Archive of Our Own

A High Lord lacks for nothing.

At least, his father always said so—on rare occasion, in low tone. The underlying message one that Beron Vanserra need not directly voice: Do not fail to deliver to me that which I am owed.

In the end, Eris did not fail, and bestowed upon his father a gift several centuries in the making— carefully honed, perfected with utmost attention to detail. Delivered by way of a dagger of ash, wielded by the son he groomed as his heir.

It was through the throat that Eris drove the blade home. Face to face. He wanted to see the flame leave his father's eyes. Watch the realization overcome him that he'd lost.

Beron smiled when he did it, teeth stained red by the blood bubbling forth into his mouth. Even as the power of Autumn burned through his dying body, his grin did not falter. He did not look away from Eris, and Eris could not bring himself to look away either—not even when nothing remained of his father but ash. He may well have remained there forever had his mother not dragged him away.

Too lost he was in the realization that what he always feared had come to pass. Too haunted he was by the unwavering pride that shone in his father’s eyes.

This was no victory.

Now it was Eris’s turn to reap the bounty of his court, for a High Lord is entitled to all: fealty, tribute, legacy.

Legacy. A sour taste fills his mouth.

How absurd that, after centuries of careful avoidance of the thing, he is hounded about it day after day. More and more, his court presses him to wed. Autumn needs a Lady, they say, just as you need an heir.

Even his magic stirs at the thought, the land covetous.

He has little use for either. He needs not the burden of more bodies, nor the dangers they yield. What is a spouse but another threat to watch for at your back? What is a youngling but a vulnerability ripe for exploitation?

What is an heir but a death sentence?

Long ago he vowed to himself that he would never become a father. His resolve has only strengthened of late—there is too much of his own within him.

They say Beron was gentle once.

It is not the first night that, alone in his chambers, he has ruminated on such things. These days he hardly sleeps at all; he has become something of a creature of the night.

Through the beveled glass, a new moon gapes above Autumn. Pinpricked starlight filters into his rooms. Furniture is cast in a silver luster: bed frame, wardrobe, writing desk each are illumed.

He draws the curtains shut.

Soon, his eyes will adjust, but in this moment between, he dwells in the void. He prefers the Forest House in the unencumbered dark—bereft of its gilded accents, the finery smudged to shadow.

Deprived of sight, there is only the steady hum of the House's magic, alive and pulsing forth through the network of roots and branches toward the twin seed of power planted deep within its High Lord.

But he cannot dwell in shadow forever.

He ends it by lighting a single candle. Wick pinched between fingers, he relishes the feel of string as heat and flame eat in, then moves on to the next.

Arranged just so in their sconces along the wall, he could light the set of them with half a thought. But he savors each spark that spills from the core of his magic through his fingertips and out into the world.

It is something to do in the meantime.

The room has already been made presentable. The books that teetered on the bedside table have been shelved; the whiskey, placed in its cabinet. It is quick work, as always, to prepare.

A stage, set.

There are no objects of sentiment displayed—no personal touches to the furnishings. There is not much of him to be found in these chambers; he rid himself of such habits in the early decades in his life. Little changed when he took up residence in the High Lord’s wing.

His signet ring flashes as it catches the candlelight. The symbol of the House of Vanserra, worn dutifully by his forefathers. The mark of his new role—one not so different from the previous, he’s come to learn, though without certain inconveniences.

He glances up to the branches that vein across the ceiling, marred with scorch marks. No magic has been able to remove the tarnish—no spell casts, no glamour holds. In truth, he is glad of it; he would rather not forget. Tradition may insist he take up residence in the High Lord’s wing, but it did not preclude him from burning away all trace of the male who came before him.

The candles flicker as if they have thoughts of their own on the matter. He shoos them off.

And waits.

When the shift comes, he feels it like a plucked string that reaches out across the land of his court. If Lucien is to be believed, that’s exactly what it is: a thread, such as that which one ties to a puppet, between him and the land he rules.

An entrant of great power has crossed over the threshold that delineates his court.

He rubs his shoulders where they are pinched. It is an irritative dimension of the magic he now holds. The comings and goings in his court ought not feel so omnipresent. Retraining his focus to the totality of a High Lord’s magic has proven more of a challenge than anticipated.

Another shift. Someone not just in Autumn, but here. Even with the wards loosened, even with an old visitor, the House sees fit to warn him. He grits his teeth as his magic yanks his awareness toward the door. On the other side, a warm presence manifests in the antechamber, shines through the door seams.

"Come in," he says.

The door opens itself at his invitation, and reveals her.

Elain Archeron stands before him. Her gown is the deep baccate red of a pomegranate, trimmed in gold. The bodice is jacquard, woven with intricate patterns of blooming flowers set within foliage. A square neckline hoists her modest bosom, and sleeves drape long at her wrists.

Her hair is done up in immaculate braids, pulled back from her face in intricate coils and leaving a thick wave of curls free to spill down her back. By candlelight, her honey-gold hair appears auburn. A strand sticks to her temple—a single piece ruffled from the near-perfect facade. No doubt even this is intentional on her part.

“Look at you,” he says. “Eager to see me?”

Elain laughs as she crosses the threshold into his room. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I hardly need to," he leers, "when you keep coming back."

She brushes past him, eyes rolling, then places a small silk pouch down atop a side table. “Overconfident as always, I see.”

The door closes itself behind her.

"Am I?" he says silkily. "Tell me, then, if there is some new reason you've come to my door tonight."

This she does not answer—only bites her lip before turning away and pacing toward his bookshelf.

There is no rhythm to the cadence of her visits.

At times, mere days elapse between their encounters. Sometimes a moon or two pass by before she next sends him word upon jasmine-scented parchment, and he adjusts the wards for her arrival. The only commonality: each time, she arrives already slick with the scent of arousal, fists clenched, chest heaving in a steady rise and fall.

This time is no different.

He inhales. Amidst her usual jasmine and honey, he finds spice, orange blossom, and myrrh. Day Court.

And a trace of something else, more familiar. Crackling bonfires and sun-kissed fruit—Lucien.

He pays it no mind. It is far from the first time he has scented him on her; it is never strong enough to suggest more than chaste proximity.

No; it is rather the scent of where she’s come from—paired with that ornate dress—that piques his interest.

"How does Helion fare these days?" he asks. "One must wonder at the state of his court, still recovering all these years later from that trollop's havoc."

"The High Lord is well," she says. Still such a souring thought. That old bastard, a High Lord—and all he had to do was sit on his hands and wait for someone else to handle his predecessor. Elain peers over her shoulder and flashes a disingenuous smile. "Your mother, too."

The candles startle. In a half-murmur: "I imagine so."

Elain inspects the books on his shelves. Curious hands run over Autumn histories, noble genealogies, battle tactics. Pages uncreased, spines unworn. "She spoke of you."

Silence beats its heart between them, and the House leans in to listen.

"See anything you like?"

She hums. A ringed finger pauses upon the spine of a volume shelved mere moments before her arrival. "Would you like to know what she said?"

He looks up at the soot-stained branches that wend, crooked and gnarled, across the length of the ceiling.

"I would not," he says. "But I wonder" — he steps toward her — "where you told them you were going before you slipped away."

"Your question implies that they asked." A hollow laugh. "They did not."

A born courtier. Already, she knows the advantages of casting oneself as something unremarkable. For one in possession of her looks and charms, the feat is all the more impressive. Like a rose convincing the world it is a common weed, and moreover that it does not have thorns.

She is nothing like the brazen huntress or haughty warrior she calls sisters. Have they noticed, Eris wonders, how adept she is at this game?

"Are you sure?" he asks. Clever though she is, there are those whose eye she naturally draws. He looks away from her. A faint light limns the doorway, dimmed by shadow at the base.

She says nothing. A pointed silence.

"Not even the Shadowsinger?" he probes. He dare not ask after another. Her lip curls down at the title, and he uncoils, eager to strike. "What do you think he would make of these visits?"

"Why do you care?" she asks. Her voice is sweet as always, but he recognizes the barbs beneath it.

He has seen Rhysand's dog fix his sullen gaze upon her. Has felt indignation at it. His bane for centuries now, pining after—

"I care," he says, monitoring the shadows, "because it could cause problems for you in Night were he to find out."

"I'm not concerned." Fool that she is. "Your mutual preoccupation has always struck me as undue."

She is free to speculate. It is not for her sake that he brought him up. He tilts his head at the shadows that now darken along the seam of the door, blotting out any trace of light from the adjoining room.

"Our history is not a pretty one," he says.

The shadows lengthen.

"Ah," she nods. Mellifluous, Elain sings back, "It's a matter of male egos, then?"

Eris hums.

It is not the first time during one of Elain's visits that he has noticed the presence of shadows where they ought not be.

"Trust that if anything were to happen to you," he says, "I would not hesitate to intervene."

Eris releases a flare of his magic and with a rapid thrust, pushes that dark blot away. Not tonight.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says airily, unbothered and unimpressed.

Wards secured, he turns back to Elain to find her seated in his armchair, paging through the book now removed from the shelf.

"You speak as though you do not know your own court."

“It is not—” She pauses. “It is not my court.”

“You live there, do you not?” he chides.

She stares at the volume in her lap and frowns—a thin, taut line.

“Tell me, girl," he intones, lacing the words with dominance, "whose voice is it that compels you into submission?”

Her silence is answer enough.

“You see? You could not ignore such an order from Rhysand,” he says. “Nor your sister, if she willed it. That is all the proof you need of whose court you belong to.”

"I don't belong to anyone."

"You are still newly fae. Still learning."

"And I suppose I have you to guide me?" she raises an eyebrow at him. "With pure, noble intentions?"

Eris grins. "What other intentions could I possibly have, my lady?"

She waves him off and returns to leafing through the book in her hands. "You never struck me as one for poetry."

Good, then. "It was a gift."

"From who?"

He glances up. "It doesn't matter."

"Do you want me to stop reading it?"

"Is that why you came?" He prowls forward until he looms above her, their legs nearly touching. He drops his voice as he says, "To read an old volume of poetry?"

She shifts in the chair but does not look up, stubborn minx that she is. Instead, she makes a show of flipping a page. "My," she taunts. "These are quite…romantic."

He leers. "Shall I read one to you?"

"Certainly not." The book snaps shut.

He leans forward and rests his hands upon the arms of the chair. Brings his face flush with hers. "I grow weary of your games, little fawn," he breathes. "If you'd rather not be here" — he lets his heat caress her, lay its touch upon her skin — "then you are free to leave."

"Perhaps I will," she says coolly. But a flush creeps up her neck and stains her cheeks roseate.

He slides the book from her hands and sets it down upon the table.

The lush scent of her arousal fills his senses. He inhales deeper, deeper, until fire blooms within him.

But first: "Do you want it tonight?"

She glances over him toward the mirror. Grazes a delicate finger across the pointed tip of her ear. Her plush lips waver, then firm. "Not tonight, I think."

He nods. She asks for it less and less these days.

For a long while, the glamour was a stipulation. He cast it over her without question—filling her cheekbones, flattening her nose, letting her teeth go crooked. He ought to be glad for it, he knows, but he developed a taste for fucking her like that, her form given the appearance of vulnerability. That devastating beauty made more precious under the guise of mortality.

"Just as well," he says, even-toned.

With that verdant magic palpable about her and preternatural grace to her step, one would think she was born fae. Centuries old. But she is not yet wilted with immortality's weight. Years upon years span before her, a bud just beginning to bloom.

She says nothing—only stares into the mirror at the truth of her body.

Silence is not unusual on her part, especially when their trysts turn carnal. No doubt he is a weapon she wields against herself.

She would not be the first to do so, though it is a rare thing to be found within Autumn. Too many in his court are keen to find a place in his bed. Courtiers and lords and their daughters and sons. But Elain—she hardly looks at him at all.

This is what he likes most about her: the challenge. The pursuit.

The first time he took her was in the forest.

On the day of his coronation, representatives from all seven courts assembled. Summer fae clad in sea foam, antlered Spring beasts—even the Winter lords emerged from their frozen tomb. Lucien came with his mother and Helion, the sun brightening through the canopy upon their arrival. He was dressed in the Autumn style, just as Eris remembered him.

The same could not be said of their mother. She had shed her homeland like an old and withered skin, and been reborn abroad as something still foreign to him. For the occasion she draped herself in loose fabrics of gold and amethyst as unfit for the clime as the male who had sired her bastard.

Night arrived last, unwilling to be overshadowed. It was with them that Elain appeared—radiant, the land near-blooming in her step.

Throughout the ceremony, Eris watched his brother and the pretty little thing that the Cauldron Made for him. Furtive glances were met with strained smiles; eyes darted quickly away.

During the ensuing revel, he spoke with each. Noted the scents of shame and discomfort that hung thickly about them both. They played a game of careful avoidance, neither approaching the other.

His mother left early; Lucien was quick to follow.

In his brother's absence, it was all too easy to make the offer. Elain accepted without hesitation.

Into the forest they went, as dictated by sacred tradition. Deeper and deeper until he pressed her against the broad trunk of an ancient tree and fucked her.

He made a mess of her that night. Torn skirts, neck dotted with markings. High Lord, she moaned, Eris. It was this that brought him to release.

She vanished soon after.

His brother's mate.

Before him again, her rich scent calling him back to that glade in the untamed depths of the forest, wild and lush and alive. To the jasmine flowers that now bloom there.

Eris tightens his grip on the arm of the chair. His brother made his choice, rendered himself impotent through inaction.

Take what's yours, or lose it. Their father—his father—instilled the lesson well in each of his brood. Eris took his throne, and now…well, Lucien has no one but himself to blame. A prize such as Elain ought not be left unclaimed.

Before him, she stands, a ripened piece of fruit. His for the taking.

He grabs her by the neck. Pulls her out of the chair.

Pupils dilate. A heartbeat thunders.

Reverently, he lays his lips upon her neck, careful to avoid her mouth. Her skin is warm, her flesh sweet against his tongue. She gasps beneath him, and a vein pulses against him as he kisses his way down toward the open cut of her dress.

Her hands find their way to his hair as his find their way to the back of her gown. The lacing is intricate, and time-consuming to untie. He could use magic, of course, to rid her of it all at once—or simply burn her clothes away. But he prefers this: by hand, one layer at a time, anticipation building until their appetites are thoroughly whetted and she is canting with need for him.

One by one, he loops the strings through, pausing here and there to trace the curve of her waist, or the flesh of her cheek, or the silk-spun curls of her hair. Each one stokes that hungry need within him.

The lacing undone, he removes the gown, leaving her in underskirt, corset, and chemise. Each, a layer to unpeel.

He pushes her down upon the velvet sheets.

She gasps—a delicate soprano—as if taken by surprise. As if they do not always start like this.

He kneels at the foot of the bed and pulls off her shoes where her legs drape over the edge. Tosses them aside. Caresses her stockinged legs beneath her skirts. His fingers sink into the skin of her thigh as he unclasps the first garter, then teases the thin fabric downward, downward. He slides it off, delighting in the feel of her bare foot against his palm, then sets to work on the other.

When both are removed, her head lolls back toward the sylvan ceiling. Again he brings his hands to her legs, ankle to knee to plush inner thigh, creeping closer to her entrance but refraining from meeting it. She leans into his touch, and his cock twitches against his trousers.

"Please," she breathes, eyes closed as she inhales deeply.

He’s no fool—he knows why she comes here. The release she seeks in his arms, in his scent. When they come together under cover of darkness, she does not meet his eyes.

He withdraws his hands. A small keening sound moans forth from her as he strips her underskirt from her in one deft motion.

Not yet. He will not settle for some half-hearted plea; he will hear her beg for him.

"What's this?" he drawls, knuckles brushed against the fabric where it falls between her thighs. The cotton is damp.

She bats her lashes, coy as ever. "For you, my lord."

"Good," he says, and pulls her forward to a seated position as he stands. He sets to work on the laces of her corset. "I expect no less."

Her chest heaves. She weaves her arms through his and fumbles at the buttons of his linen shirt, then lays her hands upon his chest.

Fawn-brown eyes are heavy upon him, so intense that he checks the glamours he fashions around himself. But they remain intact.

He spins her around and pushes her over, face turned down into the bed. She writhes under his arms as he finishes unlacing her corset. Only that thin cotton underdress remains, her shadowed outline visible beneath it.

"Take it off," he commands, releasing her.

Rapt, he watches as she rises from the bed. She begins pulling it off slowly—tentative, thighs rubbing together. Partway through, her motions become hurried as she rids herself of it. As if she meant at first to tease him, then grew impatient. Desire pools white-hot in his core.

Stripped of all garments, she stands bare before him.

Hungrily, he takes in her full shape—the gentle rise of her chest, the tapered waist that gives way to more weight at her hip. She is all smoothed and rounded curves; there is no sharpness, no edge in her.

He cups her breasts. They are small enough to fit with ease beneath the spread of his palm. Peach nipples harden beneath his hand, her body exposing itself at his touch.

Hungry and mesmerised and craving more, he moves his palms down along the stomach that curves forward from her chest. Porcelain-smooth, her skin is unblemished by a single scar or line.

It is still strange to him to think the body she inhabits is naught but a few years old. Like a statue charmed to life, unhardened by labor or training, the sole evidence of her living found in the thorn-pricks and callouses along her hands.

It is easy to forget her youth under the weight of her stare—the stare that sometimes feels more ancient than any crone’s. How young she is, one score and five—or is it six now? He's never asked her, and she’s never told him.

"Your bed is warm," she says, and nods toward it. "I would have you join me."

"Is that right?"

He takes his hands off of her and steps back. As if enthralled, she takes a half-step toward him, then another. If she recognizes his test, she does not show it. She brings his hand back to her chest and meets his gaze with shining, needful eyes. Wicked delight trills through him.

He spins her around, one hand at her neck, and presses her ass against his aching cock. The thin fabric of his trousers is all that separates them as she slides against him. A moan forms in his throat, but he holds it back. Roughly: "So eager for me that you forget yourself."

She whimpers as he grabs a handful of her thigh. "I am yours, my lord."

His.

"Then you will do as I say."

She nods.

"Lie down," he says. She does as she is bidden and splays atop his sheets. "Good. Don't move."

The game is one they play often. She is eager to cede control in this space—desperate at times.

He takes his time as he slips his shirt off and drapes it over the back of the armchair. He removes his trousers next, careful to fold them before he sets them down.

He turns back to Elain. The sight of her lying there, supine and awaiting his next command, sets the fire in his blood alight.

He walks toward her. Step by step. "Turn over."

She does it, and bares her back to him.

He’s always liked her best like this: ass on full display, those long curls cascading over shoulder blades.

He kneels on the bed. Traces the length of her spine, then down to the twin dimples at the base of her back. Her skin heats beneath his touch.

"On your knees."

She rises, ever obedient. With one hand, he grabs her ass. The other, he slides between her legs. Already so wet with need for him. For him.

He inhales sharply. Any trace of foreign scent on her—from Day or otherwise—has been whelmed over by the heady perfume of their mounting arousal. There is only her, just as there is only him. No one else.

He positions his hands around her hips, pressing his thumbs into the twin dimples that demark where her waist broadens into her ass. He mounts her in one smooth glide, filling her from tip to hilt. She inhales, and her body flares as it readjusts around him. His cock twitches at the sight, tightness building, need straining.

Familiar warmth settles around him as he fucks her. Each thrust ripples through her—ass to thigh. Where she supports herself against the bed with her arms, the mattress divots. Her knuckles whiten. Her hair spills down her back like sunlight, and Eris watches with intent as her curls bounce along with his movements.

He slaps her ass, drawing a deep moan from Elain. “Good girl,” he says, and she bucks beneath him. “So good for me.”

The muscles in her arms shake as her breathing grows labored and heavy as his own. He enjoys this part most—waiting for that first quiver, the telltale twitch accompanied by a sharp plunge in scent. Evidence of a need that only he can sate.

She is his, he thinks, and he feels the echo of agreement in his magic. From the land. On this, they are of the same mind: she is Autumn's.

She trembles against him, around him. It starts slowly, then takes over her body like waves of pleasure lapping through her.

Her arms give way as she collapses into the bed. He adjusts his angle, but does not stop. She makes the sweetest sounds, like a song and a prayer and a promise.

He imagines the blissed out expression that must soften her face, the o-shape of her mouth.

It is not enough to take her like this.

He withdraws his cock and flips her over onto her back. He presses his cheek against her thigh, exalting her form by way of his lips as she catches her breath.

Cunt is too harsh a word for what lies, delicate, between her legs: petal-pink folds of skin nestled beneath honey-gold curls.

Males have killed for less. Started wars for less.

“Elain,” he whispers her name like a prayer. "Elain—"

“Don’t,” she interrupts, “call me that.”

His vision frays red. His hands dig into her supple flesh. It gives like overripe fruit. “My apologies, lady,” he sneers as he plunges back inside her.

He fucks into her roughly. A male takes what is his—and so he takes her. Possesses her. His eyes bore into her as he makes her his own.

Eyes closed, she inhales—a long, drawn breath.

It is maddening. Galling. He leans in, bringing his chest flush with her own. Her breaths tumble out of her, hot against his cheeks, fanning the flames of his need. He grips her arms. Pins her down. Brings his face to her.

Eyes closed, her head lolls back. The column of her neck bends forward.

Such discourteous behavior, to avoid a lover's gaze.

He sinks his teeth into the skin of her neck, and she gasps.

He bites down harder—hard enough to draw blood.

It spills out of her wound, dark against her sun-kissed flesh. Her eyes flutter open, confused as they meet his.

I lost control, he almost lies. But what does he care what she thinks of him?

He holds her gaze as she frowns—in confusion or displeasure or both—but does not stop him. Then, he brings his lips against the marred flesh, and drinks.

Warm blood coats the inside of his mouth. The tang of her magic buzzes against his tongue. Her taste is bright and robust: iron and earth and sun-ripened plum. It sates a bone-deep hunger in him as he swallows it down.

His tongue roams over the wound. A small chunk of flesh hangs from it, a pale-gold fragment splintered partway off. A primal need rises within him.

He bites down and swallows.

It is life and death and rebirth. Rot and bloom and bones. A piece of her—now of him.

He hears her cry out as if at a distance.

Now replete, the need subsides, and he pulls away.

"What was that?" She is still panting, still quivering against him. Still aching for him.

He looks down. "Something I wanted."

And that is the end of it.

Her eyes are open now—and wary. But they are turned toward him.

He finds rhythm again in his motions, rocks against her with renewed fervor. Against the wine-dark stain on her neck, her curls hang. The braids, once immaculate, are now mussed. Imperfect. He reaches out a hand, runs his fingers with fascination through that faux auburn hair, and pulls.

Elain's spine arches forward. Her mouth parts as she groans.

An image comes to mind, unbidden. Elain dressed in Autumn finery, a diadem of gold-wrought leaves encircling her head. Elain beside him in the throne room, on the dais in the dining hall—another born actor inhabiting her role. Elain with a hand to her stomach, swollen near to bursting with Autumn's heir. With his heir.

Never before has he entertained such thoughts. Not of anyone. But the desire, the need, overtakes him. The urge fills him—as if from elsewhere, it possesses him. Hungry and demanding and covetous.

He cannot think of anything else. He stares at her stomach. Stares and stares.

“Oh, gods,” she moans.

“Say my name,” he orders.

She says nothing.

A slap to the thigh. “I will hear you say it.”

“Eris,” she cries out, and the sound of his name from her voice is like lightning throughout his body. “Gods above, yes, Eris, just like that, just—”

“I’m going to come inside you,” he breathes against her ear. "Going to fill you up."

She stills. A full-body tremble travels the length of her. “I need it.”

Her leg spasms, thigh pressing against his leg. The challenge falls from her eyes as her release overtakes her, and there is only need—for him. Wave after wave, it undulates through her. He holds on, jaw clenched, refusing to give in to the demands of his body as he continues to fuck into her.

“It’s too much," she gasps. "I can’t, I—”

But he knows that this is not what too much looks like. She leans into him as she says it. Pushes up, back arching off the mattress.

"You can," he commands. "You will take it—all of it. Everything that I give you." A promise.

He can still taste her blood against the roof of his mouth. Still feel her skin against his teeth.

He inhales—lets his senses be overtaken by her scent.

A few moments more. An invisible force pushes at his shoulder blades, compelling him forward and into her. He looks at her neck, his claim marked, and imagines filling her with his heir. His. Theirs.

Then he lets go.

His release spills out of him and into Elain. She is still gasping beneath him, face slackened, sweat beading upon her brow. He ruts into her body until the contact with her skin becomes too much, unbearably sensitive against him.

With reluctance, he removes himself from atop her. As always, she is eager to untwine herself from him.

He watches in silence as his come leaks out of her, dripping down her thighs and staining his sheets. A droplet smeared on her stomach shines—a taunt.

He jerks away. He stares at the ceiling. The scorched branches stare back at him. The thoughts that possessed him, that overcame him…he cannot make sense of himself.

She clears her throat. "Can you…" Bashful, she gestures downward.

Still in shock, he acquiesces. With a wave of magic, she is clean once more. She rises. Slips back into her chemise, pulls on her stockings.

“You could stay the night,” he offers absently, “if the journey back is too arduous.”

She looks away. “No." Her voice is firm. “I cannot.”

Anger rears its head within him, sharp-toothed, and shakes him from his daze. “Be reasonable," he makes his voice cold. "Don’t overspend your magic.”

"Eris," she says, struggling at her corset laces. "It cannot be."

With an irate burst of his magic, he clothes them both, restoring her intricate gown in full. He does not glamour her neck; she can solve that for herself.

"Thank you," she mutters.

“Go ahead. Leave,” he shoos her away. “Mother knows you’ll be back again the next time you wish to rid yourself of your urges.”

She pales, all life draining from her face.

“You reek of him,” Eris says. “You always reek of him. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think me a fool?”

She is still as death. “I rather thought you too callous to care."

Already, the mark he left on her neck is healing over. Mending itself, erasing that trace of him.

“He’ll want nothing to do with you, you know,” Eris says. “Not after this.”

A faint, unearthly glow lights her eyes. Not for the first time, he wonders at what strange magic the Cauldron might have imbued her with.

She shakes her head. “It’s you,” she says, “that he’ll want nothing to do with.”

"Tell yourself what you must," he sneers. "It matters not. I'm sure I'll see you soon."

She disappears into the night.

He watches the space where she vanished into nothing. Imagines what he might do if she came back: push her away, demean her.

But she does not.

He paces, indignant. Fuming. He picks up the book of poetry from the table. Her scent still wafts from the pages.

He leafs through it. Its pages are worn—more so than when his mother gave it to him. A long ago gift for a long ago betrothal. Your father loved these once, she said with something disturbingly close to affection. Kept all these years as a reminder—and a warning.

He slides it back onto the shelf, the spine turned inward. He would rather not look upon it.

Instead, he thinks on the shudder that overtook Elain, and the fawn-brown eyes that held only want. She will be back. Not tonight, perhaps. But the time will come again. She will return.

A mating bond is no obstacle for a High Lord.

In his cavernous chambers, in the starless dark, he is, as always, alone.