broken like me

Chapter 2

And it makes her worry—because she'd only been in his life a year, and he had this much on her, and what must he have over Lucien to keep him on such a short leash for so many years?

/

It seems like Rhys is always watching her.

She's not naïve enough to believe it's out of attraction, him being so far beyond out of her league, and most of the time she chalks it up to an overactive imagination on her part, but...whenever he's in the room, she feels his eyes on her.

And he must be watching her, because he notices things she's never told him, or Mor for that matter. She's only been staying at the Nights' three days when he starts bringing her coffee exactly how she drinks it, their dinners all happen to be some of her favorite meals.

She noticed it after Cassian walked in with a rose on his lapel her second week there; her gaze zeroed in on the flower, until it was obscuring her vision and all she could think and all she could feel was the sight of the roses she reached to accept with bruised arms, with a broken wrist—the roses Tam brought her every time he hurt her. A million apologies for a million wounds, all at the forefront of her mind.

She hadn't noticed herself sliding into the panic attack; hadn't noticed her chest tighten, her breathing become shallow, her heart rate skyrocketing.

It was only once she's in the midst of it, and Rhys is next to her speaking soothing words, voice soft, begging her to take deep breaths, reminding her she's okay, that she realized what was happening. Managed to pull it together enough to drag her body to the guest bed she'd been occupying, and didn't move from it for twelve hours.

(She hadn't seen red in the house, since.)

Whatever Rhys has been through, whoever he is beyond the friend she's already gotten to know...he gets it.

(Which both relieves her and makes her hurt for him.)

/

It's a few weeks later, and she's simultaneously resentful (because she hates that all of her friends have seen her at her most vulnerable, have seen how weak and dependent she truly is) and grateful—she's living her best and worst life.

She cooked tonight, so it's Rhys's turn to do dishes, and he's singing Carrie Underwood while elbow deep in soapy water when the familiar buzz of his text tone goes off. "Could you check who that is? It's probably not important, but I just want to make sure."

Feyre's eyes widen from her place, legs crossed atop the counter. The phone is inches from her, and she has no good reason to refuse—it's not like checking to see who texted him is a burden.

(Except for the fact that she can't read.)

For a moment she panics, empty and ashamed—and then she gets angry, for reasons she can't explain, except that it sucks to feel so inferior in everyway, and she's already well aware that she's useless and incompetent and doesn't need him to sit there so expectantly and remind her of it when he's had everything he's ever asked for from birth.

"Not my fucking problem. Check your own phone," she snaps, blinded by rage and frustration, and storms into her room, where she immediately devolves into tears. The anger dissipates as soon as she's alone, crumbling into sorrow and a bone-deep, aching sadness she can't explain, and she hates that lashing out at Rhys is her M.O. when he's been there in her worst moments, but that's just it—he's been there in her worst moments, and she can't risk him knowing anything more.

(No one who's ever known more has turned out well.)

It's not till after her eyes have grown puffy that she realizes her clenched fists left crescent indents on both palms, breaking the skin in some places.