Chapter Text
It had not been a good day, to say the least.
Feyre had taken the day off for a doctor’s appointment, only to arrive and find out that her doctor had called out with a family emergency. No one had deigned to let her know, and while the receptionist was very apologetic for the mix-up, she also was unable to do anything but reschedule her.
To make matters worse, on her walk home from the doctor, it started raining. And not a light rain either, it was the kind of torrential downpour one would expect in a Bible story, or perhaps in a disaster movie. She was soaked to the bone in mere minutes. She could technically could have called an Uber, but waiting for one would almost certainly take longer than if she just finished her walk.
Feyre comforted herself by planning a scalding hot bath and then taking a secret nap. Secret naps were a capitulation to the embarrassing, shameful parts of herself. She wore her cutest pair of pajamas, got her stuffed wolf from the closet, and pretended that life was simple and easy in the way it had never been for her.
They had to be secret because Tamlin hated when she wore childish clothes and he insisted that her stuffed animals had to stay in the closet because stuffed animals were “creepy” and Feyre was “weird and pathetic” for still keeping her childhood stuffie. Tamlin had never, ever understood her desire for a soft, simple world. A sign she probably should have heeded much earlier.
Not that she would feel comfortable exploring that with him. There was only one person who had ever… Well. No use thinking about that now, she assured herself.
It was only the middle of the workday, so she was surprised to find Tamlin’s dress shoes lined up by the door, his keys tossed in the catch-all bowl that lived on their entrance hall table. Perhaps he had come home for lunch, she thought as she dumped her backpack by the door. Except he wasn’t in the kitchen, or the living room, or the bathroom. She was starting to get concerned when she heard a strange noise from the bedroom.
No secret naps for me, she thought sadly. Following the thought was an immediate burst of shame- he must have come home because he was sick and she was selfishly having a pity party about not being able to take a nap with a stuffed animal. Tamlin was right, she really was horribly selfish.
She opened the bedroom door, ready to go hold his hair back and bring him some water, only to stop short in the doorway. Tamlin wasn’t getting sick- Tamlin wasn’t even alone. She stared uncomprehendingly at the scene in front of her: there was a woman in her bed- a woman riding her fiance.
The worst thing was that she recognized the woman. It was Ianthe, her fiance’s secretary and best friend. Tamlin had called Feyre irrational and jealous when she had said that she didn’t like how Ianthe was always hanging off of him. Now that she thought about it, it was such obvious manipulation in order to throw off suspicion, she didn't understand how she had fallen for it.
The scene in front of Feyre seemed almost unreal, like she was merely watching a film. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Ianthe, from her perfect swaying breasts and her perfect ass with not a hint of cellulite. Her perfect blonde curls a curtain down her back. She was beautiful in a way Feyre would never be.
She had the irrational urge to laugh. Everything she had sacrificed, everything she had put up with, and it would never matter, because she would never be able to compete with her fiance’s secretary. It was absurd.
Shaking her stupor off, Feyre tried to think logically. Maybe this wasn’t what this looked like- Feyre knew Ianthe was a rapist, after all. She had walked in on her trying to assault Lucien earlier in the year- maybe Tamlin wasn’t willing- maybe Feyre needed to do something, like call the police.
Then Tamlin moaned, “Fuck- baby, that’s it.” And Feyre could only think that he had never called her baby.
It was then that Tamlin seemed to sense her. His eyes snapped to the doorway, where Feyre was still standing like an idiot. She didn’t wait, she turned and fled.
She ran through the apartment- she needed to get out before Tamlin caught her. If she made it out of the apartment, he would have to take the time to put on pants. If she made it out of the building, he would have to stop to get shoes- both would buy her precious time. She snatched her backpack from the floor and sprinted out the door. She made it out of the building, onto the street, but still didn’t slow. She couldn’t let him catch her. She didn’t think as she ran, just felt the beat of her heart telling her get away get away get away. She didn’t need to think about where to go, it was like there was a string pulling her towards the one place she would always be safe.
Rhys.
Rhys would protect her- even if he was mad at her for abandoning him, he would never let anyone hurt her. His home was the safest place in the world for her. Two years ago, he was her best friend in the whole world, the person she was closest to. She had ruined it: Rhys cared for her in a way that no one ever had before, in a way that didn’t lend itself to being in a relationship with a man like Tamlin.
There were the understandable, chivalrous acts that could easily be explained by the fact that he was a gentleman. Opening doors for her, helping her out of cars, always serving her first when they ate together. Even that was too much for Tamlin, who had thrown an absolute fit when he saw how Rhys would pull her chair out for her, ranting that Rhys was too familiar with her, that he was her boyfriend and that Rhys was encroaching on his territory.
Feyre had burned with embarrassment, but Rhys took it in stride, simply holding his hands up in surrender. By the end of the meal, Tamlin seemed to have forgotten his temper tantrum. He didn’t pull her chair out, didn’t help Feyre into her coat, and hadn’t held the door for her.
She couldn’t bring herself to meet Rhys’s eyes, knowing that he would be burning at Tamlin's carelessness. When Tamlin got into the car without helping her, despite the fact she was wearing the towering heels he loved but knew that she struggled with, she finally glanced at Rhys through the window. She saw the sadness on his face, saw how he mouthed “Sorry,” at her. It was the last time she had seen him.
The problem was that Rhys didn’t just care for her in a typical manner. He made her feel treasured, and taken care of in a way she never had felt before. He buttoned her coat for her, brushed her teeth for her when she was drunk, carried her over puddles so she wouldn’t get her feet wet.
Once he had even tied her shoes for her, an act that brought her to tears, thrown back to the day her kindergarten teacher held her back after class in order to teach her how to tie her shoes. The teacher had seemingly understood that there was no one else in Feyre’s life who would bother to show her.
Even as she put more and more distance between herself and the apartment, she didn’t stop running. She was terrified that if she stopped for even a moment, Tamlin would find her, yanking her back to the apartment and locking her up forever.
As she approached Rhys’s brownstone, she dug frantic fingers through her backpack, searching for her key ring. She was grateful that Rhys had never asked for his key back. Her hands were shaking so much that it took three tries to get the key into the lock, but finally she fell through the door.
Feyre opened her mouth to call out, but all that came was a strangled squeak. She tried to inhale, but found that she was unable to draw a breath. She wasn’t just out of breath from the run, she physically couldn’t breathe; her airway was closed, like there was something blocking it. She fell to the floor, clawing at her throat, a desperate creature. She was certain she was going to suffocate in Rhys’s entrance hall. She had come all this way for nothing, and the unfairness of it gutted her.
It was then that Rhys came into the hall, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, coming to investigate who was at the door. He saw her collapsed on the floor and rushed to her, causing Feyre to flinch and scramble away, back to the wall. He looked devastated, and she should feel guilty, but she was too wrapped up in the fact that she was definitely dying.
“Feyre darling, you’re having a panic attack.” He knelt in front of her, gently pulling her hands from where she was scrabbling at her throat. He spoke soothingly. “I’m going to pick you up, okay? You’re safe, da- Rhys is here. I’m here. You’re safe.”
He picked her up like she weighed nothing at all, carrying her to the living room. She fisted her hand in his shirt, still fruitlessly gasping for air. He settled them on the couch, her in his lap, where he ran a hand up and down her back, trying to coach her through box breathing. Eventually, she was able to focus on his words, on his breath. She took a deep gasp.
“That’s it, baby.” He soothed, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’m so proud of you, angel. Just keep breathing, okay? You’re safe.”
Finally able to pull in a full breath, a piercing wail escaped her. She buried her face into his neck, soaking his shirt with her tears as she sobbed. He continued to murmur soothing nonsense, petting her hair and stroking her back, letting her get it all out. He didn’t show any impatience at her dramatics, just held her.
After what felt like an eternity of tears, she murmured what happened into Rhys’s neck, shamed by his actions. “Tamlin was cheating on me. I walked in on him and Ianthe.”
“That bastard,” Rhys practically growled, tightening his hold on her, like he could pull her into his body where he could keep her safe forever. She wished that he could. Now that she was back, the idea of being separated from him was intolerable. “He’s an idiot. He fumbled the best girl in the whole world for Ianthe of all people.”
“For Ianthe! It couldn’t have been literally anyone better.” She agreed, giggling. The moment of giddiness crashed almost instantly. “I’ve been hiding something from you. You’re going to be mad.”
“I would never be mad at you, angel.” He soothed, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. “Just tell me, and we can fix it, hm?”
“You’re going to be mad,” she insisted. After a moment’s hesitation, she shuffled away and pulled her sweater over her head. She was wearing a sport’s bra, but even if she wasn’t, it wasn’t anything Rhys hadn’t seen before. When she caught pneumonia years before, he had taken care of her, including bathing her when she was too weak to do it herself.
She held her arms out for his inspection. On her left arm, five small oval-shaped bruises wrapped around her elbow; on her right, the bruises were around her upper arm, where Tamlin had grabbed her hard during a fight.
“I’m going to kill him.” Rhys’s voice was frozen, ice cold. His accent, normally worn smooth from years in this country, thickened with his anger causing to Feyre shiver.
“Please don’t,” she begged, clutching at his shirt with tears in her eyes.
“He hurt you,” he insisted. He looked wounded that Feyre would defend Tamlin, but he didn’t get it. She wasn’t upset at the thought of Tamlin's death, she was upset at the idea of Rhys being taken from her.
“I just got you back; I need you more than I need revenge.” His eyes softened, and he cradled her face in his hands, wiping away her tears. “If you went to prison- who would take care of me?”
“I wouldn’t go to prison,” he insisted, kissing her brow. “But we can’t leave my baby unprotected, can we? Look what happened last time.” He ran his fingers so gently over the bruises on her arms. “Is that the extent of it? Did he ever hit you?”
She shook her head. “No, just the grabbing… well. You know his temper. He would throw things, punch walls. Once he destroyed his study, overturning his furniture, and when he overturned his desk, it hit me.” With shaking hands, she pulled her phone out and showed him the picture.
It was her torso, a bruise spanning the entire left side, a deep purple. She shivered just at the memory of the pain. She had taken the picture as proof, to remind herself that she wasn’t crazy, he actually was hurting her. It was supposed to be her ticket out. The thought brought her back into hysterics.
“That’s the worst part,” she sobbed, tight fists tangled in his shirt. “He hurt me, and I didn’t leave him. I only left when I found out he was cheating. What kind of person does that make me?”
“It makes you a survivor,” Rhys soothed, tucking her back tight against him with her face pressed against his neck. They had spent countless hours like this- whole evenings spent curled in his lap with her head against the nape of his neck, feeling so safe, so cared for. My baby, he had called her. “Leaving an abusive partner is dangerous- you left as soon as you felt able to. I’m so proud of you, darling.”
Eventually her tears tapered off and she found herself suddenly exhausted by the day and all her tears. After her third yawn pressed into his neck, Rhys shifted his hold so he could pick her up. “I think it’s nap time, darling. Do you want a bath first, or just a nap?”
“Just a nap,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck as he carried her.
She was surprised when he opened the door to the room she had always stayed in to find that it looked almost exactly as it had when she left. The knick-knacks Rhys had bought her in his travels on the shelves, her paintings on the wall, even the stuffed bear he had purchased for her was still on the bed.
Before the war, Rhys had always said he would take her to Russia on one of his business trips. He’d show her Catherine Palace and the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood before taking her to Siberia and showing her his mother’s community, where he’d spend every summer with Cassian and Azriel until he was able to bring them to America with him.
In the meantime, every time he traveled, he would bring her home trinkets. The bear she slept with every time she stayed over, the plush reindeer with bells sewn to his antlers, wooden models of the famous churches, lacquered painted boxes depicting Russian fairy tales. Cheburashka, sentenced to the shelf for being half plush and half plastic, lined up next to Winnie the Pooh and Pytatachok. When she had that bout of pneumonia he had shown her the Soviet cartoon and she had been so charmed by Pooh’s completely flat affect- so different from American Winnie the Pooh.
“It’s all the same,” she breathed. “Why wouldn’t you change it?” She hadn’t even spoken to him in two years, disappearing so deeply into her relationship with Tamlin.
Rhys shifted his hold on her so he could peel the covers back, before setting her so gently onto the bed. He knelt, removing her shoes with a kiss pressed to the inside of her knee. “I didn’t doubt that you would be back; a man like Tamlin would never be able to keep you from your family forever. When that day came, I wanted it to be clear that you will always have a home with me.”
She didn’t deserve him, not even a little bit. This man who never gave up on her- she could have wept. “I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”
“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.” He stood, moving her so she was laying down before pulling the covers over her. He grabbed her stuffed bear, tucking him into the crook of her arm, then smoothed the covers down so carefully. Tucking her in so perfectly, it brought tears to her eyes. When was the last time anyone had cared for her this much?
“Thank you, Rhys,” she said with a sniffle, nuzzling into her bear’s head. He was even softer than she remembered.
“Sleep well, angel.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, but she was already lost to a dream.
She woke from her nap feeling safe and warm, everything around her familiar and comfortable, like the last two years were some terrible dream. How could she ever think that she belonged anywhere other than in this home with her family? Her family who would never let anything happen to her.
Rhys, for all his dangerous lethality, would never, ever have grabbed her like Tamlin, would never let a desk fall on her, would never even dream of speaking to her the way Tamlin did. She buried her face in her pillow and sobbed, hating herself for letting Tamlin treat her that way. Knows that if Rhys knew she was blaming herself, he’d be so sad, would tell her that it wasn’t her fault.
When she cried herself out, she went looking for him, needing a hug. She followed the sound of Russian to Rhys’s office, stuffed bear in tow. She was always vulnerable after crying, and being in this house where Rhys wouldn’t judge her for being a baby, she was free to indulge. She climbed into his lap, tucking herself and Mr. Bear under his chin. He doesn't startle, doesn't pull away, just hummed with contentment and pressed his hand firm against her back, letting her know that she did right.
“It’s Azriel on the phone, do you want to say hi?” He asked, and she appreciates that he gives her the choice, doesn’t assume. And she’s glad it’s Azriel- wouldn’t be able to take Cassian or Amren right now.
“Hi, Az,” she said, voice still small and drowsy. Any other day she’d be pestering him about how he’s been, how the past few years were for him, and she does want to know, but she can’t quite get the energy yet.
“Hey, Feyre.” She smiled into Rhys’s neck- what a relief to hear his voice again. “I’ll be coming by later.”
“Why?”
“I need to see for myself that you’re safe.” She smiled at that. Was no one truly mad at her for leaving?
Rhys took the phone back and she settled against him, letting the rumble of his voice, tone so different in Russian, lull her into calmness.
Rhysand couldn’t help but smile to himself as he sat across from her at the kitchen table. Everything was going to plan. His Feyre back in his home, and he knew that at his side, she would stay. Tamlin was an idiot and an asshole, but he had ultimately done Rhysand a favor- the world was scary, men were terrible, and only Daddy could give her what she needed.
Still, favor or no, he would need to be punished for putting his hands on her. No one got to hurt his family and just get away with it.
Hence, they were sat at his kitchen table, as he waited for Azriel to arrive and for Feyre to slip into an easy sleep. He should feel guilty for drugging her drink, but he lived a life so divorced from guilt that he only recognized that he should feel bad. Couldn’t actually make himself feel the guilt. He needed to take care of Tamlin, and he needed Feyre asleep safe and sound, unable to question him.
He came from such a long line of controlling, dangerous men. It was simply what men like him did.
By the time Azriel arrived, the pill Rhysand slipped her had started to kick in. She was sleepy, barely awake at the kitchen table with her mug of hot cocoa, but still lit up when he walked through the door. She stood on coltish legs, a quickly aborted plan to come to him.
“Hi, honey.” Azriel went to her, helping her back into her chair with a kiss to her hairline. Rhysand had a moment of shock at hearing him use a pet name for the first time ever, but honestly shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he had his most serious fight with him after giving Feyre up, a fight that culminated in Rhysand having to remind him who was in charge. He made Azriel kneel before him for hours with his cock down his throat in order to remind him of his place.
His entire family loves her, but Cassian and Azriel were particularly sweet with her and were absolute maniacs about her safety. He couldn’t have found better guard dogs if he had tried.
Feyre finally slipped into sleep, and as Rhysand lifted her in order to carry her to bed, Azriel took her limp hand in his and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand, a show of deference just as much for Rhysand’s sake as his own.
“Is he ready?” He asked once he returned from tucking her in.
“Cassian picked him up earlier. It wasn't difficult.” Azriel said, following Rhysand into his bedroom to dress for the work. He made a point to never wear a gun while at home with Feyre. The cold, hard world had no business in his relationship with her, in the dynamic between daddy and little girl. She was safe here, safe to be soft and vulnerable, safe to let him stand between her and all danger.
Feyre hadn’t shown interest in the family business so far, though he had no doubt that that wouldn’t be the case forever. Knew very well how strong she was, how well-suited she was to life as his queen. Now, though, she needed the softer life. Needed someone to care, and he would give that to her.
One holster at his shoulder, one at his ankle, a knife strapped to his forearm. Black button down, black suit coat, black slacks. Silver signet ring on his pinky, two silver rings on the opposite hand, on first and ring fingers. Hair combed, curls ordered into place with pomade. Azriel watched on, leaning against the wall. Arms crossed, one ankle over the other.
Only Tamlin would see him, but they both knew that the costume was important. A clear delineation between Feyre’s soft, gentle daddy, and the brutal head of Polnoch. Even if only one scumbag was going to see him, the image was important because the fear was important. Money and prestige could only take you so far, fear was the true power in this world.
Rhysand was smiling as he walked into the warehouse.
The warehouse was empty except for the metal table sat in the middle of the room and the hunched figure sitting in a folding chair before it. At the nod of Rhysand’s head, Cassian ripped the bag off of Tamlin’s head.
“You know, I always knew you weren’t the brightest, but you really seem to have reached astonishing levels of stupidity.” Rhysand said, pulling up his own chair to sit across from him.
“Don’t you think this is dramatic?” Tamlin scoffed. “Kidnapping, intimidation... what? Are you going to kill me? I bet you love this: you’ve always been pathetic, obsessing after her even when she chose me. I should have known she would have gone running back to you; I bet she told you some sob story about me. Are you really going to kill me just because I cheated on her?”
“Not at all,” Rhysand said, taking off the suit coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves. “You actually did me a favor, cheating on her. It sent her running right back where she belongs, at my side. Besides, I wouldn’t kill you for cheating on her. I’m not even going to kill you for hurting her. Understand this: I would kill you for simply laying a single finger on what’s mine.”
“Yours, right.” Tamlin rolled his eyes. “I really don’t understand what you’re so enamored with, there are millions of trashy whores out there, I’m sure even a rodent like you could find someone to warm his bed.”
“Charming as always,” Rhysand said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “I grow tired of this. I’m not going to kill you, because Feyre begged for your life.”
“I bet that burns you up,” Tamlin grinned, leaning forward in his chair. “I hurt her, and she still begs for my life.”
“She wasn’t begging for your life because she still cares for you, she begged because she didn’t want me to go to prison. She was desperate for me to not leave her. Regardless, you still need to be punished for hurting her. Azriel-” Rhysand held his hand out, and Azriel handed him a piece of a metal pipe. Cassian undid the cuffs around Tamlin’s wrists and wrestled one of his hands flat onto the table.
The first scream settled something deep inside of him, something that had been raging for years. Rhysand brought the pipe down again and again on Tamlin’s hand, relishing the way the bone cracked beneath his hands and the way his screams rang through the warehouse. When he felt like he had caused enough fractures, he laid the pipe on Tamlin’s hand and rolled it up and down like a rolling pin, his full weight bearing down on the pipe, crushing the bones into pieces so small they would never be able to heal properly. His goal was to crush every bone in his hand, ensuring that there would be no repairing it.
Once he was satisfied with his decimation of his right hand, he repeated his actions on his left hand. He was grudgingly impressed that Tamlin hadn’t passed out from the pain, but it still didn’t grant him mercy. Satisfied with his work, he handed the now bloody pipe back to Azriel.
“Remember that this is my mercy,” Rhysand said, cleaning the blood from his hands. “I can always find you again, no matter how far away you run. I will do much, much worse to you next time.
Tamlin didn’t speak, just spat at him. The saliva didn’t land, but still Rhysand punched him. How satisfying, the crunch of bones beneath his hands, the blood spilling from Tamlin’s mouth. You would think he would have learnt by now.
“Cassian, let’s go. We’ll let Azriel handle the rest.” He knew Azriel wouldn’t just transport Tamlin home, but Rhysand would not begrudge him his revenge.
Once they were in the car, Cassian behind the wheel, he spoke again. “Go to his house and collect all of Feyre’s belongings. I don’t want her to ever even need to think about him again.”
Rhysand’s satisfaction at a job well done vanished the moment he walked through the door of his house. Instead of Feyre tucked up safe and warm in her bed, he could hear her retching in the bathroom. He rushed to her and his heart broke the second he saw her crumpled form as she sobbed into the toilet.
“Where were you?” She cried, in a break between heaves. “I woke up and you weren’t here.”
“I’m so sorry, darling.” He soothed, kneeling behind her. She left the toilet with one final spat before climbing into his lap. “Cassian called me- he had a flat tire and had somehow lost his lug wrench, so he was unable to fix it himself. I went to help.”
“Is he okay?” Feyre sniffled and his heart broke. Even in her misery, she was still so thoughtful as to care about the family.
“Yes” Rhysand said, kissing her head. “Safe and sound. Are you okay?”
“I am now,” she said with a sweet nuzzle into his neck. “I had a nightmare.”
“I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there when you woke, darling. I never want you to feel alone.” He held her there for a long moment until her tears abated. She was so small, so frail in his arms. He wished she hadn’t begged for Tamlin’s life- he really deserved more than broken hands.
Carefully, he lifted her enough so that he could stand and sit her on the bathroom counter. He wet her toothbrush, and brushed her teeth for her, washing the bile away before taking a cold washcloth and cleaning her face. She accepted it all easily, legs kicking back and forth as he cared for her. His best girl, always so easy for him.
At the end of the day, it had all been absurdly easy.
Rhysand hadn't even been looking for a partner when he came across her at that stupid fucking party all those years ago, but when he saw her being hassled, something just clicked. She was acting tough, hard eyes and a hard voice, trying to not show fear, but he had her ticket immediately.
Scaring off the men was nothing- he was used to people seeing him and running in the opposite direction, and then she was looking up at him with her lost little girl eyes- still playing tough, but he knew. Knew immediately, instantly, deep in his bones. There you are, I've been looking for you.
"Don't worry, sweetheart." He assured, a paternal hand stroking the top of her head. "I'll take care of you."
She still wanted a fight, still wanted to be tough, but he saw the infinitesimal way she relaxed at his words, his touch. He left her with Mor, not wanting her to think he had only played the hero in order to earn a night in her bed. He was playing the long game.
If Rhysand was a better man, he'd leave her alone. Someone as precious as her should be kept far away from the dangers of a man like him, but he had always been so selfish when it comes to her, so ravenous for every drop of her attention.
Two years ago, there had been a moment of clarity.
Rhysand stood outside his own front door, face pressed to the door frame. He and Cassian had just slaughtered a warehouse full of men, and his rational thoughts were far away. Rhys was gone, the monster was in his place.
He couldn’t go inside because Feyre was there, radiating joy and life and goodness, probably watching a nature documentary and drawing. If he went in, she would turn that glow onto him, smile shining, and then she would see him- see all of him- not her kind and gentle friend, but the monster that lived under his skin. She would be scared by his dead eyes, the blood on his face, the scent of gunpowder clinging to him like a second skin. She would see the violence that lived within him, and she would be afraid.
She would be right to be afraid. What life could he offer her but one of fear and violence and monsters in the night? It seemed so clear to him in that moment that he needed to let her go.
So he did.
Pulled back enough that she started looking for love elsewhere, though he still couldn’t help where the love bled through. Couldn’t stop himself from caring, buttoning her coat and braiding her hair. Feyre needed to move on to someone safer, but while he had her, he couldn’t help the way his body sang to take care of her. He would keep her room just in case. She might be back one day, and in the meantime he could sit on her bed, surrounded by her things, and dream.
When she announced that she had a boyfriend, that he worked in finance, that he was stable and safe and maybe he was the one, Rhysand let her go. Let her have her happily ever after with a man that led a safe life, instead of a life in the shadows. It was what was right.
But the fucking idiot decided to harm the treasure he had been given, and it was clear. No one could keep her safe but Rhysand. He would keep her with him from here on, keep her by his side forever.