

Of course, humanity always finds a way

CW: SO MUCH BLOOD

Read on AO3

-

“And remember to stay safe when traveling alone at night—”

Arina stepped outside in the inky November evening, silencing the sound of the television from behind her. Velaris was about to be blanketed in snow which ought to have been exciting were it not for the murders. 

A serial killer was on the loose—or so the news said. The ninth street killer. Dubbed because three of the seven people found were found on ninth street. Arina wasn’t convinced they needed to be named after that street—after all, ninth street ran the length of Velaris, and all three bodies stretched across the city rather than being heaped in one place.

But the journalists seemed pleased with it, which she supposed was all that mattered. Arina didn’t want to know a lot about it, truthfully. Dead women—because of course the ninth street killer only targeted women—sold papers and kept televisions on. These women were young, beautiful, and always alone. Easy targets, journalists would say, their lips twisting with a grim frown. How often had they practiced it in the mirror?

Arina, like so many others living in Velaris, didn’t have the luxury of calling cabs or a boyfriend picking her up. She’s just broken up with him after one too many late nights at god knew where, reeking of puke as he stumbled in. She was tired of hearing the washing machine going at four am, noisy in her cheap walk-up because she couldn’t afford something nicer and Jack didn’t want her to know he’d been out. 

Again.

After finding a pair of earrings in his pocket, Arina had made him leave. It was too insulting to be cheated on again, though she supposed that was what she got for forgiving him the first time. How long, she wondered, before another hey girlie message pinged on her phone? At least this time she could say they weren’t together. She’d deleted all mention of him off her socials hoping no one would track her down. 

Jack had left his up. She doubted he even remembered that stupid instagram account—the one she’d made for him two years before when she wanted people to know he was with her. That smiling profile picture, her lips on his cheek, eyes scrunched shut to ward off the blinding sun. The winery, maroon liquid sloshed over his khaki pants while she tilted her head back, laughing silently at the cloudless sky. Christmas, Arina sitting cross legged on the floor in white pajama pants dotted with little christmas presents as she held up tickets to Ireland they never got to take.

Peering through the window of her life, she looked happy. They seemed perfect. But the cracks had formed long before she made that account. The late nights, the perfume staining his skin. Scratches down his back, bite marks on his biceps. 

Hey girlie. You don’t me, but—

She kept forgiving. Turning a blind eye. Pretending she didn’t see those long strands of hair in his car, that she couldn’t see the trace of lipstick staining the corner of his mouth. Arina didn’t know what had changed for her. It was like one morning she finally saw beyond Jack’s easy, all American good looks and found the rot beneath. He was no longer handsome and she no longer wanted to look at him, talk to him, touch him.

He’d left without a whole lot of fuss, taking a duffle bag of his things and leaving the rest behind so he could trickle move out while trying to convince her to give him one last chance. Her lease was up in two months, and Arina didn’t intend to stay. She’d leave Jack’s things behind and pick some other crappy, cheap apartment on the opposite end of the city and hope they never ran into each other.

She’d just gotten a good job at the museum and was hoping she’d be able to convince a leasing office to let her move somewhere with a doorman. Somewhere with locks that actually worked and leadless paint. 

But that night, all Arina needed to do was get to the underground and get home, which involved crossing the dreaded ninth street. Sliding her fingers through her key ring, Arina turned the music off on her phone though left her earbuds in so it seemed as if she were just another woman walking. No one who wanted to talk to her would bother her but she’d still hear everything going on around her. 

No one was around save for the cars flying through rain slicked streets, leaving the overhead traffic lights to twinkle brightly, drowning out any starlight that might be had. She waited at the crosswalk, wondering how a person managed to kill seven people without being noticed. They were messy, brutal kills using knives and in one case, strangulation. A million theories abounded. He picked them up somewhere else before dropping them off, or he waited until the city finally went to sleep. Even the police wouldn’t comment on it.

If they knew anything substantial at all. Arina wasn’t convinced they did, and even though she didn’t like true crime as a genre, she did know that oftentimes, serial killers were caught through sheer luck and not any true detective work or skill. That didn’t make her feel good, even if the odds of her being chosen were so small they might as well be nothing at all.

Arina crossed the street, joining a crowd of people all making their way to the stairs underground. Nothing had happened. She relaxed, slipping her keys into her coat pocket and turned her music back on. She liked to people watch to a soundtrack, picking a seat on the train that gave her a good view of the strangers she was stuck with so she could make up stories about their lives.

It didn’t feel as good as it normally did, she supposed because she was tired after a long day of looking at eighteenth century cloth samples while wearing four inch heels. Arina was desperate to take off the black dress and heels, to wipe the makeup from her face, and eat something that needed no more attention than a couple minutes in the microwave.

She made it to her building, sliding her key into the cracked glass door before slamming it behind her so the lock would stick. It was three flights up, again in heels, lugging her beige tote on one shoulder while gripping the chipped railing for dear life.

The elevator had broken mere days before she moved in and was perpetually having maintenance done. Even if it had worked, though, she probably would have still used the stairs to avoid a tower of terror type situation. Once, in college, Arina had gotten trapped in the elevator on the eleventh floor for four hours and she never wanted to repeat that experience again.

Sliding her key into her front door, Arina noticed the light in the living room was on. Jack had come in, then. He refused to give her back the key she’d given him, and had apparently decided to come for some things and try and seduce her back into bed. It would never work—she’d faked it the whole time because she thought that was what good women did.

She was so dumb, she thought love was enough to make up for an orgasm-less life. Sighing, Arina dropped her bag on the lopsided table just outside the door but didn’t kick off her shoes. She didn’t want to try and relax while also pushing Jack out of the apartment.

“Jack,” she said with a sigh, looking at the strewn about clothes in her tiny living room. “You couldn’t…what happened to you?” He looked disheveled, blonde hair sticking up at odd angles. Dark circles bruised his pale skin beneath his eyes, betraying how little he’d been sleeping.

“Baby,” he breathed, stumbling toward her. Arina stepped back, nearly falling over the coffee table. “Baby, I’ve missed you.” “You’re not supposed to be here,” she reminded him. 

“I know you said—” he cut himself off, clearly frustrated as he dragged a hand through his messy hair. “But you’re just—you don’t understand. It was nothing.”

“It’s always nothing,” Arina snapped, frustrated he was here, high or drunk or both, trying to get her to take him back. “I’m tired of living this way.”

“I know. I know you are, but I’m so close…I’m so close to figuring it all out—”

“Please,” she interrupted, pointing at the door, “just go.”

His expression hardened. “I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t make me call the police,” she said, exasperated. Arina turned around, intending to get her bag and call someone—though she didn’t know who. She wasn’t exactly on good terms with her dad, and her best friend was currently dealing with her own messy breakup with a similarly stupid fiance. 

She didn’t register something colliding with the back of her head until her face slammed against the floor. A knee pressed against her spine as a hand ripped her hair nearly out of her scalp.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, panic flooding through her.

“Take it back,” he breathed before sinking his teeth into her earlobe. Arina cried out, jerking from the pain which only made it worse. She could feel the blood slip down her neck, saw it drip against the stained gray carpet. 

“Get off me!” she screeched, twisting beneath him. It worked a little, and her heeled foot was a decent enough weapon when she kicked him hard in the thigh. Arina scrambled only to be pulled roughly back to the floor. He hit her—twice, and hard enough her vision blurred after the second hit and her mouth filled with blood. What was happening? Jack was a liar, but he wasn’t violent. 

Except, he was. Arina was still stunned when she felt the heat slide into her side. It wasn’t painful—not at first. 

Her mind couldn’t wrap itself around what she was seeing. Jack was sobbing, snot mixing with his tears as he raised a lethal looking knife.

“Did you stab me?” she whispered. 

“This is your fault,” he sobbed, plunging the knife in her chest.

Again.

And again.

And again.

She couldn’t breathe. Arina acted on instinct, throwing her hands up only for the knife to cut through the soft flesh undeterred. She tried to fight him, but every new drag of breath was agony. She desperately wanted to close her eyes to escape. The pain eventually subsided, leaving her numb and strangely cold.

The pain returned with a vengeance when Jack lifted up her body, mumbling to himself that people would know what he’d done. He had to cover it up. Maybe they’d think she’d been attacked by the serial killer. Doubtful—Jack was stupid, and he’d never once cleaned up after himself. He’d leave her blood all over the carpet and she had his skin beneath her nails.

“I loved you,” he whispered into her ear. Arina wanted to open her eyes but she couldn’t. She didn’t know where she was, didn’t know what was happening. It felt as if she was falling.

And then she knew nothing at all.

—

Vampires shouldn’t have jobs. 

Eris was forever bitter he was forced to work in intelligence just to keep the federal government off his back. Who cared about where his money came from or how he obtained more of it? He was immortal, nearly six centuries old. He’d accumulated it the way everyone did back when he’d first lived a mortal life—by being born into generational wealth. He moved it around, kept it hidden in real estate he’d been passing down to himself like he was his own son for generations. Eris the fourteenth, or whatever his fake birth certificate said.

Still, it was fun to watch humans spin themselves in circles looking for a man in the room with them. They were only half interested in his latest little money laundering scheme given the current state of Velaris.

A serial killer was on the loose, and for once it wasn’t Eris. He’d been careful this time, wiping the memory of his victims or going underground to clubs filled with humans desperate for a glimpse of a vampire. They’d never remember—Eris knew other vampires let some humans remember, and the tales always ended up on reddit.

Eris preferred to keep things private. It was how he’d survived for as long as he had. Others had been outed and staked, and in today’s world Eris was certain he’d be locked away in some lab where they’d do tests on him until he wished he was dead.

Like everyone else in Velaris, Eris was curious about the killer. He’d been tracking the bodies on a map in his home—whoever they were, they were a coward. Overpowering young women, assaulting them, stabbing them to death, and dumping them throughout the city. It was grotesque, even by Eris’s standards. He’d never quite developed a taste for the depravity, and found human cruelty particularly disturbing. They were uncivilized at best, depraved at worst. 

Eris kept hoping to come upon him. He wandered the city at night in his expensive suit, flashing a ten thousand dollar watch and pretending to be distracted by his phone.

He’d been held up at gunpoint a few times, but never attacked. He supposed if he was younger and blonder he might have been. Still, he walked, shoes slapping against the wet pavement. He could smell blood in the air, which caught his attention just as he’d been about to think about finding himself a meal.

It could be nothing—sometimes a freshly killed animal smelled faintly human. And sometimes an open wound of someone's menstrual cycle was heavy in the air, confusing his senses. He made his way toward buildings that had seen better days toward the back alley where the dumpsters were. 

And a body. Eris’s sighed, frustrated he’d come upon a dead woman. His first thought, based on her sprawled out body, was that she must have jumped from one of the fire escapes overhead. She laid on her stomach, hands above her head as if she’d tried to break her fall. A mass of thick, blonde hair covered her face, leaving just a slim body clad in a bloody black dress and one heeled shoe cracked and broken on her broken foot.

He crouched, unable to help his curiosity. Her blood smelled fresh and he was still a predator. He assumed she was dead as he rolled her over. Eris wasn’t typically surprised by the human capacity for violence, but seeing her cut open dress and the sheer number and brutality of stab wounds on her body took him aback.

Whoever had done it hated her. He looked up again, wondering if he’d stumbled upon another victim of the human killer. Were they still up there? Eris started to rise to his feet when soft, cold fingers reached for his hand. Looking down, he found himself lost in the greenest pair of eyes he’d ever seen in his life.

They reminded him of home, back when it had been more forest than urban sprawl. Eris was hit with a yearning so strong it nearly toppled him. 

“Please,” she whispered through blue lips. Frozen, Eris didn’t move. She ought to be dead. If he called for help, she’d be dead before they arrived. The sound of her heart was faint, a murmur as it fought valiantly against her rapidly dying body. She wasn’t long for the world. Eris thought the least he could do was witness her last words.

“Please?” he repeated.

Her eyes focused on him again. She was a fighter, he’d give her that. 

“I don’t want to die,” she told him. Did she know what crouched beside her? Had she guessed? Eris had seen more dying humans than he cared to count. For a time, he’d fought in every war he could get himself into, obsessed with all the blood and carnage. It didn’t interest him now.

“You are dying,” he told her, brushing a strand of blood stained hair from her face. She really was beautiful. Eris couldn’t remember the last time he’d been struck by the appearance of a human. 

“I don’t want to,” she told him, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. 

Leave her to it. Humans died every day, he couldn’t save them all. But right then, Eris felt reckless. He felt impulsive.

He felt stupid. 

Bringing his wrist to his mouth, his teeth ripped through the delicate flesh before opening the vein beneath. It wasn’t elegant, but it was efficient. Sitting himself against the wet, filthy ground, one wrist bleeding against his lips, he cradled her head in his free hand while trying to ignore how fleshy it felt.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered. 

Her lashes fluttered shut.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he muttered, thumb sliding along her soft lips to push apart her blunt teeth. He wasn’t turning her—he wasn’t. He was merely sparing her a death he didn’t think she deserved.

It was only after he felt her tongue slide against his skin that it occurred to him that she could tell him who’d attacked her. They’d make an even exchange. She’d tell him everything she remembered, he’d wipe her memory of her vampire savior, and they’d both part ways having gotten something for the other.

She groaned, the sound settling in his chest. 

“That’s enough,” he murmured, pulling away from her as his skin began to knit itself back together. It would take her far longer to piece herself back together, but she wouldn’t die. Sliding his arms beneath her body, Eris hoisted them both into the air. She wasn’t heavy enough to burden him and with a little maneuvering, he managed to tuck her neatly against his chest.

“Are you an angel?” she whispered, cheek pressed to his chest.

“Of death, maybe,” he replied, genuinely taken aback. 

“Who am I to be choosy?” she murmured, blinking her eyes. “Everything hurts.”

“Well, you were stabbed,” he informed her, stepping back into the city holding a half dead woman. No one would see them, perks of his long, long life and the magic imbued in his blood. Eris could blend into the night if he wished, could change his form simply by projecting the image into the minds of every human near him. He didn’t want them to see him, and so they wouldn’t.

It was almost invisibility. 

She fell asleep against him, heart picking up with each step he took. She ought to be afraid of him. She was stupid not to be and for reasons he didn’t understand, Eris was grateful she wasn’t. That she’d seen a monster and decided he might be her savior.

Eris wasn’t—and it was foolish to think otherwise. But as they made their way through the quiet night, he let himself pretend. Just until they reached his penthouse, so high up the clouds obscured the view below. 

There was no good place to set her—she was going to ruin the sheets. With that in mind, Eris reluctantly took her to a guest bedroom he’d never used, given the only person he knew was his younger brother, turned at the same time he had. They were friends, he supposed—Lucien was back in France, or maybe Greece. Eris stopped paying attention long ago. Lucien would swan in when he felt like it, but not that night. 

It had been a long time since Eris had felt genuine human emotion. Surprise, pity…and now shame as he began peeling her ruined dress from her body. Eris had never cared what he saw or what he did. Humans were immaterial—the way he imagined they thought of dogs. 

Though, humans didn’t feel ashamed of themselves when they shaved dogs down, or whatever the equivalent was to what he was doing. It had started innocent enough—he wanted to get the clothing out of her wounds and make sure they healed correctly. Too much blood and he’d overwhelm her system, producing similar effects that narcotics might have. Too little and she’d succumb, only slower and more agonizing.

It had been centuries since he’d done it. 

He hadn’t even considered he’d be looking at the naked body of a woman until he had her utterly naked. It was then, drinking in the sight of her form, that Eris felt that punch of shame and the familiar swell of guilt. He shouldn’t be looking.

But he wanted to. 

She was unfairly beautiful. Did she make the other humans jealous? She’d make immortal women jealous. Eris knew of a few who would have killed for her kind of beauty. Even hanging by a thread, death hovering over her shoulder, it was hard to deny what was staring him in the face.

He wanted to touch her.

He didn’t. 

It was simply the lack of blood—that was what Eris told himself, anyway, as he made his way to his kitchen which was more decorative than functional. He kept reserves from the blood bank, a cliche if he’d ever seen it. Sometimes a vampire had to make due, and it was better to drink cold blood than no blood.

A vampire without blood was dangerous, likely to sink into a frenzy that could get him caught, captured, and killed. He didn’t bother with niceties, ripping the plastic corner with his teeth before he downed it.

He drank another just for good measure. It wasn’t as satisfying as blood from the vein, but Eris felt like he could relax again. He felt like himself.

He stayed away from the human, all the same. 

—-

Arina was cold.

She must have passed out when she arrived home—naked, which seemed strange given how much she loved to wear pajamas—and immediately fell asleep without bothering to pull the blanket over her. 

Her head throbbed and her mouth was so dry it prompted her to open her eyes. For a moment, she thought she might be dreaming given the room she was in did not belong to her. It was bigger than her bedroom and living room combined. She wasn’t covered in a blanket because there was no blanket.

On a chair by one of the huge windows overlooking a dark city, Arina saw a shapeless black shirt dress she assumed was meant for her. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she intended to go and put it on. She didn’t remember how she ended up here…not exactly. She remembered the sky, cloudy and cold as it covered her. Arina had been outside. 

Someone had come for her. She’d thought it was death given the face attached to the man who’d peered down at her. He’d been so beautiful and she’d just assumed…Arina swallowed, looking once against the cream walls and neutral furniture that graced the room.

So he’d been real, then. 

She didn’t remember how she’d ended up on the ground, but she did remember the taste of blood on her mouth—warm and wet and dripping from a wrist pressed firmly against her lips while a hand cupped the back of her head.

Which…probably meant nothing. 

She collapsed the minute her feet hit the wood, the weight of her body collapsing beneath her. Her limbs shook, though nothing seemed to be broken. Looking at herself as best she could, she saw faint bruises that seemed at the end stages of healing given the yellowed edges. There were streaks of blood from where she’d been injured, but no wounds.

Which probably meant nothing as well.

It took herculean effort to get herself back on her feet and pull that shirt over her head. Arina was panting, out of breath and wiped out. She wanted water and the thought of walking through this house to try and find it scared her a little, given the flashes of memory creeping back into her awareness. 

A strange man had poured his blood into her mouth and now she wasn’t dying. He’d clearly taken her home. He’d removed her clothes. She wasn’t stupid. She could piece two and two together. Men didn’t bring women back to their homes out of the goodness of their hearts and he’d taken her clothes off. Which felt exceptionally fucked up, and was the only thing she could really focus on.

Falling back asleep seemed like asking to be murdered, so Arina ignored the way her body screamed in protest and stumbled out of the bedroom into the dark hall. There were stairs leading both up and down, but she went straight ahead, praying she wouldn’t have to scoot herself down the steps like a toddler learning to walk.

The lights in the main rooms were on. Arina stepped in just in time to watch the man from her memory rip open a bag of blood, and drink it. Their eyes locked and she was certain she must have looked terrified.

He didn’t stop, though his eyes crinkled at the corners, betraying his exasperation. “So it wasn’t a dream,” she breathed, reaching for the countertop to keep herself on her feet. 

It was disgusting to watch him crumple up that plastic, sucking out as much as he could before tossing it in a trashcan. His lips were stained red, though he did wipe the corner of his mouth with his fingers.

“What lie would you find believable right now?” he questioned.

“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “You’re a—a, what? Vampire, then?”

“Correct.”

Arina put her head in her hands, suddenly overwhelmingly dizzy. “I’m going to throw up.”

The vampire sighed. Vampire. Arina looked back up at him in his armani suit and expensive watch, eyes narrowed. She didn’t know a lot about vampires, but she was certain he was some kind of cliche. 

“You need to eat,” he said, opening his fridge to reveal more bags of blood and a stack of lunchables. He pulled a pizza one out and slid it across the counter to Arina, who gingerly climbed into one of the stiff bar chairs. 

“This is for children.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what humans eat. It’s food, is it not?”

“Barely,” she grumbled, peeling open the plastic top. “Where is the capri sun?”

He muttered something that sounded distinctly like oh for fucks sake, before turning back to his fridge for a cold bottle of water. Arina sucked it down faster than he’d drank the blood, gesturing for another one before she’d finished the first. 

“Now eat,” he ordered, leaning his elbow against the same counter to watch. There was unmistakable curiosity on this face.

“Do you not understand?” she questioned, thinking the whole situation was absurd. It was practically comedy. He looked like another other man, albeit a lot more attractive, but his amber eyes were tracking her movements avidly and his eyes were bright with interest.

“Put it together,” he urged. She did, spreading the sauce over the little circular piece of bread before placing three pepperonis and some cheese atop it.

His whole face crumpled with disgust when she took a bite. “Does it taste good?” 

“Not really,” she admitted, though right then it was the best thing she’d ever put in her mouth. She was starving. 

“I have nachos—”

“This is fine,” she swore, feeling a bit like an animal in the zoo. “So you’re…a vampire.”

He sighed, straightening himself. “You won’t remember this in the morning, so I suppose it’s fine to discuss—”

“What do you mean?” she demanded, dropping her food back into the little plastic container. “What do you mean I won’t remember?”

“There’s no need for—”

“You’re going to steal my memories?” Why did she feel so outraged over it?

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need a human telling everyone she meets that there is a vampire—”

“Who would believe me?” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare take my memories from me. After…after everything…” Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and though Arina tried to blink them away, a few escaped anyway.

He seemed alarmed. “Don’t cry. Please, I—fine. But if I see one post on Reddit, I’ll come back and wipe every memory and I won’t feel badly about it.”

Arina exhaled a breath, wiping her eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“You were thrown from a window,” he informed her, causing Arina’s stomach to drop. “You’re more than tired. What happened?”

His interest was back, sharp and gleaming and so predatory that she wanted to get away from him. Whatever instinct governed her subconscious was awake and it was nervous. She didn’t want him to see it, though.

“What’s your name?”

“Eris Vanserra,” he replied. That name was familiar to Arina the way it was familiar to anyone living in the United States. He sighed when he caught the recognition on her face. 

“You’re like, a Kennedy.”

“If the Kennedy’s were vampires,” he agreed before narrowing his eyes. “Which some of them are, to be fair.”

“Are…are there a lot of vampires?” she asked. He nodded toward her food and Arina took another bite so he’d answer her.

“No,” he replied, satisfied. “There have never been many of us, but fewer now. It’s…harder to live the way we do. Exhausting, too.”

“How old are you?”

“Old.”

“How old?”

He sighed. “Six centuries…give or take?”

Arina choked. “Aren’t you tired?”

A strange shadow passed over his face. “No one has ever asked me that. A little, I suppose. Life remains interesting, though. Enough about me. I want to know about you.”

Arina fidgeted. “Me?” There was nothing interesting to say. She worked, she ate, she slept. She had one friend who probably didn’t even know she’d been missing and a parent who definitely didn’t. “I’m not interesting.”

“Who attacked you?”

Oh.

Arina frowned. Who had attacked her. She combed her memory while the vampire watched, amber eyes hungry for information. Was that why he’d spared her? He wanted to know who her attacker was so he could, what? Enact some vigilante justice? She supposed that was better than him being obsessed with her, even if it annoyed her.

“I don’t remember.”

His face fell. “You remember nothing?”

She shrugged. “I remember going to work…and then I remember you.”

He stood up, running a hand over his face. “So it was all for nothing.”

That stung. “Can I go home?” she asked, pushing away the rest of the lunchable. Her stomach was cramping either from his careless words or simply too much food and liquid all at once. He glanced over, eyes narrowed. 

“You’re not a prisoner. You can leave whenever you like.”

“I don’t have shoes. Or underwear,” she reminded him, pulling at the long shirt covering her body. “I can’t walk home like this.”

He sighed, exasperated. “Fine. Give me a moment to call the car around.”

“Fancy,” she mumbled, rising from her chair. Eris vanished down a hall, phone in hand to talk to whoever handled that for him which left Arina time to snoop. Her legs still trembled with each step, and though it was tempting to collapse against his leather sofa, she kept going until she found a cracked door leading to a study.

It was more library than anything. A heavy, wooden desk facing the window held a closed laptop and some documents obscured beneath a manilla folder. The walls, painted a dark green, were covered in shelves of books. Some were old, with spines cracked and worn. Arina brushed her fingers over the material, noting it was leather rather than paper. Old, old, then. 

Would he be mad if she opened one? Maybe, but he’d already demonstrated he had no interest in killing her, so perhaps he’d simply scold her before sending her away. When would she ever have this chance again? 

The writings were in Greek—she recognized some of the letters, though Arina wasn’t fluent. Was the vampire? Six centuries old…they still taught greek and latin to the nobility back then. She was pretty sure, anyway. He’d have been born in the middle ages and she wondered where he came from. Vanserra was a modernized version of some very, very old surname. Was it more Germanic or Italian? 

In her hands lay the earliest writings of Plato, starting with Apology. Arina recognized enough of the letters to piece it together, though not so much she could do much more with it. The letters had been hand written and illustrated in the style that had been popular at the time. 

She was transfixed, running her fingers over the fragile paper the same way she might with cloth. The stitching was in near new condition, worn from time itself rather than overuse. 

“Are you a fan?”

Arina jumped, slamming the book shut so a cloud of dust wafted up into her face. Eris stood in the doorway, half framed in darkness though his amber eyes shone the same way a cats might.

Her body reacted with fear once again, causing her to stumble backward so she wasn’t so near him. 

“I…” she breathed, heart racing with adrenaline. “Where did you get this?”

“My father,” he replied, cocking his head. “He had an impressive library when I was a boy. I inherited his estate when he passed as I was the oldest. Can you read it?”

“A little,” she admitted, embarrassed she didn’t know half as much as him. She felt inadequate and undereducated and to this old creature, she probably seemed childish. “I studied Latin in college.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I thought I’d be reading a lot more historical texts than I actually did.”

“What other languages do you speak?”

“Italian and French,” she said quickly. “I uh…I work with fashion and textiles at the Velaris Museum of Art and History, and it’s helpful to know.”

“You like history?” It was the most interest he’d shown in her since she’d woken up and Arina wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. 

She nodded. “Yeah, I…clothing can tell us a lot about a culture, you know? What materials were used, the stitching, the dyes, the patterns…all of it tells a story about the time and place and people, and I find it all really interesting.”

“What’s your specialization?” 

“Seventeenth century Western Europe,” she mumbled. 

“I might have something,” he admitted, a smile gracing his handsome face. “I could dig it out…send it over as a gift? From an ancestor, of course.”

“Oh? Where did you live in the seventeenth century?”

“I believe I was in Venice,” he admitted with a roguish smile. “For parts, anyway. Time blurs, but I did love Italy back then. A lot of us did.”

“If you have anything from back then, I’d love to see it.”

He nodded, eyes tracking her as she gently slid his book back onto the shelf, careful not to damage it. “There are more books in storage. Thousands of them, if I’m honest. Before television and smartphones, books were all we had.”

“You should open a library,” she told him, afraid to invite herself further into his life. He smiled, stepping aside so she could slip past him. Was he cold like a corpse, she wondered? Or was there life to him. How did it all work, biologically? 

She didn’t ask.

“Maybe I will,” he murmured, and she swore she felt his fingers ghost over her spine. She was too scared to look. He walked her to a door that wasn’t a door, but an elevator that would take them down before shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it across her shoulders. The fabric felt cool, silky on the inside as though it had been hanging in a closet.

She reached out for his hand, gripping it in her fingers while he stilled, eyes wide.

“I thought you’d be frigid.”

“Blood keeps me warm,” he replied, not moving until she took her fingers off his skin. “I run about ninety six.”

“That’s enough to kill a person,” she said, though truthfully Arina didn’t know if that was factual. Everything she knew about the human body came from medical dramas. He didn’t dispute it, though he did slide his hands into his pant pockets to keep her from reaching for him again. 

“Where do you live?”

Arina rattled off her address, catching the way his mouth dropped into a deep frown. “That’s where I found you.”

“I thought you found me outside?”

“Yes. In an alley. I thought you jumped,” he said, an unspoken question lacing his words. 

“I didn’t,” she whispered, certain she hadn’t. She was tired but not suicidal. Everything was working out for her. She was making money, she was two months from a new apartment, and she’d finally ended things with her boyfriend. Life still felt positive. 

“I assumed…” he frowned. “Who would want to harm you?”

“You assumed what?” she demanded just as she noticed he had no reflection in the mirrors surrounding them. Arina turned to look at herself, wide eyed and pale, eyes rimmed red from either fear or exhaustion and her body strangely angular and skinny beneath the massive shirt. She looked deeply unwell and close to death herself. 

Eris turned, too, unmoved by what he saw—or didn’t see. “That you were merely another victim of the ninth street killer.”

She’d been right about vigilante justice, then. “Maybe I was.”

“Is there someone in your life who would want to harm you?” he repeated. He didn’t think so.

She shook her head. “There’s barely anyone in my life to start. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe–”

“You’d been stabbed twenty eight times,” Eris told her softly, eyes pinning her in place. “I’d believe one stabbing was an accident.”

She only shrugged. “There’s no one capable of that,” she insisted just as the doors opened. No one noticed them as they stepped out, eyes sliding over the pair in the large, open lobby. Arina peered up at the ivory colored archways that made the sleek building seem older than it was—it had a distinct, mediterranean feel. 

“I’ve found the opposite to be true. Even the mildest among you are capable of brutality that makes the gods weep,” Eris murmured as he pressed three fingers against her elbow, guiding her out of the lobby. A valet waited, seeing them for the first time—or, Eris, anyway. He didn’t acknowledge Arina at all as he handed over the keys in exchange for a crisp bill Eris placed firmly in his palm. 

“How do you do that?” she whispered when he opened the door so she could slide in.

He winked. The stupid vampire winked at her before closing the door, leaving her alone for a moment in the dark, leather interior. He must have been amused given how easily he slid into the car, a half smile on his handsome face. 

“Tell me?”

He shrugged. “I can make my will the will of others. I thought you would prefer not to be stared at so they don’t see you.”

“That’s…strangely thoughtful.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, as if he, too, was realizing the same thing. “I want you to invite me into your home.”

“Is that real?”

His jaw tightened again. “No, it’s simply called manners. I could break in while you’re sleeping if you’d prefer.”

“Oh, I’ll bet you’d love that,” she taunted. “Will you strip me of all my clothes again?”

His eyes cut in her direction. “I’d do far, far worse and you wouldn’t even remember.”

“You’re disgusting.”

He shrugged. “I never said you wouldn’t enjoy it.”

Arina faced him in her seat, restrained by the belt. “Something tells me grandpa isn’t as talented in the bedroom as he thinks he is.”

Eris snorted, a strangled laugh escaping him. “I’ve had six centuries to practice.”

“How many of them remember the experience?” she retorted in a singsong voice? “I want three historical references.”

“Catherine de’Medici certainly never complained,” he grumbled.

“You’re such a liar,” she replied, her words breathless with disbelief. 

Eris grinned. “Look at my face—”

“It’s the face of a liar—”

“It’s the face of a man who fucked Catherine de’Medici, among others.”

“Prove it.”

He barked out a laugh. “If I possessed the power to take you back in time, I certainly would. You would have enjoyed the fashion…the french court a little less.”

“You don’t think I would have survived?” she demanded.

“I barely survived,” he replied with a snort. “I had to hide up in Sweden for fifty years before I could show my face back in France.”

“Is this why you think humans are cruel?”

“I don’t think that, I know that. My kind could rule yours. With ease. Pleasure, too, I suspect. And yet we keep to ourselves because we’re afraid of what humans would do should they ever realize there are predators above them.”

Eris had turned the heat on in his car, warming her chilly skin. Unsure what to say to his declaration that vampires could take over humanity, Arina turned to look out the foggy window. Droplets covered the glass, creating a kaleidoscope of blurry colors. It was so much easier to focus on what was before her rather than what had happened.

Stabbed.

Thrown from a window.

Fear gripped her, nearly prompting her to turn to him and confide that she didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t as if he owed her anything—and besides, he was likely to tell her to get a grip which was humiliating after everything else she’d experienced. Arina said nothing, and Eris allowed it, until they pulled just outside her building.

It had never felt like home, but right then it loomed over her like a haunted house, the glowing windows staring down like eyes. It knew. The secrets of what had happened to her were somewhere in that building. The walls whispered when she let Eris in, grateful someone had forgotten to lock the front door.

Had she forgotten, too? Had she let her attacker come in behind her? She probably had her headphones in, daydreaming about someone interesting she’d seen on the train and hadn’t noticed she’d been followed. 

“You live here?” Eris questioned, refusing to touch the railing. 

“Well, I’m only twenty six,” she reminded him, not bothering to mention that her father did have money—money she could have accessed if she’d wanted to. She wanted to do it on her own, to prove she could. Maybe that was foolish, now. “I haven’t had centuries to accumulate wealth.” He wrinkled his nose, but otherwise said nothing. 

Her apartment looked exactly as it always did. A little messy given how small it was for all the things she’d accumulated. No blood. No broken glass. Even Eris frowned when they paused in the doorway.

“I smell blood,” he whispered, shimmying past her. Arina didn’t, though. The gray carpet looked dirty and stained—it had always been dirty and stained, to be fair. There was nothing on the white walls, no blood on her furniture, no bloody rags on the kitchen floor. It was only when Eris pushed aside her living room chair to reveal a dried blood stain that Arina believed she’d been attacked in her apartment.

“They tried to clean it up,” he commented, crouching beside it. She remained rooted in place, terrified. “Probably not ninth street, then.”

“Well, I feel much safer now,” she hissed, curling her fingers into fists in an attempt to make herself feel better.

He turned his head, looking up at her. “Is there somewhere you can stay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. Arina wasn’t fine, and she wasn’t about to say otherwise to a vampire. “I just…I need to go to sleep, I think.”

He rose to his feet. “Right. I…will leave you to it.”

Arina didn’t let him out, rooted in place in the middle of her living room. “What’s your name?” he whispered when he reached the door.

“Arina,” she told him, wondering if that was smart or not.

“Arina,” he repeated. 

And then he was gone.

—-

Eris wasn’t sure why he lingered. 

He could see in her apartment from his perch on the fire escape. He watched as she furiously scrubbed the bloodstain until she’d turned it a faint pink. She cried more often than she didn’t, though she never stopped scrubbing.

He could smell her fear even with a wall and window separating them. She was such a liar, and he strangely liked her for it. She could have asked him for help, and maybe she realized he would have been reluctant to provide it.

Unlike so many others he’d met across the centuries, she didn’t immediately offer herself up as a meal, nor did she ask him to make her immortal. She was curious and afraid in equal measure, which was the only appropriate response to a creature like him.

And he was a cliche, because the distance she kept between them had caused fascination to bloom. Eris couldn’t help himself, watching her even when she went to the shower where he lost sight of her while she screamed the lyrics to a Taylor Swift album he’d never heard. 

“...were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?”

That seemed too personal for someone who swore she had no mortal enemies. Eris wasn’t stupid. Perhaps she was connected to the killer and simply didn’t know it. Perhaps she was merely a coincidence…though, Eris had long stopped believing in those. The stab wounds, her general age and appearance, the fact that she was alone…Eris didn’t believe she’d been randomly hit.

He was workshopping two theories. 

The killer saw her on the way to work, followed her, and attacked her before dumping her in the street and cleaning up his mess. Which could be what he did for everyone given what Eris knew about the killer. The homes of the victims were always cleaned—untouched. Perhaps he cleaned them up. Stalked them for days, memorized their layouts, made sure to leave no trace.

The second was simpler. She simply knew the killer and didn’t realize it and had stumbled upon something that had scared her so badly her mind had walled it off to protect her from it. A father, a brother, a boyfriend…someone close to her. They’d attacked her, dumped her, and then cleaned up their mess in an attempt to throw the police off the trail.

If it was the former, the killer was unlikely to look for her again. And if it was the latter, they’d inevitably realize she was alive and come back for her. Was it wrong to hope they would? Eris was contemplating what he’d do should it happen, creating an absurd scenario in which he got to break through a window like a horrifying creature of the night, when Arina appeared.

Soaking wet.

Entirely naked.

He’d seen her naked before and had only felt shame, an emotion so foreign to him that he was still grappling with the sensation. Now, though, he only felt lust. There were still faint bruises dotted over her warm, brown skin—Eris expected they’d be gone in a day or so. He could have offered her a little more blood if he wanted to speed that up, but she thought he’d left her.

She certainly didn’t seem interested in receiving anything more from him. Eris was interested, though. He could see the fluttering pulse in her neck and if she’d walked to the window and offered him her neck, he would have sunk his teeth into her gratefully.

It wouldn’t have been like before. She would like it. The venom that silenced the pain was an aphrodisiac for humans. Eris thought he might like it, too. Attraction was a less foreign emotion—he’d felt it from time to time. He still had needs, still had mostly hot blood in his body. He typically felt it while feeding, usually from a willing host sliding their hand up his thigh. For the first time in a long time, Eris felt alive. He didn’t move from his spot, watching as she bent this way and that, sliding underwear over her hips, followed by a pair of pink shorts and a white tank top.

That was a shame. 

A good man wouldn’t have watched, though in all fairness, Eris wasn’t a man and hadn’t been for a good six centuries. He was a monster, and monsters menaced. They looked. They hovered outside of windows with lust in their hearts as they plotted to get the things they wanted. He was a fool, though he didn’t realize to what extent until he felt something sharp explode against his back.

Eris Vanserra could die. His head could be severed from his body—the most foolproof way to end a creature like him. That was rare in this day and age given no one used swords. A bullet wasn’t enough unless it was both pure silver, though they could incapacitate him long enough to then behead him. 

He could also die from silver straight to the heart, which was even more difficult to achieve, though not impossible. Humans had once known these things, had taken up silver weapons to hunt his kind to near extinction. And then books had begun to circulate—written by vampires far more clever than him.

Written by Rhysand, though no one knew him under that name. The old truths were twisted into legends. Holy water and garlic, crosses and wooden stakes were popularized in pamphlets and then novels, and finally movies. Oh, how the world would rage if they knew Bram Stoker was really just Rhysand, a particularly theatrical vampire tired of having mobs of humans turn up outside his estate every few decades.

Their numbers had swelled, but they’d kept themselves better hidden—if garlic bulbs were strung outside doors, they avoided them, if they were staked with wood, they played dead and slipped off later. All a ruse that was protective—that kept them alive.

Whatever hit him—the bullet—wasn’t silver. It still hurt like a bitch. Eris pitched forward, breaking the glass just like he’d imagined, though without any of the theatricality he’d hoped for. The bullet in his neck wasn’t meant for him—it was obviously meant for Arina. The humans couldn’t see him. He turned, noting a figure on a balcony next door vanished, likely thinking he’d hit his mark.

He would have if Eris had just left. 

Arina screamed when he thudded to her floor, dropping beside him. “What happened?”

“Someone hates you,” he managed, rolling from his back to his stomach. “Dig it out.”

“What?”

“Dig. It. Out,” he ordered, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I can’t,” she said, tears coating her words. Eris reached for her knee, squeezing hard. 

“You can, and you will,” he managed. He’d already lost his advantage—the would-be assassin was likely long gone, thinking he’d gotten Arina. Who the fuck was this woman? “What kind of bullet is it?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” she said, fingers sliding into the open wound. “Oh, god.”

“You’re doing so well,” he lied, trying to make his words soft and soothing. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

She did, those green eyes filling something vacuous in his chest. It was wrong to do this, but he needed her to calm down.

“You’re doing so well,” he practically purred, holding her as he willed her to believe his hypnotic words. Eris didn’t understand how it worked on humans. Perhaps they were weak minded—some vampires believed that. Perhaps he simply had some kind of magic they couldn’t sense. Whatever it was, Arina’s shoulders relaxed. 

“What do I do?” she asked him.

“Pull the bullet out,” he said, not bothering to mention that he was going to need blood after this. If he could just get back to his apartment, he could…he could what? Stale, week old blood was nothing. He needed something fresh, something warm.

Something living.

Hypnotize her and take her memories, his traitorous mind ordered. Eris swallowed the urge, focusing instead on the horrible sensation of her digging around in his flesh.

“That’s it,” he murmured, trying not to cry out. Just because he couldn’t die didn’t mean he couldn’t experience pain. He was doomed, apparently, to feel the full range of human emotions around this woman. “Pull it out.”

A couple minutes later—one wasted while she scrambled up for eyebrow tweezers that did nothing but make Eris’s whole body run hot and cold with pain—and the bullet lay intact on the ground.

He exhaled while Arina sat beside him, knees drawn to her chin. He released her from his thrall, watching that pretty face drain of color all over again. What did she look like when she smiled, he wondered? When she was happy? He wanted to know. 

“Was that for me?” she whispered. 

“Yes.” There was no point in lying to her. 

She said nothing, eyes so vacant and empty that Eris, miserable, half alive, and in desperate need of blood, heard himself say, “I want you to stay with me.”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, apparently determined to end up in a casket. For reasons Eris didn’t care to examine, he was determined to see the opposite. 

“It is,” he gritted out, his vision blurred and bloody. “Let's go. Now.”

“What's wrong?” 

“Get up,” he demanded, not bothering to make his tone nice. Swaying on his feet, Eris held on to the wall while Arina grabbed a bag and frantically began throwing things she would need into it. He didn’t notice until she came closer, warm hands cupping his face. She smelled good.

He wanted to taste her.

“Are you dying?”

“Not yet,” he replied, pulling out of her grasp before he did something stupid. Something like shoving her to the bed right beside them and sinking his fangs into her neck. No. Eris would drop her off at his apartment and make his way to one of the familiar underground clubs and feed there, come back clearer, and go from there.

They did make it to his car, though Arina wrestled the keys from his fingers and drove them herself while he gave vague directions. 

The energy it took to keep anyone from looking at them nearly overwhelmed him, causing Arina to literally hold him up as they made their way to the elevator. Eris made it inside, stumbling forward when she let him go to race for the kitchen.

“It’s blood, right?” she asked, trailing after him with two frigid bags in her hands. Eris wanted to lay down in his own bed, collapsing against the red sheets with a groan. 

“Not that,” he said, eyes fluttering shut. “I’ll deal with it.”

Go.

He should have said so, but he didn’t and so Arina lingered, blood staining the clothes he’d once watched her put on.

“Were you…were you guarding me?”

Stalking,  more like. Eris looked over at her, standing in the doorway of his bedroom looking like the very angel she’d once assumed he was. “Yes.”

She crept closer. “So this is my fault?”

Yes. Make the offer. “No,” he replied, swallowing hard as a bolt of lust lashed against his hunger. “Someone wants you dead.”

“You’ve saved me twice now,” she continued, creeping even closer still. No shoes, he realized. Hair still wet from the shower. Blood racing—he could hear her frantic little heart. Run while you still can. 

“You don’t owe me.”

Her knee touched the bed. “You need blood.” It wasn’t a question.

“I do.”

“I have a lot of it in my body,” she continued, coming to kneel on the bed beside him. 

“Arina—”

“What would it hurt?” she asked him, sliding her hair to one side of her neck. Eris was shaking his head, though not out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, but because he didn’t want it from her neck.

He wanted it from her thigh. Gods, but Eris wanted her to get naked so badly it was making him stupid. “I might drain you.”

“I don’t think you will.”

“I might fuck you,” he heard himself say, the word coming out so vehemently it seemed more of a threat. Arina merely scooted closer, flirting with death. 

“I don’t think you will.”

Eris was up quicker than she could track, flipping her to her back before pulling her by her legs until they hung off the edge of the bed. “Don’t mistake me for a gentleman,” he murmured, sliding one hand up her shin. “I’m not a man—I’m a monster.”

“I think it's a man who’s hunting me,” she told him breathlessly. “And a monster who saved me.”

Eris shook his head again, thinking her response was so very human. “What do you know about frenzied monsters?”

Her breath caught, though perhaps it was because he sank to his knees while parting her legs. He was absolutely going to fuck her. 

“Frenzy?” she whispered. 

“Oh yes,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to the inside of her knee while she watched. Their eyes locked and there, stained on her pretty, golden cheeks, he saw the tell-tale signs of desire.

Flushed pink, dilated eyes…sweet, sweet thing. “Once we start, we don’t stop.”

He didn’t bother mentioning that frenzies were typically bloody—a frenzied vampire might kill a whole room of humans out of desperation that turned to bloodlust. It was rarely sexual. But right then, it certainly felt that way. Whatever lust typically infected humans seemed to be writhing in his own veins, demanding satisfaction.

Eris slid her shorts as far up her body as he could get them, revealing the uppermost part of her thigh and the vein beneath. He couldn’t help himself, running his nose along her skin as he gripped her hips, pulling her closer. 

“Will it hurt?” she whispered.

“For just a moment,” he replied. That was the only warning he gave her before his fangs sank through soft, pliable flesh. Her warm blood pooled in his mouth, filling just as quickly as he drank it down. Overhead, he heard her gasp before she sighed, the venom in his fangs working the same magic on her that it had already begun with him. Perhaps, he thought stupidly, it had dripped down his throat.

Or perhaps he simply wasn’t immune to this woman the way he thought he was. Had it been venom that convinced him to spare her the night before? Venom that kept him on her fire escape, unaware she was being stalked because he was so struck by the sight of her? 

Eris groaned, his grip on her tightening as her fingers found his hair. Soft nails scraped over his skin, drawing another groan as arousal pooled low against his spine. He was erect, the thought floating through his awareness before he shoved it down to continue to drink.

He could hear her heart, racing from a mixture of fear and excitement—he knew how much he could take before she only felt cold dread, before his venom stopped making her want him and merely made her lay there still while he drained the life out of her body.

Just a little more. A few more drags and then he pulled back, wild and desperate. Eris ripped open his own skin, dripping a few drops of his own blood against her wound before he merely ripped her shorts into pieces. Why bother any other way, he thought savagely? He rather liked the sight of them half hanging off her body, besides.

“Eris—” He didn’t care. Eris felt like an animal, desperate for a taste of all of her. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever done, licking up her pussy with her blood still staining the back of his throat. He wanted a mix of the two bottled like fine wine so he could drink it every night. 

She gripped his hair again, pulling roughly as she arched her hips into his mouth. 

“Yes,” he breathed, dragging them both to the floor so she was straddling his face. “This is what I need.”

“Eris,” she panted, rolling her hips against his face until he could see nothing, taste nothing, smell nothing but her body. He jerked her the rest of the way down, annoyed she was trying to brace her slight weight against her knees. He was already dead—it wasn’t as if she could kill him. Eris wasn’t even sure he needed oxygen to survive, though he’d never tested the theory. He would now, though. Eris held her tight, one hand sliding up her tank top to fondle her breast as his tongue found her clit. She liked that, given the way she gripped his hair to hold him tighter. 

He wished he could push his thoughts into her mind so she could hear all the fucked up, disgusting, filthy things he wanted to do to her. 

Eris had never been more aroused in his life. It wasn’t enough—he need to eat her pussy and fuck her at the same time, and it was crime humanity hadn’t figured that conundrum out. They could invent nuclear weapons, but he couldn’t fuck his human in all the ways he wanted to at the exact same time?

Bullshit.

“Eris, please,” she moaned, riding his face shamelessly. The nervous woman who’d tiptoed to the bed was gone, replaced by whatever creature that now inhabited her skin. He was obsessed—addicted. 

Eris sucked, delighted when she screamed, coating his face in her release. That was easy, he thought with a relish, pushing her off him so quickly she gasped. 

“I’m not done,” he told her, hauling her up only to toss her to the bed so he could crawl over her. Why was he wearing so much clothing? It was a nightmare, divesting himself of a belt and pants, and by the time he found his buttoned shirt, he merely treated it like her shorts and ripped it off him, unconcerned by the scattered objects he’d be stepping on all morning. 

She leaned upward, licking a path from his chest to his neck before she kissed him. She wasn’t used to his long canines, still retracted from the blood he could taste, could smell. They pierced her bottom lip, flooding the pair of them with more blood that made Eris half insane.

He was not in his right mind.

Reaching for her thigh, tongue in her mouth, he pushed upward until his cock was lined up with her body. He didn’t ask, didn’t let her know—he simply intruded, sinking himself fully in her wet, inviting body with one powerful stroke.

She gasped, arching her back off the bed.

“I warned you,” he told her, scraping his fangs over her throat. “I told you.”

“Don’t stop,” she panted in response. As if he could. Eris was drunk on blood and the woman beneath him and desperate to feel her come against his cock. He bit her, fangs sinking into her throat even as his mind warned him she couldn’t take much more. She needed her blood, too. It was an inherently selfish act, one she allowed as she yielded, clenching her pussy tight around him.

Eris took a long drag before pulling himself away, licking a trail of blood over her jaw before kissing her. Taste yourself, he demanded silently. Taste all of you. She kissed him back, arms winding around his own neck as she wrapped her legs around his hips to allow him to thrust rougher, deeper. He was chasing the pleasure that had begun building moments before, his arousal burning a wildfire path down his spine. 

“Come,” he whispered, so close he ought to be embarrassed. “I want to feel it.”

She was close, whimpering softly as she buried her face against his bicep. Eris inclined his head, eyes closed as he reveled in the  softness of her body. He felt alive for the first time in centuries, drowning in emotion he’d once walled off. It felt good.

Better when her own teeth sank into his arm, biting him just hard enough he might have bruised him were he not a monster. Eris couldn’t stop himself—he came a mere second before she did, relieved to feel her tighten against him. The noise that escaped him was hardly dignified, though he wasn’t embarrassed, either. 

He was floating, weightless and suspended above his body as wave after wave of pleasure crested through him. He was hungry—not for blood, though. Blinking, he came back to himself to find her peering up at him, wide-eyed and a little unsure.

Don’t look at me like that.

Eris collapsed atop her, gathering her against his body even as he knew he was leeching the warmth from her.

“That was…” he didn’t know how to describe it properly. 

He felt her kiss his shoulder. “Did you mean to?”

He could lie. Could tell her it was simply bloodlust that made him act and he hadn’t been in his right mind.

“Yes,” he said. “And I mean to do so again.”

She pushed against his chest so she could look at him. “That’s awfully presumptuous.”

He only shrugged, pulling himself regretfully from her body. “You should eat. And sleep. Here,” he added, just in case that wasn’t clear.

“Another lunchable?” she asked, a mocking note in her voice. Eris had watched a child beg for a lunchable, though. He knew humans loved it.

“Yes. Eat your lunchable.”

“And then…you’ll eat me?”

Eris grinned. “If I’m lucky.”

nothing in the world makes me more evil than just being kind of annoyed

i think we all need to complain about LED headlights more. please can we all complain about them more. night driving is nearly impossible for me to do now without having to white knuckle my way through a thousand evil suns. every time i see those headlights in my mirrors i take 2d6 radiant damage. i want to destroy every single LED headlight under my feet like they’re goombas

the trouble with wanting

@elucienweekofficial

Summary

Despite Hybern’s defeat and the restoration of peace across Prythian, Elain and Lucien are still grappling with their own demons and struggling to find a way forward. Enter Madame Beauvais, an unconventional healer who runs an apothecary by day… and a pleasure house by night. With her encouragement, Elain and Lucien meet anonymously under the cover of darkness and the glamour of disguise to indulge in their baser instincts.

When Madame Beauvais calls in a favour, Elain and Lucien are forced to work together to help her and finally start to imagine what it might be like to accept the bond. Can they reconcile their newly embraced nighttime personas with their demure daytime identities and connect as their true selves at last? Or will the secrets they keep–the masks they wear–sabotage any hopes they have for a future together?

One - Two - Three - Read on AO3

Elain

It had been almost one full week since her first encounter with Kiran–whoever he was–and still Elain felt the pleasant hum of satisfaction thrumming beneath her skin.

A revelation of sorts, the relief it brought coloured the dimness of her days with light so that everything felt brighter, more vibrant.

She rose from bed with purpose, knowing however tedious and fraught her days would be, they would inevitably lead her back to Madame Beauvais’, back to the room with the enticing stranger who had wrung pleasure from her as effortlessly as one could press water from a sodden cloth. 

Even days later, every fibre of her being, from the crest of her scalp to the pads of her toes felt alight. Her hair shone in glossy waves, her eyes sparkled, and looking in the mirror, an act that once had made her skin itch now felt almost reverent. She no longer shirked from the other-worldly luminescence of her skin or the pink pointed tips of her ears. Taking in her reflection from the glass, Elain thought she looked almost beautiful.

Springing lightly down the steps and into the dining room on the pads of her feet, Elain was refreshed from her night of unbroken sleep. Unexpectedly, as she turned the corner and reached the threshold, she realized she wasn’t alone. 

Elain had been in the habit of breaking her fast after Rhys and Feyre had slipped out for their morning walk with Nyx, easing into her days in solitude, taking the time to armour herself in preparation for the demands of the day. On any other day she would have felt put upon, disgruntled by the unexpected presence of another during the time she so often treasured for herself, but now she only felt… intrigued.

Silhouetted by the clear light of morning, he stood, head bent over something and Elain approached silently, curiosity burning like a candle in her mind. She looked upon the broad slope of his back, hair shimmering copper, a burning tide that contrasted beautifully against the dark olive of his jacket, the bronze of his skin. Unnoticed, she paused a moment to drink him in, to admire the stretch of his trousers against powerful thighs.

Lucien.

Elain noted something had changed in his countenance since the last time he’d been at River House only days ago. 

Once wound so tightly, she could usually feel the tension in the room between them like the high pitched string of a violin tuned sharp. It played tinny in her mind, pinching something deep within her and causing a sting behind her eyes that made her seek refuge in the darkness of her room. Now she felt–if not heard–the lower tuning of a cello; deep, resonant and pleasing, and it drew her to him in a way that felt different than it ever had before. 

An attraction less forced–an inviting, effortless pull hummed through her, and she felt the mellow tone of his presence tingle against the skin of her lower back and prickle against the inside of her thighs.

Cauldron, what had come over her?

Lucien’s body shifted and she noticed he was carefully arranging a bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase. The brightness of the scene nearly overtook the light streaming into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the golden glow of the sunrise over the Sidra.

“Are you familiar with the flowers? I’ve never seen this variety before.” Before she had even realized she had stepped into the room, Elain was standing at his elbow, closer than she had been since the cursed day he’d placed his body-warm coat around her shoulders. 

She shivered a bit at the recollection, but although her feelings would usually overtake her, heaving her into the clattering noise of unpleasant memories and fragments of possible futures, she found she was able to cast aside the memory and focus on the moment unfolding before her with an unfamiliar ease. 

Lucien looked up at her, startled. There was a guarded expression on his face and Elain’s heart sank. The same mask he always wore around her was still present now, a palpable trepidation in his air. Even his heartbeat was cautious, its pounding stilted and heavy in her ears.

He took a breath before answering, the silence taut between them.

“This is an autumnal amaryllis…” He thoughtfully stroked a blush-pink petal that glowed a burning orange at its centre like the lick of a flame. “I haven’t seen one like it since I was just a boy.”

“Amaryllis,” Elain hummed in response, suddenly brazen. “They’re said to symbolize timidity but also determination. Oppositional qualities, some might say, but the meeting of the bashful pink and the flaming orange represents it beautifully, wouldn’t you say?” Unbidden, her hand fluttered over the bloom like a butterfly before grazing the petal, brushing over the path Lucien’s finger had traced only a moment ago.

Lucien’s body stiffened in response, his breath deepening, and Elain wondered if she had hurt him somehow with her words, if she had spoken out of turn.

“I believe you’re right, milady.” His russet eye burned into her as his golden one clicked and whirred, and Elain struggled to parse the emotion that lingered there, in his searing gaze.

“There is a variety of orchid… The fire orchid. I have one that’s just blossomed, in the garden. If you ever might like to see it.” Elain’s voice drifted away as she asked herself what she was doing, and to what end. One shared moment, no matter how potent, wasn’t enough to build a friendship upon, was it? Would he deign to give her a chance after so many unintentional slights, so many missed moments?

“I would love to see it, one day.” His voice was low and gentle; he sounded almost sad, but Elain couldn’t place why.

She looked up at him through her lashes, hedging her bets and preparing for disappointment. Surely it couldn’t be this easy to start anew.

“If you aren’t busy, I could show you now.” A look of surprise flashed over his features before a mask of cool arrogance fell into place, as heavy and unyielding as a shroud.

“Oh Elain,” something in the lilt of his voice when he said her name, turned it over his tongue, made a flush of warmth blossom from her chest into her fingertips, the soles of her feet, the back of her neck. “I’m afraid I have a standing engagement today, in fact I’m already late. Forgive me, I must bid you farewell.”

With a terse nod of his head, Lucien turned and walked from the room leaving Elain alone, her finger still tracing the path of his on the velvet soft petal of the autumnal amaryllis.

***

Back in her room, Elain felt herself slowly deflating. 

She had been foolish to believe one night of bliss was enough to free her from her agonizing self-doubt or the mess of thoughts that clouded her mind. But here she was, alone again and forced to parse through the clutter in her head. 

Truthfully, Lucien infuriated her. Every step she felt herself taking forward seemed to set her back further, and the taunting of the bond only added insult to injury. Wasn’t this supposed to be easy?

Sure, she could feel an electricity between them, certainly a pull, but the chasm that separated them only yawned wider with every stilted interaction, every shared glance.

Her attention drifted to her closet and the sacrosanct, bloody stupid treasure it held. The stashed jacket, gloves and pearls were nothing more than bits of cloth and a couple of semi-precious gems. It had been ridiculous for her to keep them at all and yet here she was, proselytizing to herself as if by doing so, she could will her life to come together. What a fool she was.

And then there was the deranged bargain she had somehow managed to get herself into. She could almost feel the sting of the tattoo on her spine even now, and rolled her shoulders backwards as if she could erase the marking from her skin. Feyre and Nesta had always considered her overly romantic, even naive. If they ever caught word of this, she wouldn’t have ground to stand on against them ever again.

And yet, it had been so good .

She had expected a perfunctory, transactional evening. Had expected some cad, as lonely, desperate as she was, who would take his pleasure from her, hopefully granting her some scraps of her own in return. What she had received defied her expectations in every way. 

In that room days ago, her wrists untied and her body replete with satisfaction, she had reached for him but he gruffly declined. Pulling the soft velvet mantle over her body and tucking it around her shoulders, he brushed a tender kiss over the slope of her brow and stole away into the night. 

Who was he?

A knock at her door interrupted her from her reverie, and Elain glanced up to see Feyre standing at her door, somewhat bashful, with a predictably impish smile on her face.

“Rhys and I have just returned from our walk with Nyx and we ran into an uncharacteristically frazzled Madame Beauvais on our way home. I trust you met her at the apothecary?”

Elain only hummed in response, feigning indifference that belied the pound of her heart in her chest. Would Madame Beauvais have betrayed her confidence? Did Feyre know of their… unusual bargain? If so, Feyre was doing a damn good job of playing ignorant.

“I’ve told her you might be of some assistance to her. It seems she has a predicament in need of solving.”

“How could I possibly be of use to her, Feyre?” Elain heard the terse tone in her voice and course-corrected, looking up at Feyre with wide eyes and giving her a slow blink.

“It involves plants.” 

Elain rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help but feel she had been cast in some sort of ruse, no doubt a work of Feyre and Rhysand. Some plot to get her out of the house, no doubt. Regardless, the taste of adventure beckoned to her, and besides, if she met with Madame Beauvais perhaps she could learn more about the enticing stranger who seemed to have flipped her world upside-down in the matter of a few short hours.

“Fine, I'll go.” Feyre's face lit as if from within, her dazzling blue eyes sparkling like the sun over the Sidra.

“Wonderful! She expects you there as soon as you’re able.”

Elain sighed, resigning herself to whatever torture she was bound to take part in. But still, the pitter-patter of her heart told her she was actually excited . For once. The prospect of revisiting the scene of the crime, as it were, compelled her body into motion and  she rushed from the protection of her room

***

Rounding the corner of the block where Elain now knew the apothecary waited, mysterious and tucked away, her heart thumped as heavy and steady as the beat of a drum. Would she learn anything that would make this all worthwhile? The call of safety had beckoned to her, the solitude of her garden, the steadiness of her routine, but how had they really served her until now? The only true excitement she had felt, the only pleasure she could recall experiencing since being made, was that night almost a week ago, sneaking away into darkness for adventures unknown. 

It had been Madame Beauvais’ doing, after all… perhaps this would be another chance for Elain to find purpose beyond the stone walls of the garden, if only she dared.

As she approached the doorway, she could see the silhouette of Madame Beauvais with a man by her side. He was broad and fit, the caress of long loose curls kissing his shoulder blades. It was impossible to make out any discerning features against the light behind him but could it be him, could it be Kiran?

Just then he turned, the light of the sun catching his skin, the locks of his hair and Elain gasped. 

Lucien.

Unsure if the surge she felt in her chest was disappointment or excitement, Elain took a deep breath to fortify herself before stepping toward them.

Lucien

He should have known she was approaching from the way the dappled sun of the street he stood upon shone a little brighter, its caress a little warmer as it danced upon the bronzed skin of his cheek. But once a fool, always a fool, and when he deigned to glance upward to the approaching figure, his heart leapt.

It has been a few short hours since he stood with her in the dining room of the River House, close enough he could have reached out and touched her, pulled her into his arms and into a darkened corner, if he had wanted to.

And oh, he had.

But here she was, walking toward him with a curious glimmer in her eyes, a wrinkle of confusion knit between her brows. Why was he here?

His hunger for her was deep and insatiable. Though he wanted her badly, with a desire that outweighed any he had felt in his life, he couldn’t start anything with her. He knew he would only be leading a docile lamb toward the voracious appetite of a wolf if he did. She was too precious, too effortlessly sublime. Instead he would stand guard, lapping up the freshness of her smile, the sweet tinkling of her voice as if it were a bowl of sweetened cream. 

The ache for her stole the very air from his lungs, and made his heart gallop painfully in his chest. Try as he might to snuff the emotions that burned for her, the embers still smouldered hot and glowing.

But then again, there was Ayla. 

She was like an angel sent for him in his time of need. Pure as freshly driven snow but also curious and bold. Lucien had never kn0wn as much pleasure as he had laying her down on the velvet counterpane, drinking from her like a man on the brink of dehydration. Sweet and succulent, he could almost feel the slippery glide of her on his tongue even now, could almost hear her whimpers and moans. 

By god, he had to control himself or he was apt to make a scene right there in the company of Selene and Elain both, and how could he explain that?

He was usually so tightly wound, so hesitant and withdrawn in the company of Elain. He told himself it was a measure of respect, an act of good intentions to hide himself from her, to keep her from feeling the burden of his desire for her. In truth, he knew it was only that if he were ever to let it slip, to open himself to her at all, he wasn’t sure he would be able to control the deluge of feeling he had for her already, despite not knowing her at all. And how would he ever get to know her with everything in the way? The pulse of the bond, the press of expectation, the force of attraction? Once again he wished he could meet her someplace far from here, only two bodies, two souls. 

Could she ever see him as a friend? Could she ever long for something more? He feared his questions would forever go unanswered.

Regardless, here she was. Taking her hand in his, he brushed the lightest of kisses across her knuckles, the graze of his lips sparking like fireflies behind her eyes. Lucien struggled to read the emotions that flitted through them, like a murmuration of starlings dancing in the sky. Was it grief or shame, anticipation or dread? He didn’t know and yet was somehow prepared to find out.

Selene, in top form, was happy to break through the friction suspended between them

“Ah, Elain! I had feared you wouldn’t come but here you are, as resplendent as ever. Tell me, how is our high lady faring this beautiful morning?”

Lucien shot Selene a loaded glance. 

“Funny, Madame Beauvais, but it seems she spoke with you this morning. I’m sure you know already how well she fares.”

“Touche, darling! But please call me Selene, we’re old friends now, wouldn’t you say?”

Lucien’s stomach twisted. How well were Elain and Selene acquainted that Elain felt so comfortable with her? He felt he was in dangerous territory, that being in the same space with Selene and Elain might very well cause him to self-combust. Was she really here by design or was this a circumstance of fate bringing them near each other once again? He didn’t know whether to be irate or elated and found he was a curious mixture of both. 

Selene caught him staring, and as subtle as she ever was, felt the need to comment on the buzzing tension between them.

“Well, it seems you two are already acquainted, how lovely! Perhaps this shouldn’t be such a chore after all! Please do come in.”

Lucien could have throttled her.

Elain nearly choked and Lucien watched as she pulled herself together to form a response.

“Yes, Lucien and Iare…” His heart lurched as she paused her speech. Would she finally claim him for what he was? “Acquainted.”

So that was it then.  

And yet now, after one night of decadent pleasure with a mysterious stranger, no longer touch-starved and desperate, he didn’t feel the need to keep himself so restrained. Reaching over, he placed his hand at the small of Elain’s back leading her forward gently through the open door as if  leading her to a waltz through a gilded ballroom.

For a moment nothing seemed to matter save the heated pulse of his fingertips, the fine silk filigree of her gown and the curve of her backbone beneath it.

By gods, this was a recipe for disaster.

Once inside, Selene led them to the long wooden counter from which she typically dispersed her potions. The sharp, astringent smell of tinctures and the deep, almost sensual scent of dried herbs was thick in the air as shapes of coloured light reflected onto the walls, the floor, the tousled curls of Elain’s hair. Lucien imagined for a moment what it would feel like brushing over the skin of his bare chest and suddenly it was like he couldn’t take in enough air , his body hot and tight.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here, milady. Your sister tells me you’re quite skilled in the knowledge of plants.”

Elain only looked at her, wide-eyed, and fidgeted with the silk of her skirts, playing the fabric between her dainty pale fingers. Lucien knew she had never worn the gloves he had gifted her and wondered for a moment if her hands were calloused, how the look of them might betray an unexpected roughness. What other secrets might her body hold? 

The silence was heavy and still, and a triangle of golden light played against the plane of her cheek.

“It’s true,” he murmured.

Elain shot him a look that was molten in its fury.

“What?” Lucien retorted. “You can’t possibly–”

“I can speak for myself, Lucien.” Her voice was laced with a ferocity he hadn’t known her to possess. 

He didn’t know what had come over him beyond knowing that this inkling of passion she showed him was possibly even more enticing than the bare, beautiful body that had lain before him not a week ago. His blood burned hot and fast, a raging inferno of desire pulsing through him.

“By all means Elain, go ahead.”

She scowled and then flicked her gaze back to Selene, the fire in her eyes dimming to the warm glow of candlelight.

Cauldron, he wanted her.

“I’m little more than a hobby gardener, Madame, but please do go on.”

Selene reached under the counter and lifted a thick, worn tome onto its surface. Bound in leather and beautifully worn, her long, elegant fingers slid over the pages like she was engaging in a game of cards and knew how to play to win. Flipping it open, she gently smoothed the page beneath her palm and stepped back.

Tilting her head curiously, Elain stepped forward and Lucien watched as something caught alight in her like kindling held to flame.

“Oh,” she sighed, “it’s beautiful.”

He didn’t know if she was referring to the book itself or something on the page, all he knew was that he too, was in the presence of beauty. One so sure and absolute his heart ached at the sight of it.

“The Galanthus arcaunus, ” Selene replied. “The hidden snowdrop.”

Elain repeated the words but made no sound, only a whisper of breath passing over her tongue and the plush fullness of her lips.

“It’s an ancient flower native only to the Winter Court, and hugely important to the health of Prythian. Our fae lifespans may be endless but there are illnesses that take root within the elders of our communities. One of the most potent scrambles the mind and leaves one without a sense of time or place, drifting in a world that is unable to offer them safe harbour or dry land. This plant is the only remedy we know of and very rare, and difficult to find. Only a few blossoms can be used to make an infusion which would go on to treat the afflicted fae for years. And I am near to running out.”

“Forgive me Madame Beauvais–Selene–but I fail to see why I am needed… or why he is here.” 

For as much as he had relished her earlier challenge, Lucien now felt despondent. What could he do to prove his worth to her, once and for all? This seemed like just another fruitless task in trying to win over his mate, and he was suddenly sick of being rejected out of hand. He turned for the door but the command of Selene’s voice stopped him.

“ He is here because he owes me a favour. And you, my dear, are instrumental in the success of his mission to repay it.”

Lucien turned and glared at Selene, the tension in the room as sharp and metallic as the blade of a knife. His tattoo burned on his thigh, demanding his obedience and he hated her in this moment, knowing this was just a convoluted means by which to torture him.

“Out with it then, Selene. Why, exactly, are we here? Don’t mince your words as my patience is running thin.”

“My gods, Lucien, I had forgotten how that fire in your blood can boil over at the slightest of grievances. Calm down, dear boy, and I'll be on with it.”

Elain snickered and Lucien clenched his jaw so tightly he thought his teeth may crack.

“Out with it then, Selene.”

“Alright.” Selene looked back and forth between Lucien and his mate and it infuriated him to see she was amused. These two females would be the death of him, he was certain of that much.

“I have strong powers and am highly skilled, but sadly the ability to winnow evades me. It always has,” she began. “As you may well know, my business is important and not to be taken lightly. I dispense remedies to the best healers of Prythian, Majda among them.”

Lucien watched as Elain’s eyes widened at mention of the prolific healer who had saved her loved ones from ruinous disaster on more than one occasion, most recently aiding Nyx through a fever that left his small body limp and near lifeless.

“I can’t leave the foraging of such important plants to just anyone, I need somebody who knows plants, who cares for them and has the aptitude for nurturing along with it. Elain, you may not realize this, being so new to our lands, but the magic of our plants is temperamental. Harvested by the wrong hands, many a plant will wilt away or turn its nectar to poison. I work only with those whom I can trust with the burden of this responsibility. Judging by the words of your sister, I believe wholeheartedly that you are the right fae for the job.”

Lucien watched as Elain’s posture grew cautiously stiff.

“Selene. I am honoured by your request, but I'm not sure you have the right impression of me. I believe you’re mistaken.”

Selene’s gaze hardened and her voice dipped low, any hint of mirth now gone. “If there is one thing I can do, dear Elain, it’s read people. Their strengths and weaknesses, their regrets and their desires. I assure you I am not mistaken.”

Elain fought against a shiver as she wondered if Selene was talking about more than just the harvesting of plants.

“By all means Elain, go back to the walls of your riverside garden. Go back to the mediocrity of your life and leave us seasoned fae to take care of it. It’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?” Lucien regretted the acerbic words the moment they left his mouth.

And yet.

And yet, Elain turned to him with a burning fury in her eyes, the likes of which he had never seen. Hands fisted at her sides, her cheeks were flushed, a lock of golden brown hair curled over her forehead sheathed in sweat. 

He knew then that he had won this battle, but he likely wouldn’t win the war.

Elain

Elain watched, rapt as Selene explained to Lucien the places it could be found, the regions most fertile and prolific for its growth.

For so much of her life Elain felt slowed, like she was moving underwater. Her life was an exercise in patience and reaching for things only to never be able to grasp them.

Suddenly, in this dark room, heavy with the smoke of incense and the scent of drying herbs everything moved quickly. Her skin burned with humiliation, but also something more potent. Indignant and resolved, she would take this chance to prove her worth. 

Elain had known her mate to be a great many things, but his combative arrogance was new. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to humiliate him. But perhaps most infuriatingly, she wanted to rip his clothes off with her teeth and make him grovel at her feet.

Before she knew what was happening, Elain was escorted to the private room behind the apothecary where she had talked with Selene that first fateful day. Fitted with heavy leather boots and a fur-lined cape, she was ushered from the room and onto the street. 

Elain had no idea what had possessed her or where they were going. Not really, anyway. All she knew was what she had learned in the few suspended moments she had leaned over the book in the apothecary. The petals were as delicate as ice chips. The clippings would only survive if the stems were plucked at its base, near the root. The plants thrived in temperate winter, where conditions hovered near early spring. Steeling herself against all the unknowns, she clung to what she did know and hoped it would be enough.

Reaching for Lucien’s offered hand, she stumbled through a bright, sun-warmed curtain that felt like an embrace. On the other side, she was met with a humid chill that settled deep in her bones. 

Overlooking a vista in front of her, Elain was astounded by the crystalline beauty of the Winter Court. The high ground they now occupied overlooked a vast, rolling landscape covered in a mantle of freshly fallen snow, glinting brightly in the sunlight as though it were dusted with diamonds. Far below was a vast, ice-covered lake where she observed figures, some confidently trudging the surface while others bent over small holes in the ice.

“They’re fishing,” Lucien explained. “Winter is well known for the best varieties of freshwater fish, mild and flakey and astoundingly delicious.”

It seemed the change in scenery offered them a reprieve from the hostility that had settled between them in the company or Madame Beauvais, and Elain took a chance on it, responding more openly than she would have otherwise. “It’s beautiful, Lucien. I’ve seen snow before, of course, but nothing quite like this.”

“It’s quite a change from winter in the human lands, isn’t it?” Elain looked up, surprised, before remembering the time Lucien had spent there with Vassa and Jurien. “A drab, muddy affair as I remember it.”

She let out a soft laugh and nodded, trying to ignore the way she could feel the warmth of his regard, heating her cheeks against the coolness of the air. “You’re quite right about that. I remember only a few cold, sparkling moments like this before the barrage of traffic would mar the landscape and the melting snow would become sullied with muck. The peace of a clean landscape never seemed to last long enough.”

“The Winter Court is quite a sight different from that. The consistent temperatures make for the most pristine, picturesque visions of winter. I had come to take it for granted, to be honest, but it really is something.” Lucien’s brow was upturned in thought as he took in the world around them and Elain made note of his introspection, his willingness to open his mind to her thoughts and the way he seemed to parse her thoughts without much difficulty at all. Her first instinct was to panic, for as much she lamented the overwhelming feeling of being misunderstood, neither did she feel comfortable opening herself to the alternative. 

“Is all of the Winter Court like this?”

“Gods no. Like any of the courts, there is a vast and changing landscape in Winter, all of it breathtaking in different ways. The land at the coast is all craggy moors bathed in grey mist and rocky beaches that give way to deep forests of towering pines, nearly as wise and ancient as the mother. The weather there is moody and mercurial, with great tempest storms rising from the sea. When the clouds part and the rain stills, it’s as though the gods are smiling down on you and all your sins have been washed away.”

Elain was quiet and still, willing him to continue.

“In parts of the south-central region, the land stretches ahead of you like the expanse of time. The sky is neverending, with soft white clouds that seem to be suspended from the sky by lengths of invisible string. On the coldest days of the year, the sun is haloed by a ring of glowing white light. Some say it’s an effect created by ice crystals in the air reflecting the light of the sun, while others believe it’s a message from the gods, a reminder to hold those we love close in our hearts always.”

Elain fought and lost against a great swelling tide of radiant warmth swelling in her chest, tugging against the inside of her ribs. Overcome with feeling, she forced her face to reveal nothing more than scholastic interest.

“What do you believe?” She asked. “For me, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. I believe it’s both.”

“I think I might like to see it one day, if only to decide for myself.”

Lucien only nodded and turned, leading her away from the idyllic scene and toward a line of trees with thick trunks and grey, gnarled branches that twisted into the sky. The trees were adorned with silver tin buckets suspended from hooks that seemed to collect nectar from the trees. The air felt warmer, somehow, and Elain was beginning to understand the rich variety of landscape that winter held within its boundaries.

“We’re nearing the border where the land of Winter meets the Summer Court. The land on the other side of these trees is unmistakably summer, but the weather is mild and the temperature drops low at night, the whisper of fall playing gently on the breeze. We should make haste, I’ve got to be back in Velaris by nightfall.”

Elain was startled by the realization that she too had to hurry home, for her next encounter with Kiran was to be that night. So caught up with Lucien and their shared adventure, she had almost forgotten, was almost sad to think of leaving him to join her mystifying lover under the cover of darkness.

As Lucien dropped low on his haunches to examine the earth, Elain realized the snow gave way to patches of green dotted with fine violet crocuses and butter-coloured primrose blossoms. He handed her the leather pouch Selene had pushed into his hands at their departure, spelled for the protection of the plants it would carry back to Velaris.

Scouring the earth, Elain noticed a golden white parcel of blossoms at the base of a tree and felt the unmistakable hum of magic beneath her skin at the sight

“ Galanthus arcaunus,” she breathed, and Lucien traced her line of sight, following her intently as she gracefully knelt before them as if in prayer. Fingertips light and deft, she broke away the stems carefully near the root, taking the milk-white, honey-touched blooms in her hand and carefully storing them away. 

She worked silently, diligently until the flowers were all harvested before standing to face Lucien, who looked awed for a moment before he schooled his face into careful nonchalance.

“If that’s it then, I guess we best be going.” His voice was low and rough, and he cleared his throat politely, offering his hand. Taking one last look at the Winter Court in the blue-tinged light of the setting sun, Elain gave a nod and reached for him. In only a moment they were winnowing once again through that strange, warm light that smelled of woodsmoke, honey and sage before appearing suddenly on the front steps of River House. 

Elain was perplexed when she realized she was clinging to Lucien, his arm strong and solid beneath her warming hands. Startled, she stepped away and shook her head, righting herself in place and time. 

Lucien nodded at the leather satchel he still carried under one arm. “I’ll take leave of you now and deliver these to Madame Beauvais. Congratulations on a successful mission to the Winter Court, Elain.”

“It was so much more than I ever expected. Perhaps I have been hiding away in my garden a little too long.” She couldn’t offer him much, but the admission felt like a start, no matter how small it was.

Lucien looked down at her and quirked a smile that was equal parts warm and withdrawn. 

“Goodbye, Elain. Until next time.”

***

Craving the dark oblivion of sleep, where she wouldn’t feel obliged to find answers to the bombardment of questions running through her mind, Elain fell into bed. There were only a few short hours before she’d be expected back at Madame Beauvais’, but all she could think about was the unexpected turn her day had taken. 

Taking a pillow from the head of her bed, Elain carefully positioned it between her thighs and ground her pelvis against it as she struggled to empty her mind and sate her body. It was an effective means to an end, and before long Elain was panting against her sheets, breath heavy and arousal peaking. She longed to feel Kiran’s hands on her again and wondered what the night would bring. Could anything possibly compare to the intense, fortifying experience of having him between her legs? She could hardly imagine anything would come close.

But when Elain came, shimmering bright sunspots behind her eyes and echoing pulses of pleasure thundering through her body, it wasn’t Kiran she pictured.

It was Lucien.

---

need a full body massage a margarita 400mg of ibuprofen a plate of brownies at least an hour in a jacuzzi and 20,000 dollars cash

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