Chapter Text
My eyes adjust, hazily, to the soft light of morning. It takes a few goes to fully open them, as my eyelids feel stuck together with sleep. The first thing I notice, upon waking properly, is my leg. A deep ache runs throughout it, the bone itself sore. It’s encased in something, hard plastic maybe, or the soft wrap of a bandage. I can’t get up to look at it though, as my whole body is heavy, resistant to my commands. I am sore and bruised all over, yet save for a bandage wrapped around my forearm, I can’t feel or see any serious injuries other than my leg.
I look around – because I can barely move my head, my view is reduced and doesn’t inform me much about my surroundings. It’s just starting to get light outside, the large windows at the end of the room blanching the room with a soft warmth. Trees wave outside, gently. I can hear birdsong. Perhaps, I am on at least the second or third story of a house, maybe somewhere remote, far from London.
The room itself is pleasant, yet bare. I do not recognise any of it. Dark wooden beams, that stretch across a high cleaning, a tall lamp in one corner, a small antique bookshelf off to the side, and the expensive looking bed I lie on. Yet, no paintings, decorations, or personal possessions. Next to the bed is a chair, soft velvet, partially obscured from my view by the man sitting in it. He flicks the pages of a paperback, yet to notice that I am awake. I quickly shut my eyes, panicking.
I do not know where I am, I do not know what happened, and I do not know who the man is.
I try to readjust my breathing, so I sound like I’m sleeping. I sort through my memories, quickly. The last thing I remember is being at home, catching up on TV, and then? Nothing. How did I get injured? How did I get here – wherever here is? After a few deep breaths, I blink my eyes open quickly, sneaking another look at the man. Trying to place him, as my first clue to any of my questions. Tanned skin, short black hair with a gentle curl to it, and sharp, angular features. His brow is furrowed slightly in thought, and square glasses rest on his nose. The sleeves of his silk shirt are rolled up to show strong arms and calloused hands that flick through the pages with surprising gentleness. The title is in another language, which I don’t recognise - maybe I’m abroad? But you would think I would remember getting on a plane.
He readjusts in the seat, then runs a hand through his hair. It’s then I recognised him – his gesture taking me back to outside the hospital room, a few months ago.
* ✷ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
The previous year had been a strange one. It started out as normally as could be expected. A small New Year’s Eve party organised by my stepsisters, Nesta and Elain. We had huddled around to wish in the new year at their shared flat in the city, watching the fireworks around the London eye on the TV, counting down together. Then, a boring January where I tried to go vegan, and failed depressingly after ordering the wrong sausage roll at Greggs. February passed, and I got the keys to small studio flat above a bakery – my first non-shared apartment, all to myself. In March I went on a weekend trip with a friend from high school to Paris, where I missed my flight home and had to rebook on the day in broken French at the airport. April was mostly full of overtime to make up the cost of the plane flight. I broke up with my boyfriend in May, a guy called Tamlin. He was arrogant, and my friends didn’t like him, but he wasn’t all that bad. I just didn’t love him, really, and saw the whole thing as a little casual fling. I had never seen a man cry so much, when I told him I didn’t feel for him the way he felt for me – I suppose he thought I was the one, or something like that. Altogether, nothing was really that eventful until June, where things took a turn. When my father got in contact with me.
For as long as I had remembered, it was the four of us at home, and then the three, when my mother passed. My two stepsisters, Nesta the eldest, and Elain the middle child, were from her previous marriage. I was the product of a one-night stand, a year after the divorce. My sisters’ father was still in contact, and for most of my life had shared custody over them. His name was Dave, and he stopped by on weekends to take them out. Occasionally, I came too. Not always, but sometimes, like when we all went to Disneyland together when I was eight. Dave, despite his difficulties with my mother, was always kind to me, even though I wasn’t one of his own. It was like he could sense the rift between my sisters and me and tried to smooth it over with nicknames and small gifts, treating me like his daughter too. Once my sisters reached adulthood, he visited less. I didn’t reach out - he wasn’t my Dad, he was theirs. Even though I missed him a lot. When my mother passed away, he came with us to the funeral, but I hadn’t seen much of him since. In a way, I think he found it too painful, that I was a reminder.
I suppose, I had always dreamed of what my own father was like. My mother was vague with descriptions, changing them every time I asked. I looked so much like Nesta and Elain anyway. I remember as a child, looking in the mirror for features that were not theirs, nor my mothers. The curl of my lip, my nose, maybe, my hairline? But no, I never had much luck seeing anything except them, staring back at me.
I had never even met the man; he was as absent as they come. The occasional gift signed with a scribble came for me in the post. Perfumes and barbie dolls. Toys that I was too old or too young for, sent at odd intervals. Not birthdays or Christmases, but a Tuesday in July or the 1st of October. Once or twice, a short message. My address misspelt, but close enough to be delivered to the right place. He never even seemed to even know how old I was – I got a 10th birthday card when I was 12. Strangely though, when I moved out at 18 for university, the cards kept coming. My Mother, before she passed, swore that she hadn’t informed anyone my dorm room address and couldn’t even remember my father’s name. Yet they kept appearing, sporadically throughout my years there, with no return address. When I moved into my shiny new studio flat this year, there was a welcome card on the floor. I remember checking with the neighbours, but they hadn’t seen a thing.
Until June, my father had remained all but a mystery to me, and I doubted I would ever see him. A ghost, watching over me, or maybe just watching me. Then I got a card in the mail, on Father’s Day, of all things. The letter was detailed, and in a scrawl different from my fathers.
It was a request from a lawyer to visit my father. Not only did he want to see me, for the first time in my life, but he was also dying.
It was a lot to take in at once.
It was a strange first encounter. His skin was grey and his hair was thinning. He didn’t look much like me, but he wasn’t entirely unfamiliar looking. Something about the placement of his features, rather than the features themselves, reminded me of mine. Tubes came out of his arms like externed veins, hooked up to something that flashed and beeped in a language I didn’t understand. The language of hospitals, and of the sick. His voice was gravely, and he seemed to struggle to speak, but he remembered my name and when I held his hand, limp and cold, I did feel some sort of emotion inside of me. To be honest, I had been emotionless since I opened the letter. You know when something terrible happens, that it doesn’t matter what happens next – you could well be kidnapped, or murdered or something – it doesn’t compare to the current numbness inside. In fact, something tragic would be a welcome break - panic had always been an easier emotion for me than… well the absence of emotion. So that small thread meant something, I think.
He had a few months maybe, and the doctor had informed me he had asked to see me everyday. Every morning, when he woke up, he asked the nearest nurse “When is Feyre coming? My Feyre? Is she coming today?”
I only went once or twice a week, and just sat with him in silence while he smiled at me. He was content just to be in my presence. Sometimes I would read a book to him, or he would ask me about school, and I would correct him to work, as I was an adult now. He never remembered. Every time I left, I felt hollow and weird. Like I had left part of myself in that room, each time. Maybe soon, there would be nothing left of me.
Nothing else had changed over those weeks. I went to work, then saw my friends in the evening for drinks. Gossiped about some TV show, a bad date, or other normal, completely normal, things. I never mentioned my father to my friends, never mentioned how when I went home, I just stared at the TV for hours without even turning it on.
Most of the time, when I visited the hospital, the place was empty. However, there were sometimes people who had come before or after me or walked in briefly while I was there – and then saw me and walked out, of course. I would occasionally try and speak to them, but there wasn’t much to say, really. My father’s lawyer was nice enough, a tall balding man, always in a drab blue suit with the same bright, patterned tie. I wondered if he ever washed it. He spoke to me every time I was there, getting cheap coffee for me from the machine in the waiting room, making polite small talk about the weather. I wouldn’t say he was exactly kind, but polite, sure. There was sometimes an older woman there too, who sat in the corner knitting and scowling, but she never spoke to me.
Once though, I half ran into a guy in the waiting room. He was on his way out, and I wasn’t looking where I was going, stumbling into him. After an awkward set of apologies from both of us, he asked if I was there to see my father. Obviously, he used my father’s first name and didn’t assume my relation. I had only learnt my father’s name in the previous few weeks. It was Michael. A rather boring name for a man who had hidden out of sight my entire life, an endless childhood mystery. After all this time – Michael?
Anyway, I digress. I asked the man I ran into his relationship with my father, and he told me they used to work together but wouldn’t elaborate on what either of their jobs were. He moved out of my way, pressing a hand to my shoulder saying that everything would be ok, and that I shouldn’t worry so much. I didn’t realise I had looked worried, but I suppose I must have. I hadn’t been sleeping well, nor dressing well. The man ran his hand through his hair, the very same gesture, and gave me a sad soft smile.
Most people who visited my father I didn’t recognise and didn’t know. Few spoke to me, let alone shared their condolences. Out of the ten or so people who came in and out of that room, he was the only one who said anything truly kind.
After I came out of the hospice room, eyes damp, he was still there, having left his coat inside and not wanting to disturb us. An awkward shyness, and I waited – I don’t know why – while he darted back in to pick it up. He offered to walk me back home, and against my normal judgment, I went with him. I was cold, and numb, and I didn’t want to think for a bit, I suppose. He was handsome, which I tried hard not to notice at the time. We had walked for a while, him sheltering me with his umbrella, making the sort of small talk where I could just nod in agreement, while I wore his previously forgotten coat.
We had stopped in a bar near my flat, and he’d ordered me a drink, content to let me sit in silence with him, watching the rain together. There was a brief moment, where I thought something might happen, but I knew I was too emotionally ruined for anything like that. Before he left, he mentioned that he was staying nearby for the next few months, if I needed him. He gave me a small white business card, with just a number and a name. Rhysand Carynthian, in italics and his mobile underneath.
A week went by, then a few months, and I never called him. I’d type in the number, wait five minutes, and then delete it.
* ✷ ⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
I try to keep my breathing calm. A deep sleep. Unawakenable peace. I have no escape plan, with my leg being as it is. I doubt I could even move it - let alone run away. Plus, the man, Rhysand, I presume, is literally right next to me. I’m so certain it is him. From what I remembered; he seemed kind. I scrape my brain for other pieces of information about him, or that day or anything for clues for how I got here. I come up with nothing, other than that he thought it was raining a lot for the time of year.
He checks his watch and mutters something, placing the book down. I immediately close my eyes shut. I hear shuffling next to me. A gentle touch to my shoulder.
“Feyre?” He shakes my shoulder, still gentle. He has a soft Scottish lit to his voice, but otherwise a fairly uniform British accent. I hadn't noticed it at the hospice. Maybe, we're in Scotland. I keep my eyes closed. I’m in such a deep sleep that nothing can wake me, not even an earthquake. Nor a strange man shaking me. He tells me to wake up, still in a gentle voice, while I continue to ignore him. Then, he laughs, softly, and the hand is moved from my shoulder. I instantly relax - I realise as soon as I have that it was a clean giveaway.
“I know you’re awake Feyre” I keep my face still, but I know it’s pointless. He’s seen right through me. I hear him stand, and then the bed creaks under the weight of both of us as he sits beside me. His hands move under my shoulders, his breath near my neck. He smells of cigarettes and rain and citrus. My eyes fly open, and I swat at him, trying to shake free with my aching arms, but his hands hold me tightly. I start to panic, breathing heavily.
“Calm down darling, I’m just helping you sit up” he sounds irritated. I don’t want to irritate him. But I struggle all the same until I’m sat up.
He sits back down on the chair, and passes me a glass of water. I do not take it, despite my thirst. He shrugs, places it back on the nightstand,
He seems to struggle with how to talk to me now I’m awake. His earlier confidence muted. I regard him, hostile, while he places his reading glasses on the table next to him, seemingly only as something to do with his hands. I feel he is waiting for me to start the conversation, even though I am in much less of a position to lead the dance as I do not know the next move.
In the end I take the first step. “Who are you?” my voice is a croak. It feels like it’s been days since I last spoke, which it might well have been.
He sighs and reaches for my hand. I snatch it away, the effort rewarding me with a sharp pain. Sitting up, the full body exhaustion and stiffness is much more apparent. “It’s ok” he says, speaking like he’s trying to coax a stray animal “I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Rhys, we met at the hospice - We had a drink afterwards?”
He smiles softly, trying (and failing) to be reassuring.
“Where am I?” I say.
He hesitates, and runs his hand through his hair, again. Must be some sort of nervous tick “I can’t tell you the details, but you’re safe here. This is … not usually how I meet clients, I’m honestly not sure how to introduce myself” he scratches the back of his neck, looking away from me. “Did your father ever mention anything about me?”
I shake my head. He clearly has forgotten how little sense my father made when he did speak. Which was hardly ever, anyway. Rhys takes the glass he previously offered to me and drains it himself. He rests his elbows on his knees, takes a deep breath, and some of his confidence from the hospital reappears. “Your father made some enemies, in his time. He hired me to, I guess you could say, watch out for you. Usually in these situations, the client is the one that reaches out for me, but in this case…your father didn’t want to seem intrusive.”
“Were you following me?” I say, quietly. He smiles, again trying to be reassuring.
“I wouldn’t call it that.” He decides to not fill me in just yet on the details - details that would properly explain my bruises and aches. Instead, he reiterated that I’m safe here, wherever here is. He reaches back out for my hand, and I let him take it this time, and he squeezes it gently, then runs his fingers over the back of it. It would probably feel nice, if I wasn’t so terrified. At least I’m feeling something though.
“What happened?” I say. I seem to be limited to short questions only in our conversation so far. Speaking for longer periods would be hard, with how ruined my voice is. I think again, about the water I declined. Rhys tells me that someone broke into my apartment, and that he had to intervene. That usually he wouldn’t have. I accuse him of watching and following me again, and he insists it was for my safety, and that he was paid to do it, like that would make me feel better. A prickling feeling rises, at the back of my neck, at being watched for months, maybe even before my father contacted me. The only thing I can think about is how awfully lonely and embarrassing my life had become, and that this random man had seen all of it. The unwashed clothes and overflowing dishes, or how I stay in my dressing gown the entire weekend, cancelling plans to watch reality TV I don’t even like.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t get there any faster.” Rhys says, “I had been monitoring things for months, but obviously it wasn’t enough. I didn’t think anything like this would happen, I honestly thought you were safe”. He tells me that my leg will be ok eventually. That it’s not too bad, he looked at it earlier. I don’t like thinking about him looking at my leg, while I was sleeping. We sit in silence for a while, while he continues to holds my hand. Then he coughs and announces that he’ll make me some food. I watch him leave, and he turns around for one last glance before closing the door.
I try and lie back down, but without Rhys to help me I am clumsy, and end up staying in an awkward position. Not quite lying down but no longer sat up. There’s nothing else to do except wait for him to come back. I watch the ceiling, with its soft swirls and the dark wooden beams. I make a game of counting each of the little knots on the wood, seeing if they’re equal on each one. There’s ten on the one directly above me, and the two that intersect that beam have eight knots each. Another one is above where my feet lay, too far for me to see. Each time I try and strain my eyes to count the knots there, I lose focus and forget the number I am on.
At my current half up, half down position, I can see my leg properly. It’s wrapped in a bandage, my second guess. Bruised, and twisted at a sort of odd angle. I try to move it and I am met with an involuntary animal noise. I realise - it came from me. I quickly stop, hoping that Rhys hadn’t heard. When he doesn’t rush back up the stairs to save me, I try again. It hurts less this time – a predictable pain that I only gasp from. A break, maybe. I would be able to walk in a few weeks, with help. Then in a few months or so I would be able to, without help.
A few months. Maybe longer.
I’m wearing mismatched clothing, a white jumper far too large for me, which I assume must be his, and a skirt that honestly just seems like a large stretch of fabric knotted around my waist.
When Rhys returns, he’s carrying a plate of vegetables and some sort of meat, another glass of water in the other hand. The cutlery is rested precariously on the plate, slotted in between the potatoes. He lays the plate on the chair and moves beside me again, to readjust my sitting position. I let him, this time, without a fight. Staying there, he reaches over and places the food on my lap. He cuts up the meat for me and spears a slice with the fork and places it in front of my mouth. I don’t move. I’m not eating out of his hand. I may be unable to move my arms without pain, but I’d rather not debase myself.
“You have to eat darling; it’s not poisoned. Here” he leans forward at takes the bite he had offered me. “See, it’s fine”. He tries again, but I shake my head. Seeing how futile the idea is, he resigns himself to the chair and waits for me to feed myself, my arms moving clumsily and slow.
It gets cold before I manage to work out how to feed myself, how to hold the cutlery in my weak hands. But it’s still nice. Simple, hearty food, the sort my mum made for me when I was sick as a kid. Rhys visibly relaxes once I start eating. Even though I want to devour the food like some sort of wild animal, I make myself chew slowly. Not that I really can go any quicker. Also, I’m worried if I finish fast, he’ll leave again. I can’t get answers from the ceiling.
“So are you, like, some sort of bodyguard?” I say, between mouthfuls. It comes out casual, which is what I wanted, like I’m asking him the weather. With the food in me, I sound way more normal, less like I’ve been smoking 20 packs of cigarettes a day.
His face lights up a little at the prospect of conversation. “Yeah, kind of. I mean, well yes, I have done that.” I nod, his answer not really clarifying anything.
“And my dad hired you? Why?”
“Well, like I said, he made some enemies with his line of work, and obviously, with you being his heir and all, it makes sense that you know, we keep you safe until everything blows over” He says, stumbling a little in his explanation.
“His heir? What do you mean, heir to what?” I say, between mouthfuls, and watch him pale slightly.
“You…don’t know?” He asks.
“I don’t know my father well.” Rhys nods, quickly hiding any trace of the earlier surprise.
“Ah well, he…uh, you know what, don’t worry too much about it” I raise my eyebrows. “It’s complicated. You just need to lay low for a bit, until we can get everything transferred and sorted out. Then you can go back to your life” He tries another smile. I ignore it.
“I don’t want any money if that's what it is. I like my life. Can’t you tell these people that?” I take another bite of meat, and grimace as I struggle to chew it.
“They’re not the sort of people who would listen to that sort of thing.” He says. I push the plate away. There’s still a lot left but I’m not hungry anymore. I feel sick instead. He frowns at me, at this, yet continues, saying “Listen, I’ll try and sort something else out, so you don’t have to deal with the fall out of the money, Ok?”
“And how long will that take?” I answer. I can hear how unpleasant, how aloof, I sound.
“I’m not sure. Maybe 6 months.” He hurries on before I can argue “But look, you’re safe here -”
“Like you keep saying.” I feel my face flush. “Completely safe with a man who I’ve only met once, in a strange house, where I don’t know why I am here, or why my leg hurts or fucking anything!”
He pauses, calibrating, then something seems to shift in him. When he speaks, his entire demeanour has changed, and his voice is cold. “I don’t appreciate your language. There’s nothing I can do, alright? Someone broke into your house a few days ago, and they were going to hurt you. I got you out, and now we need to wait until it’s safe for you to return. That’s all that happened, and that’s all that this is.”
“And my leg?” I say, a bit pathetic, like a child having a spat.
“It twisted when I tackled you to the floor” he says. He’s leaving out a few details - my leg is not twisted, it’s broken.
“Did you break my leg?” I ask, a bit more directly. Rhys sighs, and I can see him deciding if he will tell me anything. Eventually, he resigns, and allows me to know a bit more about what actually happened.
“No, I did not break your leg. You fought me off; I didn’t really want to hold you down or anything and so I let you get up, alright?” He says it like I'm stupid, “The guy who broke in, he got to you before I did and broke your leg to stop you running properly. If I hadn’t been there it would have been a lot worse. Look, are you going to finish your food?”
“I’m not hungry.” I say, and he nods curtly. He takes the plate and rests it on the floor. “How can I even trust you? You say you’re paid, but it sounds like you’ve been stalking me, waiting for someone else to attack me so you could swoop in and take me for yourself.” I cross my arms, and grimace at the movement. His eyebrows arch, watching the pain in my expression. A small smile flicks on his lips, only for a moment before he relaxes his face into cold indifference. I suppose trying to look threatening to him is not a great tactic.
“Would be an awfully elaborate ruse” He says. I roll my eyes, but I have to admit he kind of has a point. “I was planning on meeting you in the next few days properly. We had that chance encounter, which was helpful, but ultimately did nothing, as you didn’t even call me. And I didn’t get to you on time before that guy appeared. Believe it or not, darling, I was trying to keep my distance, despite what your father ordered, because it made me uncomfortable. I protect people, I don’t follow them. It’s not my area of expertise.”
“Oh, but you still did it though, as you managed to get there in the end.” I say, a bite in my voice.
“I happened to be in the area at the time”.
“And I happen to think you are lying.” I don’t trust him. He folds his arms too, and we mirror one another, daring the other to speak, glaring. I know I am not much of an opponent, with full body pain, probably very frizzy hair, and in his clothes. Compared to this man, who looks like he could probably pin me down with one hand, even when I was well enough, I am in no position to be arguing like I am. But it doesn’t stop me.
“What can I do to make you believe me?” He says, still curt. I make a show of considering this.
My father was acting strange, sure, but I didn’t know him – I just put anything he said that was odd down to old-person-near-the-end-of-their-life ramblings. But he did say a lot of odd things. It would make sense for why my mother kept him away from me, or how no one who visited him knew who I was. Money always makes people act strange. I had to apply several times to be able to visit the man, the hospice didn’t have me on record, so I gave up and filed myself under “friend” rather than “daughter”. But I didn’t fully buy Rhysand's story.
“Have my father call me and explain.” I say, finally.
Rhys laughs at this, short and harsh. “Way too dangerous, not going to happen.”
“What about my father’s lawyer?” I lift my chin in defiance.
He sighs, but relents. “Ok. Sure. I can get him to send a letter maybe, but it would take a few weeks.”
“I want a call.”
He shakes his head at me. “Letter or nothing, darling”. He adds the darling as a condescending afterthought. Makes me want to spit at him, throw something. He has this smug look on his face, like he can see my thoughts. A letter isn't much to go on, but it is better than nothing. Of course, it could be faked, but another probably too elaborate way to prove this whole nonsense. If this Rhys guy really just wanted to kidnap me and make me some sort of sex slave or something, he probably would have started with that sort of thing by now. I think so anyway.
I continue my questioning, though I can see his patience waring thin. “What about my sisters?”
“They’re less of a priority. No one cares about an affair your father had 20 odd years ago. Barely anyone even knows your mother’s connection with him, except if they know about you – which again, barely anyone does, and even so...” he’s hesitates, clearly trying to say his thoughts in a somewhat polite manner “your stepsisters don’t matter, unless to get to you. I don’t know the full details, but there’s someone looking out for them.”
“Like this?” He shakes his head again.
“No, way less formal. Probably just a bodyguard or two.”
“So they get to have a normal life. While I’m here.” I let the silent with you hang in their air.
He gives me a lazy smile. “Special treatment, I suppose. You’re his only known heir. The only one he knows about, at least. He was a very careful man.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” I can hear the venom in my voice.
“You were supposed to be told, like I said. Don’t worry about your sisters, they’ll be ok.” The softness from earlier returns, but then at my continued glare, it disperses, and he snaps. “Look, if you’re done interrogating me, I would like to continue reading. We can resume this later”
I wave my hand to dismiss him. I see his jaw twinge in irritation at this. A bodyguard who hates being told what to do. Sensible.
He picks up the paperback and continues to read, picking up the glasses from the side table. He looks both less threatening and less handsome with them on. I sigh and try and shift back to lying down. He watches me struggle, the ghost of smile on his lips. I swear at him, and he raises his hand in a mock surrender, the smile fully realised.