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He pushed past that old shame. At least his cock had calmed down.

Lucien exhaled deeply. He’d intended to tell them after the ceremony that he’d help them find proof of Koschei’s involvement at his father’s court. Part of him, a damned stupid part, had hoped that agreeing to manipulate the Autumn Court would get Elain to at least look at him without disdain.

But Bryaxis’s attack had ruined his plans. It had felt wrong to bring it up when everyone’s nerves were flayed raw, and he’d spent dinner wondering if Elain’s screams at the temple had been from seeing a vision of herself chained to him forever.

The Mother knew Elain’s screams had made him frantic with the need to protect her, even as his own nightmare had shredded his soul. Though he wasn’t entirely sure that Bryaxis’s illusions had been any worse than the reality he currently faced.

He didn’t know how long he could keep this up—this balance he precariously maintained. What was his role for the Night Court, anyway? Did it have an end, or would he be forever navigating different lands: Spring, the human lands, and here? And now the Autumn Court, too.

But how could he say no? After what Rhys and Feyre had revealed about the impending invasion of the human lands on the continent, with two of his friends—his only friends these days—being human themselves, how could he not agree to help them?

He knew Feyre wouldn’t push it if he said no. Rhys, despite everything, probably wouldn’t push it. He was a monster, but one with a conscience.

Not that Rhys, for all his power, had been able to do anything against Bryaxis. Yes, Rhys had gotten a sword into Nesta’s hands—a blade that had quite clearly been Made, and no one had explained how or why—but even the High Lord of the Night Court was not immune to fear’s grip.

Lucien couldn’t blame him, not for that. Not when the things he’d seen today . . . He locked out the memories. His face remained tender from where he’d clawed at it.

This wasn’t how he’d expected his life to turn out the day they’d emerged from Under the Mountain, Amarantha dead and already becoming merely a stain on the memory of these lands. He’d pictured long, content years at the Spring Court, maybe one day finding a female who’d make him feel alive in a way he hadn’t since Jesminda had died—

She hadn’t just died. She’d been butchered. Executed by his father, while his brothers had done nothing to stop it.

Bryaxis had shown him that moment in vivid detail. Shown him worse—possibilities that his darkest nightmares couldn’t conjure. He knew as he watched that they weren’t real, and yet the stark clarity of it all, the inability to turn away . . . He’d found himself wishing Amarantha had gouged out his remaining eye, too.

He gritted his teeth again. And now he was to return to another sort of nightmare: the Forest House, where he’d been born. Where he’d been tormented, and where he’d lost everything. He hadn’t set foot there since he’d seen the life vanish from his lover’s eyes. It had ceased being a home in that moment. And he’d ceased to have a family when his brothers had hunted him, on their father’s orders, to drag him home.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair. Tamlin had saved him. And then Lucien had rebuilt himself, his life.

Only for Feyre to bring it all crumbling down.

No, that wasn’t fair. Tamlin had brought it crumbling down by joining with Hybern. But Feyre, in her rage and vengeance, had ensured that the trust between him and his High Lord was forever shattered. Even if it had been a game she’d played to erode that faith . . . she’d broken something between them.

Maybe Lucien had let it break, too. Choosing to go after his mate, leaving the Spring Court behind.

He’d hoped, so stupidly hoped, that he’d find Elain and . . . she’d smile. That maybe she’d also be seeking a home in the world and would be eager to find it with him. He didn’t love her, certainly not yet, but he was at least open to the idea of it.

It had been two years, and she hadn’t smiled at him once. Had exchanged barely more than a dozen words with him. His heart lay like a brick in his chest.

But had he tried—really tried to get to know her? He’d always erred on the side of being polite, giving her space, but maybe he should insist that they at least sit together and talk, and he’d explain that he expected nothing, but that he only wanted to see if there was something, anything worth building together.

At a minimum, he owed her a long-overdue apology for everything that had happened in Hybern. He’d been the one who’d brought this momentous change about for Elain. For Nesta. Through his own actions, they’d gone into that Cauldron.

And after the shadowsinger had mentioned it at dinner, Lucien had realized he’d never apologized to his mate for it. Did she, too, relive those dark days, loathing him for his role? Was that what she had seen today?

Lucien sat up, exhaling heavily once more. The clock had chimed twelve a few minutes ago, but maybe Elain was still awake. Some part of him whispered that she was.

If there was ever a time to do it, it was now—having faced their very worst nightmares, having been split wide open by them. Maybe it had granted Elain some clarity, too. Maybe she’d be amenable to hearing him explain his actions before the Hybern War; maybe she’d accept his apology. Maybe it would be the one thing she needed to hear.

He slid on his pants and shirt, but didn’t bother with a jacket. Perhaps he’d seemed too buttoned-up. He’d always wanted to appear presentable, but maybe that wasn’t what Elain needed or wanted. Maybe she needed a person, not a title or a role, but an actual person to talk to—

Lucien didn’t let himself reconsider as he slipped into the hallway.

He followed her scent past the top of the grand staircase, then down another hall. The private hall for Rhys and Feyre’s close family. Their scents were all mingled here—Mor and Cassian and Nesta and Azriel and Amren.

Elain’s was the last bedroom after Nesta and Cassian’s.

Lucien’s heart thundered, throat drying out. Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Even the shadows pooling in the hallway seemed to be gaping at him, as if saying, What the hell are you doing here? Go back to your room!

He should wait until morning. Or until—never.