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rosanna-writer · 16 hours

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Love at First Sight's For Suckers (4/5)

Summary: [A Feysand Newsies AU] Rhysand had a reputation. A big reputation. But fortunately for Feyre, a newsie selling papers on the streets of Velaris, tabloid gossip about the handsome, charismatic, hard-partying war-hero of a High Lord's heir means business is booming. That is, until the city's newspaper magnates get greedy, Feyre finds herself an unwitting labor leader at the center of a strike, and Rhys becomes an unexpected ally...

Warnings: None

Thank you again to @itsthedoodle for continuing to beta my gift for @the-lonelybarricade!

Ch. 1 - Got a Feelin' 'bout the Headline | Ch. 2 - Beautiful. Smart. Independent. | Ch. 3 - Guts and Glory | Ch. 4 - Dead or Dreamin'

You can read the fourth chapter Here on AO3 or under the readmore.

The plan came together with shocking ease. With Nesta's support, they'd hold a rally at Ressina's theater to give the newsies of Velaris a chance to vote on continuing the strike. Meanwhile, Rhys would lay the groundwork for a show of solidarity from the Illyrians. He might have been the farthest thing from popular in the Steppes, but the same couldn't be said for his mother. If the message came from her, they'd lend their support.

They didn't linger long after that. Feyre tried not to think about the hole she felt form in her chest as Rhys left. She’d been raised on the same stories as every other faerie in Prythian—she suspected what it meant. And even if she hadn't, Rhys had practically pledged himself to her.

This went far deeper than just the strike. Feyre knew that much.

She'd been on her way to meet with Nesta when talons plunged into her mind and held it. Feyre would have cried out if she hadn't been frozen in place, nothing more than a captive in her own body.

The voice that echoed in her mind was pure, ancient power. Not Rhys's. His father's.

Your presence is required at the House of Wind, Ms. Archeron. Immediately.

The talons retreated as quickly as they'd appeared. Once they were gone, Feyre wasn't stupid enough to head anywhere but the palace. But if the High Lord wanted to see her so urgently, she really wished he would have done her the courtesy of giving her a way there that didn't require climbing ten thousand steps.

Feyre understood she was there to be evaluated. The High Lord was a daemati—he could force her to obey an order without even lifting a finger. There was something he wanted to see with his own two eyes instead of rooting around in her mind for it.

And if Feyre was a betting woman, she'd assume that something to do with Rhysand.

Among all the headlines about Rhys's wild partying, impeccable fashion sense, and messy love life, there had been several stories about his willingness to openly defy his father. He was protected, at least to a degree, by the ancient laws of Prythian that prevented High Lords from killing their heirs to maintain power. But Feyre wasn't.

If the High Lord wanted her dead, she would be. If he wanted to make an example of her, they'd be meeting somewhere more public. Feyre supposed she was summoned to the House of Wind to be used as a pawn, and she decided she'd rather not think about what it meant that the High Lord might use her as leverage over Rhys. The reason didn't matter, just the outcome if she played her cards right. And Lucien was counting on her.

The High Lord was waiting at the top of the stairs. Not just waiting, really—peering down his nose at her as dark power rolled off him. Feyre stared right back. The Lord of Night had appeared on plenty of front pages over the years, but in person, it was strange to see so much of Rhys in the male before her. His eyes were the same striking shade of violet, but with none of Rhys's warmth or humor.

"So this is the rabble-rouser who's charmed my son," he said.

Feyre reached the top of the stairs. "I thought you called me here for something more important than gossiping about Rhysand."

If he was surprised she didn't deny it, that didn't show on his face. Feyre waited for those talons to spear her mind again. They didn't—perhaps once had been enough.

"Come along, Ms. Archeron. I'm sure a businesswoman such as yourself would rather not have her time wasted."

Feyre followed him through halls of red stone. As they walked, the survival instinct that had kept her alive on the streets urged her to pay attention and memorize the route they took. But it was difficult to concentrate when she was all-too-aware that Rhys lived here, too.

She needed to focus, not wander off in search of his bedroom.

They arrived at the High Lord's study before long. The room was richly appointed—Feyre supposed that the massive ebony desk or hand-knotted rugs alone cost more than a year's rent—but the painting on the wall drew her attention away from the lavish furnishings.

A family portrait. It must have been several years old; Rhys's sister was a babe in the Lady of Night's arms, not the woman who occasionally graced the front page alongside her brother. But even age wasn't enough to account for just how wrong Rhysand looked. The artist had rendered the royal family with flawless technical precision, but Rhys looked stiff. Lifeless.

Nothing at all like her sketch of him.

But there wasn't time to sit and stare at the portrait. The High Lord pulled a chair out for Feyre and gestured for her to sit before settling on the other side of the desk.

"I'd like to settle this matter quietly," he said.

"What matter?" Feyre wasn't sure if this was about the strike…or the High Lord was about to warn her away from the crown prince.

"You started a riot. After all the blood that's been spilled over the centuries to protect this city, I won't have faeries like you destroying it from the inside out."

A growl escaped Feyre before she thought better of it. "If your officers hadn't shown up and started—"

"Enough." A warning—Feyre shut her mouth, even as she continued to glower. He continued, "Your name was found on the manifest of a ship bound for the Continent, so I assume you're interested in leaving the city. If you attend the rally and speak against the strike, I'll provide you with a first-class ticket from Velaris to any destination you'd like and more than enough gold to sustain you."

Nesta might actually kill her if she said yes. Rhys would hate her. But an offer from a High Lord wasn't safe to refuse.

Feyre would make the best of it, like she always did.

"Release Lucien Vanserra from the Prison if you want my cooperation."

The High Lord cocked his head and studied her. "What exactly is the nature of your relationship with the Vanserra boy?"

"None of your business," Feyre spat.

"As High Lord, everything that happens in the Night Court is my business. But I'm particularly interested in why a political agitator who calls herself a High Lady is so fervently defending a foreign-born criminal."

Feyre couldn't imagine why the High Lord hadn't just misted her on the spot. He was practically accusing her of treason. A wrong answer could easily damn her—calling Lucien her best friend wouldn't be a satisfactory answer, but there was another truth Feyre could tell that no faerie would ever question.

"He's family. My sister's mate."

She could've sworn there was a flicker of relief in the High Lord's eyes. Just for a moment, before it was replaced with the same unnerving coldness.

"Then we have a bargain. I'll give you the ticket now as a show of good faith, and the gold and Lucien Vanserra's release will be provided after you speak against the strike at tonight's rally."

The tradition had mostly fallen out of favor among Velaris's newsies, but if the High Lord was backing her into a corner, Feyre decided to insist on it anyway. She spat into her palm then held it out for him to shake. "I agree."

To his credit, the Lord of Night spat in his hand and shook hers before conjuring the ticket and handing it to her. A pit formed in Feyre's stomach as the bargain tattoo appeared on her shoulder, somewhere under her shirtsleeves. The thought of what she'd just done to free Lucien made her burn with shame, but at least the High Lord had done her courtesy of allowing her to hide the outward sign of it.

Feyre stood to go. There were still so many preparations to finish ahead of the rally, and she had no intention of allowing the High Lord to waste any of her time. She marched towards the door without waiting for a dismissal.

Feyre's hand was on the knob when the High Lord spoke again. "Have as much fun with Rhysand as you like, Ms. Archeron. You're hardly his first. But let me be clear: nothing less than a mating bond will make you the next Lady of the Night Court."

Feyre let the slamming door speak for itself—there was still a strike to organize.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Feyre was busy making arrangements with Ressina and putting together a list of speakers. After news of the strike had spread, it seemed everyone had an opinion they wanted to express. Newsies from across the city kept dropping by or sending notes, and it was clear that Feyre had started something bigger than she'd ever imagined.

Even Rhys checked in several times throughout the day, a soft brush against her shields each time he asked for permission to be let in. Oddly respectful for someone who was normally so shameless, but Feyre supposed that if he'd grown up with the High Lord for a father, he knew exactly how frightening it was to have a daemati jabbing at his mind. He never lingered longer than what was necessary to keep her informed about the level of support he'd been able to drum up in Illyria—which was apparently quite a lot once he'd convinced the Lady of Night herself to speak out.

Feyre hoped it was enough to sustain the strike without her.

Everything had happened so fast; a part of her feared that whatever she'd set ablaze would burn bright, then die out just as quickly. The High Lord had near-infinite resources, and he'd chosen to back Pulitzer.

Feyre's stomach was churning as newsies began to fill Ressina's theater that evening. At first, it was just the familiar faces from the Rainbow, and she began to fear the promises from the rest of Velaris were merely empty words.

But then Nesta appeared. The south side newsies followed like an army in formation behind its general as they took their seats, Elain among them, too. From the other side of the auditorium, Feyre locked eyes with her oldest sister, who nodded once and didn't smile. It was the most approval she'd ever gotten from Nesta, and Feyre wished it wasn't about to be so short-lived.

But Lucien's freedom was worth it.

The theater went quiet as the rally began, and Feyre stepped on stage feeling as if she'd swallowed glass.

***

Rhys made it back to Velaris just in time for the rally. He'd hoped to catch Feyre before it started and wish her luck, but her hands were full with preparations. He didn't mind—at least not very much—not when he'd been pleasantly surprised at how readily she allowed him past her shields throughout the day.

He hadn't known she trusted him that much.

As he watched from the wings, it quickly became clear to him that something was wrong. Feyre's shoulders were tense, her expression pinched. At first, he supposed it was just unnatural for a shadow-wraith to find herself directly under bright stage lights or nerves from being the center of attention. But the words that came out of Feyre's mouth were all wrong.

"Sure, Pulitzer never should have raised prices without telling us first. It was a lousy thing to do. And we won't be pushed around, so we go on strike," she said, her voice uncharacteristically stiff. "And then what? He lowers the price to shut us up, we go back to work, and he raises it again. Don't think he won't. And if we don't work, we don't get paid. So please, be practical. If we disband the union and get the High Lord off our back, then Pulitzer won't raise the prices again for another two years. I say we get it in writing and take the deal. Vote no on the strike."

By the time she finished, the newsies' booing and jeers had drowned her out. Feyre stalked off stage, then disappeared into the shadows before Rhys could follow.

Her side of the bond was howling with guilt and self-hatred, and it was nearly impossible not to give into the urge to chase her down. Rhys wanted nothing more than to find her and pull her close—to hold her, then bring her the head of whoever had made her feel this way in the first place.

But Feyre didn't want him. He doubted he'd be much of a comfort, anyway.

At the very least, Rhys could still be useful to her, and if he tracked down Feyre, he'd come to her with information in hand. So he stayed in place and listened to the rest of the speeches as he watched the crowd, trying to understand what had happened.

If Feyre was upset, he suspected the culprit was Nesta, the sister that she'd never gotten along with. But Nesta took the stage next, and even Rhys was impressed with the way her speech directed the newsies' anger away from Feyre and back towards Pulitzer, channeling it into something that could fuel the strike. Nesta wouldn't be the reason Feyre changed her mind, then.

Through the rest of the speeches and voting, Rhys tried to puzzle it out. As a High Lord's heir, he'd been extensively trained in politics, but Feyre was the most pragmatic thinker he'd ever known. She knew that disbanding the union would only hurt the newsies in the long run. There was something else at play.

And when a still-bruised Lucien Vanserra crept into the theater, leaned over the back of Elain's chair, and surprised her with a kiss, Rhys understood the choice Feyre had made.

Rhys had been a prisoner of war—he'd give up everything to bring home a comrade he'd fought alongside. And so would Feyre.

He stayed just long enough to watch the votes get tallied and Nesta's announcement that the overwhelming majority of newsies had voted to continue the strike. Then he was in the air, flying straight towards Feyre's tenement.

He'd expected she'd be inside, but she was on the roof, staring out at the city. As he got closer, Rhys spotted a bag of gold and a folded piece of paper at her feet—and tear tracks lining her face.

"I'll shove you off the building if you're here to lecture me," she said as he landed.

Rhys leaned against the railing ready to dare her to try. "I'm here to ask who bribed you to make that speech."

"Your father didn't mention that we'd struck a deal?"

He'd assumed the High Lord was aware—Lucien wouldn't have been released without his approval—but bargaining with a lesser-fae was the sort of thing the High Lord considered beneath him to handle personally. The thought of Feyre in his father's crosshairs set him on edge.

"I wasn't aware you two were acquainted," he said drily, covering his surprise.

"I had the pleasure of meeting him today."

"If that gold is from him, then you should have twisted his arm a bit more. You could have doubled the amount, and he still would have released Lucien."

"It's not just gold. He gave me a ticket to the Continent, too."

Odd. He'd never known Feyre to be interested in travel. But then again, he doubted she'd ever been outside of Velaris, so perhaps it wasn't strange that she'd want to see more of the world.

"How long will you be gone for?"

"It's a one-way ticket."

Rhys stilled. The whole world stilled. Giving Feyre a one-way ticket to the Continent was as good as exiling her. And yet…she'd asked for it.

Feyre wasn't just leaving. She was running away.

"Why?" was all he managed to choke out.

Feyre's gaze didn't leave the city lights below them. While he still had the chance, Rhys studied her profile in the moonlight, committing the position of every last freckle to memory, just in case he never saw it again.

"Lucien is home. The Velaris newsies are united, and Nesta can negotiate with Pulitzer on her own. You've got the Illyrians on their side now, so the strike's as good as settled. I should get out of the city while I still can—while I'm not needed here."

"But I need you here." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Feyre stepped back. Her hand curled into a fist that told him she'd won enough back-alley brawls to give an Illyrian warrior a run for their money. Her blue-grey eyes flashed dangerously.

"Stop toying with me. Or I swear by the fucking Cauldron , I'll knock you off this roof so fast those wings won't save you."

Rhys blinked. "You think I'm toying with you?"

Something like doubt flashed across her face. Just for a moment, but Rhys caught it before her scowl was back in place.

"What else am I supposed to think?" she hissed.

"I've told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find you."

"Bullshit."

It was all so absurd that Rhys let out an involuntary laugh. He stalked closer, utterly heedless of Feyre winding her arm up to strike him. Perhaps he deserved it—even now, he still couldn't bring himself to tell the full truth of what they were to each other.

"I haven't been with anyone in months, and I've spent every day flirting with you since we met. I thought I'd made myself clear."

They were standing close enough that Rhys could scent her—lilac and pear, the scent that had haunted his dreams for months. Feyre tipped her head back to meet his eyes. He tracked the movement of her throat bobbing.

"Then maybe you should do a better job of it," she said, suddenly breathless.

It was the closest thing he'd ever gotten to an invitation from Feyre Archeron. Rhys wasn't stupid enough to waste it. He leaned in and kissed her, too far gone to make it gentle.

He should have done this right, courted her like a prince who respected a lady enough to ease her into it. Rhys was dimly aware he was likely seconds from getting his teeth bashed in. But the only pain was her fingers curling in his hair as her lips parted and their teeth clacked together.

It didn't matter that the kiss was a hungry, inelegant thing. Feyre wanted him.

They broke apart, and before he could beg her to allow him to come with her to the Continent, she was dragging him back to her. Whatever words Rhys intended to say flew from his mind.

He hadn't even gotten a hand under her clothes, but he was already sure he could die from this. No one could possibly want another person so badly and not combust on the spot. Just the sweep of her tongue into his mouth was his undoing.

He had no idea how much time passed before she finally pulled away again. Rhys's head was spinning, but Feyre's gaze had never been sharper. He had the strangest sense that she'd just come to a decision.

"I'll stay a bit longer. At least until the strike is over," she said.

The thread around Rhys's ribs loosened just a bit. He sighed, letting his head tip forward until his brow rested against Feyre's. Her arms were still around him, and it was most at peace he'd felt since leaving for the frontlines.

There had been days—too many of them—that he hadn't thought he could feel this way again.

"When I told you I'd be with you until the end, I meant it," he whispered.

She cupped his face with one hand, sweeping her thumb along his cheek. Rhys let his eyes flutter shut—only for them to fly open at the tug in his chest, right behind his heart.

"I know," she whispered back.

He nearly asked her exactly what it was that she knew. But the strike could be over in a day, and if Feyre left him behind after that, this night would be all they had. Rhys wasn't stupid enough to ruin it.

So he kissed her again and tried to convince himself one night would be enough.

#feysand #acotar secret santa #love at first sight's for suckers

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