Let me go with you.

"No."

The rejection was already in the air before Tamlin had even opened his mouth. Feyre didn't know why she tried this every time he left their apartment—he said no every single time.

But this time, she needed to go with him. Over the past few weeks she had been seeing less and less of Tam; he would wake up earlier than her every morning, pressing a quick goodbye kiss to her lips if she ever woke up when he did, and he'd return home during late hours of the night, times at which Feyre would already be asleep or would be so tired from waiting up for him they would never be able to go further than a few minutes of kissing before she fell asleep.

Just from those few minutes of seeing him, Feyre could tell he was stressed. And whenever she asked, he would shrug it off. She knew the risks of Tamlin's work, of how much trouble he could get into if any law enforcer decided to pay better attention to this part of the country, to Prythian, full of thieves and criminals and gamblers. He promised her every time, though, that he was safe—that she was safe—but it didn't mean she wouldn't need to worry anymore.

She had even repeatedly pushed Lucien—Tam's best friend and right hand man—to tell her something, anything about what was going on. The only shred of response she had gotten was a hesitant, uncomfortable look from Lucien when she asked–or, rather, signed to—him if Tam was in trouble—and it was the only confirmation she needed.

Now what she needed was to find out exactly what kind of trouble.

And what she could do to bring him out of it.

Tamlin, Feyre tried forcing her voice to actually do some good for once, reaching out to grab his large hand. He squeezed hers gently, leaning forward to place a kiss on Feyre's forehead. She sat up from her sleeping position on their bed, getting onto her knees so she would be eye level with him, placing her hands on his chest, clad in a tight T-shirt. She looked up at him, putting on the best pleading face she could.

All she received was a smile and another kiss in return. "You don't need to," Tamlin whispered against her skin, his hands moving downwards to hold her waist. "I'll… I'll try to come home early tonight, okay? We'll have dinner together, and..."

She finished the sentence for him for him with her hand, stroking it down his muscled chest to his crotch, feeling the hard lump there, for her, and smiling softly.

Tamlin's lips spread in a devilish grin, eyelids fluttering close. "Exactly," his voice was suddenly deep, hungry, "To make up for the past few weeks." He leaned forward to Feyre's ready lips, a soft kiss waiting for him. She silently whined when he pulled back seconds later, only to place another kiss on the tip of her nose. "I love you," Tam said, and all Feyre could do was lean back and watch as he turned his back to her and walked away. She sat back on their vast bed, holding the white sheets to her naked body, listening as his footsteps faded as he left the apartment, the front door shutting close behind him.

Getting up, Feyre strode to the little window next to their bed, pulling away the green curtains just slightly enough to see Tam walk out of the building, check his surroundings, and make his way to wherever he was going. Lucien, as he had promised her, was not accompanying Tamlin today—at least, not that early in the morning.

While with Tamlin everything was a direct "no" (although she understood… or tried to understand… why he behaved that way, because he was afraid of something happening to her in that horrible town, the one he was too tied to, to get out of, while she was too tied to him to leave), Lucien was more open to negotiation; his opinions were usually sided with her more than with Tamlin, yet when the time came for him to verbally admit so, he would never take that leap.

Feyre tried not to mind; she knew how much Tamlin had done for Lucien, how Lucien felt indebted to his somewhat best friend.

Yet, sometimes, with enough coaxing, Lucien would do Feyre a few favours, whether or not Tamlin approved. This was one of those days. Lucien had agreed to sneak her in and out of wherever it was that he and Tam were having their "business meeting", without Tamlin's knowledge, so she would at least know what was going on.

And figure out how to help him.

It was right after lunchtime when Lucien had appeared at Feyre and Tamlin's door, looking unsettled. He asked her repeatedly if she was sure, if she was really willing to go against Tamlin's wishes, and a determined, stern look from Feyre shut him up. Feeling awful for using him against his own friend—leader, too—Feyre made sure to express her gratitude as deeply as possible in the tight hug she gave him right before he escorted her out of the apartment.

"You need to be absolutely quiet, Feyre."

Are you kidding me? Feyre rolled her eyes at Lucien—but he seemed to be serious about it. "You know what I meant," He said, shaking his head, "Not verbally of course, but physically. Anything you do might set off some sort of alarm, and you'll get yourself and us in trouble. Don't even try to jump to Tamlin's defense if you think he needs it," His last direction was more direct, harsh, "They could kill you if they want. Or use you against Tamlin."

Shit. What kind of trouble was Tamlin in if—

"Feyre, are you sure you want to do this?" Lucien asked again, his voice soft, gentle. "Just give Tam some time, he'll sort everything out, we'll all be okay again."

Feyre shook her head and gestured for him to walk on. She was not backing out. Tamlin needed her. So, the two of them ventured down the street from Tamlin and Feyre's apartment.

Tamlin being one of the richest men in Prythian, wanted as much protection as possible for Feyre, and refused to live anywhere near the more common dark, dingy areas. This came to be a disadvantage for him, seeing as the main location of the gang—one of many in that town—that Tamlin was the leader of was in the heart of the town, where most of the criminals and rotten things resided. Feyre had pointed this out multiple times, but Tamlin refused to relocate. He simply wouldn't let her out.

Tamlin had even insisted, when Feyre had wanted to start working, that his earnings were more than enough to take care of them. But an income was not Feyre's greatest concern, it was freedom. She didn't like to admit it, but she had sometimes bickered with herself about how her life with Tamlin, as much as she loved him, felt… caged, restrictive. She wanted to get out. If he wouldn't let her explore the town, at least let her get a job where the small commute would be an outing enough.

This was one of the glorious favours Lucien had done for Feyre. It had cost him something, which he refused to admit to Feyre, no matter how earnestly she asked him, but within a week of Feyre asking Lucien for help, he had managed to convince Tamlin to let Feyre start working. While convincing had helped, Tamlin had gone with Feyre to all her trips scouting for a job, doing a full analysis of each area, its people, the possible threats that Feyre would be vulnerable to—down to every last discarded piece of trash on the floor that could potentially hurt her somehow.

He treated her like a porcelain doll, and perhaps her muteness added to that image, but Feyre knew she was not that weak or dependent on him. They had gotten into multiple fights over the subject, which always ended in a compromise from both their ends (which would gradually turn more in favour of Tamlin than Feyre), and a full night of them making love.

However, at least Tamlin had been giving her a good amount of freedom to go to work five times a week, or whenever he wasn't home. Ironically enough, for an illiterate girl, Feyre had chosen to work in a bookshop. She had hoped it would have helped her reading skills, but it had made not much of a difference except her being able to match alphabets and therefore keeping the store organized. She felt too ashamed of her disability, on top of her inability to speak, to ever ask her employer—a firm, kind lady named Alis—to help her out.

Besides, Tamlin and Lucien had been considerate enough to learn sign gestures so Feyre could communicate with them.

"We're almost there, keep your head low."

Lucien walked very close to Feyre now, enough that their arms brushed against each other as they moved. Feyre hadn't even noticed how far away from home they had gotten, or how incredibly unfamiliar and… unwelcoming… the area seemed. Worn out buildings made of stone and wood, tiny stalls open here and there selling items Feyre knew were far from legal, each dark alley leading to an even darker one, and unpleasant noises of motorcycles, pubs and harsh music from every corner. Feyre had to make an effort not to bump into people in the crowded area, feeling like a single, slight touch would begin a fight over what she believed was to be the typical crowd's high ego and self-righteousness.

"When we get inside, you'll find a really long corridor. Tamlin's in the room right in the end of it. The room to the left of it, eight doors down, has a tiny grate that lets you see into the meeting room. That room used to be used to keep animals when this place was used as a fighting ring, so it might be a little nasty," Lucien threw a little smirk at Feyre, making her roll her eyes. "Stay in there until Tam and I leave the room, I'll get you out afterwards."

Feyre nodded in response and continued walking, until Lucien tugged on her sleeve, turning to his right and leading her through a narrow, dark alley that smelled like sewers and piss, which immediately had Feyre feeling the urge to vomit and wondering how she would put up in the room she was to hide in, until they reached a set of high wooden doors at the end. Raising a large fist, Lucien knocked on the door in a rhythm that made it clear to Feyre that the place required a patterned pass-knock.

"Stand aside," Lucien ordered quickly, his voice hushed, and Feyre immediately pressed herself against the stone wall to her right, the darkness and her size both concealing her from whoever would open the doors.

A few seconds later, a peeping window opened in the middle of the left door, right in front of Lucien's face, too high an angle for Feyre to see properly.

"Lucien of the Spring Clan," Lucien spoke, his chin raised, looking directly at the person behind the window.

"Your master's already in," replied a snakelike voice, almost physically chilling Feyre. She had to fight not to cringe at the word master. She didn't like to think of Lucien and Tamlin's relationship like that, though generally that was the relationship between the leader of one of the Seven Clans and his subordinates should be like. Lucien was her friend, and Tamlin's too; perhaps his best friend. She liked to see them more as partners, with Tam still having more power, than as a master and his servant.

"I'm here with the debts. My master," Feyre detected discomfort in Lucien's voice, "Arrived early to attend a meeting with your mistress." Feyre's curiosity spiked during the few seconds of silence, during which the man behind the door must have been considering Lucien's words.

The man cleared his throat. "Very well," He said, and Lucien and Feyre stood, waiting, listening to the sounds of numerous locks being undone, until the large doors swung open inwards. A tall, thin man stood at the entrance, his body almost corpselike, a skeletal, bony hand gripping the door handle.

"Attor," Lucien said, stepping inside, completely blocking the man—Attor—from Feyre's view. "You look positively dead," He remarked, and Feyre noticed Lucien's hands behind his back, gesturing for her to move, to get inside.

She took the opportunity to do so, sliding past Lucien and being as quiet as possible as she hid behind a stone pillar to her left. She watched as Attor snarled at her friend, before the two men made their way down the dimly lit corridor. Feyre waited until she heard the sound of a door opening and closing, until she followed suit. She had to make sure to be extra careful in being silent, because the slightest touch of her foot on the stone floor sent off an echo. The entire place felt cold, damp… Dead, like Attor. It reeked of the same nasty smell as the alley outside, making Feyre wonder once again how much worse the room she was to hide in would be.

Counting down the doors, each which had spiked her curiosity, she made sure to do a quick analysis of her surroundings, before gripping the cold metal handle of the eighth door and opening it slowly.

She was faced by a pitch black room, and once her eyes adjusted slightly, she noticed a slightly lit wall, the grate Lucien had mentioned being the reason light entered the room; and, in the distance of the room, a pile of giant bones. Holding back her gag, Feyre stepped into the room, immediately assaulted by the damp smell of decay, piss and blood, and closed the door behind herself. Quietly, she made her way to the iron grate, just wide enough for her to see the entire room ahead if she turned her head.

The room ahead was massive, almost like a dead, gothic throne room. Empty. Unwelcoming. In the far end of the room, on a dark, high-backed chair, sat an elegant looking woman, her skin pale—almost white against the darkness of the room—and her hair a gorgeous shade of red. Her ruby lips were pulled back in a smirk, one that seemed menacing, deceiving... and her hungry eyes were focused, Feyre realized, on Tamlin.

Feyre's lover stood in the middle of the room with his back turned to her, directly across the woman, with two men dressed in coats and carrying weapons on either side of him, twinning the two guards standing on the two sides of the woman's throne. Glancing to the right, Feyre noticed Attor walking in, Lucien at his heel.

The entire atmosphere in the room was tense, chilled.

"Ah, Lucien," the woman greeted flirtatiously, her voice as smooth as honey, as her gaze shifted from Tamlin to Lucien, who had now come to stand next to his leader. "Finally here with my pay," the woman chirped giddily as Lucien reached into his jacket and pulled out a large, thick package. He passed it to the guard next to him in silence, who walked up towards the throne, passing the package to the woman.

She held the package out with her hand, towards her right. "Check the contents, will you, my pet?" She spoke, and that was when Feyre noticed the man sitting next to her.

His very presence, from such a distance, stirred Feyre. He radiated calm, powerful, intense darkness. Dressed in all black, one leg draped over the arm of his chair, his white, elegant hands were working at the package, undoing the wrappings. His face… was the most beautiful face she had ever seen; everything in gorgeous proportions, prominent cheekbones, hair as dark as the clothes he wore. Feyre felt mesmerized by this man's beauty; so much that, she would have almost forgotten paying attention to the rest of what happened in this strange place.

The man looked bored as he counted through the stacks of money that Lucien had brought in. Sighing, he looked at the woman next to him, and then to Tamlin and Lucien. "This isn't the full amount," He said, his voice, like a sensual purr, swaying Feyre even more.

"The hell it isn't—" Lucien started, but Tamlin raised a hand to silence him. The Woman had a playful frown on her face as she looked at Tamlin.

"Tamlin," She seemed to almost whine like a little girl, "I trusted you, Tamlin," She mewled his name, "You know the deal."

Feyre could see how tense Tamlin had gotten. "Amarantha," He started, "This is the rest I owed, the final amount my family owed to you."

Instead of responding, the woman—Amarantha—turned to the man next to her and a short, hushed conversation ensued. Seconds later, she turned back to Tamlin. "It seems you're off by a great amount."

"That's not possible—"

"The prices have risen in Prythian over the past year." Amarantha's voice rose. "And, let us not forget the other favour you had called in just three months ago." Her grin spread, making her look beautifully evil.

Tamlin's back straightened, and Feyre wanted so much to reach out and comfort him. "You said that was free of charge."

Amarantha's laugh echoed through the room. "Oh, I never did say it."

A moment of silence ensued, probably during which Tamlin was trying to clear his confusion, until Lucien spoke, his voice rattled, "She lied, the bitch—"

"Language, please, Lucien," Amarantha interjected, straightening her back. "When dear Tamlin came to me to help that little whore Ianthe pay off her debts to the Lady of the Brothel, I, of course, being the generous person I am," Lucien snorted at the statement, "Decided to pay her rather large debts… Which, it seems, hasn't taught her to stop living beyond her means even now."

"You told me you would do it free of charge," Tamlin growled.

Amarantha's smile grew even more wicked. "Well, yes, because you came to me, like a pathetic little lovesick fool"—Feyre frowned; lovesick for someone else? She noticed Lucien cast a glance back in her direction, a frown on his scarred face—"To help a whore you had become infatuated with. Feeling pity, of course I had to offer my services."

Feyre felt anger inside herself, growing towards Amarantha, Tamlin, Lucien—Tamlin visiting a woman from a brothel while Feyre herself was right there, at home, waiting for him at his every beck and call. She felt… hurt. And stupid; yet she had come, put herself in possible danger, all for him.

"However," Amarantha drawled, "You lied to me, Tamlin." Her voice was now once again of a teasing tone.

Tamlin had gone completely till.

"Did you think I'm a fool?" Amarantha questioned, amusement in her voice. Lucien's russet eyes were wild as he stole another glance back in Feyre's direction—something was wrong. "I sent some people to do some research before I gave away so much money to save a random whore. And what I found was rather… Delightful.

"Funnily enough, this delightful little creature I'm speaking of has decided to honour us with her presence today."

Lucien swore. Tamlin whirled around, his head whipping in every direction, looking for something—looking for Feyre. She panicked, stepping back, looking around the room she was in, trying to figure out how she could escape without being caught, just as grate in front of her slammed open and Attor stepped in, a wicked grin on his evil face as soon as his eyes laid on Feyre.

She wanted to scream, from the sudden fright she got from Attor's ugliness, from the danger she was in, but her voice failed her once again. Turning her back to him, she ran towards the door, clutching the metal handle, but Attor was faster, grabbing her by the arms as she thrashed against his bony body. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as his claw-like fingernails dug into the flesh of her arms, piercing her skin, drawing blood; and she weakened with the pain, making it easier for Attor to drag her out into the vast room where Amarantha was waiting, laughing.

She heard her name repeatedly being cried out by Tamlin, who, as Feyre observed, along with Lucien, was now being held by two large guards each. Lucien looked upset, casting an apologetic look towards her, while Tamlin's face was red hot with rage.

"Let her go!" Tamlin roared as Attor dragged Feyre, blood trailing down her arms, towards Amarantha.

Amarantha chuckled. "Let her go, Attor. If you're smart enough, little one, you won't move."

Feyre was smart enough, and when she was pushed down to her knees in front of Amarantha's throne, she decided not to move. Instead, she looked up, blinking away tears from the pain, at the woman causing her lover so much trouble, who had an amused, almost warm, smile on her face, and then at the man—the beautiful man—who was now staring at her, the only one in the room looking perplexed. His head inclined to the side, as if inspecting Feyre, and in that moment she felt more self-conscious than ever. Forcing herself to tear her gaze away, she locked eyes with Tamlin, who looked confused, hurt… angry.

"Tamlin, as it turns out, lied to me about his ties to the whore," Amarantha mused, "in fact, really, he has been hiding this—Feyre was it?—in his home. Now, what would she think of you having relations with a whore, dear Tamlin?"

But Tamlin wasn't paying attention to Amarantha's quips, he was instead staring at Feyre, green eyes blazing, chest moving rapidly with his breathing. "What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice booming—angry... at her.

Feyre frowned. "Tam, she was only trying to help—" Lucien started, and Tamlin whipped his head to him, golden hair flying.

"You brought her here?" Tamlin roared, glaring at Lucien, making Feyre cringe, while Lucien looked away.

She realized the how much trouble she had gotten her friend into, and mouthed "I'm sorry" to him, but Lucien's head was bowed, red hair cascading over his face.

"I'm sure the girl can speak for herself," the Beautiful Man interjected, still sounding bored, his voice still sending a sensual chill down Feyre's spine. She looked up at him and he met her gaze, offering a playful smirk.

"Rhysand," Lucien sneered, whipping his head up to look at the man.

Tamlin was frowning. "She can't," He said, his voice softer, "She's mute." Feyre tried not to be offended by the comment. It was a fact, but he made it sound like her disability made her weak.

"Interesting," mused Amarantha, "I didn't think you would be one for the silent type, Tamlin. I always thought of you being loud… Rough." Bile rose in Feyre's throat in disgust as she noticed Amarantha lightly grind herself against her chair.

"I think you have your whore right there to do that work for you, Amarantha," Lucien spat, nodding his head towards the man—Rhysand, whose gaze seemed to be focused on an invisible speck of dust on his sleeve, "So you can stop targeting Tamlin like a desperate, pathetic bitch."

Tamlin didn't stop Lucien from speaking this time, and Feyre felt proud of Lucien for stepping up for his friend. However, knowledge that Rhysand was apparently Amarantha's whore…

"Very well," Amarantha snapped, the smile disappearing from her face, "Straight to business we go then. You lied to me and haven't given me my full pay, even though your family has been indebted to me for three years now, Tamlin, while it was promised to be only a matter of months. And now, on top of that, your little creature has decided to intrude into my territory, I've decided on something that will definitely motivate you to give me my money back… Or, of course, our alternative still stands." The blood-red smile on her face grew once again.

Tamlin growled. "Let. Feyre. Go."

Amarantha chuckled. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen. Feyre here will remain here, as my prisoner, until you return my money to me," She chimed, and Feyre's stomach dropped. "She may even make herself useful by doing some chores. With the sudden inflation in Prythian, the brothel prices have jumped too high for my poor guards to enjoy... Maybe your Feyre can offer her services instead." Amarantha's grin was wicked, and Feyre wanted to slice it off her face.

Lucien snarled, Tamlin's growl grew louder.

"If you refuse, Tamlin, or cause a fight here, Attor is more than ready to put a knife through the girl."

A chill ran down Feyre's spine, and she felt Attor's presence right against her back, a bony finger making its way up her shoulderblade. Even if Tamlin tried... There would be no way for them to get out without at least one of the three of them dead.

"Tam, we can get the money—" Lucien started.

"I am not leaving her here," Tamlin was livid, his hands balled to fists.

"Either she stays or she dies, unfortunately," Amarantha said casually.

Look at me. Look at me. Feyre silently requested Tamlin. And somehow, he did, looking pained, and Feyre took the opportunity to mouth, go.

The whole room remained quiet, colder, more tense, as Tamlin held Feyre's gaze, his expression torn. Feyre nodded to him. Go.

"Tamlin, let's go," Lucien spoke, his voice soft, comforting.

Sighing, in pain, Tamlin looked up towards Amarantha. "Let me say goodbye," He said, his voice hushed, hurt. Surprisingly, Amarantha nodded towards the guards holding Tamlin. Shrugging them off, he made his way across the stone floor to Feyre, footsteps echoing. As soon as she held her arms out to him, he grabbed her, pulling her up onto her feet and crushing her against his body.

Feyre could feel Tamlin's heart racing as she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his neck, taking in his smell, his feeling. "I'll come back, I'll get you out. I promise," He whispered into her hair. Feyre nodded, rubbing circles against his back. "I love you," Tamlin mumbled, and Feyre pressed a kiss to his shoulder in response. Pulling back, Tamlin's lips found her own, and Feyre tried to push every apology, every feeling of love, into that sweet kiss. His grip on her waist tightened, as if readying to run away with her in his arms immediately. In alarm, Feyre's eyes opened, and she was met with a pair of piercing violet eyes ahead of her—Rhysand, still watching her, still with a curious, solemn look on his beautiful face.

Amarantha must have realized Tamlin's intentions too, because she gestured to the two guards previously holding Tamlin, and Feyre's lover was forcefully pulled away from her. Tamlin let out another growl, but obliged, and turned his head to cast a glare at Amarantha. "If anybody touches her," He warned, "I'll kill them."

Amarantha giggled, and then motioned towards her guards once again, and Feyre could do nothing but watch as Tamlin and Lucien were escorted out of the room.

"Well," Amarantha started once they were gone, "What do you suggest we do with our new guest?"