He returned her home just before lunch.
For a moment, as the Aston Martin settled quietly in the Ashwyn driveway, neither of them moved. Lysara found herself wondering whether he would kiss her goodbye, whether he would make plans for the evening, or whether they would simply sit there, reluctant to bring the morning to an end.
His phone lit up.
The screen flashed with an incoming call.
She caught only the first letter before he reached for it.
"A."
His expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
"I'll collect you at twelve tomorrow," he said, pressing the call onto hold. "Will that suit you?"
She nodded.
He smiled, though his attention was already dividing itself between her and the waiting call. "I'll see you then."
Lysara slipped from the car, closing the door softly behind her.
By the time she reached the porch he had already pulled away. The Aston Martin paused only briefly at the gates before disappearing onto the road, and as it vanished from sight she saw him lift the phone once more to his ear.
She stood watching for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before letting herself inside.
The house was quiet.
She showered, changed into comfortable clothes, and carried her sketchbook out onto the little balcony adjoining her bedroom.
The afternoon disappeared almost without her noticing.
Her pencil seemed determined to draw only one face.
Sometimes it was Daevyn laughing.
Sometimes the thoughtful expression he wore when discussing House Vale.
Once, without entirely intending to, she found herself sketching him exactly as she had seen him that morning, asleep with the pale winter light falling across his shoulder.
She closed the sketchbook before she could study that one too closely.
Three times she unlocked her phone.
Three times she began a message.
Three times she deleted it without sending anything.
What, after all, was one supposed to say after a night like that?
After dinner her phone rang.
She reached for it almost before the first note had finished sounding. The smile already forming faded into something gentler when she saw the name on the screen.
Étienne.
She accepted the call and set the phone on speaker.
"Hello."
"I was collecting breakfast from our café," he said, his familiar accent immediately conjuring memories of fresh coffee, orange blossom and warm pastries drifting out onto narrow streets. "And I thought of you."
She smiled despite herself.
"You'll be coming back soon, hmm?"
"Soon," she answered automatically.
Her gaze drifted to the open sketchbook beside her.
Daevyn looked back from the page, captured with his head tipped slightly back, every careful reserve abandoned.
The smile faded from her face.
"Maybe..."
The word escaped before she had fully considered it.
On the other end of the line, Étienne was quiet for a heartbeat.
"Maybe?" he prompted gently.
Lysara closed her eyes.
Perhaps not. Not now. Not after Daevyn. Not after the bond. The thought settled over her with a curious mixture of excitement and guilt.
When she opened her eyes again, Étienne was still waiting patiently for her answer.
"I'm not sure," she admitted quietly. "Everything's become rather... complicated."
There was a gentle pause at the other end of the line.
"Family?"
She smiled despite herself.
It was such an Étienne assumption.
His own family had always seemed gloriously chaotic—parents who argued over recipes while cooking together, siblings forever talking over one another, cousins appearing without invitation and somehow always finding another chair at the table. They had adopted her almost before they had learnt her surname, insisting she was too thin, pressing second helpings upon her, and declaring that no one should spend a Sunday alone.
"Something like that," she said.
The words caught in her throat.
I've met someone.
I think I'm going to marry him.
She couldn't imagine trying to explain soul bonds, Faerie politics and ancient Houses to a man whose greatest concern last month had been whether the café should replace its espresso machine.
"Classes start again in three weeks," Étienne reminded her gently.
Three weeks.
If everything continued as quickly as it had begun... She would be married.
"I know." She looked out across the darkening garden beyond her window. "Hopefully I'll know what I'm doing by then."
"Whatever you decide," he said, "just tell me."
She closed her eyes briefly.
"I will."
He laughed softly. "I miss my favourite dance partner." The familiar teasing tugged unexpectedly at her heart.
"I miss mine too."
"I'll let you go. Take care of yourself, Ma chérie."
"You too."
The line clicked silent.
Lysara remained sitting for a long moment, staring at the phone in her hand.
Then, almost without thinking, she opened her contacts again.
Daevyn.
The call rang twice before diverting to voicemail.
She ended it before the tone.
Wonderful, she thought miserably.
Now he'll know I called.
Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Before she could lose her nerve, she opened a message instead.
Thinking of you.
She stared at them for several long moments before sighing and deleting the message.
Ridiculous.
How could three ordinary words feel so impossibly intimate?
She laughed quietly at her own foolishness.
Instead, she opened Étienne's conversation.
Thinking of you.
She pressed send before she could overthink it.
His reply arrived almost immediately.
Thinking of you too, Ma chérie.
She laughed, but felt like crying.
She had known Étienne for two years. They had painted together, danced together, wandered galleries and cafés together. They had become lovers almost without noticing when friendship had quietly become something more.
There was safety in history.
Daevyn, by comparison, had walked into her life scarcely more than a week ago and somehow overturned everything she had imagined her future would be.
Her thumb drifted back to his name.
She looked at it for a long time.
My mate, she thought.
If the bond truly existed—and she believed now that it did—surely there was nothing strange about telling him she was thinking of him.
That was what bonds were for.
Wasn't it?
She drew a steadying breath.
Thinking of you.
This time she pressed send before she could change her mind.
Immediately she wished she hadn't.
Five seconds passed.
Then a minute.
She set the phone aside and forced herself back to her sketchbook, shading the line of Daevyn's jaw with more concentration than the drawing probably warranted. Every few minutes her eyes drifted back to the screen.
Nothing.
By the time dusk settled beyond her bedroom window she had almost convinced herself that she had imagined hearing the notification tone at least half a dozen times.
She packed away her charcoal and larger sketchbooks, leaving only a small pad and a tin of pencils on her desk. They would fit easily into her handbag for tomorrow's picnic. There would be plenty of opportunities, she hoped, to catch Daevyn unguarded for a few quick studies.
Her phone remained stubbornly silent.
She carried it upstairs with her, placing it on the bedside table before changing for bed.
Sleep proved slower in coming than usual.
More than once she reached across the darkness to wake the screen.
Nothing.
When morning finally arrived, it was the first thing she checked.
No reply.
Lysara let out a muffled groan and dropped back against the pillows, pressing the cool edge of the phone against her forehead.
"Wonderful."
Somehow the most embarrassing thing she had ever done was send three perfectly innocent words.
Thinking of you.
Perhaps he had read far more into them than she had intended. Or perhaps he simply hadn't known how to answer.
She opened her contacts, her thumb hovering over Niava's name. For one reckless moment she considered calling.
Niava would listen. She would probably even have advice. But that had never quite been the shape of their friendship. They painted together, laughed together, wandered galleries together. They didn't dissect every uncertain glance from the men they were falling in love with.
Lysara sighed and slipped the phone into her handbag beside her sketchbook and pencils.
She would simply have to survive her own imagination.
She dressed in a simple sundress whose full skirt seemed suitably practical for sitting on a picnic rug, though she found it oddly difficult to picture Sterling Eastern hosting anything that involved rugs, baskets and sunshine. Somehow she suspected "picnic" meant something rather different in his vocabulary.
At five minutes to twelve she stepped out onto the front porch.
Noon came.
Then passed.
She tried not to watch the driveway.
At a quarter past twelve, the familiar dark grey Aston Martin swept through the gates.
Even before the engine fell silent she could see the tension in Daevyn's face.
He climbed out only long enough to retrieve something from the back seat before rounding to the driver's side again, his attention divided between his phone and the watch on his wrist.
"I'm sorry," he said as she approached. "I'm late."
The apology sounded genuine.
So did the frustration.
For the first time since she had met him, it occurred to her that whatever occupied his days might be considerably heavier than she had imagined.
She found herself watching him instead of the sea, stealing little glances from beneath her lashes. His hands rested lightly upon the steering wheel, elegant hands that she now knew could be impossibly gentle and impossibly demanding in the space of a single breath. The sleeves of his charcoal jacket were rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing strong wrists dusted with pale golden hair, and every now and then he ran an absent thumb across the leather as though smoothing thoughts into order.
There really ought to be a handbook.
So You've Fallen in Love with an UnSeelie Lord.
She almost smiled.
Chapter One: They apologise sincerely, then immediately disappear into three crises at once.
Chapter Two: They kiss as though the rest of the world has ceased to exist, and then answer business calls halfway down a beach.
Chapter Three...
She sighed silently.
Perhaps the handbook ought to be titled How to Stop Imagining Problems That Don't Exist.
It was hardly his fault that House Vale was falling apart around him. Or that half the Winter Court seemed determined to demand his attention every waking hour. Or that a woman whose heart he had clearly broken refused to let him go.
Her thoughts drifted, despite herself, to the unanswered message.
Thinking of you.
Three ridiculous words.
She had lain awake half the night regretting them. What sort of woman sent messages like that after only a week?
One who had found her soul bond, apparently.
Heat crept unexpectedly into her cheeks.
The bond.
She had spent so many years dreaming about it that now she possessed one, she still seemed incapable of trusting it.
She believed in it when she closed her eyes and reached for it.
She believed in it when he touched her.
She believed in it when he looked at her as though she were the only woman in the room.
She stole another glance at him.
Really, she thought, this was becoming a serious problem. If merely sitting beside him was enough to leave her acutely aware of every movement he made... How much worse was it going to become once they were married?
She'd been taught that bonds strengthened after the vows. Husband and wife could sense one another across impossible distances, feel one another's emotions, even speak mind to mind if the bond was deep enough.
If this was what the beginning felt like...
Goodness.
"I'm being dreadful company." His voice broke gently into her thoughts.
She looked up to find him glancing across at her as they paused for a red light.
"My apologies." A tired smile touched his mouth. "I've been somewhere else entirely."
"You have."
His smile widened. "And here I thought I was hiding it well."
"I've spent the last ten minutes wondering whether I ought to write a handbook."
"A handbook?"
"For ladies intending to court UnSeelie lords."
One golden eyebrow lifted. "Oh?"
"I think it would be a public service."
His laugh filled the cabin, rich enough that she felt herself smiling before she'd even decided to.
"I should very much like to read this handbook."
"I'm afraid it's still in the research phase."
"I see."
He shook his head, amusement lingering in his eyes.
"For what it's worth... I'm sorry."
"My morning wasn't nearly as exciting as yours," she admitted.
"No?"
"I mostly drew you." The words escaped before she had considered them. Colour rose immediately into her cheeks.
His head turned just enough that she caught the surprise in his expression. "You drew me?"
She nodded once, suddenly fascinated by the stitching on her sundress. "From memory."
There was a long, thoughtful silence.
When he finally spoke, his voice had become strangely quiet. "I should very much like to see those one day.”
Daevyn turned through the wrought-iron gates of the Eastern estate and eased the Aston Martin between a Bentley and a silver Mercedes before switching off the engine.
For a moment he remained looking through the windscreen, as though mentally rearranging the afternoon ahead.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced across at her.
"I was thinking of you last night, too."
It took her a heartbeat to understand.
Then she closed her eyes.
The message.
She had spent the better part of twelve hours wishing she had never sent it.
The driver's door opened.
A moment later hers followed.
He stood waiting, one hand resting lightly against the top of the door.
"Come here."
She placed her hand in his.
Rather than helping her straight from the car, he drew her gently against him until scarcely an inch remained between them. His mouth found hers with effortless familiarity, the kiss warm and unhurried, stealing every coherent thought she had managed to assemble during the drive.
When he finally drew back, his forehead lingered briefly against hers.
"Thank you for your message," he said quietly.
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"I should have answered."