Lucien Vanserra slipped into his chambers in the House of Wind, shutting the door behind him.
Exhaustion deadened his limbs, and he fell back against the door, sliding down to the floor.
The effort to keep his eyes open was monumental.
But he was still wearing that blasted finery. And there was no way he would fall asleep on the marble floors.
Again.
So he heaved himself off of the floor, not bothering to smooth the fitted trousers and crumpled jacket, and yanked off his boots as he stumbled to the bathing room.
His red hair was tied away from his face with a leather thong, but he gave up on keeping it up and untied the strap.
Flame red hair fell just over his shoulders in a thin, straight curtain.
Shrugging off the restricting jacked, stripping off his shirt and trousers, he left them in a heap by the doorway and continued, naked, to the already hot bath.
Most likely courtesy of Nuala, who had taken up responsibility of caring for him in his stays at the House of Wind.
There was so much pent up stress and tension in his body, and a tired ache that made him hiss against the hot water.
Steam rose and he let himself sink deeply into the wide, onyx tub.
Today alone he had been serving his duties as Night Court Emissary to Queen Vassa, to Spring Court, to Summer, and filling out paperwork while attempting diplomacy with every high strung lord of every damn court.
Except Autumn.
That was the one court he refused, begged Rhysand not to send him to.
Rhysand had obliged.
But what really wore on Lucien, what dragged him down, what made his body ache and tire, was Elain.
His mate.
Every time he came back to the star spangled Night Court he could smell her, feel her.
The bond was a constant weight, a pull.
No matter where she was he could feel her.
And his body reacted so keenly.
Even now, letting himself relax, the scent of her invaded him and he felt himself grow hard.
A groan of frustration and desire passed his lips.
He was hard as a rock.
Damn the Night Court.
It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't here.
At least, that's what he told himself.
Elain couldn't even look him in the eyes for longer than a short moment, let alone speak to him long enough to know whether or not she would like him.
Love him.
A growl erupted from his throat.
His mind was filled with wanton images of her, blushing and sweet and flushed with want.
His hand crept down and he gripped himself, groaning at the fiery pleasure sparking through him.
He'd been taking care of himself like this for a long time, but more and more since Elain.
He couldn't bear the thought of bedding a female besides her.
A strangled moan escaped him and the water sloshed as his hips bucked up into his hand.
Spikes of intense pleasure tingled up through his body, spurred on by his pumping hand on his cock and his thoughts of Elain.
Lucien threw his head back, desperately trying to stifle his groans and panting, uncaring that the edge of the tub dug painfully into his scalp.
In his mind, it was her fingers as she moaned and writhed around him.
The sensations became unbearable, his body locked up, his hips thrusting into his hand.
He gave an unbridled cry, instantly regretting his loudness, but the absolute explosion sparkling throughout him made see white, made him lose control.
His muscles locked, his seed spurting up onto his tanned, heaving chest.
His body involuntarily spasmed, hips moving of their own accord, until his muscles at last unclenched and he sagged, spent, into the warm water.
If he wasn't so damn horny all the time, Lucien might have the presence of mind to feel humiliated and ashamed.
But her scent was already driving him wild again.
Desperately he shoved it from his mind and snatched soaps from the side of the tub, scrubbing at his hair and body with them until his skin was raw and his hair gleamed.
And then promptly exited the cooling bath water as soon as possible.
Exhaustion leadening his limbs, Lucien slowly reached for a towel, not caring to dry his skin, and simply stood there, bracing one hand against the door of the open cabinet, the towel hanging limp and unused in his other hand.
The cool air of the night court chilled his overheated body, but he still couldn't find the strength to move, to wrap the towel about his hips and find his bed, less than 20 feet away.
Against his better judgement, he found himself seeking her out.
Not physically, but mentally pulling on the thread, searching for her scent, her voice.
It wasn't hard to find.
She was in her rooms, sweet smelling, overtaking him with the softness of her voice as she spoke to her shrewish older sister.
Elain.
Tightness coiled in his gut.
Pain. Sadness. Longing.
And absolute desire for her that he had hoped to quench, but filled his body and addled his mind once more only moments after his last half relief.
A groan escaped his lips.
One of frustration, if nothing else.
His hand tightened on the cabinet door, knuckles white.
Her voice buzzed in his ears, swirled about his head.
Her scent invaded him.
He growled, muscles tense, and the cabinet door snapped under his hand.
Lucien cursed, and ground his teeth, a frustrated cry escaping him like some kind of wounded animal.
Leaving the broken cabinet, he stormed into his bed chamber and threw his unused towel at the bed.
His hair was cold and wet on his shoulders, dripping freezing streams of water down his naked body, but the thought of rubbing his skin down, drying it, nearly undid him.
Agony and fire filled him.
She was so close, and out of reach in the most complete sense.
Lucien's breath came heavily now, in pants.
His exhaustion had made way for an overwhelming combination of undeniable desire and detrimental anguish.
His chest heaved and his fists clenched, ready to strike something; anything.
Until he heard something near the door.
A sharp intake of breath.
And his narrowed senses broadened away from Elain.
Another female.
Whipping his head to the side, water droplets spraying, Lucien saw her standing there by the door, watching him, onyx eyes wide.
Nuala.
He cursed soundly and fumbled for his towel, which lay discarded a few feet away, hastily wrapping it around his hips.
"Nuala- I..."
He raked a hand through his wet hair.
Mortification had replaced every other crippling sensation from only moments ago.
She ducked her head abashedly, her hair like silk and smoke pooling around her shoulders.
"I apologize my lord."
Her quiet voice wrapped around his head like a shadow.
Lucien let out a breathy laugh and shook his head.
His hands trembled.
"No, don't apologize. I'm sorry."
They stood in awkward silence for a moment.
"What... what did you need, Nuala?"
His words were stammered and unintelligent.
He cursed himself soundly.
Hardly glancing up, she answered that she had come to drain his bath and tidy the bathing room.
She assumed he would have been sleeping.
Lucien cursed himself again. Of course.
She did every night. It was her damn job.
Before he could answer, Nuala looked up at him, her deep glittering eyes scrutinizing him with something that looked remarkably akin to concern.
"My lord... are you..."
She cut herself off shaking her head, and turned to go to the baths.
Lucien frowned.
"What is it, Nuala?"
She stopped, and turned back slowly, hesitantly.
"Are you... alright, Lord Lucien?"
He felt his cheeks burn red, but sighed and smiled sadly.
"Have you ever loved someone, Nuala?"
She was silent, so he looked at her.
Her face was wary.
"Yes."
Lucien huffed out a heavy breath and scrubbed his face with his hands.
"Then you know," he said to her.
"You know what it's like to be utterly, and completely consumed by them. When you can't have them. That..."
He lowered his voice.
"...Pain."
Nuala's eyes softened.
"You speak of Lady Elain."
He clenched his jaw and looked away, nodding sharply.
She was silent, and suddenly Lucien felt a soft hand on his arm.
He flinched and looked up, and Nuala was there.
"I know your pain, my lord."
He laughed harshly, a cold and broken sound, like shattered glass.
"Then I am sorry for you, Nuala."
She shook her head.
"I am not. But you do not deserve this pain. So for that, I am sorry."
A pang lanced through Lucien's chest.
He tilted his head to the side.
More than Rhysand's spy and handmaiden.
A kind female with a good heart.
He gave her a crooked smile, and her hand slipped from his arm.
"I can't say I've ever heard you speak so much, Nuala."
She ducked her head.
"Apologies, my lord."
She turned and stepped towards the bathroom, but Lucien touched her arm softly.
"I did not mean it that way. I only mean I was surprised."
He paused, searching for the right words.
"Not unpleasantly so."
She turned back towards him and nodded.
"There are few who care to listen."
Another laugh bubbled up out of his chest.
"I'm sorry Nuala. I... look at me. I'm a mess. Your loyalties and sympathies lie with Rhysand and Feyre's family. Not me."
She cocked her head to the side.
Very much like a night cat.
"My loyalties lie with Rhysand and his court, which you have been a part of for some time now, Lord Lucien. If your loyalties lie with us, then mine lie with you."
Another pang rushed through him, a wall breaking down.
He bowed his head in thanks.
If he tried to speak it would be broken.
The air became charged, and he could feel that she wanted to speak.
When his eyes met hers he was certain that she was holding something back.
"What is it," he asked quietly.
His body still thrummed with heat.
"You suffer," she murmured, stepping closer.
He watched her warily, suddenly very aware of his indecency.
"My lord... I can help you if you wish."
Lucien's cock twitched in response but his face paled.
"I... Elain....."
Nuala's face betrayed very little of her thoughts and feelings any other day.
But now there was clear sympathy and mild hunger there.
"Lord Lucien, you are a mated male, but one who suffers the extended indecision of his female. I know the anguish and toll it takes. Let me help you."
She stepped closer still, cool breath raising goosebumps on his bare chest.
He could not deny that she was beautiful.
Her skin was a soft, taupe color. Shadowy and supple.
Her eyes shone brightly, reflecting every light like a star, and her hair fell like silken shadows, shifting ever so slightly like a wraith.
Full lips, arched brows, an elegant, willowy figure.
She was beautiful.
But a part of him was reviled by the thought of being with her.
With any female besides his mate.
Lucien's breath hitched when Nuala places and chilled hand on his chest.
"Pretend. Close your eyes, my lord. Pretend it is her."
Lucien's breath was ragged as her hands slid down his chest onto his stomach.
He gripped her wrists tightly, stopping the path they made, burning down his body.
"Nuala-"
"Pretend," she whispered, and his grip loosened on her hands.
Looking up at him, she sank to her knees, fingers brushing his exposed hip bones and the edge of the towel.
Tongues of fire licked his skin at her touch, his mind battling him but his body reacting keenly to her feather light touch.
Her eyes remained trained on his.
Pretend.
Lucien took in a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, screwing them tightly.
A choked gasp left his lips as he felt the towel fall away, as he felt her cool hands slide along his thighs, felt lips kiss beneath his naval, and lower...
A shudder ran through him, ice and flame striking him, pleasure from even the slightest touch on his skin cooking and striking in his belly.
He felt his cock, painfully hard, twitch with no touch from Nuala.
Yet.
He cringed as his mind went to her.
This was wrong.
He had a mate.
He wanted his mate.
But Nuala was right.
If he didn't find relief beyond his own hand, he would go insane.
So his mind reached out to that thread and he pulled, smelling her scent and hearing her voice, imagining...
Soft lips touched the base of his cock and a desperate cry erupted from him, hips bucking.
Slender fingers pressed into his hips, holding him back.
A small tongue flicked the tip of him, tasting him where he leaked so shamefully.
And then he was engulfed, his manhood encircled by a warm, wet mouth with an expert tongue that swirled around him and did her best to suck every ounce of life from him.
Garbled and senseless moans escaped him, his hands in that silken hair that he told himself over and over smelled of roses, and not moon kissed jasmine.
Unbearable pleasure sparked in him, traveling in boots of lightening up to his throat.
His hips bucked again and again, chest heaving, breaths uneven at the hands and mouth working his cock simply to relieve him.
To please him.
His focus on his mate wavered, and as the pleasure climbed his mind became addled and directly focused on the dark shadow female on her knees before him.
His muscles spasmed and clenched, and as the absolute pleasure in him coiled in a final spring, he heard himself in ringing ears speak a name he had not meant to.
As he came, seed pouring out into Rhysand's spy's talented mouth, Lucien groaned,
"Nuala..."
An exhausted sigh escaped him, and as Nuala released him, Lucien stumbled backwards and sat heavily on the edge of his bed.
His eyes were fogged from the force of his release.
They cleared a moment later, thought his breath still came in shaking pants.
When he could see again, Nuala was gone.
Despite how tired he was, Lucien sat up abruptly and hastily found the towel again, covering himself and rushing into the bathing room.
"Nuala?"
The bath was drained and clean.
The floor was dry.
The cabinet that had broken under Lucien's hands was fixed and closed.
And Nuala was gone.
Lucien cursed and turned back into the room, looking about fervently, and then marched to the door, pushing his head out and looking down the hall.
Damn the wraith sisters.
A shiver ran down Lucien's body, but his appetite was dated completely.
His mind raced for a moment, but as he turned back into the room his eyes found the bed.
And exhaustion overtook him.
Lucien's head hit the pillow before he realized he had drifted to his bed, and he thought blearily before he fell asleep, that he would find Nuala tomorrow.
They needed to talk.