Chronic Shipper

It's colder than usual for January, the threat of snow hanging over the city in the form of low, slate-grey clouds. Feyre shivers when the wind bites at her exposed cheeks, striding as quickly as she can up 49th Street on her daily walk. She tugs her cashmere scarf higher up her face. After the biting chill of the outdoors, the blast of warm, spiced air from the cafe that hits her as she opens the door is a welcome relief. The Bluestone Lane Cafe has always been a favorite neighborhood haunt of hers, so much so that she grabs coffee and breakfast there every day, despite the nine blocks she has to traverse. Warm, polished oak counters and tabletops dot the modern space, light and airy and covered in hanging plants, the light blue tile within the space reminiscent of sea and sky— even in the middle of a grey winter. The espresso machine hisses happily and ceramic cups clink against each other, a symphonic cacophony that's more comforting than overstimulating. "Good morning, Emerie," she greets the dark-haired girl behind the counter. "Could I get my usual to go, please?" Emerie rings her up quickly and gets started on her caramel latte. Feyre slides a ten dollar bill into the tip jar — if her husband is going to give her a ridiculous "allowance", she'll spend it how she pleases — and waits against the far wall for her latte and breakfast bowl. Hot paper cup and takeout container in hand, she hurries back through the cold to her husband's house. Tamlin is staying at his residence in Florida for some campaign event or another ("It's just the reality of being a senator, Feyre, you shouldn't be so clingy.") so the place is empty. Well, mostly empty. It's just her and Alis, the manager of the house. She unlocks the door with cold and shaking hands, sighing as she steps into the echoing foyer. It's not like he would be there to greet her even if he was home, but she still misses the undeniable presence of her husband in the house. She's never been much good at being alone.

Tamlin finally called the Piper a week before Calanmai.

The naga infestation in Spring had been getting worse for months. The incidents had trickled in at first—a few reports here and there of wounded animals and minor attacks near the edge of the forest—and Tamlin had ordered guards to dispatch the ones closest to the manor. They returned celebrating their easy victories and carrying trophies of dark scales and wickedly sharp talons, bragging of how simple it was to kill the little monsters.

But then reports from the outer villages began to reach the manor. Packs of naga that roamed the streets, preying on lesser fairies and high fae alike, even during the day. Tamlin had sent a few males who had already proven they knew how to handle the beasts to help cull their numbers, but they never returned. When he sent more, they too never made their way back to the manor—whether they succumbed to the nagas’ sheer numbers or whether they stayed on to help the villagers was unclear—it was simply as if they had vanished into mist. 

And so it wasn’t long before the naga from the outer villages began creeping closer and closer to the manor, looking for new prey. The remaining guards couldn’t keep up with their numbers, which seemed to grow by the day, and before long, it seemed that there was nowhere the little monsters couldn’t reach.

So it was gradually that the manor and its inhabitants drew in upon themselves, ceasing any unnecessary travel, moving markets to heavily armed pavilions and halls, spending less and less time outdoors, until, all of a sudden it seemed, the Spring Court spent its days inside, away from the warm sun and flowers. All of that belonged to the naga.

And Feyre was sick of it.

“You could try painting again.” Tamlin’s voice came from somewhere near the entrance to her rooms.

She rolled her eyes at his suggestion, although she made sure to stay facing the window so he couldn’t see her expression. A few nights ago at dinner when she had complained about still being stuck indoors, she had seen a hint of claws glinting at his fingertips before he tucked his hands under the table. Feyre had known, of course, of his power and his shape shifting—he was her High Lord, after all, how could she not?—but to see it, so violent and bestial at a formal dining table was unsettling. She didn’t want to see it again.

And yet even for all that violence coiled in his body, the beast buried underneath the man, he still could not rid his court of the naga. There were too many of them, enough that they had effectively stripped the High Lord of his power. And Tamlin hated it.

But he had at least finally done something, announcing that morning that he had called the Piper to solve the infestation. When Feyre had asked who the Piper was, Tamlin was evasive; all he would say was that he was a fae who had the ability—the trickery—to clear the court.

So schooling her face into something innocently curious, she turned toward Tamlin. “When is the Piper coming?”

“Soon.”

“Then I’ll paint once he comes.” With a huff that she knew he’d find annoying, Feyre turned back toward the window. From her seat, she could see the stables, the rolling hills, the bursts of wildflowers that dotted the landscape. It was all there, as it always was in eternal spring, and Feyre could feel something within herself clawing at her ribs that hated to be confined, begging to be let out and let loose upon the world. 

“Feyre—”

“I’m sorry that being imprisoned in your manor doesn’t make me feel like painting, Tamlin.”

She didn’t turn around, but she could almost hear him roll his eyes. “You’re not imprisoned, Feyre. And it’s our manor.”

“Not yet.” Although Tamlin wasn’t wrong, exactly. She was to be Lady of the Spring Court, and it was all going to be hers—the flowers and the rolling hills, and the pretty dresses and the court politics. Not that she wanted any of it. She just wanted Tamlin. But those things were the price of loving Tamlin, and so she would have to accept it, all of it. 

But, she thought wryly to herself, not until after Calanmai. Tamlin had insisted on that point—no proper Lady of Spring ever took part in the Fire Night. It wasn’t what was done, he’d explained. The Rite was sacred, of course, and he would have to do his part, of course, but it was a wicked, debauched fete—no place for the Lady. His mother spent every Calanmai indoors, as did the Lady before her, and the one before her. It was tradition, Tamlin said.

And so Feyre had agreed, albeit reluctantly. She had never attended Calanmai, at first too young and now too bound up in the expectations of Spring to allow her a taste of the revelry she heard the lesser fae servants giggling about.

But sometimes she wondered if the wickedness and debauchery might suit her rather well.

“My stubborn Lady,” Tamlin said, a fondness pervading his tone as she reached out and lightly touched the side of her face, breaking her out of her thoughts about Calanmai. “Be patient with me. I’ll marry you soon enough.”

Feyre smiled tightly at him, not bothering to correct the assumption he made. She was eager to marry him. That, at least, was true.

“I’ll need you at my side when the Piper comes today. We need to present a show of unity. Of strength.” 

She barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She hated when Tamlin started talking about what was necessary to keep up Spring’s appearances, but she knew the naga had him worried—after all, it was more than a little humbling for a High Lord to be bested by minor monsters.

Tamlin stepped back and surveyed Feyre. She was wearing her regular clothes—leggings and a loose sweater—and she pretended not to notice the wrinkle of Tamlin’s nose in distaste at what he saw. “And no pants.”

Feyre groaned. She hated dressing up, because that’s exactly what he meant by “no pants.” No, instead she would be encased in a frilly gown and the constricting stays that Spring fashion insisted on, then helped into heeled shoes that seemed designed to make a doll out of the Court’s women. To his credit, it wasn’t often that Tamlin asked it of her—typically only when there was some grand function or they had some celebration for their upcoming nuptials to attend, but still, Feyre always dreaded the pageantry of it all.

  And for the Piper, whoever he was? She had never seen him, but that wasn’t surprising. Few in Spring had, she’d discovered as she asked around after Tamlin’s announcement. If one were to believe the accounts of the fae far older and more well-traveled than she who had been whispering about it all day, he was from the Night Court—somewhere dark and cold and terribly wicked, where the inhabitants lived underground by choice. Feyre tried to picture what this kind of cold, cave-dwelling male would look like and why he would necessitate full dress, but all she could imagine was a small, rat-like fae peering out of the darkness—cunning and powerful in some way, sure, if he had the ability to rid the court of the naga, but still, unremarkable in the grand scheme of things. 

“But, Tamlin, couldn’t I just—”

“Feyre,” Tamlin said, placing his hands on his arms, and for a moment, Feyre remembered the glint of claws on the tablecloth. “Don’t make me argue with you about this. It’s just a dress.”

Just a dress. She nodded at him.

“Good. I’ll send in Alis and Ianthe to help you get ready.” He turned and began walking toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “And be nice.”

Feyre made a rude gesture at him behind his back as he left. She could be nice. She would be nice—to Alis at least. 

Before long, there was a knock at her door, and Feyre took a breath to prepare to endure the next hour of being poked and prodded. 

It was time to meet the Piper. 

—----------------------------------------

Feyre fiddled with the bell sleeves that hung at least a foot past her fingertips as she stood on the dais in the receiving room with the other members of Tamlin’s court, marveling to herself at how the garment could somehow be both incredibly restrictive while simultaneously having more fabric than the drop cloths that littered her art studio. She shifted her weight and moved her arms, which made her ridiculous sleeves flap slightly as if they were clipped, impotent wings.

“Stand still, Feyre. Are you a child?”

She looked up at him.“If I say yes, does it mean I get to leave?”

Tamlin didn’t laugh, but she could see the corners of his mouth twitching. For all his High Lord posturing, he was still the handsome male she had met a year ago under the weeping willow, sun drunk and lazily playing a fiddle. It was rare that that Tamlin made an appearance anymore, however—the deaths of his family members and his subsequent elevation to High Lord all but stamped out the playful, carefree man she had fallen in love with—but she still caught glimpses of him now and then. They made the rest of it worth it. 

He turned to look down at her, but before he could say anything, a voice rang through the hall, and both Feyre’s and Tamlin’s heads snapped toward its source.

“But why would you want to leave, darling?” The question was spoken like a lover’s caress, full of nighttime promises and sighs.

The Piper had arrived.

Or at least, Feyre assumed he had. Because the figure standing in front of them was nothing like the male she had imagined. No, the Piper was like one of the old gods—achingly tall and powerfully built, he stood in the entryway clad entirely in clothes so black they swallowed the light, and the only thing about him that seemed to contain any brightness at all was the flute that glinted as he held it lazily in his hand. Feyre thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was the most handsome fae she had ever seen, his darkness almost an invitation to lean closer and see what depths it might hide.

The Piper inclined his head shallowly to her—to them.

“Piper.” Tamlin greeted the other male curtly. “Thank you for coming.”

“Anything for an old friend.”

Feyre looked up at her fiance curiously. He had never indicated that he actually knew the Piper. 

But Tamlin didn’t meet her gaze. “You’re agreed, then? You’ll get rid of the naga in the court. Today?”

How would he though? Feyre wondered. What was one male against scores of monsters? He was clearly powerful, she would grant him that, and his elegant appearance belied a physical strength that she caught glimpses of in the smooth lines of his thighs and the breadth of his shoulders, but even so—there must be thousands of them at this point.

The Piper winked at her, his eyes twinkling almost as if he had heard her thoughts. “I will.”

“Good.”

“And my payment?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your payment?” Feyre asked—what exactly did you give a man who was granting you your freedom?

“Feyre,” Tamlin snapped, a hand darting out to grab her upper arm.

“Oh, let your lovely bride ask, Tamlin. What’s the harm?”

“Don’t talk to him.”

Feyre frowned at the condescending command in his voice and the hum of his High Lord authority that shimmered around its edges as if daring her to disobey. “So I’m just supposed to sit here and watch? What have you promised him?” Unity and strength be damned. She wanted to know. It was her court too—or it would be soon, at any rate. She should know what they had promised the Piper..

“Feyre.” Tamlin emphasized the two syllables of her name. 

“Trouble in paradise, Tam?”

“Don’t talk to me like you know me, Piper. You’re here to do a job.”

“A job the court’s own High Lord couldn’t manage,” he said, examining his nails. “Lest we forget.” But then he turned his attention back to Feyre. “My payment, my darling Lady, is the greatest wealth of Spring. Not a jewel, gold fleece, or fish scale more. Or less.”

Feyre shivered at the bite in his declaration, not having any doubts that the Piper would take exactly what he felt he was owed. But had Tamlin promised him the entire Tithe? It was almost an unimaginable sum.

“I see,” Feyre said, trying to channel the distantly officious tone she remembered hearing Tamlin’s mother use before her death. “Thank you for clarifying, Piper.”

“Oh, must we be so formal? My name is Rhysand, although my friends call me Rhys.” He smiled and crooned, “Call me Rhys, love.”

“She will not.” Tamlin stepped in front of her and blocked her view of the Piper, although not before she caught a glimpse of a smirk blooming across his face. “Do what you came to do or get out of my court.”

Rhys—the Piper—sighed dramatically. “You’re no fun anymore, Tam. Do you bore your sweet little bride as well? I would be delighted to stay on in the court to assist if there are more ways its High Lord can’t quite measure up.” He winked as he said it, wanton and salacious, and Feyre flushed in spite of herself. 

Tamlin sputtered, turning an ugly shade of puce. 

“Ah yes, the defense of a male quite assured of his prowess.” The Piper looked at her with an expression of mock sympathy. “My condolences, darling.” 

“Rhysand.”

“Fine, fine,” the Piper said airily, waving hand. “If you’ll follow me outside.” Without waiting to see if they’d join, he pivoted on his heel and began walking toward the door. 

Tamlin held his hand out to Feyre as he stepped down off the dais, and she took it. He squeezed it tightly, and then led her and the rest of the court to follow the Piper into the late spring afternoon.

It felt strange to have a taste of the sun again after weeks indoors, and Feyre closed her eyes to savor it briefly, trusting Tamlin to pull her wherever she needed to go.

She opened them again when she felt his pace slow, and her eyes locked onto those of the Piper. He was stopped just a few paces beyond the door, watching members of the Spring Court tentatively leave the safety of the manor. In the light, his eyes seemed to be purple—unsettlingly lovely and so utterly fae. Feyre wondered if she’d ever be able to replicate their color in her studio. She wasn’t hopeful—there was something too wild about them to be captured in oils or acrylics.

Once everyone was assembled outside, the Piper spoke. “I will begin here, but I suggest you follow along behind me. Our destination is a few minutes away. Don’t stray.”

Feyre had questions, and almost began asking them, but they died on her lips as the Piper raised his flute and began to play.

The melody started out gently—a single note, haunting and empty, that soon blossomed into runs and arpeggios that danced and resonated across the still and silent grounds. It was eerie and sweet and seductive all at once, and for a moment, it seemed like nothing would happen.

But then the naga began to emerge, their cruel faces and wicked scales poking out from where they had been hidden behind the unkempt shrubs and planters of the garden. A few ladies of the court screamed at the appearance of the monsters, but they needn’t have been afraid—the creatures didn’t spare a glance for anyone but the Piper as they approached him docilely.

Still playing, the Piper turned, careful not to step on any of the little beasts that gathered underfoot, and began to walk away from the manor. As if pulled by strings, the naga also began to follow behind, their movements contented and easy as they followed the music. 

Feyre looked and caught varying expressions of curiosity and horror on the faces of the assembled court. The power to entrance another creature so easily was breathtakingly frightful in its scope, although she couldn’t quite find it in herself to be afraid. It was elegant, in its own way, and if this was what it took to grant them freedom, she would endure it gladly.

One of the courtiers gave a shout and pointed toward the hills in the distance, and Feyre looked up to see what appeared to be hundreds of naga streaming over the knolls toward the manor. For a few grotesque moments, the landscape was swallowed by the writhing bodies, each monster apparently rabid to make its way to the Piper as quickly as possible. 

The Piper, for his part, appeared unphased by the number of beasts racing toward him. He kept playing, and they kept coming, falling into line as they got closer to the source of the melody. It was horrific and wonderful all at once, and the court trailed along behind as close as they dared to see what exactly the Piper would do with his pack of naga.

It was not long before the party reached a grove of trees that hid a small pool. The water was almost as black as night, although here and there the undulations in its surface caught the sunlight in glints that were as brilliant as they were fleeting, almost like starlight spilled to earth. It was beautiful and serene and entirely out of place in the sunny wildness of Spring, and Feyre wondered what place this pocket of Night had in Tamlin’s court.

But she never got an answer. The naga nearest to the water’s edge walked calmly into the pool until its head slipped under the water and it disappeared from view.

Another followed after it, and then another, until there were orderly rows of naga placidly drowning themselves. The Piper stood by the water’s edge, playing and directing the macabre show, and not a single monster roused itself enough to show even a shred of fear. 

The assembled crowd watched in grateful horror, keeping a strange, silent vigil while they bore witness to the deaths of hundreds of beasts. No one wept; no one cheered. They just watched as, slowly but surely, the naga were purged from the Spring Court.

—----------------------------------------------

Once the ordeal was over—the last of the monsters disappearing without a splash, the flute lowering from the Piper’s lips, a fearful hush blanketing the assembled crowds—Tamlin had given the order for the party to reconvene in the receiving hall.

From her place on the dais next to Tamlin, Feyre watched as the rest of the fae made their way into the hall, giving the Piper, who stood in the middle of it all, a wide berth. Feyre studied him to see how he’d react, but he seemed unaware of—or unbothered by—their discomfort.

Because she was watching him so closely, she noticed the slight lift of his eyebrow, and followed his gaze to see where Ianthe had come up on Tamlin’s other side and was whispering something in his ear. Feyre rolled her eyes—it was probably some sanctimonious bullshit about a ritual Ianthe needed to preside over to bless the miracle of the day and restore glory to the court. It meant little for Feyre, except probably another day spent shoved into an uncomfortable dress.

Tamlin’s voice broke her out of her thoughts as he turned from Ianthe and addressed his court, scanning over the gathered courtiers and citizens who had been taking solace in the manor for the last few weeks. “Thank you all for bearing witness to the great service done by the Piper today. We owe him our thanks.”

He then directed his attention to the Piper. “Thank you for clearing the Spring Court of its blight. It is a nobly and charitably done service not just for Spring, but for all of Prythian.”

The Piper inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“However,” Tamlin continued, and Feyre whipped her head over to look at him. What was he about to do? 

“My high priestess has informed me that it would be displeasing to the Mother if we were to give away our Tithe—it is She who grants its bounty for the preservation of the Spring Court, you see, and to simply give it away would greatly offend Her and risk Her vengeance in a form much more deadly than a simple naga infestation. So I’m afraid my hands are tied.” Tamlin smiled, but Feyre saw a hint of something sly in the expression that looked wrong on his usually guileless face. “You have Spring’s thanks, but you shall not have our Tithe.”

“Is that so?” The Piper’s voice was quiet, but there was an adamantine edge to it that made Feyre sit up straight.

“It is. You may leave my court.” Ianthe stood behind Tamlin as he dismissed the Piper, nodding piously and looking far too smug. 

There was a pause as the Piper seemed to be considering something, his eyes darting briefly to Feyre, who shivered slightly at the attention.

But then he made a decision, apparently, for he said, “I shall have my payment, one way or another. You know what happens when you try to break a bargain.” His smile was bitingly cruel, a promise and a threat that Feyre hoped Tamlin wouldn’t be fool enough to ignore.

But he was.

“Get off of my lands,” Tamlin growled, waving a hand in dismissal. “Take your empty threats with you.” 

The Piper cocked an eyebrow. “As you wish.” He turned, his sable cloak fluttering strangely behind him as if propelled by its own breeze, and flute in hand, began to stalk from the hall.

“And,” Tamlin called out after him, apparently unable to let the other man have the last word, “thank you for your service, Piper.”

Feyre flinched from her place by Tamlin’s side, waiting for the other man to retaliate. Surely someone who could do what he could wouldn’t just leave after that.

But the piper didn’t turn around, didn’t stop walking—only raised his flute to his lips and began to play.

It was different from what he played for the naga, Feyre realized, as the first notes broke over her ear. This melody beckoned, wonderful and lilting and invitingly strange.

Unconsciously, she took one step forward. And another. And—

“Feyre?” Tamlin’s voice startled her from her reverie.

By the doors to the hall, the piper lowered the flute from his lips, turned briefly, and winked before vanishing into nothing.

“What just happened?” Tamlin looked between her and the empty space where the piper had vanished, possessive concern flashing across his face.

“Nothing. Nothing happened,” Feyre said, not sure if she was lying to him or to herself. Maybe she had imagined it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe.

Tamlin frowned down at her, but Feyre didn’t meet his gaze.

—------------------------

She was halfway through the front door the next morning, art bag in hand, when she heard Tamlin call out after her. “I don’t want you to go outside alone.”

Feyre stopped short in the threshold, turning her head around to see him leaning against one of the walls in the entry hallway, apparently waiting for her. “What?”

“If you want to go outside, you’ll need a guard.” 

“A guard?” She couldn’t keep the irritation from her voice. “Why?”

“It’s not safe.” 

Feyre rolled her eyes. “It’s not like there are any naga left. I’ll be fine.”

Tamlin frowned. “You will be. Because you’ll take a guard.”

“Tamlin, I’m just going to paint. I’m not going to take a guard so they can stand around and watch me.”

“Feyre.” There was a warning in the way he said her name, and Feyre drew her art bag closer to her chest.

“Tamlin.” She mimicked his tone, anger flaring. She understood his rules—sort of—when the naga infested Spring. But now? “What was the point of hiring the Piper if you weren’t going to let me go outside anyway?”

Tamlin growled. “I don’t want to hear anything about the Piper.”

Was that jealousy? “Then let me go outside. Alone.” She turned back toward the door. She was done with this conversation, and Tamlin could get over himself.

He roughly grabbed her arm and whirled her around to face him. She could just feel the prick of claws where his fingers dug into her. “No. I saw you, Feyre. You were going to go with him.”

“I was not.” Probably. But she wasn’t about to deal with that right now. “Let go, Tamlin.”

“Don't be an idiot, Feyre. He was going to take you. Just like he took the naga.”

“Then maybe you should have paid him! How is that my fault?”

“I’m not going to let you be taken.”

“Tamlin—”

“So you’ll take a guard. Or you’ll stay inside.”

“What kind of choice is that?”

“The only one I’m offering. What’ll it be, Feyre?”

“Screw you, Tamlin.” Still holding her art bag to her chest, she pushed roughly past him and stormed back into the recesses of the manor.

A breeze, cooler than she would have expected for Spring and smelling faintly of citrus and sea salt, wrapped around her retreating form.

—--------------------

Feyre avoided everyone in the manor for the next week, ignoring the increasingly frantic preparations for Calanmai that were taking place around her. Smells of roast chicken and sweet pastries wafted up to her rooms from the kitchen, and she heard shrieking, joyful laughter ring through the halls. Now that they were free of the naga, the manor and its occupants were buzzing—boisterous and frenetic and alive and free.

And Feyre sat inside.

Tamlin had come to check on her in her rooms a few times, bringing apologies in the form of roses or new paint, and once—memorably—a grumbled “Sorry.”

When she coldly received his gifts only to deposit them in a heap in the corner of her room, or slammed the door in Tamlin’s face whenever he appeared, he sent Lucien to try and smooth things over.

Not that Tamlin was about to relent and allow her outside on her own, of course—something she asked Lucien pointedly when he came around. The male only cringed and asked Feyre to be patient with Tamlin, to understand that he was worried about her safety where the Piper was concerned.

The guards around her doors and below her windows doubled after that conversation. 

And so the week passed with Feyre trapped idly in her room, watching and wondering and wasting away.

—-----------------------------

In the end, it wasn’t the drums that convinced her to leave the manor, although she could feel their insistent hammer deep in her bones, pulsing and pounding as they asked a question she didn’t think she wanted to answer.

No, she could ignore the drums if she tried.

But the music. 

Tamlin should have warned her how it would feel—sparkling and decadent and wicked all at once. It was like the expensive champagne Feyre remembered once sneaking as a little girl during one of her family’s parties before everything fell apart—bright and alive and necessary before the flavor burst into something that promised ruin if she drank too deeply.

She had wanted to, even back then.

So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that it was the music and its promise of dancing and decadence that convinced her to tug a cloak around herself and venture out into the dark. Her guards had all abandoned their posts, entranced by the magic and the delight of the night just as much as she was, and it was almost too simple to sneak out of the manor that had been her prison for months now.

Feyre could feel magic pulsing around her as she followed the sounds of violins and flutes into the night, savoring the feeling of fresh air on her skin. Everything seemed to converge around a cave mouth tucked within a hollow, and she knew instinctively that, were she to venture any closer, she would find Tamlin in the throes of whatever fairy magic gripped him earlier that evening. She hesitated, half-wanting to see, even if he’d be angry that she disobeyed him.

But as if sensing her hesitation, the music made itself known again. It had never stopped, even as she considered her next steps, but now it grew in intensity as if demanding that she follow where it led. Follow this. Choose this.

And so she did, taking one step, and then another, and then another, moving away from the cave and the bonfires and the raucous dancing and into the darkening hills. As she walked, instruments seemed to drop out one by one until there was nothing but the sound of a single flute left to guide her. The melody it played swirled around her, ethereal and persistent and oddly familiar, and Feyre could have sworn its arpeggios felt almost tangible as they danced up and down her body, like fingers that stroked along her collarbone and ghosted teasingly against her sides. She felt drunk with it—or maybe she was just drunk on the magic of the night—but everything seemed a little too vibrant and a little too hazy, all at once. And she loved it.

The music petered out as she approached the edge of a pool, the ending flourish of the melody like a hand extended in offer. The water before her glinted a brilliant silver as it gently ripped in the breeze. Starlight spilled to earth, some distant part of Feyre’s mind remembered vacantly as she looked around, slowly becoming more aware of her surroundings: the starlight pool, a copse of trees, and a male, backlit by the Calanmai fires in the distant hills and reclined against a log on the ground with a flute that glinted in the firelight by his side.

“Darling,” he drawled, not bothering to stand up as she approached. “I thought you’d never make it.”

Feyre started. She recognized that voice.

“Piper?” She breathed a thousand questions with the invocation of his title—how are you here? Why are you here? And why did you bring me here? Why did I follow the music?—but only started to ask one: “But I thought—”

“Shhh, Feyre, darling,” he shushed her, lazily hauling himself to his feet. “I’ve come to collect my payment. And,” he continued, moving toward her, flute in hand, “my payment doesn’t need to think. She just needs to follow.” 

He held a hand out, apparently waiting for her to reach out and grab it.

Feyre started to back away. This was strange and wrong, and she absolutely would not be the one to take the fall for Tamlin and Ianthe’s idiocy. “But I don’t want to.”

“Don’t worry, pet.” He raised the flute to his lips. “You will.”

And he began to play, the melody the same as it was in the hall and the same as it was that led her to the pool, and she felt like she was falling into something soupy and thick, and then she couldn’t remember what was so bad about being here with him after all.

The music twisted around the strands of her hair, the palms of her hands, the swell of her hips, and she let it lead as she began to dance, throwing her head back and laughing at the sheer delight of it all. There were no rules for her here, just her body and the music and whatever the Piper desired.

“Exquisite.” His voice resonated in her head although he never took his mouth from the opening of the flute, and Feyre preened at his praise. She was exquisite in the glow of the Calanmai fires—light and unburdened and wholly alive in a way she hadn’t been since she was a girl. She wanted to bottle this feeling, to save it for whenever the pressures of being Lady of Spring seemed to be too much to hold—what wouldn’t she give, she wondered, somewhere in her foggy head, to feel this way forever. 

A small part of her screamed that something wasn’t right, that it wasn’t her feeling this way at all. 

But then there was music and movement, and that small part of her was buried under the Piper’s whirling melodies until all she could hear was his song.

Distantly, Feyre realized he had moved away from her, stepping backwards towards the lake, and she began to follow, wanting—needing—to stay close to the music, to stay close to him. A step, and then another, and then another, and then he was backing into the lake, and so Feyre, too, unquestioningly waded into the starlit waters. His music was a leash slung snug around her neck, and she couldn’t imagine wanting to feel anything else but owned by its source.

If this was drowning, she mused, as the water closed over her head and she could only hear the faintest strings of the Piper’s song, she would welcome oblivion gladly.

—----------------------------------------------

Feyre came to in a sopping wet heap on a cold stone floor in the middle of a silent hall. 

She was alive apparently. And absolutely freezing.

“Welcome to the Night Court, Feyre darling.”

She raised her head to see the Piper looming over her, an eyebrow lifted in what she assumed was amusement at her dishevelment. He was perfectly put together, she observed sourly, dressed in resplendent black with a crown of onyx and black diamonds perched easily atop his head. Was he a lord? Was he a … High Lord?

But a more immediate question burst out of her. “How am I here?”

He tilted his head. “I brought you with me.”

“But the naga—are they …?

“They died,” he said with a finality that seemed almost chastising for the answer’s obviousness. “I have no use for them in my court.”

“But you have a use for me?”

“Perhaps.” He smirked. “But not looking like that. Take off your wet things.”

When he didn’t move to direct her toward another room or offer her any privacy, Feyre frowned up at him. “Here?” He couldn’t be serious.

“Where else?” His question was condescending, a slight tone of irritation bleeding in at the edges. With his power—not to mention his status that, whatever it was, was certainly important—she was sure that it wasn’t often someone didn’t obey an order immediately.

She stood up, wanting to be on her feet in case his irritation boiled over and she needed to run. “And what am I supposed to wear instead?”

The Piper sighed. “I find your questions tiresome right now, darling. We have too many things to do tonight for you to push back at every turn.” He snapped his fingers and a flute appeared in his hand. “First rule of my hall? The things I own do as they’re told.”

And then he began to play, and Feyre felt her body instantly slip back into that warm, soft place she had been back in … where had she been? Bonfires and a pool and music. She liked that place. But maybe, she thought as the music nudged her, she could like this place too. She should like this place, right? And if she liked this place, then she should do what the beautiful man playing the music said. Right?

The Piper nodded as he played, his voice echoing in her head like it did at the starlight pool—Good girl. Feyre flushed with praise. Now strip for me. 

She nodded absently and reached for the fastening at her throat, flicking it open to let her cloak flop down in a sodden pile at her feet. The music danced and swooped around her, tugging on her hands whenever she hesitated, filling her up with bubbles and light until she started swaying with the melody which grew increasingly sensual as the seconds passed. She delighted in it—bathed and blanketed in the sound and the easy bliss it brought as she moved her body wherever it led. 

The rest of her clothing was not as easily dealt with, the sweater and the leggings damp and sticking as they clung to her, but even so, it was not long before they too joined her cloak on the floor.

She reached for the clasp of her bra, but the Piper’s voice stopped her.

“Wait there a moment.” He spoke out loud, and she realized that she couldn’t place when he had stopped playing the flute. Curious. She could have sworn it had been playing the whole time. She could swear it was still playing, quiet and ambient, sure, but still present. Still real. … Right?

The Piper stood a few paces away from her, his gaze hungry. “Now look at you, pet. Isn't it better to be out of those wet things?”

She nodded absently, still a little confused why the music was gone-but-not—if she strained, she could still find the whispers of its melody that invited her to sink back into that blissful, easy state.

And then even those strains petered out, and she came fully back to herself again.

Feyre looked down at herself in shock, flushing as she saw how exposed her body was through the sodden fabric of her underthings and ignoring the rush of heat that gathered in her lower stomach as she realized it. As she scrambled to cover herself by grabbing up her cloak from the ground, she whispered, “What did you just do?”

“Are you actually asking, Feyre darling?” His smile was sinful. “Because I think you know already. And I think you liked it.”

“I absolutely did not—”

“We’ll argue that point later, hmm? You need to decide if you’d like some clothes.”

“How generous,” she spat, dreading what price he might extract in exchange for something dry and warm enough to weather his hall. A shiver racked through her, and she feared that, no matter what he asked, she would have to accept it.

“Generous, handsome, delightful, cunning—the list does stretch on.”

Feyre glared at him. “Clothes, Piper.”

His eyes hardened. “Bargain for them.”

“What?”

“You want clothes, darling? Bargain for them.”

“But I don’t have—” Feyre had nothing to offer him—no money, no jewels, no Tithe. All of that was back in the Spring Court.

“Not true, love. You still have something I want.” 

“I … what?”

“Oh, pet, too hard for you?” Clucking his tongue, he took a step forward and reached a hand under her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his as he said his next words. His hand was large and warm, and Feyre had to stop herself from nuzzling into the relief it provided from the biting cold. “I’ll give you clothes in exchange for you. Taking you as payment for the naga only gives me your body.” His eyes darkened, turning predatory. “And I want more. So for two weeks each month, you give me that by serving in my court—your time, your obedience, your mind—I want to own you for those two weeks. All of you. And I want you to do so willingly. I want you to choose it.” He smiled as he said it, as if asking her to cede herself to him was nothing at all.

Perhaps for him it wasn’t. He could take her by force if he chose—he had proven that already. All he would have to do would be to pick up his flute again, and she would be beholden to his every whim, no matter how depraved.

She shivered again—and not from the cold this time, she acknowledged with no small measure of horror at her reaction, as she imagined what some of the things he might ask her would be—and reached up and pushed his hand away roughly, although she mourned the warmth of his body as he let go easily. “No. It’s too much.”

He hummed, and then said, “You were right that I could take it, darling. Very astute.”

Could he hear her thoughts? How else would he have known—“Get out of my mind, Piper.”

“It’s not my fault that you’re shouting your every thought at me,” he chided. “I’m just reminding you who holds the leash here, pet. So, yes, I could take it all, and I will, if I must.” His eyes flashed, and his expression turned hard, mean. “And for my trouble, I think I’d find it necessary to return to Spring—just to punish them for sending me such defiant payment.”

Feyre swallowed tightly. It was their fault she was even here—well, Tamlin and Ianthe’s—but still, she didn’t want the Piper to wreck the Spring Court. There were innocents there, and people that she loved. People like … what was his name? She just had it. People like … Tamlin. Yes, Tamlin. She loved Tamlin. Right?

The trickle of a melody in the back of her mind made it hard to remember exactly what she was supposed to feel.

The Piper smiled as if he hadn’t just threatened her and her home. “But as I said, I’d prefer you to choose it.”

“Why?” What reason could he give for wanting it to be her choice? And why her? Was it just punishment for Spring’s behavior? Was it just something to lord over them—a future Lady humiliated by her own choice?

He cut his eyes at her. “My reasons are my own.”

“Well, they’re twisted.”

He nodded in unbothered acknowledgement. “Is that a no?”

Feyre hesitated. She didn’t want to say yes—it was hard enough in Spring to give over some of herself to whatever Tamlin wanted her to be in her role as future Lady—the dresses and the poise and the restraint didn’t come naturally. And to give the Piper more than that?

But she wondered if agreeing would give her at least some measure of control—she’d much rather know what she was doing, no matter how heinous the request became. And she’d save Spring; there were innocents who didn’t deserve to be caught up in the mess that Tamlin made between the courts. It was the good choice. It was the right choice.

And so what if there was something delicious to the letting go and sinking into the thoughtless cloud of his flute song? She should be disgusted by it—she was disgusted by it. She was. Her reaction earlier to the thought of his control was just some remnant of the Spring Court’s Calanmai magic coursing through her. Nothing more. 

So she countered. “Five days.”

“One week.”

“One week.” Her agreement was reluctant, but she suspected the Piper wasn’t about to be any more conciliatory than he already had been. 

“Excellent.” He smiled and rolled up his sleeves, looking far too satisfied. “Our week begins tonight.” 

And then a blinding pain burned in her left arm, starting in her fingertips and racing upwards until it reached her shoulder. It left whorls of blue black ink in its wake that covered her entire arm in intricate lacework, brutal and beautiful all at once. 

“Look, darling, we match.” Before Feyre could react to her new tattoo, the Piper grabbed her hand and held it up against his own heavily tattooed forearm. “It is customary in my court for bargains to be marked upon the skin.”

She glowered at him, but he waved her anger away easily. “It’s not as if you were returning to your precious Spring anyway. And now you look like you belong in my court.” A possessive gleam flared in his eyes before he snapped his fingers. “As bargained, your clothes.”

In a fraction of a second, her wet underthings and cloak disappeared into mist, leaving in their place a gown of black, sparkling silk.

Although gown was a generous term to describe it, Feyre thought as she looked down at herself. Two diaphanous sheets of nearly sheer fabric covered her breasts—barely—before meeting in a belt slung low across her hips. Panels of fabric hung vertically between her legs from the belt, only just wide enough to cover her most sensitive areas. The rest of her was left on display.

And yet despite all the skin that the dress bared, she was finally warm. She nearly whimpered in shock at the difference. The cold didn’t bite so fiercely at her limbs anymore, and although she could still feel it, its touch was more like that of a purring cat wrapping itself around her. It was like the cold of the Night Court recognized her now, and she was—for better or worse—part of it. 

That, or the Piper had some heating magic he finally decided to use to keep her warm now that he had tricked her into a bargain. Which, she reflected, was far more likely.

In either case, she could hear flute music again as well—not enough to drown out her thoughts, but something hovering at the edges, smudging and blurring things just enough to keep her from screaming in horror.

“This is not what I meant by clothes.”

“And yet in my court, they’re the only ones you’ll get. You should have bargained more carefully, darling.” He raked his eyes over her, his gaze searing. Prick. “Besides, you have to look the part after all.”

Feyre started. “And what part is that?” She looked like a heathen god’s plaything, dressed for pleasure and little else.

“You’ll see, pet. Come, we have matters of the court to attend to.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, and Feyre finally took a moment to look around the hall in which they were standing.

It was lovely, albeit in a severe, elegant way. The walls were entirely black, almost as if they had been hollowed out of obsidian, but strategically placed sconces and hovering fae lights illuminated the space until it glowed softly. There was something almost seductive to the warm pools of light that pocketed the overwhelming darkness, and Feyre found herself imagining how she would paint a picture of the hall if she had the chance. Just getting the shadows and light right would take her ages, and she could feel the tips of her fingers tingle with the desire to pick up a paintbrush.

While she was surveying the hall, the Piper had moved a few paces away and taken a seat on a throne. If it had not itself been stone, Feyre would have sworn that it had grown up out of the floor. It looked as if it had always been exactly where it was placed and would remain there long after she and everyone who knew her had been sung into the embrace of the Mother’s arms.

Her eyes snagged on another throne next to the Piper’s. The two were nearly identical, but where his seemed to swallow any ambient light, the other appeared to glow slightly as if lit from within. If she strained, Feyre could just make out the thousand chips of black diamond embedded in the rock that were responsible for the effect. She wondered who the throne was for—did the Piper have a wife? A Lady? And how would she feel about him bringing home a harlot—or whatever it was Feyre was supposed to be in the Night Court? 

The Piper sat in the chair easily, watching her. “Pleased with what you see?”

She was. Despite the anxiety she felt spiking through her at the thought of what her place might be in his court, Feyre could admit that his hall was objectively lovely. Severe and sharp and intimidating, and yet—there was a warmth to the darkness now, a parting of some curtain that offered her an entry into a world that something in her recognized as home. She found it far more comfortable than anything she had ever known from her life in Spring.

She wondered what that said about her.

But she didn’t have an answer—didn’t want an answer—and certainly wasn’t about to tell the Piper anything positive at all. 

So she borrowed a trick that used to annoy … someone … into leaving her alone, rolling her eyes and huffing petulantly, but not saying anything.

The Piper frowned at that, and some stupid, feral part of her grinned at his reaction. “If you’re going to act like a child, Feyre, darling, I’ll have to treat you like one.” His voice was a warning.

But she ignored it, for she remembered being told something similar in a different hall—a brighter hall. The memory was hazy, as if it had happened to her long, long ago. Perhaps she actually had been a child then. She couldn’t remember, and the quiet arpeggios that seemed to dance in the back of her mind kept distracting her any time she thought she might be getting close to an answer.

She shook her head to clear it, and suddenly felt a heavy weight on her scalp that she hadn’t noticed before. Gingerly raising a hand to her head, she brushed against something circular that was metallic and cold. Did he just put her in a crown? 

Her temper flared at the insult—because it must be an insult; what kind of depraved court would parade a harlot as a queen?—and before she could stop herself, she snapped, “You wouldn’t dare.”

The Piper raised an eyebrow. “Normally I would send naughty children to bed.” He smiled menacingly, and a flash of fear sparked through Feyre at what he was implying. “But we’ll save that for later, darling.”  Feyre felt herself sink in relief at the delay, however temporary it might be.

He paused, considering his next words. “I had wanted to introduce you to my court as your first act in my service. And I still will,” he said, nodding to himself as he made a decision, “but misbehaving children have to sit on a lap. They don’t get their own chairs.”

With a snap, the glowing throne disappeared. Only the Piper’s remained.

Feyre’s eyes widened. Had it been … for her? Feyre didn’t know what to make of that. Why would the Piper give her a throne? She wondered if it was just another part of the joke of the crown, but she doubted it somehow—it felt like too much. 

The Piper patted his lap, not looking particularly sorry at all at the prospect of sharing his throne.

Feyre scoffed at the audacity of the action and stayed where she was. She had chosen to be his to order around for the week—as if it was any choice at all—but she was thrown by whatever confusing display the Piper seemed to have dreamed up to … humiliate her? 

“Trying to break our bargain already?” If anything, the Piper sounded amused. “It’s alright—we’ll train it out of you, you stubborn thing, don’t worry.” He raised his flute, and as he began playing the first few notes of the melody she could now recognize as hers, she heard his voice in her head. We’ll make a good girl out of you yet.

Feyre knew what to expect this time—the warmth, the fall, the bliss—and a traitorous part of her welcomed it. It was easy in this space. There was no one to perform for, no one to fight. There was just Feyre. Feyre and the Piper.

Feyre and Rhys, a voice seemed to prompt, demanding, and dreamily, she agreed: just Feyre and Rhys. Feyre and Rhys. She liked the sound of the names together, and she felt a simple smile bloom across her face. Feyre and Rhys.

As if drawn in by an invisible rope, she crossed the space between them and carefully climbed into his lap, relaxing into his chest once she was perched atop his knee. He was warm and firm and broad, and some part of her purred into contentment at how easily she fit into his lap. Her head was full of music and the refrain of Feyre-and-Rhys, and the smell of sea salt and citrus filled her nose, and Feyre thought that she had never been happier.

“Ready to greet my court, love? We still have the holiday to celebrate after all.” Rhys spoke out loud, his flute apparently returned to whatever pocket dimension he kept it in.

She tilted her head up to look at him, her lips accidentally brushing against his throat as she did so. She let herself linger there for a moment, humming her answer into his skin instead of speaking out loud—he tasted warm and slightly salty, and Feyre felt a rush somewhere low in her stomach as she heard him swallow thickly.

“Be on your best behavior, darling. Can you do that for me? I’ll give you a treat after if you do.”

Feyre nodded dreamily, moving her lips away from Rhys’s neck to smile up at him. She liked treats. 

“Good girl.”

With a wave of his hand, two heavy stone doors at the far end of the hallway opened, and Feyre watched as the Night Court entered to greet their Lord.

They entered in small groups with families and friends clustered together as they swanned into the hall. Like their Lord, the citizens of Night were dressed almost entirely in black, although sparks of color from glittering gemstones flickered here and there to punctuate the darkness. There was some formality to the way the courtiers moved through the space, much like Feyre was used to in Spring, and yet—there was a wildness as well, some razor edge underneath that seemed ready to burst into either violence or sex depending on how the evening went. 

She would not have guessed that they were a people who lived entirely underground—nor was she sure that was true anymore. There were two fae in particular who would disprove that theory, for they each bore a set of magnificent wings. What kind of world would keep fae like them locked underground? As dangerous as she knew the Piper to be, he didn’t seem needlessly cruel. The nagas’ relatively merciful deaths were proof enough of that.

With that thought, Feyre realized that she could think again. The music hadn’t left, still dancing in the back of her mind as if it was being played by someone three rooms away with the door open, nearly imperceptible unless you knew how to listen. And Feyre did know how to listen for her melody—because it was hers, and a small, greedy part of her purred at owning some part of the Piper. 

But she could close the door to it now and make her mind her own again. Mostly. The music wouldn’t be gone, but it would at least be walled off, away from the part of her that just needed to figure out what was going on.

She was on the Piper’s lap, and she realized absently that he had gently twisted a hand through her hair and was alternating playing with strands of it and lightly scratching her scalp. It was delicious, and she hated how she leaned into his touch like some cosseted pet. 

But she didn’t pull away.

The two winged fae had made their way to the throne, and although they bowed to the Piper, the hint of mirth in their faces told Feyre that they were closer to the male than their formality indicated. They were impossibly large and unnervingly handsome, each dressed in formfitting black leather that was accented with softly glowing gemstones of red and blue. They were warriors, perhaps, or military leaders; Feyre could tell that they lacked the slickness she had come to associate with trained courtiers.

Perhaps—perhaps they would help her. The one with red siphons looked kind at least, his smile ready and easy. Perhaps if he knew she didn’t want to be here—in this court, on this lap—he would hide her or help her escape. He looked powerful enough to take on the Piper. And sure, the Piper had his flute, but the citizens of Night had to have developed some kind of resistance to it, right? She just had to hope that was true for the male with the red gemstones.

It was risky. Too risky, certainly, but Feyre didn’t know what other chance she might have. 

So she took it. The next time that the male’s eyes flicked toward her, she launched herself at him, intending to scream and plead and beg for him to help get her out of this nightmare. 

But she never got the chance. The moment she left the Piper’s lap, she was drawn up short by something tight wrapping around her neck and yanking her back until she unceremoniously collapsed in a heap at the foot of the throne. Something else pushed itself into her mouth and stifled her screams. Feyre could feel the eyes of the courtiers bite at all the skin her stupid gown revealed, and she scrambled to right it and pull herself into a normal sitting position.

She looked up at the Piper to curse him, gag be damned, and noticed that he held a thin leash made of whispery shadow that led to her neck. She started scrabbling at it, trying to yank it off or dispel whatever magic was keeping it in place, and only a sharp tug from the Piper that left her gasping for air made her stop.

She wheezed, trying to regain her breath, and he tutted, “I thought you were going to be my good girl, Feyre. Why bother making a bargain with me at all if you never intended to fulfill your end of it? Poor form, pet.” To emphasize the name, he tugged on the shadow leash until Feyre was forced to move closer and lay her head on his leg like some docile, adoring beast. He waved a hand lazily, and two more ropes of shadow twisted toward her, looping around her wrists and ankles to hold her in place.

Satisfied that she was sufficiently bound, the Piper turned to the two winged males. “My apologies, Cassian, Azriel. I had hoped for you to meet my darling Feyre under better circumstances, but it seems like she still has a great deal to learn about the rules of my hall before she’s ready to be brought out in company.”

The one with the red siphons laughed and cracked his neck. “You know I’m always happy to help break a new pet in.”

From her position on the ground, Feyre glared at the male, cursing herself bitterly for ever thinking that he might be kind to her. 

But the Piper shook his head. “No, I believe this is a lesson I must drive home myself. But perhaps later. I’m sure she would benefit from the repetition.”

Feyre blanched. Was he offering …? Subtly, she pulled at her bindings, trying to see if there was any give. She couldn’t just sit here while they discussed her fate like this. 

The Piper looked down at her and smiled indulgently even though he had almost certainly felt her try to free herself. “I still have business with my general and spymaster, love, but I can see you’re growing bored. Entirely my fault. Do you need something to keep you entertained? I think you do.” He smiled cruelly. “And besides, the rest of my court will enjoy the show.”

She looked at him in confusion. What show did he mean?

“We just have to help you find the proper encouragement.”

“Wait, no—” Feyre tried to protest around the shadow gag, but her muffled words were cut off by the curious feeling of the Piper rifling through her mind. It didn’t hurt—a small mercy, perhaps—but it was decidedly odd. She hadn’t felt his intrusions before, but this time he was so present, clearly searching for something. She wondered what it could be, and then—

“Clever trick, darling.”

She realized what he had found. The music.

“Locking my music away? No wonder you’re so grumpy. That’s a lot of work for a little thing like you, hmm? Let me help.”

The Piper pushed open the door to the room in her mind where she had walled off his music, and Feyre felt it begin to seep out, driving away her thoughts and her irritation and her fear until she felt all the tension in her body bleed away. 

She sighed and let her body recline languidly against the Piper’s—Rhys’—leg, perfectly at ease using his knee as a headrest. As she settled herself with her hands folded neatly in her lap, she realized that he had banished the bindings around her arms and legs and the gag from her mouth so she could be more comfortable. She was still wearing the shadow leash, but it didn’t feel quite so restrictive anymore, and, she decided happily, it looked quite good with her gown. She smiled up at Rhys, who was looking down at her fondly.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you. Ready to give us our show, pet?”

Feyre nodded. She still didn’t quite know what kind of show he meant, but any anxiety she felt about it had evaporated the moment she could hear his music again. She knew it would tell her what to do. All she had to do was follow. A hazy warmth suffused her limbs and danced through her body, quietly pulsing in between her legs, and she sighed an easy, breathy moan.

The Piper grinned at the sound as he looked down at her at his feet. “Enjoy, pet.”

He turned his attention back to the two fae in front of him, but Feyre barely registered it, for she was far too preoccupied with the movement of her left hand, which, almost unbidden, raised itself from its place in her lap to ghost over the outline of her breasts. They were still only barely covered by the straps of her gown, and as the music in her head swelled, she shrugged her shoulders out of the fabric until it hung in two loops from the belt at her hips. 

A rush of heat, delighted and embarrassed in equal measure, coursed through her as she realized that she was topless before Rhys’ court. Unconsciously, Feyre allowed her hand to begin tracing down her exposed torso, skimming over her breasts and stomach until it reached the belt at her waist. 

With a look up at Rhys, who wasn’t paying attention to her, she slipped her hand underneath the belt until her fingers brushed teasingly against her clit and she jolted at the sensation. Was this what he meant by a show? Was she to be the show? 

The music trilled encouragingly, and Feyre felt a bolt of relief shoot through her. Of course it was. She belonged to him after all. If he wanted her to perform, she was more than happy to oblige. 

Darting her fingers lower to gather some of the wetness pooling at her core, she brought her hand back up to her clit and began to rub in small, tight circles. Feyre moaned at the sensation, not bothering to stifle the sound as it echoed through the hall. She kneaded at her breast with her free hand as she did so, sighing and arching with each movement. As she climbed higher and higher, the leash around her neck tightened slightly, a firm tether grounding as she tried to chase her pleasure.

Gradually, the hall fell away from her until all that remained was the feeling of her fingers, the steady warmth of Rhys’ leg behind her, and the sensation of overwhelming need. She was close, and at the music’s prompting, she slipped a finger, and then two, into her core to try and send herself over the edge. 

But nothing worked. It was bliss and agony, too much and not enough all at once, and Feyre ground into her hand desperately as she dripped onto the stone floor. She needed to stop; she needed to keep going; she needed to come. 

A tug on her leash brought her attention back to Rhys, who was now alone, grinning wickedly at the sight of her. She assumed that she looked like a mess—flushed and sweaty, her pupils blown out—but couldn’t quite find it in herself to care as the music and her fingers drove her nearly to madness. She ground down into her hand again as she looked up at him and whimpered, “Please.” 

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Please what, Feyre?”

“I need to come. Please let me come.”

“It sounds like you want a reward, darling, but I’m not sure that you’ve been good enough for one,” he said, shaking his head.

The music in her head darkened, and she felt herself spiraling. “No, Rhys, I—please—”

“However,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “you have put on a spectacular show for our court.” He gestured out to the gathered courtiers—not that she really cared at this moment—but she obediently followed the sweep of his hand to see the crowd of people. A few were watching, leering at her topless form, but there were many others who seemed to have taken her performance as encouragement to let themselves indulge as well. Everywhere she looked, she caught flashes of skin; breathy sighs and moans seemed to blend together to form a low drone that blanketed the cavernous hall. It was sensual and debauched and wicked, but Feyre couldn’t find it in herself to be very bothered. It was still Calanmai, after all, and if she was well-suited for what its pleasures? So be it.

So she nodded feverishly in agreement. “Yes, I have—yes, please—” Her body was coiled in anticipation, the pressure and promise and need and desire of being so close a torture she didn’t think she could endure much longer. The music in her head was building again, the melody arching high and fast as if it too was getting ready to come undone.

Rhys grinned. “And we wouldn’t want to deprive them of an ending, would we?” His voice echoed through her head as it said in time with the music, Come for your court, Feyre.

She shattered, her orgasm crashing through her with an intensity that threatened to pull her under. It was agony and ecstasy, and Feyre felt herself slump in a sated heap against Rhys’ leg as the aftershocks rocked through her, whiting out her vision and leaving a ringing in her ears until there was no hall, no music—just blissful silence.

She came back to herself a few moments later to the sensation of Rhys stroking her hair. Her limbs were shaky, and she leaned into the comfort of his hand on her body. She idly wondered at the strangeness of that. Since when had his touch become a comfort?

She realized that he was mumbling something, and she willed herself to wake up and pay attention. Slowly, his words filtered in. “That was beautiful, darling. So good. My good girl.” He spoke to her like he was praying, a litany of praise dropping from his lips as he waited for her to make her way back to him. 

Feyre basked in it. She was a good girl—his good girl. 

… Right? 

He had vanished the leash at some point and hadn’t placed any new shadow restraints on her limbs. Her mind was still quiet, the room that held Rhys’ music muted for a moment. If she wanted to, she could stand up and escape from this nightmare for a moment—well, she could try to, at least. She should try to. Right?

But she didn’t move.

Rhys reached down to cup her chin in his hand and tilt her face up to his. “Thank you for being so patient for me while I finished my work. Now are you ready to help me truly celebrate Calanmai?”

She started to lean away, but he tightened his fingers on her jaw and didn’t let go, forcing her to look at him. “None of that, darling. Come celebrate with me.”

Feyre almost wept. Why her? “Anyone here would take my place,” she said, gesturing out at the assembled courtiers. “Am I not humiliated enough for you?” 

But Rhys—the Piper—Rhys shook his head and stood. “This isn’t humiliation, Feyre.” As if to prove his point, he took her hand and pulled her up from where she was still crumpled at the foot of the throne until she stood facing him. “This is ruination. This is possession. I don’t want another person, I want my ma—I want what’s mine.”

“But I’m not—”

“I own your time. I own this dress. I own this mind. And I own your pleasure. What else is there to you, darling?” He looked down at her hand that was still in his and, almost tenderly, traced the whorls of her tattoo as he spoke. “There’s no room for anyone but me.”

“Rhys—”

“Shh, shh, love. It’s alright. Allow me the pleasure of convincing you.” And before Feyre could protest, he picked her up and placed her gently on his throne.

Frozen, Feyre watched Rhys drop gracefully to his knees in front of her.

He moved the fabric of her skirt to the side almost reverently, and, leaning forward, gave a long, languid lick to her core with the flat of his tongue. His groan of satisfaction rose over the chorus of pleasured moans in the hall, and something strangely territorial in Feyre exulted in the sound she drew from him.

He ran his tongue along her again, and Feyre whimpered, her body bowing slightly off of the throne at the sensation. She was still oversensitive from her first climax, but Rhys didn’t seem to care, only throwing an arm over her hips to pin them in place.

He began lapping at her in earnest, teasing and tasting with a ferocity that, in the space of only a few breaths, drove Feyre up to the very edge again.

She was writhing against him, almost grinding into his face as he shifted his hands to grab either side of her hips and pull her further down onto his face. She knew she shouldn’t want this, that she shouldn’t want to let him touch her like this.

But fuck it, she did. He was on his knees for her, after all. Why shouldn’t she allow herself to enjoy it?

Some part of her resistance crumbled at that thought, and she moaned loudly as she came. “Rhys, I—”

He didn’t take his mouth off of her as he worked her through her climax, but she heard his voice in her mind. That’s it. Good girl. So perfect. My perfect little mate.

Feyre stilled, the word coursing through her with a shocking clarity, and she gasped down at him. “Mate?”

As she said the word, she could hear the melody of her song—their song, the song of their bond—filling her head once again. Rhys hadn’t played it for some time, nor would he need to, she realized. She could sense it now, woven into the very fabric of her being. Even as an unaccepted bond, its magic was so present, so visceral and electric that Feyre almost dreaded to think of what it would become when—no, if—they accepted it. She wondered if it would ever relinquish its hold on her.

There was a tug somewhere in her chest, and it gently mocked her with the answer.

Never.

“Mate,” Rhys affirmed, his satisfaction clear in the way the word dripped smugly from his lips. “You’re my mate. Why do you think I sent the naga to Spring?”

“What?” Feyre stared at him, still on his knees before her, an unrepentant smile lighting up his eyes. He was responsible for the naga? But they had shown up weeks before—

“I felt my mate in another court. What else was I supposed to do but bring her home?”

“But with naga? People died!”

Rhys growled, his eyes turning cold. He stood and leaned over her, bracketing her head with his hands as he did so. “I would sacrifice my whole court, all my power, all my pride, if it meant having you, darling. Doing so in another court is nothing to me.”

Feyre shivered. His intensity should have terrified her. She should be horrified by the lengths he would go to to have her.

It didn’t. And she wasn’t.

“So, Feyre, darling. Mate.” He purred the word. “What do you say? Will you celebrate Calanmai with your High Lord?”

She looked at him, waiting for him to reach into her mind and flood her head with his music until she said yes. He had proven that he could—that he would—use it to make her do whatever he wanted. So why not Calanmai? Why not the mating bond? 

But nothing happened—her mind was still, silent. Feyre looked down at him in confusion.

Rhys shook his head.“No, darling. I want you to choose. Choose this. Choose me. Say yes.”

She hesitated, relief and irritation flashing through her in equal measure that he wasn’t simply forcing her hand. 

Because it would be one thing to accept Rhys, abandon the Spring Court, and leave Tamlin if she had no choice. That was understandable. That was forgivable. If they told her story, they would describe her as a martyr, some poor girl caught in the crossfire of a war between the courts who had no choice but to succumb to the darkness. A pitiable pawn.

Did she want that? Was that who she wanted to be?

But the alternative—what would it mean if she said yes? If the darkness held out a hand in offer and she took it willingly? What kind of fae did that make her?

And yet—Feyre wanted to say yes. The word hung on the tip of her tongue as she stared at Rhys who still loomed over her, waiting for her answer. It wasn’t just because of the mating bond, although she knew that its tug would make any answer other than yes viscerally painful. But she didn’t want to be a martyr for Spring, its poor almost-Lady lost to the ravages of Night. That was not her story—she was not some weak damsel whose prince did his best but lost her in the end. 

Feyre wanted a better story, one that saw her and her darkness. And she wanted a partner who would do so as well. And Rhys—she sensed that if she said yes to him here, he would lay the world at her feet for as long as he drew breath. She would be his to own, but she would own him all the same. Wouldn’t she? Why else would he have made her a throne, dressed her in a crown, worked so hard to possess her if he didn’t want to be owned by her in return? Would that—would he—be enough to let go of herself, to sink into the abyss, to serve in the Piper’s court for the rest of her days?

Yes.

He leaned in. “Say it, Feyre.”

She tilted her face up to his, moving closer until their lips were almost touching. “Yes.”

And the Piper grinned, his smile all gleaming possession and wildness and satisfaction as he closed the distance between them and sealed their agreement with a kiss.

As his lips met hers, Feyre felt the music in her head rise once more, drowning the Feyre of Spring out for good until all that was left of her was the warm, easy bliss of being owned by the Piper of Night.

He smiled at her, a hand outstretched in offer.

She took it. It was Calanmai, after all, and she owed her court a celebration.