Chapter Text
The tavern reeked of sweat, spilled cider, and fading dreams. Nesta sat near the back, where the firelight didn’t quite reach, her glass half full and her spine curled low, like she was folding in on herself.
Her dress—loose at the waist, slipping at the shoulder—clung to a body that never felt like hers. Too much in all the wrong places. Too much bone, too many senses, too much pain. She didn’t know when the mirror had become her enemy, only that now, when she caught her reflection in a window, she looked away.
She hadn’t asked to survive the war. Hadn’t wanted the power that left her fractured and wrong. And she sure as hell hadn’t asked to live in a body carved by a Cauldron that burned her alive and put it back again.
Nesta drank so she wouldn’t feel it—so the ache in her joints and the cold under her skin would dissolve into haze. And then, when the numbness became too heavy, too hollow, she found a male and took him home.
She let them touch her. Let them press into a body she couldn’t bear to inhabit. Let them fill the silence in her head with breath, friction, sweat—because at least then she felt something . Something louder than the steady, aching pulse of despair.
She let them do what they wanted. Let them use her, because it made her feel real, if only for a moment.
Because she knew—deep down, beneath the bruises and bitterness—that the only male who might have truly helped her… despised her. Looked at her like she was something broken. Wanted her to be something she couldn’t be. He was loyalty. Honor. Firelight and protection. And she was whatever lived in the shadows of that—wearing a too-loose dress, with too-empty eyes.
So she chose this instead: the taverns. They were her better option. Better than staying alone in that apartment, where the quiet grew teeth and her thoughts turned rabid. Not even her books worked anymore—not when the words started blurring, not when every story ended in love or hope or something she could no longer pretend to believe in.
But the taverns… they moved. They distracted . There was booze. There were males who didn’t ask questions. Cards. Dice. If she was lucky, there was music. Dancing. For a few hours, it almost resembled living.
It was still better than the River House, where happiness clung to the air like rot.
Better than listening to Feyre laugh with her perfect little family, acting like the world hadn’t shattered. Better than the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth—wet, sharp—like bones breaking. That sound would never leave her.
It was her third tavern this week. Maybe her fourth. Nesta couldn’t remember where the days split anymore, where one drink bled into the next. She only knew the nights were easier. Louder. Blurred at the edges. She downed another glass—didn’t flinch at the burn—and signaled to the barkeep with two fingers, the silent language of one more. And that’s when the door opened.
A gust of cold wind rolled in first, then the group that followed it—musicians. Instruments strapped to their backs, cheeks pink from the winter outside, the smell of smoke clinging to their coats. It was the second time she’d seen them. The first had been two nights ago. She’d been deep in a game of cards then, a male’s hand brushing her knee beneath the table. She hadn’t looked up when the music started, but she heard the tambourines and clapping and the low thrum of strings like a pulse under her skin.
The dancing around her had set the tone for the rest of that night.
And when the musicians had left, so had she—on someone’s arm, his name already forgotten by morning.
Tonight, though, the group entered slower. Softer.
No roaring tune or tavern-wide stomp. Just the gentle swell of a string instrument—plucked delicately, like it might break if played too hard—and the ghost of a rhythm carried by the female who led them. She was tall and reed-slender, with long honey-brown braids falling over her shoulders, and a voice like molasses melting over cold stone. Low, sweet, husky at the ends. The kind of voice that could lull a child or make a man beg. She sang without trying to impress. No theatrics, no raised brows or grand gestures. Just an open mouth, a steady voice, and the kind of presence that made people lean in without realizing it.
Something about the way the woman tilted her head, eyes half-lidded, hand tapping the rhythm on her hip—something about the way the others followed her lead without question—kept Nesta’s gaze locked like a spell had been cast. And after a while, her foot began to move. She noticed it and stopped. Then let it move again.
Because despite everything—despite the drink in her throat and the fire in her chest and the thick weight of despair curled up in her ribs—the rhythm was soft. Steady. Alive. And she wanted to feel alive again.
The music began to shift. Gradually, like a tide changing without warning. One song bled into the next, and the tempo lifted—soft, then brighter, then undeniably something you could move to. The tavern had filled while she wasn’t looking. The warmth of too many bodies, the clatter of mugs, the hum of voices over strings and drums. The music had drawn them in—off the streets—and now people were rising from their seats, one by one.
First a couple near the hearth. Then a pair of females laughing as they spun clumsily in place.
Nesta drank. Another glass. Then another. And that was when he approached.
She’d noticed him earlier—tall, lean, dark curls pulled back in a haphazard knot. Not one of the musicians, exactly, but he’d been moving through the room with a half-grin and a coin pot, chatting with patrons, collecting tips with an ease that meant he had done it many times before. He stopped at her table now, hands in his pockets, head tilted.
“You look like you want to dance,” he said, his voice low and warm like the music curling through the air.
Nesta blinked at him. Then downed the last of her drink. “You’re wrong.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
She could’ve told him to fuck off. She’d done it before. To prettier males. But there was something about the way he stood—no expectation, no push—that made her pause. The music behind him picked up. A thrum of rhythm, the steady clap of a drum keeping time with the shuffle of boots on wood.
She exhaled through her nose. “Fine. One dance.”
He extended a hand, fingers calloused but steady. She took it.
The floor wasn’t wide, but it didn’t need to be. They moved among the other dancers, brushing elbows, skirts swaying, boots thudding against the old wooden boards. And Nesta soon realized—he’d done this a hundred times before. He moved like wind. Effortless. Unselfconscious. The music was freeing. He looked even freer.
It wasn’t a romantic or powerful dance like the ones she was trained to dance. It was ecstatic. Unapologetically alive. He grinned at her once and she didn’t smile back, but her pulse quickened anyway. The tavern spun in color and sound. Her dress clung to her hips as she turned, hair sticking to her neck, her breath sharp in her chest. His hand brushed her back just once—warm, careful—and she nearly stumbled. Not from the contact, but from the way something in her clenched. Like she might cry from being held with such care again.
She didn’t know how long they danced. Just that eventually, the music slowed, then stopped. Applause broke out like a wave crashing over the room. The musicians bowed. Someone passed a hat around for tips again.
The stranger leaned closer, sweat-damp curls clinging to his temple. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nesta.”
He smiled like he was storing it somewhere. “Nice to meet you, Nesta. I’m Niall.”
“Nice to meet you too…” she said, uncertain, as if the nice words tasted strange on her tongue.
The musicians began packing up. One of them called his name, waving toward the door. He lifted a hand in reply—a gesture that could’ve meant I’ll be right there or I’m staying. She couldn’t tell.
So she asked. “Want a drink?”
And he nodded.
They took a corner table, half-shadowed and tucked behind a support beam. The tavern buzzed around them—laughter, clinking mugs, the scrape of chairs—but it felt like white noise. Something far away. Niall was the kind of male who asked questions. Lots of them.
And he talked, too. Not nervously—just constantly, like he thought silence should always be filled.
Where was she from? Did she always dance like that? How long had she been in Velaris? Had she seen the play they put on last week at the Rainbow?
She gave him short answers. Clipped. Oblique. A nod here. A noncommittal “maybe” there. He didn’t seem offended. If anything, it made him more curious. And by the end of her second drink, she could tell what he’d pieced together—some kind of story where she was a war refugee, maybe one who lost everything and didn’t like to talk about it.
She didn’t correct him.
He mentioned his sister—the singer. Said the two of them and their friends had been scraping together coin to rebuild a house for someone who’d lost theirs in the war. That they played taverns for silver and occasionally luck. She nodded, stared at the burnished rim of her cup. And then, when he started to say something else—something about how life had made artists of them all—Nesta leaned across the table and kissed him.
Not to shut him up. Not exactly. Just to stop herself from feeling whatever it was she’d started to feel. His lips were warm. Surprised for a second, then steady. His hand brushed her jaw, careful. Too careful, she couldn’t stand it. It only made her kiss him harder.
When she finally pulled back, breath ragged, he blinked at her—smiling faintly, dazed. “Interesting approach.”
Nesta said nothing. Just knocked back the last of her drink and stood from the table. He followed her home like a happy puppy that had just been adopted. And halfway through the walk, she almost regretted it. Almost stopped and told him to forget it.
Because he might misunderstand. He might think this meant something. That she wanted him , not just what his body could offer.
But when they reached her door, when he leaned casually against the frame and kissed her, something inside her twisted. She wanted it. Not the man—his warmth. His gentleness. She wanted to know how he would touch her. How her skin would react to it. If her body would flinch or feel.
So she let him in. They didn’t bother with small talk. Her coat hit the floor. His hands were on her before the door even clicked shut. Her back hit the wall. His mouth found her throat. His hands—warm, wide—slid beneath the hem of her dress, dragging it up as she pulled his shirt over his head.
He wasn’t rough like some male she encountered. He was thorough. Curious. Like he wanted her, not just her body. And that made something in her ache. His mouth traced her ribs, her hip, then lower. He touched her slowly, like her body was something worth knowing. Worth worshipping.
She wanted to sob at that.
But instead, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up, pushed him to her bed, and climbed on top like she needed to take something back. They moved together in the dark. Her thighs tight around him, his fingers bruising her hips, her breath hot against his ear as she told him not to stop.
She let him kiss her mouth, her breasts, her collarbone. Let him whisper her name like he has known her a long time. And when she came—spine arching, a cry caught in her throat—it was sharp, staggering. Not from pleasure. Not really.
It was from feeling.