Chapter Text
Lucien honestly had no idea what the hell he was doing on this boat.
It was Summer Solstice, for gods’ sake—there were bonfires in every court, wine spilling freely, music in every square, and somehow he’d ended up here: trapped on a gilded barge with the Night Court’s merry little band. Hours of it. Hours of watching them preen and toast themselves like they’d invented the concept of family.
He could’ve been anywhere else. Hell, he could’ve been home, drunk in peace.
But no. He’d been formally invited, and as emissary, it was apparently still his job to show up, paste on a smile, and “represent.” Represent what, exactly? He wasn’t sure anymore. His patience? His ability to drink without openly snarling? His unwavering devotion to a mate who wouldn’t even look at him?
Two years. Two years of trying—small attempts, polite openings, genuine gestures. All refused, rejected, cut down. Nesta Archeron had made ignoring him into an art form. And here he was, still dragging himself to parties like some idiot hoping persistence counted as progress.
He took in the revelry around him. Drunk bodies twined on the dance floor, laughter spilling loud and graceless, the whole boat rocking with it. Feyre’s circle in particular gave off the strangest, incestuous air.
They were forever calling one another brother and sister, but the history behind those words didn’t line up with the way they touched or looked at each other. Mor, Rhysand’s cousin, had once slept with Cassian, yet now called him her brother—while his hand slid down her waist in a way no brother’s ever should. Azriel, Rhysand’s other so-called brother, had been in love with Mor for five centuries, still called her sister, and was now wrapped around Elain Archeron—Feyre’s sister.
Lucien sipped his drink, the taste bitter on his tongue. It was like watching a family tree twist itself into knots while everyone pretended the roots were sound. Once, he’d feared Nesta might make eyes at the general, which would have been…a complication. Not that it would have mattered anyway—her distaste for Lucien ran too deep, with a general in the middle or not, and she had no warmer feelings for the Inner Circle either.
With a sigh, Lucien abandoned the crush of revelers and descended to one of the lower balconies, hoping the night air might be less suffocating than the company.
The city stretched beyond, Velaris glittering and impossibly vast, still a wonder even after years of seeing it. He’d once thought it untouchable. Now the sight only made him tired. Sick of it, really.
Maybe it was time to give up the whole damn emissary act. Hand Rhysand back his pretty title, pack his things, and go live full-time with Vassa and Jurian in their odd little band of exiles. At least there, the hypocrisy was honest—no one pretending to be siblings while groping each other on the dance floor. Or he could try something else. Dawn would welcome him—Thesan always had. Summer, too, surely had space for a half-broken male with too many allegiances.
Or perhaps—fool that he was—he could try once more with Nesta.
The thought curled through him like smoke, unwanted but unshakable. No matter what he did, where he went, or how hard he tried to redirect his focus, his thoughts always circled back to her. Always. She was a magnet, pulling at him even as she recoiled, and he was helpless against it.
Which left him with the truth he hated most: he’d probably remain Rhysand’s pawn for the rest of his life, chained to Velaris, content to breathe the same air as Nesta Archeron. Waiting. Hoping. Maybe—just maybe—one day she’d knock her head hard enough against the floor and wake up with an entirely new personality. Stranger things had happened.
Vanilla and jasmine filled his lungs before he caught the sound—an inelegant little ugh, thick with wine and exhaustion.
Lucien turned, and there she was. Nesta Archeron, flushed and disheveled, eyes bright in a way that might have been heat—except the shine looked a lot more like tears. Her face was red, her hair slipping free of its pins, and she looked ready to spit fire at the world. Or at him. Usually at him.
The sight hit him like a blade between the ribs. Thinner than the last time. Too thin. The silk of her dress, pale blue and sliding off one shoulder, only emphasized the jut of her collarbone. She looked carved down to the bone, like fury alone was holding her upright. He dragged his gaze back up to her face before she caught him staring, forcing a smirk onto his mouth. Keep it light. If she smells pity on you, she’ll gut you where you stand.
“Why are you here?” Nesta demanded, voice sharp but not steady.
He arched a brow, sweeping a hand toward the balcony rail. “I was here first. You come storming out, and I’m the problem?”
“Typical,” she muttered. “You always turn up where no one wants you.”
Lucien gave a low laugh, leaning against the rails as if the whole situation amused him. Nesta rolled her eyes and went to the far side of the balcony, as if distance might keep his words from reaching her. He watched her tilt her glass back, grimace at the taste.
“Mm,” he hummed, leaning on the railing. “Let me guess—the endless toasts and simpering smiles finally got to you?”
“The whole thing is insufferable.” She took a gulp from her glass, jaw tight. “All of them laughing and dancing like it’s—it’s…”
“You mean like they actually enjoy each other?”
Her mouth curved into something jagged. “Like they’ve convinced themselves it’s perfect. That they’re perfect. It’s nauseating.”
Lucien’s lips quirked. “I’ll drink to that. Never seen so many people desperate to prove how happy they are.” He tipped his glass toward her, hoping—just a little—that she might let it be a moment of shared misery.
Instead, she turned that sharp look on him. “Don’t mistake me for company. We’re not the same.”
He laughed, low and easy, letting it roll off him. “Of course not. I’m just the idiot who keeps hanging around hoping for scraps.” He spread his hands, mock-helpless. “It’s practically a hobby now.”
Nesta scoffed, but he caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Gods help him, even her disdain made him want to grin. The fae light caught in her hair, burnishing it into gold shot through with fire. Her mouth—razor-sharp, unsmiling—still looked like temptation, and her eyes, even red-rimmed, were devastating. Beautiful in their fury. Beautiful even when they hated him.
Before he could think better of it, the words slipped out: “Want me to get you out of here?”
He meant it as a joke, fully braced for her to slice him apart with a single word.
But Nesta looked at him, face flushed and eyes gleaming, and said, steady as steel: “Yes. Get me off this boat.”
Lucien nearly choked on air. In all the time he’d known her, he was fairly certain he had never once heard Nesta Archeron utter the word yes in his direction. Not to an invitation, not to a question, not even to something as harmless as a refill of wine.
His mind scrambled, panic tripping over itself. She couldn’t mean it, she had to be mocking him. Gods, had he really just offered? He’d meant it as a throwaway line, the kind you lob out because silence is uncomfortable near her.
“With…me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, voice pitching higher than he liked.
Nesta’s eyes narrowed. She glanced around the empty balcony, then back at him with biting precision. “Is there anyone else here who can winnow me out without complaining?”
Lucien barked a laugh, half nerves, half disbelief. Mother spare me, she actually means it.
“Right. Yes. Of course. Totally.” He gestured broadly, as if an escape plan might materialize out of thin air.
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you going to keep rambling, or are you going to get me off this boat?”
Lucien gave her his best fox’s grin, though his insides were a mess of panic. “Well, I like to savor the moment. You know—since it might be the first and last time you ever agree to anything with me.”
“Never mind,” Nesta muttered, already half-turning away.
“No, no—wait.” He lifted a hand quickly, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I’ll take you. Gladly. Happily. With only minimal risk of dropping you into the Sidra.”
That earned him a razor-sharp look over her shoulder.
Clearing his throat, Lucien forced the grin smaller, gentler. He extended his hand to her, palm open, like he wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t slap it away.
For a breath, she only stared at his hand. He braced for the scoff, the slap, the dismissal. But then—by the Mother, then—she slid her fingers into his. A simple press of skin against skin, and it sent a shock through him so sharp he nearly forgot how to breathe.
Her touch was cool, unyielding, but still a touch, and it thrilled through him like fire chasing dry tinder. His palm tingled, and some treacherous part of him wanted to cling, to drag her closer and never let go. Instead, he swallowed down the ache and forced his grip to remain light, casual, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the first time since the war she’d ever allowed it.
Magic carried them off the boat in a blur of wind and cold, depositing them onto the cobbled streets of Velaris. The Sidra gleamed faintly nearby, the scent of river and lantern smoke curling together in the air. Nesta pulled away at once, chin high, eyes still gleaming red-rimmed.
“Bye.”
The word landed like a slap. Breathless and ridiculous, he blurted, “Wait—can’t I at least make sure you get home safe?”
“No.”
The word landed like a door slamming in his face. He forced a crooked smile, tried for casual. “If you don’t want me to know where you live, fine. But at least let me get you close enough.”
“I’m not going home.”
That made him pause. “No?”
A shake of her head, eyes already shifting to the street beyond. “I need a drink.”
Of course she did. And of course he should let her walk away. But his feet had never been particularly obedient. “A noble quest,” he muttered, and fell into step a few paces behind, telling himself it was diplomacy, not compulsion.
The city was alive with summer revelers, music spilling from taverns, lovers pressed against walls in the shadows. He kept a running commentary under his breath—about fiddlers mangling their strings, about drunkards stumbling over their own feet, about the way the smell of roasted nuts could make a male bankrupt himself. She ignored him for the most part, but every barb of hers only spurred him on.
Pathetic, Vanserra. Utterly pathetic. Fox chasing a wolf who’ll happily eat you alive.
“So,” he said, catching up just enough to match her stride, “what’s the appeal of ditching a perfectly good Solstice feast for some dingy tavern? The ambiance? The watered wine?”
Her look was sharp enough to cut. “The peace. Which you are ruining.”
He grinned. “Ah. My mistake. I’ll just follow in solemn reverence while you glare at the cobblestones.”
Nesta rolled her eyes but kept walking.
The street curved past a little shopfront, its windows still lit though the hour was late. A patisserie, of all things, spilling warm sweetness into the night air. Only in Velaris would a bakery be thriving when most cities were long asleep. Nesta’s eyes snagged on the display—tiered cakes, sugared fruit tarts, glossy chocolate gleaming under the lamps.
The image of her collarbone jutting sharp under that pale dress had stayed lodged like a thorn in his chest. And now, the way her eyes lingered on sugared tarts and chocolate glaze stirred something instinctive in him. Something old and stupid that whispered feed her, give her something sweet, keep her standing.
She started walking again, chin high, pretending she hadn’t even looked.
“I could go for a cake,” he said, falling into step beside her, tone maddeningly casual. “Care to join me?”
Nesta froze mid-step. A statue, every line of her drawn taut, and he braced himself for the inevitable: the narrowed eyes, the acid dismissal, maybe even a sharp pivot that would leave him talking to empty cobblestones. He’d pushed too far. Gods, he always pushed too far.
But then—Nesta’s gaze flicked back to the glass. To the cakes gleaming like treasures under the lamps. His chest went tight. If she walks away, it’ll still be a record. A whole interaction without anyone else chaperoning. Take the victory, fox, bow out gracefully—
Lucien blinked, she hadn’t said no. For the second time in one night, Nesta Archeron hadn’t told him to go to hell. Mother, was she that starved—or was he dreaming? Before he could puzzle it out, she’d already swept through the patisserie door, the little bell above it chiming like victory. Lucien followed, still half-stunned, and watched as she moved straight to the glass case.
She pointed to a small chocolate torte, the kind glazed so dark it gleamed, and the server hurried to plate it. Lucien, for his part, selected a pistachio tart he didn’t even particularly want, just to keep it from looking like he’d only brought her here to feed her.
A corner table by the window was free, and they slipped into it without a word. She set her fork into the cake with surgical precision, breaking off neat bites, eating like every movement might be judged. Lucien took a mouthful of his tart, leaned back, and said nothing.
He tried with every fiber of his being not to start talking again. The Mother knew he had a talent for running his mouth, but for once it was easy to hold it back. Easier when Nesta was savoring the chocolate with such intensity—slow, deliberate, lashes low as if the entire world had been reduced to that forkful. She was a vision.
Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, but the thought still slid through him: if he could be that cake, he would gladly be devoured. There were worse fates than ending on Nesta Archeron’s tongue.
Her voice cut clean through the haze. “Why are you even here?”
He blinked, then smirked. “Well, I had a craving for pistachio tart, and the Mother decided you’d be my charming dinner companion. Don’t argue with destiny.”
No reaction. Just another bite of cake, the tiniest lift of a brow. “If you hate them so much…leave. Go back to your court.”
“My court?”
“Autumn, isn’t it?” The fork waved vaguely at the burnished red of his hair.
A sharp laugh escaped him. “Autumn hasn’t been my home in many years. As a matter of fact, I’m dead if I step foot there.”
That earned a pause, fork hovering midair. “Why? Did you kill someone? Is that why your eye is that way?”
The question cut sharper than he expected. Not just because of the words, but because of what they confirmed—that she looked at the scar, the gleaming metal, and saw ugliness. A flaw. Proof of why she could never want him. As if he needed the reminder.
But it struck deeper, too. Memory came unbidden: fire licking across a forest floor, the reek of blood, a brother’s face twisted in horror before the blade struck.
The smirk faltered. His voice dropped flat. “Yes. I actually did.”
“Who?”
He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head. “No one’s ever told you about me?”
“I never asked. Why would they tell me?”
Sarcasm slipped out before he could bite it back. “Really moving to know how much effort you put into knowing me before deciding I wasn’t worth your time.”
“Are you telling me or not?” she pressed, voice flat as steel.
Breath caught in his chest. He could tell her—about Jesminda’s life and her death, about the family who made cruelty into ritual, about the brother whose blood still clung to his hands. He could bare it all, show her why Autumn was lost to him forever, why even the thought of his mother’s face was a wound he couldn’t touch.
But it felt like too much. Nesta, who barely deigned to look at him, who’d spent two years turning away from every attempt he’d made, and now suddenly wanted the most charged confession he could give. Cauldron, she was piercing. Somehow she always knew how to strike exactly where it hurt most.
So he smiled instead, a curl of lips that felt nothing like amusement. “I’m the emissary of the Night Court now,” he said lightly. “So technically, this is my home.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she said, eyes narrowing over the rim of her glass.
“No,” he agreed, forcing a lazy shrug. “But it’s the answer you’re getting. You’ll find life with me is full of disappointments. Best to get used to it early.”
The retort should’ve earned him another cutting remark, but instead she went quiet, slicing into her cake with almost violent precision. Chocolate crumbled under the fork, and she ate as though silence itself were an act of defiance.
Lucien leaned back, pretending to enjoy his tart, though the sweetness turned to ash on his tongue. Cauldron, why do I do this to myself? Why do I want her to ask again, to press until I spill everything I swore I’d keep locked?
The patisserie buzzed softly around them—clinking dishes, a couple laughing in the corner, the rustle of paper bags filled for midnight wanderers. Against all of it, their silence weighed heavier than the river pressing against Velaris’ docks.
At last he said, softer this time, “You don’t really want to know. Trust me.”
For a moment she looked at him, fork stilled, eyes sharp enough to cut. And then she lowered her gaze back to the cake, as if he were nothing but another sound in a noisy city.
“I can’t see them trusting you,” she said at last, her fork cutting neat lines into the cake without lifting. “Why would they make you emissary?”
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Haven’t you heard? I’m great at parties.”
Nesta’s gaze flicked up, unimpressed. “Is that all an emissary does around here?”
“Ninety percent of the job,” he answered smoothly, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Smile, drink, and look dashing while pretending not to hate everyone in the room. The other ten percent is paperwork.”
“No wonder a princeling like you knows how to do nothing but party.”
A laugh slipped out, rougher than he meant. “Princeling? Hardly. Seventh sons don’t get much status. By the time it got to me, all the crowns were chipped and the scraps already picked clean.”
“So you’re just a leftover,” she said coolly, scooping another bite of cake.
“Exactly.” Lucien grinned, though it didn’t quite reach his eye. “The family disappointment. Good for a jest, useless for a throne.”
The fork clinked against her plate, sharp as her gaze when it lifted to him. “At least you’re self-aware.”
“Oh, painfully,” he said with a mock bow. “Self-awareness is the majority of my charm.”
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth—gone as quickly as it appeared. Still, it was enough to send a dangerous warmth curling through him.
Before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out. “If you really want to know what an emissary does at parties, you could come to one with me.”
“I hate parties.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Have you ever attended one by my side?”
“I think I would hate that even more.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Cruel. I was about to offer you an upgrade from Velaris’ boat-bound circus.”
Her eyes narrowed, but curiosity flickered there, quick as a spark.
“There’s one tomorrow,” he added, too quickly, already regretting it. “Summer Court. By the ocean. No cramped dancefloor, no staged toasts. Just moonlight on the waves, music spilling across the sand. At the very least,” his grin tilted sharp, “you’d get to glare at an entirely different set of people.”
Nesta’s fork hovered above the last sliver of cake. She studied him like she was weighing whether to stab him with it. Then, cool as ever, “I’ve never been to Summer. Or… anywhere.”
“I could take you wherever you’d like,” he said, almost too quickly. “You know that.”
Her gaze flicked up, knife-sharp. “Then take me to Autumn.”
“Do you want me dead?”
A wicked smile curved her mouth.
“You’d go great with my family,” he muttered, still chuckling, though something in his chest twisted. Should a mate really want the other murdered? Is this normal? He smoothed it away with another laugh, light enough to pass.
When his mirth faded, she pushed her plate aside. “I don’t have clothes—for the party, that is.”
Relief flooded him. At last, a problem he could fix. “I can take care of it. Or we could…find something at the market.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “I don’t like that. It looks like I’m being agreeable with you.”
The grin came without thought. “Would that be so bad?”
“Yes.” Her answer was immediate, sharp as a blade. “I have no intention of doing—whatever it is Feyre and Rhysand do.”
Lucien’s laugh caught halfway out, a mix of nerves and disbelief. Mother above—was she under the impression that a mating bond automatically doomed people to cling to each other like Feyre and Rhysand?
“It’s just a party,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I’m sure we can survive one night without stumbling into a mating-bond ceremony.”
“Good. Because I’d rather drown myself in the Sidra.”
The bell over the patisserie door jingled as Nesta pushed through it, not bothering with a goodbye. The night air hit cooler than inside, but not enough to chase the heat from her skin. Her stomach clenched around the cake she’d just forced down, sweet and heavy, sitting like guilt.
It was uncomfortable being near him. That was the first truth she could name. She could feel it—his heart. His constant, gnawing discomfort. The way he tried so hard to seem easy and unbothered, to joke when every line of him was wound tight. It pressed on her like a bruise, like a mirror she didn’t want to look into.
The second truth: tonight had been hell. The boat, the wine, the fake smiles. Amren’s voice cutting through the music like a blade—waste of life. The words still rang in her skull, sharper than she’d expected them to be. She had always known there was truth in it. She was a waste. She’d chosen to be. But it still burned, being named aloud.
It was what she always did, wasn’t it? Refuse. Refuse to live life at the cabin, cowardly and proud, trying to force her father to be something, do something. Refuse to acknowledge what she had become, what she had been forced to become. What was the point, again, of training this power that didn’t even belong to her? What was the point of dragging it out, shaping it, if when it mattered she had been useless?
The memories came all at once, uninvited and merciless—the war, the screaming, the stench of iron and ash. Destruction everywhere. Blood slick on her palms. Her father's head snapping to the side with a sickening crack, his body collapsing before her eyes. And yet just months later, the world had snapped back like a whip’s crack. Everyone was laughing, dancing, drinking wine and living life. Moving on. Demanding—that’s what it felt like—demanding that she do the same.
But Nesta could not.
That was the real reason she’d fled to the balcony. One breath more of the perfume, the wine, the endless laughter, and she would’ve gone over the railing. Had the man—no, the male, she corrected herself—had Lucien not been there to winnow her out, she might’ve done it anyway. He’d saved her without knowing, and the thought sat like a stone in her throat.
She was a waste. A ruin. Amren’s words were only a knife because they’d struck where she was already bleeding.
Nesta slammed the thought shut like a door. He did expect something. She wouldn’t be fooled by all that talking about mates being gifts, it was just what the fae used as an excuse to take a woman—a female—away. He wanted to own her, just like her sister had been claimed away. And she would never, never give him that.
In fact, she would do the opposite. Ever since she’d had enough and left her sister’s house, she’d made her way through the city’s taverns and gambling halls, into other males’ arms and across other tables. It was an escape, rough and clumsy, but it kept the screaming quiet for a while. And it was also a warning—a perfect way to make sure Lucien Vanserra would never want her. If he ever thought of her at all, he’d know exactly what she was and keep his distance.
Or so she’d told herself as she entered her favorite tavern.