Acotar retelling

Daddy? Sorry, Daddy? Sorry

The next day, Lucien joined us for lunch—which was breakfast for all of us.

Lucien kept rubbing at his temples as he ate, unusually silent, and I hid my smile as I asked him, "And where were you last night?"

Lucien's metal eye narrowed on me. "I'll have you know that while you two were dancing with the spirits, I was stuck on border patrol."

Now that I have your attention, Tamlin," he snapped. "Not to be the bearer of truly bad tidings, but my contact at the Winter Court managed to get a letter to me." Lucien took a steadying breath, and I wondered why he was bothering to say this in my presence at all. The smile instantly faded from Tamlin's face. "The blight," Lucien said tightly, softly. "It took out two dozen of their younglings. Two dozen, all gone." He swallowed. "It just ... burned through their magic, then broke apart their minds. No one in the Winter Court could do anything—no one could stop it once it turned its attention toward them. Their grief is ... unfathomable. My contact says other courts are being hit hard—though the Night Court, of course, manages to remain unscathed. But the blight seems to be sending its wickedness this way—farther south with every attack."

All the warmth, all the sparkling joy, drained from me like blood down a drain.

Younglings. She had killed children, a some storm of darkness and death. And since offspring were so rare, the loss of so many is more devastating than I could imagine.

Tamlin's eyes were shadowed, and he slowly shook his head—as if trying to clear the grief and shock of those deaths from him.

He shot to his feet so quickly that his chair flipped over. He unsheathed his claws and snarled at the open doorway, canines long and gleaming.

The house, usually full of the whispering skirts and chatter of servants, had gone silent.

Not the pregnant silence of Calanmai, but rather the quiet of familiar nights spent flying or walking around Velaris. Quiet like home.

"Get Feyre to the window—by the curtains," Tamlin growled to Lucien, not taking his eyes off the open doors. Lucien's hand gripped my elbow, dragging me out of my chair.

"Wait, stop–" I started, but Tamlin growled again, the sound echoing through the room. I regretfully let Lucien lead me to the window, where he pushed me against the velvet drapes and pressed his back into me, pinning me between him and the wall. I put up my mental shields, once again leaving that pocket open. I kept the bite from Tamlin at the forefront of my mind, ready to drag it out at the slightest hint of teeth.

The tang of magic shoved itself up my nostrils. Though his sword was pointed at the floor, Lucien's grip tightened on it until his knuckles turned white. Magic—a glamour. To conceal me, to make me a part of Lucien—invisible, hidden by the faerie's magic and scent. I peered over his shoulder at Tamlin, who took a long breath and sheathed his claws and fangs, his baldric of knives appearing from thin air across his chest. But he didn't draw any of the knives as he righted his chair and slouched in it, picking at his nails. As if nothing were happening.

Coward, all this posturing, and for what? Because Tamlin couldn't suck it up and sleep with Amarantha.

Footsteps sounded from the hall. Even, strolling, casual.

Tamlin continued cleaning his nails, and in front of me, Lucien assumed a position of appearing to be looking out the window. The footsteps grew louder—the scuff of boots on marble tiles.

And then he appeared.

My love.

With steps that were graceful and feline, he approached the dining table and stopped a few yards from the High Lord. He was exactly as I remembered him, with his fine, rich clothing cloaked in tendrils of night: an ebony tunic brocaded with gold and silver, dark pants, and black boots that went to his knees.