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Elain doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. That’s what she’s telling herself, anyway.
But from her position kneeling in a flowerbed, knuckle-deep in the roots of a strawberry bush, trowel and gloves discarded beside her, she’s ended up in the perfect place to hear the voices drifting from the half-open window of Feyre and Rhys’ office. Which normally would be of no interest to her; normally, she’d not bother to listen, and turn back to her gardening or wander off elsewhere. Because normally, they’d be discussing matters of city management or childhood developmental milestones.
This time is not normal, however, because this time, they’re not alone. Inside the study, his voice a sonorous tenor to Rhysand’s deep baritone, is Lucien Vanserra. Her…her…gods. She almost thinks she can smell him from here, if she closes her eyes and inhales deeply: woodsmoke, cinnamon, and the slightest hint of cloves. A warm smell, like the long orange rays of sun where summer bleeds into autumn, like cool breezes on hot grass.
She hates him. She’s supposed to hate him.
Or not him, specifically. She doesn’t actually really know anything about him. More so everything he stands for – everything she’s become. The personification of the wrongness of her new body, of the trauma she suffered through.
And yet – this damn body. No matter how much she hates him, she can’t help the feelings that torrent through her at the sight of him. Can’t help the way she reacts to his scent – gods, that scent – or the desire that courses through her to lace her fingers through his wild red curls and see if he likes them being tugged. It’s a betrayal, she tells herself, of everything that she is and stands for. She was human once, and still is, even if she doesn’t look it. She doesn’t have a mate. By all rights, she should be running in the other direction to get away from him.
And yet here she is. Eavesdropping.
“--is unbelievable,” Feyre is saying, her voice high-pitched with outrage. “He can’t possibly–”
“He can,” Rhysand interrupts, “though he shouldn’t, but he can. He has the power to, I mean. All High Lords do.”
“But that’s not – I mean, he’s awful, but he’s family,” she says. “He can’t be so cruel.”
“He can be, and he will be,” Lucien says.
A door bangs inside the study. “What,” a female voice says flatly: Amren. Elain shifts closer to the window, her position concealed by a rosebush, to listen more closely. What are they talking about? What is Lucien’s family doing to him?
“We need your help,” Rhys says. “Or rather, Lucien does. It’s Beron.”
“Can’t somebody just kill him already?” Amren says; Elain imagines the way her silver eyes are probably flicking up towards the heavens in exasperation.
“Are you offering?” Rhys snaps, then lets out a troubled sigh. “He’s attempting to use his High Lord powers to command Lucien to return to Autumn. Forever.”
“And as family, it doesn’t matter that he’s out of earshot,” Amren says. “Fuck.”
“Exactly. Fuck.” Rhys lets out a long sigh.
Amren makes a sound that Elain assumes accompanies a shrug. “Why not let him go back? Have a man on the inside?”
Lucien coughs. “Excuse me? You’d just – leave me there? Come on, Feyre. You know what my father will do to me.”
Feyre looses a sigh to rival Rhys’. “What did Tamlin do? Name you emissary? You’re ours, technically, aren’t you – shouldn’t that be enough to resist?”
“Hardly. Tamlin named me emissary to avoid a civil war,” Lucien says dryly. “It’s no use. My blood is Autumn. Magically, that has a greater power than anything else.”
Amren clears her throat. “Have you not…?”
“Not what?” Lucien says.
Feyre inhales sharply. “Lucien, I – um – I – it’s about your parents. I meant to tell you, but…”
“Oh. That.” Lucien’s tone sounds disinterested. Then – “Oh, come on. What’s that face for? Did you really think Feyre was some genius for working out the worst-kept secret in Prythian?” He laughs, though there’s no humour in it. “The fire magic can tan excuse only works when your skin is a shade or two darker than your parents, not this much.”
“You knew?” Feyre says, sounding genuinely surprised. “But – you – why didn’t you say anything?”
“Helion Spell-Cleaver wants nothing to do with me.”
“That can’t be true,” Rhys interjects. “If we talk to him – you have Day’s blood, as well as Autumn. And if anyone can break a spell or compulsion, it’s him. Perhaps he can…”
“Can what? Command me to stay with him, instead? A man I know nothing of beyond the fact that half of you have fucked him?”
“Careful,” Amren snaps. “You are asking us for help. Not the other way around.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Lucien’s tone is flat and numb, betraying no emotion, but Elain feels it flicker in her own chest – despair. Self-pity. Misery. Her heart creaks, threatening to crack down the middle in a sympathetic echo of his own pain, and she massages her chest, willing it to pass. “If he were to openly go against Beron like that, it would be a declaration of war. He’d need some convincing. Which takes time: time we don’t have.”
“There must be something,” Feyre says. “Some way – I mean, you’re our only link to the human lands, not to mention half the courts of Prythian. We can’t just lose you.”
Irritation lances through Elain at that. She loves her sister, but sometimes she can be – well, ruthless. A habit picked up from her mate, or perhaps built earlier, in lonely cold days in a snowy cottage. Sometimes, Feyre treats people like chess pieces. And Elain wouldn’t care, but this is Lucien. This is – no. That’s the bond talking; it has to be.
“There is one thing,” Amren says suddenly; Elain can practically hear her red-lacquered nails tapping together. “One claiming magic that has an equivalence to a High Lord’s orders. One that would mean war to defy.”
There’s a short moment of silence. Then, “No. Absolutely not,” Feyre says, at the same time that Rhysand explodes with, “You cannot possibly mean–”
“I’m just saying.” Elain leans closer at that, trying to work out what they mean, though she has a feeling that…that…
“You must be out of your mind if you think I’m forcing my sister into that,” Feyre says coldly. “He does not lay a finger on her.”
“Beron couldn’t contest a mating bond, though,” Rhys says, his voice tired, and Elain’s stomach drops somewhere into the earth beneath her. “I mean, he couldn’t. I’d not force her. But–”
“No.” This is Lucien now, interrupting forcefully. “No. She’s made it clear what she wants, and that isn’t me.”
“You could ask her,” Amren says pointedly.
Feyre makes a noise not unlike a growl. “You will not breathe a word of this to Elain. I will not have her worrying about this, not when she’s only just…herself again. This does not leave this room: are we clear?”
Elain doesn’t hear their responses. Her heart is thundering in her ears, and she prays it quiets before Feyre hears her and realises she’s eavesdropping. But she can’t help herself, hands fisting deeply in the soil, mud cutting dark crescents under her nails, even the soft damp earth failing to ground her.
Gods, she’s sick of this. All her life, she’s never had a choice. From growing up as her mother’s pet, to being forced into the cottage, to the freezing waters of the Cauldron, to Graysen’s rejection, to her quiet life as Fae, excluded from the rest of them – and now this. It’s an indignity that is almost too much to bear, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek so hard she tastes blood. She is not a doll, and she never has been, as much as people have treated her so. She wouldn’t break. She could handle it, and yet Feyre and the others won’t even bother to try.
Forcing herself to take deep breaths, in through her nose and out through her mouth, she uncurls her hands from the soil and tunes back into the end of the conversation. “Fuck this,” Lucien is saying. “I’m going.”
“Where?” Rhys demands.
“Continent. Rask. Further south. Maybe down so far I can find somewhere where they’ve never even heard of Fae.” Elain hears things banging and rustling, like a bag being gathered up. “If I go now, I have a headstart on him. Maybe I’ll buy enough time for you to get word to Helion.”
There’s a short silence. Then, “Alright,” Feyre says softly, “though I don’t like this, Lucien.”
“Neither do fucking I!” he snaps. Then, at Rhysand’s soft growl, he adds, “My apologies, my lady. But if you can do no more, I have to go. Now.”
Fabric rustles. “Travel safely,” Feyre says, so quietly Elain’s Fae ears barely pick it up. “We’ll do everything in our power.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lucien says wryly. Fabric rustles again, and then a door bangs.
Rhys and Feyre and Amren all start talking, but Elain doesn’t hear it. Her stomach is churning, her heart slamming against her ribcage, her palms soaked in sweat – not with fear or grief or anxiety, for once in her life, but rage. Pure, unadulterated fury – at the world, at her life, at them. How dare they treat her like a child? How dare they have so little trust in her that they don’t think she can make even one decision about her own life?
Her feet are moving before she knows it, her new body instinctively knowing how to uncurl and move soundlessly through the gardens, breaking into a run when she reaches the side gate, pebbles cutting into the bottom of her feet, soon turning to paving slabs as she sprints around onto the drive.
Something in her chest twists hard when she sees him, storming towards the gates, where Feyre and Rhys’ anti-winnow wards end, where she knows he’ll vanish forever. And she does the only thing she can think of: reaching down into her chest, her very soul, she grabs onto the glowing thread that sings between them and yanks.
Lucien gasps, his shoulders spasming, and stops abruptly. He casts a wild look to the side, russet eye widening further when he sees her. She must look a state, hair messy around her shoulders, hands and feet coated in dirt, in her scruffy old gardening clothes – but at this moment she doesn’t care.
“Wait,” she gasps out, finally reaching him. Gods, she’s out of shape; even the brief sprint through Feyre and Rhys’ grounds is enough to have her breathing heavily, propping her elbows on her knees.
“My lady,” Lucien says, voice shaking. “I can’t – I don’t have time to–”
“I know. I heard,” she pants. “I was – the window. I heard everything you said.”
He swears under his breath. “Then you know I have to go. I’m sorry. But I can’t–”
She extends her palm and opens it. He takes an instinctive step backwards, then his eyebrows shoot up. “My lady, I…”
She waves the battered, squashed strawberry – plucked from the very plant she was just tending – in his face. “Eat. Now.”
“You don’t understand. You–”
“This is how one accepts the bond, is it not?”
He stumbles back another step. “Why would you want to – Lady Elain. Please. You don’t have to – not for me–”
“If your siblings and parents call you back to Autumn, you’ll be trapped there forever, right?”
“Well. Perhaps. But–”
“And they’re cruel to you. Are they not?”
“They have been. In the past.” His expression sours. “But that is no reason for you to accept. This is – the bond, it’s for life. Not to mention that, bond or no bond, I intend to get out of Prythian as soon as I can until this blows over. And to separate a freshly bonded pair – it can cause excruciating pain. I would never allow you to feel that.”
Elain’s hand shakes, but she keeps on holding out the strawberry. She thinks of Nesta – what would she say? What would she do? She tries to emulate her older sister, drawing her shoulders back, her spine straight, letting her eyes harden and darken. “It’s like Feyre said. Your connections will be invaluable in the upcoming…conflict.” She has no idea if there is an upcoming conflict, but, what the hell. This is Prythian: there’s always an upcoming conflict. “I’m sick and tired of sitting back and letting other people do the work for me. I am a part of this family, and I want to act like it. I won’t break or shatter if you press too hard; I can do things. And I will.”
He shakes his head softly. “It’s not a good enough reason. It–”
All thoughts of trying to emulate Nesta fly out of the window as frustration rolls through Elain, and she stamps her foot irritably. Chips of gravel scatter from between the paving stone. “Just shut up and eat the damned strawberry, Lucien!”
He shuts up. A faint dark pink flush spreads over his cheeks like a spring sunrise. His eyes drop to the strawberry, which is, in his defence, rather inedible-looking now, what with all the running and offering. Still, she doesn’t move, keeping her hand extended towards him even as it starts to ache with the effort.
All of a sudden, Lucien winces, one hand flying up to rub at the back of his head as if something aches there. “Fuck. I – shit.”
“What?” she demands.
“Beron. He shouldn’t be able to – fuck – do this, I’m not his son, I–”
“Eat it!” Elain is bordering on hysteria. “Now!” She shoves the strawberry in his face.
“It doesn’t even count without intention–!”
“I accept,” Elain says roughly. She doesn’t know the right words, but she says what she can anyway. “Lucien Vanserra, I accept and claim you as my mate.”
“From now until the Mother takes us,” he murmurs, seemingly unconsciously.
“From now until the Mother takes us,” she repeats, pouring every fibre of her being into it. “Now eat.”
Finally, he eats. Snatching the strawberry from her hand, he swallows it in one bite, letting the green top fall to the floor to be crushed underfoot. Their eyes meet, and immediately, Elain feels something pull taut between them, an aching need, a desperate tug in his direction, something so instinctive and buried so deep–
“Fuck!” Lucien clutches his chest, then his head. “Shit. We have to go. Rhys–”
“Fuck him,” Elain declares, lunging for his arm. “Do you have somewhere to go?”
“Yes. I – are you sure?”
“I’d rather not Beron attack us both, so yes, please!” she says desperately, and then Lucien makes a frantic noise, and then the world dissolves into shadow.
He’s not quite as strong as Feyre or Rhys or Mor. They winnow in short sharp bursts, dizzying jumps that leaves her heart rising into her mouth and her stomach threatening to follow it. She presses her eyes closed against the spin and whirl, catching fleeting glimpses of shimmering seas, patchworked fields, and long dusty roads.
Finally, they land. Or at least, she thinks they land: the world keeps spinning around her, so intensely that she stumbles backwards and falls flat on her ass, dirtying her dress even more.
“I’m – sorry –” wheezes Lucien. He doesn’t look any better off, doubled over, sweat streaming down his face as he gasps for breath.
“Are you – is it–” Is it Beron?
He shakes his head. “Just used a lot of magic. I’m fine. I just need a…” He sits heavily, stirring up a cloud of dust. “Just need a second.”
“Where are we?” She glances around. They stand by a warm, dry road, the sun hot and heavy overhead, olive trees rustling in the slight hot breeze. She can see a driveway leading to a modest, flat-roofed house flanked by stubbly green lawns; white curtains billow in its windows, and it looks sweet, almost homely.
“Scythia,” Lucien says, clambering to his feet and dusting himself off. “Just north of the human realms. A property I own here. I haven’t been for a while – since I was young, actually – but it’s all maintained by charms, and there should be food and fresh water.”
“Wonderful,” Elain says, distracted. She’s looking at him, trying to work out if she feels any different. There is something inside her, she decides, a twisty-turny feeling she thought was from the winnowing but now isn’t so sure. He doesn’t look any different to her than he used to, nor does she feel differently when she looks at him, or she’s fairly sure so, anyway. But there is a strange sensation prickling over her skin, a sort of warmth from within, like eating too much horseradish. Is this all the mating frenzy is? She’s relieved, if so – she must have gotten off lightly. “What are we to do?”
Lucien looks at his feet. “Now…we wait.”
He takes her into the house, which is nicely decorated and well maintained, and shows her to her room. By now, it’s getting on to evening, but when he asks her if she’d like to get something to eat, she shakes her head. “I feel a little…”
“Are you unwell, my lady?”
“Please. Just Elain is fine. And – no. Just tired and over-hot from the day, I think.”
He nods stiffly. “Very well. I shall let you rest.”
With that, he withdraws. The room is simple, plainly furnished but pretty; washing in the water on the nightstand, Elain strips down to her shift and lays on the bed, which is large and very comfortable. She’s starting to feel really rather odd, she realises, skin hot and tight all over and something twisting uncomfortably low inside her.
At one point, she hears the pop of winnowing, and Rhysand’s voice raised in furious argument. She doesn’t have it in her to go down and speak to him, strange and restless as she’s feeling, so she leaves Lucien to deal with it, and it seems to work – nobody comes to disturb her, and she hears someone winnow away a little later.
As the sun sets and the night rises, she decides to get some rest. Perhaps, if she can find sleep, she’ll awake back to normal.
But sleep does not come.
Around midnight, it gets worse. She throws open her window and flings her blankets aside, but nothing works. The heat is building, like the worst fever she’s ever had; sweat trickles down her forehead and in the valley between her breasts, and her skin itches all over, as if a dozen tiny fire-ants march all over it. Growling in frustration, she yanks her shift off, leaving her clad in nothing at all; as she does so, the thin cotton grazes against her nipples. Immediately, they’re hard, her breasts filling with a heavy, aching swell, a desperate need to be touched.
She chucks the shift on the floor and rolls over, burying her face in the pillow. She will not give in to this feeling. She can control it. She can push it down. The frenzy can’t possibly last forever: it will end, and then she’ll be fine to continue as she was.
She feels the bond in her chest hum in response. As if it’s a sentient creature; as if it knows she’s thinking about him, a pulse of something undeniably and unmistakably aroused flashes down it, sending another wave of sweat breaking over her skin. She groans, half in pain and half in frustration.
Rolling onto her front was a mistake. Her whole body presses against the mattress, the soft sheets rough as sandpaper against her over-sensitive skin, and she tenses every muscle in her body to stop herself from rocking against it.
In her mind, she imagines a brick wall. Brick by brick, she builds it, blocking off the connection between herself and Lucien, letting ivy and climbing-rose grow over any gaps, sealing him off from her entirely. It works, though barely.
Sleep, she wills herself, the need somewhat dulled. Sleep, and maybe tomorrow it will be over.
When she wakes, it is not over. It’s not long until dawn, and the mental wall has, in her sleep, collapsed entirely. Not only that – she hurts, all over, her skin aching at every touch like each nerve ending is being pricked by a razor-sharp pin, and she can’t stop the sweat and the heat any more than she can dull the ache that has settled between her legs. It throbs with a second heartbeat, the gap between her inner thighs slick and frictionless as she shifts, muffling a cry of pain.
Not muffled well enough. A moment later, a knock sounds on the door. “Elain?” Lucien calls. “Elain? Are you well?”
Just the sound of his voice is enough to send another wave of desire through her, and she sits up, folding forwards in an attempt to crush it down, unable to reply.
A second, panicked knock comes, louder, then another, then–
“I’m fine!” Elain gets out, her voice tight and strangled. “Don’t break the door down!”
She manages to recover enough sense to yank her shift back down over her head, stifling a groan at the rasp of fabric against skin, and stumbles to the door, tugging it open. Immediately, the scent of him washes over her, smoky and spicy and utterly divine, and she has to clench both hands at her side to restrain herself.
“Oh–” Lucien swears roughly, taking a full step back. Against her better judgement, she meets his gaze: his russet eye has darkened, pupil blown wide; his cheeks are flushed, his lips parting for his unsteady breath. “Cauldron, Elain. You smell–” He shakes himself forcibly, raking his hands through his already messy hair. “I heard you cry out. Are you well?” he says, unbelievably stiffly.
She tries to ignore the pounding between her thighs, the thick scent of desire that tangles around them both, and copies his tone. “Quite well. Just – a little pain.”
“Pain?” he says, voice hitching.
“Heat,” she clarifies quickly. “Just – I’m warm. Very warm, really.” She smooths a trembling hand over her hair, feeling more sweat bead at her temples. One droplet runs down her face and over the column of her throat; Lucien’s eyes follow its path down, down, under her shift and between her breasts, and a soft growl leaves his throat.
Then – “A bath,” he says. “Shit, Elain, we need to get you into a bath.” He scrubs his hands over his face again. “I’m so sorry. I – the bond, the scent – I didn’t know it would be like this. I’ll do everything in my power to control myself – no, I will control myself. I swear it.”
“I know,” she says quickly. Then, almost desperately, “Bath?”
“This way.” He shows her to a bathing chamber; the tub is moderately sized, deep enough that she’ll be able to submerge herself under the water. With a flick of his wrist, he turns on the taps, and something about the magic that sparks through him sparks into her, too, another wave of sweat breaking out over her skin. She can’t stop looking at him: at the muscles flexing beneath his shirt, at the rough stubble sweeping over his chin, at the sweat gleaming on his forehead, curling the little wispy hairs around his temples–
“Elain,” he says roughly, and she drags her eyes away.
“Sorry. I – I’m sorry. I…”
“I know,” he says miserably. “It’s just the bond. It makes things…”
“Difficult.”
“Difficult,” he agrees, gaze dropping to her lips again, then forcibly tearing away. “I’ll leave you for your bath. It should help.”
“Help. Yes,” she says dazedly.
He staggers backwards and out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Elain lets out a small groan, running her hands through her hair and tugging miserably – which turns out to be a mistake, as pleasure shoots through her from the slight pain.
It’s just the bond. Just the bond. It would be like this with anyone.
Though it certainly doesn’t help the fact that it’s him. Lucien is undeniably attractive: those muscles, that smile, those thighs. Not only attractive – he’s kind, chivalrous, brave, well-spoken – the sort of man she used to dream of having, a long time ago. Before…well, before everything.
Not that it matters. Lucien and her are mates solely due to some quirk of the Cauldron. She doesn’t want him, and, as far as she can tell, he doesn’t want her. That’s what she tells herself as she strips off her sweat-soaked shift and slips into the bath.
The cold water is bliss, washing away the sweat and heat emanating from her body, trailing cool fingers down her body, over her peaked nipples, her stomach, her legs, between her thighs, to–
Fuck.
It’s not working.
If anything, the reprieve from the suffocating heat removes the only distraction from her pounding arousal. Gods, she can feel him. As if he were right next to her, his body pressed into hers, his – his –
She slips below the water with a groan.
After at least half an hour, her skin has turned wrinkled and prune-y, and she feels no better. Cleaner, at least, but no better, and no matter how hard she tries to block out Lucien and wall up the bond, she can feel the odd pulse of emotion down it that tells her he, if anything, is faring even worse.
Discarding her disgustingly sweaty shift, she wraps herself in a towel and pads out to the bedroom in search of fresh clothes. Only to run straight into Lucien in the hall, a bundle of fabric in his arms.
At the sight of her, his russet eye widens, a deep blush coming over his cheeks. His scent, already so unbearable, darkens further to something dizzying and sense-stealing. “Clothes,” he says hoarsely, proffering the bundle.
“Thanks,” she manages.
“Is it – better?”
She shakes her head mutely. “Worse.”
“Me too,” he says miserably.
Then, to her utter horror and humiliation, she feels her throat begin to tighten, her eyes burning and prickling as a wave of nameless emotion swells up inside her. “Excuse me,” she gets out, dashing for the bedroom, and barely makes it inside before tears are spilling from her.
“Elain?” Behind her, Lucien’s voice is frantic, coming from the other side of the closed door. “Elain, are you–?”
“I’m fine,” she attempts, which is ruined by the sob that heaves from her halfway through.
“Is it – is it me?” he says desperately. “Should I – go? I could find someone else?”
“No!” She doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong or what she wants, but she knows that the idea of him leaving is the worst thing she can imagine. “Please don’t go. I don’t know why I’m so upset.” She sniffs, wiping her cheeks. “Is this…normal?”
“I think so,” he replies, after a pause. “The mating frenzy is intense, to say the least. It can be overwhelming, especially if you’re not – well.”
“I need something,” she whimpers, “but I don’t know what.”
Lucien is silent for a long time. Slowly, she slides down the door until she’s sitting on the floor with her back pressed against it, the clothes discarded to one side, her towel starting to fall from her body; she relishes the cooler air on her skin. Then – “Have you tried, ah…taking matters into your own hands?” he says quietly. His voice is tight, strangled.
“I – what?”
He clears his throat. “Touching yourself, I mean.”
Heat floods her, her cheeks prickling as blood rushes to them, then cooling again as all that blood drops south, settling between her thighs. “I’m…I don’t really do that.” It’s not a lie: before becoming Fae, she clung to the human ideals of female chastity, never dreaming of doing something like that; saving herself entirely for her future husband. And after becoming Fae – well, her body was not her own anymore. To bring pleasure to it felt wrong, when she was so disconnected with her own self. But now…now she wouldn’t hesitate to seek some relief, if only she knew how. “I don’t really know – what to do,” she adds, humiliated.
“Oh. Oh.” Lucien inhales sharply. Then: “It might help. Your scent – your pheromones, I mean. It might reduce them enough that we can bear it.”
“Alright,” she whispers. “Alright, but I…but how do I…”
He makes a noise she can only describe as strangled. Then. “Um. Are you – are you sitting?”
She nods, then remembers he can’t see her. “Yes.”
“Can you…” She can hear his breathing, the way it darkens and turns ragged. “Are you wearing…”
“Nothing,” she cuts in, pushing the towel aside, and he makes that noise again.
“Alright. Um. I – alright.” His breathing catches again. Then, “Put your hand on your chest,” he says softly. “Over your heart. Over your breasts.”
She does so. Her palm brushes against her nipples, and she gasps involuntarily, arching her back. “Does that feel good?” he says roughly.
“Y–yes.”
“Keep doing it. Pinch your nipples between your fingertips; roll them there.”
“Oh, gods,” she mutters, any embarrassment lost in the wave of lightning that tugs through her entire body.
“Now lower,” he says. “Move your hand lower, over your ribs, over your stomach. Between your thighs.” She gasps. “Are you wet, Elain?”
“Yes,” she whispers. Soaked. There’s no friction to be found anywhere.
He swears quietly. The door thumps, as if he’s sagged against it; she presses back into it, imagines she can feel his heart beating through the wood. If she listens really close, over the pounding of her own, she can hear it, frantic and desperate. “The things I would do to you,” he growls, then swears again. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I–”
“No,” she gasps. “Tell me.”
“Cauldron,” he mutters. “I – fuck. I would kiss your neck, taking my time, dragging my lips over your skin, biting down, leaving marks. Claiming you as mine. Then lower, down your body, until I could bury my head between your legs and taste you. If you taste anything like you smell, love, you’d be fucking divine.” He groans. “Move your fingers over yourself, Elain. Find where it feels the best. Press down, go in small circles, and–”
She lets out a loud moan as she finds it, back arching as pleasure sparks through her. “That’s it,” he says, the wood of the door creaking – is he pressing his fist or palm against it from the other side? “That’s so good, Elain. Keep going, keep going.”
It doesn’t take her long to find the rhythm, speeding up, his scent invading her senses, his voice invading her mind. No doubt he can feel everything she’s feeling down the bond, and the thought just makes it more intense; she arches, throws her head back, spreads her legs wide, giving over everything she has to the feeling. “More,” she gasps. “I need – I need more.” She can feel something approaching, some peak that she’s climbing towards, but she won’t make it: not like this.
Lucien groans. “In – inside. Put a finger – or two –” This, at least, she knows, from her one and only experience with Graysen. She’s wet enough that there’s no resistance as she slides two fingers inside herself. “Curl them towards yourself,” Lucien pants. “Rock your hand.”
Tentatively, she does so, and an exquisite sensation bursts through her like an overripe berry – a pleasure more intense than the one before, filling her up like she’s going to explode, like she’s going to burst into flames and die – “Keep talking,” she gets out. “I need – your voice.”
At that, he makes a sound she can only describe as a whimper, then clears his throat. “That’s how I would fuck you,” he says roughly. “Slow at first, then faster. Rougher. Speed up for me, love.”
The slick sound is loud enough that no doubt he can hear it, unless it’s drowned out by the gasping of her breath and the moans the pleasure tears from her. “Faster, faster,” he says. “I can feel how close you are, Elain, fuck–”
Down the bond, she realises. She lets herself feel it, the arousal spilling down from his side, completely unsatisfied: he’s not touching himself, not doing anything for himself. It’s all for her. It’s all her. “Can you come for me, Elain?” he says raggedly.
She whines. “I – I–”
“I know you can, love. Don’t overthink it. Just let it wash over you – how good it feels, how perfect – use your other hand to help –”
She presses her free hand over her core and pushes down hard at the same time as she curls her fingers inside her, and her climax tears over her in a tidal wave. She’s crying out, she knows that much, but she can’t stop, her whole body shaking and convulsing with wave after wave of bliss, going on forever and ever and ever and all she can think, all she can feel is him.
Eventually, it settles to a tight sort of sensitivity, sweaty and slippery and at least partially sated.
“Better?” Lucien says, his voice very tight.
“A little.” She manages to catch her breath. “I can still feel it, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Thank the gods,” he says softly. She hears fabric rustle and the door creak, as if he’s leaning his head against it. “Elain. I’m so sorry. I had no idea it would be like this, or I’d never have let you do what you did.”
“It’s fine,” she says sleepily. “It’s better this than you’re taken prisoner in Autumn. And besides – I’d rather it be you than anyone else.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I do mean it,” she says, stifling a yawn, her head pleasingly foggy. “You’re good to me.”
“I could get someone else,” he says quietly. “If you really need it. Azriel–”
“Not him.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “He was using me to punish himself. I’ll have no part in that.”
She swears she hears him swallow. “You deserve more than that.”
“Exactly.”
“You deserve more than this, though,” he says, sounding almost despairing. “You deserve–”
“I’ll decide what I do and do not deserve,” she says, cutting him off. “I’ll decide what I do and do not want. And I’ll decide what is and is not worth it, and this is worth it. So stop arguing.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then laughs softly. “You sound like your sister.”
She laughs too, then stifles another yawn. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is.” She hears the floorboards creak as he rises. “You should get some rest, Elain. It’s only been one night. The frenzy can last for several days, even longer.”
She sighs. “Great.” She has no idea how she’ll find sleep, her mind racing with everything that has and is happening – but no sooner has she dragged herself back into her bed does sleep pull her down into a deep dark pit.
When she awakes, it’s to the scent of woodsmoke and spices. She can hear a heartbeat, steady and slow, breaths rising and falling like a ship’s hull on calm seas. For a moment, utter peace and contentment washes over her like the golden rays of sun that filter through the shutters, drowning out even the insistent ache that has returned between her legs, and then she remembers. With a gasp, her eyes fly open as she pushes herself half-upright – only to see Lucien, slumped in a chair by the other side of her bed, fast asleep, his head lolling back in a position that must surely be agonising for his neck.
At the sound of her awakening, his russet eye flicks open, his mechanical one whirring frantically as he looks around the room, settling only when he sees her. “What…” she says, breathing hard, the sight of him morning-mussed and sleepy doing something to her that she doesn’t think has anything to do with the biological impulse of the bond, but that’s something to be dealt with later.
“You were crying out in your sleep,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I didn’t want you to wake up frightened. And–” He bites his lip. “And I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even think. It seemed better when I was near you.”
“Gods,” she breathes. All this time, she’s only been thinking about herself, about the conflicting emotions – and sensations – that the bond draws from her. She’s not even taken a second to consider him. She knows the mating bond is stronger, more animalistic, for a male than it is for a female. However much she’s been suffering, it must be just as bad for him if not worse, and guilt washes over her.
“I’ll go,” he says determinedly, rising to his feet. “Now I see you’re alright. I’ll–”
“No.” She’s interrupting him before she even knows what she’s doing. “I – don’t go. The closer you are, the better it feels. For me, I mean.”
He pauses; looks back. And gods, the look on his face – a naked, desperate hope, fluttering to life in his gaze; guards already coming down, as if ready to be shattered, as if preparing himself for rejection. It breaks her heart. “Really?” he says quietly.
She nods. “Really.” It’s not even a lie: the closer she is to him, the more she can smell him and feel him, the less the raw, aching pain inside her pounds at her senses. The arousal, of course, is not helped, and perhaps it’s that fogging her mind or perhaps any attempts at constructing fake barriers finally seem as useless as they are, but she pats the bed beside her. “Here.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods. And, tentatively, as if terrified she’ll change her mind, he moves to the bed and lies down, the mattress dipping under his weight. Instinctively, she moves towards him, drawn by his warmth, his smell, his strength. He stiffens.
Heat floods through her, and not the good kind. “Sorry,” she mutters.
“No, it’s–” He sighs. “I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret – after. Once this is over. The bond can be…confusing, and I don’t want you to do anything you don’t really want.”
She almost starts to cry again. He’s so nice, and so kind, and she can’t believe she spent so long resenting him when he’d done absolutely nothing wrong. Not only that, but the smell of him, the feel of him so close to her, is bringing the tightening in her core up to new levels, a steady aching throb that matches the beat of her heart.
She makes her decision in a split-second. Shuffling closer, she pulls them into an awkward, messy sort of embrace, her head on his shoulder, her arm flung across his chest, her leg pressing against his. He inhales sharply, his whole body shuddering, and then his arm is coming around her, his fingertips over her spine, his chin tucking against the top of her head.
And then he moves ever so slightly, or perhaps she does, and the firm muscle of his thigh slips between her own and presses against her core and oh. Oh, it’s good. Oh, it’s so good.
She gasps, involuntarily pushing down, and sparks burst at the edges of her vision, it’s so good. Lucien’s breathing turns to a rasp as he realises, the pulse of emotion echoing down the bond. “Elain,” he says raggedly.
She knows she should apologise and pull away and go and take a long bath, but what instead comes out of her mouth is an embarrassingly high-pitched, desperate-sounding, “Please.”
“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, the hand on her back sliding lower. And she doesn’t even need to ask if he wants it: she can feel it down the bond, the desperate desire to do anything she tells him to.
She buries her head in the crook of his neck, so all she can see is the darkness of the pillow and all she can smell is him, washing over her in dizzying waves, and then she rocks forward again. They both groan, even though she’s not even touching him – not where it would count to bring him pleasure, anyway – but Lucien gasps and shudders under her as if she has her hand wrapped around his cock, and the knowledge of what she’s doing to him is. Well, it’s powerful. She’s never been in control of anything in her life, human or Fae; never had any kind of power over anyone or anything beyond the plants in her own garden – until now. And it feels spectacular.
So she rocks forwards again, his hands fisting in the back of her shirt as if trying to keep his control, and then he seems to give up. Both of his palms land firmly on her ass, hauling her closer, and he pushes his thigh up against her right as she pushes down onto him. The friction is divine, pleasure racing through every part of her, and she can’t stop the sounds that spill from her mouth.
“That’s it, love.” Lucien’s voice is tender, but the vibration of it in his chest buzzes against her oversensitive skin, and she rocks down on him again, whimpering. “You take what you need. I’ve got you.”
Maybe she should be embarrassed, but there’s nothing embarrassing about this. It’s the best she’s ever felt, body and soul, and fuck, his thighs are incredible. Thick and muscled, flexing as he moves, finding the perfect drag, the perfect speed–
She cries out his name as she comes, clenching around nothing, her whole body squeezing and shuddering. He holds her tightly, murmuring soothing words in her ear, hands running up and down her back, and she realises dimly that she’s never felt so safe.
“More?” he says gently, as she catches her breath.
“Is it – can I?” she says.
He settles his hands on her hips again. “Anything you want, darling,” he breathes in her ear, and she arches into him, and it’s as if she never came, she’s so desperate for more.
“Talk,” she gasps, and he obeys.
“I can feel how wet you are even through your clothes,” he says raggedly. “Making a mess of my trousers, aren’t you?” He pulls her closer to illustrate it. “You look so good like this, Elain, fuck, I could just – I could just bite you.” Fuck, she wants him to, but she’s too far gone to form words. Sweat trickles down her forehead, mixing with his own, the air between them loud with the harshness of their breathing and the pounding of their hearts. “Nobody’s ever made you feel good, have they, love? Nobody’s ever fucked you like you deserve, have they?”
She shakes her head against his shoulder, because it’s true: comparing the way Greysen made her feel to the way Lucien does is like comparing a painting of a field to walking through the real thing. She never imagined sex could feel anything like this, and they haven’t even taken their clothes off.
“I would, love,” he says roughly, and she comes again, shuddering against him with a broken cry, but he doesn’t even stop. She’s sore from the friction, bruised from the pressure, but she doesn’t care, rubbing herself wildly against him as his words bury somewhere deep inside her. “I’d fuck you exactly how you deserve it. I’d worship every part of you and have you begging for more. I wouldn’t stop until you’d come three, four, five times, until you felt better than you ever imagined possible.” He’s already achieved that, she manages to think through the haze of pleasure. “And then I’d come inside you, love, fill you up with me. And you’d know exactly what it means to be properly fucked.”
More. She needs more. And it’s an easy shift to move one of her legs so she’s fully astride him, knees either side of his hips, body pressed against his, and fuck, now she can feel him. Properly feel him, his cock hard and emanating heat, pressing through the thin fabric of his trousers. She grinds down, dragging herself up the length of him, and his hands dig into her hips so tightly she knows she’ll have bruises but she couldn’t give less of a shit, because he’s tossing his head back and bucking up into her and making the most sinfully indecent noise she’s ever heard: so she does it again. And again.
“Fuck,” he groans, grabbing her so tightly he lifts her hips away from him; she arches uselessly against the air; she draws back enough to look at him. “Fuck, Elain, if you move even an inch more, I’m going to – I won’t be able to–” He’s panting for breath, his face flushed, his russet eye dark and glassy, and he looks…well. He looks beautiful.
“You’ll come?” she says, finally finding words. He nods. “You don’t want to?”
A surprised laugh tears from his throat. “I want to, but you–”
That’s enough for her. Pushing herself back down, she drags herself along his length again from root to tip, hard enough to hurt, and pleasure bursts into fireworks behind her eyeballs, matched only by the shuddering convulsions that echo down the bond. Lucien cries out, hand tangling in her hair, and even in the desperate clenches of her own climax, she can feel it: pulsating, twitching, throbbing, a dampness spreading against her, a shared pleasure mingling between them both.
And then, finally, it slows. “Fuck,” Lucien says quietly, heaving for breath. Elain, slumped against his chest, soaked and sticky all over, can’t help herself: she starts to laugh.
“What?” he gasps out.
She manages to stifle her laughter. “I feel better.” It’s true: she feels miles better. The heat is gone, the pain, the aching, the mood swings – all gone. She feels like herself again.
“We’ll probably have a short reprieve,” Lucien says tiredly, and she clambers off him to let him get up. A small part of her wishes she could ask him to stay and cuddle for a bit…but he probably wants to bathe. And besides, she’s sure he wouldn’t want to even if asked. “I’m going to change, and then – are you hungry?”
She hasn’t eaten in a full day now, and in response, her stomach lets out a persistent grumble. “Starving.”
Lucien is a surprisingly good cook. She was expecting him to be like the other males she knows – Rhys, Cassian and Azriel can’t cook to save their lives, preferring instead to let their magical houses (or servants) make the food for them. And in the human realm, it was unheard of for a male to do the cooking; the kitchen was the wife’s place.
Lucien, however, uses no magic, not even the fire she knows is inherent in his blood. Instead, he unpacks the bundle of provisions that someone, perhaps Rhys, has sent for him – she resolves to ask him, later, if there’s any staff in the house who could overhear anything – and sets himself happily to work. Elain emerges from her own bathing chamber to the delicious scent of frying onions drifting through the house, and ventures for the first time into the kitchen downstairs to find Lucien, in clean linen trousers and tunic, his damp hair falling in spirals over his back, leaving blotches of water on the fabric. He’s standing at the stove, and for a second he doesn’t seem to notice her, focused as he is on cracking eggs into the skillet, and she just…watches.
Oh. Oh. The sight of him like this, barefoot and clean and still slightly flushed, making her breakfast – well, lunch, technically, but that’s beside the point – it does something to her, something strange and barely familiar.
Then she steps forward, and he turns and sees her, and he smiles, and…well. Alright. That’s – that’s really something. He has a lovely smile, she has to admit, a lazy rakish curl to his lips, eye lighting up, his face relaxed and open and startlingly handsome. She can’t help the answering smile that spreads across her own face; Lucien blinks twice, and for a moment they just stare at each other, the world falling away, and then–
“Shit,” he swears, turning back to the skillet, which is now emitting a dangerous-looking black smoke. With a few expert motions, he sets it to rights, and then serves up two plates. “Nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”
“It smells lovely,” she says happily, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “What is that spice? I don’t recognise the scent.”
“That’ll be the cumin,” he says, delivering the plate to the table in front of her and taking his own.
“Cumin? What’s it derived from?”
“A plant native to Scythia,” he answers, handing her a fork; she digs in, and it tastes divine. “The spice comes from the seeds, dried and crushed.”
“It doesn’t grow in Prythian?” Curiosity sparks within.
“Not natively. Certainly not in the Night Court. Though perhaps within a glass-house…”
“Oh,” she says, dejected. “We don’t have one of those.”
“You don’t?” He looks surprised. “We used to have one in the gardens of the Spring Court. Tamlin grew tomatoes.” His expression turns almost wistful as he eats.
She blinks, surprised. “That does…not fit with what I know about him. Or Spring.”
He shrugs. “All tellings are biased. If I were to tell you about your sister’s time in Spring with its High Lord, no doubt I would exclude many bad things, intentionally or unintentionally. Likewise, she would exclude many of the good.”
“That’s very…” Mature? Balanced? Sensible? It’s different from the way her family and court talk about things or people, like they can only be wholly bad or wholly good. “Interesting,” she finishes lamely.
He shrugs it off, instead pouring her a glass of water, which she drinks greedily, not having realised how thirsty she was. After she’s eaten, clean as she is from her bath, the aching inside her dulled to a low throb which she can just about ignore, she feels almost human again. “You know,” Lucien says, “if you’re interested in the plants of Scythia, there’s a garden here?” His voice tilts up at the end, as if expecting her to say no.
“I would love to see it,” she says instead, and is treated to another one of those heart-flipping smiles.
“Follow me.”
Outside, the day is warm, though not hot, a cool breeze blowing scents of sea-salt and sand from somewhere on the coast. The garden is small, but pretty, with a neatly-cropped lawn of wild grasses and clover, and beds all around the edge full of flowers and plants. She spots an orange tree at the end of the garden, fruit starting to swell in its branches, and several tomato plants wrapped around wooden poles to keep them upright. It’s discreet, too; she can’t see any other properties nearby, and the high hedges around the edge of the garden ensure no-one can see in, so she feels comfortable slipping off her shoes and luxuriating in the feel of the grass beneath her toes.
Lucien clears his throat. “I have to get some more food from the village.” Well, that answers that question. “Will you be alright here until I return?”
“Of course,” she says idly, already distracted by a pretty orange variety of rose, so much so that she barely notices him leave.
Until, that is, fifteen minutes later, when something inside her begins to hurt again, like a broken string still tugging towards its other half. Dropping the flower she’s been examining, she doubles over, clutching at the sudden sharp pain that wracks her chest, and sits down heavily on the grass.
Desperately, she feels inside her soul for the bond and finds it, a humming golden string. Grabbing it with two mental fists, she yanks as hard as she can, pulling it back towards herself. Lucien, come. Come quickly.
She can feel him moving closer. How strange it is, to have another person’s soul tucked up against her own: she can feel it reeling in as he moves closer and closer and closer. And as he does so, the pain changes, slipping down her body and settling between her thighs, heat flaring outwards, sweat beading on her chest and forehead.
A moment later, a door bangs from the house and Lucien appears, sweat forming damp patches on his tunic; he must have run all the way here from the anti-winnowing wards, she realises dimly.
“Are you safe?” he says frantically, dropping to his knees beside her.
She nods, curling one hand around his forearm, the contact already easing the storm of emotion and misery that had churned up her soul. “Too far,” she gasps.
“Too far,” he agrees, massaging his own chest. “What do you need?”
“Touch,” she whispers, for every moment of contact with his skin seems to ease the maelstrom that the mating bond turns into whenever they’re apart. “Just – I need to touch you.”
His arms come around her, and then – as if she weighs nothing – she’s lifted easily into his lap. They fit together like two puzzle pieces, like two halves of a whole slotting back together, her legs winding around his hips, his hands spanning her back, her cheek pressed against his. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh, one hand carding through the ends of her hair, and relief melts through her. “Better?”
“So much better,” she admits, hiding her face in his hair, and lets her fingers trace the length of his spine through his tunic until he shivers.
Unfortunately, though the close proximity alleviates the pain, the feeling of his muscles under her hands and the scent of him all around her only serves to drive her arousal into overdrive. And it’s not only her that’s affected – his breathing roughens, loud in her ears, and she hears him swallow hard. His hands flatten against her back, his head dipping to rest in the hollow of her neck, and tingles spread out over her skin where he touches her. “What do you need?” he says again. She feels herself flush – she knows the answer, but the words don’t want to come to her lips. “Anything, Elain,” he adds. “Anything.”
“Can we…again?” she whispers, shy.
His hands tighten reflexively on her back, shifting her closer. “Whatever you want, love.” His words rasp over her skin. “You take me however you want me.”
She swallows, suddenly nervous. “I – it seems like it feels better when we’re touching. Skin to skin, I mean. The bond…settles.” She squeezes her eyes closed, hiding her face in his hair, embarrassed. “Could you – maybe – take off your shirt?”
He doesn’t even hesitate before doing so; she shifts back enough to let him pull off first his tunic, then the white undershirt he’s wearing beneath. A wave of lust rocks through her at the sight of him, her eyes dipping treacherously to the lean, strong muscles of his chest and abs, the soft downy hair that trails around his nipples, down his chest, over his stomach towards his waistband, where the juts of his hipbones are just visible.
All of a sudden, she’s no better than an animal. She wants this. Badly.
She’s wanted it the whole time they’ve been here, of course. But then she’d have wanted anyone if they could take away the pain; now, however, it’s him she wants. And wants him so much it hurts, that she can’t think straight, that she can barely even remember how to breathe.
With fumbling hands, she yanks off her gown, a simple linen day dress that’s loose enough that it doesn’t bother with fastenings, leaving her only in a single petticoat and the band of fabric that covers her breasts. Lucien’s mouth drops open, his eye widening, and he’s just staring.
Gods only know what he thinks of her – she’s not as curvaceous as her sisters, as most of the Fae she’s met, her frame slender and more athletic; masculine, her mother called her once, much to her horror – but in this moment, she can’t find even the slightest shred of caring. Instead, she plants both hands on his bare shoulders, relishing at the contact, and pushes him back; off-balance by surprise, he falls backwards easily, though still graceful, and she follows him down, straddling him, their chests pressed flush together.
The contact is incredible. She feels him feel it, their hearts speeding up perfectly in time with each other, their bodies melding together and becoming one. And she’s not even sure it’s the bond affecting her senses as arousal flares through her, a slickness blooming between her thighs matching the rush of it that swells from his side of the bond – and the insistent pressing she feels against her core.
Lucien’s fingers skate down her bare spine, rubbing little soothing circles, and then pause over her ass, hesitating. “Yes,” she gasps into his shoulder, grinding herself down hard against him in answer, and he grabs her ass, first with just one hand, then with both, squeezing hard. She moans against him, arching into him, the slight pain from any bruising after their morning’s activities fading into sweet pleasure.
His fingertips dip down, pushing her skirt between her legs and teasing her over the fabric with just the slightest brush. Her whole body shudders, and she lets out an embarrassingly loud moan, fisting the grass beside his shoulder so tightly that green pigments smear across her skin. “Is that a yes?” he says, and she can hear the teasing smirk in his tone so clearly that she’s fixed by a desire to wipe it off his face.
“Please,” she moans, arching against him as hard as she can. “Please, Lucien.” It works: he makes a small, shuddering sound and then ruts up against her, fingers squeezing her hip bone.
“That’s not fair,” he gasps out, and she’s not so far gone she can’t laugh. Just a little.
Then his hand dips between her legs again from behind, and she’s not laughing at all. The fabric of her petticoat blocks any true contact between them, but even so, she feels it like a thousand fireworks exploding across her skin. He traces the shape of her, painfully gentle, stroking and teasing until she’s writhing in his lap, grinding against him so wildly her thigh starts to cramp.
“I can feel how wet you are even through this,” he growls in her ear, his voice deep and rasping. “I can feel how much you want this.”
“P–please,” she manages, unable to form any coherent thoughts beyond fuck, more, Lucien and please. Her thigh cramps again, more painfully, and she needs more; pushing herself upright (stretching out the cramp in the process) she tips her head back as she rides him with abandon.
A stream of profanity spills from Lucien’s mouth, and then he’s joining her, chasing her up, his hand sliding up her leg beneath her petticoat, his lips on her collarbone.
His lips on her collarbone.
It’s a kiss, of sorts; warm, and soft, and it sends her stomach into free-fall and an arousal stronger than any she’s known yet barrelling through her. “Is this–” he gasps.
“Yes!” she practically wails, grabbing at his hand beneath her skirts and yanking it higher. “Oh, yes.”
That seems to be Lucien’s undoing. With a growl like some untamed beast, he seizes the band of fabric around her breasts with his free hand and yanks it down, fabric pooling around her waist, and captures one breast between his lips. At the same time, his hand slips up the last few inches, his cock twitching beneath her at the wetness he no doubt finds between her thighs, and then his fingers are against her and she can’t think of anything but yes, yes, yes.
She clings to him tightly as his lips and tongue do marvellous, wonderful, spectacular things to her breasts, and his fingertips trail over slick flesh, teasing for a moment before finally slipping inside her. She grabs his hair with one hand, planting the other on the ground behind her, and moves, pushing herself down as he curls his hand up, thumb brushing against the outside, and the noises coming from her mouth are nothing short of obscene.
Not that he’s any better. “Pull my hair,” he gasps, and she does, as hard as she can, until his moan hums against her chest. “Ride my hand, darling, love, that’s it, that’s it. Such a good girl. So good for me, so perfect.” She’s not sure he even knows what he’s saying, but she fucking loves it, the pleasure inside her building and building and building and–
With a cry, she clenches around him, over and over, clutching him tightly, holding him close, and he works her through it, wave after wave after fucking incredible wave. Gasping, she slumps against his shoulder, shuddering – but he doesn’t seem to be done. His fingers still move inside her, slow and gentle, sending prickles of sensitivity through her that border on pain. “Give me another one, love,” he says roughly. “I know you can.”
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“You can, love.” His other hand tugs at her hair, pulling her head back and forcing her to look at him. “I know you can. What do you need?”
She knows exactly what she needs. But – should she do it?
Fuck it, she decides, mind still lust-clouded, and tilts her head forwards to kiss him.
Lucien goes perfectly still, even his fingers freezing inside her. His lips are soft, warm, a little dry where he’s been biting at them nervously, but more than that: it feels right. It feels like coming home, like sunshine on a damp garden, like ice melting in the warmth.
A long second passes, and then he kisses her back.
He kisses her with a frenzy, a furious passion, a claiming. His tongue licks into her mouth, and she accepts it greedily; he catches her lower lip with his teeth on his way back, biting hard enough to send a frisson of pleasure through her. She doesn’t let him pull away, chasing the kiss, deepening it. She won’t let him go, not again. Never again.
“This,” she gasps against his lips. “This is what I need.”
He makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and the next thing she knows, she’s flat on her back, grass tickling her exposed skin, his weight warm and comfortable on top of her, his lips pressed into hers. And she responds in kind, wrapping her legs around his hips and tangling her hands in his hair, swallowing his gasp and arching up against him.
Inside her, the raging storm falls quiet. The throbbing ache of the bond settles to a constant, gentle pulse somewhere next to her heart, quivering as his hand runs up her bare side, seeking out the spots that make her skin tingle and her breath catch.
And she’d be lying if she said it’s the pull of the bond that has her frantically tugging at the waistband of his trousers. He convulses against her, then pulls back. He looks utterly wrecked, his hair a mess, his lips swollen, his russet eye glassy and dark. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he gasps out. “I don’t want to take more than you want to give.”
Maybe this is her fault. After so long of telling herself she hated him, and everything he stood for; after so long of ignoring him and spurning his gifts and not bothering to look in his direction just so she didn’t have to confront what swelled inside her every time she saw him – maybe after all that time, he’s come to believe it’s impossible she could ever want him. Hells, she herself would have believed that only a few days ago.
But now…she arches up against him, dragging her lips over his jaw, all the way to his ear. “I want you,” she whispers.
He makes a small, broken noise in the back of his throat, and then kisses her again, lips blazing against her own. Fire trails in their wake as he traces them over her jawline, neck and collarbone, down to her breast – and doesn’t stop. Further and further, over the spot on her stomach that tickles and jumps under his touch, until his head rests just above the waistband of her petticoat, his fingers hooking beneath it. “Tell me to stop,” he pants.
She shakes her head. “Do not stop.”
With a growl, he tears the fabric away, and she grabs his hair with both hands and pushes him between her legs.
The first lick is her undoing. Nobody’s ever done this to her before, and she didn’t realise how warm it would feel, how slick, how soft. He moans against her, the vibration humming through her flesh, and she squeezes her thighs around him involuntarily.
For a few moments, he’s slow, as if he’s holding back. His tongue quests over her, tasting, teasing – then he can’t seem to hold back anymore. His hands grip her hips so tightly they’re lifted slightly off the ground, and he devours her, dragging his tongue down her centre over and over, hard and fast and–
And–
Her climax hits her with no warning, slamming through her so hard her back bows off the ground entirely. Lucien is making wet little encouraging noises against her, wringing every drop of pleasure he can from her, and for a second she can’t even make a sound, it’s so intense. Then she’s moaning, a low animalistic sound, and the mating bond quivers like crazy inside her chest.
He looks up from between her thighs, face glazed with her juices, and something pulls tight inside her. “Elain,” he gasps out, seemingly unable to tear his eyes from her face; she’s already moving, hauling him up towards her, their lips meeting in a slippery press. She tastes herself, and opens for him.
He pulls away to lave his tongue over her neck, and she takes her opportunity. “On your back,” she says, and he rolls over without question; she follows after him, landing on her hands and knees, braced over his hips. A wet spot has formed where the head of his cock presses against the fabric of his trousers, a fact that fills her with no small amount of female pride as she rubs her cheek over the cloth, feeling his hardness beneath.
She looks up at him. “Yes or no?”
He looks like the Mother herself has just descended from the heavens in front of him. “Yes,” he chokes out. “Yes, yes – please –” His hands, grasping the air, land finally on her shoulders, sliding up towards her head. He gathers her hair in a loose ponytail, which she’s grateful for; she can’t bear to wait for even a second more. Pulling his clothes away, she doesn’t bother with teasing or playing, but dives straight in, taking as much of him in her mouth as she can in one smooth stroke, the rest covered by her hand. She’s never done this before, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care – a groan of ecstasy shudders from his throat as his head falls back, his hands tightening in her hair.
She soon gets the hang of it. He likes it best, she realises, when he can hear it, when she hollows out her cheeks and takes him as deep as she can and lewd wet sucking sounds echo around the garden; when she looks up at him, eyes watering, and moans around him. He likes it fast, she learns, and hard; Lucien knows exactly what he wants and isn’t shy about telling her. And when she does it, he praises her, an endless stream of good girl and love and harder and faster and just like that, baby, just like that–
After a few minutes, his legs begin to tremble, the taste of salt flooding her mouth. “I’m – fuck, I’m so close,” he pants, hands twisting in her hair. “You look so – so good like that, Elain, what are you doing to me, fuck – fuck–” She speeds up, meeting his gaze with own and moaning loudly, and she actually sees in his eyes the moment all his self-control just snaps.
Holding her head tightly with both hands, he thrusts up into her. His cock isn’t short by any means, and he goes deep enough that it hits the back of her throat, over and over, hard enough that were she a human she’s sure she would have choked by now. She gags, eyes and nose streaming, saliva dripping from her bottom lip, and it seems that that is Lucien’s undoing. He groans loudly, his whole body tensing, face in raptures of pleasure; in her mouth, she feels him twitch, warm liquid spilling down her throat. Most of all, though, she feels it in the bond, a wild hum of orgasmic pleasure rushing from his side to hers, any mental walls between them crumbling to dust.
After a moment, he goes limp, and she pulls off, coughing and gasping for breath. Lucien reaches for her almost instinctively, and she shuffles in a somewhat ungainly manner up his body, collapsing onto his chest and melting into him. “Are you alright?” she whispers, tracing her fingers in circles around his left pec, then in the shapes of letters: E-L-A-I-N.
“Better than. Are you?”
“Better than,” she agrees, and they both can’t help but laugh, tired and sated. The ache of the mating bond has almost gone entirely, reduced to something barely noticeable.
Lucien sighs out a soft breath, curling a strand of her hair around his finger. “Elain…”
But she never gets a chance to find out what he’s going to say, because at that moment, a noise from the house carries through the open back door on the breeze: a knocking, pounding even, and a voice. “Hello? Hel- lo?” It’s a voice that’s almost as familiar to Elain as her own.
She and Lucien stare at each other, wide-eyed with horror. “Feyre!” she hisses.
“Shit!”
At the same time, they both make a dive for their clothes. Her elbow catches him squarely in the side of the head, and he swears again, then bats away her apologies as he retrieves his clothing from where it’s scattered around the garden. She tugs her dress over her head quickly; her petticoat, sadly, has fared less well, torn into shreds by over-eager hands, and her sensitive skin rubs against the fabric of the gown, bare beneath it.
She smooths down her hair, and is just dashing for the door when Lucien yanks her back. A snap of his fingers has magic prickling over her, burning away the grass stains and dirt from both of their clothes. “Thanks,” she mutters sheepishly – and just in time, too.
“There you are!” Feyre emerges into the garden. “Sorry about the door,” she mutters.
Elain peers around the corner to see Lucien’s front door hanging off its hinges. “What the hells did you do to it?” Lucien demands.
“You weren’t answering! I thought you might be in trouble!” Feyre’s eyes flick between the two of them, and a smile not unlike that of the cat that got the cream spreads across her face. “But it seems I was wrong. Apologies.”
Humiliation flowers on Elain’s cheeks. No doubt Feyre can smell Lucien on her; no doubt she knows exactly what they’ve been doing. “Elain, could we…?”
“Of course, sister.” Feyre loops an arm through Elain’s as she leads her to the very back of the garden, where a bench sits amongst the azaleas. Lucien glances back at her once, and she feels more than sees his wry smile, before he turns and wanders back into the house.
Once he’s gone, and they sit, Feyre’s expression turns serious. “Are you safe? Is he – has he hurt you?”
An irrational anger swells inside her. “No,” Elain says stiffly, “and why would you think that he has?”
“Well, I–”
“No, really. Has he ever given you any reason to think he would behave in such a way? Because if you ask me, you should be looking at your own mate for that, not mine.”
Feyre recoils as if slapped. “You – why, I –”
Horror bleeds inside her at the look on her sister’s face. “Oh, gods,” she whispers, the anger evaporating. “Feyre, I’m so sorry. I don’t mean that, I swear. I don’t know what got into me–”
She gropes for Feyre’s hand, and thankfully, her sister lets her take it. “The bond,” she says, with a rueful smile. “I should have known better. It can make one a little…possessive.”
Elain flushes further. “To answer your question,” she says quickly, “no. He’s not hurt me in any way, nor am I worried he would. I’m perfectly safe.”
“And the bond has been…alright?”
“Fine,” Elain mutters, staring at her feet.
Feyre nods. “I, um – I shan’t pry. I know it can be…a lot, in the beginning. But as long as you’re safe and happy, that’s all I care about.”
“You didn’t want me with him,” Elain says quietly. “You said you wouldn’t dream of it. You wouldn’t breathe a word to me.” Her sentences come out jumbled, but Feyre understands.
“Only because I know first-hand how intense a mating bond is. I don’t think anyone can truly know until they experience it.” Well, that much is probably true. “I thought you didn’t like him, that was all. And had I told you of the situation, I feared you might do something rash. You are an Archeron, after all.” They both laugh. “You gave us all a terrible shock, disappearing like that. I thought he might have – I know, I know, don’t look at me like that, I was wrong – but I thought the worst could have happened. I don’t care who you’re with – as a matter of fact, I whole-heartedly approve – so long as you’re safe and happy.”
“I am.” Elain bites at the edge of her thumbnail. “I’m sorry I just – vanished. I heard Rhysand sounding furious.”
“He got over it,” Feyre says fondly. “And everything seems to have worked out…alright?”
“I suppose so.” Elain allows herself a tiny smile, the barest flutter of hope. “And Beron…?”
“That’s what I came to tell Lucien, actually,” Feyre says. “Through Eris, Beron’s been persuaded to stand down. He’s – well, accepted it, I suppose, though he’s far from happy. Which means, if you want – in a day or two, when things have settled – you can…come home.”
“Oh,” Elain says. “Oh. That’s…great news.”
“Isn’t it just?” Feyre smiles and squeezes her arm, and Elain smiles back. This should be great. She should be happy, to be going home, back to her own life. And yet she just feels so very hollow.
Feyre talks to Lucien in private for several hours before winnowing out, during which time Elain busies herself baking some bread and making a soup using vegetables from the garden. But even once Feyre’s left, and the soup is kept warm on the stove, there’s no sign of him.
She follows the bond to find him, upstairs and up again, a rickety old ladder creaking under her feet until she emerges onto a small terrace built atop the flat roof. Lucien stands there, his back to her, forearms braced against the iron safety railings, looking out at the sunset. The sky paints him in hues of bronze and gold and molten red, his countenance as still and regal as a sculpture.
He glances briefly at her, something constricting in his face, and then turns away again. “What is it?” she asks, suddenly concerned. Is he hurt? Would she know? Would she feel? Or – “Is it the bond?” she adds, with some relief. “Is it hurting again? I can…” She reaches for him, but he grasps her wrist, stilling it, and shakes his head. “What, then?” Silence. She sighs exasperatedly. “Lucien, how am I supposed to know if you won’t tell me? If you want me to go, I will, but you have to tell me to, or–”
“Did Feyre tell you?” he says, his voice rough. “That we’re – we can go home?”
“Yes.” She curls her hand back into herself. “Yes, she did.”
He shakes his head. “What are we doing, Elain? This is so – so – stupid.”
“Stupid?”
“You only want me because of the bond.”
“No,” she says, suddenly bold. “No, that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you only want me because of the bond?” she demands.
He’s silent. Too silent. She can’t stop her gasp, hurt slicing through her. “You really only–”
He turns, his expression contorted, almost tortured. “Even if we indulge it, then what will we do? I have no home, Elain. I can’t go to Autumn, or Day, or Spring, or Night. I’m forced to live in the human realms, in the home provided for us by the family of the man you loved. And perhaps love still, I don’t–”
“I don’t,” she says frantically, wishing she could find the words to make him understand: how could she love or want Graysen anymore, now that she’s had him?
“Either way, you would be torn from your family and your home. Again. And they hate me–”
“They don’t hate you,” Elain says weakly, though she’s not sure that’s true.
“It would be a mess. We’d tear each other apart, Elain.” He shakes his head. “This was a mistake.”
There’s nothing – nothing – that he could have said that could have hurt her more than that. Not her first time hearing those words, but so much more painful this time around. She doesn’t let him see how much it hurts her, though no doubt he can feel it down the bond, straightening her spine and squaring her jaw. “I made dinner,” she says faintly, her voice betraying the tremulous emotion that shudders inside her.
“I’ll eat later.” He turns back to the sunset. For a moment, she stares at his back, in shock, then storms downstairs without another word.
She eats alone, furious tears dripping into her soup. How dare he? How dare he speak to her like that? How dare he push her away when she knows what he really wants?
This was a mistake.
Perhaps the true mistake was letting herself believe that this time would be any different. Ever since the Cauldron, she repressed what she felt for Lucien, pushing it down until it emerged cloaked as dislike – because she knew that were she to get too close, she would be hurt again. Just like Graysen. Just like Azriel.
Now, she’s not sure what she thinks. She doesn’t know what she knows. Everything’s mixed up and scrambled inside her, and the only thing constant is the mating bond’s golden glow, and he doesn’t even want that.
She stares into space until her eyes blur, wishing she could summon up some kind of vision; though her magic never obeys her when she wants it to, and nothing comes. Stripping down to her skin, she flops down into bed. The last thing she expects is to sleep, but it comes surprisingly quickly, in a great dark wave that covers her eyes like a raven’s wing, and then she knows nothing more.
She wakes several hours later – and lets out a humourless chuckle. Of course, the mating bond won’t let her off so easily: the pain is back, between her thighs and in her soul, both throbbing emptily, her skin flushed and heated. No matter how much she tosses and turns, sleep won’t return, and in the end she gives up and snakes her hand between her legs.
As she slides her fingers over the slickness she finds there, she tries to think about anything but Lucien. But it’s no use: he keeps coming back to her – words spoken roughly through a door, the taste of his cock in her mouth, the look on his face when he comes, like she’s the most precious thing in the universe. And thoughts of him taste like they’re coated in ash, because he doesn’t want her. Or at least, he says he doesn’t.
She growls in frustration and speeds up, her hand slapping wetly against herself. Somewhere, very far in the distance, she feels her climax, but it’s no use – no matter how hard she tries, her body refuses to inch any closer to it.
Not without him.
Anger scissors through her like tearing paper, and before she even knows what she’s doing, she leaps from the bed, flinging a plain white dressing-robe around her, not even bothering to wash her hands before she storms from her room, across the landing, and to his.
He doesn’t reply when she knocks, so she wrenches the door open. Inside, one candle gutters low; Lucien is sprawled on his back, half-covered by a blanket, mouth open as he snores softly. Her heart attempts to give a little flutter at the sight of him asleep – which is, to be frank, adorable – but she quashes it down and, instead, tears off his blanket.
He awakes with a startled grunt and a flail, looking about frantically, and settles as his eyes land on hers. “Elain,” he mutters groggily. “What–?”
“Fuck you,” she announces, relishing in the anger that licks through her veins, an anger many years suppressed. “Fuck fucking you, Lucien Vanserra.”
He’s naked beneath the blanket, and no doubt the bond’s pull is affecting him too – he’s impressively hard, enough that it must surely hurt, but she refuses to let her attention be distracted. “What…?” Lucien is blinking owlishly, mechanical eye whirring.
“You don’t get to do this,” she snaps. “You don’t get to keep pushing me away. You don’t get to give me what I’ve needed for years and then take it from me. You don’t get to ruin me so much I can’t make myself come!”
His eyes widen further, dropping to her hand, then to her middle. She realises rather belatedly that she forgot to tie the robe, and it’s hanging open, revealing her own nakedness. His gaze darkens, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes raking up and down her body and finally lingering at the apex of her thighs. He seems to be fighting a mental battle with himself – once which he very quickly loses. “So let me make you come, darling,” he rasps.
She wavers for an embarrassingly short amount of time, then gives in. “We are not done talking about this.”
“We are not,” he agrees.
“I’m still furious at you.”
“Come show me how much,” he says, his voice a low rumble, and that breaks her. She practically leaps astride him, and he grabs her hips with his hands, pulling her up until she kneels over his face. She hovers there for a moment, enjoying the way he strains upwards – “Please,” he says desperately, and with a rush of movement, she drops herself to his face.
He hardly even has to do anything – she rides him fast and hard, dragging her cunt over the rasp of his stubble, his soft lips, his wet and waiting tongue, his nose – over and over, arching her back and reaching behind her to stroke his cock in time with her own movements–
She comes in less than a minute, vision temporarily going black, and Lucien following rapidly after, gasping her name against her inner thigh.
“Elain,” he slurs, dragging his nose down her thigh as she pulls away, as if breathing her in.
“No.” She dismounts, turning away from him. Magic flares behind her, a prickling fiery cleanse that removes at least the visible sweat and come from her skin, if not the sensation of it. “No, Lucien. You don’t get to act like this. Not after what you said to me.”
“I had to.” His voice is desperate. “Don’t you understand? I had to.”
“No!” she snaps. “No, I don’t understand! And it seems to me that you’re incapable of bloody well telling me, so I suppose I shall never understand!” Her hands tremble, and she clenches them together. “All my life, I have been good, perfect, proper Elain Archeron. Sweet and kind, fragile and delicate, well-behaved and polite. I have crushed every part of myself to be who people want – no, who people need me to be – and every time I have opened my heart to someone, every time I have tried to let them see who I am beyond all that, they have thrown it back in my face. It has been a – a mistake.” Her voice breaks, and she curses herself for it. “I was a fool to think you might be different.”
He’s silent for a long moment. Then, “I know,” he says softly. “I know. Of course I know. You think I haven’t lived my life exactly the same way? With Beron, with Tamlin, with Rhysand – you think I haven’t been a shade of myself, too?” He laughs roughly. “I knew you were the same, and that’s how I knew what would hurt you the most. I needed to hurt you. I need to hurt you, because I need you to go. I would rather you hate me and leave me and live your life without me, because at least it would be a life.”
Her heart splits in two in her chest. Still facing away from him, she brings a shaking hand to cover her face. “You silly fool,” she whispers.
“I can give you nothing,” he says brokenly. “Beron is so cruel as to use his power – and my mother’s blood, no doubt – to try to summon me back to his court for no reason other than to prove he can to my true father. That’s what Feyre told me today, anyway. I may be free for now, but Autumn’s wrath weighs upon my shoulders. I have no home, no family, no life. I could not provide for you. I–”
“I don’t care about any of that,” she tries to say, but he interrupts her.
“Listen. Beron killed Jesminda, my first love. The pain – I swore never to go through it again. I can’t lose my mate. And if I have you, I will lose you.”
Finally, she spins around. A tear is tracking its way down his cheek, mirrored by one on her own, which she swipes away roughly. “I didn’t take you for a coward.”
He flushes. “I am no coward.”
“Then what do you call this?” She gestures between them. “All I hear are excuses. I’m not some delicate and fragile creature, and you know that.”
“I do.” He nods. “Gods help me, I do.”
“Then why act as if I need to be packaged in silk and paper? I’ve never chosen anything for myself, all my life, as human or as Fae. Nothing. Never. You were the first thing I chose. You are the first thing I choose. I get to decide what will hurt me. I get to decide what risks I take. I get to decide who I give my heart to, and where, and when, and I’m deciding that now!” She clenches her fists at her sides. “If you truly would rather live a coward’s life alone, then tell me now. I will go, and you’ll never have to see me again. But if you wish to take the risk – if you wish to jump, to be bold, then – then–”
“Then?” His eyes gleam, metal and tears.
“Then have me,” she whispers, all her anger finally gone. Everything she’s been building, everything she’s been pushing down – it’s all said. There is nothing else. Her soul is open, her heart in his hands. And all she can do is wait, chest heaving, as he stares at her in silence.
Then he surges up and kisses her. It’s wild and free and glorious and golden, a meeting of hearts and souls as well as bodies and lips, and she winds her arms around him and kisses him back. “Is that a yes?” she breathes against him.
“It’s never not a yes when it’s you.” He’s smiling against her lips, and she’s laughing, and the mating bond hums happily in her chest.
“Mine,” she whispers, as he drops his head to kiss her neck, bundling her forwards into his lap, his lips tracing golden fire over her skin.
“Mine,” he murmurs. He looks up at her, and her breath catches. “I think, Elain Archeron, that I should very much like to make love to you now.”
She laughs, settling herself coyly against him. “What happened to all those dirty words?”
He hums, running the pad of one finger around her nipple until it peaks and she shivers. “Is that what you’d prefer?”
“M–maybe.” She sighs in pleasure as he pinches, squeezing her breast softly.
He trails his hand down her belly, drawing soft circles over her pubic bone. “Then let me tell you this: I am going to fuck this tight little cunt until you can’t remember anything but my own name.” He punctuates each word with a light tap against the seam of her, so close but so far to where she wants him; at his words, she moans, a pulse of wetness near-leaking from her.
“You like that, don’t you?” Lucien murmurs, swiping his fingers through the slickness, then holding them up to the candlelight to examine how wet they are.
“Fuck,” is all she manages.
“Show me how much,” he says, low and liquid, and hooks his fingers into her mouth. She swirls her tongue around them, cleaning herself off him, sucking his fingers in as deep as he’ll let her. “Good girl.”
She arches at the praise, and her core comes into contact with his cock, so wet she slides easily over him. He makes a short, stuttering noise, hips twitching, slowly withdrawing his fingers from her mouth. “Fuck me,” she says immediately, rolling her hips again, drawing another low moan from both of them.
“Beg for it,” he gasps.
“You’re the one who – should be begging–” she manages.
It seems he’s not too proud to do so. “Please,” he says, lowering his lips to her neck. “I’m so, so sorry for what I said, Elain. I’ll never hurt you like that again. Please forgive me, mate. Please fuck me.”
She kisses him again, soft and slow. “I forgive you,” she whispers, and then they’re rolling over, and he’s on top of her.
“I am yours,” he says, between kisses.
“And you are mine,” she finishes, wrapping her legs around him, urging him on. “Finish what you started, Lucien.”
“How does my mate want it, hm?” He nuzzles her cheek delicately. “Soft and slow? Or fast and hard?”
“She wants it now,” Elain demands. “That’s all I want, Lucien. You. Now.”
“Hard to argue with that,” he says, shuddering against her, his hand coming between their bodies to slick himself against her once more, then to line himself up. He pushes in slowly, bit by bit, letting her adjust, though she’s wet enough she could easily take him in one thrust. And once he finally reaches the hilt, pressing against a spot so deep inside her that she sees stars, she feels something snap into place in her chest. The bond – at long last – is content.
Lucien feels it at the same time she does, a smile breaking out over his face…and the room fills with a golden light. For a second, Elain thinks it’s the sunrise, but then she realises it’s him, glowing the colour of a molten coin, of a ray of sunlight.
They both laugh aloud at the responsiveness of his magic, and the movement rubs him inside her, and now she can think of nothing else but their bodies. Practically clawing at his back, she wraps her legs tightly around him and urges him on.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he gasps, finding a rhythm so perfect she whines in pleasure and grips at his hair. “So – fuck, so tight, so good – mine. Mine, Elain, mine.”
“Mine,” she agrees, unable to form any other words except – as he had promised – his name. “Lucien,” she cries out as his pace speeds up, the lewd wet sounds of their coupling echoing around the room and only serving to drive her further into a frenzy.
He shoves a hand between their bodies, mashing roughly against her core as he pounds into her over and over, and with a cry that practically shakes the room, she comes, shuddering – at long last – around him.
He follows her soon after, pulsing and twitching inside her, sobbing out her name as he spends himself over and over in her…and finally, they fall still.
His glow fades to a gentle, steady flicker like a second candle, and he traces patterns of light onto her skin as she wraps herself around him, as close as she can get. “Mate,” she whispers.
“When we go back…” Lucien trails off, and a spike of uncertainty travels down the bond.
“We can go anywhere we want to,” Elain murmurs. “You know, I always wanted to travel.”
He laughs softly, twining a strand of her hair around his fingers. “Of course you did.”
“We can go anywhere we want. Night, Day, the human realms, the Continent, back here…anywhere.” She kisses his shoulder. “Wherever we go, you’ll always have a home with me.”
Their lips meet, slow and lingering. “How lucky I am,” Lucien breathes. “I can’t believe a single strawberry led to this.”
“Nor can I believe it’s only been two days,” she adds, and they both laugh. “But I suppose this was – a long time coming.”
“Hm.” Lucien strokes a line down her shoulder. Then, wryly, “Unlike me. For all my boasts of making you come three or four times, I could only withstand one.”
She tosses her head back in a surprised laugh, then pulls him closer, hand trailing suggestively down his body. “There’s still time, you know.”
His russet eye sparkles as he smiles. “Oh, really?”
“Mm. I don’t think the frenzy can be over quite yet,” she says mock-seriously, only to dissolve into giggles when he tackles her, and soon she can think of nothing else but him. They come together, two souls into one, and don’t come apart for quite some time.