you ask, "what are we made of?"
Lucien has never seen such a mess before.
So much paperwork delegated to him thanks to Tamlin.
Lucien sighs. Sometimes he wished he were dead, if only to stave off the paperwork that came with being a member of the Courts.
The clock chimes. It’s 8. Time to go hunting.
Lucien prepares himself to watch Feyre and Tamlin go at it again.
-
He meets Ianthe on the way.
Lucien puts up his best “I’m the fucking son of a High Lord, Emissary to another High Lord, you should bow before me peasant” demeanour.
Of course, Ianthe is not deterred.
“Hello Lucien,” Ianthe simpers.
“High Priestess,” Lucien says dismissively before striding ahead, internally groaning as Ianthe follows.
How Feyre dealt with her, he didn’t know. But perhaps she too needed some female company besides Alis in this Manor of mostly males.
Tamlin would not let his lover talk to the keep, no. High Lords had appearances to keep.
Lucien nearly growls as Ianthe’s robes swish against his trousers.
“I was wondering, what would you be wearing for the union of our High Lord and his lover?” Ianthe continues.
“I don’t suppose you would know,” Lucien dryly replies as he increases his speed.
“Why, I have a few suggestions of course. There was a delivery of some forest green cloth earlier, the servants could make something out of that for you. You’ve always been quite fetching in tighter clothing,” Ianthe flutters her lashes “coyly” at Lucien.
Lucien’s inner self nearly gags.
“My wardrobe is none of your concern. Perhaps you should invest your time in your own,” Lucien curls his lips into a feral smile, and lets the door shut behind him as Ianthe breaks her seductive facade and glares at him.
“Lucien, don’t be so rude to Ianthe,” Tamlin chides. Lucien tenses, waiting for the disapproval and punishment.
“Ianthe can be something when it comes to clothing, can’t she? Yesterday she buried me in fabrics to choose for the table cloth. A table cloth! Cauldron, why can’t you fae be less fussy,” Feyre sighs dramatically and Lucien grins.
“There’s my favourite artist. We shall plan our escapades from the dear High Priestess together, but alas! She might be listening in with her 6th sense and prayers to beseech the gods above and cleansing our sins with silk and tulle, we must not discuss this further,” Lucien says mock seriously as Feyre breaks out into a smile and laughs heartily, looking much lighter than she had in days.
“Feyre, Lucien,” Tamlin sighs.
Lucien knows that tone. The tone of a fae male, ruffled and ready to go for aggression.
Mates.
Territorial.
Lucien backs down as Feyre’s laughter falls to silence.
“I will have everything ready, my Lord,” Lucien says.
Tamlin nods distractedly.
“Tamlin,” Feyre begins, and Lucien mentally sighs.
Here we go again.
“No, Feyre, it is for your safety.”
Two stubborn individuals. It was a miracle the Cauldron decided to pair them together.
“I can hunt, I don’t want to pick wildflowers, I’m not delicate!”
Lucien sees what Feyre refuses to see. Gaunt, pale, suffering. And he could do nothing about it, as it would be against the orders of Tamlin.
He really should get the servants to make her more broth instead of the solid foods they eat all the time if Feyre can’t stomach it.
“Love, I know you want to hunt, but Amarantha’s allies are still out there. Just yesterday, Lucien hunted down 5 naga.”
Damn you Tamlin, Lucien thinks as he smiles sheepishly at Feyre, who’s head whipped to him.
“It’s fine, I’m used to it. You don’t get this far in life without injuries. Feyre, you should listen to Tamlin. Give it some time, we’ll clear the area of any harmful creatures, then you will be free to roam the area,” Lucien compromises instead, ignoring Tamlin’s growl of warning and Feyre’s miserable look.
Duties. He had duties, loyalties to his High Lord and the Lady Consort.
“You can paint,” Tamlin offers, quite uselessly, in Lucien’s opinion.
“Fine,” Feyre seethes.
Lucien knows, knows that Feyre is going to blow up at some point.
He just hoped he’d be around to shield her from Tamlin’s wrath.