BOUND IN FLAMES

006

Alis stepped out in the hall and you followed after her, leaning on the wall next to the door of the room you were given, waiting for Feyre.

The both of you waiting in silence. Not awkward or uncomfortable silence—just silence. Exhaustion finally wearing on you as stood there, head against the wall, eyes closed. You heard her before you saw her, "Is Y/n, already down there?" Feyre asked quietly. The door of her room opening before the servant who helped her get ready could respond.

"No, she's right here." You answered before the servant could, Feyre's eyes lit up at the sound of your voice, shoulders slacking just a bit as she took you in. A small smile only for her gracing your lips at the fact that you could relax her.

You love the fact that your voice, your presence, alone can relax your sister. Yet, it's bittersweet because if she knew who you really were, what you really were, she wouldn't trust you. Maybe she would even fear you. . . hate you.

Moving to stand right in front of her, placing your hands on her shoulders, eyes searching for any hint of her being hurt. When you didn't find anything and met her gaze she gave you an incredulous look. Arching a brow, "What?"

Feyre crossed her arms across her chest, eyes narrowed, "Shouldn't I be the one checking you, worrying over you as the older sister?"

"No."

"What? Why?"

Now it was your turn to cross your arms, eyes narrowing in challenge, "Because I can handle myself. Take care of myself."

Feyre scoffed. "So can I!"

"No. Not like I can and we both know it." You said matter-of-factly, holding her gaze—daring her to challenge you.

She didn't.

***

The High Lord of Spring and Lucien were lounging around the table when Alis returned you both to the dining room. Food still remained on the table, the array of spices lingering in the air, beckoning. You were starving, your head unnervingly light. It had been days since you'd last ate, since Feyre last ate.

The High Lord's mask gleamed with the last rays of the afternoon sunshine. "Before you ask again: the food is safe for you to eat." He pointed to the chairs at the other end of the table. No sign of his claws. When you both didn't move, he sighed sharply. "What do you want, then?"

Both of you said nothing.

Lucien drawled from his seat along the length of the table, "I told you so, Tamlin." He flicked a glance toward his friend. "Your skills with females have definitely become rusty in recent decades."

Tamlin. He glowered at Lucien, shifting in his seat. You willed your face into neutrality at the confirmation that he had survived all those years ago.

"Well," Lucien said, his remaining russet eye fixed on you, then Feyre "You two don't look half as bad now. A relief, I suppose, since you're to live with us. Though tunics aren't as pretty as a dress."

You were all too aware of the way your jaw clenched and unclenched, of the very breath you took as you said, "I'd prefer not to wear a dress."

"And why not?" Lucien crooned.

It was Tamlin who answered for you. "Because killing us is easier in pants."

You kept your face blank, willed yourself to settle as Feyre began to speak, "Now that we're here, what. . . what do you plan to do with us?"

Lucien snorted, but Tamlin said with a snarl of annoyance, "Just sit down."

Two empty seats had been pulled out at the end of the table, one at the head and the other to its left. You sat in the one on the left, gesturing for Feyre to sit at the head. If something were to happen you'd at least have enough time to get in front of her.