Feyre had wings. Not the bright, feathered monstrosities that ninety percent of the population lay claim to, but real, goddamn, black-leather bat wings. The weight at her shoulder-blades was the mark of a Night Angel, but that was ridiculous, considering she'd never even visited Prythian or the Courts. Not when she was safe over here.

"Safe," she muttered. "In a bar."

Yes, a bar. Feyre Archeron, the Wild and Free, was sorely lacking in the second half of her title. Her father had left her here to watch the bar, claiming he had business elsewhere. It was clipped words he said before spreading his downy wings, snow-white until the very tips, lined with black.

She'd often thought it strange that her father's wings were different than hers. "Feathered instead of leathered," he liked to say. For most of her childhood, her wings had been a curse rather than an asset, so she'd gotten very good at hiding them. Especially when her magic had begun to mature. It was a testament to how shallow the children of her village were, given that all it took was a glamour to get them to forget her "problem."

Not a good childhood she'd had. But, well, Feyre mused, it was a rare, lucky thing indeed to be blessed with one.

She sighed, glanced around the bar. The walls were aged and cracked, the floor in much the same condition. The circle tables, only three, were all shoved to one side of the room for Feyre's own convenience. It wasn't like anyone would be coming anytime soon. Like all the weeks before, the place was blessedly, devastatingly empty.

Leaning her arm on the bar's counter top and pressing her chin into the cup of her hand, she was just about ready to resign herself to another, long, nap-filled day... When the jangle of the bell at the door's lintel had her shooting awake.

In stepped five figures, three males in front, and two females in back. The males, they might've been brothers. Black hair, sparking eyes... The first female was beautiful, with honey-colored hair that fell to her navel, framing a sharp, clever face and chocolate eyes. The second female was...terrifying. But the thing that really had Feyre standing at attention were their wings. At their backs, at all their backs, were not angel's wings but—

"'Leathered instead of feathered,'" she whispered, for this was the first time she'd ever seen someone other than herself host to bat's wings.

One of the males snorted. He was rougher than his supposed brothers, hair a bit longer, and overall appearance just a bit more disheveled. It suited him, though. "That's a first," he said, voice deep and booming, promising a laugh that sounded much the same. "Usually it takes a longer than two minutes before they start muttering nonsense."

"Hmm," the male next to him said. "Perhaps she's flabbergasted by our beauty."

"Or," the blonde female said, "maybe she's delirious after so long without company." She glanced meaningfully at the neglected room.

Flushing at the attention, Feyre swiped a rag from beneath the counter and began scrubbing furiously.

"Oh, no, Sweetheart." The first male, smelling of vanilla and something darker, muskier, stepped close. He lifted her chin with a finger and gave her a roguish grin. "Don't be embarrassed, sweetheart. Not when a pretty face like yours is much better suited to a smile."

She blushed further, tearing herself away from his touch.

A snarl rippled through the room. The violet-eyed male stalked over to his brother, getting up in his face. "Cassian, I told you—"

Cassian laughed and held up his hands. "Relax, Rhysand." A wink at Feyre. "She's all yours."

He headed back to the others, pulling them to take a seat at one of the tables. None of them seemed to notice that it was tiny and pressed too-close to the wall. Or that there were only three chairs.

The violet-eyed male lingered. Feyre tried to ignore him by washing the counter top, but it obviously wasn't working very well, judging by how many times she glanced up and met his stare. He made her uncomfortable. Not because he was doing anything wrong—on the contrary, his gaze was curious, if not a bit intense—but because of the pull she felt towards him. A tugging, deep in her gut.

It was this tug that had her working up the courage to ask, "What is it?"

He cocked his head. "What's what?" His voice, deeper and richer than his friend's, had her stomach swooping.

"Don't you feel it?" she blurted. The wrong thing to say, from the way the hushed conversation ceased entirely and all eyes turned to face her.

"Feel what?" Rhysand's voice was a dangerous, lover's croon in the quiet.

Feyre swallowed. "Nothing. Nevermi—"

And then he was in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of him, and her breath caught.

"Feel what, Feyre?" he purred, eyes glinting mischievously. She hadn't noticed before, had been too busy trying to ignore him, to see how handsome he was. His face was smooth and unmarred, lashes long, jaw strong, dark hair framing his eyes quite nicely—

"Have you finished boosting my ego?" he asked, mirth filling his voice.

Feyre recoiled. "What? How did you...?"

He waited, and she took a breath.

"I thought," she said evenly, "that I was the only one who could read minds."

A sharp laugh, filled with genuine surprise. "No, darling. Daemati. That's what we are." He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, "And you have a delicious mind, if I do say so myself."

Heat stained her cheeks, mortification filling her, so much that she ignored the dark power oozing off him in waves. "Prick," she hissed, giving him a halfhearted shove.

It only made him grin wider. "There you are, darling."

"Don't you darling me," she growled. "Not after poking through my mind like some creep."

"Creep?" He drew back, dramatically holding his hand to his heart. "I am offended, darling. You've got the wrong man." He nodded to Cassian. "He's the creep."

Feyre snapped, "At least he didn't stare at me for five minutes before talking to me."

A bark of laughter from the terrifying, otherworldly female. "So she's got a spine after all."

And that was how it started.

Rhys ushered her over to the table after that first initial meeting, coaxing her into introducing herself. She learned their names, and the stories behind them. Cassian, the general of the Night Angels' fleets. Azriel, master of spies and all things dark and mysterious. Mor, the Morrigan, who'd been born with wings of the wrong kind in a Court of hatred and lies. Amren, who was a thing not quite of this world.

And Rhys.

Rhysand, the High Lord, who wore a mask to protect his people, sold his soul to a bitch for fifty years to keep them all safe. Rhysand who was a bastard, with the features of his pure, Dawn Angel father, and the wings of his Night mother. Rhysand, who she found herself inexplicably drawn to, compelled to tell him her secrets, and find safety in his arms.

Feyre watched Cassian and Azriel in the sky, instructing the females on the finer points of flying. They did this every day, Rhys said. She felt out of place, leaning against a tree with Rhysand's warm weight beside her. They did it so naturally, so easily, like they'd been born of the wind. It made sense, after all, what with them being Angels and all.

"Thought for a thought?" Rhys asked beside her.

Feyre glanced at him. It was the game they played, that had her revealing things to him she'd never imagine revealing to anyone else. And the things he said... Either enough to draw tears to her eyes, or make her blush hard enough to want to slap him.

A smirk played at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew just what she was thinking. And—

She shoved him, and he fell back laughing. "Get out of my head, Prick!"

He continued to laugh, even as she crossed her arms and huffed irritably. "If you'd had your shields up," he said between gasps, "you wouldn't have this problem."

"If you'd mind your own damn business," Feyre retorted, "you wouldn't be so much of a damn prick that I want to shove you off a cliff every thirty seconds."

Rhys looked up at her with baleful eyes. "If you threw me off a cliff, you'd lose this face."

"Good."

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

And just when she thought it was over—

And you wouldn't be able to throw me off a cliff. I'm way bigger than you.

"Rhysand!" This time Feyre did not have any problem sending a bucketful of water over his head. It was one magic of many. Remarkable, Rhys and his friends said, because most were only privy to one kind. She had all seven. She shrugged off the praise and said it was something she was born with. Laughing, Cassian reminded her, they'd all been born possessing only one magic.

Rhysand, for his part, was not moved by the display of power, or even simply getting soaked to the skin. Instead, he sent a challenge down that strange bond between them, and raced in the opposite direction. Inexplicably, Feyre ran after him, a giddy sort of joy going through her. They dodged and chased, throwing little balls of darkness at each other. When finally Rhys managed to land a hit on her, Feyre jerked back. It did not hurt, but tickled. The sheer nerve of him, it had her running with renewed vigor.

And then, laughing, he leapt into the sky. Feyre skidded to a halt. When she did not immediately follow him, Rhysand paused and turned in the air to look down at her. "Well? Are you coming?"

His voice was breathless, his face flushed with joy, hair in a mess from the wind and the sudden flight. Beautiful, Feyre thought. More than attractive in appearance, he was a kindred soul. Like hers. And his hand, stretched out to her, his friends tussling in the sky above...

She shook her head, sorrow filling every pore. She longed, she wished, but...

"I can't," she whispered.

The smile faded from his face as she turned around. To go back to the bar. Her wings trailed dejectedly behind her. But Rhys dropped from the sky directly in front of her, concern lining his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But her words were hurried, and she knew he could feel her shame through the bond.

"Feyre." He lifted her chin, voice soft and tender. "Look at me."

She did look at him, me his violet gaze, trying to keep in tears.

"You can't fly, can you?"

The one thing she never wanted anyone to find out about her.

"No," she said hoarsely, tearing away from his grip to wrap her arms around herself.

"Why?" The word was flat and tense.

She didn't answer.

"Feyre." This time he sounded angry, and she shied from that fury, so hot, only to find... Deep in the bond, she could feel something else. It was kinder, a deep sorrow, directed at her. He wasn't mad at her. No, he was mad at whoever had done this to her.

So she swallowed and said, still looking at the ground, "My father. He didn't want me to learn. Because...my wings were different. He said that people would hurt me if they knew I was Night."

"And did they?"

She dared a glance at him, the source of that midnight voice, and found his wings were half-flared, and his eyes were deep with dark power.

"Yes," she whispered.

The thudding of wings as four figures joined Rhys on the ground.

"What's wrong?" Cassian, voice assertive, surveying for danger.

"Feyre says she was hurt because she was different," Rhysand replied, and his voice was a midnight caress as he said the words.

"By who?" Azriel, iron gaze promising death.

Mor sidled closer to him, half-drawing a blade from the sheath at her thigh.

It made her breath stutter, to see these people who cared for her, getting upset on her behalf. But it was also just a little bit hilarious because—

Surrounded by bristling weaponry, faces set with a rage so deep it made her shudder, stood Amren. And her face was bored, only slightly miffed. Among the angry expressions, she looked like a cat whose dinner had escaped.

So Feyre laughed, even while tears slid down her face, falling into the grass when her legs couldn't support her.

"Is she alright?"

"Is she crying?"

"Do you think someone poisoned her?"

Assessing hands were poking at her, but it tickled, and it only made her laugh harder.

Finally, Rhys sent a worried, but overwhelmingly relieved, question down the bond.

"I'm," Feyre gasped, wiping her eyes. "I'm—okay." Clearer, "I'm okay."

Five curious faces stared down at her, not nearly so imperious as she'd thought them four months ago. Friends. Family.

It set the tears anew, albeit for a different reason, but there was no embarrassment this time. So Feyre gave them her best, most sincere, watery-eyed smile, and felt a flutter in her chest when they returned it, each and every one of them.