Fairy-God-Brother

When the security detail arrived, Yuu was mid-way through doing her hair, and just at the beginning of convincing herself that not wearing makeup to the event could be ‘avant garde,’ and not ‘sloppily below standard.’

The knock was not polite. It was too rhythmically absurd, too pleased with itself. It had a flourish at the end. She expected nothing else from Vil’s people.

Yuu peeled herself from the vanity in her room, leaving behind a hair curler that had tried to bite her, fully prepared to to deposit Vil’s security team in the sitting room with Roger until she was finished, though when she wrenched the (recently assaulted) door open, she found that she knew this particular ‘security.’

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Trickster!”

Rook—wind-kissed, flushed from travel, boots caked in five types of forest, leaves in his hair, and reeking of fish entered the foyer.

“Rook!” She threw herself at him. Ignoring her cooling hair and the layers of mud that she would have to scrub from her casual clothes, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Don’t ever—ever—leave like that again, you ridiculous feral forest man!”

Rook caught her with an “oof,” staggering back a step, arms wrapping tight around her. He smelled like smoke, moss, and the inside of a hunter’s coat.

“Oh, la! I wasn’t expecting a welcome like this, or I perhaps would have changed before my arrival. Vil was simply most insistent—”

She hit him upside the head, pulling back. “And never, never volunteer me for anything again,” she hissed.

Rook smiled as though the violence was as endearing as the warm welcome.

“Je suis là. I’m here, ma belle. I’m sorry I left you in the wolves’ den, but may I say, you seem to have handled things marvelously! Rarely have I seen our dear Roi du Poison in such emotional peaks!”

Yuu huffed an incredulous laugh. “I started a scandal. I was the reason Vil got openly humiliated this morning. I got sky-written at, Rook. I got followed home. I got internet-doxxed by tweens. I have not slept in forty-eight hours. I have…a newfound respect for what you do. And you make it look so easy.”

Rook ran a hand through his fish-scented hair. “Mon Dieu, what I have missed. And yet, you still bloom.”

She almost hit him again. “Bloom? I look half-dead, Rook.”

Beaming in his infuriatingly serious way, Rook took her face between his VERY fish-scented hands. “You look like someone who stood her ground in a battlefield of fools. That is radiance, ma colombe. Vil will never say it—but I will.”

That shut her up. The silence stretched. Not heavy. Just full.

“…I missed you. I…trust the fish were worth it?”

“Ah, the fish!” he sighed dreamily. “The northern rivers just past the Luscious Pines—where the water runs like chilled glass over ancient stone—I caught a fish unlike any other. Long as my arm, sleek as a would-be lover. Its scales were silver on one side, gold on the other, and it fought like a knight desperate to see his sweetheart one last time before the blade fell. I named him Baptiste…”

Ah, to be Rook.

“Funnily enough, I think I could have guessed that,” she said cheekily.

“Oh?”

“In fact, I could even tell you that you caught more than one.” She tugged his hands away from the vicinity of her nose. “Rook, I say this with love, but I still need to get ready for tonight’s inevitable disaster, and you WILL shower before Vil sees you, or he might actually faint.”

“To be the cause of such strength of reaction,” Rook mused softly.

“You’ll probably get a reaction no matter what you do,” she said fondly, now that he’d removed the eau-de-dead-fish from her immediate airway.

“I came back the moment I could tear myself away. Then he stepped back, clapped his hands, and ruined the moment entirely. “Now! Off with the socks. Up with the cheeks. I’ve brought the good highlighter and the tools we will need for tonight if you wish it to at least be a beautiful disaster. If I cannot be your escort, at least let me be your magician.”

“Alright,” she grinned up at him. “But I’m hosing you off before you come in.”

*

Rook was a phenomenal artist, even while damp with hose water, and when he was done with her face, and helping her with the tricky fastenings of Vil’s gown, even she had to admit that the ridiculous forest man was…better at this than she was.

When she turned to thank him, he was already placing something in her hand: a tiny dried fish scale, impossibly iridescent.

“From Baptiste. For luck,” he said brightly.

“Gross.”

“And yet, you’ll keep it,” he said warmly.

“You know I will,” she said, shaking her head. Because of course she would. “Come on, Rook,” she said, smiling ruefully. “Your turn.”

*

Yuu arrived at the Gala to find the Grand Pavilion had transformed. A thousand candles floated just below the glass dome, their reflections winking in the marble below. Gold leaf spiraled up the columns like ivy. Musicians played something breathless and elegant, and the air smelled faintly of roses and expensive perfumes.

Yuu adjusted her dress as she stepped out of the car, boots swapped for heels from Vil that fit like a glass-slipper—because of course they did. She looked like someone important. Someone hired. Someone meant to be there.

The door attendants bowed. Cameras flickered but mercifully didn’t linger long. That was another perk of Rook’s handiwork, she thought happily. She was practically unrecognizable from the haggard, underdressed assistant she’d been earlier in the day.

Inside, she spotted Vil immediately—center of gravity to the whole room. In that black and gold suit, he looked like a prince from an opera, full of disdain and grace and polish sharpened to a point.

He turned at her approach. His eyes flicked over her—assessing. Calculating.

Then…A nod. Not a you’re forgiven nod. But a you didn’t embarrass me nod. Which, from him, might as well be a hug.

“Good,” he said simply, tone cool but notably lacking his usual dramatic sneer.

“You showed up on time.”

“You did tell me to.”

“Right, well,” he said stiffly. “I hate to make this request so bluntly, but if you could please avoid inciting any other, um—”

“Neige is taken care of.” She smiled—smirky and wicked. “I brought backup.”

For a brief moment, Vil looked lightly panicked, until he caught a flash of blond (fish-free, thanks to her efforts) hair across the room, and a cheery wave from Rook. Yuu returned it, while Vil looked on in shock.

Rook’s eyes sparkled like a fox in a henhouse when he spotted Neige. The poor boy never stood a chance. Rook intercepted him mid-sprint, hand clasping Neige’s like they were old comrades from a musical. Within seconds, he had the poor boy caught in a glittering verbal net: compliments, questions, poetic metaphors about ballet and purity and snowdrops in spring.

Neige never got a word in. He looked thrilled. And utterly trapped.

Yuu accepted a drink from a passing waiter on her own and Vil’s behalf.

Vil took his from her with a quiet hum of approval. “Now, that’s…fun,” he admitted.

“You’re welcome,” she hummed back. “Good luck tonight. I’ll be close if you need anything.”

The night went—shocking no one—like clockwork.

The producers were thrilled. The investors were thrilled. The director wept discreetly when the funding surpassed expectations. No one stormed out. No ghosts. No fashion disasters. Yuu, who’d spent the week as a walking PR nightmare-magnet, somehow managed to stay five steps ahead of all risk.

Including Neige.

Every time she saw him across the room—eyes big, expression smitten—she turned sharply and melted into another conversation, another wall, another tray of hors d'oeuvres.

Until, finally, the inevitable happened: Neige spotted her mid-escape and started toward her like a puppy loosed from a leash.

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Rook appeared instantly.

“Mon dieu, look at you!” he exclaimed, sweeping her into a spin, arms warm and delighted. “A triumph in silk and mischief! What can I do?”

Vil was even close enough to witness one of these interceptions, and she could have sworn she caught him laughing into his sleeve.

Eventually, the music shifted.

People began moving toward the ballroom for the dancing—a press moment, but only semi-public. One dance per featured guest, filmed just enough for glamour, but not long enough for scandal. It was more for pictures than anything, and Vil, of course, was the envy of any of the producers who wanted a partner. Yuu handled things smoothly—passing off cue cards, correcting a backdrop before it falls, redirecting a tipsy sponsor with a polite laugh and steel in her spine.

She expected the scandal to catch up with her at one point or another, however, and it DID, in the form of one of the producers for the upcoming film pulling her aside.

“You’ve got presence, sweetheart. Good instincts. You should audition for something—you’ve got that quiet screen magnetism, you know?” he said, too close for comfort, champagne on his breath. “Maybe you could play the love interest to Neige? The fans would LOVE it.”

Not a chance in hell, buddy.

“That’s kind of you. But I’m better behind the scenes. Really. Sorry, my employer is calling—”

It was a lie, but it was an excuse to linger near Vil for just a few minutes of the evening. For the most part, she stayed at a distance from him, but he kept an eye on her long enough to provide a reasonable excuse—quick glances exchanged through crowds. A subtle brush from her hand when a tipsy guest nearly spilled her drink on his sleeve. She was close enough to hear the way he told off a rude critic with all the poise of a man wearing a dagger for a tie pin—and that he did while dancing with the lady.

Toward the end of the evening, Yuu was just reveling in a night gone well when Neige appeared like an eager groom, smiling like the scandal never happened.

“Yuu!” he greeted cheerfully, bounding up to her. “Sorry I didn’t come over earlier. I ran into an old friend! You still owe me a dance, don’t you?”

Her smile froze on her face. They’d been so close to an uneventful evening. And now, the eyes of the room shifted in their direction, sensing another headline. She wanted to run.

So, she did the next best thing.

“Thanks, Neige! I really want to, but I've actually already promised this one to someone else.”

She cast her eyes around the room, hunting for Rook, but the telltale blond head was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Et tu, Rook!?

“Oh. I mean—are you sure? It’s just one song—” he stammered.

He was technically right. It was just one song. It was just a dance. He really was, incredibly nice, and sparkly, and lovable in all the right ways, but the problem was…well, he was also problematic in all of the WRONG ways, and she’d only just started to thaw the ice-prince enough to get him to talk to her. Or even LOOK at her.

“Like I said, I want to, but I don’t want to disappoint—”

“It’s no problem!” Neige said happily.

That surprised her. It wasn’t? It was really that easy?

“I’ll just dance with you until he gets here! That’s fine, right?”

She couldn’t find an argue with that one, and he’d just grabbed her hand when:

“She said no, Neige.”

Yuu nearly dropped the glass in her hand from the sudden proximity of Vil’s voice. He’d caught up to them, and was bending over her shoulder, speaking right in her ear.

“Try to learn the difference between persistence and disrespect. You're not the lead in this scene.”

If she was surprised before, she was stunned when Vil offered his hand to her, very obviously claiming the one that Neige had tried to.

“Shall we?”

Yuu stared at his hand like it’s a foreign object. Then slowly, she took it. With a grace born of confident arrogance, Vil smirked as he plucked the glass from her hand, and handed it to Neige to hold while he lead her onto the floor. The crowd parted, cameras ready—only for Vil to gesture subtly to the orchestra director. The lights dimmed beyond ideal camera lighting, and the official recordings cut—with no private devices in sight.

“You really are good at this,” she hummed, impressed.

He scoffed. “Of course I am.”

“You were… tolerable tonight. Professional, even. I was also impressed you were able to delay your ‘interest,’ in favor of the evening. I did…overhear him offering you a job earlier. If you were worried about my dissatisfaction, then don’t be. Trouble happens, especially for the inexperienced.” He cleared his throat. “If you want to continue in this role after the Gala, we can discuss terms. Of course after the scandals this week, there will be… contingencies.”

She couldn’t help it. She scowled. Was this dance a ‘reward’ for delaying whatever rabid carnality Vil had gotten it into his head that she had for NEIGE?

Above her, Vil sighed. “Oh, fine. What?”

“Contingency one,” she bit out, as venomously as he did when irate—after all, she had an excellent teacher. “I don’t deal with Neige. At all. Not him, not his team, not his fan club, not his signature pink envelopes or skywriters or doves trained to carry love poems. Nothing.”

Vil, the perfect actor, couldn’t have faked this level of genuine shock.

“Why?”

Her fingers gripped his shoulder a little too hard as he spun them to a quieter corner of the ballroom.

“…Really? Really, Vil?”

The man went wisely silent.

“All week. I’ve been chased, shoved, filmed, gossiped about, stalked. I’ve had strangers screaming at me from rooftops. I’ve had people grab me in the street to ask what my lips taste like. All because Neige decided he liked me. And you—” Her voice tightened. “—you saw it. You saw it all and said nothing except ‘try to look presentable. So no. No Neige. That’s not a preference, that’s a survival clause.”

“I did see the picture, Yuu,” he tried to argue back.

“No, you saw a headlined version of facial assault!” she snarled, trying her best to keep her voice low. “I was as much of a participant in that kiss as a FLOOR is when a BRICK WALL falls on it.”

Now Vil said nothing, but his expression changed, the truth of the week hitting him more effectively than if she’d slapped him.

Good.

“You never said—” he ventured, when a few bars of tenuous music had passed.

“Because it’s not my job to report every time someone grabs my arm. Or tracks my house. Or calls me ugly while recording my reaction for their channel. My job is to make you look good. Which I did. Even when I was drowning.”

He swallowed. “I don’t want you to drown for me. Though I must admit, I didn’t anticipate your particular brand of… emotional resilience.”

She laughed bitterly. That was probably as close to an apology she was going to get.

“Because I didn’t snap my spine under the shopping bags of designer lotion?”

He winced. “That was perhaps a bit excessive.”

That coaxed a laugh out of her. “I’ll tell you next time something you do is excessive….but, Vil, I am grateful to you for the rescue.”

They danced in silence a few more beats.

“Rescues,” she corrected herself. “From the mob. Getting pinned in my own doorway. The dance….” she sighed. “And after all the scandal, I don’t expect you to pay me—except maybe the hazard pay. Maybe a door that a mob can’t get through…”

He shrugged, nonchalant once more, as though he hadn’t yet truly grasped the gravity of the situation. “Fine. I’ll even throw in a pair of flats.”

She sighed, sensing the end of the song. “Vil, I’m not angry with you, but… well, there’s a part of me that will probably break Neige’s pretty nose if he tries to follow me home again…”

Vil snorted, though he looked displeased.

“Neige’s ugly nose?” she tried again, smirking.

“Better,” he admitted.

“Right. And it should be said that none of this is your fault, and I am really sorry for the scandal.”

He hummed again, agreeing.

“And you’re still the prettiest person at this party,” she added for good measure, trying not to laugh. The tension between them was fading—finally—and she was so tired of the worry.

“True,” he agreed happily. “Well, almost.”

The content look he gave her after THAT particular statement was beyond her expectation. It was the sort of look that melted hearts and souls and the cartilage in people’s knees.

Was Neige really a competitor to this?

“Although, you should know that after the media attention of that particular scandal, and my costar’s more…penitent attitude, funding won’t be an issue. And, apparently, neither will he.”

If anything, now his grin was even more content—if a touch devious—and she could feel him relaxing beneath her fingers as the music swung to a close. \

“Happy to help…but next time, I’m volunteering Rook.”

He snorted softly, but she heard it.

The music had finished, the last bars swaying with them. Last song, or no, Vil would always attract attention, and though his dance card had ended along with everyone else’s, there were still hungry observers on the periphery.

Vil’s hand lingered on her waist, and he glared at something over her shoulder.

A glance told her that Neige was once more retreating. Still, Rook was nowhere to be seen.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

As guests were being dismissed, and the distractions of the evening faded, she didn’t exactly want to feel hunted.

She started to pull away, but stopped, when she felt his fingers lace through hers, anchoring her gently, but briefly there.

“You really did do well today—this week.” The fingers of his other hand brushed down her arm, featherlight, taking her other hand.

“Noted,” she said, suddenly warm from more than just the crowd. There were still eyes on them. Including her dear stalker.

She brushed off the feeling with a shaky laugh.

“I’ll treasure that compliment forever. Maybe even embroider it on a pillow,” she said sarcastically.

Vil scoffed, but softly. “Only if it’s silk.”

“Silk? A bit of praise and you want me to put it in silk?”

“Anyone else would.”

“Don’t flatter me too much. I might turn into one of your fans.”

He rolled his eyes. “You would never.”

Her fingers twitched in his, and she glared at him to cover her blush. “You never know. Any day now, I could start writing poetry and screaming it through the windows. Or turning love letters into shivs. Or throwing flowers at your head…actually, that last one sounds a little fun.”

He pinched her arm, scolding glare back on his face. That was the Vil she knew.

“You’re not funny.”

“That was very funny.”

He still hadn’t let go of her fingers. The moment stretched—eyes locked, close enough to breathe each other’s breath, and the party around them softened into a dreamlike hum.

Vil was the one to move first—offering his arm like a prince in a storybook.

“I’m leaving,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, trying not to sound disappointed as she pulled back—but he still wasn’t making that easy. “Of course. Well, thanks for the dance—”

He raised a brow. “That wasn’t a goodbye. It was an invitation.”

Yuu blinked. “To what?”

His gaze dropped to her lips, then moved slowly back up again.

“To accompany me.”