The first thing she felt was the pounding in her head.
And the beeping of her alarm clock.
Feyre groaned, heaviness sliding along her bones as she blearily lifted her head from her pillows, pain slicing through her at the movement.
She reached out blindly, hitting various edges of furniture and scattered books and painting materials until she hit the cheap plastic of her alarm clock.
It stopped.
The room was too bright as she squinted, the open curtains to her small apartment letting in far too much sun.
Her hair was half in her mouth as she tried to think, understand, remember.
What on earth happened last night?
Her phone beeped, and she grabbed at it, straining her blurry eyes to read the small text messages left on her phone from last night and earlier this morning.
6 New
From: Cass, Amren, Az, Lucien
Az (1:42 A.M.): Did you and Mor get home okay?
Az (1:56 A.M.): Never mind. Rhys just called. Feel better. Don't move too much tomorrow; it'll make the hangover more bearable.
Amren (7:11 A.M.): Thanks to you and those three hard headed idiots, I'll be on damage control all week.
Cass (9:40 A.M.): I bet you've got a hell of a hangover right now. Worth it for the footage I got last night.
Cass (9:41 A.M.): Mor stayed over at your place, I think. She makes the best hangover food. Manipulate the fuck out of the fact that you're sleeping with her cousin so she gives you the good stuff.
xx
C
Lucien: (10:03 A.M.): Nice performance, Feyre. I think Elain almost passed out from shock halfway through. :)
She squinted blearily, trying to make sense of the various messages from her friends…
A pulse split her head, and Feyre rolled out of bed, hurtling to the bathroom just before her stomach rebelled and she threw up the contents of her stomach.
Which weren't much, it would seem.
After a few minutes of retching she breathed in deeply through her nose, head swimming as she gripped the edge of the toilet.
She flushed, then leaned against the cool tiles.
A tantalizing smell wafted through her nostrils, followed by the sounds of someone moving around pots and plates in the kitchen.
Mor…they'd gone out together last night with the rest of the group.
Feyre vaguely remembered flashes of light, loud music, dancing, and drinking. Lots and lots of drinking.
Which would explain the flood of texts from her friends.
Her face heated and she felt like throwing up again.
What had she done?
Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, and she managed to stumble to her feet, following the scent like a bloodhound.
Feyre entered the living room/dining area of her small Manhattan apartment, seeing a familiar blonde head moving around in the kitchen.
Mor looked up and grinned, somehow not at all hungover, despite the ungodly amount of alcohol she'd also consumed last night. "Good morning, Miss I'll-Only-Have-One-Shot. Sleep well?"
Feyre was too tired to snip back as she slumped onto the worn barstool, her cheek pressing into the wooden counter top. "I didn't drink that much last night," she grumbled.
Mor raised a brow, flipping the pancakes and reaching for plates. "You were flirting with Rhysand."
Oh God, her head was spinning. She needed Advil. And a glass of water. But what Mor said… "So what? He's my boyfriend."
Her friend froze halfway through serving the food. "Wait, you don't remember?"
Feyre slowly straightened. "…Remember what? Mor?"
She didn't answer.
"Morrigan."
Please tell me this isn't about the texts. Please tell me this isn't about the texts. Please tell me this isn't about the texts. Please tell me this isn't—
All of a sudden, Mor's face broke into a dazzling smirk. "Oh, well this is just precious. You truly don't remember."
Feyre was glaring now, despite the ferocious pounding in her head. "Tell me," she said through gritted teeth.
Mor turned back to the food, turning off the burner and sliding eggs onto plates beside the pancakes. It smelled divine, despite the she-devil currently serving it up on a platter like an offering to Hell. Feyre could see her smirk as she said, "You asked him if he was single."
Horror roiled in her gut, mingled with nausea. Oh no.
"And you cried when he said he wasn't."
That fast, any thoughts of eating food burned away like water in the desert sun.
Shit.
A memory overcame her, perhaps repressed during sleep to spare her the humiliation.
A memory of last night.
vVv
The lights were bright and flashing, pretty distractions in the background.
Feyre stumbled through the crowd, holding a drink clumsily in her hand.
She ran into some man and bounced off, giggling. "Oopsies. Sorry there."
She continued on. She'd been here with someone…
She spotted a golden brown head over in the corner, arguing ferociously with a well-built dark haired man. Her stormy grey eyes looked familiar. Maybe they worked together or something? The spinning of the room and the alcohol flooding her brain made it hard to remember.
Feyre was heading towards the bathrooms (because everything interesting in those chick flics Mor always made her watch happened at the bathroom) when she ran into him.
Literally.
She stumbled over someone's outstretched foot, her drink jerking out of her hand as the ground rose up to meet her—
Only to be stopped by a pair of firm arms around her.
"Careful there, darling. If you're going to make love to the floor, I'd suggest doing it in private. That way you can at least take off your clothes." The man ran an appreciative eye down her almost indecently short and tight dress. "What's left of them, at least."
He was easily the most beautiful man she'd ever seen, with violet eyes and dark hair. And he was still holding her.
Did she know him?
She wasn't sure, but she was leaning towards a negative. There was no way she could have known a man as gorgeous as this and not jumped him already.
So she told him that. "You're pretty," she informed him, slurring her words a bit.
The man's lips quirked into a dazzling smirk as he shifted her weight so his arm was propping her up, leading her away from the crowds. "So I've been told."
She was a bit concerned when he led her towards the back exit, knowing all the stories of mysterious men leading off unsuspecting girls at bars, but she spotted Mor standing a little ways off, smirking knowingly at the two of them. She kept talking. "I—" She stumbled, bracing a hand against the wall as she started giggling hysterically. The man watched her with amusement and a bit of concern.
"Wow, you really had a lot to drink, didn't you, Feyre?"
She nodded vigorously. Too vigorously, because the room started spinning. "Ma friend—see that's her, over there—" she waved enthusiastically "she's tryin to get me drunk." She hiccupped. "You know her? She…" Feyre screwed up her face, trying to think of the word. "…Mean."
He chuckled, steadying her with a hand. "We're acquainted. Are you alright?"
"Yep." She beamed at him. "You're pretty," she said again. "Are you, you know," she gestured her hands wildly (almost decapitating a poor waiter in the process. The man holding her up shot him an apologetic look), and trying to adopt a knowing look, but failing miserably, "—alone?"
The man almost looked like he was trying not to laugh. "Unfortunately, I'm taken. By a gorgeous, talented woman—a bit like you—who I love with all my heart. Sorry." He didn't look very sorry.
Suddenly it seemed really funny, even though she'd just gotten rejected, so she started laughing, and pitched forward into him, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. He shifted to accommodate her sudden weight.
"I—I love you," she giggled hysterically.
She could have sworn he muttered, "I love you too, and Cassian better get this on tape so I can play a film reel of it at our wedding," but then thing seemed…not so humorous anymore.
So she started crying.
"You—you don't want me," she practically wailed.
A few people turned to look, and the man glared them into minding their own business.
"Quite the contrary, darling," he said, gripping her waist. "But you're very drunk right now and—"
Feyre didn't hear the rest, because just then the room became unbearably blurry and everything faded away to black.
vVv
"Shit."
Feyre turned to Mor, horrified.
"Oh, fuck. Please tell me I didn't…did I?"
Mor looked like she was trying not to laugh as she slid a plate of food in front of her. "It wasn't that bad," she said comfortingly, sitting down. "Believe me; my cousin has done some pretty shitty and embarrassing things in his life—which I would be happy to share with you some other time—and considering you're sleeping together, I don't think you have to worry too much about humiliation. You two have practically reached the 'old married couple' stage."
"That," Feyre said bitterly, "is supremely reassuring."
Not.
vVv
Mor left a few minutes later, saying she had to get to work (and still needed to change out of the sweatpants and tank top she'd borrowed from Feyre last night), so she was left to finish her breakfast in miserable silence, then drag herself off to take a shower before she had to show up at her art gallery at noon.
Crap.
She felt like crap, and looked like it too.
She…didn't want to think about Rhysand. How she'd humiliated herself in front of him. They hadn't been dating for long really, only about a year, but she already knew that she was hopelessly in love with him, and that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.
Of course, after last night, she also wanted to spend the rest of her life avoiding him by living in a dark hole in the ground, but, you know…
Details.
The hot was deliciously soothing against her aching muscles and pounding head, so it was an effort of will to pull herself out, but it was eleven forty, and the gallery was fifteen minutes away.
Wrapped in a towel, Feyre was deliberating her unfathomably tangled hair and whether or not to just chop it all off when her phone beeped, signaling an incoming text message.
Thinking it was Mor, or perhaps Elain, she swiped it off the counter and checked her messages.
1 New
From: Rhys (a.k.a. The Sexy Bat)
Feyre froze, her cheeks flushing, then, against her will, her eyes darted down to the text.
Rhys (11:40 A.M.): Can I come over?
She hesitated, wondering if she should just ignore it…but Mor would kick her ass if she started avoiding her problems.
Feyre (11:40 A.M.): Can't. I'm busy.
His reply was instant.
Rhys (11:40 A.M.): You have work in fifteen minutes. What could you possibly be doing?
Feyre (11:41 A.M.): Work stuff.
Rhys (11:41 A.M): Such as?
Feyre (11:41 A.M.): Stuff.
A pause.
Rhys (11:41 A.M.): If this is about last night…
Feyre (11:41 A.M.): Do NOT even think about mentioning that, Rhysand.
Rhys (11:41 A.M.): Rhysand? Only my enemies call me Rhysand, darling.
Feyre (11:42 A.M.): Fuck off.
Rhys (11:42 A.M.): Replace the word 'off' with 'me' and you've got yourself a deal.
Rhys (11: 42 A.M.): Besides, you looked so adorably delicious dancing on the tabletops and deciding to give the entire bar a strip tease. Don't worry, I stopped you before it got too far. Some things are for my eyes only.
Feyre (11:42 A.M.): I hate you.
Rhys (11:42 A.M.): Indeed.
Feyre, now sitting against the bathtub, holding her towel up with one hand and worrying the buttons on her phone with the other, paused.
Maybe…
I'm sorry about last night, she typed. I don't remember much, to be honest. Well, make that nothing, but Mor says I…asked you out. And cried. And laughed. I bet you thought I was insane.
Rhys (11:43 A.M.): No more than usual, love. And don't worry about it; it was flattering.
Feyre (11:43 A.M.): And when I puked all over your nice shoes?
Rhys (11:43 A.M.): Well, I'm sure they had it coming. And I thought you couldn't remember anything?
Feyre (11:43 A.M.): 'Anything' is a selective term. And don't pretend to be all Mister Nice-Guy. The one clear memory I have of last night was you taking advantage of all the shots your Slytherin cousin kept slipping me to familiarize yourself with my breasts.
Rhys (11:44 A.M.): I didn't need that much familiarizing, to be honest…
Feyre (11:44: A.M.): Prick. Low-down, bastardly prick.
Rhys's reply was ever so innocent.
Rhys (11:44 A.M.): Such a dirty, wicked mouth. Guessing from the stream of profanity you are no doubt in the midst of sending me, you've got a bitch of a hangover.
Feyre (11:44 A.M.): I have no idea how I'm going to work today, especially since my car is in the shop and I have to walk.
He was silent.
Feyre (11:45 A.M.): This is all your fault. It was your idea to go out last night, and you're going to be the reason I get fired.
No reply.
Feyre frowned, squinting at her phone.
Feyre (11:45 A.M.): Rhysand.
Feyre (11: 45 A.M.): Damn it, please don't go all AWOL again. If I have to drag myself over to Azriel's to get him to find you you're going to be sleeping alone for weeks.
Feyre (11:45 A.M): RHYS.
Feyre glanced at the time. Shit, she had to leave now if she didn't want to be late. Her boss, Marilyn, was nice, but strict on punctuality.
Finally, there was a reply.
1 New
From: Rhys ( . The Sexy Bat)
Rhys (11:47 A.M.): Look out your window.
Feyre scowled. "What on earth…?"
Rhys (11:47 A.M.): Just do it.
Rhys (11: 47 A.M.): And no scowling. It scrunches up that cute nose of yours.
Feyre smoothed out her scowl, and the nose that had indeed been scrunching unattractively as she climbed ungracefully to her feet, peering out her small window to the street two floors below.
Her mouth fell open.
A familiar car was parked by the sidewalk, an even more familiar head of dark hair (and everything attached to it) leaning against the car door, staring down at his phone.
Sensing her stare, Rhys looked up, smirking and blew her a kiss.
Her phone beeped.
Rhys (11: 48 A.M.): Nice towel. Careful, it's slipping.
She scowled, hiking it up and typing:
Feyre (11:48 A.M.): What are you doing here?
Rhys (11:48 A.M.): Waiting for you, darling, as always.
Rhys (11: 48 A.M.): Get dressed. I'll drive you to work.
Feyre unlatched the frame and poked her head out.
"I can walk just fine on my own, bastard!" she shouted.
A few pedestrians halted, staring up at her with expressions ranging from disapproval to shock to 'What-On-Earth-Is-This-Crazy-Person-Yelling-About'?
Rhys grinned at her and shook his head, turning back to his phone.
Rhys (11:49 A.M.): Oh, most definitely. But would you really deprive me of the pleasure of your company?
"Yes!"
Rhys (11:49 A.M.): Sad. And cruel. But it doesn't change the fact that you are currently up there in nothing but a towel (which, don't get me wrong, I find sinfully delightful) with a killer hangover and the daunting prospect of work in ten minutes, and I'm down here, dressed, with faster transportation and several cups of hot coffee and some donuts.
Rhys (11:49 A.M.): Mor's hangover breakfasts are delightful, but she seems to go the more healthy route. No idea why.
Feyre sighed, staring at her boyfriend, then looking at the time, then back to Rhys.
She sighed, grumbling some highly unflattering under her breath.
She typed:
Feyre (11:50 A.M.): Fine. But only if you promise to make Cassian delete any and all pictures/videos of me last night.
Rhys (11:50 A.M.): Deal.
Rhys (11:50 A.M.): Now come down here. I've missed the wonder of your presence.
Feyre hissed.
Feyre (11:51 A.M): Prick.
She saw him tilt back his head and laugh, the light catching his remarkable violet eyes.
Their eyes met, just for a moment, and Rhys's lips quirked.
"Always, darling."