#(he is so true for this i would too steal a rembrandt painting) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lostinfic · 3 years

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Art for Hearts’ Sake

Pairing: Jean-François Mercier/Betty Vates

Rated E | 4400 words

Summary: Betty works in a care home and every week she sneaks out one of her elderly patients to a nearby art gallery. There she meets a mysterious Frenchman. He's an art dealer of some kind, or so she thinks, until he takes her on whirlwind escapade.

Fluff and smut / Art thief AU (loosely based on The Thomas Crown Affair)

Ao3

Betty peeked outside the room, left and right. At the end of the corridor, Mrs. Mansfield opened the door to the stairwell. As soon as it closed behind her, Betty whispered: “The coast is clear.”

“Let’s go.”

Eighty-three year-old, Maurice Delorme, donned his fedora, pushing it low on his forehead to shade his eyes.

Betty pushed his wheelchair out of the bedroom, down the corridor and into the hall. She winked at 92-year-old Annette who shrieked, clutching her chest, thus distracting the nurse away from the front desk. Betty and Maurice rushed past the reception area, out the front doors and around the building.

Betty stopped to catch her breath. Maurice laughed wheezily, slapping his thigh.

“We did it, ma chère.”

“Remind me to get that fudge Annette likes.”

“Did I ever tell you I once saw her perform at La Scalla de Milan in 1963?”

“Have you?” Betty replied though, of course, she had heard the story before. She didn’t mind, Maurice had had the most amazing life, and she enjoyed his reminiscence however embellished they might be.

The St. James, where she worked, was a small and exclusive care home for elderly millionaires. Certainly nothing like the conditions in which her mother had lived. For many years, Betty had taken care of her mother, who suffered from an early-onset form of dementia, in their small flat in Leeds. When her mother passed away, Betty not only had to grieve for her parent, but also for the many years during which she had put her own life on hold. The day after the funeral, she’d looked at herself in the mirror and realized she didn’t know who she was. On a whim, she had moved to London and promised herself to live life to the fullest.

Things had turned out significantly less glamorous than expected. She couldn’t afford a home in a desirable neighborhood. And, with no formal education or work experience to speak of, she had found employment doing the same chores she had done for her mother. At least, at the St. James, she was paid for it, had real days off, and suffered less verbal abuse. Most of all, moving away had not magically rid her of her shyness and anxieties. Wherever she went, they followed, but she was getting better at giving them the slip.

Part of living life to the fullest had involved letting Maurice convince her to sneak him out of the care home. His doctor advised against any taxing activities and public spaces where germs abounded. But he longed to visit a museum or a gallery.

“What is a life without art, but a body without a heart?” he’d complained dramatically.

And thus had begun their weekly escapades.

Just a few streets away from the care home was Kinwood Palace, an illustrious property with a world-class art collection open to the public. Betty loved the gorgeous gardens, but Maurice was here for the Rembrandts and Vermeers.

Betty pushed her accomplice over the gravel leading to the neoclassical villa. Despite being hot from the physical effort and warm summer air, Betty kept her cute coat on to hide her unflattering scrubs. She liked the coat’s sixties vibe with its big black buttons and bright colour, something she would never have worn before.

Tourists already filled the great blue and white entrance hall of Kinwood. Maurice flashed their English Heritage membership cards to the box office clerk. Betty scanned the crowd.

“Shall we pay a visit to Boticelli today?” Maurice asked. She nodded inattentively. “Or shall we visit Ringo Starr?”

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Betty, are you looking for him? The Frenchman.”

“Dunno what you’re on about.”

But her blushing cheeks betrayed her.

“You should invite him for— what is it youths call it?— ah, yes, for Netflix and chill.”

She burst out laughing. Her laughter echoed in the gallery, and she promptly slapped a hand over her mouth.

“If I were your age, I would invite him,” Maurice said.

“You were married when you were my age. And you loved Felicia.”

“Yes, yes. I could never love another woman after her. But I was always curious about sodomites… Do you think you could find me a rent boy, dear?”

She giggled and rolled her eyes.

“Well?” he insisted.

“Oh... Maybe?”

“It was good enough for Leonardo, after all,” he said as they stopped in front of framed sketches drawn by da Vinci himself.

Every room of Kinwood palace was breathtaking, Rococo frescoes decorated the walls between Roman columns, and hanging from the coffered ceiling, massive chandeliers sparkled. And there were books, so many books, and vases of fresh flowers everywhere. As Maurice admired the masterpieces in gilded frames, Betty imagined herself living in a place like this, a century ago, or imagined being an actress in a period drama.

“He’s here,” Maurice whispered.

“Who?”

“Who?” he parroted; She wasn’t fooling him.

She glanced sideways and spotted the Frenchman, smoking just outside the garden doors, his jacket hooked on a finger over his shoulder. His hair was neatly pomaded, his trousers tailored, his shirt smooth and sharp: an old-fashioned sort of cool, straight out of her wet dreams.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she bit back a simper. She knew that from behind his sunglasses, he was studying her. One corner of his mouth rose in a languid, crooked smile.

Five times now they had visited Kinwood at the same time. Five times he had watched her from afar, with that penetrating gaze of his, the hesitated— no, not hesitated, evaluated or calculated— and finally approached her. Though he never stayed long in their company, he’d made a lasting impression on both her and Maurice.

He’d said he was a subcontractor for Kinwood, as an art appraiser, she assumed because of the way he observed everything. Including Betty herself. Being seen, it unsettled her. Most days she felt indistinguishable from a potted plant. Perhaps a side effect of having lived with a mother who couldn’t recognize her anymore for years. Though Betty considered herself plain by contemporary standards, she liked to think that, on a good day, she had a hint of beauty from another era. Perhaps he could appreciate that.

He greeted Maurice warmly, in French, then turned to her, “I thought I’d recognized your laugh.” He pocketed his sunglasses, then took her hand and kissed her knuckles.

To anyone, she would have claimed he was laying it on a bit thick, but deep down she melted.

“Son nom est Betty et elle est célibataire,” Mr. Delorme said to the Frenchman.

Betty glared at him, though she didn’t know what he’d said beside her name.

“I’m Jean-François,” he said, mostly to her.

They walked together through the rooms, and soon forgot about the art. He had a way of mentioning things she had said in previous conversations: he’d read a book she liked, and he asked after the stray kittens she worried. Betty, too, remembered every word he had ever said to her, but was trying very hard to look like she didn’t. But here he was, being so openly infatuated, she’d convinced herself it was too good to be true. Yet every time they met, her misgivings vanished, and she let herself be thoroughly charmed.

They stopped in front of a small canvas, “The Enchanted Castle” by Claude Gellée, and this time Betty paid attention.

“It’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?” Jean-François remarked.

“I like landscapes the best. They’re like a window to another place, another time. I can almost… jump in. Escape.”

She covered her mouth, regretting that last word. But Jean-François brushed her hand away.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Emboldened by his touch, Betty said, “Would you— I mean, I’m working now, but later, maybe we could— if you’d like…”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Okay.” She laughed and bit her bottom lip.

“But first, I have a painting to steal.”

“What?”

He slipped his jacket on and popped the collar. He said a few words in French to Mr. Delorme, then vanished out of the gallery.

Betty blinked, mouth agape. Well, that’s one way of getting dumped.

“Oh, no, I think I dropped my pills,” Mr. Delorme said, patting his breast pockets. “I swear I had them.”

“I’ll go look for them,” she said, thankful for an excuse to get away.

Fifteen minutes later, she found the bottle of medication in the antechamber thanks to a security guard. After that, Mr. Delorme asked to leave.

On the way back, Betty didn’t say a word. In her mind, she kept replaying the scene, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong. Her eyes teared up, but she blamed it on the dry wind. Humiliation, sadness and anger warred in her chest.

They weren’t careful going back inside the care home and were caught by the nurse at the front desk. Mrs. Manfield was a real stickler for rules and disliked Betty.

“We were only out in the garden,” Maurice retorted before Betty could gather her wits.

The nurse narrowed her eyes at them. “If I find out otherwise…” she warned.

Betty could lose her job over these little escapades, all for what? A rich old man and a weird Frenchman?

She took Mr. Delorme back to his room. With an unusually cold attitude, she helped him out of his outerwear and onto the armchair in front of the TV. Her behaviour shocked him, and he tried to soothe her with jokes and charm, but she ignored him.

“We won’t be going back to Kinwood palace,” she announced and left his apartments.

She went back to work, to menial tasks and being called by other carers’ names.

By the end of her shift at 5 pm, on top of the humiliation, sadness, anger and fear of losing her job, she was now feeling guilty about having been so cold with Mr. Delorme. She changed out of her dirty scrubs into her own clothes. Putting on the yellow sundress and cardigan cheered her up. She decided to pay Maurice a visit before leaving.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Delorme. I panicked.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma chère.” He patted her hands. “You will feel better soon, I just know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I just am.” He winked.

She chalked it up to his eccentric nature, but then there was a knock at the door.

“Told you,” he said.

Betty opened the door and gasped at finding Jean-François standing there.

“Good evening, Betty.”

“What— what are you doing here?”

“I have some unfinished business.”

He closed the door behind him and walked to Mr. Delorme’s wheelchair. He knelt beside it and fiddled with the underside, finally pulling out a slim leather case.

“Let’s see it,” Mr. Delorme said, rubbing his hands excitedly.

In a smooth move, Jean-François set the case on the table, flipped the locks and revealed its content: a painting. A painting from the Kinwood collection. One of her favorites: a moonlit forest by Joseph Wright of Derby.

“Tell me it’s a very good fake,” she whispered.

“There is a very good fake,” he said, “whether it’s in that case or at the gallery, well…” he smirked.

He closed back the case and checked his watch.

“Perfect.” Jean-François offered her his arm. “Are you ready for our date?”

Betty rubbed her brow and laughed incredulously. She cast a glance at Mr. Delorme who was nothing but encouraging.

“Where would we go?”

“First, I am going to hang this in my home, then we can grab a bite to eat. Is that all right with you?”

Mr. Delorme whispered, “Netflix and chill.”

Betty felt rooted on the spot. Her first instinct was to refuse. Going to a stranger’s house on the first date, a stranger who might be a thief? That was a bad idea. A fantastically terrible idea. A terribly alluring idea.

She looped her arm through his. Striding out of her place of work on his arm, she felt like a million bucks. Which is to say, less than what that masterpiece was worth.

Outside the doors, a gleaming vintage Jaguar awaited them, chauffeur standing straight beside it. They slipped in the backseat. When the door closed, butterflies erupted in Betty’s stomach.

The chauffeur smoothly navigated the traffic and drove them just outside London, to a private aerodrome. Jean-François opened the car door for her just as two men in coveralls rolled a ladder up to a small aircraft.

In a daze, Betty held Jean-François’s hand and followed him inside the cockpit. He buckled her seat harness and gave her some instructions she barely registered. He flicked switches and talked to Ground Control.

“Ready?” he asked her.

Betty should have been scared, but she couldn’t muster any fear, only excitement. Perhaps that’s what should have scared her.

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He taxied the plane into position and down the runway, faster and faster. Betty’s heart rate accelerated. Jean-François pulled back the controls, and as they rose in the air, a flush of adrenaline tingled through her body. Soon, they were flying over twilit London.

“Where are we going?”

“Like I said, to my home, first.”

She laughed as the blue-grey waters of the Channel appeared on the horizon. France straight ahead.

Her cheeks ached from smiling, and her heart never slowed.

They landed on a small strip in the middle of a wooded area. Betty’s legs wobbled when she stood up. Jean-François offered his hand to help her deplane. He was so frustratingly cool and composed for someone who’d just flown a stolen masterpiece across the border.

The country air was pure and warm. They weren’t in Paris, but in southern France. They walked along a trail then a grand villa came into view. Whitewashed stone, terracotta roof and blue shutters among ambitious vines and towering cypresses. Dogs ran in the tall grass, and wildflowers decorated the lawn. Solar panels hinted at an off-the-grid lifestyle.

“So?” he asked with a sweeping gesture.

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Showoff.”

“When else can I show off if not on the first date?”

“All I’m saying is you’re setting the bar pretty high for the second date.”

She thought, even if this turns out to be all a ruse to get her in bed, even if he sends her back to London tomorrow without a goodbye, she didn’t care. It would be worth it. She deserved an incredible fling.

A middle-aged housekeeper came out to greet him and narrowed her eyes at his guest.

“You brought someone with you, monsieur?”

“Don’t worry, Marie.”

He stepped forward, still holding Betty’s hand, but she tugged him back.

“Hey, if I’m not back for my shift tomorrow morning, Mr. Delorme knows I’m with you and what you did.”

“Understood.” He bowed slightly. A curl fell to his forehead. “Smart girl.”

Although the house was old, the interior was modern. Selected antiques blended harmoniously with the warm, minimalist style. Crown molding and tapestries hid a high-end security system. She caught a glimpse of a library and of a workshop filled with art supplies. Portraits hung on the walls, going back generations. A photo of a younger Jean-François with a woman stood out: a wedding portrait. At the sight of it, Betty stopped dead in her tracks. Her nails bit into her palms. She didn’t trust her voice to ask a question evenly.

“Ah.” He scratched the back of his head. “She… she passed away five years ago.”

“I’m sorry. I thought— well, I’m sorry.”

He hesitated by the photo. For the first time, he looked almost destabilized.

“You thought what?” he asked after such a long pause she didn’t understand his question right away. “That I was a playboy?”

“Maybe. Are you?”

“Is that why you came with me?”

“No.”

He studied her for a moment then brushed a knuckle along her jaw. Without another word, he resumed guiding her through the house.

He led her to the living room. There was another painting in here: a large canvas of hazy water lilies.

“Another very good fake?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

He carefully removed the Wright of Derby painting from the leather case.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She had many thoughts, mostly about all the people who wouldn’t get to see it now.

“Dunno,” she said. “Will you sell it?”

“No. I will deliver it to Maurice’s granddaughter in Vienna. But until then...”

He placed the canvas upon a wooden picture ledge above the fireplace. The moonlit landscape shone against the plain wall.

“Hold on. What? Mr. Delorme?”

“The painting belonged to his wife’s family, but it was stolen by Nazis in ‘38.”

“Are you telling me you’re some sort of Robin Hood?”

“Oh, no. My fees are exorbitant.”

She snorted a laugh.

“Couldn’t they get it back legally?”

“They tried. In the 1960s, I believe. But they’d lost proof of ownership during the war, and the family at Kinwood denied any transaction with former Nazi officers, as one does.”

Betty puzzled over this new information. In less than twelve hours, her idea of him had shifted so many times she could hardly keep track. But one thing hadn’t changed: her attraction.

“You know, you nearly derailed my plans,” he said.

“How so?”

“A year of meticulous planning and then, out of nowhere, comes this lovely woman I cannot stop thinking about. I shouldn’t have let myself be seen talking to Maurice so often.”

“You’re having me on.”

“I brought you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I gave in too easily. Where’s the challenge in that for you?”

“Where’s the challenge in letting someone get close to me?” A rhetorical question veiling a confession.

She tilted her head to the side and considered him. He let her.

“Was anyone hurt by your plan?”

“Not a soul, I swear.”

Marie brought in a bottle of red wine with two glasses and a plate of cheese, bread and thin slices of roasted duck.

Jean-François pressed a button on the wall. Curtains swayed aside, revealing tall sliding glass doors that framed a landscape not unlike the one in the painting. One of the doors was open, warm air swirled in, balmy with dew and night blossoms.

He opened the wine bottle and sampled its bouquet. Satisfied, he filled their glasses which they rose in a silent toast to whatever delights the night might bring. Drinking, she stared at the landscape outside. Beyond a small terrace, the ground sloped to a valley where centennial trees grew around a lake, mist skated upon its silvery surface. Away from the city lights, myriad stars shone in the night sky.

An escape.

The glass pane hazily reflected Jean-François as he came to stand behind her. She felt his warmth radiate over her skin though he wasn’t touching her yet. Drawn in, she leaned back, just a little, an invitation, an ouverture.

He trailed a single finger from her earlobe, down her neck, to her shoulder. And she shivered with longing. He gently swiped her hair away, and his lips replaced his finger, careful, precise kisses, inching towards the strap of her dress and sliding it aside.

“What does it feel like, striding into a gallery and taking whatever you want from the walls?”

“Calming. At that moment, I am utterly focused and in control. Then when I slip away with my prize, my blood begins to sizzle.”

“Is it still sizzling now?”

“Yes.”

He met her reflected gaze on the glass pane.

“Mine too,” she said.

She turned around in his arms, and he watched patiently as she put their glasses on a side table. Placing her hands upon his chest, she felt his sharp intake of breath, his rapid heartbeat. She slid her palms up to his neck, and his eyelids fluttered when her fingers delved into the locks at the back of his head. With a gentle push, she guided his lips to hers. He let her take the lead, modest and timid at first, then slowly yielding to instinct and hunger. When she opened her mouth to his, he cupped her cheek and leaned into her until her back pressed to the window. He kissed her with dedication, with utter focus, tasting and caressing her lips, intent on making her tingle all over. Heat flared through her, and she arched into the curve of his body bent over her.

Oh boy.

Eyes still closed, she broke the kiss for air and licked his taste on her lips.

“That was some grade-A kissing,” she whispered.

Jean-François laughed and pecked her forehead. “I like you.”

“Yeah? ‘cause I stroke your ego?”

“Because you’re honest.”

“Well, if I’m being honest I'd very much like you to sweep me off my feet again.”

“As you wish.”

In one smooth move, he grabbed her thighs and hiked her up on his hips. Betty squeaked and held onto him. He kissed her against the glass door, exploring her neck and cleavage, all lips and teeth and tongue. She wound her legs tighter around him, seeking friction to soothe the throbbing he’d triggered. He sucked in a breath and bucked his hips.

He carried her outside, to a nearby wooden chaise lounge and laid her on the striped cushion.

She expected him to flip up her skirt and pound, but he knelt beside the chair. He rubbed her ankles, then slid his hand up her leg to her knee. Betty’s breath quickened. She parted her legs. The ascension continued, his hand slipped underneath the hem of her skirt and up inside her thigh. He stopped inches from her underwear, and kissed her again. It was agony to have his hand so close to where she needed it. His mouth traveled to her breasts, he pulled down the bodice of her dress, just enough to access a nipple. Betty squirmed and keened, and finally his fingers slipped inside her knickers.

She looked like a Renaissance muse, lounging, with her arms over her head, one breast bare, and layers of fabric bunched about her waist. And he studied her as he sought the spots that made her sigh and cry. Her lewd noises accompanied the cicadas’ song. And she should’ve been ashamed to make such a wanton display, but the heat in his eyes was worth it.

This man could take anything he wanted, and he had chosen her.

She came embarrassingly fast.

He licked his fingers and grinned.

“Showoff,” she said again.

She grabbed his tie and pulled him over her. He laughed against her lips, and it hurt with how good it felt to share this joke, this joy.

She blindly unknotted his tie as he fumbled with his buttons. Unable to wait any longer, she cupped the tantalizing bulge in his trousers. He groaned and that filled her with pride.

He stood up to take off his trousers, and she made him recline on the chaise. With half-lidded eyes, he observed her straddling his legs. She admired him, as he had her. His hair was completely disheveled now. His open shirt revealed a lean, firm chest and taut stomach down which she dragged her fingernails. His cock twitched as she neared it. She teased the surrounding skin until he growled her name. She stroked him to full hardness, enjoying the way he hardened in her hand. Because of her.

And now, for the pièce de résistance. She rose to her knees, and Jean-François’s jaw went slack. She had barely had time to enjoy his fingers, but she planned on savouring this. Slowly and with a long, luxuriating moan, she slid down every inch of him, wetting him to the root.

He gripped her hips, urging her to move. His chest heaved with panting breaths. She gorged herself on his lust and desperation. With every bounce, her dress slid lower down her torso.

She held onto the top of the seat for leverage, but she must have been too vigorous for the adjustable back suddenly collapsed. Betty yelped and Jean-François caught her.

“Crikey!” she said, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you hurt?”

“Scared me half to death, but I’m okay. You?”

“I’m fine.”

They looked at each other, then broke into a loud guffaw. Mirth and embarrassment heated her cheeks. She truly couldn’t stop laughing. Jean-François even teared up.

“You’re so beautiful when you laugh,” he said. It came out so naturally, it was almost reckless by his standards.

Her heart swelled, and she kissed him. He rolled on top of her, spurred on by this small shot of adrenaline.

Betty shivered; it was getting cold outside.

“Shall we go back inside?” he asked.

“If you don’t mind.”

They picked up their clothes and closed the patio door. With a remote control, he turned on the fireplace.

He picked up his glass of wine from where she’d left them. He drank while watching her undress and lie down on the plush carpet, in the orange glow of the flames. With a beckoning smile, she extended a hand toward him. He removed the last of his clothes and crawled over her.

Skin to skin, bodies entwined, they moved together. And suddenly it was so tender and so very real. A leisurely give-and-take of pleasure. Delight and satisfaction mirrored in each other’s face. They gasped and moaned and laughed, then fell silent, foreheads together, fingers entwined, staring in each other’s eyes, toeing the edge of bliss.

Even after climaxing, they didn’t part. Jean-François buried his face in her neck and held her even closer.

Betty looked up at the stolen painting, and, for once, didn’t feel the pull to lose herself in its landscape. She closed her eyes and stroked his hair and thought nothing would ever be this perfect.

Eventually, hunger and thirst caught up with them. They put their underwear back on, and Betty borrowed Jean-François’s shirt.

They ate, sitting on the carpet, their legs still entwined. The wine, the cheeses, the meat, everything was unbelievably tasteful. She licked her fingers clean and refilled their glasses. Jean-François slouched down, head against the couch, unwound like she had never seen him before.

“Betty, do you still want to go back to London in time for your morning shift?”

“Goodness no.”

“Good. I know an excellent restaurant in Vienna. It’s inside a tropical greenhouse, you’ll love it.”

“Vienna?”

“How is that for a second date?”

#Mercier x Betty #spies of warsaw #a passionate woman #teninch fic #lostinfic writes stuff

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janelizziemarykittylydia-blog · 7 years

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Shattered Glass Smiles, Chapter 3

Finally (finally) got around to posting this!! Due to vacation drama and a house without wifi, updating was a little difficult, but I’m back now and I’ll (hopefully) be posting more regularly! :D

Thank so much to all notes & comments! You guys are all absolutely amazing! <3 <3 <3

Synopsis: In which the year is 1959, Feyre is engaged to Senator Tamlin Greene, and Rhysand is the head of a notorious mafia dynasty called the Night Court.

AO3

CHAPTER 1, CHAPTER 2

-3-

“Bulls, Bullshit, and a Dog Named Bryaxis”

I said the words—I accept, sitting in my dressing room, staring at my mirror.

I didn’t know what I’d expected. My experience with Rhysand Black, however limited, should have taught me not to expect anything: Rhysand was an unpredictable maelstrom, a sparking electrical wire; a fistful of clouds holding thunder.

But after I sealed my fate in a thick manila envelope (I accept, I accept, I accept), Rhysand only replied, “Tomorrow. Metropolitan Museum of Art, front entrance, nine am.”

And hung up.

I rung again—give me more details, what the hell—but he didn’t pick up. Likely he knew it was me, and he wanted to preserve his air of mystique.

Fucking Rhysand and his fucking dramatics.

The night Tamlin hit me, I didn’t go back to bed with him. I’d forgiven, but not forgotten: a cut marred my cheek from where it had hit the doorframe, and while last night might have been the first time Tam struck me, it was not the first time he left bruises on my body.

Tamlin loved me, and his temper was a volatile thing, not so much a product of true malignant intent as a short gunpowder fuse. But it was hard, sometimes, to remember his gentleness when all I could see when I looked in the mirror was a forget-me-not bruise on my cheekbone and a bandage near my eye.

I opened the window above my vanity and lit a cigarette, chain-smoking until dawn.

At seven in the morning, I came back to bed smelling like an ashtray. If Tamlin noticed, he didn’t say a word.

He kissed me goodbye as he left for work, whispering I love you in my ear.

“I love you, too,” I said, and wondered why the words, too, tasted of ash.

***

I’d never been to the Met. I grew up in Boston, and I’d been to museums there, though rarely, but despite my months in New York City, I had never traveled the handful of blocks to the museum.

Back in April, I would have been thrilled. Now I hoped to God Rhysand didn’t ask me to go inside, where portraits would hiss accusations.

I sat on the front steps in the pouring rain, inhaling exhaust and cigarette smoke, as an elegant Aston Martin pulled up to the curb. Someone opened the door, and Rhysand stepped out, wearing a Cheshire-Cat grin.

It faded when he caught sight of me, in my too-loose clothes and my ratty hair, bandaged and bruised.

“You don’t have an umbrella,” he said. “You’re soaked.”

“Afraid I’m going to ruin your upholstery?”

Rhysand smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze fastened on my Band-Aid. “Get into a bar brawl last night?”

“Tumbled down the stairs.”

“And hit your cheek? Must have been some fall.”

“It was.” I turned my attention toward the road. “Where are we going? I’ assume we’re not actually entering the Met, unless you’re planning to case the place.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not going to steal a Rembrandt, though it’s something to shelve for a later date.”

“Christ,” I muttered.

Rhysand popped open the passenger door, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

Part of me wanted to protest—wanted to fight back, and kick, and scream—but that part of me fell quiet, muted by the residual pain in my chest and cheek and chin.

I got in the car.

Rhysand gave me a weighted look as merged the car into the center lane, his lips twisting downward.

A pack of cigarettes sat on the center console, grabbing my attention. “Can I have one?” I asked, reaching for the box.

“No smoking in my car.”

“Why do you have a pack of Lucky Strikes in here, then?”

“Those aren’t my cigarettes; they’re my friend’s,” Rhysand clarified, taking a right. “Nobody smokes in my car.”

But my attention had snagged on another detail. “You have friends?”

“Ha, ha,” he said dryly. “Your witticisms never fail to charm me. But yes, I do have friends, and I don’t smoke.”

“Bullshit. Everybody smokes.”

“Not me.” A cabbie slammed their fist on the horn, and Rhysand flipped them off.

“Why not?” I knew I should be pressing the real question—where the hell were we going—but I couldn’t remember the last time I had met someone that abstained from nicotine, aside from the prissy girls in the ladies’ social groups Tamlin constantly egged me to join.

“Don’t like the smell,” he said, turning down an avenue lined with elegant brownstones and sodden pedestrians.

“I repeat: bullshit.”

He shrugged. “I’ll tell you the whole story sometime, if you want to hear it,” he said. “But not right now.”

“Next time?” I stared at him. “This is a one-shot deal.”

“Is it?” He slammed on the brakes as a little girl crossed the sidewalk, hop-scotching through pothole puddles, splashing her skirt. Her mother hurried after her, wet and scowling. “A heist takes more than one meeting to accomplish, you know.”

“A heist?”

“A coup. A caper, pilferage, act of flawless larceny.”

“Thanks for the Thesaurus. I was more concerned with the fact that I’m involved with a heist.”

“What did you think you’d be doing? You’re working with me, after all.”

“Candyass.”

“Such vulgar slang,” he mused, sounding completely unbothered. “What will prospective voters think?”

“Fuck you.”

“If that’s a proposition—”

My lips grew white. “It was not,” I said. “I would rather fuck a wall.”

“Sounds anatomically improbable,” Rhysand said, “but be my guest.”

I counted to ten silently in my head. When that didn’t work, I tried counting to fifty.

“I have a question,” Rhysand said, somewhere around thirty-three. “Yesterday, you refused to go anywhere that wasn’t a public setting in broad daylight with me. This morning, you didn’t care if you got into my car. Why?”

“We made a deal.”

“As you so eloquently put,” he drawled, “bullshit. We had a deal yesterday, too.”

“I still have a gun in my pocket,” I reminded him. “And I still know how to shoot.”

“Again, you had a gun yesterday, too.”

“Enough.”

“I’m just—”

“Maybe,” I interrupted, “I was tired of not being able to trust anyone, alright?”

Rhysand’s mouth closed with an almost-audible snap, momentarily startled into silence.

I didn’t say anything else, jaw working.

“You can trust me, Feyre,” Rhys said at last, voice oddly hoarse. “I may be an ass, but we made a deal. I won’t hurt you. I swear on my sister’s grave.”

And it was that—that last bit—that snagged.

Sister’s grave.

I didn’t know Rhys had a sister.

Then again, I didn’t know much about Rhysand at all.

Biologically, Rhysand had to have a family, but it was difficult to picture this broken boy with the bloodstained hands with a mother that read him bedtime stories at night. Then again, more often than not mothers were not around to read bedtime stories. My own mother had been too busy hosting dinner parties and downing whole bottles of champagne, taking spoonfuls ladanum at night that had less to do with aching joints and more to do with a love for opiates that drowned away the world.

I didn’t reply. I just—looked at him. Sister’s grave, indeed.

“I’m taking you to a shooting range,” Rhys said, hands flexing on the wheel, easing away from treacherous waters that stung when pressed to our scars. “I’d like to know how accurate that aim of yours really is.”

***

The shooting range, as it turned out, was a private structure on the outskirts of an estate in upstate New York—an estate that belonged to Rhysand.

We drove through the Bronx, past crumbling tenements and clouds of sewage that hit too close to home, and into Westchester, driving north for about two hours.

Neither of us spoke. Raindrops slipped down the window, tires squealed on asphalt; chipmunks darted across the sidewalk.

Rhysand wound through a series of turns that led us onto smaller and smaller lanes, until he eased onto a tiny one-lane dirt road, following hand-painted signs. Stark, leafless maple trees wove a net above us, casting dappled shadows onto the seats.

The rain had stopped. The world was quiet.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“One of my homes,” he answered.

“Homes. Plural.”

“My line of work,” he said wryly, “is very lucrative.”

I rose a brow. “Crime does pay, apparently.”

“Not for petty criminals,” he allowed, “but for me, yes. Quite a bit.”

He turned a left, and I opened my mouth, about to speak, but found myself suddenly incapable of words.

I had never thought about Rhysand Black’s house before, but the connotation brought images of blood-stained doors and Anne Boleyn’s head on a pike to mind.

But this—

This was—

The trees parted, revealing a quaint sage-green farmhouse, shutters painted black, flower boxes overflowing with wilted yellow mums. A weathervane swayed on the shingled roof, and in the rolling hills stretching out behind the farmhouse, I caught glimpses of a white barn, chicken coop, and goat pen.

A dog sprawled out on the deck. It lifted its head when Rhysand yanked the key out of the ignition, putting the car into park.

“This can’t be your house,” I said.

“No?” He stepped out of the car, and the dog jumped to its feet, bolting over. It was enormous, big enough for a small child to ride, and shaggy. Rhysand grinned, kneeling on the ground to pet the beast.

“This is—domestic,” I sputtered. “You’re the head of a goddamned crime syndicate. This can’t be your house.”

“I don’t typically take business here,” he said dryly, kissing the top of the dog’s head.

I stared, quite certain I was hallucinating. Rhysand Black did not kiss dogs. He just—didn’t. That was something normal people did. Normal people, with souls and fully-functioning hearts.

“Why the hell am I here, then? Aren’t I business?”

Rhysand reached into his pocket, pulling out a dog treat (did he just walk around with little biscuits in his pocket? What kind of alternate universe had I stumbled into?). “Sit,” he told the dog solemnly.

The dog sat.

“Roll over.”

The dog rolled over.

“Good boy,” he crooned, allowing the dog to snap up the treat, woofing joyfully, tail batting Rhysand’s legs.

“Rhysand,” I said in a warning tone.

“Feyre,” he mimicked. He rubbed the dog’s belly.

“Where are we?”

“I told you,” he said. A gust of wind swept over the grass, tossing up the collar of his peacoat and tousling his hair, black strands falling over his forehead. His skin had gotten darker since I’d seen him last May, no longer an unnatural alabaster, but a deep, rich caramel. “We’re at one of my homes.”

I just looked at him, uncomprehending.

He got to his feet, brushing off trampled blades of grass. “This is where I grew up,” he said. “Before my father started my training.”

I blinked. For such a simple statement, my mind spun with the influx of information—Rhys had grown up in a place like this, a boy once, perhaps with a sister. And his father had trained him. For what? His current business?

Surely not.

Unless…

“Bryaxis, heel,” Rhysand said, whistling. The dog—Bryaxis—trotted to his feet, tongue lolling. I was beginning to reconsider my initial observation; I wasn’t even sure if the beast at Rhysand’s side could be qualified as a dog. It came up to Rhysand’s waist—Rhysand, who was almost six-foot-four, towering well over Tamlin. The creature was a blob of dark fur and claws and fangs, a jaw strong enough to bite a person’s hand right off.

“What the fuck kind of breed is that?” I said, staring at the monster.

“I don’t know,” Rhysand said, completely unbothered. “Bryaxis came from a litter of my father’s bitch. I don’t know what her heritage was, and I don’t remember the sire.”

I narrowed my eyes at Bryaxis. He narrowed his eyes back at me.

I’d never had a pet before, barring the stray cat with rabies that wandered around our neighborhood in Boston, coined Scrunch by my sister Elain. Still, I knelt on the ground, holding my hand out. Waiting.

Something like surprise flickered across Rhysand’s features. Bryaxis trotted over, sniffing cautiously, and I pet the top of his head. He rubbed up against me, fur surprisingly soft.

“He doesn’t usually like strangers,” Rhysand said, looking at me oddly.

“Of course he doesn’t,” I said. “I can only imagine what kind of riffraff you subject him to.”

He laughed, the sound sudden and startled, and I smiled—genuinely smiled, even if just a little, more at Bryaxis than anyone else, for the first time in… God, in weeks.

The smile pulled at the cut on the corner of my eye, and I winced, pressing my fingers to my forehead.

Rhysand stopped laughing.

I had the sudden, irrational urge to cry, and I didn’t know why.

“Can I see?” he said.

“What?”

“Your cheek,” he said. “Beneath the bandage.”

I rose my hand to the scabby skin, uncomprehending. “See it? Why?”

“To make sure you’re all right,” he said. “If it hurts when you smile, whatever it is, it should probably be cleaned.” He frowned. “You did clean it, right?”

This time I was the one that laughed, a horrible, rusty sound. “I cleaned it,” I said. “Put some whiskey on a cloth and slapped it on the cut. Don’t worry.” I got to my feet, pointedly ignoring how Rhysand stiffened. “Where’s this shooting range? Point the way.”

He didn’t move. “Feyre.”

“Point the way,” I repeated, this time with vitriol. “Let’s go.”

Rhysand looked like he might say something else, but at the last minute, he shut his mouth and nodded. Still, something lurked in his eyes—something raw.

I didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he cared.

“Lead the way,” I said again, gesturing before me.

He did.

***

The hills around the farmhouse might have appeared smooth and unobtrusive, but they were not. I struggled in the squelching mud, heels sinking into the grass.

“Motherfucker,” I said, not for the first time.

“Language,” said Rhysand mildly, also not for the first time.

“Climb it, Tarzan,” I retorted, shoving ahead.

I reached the top of another hill, Bryaxis before us, sniffing the ground and occasionally wrenching a poor vole or mouse out of the thicket in his jaws, and stopped in my tracks.

“Here we are,” Rhysand said, barely an inch from my elbow.

I would have moved, but it was cold, and he was warm, and my coat was too thin.

The shooting range sprawled out before us, unofficial and makeshift but still clearly functional. A row of targets stretched out for about twenty feet, each pocketed with holes. A locked shed was shoved off to the side, presumably containing an array of weaponry.

Rhysand leaned against the trunk of a stark, massive ash tree, arms crossed. “After you, Feyre darling.”

“You know,” I said, pulling out my pistol, “I’ve been wondering. Why do you care about my aim’s accuracy?”

“For my business purposes, of course.”

“Right,” I said. “So I’ll need to know how to shoot for the job I’m assisting you with.”

“Correct.”

I clicked off the safety. “I will not shoot a living being, Rhysand.”

“If you’re as good of a shot as you claim, you should be able to aim for the kneecaps,” he pointed out.

I lifted my hands, steadying my stance, and shot.

A perfect hole appeared in the middle of the target. Rhysand straightened a bit.

“You saw me,” I said quietly. “On the floor of that cellar.” An ear-splitting pop, and another circle appeared in the target, no more than a centimeter from the first. “You watched that bitch give me the knife, and”—pop—“you watched their blood pool on the floor.”

Pop, pop, pop.

Funny, how it always came back to me here, fingers wrapped around a gun that I detested but carried out of necessity and the scars that, unlike the cut on my cheek, would never fade.

Memories flickered in my peripheral vision, me at—

Fourteen, slapping cash down on the counter and getting a little pea-shooter in return,

Fourteen and a half, shooting Coca-Cola bottles in the backyard as Nesta watched from the porch, smoking and silent, Elain covering her ears inside,

Fifteen, when a man shoved me up against the wall on the way home from the club, and I pressed the gun to his belly and told him to go fuck himself,

Sixteen, when I hit all the Coca-Cola bottles on my first shot,

Nineteen, when Tamlin took me away, and I put the gun inside a box and threw away the key,

Nineteen and a half, when they grabbed me off the street,

Nineteen and a half again, when I smashed open the box that held my gun and pressed it to my chest, sobbing and weeping and damaged irreparably.

Pop, pop, pop.

I lowered my gun, chest heaving.

Holes peppered the target, each within the bull’s-eye.

“No more,” I said. “No more blood.”

Rhysand didn’t even look surprised. He flicked his gaze between me and the target, as if he’d expected all along that I could walk my talk, that I was made of sterner stuff than Tamlin or Lucien thought.

Slowly, he nodded.

“And,” I added, “I have more bullets left in here, so don’t even think about trying anything.”

“I thought we moved past that.”

I put on the safety and slid it into my pocket. “You can never be too careful.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is paranoia, Feyre darling.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What? ‘Feyre’?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth. “Darling.”

Rhys smiled at me. “Why? Is it Tamlin’s pet name for you?” His tone turned mocking, and I bristled.

“No. Tam and I don’t have pet names.”

“How disappointing.”

I scowled at him. “Why do you even care about Tamlin, anyway? It’s not as if our relationship has anything to do with you.”

In a blink, the carefree, joking Rhysand vanished, replaced by a creature even more feral than Bryaxis curled up by his feet. “Doesn’t have anything to do with me,” he repeated, so lethal that I flinched.

“Yes,” I said. “You don’t care.”

Rhysand’s lip curled. “Don’t tell me what I do or do not care about, Feyre. As it just so happens, I don’t particularly enjoy finding you soaking wet on the steps of the Met, pale and bruised to hell.”

“Tamlin has nothing to do with my bruises.”

“Lovely little liar.”

Something inside of me broke in half, cracking with the echo of a broken twig. “I am not your pet project, Rhysand,” I snapped. “I don’t need your pity, and I sure as hell don’t want whatever your twisted definition of care is. I’ll work with you, because I made a deal, but my personal life is none of your concern.”

Rhysand’s face had gone blank, wiped clean. “Fine.”

“Fine.” I stomped back up the hill. “Let’s get out of here. I want to go home.”

He didn’t say a word, but started up the hill after me, Bryaxis loping alongside him. This time, the dog stayed far from my feet.

***

While we made our way through the hills, I paused atop a grassy knoll, Rhysand a few yards in front of me.

Far off, buried in heather and knee-high grass, I caught a hint of carved marble—a gravestone, nestled between the hills, with an angel mounted on top. All I could see from here were the wings.

I swear on my sister’s grave.

Perhaps in a different world Rhysand Black and I might have found common ground, shared in heartbreak and sisters that were no longer in our lives—either through death, or other reasons. Perhaps in a different world I would not know how to shoot, and I could close my eyes at night without hearing the woman scream.

But that was not this world, and I, at least, had too many sharp edges, broken and battered as I was. Anyone that touched me drew blood on their own skin, spilling a trail of poppies through the snow.

***

The second Rhysand and I reached the farmhouse, he started cursing, fluently and expansively.

I stepped around him, alarmed. Three cars were parked in what passed for a driveway: a low-slung cherry-red Cadillac convertible, a glossy black Ferrari, and a nondescript blue BMW.

“What the—” I started, just as a piercing shriek sliced through the air.

“CASSIAN ILLYRIA! GET BACK HERE!”

Rhysand lunged, slamming me to the ground. I had only a second to absorb the scent of jasmine and citrus and the warmth of his body, swearing, as—

As a man came bolting through the drive of the farmhouse, clinging onto the horns of a bucking, braying bull, screeching at the top of his lungs. Rhysand had pinned me down to avoid being flattened.

A few other people ran after the man—a blonde-haired woman that looked vaguely familiar and another nutmeg-skinned man—a petite woman sauntering behind them, laughing with a slender cigarette dangling from an ivory holder wedged between her fingers.

“HELP ME!” the man on the bull hollered.

The petite woman laughed even harder.

“What the hell,” I said, wheezing under Rhysand’s weight, just as the bull flung the man off its ass, directly into a dense thicket of trees.

The cow bolted off, and the thicket rustled, the man rising from the grass, leaves and twigs in his hair. He vomited into the bushes as the blonde-haired woman and nutmeg-skinned man hurried after him, shouting expletives.

“I’m fine,” the man said, before promptly pausing to vomit again.

Rhysand pushed himself off me, face in his hands.

“Feyre,” he said, voice muffled, “meet my family.”

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#hey look i finally posted this #perhaps i am finally getting my shit together #i doubt it #bring on the angst of the 1950s #shattered glass smiles #chapter 3 #feysand #fanfiction #fanfic #my fic

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