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Ironically, the Day Court felt like home.
It would have made sense for Elain to revel in the darkness, or under the silvery light of the stars draped over Velaris, but growing up in the Night Court seemingly ended up having the opposite effect. The City of Starlight suffocated her like a thick, shadowy veil, like the cold river pulling her under. It wasn’t that her home was not beautiful—it was, perhaps, one of the most beautiful places in all of Prythian, and Elain should have counted herself lucky to have been part of it.
She tried to enjoy it for the sake of her father, always alone in the family manor with no one but servants to entertain him. Mother, after all, had spent most of her time in the Summer Court, basking in the scorching sand until her very death. Father would have joined her, Elain had no doubt of that, had her Mother only asked—but she never had. And so, Lord Archeron surrounded himself by the comforting darkness, and whichever one of his three daughters was currently available. Most of the time, it had been Elain.
Even from Adriata, though, Mother had somehow managed to weasel her way into her daughters’ life, and, just a year before her death, things had moved very quickly. A letter had arrived at the Archeron manor on the longest day of winter, announcing the engagement of Lady Archeron’s youngest to the third son of Spring—a young prince called Tamlin, whom Feyre, of course, despised.
It was a surprise to perhaps everyone but Elain, then, when, on Feyre’s wedding day, their High Lord winnowed right onto the altar, darkness slithering around him like a venomous snake ready to strike. Rumour had it Rhysand looked incredibly smug as he announced his mating bond with the bride-to-be to a stunned Tamlin and his father, red-faced with surprise and rage. But even the ancient laws of Spring couldn’t stop Rhysand from claiming his mate, and so, minutes later, Feyre was back home and tucked safely into Rhysand’s arms.
Mother had been livid, of course, though she no longer had the authority to scold her daughter, who Rhysand, to the outrage of nearly every other court, had made his High Lady—not a consort, but an equal in every way. Lady Archeron had opted to take out her anger on Elain, then, with Nesta long gone and married off to the Autumn firstborn. You knew about this, she’d seethed, You knew about their mating bond and did not tell me. Do you know how this makes me look like, Elain? A fool. A mother whose own daughter did not deign to confide in.
Elain, naturally, had lied and told her she knew nothing of the mating bond. She felt somewhat guilty about it to this day—that the very last thing she had told her mother was a lie—though most of that guilt had been absolved when she’d snooped through Mother’s desk back in Summer. A bunch of documents confirmed the arrangement between Lady Archeron and Summer’s High Lord, who had promised her quite the sum in exchange for Elain’s hand in marriage to his cousin. The Prince of Adriata was beautiful, yes, but the only thing Elain had known about him was his name—and it was not nearly enough for her to be thrown into marriage without warning.
Some cruel part of her purred that perhaps the Cauldron had done her a mercy by taking Mother so soon. Feyre had managed to be saved in time, but Elain, as far as she was aware, had no mate to rescue her from Mother’s matchmaking efforts. Father, at the very least, did not care enough to bother with it. It was one of the reasons Elain did not mind being around him as much.
She did mind the Night Court, though, dark and lonely and without prospects for someone like Elain. Nesta had offered quarters and a role within her court, but Elain had known better than to step foot into Autumn while Beron Vanserra was still High Lord. His games were made for someone like Nesta, sharp and refined like the deadliest steel, but Elain had no interest in plotting—especially since, to her understanding, said plotting seemed to involve an impending change in power in the Autumn Court.
Feyre had stepped in, then, graciously offering a place within her and Rhysand’s Inner Circle for keeping her secret from the world for so many years. Rhysand had offered the House of Wind and riches so outrageous that, even coming from a wealthy family, Elain could not help but gasp. She’d declined politely and asked for a regular position within her sister’s court as emissary—that way, she could escape the Night Court at least temporarily before having to worry about the future. As Fae, after all, Elain had centuries laid out before her.
Centuries she didn’t exactly want to think about right now.
Distraction and fun— that was Elain needed, at least for the foreseeable future. She would throw herself into politics, meet strangers and perhaps even fuck them if she wanted, free from the Night Court, free from her family and free from the darkness.
Which was exactly what Elain had been doing for the past four years. The past six months, especially, had been nothing but pure bliss—she’d been stationed in Scythia as an emissary to the human kingdoms at the Continent, assuring the mortal queens Hybern was decidedly not a threat and absolutely under Prythian’s control. Which it was. For now.
The War, after all, had only ended a decade ago, and with the King of Hybern dead and buried a few feet underground, there was little chance he would find a way to crawl his way back up. His son, though, was somewhat of a concern, his frequent—and private—visits to the forest-clad middle of the Continent alarming to say the least. Rhysand’s shadowsinger had tracked him to a dark, murky lake last time, the spymaster’s shadows whispering of the prince hunched over the water and whispering .
Yes, concerning was the right word.
As much as Elain had enjoyed her time in Scythia—especially having befriended its young queen—the other courts’ unease had called her back to the island, with an emergency meeting taking place to discuss the threat. To Elain’s delight, the Day Court had been chosen as the host.
Delight which had dimmed the moment she’d realised who, exactly, would be waiting at Helion Spell Cleaver’s golden gates.
They were as magnificent as she’d remembered—Elain hadn’t visited the Day Court since she’d left for Scythia, and admittedly, she missed the sun-kissed breeze and azure-painted sky. Helion’s winged stallions roamed in the clouds above her, casting their powerful shadows over the opalescent stone of their High Lord’s palace. They were his pride and joy, and Elain was yet to see one up close—let alone touch its glistening coat. Perhaps one day.
“I see your head’s up in the clouds as always,” an amused voice greeted somewhere before her.
Elain’s gaze darted toward the sound before she beamed at its source. “Viviane!”
The Winter General returned Elain’s grin, her long, white braids shimmering like ice under the morning sunlight. Pulling her into an embrace, Viviane pressed a kiss to Elain’s cheek, the touch surprisingly warm considering where the female had just winnowed from. “Glad to have you back,” she said, which made Elain’s eyes narrow.
“Just how much do you know?” she asked.
Her friend shrugged innocently. “Not much,” Viviane said, “but I do hear Scythia is lovely this time of year.”
“This was supposed to be a low-profile assignment,” Elain pointed out, though unable to keep from smiling.
Viviane looped her arm through Elain’s, her ice-blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know how it is here. Males like to talk.”
Elain hummed, “I’ll bet.”
The words made Viviane laugh, and the two women made her way inside. Not bad for her first few minutes here, Elain thought a tad bitterly—her supposedly discreet mission had already been uncovered, and she was pretty sure even Helion’s horses were neighing their laughter from above.
As they walked through the bright, open hallways of the palace, Viviane chatted about the usual—the courtly gossip Elain had missed in her absence (Tamlin, it seemed, had managed to frighten a few visiting Autumn ladies as he accidentally greeted them in his beast form), and just how insufferable the Winter Court heir was, thinking he could call on Viviane whenever he pleased for the most ridiculous issues he could’ve very well solved himself. Elain did not have the heart to tell her his reasons for seeking the General out so often were more than unlikely to do with Kallias’s incompetence.
It was nice to be back, Elain had to admit. The open, hillside landscape of Scythia had been lovely, but there was something freeing about watching the gentle pull of the sea from the mountains of the Solar Courts. Helion’s palace had a particularly impressive view of the Great Sea, with its salty waves whooshing softly beneath the balconies. Everything in the Day Court was soft —even the sun here seemed to caress, so different from the scorching heat Elain had come to know over her brief stays in Adriata. The golden light poured in through the open archways, illuminating her every step as though in a playful welcome. Without thinking how silly she might look, Elain smiled right back at the light.
“I know right?” Viviane huffed, seemingly taking Elain’s expression for an answer to her ramble. “He is insufferable. He was even planning to come here with me, can you believe—”
“Ladies,” a tall, lean figure appeared before them, flashing a pearl-white smile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Elain hadn’t even realised they’d reached the meeting room before she almost bumped into Tarquin. Though apprehensive at first, she’d quickly come to like the male—he was kind, easy to talk to and, most importantly, he had not been aware of the late Lady Archeron’s meddling until Elain had tried to start a fight with Adriata’s prince.
Viviane angled her head. “With Adriata’s new trade agreement , I can’t imagine why your eyes would be sore, Tarquin.” The Summer Court, Elain quickly remembered, had recently become the first to re-establish the old maritime routes to Hybern after the War, beating the Winter Court’s attempts at securing a less-costly access to the land.
Tarquin’s smile did not falter, though it no longer reached his turquoise eyes. “It wasn’t as easy an agreement as you’d think.”
“Hmmm,” was Viviane’s only response as she looked around the room, slowly filling with the other courts’ delegates.
“Well, I, for one, think it’s lovely to see you, Tarquin,” Elain teased, trying to alleviate some of the heaviness already building in the air. She seemed to have succeeded as the male chuckled, some of the usual light returning to his gaze.
“Of course you do,” he purred. “Has the Continent been as lonely as I hear, my sweet Elain?”
Elain rolled her eyes. “That’s not—”
“Elain Archeron,” a voice sounded behind her, rich and smooth like honey over her skin. Elain stilled, shoulders rolling back as if on instinct—she’d recognise that voice anywhere .
Perhaps it had been foolish to hope he wouldn’t show up at his own home, but when it came to Lucien Spell-Cleaver, Elain was hardly ever prone to listen to reason. As Helion’s only heir and emissary, it did make sense for him to turn up—and it made things a lot more complicated than she’d hoped.
Stifling a groan, Elain turned to face the bane of her existence—and, perhaps, the most beautiful male on earth. “Lucien,” she greeted, making a point to omit his title. Petty, but worth the satisfaction nonetheless.
His auburn brows shot up in amusement. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” he said, crossing those strong, bare arms over his chest. The snake-like cuff wrapped around a particularly impressive muscle glistened with the movement, a flash of gold that could challenge even the sun itself.
Damn him.
“My job here is the same as yours,” Elain told him, mirroring his stance subconsciously before realising she’d fallen right into his trap.
Lucien’s mouth ticked up. “Apologies, lady —how very preposterous of me.”
What was preposterous of him was the ivory toga draped over his shoulder before falling loosely down his powerful thighs. Even in a single piece of cloth, Lucien had somehow managed to dress immaculately—he looked like one of the statues adorning the palace’s great entrance, carefully crafted without even a single flaw. Over the past four years, Elain had seen him in many ensembles—a fitted, green jacket in Spring, a semi-transparent, sapphire tunic in Summer that revealed his ridiculously hard stomach, a tight pair of hunting pants in Autumn that did nothing to hide the curve of his ass. She’d nearly lost her mind when she saw him in Dawn’s traditional crimson robe, the low cut of the silk revealing his broad, golden-brown chest.
The toga, though, was the worst fashion choice of all. There was something about seeing Lucien in his full Day Court regalia that made Elain’s heart pick up and her body heat with want. Elain was not blind, and, more importantly, she was not stupid—she would have to have been both to look upon Lucien Spell-Cleaver and not desire him in some way.
It was purely physical, of course. The prick made it easy not to fall in love with him when she realised his pretty looks hid an infuriating, cocky personality.
“If everyone’s ready, then, we may begin,” Lucien’s voice boomed across the circular hall, his feet already carrying him towards the large, round table at the centre. Elain gritted her teeth at the obvious dismissal, silently promising the Cauldron, the Mother, and all the forgotten Gods, that she would get back at him at some point during this damned meeting.
A meeting which, to Elain’s horror, Lucien was going to preside over, taking his father’s usual seat with a sly smile.
“Something wrong?” Lucien asked loudly, causing the rest of the emissaries to turn to Elain, a questioning look on their faces.
Clever.
Elain eased into a casual smile. “Your father will not be joining us today, then?” she asked, taking her seat with the others quickly following suit.
“The High Lord ,” Lucien began, and Elain’s smile widened triumphantly, knowing she’d hit a nerve, “is otherwise occupied, I’m afraid.” His lip curled once more. “I’d stated as much in your invitation, though the writing had been small, I suppose.”
Somewhere beside him, the emissary from Autumn coughed.
“An omission on your part, Lady Archeron, I’m sure,” Lucien continued, smirking. She opened her mouth, a retort ready on the back of her tongue, but Lucien had already moved on to his right, picking up a conversation with the delegate from Dawn as though she’d never spoken at all.
Elain huffed.
Too loud, perhaps, because Viviane leaned over her ear, an incredulous look on her pretty face. “What’s wrong with you?” she whispered.
Elain glanced at the opposite end of the table again—at the male she was going to curse to the Gods the minute this debate was over.
Lucien, the bastard, had caught her glance—and flashed her a winning smile.
Elain turned to Viviane again. “Allergies,” she grumbled.
Viviane only chuckled.
“…more than uneasy,” Lucien’s voice reached her again, and Elain forced her thoughts back into focus. “We know as much about him as we did about his father, and look how that turned out.”
The emissary from Dawn—a new face among the crowd, Elain realised—grimly nodded his agreement.
“Securing the trade routes did little to help,” Tarquin chimed in, earning a look of surprise from Viviane. Elain had suspected this whole ordeal was more than a competition for the Summer Court, who had suffered the most damage during Hybern’s relentless attacks during the War. It made sense that they’d try to get closer to the kingdom’s new ruler—even under the guise of an economic relationship.
“Surely you’d managed to gather some insight, Tarquin,” the Autumn emissary drawled, yet another delegate Elain was not familiar with—she’d make sure to ask Nesta about him later. If he was Beron’s elected envoy rather than Eris’s, Elain was planning to stay far, far away from him.
Tarquin’s mouth tightened. “I’m afraid the new king was not even present for our negotiations.” The room gasped out in shock. “All our discussions were facilitated by his second. Truth be told, I can’t be entirely sure the king even was in Hybern throughout my entire stay.”
Beside her, the Spring emissary, a lovely female named Briar, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “This can’t be good,” she murmured, and Elain levelled a flat breath.
Her family had been fortunate enough to survive the War, a fact Elain thanked the Cauldron for every single day. There were too many, though—like Rhysand’s own family, for example—who had not found fate to be so kind. For a long time, the High Lord’s sister had been a good friend to Elain—she, too, longed for the world beyond Night’s borders, a world far too dangerous at the time. It pained Elain to know she never got to see it.
If Hybern’s son turned out to be as vile as his father had been, there would be more—more creatures, humans and Fae alike, who’d never get to live the life they deserved. Every last person in the room seemed to realise that now, with Tarquin’s somber words hovering above them like an inescapable rain cloud.
“The solution seems obvious then, does it not?” Autumn’s emissary asked, something like satisfaction painted on his pale face. All eyes turned to him as he explained, “We must resume our research into the Wall, and finally put it in place.”
Definitely Beron’s, then.
“The Wall is out of the question,” Lucien said tightly. “We’ve been over this enough times—the High Lord no longer wishes to continue the discussion.”
“ My High Lord believes the discussion needs to be had,” the Autumn male countered, his voice slick with displeasure. “The Wall would protect your precious little humans, would it not?”
“ Our ,” Elain corrected, not even trying to hide the disdain in her tone. “The alliance between the humans and the Fae is still far too fragile to drive a rift between us again.”
The emissary shrugged. “All the more reason to cut the stem before it blooms.”
Anger simmered through her, sending lightning into her stare. “We benefit from their lands, their cultures and knowledge, as much as they do from ours. Or do I need to remind you who continues to reap the profits from Scythia’s lumber imports, Lord…?”
“Sorgen,” the male gritted out.
“That’s right,” Elain waved a hand. “Apologies.”
She could have sworn a flicker of pride reached her from somewhere across the table as she leaned back in her chair, though she had no time to look for its source as Viviane mumbled, “Take that, greedy bastard.”
Elain bit back a smile.
She may have been new to the role of emissary, but Elain had been a courtier for as long as she’d remembered. She knew exactly how to fight battles with her words, how to select them carefully for the blow to land right where she wanted it. This was about more than just freedom for her—she felt useful , and to Elain, that was more important than anything.
It seemed like she was doing a good enough job—aside, of course, from a few unwelcome distractions she’d have to deal with…later.
“Perhaps,” the Dawn emissary started slowly, “this matter ought to be raised with the High Lords again.”
“There is nothing to raise,” Lucien replied. “We will not hide from the humans again, as much as we will not give them reason to hide from us .”
“Nobody’s speaking of hiding, Lord Lucien,” the male countered, “but of safety. Should the threat of another war emerge once more, we may not be able to protect the humans this time.”
“Not as well as the Wall could, anyway,” Briar chimed in, earning a disapproving glance from Viviane. Elain gaped at the Spring emissary, who offered a one-shouldered shrug. “The High Lord has expressed such sentiment, and I’m afraid he feels quite adamant about it.”
“If I may,” Tarquin interjected, his smooth baritone like a calming wave over a stirring current, “Whatever the new king appears to be so secretly doing, his objectives may very well differ from his late father’s.”
“We may be getting ahead of ourselves,” Viviane agreed. “The War has left scars on many of us.”
“Seems like it’s blinded some of us, too.” Lord Sorgen muttered, Lucien’s russet gaze narrowing on him as a result.
“All I’m saying,” Tarquin continued, cutting Sorgen a sharp look himself, “Is that there is a chance Hybern’s research on the Continent has little to do with preparing for yet another war.”
“Especially when the first one depleted their resources so gravely,” Viviane added.
Tarquin’s turquoise eyes fixed on Elain. “Are you aware if he’s made any contact with the human queens during your stay in Scythia?”
That seemed to catch someone’s attention.
“Scythia?” Lucien looked at Elain, then Tarquin, who nodded in confirmation. The Day prince stiffened. “I wasn’t aware you’d spent time on the Continent, lady.”
A smile tugged on the corner of Elain’s mouth. “I have—the past six months, in fact.” She cocked her head to the side. “An omission on your part, Lord Lucien?”
Viviane cleared her throat, doing an exceptionally poor job at masking her laugh.
Something flickered in Lucien’s eyes. “It appears so.”
Elain smothered a grin before turning back to Tarquin. “No contact, as far as I’m aware. But the mortal queens are aware of his presence, and, from what I’ve observed, it has made them more than uneasy.”
The Dawn emissary hummed. “I daresay the High Lords should know of all this before we resume our deliberations,” he said, and some of the other emissaries nodded their agreement.
Lucien sighed. “Very well, then. We shall reconvene tomorrow morning—until then, you are all guests of the High Lord if you do wish to stay overnight.”
The invitation was quickly followed by the sound of chairs scraping the stone, the Autumn and Dawn delegates winnowing almost immediately to report back to their High Lords. Tarquin moved to a tight-faced Briar, Elain observing the female so intently that she didn’t notice Viviane moving to her side until her friend spoke.
“I take it you’re staying, then?” she asked quietly.
Peeling her gaze off the Spring emissary, Elain turned to Viviane. “Are you not?”
She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I wish I could, but Kallias will want to hear this, and there is absolutely no way I’m inviting him to join our little party.”
Elain snickered, and it made Viviane roll her eyes.
“Don’t get into any mischief while I’m gone,” she warned, blue eyes sparkling.
Elain leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll make sure to wait for you, Viviane.”
The Winter female laughed again, and with that, she was gone.
It was only then that Elain realised Lucien had already left, the room seemingly dimmer, somehow, even with all the sun pouring in through the open archways. A surge of excitement rushed through her as she understood the clue he’d left behind.
Follow the light.
It was barely visible—nobody else seemed to notice, anyway—but the thin beam of sunlight stretched beyond the open door, like a golden thread leaving a subtle trail. Elain stepped towards it before she heard someone call her name again.
“Elain!” Tarquin’s voice reached her from across the room. “Join us for an early lunch?” he asked, a nervous-looking Briar waiting a few steps behind him. Elain had a feeling Tarquin would use the seemingly innocent excuse as an opportunity to pull the female back to their side.
It wasn’t that Elain didn’t think the humans needed protection from Hybern—especially after everything its evil king had done in his attempts to enslave the mortals to the Fae. But with the king out of the picture, the humans and the Fae were allies—reluctant as they may have been, but allies all the same—and a magical Wall separating their worlds would only undo the sacrifice both sides had suffered throughout the War. Together, they could all eventually build a new world—a peaceful world, even if some of Prythian’s courts did not seem to agree with such sentiment.
“I’m afraid I must contact my sister,” she apologised, then added, not missing the disappointment in Tarquin’s gaze, “but I’ll join you for dinner later, if you’re available?”
Tarquin sighed. “Of course. I’ll see you then.”
The light click of her heels echoed off the polished walls as she moved out of the meeting room and towards the grand staircase. The palace was large—unsurprising for a High Lord’s main residence—but with the shimmering thread, Elain somehow knew exactly which way to go. The gentle seaside breeze from outside seemed to have found its way to every corner of the building, playfully ruffling the skirts pooling at her feet as she climbed upstairs, teasing her already sun-warmed skin. Scythia had been windy most of the time she was there, with grey clouds hovering above her nearly every day. Elain welcomed the change the Day Court offered.
She also appreciated its fashion a lot more than the stiff corsets human royalty annoyingly preferred. She’d always opted for flowy pants and tunics back home at the Night Court, with the occasional sparkly gowns at the more official events. Here, though, comfort and elegance seemed to have been crafted from the same cloth—a silky, shimmering fabric that seemed to move with the wind itself.
The pearl-beaded straps of Elain’s alabaster dress curled around her neck before draping over breasts in sheer, fluffy layers. She liked the way the Day Court fashion exposed her skin, with a V-like cut just below revealing her stomach, the fabric then gathering at her hips. The skirts fell to the floor with two slits on each side of her thighs, making every step light an airy as though Elain had just stepped off one of the clouds. She’d adorned her golden-brown hair with two pearly pins, keeping the curls in place apart from a few loose strands who’d found their way out, framing her face. It wasn’t difficult to feel beautiful in a place like this, when every last detail seemed to invite her to become part of it.
Perhaps it was foolish of her not to dress in her court’s fashion as the others did, or even in the traditional Night Court colours, but Elain did not care for making a statement in such a way. Especially since, for the part of two years or so, she’d learned just how good of an effect her dressing in a Day Court fashion appeared to have.
The golden thread led her to the library—and not just any library, like the one back in the Archeron Manor or even Feyre and Rhysand’s Moonstone Palace. No, this was Helion Spell Cleaver’s private collection of ancient scrolls and texts, hosting knowledge from a time most of the immortal Fae did not even remember. Scholars from all over the world visited the High Lord’s prized thousand libraries, but this one was open to the select, trusted few—and Elain herself, it seemed.
She navigated her way through the corridors, taking in the sights. The grand library was the only hall at the palace with windows instead of carved-in arches, supposedly to keep the books from any outside damage, though Elain suspected Helion had put enough spells in place to ensure their state remained immaculate and unscathed. Elain wondered if she’d even be able to so much as touch one.
Not that she would really want to. She was here, after all, for an entirely different purpose.
The trail ended just as she pivoted to her left, right into a corridor of bookshelves just around a secluded corner of the large space. Her hand smoothed over the sandstone wall as she kept walking forward, her curiosity getting the better of her as her gaze drifted toward the impressive collection on the Day Court’s most recent history.
She should’ve paid more attention, or she might have noticed the tall, magnetic presence that appeared only inches behind her.
“Tell me, gorgeous,” Lucien murmured, his lips hot over the shell of her ear, “Did you dress like that for me?”
Elain’s eyes remained glued to the bookshelves, though her lips curled into a smile.
There you are.
She didn’t even have to turn to feel the fire simmering behind his gaze—his mother’s gift, and one she’d been thoroughly enjoying these past few years—his scent was enough for Elain’s breath to catch and set every nerve in her body alight. Lucien’s chest was strong and warm behind her, drawing her closed toward him. Her hand twitched at her side, and it took every ounce of will inside her to refrain from whirling back—especially when everything inside her begged to touch, to smell, to taste .
Get it together, get it together, get it together—
“I don't know what you mean,” Elain protested, her mind already spewing silent curses at the breathlessness in her tone.
Lucien laughed, a low, throaty sound grazing her neck, the hot blood thrumming underneath. “Of course not,” he agreed, though his knuckles skimmed the bare skin along her spine all the same. Elain shivered. “Some other dignitary then, I'm sure. Someone handsome —”
“Lucien—” she started, the sound more of a plea than a warning. It made him chuckle.
“Yes, my lady?”
“You know damn well—” she tried again, her traitorous back arching into his touch, “There is no one in this palace more handsome than you.”
His appreciative hum made her heart race. “And here I was, worried you might run off to another male's waiting arms.”
She turned to him at that—just in time to meet his full, infuriating smirk. Cauldron damn him for making him so ridiculously attractive, but seeing his face so close to hers at last made her entire body heat.
“You were not worried one bit,” Elain accused, hands gripping his powerful shoulders.
Lucien moved so quickly her eyes barely registered the movement—she could only gasp out in surprise as those arms wrapped tighter around her and lifted her up, pressing her against the cool, sandstone wall. “No,” he said, his hands sliding beneath her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his middle. Urging him closer. “I was not.”
She slid her hands around his neck, angling her head slightly so that her hair spilled over her shoulder, brushing his own, bare skin. Lucien’s gaze flickered toward the curls before returning to meet her eyes again, that fire blazing even brighter now. Hungrier .
“You bested me today,” he purred lowly, burying his nose in her hair, his mouth teasing her exposed neck.
Her legs tightened around him, closing the distance between them until she felt his hardness press into her stomach, her scent heaving with arousal at the promising touch. “I always do,” she breathed, Lucien’s chest rumbling in answer.
“I’ve been going mindless in your absence,” he told her, placing a hot kiss just above her collarbone, lighting another flame beneath her skin. Elain sighed, her thoughts already a dizzying blur as she rolled her hips once, then twice against him, the spilled fabric of her dress between her legs frustrating her to no end. “You weren’t supposed to be gone this long.”
“Plans change,” she managed to say, her hand moving down his bicep to run a thumb over the golden, snake-like cuff. “Are you saying you missed me, Lord Lucien?”
Another kiss—a whisper of it, just below her arched ear, enough to send a tingle up her spine. Even leaning down, Lucien’s body towered over her, shielding her from view. “Like a fish misses water,” he sighed deeply, and Elain watched her hairs stand on end at the feel of his hot breath. “You didn’t tell me where you were going.”
“It was…” Cauldron damn her, did he have to smell like that? Sunlight, bright and warming the morning breeze before it whooshed past the smoky woods, and a hint of…honey, something she strangely only scented on him whenever the two of them got close enough to share a breath. “It was supposed to be low-profile,” she finished, Lucien's touch drawing a quiet gasp out of her as his hand moved beneath her skirts to cup the pliant flesh of her ass.
Lucien hummed. “ Tarquin seemed to be well-informed of our whereabouts.”
With all the heat running through her, Elain still had half a mind to be smug. “Ah, so you are jealous.”
His hand squeezed lightly, and Elain jolted, legs buckling around his waist in delight as desire began to pool impatiently at her core. “ That is entirely besides the point.”
“Mm-hmm,” Elain began, the hum melting into a low, needy sound as Lucien’s mouth descended down her neck again, her chin angling invitingly for his possessive touch. As much as she enjoyed teasing him, Elain did miss him, too—missed the stolen, fiery moments between them, the dance they challenged each other to on assignments. She opened her mouth to tell him, her voice more of a groan as she spoke, “Lucien—”
His breathy chuckle tickled her slightly. “Yes, my lady?” he asked, his palms under her thighs again, spreading them a bit wider.
Elain frowned slightly, an entirely different topic rushing to the front of her mind. “You never call me that in public,” she complained, certain she’d be feeling stupid about it later. Her thoughts were too lust-glazed to care now. “It’s always just… lady .”
Lucien pulled away an inch at that, his russet eyes twinkling as they met her own. “Would you rather I claim you in front of everybody else?”
She smacked his arm playfully, and Lucien’s grin widened. “I would be more than happy to give them all a show, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, his hand moving to throw the silky length of her dress over her thigh. He was painfully close now, settled between her bare legs, the thick, hard reminder of his desire now mere inches from where she ached the most.
She was practically ready to beg him to take her, right against the wall he’d pinned her to, but something about his words made Elain pause. “There are people here,” she pointed out, looking over his shoulder, though the only thing she saw was the tall bookshelves and the fading beam of light lurking around the corner.
Lucien’s mouth twitched. “Was that not what you wanted, my lady? ”
She pulled the hem of his toga upward, skimming her fingers over the golden-brown skin. “I doubt this is the kind of show your father’s scholars came all this way for.”
Lucien’s gaze fell to her lips. “Well then,” he said, his tone a low thrum sinking deep into her veins, “I suppose you’re going to have to be very, very quiet."
A thrill of excitement shot through her, and, feeling bold, Elain reached both of her hands down to grip his backside, drawing him toward her until she felt his cock dig into her lower belly. He was decidedly not wearing anything under his Day Court garments, then, which was just as well since Elain had conveniently opted to forgo hers.
Lucien growled, the sound hoarse and needy and loud enough to echo through the corridor, making Elain’s eyes dart toward its end. They were alone.
“Something’s telling me it’s you who’ll have trouble keeping quiet,” she teased, earning another rumble from Lucien’s chest.
“Elain,” Lucien urged, and it was enough. She closed the space between them and captured his mouth with her own.
Kissing Lucien was like playing with fire, a dance dangerous enough to consume her whole if she dared to lose herself in it. He was soft and rough at the same time, purely with a mind to taste her, to sweep his tongue over her lower lip in a way that made Elain melt against him entirely. There was nothing featherlight about the way he kissed her—it had been far too long since they’d last played this game, finding each other in hidden gardens and corridors and closets, letting off the steam and hunger they’d built in ballrooms or studies. Lucien kissed her like he longed for her, for the touch and passion she offered, and Elain reciprocated with just as much fervour.
He was an even better kisser than he was emissary, which had to amount to something from the way he managed to rile her up every time. He was like aged faerie wine, like the spice they’d sold far over at the Continent—he was an addiction Elain vehemently refused to let go of, not when he tasted so ridiculously good .
She almost didn’t notice, too busy revelling in his soft mouth, when Lucien’s hand smoothed over her inner thigh, the other still holding her up effortlessly as though she weighed no more than a piece of parchment from the pile scattered on the desk in the far corner. But then his fingers travelled further up until they finally dipped between her legs—right to her cunt, coated in her slick.
Elain sucked in a breath, breaking their kiss as her body arched into him, rocking into the two digits teasing her entrance—a silent plea for more. Lucien swore, the filthy sound on his lips spurring something wild inside her.
“Look at you,” he praised. “You’re practically dripping .”
She didn’t even try to deny it. “I’ve been waiting months for this,” she told him, hands sliding back up his broad chest.
A low hum. “No males for you in Scythia?” Lucien purred, though she couldn’t help but feel like there was a genuine question hiding in his tone, one desperate enough that made her honestly say, “No.” How could any of them compare when it was Lucien waiting for her back home? Lucien, whose Cauldron-damned fingers lazily continued to stroke her sopping folds, so tantalisingly close and yet not exactly where she needed him.
“Perhaps I should make you wait, then,” he mused, earning Elain’s breathy sound of protest. “Give you some time to ah…savour the moment.”
“Lucien,” Elain warned, time slipping past her as his digit moved to trace a circle along her swelling clit. Her head lulled back, resting against the cool stone as she lost herself to Lucien’s slow rhythm.
“Yes, my lady?”
Elain knew what he wanted—and right now, she was not above giving it to him. She would get back at him later—preferably at this evening’s meeting, when he couldn’t use his fingers to keep her distracted.
A hot volt of pleasure shot through her again at the thought, though—at the image of Lucien’s hand dipping beneath her skirts under the table, grazing her clit in those lazy circles, invisible to those seated above.
Gods.
“Please,” Elain choked out, curling a loose strand of his auburn hair around her finger. Knowing it would get her whatever she wanted, Elain tugged —a new sense of triumph rising through her as Lucien groaned deeply at the sensation.
“Elain,” he breathed, then pushed into her, his finger crooning inside her. Elain moaned, unable to form any words of approval, any praise, not when it felt so good to finally feel the sweet friction she’d been craving. His lips fell on her jawline again, her neck, across her collarbone, this time faster, somehow, messier, as though the feel of him stretching her thrust by thrust gave him as much pleasure as it did Elain. Lucien was relentless, as though there was nothing more important in the world right now than seeing her wracked with lust for him, gasping out his name as his finger moved in and out of her, one, then two, then three —until Elain swore all shapes blurred hazily and her body became a living, burning flame.
“Lucien,” she warned again, the sound all but a rasp now as she ground into his hand, her legs squeezing around him as her inner walls clenched, chasing that fiery pleasure. Lucien hissed at her tightness, something darkening in his russet gaze as she caught a glimpse of his eyes when he moved to kiss her again.
“Gods, Elain,” he cursed against her mouth, and that was enough.
She came with a strangled cry and his name on her lips. All the delicious tension he’d built up in her body melted as release rushed through her, coating his fingers in her slick. Lucien’s pace slowed, though he did not pull out of her, coaxing her through her climax instead as his mouth found her own once more.
She felt him smiling against her, that sly grin she’d been picturing in her mind every night she’d spent apart from him in Scythia, her own hand between her legs far too often than she’d care to admit.
Not that she’d ever dare to tell him. Especially now, when she was so mindless with pleasure and overcome with the need to feel him, all of him, as part of her again. She deepened the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck yet again, her teeth nipping slightly at his bottom lip.
Lucien pulled away, his shaky sigh tickling her skin, as if he, too, was at his wit’s end with the honeyed scents of their shared need blurring into one. “You are captivating ,” he muttered, and with that, he lifted her off the wall and spun them around.
Elain yelped in delight, her body pressing tighter into him as he carried them further down the corridor—right to the desk she could only hope was sturdy enough. The scribbled parchments fell to the floor, whooshed away by her skirts as Lucien set her down, taking a half-step back to admire the sight. Elain tried not to think about just how big of a mess he’d made her, running a hand down her ruffled curls as she met his gaze. Lucien’s breath caught, kiss-bitten lips parting slightly as his eyes trailed the movement, like a fox watchfully readying for finally catching his prey.
“Six months,” he murmured, more to himself than Elain. “It must have been some cruel punishment from the Gods.” Elain chuckled, but Lucien’s gaze darkened as it fixed on her mouth. “I shall let them know I have no intention of ever letting you leave like that again.”
“You only have me for a few hours,” Elain reminded him, though the very idea filled her with dread now more than the usual excitement.
Lucien seemed to share the sentiment. “Then I will cancel the meeting,” he said, taking a step to stand over her, making Elain lean back on her elbows with a wry smile. “Damn the deliberations, damn the High Lords and damn the War,” he told her, determination blazing through that fire in his stare.
“You know you can’t do that,” Elain said, though the prospect had sounded more appealing than she’d dare to admit.
Lucien ran his knuckles down her bare arm. “For you, I would do anything .”
It was more than they’d ever given each other—more than the usual teasing, the bickering. It felt like more, at least—but for some reason, Elain did not shy away. This— he —was what she wanted, and not just the pleasure he offered. For the past six months, Lucien consumed her every thought, every waking moment that she hadn’t spent worrying about war or her place in the world that seemed too dark to be part of on her own. Somehow, through all of it, it was Lucien who’d become her freedom, the one thing she looked forward to the most in her travels, like the gentle light pulling the ship ashore.
He must’ve seen it in her eyes—that light reflecting his own, because he cradled her face in her hands and kissed her hard and deep, a new warmth joining the usual hunger, bright and golden and sinking into her very soul. It only spurred that need inside her, the aching absence of him filling her like torture as she broke their kiss with a pant.
“I need you,” she whispered, reaching for the ivory silks draped over him again in an almost frenzied pull. “Lucien.”
His thumb swept over the crest of her bottom lip, the touch so gentle and soft she couldn’t help but shiver in response. She didn’t think she ever needed anything more in her life, her body arching toward him in greed, her legs opening invitingly.
Lucien’s gaze fell, his cock straining against the toga hovering just barely above his hard shaft. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice dipping into a low command.
Elain did not need to be told twice. “Lucien, I need —”
It was enough.
She was laid bare before him before she could blink, her dress gathered to the side to reveal her gleaming cunt. Lucien braced his palm beside her hip, his other hand reaching to guide himself toward her entrance. A gasp tore from Elain’s lips as she felt the thick tip of him prod at her entrance, his arousal already beading at its end. Flutter stirred in her belly, and every last thought evaporated from her mind as Lucien sank his length into her at last.
A string of curses fell from Lucien’s lips as she clenched around him, the feel of him intoxicating as he began rocking into her in a slow, unbearable pace, inch by inch as Elain moaned out his name again. Her head rolled back, golden-brown hair spilling over the dark wood, and, as though with a mind of their own, her legs hitched around his waist again, hurrying him closer, deeper to satisfy that need clawing at her desperately.
The feel of his cock inside her became lightning in her veins as Lucien bottomed out, finding that sweet spot deep inside of her that made her stomach flip and her eyes flutter shut. She wiggled her hips against him, needing that friction, needing for him to start moving, but before she could even plead, Lucien leaned down and pressed a hot, wet kiss to the column of her throat.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, and began a new, hard pace.
The moan that ripped free from Elain was a low, depraved sound that she was sure echoed throughout the library loud enough to be heard. His hand slipped to her side, fingers moving to grip her ass as he pulled in and out, his cock firm and thick inside her. She was blooming wet around him, the sounds of flesh against flesh nearly obscene as Lucien sank in deeper, grazing the spongy roof of her walls in a way that made her see stars and her core run molten.
Elain gripped his wrist, then, still braced at her side, sharp fingernails digging into his muscled forearm as she moaned out his name again. Lucien stumbled for only a moment, a low, feral sound rumbling from some primal place inside him that would not rest until satiated. His movements grew quicker, messier, stretching her wider as he eased in and out of her, stroking that spot that threatened the heavens to collide.
Her breaths grew shorter, and Elain looked at him through half-lidded eyes, the sight of him thrusting hard into her nearly making her lose her entire mind. Her hold on him tightened, earning another rough, breathy curse from Lucien that made her back arch off the desk as she chased her precipice. His strokes became raw, devastating as he rutted into her over and over, filling her deliciously, in and out of her tight core.
Release thundered through her, seconds from sending her over the edge, and her walls clenched impossibly tight around him, readying to let go.
Lucien grit his teeth. “Elain.”
Her climax shot through her, her cunt pulsing around him wildly as her body trembled with pleasure, all the tension he’d built up melting into heat. She was gone—had lost herself to the feel of him entirely, to the sound of her name on his lips. She could hardly breathe as his thrusts grew fast and shallow, fingers digging into her ass as Lucien neared his peak.
“Elain—” he warned again, and she nodded frantically.
“Yes.”
Lucien groaned hoarsely, driving deep into her as he came, coating her core in thick ropes of his release. His body shook against her, and Elain moved up slightly, the desk scraping quietly against the stone floor. With her hand dipping beneath his chin, she brought his mouth to hers again, revelling in the taste of him now that the two of them were whole again.
She could’ve sworn his skin shimmered a slight, golden gleam as their gazes locked and held. “Still intent on not cancelling that meeting?” Lucien asked breathlessly, and Elain’s eyes narrowed.
“Hmmm.”
There would be no cancelling in the end, although Lucien and Elain—through wholly uncoordinated efforts, of course—somehow turned up to the gathering room the next morning almost an hour late. Much to Lord Sorgen’s dismay and Viviane’s knowing smile, but, for some reason, Elain found herself entirely unbothered as she moved to take her seat.
Presiding over the meeting once more, Lucien’s gaze swept over the room before settling on Elain, that golden light shining from him again. “Ready to begin, my lady?” he asked.
Elain smiled.
She was more than ready.