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Lucien choked on his water when he saw Elain. His mate.
Instead of the frilly, delicate dresses she usually wore, today she wore pants. Black leggings, to be exact. Soft fabric that molded perfectly to her ass and legs.
Lucien’s brain short-circuited. He barely managed to jerk his gaze down before her family could catch him blatantly staring at her bottom. He fixed his attention on the table, gripping his glass like a lifeline.
This was cruel. Elain Archeron had always been beautiful, but now—now she was actively testing his self-control.
She carried a large basket full of blankets, her voice soft and lilting as she spoke with Nesta. Lucien swallowed hard as he realized she wasn’t just folding any blanket. She was folding his blanket.
His.
The one that laid on his bed only a few hours ago.
His entire body tensed as she flattened it against her chest, smoothing out the fabric before neatly folding it. His blanket—pressed against her body, absorbing her scent, her warmth. No wonder his bed at the River House always smelled like his mate if this was how she folded the laundry.
Lucien forced himself to take a slow, measured breath, but it did nothing to steady the heat surging through him.
“Elain,” Nesta said dryly, not even glancing up from the book she was flipping through, “I think you’re about to make Lucien explode.”
Elain turned her head, blinking in surprise. “What?”
Lucien nearly knocked over his glass. “Nothing!” he said hastily. “Absolutely nothing.” He shot Nesta a glare, but the eldest Archeron sister merely smirked, flipping another page.
Elain, oblivious as ever, simply returned to folding, humming softly.
Lucien was doomed.
Then, to make matters worse, she reached for another blanket—another of his—and did the same thing. Pressed it against her chest, smoothed it out, folded it slowly.
His mate was unknowingly killing him.
Cassian, seated across from Lucien, finally took pity on him and leaned in. “You’re staring,” he murmured, amusement thick in his voice.
“I know,” Lucien hissed.
Cassian chuckled. “You should say something. Or at least stop acting like a lovesick idiot.”
Lucien shot him a withering look. “I am not—”
Elain suddenly turned to him, her soft hazel eyes filled with warmth. “Lucien, would you mind carrying these upstairs for me?” She gestured to the now neatly folded stack of blankets.
Lucien felt Cassian’s barely suppressed laughter beside him.
“Of course,” Lucien said, clearing his throat. He stood a little too quickly, ignoring the way his legs felt like jelly.
Elain smiled at him—genuine, sweet, utterly devastating. “Thank you,” she said, turning away again.
Lucien clenched his jaw.
He was so, so doomed.
_____________________
Lucien carried the stack of blankets upstairs, his arms tense, his mind an absolute battlefield. Every damn one smelled like her. Like wildflowers warmed by the sun, soft vanilla, and something uniquely Elain. It was intoxicating. Maddening.
He reached the guest room and carefully set the blankets down on the neatly made bed. He should leave. He needed to leave.
Instead, he hesitated.
His fingers curled into the soft fabric of the top blanket—his blanket—and before he could stop himself, he lifted it slightly, bringing it closer.
One inhale. Just one.
Lucien’s eyes nearly rolled back.
It was her.
Sun-warmed honey, the faintest hint of jasmine, and the lingering scent of freshly baked bread—like she’d been in the kitchen that morning. But underneath it, beneath all of that softness, was something deeper. Something warmer. Something that made his body tighten and his instincts snarl with satisfaction.
His mate.
Lucien exhaled sharply, shoving the blanket back into place like it had burned him. What the hell was he doing? Standing here like a lunatic, sniffing blankets like some love-starved fool? He scrubbed a hand over his face, silently cursing himself.
But then—
“Lucien?”
His spine went rigid. Slowly, slowly, he turned.
Elain stood in the doorway, head tilted slightly, watching him.
Panic shot through him. Had she seen? Had she—
Her gaze flicked to the blankets.
Lucien straightened so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. “I was just—” He cleared his throat. “Making sure they’re, um. Folded properly.”
Elain blinked. Then, to his utter horror, her lips twitched.
“Were they not up to your standards?” she asked, amusement lacing her voice.
Lucien opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His brain had completely shut down.
Elain took a step closer, her eyes far too knowing. “I can refold them if you’d like.”
Lucien backed up a step, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed. “That’s not necessary.”
She bit her lip—like she was holding back a laugh.
Mother above, she knew.
Lucien was going to go throw himself off the House of Wind. Just as soon as he got out of this bedroom and away from his mate.
Lucien swallowed hard, straightened his shoulders, and forced his legs to move. He strode past her as quickly as he could without looking like he was running for his life.
But just as he passed, just as he thought he’d escaped, Elain murmured softly, “You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know.”
Lucien bolted.