Feyre Nightwhisper's Arc

Chapter 9 of 9

Three days after the stones, Lucien would not sit with Feyre. He took meals alone at the inn, a book open in front of him, and left when she came down. Her tattoos ached worse each night. She could not speak the curse-name without him beside her. The bond was proven, but the man had pulled away. She found him at the ale counter, hunched over a worn page. She sat on the stool beside him. He did not look up. "You've been hiding," she said. "I've been reading." "The same page for an hour?" He closed the book. "I didn't choose this. My grandmother sent me to you. Then the stones chained my life to a stranger's." He turned the book over in his hands. "You don't trust me. I don't blame you. Now you need me to stand there while you speak a word that could kill you. That's a lot to ask of someone you'd rather not need." The tavern owner set a bowl of stew in front of each of them. He had a kind, scarred face, pale patches spread across his brown skin. He said nothing about their quarrel. He only slid a spoon toward Feyre and nodded at the steam. "Eat," Thaddeus said. "Whatever it is, it keeps better on a full stomach." He moved back toward the hearth, where a pot hung over the fire. Feyre looked at the stew, then at Lucien. "I don't need you because the stones said so," she said. "You drew the curse-name for me when speaking it would have killed me. You caught Saraid's mistake before I made it. You could have let me die and never risked yourself. You didn't." Lucien was quiet. "I protected someone else once, when it was you who needed it. I remember that every day." "I know. And you still taught me the strokes right." She put her hand flat on the counter, close to his. "I'm not asking the bond to stand beside me. I'm asking you." He looked at her hand. The scarred owner ladled stew in the firelight behind them, not listening, or pretending not to. "When?" Lucien asked. "Tomorrow. At the stones. Before the power stops waiting." He picked up his spoon. "Then I'll be there. Not because a ritual says so." He met her eyes. "Because I'd rather be the one standing next to you than read about it later." Feyre let out a breath. The ache in her arms eased, just a little. He had come back to her side, not as a bound stranger, but by his own choice. Now nothing stood between her and the word. They ate the stew together, and it was good. Outside, the light was already going. Tomorrow she would speak the curse-name. Tomorrow she would learn if the power freed her or burned her alive.