Rhys is twenty-two the first time it happens.
By this point, he'd almost given up on the idea of his having a soulmate—assumed the universe had decided no poor soul deserved to be locked with him for life, and rightly so.
He hisses when he looks up from the mountain of paperwork before him, seeing swaths of red down his arms.
He's been sitting at his desk for hours—there's no way he's managed to spill something.
The stains down his arms would say otherwise.
(Soulmate, his brain whispers.)
But the vast quantities of red—is it blood?Is something wrong with his soulmate?
(What if something happens to them before he ever gets to meet them? He can't do anything to save them.)
(Of course, he would fail his soulmate. Just as he has everyone else he's ever loved.)
His rational brain kicks in, mutters that there's no sign of a wound, and besides that,the color is too light—paint, then?
Whatever the case, he has a soulmate. He fumbles for a pen, gasping for air when he realizes he's been holding his breath and staring at the color.
(Afraid to do anything to disturb it would make it all nothing more than a dream.)
Hello!he writes on his bicep, right above the bright splotches, before he can stop himself.
Rhys waits anxiously, doing nothing but staring at his own handwriting for ten minutes, but no reply.
Maybe they're busy?
An hour later, the red trickles into nothingness as his soulmate washes it away—still no reply.
(They're ignoring him, then.)
It's probably for the best—it was cruel of the universe anyway, to tie an innocent soul to his. No one deserves that.
His soulmate will be better off never knowing him.
(This is all he can find peace in later on, when Amarantha comes by and reminds him exactly what he owes her—exactly what he must continue doing if he doesn't want everyone that works with him to be out of a job and blacklisted to every other law firm in the country.)
/
/
She's sixteen the first time it happens—Mr. Cabrera had let her stay after school and have the art room to herself, to finish up a piece for his class.
(The only one she's passing—but that's not surprising, as being illiterate in makes pretty much everything academic impossible.)
It's his way of telling her happy birthday, she knows; he's the only one to remember the day, and it warms her heart even as she's reminded of how lonely she is in the world.
She doesn't notice when the word appears on her arm, completely lost in her art.
(It's the last time she'll be able to paint for a while; now she's old enough to drop out officially to work full time—as though she hasn't been skipping class four out of five days a week to do so under the table already.)
It's not till she's hastily scrubbing her arms before changing into her work uniform that she sees it—she knows enough to know that it's English, but the only letters she knows are a capital F and A, enough to squiggle out a feigned signature.
More than ever, she wishes she'd learned how to read when she was younger; that when she'd been pulled out of school for "homeschooling" at six it had actually been that, rather than doing everything under the sun for money.
(Her education had fallen by the wayside until truancy officers had stepped in a year prior, but attending ninth grade is fairly useless when symbols you don't even understand float off the page.)
She rushes to ask Elain to read it for her as soon as she gets home, but she's asleep, and Nesta rages when she catches her trying to wake their middle sister up because,"she's had a long day, you piece of shit, why would you disturb her? Could you be any less considerate?"
(Personally, Feyre doesn't understand how a day could be so long when all Elain does is spend money they don't have, money that Feyreearns to put food on the table, going out to lunch with society girls she went to high school with—before everything went to shit—)
Whatever the case, she holds out her upper arm to Nesta with pleading eyes, but the older woman's lip curls in disgust.
"What bastard is unlucky enough to be stuck with you?"
When Feyre's brow puckers in confusion, Nesta rolls her eyes. "Soulmates can see things on each other's skin—ink, bruises, the works."
"Can you—what does it say? Will you write a reply?"
"And be the one to tell him his soul mate's too stupid to read first grade words herself? He's better off without you, don't you think?"
She's right, Feyre thinks, heart sinking. Her inadequacies—she would be more of a burden than anything.
She looks down at her hands—callused and rough from years of dish washing and mopping and even a very-illegal construction gig she's called for once in a while.
Her soulmate will be better off not knowing her.
(This is all she can find peace in later on, kneeling as she scrubs the grease from the restaurant floor.)
/
/
He tries, despite himself.
Every day for a year—writes a hior what's your favorite color?or a you doing okay?Updates about his life, everything under the sun, really. For three hundred and sixty-five days.
After a year, though, he resigns himself to it—whoever his soulmate is, they don't want him. Don't want this.
So he stops.
They draw on themselves once in a while, though, whoever they are—his soulmate.
Small sketches—the night sky, roses and vines, a silhouette. They're sotalented, it baffles him. The little drawings, sometimes penned with fading ink, they get him through rough days and worse nights.
The nights stars decorate his forearms—he can almost forget that they're not for him.
/
/
She's eighteen when she trips at work and spills hot coffee all over a patron—she's horrified, just having started the job.
(She spent hours the first few days memorizing where on the screen the button for each item was, managing to feign literacy after years of not being able to pick up any kind of job working a register.)
"It's fine," the man assures her as she apologizes profusely, laying an easygoing smile over the grimace he'd made while being burned.
"The fuck it's not, Andre," the man next to him growls, and she comes face to face with an intimidating blond man, his suit perfectly towered, chest broad—expression angry.
"Sir, I'm so sorry—I, I probably can't afford to have it dry cleaned," she admits, reminding herself not to look down because he is not better than her and she is not shameful, but something in the aristocratic air of the man's face makes her shoulders turn in anyway.
"We'll need your information in case Andre decides he'd like to press charges for battery and destruction of property."
"Tam, calm down, she didn't mean it, and you know I have plenty of other Armani. Let it go," his friend calms him, but the blond nonetheless takes her name, and she's left half pissed and half terrified of what havoc someone so used to getting his way will wreak on her life.
(He calls a week later—his corporation is opening a café, and either she comes to work there instead or the "crime" is reported; it's not much of a choice.)
/
He's twenty-five when he gets his first tattoo; he'd debated it for a long time—whether he should, knowing it would show up on another. Whether it would just make his soulmate hate him more.
He's losing his mind, though, with the way Amarantha takes over his life.
(Even in sleep, nightmares of her plague him.)
He—for his own sanity, he needs this, and it's probably unfair to the other person whose skin it will grace, but everything he's done for the last five years has been for other people, and just this oncehe needs something for himself.
The needle hurts as it traces across his knee, but it's a good pain—one hegot to choose, which is different, somehow.
(A few months later, his soulmate starts using paint the way she hasn't since the day it leeched onto his skin—he wonders at the change, but he gave up on their relationship a long time ago.)
He merely enjoys the art she decorates her skin with—by this point, he's fairly sure it's a she—and doesn't dwell on what might have been.
She seems happy, anyway, and that's as much as he can hope for.
/
Tamlin shows up at her place one day, to hassle her about something or other she'd done poorly that day.
(He stops short, though, when she opens the door to her family's dilapidated trailer with tired eyes—eyes her threadbare clothes, listens to the way Nesta berates her and takes money from her wallet without question.)
He starts being nice to her—slowly, at first. Gets to know her, a bit, trying to reconcile what he saw with the self-assured bitch he'd thus far perceived her to be. Finds out about her art, and begins gifting her with paint sets, and her world once again begins to fill with color.
They start dating, and their relationship is like fire, all consuming and exciting and like nothing else she's ever experienced.
He brings her roses, one day, and it's soon, but he asks her to move in with him—and just like that, he becomes her world.
(Roses are lovely, of course, but their vines slowly tighten and choke until there's no life left inside them.)
/
/
Her eyes look hollow in the mirror, and somewhere deep inside her, a snort arises at the sight of the frilly dress she wears.
There's nothing wrongwith it, per say—it's the kind of thing Elain would adore.
(But she hatesit. Wants to set it, and every other article of clothing she owns at this point, on fire.)
She knows it's an ungrateful thought to have—Tamlin has done so muchfor her. He's her whole world. How could she begrudge him an outfit he likes when he pulled her out of the gutter and gave her a home?
"You almost ready, babe?" Tamlin calls, and she sighs as she walks out to meet him, ready to play the picture of happiness for whatever benefit they're going to.
It's the kind of ridiculous affair she would've rolled her eyes at in her old life; rich, powerful people sitting around, getting drunk on their companies' money, patting themselves on the back for "donating" a weekend at their private villa for a charity auction.
(it's basically a paid night out where a bunch of rich white men can leer at each other's companions and boast about how benevolent they are.)
The bodice of her dress is tighter than is comfortable, so she doesn't partake much in the way of hors d'oeuvre; just holds onto his arm, puts on a smile as wide as she can muster as she greets about a million and five of Tamiln's colleagues.
The heels hurt her feet, the social interaction is draining, and at some point Tamlin slips away and she's left alone in the middle of the room. She's never felt more like a fish out of water.
She tries to make her way to the edge of the crowd, but then a few of the higher ups in Autumn LLC approach her, getting a little too close for comfort. Her steps become more brisk, but they're only getting closer, and one of them slides an arm around her waist.
"You shouldn't—I'd really rather—"
Her prospects of getting away from them are rather dim when a deep voice calls, "There you are! I've been looking for you."
Her spine tingles, and before she can turn, the voice whispers in her ear, "just go with it".
The hand is plucked from her side, and replaced by a warm one—lightly around her.
"Thank you for keeping her company for me, gentlemen. Now run along before I decide to let your employers know exactly what you've been up to."
"Y-yes, Mr. Night, of course." The men, now sweating, scramble away.
Feyre turns to thank her savior, but stops short at the sight of him—he's the most beautiful man she's ever seen.
(She's glad Tamlin isn't around to witness how speechless she is at the sight of him.)
/
He's not sure who she is, exactly, the woman he spirits away from Beron's idiotic offspring. She levels him with a look of distrust—good.
(She's smart enough to know people don't always do things out of the goodness of their heart—and she's safer that way.)
"Thanks for that," she says stiffly.
He hesitates, but—something makes him want to trust her.
(He should be more rational than that, he knows, but her eyes are the only ones in the building with any speck of humanity.)
"My younger sister used to have to come to these things. There wasn't always someone willing to intercede for her." He swallows heavily, fists clenching despite himself. "There should have been. We should always do what we can to help each other, you know?"
"I'm sorry. She deserved more. We all deserve more," she trails off mumbling, and he meets her gaze with a look that screams yes, yes, I understand.
"Yeah, well. Being the only black family in the building doesn't help. I'm sure they would've tried to keep us out long before any of it could've happened if they didn't want to boast about our presence."
(After all, you can only say you have the seven richest men in the world in attendance if number one shows up.)
The woman raises an eyebrow at his bluntness, but looks pleased at the honesty—at someone in the godforsaken building being real.
"I'm Rhysand, by the way. Rhysand Night. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Something flickers in her gaze when she extends her hand, and he recognizes it as self-consciousness as soon as he feels the callouses adorning her palms.
(She's one of them—the ones who've had to drag themselves up from the ground, crawling through nails and fire all the while.)
(The ones whose eyes flash with rage to stand around here and discuss the horror of a poorly made golf course when people are starving and dying every day.)
"I'm—have to go," she winces, and rushes away from him to find someone in the crowd.
He doesn't know why the thought of her sticks with him—they'd barely spoken.
Still, something resonates.
(Maybe one day.)
/
/
It takes months of begging to convince Tamlin the art class is a good idea, but all of it is worth it the first day she sits in front of a canvas.
A weekly night course at the community center, about a semester long; it's no Yale fine arts program, but she doesn't know the last time she was this excited.
She takes her seat quietly, avoids eye contact with the people around her, but in the chatter before class begins the blonde two chairs over turns with a dazzling smile.
"Hi! I'm so excited for this class, are you? I'm not very artistic, per say—that is, my cousin says my art could make babies cry, and apparently they're color blind for a bit so it would be quite the accomplishment—but then hopefully this class will help with that! I'm Mor by the way."
Feyre's eyes widen, overwhelmed at the other woman's enthusiasm, but she gives a tentative smile in return. "Feyre," she responds quietly.
(An hour later, they're giggling at the atrocity Mor has produced when she notices that Feyre's piece is kind of amazing—"oh my god, our own Michaelangelo! Please teach me your ways.")
/
She doesn't know how it happens, her friendship with Mor. The other girl seems so much—more—than her, in every way, but somehow she wants her in her life, and before she can blink they're best friends.
She opens up to Mor about things she's never even told Tamlin—her relationship with her sisters and father, her feelings of inferiority.
Mor confesses the real reason she signed up for their class was after hearing the story of Artemesia Gentileschi.
(An artist who channeled her rage and violation after assault into her art—Mor had hoped she might be able to do the same.)
Tamlin doesn't love it, of course—thinks Mor's a bad influence, that her cousin is a public menace, that she'll steer Feyre away from what's right.
(Because his bff Ianthe is sucha great human, but whatever)
It's a month and a half into their friendship, and pretty much any waking hour Feyre isn't with Tam, she's with Mor. She spends ages sprawled on Mor's couch—the blonde works from home most of the time, and decides her own hours, and anyway Feyre is happy to doodle absentmindedly while her friend does actual work.
She tries not to resent the fact that she would give anything to work; she couldn't get any non-menial job, not having an education, and Tamlin is insistent that she let him take care of her, and he means well, but...
(but.)
"Morrigan, please tell Cassian dearest I'm your favorite in the family," a voice drawls from downstairs, and Feyre's spine straightens without her meaning to.
Three broad shouldered men stroll into the room; all are ridiculously gorgeous (like, did she fall into an episode of Teen Wolf?), and it takes her a minute to realize the one smirking at the front is her savior from the most recent disaster of a charity ball. The one who pops up in her mind, in her dreams, much more than he should.
"Rhys, you both know Az is my favorite," Mor tsks teasingly.
Rhysand and whoever Feyre is assuming is Cassian both groan, but the slightly leaner man at the back merely quirks an eyebrow and holds out a palm.
(She can't contain her laughter when both pouting men hand over twenties.)
Rhys turns when the sound escapes her, and his face lights up. "Ah! Cinderella, so nice to see you again."
"You know Feyre?" Mor asks.
"We met at the shitshow Helion put on last month," Feyre explains, rolling her eyes with disdain.
"Feyre darling ran off before I could catch her name—how lovely to see you again," Rhys practically purrs.
"Let me guess, you had to get back to his prickishness," Mor mutters.
Feyre scowls in return. "Mor! You know I really wish you two would try to get along."
"Don't break my heart and tell me you love another, Feyre darling!" Rhys pleads dramatically.
"I'm afraid so—but if things don't work out I'm glad I'll have a back-up option."
"And don't you forget it," he winks, the motion stuck in her memory for weeks.
/
He knows he shouldn't have feelings for her—she's with someone else, and besides that, she's not his soulmate, and even if his own wants nothing to do with him, Feyre of all people deserves to be with her perfect match.
But Feyre—Feyre is everything good in this world. He can't help but fall for her more and more each time they meet. She's so full of personality, of honesty, unflinching genuineness when she talks about the world and her own experiences, bravery and lack of sorrow over her own shitty circumstances...he's never seen anything like it
Even if they didn't get along, he would love her, because she's brought out a light in Mor he hadn't seen since...before. His cousin always liked to play the happy character, but her mask had been thin since Eris.
Feyre made her smile real—and he would do anything to keep it so.
/
She knows she shouldn't have feelings for him.
She's with Tamlin—and Tam is so, sogood to her. He took her in when she had no one, became the family she'd never had, put the very clothes on her back; she would have nothing without him.
He's the reason she met Lucien, who she bonded with in ways she never would've expected, who's become so close to her heart she can't put it into words.
(Tamiln has always been a little uncomfortable with how close they are, but it's clear to anyone they have no romantic feelings for each other, so he doesn't vocalize the disquiet in his eyes.)
But Rhys...he makes her feel capable. Asks her thoughts before voicing his own, cares so deeply about everyone and everything around him, gives everything he has to others and yet tries to make sure they never know how much of himself has been spent for them.
She can't help but be in awe of it.
(She didn't think people like him were real.)
Eventually, Tamlin finds out, of course—he always finds out what's going on in her life. Unbeknowest to Feyre, he's not the biggest fan of Rhys for reasons unconnected to her.
(Spoiler: his reasons may not pertain to her, but that doesn't mean she won't take on the blame.)
/
The first bruise, Rhys assumes to be his own; he must've bumped into his desk harder than he'd thought.
(By the next month, however, he knows they're not his—and their frequency is too great to be ignored.)
They show up in different places, and she sometimes paints over them; his wrists are probably most commonly adorned.
He's not sure how to approach it; his soulmate has made it clear she doesn't want him in her life, but—but someone is hurtingher. He can't just sit by and watch her skin become someone else's way of venting frustration.
(As though his own isn't precisely that for another.)
I know it isn't really my place, he writes. But you deserve so much more than this—than someone who hurtsyou. Whatever they're saying to justify it...you are so much more. There is nothing that could make this okay. I can help you if you need—anything you need.
When he wakes up the next morning, scribbles cover his entire message.
(Below it, spiky handwriting says my life is none of your fucking business—don't comment on things you know nothing about. Stay out of my life.)
Somehow, the handwriting seems almost familiar, and he knows something about it is off—knows that she needs help. Would give anything to help her.
(But there's only so much he can do, and it's not the first time she's made it clear she wants nothing to do with him.)
For all he knows, her predicament is similar to his own—and it kills him.
He tugs his long sleeves back down. Hopes for her sake she gets out.
(Keeps watching her steady hand turn her pain into masterpieces on both of their skin.)
/
/
As if his worries about his soulmate aren't enough, something is off with Feyre.
She's been around much less—at this point, the only one of them she's really hanging out with is Mor, and only for brief spurts of time.
And sure, part of it is his upset at being ghosted—he'd thought he and Feyre were close, so the sudden ousting from her life hurts.
But more than that, something is really wrong on her end. She's eating less—not in the way of someone afraid of food (the way he'd seen his sister in her darkest moments, counting calories and equating eating with sin), but as if eating just doesn't appeal to her.
(Really, it seems as if life itself doesn't appeal to her, most days he catches a glimpse.)
The bags under her eyes darken, and she adopts the mask Mor used to wear—Feyre is not okay.
Why doesn't anyone else see it?
He tries to approach her about it once, but she mumbles an excuse and skitters away and out to the hired car that brings her to and from everywhere she goes these days.
/
She doesn't know how she got here.
It was so, so gradual, the way Tamlin became a monster. She finally understands the frog in the pot analogy; he never raised the temperature of the water quickly enough for her to notice, made every step along the way seem rational and now she's boiling and it's too late.
She's trapped.
(God, why is she always so fucking trapped.)
It took her so long to notice how not okay things were, that no amount of saving her or financial support or becoming her family makes this acceptable.
(Makes it fair for him to put his hands on her, to control her like she's a fucking child.)
He'd become her world, and it seemed so romantic at the time, but now it's sickening—he's her world, and she has no way out. Nowhere to turn, no place to live or clothes to wear or food to eat outside of him, and her friends are so far beyond pushed away she can't imagine getting them to speak to her, let alone take her in.
The part that kills her the most, she thinks, is that he didn't even have to convince her to push her family away to begin with—what should've been a warning sign. They were already so far gone, and she knew him before any of the friends she'd made...she was the perfecttarget. Couldn't even read or write to find an anonymous tip line, even if she triedto get out of the hell that had fallen into place around her.
She bumps into Rhys one day, and it takes everything in her not to burst into tears at the sight of him—the concern and care in his eyes, even still, after months of her "refusing" to speak to any of them.
"Feyre, please—"
It's the first time he hasn't called her Feyre darling, and it kills something inside her.
But she can't. Tamlin will be here soon, and if he catches them—
(she'll pay for it later, her still healing fractured wrist and concussion remind her.)
"Leave me alone, Rhysand. In case it hasn't been clear enough, I don't wantto see you."
He flinches at her words, but steels himself, throwing up his cocky grin. "Now we both know that's not true—and even then, I know you must miss my better half dearly. We're all left to her pitiful attempts at art in your absence."
Mor. God, she would give anythingto see her.
Before she can really process the thought, the light catches on blond hair powerwalking their way, and her stomach falls.
Tamlin—he's seen them. She's screwed.
He's beside her in record time, a hand proprietarily around her waist and coming to rest on her ass, and the possessive display makes her nauseous.
"Night," he bites out.
Rhysand raises a cool eyebrow. "Tamlin—I didn't realize you were Feyre darling's beau. How very lucky for you."
And her eyes shutter closed in defeat. Rhys means well, she knows he does, but she already knows Tamiln will interpret that as her not telling other men about him.
(her skin will pay for that.)
/
She'd thought the night couldn't get any worse by the time they'd gotten home, car door handle broken, glass of the front door shattered.
(she was wrong.)
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see ink creeping along her forearm, and all the blood drains from her face.
Thus far, she'd kept Tamlin from finding out about him—her soulmate, whoever he was. She knew he wouldn't like it, knew it would threaten him, so she's always covered any of his markings with her artwork.
But a night like tonight, there wouldn't be time.
She can tell the exact moment he sees it—the moment it strikes him that there are words on her skin that weren't there before, that he realizes that Feyre can't write—that's not her handwriting.
(soulmate.)
She has no idea what's written there, of course, but whatever it is, it enrages Tamlin beyond as livid as he already is at realizing she's hidden her soulmate from him the entirety of their relationship—on top of everything else.
He snatches up her arm, holding it in a vice-like grip as he practically carves a response onto her flesh with a pen, with enough pressure that she's holding back a whimper.
(her own boyfriend—her savior and her monster all rolled into one.)
The rest blurs together, as she fades in and out of consciousness—hits to her abdomen, palms to her face, what Tam would probably call sex but the thought of makes her flinch.
She doesn't know how she got here—she was a survivor. A fighter. How can a fighter find themselves another person's chew toy?
(there's a vivid memory of a glass table being flipped, of shards slicing into her, a frantic Lucien removing the pieces and stitching her up at home.)
(I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I wish I could get us both out, he whispers all the while, and it becomes clear to Feyre that he's just as trapped as she is by the man who claims to love them both.)
She's so sorry they're in this predicament—and she begins to hate that word. she's sorry, he's sorry, Tamiln is sorry, it'll never happen again—the word sorry is a fucking joke.
(it's her last coherent thought before she slips into true unconsciousness for the night.)
/
He loses it after seeing them together.
He knew something was off—knew it was odd that her boyfriend had never been around, that she never mentioned him despite being serious enough to be living together, that even Mor didn't know him.
Of fuckingcourse— while he was being Amarantha's plaything, Tamlin was the one draining the life from the woman he loves without a second thought.
(It's not even a surprise when he realizes he loves her, merely a sigh of acknowledging what had been there for so long.)
He gets home, and immediately begins downing tequila while rock music blares—not even shots, taking pulls straight from the handle, and he has no idea how much he's had to drink but everything hurts just a little bit less, just muffled enough to be bearable.
Naturally, as if the night can't get any worse, bruises begin to bloom across his skin, one after the other, more than ever before, blood adorning one shoulder.
It's killinghim, knowing what his soulmate is going through. Knowing that someone is clearly doing this to her.
He's drunk enough that he doesn't let himself think about the years of rejection—countless times of him reaching out only to be ignored, of the previous message to butt out. She's hurting, and regardless of how much she clearly hates him, no one deserves to be treated like this. He'll do anything.
Whatever you feel about me doesn't matter, he scribbles hastily, the loos of his handwriting sloppier than normal in his haste. You deserve more—you are worth everything in this world, and whoever is doing this to you is in the wrong. If it's something you can't get out of, if you need help getting out, or back on your feet, I...I get that you might not want to come to me. But I really wish you would. Please.
735-910-2298. Anytime, anyplace. For the rest of our lives. I promise, if you need me, I'll be there.
Moments later, the same angry scrawl crawls across his skin as it did months ago: stay the fuck out of things that aren't your business. Keep your filthy words to yourself.
He sees red—grabs the first thing he can get his hands on (some ridiculous vase) and hurtles it across the room, thankful there's no one else here to witness his breakdown.
He's tossing books off the coffee table, pillows from the couch, completely upturns his desk, papers and knick knacks scattering across the floor, because he just—doesn't know what to do. Doesn't know how to help his soulmate when she's so resistant to getting help, doesn't know how to help Feyre come back to them, doesn't know how to help Mor get over losing the friend who'd reminded her of who she was...doesn't know.
Everything in his life is drowning him and he can't make it stop and he's curled up on the floor, shaking with frustration and anger and pain and sorrow and wondering how any of it will ever get better.
(If he'll ever be enough to help the people he loves.)
/
/
The details of it are hazy.
Cassian runs in to tell them, seated around the board room table of Night's pseudonymed better half, Velaris Inc. It's a miracle no one outside the company has figured out the Night association—but then, Rhys is borderline obsessed with protecting the secret, with making sure his family's history and Amarantha's present work over the Night name do nothing to taint an organization capable of doing so much good.
Cassian's eyes are bright and wide, and the grin on his face exudes disbelief. "Ding dong," he says breathlessly, humor and excitement in his voice.
"Come again?" Amren asks, unamused, a perfect eyebrow raised.
"Ding dong," he repeats. "As in, the motherfucking witch is dead."
He might be misunderstanding Cass, tries to tamper down the hope bubbling uncontrollably in his chest. "Cassian, I swear to god, if this is a joke—"
The door slides open almost silently, Azriel stepping up beside his counterpart without a sound. "I was corroborating the news while Cass came ahead to tell you—it's true. Three reliable sources just confirmed." He meets Rhys's eye, and something in his gaze makes him think his best friend knows—knows what he's done, what he's sacrificed for so long. (Knows that his relief at her being out of the picture goes beyond being vindictive towards an evil company overlord hurting everyone around her.) "Amarantha is dead."
"Oh, thank god," Rhys whispers numbly, putting his head in his hands. She's gone.
And he feels so guilty, for being so glad at someone's death, but—she's taken everythingfrom him, has made him a shadow of himself. And now he's free.
Everything has been such shit lately, but this...god, maybe things will turn out. Somehow.
/
It's a week later, at an A-list only auction of all of Amarantha's things—no part of him wants to be here, and there's no way anything of hers will ever come into his home, but the press have been circling in the wake of her death, and he doesn't need the gossip that would be generated if he didn't attend.
They're just ahead of him in the entryway, Feyre looking as beautiful as ever, but...hollow. She turns as Tamlin leans down to sign in, and there's no sign of light in her eyes—she's not even pretendingto be happy at this point.
She's even more thin than the last time he saw her, and they lock eyes for just a moment—the briefest of moments—and she shakes her head subtlety, just as Tamlin stands back up, reaching for her hand.
Her left hand—where a rock the size of an olive sits. She's marryinghim. She's going to be with him forever—not that Rhys had ever stood a chance, but he could've handles that if she were happy; but she's not, she's so aggressively not happy, and she's going to be with Tamlin till she dies.
(As if the day couldn't get any worse.)
He steps forward to sign in as they leave, absentmindedly and picking up a bidding paddle and penning his name. Setting down a pen, he glances across the list to see who else is here: Varian, Beron, Kallias, Helion—the usual suspects.
When he gets to Tamlin's name, though, something twinges inside him—the handwriting is familiar. He can't figure out why, but he knowsthis handwriting—knows it so well his mind is screaming at him to remember what he knows it from, how he could possibly have seen anything Tamlin Primavera had ever written.
It's irrelevant, he tells himself, stepping into the main event.
/
He can't get it out of his mind—can't get Feyre out of his mind, either, so he finds himself staring at the two of them for most of the auction.
He's incessantly pissed off by the way Tamiln treats her more like arm décor than the love of his life, ignoring her to regale the men around him with tales of his most recent fiscal opportunities, not noticing the way she stares off into the distance.
It finally ends, and he's ready to leave, to get away from all of the pain Feyre, and Tamiln, and Amarantha's memory are working together to bring him—his mind feels pulverized.
He allows himself one more glance at her—the last time, he tells himself, and he looks over just in time to see Tamiln's hand reach for the small of her back—and she flinches.
She fucking flinches.
(He's hurting her.)
The bastard is putting his hands on her, enough that she instinctively flinches at his touch.
She's being hurt and she doesn't deserve it, god, Feyre deserves so much more and she's only gotten so much bad in this life, and why does everyone good in this world get so wronged? Feyre, Mor, his soulmate, however much she wants him to stay out of her—
It hits him, then, like a ton of bricks.
For a moment he thinks he might pass out in shock, but his lungs start working again and then his legs are taking him back to the entryway.
It's still there, the sign in book, with no attendant to stop him from snatching it up, frantically flipping back to the page his name is on.
There it is. It's no wonder he didn't recognize the writing—the first two times, it had been hurried, messy, and the bastard had never written his name in the sentences that had appeared on Rhys's skin.
Sentences he had written after the bruises and blood—bruises and blood he had also put there.
He sprints out the door, ignoring his car and making himself physically start going home before he can do something he shouldn't.
(Like beat the shit out of Tamlin until every bone in his body is fucking snapped. Gouge out his eyes. Break every single finger that has been used to hurt Feyre—his soulmate.)
By the time he gets home hours later, he's soaked in sweat, definitely dehydrated, and his mind is still whirring at a hundred miles an hour as he fits it all together.
(The flowers his soul mate had always drawn. How withdrawn Feyre had been as of late. Not seeing Feyre for weeks after each time his own skin had grown black and blue.)
Mor is sprawled on the couch when he throws the door open, paperwork propped up on her lap and a coffee cup beside her. Her eyes widen at the sight of him, and she drops the phone from her ear, hanging up without bothering to say goodbye to the person on the other end. "Rhys? Where the hell have you been? Everyone called when you went AWOL—are you okay?"
He gapes for a moment, unable to form words. Tries to thing of the way to explain it, to tell her everything that had happened today, but it just—
"She's my soulmate," he rasps, dropping to his knees on the hardwood floor.
Before she can respond, the dehydration gets the better of him, and he slides into unconsciousness.
/
/
She can't do this anymore. She doesn't have any other choice, but—today was a wake-up call. She needs to figure out something, anything, to get out of this before it starts hurting someone other than herself, because of her—she won't let that happen.
(It had been negative—thank god, it had been negative.)
(But one day it might not be.)
She'd gone to such lengths to get the test, had to figure out a way to take it here rather than at home—if he or the maids had seen it in the trash, there would've been hell to pay.
(Or worse—it would've planted the idea in his head. If it's not already there.)
They're at a fancy restaurant downtown for lunch; it's better this way, in public, where he won't risk making a scene.
She doesn't have anything with her—which is fine, she can't very well take any of it, anyway, seeing as none of it is really hers. It all came with the cost her body paid, and she won't let it be one more thing she owes him.
No—she owes him nothing. Not after what he's done to her.
(She hates that she has to remind herself of that.)
She manages to turn her lips up in a smile when he says he'll be right back—then jumps out of her seat the instant the bathroom door closes behind him, and rushes for the exit, heart pounding.
As soon as she emerges, Lucien jumps up and out of where he has the car parked, making to open the door for her; the second they lock eyes he knows—knows she's going to run.
And she knows he wants her to escape more than anything, knows he's as close to a brother as she could ever have; but she also knows he's trapped too, and the consequences will be dire if he doesn't stop her. "Please, please don't help him keep me—I have to get out Lucien," she begs. "Don't try to stop me."
He bites his lip, reaching into his pocket for his phone, and her hopes are dashed—she's already starting to cry hopelessly when he hands it to her.
"W—what?"
"I can't bring you anywhere, you know he would kill me. But maybe I fell asleep in the car waiting for you two—maybe you grabbed my phone out of my pocket and disappeared with it."
"You know he won't believe you—I can't let you risk that for me, Luc."
"You're my family, Feyre. I'd rather you get out than both of us be stuck here, and I can handle whatever he does to me if I know you're safe."
She throws her arms around him—the first time she'd voluntarily reached for physical contact in so, solong—but too soon, he's pushing her away, whispering go, and she's sprinting away from him, from the restaurant, from Tamiln, from this life—from the roar she can already hear inside the restaurant, shit.
She ducks into a diner a few blocks away, the kind of place that had been special-occasions-only for her growing up but which Tamlin wouldn't be caught dead in. Breathing heavily, she approaches a harried looking waitress, feeling guilty.
"I'm so sorry to bother you, but—do you happen to have a way to look up the number for Night Industries? It's important, I swear."
The older woman sighs, taking in her appearance—hair a sweaty mess, frantic and terrified expression. Feyre can see the moment she decides—the moment her eyes flick over the bruise on her wrist, sleeve pushed out of place while she ran. She tugs it down, but the woman gives her a knowing look, and immediately starts typing. "General number...437-488-0901."
Feyre rushes to type the numbers, grateful for once for this, the only thing she canread.
She waves to the waitress and makes her way into the corner of the shop. And it takes ages—convincing reception she actually knows the celebrity, that she actually needs to speak to him, and then she's passed on to his assistant only to repeat it all.
The next time the phone rings, someone drawls, " Speak," and the voice is so cold it takes her a moment to recognize it.
"R—Rhys?" the word comes out as a whisper.
"Feyre?" he gasps, shooting up an octave. "Where are you? What's happening? Is everything okay?"
"I need your help," she admits. "Please. I know I don't deserve it, but—"
"Where are you, Feyre?" he demands.
"Penny's on 87th."
Mor shows up twenty minutes later, pulling her into her arms immediately—not asking for explanations, without reprimands. Feyre practically collapses into her.
(Maybe things can be okay.)