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Feyre had been cheating on Tamlin for two weeks. Not long enough to feel guilty, but too long to be able to pretend she had simply made a mistake.
It was night three of this Vermont retreat, and she was bored again. Bored of the AI pitches, bored of Tamlin’s earnest enthusiasm, bored of pretending she cared about this… or him. The affair with Rhysand had been exciting for about forty-eight hours before it just became another thing she was doing to feel something.
Eris, the instigator of the work trip, said something and the rest of the table murmured in agreement. Tamlin squeezed her thigh under the table. He didn’t even look back at her to notice her scowl. He’d used that same gesture on their first date to a craft fair, back when his enthusiasm had been charming instead of exhausting.
Across the table, Rhysand caught her eye and raised his brows. "Bored?" he mouthed. Feyre nodded and stabbed her farm-to-table asparagus. It wouldn't have been nearly as bad if she'd been able to get a word in edgewise, but it'd been work talk from dawn to dusk. Supposedly the other spouses were attending, but she’d met only one—Viviane—and she had excused herself the moment the talk had turned to crypto.
"What's the cost of the program again?" Tamlin asked. He’d been sucking up to everyone all night. Feyre had almost asked him if he wanted to suck everyone’s dick too.
Helion opened his mouth to answer and Feyre could have recited it with him: one hundred dollars a month. The table buzzed with the same manufactured excitement as the night before, when they had discussed the exact same issue. If she had known the trip would have been as dry and soulless as this, she would have stayed back home with her sisters. No amount of gorgeous country sunsets were worth the corporate buzzwords.
As Helion rattled off more statistics, Feyre didn’t miss how Eris’s jaw tightened. He’d been like this all retreat - enthusiastic about everyone, except the CEO of Day Court Industries. She’d have to ask Tamlin about that later.
When dinner lulled and everyone had finished their sorbet, Feyre felt a kick on her shin. Rhysand’s eyes darted to the door leading to the deck. She was more than happy to abandon the group. Especially when Rhysand was so good with his mouth.
Eris cleared his throat as everyone began standing up, topping off their liquor.
“Remember we have a pool tournament later tonight. The winner can spend a month on the estate this winter,” Eris promised. That sounded nice, all things considered. If she was half decent at the game, she’d try.
She slipped out the back when everyone had started wandering away. It was easy to vanish here if you weren’t in possession of billions of dollars or an industry changing business.
The air outside was a little cool despite it being late July. The air was fresh and carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke. Feyre wished she had grabbed her cardigan before rushing outside. She tugged on the bottom of her dress and wandered to the seating area.
Hopefully Rhys would meet her out here soon and he'd take her back to whatever cabin Eris had set him up in. She and Tamlin were all the way at Cherry Cabin and had taken one of the provided Jeep Wranglers across the estate to Main Lodge where they were now. Rhysand was closer, if memory served her correctly.
"Looking for someone?" a voice rumbled from the darkness. Feyre could see the faint glow of a cigar at the end of the deck.
"Just looking for the dogs," Feyre lied. The figure in the darkness shifted and there was a faint click. An electric lantern sputtered to life and she saw Eris's father sitting there. He was stretched out on the deck chair, polished boots and fitted trousers. His button-up shirt was opened just so. She’d never admit it, but Beron was handsome.
"You've come to the right place," he said, cigar bobbing between his lips. One of the hounds scattered around the space looked up from where it was napping and yawned at Feyre. Beron pushed another one of the dogs off the couch next to him and patted the seat.
She really shouldn't be out here, not when Tamlin was somewhere back indoors probably fighting with someone. And Rhys—maybe he'd meant somewhere else when he'd gestured for her to go out. But she took the seat, smoothing out the back of her dress, suddenly aware of how much thigh she showed when seated. Thankfully the dog moved and laid its head in her lap. Its fur was smooth and it gave a satisfied huff, tail thumping as it settled against her.
"I heard you and Tamlin got engaged," Beron said. "Congratulations."
He sounded anything but earnest. Bored, maybe? She'd only met Beron once in passing, earlier in the retreat when Eris had kicked the event off. She'd practically been sitting on Tamlin then, his arm wrapped around her, face ruddy with beer. Beron hadn't even glanced at her. He'd patted Eris on the shoulder and left after a toast.
"Thanks," Feyre said. This was when she was supposed to show off her ring. It was an ethically-sourced diamond. Three carats and without complications. Her engagement had lost its appeal quickly, and she had grown to resent the ring. At least Beron didn’t strike her as the type to care about such things.
They fell into comfortable silence. Feyre heard some of the other guests talking, voices growing louder before the rumble of a car engine drowned them out.
"Eris tells me you're an artist," Beron finally said. He put down the cigar to take a long drink of his whiskey. Feyre admired how the light hit his glass—she’d love to paint this scene of him: The Patriarch at Rest, she’d call it.
"I suppose so," Feyre said. She petted the dog’s head. "Mostly painting, though I've dabbled in pottery from time to time."
"Have more confidence," Beron said gruffly. "I've seen your work."
Feyre blushed under his admission. She still wasn’t used to people other than Tamlin or Rhysand admiring her work.
"Oh, that's…" she said. How was she supposed to react? "Thanks."
Beron scoffed and took another puff from the cigar.
“Tell Tamlin you need media coaching, too,” Beron said. “Or a public speaking course."
"I'm not an idiot," Feyre snapped. She was eloquent when she needed to be. Rhysand had been helpful in that regard, actually. When she’d spent time at his home painting, he’d brought her to various art showings in the city. Beron just made her nervous.
Beron huffed. "Certainly not," he agreed. He held out his cigar for Feyre. "Do you smoke?" Feyre did not. But the way he held it out was like a challenge, and Feyre was not one to back down from an invitation like that.
"Yes," she lied.
She'd tried cigarettes before, but somehow this was much worse, and she wound up clutching her chest and coughing up smoke, startling the dogs around her. The one in her lap hopped off the couch and grumbled, curling up against another spread out at the edge of the deck. Beron chuckled and took the cigar back. He patted her upper thigh.
"Not for you, then," he said, and Feyre watched his lips wrap around where hers had been a moment before. Something in her was pleased by that.
"I've smoked," she insisted.
"Sure you have," Beron replied. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but she was thankful he didn't call her bluff beyond that. Feyre didn't think she'd be able to hold much of a conversation with him anyway. She'd embarrassed herself enough for one night.
She reached for the cigar, intending to snatch it back, but found herself studying him instead. Eris shared his jawline, as well as the stern but neutral expression. But where Eris looked constantly polished, always preening for unknown audiences, Beron had an air of ease. Not even Rhysand possessed that confidence, still eager to prove himself.
Speaking of, where was Rhysand?
Her eyes drifted to the whiskey in Beron's hand. “May I?” she asked.
"You can try," he said. "Though it's not much better than the cigar."
Their fingers brushed as Feyre took the glass from him, but she ignored the excitement that buzzed in her at his touch. Instead, she took a sip of the whiskey and grimaced. He was right—it was peaty and harsh. She swallowed and did her best not to cough. Beron actually smiled at that.
"What do you think?" he asked. Feyre handed over the glass, not missing how he darted his tongue over the side where her lipstick stained the edge, and tried to compose herself.
"Strong," she said.
"Family brew," he explained. "We have a distillery further north." And then he launched into details, clearly something he cared about.
Feyre listened patiently, nodding when it seemed appropriate to do so. She’d never seen him talk for so long. Even Tamlin had said Beron was a man of few words - that is, until you asked him about alcohol.
Beron placed an arm at the back of the couch and Feyre was careful to lean back just a bit. Only a sliver of his hand touched her shoulder, but it was enough to send warmth pooling in her stomach.
It was wicked for her to do this. Here she was, waiting for Rhys to come out here, fuck her into oblivion even though she was engaged to Tamlin, and instead she was thinking about Beron, a married man with no interest in her. Besides, judging from all the unfaithful men she'd met her entire life, Beron didn't seem like the type.
"Shouldn't Tamlin be looking for you by now?" Beron asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Feyre nodded. "We're supposed to have a pool tournament soon," she said. "Someone was supposed to come get me when we started."
It was a lie. But at this point, she wasn't sure what Rhysand had meant. The kick under the table could have been an accident, or meant for someone else entirely.
Beron hummed. "Are you playing?"
"I don't know how," Feyre admitted. Bar games had never really been her thing. She was much better at lawn sports, mostly due to Elain absolutely insisting every summer to play bocce and croquet, which Feyre loathed.
Beron put out his cigar.
"Come on," he said. "I'll teach you."
_______
Feyre was keenly aware of Beron following behind her as she brought them to the game room in the basement of Orchard House, the neighboring building. Just how many houses were on this estate anyway?
Everyone else had arrived earlier. She could hear Tamlin's shout from where he was likely playing ping pong in the garage. She wondered if Rhys ditched her for that or for the pinball machine in there too.
The pool room, fortunately, was empty. Unfinished wood walls surrounded them and a TV was mounted before worn leather couches and two chairs. A plaid wool blanket was draped over one.
There was a staircase that led upstairs to the bathrooms and other rooms, but Feyre hadn't ventured up there and something seemed rather forbidden about it. From what she'd learned, this was a family house.
The pool table sat in the back middle of the room. Beron approached the wall and selected two cues. He handed Feyre one.
"Have you held one before?" he asked.
"No." She shook her head. He stood next to her, and for a moment she was convinced he was going to wrap his arms around her and show her how, but he demonstrated on his cue and waited for Feyre to mimic him. His whiskey was balancing on the edge of the table and she wanted to take another sip to clear her head.
He showed her how to aim for the middle of a ball and stepped aside. "Your turn."
Feyre followed his guidance and bent down to practice aiming. She mimicked the movement a couple of times. Beron corrected the way she wrapped a finger around the cue.
Feyre aimed for the 2 ball, trying to ignore Beron hovering somewhere behind her. She jerked the cue forward and it caught the right edge of the ball, which spun awkwardly into the side of the pool table, nowhere near where she had wanted it to go.
Beron took a sip of whiskey. "You're thinking too much. Relax."
She nodded, but each attempt was equally as messy. She felt her heart thudding in her chest and she swore she was worried about losing the tournament and it certainly had nothing to do with feeling foolish in front of her fiancé's coworker's father. He probably thought she was stupid. Just like she felt back at that dinner table listening to that ridiculous AI pitch.
After more failed attempts, Beron sighed and walked behind her.
"Here." He pressed against her back, chest solid against her. He covered her hands with his large one and adjusted her grip. Feyre's brain short-circuited as he murmured, "Like this." His breath was on the back of her neck and he kept murmuring instructions. "See the angle, you keep hitting the ball like this, try keeping your finger like this…"
Feyre wasn't really paying attention, not when she was wrapped in the smell of cigar smoke and cologne and whiskey. She was too aware of all the places he touched her. With Tamlin it was always so sudden and with Rhys it was always so intense. But this was something else entirely.
She trembled and—
"Breathe," Beron told her. Had she been holding her breath? She sighed and settled herself into the right position.
"Try again," he commanded, and who was Feyre not to obey?
Feyre made the shot and the ball actually fell into the pocket despite spinning a little too far to the right.
"Better," Beron said. His voice had dropped lower and a shiver ran up her back.
A few more rounds and Beron was leaning against the table beside her. He'd poured them both new glasses of whiskey and Feyre's head was swimming from the alcohol. Beron too, seemed a bit more relaxed.
"No, your posture is wrong," he said. "You'll never sink the ball like that."
"What?" Feyre asked, but Beron was already by her side, hand on her hip steadying her, adjusting her stance. Whenever she’d watch Tamlin play, he’d never given a crap about posture, but Feyre didn't care if this was all made up. The way Beron’s thumb pressed against her hipbone through her thin dress was exactly what she needed. She leaned into Beron a bit.
"You need to commit to the shot," he said. "Stop hesitating."
There was an edge to his voice, something that made his words seem heavier than they should. He wasn’t talking about pool anymore was he? Surely he didn't mean about Tamlin… or him? She aimed and missed completely. She groaned, actually stomping on the ground.
Beron chuckled, the sound low. "Don’t quit now. You’re almost there."
She wouldn’t quit. The prospect of even standing a chance against Rhysand and the others was too tempting. Even so, she wished Beon would correct her from again, even considered jutting her hip out just to taunt him.
Beron took the balls from the pockets and lined them up again. His wedding band glinted in the low light of the room and reality sobered Feyre. He’s married, of course, she remembered. But now he was behind her again, guiding her to stand further along the table. This time she didn’t miss the shot.
"Good girl," he said and Feyre froze.
She thought about facing him, demanding him to repeat himself, out of outrage or arousal, she wasn’t sure. But she took a shaky breath and thanked him instead.
"Again," he said and Feyre bit back a moan. So demanding.
He positioned her for another shot, standing behind her again. His hand didn't leave her hip and she leaned back into him. Fuck it all. She was angry and horny and exhausted from playing the good fiancée to the budding tech genius. Beron’s other hand came to cradle her hip against him and he was leaning over her now.
"Feyre," he said, quietly. A warning or…
"Yes, Beron?" she asked and she thought about kissing him, grinding back against him in her dress, which was certainly too short for her to be leaning over like this.
His hand dropped lower to the hem. So what if she was engaged and he was married? It's not like either of their partners were here anyway. Maybe he'd whip her around, heave her onto the pool table and kiss her.
She imagined the feel of his mouth on hers, the scratch of his scruff against her cheek. She'd guide his hand lower, under the lingerie Rhys bought her, and let him discover just how she felt about him teaching her how to play. It was intoxicating. Maybe it was the alcohol, but she just couldn't be bothered to care. Not when she was certain he wanted her, too.
She waited a beat for him to move—to do anything, and when he didn't, she turned around to face him. His eyes were golden, maybe hazel, and she was looking up at him from between lashes. Feyre bit her lip and she swore he moved just an inch lower, closer to her.
She didn't care when the door to the other room opened. Ignored the sounds of cheering as someone scored in air-hockey and the blaring electronic beeps of a high score Pac-Man pinball in the background.
"There you are!" Tamlin slurred. He was leaning against a smirking Rhysand. His hand was wrapped around her fiancé in a way that seemed almost too familiar. She wanted to ask "where were you" but the answer was abundantly clear. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Anger maybe? And yet…
Beron was already three paces away, picking up the chalk for his cue. Meanwhile Feyre felt her face flushing, holding hers like a weapon.
"We looked everywhere," Tamlin said. His brows were drawn together the way they did when he was so serious about something, but it was hard to take him seriously when it was clear he was three beers deep into celebrating a deal yet to pan out.
Rhys chuckled at Tamlin's outburst and then his eyes flicked between Feyre and Beron. He looked amused, but there was something tight in his expression—jealousy, maybe, or calculation. Feyre never knew with him. And right now she didn’t care.
Had the shin kick under the table been meant for Tamlin all along? Had Rhysand set her up, or had he simply found a better offer? Either way, he'd left her waiting like a fool.
"Beron was teaching me pool," she said, finally regaining composure. With how sloppy Tamlin was, she wasn't sure it was out of the realm of possibility after all. "I’m kicking your ass tonight."
"How generous of him," Rhys drawled.
"Well, good, we’ll do teams, then," Tamlin said. "Eris has the brackets."
But Beron was calmly putting his cue away, completely composed. Looking even a bit bored. Feyre wanted him to stay, if only to see how much she'd improved during the hour they had together. Really she'd like to do the same, though, leave this behind and retreat to her room. She'd curl up in bed and think about the evening until Tamlin decided to crawl into bed to snore her ear off.
She didn't get that luxury. More guests trickled in over the next twenty minutes some from the ping pong tables in the garage, others from wherever they'd been nursing drinks and making deals. The room filled with noise and the sharp crack of pool balls breaking.
Eris appeared in the doorway, looking surprisingly disheveled for once.
At some point in the night, he'd unbuttoned his jacket and his hair was ruffled. Who knew a few friendly games of ping pong could help Eris Vanserra let loose? If she were honest, the unbuttoned look on him looked good. Made him look a bit like his father actually. His eyes were bright and face a pleasant red. But when he saw Beron he scowled.
"Mother's looking for you," he said to Beron. "And you left my dogs out."
"They're fine," Beron said, but he took his whiskey glass. "Excuse me," he said to the rest of them. Feyre watched him move toward the stairs, her mind still buzzing from his lessons from earlier.
"Good job tonight," he said as he passed Feyre, and she stumbled over her words before she could reply to him.
Eris gave her a look, first curious and then settling into a thin-lipped smile.
"You can get started," he said to the remaining crowd, pulling out a sheet of paper—the bracket. Rhys took it and didn't acknowledge Eris leaving, following his father.
Tamlin stumbled over and wrapped an arm around Feyre, kissing her on the temple. "You sure about playing?" he asked.
And Feyre nodded. She looked at Rhys with a scowl and he shrugged, the smug bastard.
"Yeah," she said. "I want to play Rhys first."
"What?" Rhys asked.
"You're an asshole," Feyre huffed. She set up the balls, while Tamlin grabbed more cues.
"Rhys needs a partner before we start," Tamlin grumbled.
"No, you sit down," Feyre said, pointing to a chair. “This is between me and him.”
For once, Tamlin obeyed. He took out his phone and started scrolling through emails.
Rhys sidled up next to her, rubbing her hip. "Have fun?"
Feyre didn't answer and broke the rack. Rhys definitely threw the game.
By now, everyone had gathered around placing bets. She saw Eris standing by the table, pouring everyone drinks. Beron was nearby, avoiding looking at her, instead whispering to his wife. He squeezed her shoulder. Next to him, his wife was looking positively bored.
Feyre touched her hip where Beron had guided her earlier that night. She'd wanted him. Wanted that. She felt the weight of her engagement ring. Tamlin was ignoring her again. Rhysand was cracking a joke when she won against him.
Fuck this retreat. She wanted to stab him. Or Tamlin. Or everyone here actually.
But she didn't. Feyre chalked her cue with steady hands, her reflection in the polished eight ball a stranger's face. Across the room, Beron murmured something to his wife, never once glancing Feyre's way. She bent over the table, lined up her next shot. This time, she didn't hesitate.