Feyre opens her eyes, and her first instinct is panic—she's not at the house, which means Tamlin is probably out of his mind with "worry", and liable to be pure rage whenever he next sees her.
It hits her, then—she left him.
She stumbles out of the room, trying not to dwell on the long t-shirt she's wearing not being hers, and finds a familiar scene: Mor, sprawled across the couch, paperwork in her lap and The Walking Deadplaying, and Rhys, standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, trying to watch the show while whisking something.
"Hi."
They both jump when she speaks, voice raspy.
"Feyre! I didn't even hear you come in," Mor smiles softly, but Rhys watches her carefully—as if he knows something about it is off.
(As if he knows that it's no coincidence they didn't hear her approach—she's mastered the art of silently creeping through the house, of walking close to furniture and other weighted things where the floorboards won't creak, staying on the balls of her feet, holding her arms out far enough for the sleeves not to swish.)
"I—thank you. So much. For—for coming, I mean."
"Always."
She jerks when the reply comes from Rhys, instead of Mor, as she'd expect—but there's no hint of sarcasm or judgment in his eyes. Only the promise.
"And you don't have to talk about it—now or ever," Mor tells her soothingly. "But we do need to know—do we need to go pick up the rest of your things? We can call Amren, Cass, and Azriel to come back us up." She says it casually, but it's clear she means for protection—she knows. Knows the threat of violence from Tamiln is a very real possibility.
"I—" Feyre swallows, unsure how to explain that she owns nothing in this world but the painting she'd folded and stuffed into her purse. "No. There's nothing of mine at Tamlin's house."
"Okay! Even better—that means a shopping trip is in our future. Now sit down, today is strictly dedicated to watching Disney movies."
And they do—everything from Lilo and Stitchto Tangledto Meet the Robinsons, without delving into the hard things or leaving the couch except to go to the bathroom.
/
A few days later they're halfway through Beauty and the Beastafter Mor finishes her work, when Mor passes out, head on her shoulder.
She'd expected the movie to be difficult to watch—she and Tamlin had always joked it was the story of their relationship, had dressed up as Belle and Beast the first Halloween they were together. (Back when things were...good.)
The thing is...watching it now? She doesn't see him in the Beast. The way he'd treated Lucien wasn't like Lumiere, he'd never tried to learn about her interests, never offered her her freedom—that was never him.
(He's been Gaston all along.)
What she'd wanted had never mattered—she'd been intended to mold herself to fit his plans, the life he decided they would have. She was supposed to be grateful that he'd made her life "better".
He'd never intended to rescue her from her old life; he just knew she had no other options.
The realization crashes through her, and the more she thinks about it—the more she looks at their relationship without the hero lens—the more it makes sense, the more she wishes she could go back in time and beg herself to see the cage forming around her that no one saw.
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.
(She's not okay—she's not in Tamlin's grasp, but she's still so, very far from okay.)
Even as she processes the marks on her own skin, color begins to appear around them—soft yellow and dark blue, outlining the damage of her nails and then expanding into a pattern of waves and spirals across her hands. The sight of the paint, even if she can't feel it—it calms her.
She doesn't know how her soul mate could know, how badly she needs this reminder that she's not alone, this faceless art without cause. And she can't even begin to process that he's done it in what happen to be the two main colors that don't trigger her or make her think of Spring.
But she's grateful—whatever else happens, she'll always be grateful to her soulmate for this, this moment of peace and feeling just the slightest bit less alone in the world.
She grabs a pen, feeling herself about to doze off, and sketches a haphazard attempt at the city skyline at night; it's as close to a thank you as she can write.
She falls asleep with her forearm inches from her face; for some reason, her soul mate's art makes her feel safe.
It's a sentiment she holds onto even once the paint is washed away.
/
It's three a.m. and she's pacing the halls; not unusual for her, because sleep...
(sleep is hard. And usually accompanied by nightmares she'd rather avoid.)
She never liked when the house was quiet, at Tamlin's—it felt ominous, and hollow, when it wasn't teeming with life, despite the excessive décor.
Here, though, she finds she doesn't mind so much—the house still feels like a home, even when her own footsteps are the only sound.
The walls are absolutely plastered with pictures; some in frames, some just slapped on with sticky tack (it feels like Cassian's work), everything from Mor sprawled across Cassian and Rhys on the couch to Az looking terrified while skiing down a movie-quality mountain.
There are a few where everyone looks like teenagers, but nothing younger than that, which makes her wonder. Mor has made it clear under no uncertain circumstances that she hates her parents, that hers and Rhys's childhoods were awful—that this is what they'd had in common with Cass and Az when they met. But to have no pictures of all those years...well, it speaks more than words ever could.
Feyre keeps walking, staring at the photos into glimpses of their story. She steps quietly as she passes the door to Rhys's chambers, when a muffled whimper stops her in her tracks.
Before she can call out to him, he lets out a scream—the kind full of primal, unadulterated fear, and she races into his room without hesitation.
/
When he comes to, he's drenched in sweat, and all he can see is Feyre's face hovering inches above him, brows scrunched together with worry.
"Rhys—it was just a dream, you're okay. You're safe. I'm here."
It's the last of these that does the most to calm him—his soul mate is here. She's here, and he can feel it—the spark of her touch so much different than Amarantha's in his nightmares, the cotton of her shirt grounding him.
"Feyre," he rasps, and she looks him in the eye while she keeps stroking his hair.
"You're okay. I'm here, you're okay, you're home, you're safe."
"Xanax," he manages to get out. "In the bathroom cabinet. Can you—"
Feyre hurries to the cabinet, yanking open the door—then hesitates.
His heart still stammering, he watches her stare into the cabinet—she bites her lip, clenches her fists in frustration. He wonders what could be making her glare at the medicine; as far as he knows, there are a couple of over the counter meds and his three prescription bottles.
"I can't—" she shakes her head. She winces, then scowls, like she's scared out of her mind and pissed as hell all at once.
"It should be the one furthest to the left, more full than the other bottles," he pants out between gasps, and she immediately snatches up the bottle and spirits it back to the bed.
Rhys dry swallows the pill with ease, the motion familiar, and as the panic attack begins to fade he starts to really process Feyre's moment of terror and anger.
He runs through it mentally—the only other time he's seen her this frustrated was when he asked her to read out his text, or the time Mor asked her to read out the next step in a flan recipe—
Read. Both times, she'd been asked to—and he must've seen her read at some point?
Except the more he thinks about it—he doesn't think he has. She's good at coming up with excuses, at playing things off, but...Feyre can't read.
All the times he scribbled across his skin and only got art in reply and assumed it was a jilt, her frustrations and inability to get a job, or out from Tamlin's grasp...
The implications are insanity. The fact that she's made it this far...
It's another piece of understanding Feyre, and it—it's a game changer.
/
She's slowly eating a bowl of cereal (Mor goes to extensive lengths to keep her eating regularly), when Rhys collapses in the chair across from her, spilling a stack of workbooks onto the table before her.
"What—"
"Listen before you scream at me," he asks, giving her the smolder that means he's about to piss her off. "Because you're my friend and I care about you and want the best for you."
She glares suspiciously, and he carries on. "I'm gonna teach you to read. I got different tools, so if there's a level you already understand or if there's a particular method that works best for you we can primarily use that. But you have to learn—it'll give you much more agency, so if you ever want to move on or work somewhere else—"
Her eyes go wide, nose flaring defensively. "If you wanted me out you just had to say so."
"No that's not—" he sighs, wondering how he manages to get things with her so wrong.
(She's his soulmate—shouldn't this be as easy as breathing?)
"I didn't mean it like that," he says more gently, making eye contact and hoping she can see the honesty, the affection and love in his eyes. "I only meant—I don't ever want you to be here because you have no other option. I want you to be here because you choose to be, because we're family and you wantto be here. And I wouldn't ever really feel like that's true if I knew you didn't have a skill that's kind of essential for you to leave. I couldn't bear it if you ever felt as trapped here as—or well, anywhere. I don't want you to ever feel like that again."
He's tugging at the collar of his shirt as he says this, pulling it away from his skin, and that's what makes her believe him.
(He's tugging at the collar the way she only began to once it brushed up against bruises, once it felt reminiscent of the hand squeezing her throat.)
(He's not saying this offhandedly—he knowsthe feeling of little agency.)
"I—we'll have to start at the beginning." She doesn't meet his eyes as she says so, thumbing the edge of the table.
He nods, expressionless, and searches the table until he finds the workbook he's looking for. "This one, then."
He tells her the letters, and grabs snacks as she continues to practice tracing them out, her cheeks red despite the lack of condescension in his demeanor.
But when they finish for the day, she's pretty confident she'll remember most of the letters—and it's mortifying, and frustrating, but more than she's ever known.
/
/
/
Az is the one to find Lucien—bloodied to a pulp, almost unrecognizable, dropped in a back alley, one Az had only passed by chance while checking in on some of their seedier business partners—reminding them to follow the policies Rhys has set in place, lest they reap the repercussions he's made them well aware of.
He has him stretched out in the back of his car when the redhead coughs up blood, and he's got Rhys on speed dial seconds later, throwing the car into gear. "Rhysand, it's Vanserra—the decent one. He's done something to piss of Tamlin—I'm taking him to the hospital now, he's already lost a fuckton of blood."
"No hospital," Lucien rasps faintly from the backseat, hacking up what sounds like half a lung.
"Not optional, Vanserra—you're on death's doorstep already." Az doesn't know how the guy is even still breathing, let alone coherent
"NO HOSPITAL." It's both a command and a plea.
Az moves from where he's setting Lucien's leg to make eye contact. "I have basic first aid training but I am not equipped to deal with injuries this severe; Lucien, if I don't take you to the hospital your odds are—"
"I don't care," he coughs out. "I can't. My—soulmate. He has her. Will hurt her."
"Fuck," Az mutters under his breath, then brings the phone back to his mouth as he slams the car door and starts up the engine. "Okay, Rhys, change of plans; I'm bringing him to the house, get Cass to set up the field kit in one of the spares, and any emergency supplies he can have when we get there. It's gonna be a long night."
/
It's another day before he regains consciousness, surrounded by Night Corp VIPs, Feyre asleep and clutching his hand.
"Feyre." His voice comes out barely more than a whisper, but she jolts nonetheless, which doesn't surprise him in the worst way—people in Tamlin's life have never been able to be light sleepers.
"Luc, thank god," she breathes, gripping his hand with both of her own. "How are you feeling? Do you need meds, or water, anything?"
"Help me check my skin—I need to know she's okay."
Feyre nods immediately, and begins helping canvas his limbs, Lucien despairing more and more the longer they go without finding a message.
His eyes well with tears when he finds it, on his rib cage—Tamlin's been in to see her, then, to threaten her and check if he's said anything about a hospital. About the police.
Where are you? Are you okay?
It's written in the familiar chalky script, hurried and frantic.
"Can you tell her—" he winces when Feyre's eyes flash and he remembers. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Could you get me a pen?"
She obliges him, and soon enough he's scrawling, I shouldn't say, but I'm safe. I'm going to be okay. Did he hurt you? Are you okay?
Don't worry about me, she responds almost immediately. You just focus on feeling better. I'm so proud of you for escaping.
I'd rather be stuck with him a hundred years and see you, know you're alright.
To that she merely responds with a heart, rather than sparking up their years-old argument.
"Everything okay?" Feyre checks, but she's not looking at him—she's looking at the conversation across his skin, the easy back and forth.
(Wishing she and her soulmate could've ever been like that.)
"For now," he frowns. "I—I know no one here owes me anything, I know I've been a part of a lot of bad over the years, but—he has her. Has had her for almost as long as I've been with him. I've never had a choice."
He looks around the room, desperate, willing them to understand. He finds forgiveness in the last place he expects it—in Rhys's eyes, burning with a feeling he can't put a name to, but one so strong it almost seeps into the room around them.
"We will do whatever we have to to get her back for you," Rhys vows, voice low and deadly. "Az, look into it. Cass, you and Amren start putting together a plan, pull in whatever resources we'll need."
"It's—he runs a human trafficking ring," Lucien informs them, shutting his eyes—wishing he could shut out the memories just as easily. "She's a part of it."
Feyre presses a hand to her mouth before sprinting to a bathroom to throw up in disgust; Mor stalks out of the room without another word, anger radiating off of her.
"That's Mor's specialty," Cassian explains, clapping a stone-cold Rhys on the shoulder. "After she and Rhysand's younger sister were attacked...well, she barely escaped. Has been working to take them down ever since."
Rhys swallows heavily before speaking. "I know what it is to know your soulmate is being hurt—to not be able to help them. I swear to you, we will do everything in our power—I will personally do everything in mypower, to save her."
(He doesn't say it—you're one of us now—but then, he doesn't have to. It's understood.)
/
/
The weeks pass slowly.
Feyre gradually learns to read—it's hard, and she has so little foundation, but she's a hard worker, so she learns at a breakneck pace.
(Occasionally Rhys wakes to indents across his skin, her practicing tracing words into her own every night.)
Everyone is putting all they have into taking Tamlin down, but—the guy has resources, and support, and alibi after alibi—he's practically untouchable, and revered in the community.
(And Rhys is the feared, the pariah, after all.)
"This isn't productive. We're going to Rita's," Cassian announces one night, forcing everyone to get dressed and to the bar and then plying them all with alcohol until they can't focus long enough to get morose about the situation.
Everything is music and color and movement, and Feyre sways with a lightness she hasn't known since she was a child.
She's giggling, an arm around Mor and another around Lucien, until she spots Rhys in the corner, watching them with the smallest of content smiles, and abandons her companions to approach him.
"Why are you all by your lonesome?" she asks brightly. "Oof." She trips, but before she can get dizzy his arms are catching her, and she's looking up to him from where she's pressed to his chest.
"I'm not much for dancing. But I like seeing you this happy." He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and she's closing her eyes, trying to do nothing but feelthe gentle way his fingers glide across her temple.
"Will you dance with me?" She doesn't reopen her eyes, nervous to see the rejection on his face, finding herself hoping for him to say yes more than she'd realized.
"I'd do anything with you, Feyre darling," he says so quietly she thinks she might be imagining it—but then he's threading his fingers through hers, leading her back to the dance floor.
They move in tandem for what feels like minutes but is actually hours, and she can't get over how rightit feels, his body against hers, his stubble against her neck when he leans to whisper the words of a song in her ear.
By the time they're back in his car, the chauffer not saying a word as always, she's sobered up significantly, but is still tipsy enough to let herself do what she actually wants to, which is how she finds herself stroking a hand along his chest while staring at his lips.
"See something you like, Feyre darling?" Even as he asks, a hand goes to her hip, making its way to her ass as she presses closer to him.
"And what if I do?" she says, her breath on his lips.
He watches her for a moment, and she delicately touches the tip of her tongue to her lip—he surges forward, pressing his mouth to hers like he can't bear to not, and then her hands are in his hair, on his jaw, and she's straddling him and holding him so tightly against herself, and she doesn't move until they're back at the house and then he's carrying her, because to part her skin from his for even a moment would be a sin.
They're in his room without thinking, and she's plucking at his buttons and he's tearing off her shirt and they're both panting when he pulls away for just a moment, meeting her eyes and pressing a thumb to her cheek so, so tenderly.
"Are you—are you sure, Feyre?"
"Yes—god yes. Please don't stop," she circles her hips midsentence and the last word comes out as a moan, and then she's tugging at his belt loop. "God, Rhysand, if these stay on for another minute I think I might die."
"Well, anything to keep my lady safe," he says, voice unsteady with desire, and he's sucking at her throat, at her collarbone, taking off her bra with a skill she'd rather not contemplate the source of.
Her nails pierce his back in the best way when he pushes inside her, and she's mumbling, "fuck, whyhaven't we done this sooner," in the throatiest voice he's ever heard as she meets every thrust, and they're gasping into each other's mouths; all he can feel is Feyre, all that matters in the world is Feyre.
Once they've both finished, and he's tossed the condom while she's stumbled her way to the bathroom because she's damn well not getting a UTI even for the best sex of her life, he's tugging the blanket over them, and she's pulling him closer, and he presses a kiss to her temple gently even as she falls asleep, her nightmares the least bothersome they've been in months.
/
She wakes up first, and panics, because what if she's just ruined everything—if Rhys grows uncomfortable, she has nowhere to live, and even if he has, what if she's put herself right back in the same situation—and she knowsRhys is nothing like Tamlin, knows she can trust him, knows he would never hurt her, but what if he's notbecause she thought Tamlin was her white knight once too, and she's hastily tugging on a shirt, and stumbling out, noting they both have a hickey on the right side of their neck but too anxious to think much of it as she races from the room.
Rhys wakes to a cold bed, unsurprised—who wouldn't regret a night with him, really? Feyre deserves the world, and he is...not it.
He won't bring it up, too terrified of making her uncomfortable, too terrified of losing her friendship too. If nothing else, he had one, perfect night with her—it's enough. Any time with her is enough. And so, so much more than he could ever deserve.
(If Feyre would look at her back, she'd note the scratch marks that he definitely hadn't put there—the ones that match her own marks made on his skin.)
(But she doesn't.)
/
A few days of avoiding Rhys later, she's sitting on Lucien's bed with a book, practicing her reading while he writes to his soulmate.
He catches her watching—not reading the messages, but the easy way he goes back and forth, the smile on his face whenever a new line spreads across his skin. "What?"
"Nothing," she says immediately, averting her eyes. He pokes her leg, and she sighs with resignation. "I—it must be nice, having her. The circumstances are shit, but—she makes your whole face light up."
"She's pretty perfect," he says gruffly, trying to cover up the emotion in his voice by clearing his throat. "Have you—did you ever end up calling yours?"
Her neck snaps to him. "What?"
Lucien's eyes go wide. "He hasn't written since you've been here?"
"No. He—I mean, who could blame him, you know? Years of no response...who would want someone like that?"
"I don't think he cared," Lucien said carefully. "The—that last time, when Tamlin flipped out, it was because he'd written that you could come to him. An address, a phone number, a plea for you to leave. Said you'd always have a place with him. That's why Tam lost his fucking mind."
He still wants me?
(He still wants me.)
She's processing, trying to let herself believe it's true—trying to figure out what it means, now that she's become literate, however slowly she reads.
Before she can act, can speak, Cass is throwing open the door to the room. "Mor's got a lead—we found her," he says, looking Lucien in the eye. "Let's go."
/
It's chaos, and terrifying, but she finally feels useful, finally feels like she's doing something that matters, and Lucien is a mess, but they're going to find her—going to save her.
They're outside the warehouse where she and a handful of other women are being kept, well secured and guarded, trying to come up with a foolproof plan, and while Cass and Mor argue strategy she's the only one looking at Rhys.
He stares at her, eyes saying a million things, and then he's gone.
"Rhys went in." It comes out softly, but they're arguing too loudly to hear her, and she keeps repeating it, her volume and hysteria both growing, until they turn to where she stands frantic.
"That motherfucker," Cassian closes his eyes. "Okay. Az, let's hit the guards at the most covert entrances we can find, that's where he'll try to get her out. Mor—"
"Distract the ones inside. I know." Her face is stony.
They've been gone ten minutes when Feyre sees marks spreading along her arm—for the first time in months and months.
(And this time—this time she can read what he's saying. Holy shit.)
The girls are all free, but they've got me and I'm shot and I don't think I'm going to make it back to you. I'm sorry this was how you had to find out, Feyre darling. Live—really live, okay? you deserve the world.
And of coursehe hasn't written since she was with Tamlin—he's been beside her, reminding her to eat and bringing her blankets and being the first one to ever notice she couldn't read, and teaching her, and doing everything to make sure she knows she has a choice—and of course the hickey he'd left on her neck had been mirrored on his own, and it all makes sense in the best and worst way, because he's the best thing she's ever had and has the nerve to only tell her when she's losing him.
(Rhys.)
"Oh my god. Oh my god." Her vision is flashing and full of black spots, and Lucien is saying, "Feyre? What's wrong?" but all she can manage is, "He's my soulmate. What a bastard--I'm going to kill him."
And then everything goes dark.