The night had fully unraveled itself, dark and wild, with the storm outside growling like a drunk bard kicked out of a tavern. Thunder shook the woods. Rain lashed against the roof. Inside the little cottage of doom, it was dim and sleepy, only lit by the low, sulking flames of the fireplace that looked like they, too, were on their last emotional straw .
Emila was wrapped, looking like a pathetic moth in a silken blanket Lucien had chucked at her earlier with all the grace of a man restraining himself from setting someone on fire. She and the cats had devoured the leftovers from his dinner: roasted meat, fluffy mashed potatoes, and whatever dignity she had left.
He'd even let her use the bathroom.
The bathroom. With an actual bathtub. With a window that opened out to an orchard of apple trees. The shelf had soaps, oils, and shampoo bottles. She tried all of it. Not aggressively. But respectfully.
When she emerged, glowing and semi-civilized, Lucien was at the dining table, sharpening a dagger like someone preparing to gut a fish. She froze at the door, half-expecting him to throw it at her.
He paused.
His nose twitched.
"You used my soap," he said, deadpan.
"I used a little. To wash my hands," she said. "And… maybe other parts." Parts she was not gonna discuss with a fae polishing a knife. "I also borrowed your shampoo."
And the towel. And dabbed essential oil under her arms.
"You didn't ask."
"I asked the shampoo bottle. It didn't say no."
Lucien looked like he was considering shoving a bookshelf in front of every window. And maybe setting himself on fire.
Then, as casually as he could muster, he said, "You'll take the left side of the bed. Pillows in the middle. Do not kick me."
Her eyes widened for an instant. He's…he's offering her a place in his bed? Em's whole body wanted to jump in it right away, to feel the soft sheets, smell the cleanliness of it, wrapped herself in a blanket and listen to the patter of the rain.
When was the last time her body lay on a proper bed? She could not remember. For years, her body was accustomed to the hardness and coldness of the alley's floor, the rough and itchy moss covered forest floor. When she was working in the taverns, they let her stay at the back, beside the firewood and crates of ale. Then back again to the alley or abandoned structures with the chaos goblins every time she lost a job. And now, now , Grumpy Foxface offered her comfort. Despite everything. Despite visibly loathing her.
Warmth swelled in her chest. Not the sick kind. The kind that made you want to burst into tears and punch someone lovingly.
So she said, voice light, "It's okay. I'll sleep on the floor. Near the fireplace. I like the smell of soot. Makes me fall asleep instantly." It didn't. But how could she lie in that pristine bed and stain it with her entire… self?
Lucien didn't argue. Didn't remove the pillows. Didn't sprawl out like a self-righteous bed hog either. He curled up, an elegant feral prince, on the right side.
Goldie, shameless, claimed the left side.
"You little traitor," Lucien muttered.
Goldie blinked at him innocently.
"I still haven't forgiven you for leading her here."
But he didn't kick her off the bed either.
Beans remained like a loaf by the windowsill, eyes half-lidded. Lucien waved a hand and snuffed the candles. Darkness swallowed the room, except for the flickering heart of the dying fire.
But Em couldn't sleep.
It was warm. Too warm. Their bellies were full. For the first time in a long while, her brain wasn't scrambling to answer: Where will we eat tomorrow? Where will we sleep tonight?
She should not be comfortable. This was temporary. A mission. Guild stuff. Totally professional. She needed to gather intel and disappear.
Instead, she pulled her satchel toward her, dug out her battered parchment and the angry octopus quill, which immediately spat ink in protest. She began doodling.
A cottage. Trees around it. Lucien picking apples. A fluffy cat on his shoulder. A sleek one at his feet.
And…reluctantly, she added a girl beside him, braided hair, crouched and gathering mushrooms with faces.
She did not draw horns or fangs on Lucien tonight. Instead, she made him a crown of twigs and leaves. It felt right.
Then she grabbed another parchment and scribbled:
Spye Report: Kind. Gave us food.
Soap: mild floural. Shampoo: minty. Has a bathtub. A bathtub. Owns a bed. And a daqger. Daqger: sharp, dangeroos. Status: Might be cursed. Stay away.
She smiled to herself and rolled over on the floor, a blanket tucked under her chin.
From the bed, Lucien shifted, as if sensing something.
She stared at the ceiling and whispered, "Please don't stab me in my sleep. And don't feed my cats to your goblins."
Lucien didn't respond.
But Goldie purred.
And outside, the storm kept on raging.