broken like me

Chapter 3

When she comes to, she doesn't have it in her to move--she's still frozen when everything comes together moments later.

Lucien had caught her when she passed out, and has her head propped up, exhales with relief when her eyes open. "Jesus, Feyre. You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," she croaks, sitting up slowly. "How long was I out?"

"Just a minute," he reassures her. "They're all still in there. What—what did you mean, who's your soulmate? You weren't making much sense."

For a moment, she hadn't remembered—that Rhys, Rhys who never gave up on her, is the soulmate who never gave up either, even after years of going without response, before they ever met. She'd forgotten he was lost.

(now she remembers—and it hurts.)

She's saved from explaining—trying to put into words that everything good is gone—when a small group of young women comes running out of the warehouse, all wearing dirty scraps of clothing and trembling as they near.

As if she weren't already overwhelmed, the sight of them makes her nauseous—these women, put through hell by him—and he'd been getting away with it, all this time. Would probably continue to get away with it. She'd shared a bed with him when he'd been doing this, causing so much suffering—he'd done so much to hurt her and it still hadn't been enough to sate the monster inside him.

(she almost marriedhim.)

The thought makes her ill, makes her murderous, makes her want to rage against the world.

The choking sound that comes out of Lucien—Feyre can't even describe it, the amount of confusion and raw emotion that he releases.

The source of his breakdown becomes clear a moment later when one girl breaks away from the rest, eyes wide as she stares at him in disbelief. "L—Luc?" Her voice is gravelly, like she hasn't spoken in ages, and has the kind of rasp that speaks of years-old vocal cord damage. Her dark braids are pulled up into a bun, she looks like she hasn't had a real meal in months, and even still is one of the most beautiful human beings Feyre has ever seen; but what really draws her attention is the sun on her shoulder—the one Feyre had only painted on Lucien's own that morning at his request, as a brand of hope.

(it's her—the one they came here to save. Lucien's soulmate.)

"Thank god," he breathes, tripping as he gets to his feet. "Thank god you're okay."

She practically throws herself at him with a sob, grip so tight it hurts a bit, but neither of them can be bothered to loosen their hold because the discomfort means it's real, means they're both really there and together and free.

(years of being used as each other's weakness, of being apart and always hoping for something on their skin, anything at all, because even the presence of blood meant the other was still alive.)

(and they're free.)

Feyre stands slowly, still feeling a bit lightheaded; she's filled with relief and gladness for Lucien, but can't think of anything other than Rhys, Rhys who is gone, Rhys who sacrificed himself for women he'd never even met, Rhys who is her soulmate.

So she distracts herself with the situation at hand, because the women before her who've already been through so much deserve her at her best even if that doesn't seem wholly possible right now. They're terrified, and vulnerable, and sure this isn't real—sure Tamlin and his henchmen are about to jump out of the shadows and bring them back to that terrible place, their own personal hell.