Chapter Text
There was something special about Christmas in New York. Feyre chose to see it through rose tinted glasses, determined New York wouldn’t break her. She chose to see fresh, white snow instead of the gray sludge that lined the streets, chose to believe people smiled as she walked, chose to believe the air smelled like pine and snow capped mountain peaks instead of trash and exhaust. Some days were easier than others and as Feyre trudged through the slick mess, her boots sliding over the pavement, she found she was struggling to believe reality was as lovely as her imagination.
She made it to her office just in time for no one but Lucien Vanserra to smile in her direction. In a city filled with millions of people, how was he her only friend? Not counting, of course, her older sister Elain but Elain was busy with her trendy cupcakes that had taken over Brooklyn and besides, sisters didn’t really count as friends.
“I got you coffee,” Lucien told her with a smile, sliding out of his office to hand her a still warm cardboard cup of what smelled suspiciously like a chestnut praline latte. She’d gotten him in her breakup with her long-time boyfriend Tamlin and Feyre was grateful for it. Despite two solid decades of friendship, the first time Feyre texted Lucien for help, sporting a black eye and split lip, Lucien had shown up with movers and, when Tamlin tried to beg for her back, his fists.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip. He knew her too well.
“So my dad is bugging me to come home this year,” he continued, a grimace stretched over his tanned, handsome face. Feyre scowled.
“Did you tell him no?” She replied. Lucien’s dad had money, money money, and Lucien had been expected to fall in line and become some corporate drone. Instead Lucien worked as a copy editor, mainly to say he had a job. Feyre was well aware Lucien had an obscene inheritance that, despite his father’s anger, he had access to.
“Not exactly,” Lucien replied with a sigh, stopping in front of her desk in the little cubicle Feyre inhabited. He shook her little snow globe with a wistful expression, watching the snow settle over Cinderella’s castle. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be on Christmas.”
“Want plans?” Feyre offered immediately. Her and Lucien had been a two person show for Halloween and Thanksgiving. Why not Christmas, too? “You might have to spend it with Elain. She’s not flying out to California to see Nesta this year.”
Lucien’s expression lightened a little even as he said, “I don’t want to intrude on your family time with your sister.”
She snorted. “It’s
hardly
intruding. Elain lives to cook, besides. I’m sure she’d be
thrilled
to have one more mouth to feed.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not,” Lucien complained, tucking a stray piece of copper hair behind his ear. Only Lucien could get away with shoulder length hair, tied neatly in a ponytail, in an office that required men to wear buttoned up shirts and ties. “Speaking of siblings, you know my older brother Eris knows this guy who owns a gallery—”
“No,” she said quickly, refusing to get her hopes up. “No, Lucien, no favors.”
“Feyre, c’mon. What’s the point of this fancy last name if I never get to throw it around?” He teased, sitting on the edge of her desk.
“You
hate
when people think you’re a Vanserra,” Feyre reminded him patiently, turning to her computer monitor. “Besides, my art isn’t good enough—”
“Your art is good enough for museums,” Lucien interrupted impatiently. “And I’m not just saying that because we’re friends,” he added, catching how her mouth opened to contradict him. “Trust me. I’ve seen some of the ugly shit people spend thousands of dollars on. Your work deserves to be seen.”
She couldn’t admit that since Tamlin, Feyre hadn’t painted at all. He’d ridiculed everything she’d ever put on canvas, had made her feel small and worthless. He’d torn it all apart, had sneered at her brushstrokes, had called it her hobby and Feyre couldn’t get his words out of her head even six months later. From the way Lucien looked at her, fiddling with the cuffs on his dark purple shirt, she suspected he knew why she didn’t want to paint.
“I don’t have time,” she said instead, gesturing towards her email inbox. Lucien only rolled russet-colored eyes, one of which had three angry red scars streaked through it, marring what was otherwise a truly perfect face. He’d been in a car accident as a boy, he’d said. He ought to have died and instead was just scarred and though Feyre had found it jarring the first time she ever saw it, Lucien swore it had never gotten in the way when it came to women.
She wouldn’t know anything about that, other than Lucien always seemed to find a beautiful woman when he needed one.
“Sure you don’t,” he said with a long suffering sigh. “Too busy re-writing articles and watching Netflix shows you’ve already seen?”
“Don’t you have a job?” She asked, annoyed. Lucien grinned and all was forgiven in that moment because, despite his irritating presence, he was still her best friend.
“Reading books and telling authors their plots don’t make sense is hardly a job, Fey. It’s my passion.”
“You know, they say those who can’t—”
“Teach,” he interrupted. “But I accept the insult all the same. Don’t let the journalists dick you around too much, hm?”
And with that, Lucien was gone. He sauntered back to his nice office with the glass window overlooking the city while Feyre watched, rolling her eyes at the way heads turned as he went. She knew he was aware of it, and while Lucien would never sleep with anyone in their office, she was certain he didn’t need to wear pants half as tight, either.
Feyre was a junior editor, a job she didn’t particularly love but had sort of fallen into by accident. There was upward mobility and she’d always been a good enough writer that she decided to aim for being an editor one day, which was the plot of every coming-of-age tale she’d ever watched growing up in Oklahoma.
It was well past noon when Feyre finally finished reading a too-long story about fashion week, frustrated that the journalist had just made up facts that would get their magazine in hot water if it ever ran. Feyre knew she’d need to completely re-write it, both to trim down the wordiness and to ensure that they actually discussed the actual designers who were featured in the show. She knew exactly who to ask for help, dialing quickly on her phone.
“What’s up?” Came Elain’s voice over whirring in the background. Feyre knew her sister well enough to know it was just the sound of a stand mixer and that Elain was likely covered in a fine layer of flour.
“Hey, did you watch fashion week?” She asked.
“Fashion week is my Super Bowl…or whatever it is where they pick players,” Elain said impatiently. “I bought a dress from—”
“That’s great. Do you think you could help me with an article I’m writing?”
The whirring in the background stopped. “Do you want to stop by for lunch or is that too far?”
Considering Feyre was in Manhattan and Elain in Brooklyn, it was definitely too far for a quick lunch. “Dinner?”
“Come to my place, then. I’m closing up at two today.”
“Oh wait, Elain! Can I bring my friend Lucien? We usually get dinner together.”
There was a pause. “Tamlin’s friend?”
Feyre bit back her sigh. “My friend,” she said firmly.
“Fine. But I’m not cleaning.”
“I didn’t ask you to and trust me when I say he won’t care. Thanks for this, Elain.”
Elain offered a mock long-suffering sigh. “I have a dress for you, too, you know—”
“I’m hanging up now byeeeee,” Feyre said quickly, disconnecting the call before Elain could try and set her up with one of the million beautiful men that seemed to follow her sister around. Elain was all the things a person moving to New York ought to be—she had a degree in fashion, had been president of her sorority, had a close-knit group of girlfriends and, though it shouldn’t have mattered, Feyre knew from experience that if Elain stepped off a curb and raised her hand for a cab, six lined up immediately. She’d always been beautiful, even when they were dirt poor in Oklahoma, and no one ever doubted she’d make something of herself. Of course, most of their town had hoped she’d make herself into a housewife for one of their lazy sons, but that was still better than the world’s expectations for her. No one had ever thought Feyre would amount to anything and when she went home to see her father, the people who stopped her acted surprised she’d done anything at all with her life.
Feyre was practically out the door when the editor stopped her. “Archeron. You got a second?”
Feyre looked over her shoulder at Lucien, leaned against his office door to talk to some aspiring writing working in one of the cubicles. She was flushed while Lucien was clearly offering serious career advice. He never learned, she thought with amusement. They didn’t give a fuck about his career, only his pretty face and that powerful last name.
“What’s up?” Feyre asked, walking into the glass office to take a seat.
“What do you know about Aldovia?” Her editor, a chic woman named Amren with a dark bob and a beautiful set of ruby earrings, asked as she flipped through a stack of papers.
“Nothing?” Ferye replied, trying to recall where in the world Aldovia was at all. Europe, maybe?
Amren glanced up at her. “Aldovia’s King died last year, and the mourning period is about to expire. Their prince, Rhysand, is MIA and they need a butt on the throne by Christmas Day.”
Feyre just stared. Amren sighed. “If he’s MIA, who do you think will fill that role?”
Feyre just shrugged. She knew absolutely nothing about world politics. Amren sighed. “I need boots on the ground to cover this debacle. Our readers love anything to do with the playboy prince.”
“Why me?” Feyre asked, shooting herself in the foot.
“You’re young, you’re hungry, you’re smart…and none of my regular journalists can go. You’d be gone over Christmas.”
“Oh…I don’t know…” Feyre began but Amren waived her hand.
“I can give this to any other junior editor,” Amren snapped, eyes blazing. “Do you want to spend the rest of your career in that cubicle re-writing shit articles? Or do you want to write something of your own?”
Neither, she thought quietly, surprised Amren knew she was rewriting articles.
“Okay,” Feyre agreed, in part to keep Amren from offering it to anyone else.
“Great. I know you won’t let me down.”
But Feyre wasn’t so sure when she scurried out of the office half an hour later, her phone buzzing in her pocket with an email alert for plane tickets. Lucien was waiting, jacket slung over his shoulder and her coat draped over his arm.
“Fired?” He joked, handing her the dark, puffy coat that she aggressively wore despite his accusations it made her look like a marshmallow.
“What do you know about the Prince of Aldovia?” She asked him, sliding into the elevator beside him.
Lucien peered down at her with surprise. “That he’s got a reputation as a womanizer and a dick,” Lucien offered. “And he’s likely going to abdicate and fuck up a dynasty that’s almost as old as the British monarchy.”
“And that’s bad?” Feyre asked.
“Well, it’s not great,” Lucien replied dryly. “They don’t have another system just ready to go.”
“You know Lucien, you don’t have to be a dick about everything,” she mumbled. Lucien grinned, bumping his shoulder into hers.
“Aw c’mon. Why all the interest in Aldovia?”
“Amren wants me to go and cover the coronation…or abdication, I guess.”
Lucien’s whole face lit up as he held open the glass doors that led to the street. It was already dark despite only being five thirty. Lucien stepped off the curb to flag down a cab while Feyre jammed her hands in her coat pockets.
“Let me give you a crash course over dinner.”
Feyre groaned. “Speaking of that. I might have agreed to eat at my sisters tonight.”
He shrugged. “No worries. Tomorrow then—”
“Come with me,” she asked, turning to face him. “I kind of already told her you were coming.”
He flicked her in the cheek.
“Besides, I’ll bet Elain knows everything about a prince. This seems right up her alley.”
Lucien held open the door to a bright yellow cab. “Fine. But you remember what happened the last time I dined with one of your sisters.”
Feyre scowled before rattling off her sister’s address. “Nesta and Elain are polar opposites.” That much was true, anyway. Elain wouldn’t tell Lucien to go fuck himself like Nesta had when they collectively realized she had been on again, off again dating Lucien’s eldest brother. Elain would be polite even if she hated Lucien’s guts.
“We’ll see,” he muttered, wrapping a scarf around his neck. For the duration of the slow drive, Lucien offered Feyre the most in-depth history she could have ever wanted and Feyre took notes on her phone. Aldovia was a monarchy with a surprisingly bloody history right up until World War II, when they’d gone the way of the Scandinavian countries and become more collectivist. They were small and didn’t have a standing military which, as an American, always surprised her.
By the time Feyre reached Elain’s two-story brownstone, her head ached from all the information Lucien was trying to stuff inside. “Honestly, I might have a book—”
“Of course you do,” she muttered, ringing Elain’s doorbell. “I don’t need a book. You know magazine readers don’t care about history like you do.”
“Well the magazine readers are—” Lucien abruptly stopped the moment the front door opened. Elain was gorgeous as usual, her waist length hair curling softly around her softly made-up face. She wore black and grey checked pants and a white blouse tucked neatly inside, the top two buttons undone to offer the barest hint of skin.
She glanced at Lucien for a moment, unaware that he was openly staring, before inviting them in. “I made ham.”
“Of course you did,” Feyre replied, shrugging out of her coat. Elain’s apartment was gorgeous, each piece of furniture expertly chosen to be both functional and beautiful. Elain had that kind of talent and always had. Despite how much cream furniture she owned, everything felt warm and inviting.
“That’s your painting,” Lucien said with surprise, gesturing towards an ocean landscape Feyre had done for Elain years earlier when she’d been too poor to afford a birthday gift.
“It’s my favorite,” Elain said with a sigh, her heels clicking on the hardwood.
“I have Fey’s Autumn Woods in my living room,” Lucien told her sister, undoing his scarf to hang on the coat rack beside the door. Elain paused to look over her shoulder, a faint smile on her lips.
“A man of taste, I see.”
“Stop it,” Feyre muttered, embarrassed but in this, Elain and Lucien were united even if they didn’t know it. Elain had been begging Feyre to let her set up an online store for her artwork since Feyre had lived with Elain as a junior in college.
Elain clicked her tongue and vanished down the hall to the kitchen. Lucien turned to Feyre, eyebrows raised.
Is she single? He mouthed moments before Feyre hit him in the stomach with the back of her hand.
“She’s out of your league,” Feyre whispered. Lucien merely grinned, trailing behind her.
“So, I wrote out all the designers who attended New York fashion week,” Elain said, tying a pale pink apron around her waist. Lucien was poking through Elain’s bookshelf in the living room, nosy as usual.
“This is great,” Feyre said with a sigh, sitting at the rounded wooden table in Elain’s expansive kitchen. She didn’t want to think what this place must have cost Elain, in part because Elain deserved good things. Her former fiancé, Graysen, had recently cheated on her before dumping her in a public, brutal fashion and Feyre knew how it felt to love a man that never loved you back…at least in the way she’d loved him. Elain made heartbreak look easy—if her sister had laid awake at night sobbing and eating her feelings, she certainly never showed it. Feyre, on the other hand, had only left her apartment when Lucien began dragging her out which was why they ate dinner together every night. Feyre knew he’d stopped dating for the time being to make sure she was okay and though maybe it was selfish, she genuinely appreciated that he was looking after her.
“Tell her about Aldovia!” Lucien called. Elain’s brows raised.
“Aldovia?”
Lucien strode in and Feyre bit back the scowl when she noticed his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He was trying to be sexy. She’d murder him. Elain glanced at him, cheeks flushed and Feyre all but groaned.
“Feyre’s been given an assignment to see if Prince Rhysand is going to ascend to the throne.”
Elain’s eyes lit up. “Fey, that’s
amazing!
Your first assignment! Oh my God, okay, let me go grab that dress I bought—”
“Elain!” Feyre protested but Elain stepped around Lucien to jog down the hall, unaware of how he leaned to watch her go.
“Do you mind?” Feyre hissed. Lucien only shrugged, clearly unashamed. A moment later Elain returned with a pale blue, sparkly gown she spread over the dining room table.
“I have others,” Elain breathed. “But this one has never been worn.”
“Where were you planning on wearing this?” Feyre couldn’t help but ask, fingering one of the jewels lightly.
Elain shrugged. “Maybe someone I hate is about to get married and I wanted to upstage her.”
Lucien snorted with laughter and Elain flushed with pleasure. “Feyre, you can’t go to a castle and not take at least one nice dress.”
“You should probably take like…five,” Lucien added, doing quick math in his head.
“Five?” Feyre gasped.
“Yes, definitely,” Elain replied, walking back to her bedroom. Feyre gathered up the beautiful blue dress, hugging it to her chest as she followed after Elain, sandwiched by Lucien’s large body. Elain’s bedroom was a space she definitely thought Lucien had no business in, judging by how he looked around with interest. Not that Elain noticed, vanishing into a closet as big as Feyre’s bathroom.
“Get it together,” Feyre hissed when Lucien walked to the large, cream colored bed and ran a hand over the blanket.
“I’m going to
marry her,”
he whispered in response. “We’re going to be
family.”
“I’ll kill you,”
Feyre shot back moments before Elain walked back out, dumping a stack of gowns atop her bed. Even Lucien looked surprised by what he saw and if Elain was embarrassed, she didn’t let it show.
“Black, I think,” Elain murmured, pulling out another floor length dress that looked as though it had a slit cut to her navel.
Lucien reached for a golden one, pulling it from the stack to admire the fabric.
“Have you worn all these?” Feyre asked, flopping on Elain’s bed.
“Mostly,” Elain replied, studying her pile the way a scientist might examine something beneath a microscope. “Not that one. Do you want to take it?”
Judging by the way Lucien was staring at the dress, she decided she’d let Elain keep it and ruin his life by wearing it one day. There was no way in hell Lucien would ever get within touching distance of her sister. Elain had a very specific, very brunette type.
“No, I’m too pale for gold.”
“True,” Elain agreed without malice. “Red, then.”
“You act like I’m going to marry him,” Feyre mumbled, letting her sister add clothes to her pile. “This is just an assignment.”
“What if you need to attend fancy dinners?” Elain shot back. “Or balls—”
“This is not a fairy tale,” Feyre insisted. “I have slacks.”
Elain huffed, turning to her dresser to pull out nice dress clothes but Feyre stopped her. “Elain it’s
fine.
This guy dates supermodels, right? I don’t need to worry about impressing him. I’m not
you.”
“Don’t say that,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re beautiful.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Feyre mumbled, catching the look Elain and Lucien exchanged.
“At least take these three,” Elain finally said, shoving each dress into her sister’s hand.
Dinner was fun and Feyre didn’t hate the idea of Lucien and Elain. Lucien was a shameless flirt, not that Elain noticed. Perhaps she was so used to men acting that way she barely registered it, though Feyre noticed that Elain watched him more closely when he got serious. Between Elain’s knowledge of fashion and Lucien’s knowledge of history, she thought there was no one better prepared to go to Aldovia. Feyre had hundreds of words written in her notes, had the dresses Elain had shoved on her folded neatly in a suitcase, and a book Lucien insisted she take tucked beneath her arm when she strolled into the airport.
It didn’t occur to her until after she checked in that she’d never thought to just google the guy. Pulling out her phone, Feyre saw she had another missed text from a new number that she would have bet her life belonged to Tamlin. The fact that he couldn’t leave her alone when he should have been grateful the worst, he got was his face bloodied by Lucien was just astounding to her. She blocked it without bothering to look at the message, but her hands shook a little as she typed in Rhysands name.
That was a mistake, she decided. He was easily the best-looking man she’d ever seen in her life. How unfair, she reflected. If he had to be royalty, the least he deserved was a weird looking face. Rhysand was beautiful in a way that made Feyre’s heart race. Blue-black hair fell into eyes so blue they were practically violet, off-set by sun-kissed skin. The first picture she’d pulled up was a blurry pap shot of him without a shirt on, adding insult to injury. His body was sheer perfection, the kind artists used to carve from marble. Of course, in the photo he was standing beside a blonde woman in a teeny bikini and that reminded Feyre that his good looks had likely made him an asshole.
With that in mind, Feyre felt much better stepping onto a plane to fly halfway around the world. She’d never meet him, would likely only see him from a distance assuming he showed up at all, and all of Lucien and Elain’s prep work would be for nothing. She was still safe.
With that in mind, Feyre slept for most of the flight, waking for a rough landing on the tarmac. It was her first time alone somewhere and with each new step, Feyre felt a sense of excitement. She’d been chosen, maybe because no one else could go, but chosen nonetheless. She fired two quick texts to Lucien and Elain separately, letting them both know she’d made it and urging Lucien to come join her perhaps a tad selfishly.
Afterall, it would have been nice to have a friend. She felt that when three men cut her in the taxi line, stealing the car she’d waited for without little more than a grin. “Hey!” She’d yelled, frustrated when the largest of the three turned to look at her, winked, and then slid in after the other two. No apologies, no explanations. It took fifteen minutes for another cab to roll up and by the time Feyre was checked into her hotel and on the shuttle to the palace, she was more than a little stressed.
The palace itself was built into a snowcapped mountain surrounded by tall evergreen pines. It was something from a Christmas movie, something only Disney himself could have dreamt up. She had her nose practically pressed to the glass window, drinking in the surroundings. Feyre had never seen anything half as lovely in her life—unblemished snow covered the ground just beside the winding mountain road they travelled, sparkling beneath a cold winter sun. She wondered what it would be like to live somewhere so beautiful.
How are things going? Lucien asked Feyre when she sat in a gray cushioned, hardbacked chair. Press badge around her neck, Feyre shook out her hands, pleased to be in the middle of the crowd. She didn’t have any specific questions, didn’t really care what the spoiled prince would do.
Not great, she sent Lucien back when a busy press coordinator came out to announce there would be no press briefing, rescheduled or otherwise. They were told to pack it up, that Rhysand was definitely accepting the throne, and practically kicked out of the palace.
She couldn’t go home empty handed. She wasn’t going to be stuck in a dead-end job for the rest of her life. She didn’t have to love writing in order to want to do well.
You’ll bail me out of jail, right? She texted Lucien, sideling away from the group to circle back towards the palace. She felt his immediate response, likely demanding she not do whatever it was she was thinking but Feyre was already half jogging up a flight of stone steps to a side door. Decorated with green garland and a massive wreath, it was both festive and somehow overdone. She didn’t know what, exactly, she was looking for—only that she’d know when she saw it. Feyre was surprised that the palace felt more like a museum or an upscale office. Red carpet and muted wallpaper with nondescript art hanging on the walls all leant itself to a space that was neutral at best, unoffensive at worst. She crept through the hall, coming to a large foyer decorated charmingly with suits of armor wearing curling red ribbons around their neck. She pulled out her phone, ignoring Lucien’s all-caps text demanding she rethink her life choices, and snapped a photo.
“What are you doing?” A masculine voice behind her demanded. Feyre turned suddenly, surprised to find herself looking at one of the men who stole her taxi the morning before. Tall, broad, and muscular, he looked like he wrestled bears for fun.
“Uh…” She stammered, trying to think of any good reason to be taking pictures of suits of armor. “I was…”
“Oh. American,” he said with a roll of his hazel eyes. “You’re the portraitist, aren’t you?”
The what? “Yes,” she lied automatically. Anything to keep herself from trouble. The broad man’s expression relaxed into an easy-going, handsome smile. He was young, tan, and decidedly rugged despite his well-fitted pants and his buttoned up shirt. Shoulder length brown hair was half tied from his face with a neat bun, leaving the rest to wave around a jaw carved from rock.
“Thank God,” he said with a smile. “We were starting to think you’d ghosted us.”
“Nope, no ghosting,” Feyre assured him even as her mind screamed at her to tell the truth and get out. “Just a long flight.”
The man glanced sideways at her, gesturing for her to following him through the foyer towards a grand marble staircase.
“Must have been some flight,” he murmured, his tone betraying that she’d been missing much longer than she thought. Feyre offered a half-smile, hands trembling at her sides. “Anyway you’re in luck. Rhys just got in and he’s not in a shitty mood. Do…whatever it is you need to…do you need paint or something?”
Fuck. “Uh…yeah but not today. It’s a process,” she said truthfully. “I’m gonna just…take some pictures and get a feel for you know…the room…and stuff.”
“And stuff,” the man beside her repeated. “Okay. You’re the expert, I guess. Just…no talking to the press, okay? They’re circling like eager rats.”
“Right,” Feyre replied, not bothering to mention that she was one of those rats.
“If you need anything, let me know. I’m Cassian, by the way. I was the one talking to your boss on the phone I guess…I thought you were going to be a man.”
“Sorry to disappoint?” Feyre asked, praying to every God ever known that the actual portraitist didn’t show up and blow her cover. Cassian shook his head, leading Feyre down a series of connected halls.
“Did you bring things with you?”
“Yeah…they’re at my hotel,” she replied as though it were obvious. Cassian’s steps faltered.
“Hotel? You’re supposed to be staying here. What hotel? I’ll send Az to get your things.”
“That’s not necessary…I can get my own stuff,” Feyre replied, unsure who Az was or if she wanted him rifling through her stuff and accidentally letting them all know who she really was.
Cassian hesitated outside of two large, gold leaf double doors. “We really need this to go well. Az’ll drive you back into town for your things. Don’t tell anyone you’re working on a portrait, okay?”
“I won’t,” Feyre replied, hoping she looked sincere and not guilty. Cassian assessed Feyre one last time, biting his lower lip and then nodded.
“Painter is here!” He called, yanking open the door. Feyre was stunned momentarily by the beauty of the throne room Cassian had lead her into. It was open and airy, with white marble columns that matched the black swirled floors. Unlike the muted halls leading up to the room, the throne room seemed cut from decadence. Her eyes traveled to a gorgeous crystal chandelier overhead twinkling in the bright winter sunlight.
Sitting atop a dais, lounging in a golden throne, the most beautiful man Feyre had ever seen sat up, brushing a piece of lint from his black shirt.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” he told her, rising to his full height. The photos she’d seen of him on the internet didn’t do him justice—he didn’t look real, he was so handsome. He smiled, revealing two perfect rows of white teeth, his eyes so blue they were violet which contrasted nicely with his inky black hair.
She didn’t know what to say so Feyre let her eyes wander the room again, hoping she looked studious and not overwhelmed by how good looking he was.
“No paint?”
“Not today,” she managed to get out. “I’m going to take some pictures and then put together a sketch.” She didn’t have to lie, at least, about her ability to draw. She’d need to go to the local art supply store and get things to work with but Feyre thought she could put together a good portrait of him given enough time. He was certainly easy on the eyes.
He nodded, his gaze blazing and on her. Had anyone ever looked so intently at her in her life? It made her nervous, like he could see through her lies.
“Where do you want me?” He asked, gesturing around the space. His space. He’d be King, she realized…and she was supposed to be writing a story about him, not drawing his face. Maybe she could do both, she reasoned. After all, was it her fault if none of them background checked who came in and out of their lives? He was practically inviting disaster. She’d do a thoughtful, polite write-up, she decided. As an apology for her deception.
“Where would you like to be?”
“Far away,” Rhys admitted with a sigh. “But a long line of portraits have us on the throne and I suppose it would be bad form to defy tradition.”
Feyre gestured for him to sit, and Rhys did, back straight, hands resting on the arm. She pulled out her phone, opened the camera, and immediately began studying the way shadow and light fell on him. There was truly no better study for the human form than Rhysand.
There was something invasive and wrong about the photos she took and yet Feyre took them anyway. She was going to draw him, she promised. Rhysand didn’t move, seemed used to being photographed in this way though to Feyre it all felt very intimate.
“That’s…that’s all I need,” she murmured once she had a few from several different angles. “I can sketch something this evening and you could take a look tomorrow?”
He shrugged, rising from his throne. “I don’t care, to be honest…” He looked at her expectantly.
“Feyre. My name is Feyre.”
“Unusual name,” he replied. “Anyway, I don’t care how it looks.”
“Why commission one at all, then?” Feyre snapped without thinking. Rhys raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised.
“Why, indeed? Let me show you to your room.”
“Is that something princes do?” Feyre asked snappishly, strangely annoyed he didn’t care how his portrait turned out. Rhys shrugged.
“This one does, though I could call Cassian back if you’d prefer?”
“He was nice,” Feyre murmured, more to herself. That made Rhysand laugh.
“He’ll be relieved to hear it. Come on, Feyre darling. I have other things I need to do today.”
Feyre nodded, swallowing hard. Following after him had the strangest feeling attached, as though she were walking to more than just a bedroom.
It was as though she walked towards fate.