Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Every story deserves a worthy beginning.

For Feyre, the story of her unimpressive life doing a full one-eighty started like this.

On Mor’s birthday, Feyre and many other people were invited to celebrate in a club called Under the Mountain. Unsurprisingly, the club belonged to her infuriating cousin.

Feyre had the displeasure of meeting him, multiple times. However brief their encounters were, the male managed to bring the worst out of her every time. It annoyed her to no ends.

Feyre decided not to think about it. She knew she wasn’t lucky enough to avoid meeting him—they seemed to stumble into each other pretty much every time Mor and a random outing were involved, to Feyre’s greatest irritation and Rhysand’s infinite amusement. But Feyre was determined to have fun—she promised Tamlin she would be okay alone, he really didn’t want to come—so she started off with a drink she finished in a matter of seconds, to Mor’s cheers and shouts of chug, chug, chug, then ordered another. Warm from the alcohol and suddenly invigorated, she focused on the sound around her, her slight tipsiness, her sole desire to have fun. She was on best friend duty. 

She danced. Danced and danced, like a girl from a fairytale.

Music pounded in her ears. It reverberated through her entire body, made her blood dance and sing. Lights were flashing behind her eyelids—vivid purples and oranges and golds of the setting sun, and even blues and greens of aurora borealis—so saturated and bright that the life outside of the club walls seemed insignificant, slow and unfulfilling. Unreal. Here, with a glass of Raskian Tea in one hand and an armful of her dear friend to the other side Feyre felt like her lungs opened and drank their own oxygen cocktail, finally letting her take a deep breath.

So, she did. She closed her eyes and heard Mor release a silly drunken giggle—which was easy to forgive, Mor was a birthday girl, after all. Then Feyre felt Mor tug at her arm and give her a hearty spin, and Feyre let her, laughing and almost spilling her drink all over the floor under their feet. She stopped and stepped aside, ignoring Mor’s pout—Feyre really didn’t want anyone to step into this sticky mess she was about to create.

It was exactly then that she noticed him. Her vision just came back to her after Mor’s antics, and the moment Feyre’s eyes regained the ability to focus on something, they found him. 

But of course. A chill went through her body in an immediate reaction to what she saw. Feyre set her glass on the nearest table.

Far from the raging crowd of intoxicated youngsters, yet elevated for everyone to see, lounging on some mock parody of a throne lazed Rhysand—Mor’s cousin. His long, sinuous body was draped over the elegant piece of furniture in a display of utter relaxation, legs spread wide, eyes slightly hooded. An easy smile glided over his sinful mouth.

She knew not to believe his act. There was nothing unthreatening about him, about this alpha, whose presence continued to command the massive expanse of the club despite his easygoing attitude.

Rhysand, with his immaculate hair, every strand perfectly in place. Rhysand, with his cunning blue eyes which seemed to glow violet from within. Rhysand, with his perfectly tailored clothing – every single piece in black, as if no other color existed in his universe. 

Rhysand, with a dark-skinned blonde woman currently inhabiting his thighs.

Feyre couldn’t look away.

Her gaze was pulled by unknown force to the lines of the female’s body, from the dainty feet clad in killer-high heels and delicate ankles accentuated by long straps—she followed those straps with her eyes up the length of the woman’s long legs—to the exposed flesh of her luxurious thighs on both sides of Rhysand’s leg. Knees braced against the throne, hips swaying unhurriedly to the beat surrounding them, up, up and up to the generous curve of her rear barely covered with a neon skirt that almost forgot to show up; exposed back and toned arms stretched out towards the back of the throne, fingers curled around the top of it. Her golden hair caught the myriads of colors from the space around them and shone with it. Her entire body seemed to cage the male beneath her—which he didn’t seem to mind at all—as they spoke to one another, their gazes locked.

The sense of freedom and joy which encompassed Feyre earlier seemed to lessen as she watched them, thick layer of condensation clouding the surface of the crystal ball which was her happy little world, to then freeze over as she witnessed the woman bend down and, with a mischievous smile on her lips, lick the long stripe along Rhysand’s neck, from hollow underneath the sharp point of his throat to his ear.

Hot, blistering fury burst within her, melting the crystal and burning all her earlier happiness altogether. It poured down her throat to the pit of stomach and coiled there like a deadly snake made of flames and ready to strike. Feyre felt her face heat up from unquenchable anger and, unable to look at them any further, turned away. Taking a deep breath, she clenched her hands into fists, then willed her body to relax.

It was not rational. She barely knew him, they talked only a handful of times, she had a boyfriend—in an open relationship, but well, semantics—perhaps that woman was his wife—

Ugh. No.

He was an infuriating bastard with an ego the size of an entire planet, who believed his deep pockets and patronizing attitude could pave the roads the way he deemed necessary. Feyre’s lip curled up, revealing her teeth in a soundless snarl of disgust as she imagined that piece of a doll wrapped around the object of her ire—the blonde didn’t really deserve any of Feyre’s scorn, but she was getting it anyway—

“Hey there, love,” a sultry voice interrupted her thoughts. Feyre turned her head and, slightly shocked, gazed up at the tall, beautiful woman, the woman, who mere moments before was up there with Mr. Incorrigible—how long had she been brooding for, anyway?

The woman continued with a pleasant smile, “My name is Cresseida. You seem rather lonely here. Need company?”

Feyre swallowed, suddenly embarrassed by her heated thoughts about both Rhysand—no, thinking nasty things about him was okay—and this woman.

Cresseida. What a beautiful name. Feyre told her as much. Cresseida swung her braided hair from her shoulder back, danced her manicured eyebrows with a knowing look and ordered them both a drink.

Skittish at first, Feyre was unable to resist another woman’s charm. Cresseida was warm like rays of the evening sun in the middle of the summer, her laugh light and bubbly, her eyes crinkled beautifully whenever she smiled. They talked about everything and nothing at all, from the struggle of having siblings—oh, but you’re the youngest one, my Varian is also a little shit—to, suddenly, most embarrassing situations—right between those two mattresses, and he didn’t even notice—and Feyre struggled to remember the last time she wheezed with so much mirth. 

As she recovered from her latest bout of joyous laughter, she suddenly felt chills travel from her upper back down her limbs, and led by an instinctual urge, looked behind. Her eyes immediately locked with Rhysand’s, who seemed to be observing… who? Was he looking at her, or was it Cresseida he was watching? Feyre bristled, feeling her cheeks warm yet again, and firmly turned back to the woman.

“Why is he watching us? Is he jealous?” she asked, a little unnerved. The blonde raised her eyes at Feyre’s question, then gazed towards the owner of the club and, once she seemingly had his attention, stuck her tongue out at him.

“Jealous? No, we aren’t like that. Rhysie wouldn’t survive a day with me in a relationship—don’t tell him I called him that, okay?”

Feyre snickered. Rhysie. She could easily imagine Mor using that nickname despite their age difference.

“Who would want to be with that guy anyway?” Cresseida rolled her eyes as she continued and jerked her shoulder towards the side of the room where Feyre saw Rhysand last. “I mean, of course he’s so rich it’s honestly ungodly, but no, thank you.” She took a sip of her drink, taking a small pause as if she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to speak more of it. The urge, apparently, won out. “I’m just teasing him here and there, and he does the same to me, but Mother save the woman who falls for him. He is unbearable, like all the damn alpha men are, but worse.”

Feyre swallowed and nodded in silent agreement. Mother save that hypothetical woman, indeed. Curious, she wanted to ask more about the unbearableness, but the music changed again and got louder, then abruptly stopped, dragging everyone’s attention to the DJ island.

Akin to an untamed queen of the jungle gazing down at her animal kingdom, Mor stood tall on top of a bar counter’s end, a large piece of fabric—which matched her suddenly shortened dress in color suspiciously well—clutched to her chest, a wireless microphone in her other hand. A cheap plastic diadem sat on her gorgeous blonde locks, slightly askew. She hiccupped into the microphone, sending a wave of chuckles through the crowd, then gathered herself with a determined expression on her blushed face and started talking.

“My best friend abandoned me for another blonde woman! Which, to be honest, I would do the same—damn girl, when did it get hot in here?” Another wave of laughter ran through the people surrounding Feyre, and some—not many knew her by her name—even looked at her with amusement in their eyes. Cresseida snorted into her drink. Mor gave Feyre a salacious wink and continued, “So, she abandoned me, and I got bored. But then I remembered—you all are obliged to entertain me today. So. I figured, why not host a dancing competition? The dirtiest slut—yes, I said it, sue me—of this evening is going to win… I have not decided what yet. But it’s going to be good, I promise!”

With that, she pointed the microphone at the DJ like a magic wand, swished and flicked it in the air, and the DJ, ever the loyal subject of his queen, obeyed her silent command and ramped the music up.

A low beat filled the air. The lights dimmed, causing a few cheers to ring out in the large space occupied by the party. Then the sounds intensified, a tantalizing tune joining in, transforming the atmosphere around them from teasing and daring into straight up erotic. Feyre threw a quick glance to the dais, secretly annoyed with herself—why was it so important for her to see where Rhysand was?

The throne was empty.

Where did he go? Did he leave completely, or was he somewhere in the crowd, still watching them? If he wasn’t jealous of Cresseida, then why was his gaze so intent mere minutes earlier?

The image of Rhysand’s eyes on her while she didn’t know where he was made something hot in the pit of her belly clench.

“Are you in?” Cresseida asked directly into her ear, making Feyre jerk her head back to look at the woman. Their faces were mere inches apart. 

Stop thinking about him.

She needed a distraction. She needed to fill her head with something, anything else. Just a few minutes ago she had so much fun, and then her thoughts were plagued by him again.

She felt watched.

“Yes, let’s go,” she breathed out. Cresseida briefly glanced down at her mouth, then back up, the pupils of her chestnut brown eyes large in the dark. She took Feyre’s half-finished drink from her hands and placed it next to hers on the counter they stood close to. Her warm hand caressed Feyre’s shoulder as Cresseida ran it down the length of Feyre’s arm to her hand, where their fingers slowly entwined. The blonde’s skin was achingly smooth to the touch.

Then the woman tugged gently, urging Feyre to follow her to the dancefloor. Many pairs were already engaged in a sensual dance, their bodies standing close, swaying to the rhythm that almost seemed magical, so magical. They faced each other, mimicking the distance between the others, and this close Feyre finally sensed the gentle scent coming from Cresseida—light and airy in the essence of it, fresh to the core, but with a hint of citrus and—something else, she couldn’t quite catch it—on the very surface. She took a deep breath, trying to get a better grasp on it, suddenly ensnared by it, and involuntarily stepped closer, coming chest to chest with her dance partner.

Cresseida’s face lit up and she moved to the beat, causing slight friction between them and making Feyre gasp. Her other hand came up to brush a lock of hair behind Feyre’s ear, the gesture surprisingly gentle and intimate. She was watching, her eyes attentive and burning with barely suppressed desire. They were full of dare.

Feyre made herself believe it was Cresseida’s gaze making her shiver with arousal. It ran down the length of her spine to pool like lava at the apex of her thighs. The music was affecting her. Slow, but full of intent. The beat was reminiscent of lovemaking, tortuous in its unhurriedness and full of breathy moans and low groans.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on its ends. Focus, she thought. Don’t think about him.

Cresseida bowed down slightly with her eyes half closed and quickly gazed at Feyre’s mouth again. She let the tips of their noses graze against each other delicately and licked her lips. They were so close Feyre could feel the warmth of her mouth against her face. Taunted by the challenge in the woman’s eyes and full of desire to forget everything but there and then, ravenous for anything to extinguish the fire before it burned through her entire being, Feyre surged up, touching their mouths in the first kiss. She closed her eyes.

The effect was immediate. Instead of helping with heat which took a hold of Feyre’s throat, the teasing caress of Cresseida’s lips fueled it, gave it strength, sped up a chemical reaction the result of which poisoned Feyre with a rush of lust. Soft, so soft it was addicting—a quiet moan built up in the back of her throat as two women moved their lips together. She felt the twitch of a triumphant smile against her mouth.

They moved towards one another. Cresseida cupped Feyre’s face after moving her hair out of the way, another hand ventured down to nestle at the bend of her waist. Her hands were warm and careful, but their touch sent sparks dancing along Feyre’s skin and awoken her, ignited her veins, prompted her to return the embrace. She pressed one of her palms against the blonde’s sternum, dangerously close to the underside of her breast, stopping there for the moment to slide her other hand along the line of her leather belt and hook two fingers behind it, pulling the blonde closer.

Closer. Closer—it was not enough. She needed pressure, needed to feel warmth against the line of her entire body, needed something to rock against, hold and be held, full impact, no stops. With a hungry groan muffled against Cresseida’s mouth, Feyre led her hand between the woman's breasts towards her neck, her touch demanding, fingers greedy as she cradled the back of blonde’s head and licked at the seam of her mouth. This earned her a shocked gasp turning into a moan—she felt it reverberated against her hand—as she repeated the caress, tasing her, the burst of fruity flavor of Cresseida’s last drink exploding on Feyre’s tongue in tingles. She felt weak in her knees.

The music around them died in her ears, submitting to the sound of her pounding heart, accompanied by an unrelenting beat shooting straight into her core. In a matter of moments, she felt warm, so warm, liquid heat between her legs threatened to spill out of her—it made her squirm. She swallowed another moan coming from Cresseida as their tongues collided, hers slightly cooler than Feyre’s, slick and wet, their kiss coming to an end and restarting anew in a sinful cycle of reincarnation, each time filthier and more consuming. Electric. She couldn’t stop, didn’t want to—wanted to continue chasing the essence of her, nectar of her mouth, freshness and citrus, the rage of the ocean—that’s what it was, the ocean.

Starvation—Feyre felt it as they continued to devour each other, their bodies sliding together, delicious friction stroking stiff peaks of her breasts. The rocking motion of their hips caused the rough fabric of her jeans to dig into the delicate flesh of her core, sending a pulse of pleasure so sharp it would’ve been too much if not for its brevity, a new match stricken over and over again. Her lungs were burning, demanding oxygen, small bouts of breathing through the nose in the middle of the kiss nowhere near enough. But at that moment she felt as if the taste on her tongue could nourish her and keep her alive for the rest of her meaningless life.

Cresseida’s fingers buried deeper into her hair and dug into her flesh underneath the shirt, higher than before, a pulling sensation in her scalp—and Feyre felt molten, suddenly unable to show any resistance. She submitted, grew soft, her body instantaneously attuned to feel the cues from the other woman as she opened her mouth obediently and welcomed the intrusion. A soft moan escaped her, the mere promise of being filled in her mouth echoing in the emptiness of her cunt. Her own hand grazed against Cresseida’s exposed side, and she felt the gooseflesh erupt against her fingertips. Hot flush came over her skin where they touched—her mouth, her neck, both of her wrists.

With a loud groan Cresseida pulled Feyre’s hair again, harder this time, peeling them from one another and bringing their kiss to a sudden stop.

“If we continue like this, we—ah, we will fuck right here, on the floor,” she half-gasped, half-moaned out.

Her voice sounded muffled in Feyre’s ears, screened out by the sound of her pulse. She felt dizzy. Eyes still closed, she leaned forward and rested her forehead on Cresseida’s shoulder, suddenly trembling. Unexpected nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and she swallowed hard.

“You okay, love?” Cresseida asked, a note of concern blooming in her voice. She brushed Feyre’s hair away from her face and twisted it, laying it between her shoulder blades in efficient movements. Briefly exposed skin of her neck prickled at the contact with cool air of the club. 

Cool air?

Was she okay? Eyes still closed, she tried to control her frantic breathing to keep her heart from bursting out of her chest. She wasn’t okay, no. The tremors born from shivers of arousal were now assaulting her body, getting stronger every second she spent upright. Her muscles filled with buzzing ache.

“Feyre?”

“I need to sit down,” Feyre groaned, leaning heavier against Cresseida. Her skin felt cold, when mere minutes earlier her body was warm and comforting. The blonde flung Feyre’s arm over her neck and wrapped her own arm around Feyre’s waist, supporting her as she led them both to the edge of the dancefloor. A few people around them threw alarmed looks at them, noticing something wasn’t right, and the crowd parted, letting them pass through.

The moment Feyre’s knees touched the low seat in the lounge area, she collapsed on top of it, barely keeping herself from toppling over. Cresseida sat right next to her, side to side.

“You’re burning up.” She frowned and pressed a cold palm to Feyre’s cheek, making her shudder. “Any chance you didn’t keep an eye on your drink?”

Feyre tried to think, really tried. She had a habit of covering her glass with her hand, usually leaving the inside of her palm a little sticky—she could feel the lingering sensation even now. The idea that someone had tampered with her drink was appalling, but the likelihood of it was low—Nesta had drilled the basic safety rules into Feyre’s head ever since she started coming home later than usual.

Dark blue eyes, watching her. Following her. Tracking.

She supposed someone could have slipped something into her glass while she did her best to ignore Mor’s cousin. She shrugged. It made her feel dizzier and she groaned again as she hung her head low. Her hair rushed forward, tickling her neck unpleasantly.

“We need to get you out of here and straight to the hospital. Do you have an emergency contact?”

Emergency contact. Emergency contact. Her usual emergency contact was Mor, but Feyre didn’t want to ruin her birthday. Mor looked so happy commanding everyone around with her feet firmly planted into the bar countertop. Mor had also had alcohol; she wouldn’t be able to drive anywhere. Feyre hoped her friend didn’t see her as she was dragged away from the dance floor half-unconscious. 

She hummed, thinking further. Cresseida waited patiently next to her.

If not Mor, then who? A smart individual would call their significant other, but for some reason the mere idea of calling Tamlin felt wrong. She didn’t want him to see her so unwell, didn’t want to risk causing an annoyed expression on his face. Tamlin wasn’t cruel, he still would help, willingly, but he had a knack for making you feel inferior if you asked for his aid. Their relationship was comfortable for them both, and the idea of suddenly becoming high maintenance terrified her.

Not Tamlin, then.

“I can call Lucien. My phone is in my purse. I think I left it at our table,” she told the blonde, who chirped out a quick be right back and rushed towards their previous location around the dancefloor.

Feyre pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes. Whatever was happening to her, it stopped getting worse. Fever, nausea, dizziness…

What was going on?

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a familiar low baritone said nearby. Feyre sighed in exasperation—of course the bane of her existence would find her at the worst possible moment. She ignored him, hoping Cresseida would be back soon.

She heard Rhysand step around her, and a moment later—his exhale through the nose. Warm air touched her hands and chin, making her jump a little. She uncovered one eye to find Rhysand crouching right in front of her. He was looking at her intently, eyes slightly pinched, a frown tugging at his usually relaxed mouth. It made him look—his age.

Feyre managed a whole five seconds of looking at him before the flashing lights of the dance floor made her feel dizzy again. A whimper escaped her throat as she blocked her sight.

She felt Rhysand’s eyes bore into her. He didn’t ask any questions, but she could tell he had them and wanted answers. It was too bad she didn’t want to give him any. She felt like shit and wanted to be difficult with him. The image of Cresseida writhing on his lap appeared in her mind’s eye, and this time her resolve to keep her opinion to herself was too weak to clamp her mouth shut.

“Why don’t you go back to your throne and stare at someone else? You seemed to be doing it just fine earlier.” Feyre bit her tongue the moment those petty words escaped her mouth. Out of all the negative emotions she could display, she unwillingly went for angry jealousy. She was not jealous. Why would she be jealous? She quite literally had more fun with Cresseida than him. He could pick whoever else he wanted and fuck them in front of the entire club for all she cared.

Her lips trembled. She heard him click his tongue.

“If you wanted to sit on my lap so badly, you could’ve just asked, Feyre darling.”

A new wave of heat flared through her, this time solely caused by his scandalous words. She gasped, opened her eyes again and glared his infuriating form, his expression smug, clearly pleased with her reaction; she was about to give him a piece of her mind on where and how he could go and fuck himself, when—

Her mouth watered. A slight breeze hit her, bringing the essence of citrus and tempestuous ocean—it hit her so hard she almost choked on her own spit. The same instant another bout of dizziness crushed her, and her eyes rolled back. She swayed dangerously, thinking to herself she wouldn’t be able to keep balance, and braced herself for the impact with the floor.

Which never came. A strong arm caught her in the middle of her fall.

“I’ve got you,” Rhysand murmured close to her ear, cradling her to his chest. In the process of catching her he shifted from crouching to kneeling, not caring in the slightest about his expensive slacks. 

Still having her sit on the low seat, Rhysand righted her body, manhandling her like a doll. Each time he touched her, her body ached in a new, unfamiliar way. Her heart rate picked up, making her throb in her head, her joints, her core. She wanted to complain about it and kick his arms off her, but the addictive scent—of him, it was coming from him, not Cresseida—enveloped her, and she reached for it.

She had a vague feeling of being picked up. It was wrong, wrong to crave his embrace. Wrong to want to bask in his scent, so powerful and encompassing, and wait for her fever and dizziness to die down. Feyre had to remind herself that he was immensely annoying. Infuriating and impossible. Incorrigible. But she felt so weak. Her eyelids were heavy. In Rhysand’s arms, so close to his body—his massive, powerful body capable of inflicting great harm—she felt safe. So, she allowed herself to be weak, just this one time.

At some point, Cresseida returned with Feyre’s purse in her hand. Time seemed to trickle by in a weird manner. She and Rhysand argued about something, their voices quiet enough for Feyre to not bother with deciphering the words from one another. Then Mor appeared, her eyes full of worry, and Feyre felt like the worst friend in the entire universe. She wanted to say she was sorry for ruining her birthday, but Mor was talking to someone on the phone.

When Lucien arrived—to whom Mor had apparently been speaking before—Feyre took it as her cue to get up. She tried despite her limbs protesting, but the arms around her were too strong. They wouldn’t let her move. Her body obeyed the slightest tug, unable to contract any muscles, totally pliable.

“Let go of her, Rhys,” Mor hissed somewhere on the side. Another argument erupted, and only after some intense convincing from Cresseida, Mor and Lucien combined, Rhysand helped her on her feet.

“Hey there, trouble,” Lucien greeted her, gently supporting her under her elbows. Feyre could swear someone was growling. Once she was able to stand with Lucien supporting her, they headed out, slow enough for her to move her feet well, the rest of the ensemble following behind.

Next thing she remembered was that they were in the car. Expensive car, from what Feyre could gather judging by its interior, although Feyre was never really a car person. She was in the back seat, Lucien sat on the other side of it, his face turned away. In the driver seat right in front of her was another man she couldn’t quite see the facial features of, but she guessed by the fiery red locks it was another member of the Vanserra family. She tried looking at him through the rear-view mirror, noticing familiar eyebrows and cheekbones, but then the amber eyes in the reflection flicked up for a moment, and she was caught.

“Stay awake, princess. We’re almost there,” he said, his tone slightly mocking. At that moment Feyre wondered if there were any men without sass left in this world. 

“Hey Feyre, how are you feeling?” Lucien asked from her side. Feyre unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth and rasped out, “Thirsty.” 

“Give me my backpack from the front seat, Eris,” the younger Vanserra called. Eris blindly reached for the requested item on the seat next to him and threw it backwards at his brother. Lucien caught it with an eyeroll, then rummaged through it for a little while and finally protruded a brand-new bottle of water, which he offered to Feyre. She took it with shaking hands.

As she drank water, she tried to assess her body. She felt somewhat out of it. She was aware of the fever and the ache in her joints, in her neck and wrists, of the slight cramping in her lower abdomen—which was new—and trembling in her limbs. But just being aware of her symptoms with a mind fogged over created a false sense of everything happening to someone else, not her. It felt like a weird dream.

It still felt like a weird dream when, hours later, in which Eris dropped them off, they waited for the ER nurse to check Feyre’s vitals, and finally, finally, after the longest wait, Feyre was invited to the office by a therapist, she was told the news.

You are an omega.

It is rare for omegas to present this late, but not unheard of.

Sometimes, an omega presents only after a contact with a very compatible alpha.

She knew. She knew.

Without medication, you are going to go into heat, and very soon.

You have options.

You can proceed with your breakthrough heat, with or without the help of a partner—there are organizations which help omegas without a partner to go through a heat in a more comfortable manner. Once your heat is over, you can start on suppressors to have your cycle in control if you wish to. Not all the omegas choose to take the medication, although the majority of those who opt out are usually married or in a long-term relationship.

Another option is taking a hormonal shot to prevent you going into heat, today. It will stop the natural changes in your body, freeze the progression of the heat, but, if you choose this route, you must start taking the suppressants the next day. This injection is not going to cancel your heat—it provides a delay, and, if it so happens that you stop taking your medication, the natural progression of the heat will resume. With vengeance. 

Keep in mind, if later you decide to go through a heat in a controlled manner by taking a break from your medication, your first heat will most likely last longer—it is your body’s response to the delay in your natural cycle.

“Is it really that bad to go through a heat alone?” Feyre asked, numb. It felt like asking if tea was better than coffee.

Her therapist, a woman with golden brown skin and a sleek black bob, studied her for a moment, tongue visibly poking the side of her cheek, then answered: “I personally do not recommend omegas going through their first heat alone. Not only does it take a toll on one’s body in a physical sense and requires someone else to provide care in case the heat is too overwhelming, but there are also many concerns regarding omegas’ mental health. Heats are not meant to be spent alone, and regardless of the newest advancements in the pharmaceutical industry, your body—” the doctor tapped her temple with her forefinger “—will know something is wrong.”

Feyre fumbled with her hands, not knowing what to do. She felt the therapist’s gaze dig into her as she looked for some clues only she was aware of.

“That being said,” she continued, “spending the heat alone is better than inviting an alpha you don’t trust fully into your nest.”

Feyre took the shot.

“Feyre dear, I think I gotta go now, I need to think what to cook for myself and dad tonight!” Elain called from the main space of the apartment.

“Take the spare key from the hanger if you really want to help me decorate! And see you later!” Feyre answered in a loud voice.

The moment she heard the front door close, she felt her shoulders sag. It wasn’t anything against Elain—this close to the heat omegas felt rather protective of their space, and since Feyre’s nest wasn’t even in the stage of planning, inviting visitors was one of the last things that’d make her comfortable.

Well, that was what she’d read about omegas on the internet last night. Despite presenting over a month ago, Feyre still couldn’t quite make peace with the idea that she wasn’t a regular, dare she say boring beta like everyone else believed her to be.

No, she was an omega, somebody who was apparently born to be dominated and bred by hulky-bulky alphas or some similar kind of bullshit. Ever since she got the shot to stop her disaster-of-a-presentation, she tried to resume her regular life, which at that time included studying for her culture and arts major, working ungodly hours as a waitress, selling art pieces she managed to complete while half asleep—both digital and traditional; then there was hanging out with her best friend Mor, whom Feyre met through studies, annoying the shit out of Lucien and managing her uncomplicated relationship with—

Feyre snorted to herself. Yes, her relationship with Tamlin could’ve been called uncomplicated at the time, but it ceased to be the case the moment he learned about her true designation.

Sometimes, during sleepless nights, she would wonder—what if he had never known? What if she had kept it a secret? And most importantly, would it have worked?

The answer wasn’t necessarily a no. Her presentation was caught early, so for the alphas—who were most sensitive to any change in omegas—her scent didn’t scream haul me onto your shoulder and drag me to your breeding den, but it did turn heads. Feyre didn’t always notice it, but, unlike earlier, a certain awareness was nestled in the back of her consciousness, a quiet alarm going off whenever there was an alpha ogling her for too long or too intently.

That certain awareness was also a pathetic little slut who made Feyre’s body react to a new alpha’s attention in an unwanted way. It somehow increased her heart rate and made her skin flush with rosy pink. So, before Feyre was even acutely aware of an alpha in the premises around her, she would already be blushing like a virgin and have a breathy undertone in her voice, even if she was talking about laundry detergents.

Ah, yes, laundry. I am wet from just thinking about it.

That was another thing. Having to carry an extra pair of underwear was a little bit embarrassing, but it was better than leaking slick through her jeans. Regular pantyliners were not enough for a whole day, and the ones designed for omegas, like it often happened, were reminiscent of torture devices, either heavily scented or incapable of staying flat on the surface of one’s underwear, eventually rolling into an uncomfortable clump. And that was way worse if her body decided to get all hot and bothered.

She ought to be thankful for the little hand showers installed in most bathrooms—something useful for omegas, for once. Feyre made a mental note to pack more underwear into her traveling bag as she stared into the light blue tile of her bathroom floor.

Before, Feyre had considered herself rather sexually active, being in an open relationship with an alpha—who insisted on it—and taking a few occasional lovers as a way of connecting to people and exploiting her sexuality, but not too many. Speaking frankly, if Tamlin had offered her going exclusive, she most likely would have said yes back then—for beta-Feyre he was more than enough.

For him, beta-Feyre wasn’t. It was in the foundation of their relationship, that he needed and wanted to have access to multiple lovers to assuage his insatiable alpha-drive. He didn’t have anything against her taking lovers as well—and she wasn’t going to sit there playing unrequested loyalty while he fucked other people—as long as they were not other alphas. It had something to do with the scent she carried on her person. Beta-Feyre didn’t really appreciate her scent acting like a visitor’s book but agreed with the terms—the chemistry between her and Tam was—Tamlin.

Not Tam.

Feyre shoved the supplies she had gathered into a large transparent bag for toiletries with an annoyed grunt—her electric toothbrush, portable waterpik, toothpaste, a bunch of q-tips in a packaging and, for some reason, shaving cream together with a few cheap plastic razors. Gods forbid that an omega grows body hair. Then she thought about it again and took them out—the razors were cheap but still sharp, and the entire idea of following through with Mor’s plan was to be safe.

Thinking about it, she could’ve kept everything in the bag the night earlier, but the insistent desire to arrange her things in a certain way came to her in waves and was too overwhelming to resist.

Don’t take any shampoo, conditioner or shower gel—the hotel will provide unscented ones. I am pretty sure you will want those, Mor had said to her on the phone hours earlier. Back then Feyre couldn’t really understand why, but as the time trickled by and her heat got closer and closer, she was starting to put two and two together. Even as she packed, the scent coming from cosmetic products made her scrunch her nose and sneeze aggressively, and she suspected it would only get worse.

As would other things, like the cramping in the bottom of her belly, or the itch across her mating glands on the neck and scent glands on her wrists. Feyre tried not to think about the demanding throb between her legs—there was no help against it. She tried. Gods, she tried so hard to get herself off and find some relief, but after literal hours of stuffing herself full of her fingers she had to eventually give up on the idea, shuffle her blankets to release the hot air accumulated underneath them—like a sauna, really, then cry a little bit and try to sleep.

Only to be tormented in her dreams, too.

The luxury of a peaceful sleep became something unachievable. Instead, as the night stole the last rays of sunshine away and Feyre grew drowsy, her eyelids heavy and mind fuzzy, she’d eventually succumb to her body’s wish for rest. As soon as her consciousness winked out like a little star from the sky, she’d find herself back in that dreadful club.

Under the Mountain.

Feyre shook her head, willing the image away. She saw that dream way too many times to afford to think about it during the day, too. She left the bathroom with the transparent bag clutched to her chest and grimly looked at her living space.

The fact that Mor helped her find an apartment on such short notice—no notice at all, in fact, more like a phone call full of tears and snot—was a testament to her friend’s quick wit and superior communication skills. Well, it would also include Mor’s talent for abusing her familial ties whenever she could, but Feyre wasn’t going to complain about it—even if it ended up making Mor’s infuriating cousin her landlord.

A medium cramp in the pit of her belly stole her breath. She waited for it to pass, then exhaled through clenched teeth.

Not for long. Once her heat-business, how Feyre liked to put it, was over, and Feyre was back on her feet, she would look for another rental.

She wasn’t ungrateful, no. Deep inside, Feyre understood that the place around her could’ve been one of those which had nothing, were in the basement with no windows and covered in black mold, with wiring hanging in some inconspicuous spaces just waiting to electrocute her. This place? 

This felt like a dream come true. It was small, sure, but Feyre wasn’t one of those people who required a lot of space—more space meant more cleaning. It had potential, and from the curious glint she’d noticed appearing in Elain’s eyes Feyre knew she wasn’t the only one thinking that way. It was furnished, modestly, but she didn’t have to look for a bed, and everything was new. Large windows facing south provided a lot of natural light throughout the day, which was perfect for drawing and painting. Empty walls begged to be filled with her finished pieces, or better—she could use the walls themselves as a huge canvas, inviting colors into her space. A winter forest so realistic it’d make chills run down her spine every time she looked too closely. A large wolf’s eyes peering at her from within. One special spruce could be her designated Winter Solstice tree, decorated with little somethings she’d painted not for sale but for herself—

The idea of allowing yet another alpha to have control over her living space tasted like bile. She would have to move, and soon; getting attached to this place would only make it worse.

Feyre grabbed her phone from her parody of a dining table and checked the time. She made a move to scratch at her neck but stopped herself—her mating glands were already quite sensitive and didn’t need any further fondling.

Elain's visit had stretched over several hours, much of which Feyre's sister spent retelling what had happened in their family ever since Feyre had moved out. Apparently, Nesta had relocated as well, but, as was very typical for Feyre’s eldest sister, Nesta went big, and instead of moving a few hours away like any normal person she crossed the entire country and settled down in Velaris. Thinking about it made Feyre smile—she’d never visited the Northern capital (or historical capital, like many Velarians rushed to point out), but she heard a lot about it and felt like it’d suit Nesta very well, with its active night live and appreciation of strong-opinionated people. 

And weapons.

According to Elain, their father was doing much better, too. Feyre hadn’t had the opportunity to see him just yet—that’d have to wait until after she was through with her omega-related problems. There was a teeny-tiny chance she was nervous to see him—too many conflicting emotions swarmed her head, from guilt born out of leaving when father was not well, to boiling anger for making her feel so unloved—Nesta as well, not just dad—that she had to escape.

Elain, ever the mediator, was more than glad to pass the messages full of everything is well along. The middle Archeron sister didn’t go into much detail about her personal life—following a habit she developed when they all were little girls, but Feyre was made aware that Elain wasn’t single, and Feyre saw clearly as day that Elain wasn’t happy.

Not to be a meddling busybody, but there was one single not-quite-gentleman, but close to it, who, perhaps, would be more successful in making her sister smile with joy. Thinking about Lucien made Feyre feel a pang of sadness—he helped her so much, stealing her away from her last apartment she’d shared with Tamlin, but it’d cost him. Youngest Vanserra’s life wasn’t easy, and thankfully he was able to secure at least one job transfer to their small town—his cheesy coffee shop, if she wasn’t mistaken. Lucien was in desperate need of somebody who’d love him wholeheartedly, and if Feyre’s intuition was correct, soon her sister would be available…

But that, too, would have to wait.

She didn’t have much time left before she had to show up in the Matching Center of Alpha on the Line. She fished out an old backpack from her suitcase, butterflied on the floor, shoved her toiletries along with a couple of shirts, warm socks—her feet were always so cold she couldn’t sleep without them—and, yes, extra underwear. She closed the suitcase with her foot and sent it gliding over the floor directly under her bed, where it came to a slow stop in a position so perfect that Feyre whistled.

National Prythian Curling team, here I come.

With a last look over the apartment to make sure nothing was running, the windows were closed, and the space was more-or-less tidy in case Elain truly decided to decorate, Feyre grabbed her set of keys with a sparkly unicorn horn and headed out towards the bus stop.

Alpha on the Line was, essentially, a semi-anonymous tinder-slash-phone-hookup for desperate needy omegas and desperate horny alphas. 

The process of them hooking up would go like this:

A desperate needy omega would fill in an application and submit it to Alpha on the Line’s website, where they’d confirm that, indeed, they require assistance from a desperate horny alpha. They would specify whether they require accommodations for their heat or not and the level of care they’d require—going from one for occasional calls to make sure everything is okay to five for staying on the line as long as it was humanly possible. If it so happened that the desperate needy omega wasn’t sure what level of care they’d need—which was usually the case for the first timers—then the form would autofill the previous question with a five. The desperate needy omega would be informed that, if they choose to use the accommodations provided by the organization, they would only be able to bring personal clothing and hygiene products.

Sex toys, if needed, were also provided. Sterile packaging and everything.

Then the desperate needy omega would arrive at the Matching Center, where Alpha on the Line stored clothes donated by desperate horny alphas. The idea was simple—desperate needy omegas were able to find a good, nearly perfect match for their desperate needy omega needs solely by scent. So, they’d come by, stroll through the center, sniff a few pieces of clothing—usually hoodies or shirts, and, if lucky, one of them would smell so good they’d water in their mouth. Simple as that.

Fucking mortifying.

Just arriving here turned out to be difficult. At least three different alpha men tried to talk to her out of the blue—she was lying to herself to feel better, of course she knew she fucking smelled like sex to them—and the scent coming from them was awful. Stupid, stupid—who the hell uses public transportation this close to heat?

Five minutes after entering the building Feyre wanted to leave. She wanted to go back to her apartment and drown herself in bleach. The cloying scent of other omegas looking for their match was grating against her nerves. There were only a few of them besides Feyre, but it was a few too many. The animal inside her head was awake, snarling and aching to claw their eyes out. There was a big chance that those omegas felt the same kind of urges—Feyre would put her money on it after a gust of air saturated with stress hormones punched her in the face.

It wasn’t the main problem, though. The main problem was that the Matching Center, a supposedly quiet place designed to help an omega on the verge of their heat find a potential partner—albeit a phone one—without contributing towards already high levels of anxiety, seemed to be alight with activity of so many people doing Gods know what—moving the massive racks, sweeping the floor, picking something up, running, shouting—

As a cherry on top of it all, the overwhelming cocktail of dozens of stale alpha scents permeated the air of the main hall, and none of them were good.

None.

She felt like crying. She had hoped she’d be able to find some help. No strings attached, someone to look after her, perhaps, a reluctant date afterwards, but most likely not—Feyre wasn’t ready to try anything else this soon after her last break up. Despite her relationship with Tamlin being anything but romantic in the past few months, and, well… Running away from your ex-boyfriend counts as breaking up, doesn’t it? 

Truth to be told, after a night full of reading about omegas and their experiences she was terrified of going through the heat alone.

I wanted to rip my uterus out.

I tried applying a hot compress and each time I made it warmer, and eventually burned myself. They didn’t help.

I couldn’t get up. Couldn’t prepare any food—I crawled to the bathroom and drank water from the shower tap to not die from dehydration.

I felt so lonely and undesirable, and there was so much pain—I just wanted it to end.

I called my ex and begged him through tears to come to my nest and help me.

I thought that I was the most worthless, useless, unlovable person ever.

A video of an omega, writhing in pain on the floor, while someone’s recording. Laughing in the background. Laughing.

Feyre shuddered.

Alpha on the Line didn’t fully solve all the problems. Feyre wondered it too, but wouldn’t an omega eventually ask why their alpha wasn’t around, in the nest? Wouldn’t they feel like their alpha didn’t want to be with them?

She assumed the answer was to lie. Lie as much as possible and in the most convincing way, making the omega in question believe that their alpha would’ve done anything, anything to reunite with them, but some greater forces were at play. 

My flight was canceled. I broke my leg. Both, actually, and my arm, otherwise I would’ve crawled to you on my stomach. My mother-slash-father-slash-dog needs emergency treatment. I am lactose intolerant and just finished a full tray of mac and cheese. Something.

Thinking about her nest empty was starting to upset her. The overall tone of her thoughts began to shift, acquiring this disturbing, whiny aftertaste to it, and she hated it. When she was done with medical paperwork for her prescription and finally got a new batch of her suppressants, she would split them up and hide them in separate locations.

To make sure she didn’t accidentally miss her heavenly match, Feyre walked a circle around the large hall filled with carefully separated racks of clothing—the organizers didn’t want the scents to mix up too much, she guessed. She didn’t need to put any of the clothing to her face—one step was already too close.

“Psss!” Feyre heard from somewhere behind her. She turned, a confused frown on her face, but didn’t see anybody.

“Over here!”

She looked between the racks, thinking someone was hiding there, and heard a snort coming from the same direction. It sounded further than she thought at first—she looked up, and, there!

From behind a white door which went unnoticed against the similarly white wall, with the glaring red Staff Only on its surface, she saw a familiar blonde head.

Mor.

Feyre felt her mouth tremble—Gods, why couldn’t she just not cry—and clamped her lips between her teeth to keep herself from bursting into tears. She glanced around to make sure nobody was watching her, then walked up to the door. As soon as she was within grabbing distance, Mor thrust her arm out, her fingers circled around Feyre’s wrist, and Feyre found herself pulled into the adjacent room and enveloped into a hug.

“Oh, sorry! I forgot I might be too much for your nose now, but I missed you!” Mor sang, nevertheless hugging Feyre tighter as if to say deal with it. Feyre let her, suddenly relishing in the embrace. She realized she liked it when someone hugged her. Earlier depressed animal inside of her perked up, if only a little. After a while of swaying in a hug together Mor freed her, and Feyre stepped out. She was finally able to take a good look at her. 

At the first glance, Mor could be described as…effortless. If only people knew how far from the truth that statement was.

Beautiful golden waves cascaded down her heart-shaped face to her shoulders and all the way to her waist. Her curvy figure was wrapped in a hoodie set of rich burgundy color which, although not overly tight, hugged her form just right, accentuating her full chest and wide hips while being slightly loose at her waist—hinting at, but not directly promoting her hourglass body shape. Comfy sneakers the color of sand finished her look—Feyre knew there was a baseball hat of similar shade abandoned somewhere.

She didn’t wear any perfume from what Feyre could tell, so her nose was all right. The cramps, though—she winced as another one clutched at her insides.

Mor never really seemed like she needed the money—yet, having more than enough of it in the family, she somehow avoided developing the desire to look like a jewelry store walking advertisement. Kind, open, but not stupid or too trusting, Mor had quickly decided Feyre was going to be her new victim no matter what and Feyre felt too out of her league to try and do something about it before it was too late, and then they became best friends.

It’d been a while since they’d seen each other face to face. Meeting with people Feyre cared about became rather difficult ever since she presented—some dropped contact the moment they heard the news, which was rather sobering—if not infuriating, but others…

Those who wanted to keep in touch or support Feyre in one way or another had to learn quickly there’d be obstacles. An obstacle.

It didn’t start that way the moment she presented, no. Like anything poisonous, Tamlin’s jealousy needed time to convince Feyre she didn’t want to talk to the people she used to hang out with. They’re not the kind of people we should waste our time on. The wild animal inhabiting her hindbrain would look for any, any way to appease the upset alpha, and Tamlin was always upset whenever it came down to sharing her time with others. Some sick-headed women would find it endearing he’d be so possessive of her, but Feyre couldn’t look away from the rotten truth—he only started caring so much ever since she stopped being a beta-Feyre and became an omega.

She secretly believed that, despite her placating tendencies, her omega-part knew it as well, and this was the reason why her body got so bothered in the presence of other alphas. Tamlin noticed it, too.

There were two people who Feyre refused to give up completely—Mor and Lucien. Both Tamlin grew more and more annoyed with, abandoning his persuasion tactics in favor of straight up fighting Feyre on whether they were good for her or not. Both ended up saving her later.

“I missed you too, Mor, and I’m so sorry—”

“Do not apologize for that asshole!” Mor interrupted her furiously. “You’re out of there, we’re going to be golden. I saw you arrive through the cameras—are you all right?”

Feyre swallowed and considered saying the good old yeah, I’m fine, but different words spilled out of her mouth instead.

“They all reek so bad, I can’t be here any longer,” she choked out, sending Mor into a fit of laughter. “It isn’t funny! I hoped I would’ve liked at least someone, and now I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Feyre didn’t want to panic. She wasn’t usually a panicking person, but it seemed like she was going to learn a lot of new things about herself that day.

“Deep breaths! Okay, maybe not. You have no reason to panic—if you don’t match anyone, you’re still going to be taken care of, I promise.”

Feyre frowned at her, the question evident in her eyes. The omega part of her, stronger by the minute, was scratching at the door of her mind, begging to be let out.

No Alpha? 

“You’re going to have your own space, ready meals and lots and lots of bottled water, everything easily accessible.” Mor looked at her intently, perhaps noticing a shift in Feyre’s demeanor. “But in my experience, I haven’t seen a single omega not find a match. There’s a smaller storage full of other donations at the hotel itself—if you’ve got no luck over here, ask at the reception if you could check it out.”

Feyre nodded. She had her own doubts, but didn’t want to burden Mor further—clearly there was something happening at the Matching Cente r if her friend was required to show up personally. Mor wasn’t a full-on employee of Alpha on the Line, but she’d been volunteering for years and eventually moved up the chain of command a lot and knew the inside-and-out of the organization quite well. It was how Mor was able to secure a reservation for Feyre’s upcoming heat.

To think of how much both Mor and Lucien went through to make sure she was okay—they were like a family to her. A found family.

“I know you don’t have much time, but do you want to grab a cup of hot cocoa in my office? It’s quite cramped there but at least it’s quiet,” Mor offered, looking at her hopefully. She was clearly bored and wanted some company.

Hot cocoa and quiet indeed sounded nice. Maybe Feyre would go another circle around the main hall afterwards—what if she had missed her perfect match? With that in mind, she let out a quick let’s go and followed immediately enthusiastic Mor through the tight hallways of the office space. They stopped at the coffee machine—brand new, which Mor couldn’t stop gushing about, and she showed Feyre what cocoa combo was the best in her opinion. With their cups full of delicious drinks, they headed to Mor’s office.

Feyre’s first impression was that the little room they entered was very… cozy. If she had the kind of room for herself—it was warm, peaceful, the orange lights atypical for office space were dimmed for eyes’ comfort—she’d choose it for her nest. 

Then she rolled her eyes at her trail of thought. She really didn’t have much time, but spending time with Mor seemed to have a soothing effect on her. 

She would head to the hotel after her drink.

While Mor busied around with moving things to create space for both of them to sit, Feyre stood in the middle of the room with both cups in her hands and just…breathed. She’d never thought that noise could be so overstimulating. Her head wasn’t exactly clear—her thoughts were growing a little hazy, a sensation she experienced only once in her life during the night she presented as an omega, but her mind was quiet.

Odd.

Once the clutter was defeated—partially—and both women took a seat with their drinks in hand, Mor went on explaining why it was so crowded in the Matching Center today. Feyre tried to listen. Something about social services, a demonstration, future governmental funding—it all sounded so complex and wasn’t what the youngest Archeron wanted to think about.

A hand waved right in front of Feyre’s face, and she jumped, sending a nearby stack of books collapsing to the floor with her elbow.

“Gods I’m sorry, I was just trying to make you snap out of it,” Mor apologized as Feyre crouched down to pick up the books. 

“It’s nothing, Mor, don’t worry. But I think I have to go soon,” Feyre answered weakly. While stacking the books on top of one another, she glanced under her chair to check if anything fell in there, and—would you look at that.

With a triumphant smile, Feyre fished out Mor’s infamous sand colored baseball cap.

“Where do you want this?” she asked.

“Uhhh, just drop it in that closet, otherwise I will lose it again. I will drive you to the hotel—you aren’t using public transportation like this.” Mor waved her hand towards the closet in the back of the office.

The authoritative tone of Mor’s voice ripped out Feyre's usual urge to refuse help with the roots. Her friend had done more than enough, but Feyre felt such a powerful zing of pleasure rush through her at the mere idea of someone taking care of her, her knees grew a little weak. Besides, her last bus trip was more than enough for her fragile nerves.

Feyre pulled the door of the closet—it opened outwards and had little magnets around the frame to keep it closed—and almost stumbled in.

Citrus. Citrus and tempestuous ocean. The scent of it—it was old, worn down by time, but it was there. A skillfully placed trap, it sprang the moment the silly little prey stepped right in.

Mine.

Feyre swallowed hard, peering inside of the closet. It was filled with empty hangers, and she couldn't see any clothing—she checked the bottom of the closet as well, but there was nothing. She shifted on her feet, trying to alleviate the ache beginning between her legs anew. Frantically, she tugged at the second door—it couldn't open fully because of some clutter on the floor—as she kept looking, looking, until her eyes caught something small and dark in the very back of the closet. She reached for it, wrapped her fingers around the cool fabric—it felt smooth like silk—and pulled out…

…a black tie.

She stared at it, afraid to take another breath, but it was too late. The captivating aroma filled her airways, settled in her lungs, conquered her whole being. Mor’s baseball hat fell out of her other hand.

“What’s wrong?” her friend asked from behind.

She could feel the slick gathering on the gusset of her underwear. Her throat closed, preventing her from speaking, and Feyre silently turned to face Mor, a slip of fabric hanging from her slightly extended hand in an answer. Mor’s eyes widened as they zeroed on it, and she stepped forward, making a move to take it. Out of her fucking mind, Feyre clutched the tie to her chest and bared her teeth defensively. 

Mine!

Mor jumped back, hands raised in surrender. Feyre’s face dropped. This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening, Gods.

“Feyre, come on. You don’t want that stupid tie. We can get something better for you,” Mor coaxed, making another attempt to get closer.

Feyre’s body was throbbing in need. She shook her head nervously, sidestepping Mor in an impressive show of agility and effectively positioning herself closer to the door. She was ready to bolt. Mor clearly could see it too, as she stopped trying to engage. She tried to reason with her again.

“Feyre, this is Rhys’s tie. You don’t like Rhysand, remember?” Seemingly accepting her defeat, Mor ran both of her hands through her golden mane. “Gods, this is such a mess.”

Rhysand.

Yes.

“It’s too late,” Feyre managed to choke out as she held the problematic piece of clothing close to her. She wanted to rub it against her mating glands. She could vividly imagine Rhysand wearing it around his muscular neck for an entire day, letting it absorb the scent of his body, or how he’d loosen it, hooking two long calloused fingers right above the kn—

Stop.

“What do you mean it’s too late?” Mor’s voice pitched higher, showing how upset she was. She was most likely blaming herself.

“It—it won’t let me take anything else,” Feyre squeaked out. True to her words, the mere thought of seeking a piece of clothing from another alpha filled her with a nauseating mixture of disgust and anger. Why would she need another’s scent? Instead, Feyre should look for something else carrying the scent of her al—

Shut up!

Mor pressed two fingers to her own forehead as if checking if she had a fever.

“I can’t believe this, I—uh,” she looked at Feyre helplessly, searching for better words, “I don’t even know why his tie is here!”

Feyre swayed on her feet and leaned against the wall right next to the door. She felt her face warm up—the heat fever was already settling in. She needed to go.

“I don’t have time. Drive me to the hotel?” she almost begged.

Mor clenched her jaw, then gathered the last remaining bits of calm and nodded at the door. They both headed out, heavy silence hanging above their heads.

In the car, Feyre wrapped the tie around her knuckles to stop herself from nuzzling it. The drive didn’t take long—the Matching Center was intentionally opened near the hotel that provided the rooms for Alpha on the Line. Feyre couldn’t remember its name.

Once they pulled over, Mor heaved a sigh, then reached across Feyre to the glove box—Feyre shrank inwards despite herself—and opened it, fished something out of it and slammed it back up. That something turned out to be a stack of business cards, through which Mor ran with nimble fingers until finally she found what she was looking for.

“Here, have Rhys’s number. If you feel like you need to call him, I’m sure he would help,” she said, offering a black—shocker—rectangle to Feyre and not hiding in the slightest that she didn’t like this predicament one bit.

“I’m not going to call him!” Feyre spat out the same time her hand twitched to accept the card.

“You don’t know it, Feyre, and it’s better to have someone to call than nobody at all.” She shoved the card into Feyre’s hands. “I was going to offer you my phone number in case you didn’t find a match, but, well, clearly you did.” Mor pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Feyre’s heart sank at the sight. She was missing something, something vital that made Mor unhappy, and she felt like a terrible friend all over again.

Nobody could take away Mor’s talent at reading people, though, so when she saw how remorseful—although not knowing for what—Feyre was, she choked out a laugh.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I just know I won’t hear the end of it,” she said and made a face she always did whenever she argued with her cousin. Feyre snorted, allowing herself to feel a little bit amused—seeing Mor and Rhysand fight over something silly was always entertaining. As her friend got out of the car, Feyre slid the card into the pocket of her jeans—she thought of sneakily throwing it away, but fear managed to grip her by the scalp. She didn’t want to be alone during her first heat, and although she promised herself that she wouldn’t call Rhysand, having his phone number eased something in her fever-addled head.

Mor escorted Feyre all the way to the reception—a spacious well-lit area right after the double doors of the hotel, done in cool neutral tones—where a friendly-looking redhead got up from her computer desk to greet them. Her best friend wished her good luck, apologized again—this is all my fault, Feyre, I’m so sorry—and left.

“Hi, I’m Gwyneth, but you can call me Gwyn. Can I have your name to confirm your reservation?” the redhead asked cheerily. Only after Mor left did Feyre realize that the woman at the reception was also an omega. Her scent, however, wasn’t overly sweet or nauseating like of the omegas she briefly encountered in the Matching Center—it was rather… muted. Not a threat—to whatever her hindbrain was apparently protecting.

As if reading the question in Feyre’s eyes, Gwyn tapped two fingers against the side of her neck—right where her mating gland was, and said, “I’m on very strong suppressants.” She sat down and pulled the keyboard closer to herself, then looked up at Feyre expectantly.

“I was, too. Then my ex-boyfriend flushed my entire supply down the drain. Feyre Archeron,” Feyre stammered out. 

Redhead’s eyes widened in shock as she typed in Feyre’s name.

“That’s so terrible, but I’m so glad you came here. Do you need assistance reporting your ex-boyfriend to the police? We could do it for you while you’re on your leave,” she offered, her teal eyes running over the information on the screen.

Feyre shook her head.

“I will handle it once I’m done here, don’t worry. But thank you.”

Gwyn seemingly wanted to argue against it but nodded instead.

“Alright, here’s your keycard. You will be staying in room thirty-three, which is, conveniently, on the third floor. Did you find a match, or do you need to check the storage here?”

Feyre wordlessly waved her hand with the black tie wrapped around it. It brought a new wave of its owner’s scent right to her face, and she felt her mouth water. Gwyn gasped.

“A tie, how smart! Barely takes any space, right?” she asked. Feyre nodded, not exactly sharing her enthusiasm.

She reached for the keycard, but Gwyn quickly pulled it back, smiling sheepishly.

“Almost forgot. Your phone? We’re giving you the corporate one for the duration of your stay.”

“Oh, right.”

Feyre fumbled with her backpack and, after a moment, pulled out her phone. She turned it off and placed it in front of Gwyn. The woman picked it up, carefully placed it in a plastic bag she protruded from one of the drawers on the side, then put it away from Feyre’s gaze.

“You will find the device you can use for contacting your match upstairs, in your room. Just to clarify, and forgive me for being nosy, but your match—it isn’t your ex-boyfriend, right?”

“No, no. It’s someone completely different.”

“Okay, good. Then, yes, now you can take your key card. Meals are served three times a day, and there are more than plenty of snacks upstairs—eat as much as you need, you are going to burn a lot of calories, okay? And remember to stay hydrated,” Gwyn made a polite gesture with her hand, directing Feyre to the left, towards the elevators.

Once she stepped through the doorway, she found herself in a narrow hallway with a small table next to the wall. She walked forward, turned left, and finally found herself in her room. She looked around appreciatively—muted shades of purple and dark gray surrounded her, in the plush carpet on the floor to the bedding and the curtains, working well to cool her nerves down. The unusual shape of the entry offered some privacy. She spied a myriad of snacks on the counter facing the bed and a door to the bathroom on her right.

Feyre felt the energy sap from her overstressed body, a payment due for the night spent reading instead of resting. She barely had the energy to shower—getting out of clothing felt like bliss, but the water was either too hot or too cold, never just right. Freshly washed and stark naked, she shook out the blankets previously stacked on top of the large bed and arranged them in a way that seemed to satisfy the whimpering omega in her head. Then she added the pillows. Right before climbing in, she reluctantly placed the black tie on the edge of her nest.

Feyre curled on her side, as far from the silk scrap of clothing as she could. The lithe shape of it was reminiscent of a snake protecting its own nest, readying for a strike. She looked at it and looked at it, oddly calmed by its presence despite the conflicting emotions the owner of the tie awoke in her.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Her breathing slowed.

In the safety of her nest, she forgot one thing.

Her dreams no longer belonged to her.

People, so many people around, all of them moving to the sensual beat. Feyre couldn’t see their faces. They were inconsequential. Even if she tried to look up—from the floor, she was on the floor, alone, like a lost little puppy—they were too blurry to recognize or turned away. 

The crowd parted. It always did—she’d seen this dream before, many times.

As people stepped aside, they revealed a male figure sprawled across the dark leather seat in the back of the lounge. Feyre’s eyes followed the lines of his body—long powerful legs clad in black slacks, thick thighs spread wide. His formidable torso was where she’d first see his golden-brown skin and the prominent muscles of his chest, barely covered by an unbuttoned black shirt. Broad shoulders reclined against the back of the seat and a bit to the side. One elbow firmly planted on the armrest. Another arm resting at his side, unoccupied.

It felt familiar. The idea of watching someone on that throne felt like she’d done it before. Her uninterrupted exploration of his body continued with her eyes trailing higher, to the prominent tendons of his neck. The angle of his head allowed her to see the delicate mating gland flushed scarlet—her eyes zeroed on it for a little while despite the great distance between them. And then—then Feyre looked up at his face—handsome, almost cruel in its beauty, full of self-satisfaction. A lazy smirk was carved into his mouth. The gaze of his deep blue eyes was fixated on her, his inky black hair glistening in the dim light akin to the most exquisite silk.

Rhysand.

Looking down at her. Watching her.

…If you wanted to sit on my lap so badly, you could’ve just asked, Feyre darling…

She’d never expected this phrase—said out of sheer desire to rile her up—to haunt her. She would never admit it aloud while awake, when her mind and soul belonged only to her how they were supposed to. But in her dreams…

She wanted to. Only once in her life had she experienced the warmth of his embrace, and addicted, she wanted to feel it again.

He knew it. Feyre’s dreams chose him as their new master, that was how he knew. The dangerous glint of his eyes beckoned her, the sinuous shift of his body in his seat forcing her to clench her thighs. 

…If you wanted to sit on my lap so badly, you could’ve just asked, Feyre darling…

“I want,” she whispered, “I want.”

She made a move to get up from the floor, but a raised eyebrow stopped her mid motion.

His sinful mouth parted, dark pink flesh of his tongue running over it, wetting his lips. Resting until then arm rose up in the air, and then, in a gesture full of condescension, Rhysand tapped his large hand against his thigh. Once, two times.

“Crawl.”

A hitch in her breath. A zap of lust rushing through her body—lightly scratching her scalp, caressing her neck and shoulders, brushing against her achingly hard nipples, tickling her sides and pooling in the bottom of her belly. Shards of control over her reality molten into lava, pulsing, pulsing. She was making a mess.

Not obeying his command right away—it dimmed Rhysand’s easygoing smile however briefly, a heady mixture of challenge and disapproval darkening his features. Then the music stopped, as did the people around her, and every single featureless face turned towards her, waiting to see what she’d do. In the quiet of the endless space Feyre could hear her heart trying to jump out of her chest. It pulled her forward, begged her not to be afraid, to take what she truly wanted, to submit.

Every time in her dream, Feyre played a little mind game.

Will he get up and come to me if I stay here?

Easy, it would’ve been so easy to blame everything on him if he was the one to close the distance. To claim that what happened in her-not-her dreams was not what she wanted. That she didn’t have a choice. That, chained to the cold floor of the club by her own cowardice, she had nowhere to run.

And because of that, he never moved.

She did.

The moment her shaking palm touched the cold surface of the floor, the music resumed its erotic beat, and the faceless people forgot about her, yet again succumbing to the dance. Rhysand’s eyes widened for a mere moment, his interest peaked, then he lowered his chin in approval.

“Go on.”

Step after step, on her hands and knees, she erased the distance between them. Deliberate sway of her ass attracted Rhysand’s hungry gaze, but it also made the throbbing emptiness of her cunt too much to bear. She panted in anticipation of what was next.

Her knees were growing sore from pushing against the hard floor. She was so wet; her slick was coating her inner thighs. Her arms were shaking under her own weight. The closer she got, though, the more of Rhysand’s cool demeanor slipped away. His massive hand gripped the edge of the armrest so tight it revealed the intricate lines of his tendons and veins. His breathing matched hers. The lines of his seemingly relaxed body grew taut in a show of restraint needed to keep him seated instead of lunging for her.

What would he do if she stopped? Would he meet her halfway and take her right there on the floor? Or would he coerce her into finishing what she’d started?

If she turned around and ran, would he chase her down?

The image made her toes curl.

It mattered not. Sensing her traitorous thoughts, Rhysand extended his arm to her in a silent invitation, making Feyre realize just how close they were.

“Feyre,” he moaned, waiting, waiting for her to accept his hand.

So close. He was so close.

But the moment her hand touched his, she woke up.

Disoriented. Hot.

Aching in her core.

She released a wail as she pushed her hand between her thighs and pressed down—the pressure helped a little, but it was nowhere near enough. She needed more—like a toy, wasn’t there supposed to be a toy?

Feyre rolled off the bed and landed sideways on the floor with a loud thump—unpleasant, but efficient—and reached for the nightstand’s drawer. She rummaged through it blindly, first locating something thin and smooth—she took out a phone. Angry with the world seemingly mocking her, she tossed it aside to the pile of her clothing. At her second attempt, she touched something crinkly and plasticky and grabbed for it. In her hand, wrapped in sterile packaging, she found what she was looking for.

She tore at the plastic with her teeth. Never in her life was she so desperate to masturbate, but the insistent pain and tension in the bottom of her belly made her hurry. The dildo was of average size and had a button on the handle Feyre couldn’t care less about—she rolled onto her back, slickened the head of the toy up—she was never this wet in her entire life—and pushed it inside.

It was cold.

She clenched her thighs together in a desperate attempt to warm it. Uncomfortable temperature aside, she felt full—the pain lessened drastically, allowing her to stretch her body and flex her hips in a delicious way. She sighed as she settled in a more comfortable fashion—one would think fucking herself on top of a bed would be way better but no, that wasn’t what Feyre was doing today—and began working the toy inside of her.

The relief she felt from pain weakening its hold ebbed away as she realized that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t come. She switched her wrists, she played with her clit, she rolled onto her tummy and lifted her hips in the air—nothing was helping. Her thoughts were unraveling, complex concepts simplifying into basic needs. Desperate, she rose on her knees with the dildo still inside of her—it flexed and pushed at the wrong spots—and tried to reach for the black tie on the other edge of the bed, but it was too far.

Too far. It was too far, and there was nobody else in her nest.

Her mind shifted. Empty nest. Faint scent of him came to her willingly from the tantalizing piece of fabric carefully placed atop the blankets, but he wasn’t there with her.

Why?

There was only one way to find out. She turned towards the clothing on the floor and crawled—just like in her dream, it felt so right—feeling the toy shift inside her cunt with each movement she made. She fished out the black business card with a phone number printed in elegant font, took the smartphone she discarded earlier in her wet hands—it unlocked right on the dial pad. She put the number in and pressed the dial.

A ring. Two. Three. Nothing on four.

“Rhysand speaking. I’m not available right now…”

Pleasure from hearing his voice was quickly drowned by panic. He was going to hang up. No.

“ Alpha, I—please,” she whimpered.

A beat of silence. She shuddered; her breath was ragged, uneven. And then—

“Hello, Feyre darling.”

Chapter Text

If there was one thing Rhysand hated in people universally, without discrimination, it would be not being able to arrive on time. Especially if the said time was set by the person in question. But, yet again, his younger cousin proved to be oblivious to the concept of punctuality—Mor had a particular talent for ignoring things she thought weren't worthy of her attention, he'd give her that—and after checking his watch for the third time he realized enough was enough and decided to hunt her down himself. So he made his way to the underground parking of the mall his cousin was supposed to be in—thankfully, Andromache could afford enough parking spaces for all of its endless horde of customers—before heading upstairs.

He had a pretty vague idea of where his unruly cousin could be. In her never ending stream of speech she chirped about looking for a gift for one of her friends—the one who recently became a mother, if he wasn't mistaken. Kallias' girl, Vivi, Viviane? Something. Kallias didn't particularly like Rhysand, so the latter felt no inclination to remember the former's wife's name.

Frankly speaking, picking up a part-time job as Mor's chauffeur was one of the last things he'd imagined himself doing, and, usually, for such useless, boring, waste-of-time things he had Azriel.

But he knew better than to send Azriel after Mor.

Besides, Rhysand was returning to Velaris soon—a little cousin-hunting wouldn't hurt.

Locating the floor with everything parent-and-baby themed was relatively easy thanks to the interactive map he'd found after going upstairs by an escalator. Cassian better not know about him slacking on physical activity. Now, of course, finding better things to do wasn't a problem for Rhysand. There was always, always work to do—despite owning the business for the last thirteen years since his father's ultimate demise, his job of cleaning up the mess after they went legit still wasn't done. As long as he could remember, almost monthly they learned of new debts to pay—questionable or not, he didn't care, it had to be taken care of—lawsuits to settle, press to placate…

Old enemies to deal with.

Ruby red hair, gleaming in the candle light—

But enough of that.

With a quick glance Rhysand targeted three different stores, one of which he suspected he'd find Mor in. If he was lucky enough, he would pick the correct one from the get go and, once he found her, he'd drag her to the car by the ear. They were supposed to meet thirty minutes ago and be off to the place she fancied for a catch-up. Unfortunately for Rhysand, he was dealing with Mor, who was much, much more lucky than he'd ever been—or would be—which meant he had to check two stores full of overly-eager sales advisors and mothers starved for eye-candy before he found her.

When he entered the store and gave it a careful look-over trying to pinpoint a certain blonde head, his gaze caught a female form right next to a hanger full of nursery mobiles.

Perhaps Rhysand was luckier than he thought. Once his eyes fully settled on the woman, he reluctantly admitted to himself he could appreciate some eye-candy as well, which was unusual—he rarely felt the need to let his eyes linger, usually focused on work. This time, though… Undoubtedly young, slender, gifted with beautiful golden-brown hair reaching down her waist, casually dressed in a leather jacket too thin for current weather and jeans so tight Rhysand categorized them into leggings, feet clad in simple black boots. Attractive curves of her body flowed into a delicate bone structure he noted even at a distance. What was she doing here, he wondered? A mother looking for something shiny for the babe? It didn't quite match—judging by the amount of strollers he almost got driven over with, mothers preferred to visit such establishments with their children. Or didn't have another choice.

Was she alone?

He couldn't see her face from where he stood, which was both a blessing and a curse. Filled with irrational greed, he wished to study her features, to learn the color of her eyes, the shape of her lips, but staying where he was allowed him to observe what she'd do without being noticed. He feigned mild interest in an item displayed nearby as he watched her gently poke a shiny star hanging from the closest mobile. The toy swung and clinked against another nearby, bringing the entire thing into circular motion full of charming sound, and she looked…startled by it. Her posture was stiff, shoulders hunched, limbs locked as if she wanted to run but refused to.

Terrified of a child's toy. Interesting.

Almost like she'd never—

"Rhys!" Mor's voice rang somewhere in the distance.

Maybe not as lucky.

To his surprise, the woman who caught his attention—captured it, really, ensnared it—also turned to the sound of his cousin's greeting. And when she did—when her brilliant gaze met his…

Time?

It ceased to exist.

"You won't believe how many options for baby shoes they have! Did you know they call them booties? I got so lost trying to pick a pair!" His cousin immediately went on the offensive by weaving the intricate web of excuses to get herself out of trouble. Rhysand's earlier irritation dissipated into cigarette smoke blown away by the storm. He barely paid her chirping any mind as he looked at the woman. How could he think of anything else, when before him stood the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen? Oval-shaped face, large, gray-blue eyes with a gentle tilt to them, a dusting of freckles over her lovely pale cheeks and slightly upturned nose. The tantalizing shape of her mouth formed an 'o' as, he realized, she sized him up in return. With immense satisfaction he observed how her eyes widened, how the features momentarily relaxed in utter astonishment—before sharpening in defiance at his clearly smug expression.

Ah. We have teeth, then.

Despite the cold hatred he felt towards the memory of his long dead father, the man who was supposed to be his protector, his pillar of security, but instead had put him in the way of harm and paid for it in the end—with his life—Rhysand remembered one lesson perfectly well. It didn't matter how you worked for what you wanted—whether you fought for it like a beast or allowed it to happen naturally—or guided the events against their nature, if it was needed. The most important part of achieving anything, anything at all, was outlining exactly what you wanted, understanding how badly you wanted, it and envisioning in what shape or form you desired it.

At that moment, he knew what he wished for like he knew his own name.

So, Rhysand schooled his face into one of the most obnoxious masks he ever wore, smirked and waited for Mor to introduce him to his future wife.

"Hello, Feyre darling."

Alpha.

The change of his tone was instantaneous. From unbothered, blatantly uncaring, cold and bored—it flushed with luxurious silky notes of a lover's voice, the caress of it stroking the length of her spine like a warm hand, and it stole away the tension from Feyre's body. She released a pleased sigh as her elbow gave out and she slid forward, burying her face in her own clothing while holding the phone to her ear.

In the caverns of her mind, deep, deep down, an angry hiss of irritation rose to the surface for a brief moment. An echo of fury and confusion, refusal, despair—but how could any of it make sense when Feyre's entire being tingled so nicely as she bathed in smooth the sound of his baritone? She swayed her hips in the air, almost presenting, the delicious movement spiced with the curve of the toy pressing inside her.

She decided to forget about those confusing thoughts.

Why did she call him? She couldn't remember. Her body warmed like after a strong drink full of sparkly sugars, and she let out a giggle. The edges of her mind softened as it enclosed itself in a large plush quilt of fuzzy thoughts, the razor thin line dividing Feyre and Omega blurring into moonlight spilled across the surface of the sleeping ocean.

Then another spasm raked through the bottom of her belly, her core gripping the toy so painfully she gasped, curling into herself.

Oh, right. That was why.

"You're not here…" she breathed out, accusing.

"And where exactly is this 'not here' you're speaking of?" he intoned.

"Not—not in my nest."

Just saying it out loud choked her like the most cruel betrayal imaginable. Here she was—warm and wet, fresh after shower—her hair was still damp—right next to her blankets and pillows, his—his piece of clothing on the very surface of it all like a humble token of acceptance, and he—

"Why aren't you here?" Her voice trembled. Did he have better things to do instead of being here with her? Fucking her full of his cock, knotting her like he should? Did she do something to deserve such neglect?

A disbelieving chuckle on the other end.

"My, my, the little omega finally decided to come out of her shell? Your invitation must've gotten lost in the mail. That is, if you sent one?"

Invitation? Of course she didn't send an invitation, why would she need to? As if her Alpha needed to be told to join her in the heart of her nest. To Feyre it sounded like he was trying to blame his absence on her, if anything. It wasn't like she planned to be here, after all. It was her very first heat, it came really, really fast—she didn't even have time!

Saturated with teasing affection, Rhysand's voice still held a mocking quality to it, like it usually did—another wave of irritation crushed into her, but fainter this time, the voice of nonsense fading. Feyre sniffed. Even to her slightly confused senses he didn't really sound like a devoted alpha speaking to his beloved omega in heat.

Alpha doesn't care. Doesn't care if you're in heat or not.

Did he even consider her his?

"Oh, an invitation? I see," she bit out, voice dripping with disdain.

Two times she called him her Alpha, and not once did he care to return the endearment. The condescending little omega didn't count—he was making fun of her, not a hint of possessiveness in his voice.

Exasperated, she hung up.

Miserable emptiness threatened to take over her mind as she stared at the phone in her hand, waiting. If he didn't call—

The phone rang.

She stalled for a few seconds, an angry desire to be spiteful warring with powerful attraction. The toy still inside of her was losing its appeal very quickly—she'd much rather have her Alpha take care of her with his body.

Hmm. Alpha's powerful, magnificent body…

She could show her displeasure, yes, make him apologize—grovel even, but there was only so many antics he'd tolerate before she drove him away completely. She had to be a reasonable omega.

She picked up the phone.

"Ye—"

"You dare to hang up on me?"

Ooh.

Speaking of groveling. In the sudden coldness of his tone the command to submit permeated his voice so strongly, her muscles—attuned to his will and not hers—listened instantaneously, and Feyre collapsed on her side with a moan. She had to be careful, so, so careful, lest he thought—

Lest he thought she was a bad omega.

Immediate regret filled her. She'd been too cheeky.

"Am sorry," Feyre whined out.

Silence. It was deafening. She couldn't hear his breathing, couldn't hear anything, and was about to check the screen of the phone to see if he ended the call when he finally spoke.

"Oh, you're sorry." He dragged it out, giving her words almost scandalizing aftertaste. Then he sighed. "As much as I'm flattered to hear you talk to me so sweetly, it is a rather… sudden turn of events. Is your pathetic boyfriend so incapable of taking care of you that you're calling me? Not much of a surprise there."

Boyfriend…She didn't want to think of some boyfriend while trying to lure her Alpha into her nest.

"No… I don't have a—a boyfriend."

"Really? That is a ve-ery interesting thing you're saying, Feyre darling. Tell me more."

He sounded intrigued and pleased by what she revealed. That was good, very good. But what else did he want to know? Sensing her confusion, he prompted her with another question, "Where are you right now?"

"In a hotel."

"You're nesting in a hotel?" And just like that, the amusement in his voice died out like a candle flame. "Why are you nesting in a hotel and not home?"

Shit.

She rushed to explain in an effort to placate him, "H—home isn't ready, I moved, I had to—"

She had to run. She did run, and Feyre had a feeling her Alpha wouldn't be happy to hear about it.

"You had to…?"

"I had to"—what was his name again—"Lucien helped me pack—I had to leave before—before he was back—"

A beat.

A growl.

"What did he do?"

"I don't want to—"

"What did he do to you, Feyre?"

"I—please, not now, I—ah—"

"You had to run—from your home? Gods help me, Feyre—"

"I am so wet," Feyre stuttered out. She then licked her lips, desperate for a change of topic, "So wet and aching, Alpha, and nothing's helping—I have this toy and it's not—not enough—"

She must've shocked him with her admission, because, after a moment, she heard charming laughter spill out of her phone.

"Is that why you're calling me? Little omega can't make herself come?"

"Please…"

He hummed, and she heard some noise in the background, similar to someone settling in, getting comfortable for a long talk. Next time he spoke, Rhysand's—Alpha's—voice was lower, huskier. The need to think disappeared, her attention locked in.

"I like it when you ask so nicely. Switch to your speaker and put your phone down."

Hands trembling, Feyre obeyed, placing the phone close to her ear. She rolled onto her back, legs clamped shut to keep the dildo inside of her. She shifted helplessly, trying to alleviate the ache in her core—but the movement only made it worse.

"I wish I could touch you with my own hands, but for now—you will do as I say. If I was there, though…I would touch your body anywhere I want, and you'd let me, wouldn't you, Feyre?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

A hitch in her breath. She cleared her throat to cover up the whine escaping her.

"Yes, Alpha."

"Good." Her eyes rolled, warmth pooling in the bottom of her belly. "I would start easy on you. You're so fragile, I wouldn't want to break you. Not yet."

Without asking, Feyre allowed her fingers to skate across her mating glands flushed red. They were so, so sensitive, the gentlest caress sent a shiver down her limbs. Ripe for the taking. She flattened her hands against her skin.

"Are your breasts tender, darling? They'd fit so nicely in my hands."

"They are, Alpha," she breathed out, running her hands lower to cup her soft flesh. They were warmer and heavier in her hold, slightest graze against her aching peaks ricocheting through the entirety of her, making her shake. His hands—they were so much wider than hers, fingers longer—would they feel just as heavenly on her body as she thought?

"Tweak those nipples for me."

She didn't want to—she would have avoided touching them all together, the sensation was too strong. But her hands—her traitorous, nimble hands—they listened to his voice like two vicious vipers obeying the song of a snake charmer, fingers parting before capturing pink flesh of her nipples in between. A gasp as the tugging sensation reverberated in her tummy, and her back arched off the floor.

"Harder."

She rolled her nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and let out a warble as pain mingled with pleasure and shot straight into her cunt. It clenched around the toy, and her hips bucked into nothing.

"I would suck bruises into your skin, Feyre. Wouldn't miss an inch of your body."

The vision of her Alpha marking her body for everyone to see and know she belonged to him excited her, sending jolts of electricity across her skin and making it difficult to stay still. His tremendous form hovering over her, caging her against the floor, ravaging her skin as she squirmed, helpless, weak, breakable—she flexed her hips, the delicious friction inside of her sending sparks behind her eyelids—she didn't even realize she'd closed her eyes until then—her pants full of want mimicking the rhythm of her quivering.

Too obvious. She was too obvious.

"Pull that toy out of your cunt. You did nothing to deserve it."

What? No!

"But, Alpha—"

"I won't repeat again."

Her eyes flew open in shock at the sternness in his voice as more latent heat curled around her spine and slithered its way to the apex of her thighs. Tears burned their way to the surface of her eyes and threatened to spill over. Hesitantly, she followed his command and dragged the dildo from inside of her, the sound of her wet core releasing the toy so loud and obscene it made her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Her greedy, greedy cunt couldn't keep it locked in despite all its efforts.

Rhysand heard it, too. He hummed, then tutted mockingly.

"Poor thing, how wet you are. Alpha will make it better, I promise."

Alpha—that's what he called himself, didn't he? Her heart leapt with joy. It made it easy, so easy to listen. She wanted to be good.

"Stroke your tummy, little one."

A ragged breath, gooseflesh erupting over her form, her hands doing the bidding of their new master. She squirmed as the muscles of her abdomen rippled underneath the skin from the slightest caress. Barely relaxed nipples tightened again, and they felt sore against the cool air of the room.

"Ticklish?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, Alpha."

"Ill-mannered minx. Do it again."

The authority of his voice settled over her aching body like a warm heavy blanket, but she couldn't mistake it for anything but a net over a hunter's prey. She wouldn't get out of it. Didn't want to. The emptiness in her core felt unnatural, unnecessary, forced. It bordered on pain. Begged to be filled. She was this close to begging, too.

"Open your legs for me."

A doll pulled by the strings, her body did as she was told—her legs fell apart, the last opportunity to find relief in clenching her thighs together slipping into nothing. She pressed her hands down against her lower tummy, but it didn't help. A needy whine caught in her throat.

"So soft between your legs, are you not? Asking for a bite. Where should Alpha bite you?"

Anywhere. Anywhere he wanted. She couldn't help herself—as her hands skated down to the softest parts of her thighs, she allowed herself to briefly graze her fingers against her throbbing clit, the barest hint of pressure powerful enough to make her clench her teeth in an effort to stay quiet.

"Give yourself a pinch there."

She imagined it was his hands caressing her body, strong enough to hold her close, to make her still, to pin her down as his teeth—

"Harder, Feyre. Until I hear you cry out."

Her nails dug into her skin as she choked out a broken groan.

"Don't hold back your moans—I want to hear you."

Even if she wanted to hold them back—her body wouldn't let her, the order in place, the voice to listen to, the rule to abide. She dug her heels into the carpet.

"Play with your clit for me, darling."

Yes. Yes. Finally. Desperate to do as her Alpha commanded and hungry, hungry for the sexual touch, she rushed to press two digits against the needy bud at the apex of her thighs. As she applied the pressure onto it she let out a long low moan, eyes rolling back into her skull from the volcanic heat flaring inside of her at her touch. She spread her legs so wide it made her muscles and tendons hurt.

Would he be just as gentle? Touching her, would he be careful? Or would he wring the pleasure out of her with no regard to how she felt?

Which outcome would she want?

Don't lie to yourself.

"Touch it nice and slow. Make it wet with your slick."

Dipping her own fingers inside of her to then pull them out felt like the highest form of torture—right after not having her Alpha in her nest. Greedy, she was a very greedy omega—she plunged three of her fingers as deep as she could into her tender core and spread them apart, relishing in the stretch, her torso curling up to give her more reach.

"Taste it."

The flavor of her coated her tongue before she could fully process what he'd asked of her—a little salty, with light acidity, a mild tang of iron, but there was so much of it she instantly made a mess, spit dribbling down from the corner of her mouth, across her cheek and into her hairline, leaving a cold trail in its wake. She sucked on her fingers, licking them clean.

"Isn't your cunt a delicious little thing?"

A torn groan broke free from inside of her, pure animal desire painting it red. She wanted her Alpha to taste like her—when he kissed her, she wanted to taste her cunt on his lips and tongue, lick it off his cheeks and chin, wanted to cover his fingers and cock in her slick, make the scent of her undeniable part of him—

"Such pretty noises you're making for me."

"Alpha, please—" she writhed on the floor, body desperate for his next order.

"You want to be fucked full of your Alpha's cock?"

"I do, Alpha, I am s-so e-ah-empty—"

"Beg for it."

"Please, give me your cock. I'll be so, so good, Alpha, want to have you—have you in my mouth, i-inside of me, want to—"

A guttural groan from the other side of the line made her cunt clench so hard she had to stop speaking, a responding whimper spilling from her mouth like a mating song.

Was he touching—was he—

"Need to make that toy of yours wet again, isn't that right?" His breathing—she could hear him breathe through mouth, panting, just like she was. He wanted her—he wanted to be here, with her, and all the things he was telling her to do to herself—he wanted to do them, with his hands and mouth and his—

"Are you—are you h-hard for me, Alpha?" she asked in a small voice, hopeful.

"Hard for you? Darling," he moaned, his impeccable control momentarily broken, "I will tear this country apart if I don't have you by the end of this week. Need to keep my Omega full of my cock, just like she wants."

My Omega.

Gods, he was so strong. So strong and capable and he wanted her—

"Enough of talking. Your toy—take the head into your mouth."

Feyre obeyed, wordlessly, and another wanton moan escaped her as the taste of her slick burst on her tongue—more saturated than what she sampled with her fingers. With her other hand she trailed the line down her body, spreading her moisture across her skin, until she reached her neglected clit.

"Suck on it, darling, just like you'd suck on your Alpha's cock."

She swirled her tongue around the head of her toy the same time she ran tight little circles atop her sensitive bud, and felt some of her slick escape her core, tickling her as it rushed down to her rear and onto the floor. She reached for it and smeared the wetness back across the seam of her, fingers gliding easily. Sucking on the head made her cunt clench around nothing and push more of her juices out. Once he'd said it, she couldn't get the image out of her mind—she wanted to taste him, not her, she wanted to feel the mouth watering citrus and the ocean paint her tongue, her lips, her empty, empty cunt—

"Deeper, Feyre."

The rasp of his demanding voice sent a ripple of heat from her scalp to her toes, made them curl. She coughed, fighting a gag, more of her spit dribbling down her face. Her fingers moved faster around her clit, pressure higher, each desperate circle pouring a new wave of scorching shivers onto her. She pushed deeper and gagged again, gargled moan following before she cut it off with a hard swallow. Would he fist a hand in her hair and make her take it? Would he use her mouth, her throat like a warm hole for him to fuck?

"That's right. Choke on it. Make your mouth wet for me."

He would. He would, he would—

"Slap that cunt."

A sting, a burn, a broken cry, every nerve alight as her knees drew up and thighs clamped shut. She pushed her hand between them to resume touching her clit.

"Such a good girl."

She whimpered and sniffed, her hand stumbling, freezing for a moment.

"Oh? Is that what you like to hear? That you're a good girl?"

She couldn't say yes with her mouth full. Even if it wasn't full—dissolved in torturous pleasure beneath the command of another, her mind forfeited the ability to speak, to answer. She liked it, yes, she liked it when he called her good, when he said she was a good, very good girl, so obedient, so gentle… But—

"Or is it 'my' good girl? My precious little girl, I'm sure you look so pretty sucking on your toy."

A shattered whine was her only answer as she redoubled her efforts in stuffing her mouth while playing with her throbbing clit, the fervent pitch of heat setting her body on fire. She was close, she was so close, the muscles of her abdomen warming, tightening—it's been months since she was this close—

"Are you going to come, Feyre darling?"

"Mhmm-esh—" Yes, yes, just a little more, a little, a little—

—

"Then stop."

Feyre's entire body froze. And as it did, a sound that was anything but human was ripped from her vocal cord—a desperate shriek, a howl, a cry. Hot tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. The muscles of her cunt, they rippled—a breath away from clenching hard in wake of her almost-peak, rippled once more, then relaxed in lack of further stimulation. Sense of approaching orgasm dissolved into smoke. She choked.

"No, Alpha, wh-why, why? I was so close—"

He shushed her, his husky voice weaving the tales of how good she was, how well she listened, how pleased he was with her. That she was a good, very good Omega, his Omega, and he couldn't wait to touch her, to taste her, to fill her. Her battered mind allowed the verbal caress to settle in her bones, her weeping growing quieter by the moment, breathing calming down. As if afraid to upset her Alpha, even her body didn't dare ache—only the throb of want in her core remained.

"Touch yourself again, darling. We don't want you to cool down, do we?"

Something broke in her, a little. Mind fuzzy, placated by his gentle words, it had no qualms against obeying Rhysand, doing as he'd told. Her clit was on the wrong side of sensitive after her demanding touch, but it was no matter—she gathered more slick from her puffy dripping cunt to make it easier for her.

"Poor little omega, all wound up. You need to come badly, don't you?"

"Yes, Alpha, so much—"

She craved it, her body demanded it, and if he made her stop again… Her breathing sped up as yet another coil of telltale heat curled in the bottom of her belly, fingers aching from constant tension she forced them into. She thrust her hips up, stroking her cunt against her own hand, and it felt so good she did it again—

"Your needy little cunt must be so empty. It deserves a little treat, don't you think?"

"A-uh, a treat, Alpha?"

Did he mean?.. Earlier loose fingers tightened around the toy, and Feyre held her breath as she waited for her Alpha to speak. Her entire body thrummed in anticipation of what to come.

"Just a tip, Feyre darling, not more. I will know if you lie to me."

Gods, just a tip would do nothing, nothing to assuage the ache in her cunt, but, like a good Omega she was, she took whatever crumbs her Alpha gave her. The toy managed to cool down slightly and felt sticky and cold against her labia—it made her huff—but a few slicking passes warmed it quickly. Feyre closed her eyes, sinking down into sensation. She stroked the length of the toy once against her seam, twice, three times, delicate flesh parting beneath the gentle pressure—and then the head of the toy caught on the opening of her cunt.

Just the tip. He'd said just the tip.

But the stretch as she lightly pushed it inside—it felt so good, so much better than when she'd used it alone, and it was warm and wet, and the thick heady scent of her arousal surrounded her, making her feel safe, and her Alpha guided her, told her what to do—she didn't need to think what was better for her, because he knew—

She withdrew the toy, ran the head of it up to her clit spreading warm slick over herself once more, then returned it to the very center of her and slid it inside, just the tip like he'd said… and then a little more, pushing past the very first stretch, eyes rolling back. Her body, the little snitch it is, betrayed her the same moment, not caring to suppress her low moan. She quickly pulled the toy back into the just-the-tip range.

"Little omegas do as they're told, isn't that right?"

"Yes, Alpha."

He chuckled, and the amusement lacing his voice revealed he was aware of her lie. She prepared herself for another reprimand, another punishment—she was desperate to steal away as much of pleasure as she could before he told her to stop, her hand pushing the toy against her clit again and again. She wanted to come. Liquid heat that almost, almost spilled over before her Alpha took it away—it went back to life beneath her skin, flaring hotter each time her fingers caught against the sensitive flesh of her clit right beneath its hood, hips jerking.

Would he let her come, this time? Would he—

—

"Shove that toy up your tight cunt. Do it, Feyre."

Gods.

Her body—before her mind could catch up with the meaning of his words—was already moving, her hand pushing the toy inside of her past the stretch, past the feeble resistance, tearing a ragged low moan from her throat. Her eyebrows drew together and eyes shut closed, her entire body went taut like a string, muscles of her cunt flexing, lower belly feeling deliciously warm and full, so full, as her hand withdrew the toy and then thrust it in again, again, again—

"Fuck yourself with it, that's it."

"A-Alpha, this feels so good, am s-so—"

"Faster, Omega."

Her wrist began to cramp as she moved the toy inside of her—she changed her grip, and the next time she thrust it in the tip of it grazed against that delicious spot that made her feel electric—something hot and heavy accumulating in the pit of her belly, heat pulsing in her limbs; her breathing grew short, tiny whines became louder and louder—

"Touch your clit with your other hand."

She was already doing it, her caress full of hunger, full of need, of want—

"Please, please, Alpha, please, let me come, let me come, letmecome—"

"You want your Alpha to knot your needy little cunt?"

Alpha's knot. Yes, his knot, inside of her, stretching her even further, locking them together, filling her with his come to the brim. Feyre bit her lip so hard she tasted blood as the sensation of imminent orgasm washed over her—so close, so close, so close—

"Good omegas listen carefully, Feyre darling."

"Alpha—Alpha, Rhysand, I-uh—I want—"

"Push the button. There's a button on the base of the toy—push it down. Now."

The button? The button. The one she didn't care about before—right beneath her thumb. She pressed it down hard, her entire body shaking, and something—inside of her, the suddenly impossible stretch, growing stronger by the moment, it filled her, filled her past what she's ever felt before. Muscles of her cunt finally clamped down on the toy as liquid pleasure that had been gathering all along reached its boiling point and surged out of her core, pulses of it so powerful Feyre's body shuddered, and she screamed as she came, mind blissfully empty.

"Good fucking girl, Feyre. Isn't your cunt stuffed full?"

"Aahh…" was her reply. Her limbs collapsed on the floor, legs apart, arms spread wide as she quivered in the waves of her orgasm. Tears clouded her vision. She carefully tugged the toy—it was firmly locked inside of her, the pulling sensation now uncomfortable, and she briefly wondered how long it'd take before the knot-part of it deflated. Sated after weeks of being unable to climax, she was content to just lie on the floor.

"I didn't tell you to stop."

As the sun concluded its journey across the sky and neared its glide into the horizon line, Feyre's gaze trailed over the feathery clouds bathed in hues of red, purple and lilac fading into gentle blues. It was fascinating, how rapidly the colors changes this close to sunset, how quickly the night's plummet painted the universe above them with thick strokes of indigo, shade of it so saturated it reminded her of—

She turned away.

Huddled into a pile of blankets, she searched with her eyes what else to busy her mind with. Pointedly ignoring the edge of the bed where—nothing, there was nothing important—she carefully noted the detail after the detail of her room's interior, picking them apart in the depths of her mind. The arrangement of senseless paintings on the wall and how one of them was slightly crooked, how the pile of snacks beneath it was about to collapse—she felt a strong urge to get up and reposition everything in such a way that nothing would topple down. There were so many bags of roasted nuts and dried fruit, carefully packed bread, a large stack of protein bars—and she knew in the fridge hidden behind the bathroom door she could find a whole assortment of cheeses, an unopened pack of butter, even entire salad bar stored in the bottom drawers. She briefly wondered if it was supposed to be her only source of nutrition, but the meals served by the hotel staff throughout the day proved completely opposite—she was meant to eat like a horse, is all.

Leaving the comfort of her blanket for a gruesome and thankless task of saving food from meeting the floor, however, seemed like something too far out of her minuscule comfort zone—so small she doubted its existence. What she earlier thought a lovely suite done in calming tones of gray and violet began to dawn on her with how… spacious it was, for her.

For her alone.

It wasn't like being alone here was a problem, not really. She was warm, and she was fed, and she had a shower. Which she probably ought to go and finally use, but that also felt like something out of her reach—she wound the blanket tighter around her shoulders. But, no, being here alone wasn't even in the top ten of the worst experiences of her life, not even close. She only had to endure this imprisonment for a week, and then she could forget about the entire experience, resume taking suppressants she was planning to get the moment she stepped out of the hotel—

The wretched phone rang out from the other side of the room. She ignored it, just like she did it for the past three times.

She had nothing to talk about with the person calling her.

Feyre was done being dependent on someone. All her life she knew she could only count on herself, and the only time she decided to fall into the illusion of being content, of stability with another person as a part of it, desperate for crumbles of affection, she got punished for it severely. And here she was again, not even a week past her escape from Tamlin—from his heavy presence, from the constant threat of her happy sand castle being shaken off an unstable foundation—already leaning on…

On nobody. She wasn't leaning on anyone for support. Whatever happened in the past hours—that wanton thing that took over her entire being? It wasn't her, and it meant nothing. That needy creature belonged to the very back of her mind, where it had to stay still, knocked out by the pills.

If it was up to Feyre, the thing would be put down.

The phone continued to ring. Feyre gave it maybe another ten-to-fifteen seconds of him trying to reach for her, to try and insert him into her life, and then the blissful quiet would return—but defying the script she'd already built in her head, the phone suddenly gave a long beep, indicating that it began recording the voice mail. She listened closely, body tense as she strained to hear before berating herself for it—no sound came. To know the content of his message she would have to play it manually.

Not happening.

The sole fact that her body required aid from another person was revolting—it felt like the highest form of betrayal coming from her own self. That it had to be an alpha—and all, all of them were infuriating, self-assured jerks used to their physical superiority and the way the rest of the people tended to bleat in front of them—it gave her reality an ugly toxic sheen. The science had cracked the code a long time ago—the complex cocktail of pheromones the alphas released in the air from their glands coaxed people into compliance, urging them to wish to please whoever carried the scent bomb on them. Even betas, who were originally believed to be not responsive to such things, were later proved to be susceptible. Their drive to give in if a certain alpha required it, however, was nothing compared to the absolute desperation poured right into omega's bone marrow if it so happened that their alpha was unhappy. The desire to placate, to please, to wish to cause a smile, to make an alpha happy and preen at being told so was written into omegas' DNA, just like the pain they had to go through if they chose to defy their designation.

But if such reaction was caused by the pheromones… Then, surely, staying away from the piece of fabric she so desperately tried not to look at would eventually weaken the feelings she felt but didn't own, right?

Right?

"S-so full, Alpha," Feyre groaned as she stretched on the bed, the phone right next to her ear. Her new favorite toy was firmly locked inside of her, the muscles of her core still quivering from the release she brought herself to under the insistent guidance of her Alpha. Her legs couldn't touch the edge of her nest even as she tried to reach for it with her toes, reminding her how large and empty it was without her beloved nearby. Her eyes misted over and she let out a pathetic little sniff. "But so lonely here, without you."

A hum on the other side of the line.

"How sweet your speeches are, Feyre darling. But only good omegas get to spend their time with the alpha, and you've been such a bad, bad girl."

Feyre gasped. A bad girl?

There must've been a mistake. A mistake she ought to rectify, immediately.

She rolled onto her stomach with an inelegant oomph, allowing herself to enjoy the stretching sensation inside of her for a moment as she hovered over the phone. She studied it for a little bit.

"But—Alpha, I can be good, so very good for you," she coaxed and bit her lip. The urge to prove to him just how good she could be made her all squirmy and restless.

"Good girls answer their phone, do they not?"

Sadness filled her. She wasn't herself when he called her, focused on sensations too angry and complex instead of appreciating his time and effort he put into making sure she was well cared for. Her Alpha was a very busy man, she knew—and yet he always managed to make space for her needs, even as silly as a phone call.

Multiple orgasms and feeling sated were side benefits, is all.

"I will, Alpha, I promise to you—"

"Do not make promises you have no control over, Feyre." He sighed, the sound resigned and defeated. She frowned. "Rather promise me you're eating well, and have a nice relaxing soak later. Would you do that for me?"

He seemed so sad and tired, nothing like the alpha fully in control mere minutes earlier, when he pulled her body by the invisible strings and made her writhe in pleasure. He had been worried for her, she realized, when she didn't pick up the phone out of stupid stubbornness, and now she felt guilty. She wanted to cheer him up. Her eyes darted back to the smooth surface of the phone.

"I have so much food here, Alpha, you don't need to worry. Enough for—for two, and I will have a soak, I promise," she chewed on her lip, warring with herself.

Did she dare to?..

"And," she cleared her throat, wishing to sound alluring and tempting instead of nervous, "I can do more."

"What is it that you're planning, little minx?"

The nickname stole a little giggle from her lips—guilty as sin. Before she could change her mind, Feyre brought the call menu to the screen and tapped the camera button with her thumb.

A moment of silence as she carefully rested the phone against the pillows, so she didn't have to hold it and then—

"You never cease to amaze me, Feyre darling." Rhysand's voice acquired a delicious rasp to it, and Feyre wanted to bask in its sound. He let out a small laugh laced with defeat. "You're going to kill me."

She brushed that silly notion away.

"Do you like what you see, Alpha?" she purred. She rolled onto her side, somewhat diagonally across the bed, allowing the lines of her body to enter the view of the camera. Goose flesh erupted over her skin as she shivered in anticipation.

"Would you look at that—so beautiful. The most beautiful woman I've ever seen." The pain in her nipples became unbearable and Feyre palmed her breasts to ease the sensation. "You still have that toy inside of your needy cunt, don't you, Omega?"

"I do, Alpha. Right here…"

"Show me."

She was going to kill him.

No. First she was going to flush the fucking phone down the drain. Throw it out of the window.

How dare he? How dare he ask her?

How dare that traitorous bitch listen to him? Never mind that the traitorous bitch in question was her, a part of her, because—how? How could she just give him everything, with no questions, and so willingly? Last time she checked being an omega didn't have dissociation in the package, so how?

The entire chain of thought was stuck in her head. Alpha was worried, Alpha is very sad, Alpha would like to see me…

Alpha, Alpha, gods damn the fucking Alpha!

She did take the phone. She did march down the bathroom like a petulant little girl, stomping all the way, but once she held the phone above the toilet bowl—she couldn't let go. Her fingers wouldn't relax. Scorching tears burst from her eyes as she let out an angry cry and flung the phone—carefully—onto the bed. It bounced, giving her a small heart attack before landing right in the middle of her nest.

Pathetic. You're so pathetic, Feyre.

He gave up on calling her—knowing she wouldn't pick up the phone when she was fully herself, and instead he allowed her omega-part to take the steps towards him, one by one—

On her knees, crawling, step after step after—

She hated it all. Her autonomy, her will, her sense of ownership over own body—it was burnt down by chemicals that altered her biology and made her wail in agonizing pain unless someone else deemed her worthy of their care.

How could even the littlest part of her love it? Cherish it? Relish in it?

And yet it did. Whenever the haze of the heat settled over her, wiping her consciousness clean, she ran to the cursed phone to call Rhysand so he could banish the pain in her core with his wicked words. He called her things, told her how to touch herself, how to make it hurt if she misbehaved—and judging by how often he had to do it, the omega part of her really enjoyed pushing his buttons.

Oh, and don't forget the fucking video call technology her trashcan of a hind brain suddenly discovered.

Heat pooled in the pit of her belly as she thought of the things he'd asked of her during their last call the same time as her lips curled in a mute snarl. She remembered everything, vividly—

Push those tits together, that's right.

Suck on your fingers, Feyre.

You can take more. Good girl.

I want to see the spit running down your face.

Show me that pink cunt.

Spread your lips, give me a good look.

So wet for me.

Poor little thing wants to be fucked so bad.

I love the sound of you choking.

You touched yourself down there, little one? No?

You do what Alpha tells you.

She hated how these words made her melt, turned her into a liquid satisfied mess, reshaped her into a shameless seductress wielding her body like a weapon. Hated the ecstasy she drowned in whenever he lost control.

Gods, the sounds you make…

Feyre.

And she hated that she was going to call him again.

"What are you thinking of, Alpha?"

"Hmm. And why would I tell you?"

"Well, if it's something good, you should share with me," Feyre murmured shyly, her lips curling in a cheeky smile.

"Ah, is that so? My, my, what a tyrant you are—no good thoughts to be enjoyed alone."

"That's right. And if it's something sad…"

She trailed off, worrying her lip with her teeth. Was Alpha not happy with her?

"Yeah?"

"Then—then you should still tell me, so I can distract you from it."

"Distract me? Feyre," he laughed, confusing her further, "you are not a distraction."

"What am I then, Alpha?"

He let out a long sigh. Feyre could imagine him sitting in his office, sprawled across his obnoxiously large chair, perhaps a glass of something strong in hand.

"Alpha?"

"Everything. You are everything."

And the joy she felt hearing it was brighter than all of the galaxies shining above their heads.

Perhaps it wasn't all so terrible.

Over the days of Feyre's stay in the hotel, they began to build a routine. In the morning Feyre would wake up from the cramps twisting her insides into a knot—pun not intended—and assault Rhysand's phone until he relented and picked it up. Sometimes she had to wait—Rhysand was a very busy man, she knew, so if he was preoccupied with something else she'd consider it a permission enough to go ahead and touch herself. A thrill would run through her—he took immense pleasure in guiding her through the entire process with his orders, the power lacing his voice so potent it quelled the ache in her body, but, naturally, taking something he liked away from him made Feyre almost purr in delight. Later, hot and breathless, cunt dripping with arousal, she would try again—he never made her call more than twice.

"Impatient," he would admonish her, words full of satisfaction at her lack of restraint.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you, Ah-Alpha," she would assure him pleadingly, earning her a dark chuckle and a mind-shattering orgasm—but only after he showed her how good she could be and how well she could listen and wait.

He would talk her through it, showering her with praise and affection, voice rich with own desire, but once the fog of heat started to clear he'd inevitably vanish, leaving her alone to deal with her conflicting emotions, unclench—so to say, eat her food, use bathroom and shower to prevent a pesky UTI and skin irritation. Rinse and repeat a few hours later.

What was she afraid of, anyway? He clearly wanted her—he made it known months ago, even before she presented as omega.

Tell me when you're done playing house with that boy.

Rhysand's unhidden certainty in her and Tamlin's relationship being doomed from the start always made her bristle. Two men saw each other, briefly—that one time Feyre and Mor stayed up late decorating the main hall of the university campus for the students' art exhibition. Tamlin grumbled over having to drive there after work, but complied once Feyre promised to make her famous dipping sauce and shrimp.

He arrived first, but insisted on waiting for Mor's ride before heading home—Feyre felt so grateful for how mindful he was she beamed at him, and he smiled in return. They chatted a little before Rhysand's ridiculously expensive car finally drove over—nobody would guess the color—and the man got out. His dark blue eyes quickly skated over Mor and darted to Feyre's, already familiar challenge lighting up a spark in them, lingering, before registering the third person in their group. Whatever thing Tamlin was saying was cut off abruptly as the two alpha men assessed each other. At that moment, Feyre was watching Rhysand's reaction—not Tamlin's.

Look. I told you I have a boyfriend. I am not alone. Look.

Mor's cousin cocked his head to the side, the gesture very cat-like. With irrational horror Feyre watched how his eyes trailed over Tamlin's form, from the top of his impressive height to his feet—she could almost feel the tension drawing her boyfriend's body taut, but her gaze never wavered. A beat passed, two, and then…

…and then slowly, agonizingly slowly, Rhysand's mouth stretched in a cruel deprecating smile. He looked back at her, dismissing her boyfriend without further acknowledgment, eyebrows raised a fraction as if to say really, Feyre? Him?

Whatever he saw in Tamlin—or didn't see, Rhysand quickly lost interest in it. Not worthy of his attention.

Not a threat.

Back home, after the group parted—it was rather awkward to see Tamlin stare down a man who ignored him completely, and even more awkward to drive in dead silence—Tamlin finally addressed it.

"I don't like this guy."

"Trust me, me neither," she agreed, but sniffed at the indirect order curling around his words like thorny vines.

Stay away from him.

Looking back at it, Feyre couldn't help but ask—how? How had Rhysand known she and Tamlin wouldn't have lasted? And why did his adamant resolve to have her, regardless of numerous circumstances preventing it—her late presenting, her now ex-boyfriend, the way he made her blood literally boil from irritation—make her feel so warm inside?

Feyre sat in the middle of her nest, deep in thought. She was supposed to be resting as the moon bathed the world in its gentle light, but the sleep wouldn't come. She fumbled with the black tie in her hands—the scent of its owner had begun to fade from the fabric, and she clung to it as much as she could while it still lasted and brought her comfort.

Of course, the moment she she felt like she had her answers and thought of giving Rhysand—giving herself—a chance, more doubts crept into her mind. Fear stuck to her skin and gripped her by the throat.

She glanced at the pile of snacks across the room—quite smaller than when she arrived here, but still generous enough. Lingering nausea, however, made any food unappealing, and she dropped her gaze back to the tie.

Maybe her life wouldn't be so full of overthinking if she wasn't a spineless coward. Not just with Alpha, no—how many times in her life did she run instead of solving the problem? Countless amounts as a child—once she learned nobody cared for how she'd approach a task, an effort to learn how throttled in her youth, replaced with a knee-jerk reaction to flee whenever something unpleasant occurred.

Family in disarray after her mother died? Run, Feyre, run as soon as you can, run and don't look back. They will figure it out without you.

Tamlin crossing the line she'd never imagined he would? Run, Feyre, by any means necessary—no need for punishment, for closure, for making amends or revenge—just get out of here.

She would do it again, wouldn't she? As soon as things got complicated, if she were to allow herself to be weak and let Alpha in, grow attached, give up on slowing down her fall—she would have to cut her mangled heart and leave its pieces like bags of ballast before soaring high.

She was afraid. Afraid that, after Rhysand, she wouldn't have any heart left.

Let me take care of you. Let me. Let me.

There you are. I've been looking for you.

I've got you.

How was he so sure he wouldn't get tired of her? Perhaps this was a fun chase for him—and once she was fully in his power, in his grasp, she would quickly lose his attention. It happened before and nobody could convince her it couldn't happen again.

Her eyes ran over the now familiar interior. During the last few days of her stay here, the scent of her had seeped into its surfaces, marking the space as hers, and thinking of leaving it soon threatened to send her into panic. Feyre wanted to wallow in self-pity from eventually returning to an empty apartment before ultimately having to search for another accommodation. Shame arose in her—she had asked for Elain's help in decorating the rental, and if her sister indeed decided to provide aid, all of her efforts would be for nothing.

And all of these worries simply existed because she couldn't make up her mind.

But if she did make it up, wouldn't it make her a bad person to fall for someone so quickly after her farce of a break up?

What did she want?

She groaned and buried her face in her hands.

The phone chirped its tingling song from the night stand—Feyre left it there to charge. She stretched over, reaching for it with her hand—her entire body protested against such sudden exercise, but she refused to actually move from her spot in the middle of the bed. She had to graze the smooth surface of the device twice—almost knocking it off the stand—before she finally took a hold of it.

A message. Why was he up so late?

Time to check out that apartment of yours. I better not find some secret boyfriends there tomorrow.

Feyre snorted despite herself—she never understood how Rhysand managed to wear so many masks, going from a total control freak to this ridiculous version of himself; she wasn't even sure how many people got to see the latter. She secretly hoped not many. She tried to summon anger over him invading her private space, but in all honesty she wouldn't be surprised if her rental contract gave him unlimited access to her apartment at any time. She bit her lip and thought hard what to say in response.

She would lie if she said his presence wasn't welcome.

Thanks for the heads-up, I will let them know to pack it before you arrive.

With that she switched her phone to Do Not Disturb, shoved it to the very edge of the nest and pulled a blanket over her as she tried to get comfortable.

You are everything.

—

She was back in the club.

The music, the people, the lights—it was all the same as before, the intoxicating mix making her dizzy just like when this dream tormented her from sunset to sunrise, night after night. Now she welcomed it, eager to follow the script—would she finally reach him? Would he take a hold of her?

Take her?

Only, when Feyre twisted around—as she was on the floor—she realized the usually occupied throne was empty. Her veins froze over as she tried to predict where this dream would go. Where was he? The strangers around her continued to dance to the beat, but the path towards the seat remained unobstructed, calling for her to follow it.

The instructions couldn't be more clear.

Her limbs moved on their own accord. Step after step, her knees pushing against the hard surface of the floor, her hands sending resounding smacks through the space around her every time they hit the polished tile. Ignoring the ache, Feyre moved, the usual thrill of anticipation dulled by the absence of its cause. Once she reached the seat on the dais she slithered her way up onto it, curling around herself—the leather was uncomfortably cold.

She faced the room, her eyes scanning every possible gap and dark corner. Her vision was blurry and it made her heart rate pick up every time she saw something familiar, something resembling the dark form of a certain male… Trying to peer higher, she pushed herself upwards with both hands braced against the armrests—

—only to find leather straps tying her forearms to the seat. She blinked at them sluggishly, then everything stopped. The music died, the faceless people collapsed into empty piles of clothes. The lights shut down.

Then, she heard it.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The mouthwatering aroma of citrus and tempestuous ocean filled the air, and she shuddered.

Rhysand.

She squirmed in her seat.

The sound of his steps grew louder, indicating he was closing on her, and she let out a needy whine. She couldn't see—she wanted to, she hadn't seen him in over a week, even in dreams, and she craved for the devastating image of his massive form to be burnt into her eyes. She felt the telltale wetness gather between her legs as her Alpha cornered her, and some primitive part of her begged her to run, make him chase her, hunt her, but she could not. She tugged her arms uselessly.

Once he neared her, she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She didn't dare to move as she felt him hover over her.

His breath ghosted over her face, and then she felt his forehead press against hers.

"You've been such a good girl for me."

She nuzzled the dip to the side of his nose as her eyes closed, relishing in the contact she just got to enjoy in her sleep—never before.

"Alpha," she sighed, her mouth right next to his.

"My Omega. I need you to do just one more thing."

"Anything, Alpha."

His mouth pressed against her cheek, then he moved forward, tracing the side of her face with his lips until he reached her ear.

"Anything?"

She tilted her head, baring her neck to him, the essence of him curling around her and clinging to her skin.

"Yes."

"You want to be with me?"

Was that what he wished her to do—to answer the question? Unease settled over her—what he'd asked had been tormenting her for the past few days. Her initial urge was to lie, to change topic, to accuse him of pressuring her—

But this was a dream. Her dream, and Feyre remembered really well who her dreams belonged to. Their master tolerated no lies. And for the first time ever since she met this man, since her world tilted on its axis—she admitted the truth, accepting it at the same time.

"Yes."

He brought a hand to the back of her neck and cradled it, fingers digging into her hair.

"Then come to me."

She looked up despite the dark.

"What?"

"Wake up."

And so she did.

The sun was up; she could tell by the bright light burning her retinas through her eyelids. Afraid to forget any important detail from what she saw while she slept, Feyre kept her eyes closed and body unmoving. The terrible pain she got used to feeling every morning was now a mere soreness. Her body cooled down, a thin layer of perspiration sticking to her skin too cool to be comfortable. Her heat was coming to an end.

You want to be with me?

Yes.

As she lay atop the bed, her mind couldn't come up with a convincing excuse to why she said it, but to no avail—she had meant it. Through her anger and fear, doubts and insecurities, desperation and denial, her desire to belong to him prevailed, a part of her like any other.

She wanted him. She wanted Rhysand. She wanted to trust him, to let him care for her battered soul, to bask in pleasure as he relished in their connection that was established the moment he set his foot in that store.

She wanted to try, consequences be damned.

But first she had to wash a week worth of sweat off herself. Her regular soaks proved to be less effective than she'd originally thought.

She was hurting all over—proper care after the heat included gradually increased physical activity, a lot of sleeping, re-hydrating and snacking. Unsurprisingly, a cardio session full of vigorous scrubbing on an empty stomach made her feel unwell, but she pushed through it, eager to be done with it.

Impatient to call.

She didn't want to wait much longer, so as she stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a bathrobe and with a turban on her head, she sat down on the edge of the bed with phone in one hand and the protein bar in another, and dialed Rhysand's number.

She thought of what she'd like to tell him as she heard the first ring.

Thank you for helping me.

I was so scared to do it alone.

I'm still a little nervous, but I would like to try.

Do you want to pick me up?

Everything sounded too needy, but he seemed to like that side of her.

Rhysand didn't pick up. It was fine—she decided to pack and get ready before leaving, and then try again—it'd be more than enough time for him to dismiss whoever he needed to dismiss to answer her.

Fifteen minutes later, Feyre tried her second call—he never made her call more than twice.

He didn't pick up.

Neither did he pick up on the third time, nor on the fourth. She stared at the phone, mind unable to wrap around the fact that he wasn't answering her.

She'd just accepted him, and he wasn't… wasn't answering her.

He wasn't.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip. Drip.

Rhysand jerked awake with a choke. His body strained to curl forward as a cough rattled through his lungs, but the searing pain in his wrists and shoulders and—everywhere, really—limited his ability to lean forward.

He was tied.

Uncomfortable emotion squeezed his throat, but he shook it off despite the blistering headache the motion caused.

She was dead.

Yes, that's right. The bitch was dead—he made sure of it himself. It's been over thirteen years. He was out, just done checking Feyre's apartment. He was extremely annoyed by finding a Vanserra boy with pants half undone sleeping on the couch he'd ordered for Feyre earlier.

Well, not annoyed. He was fucking furious, was this close to ripping the boy's throat out—who was just as angry at Rhysand for daring to step his foot inside the nest—and the remark brought Rhysand short.

Nest? Whose nest?

Once his anger slightly abated, he realized the scent filling the space didn't belong to Feyre. It was quite similar, close enough to not cause immediate alertness, but just not it. So he silenced the whelp, told him to get out, and contacted the cleaning crew he used to work with in the past.

The lack of blood and double the pay surely would make them eager enough to finish the job as soon as possible.

He stepped out. He walked towards his car.

He… didn't remember what happened after that. But whoever it was, it wasn't Amarantha.

Which meant he managed to acquire new friends.

"I was starting to grow impatient," an unfamiliar voice boomed from the other side of the room. Rhysand looked up, eyes trying to focus on something, but it was too dark.

"We weren't introduced," he drawled out in return. His throat was dry.

The stranger laughed, the sound obnoxious and frankly too loud. Rhysand's lips curled in disgust.

"In all due time, my friend. I will get to the introduction later, but ah! How lucky must I be." The man remained in the dark as Rhysand heard him drag something across the floor with a screech. A chair, maybe?

"You see, when young Tamlin contacted me, truly heartbroken by his girlfriend's disappearance, I couldn't let my poor pal stay in such despair—my good men expected to find the girl around her apartment. So they could talk, you know?"

Rhysand's whole body tensed at the mention of Feyre coming from this filth's mouth. He licked his teeth as he listened, anger sending his heart in overdrive.

He was going to murder Spring once he was out.

"Imagine my surprise when my men called me on a verge of panic, telling me our most esteemed Mr. Darling was just outside the same apartment building. Now, Rhysand, you might not know me, but I? I know you very, very well."

The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and bringing his bearded face into the light.

"I take it very seriously when someone kills my people."

At that moment Rhysand thought it ironic, how he had to convince himself that his most hated enemy was dead, only for her allies to suddenly wish to avenge her. He recognized the man.

"You are thirteen years late with your vendetta, Hybern."

"Ah, you know me! I am honored, truly. And I agree—sometimes it's better to let it go. But you see—my dear friend Tamlin? He forgot to mention that his missing girl was an omega. They're so very rare and precious, aren't they?"

Despite himself, Rhysand felt his upper lip curl, revealing the teeth. The man in front of him grinned.

"Since my dear friend Tamlin forgot to mention some very important details, I thought it's only fair I also don't mention what my plans are. Two birds, one stone, eh?"