When she turned the corner from the hallway to the bar area, she spotted him instantly, engaged in a laughing, animated conversation with the were he’d called Robbie. She didn't want to interrupt, didn't want to rush him away from an old friend, and certainly didn't want to rush headlong into whatever discomfort awaited her, and so she lingered near the center of the bar, waiting for his conversation to break on its own.
Her phone buzzed as she leaned on the lacquered edge, surprised to see Tate's name again.He's probably telling you to go home, that he’s not interested in being your dirty secret any longer.Swiping the screen open, she held her breath.You can go home, dove.Her heart dropped seeing her worst fear actualized in text.My destiny just walked through the door.Her head snapped up, swinging around towards the club's entrance. She saw the girl instantly, for she was hard to miss. There weren't many cervitaurs even in Cambric Creek, and it seemed especially unusual to see one here in the city. She looked delicate and soft, with a tawny hide and a long spill of dark brown hair, making her way through the club floor with two goblins and a dragonborn. Her cheeks flushed as she realized it was a joke, ameanjoke, of which she was the butt, swinging back around to see Tate doubled over in laughter at the end of the bar. Snatching up her phone, she prepared to tell him off, but she never got the chance.
"You know, if you had dressed like this when we were together, well . . . we might still be together."
Silva recoiled at the sound of his voice, whirling in fury. He was just as handsome and polished as he'd been that first day he'd approached her at the fundraiser’s coffee table; all high cheekbones and platinum hair, arrogance oozing from his every pore. Still just as perfect and smug and entirely punchable, she seethed.
"Iseem to remember being the one to end things withyou," she spat, hands balling into fists at her side, "and my wardrobe didn't actually have anything to do with it."
Therehad, in fact, been a moment when her wardrobe had been top of mind. There was a high-end lingerie boutique in the city that she’d passed numerous times over the years. Silva had never purchased anything from the shop, preferring to give her patronage to the local salon in Cambric Creek, but she’d always paused in the doorway of the swanky corsetier, wondering if she ought to be extravagant once in a while. She’d been with Wynn on one such occasion, passing by the black pillared boutique as they left dinner. He’d slowed, commenting that he'd need to get her something from the vixenish collection for yuletide that year,something with some actual sex appeal.Her cheeks had burned, unsure as always at how she was meant to respond to his less-than-subtle digs, but had only frowned at the time, eyeing the sheer black and red styles — netted and strapped, more tawdry than anything she would ever choose for herself, in a harsh color palette that would not compliment her coloring — saying nothing, knowing the sultry styles would not suit her.
She'd gone back to the lingerie boutique weeks later, after she'd called him to end things, after she’d returned to Greenbridge Glen and Tate’s bed, in a fit of vindictive spite. She had always favored twee, old-fashioned styles, and now she went out of her way to wear soft, frilly fashions; dainty jewelry and delicate lace lingerie, especially when she knew Tate would be seeing it. He'd never voiced a preference for these particular styles, but Silva knew it was what he liked as well, using the aesthetic he'd designed for his own restaurant as her guide. She had splurged the styles thatdidappeal to her: floral-print lace in mint green and soft peach, crystal pleated chiffon, and ruffles upon ruffles of frills. She’d treated herself to a chantilly lace set in the palest of pinks—bra and matching thong, garter belt and stockings, a teddy accented with tiny silk ribbons and seed pearls, and a short, ivory silk peignoir with lace frilled cuffs. The first time Tate had peeled her out of her demure dress to discover the softly-colored lace she wore beneath, as delicate as the finely-wrought spoon handles in his dining room, he'd spent a small eternity kissing her, marveling over the smoothness of her skin and the softness of her curves, his mouth paying homage to every inch of her body. The heat of his tongue had pressed into her, with only the pink-colored lace as a barrier; a hot, wet, repetitive stroking, the lace rasping against her clit, preventing his tongue from sliding over it. By the time he was finished and her heartbeat had slowed, the front of the lace thong had been soaked — soaked from his mouth and soaked from her slick.
"Is that how you remember it?"
She felt steam practically pouring out of her ears at Wynn’s infuriating rewrite of their history, whipping to the bar to see if there was a drink nearby that she could fling in his face, when his hand landed on her wrist.
"Why don’t we go somewhere to talk?" he murmured in a low voice, taking a step closer. "We need to talk about things. We could be so good together if—"
She never got to hear all the rest of his thought; never got to hear what his insinuation would be, for surely it would depend on her changing something about herself, but it didn't matter. She felt the heat of him at her back, a buffeting presence, protecting her from whatever happened next.
"You don'teverget to touch her again."
Wynn shrunk back instinctively from the silky menace in Tate’s voice, bumping into the troll behind him and bobbing for a moment before he recovered his bravado. The elves who had come out of the restroom ahead of her were at the other corner of the bar, not twenty paces away, and she wondered if he was here with them. She could see them in a cluster, each holding a fruity-looking drink, probably paid for by the three human-looking men that sat to their side. One of them was watching her with wide eyes, the drink in her hand forgotten, but by then Wynn’s handsome face was screwed up into a snarl as his head tipped back — and back, and back — to find Tate's eyes. She leaned, feeling the long, solid line of him behind her: broad chest and muscular thighs, his always warm skin, towering over Wynn, just as she'd known he would, obliging the elf to tilt his head back comically. Giving her ex her very best smile, she reached back to wrap her hand around Tate's wrist, where it belonged, where she should have never removed it.
"How rude of me," she said, squeezing the skin below his watchband. "Tate, this isWynndevar." She exaggerated the pronunciation of the old Elvish name, giggling as if it were the funniest thing she'd ever heard. The whole world seemed to wait then, spinning silently in space as her heart fluttered about her chest. There was no coming back from this now, she thought. "Wynn . . . this is my Tate."Hers. His hand had dropped to her hip, and Silva was positive she couldfeelthe hostility he radiated, like a vibration in the air. The elf at the corner of the bar leaned in to whisper to one of her friends, three perfectly coiffed heads swinging in her direction, the human men forgotten, but for the moment, Silva couldn’t bring herself to care.Hers. The club seemed to buzz around them in slow motion as Wynn blinked his emerald green eyes, lips curling in a sneer.
"Is this why I haven't seen you at any events lately? I'm sure your grandmother is thrilled. I guess the club really does let in any old riff-raff these days."
She took a breath to defend herself, but the words never had a chance to form. Tate’s responding chuckle was slow and pitch black.
"Is this what passes for high society, dove? Well beer and a low street watch? Can’t imagine why I’ve been worried. What happened, boyo? Did your daddy not top off your allowance for the month?"
Wynn sputtered in outrage, his face once again screwing up into a scowl. Silva watched his lips moving, and a distant part of her brain was able to process the barrage of ugly things that came tumbling out of his mouth, things he said about her, accusations he made. She saw his lips form the wordwhorebut she wasn't quite able to hear it. The room had plunged underwater, the other patrons around the bar moving in slow motion, their voices blurred and indistinct. There was no doubt in her mind now that she had indeed stood unseen in the center of Clover’s dining room that day she’d come back to him, existing at his side in some liminal space, for she felt that the same fae magic rippling around her now.More fae than orc by far.
Something popped over her shoulder like the cork of a champagne bottle, and she felt the force of the atmosphere shift around her, as if the air itself seemed to jolt, making her wobble on her heels, Tate’s firm hand on her hip the only thing anchoring her to the ground. As she watched, Wynn’s green eyes widened in fear, the aggressive sneer melting off his face like the slide of wax down a forgotten birthday candle, leaving him slack-jawed. She felt Tate shift behind her, and she didn't need to turn to know that his head was cocked and his smile lethal, having witnessed the motion a dozen times at that point as he presided over the Pixie’s weekend crowd. There was something different this time, something more ominous, and the tiny hairs on her neck rose as a heavy pressure clawed at her throat, but she dared not turn around, lest she miss the look of growing terror on Wynndevar’s handsome face.
"How many bones do you think you have, lad?" His voice was smooth and lilting, dripping in menace, and Silva shivered in exhilaration. "Do you think it’s enough to account for every time you treated her poorly? I’d hate to double back and break them twice, but we all do have to make sacrifices now and again."
The pressure on her chest began to grow uncomfortable, and she clawed at Tate's wrist, desperate for a breath of air she seemed unable to take. In a suddenwhoosh, sound came flooding back into the room and she gasped, watching her ex-boyfriend slump against the bar, holding himself up on his hands.
"So nice to see you again," she heard a confident voice say. When Tate’s hand tightened, she jumped, realizing the voice was her own. "Do send your regards to your mother for me."
The hand at her hip had dug in like claws, but she was able to ease his grip, knitting their fingers together and tugging his arm, not daring to chance a glance back to him until they were pushing through the crowd, pulling him to safety, well away from the slumped form of her ex. His eyes were bright and dangerous when she finally turned, and Silva couldn’t immediately discern what, but there was something wrong with his face, his wide mouth seeming strangely off-kilter, but he allowed her to pull him away from trouble and out the front doors, into the frosty black night. Adrenaline raced through her veins and she sucked in a lung full of the sharp, cold air, her lungs burning as though she’d been deprived of oxygen.
When she turned, he was there, bending in half to crash his mouth into hers, lifting her easily as he straightened. It was all going to catch up with her now, she thought, gripping a fistful of his hair with one hand and digging her nails into the back of his neck with the other. Months of lies, of skating around the truth to her mother and grandmother, of pretending, of selfishly wanting to have everything, Silva of the daytime and Silva of the nighttime both.You don’t want your dirty secret getting out to all your pretty little friends.She felt sick that he thought of their relationship that way, and worse: that he assumed that was howshethought of him, and how easily he seemed to accept it. Silva could feel the ground rocking under the precarious house of cards she’d built as he gripped her tightly, holding on to her as if somehowshewere the tetherline and he was afraid of floating away alone, and not the other way around. He looked as he always did, as she gazed up, breathing hard. Her Tate.Worth it.
"I'm sorry," she blurted, tears filling her eyes. Her chest felt full of every emotion she'd been holding back for months, every emotion she'd been holding back for the past year, every time she’d felt invisible in her own life, all of it rising to the surface in a tide of frustrated tears. "I'm sorry that happened, I'm sorry about him. I-I'm sorry I didn't come back sooner." Tears were filling her eyes and overflowing, running down her face, probably taking half her mascara with it. Her shoulders had begun to hitch as every regret she had over the past eight months continued to push against her walls, escaping through her tears. Tate's dark eyebrows knit together, shaking his head, the incident in the club apparently forgotten. "I'm sorry I let go of your hand," she managed to wheeze out before he blurred in front of her; a tall, wavering black outline, completely obscured by her tears. She felt him grip her shoulders, his thumb circling soothingly skin, giving her a gentle shake.
"Silva, you don't have to apologize for anything to anyone, least of all someone like me." There were patrons still in the queue outside, behind the velvet rope, waiting to get in. She knew they were probably watching, and that she was making a spectacle of them, that didn't stop another sob from ripping from her throat at his words. "I'm the only one who should be apologizing, dove. I should've let you enjoy your weekend with your friends. If I wasn't such a selfish bastard, I would've let you go home without ever knowing my name."
His words only made her cry harder. She felt ridiculous; foolish and small, but the knowledge couldn't keep the tears from falling. Too long, too bottled up. She didn't know how to be Silva of the daytime and Silva of the nighttime both, didn't know how to juggle the two sides of herself to make everyone else happy, and the pressure of doing so was wearing a hole in her center, bleeding her dry. All of the lies she told, all of the events she missed, the half-truths to her family and friends . . . she didn't know how to reconcile all that she wanted, but still didn't want to choose. And even with her lies over the weekends away, she still felt so incredibly far from him.
"Why would you say that," she whimpered, hating how pitiful she sounded. She didn't know how to be the elf he wanted her to be either, one who wasn't so needy and demanding.
"You're the only one playing against the odds here, Silva," he interrupted her thoughts. "You have everything to lose. And if you had an ounce of sense in that beautiful little head of yours, you’d go back into that club right now and ask that perfect purple cunt to take you home. You haveeverything, dove. Don't throw it away for someone like me." His words left her winded and hollow. Throwing her away, moments after calling her his. Before she could collect herself enough to speak, he raised a shaking hand, jabbing it in the direction of the club with a scowl. "Not him. Don’t go running back to him, because I’m still planning on killing him."
The fresh sob that had been brewing in her throat came out as a choked laugh, and then she was in his arms again, his lips following the tracks of her tears, over each eyelid, swallowing her lips. "I think it’s my decision on who I should throw my life away for, don’t you think so? What’s the point of having everything if I’ll never be happy?"
