Fuck yes, Feysand!

 “Are you nervous?” Rhys tries again. I make some non-comital little shrug. He reaches out a hand and places it on my thigh. I flinch a little from surprise and then try and settle under his touch. We’re actually sat very close, the balcony is small, but still, it startles me.  

“Sorry, I just…” I stumble, my voice hesitant.

“I know, don’t worry. We can take our time, we’ve got all night.” He stretches back in his chair, while massaging my bare skin. Even this tiny touch is almost overpowering, but he’s gentle with it. He has been this whole time, really. Cautious. “Do you want to talk about it? Your anxiety I mean?”

I can feel the callouses on his palm as he softly strokes the inside of my thigh, fingertips brushing the hem of my skirt. I search for something in the trees to looks at to focus on, having given up on my counting of all the stars in the sky. Then I get distracted, my gaze drifting back to the wine in my hand. I take a sip but it’s sour in my mouth so I put the glass down on the table to fiddle with my sleeve instead. Rhys watches this whole series of events, frowning. The silence between us builds, until it’s louder than the wind and bird song in the forest.

“I don’t want you to feel pressured darling,” He says eventually, “we can try another time if this is too much, ok?”

“No – I, I want to …” I swallow, trailing off. He’s listening so intently, watching my every word. “Sorry” I mummer, avoiding his eyes again.

“Please don’t apologise.” he takes a long final sip of his wine, then places it down on the table. Then, he pushes the table out of the way further, to get closer to me. Leans his elbows on his knees, keenly facing me. Takes my hand in his two, running his thumbs along my skin. Soothing, sweet. He lets out a soft sigh, then lets go of my hand. I draw it back close, hug my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them.

“With… everything that happened with Tamlin, I find it hard.” My voice is stagnant at first, but then the words tumble out of me “Being with someone else, I mean. I tried, after we broke up, but I couldn’t even kiss anyone. I feel like I can be bold for a second, and it’s easy, like sometimes I can do it, and then I’m hit with it again and I’m back to square one. I went on a few dates afterwards, but I felt” I roll my head back, looking up at the night sky “I feel like I’m cheating on him. Like even right now.”

“Feyre,” Rhys says softly.

“I know.” I mutter. “It’s been months, I should be over it by now. But I- “ I swallow, “I loved him so much. More than I thought was even possible. Sorry I know I shouldn’t be talking about him, it’s the last thing you’d want to hear and I know how he treated me was wrong, I get that – I just -” I hesitate, and say, almost under my breath “I can’t stop thinking about you, and it makes me feel like a lying, cheating, piece of trash and I - ”

“You’re not. You’re not anything like that, Feyre please.” He cuts me off, reaching for my hand again. I let him take it. “Your love doesn’t change what he did.”

I shrug, looking down at where he holds me, his fingers wrapped around mine. I want to let go and draw my hand back and hide it.

“Doesn’t it? If you love someone enough…” I mutter.

Rhys looks at me sympathetically “You’ve got a big heart darling.”

“Wish I fucking didn’t.”

“No, don’t say that. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

“I waste it on the wrong people though.” I tuck my head behind my knees and look at him over them.

He allows my words hang for a second and then lets out a low breath “Are you sure you’re up to this? We can still go out tomorrow for a walk, there’s no pressure.”

I shake my head. “No, I want to. I Just. Wanted to explain. Why I’m inconsistent.”

He smiles softly and squeezes my hand. “Thank you. I already knew though.”

“It feels better to say it out loud.” I mutter.

“I get that. Do you want to say anything else?”

I shake my head once more “Probably better if I don’t.”

Rhys looks away like he’s trying to think of something. Softly, speaking to the forest, he says “You know, this is just another way to pass the time. That’s all. We’ve already done everything else. You’re by no doubt bored of reading and playing chess by now, aren’t you?” 

“Only a little.” I smile weakly, and he returns the expression.

“Come over here, then.” Rhys says, delicately. I hesitate, but only for a second. Then I make my way over to him, settling down on his outstretched legs. His hand rests on my waist as if that were its natural place. The other is on my face, gently brushing my hair behind my ear. All of his touch is soft, calm. We’re so - close. It’s almost like I’ve never been this close to someone before, even though I sat in his lap just like this, a mere few days ago. He lifts my face towards his, his eyes traveling to my lips.

“You’ll be fine as soon as we get going.” He murmurs before kissing me. Softly, just a peck. He pulls back watching my eyes, seeing if he can continue. I nod my head and lean into him and let him kiss me again. His hand moves to the back of my head, pushing me closer. I find myself moving my own hands along his chest, up to his exposed collarbone, then his neck. A stray thought pops up at the back of my mind, some memory of an argument over misinterpreted messages, but I squash it back down. Ignore it, breathe through it, and trace where Rhys’ tattoos start, usually hidden from view. My breathing starts to even out, matching his. I readjust myself so I’m straddled more comfortably, closer to him. Then brush my fingers against his necklace and take it in two, the metal cold in my hand. I bury my other hand into his hair. He kisses me harder and I open my mouth for him, and then, finally, the thoughts quiet. Just like he said they would.

The only thing I can think about are his hands, the taste of him, the way his body feels beneath me.

Crocuses and daffodils lined the path to my family's estate, poking their heads out of the thawed earth. My heart squeezed at the thought of Elain planting them. She must have spent the winter sourcing seeds and bulbs, and I wished circumstances had allowed Illyrian snowdrops to bloom in her garden, too.

Flowers from above the Wall could get my family killed by their neighbors; Nesta had forbid me from speaking to Elain for good reason. Perhaps after this visit with the queens, with the human realm secure, that could change…

The Illyrians and Mor arrived with me—Amren had stayed behind to guard the city—and Nesta pulled the door open before I could knock. "Get inside before you're spotted," she said by way of greeting.

Even under the lofty, vaulted ceiling, the grand entry hall felt cramped with three sets of Illyrian wings, plus Mor as well. They'd all dimmed their power, but no one could mistake the fae for anything but ordinary. I made the necessary introductions as Nesta stood, stiff-backed and eyes narrowed in suspicion.

She didn't grant anything more than icy civility. Not even for me or Cassian.

By the time we all arranged ourselves in the sitting room to wait, tension practically rolled off her narrow shoulders in waves. Rhys leaned casually against the mantel, hands in his pockets, but a near-identical thrum of anxiety pulled our mating bond painfully taut.

We had one last chance to prevent a war today. And it would take sacrificing Velaris to do it.

No one felt much like talking; the ticking of the elaborately carved clock in the corner sounded impossibly loud as it counted down the seconds until the queens were due to arrive.

Azriel's head snapped towards Rhys. In the half-second between heartbeats, I registered the meaningful look he shot my mate, a sure sign they were speaking mind-to-mind.

And then a wave of pure darkness swept me backwards.

It wrapped around me like a shield, herding me behind Rhys. Cassian drew the sword at his hip. Nesta swore.

I attempted to peer around Rhys, but those massive wings had erupted from his back. He stretched them wide, protecting me but obstructing my view in the process. I yanked on the bond, too startled to bother with words.

Azriel's shadows captured an intruder with a knife, he explained.

Mor had leaped to her feet as well, shifting out of her chiffon gown and into fighting leathers. She hadn't brought weapons—we were, after all, trying to convince the queens we came in peace—but she was more than capable of ripping up an enemy with her teeth and bare hands anyway.

The door creaked as it swung open. The darkness and Rhys's aggravatingly broad shoulders continued to block my line of sight, but I caught the sound of uneven, stumbling footsteps, a prisoner being dragged in for questioning.

"She was crouched under one of the exterior windows, attempting to eavesdrop," Azriel said aloud. A threat lurked in his words—the voice of the High Lord's torturer, a male who made himself at home in Hewn City's subterranean interrogation rooms.

The spy's answering sob was…devastatingly human.

My eyes slid to Nesta, who'd found herself in a similar position, shoved behind Cassian. Her face drained of color, and guilt stabbed at my heart. The point of this entire endeavor had been to prevent violence reaching my family's doorstep, but here we were.

I crouched to watch through the gap between Rhys's wing and his hip, not that it helped. The teeming mass of Azriel's shadows made it difficult to see much more than a petite silhouette. The spy struggled against the shadows binding her in place, and the occasional flash of a mauve gown or golden-brown hair cut through the writhing, wriggling ribbons of dark.

Nesta rested a hand on Cassian's elbow, and he allowed her to lower his sword a few inches. Just enough to clear her line of sight.

"You idiots," she hissed. "That's Elain."

Sunlight streamed into the room again, and I blinked while several people began talking at once. Rhys let his wings fade into mist, but my eyes stung too much to watch the scuffle that was unfolding where Nesta had just stood.

"You were supposed to protect the both of us."

"My shadows don't—"

"How many times will we have this conversation, Az?"

"By the fucking Cauldron!"

Shadows continued to hover around Elain, floating close by but no longer touching her. She clutched a garden trowel, and the tremors in her hands sent flecks of dirt falling onto the ornate woven rug.

Cassian had grabbed Nesta, who was glaring at Azriel as she struggled against the corded muscle of Cassian's forearms. Spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and she snarled like a faerie, lips pulled back from her teeth.

I stepped out from behind Rhys. "Everyone leave so I can speak to my sisters alone. I'll sort this out before the queens arrive."

The faeries followed my order without hesitation or complaint—even Azriel's shadows peeled themselves from Elain and followed him to the door. She watched them all with the wide, frightened eyes of a doe, but the shaking in her hands ceased.

Though the situation called for a quick disappearance, I was grateful none of them winnowed. A display of magic might send Elain into hysterics.

"My apologies," Rhys said. "While you ladies talk, I'll find out what possessed my spymaster to mistake a common garden implement for a weapon. An oversight like this won't happen again."

He'd moved to follow the others out the hall when Nesta's hand shot out. Her fingers closed around his wrist like a vise, keeping him put. "Don't try weaseling your way out of this," she said.

"I plan to mete out any necessary discipline myself." Such a diplomatic way to say he planned to kick Azriel's ass; I held back a snort.

"Let Cassian or your Second take care of it. Don't take our name then avoid facing the consequences of your actions. Especially where it concerns Elain. Handle this family matter with me, Rhysand Archeron."

Rhys's throat bobbed. Just like the night I'd summoned him to Nesta's darkened bedroom to hand-deliver stationery, an understanding passed between my mate and my sister. Not courtier bullshit or mind-to-mind communication, but, I suspected, an eldest sibling's heavy mantle of responsibility. My mind drifted back to the memory of that laughing half-Illyrian female I'd never meet.

Nesta released his arm, and Rhys strode back towards my side. Elain tracked his steps across the room, the way he stood so close to me, my natural inclination to lean into him.

"What have you all been keeping from me?" she breathed.

Explaining all that had passed since Tamlin took me would take hours, but with the queens arriving soon, we didn't have time to start at the beginning. But I had no idea how to summarize it all, and the longer my sisters looked at me expectantly, the blanker my mind went.

Rhys flicked his wrist, and I winced at a tang of magic on my tongue. A silver tea service materialized out of thin air, steam curling from the spout of the kettle as it began to pour of its own accord. "I believe you may want to sit down for this," he said.

Ever the gentleman, he remained on his feet until Nesta sank back down on the sofa. Rhys was too well-mannered to sit until the hostess did first, and it was the sort of small act of deference that my mother had trained my sisters to appreciate before she died.

I'd never learned to care about that sort of nicety, but it gave me a few precious moments to collect my thoughts. I pushed a pulse of gratitude across the bond.

Elain didn't take a cup, not even after Nesta had pointedly taken a sip of her own to prove Rhys hadn't poisoned it. I clutched mine in one hand, and Elain wrenched her gaze away from Rhys's pointed ears as I interlaced the fingers of my other hand with his.

"There is no Aunt Ripleigh," I said, "but when you asked if I'd met someone, you came close to the truth. Rhysand is my…er, husband. We met in Prythian."

Beside me, Rhys shifted, as if preparing to bow or offer his hand. Elain turned to Nesta. "You knew about this?"

"When that beast took Feyre away, he cast a spell on you and father. To make you forget. But for whatever reason, it didn't work on me," Nesta said.

Elain blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Those claw marks on the door…"

Tamlin wasn't a daemati; even with the power of a High Lord, all he could do was cast a thin film around memories with a glamour, not rewrite them entirely. One mention of the truth, and his spell had disintegrated like a cobweb in a strong breeze.

"Rhys isn't the faerie who took me away," I said quickly.

Elain finally reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup. I'd never known her to drink it without sugar, but instead of reaching for a spoon, she tightened her grip on the mug. "I see."

"You were safer not knowing Feyre's whereabouts," Nesta said. "If anyone found out, we'd lose every scrap of social standing we have. No one will do business with Fae sympathizers—Father would have lost his business all over again. It would ruin us."

"Does Father know?"

Nesta shook her head. "Just me."

Elain pressed her lips together in a thin line, and another heavy silence fell over the sitting room. She went almost as still as a faerie, save the movement of her hands as she folded them into her lap.

I said, "I can explain more this afternoon, but war may break out above the Wall and spill into the human lands. A slave-holding bitch of a general weakened Prythian, and Rhys and I only managed to get rid of her recently. We haven't had time for social calls."

Elain sniffed. "But there was time for a wedding."

Gods. I needed to find a more succinct way to explain that a magical stag had eased my way to a mate chosen by the Mother herself.

Rhys cut in, smooth as silk. "It was more of an elopement. Circumstances didn't allow for guests, unfortunately."

That was close enough to the truth. I squeezed Rhys's hand, a silent thank you, and felt just a bit less unmoored.

"Well." Elain's voice took on an odd, clipped tone as she smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle from her skirts. "Then if Rhysand wasn't preventing Feyre from coming home, both of you must have conspired with him to keep this secret."

Nesta let her teacup hit the saucer with a clatter. "To protect you. There was still a chance you'd reveal the truth by accident, and if you hadn't been foolish enough to skulk around—"

"I'm not a child!" Elain cried. "All of you had no right to decide I was too weak to handle anything difficult—no right at all. I'm perfectly capable of keeping a secret when required."

"I was taking care of it so you didn't have to."

Elain turned to me, and I'd never seen her brown eyes flash with such anger. "And you didn't fight her, Feyre? All those years squabbling with Nesta over nothing, but you couldn't stand up to her when it matted?"

"You don't understand the half of it," I hissed.

"After leaving for Prythian and finding a faerie husband, you want nothing to do with your human family below the Wall. There's nothing complicated about that," Elain said.

A roaring filled my ears, so loud it drowned out Nesta's response. I leaped to my feet before I knew what I was doing, and I felt like I was small again, a scrawny thing in a mud-stained dress, ready to yank out hair, throw elbows, and bite—

Cooling darkness pushed through the crack in my shields, and Rhys calmed my temper before I said anything I might regret.

"Ladies," he said gently. "The queens will be here any minute. We'll have to continue this conversation later."

One sweep of his arm, and the tea service faded away. Elain dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve, then smoothed out her skirt and straightened her spine. By the time the rest of the Inner Circle filed back into the room, my sisters had schooled both of their faces into calm neutrality, as if our argument had never happened.

Talons brushed my shields, seeking reassurance—Rhys was nervous. Amid all the business with my sisters, I'd nearly forgotten that we planned to reveal the existence of Velaris today.

We'll be alright, I said. No matter what.

Only the eldest and the golden-haired queens came this time. They were escorted by just as many guards; prudent, considering we'd brought more warriors in our entourage today.

The eldest queen slid her cunning eyes over us, our hands, our crowns, and merely sat without our bidding, adjusting the skirts of her emerald gown around her. The golden queen remained standing for a moment longer, her shining, curly head angling slightly. Her red lips twitched upward as she claimed the seat beside her companion.

Rhys did not so much as lower his head to them as he said, "We appreciate you taking the time to see us again."

The younger queen merely gave a little nod, her amber gaze leaping over to our friends behind us: Cassian and Azriel each an imposing presence in the far corners of the room, and Mor on Rhys's other side, this time in blue-green that reminded me of the Sidra's calm waters, the onyx box containing the Veritas in her tan hands.

The ancient queen, threw a simmering glare at Nesta, who leveled a look of pure, unyielding flame right back at her. The old woman clicked her tongue. "After being so gravely insulted last time, we debated whether we should return. As you can see, three of us found the insult to be unforgivable."

Elain's head whipped towards me, realization sparking her eyes. She must have suspected Nesta was hiding something when she'd cleared out the manor for the queens' last visit, and this had just confirmed it.

But now wasn't the time. To the queens, I said, "If that is the worst insult any of you have ever received in your lives, I'd say you're all in for quite a shock when war comes."

The younger one's lips twitched again, amber eyes alight—a lion incarnate. "Bold words from a girl who's lived her entire life in peacetime."

I tamped down my irritation; she couldn't have been much older than me. Mor and I slid into our chairs on either side of Rhys, taking our places as his high-ranking officials. "So has every other human alive, which is due in part to the allyship of the Night Court. I'm grateful the Cauldron has put me in a position to build bridges between our two peoples on the eve of war returning."

"The Cauldron? And two peoples?" The golden one toyed with a ruby ring on her finger. "Our people do not invoke a Cauldron; our people do not have magic. The way I see it, there is your people—and ours. You are little better than those Children of the Blessed."

If the queen's words hadn't echoed Elain's from just a few minutes ago, I might have shrugged the comment off. Instead, I flinched.

Undeterred, the golden queen lifted a groomed brow. "What does happen to them when they cross the Wall?" She angled her head at Rhys, at Cassian and Azriel. "Does your kind find sport in hunting them like prey? Or does your Lord Rhysand control their minds so they can be more easily used, then discarded when they grow old and infirm?"

A soft gasp escaped Elain. Her lips parted, but before she could speak, Rhys said evenly, "Is there a point to your questions, other than to hear yourself talk?"

The golden queen gave low chuckle, and she turned to the ancient queen, her yellow dress rustling with the movement. The old woman simply extended a wrinkled hand to the box in Mor's slender fingers. "Is that the proof we asked for?"

Dread washed over me. We had precious seconds left, a final chance to get the book without risking Velaris.

I pulled the chain that held my mating band out from under my bodice. "Rhysand and I are wed—is our love not proof enough of our good intentions?" A lie, technically, but it seemed wiser to use a more human term than mate. "Does my sisters' presence here not speak to you? We're kin, human and faerie alike."

Nesta stepped closer, resting her hands on the back of Rhys's chair. She might as well have been posing for family portrait, and when this was all over, I'd paint one to hang in the House of Wind, alongside the rest of the official portraits of Night Court royalty.

In a hundred years, it would be all I'd have left of Nesta and Elain.

Before I distracted myself entirely with thoughts of color and brushstrokes, Nesta's voice pulled me back to the present. "It's true that Rhysand is an arrogant, vain bastard, but he's honorable. He's proved himself to be a fair, just ruler, and I'm fortunate to call him a brother."

The golden queen sneered. "Pretty words, though unconvincing while the other sister stands trembling and pale-faced in the corner."

Elain, indeed, looked ill, though she stood tall as the queens surveyed her. I wondered if the fae in the room could smell her fear.

"Do not," Nesta hissed with quiet venom, "judge what you know nothing about."

The golden one folded her hands in her lap. "The viper speaks again." She raised her brows at me. "Surely the wise move would have been to have her sit this meeting out."

"She offers up her house and risks her social standing for us to have these meetings," I said. "She has the right to hear what is spoken in them. To stand as a representative of the people of these lands. They both do."

The crone interrupted the younger before she could reply, and again waved that wrinkled hand at Mor. "Show us, then. Prove us wrong."

Rhys gave Mor a subtle nod. No—no, it wasn't right. Not to show them, not to reveal the treasure that was Velaris, that was my home…

War is sacrifice, Rhys said into my mind. If we do not gamble Velaris, we risk losing Prythian—and more.

He'd said it before, both alone with me and in meetings with the Inner Circle, and I'd always agreed. But that didn't stop me from wishing for a better option or my heart from crying out as Mor opened the lid of the black box.

The bond reverberated with Rhys's anguish, even as he kept a controlled countenance in front of the queens. I hardly listened as Mor removed the orb and Rhys explained it all to them, just reached across the bridge between our souls and twined my thoughts around his.

If Rhys would be the first High Lord of Night to speak of Velaris to an outsider, I wouldn't allow him to break that centuries-old edict alone.

Several excruciating minutes passed before the orb's illusion finally faded. It left the queens gaping at the carpet for another long moment. By the end of it, I wasn't sure I was breathing.

The crone raised her eyes to us. "Your trust is…appreciated."

We waited.

Both of their faces turned grave, unmoved. And I was glad I was sitting as the eldest added at last, "We will consider."

"There is no time to consider," Mor countered. "Every day lost is another day that Hybern gets closer to shattering the Wall."

"We will discuss amongst our companions, and inform you at our leisure."

"Do you not understand the risks you take in doing so?" Rhys said, no hint of condescension. Only—only perhaps shock. "You need this alliance as much as we do."

The ancient one said, "Who is to say that this is not all some grand manipulation?"

"What?" Mor blurted.

The golden queen nodded her agreement and dared say to Mor, "A great many things have changed since the War. Since your so-called friendships with our ancestors. Perhaps you are not who you say you are. Perhaps the High Lord has crept into our minds to make us believe you are the Morrigan."

Rhys was silent—we all were. Until Elain said, half to herself, "Surely that isn't possible?"

"It's the talk of madwomen. Of fools," Nesta snapped. She stalked forward a step, face white with rage. "Give them the Book."

And the eldest queen hissed, "No."

The word clanged through me, a bell that didn't stop pealing until the two women rose and their guards closed in around them. I hardly processed any of our last-ditch pleas or the rest of the refusals.

Suddenly, queens were just…gone. Winnowed away, back their palace across the sea.

I wheeled on Rhys, about to demand why he hadn't tried harder, but his eyes were on the chair where the golden queen had been seated.

And where a lead box remained.

Before I could ask how, the second piece of the Book sang to me, Hello stars eternal, night triumphant. Hello sweet-tongued liar and death incarnate, little wolf and mighty huntress…

A strangled sob interrupted the Book's stream of pure madness, and my head snapped towards the sound. With the queens gone, a dam had finally broken within Elain. Her shoulders shook as Nesta darted across the room to help her into a chair.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out, though the words meant little at this point.

"What they said about manipulating minds…" Elain breathed. "That's what you did to Greysen, isn't it?"

Rhys's shoulders slumped as if every last one of his five hundred years weighed on him. If his wings had been visible, I had no doubt they would have been drooping on the floor. "Yes, it is."

"He did it at my behest. If Greysen found out your sister was living among the fae…" Nesta said, sinking down onto the sofa next to Elain. A handkerchief appeared in her hand, but when she reached over to pass it to our sister, Elain cringed away from her.

Nesta went still. Elain buried her face in her hands, crying in earnest.

Rhys silently passed the Book to Mor. His Second gripped Azriel's elbow, murmuring something to him before they both disappeared into shadow. Back to Velaris, so Amren could begin her translation without delay.

Cassian, however, remained.

I hadn't noticed when he'd let his hand drift to the pommel of his sword, but his wings practically twitched from his need to draw it. He'd pulled them in towards his body, as if preparing for a fight, and the muscles of his jaw had gone tight.

His attention remained entirely focused on Nesta.

On protecting his mate.

"We can evacuate and continue this conversation in the House of Wind," he said, the High Lord's general issuing an order.

Nesta tore her gaze from Elain and leveled Cassian with a look of pure fury. Her lip curled, the beginning of a snarl, and—

Rhys said, "It's their choice, whether they remain here or come with us. Should they choose to remain, a unit of our soldiers will be here within the hour to guard this place. Should they wish to come live with us in that city we just showed them, they'll need to pack immediately."

"The fuck they won't," Cassian said. "This location is difficult to secure, even for the best soldiers, and the Wall makes for too much of a delay getting here in an emergency. The House is a fortress."

I cringed at the thought of my sisters cooped up there, among strangers and unable to take the ten thousand steps to the street. "They can take on the risk if that's what they prefer, but if not, the townhouse in Velaris is open to them, too." To Elain, I added, "It's the home where Rhys and I live."

Elain sat up, wiping at her red-rimmed eyes with the heels of her hands. Her lovely cheeks had gone splotchy, covered with the tracks of half-dried tears. "Go to Prythian? Have all of you gone mad?"

"Elain…" Nesta pleaded.

"How can I trust anything you've said, knowing what that man did to Greysen? Leave and take your chances if you'd like, but I'm not."

I bristled, even as Rhys placed a gentle hand on my lower back in warning. My own protective instincts had activated, and I hissed, "Rhys isn't just some man. He's my mate."

"I trust that he'll look after us," Nesta added. "He has so far—he's been good for Feyre. I meant what I said when I called him honorable."

Even as Nesta's tone gentled, Elain's posture went rigid. The garden trowel appeared in Elain's hand—by the Cauldron, had she hidden it behind her back this entire time?—as she rose to her feet, giving us all a tight smile.

Dull as the blade was, the sight of it had me stepping in front of Rhys on instinct.

"I will be staying here," Elain said simply.

Nesta pressed her eyes shut as if uttering a silent prayer, then nodded. "Then I'll stay, too."

A shudder went through Cassian, rustling his wings as he said, "Nesta, please. Don't put yourself at risk."

"My place is with Elain," she said simply, and I could almost hear her add, and not with you.

Cassian crossed to Nesta and lowered himself to his knees before her. His wings bent forward, arcing towards her, so close she could reach out and touch the sensitive membranes if she wished. Their eyes met, and for a long moment, they studied each other with such intensity, I couldn't bear to watch them.

"Five hundred years ago," he said, voice rough, "I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. If this is where you must stay, I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most."

A tear slid down Nesta's cheek. Cassian reached up to wipe it away, and she did not flinch from his touch.

I pray to the Mother that Cassian didn't just make a promise that will be impossible to keep, Rhys said through the bond.

I replied, What are you worried about?

A war will stretch us thin. I dread the day we force our general to choose between his duty at the frontlines and keeping close to his mate.

With both halves of the Book, that day may never come to pass, I said, though in my mind, Rhys felt my doubt seep into every word.

"The sentries will be here, and remain unseen and unfelt. They will look after themselves. Should you change your minds, one will be waiting in this room every day at noon and at midnight for you to speak. As Feyre said, our home is your home, and our doors are always open to you," he said aloud.

"Just leave," Elain whispered. "I don't want any more faeries here. Please."

Cassian got to his feet, drifting back towards Rhys in anticipation of winnowing back to the Night Court. Rhys stretched his other hand towards me, but I didn't take it.

"I should stay for dinner at least. There's still so much I need to discuss with Nesta and Elain," I said. Perhaps if we shared a meal together, just the three of us, we could begin repairing this new rift.

We'd squabbled in the cabin before, over chores or new shoes or the lack of elbow room in the bed we'd all shared. But never like this, over such…betrayal.

Elain glared at me from the sofa, and with more venom than I ever thought she could muster, she hissed, "You might as well be a faerie, too, Feyre. Get out."

Rhys pulled me close, bundling me against him for a heartbeat before we winnowed back to the city we'd just risked to save everything.

“How do I look?” Feyre bounded down the townhouse stairs with undignified leaps, landing on the carpet in the foyer and twirling her skirts.

Rhys’s eyes roamed the room, looking everywhere but at the gossamer fabric. “You don’t have to wear that.”

“You don’t like it?” The muscles in her cheeks tightened, her grin as fixed as stone. “I thought it was traditional, but maybe I should change? I could wear the aubergine gown from the equinox.”

He frowned at a thread he’d pulled from his jacket and slipped it in his pocket. 

“Would it be better if I stayed home?” Maybe it was too soon. The transition had been hard enough in Velaris.

Rhys’s gaze landed on the hem of her skirt, where it fluttered around her ankles in two sheets of fabric split nearly to her hip. He let out a long breath. “It’s been a long time since you were under a mountain.”

“I visited the Hewn City two winters ago.”

“Not dressed like that.” His hands smoothed the fabric over his thighs. “Not with me.” His fingers began to pluck at the seams there. “I don’t see any reason you need to be… reminded.”

“Reminded of what? Of some games we played, ages ago?”

“They weren’t games.” His voice was brittle enough to snap. “I hurt you, and you hated me for it. Why relive it?”

“I didn’t hate you.”

“Of course you did.”

Her smile finally slid from her face, and she hated the petulant frown that took its place. “Don’t be dense. We both knew what was at stake. Even if I didn’t fully understand at the time, by the last trial—”

“I should have found some other way.” He smoothed the fabric of his pants once more. “It was a long time to be alone.”

“You could have called in the bargain.” She took a step closer and took one of his restless hands in hers, lifting each of his fingers one by one. “I wanted you to, you know.”

“You didn’t.”

“It was a long time for me to be alone, too.” Why hadn’t she admitted it to him? “I tried to do it myself, for a few years. But it’s not like I could write you a letter, and you never came to intercourt functions. You’ve always fascinated me.”

The lines of his mouth softened. “Fascinating, hmm?”

“Not to mention handsome.”

It was Rhys who stepped closer this time, pressing his lips to her brow and breathing in the scent of her shampoo. “I think you might be misremembering, darling. But I’ll accept the flattery”

“You deserve flattery.”

He kissed her temple and pulled her even closer, widening his stance in preparation to winnow. “You mean it?” 

He understood that there were plenty of people who looked at him and saw a womanizing prick, but the truth was simply that Rhys loved women—loved their wit and their grit, their humor and their charms—and in most cases, he preferred their company to men.

And while he knew that even his closest friends probably wouldn’t believe him, the deepest truth was that Rhys was just as desperate as everyone else to meet his person and start his forever.

It was that truth, quiet and resolute, that had him agreeing to Cash’s rules, even when rules were not generally something Rhys felt applied to him.   

And maybe it was crazy, but some part of Rhys had been dreaming about Feyre since he’d seen her painting hanging in Nesta’s dining room, and for the first time in his adult life, he didn’t feel like he needed his normal trappings of wealth and charm; he just needed to speak to her.

Needed to understand what had driven her to create something that had spoken to him on such a primal level.  

Still, he repeated the rules to himself as he made his way over to where she stood at the bar.

“Don’t touch her, don’t take her anywhere, don't buy her shit.”

He repeated the words so many times that he realized as he drew close that he had no idea what he would actually say to her. He’d be stupid not to think she’d been warned of his…reputation, and he was suddenly terrified she’d write him off before he even got a chance to show her there was more to him than the facade he’d spent so long hiding behind. 

He was still drawing a blank as he slid into the spot beside her at the bar, but before he could panic and blurt out something regrettable, she surprised him by turning fully in his direction, offering him a blinding smile and saying, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Confused, he opened his mouth to suggest she maybe had him confused with someone else before noting the poignant look on her face, eye widening slightly and lips pursed as if to say, “play along.”

It was only then he noticed the hopeful sod bobbing on the other side of her, glancing expectantly between them.

Ah.

“Hello, darling,” he purred, standing as close as he could manage without actually touching her. “Sorry I’m late.”

If Cash was still watching, Rhys wasn’t going to risk getting disqualified on a technicality. 

Feyre’s expression didn’t change as she continued to gaze up at him, but her eyes flashed a bit, seeming to suggest she was unimpressed by the fervor of his response.

Before he could decide how to proceed, Feyre made the decision for him, pressing a hand to his chest and brushing her mouth against his in a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Well, that was unexpected. Still, Rhys wasn’t in the habit of denying beautiful women. If she wanted to kiss him, he wasn't stupid enough to object. And technically Feyre had initiated it, so technically he hadn’t broken any of Cash’s stupid rules.

That in mind, he decided he was under no obligation to end the kiss early, choosing instead to curl an arm around Feyre’s back and pull her slightly closer. 

Let her decide when she was ready for this to be over.

 To his delight, she pulled back only briefly before leaning in to kiss him again, this time with slightly more intention and the barest hint of tongue. Fuck, that was hot. He bit back a moan as he pulled her a little tighter against him, wishing he could invent an excuse to make this last longer.

It was only when she pulled back, head settling on his chest that he let his arm drape over her shoulder, turning to smirk at the stranger currently deflating like a punctured balloon.

“Thank you for finding her for me,” he said, still gazing at Feyre as he stroked a casual hand down her unbound hair.

“You must be the boyfriend,” the man replied, making no effort to hide his disappointment.

Rhys only raised his eyebrows, careful to keep his hand placement respectful should anyone glance their way. 

“Lucky me,” he said, gently steering Feyre away. “Enjoy your evening.”

It was only when the idiot had wandered out of hearing range that Rhys let his arm drop, glancing down at Feyre.

“Sorry about that,” she said with a conciliatory smile. “Some guys just can’t take a hint.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Rhys said with an answering grin. “I love a bit of theatre.”

Feyre laughed, and it was possibly the best sound that Rhys had ever heard.

“It’s Rhysand, right?”

“Rhys, please. Only my enemies call me Rhysand.”

The fuck, Sadeghi? He’d promised himself he wouldn’t come on too strong, and this was how he was choosing to start?

“Sorry,” he amended, rubbing his neck with a rueful laugh. “That was–I promise I’m not usually that corny.”

“It was pretty bad,” Feyre agreed, smiling. “But for some reason–” she gestured to his face. “I feel oddly compelled to allow it.”

He relaxed, safe it the temporary knowledge that he hadn’t completely blown his chance.

“I think that kiss just addled my brain a bit,” he said.

Christ, he was an idiot.

However, Feyre’s smile only grew, the slight wickedness in it making his gut tighten in pleasure.

“Because it was so good?” she offered.

“Of course,” he said. “And because I am slightly terrified of your sister?”

Feyre’s lips pursed a bit at this, as if annoyed he would let Nesta’s opinion dictate their interaction.

“Don’t be, Elain’s not as intimidating as she seems.”

He laughed, and she flashed him a small smile.

“Besides, we aren’t supposed to tell you this, but Nesta described you as a ‘nice man’ in the car ride over here.”

Feeling emboldened by Feyre’s blatant flirting, Rhy allowed himself to relax.

“Makes you wonder what she’d say if she knew I came over here to talk to you.”

“You’re here to talk to me?”

“Is that alright?”

Feyre smiled, a little more shy than she’d been a moment before. 

Easy boy, he reminded himself, she’s only twenty-one.

“Of course,” Feyre said. “I guess I just wouldn’t imagine being on your radar.”

This made Rhys frown outright.

“Why not?”

Feyre laughed, and Rhys caught a glimpse of Nesta in the gesture, proud and aloof.

“Because unfortunately for you, I’ve heard the story about your threesome with the model twins in Mikyonos.”

“That was Azriel,” he said immediately. “And I don’t actually think they were related. At least, I hope they weren’t.”

At this Feyre only smirked, drumming her fingers on the bar.

“But you admit you were there that weekend.”

“Only as an innocent bystander,” Rhys lobbed back. “And for the record, neither of those girls were as pretty as you.”

It was clear the comment pleased her, even if she seemed undecided on whether she actually believed him. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why she wouldn’t; did she not realize how gorgeous she was?

“You seem to be finding your stride, I’ll give you that,” she said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, darling.”

She laughed again, giving him an appraising one-over before turning back to accept a fresh drink from the bartender.

“Look, obviously you’re…perfection, but you should know I’m still getting over a nasty breakup, so a one-night-stand isn’t in the cards for me tonight.”

He blinked.

“I assure you that’s not what this is,” he said. “And if sex was all I wanted, please know I’m not stupid enough to try and solicit Nesta’s little sister for it.”

She considered him then, studying his face as if she was trying to read his thoughts.

“What do you want then, Rhysand?”

“To talk about your painting.”

Okay, perhaps more blunt than he’d planned on being, but he was still trying to recover from her thinking he was simply trying to pick her up.

“My…painting?”

“The ‘Sun’s Gone Dim’ one.”

Her demeanor changed immediately, back straightening and eyes growing wary.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” he said. “That’s just what I’ve been calling it in my head. I mean the one in Nesta’s dining room.”

“Why would you call it that, though?” she demanded, and he immediately felt an unfamiliar self-consciousness sluice through him.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he assured her. “I just, it reminds me of this song, The Sun’s Gone Dim and the Sky’s Turned Black? I didn’t mean to name your piece–”

“How could you know that?” she said, looking at him now as if she was just seeing him for the first time.

He blinked again, confused.

“Sorry?”

“That song,” she said, sounding almost breathless. “That was all I listened to while making that piece, over and over again. But I…I never told anyone that. Not even my sisters. How did you know?”

He felt his mouth go dry, heart beating so hard he was sure she could probably hear it.

“I didn’t. I just look at that painting, and that song is all I can hear. It reminds me of…”

He swallowed, not sure how they’d gone from flirting to this in the span of several sentences.

“Reminds you of what?” she pressed, still studying him with almost unbearable scrutiny.

“I–” he began, needing to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m pretty sure that song is about a breakup, but for me, it reminds me of my mum and sister. Of how I felt after they died. ‘The sky’s gone dim and the sun’s turned black’. I guess if I’m…being honest, that painting reminds me of them, too. Of losing them.I know that’s an insane meaning to assign to someone’s else’s art, but–”

“A car crash,” she said, and he felt his pulse spike, throat absolutely burning now.

“What?”

“Cash mentioned they died in a car crash,” she said, eyes lined in silver now.

“Yeah,” Rhys croaked. “Five years ago.”

“That painting is about my parents,” Feyre said. “About the car crash that killed them, and the way it felt to try and move on. I started working on it after I heard that song and couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was little when they died, so I don’t think I’d ever fully let myself mourn them as an adult. And maybe I should have given Nesta a heads up what inspired the painting before I let her hang it in her fucking dining room, but I didn’t know how she’d react, and I didn’t want to upset her, so I just–didn’t tell her, or Elain.”

“Fuck,” Rhys said,pressing a hand to his own eyes to ensure they stayed dry. “That at least explains why I’ve been so obsessed with it.”

Feyre laughed, a tear slipping down her cheek that she quickly wiped away.

“Are you serious?”

“You can ask your sister; I’ve tried to buy that painting off her at least a dozen times. Sometimes I will wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it, and it will take me hours to fall back asleep.”

Rhys glanced at Feyre to find her expression unreadable, and he let out a shaky laugh to try and dispel the energy crackling between them.

“I’m realizing now what a creepy thing that is to say, but it’s the truth.”

“It’s not creepy,” Feyre said, assessing him now with something much headier than physical interest. “It’s what every artist dreams of hearing, that their art has the power to move people.”

Rhys smiled, wishing she’d given him another excuse to touch her again.

“Consider me very moved,” he said. “And know that whenever you’re ready to sell me that piece, I’ll have a blank check ready with your name on it.”

Feyre smiled  again, some of the heat from their kiss creeping into her eyes.

“There’s the unrepentant little rich boy that Cash has told us much about.”

“It can’t all be heartfelt confessions,” he said, matching her heated gaze with a brazen assessment of his own. “I fear I still have a reputation to protect.”

x

How they managed to settle into a normal conversation after their shared revelation about the painting, he didn’t know, but an hour later he found himself seated on a low couch across from her, chatting as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world. 

“So,” he said, resting his temple on a fist and allowing himself to admire just how pretty she looked until the glittering half-light. “Tell me about this horrible breakup.”

She snorted into her glass of champagne, a gesture he couldn’t help but find painfully charming.

“His name was Tam.”

“Not a promising start, I’ll admit. I went to Eton with a Tam; Tam Dalgleish. God, what an absolute prick.”

She sat up from where she’d been lounging, hand going to her mouth.

“Did you say ‘Dalgleish’?”

Rhys straightened as well, unable to help the bitter laugh that escaped him.

“No!” he said. “Oh you can’t be serious! How on earth did you meet him?”

“I met him at a club in Edinburgh,” she said. “He’d just moved back.”

“Still picking up college girls in clubs,” Rhys said, chuckling into his glass. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Didn’t you say you were in the same year at Eton?” she said pointedly, and Rhys laughed despite the jab.

God, it was hard to believe she was ten years younger than him. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who was much older than twenty-one.

“Fine, yes, but I didn’t try to pick you up in a club. All the proof I've ever needed that I’m better than Dalgleish in every conceivable way.”

“Are you saying that if this event were in a club, you wouldn’t have approached me?” she challenged. 

“If this event were in a club, I would have a lot of questions about the legitimacy of this charitable organization.”

She laughed before glancing around, as if only just remembering that her overprotective sister could happen upon them at any moment. 

“You do realize we’re on borrowed time being here, right?”

“You really think your sister would be that upset at seeing us together?”

“Tell me you’re joking.”

“I dunno, now that I know you’ve dated Tam fucking Dalgleish, the bar for your next boyfriend feels attainably low.”

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, eyes glittering. “Somewhere my sister can’t happen upon us and explode.”

Rhys considered, weighing the possible consequences against the increasingly tantalizing upside. On the one hand, he doubted Nesta would be pacified by Rhys’s intention to keep things noble with Feyre tonight, and he could be opening a whole can of worms by whisking her away to secondary location. 

On the other hand, he was fairly sure he could talk to Feyre for the next hundred years straight without ever getting bored, and cutting the night short just to please someone else’s agenda felt unnecessarily self-sacrificial.

Besides, he was happy enough to take things slow, but she’d giving him eyes like she wanted to kiss him again, and if she was willing, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say no.

“Did you have a place in mind?”

Feyre bit her lip.

“How much do you know about The Tonga Room?”

Rhys couldn’t help a wince. 

“Only the barest details. But I recall Cash threatening to burn the place down about a hundred times that weekend we were in Vegas.”

“Obviously it’s got a bit of an…unsavoury history in my family, but that’s also what makes it perfect. I can guarantee you that Nesta would never go there in a million years. Makes things…less complicated.”

“I don’t love the idea of sneaking around behind your sister’s back,” Rhys said. “We aren’t doing anything wrong by sitting here and getting to know each other.”

“So she knows that you were planning on coming over and chatting to me?” Feyre challenged. “You told her that?”

“Right, fair point. Grab your coat, I’ll call a car.”

Rhys made to stand offering his hand to Feyre before remembering Cash’s rules.

“You’re not hungry, are you?”

Feyre frowned in confusion.

“No, we just had dinner.”

“Excellent,” Rhys said, “Drinks on me, then.”

Feyre didn’t understand how adventurers did it—all these stupid puzzles, these tests of agility…the monster that was absolutely lurking just behind that dark door. Feyre adjusted her bow and read the riddle again. All she could think about was Tamlin, her…whatever he was. Not her partner, but not her enemy either. 

She’d ended things, but he’d forced her hand. That was the part that made her bitter. She hadn’t wanted to leave him, but what choice had he offered in return? He’d taken to following her around the village, using his wealth to pay people to spy on her, just so he could confront her later in the evening.

“Love,” Feyre said after a long, silent moment, “the answer is love.”

The answer could have been anything—she was just guessing. But the door began to slide loudly into the wall, dragging with it a waterfall of dust and debris. Feyre didn’t care if it coated her already dirty hair, stepping forward with a small dagger in hand.

This time, there wasn’t a Beholder waiting to devour her, and nothing was hidden inside the waiting maw of a Mimic. There was simply the book, left abandoned on an obvious trapped plate that she quickly disarmed.

The final book. Feyre ran a finger over the leather bound book, dyed purple and almost certainly made of demon skin. It was, after all, the missing book in Tasha’s Demonomicon. The last book she’d written before the series was stolen by some vainglorious wizard hoping to reach new heights.

Feyre would have bet the limited gold jangling in her pocket that the wizard was being slowly devoured in Nessus, though it was equally as possible he now sat among the ever expanding pantheon of deities. 

It didn’t matter—Feyre had what she needed and a clear path out of the dungeon. She tucked the heavy book into her knapsack and made her way back out the way she came, this time stepping over the littered corpses of those who tried to stop her. 

This was the book she was missing, the tome that would finally allow her to piece together the knowledge she needed in order to save her family. Feyre didn’t dare open the book out in the open wilderness as she traveled back to her village. Even carrying it was a risk—anyone clever enough might recognize the magical signature and come looking for her. Magic that big, that powerful, almost always left some kind of trace.

She didn’t sleep for three days while she traveled. She rested, sure, mostly because her horse required it and driving the only working animal her family had left into the ground was a horrible proposition. If Nesta wasn’t so sick…

Well, Feyre wouldn’t have needed the horse at all.

Feyre made it to her village just before dusk on the third evening. Her bag seemed to have gotten heavier over the journey, a fact she was doing her best not to think about. 

The streets were mostly empty by then, save for a few stragglers looking to spend the day's coin in the local tavern. She could hear music coming from the closed doors and every window was lit up with candles of varying heights.

The modest houses in the village center were darker. Curtains were drawn, though windows were also left open so a breeze could filter in. Her house, far in the distance, was similar. It was one room, with a sagging thatched roof and windows that were framed by uneven shutters. It had belonged to her mother when she’d been a child, and for years had been a little cottage they rented out for a few silver pieces every month.

Now they lived there. 

Feyre took a breath of crisp air, adjusted the heavy strap on her shoulder, and pushed her way inside. It reeked of death. Her older sister, Elain, rose from her spot in front of the fireplace with glassy eyes. She’d been working on needlepoint poorly, though Feyre couldn’t say her stitches would be any neater. “Mother—”

“Where is Nesta?” Feyre interrupted. She hadn’t admitted before that moment that she’d gone looking for the book solely for Nesta. Feyre had no intention of trying to save her mothers life. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents, it was more that they didn’t seem to love her. Or any of them, really. Sure, their father doted on Elain but that had stopped being cute by the time Elain turned nine. 

Their mother was mean. She hit Nesta, she only spoke to Elain in terms of husbands and men, and she had nothing kind to say to Feyre, ever. Too lanky, too freckly, too this, too that. Too ugly. If only you’d been born a boy.

Elain hesitated, brown eyes illuminating the weak firelight. What choice would Elain make if she could only save one? Nesta was only as sick as she was because she’d been forced to care for their mother. Even their father refused to go inside once the flesh rot set in. Only Nesta had, and she’d done it out of duty.

Feyre did this out of love, though Nesta wouldn’t understand when it was all over. 

Elain exhaled softly, the only voice she was willing to give her relief. “Alive, but weak.”

“I’m going out back. Please…no matter what…stay in the house.”

Elain nodded, biting her lower lip. “I won’t.”

Feyre pried open the floorboards for her other three tomes and gathered them in her arms. “Where’s father?”

“The tavern,” Elain murmured, eyes cast downward with shame. Feyre wanted to rage, wanted to throw her books at the wall and scream. For all the good it would do. He’d still be there, reasoning to himself that he wasn’t going to spend all their gold. Just a little. Just a pint here, a pint there, and he’d return with almost nothing and expect Elain to figure out how to make do for them all.

Feyre would be back in the woods by the evening desperately trying to hunt a week's worth of meals. This wasn’t going to fix any of that…but Feyre had enough to bargain for Nesta’s life. 

She went deeper in the woods than she ever had in the dark, settling near an open grove of trees. There were several mushroom circles scattered along the path and Feyre didn’t doubt for a second that the fey knew what she had and what she intended to do.

It was foolish to think they’d aid her. If she stepped wrong, they’d drag her into the feywilds and steal her books before finishing her, too. Ferye was careful when she found a large enough clearing to work. She opened the first three books, each tabbed to the section on Asmodeus. The Supreme Master of the Nine Hells. The Great Devil. The Lord of Lies. 

Feyre didn’t know if the final tome would help her reach him—she knew he wasn’t trapped in the books like so many other demons and devils were. There was a rumor that Tasha had spoken with him—enough to learn how to call upon him multiple times. Feyre needed that knowledge in order to call upon him herself.

She needed the supreme lord of the devils. No one else would do. She couldn’t trust a lesser demon or devil to keep their word, and believed they’d be too tempted by the feast of desperate souls living in her home. Elain was so easily persuaded that she was easily preyed upon. 

With nothing but a candle, Feyre sat propped against a tree and began flipping through the fourth book. So many demons were trapped inside, their visages filled with pure hatred. Feyre skimmed some of the details about them—demons of pestilence, of lust, of horror. They were far more frightening than the ones trapped in the other books, and Feyre supposed it was because of how much the witch Tasha had learned as she’d begun to write. 

In the back of the book, she found near perfect transcriptions of the conversations between Tasha and Asmodeus. The witch had summoned him for information on the nine—how they might be defeated, their weaknesses, their usefulness to the cosmos themselves.

Asmodeus didn’t answer the way Feyre would have liked. His answers were buried in layers and layers of double speak, which had irritated Tasha, too. Feyre told herself she didn’t need to have a conversation with him—she just needed to lay the bargain at his feet and let him decide.

And Tasha, for all her care, had written how to call upon him. That was all Feyre needed. She pulled out the salt, stolen from the same tavern her father was currently occupying, and began to draw her circle. It would trap the Lord of Lies within it—or, it would trap a devil, anyway. It might not be powerful enough to contain him. Perhaps Nesta could have managed, given her own magical strength, but Feyre was merely a ranger. Her circle was a little lumpy and not quite circular, but it was good enough.

A skull from one of her recent kills sat in the northern most part of the circle. At the bottom, Ferye used her own dagger to slice open her palm, letting blood stain the white salt and green grass. The moon was high above her, luminous and still too dim to be helpful. She only had to speak the words, broken and jagged in her mouth. She didn’t know how to speak infernal, and Tasha hadn’t provided a pronunciation guide.

So Feyre made four attempts before she smelled the brimstone and sulfur emanating from the trees. She felt a crackle of electricity on her fingertips, the air surging with magic. And then…there he was.

“I warned you, Ta…sha…” The Archdevil turned a full circle before his violet eyes landed on her. He didn’t move for a moment, giving Feyre a chance to take him in. He was just as tall and imposing as she’d expected, though he looked more mortal than devil. His hair was neatly styled and as dark as the sky around them. He wore a well tailored tunic, embroidered with silver thread against the inky blue.

It was only then that Feyre realized his wings were merely tucked against his back. Two curling horns jutted from his forehead, larger than any she’d ever seen before.

He cocked his head to the side, clearly studying her just as closely as she studied him. “I was expecting the witch.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Feyre replied with more bravado than she felt. 

“Foolish mortal,” he said with a deep, sensual chuckle. “Do you know who you’ve summoned this eve?”

“The Lord of Lies, I hope,” she replied. Surely it must be—the stories of his beauty were only matched by the stories of his cruelty. “Asmodeus.”

“That’s one name,” he agreed, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Do you know any others?”

Feyre looked down at her feet. She did…but she was keeping that a secret just in case she needed to force him to do her bidding. 

“I have a bargain for you,” she said instead, waiting a beat before she dared to look up at him again. He’d moved from the center of her lopsided circle to the very edge, his shiny boot pressed against her skull. 

“Oh? I can’t resist a good bargain. Tell me your terms, and I will tell you mine.”

Feyre’s heart picked up. He already knew what he wanted? He hadn’t even heard her tell him what she could offer.

“I want you to save my sister's life,” she began, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush. 

He waited a moment. “And…what else? There’s always something else.”

“That’s it. That’s all I want. My sisters life.”

“And what would you offer me?” he pressed, nudging the skull with his toe. 

Feyre reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny shard of stone, jagged at every edge. The devil in front of her suddenly went still.

“Where did you find that, little mortal?”

“Save my sister’s life and I’ll give it to you freely.”

His eyes were so dark they might have been the very darkness around her. Feyre had a shard of night. In truth, she’d stumbled on it by accident when looking for the first of Tasha’s Demonomicon, and hadn’t known what it was. Nesta had been the one to tell her it was from the famed cities of Netheril and imbued with netherese magic. Feyre could have sold it for gold—if she’d known where to sell it, and who might want to buy it—but once she found the Demonomicon, she’d decided it was better used for bargaining.

What could a devil do with some of the magic of Netheril? That was none of her business, truly. It was clear he wanted it, and she had it. 

Asmodeus stepped on her skull, crunching bone loudly beneath his boot as he walked out of her circle. She’d suspected he might be able to be.

“Mortals never ask so selflessly. Tell me what it is you truly want,” he crooned, keeping about six feet of distance between them. “A love returned? Wealth beyond reckoning? Tell me.”

His voice was irresistible to her for a moment. Feyre’s lips parted, almost unwillingly, and she felt the words rise in her throat. Fix her father’s failed business so they didn’t have to live in squalor. Make Tamlin a better man so she could love him.

His brow furrowed, head shaking. Feyre pulled back some of the charm fading into dislike. “Don’t do that.”

“There is nothing that might tempt you?”

“My sister's life,” Feyre said forcefully stepping closer, “for the shard of night. Yes or no?”

A smile lit up his face. “No, I don’t think I care for your bargain.”

Despair filled Feyre’s chest. She turned her back to the Archdevil so he would see her hastily wipe away tears. She’d been so sure he’d agree that it hadn’t occurred to her what she might do if he said no. 

She felt his warm fingers lay gently on her shoulders, each one laid slowly, one after another. “I could be tempted to help.”

“Name your price,” she said, hating the way her voice shook. She nearly admitted that there was no price to steep, nothing she wouldn’t give away, nothing she wouldn’t agree to. Maybe he knew it instinctively the way creatures like him seemed to. She was desperate, he was all but a god. She turned to face him, wishing he’d pick an aspect that wasn’t so handsome.

“In exchange for your sisters life, I want your name so I can call upon you again.”

“For what purpose?” Feyre asked, knowing damn well she’d give it to him anyway.

“My reasons are my own. Now, turn around and tell me what to call you.”

She couldn’t resist. Feyre, ever impulsive, blurted out, “I know your true name already. I could make you.”

A soft, almost comforting laugh escaped him. “Oh? And what would you make me do, little mortal?”

“Save my sister,” she pleaded, before whispering, “please.”

“Your name,” he replied, hooking his finger under her chin so she was forced to look at him. “Please.”

There was the strangest note of desperation in his voice—Feyre was certain she was imagining it. “Feyre. My name is Feyre.”

“Fey-ruh,” he replied, testing out the syllables on his tongue. “An old name. However did your mother choose it?”

Feyre didn’t know, so she shrugged.

“Go, Feyre darling,” he murmured, nodding toward the thinning treeline far out of view. Feyre didn’t look back, didn’t stop to gather up her books. She took off running, needing proof that the devil had lived up to his promise. She didn’t care about him at all. Nesta was a person, was her sister, and Feyre wasn’t going to let her parents selfishness take that from her, too. Even if she and Nesta didn’t always get along, even if they were mean. It wasn’t lost on Feyre that the Archdevil of the nine hells now possessed her name, and who knew what kind of magic that came with.

She’d worry about it later.

Feyre burst into the house where Elain waited, hands twisting over and over. “Mother is dead,” she said, tears falling down her cheeks. Feyre waited for despair to overtake her, but she only had one question.

“And Nesta?”

“Her fever broke,” Elain managed, the words coming out high pitched and wet. 

“Well…” Feyre whispered, her glee getting the better of her. Mother was dead and father was at the tavern pissing away their gold, but Nesta was turning the corner. She exhaled, swearing she could smell brimstone and fire…and something else. Something colder, like salt air and citrus. 

Feyre couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. 

“Everything is going to be okay,” she said.

And Ferye believed it. 

In the days that followed, Nesta’s strength returned. She was well enough to sit beneath a large oak tree while they buried their mother. If Nesta grieved, she didn’t show it outwardly. Elain and their father wept, but Nesta and Feyre remained stone faced and unmoved.

There was something different about Nesta. Her eyes, always an unnerving shade of pale blue, were brighter than they’d ever been. Sometimes they seemed to shift like magic, turning from blue to silver and back again before Feyre could fully register the change. 

“What did you do?” Nesta once whispered to Feyre as they passed one another outside. Fingers brushing, Feyre wondered if Nesta didn’t already know.

“What I had to do,” Feyre replied resolutely. 

Feyre finally dared to return to the site of her ritual when the moon was set to return. It occurred to her that she’d left four powerful books on demonology just laying about for anyone to find. Dread filled every step as she walked, hands balled to fists at her side. She wasn’t surprised to find him waiting in the clearing.

The books were gone, as was the salt, and any trace she’d ever been there before. His eyes were almost hungry when they fell upon her—two violet specks against the darkness of his sclera and the night itself.

“I was starting to think you’d never return,” he said in that rich, suggestive voice of his. It made her want to apologize.

“I came for my books,” she forced herself to say. 

“No need,” he replied, gesturing at the pristine grass. “I took care of the fey, too.”

“What a gentleman,” Feyre replied with an eyeroll. “You’ve thought of everything, which means you don’t need me—”

“Feyre,” he breathed, interrupting her dismissal. It wasn’t a command, carried no magic and yet that note of desperation was back. It was enough to convince her to hesitate.

“Have you been waiting for me?”

“What if I was?”

“That seems foolish given I’m just a mortal and you…” you might be a god.

Not to mention that he was a devil. She needed to get as far away from him as she could, pledge her support to a good aligned god, and pray they could keep her from Asmodeus.

“You claim to know my name. Say it,” he ordered, the command laced with magic. Feyre couldn’t have resisted if she wanted, and she didn’t want to resist him at all. Not with this, anyway. She might be the only mortal in the realm who knew his true name.

“Rhysand,” she murmured. His name, before his fall from grace, written down and forgotten in a dungeon she’d plundered in her desperate quest to find him. 

His eyes fluttered closed just as his massive, leathery wings flared outward. Feyre stumbled back a step, nearly falling to the grass. He was terrifying. Horrifying.

Beautiful, too. 

“No one has spoken my name in ages,” he told her, opening his eyes slowly again. “How did you learn it?”

Feyre only shook her head. She wasn’t going to tell him.

“Do you understand the power you possess? An Archdevil at your feet, unable to resist doing your bidding.” “I just want things to go back to normal,” she admitted. He advanced on her, keeping barely any distance between them at all.

“Why would you want that?” he demanded harshly. His eyes, once as placid as the stars above, ignited with unmistakable hellfire. “Why would you want to live this life?”

“It's mine?” she asked, her voice small. 

“The woman who traversed the land for all of Tasha’s books on demons…who discovered my name…the shard of night…wants to live in squalor?” he asked, eyes blazing as they held her own.

“I…” her breath caught in her throat.

“I could give you riches,” he began, his voice seductive all over again, “power beyond your wildest imaginings, magic that would make Mystra herself weep. Everyone has a price—name yours.”

“And you’ll leave?”

“Yes,” he agreed. Feyre didn’t want whatever it was he was offering. It would all come with strings, would ruin her life somehow, and in the end she’d have nothing but misery to show for it until he came to claim her soul. She’d made a mistake telling him she knew his name, and a bigger mistake admitting she knew it at all. Better to end this quickly and hope he forgot about her entirely.

Mortals were short lived, and she was only human. Her race didn’t live much longer than a hundred years unless they enhanced themselves magically, which Feyre had no intention of doing. One life was enough, she reasoned. 

“A kiss,” she heard herself say. Even Rhysand, Archdevil supreme, seemed taken aback by the request. “On the cheek.”

“A kiss wherever I wish it,” he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “No one has ever…”

“Yes, it's a month of surprises,” she grumbled, turning her face to present him with her cheek. Best to just get it over with. Maybe that would end whatever strange fascination he had with her. Had he never experienced love? Did he not understand the lengths someone would go to in order to protect the people they loved?

He pressed his mouth to her skin, a chaste kiss by all measures. Feyre waited until he pulled back to look at him, unaware that Rhysand had no intention of upholding his end of the cheek kiss. Feyre opened her mouth to ask if he was over it now only for him to lean down a second time, capturing her mouth with his own.

Her palms flew to his chest to shove him backwards. He caught her wrists quickly, holding them between long fingers tipped with sharp claws. His mouth was warm, physically, but the taste of him was chilly—like the cold run. Feyre could have pulled back if she’d wanted to.

But maybe some small, wicked part of her liked that this devil was a little taken with her. That there was something about her he found fascinating. Men had liked her before, and Feyre was no novice when it came to their attention. But this was hardly a man, even if he appeared so. He was older than time itself, had more power than Feyre could have dreamt of. There was something intoxicating about that.

So she kissed him back. What did it matter, in the grand scheme of things? One day she’d be eighty and he’d have forgotten about her—she’d be able to tell her grandchildren that for a moment, an Archdevil had been taken with her. 

For whatever that said about her. 

Rhysand deepened the kiss, loosening his hold until both wrists were held in one large hand, the other cupping the back of her head. There was nothing erotic about it, save for the way his body pressed itself up against hers…and the way his tongue carefully flicked against her own.

Feyre sighed, arousal flooding through her. It was just biology, she lied to herself. Just the feeling of his hands on her body that made her feel this way. It could have been Tamlin’s hands. It could have been anyone's. 

“Another bargain,” he whispered, forehead pressed against her own. She could feel the grooves of his horns pressed against delicate skin, a reminder that there was no softness he could offer her. 

“I think that’s a bad idea,” she replied, though it wasn’t a no, either. He knew it.

“A night with me in Nessus, and I will grant you anything you want,” he replied.

“That’s a foolish bargain. What if I want you to die?” she asked.

He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “You don’t.”

“You don’t know that,” Feyre murmured. She held his stare, not to prove anything, but to let him peer a little deeper into her soul. To see the things she’d done that she wasn’t sorry for…and the things she might do without a moment's hesitation. 

She could have chosen her mother. Any good daughter would have. Nesta had never been kind to Feyre and wasn’t likely to improve just because Feyre had gone to so much trouble. If Nesta ever learned at all. And yet, the choice had been automatic. Easy. 

Nesta understood Feyre much like a looking glass. There was no hiding from Nesta’s gaze, no lying in their shared reflection. Whatever Feyre was, Nesta had been longer. It was, perhaps, why Nesta felt so protective of Elain and so dismissive of Feyre. 

Of course you’re clever, of course you’re capable. We are alike. 

But that would be only a half-truth weighted in the devil's sight. Feyre hated her mother, too. Hated her for her apathy, her cruelty, her greed. Everything could collapse around her and what did she care? Their neglectful father who doted only on his mirror image and wife had no interest in telling his wife no. And she took no accountability for any of it, whining and crying and spending. 

Nesta had watched it all, punishing and disgusted in her silence. But Feyre, as she always did, begged. On her knees before creditors beating her father while her mother wept and cowed behind her eldest daughter. On her knees again, begging her mother to stop spending their gold, they were going to starve, to begging her mother to just do something.

Did her mother regret any of it, in her final rattling moments? Feyre took a moment of sick pleasure to hope she had. Mothers did not need to love their daughters unconditionally, let alone love them at all. Daughters, however, were duty bound in their very bones to love their mothers. Especially when they had a cruel sister.

But Feyre needed her mother to pay for all the ways she’d hurt Feyre, no matter how selfish it was. The choice was layered and tangled and still, impossibly simple. 

He looked away, eyes drifting to something just beyond her shoulder. Whatever interest she held to him was multiplied in herself right then. Feyre hadn’t stopped, truly, to consider why he’d want to see her twice. It seemed almost assumptive. Had she been surprised? Truly? 

His gaze snapped back to her face with a kind of excited hunger that thrilled her. No one wanted the attention of a Devil. Certainly not like this. He wasn’t an ordinary Devil, either, which was dangerous in the best of circumstances.

He was their ruler. People worshipped him like a god. 

You aren’t scared enough, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. 

“Wanting to kill your mother is hardly unique, Feyre darling,” Rhysand told her, recapturing her attention. “It’s forgivable.”

“When did I ask for your forgiveness?” Feyre snapped. 

His smile widened a fraction. “You didn’t, but I’m offering absolution all the same.”

“That’s not yours to give,” Feyre reminded him. His smile didn’t fade. 

“For you, I think it is."

“Are you—”

“Feyre?”

Feyre paused, heart racing at the sound of that familiar, deep voice.

Tamlin. Oh, of course he’d find her here. Find her with him. They hadn’t spoken in weeks at her insistence while she tried to figure out how she might move forward with Tamlin. Turning slowly, she saw him standing a few feet away, eyes trained fully on the Devil in front of her. 

“What are you doing?” Tamlin whispered breathlessly. His own eyes, a pine green, were pinpricks in the dark. He’d brought no weapon to fight with, though Feyre had seen Tamlin fight—he might do alright against another man with just his bare fists.

He stood no chance here. 

“You need to leave,” Feyre told him, taking a step toward him. Tamlin wasn’t looking at her. His blonde hair swayed in the breeze, shirt half opened, revealing the necklace he wore against his toned, tanned chest—a collection of animal claws, teeth, and fur that helped him shift, at least partly, into a massive wolf. 

Feyre looked over her shoulder to find Rhysand, wings spread wide, watching Tamlin with open, unguarded amusement.

“Listen to her. Walk away with your life,” the Devil murmured.

Tamlin openly bristled, turning fully back to Feyre. “Feyre, whatever you need, whatever…whatever happened…I’ll help you. If you need money, or medicine–”

“I don’t need anything,” Feyre said flatly. Any help she took from him would bound her closer, would entangle her further. It had never occurred to Feyre to go to Tamlin for help at all, now that she thought about it. He could have saved both her mother and her sister, and Feyre could have avoided blackening her soul. 

She said nothing as the realization swept over her with an iciness that left her rooted in place. There had been options, if she’d thought to look for them. There was no reason to invoke a Devil, let alone an Archdevil, as her first line of defense.

“I heard about your mother,” he tried again, his voice rich with sympathy. His eyes had gone yellow and his fingers were tipped with claws. He was prepared to fight. There was no axe on his back, no sword at his hip. Maybe a dagger in his boot that he could throw, but that was it. She didn’t think shifting into a wolf would help him much, either. 

“She’s dead.” Feyre said it with as much finality in her tone as she could muster. “There’s nothing left to save.”

“Feyre,” he breathed, inching closer. A sliver of moonlight fell across his face, illuminating his lovely, golden features. He really was so, so beautiful. And right then, even moreso because Feyre knew he was going to die. “Feyre, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Tamlin paused again, clearly taken aback by the frankness of her statement. She slid her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see how they shook, finding the jagged piece of the shard of night still hidden within. Feyre curled her fingers around it, letting the cool weight settle against her palm. 

“You need to go home,” she repeated firmly, letting him see the plea in her gaze. Tamlin had begun shaking his head. He wasn’t going to let her—he couldn’t let her. Even when there wasn’t a Devil at her back, Tamlin couldn’t hear the things Feyre said. Not when they contradicted his own thoughts and feelings and fears. She could see he was afraid, and Tamlin was at his most dangerous, his most controlling, when his fears overtook him.

“Tamlin, listen to me—” she tried, but he’d turned his gaze to Rhysand as he lunged for Feyre, intending to grab her and pull her back. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it.

But it was the last.

Feyre reacted on instinct and, perhaps, desire. Her hand, hidden in her pocket, came into the moonlight as she pierced through his thin shirt, his skin and finally bone. It required force and all of her effort before she felt the shard slice through his soft underbelly. 

His eyes were wide. “Feyre?” he breathed, “Feyre, what have you done?”

“Very good,” Rhysand whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “You have done so well, my darling. You know what you must do, now, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied, still holding Tamlin’s gaze. She wanted to tell him she was sorry.

But she didn’t want to lie to him, either. Not as he was dying. Feyre twisted her wrist without thinking, still holding his gaze. Tamlin’s mouth opened and a hiss of pain escaped him. Wobbling, Tamlin’s knees buckled. Feyre withdrew the shard as he began to sink to the ground, causing more carnage in her wake. Blood coated her hand and slid down her arm, staining the ground around her.

Rhysands’s fingers curled over her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. “I didn’t realize you were already mine.”

Feyre turned to look at him, but darkness was swallowing them in a billowing cloud of ash. Feyre choked, turning her face into the lapel of his jacket to breathe in that icy citrus smell. It was only a moment, though a panicky part of her worried it was forever. He was taking her to the Hells, to Nessus.

To…his personal chambers. Feyre blinked as the smoke cleared, leaving her in a room larger than her little cottage combined thrice over. A large fireplace crackled cheerfully, warming the room to just the right temperature. Large windows overlooked a jagged landscape, revealing a raging, fiery storm just outside. 

None of that mattered when her eyes fell on the massive, four poster bed draped in rich purples, vibrant silvers, and inky blacks. It was large enough if could outstretch his wings on either side without them draping over the ends. He’d asked her for a night in exchange for anything she wanted, but in truth, Feyre didn’t want anything else.

He clearly did. 

She wondered if there wasn’t an argument to be made for just the night. No bargain at all, just a night of passion before he dropped her off back home and she…spent the rest of her life thinking about him while he never thought of her again.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Rhysand murmured, leaning casually against the bedpost. 

“I’m…considering your bargain,” she admitted, daring a step toward him. Feyre hadn’t realized the floors were made of marble until her boot, worn smooth from all the wear, skidded against it. There was an overstated opulence she found strangely charming. He knew who he was—what he was—and he was fine with it.

Proud, even.

He shook his head, amusement bright. “I no longer care for that bargain.”

“Oh.” 

Feyre paused, stopping in place. He said nothing at all, waiting, ever serpentine, for her to ask another question.

“Why am I here, then?”

“I wanted to see what you’d look like standing here. I wanted to see if it lived up to my imagination.”

Her heart raced at the admission. “Does it?” she asked a little too eagerly. 

His smile seemed to soften around the edges. “Almost. In my mind, you’re never wearing so much clothing.”

Feyre didn’t know what to say to that. She remained in place as he came toward her. “In truth, I wanted to see what you might look like seated atop my throne. But then, I had this thought…this is the only throne that matters.”

As he spoke, he took her wrist gently and slid her open palm against the erection she hadn’t noticed in his trousers. 

“I didn’t realize you were such a braggart,” Feyre complained, noting he felt quite large through the fabric. The look of satisfaction on his face told Feyre he’d been hoping she’d notice, had been looking for any subtle clue in her expression. 

“I am Archdevil Supreme, after all,” he murmured, lowering his head. Feyre allowed it with breathless anticipation, though she’d kissed him once before. His mouth was just as soft as she remembered, though far more insistent than it had been in the woods. Feyre leaned fully into him this time, forgetting about the blood drying on her fingers. She felt hungry in a way she’d never experienced, like there was no amount of him that could satisfy her.

Some small part of her wondered if it wasn’t magic before she dismissed it entirely. If it was, he wouldn’t admit it and Feyre didn’t care enough to stop, besides. Let him imagine he was manipulating her if that was what he wished. Feyre was exactly where she wanted to be.

It was easy to forget everything waiting for her back home as she pressed so close, she could feel the heat radiating from beneath his clothing. Her still blood-stained fingers slid into his thick hair, tapered neatly at his neck.

He hadn’t touched her beyond the kiss until that moment. His arms, impossibly strong, wrapped around her torso and held her in place. Feyre had to stand on tiptoes to fully reach him, though she didn’t mind once his tongue found hers again. There was nothing tentative about either of them, no slow exploration like was typical the first time she was with a man.

Rhysand knew what he wanted, which was lucky because Feyre did, too.

“Look at me,” he demanded, pulling back so she had to look at him. “Look at me.”

Whatever magic he used to make himself beautiful had dissolved, his glamor revealing the creature beneath. Feyre understood he took whatever form suited him best and whatever he was had no bearing on what she’d seen.

But he was still achingly beautiful. That was what she found painful—even with the twisted features that made him seem more animal than man—blood red skin that cracked like molten lava and held deep, ancient swirling tattoos in a language she couldn’t read. In between those cracks and marks, Rhysand was covered in brutal, open wounds, twisting, curling horns that branched off in multiple directions, and his eyes—a stark purple flame against onyx, an unfathomable void that threatened to suck her deeper.

He was unbuttoning his jacket with long, clawed fingers, still holding her gaze. Did he want her to scream? Feyre wasn’t afraid. This was her deal, her devil. Feyre waited, concealing her emotions until he stood before her entirely naked. He was powerful, muscularly built with a tail pointed exactly like the pictures described at the end and feet tipped with the same claws his fingers held.

And every inch of him was covered in wounds. Feyre dared to reach out her hand, pressing her thumb against one on her chest. Rhysand sucked in a breath, catching her wrist before she could apply too much pressure. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured, the words slipping from behind his teeth as though they had a mind of their own. 

“They tell stories about you,” Feyre murmured, watching, dazed, as the wound she’d touched began to knit itself together. “They say if you ever could, you’d conquer the hells, the heavens, and the realms between.”

“I would,” he admitted without an ounce of shame. “I will.”

“Not like this,” she murmured, pulling out her blooded shard of night. “You must be in so much pain.”

“I am,” he admitted, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. Feyre pressed the jagged stone against his chest, exhaling as she did. What had been the weapon to condemn Tamlin was now Rhysand’s salvation. Feyre watched it melt against his skin with a soft, glowing light tipped orange just as the edges. The burst was gone just as quickly as it came, taking his wounds with them. 

“You never thought of this before?” she tried to joke, mesmerized by the new expanse of skin emerging from beneath the trauma.

“I’ve tried everything,” he murmured, “it had to be you. It could only be you.”

A moment later, he’d pulled her off the ground and tossed her to that bed. Rhysand stalked toward her, his form shimmering before the monster became the man all over again. She knew she’d see the creature before the night was through, if only because she asked to. 

Why should he have any secrets from her?  She had none from him.

“A new bargain,” he murmured, gripping her legs and yanking her to the edge of the bed. Feyre said nothing as arousal twisted through her gut, eyes fixed on him. Rhys removed her pants with methodical slowness, letting the shadow of his claws drag along her skin. Feyre shivered with anticipation. 

He knelt, spreading her legs so wide it made her hips ache a little. Did he intend to draw her? 

“You heal me with the shard of night,” he began, pressing his lips against her inner thigh and inhaling deeply, “and I will give you everything.”

She felt the words settle in her chest, tying themselves around her rib cage. The other end was leashed to him, tied just as tightly. It didn’t matter if she agreed—his word was law, here, and Feyre had already used the shard of night exactly as he asked. 

Not that it mattered—Feyre would have done it regardless of the circumstances.

Still, though, Feyre responded. “Yes,” she breathed.

It was done with a magical finality that filled her with excitement. He, too, seemed unable to contain himself. His mouth worked its way upward, finding the apex of her thighs and the small nest of curls just between. 

All she could see was dark hair and horns, his gaze fixed on her cunt as his tongue found the source of her arousal. It had been too long since someone had touched her like this—not with reverence, but need. 

“Rhysand,” she breathed when his tongue flicked against her clit.

“Rhys,” he groaned in response. “Call me Rhys.”

Feyre arched her hips as Rhys licked, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out. She reached for his horns, gripping them as though they were the only thing from keeping her on this mortal coil. Something had curled its way around her leg—his tail, she realized. Oh, but why did she like it so much? 

Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled. 

“Greedy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “I haven’t even set you on my cock, yet.”

“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”

He lowered his face again, eyes now fixated entirely on her,before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her dripping cunt. She was so close to finishing and desperate for release. 

He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head was practically buried in the mattress, staring upward at the canopy instead.

“Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer to the only god she believed in—though the only word she managed to articulate was his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.

“You’re not done, pretty little thing,” he murmured, crawling up her body. Feyre pushed herself backward so her legs were fully on the bed, ruching the bedding beneath her as she went. Who cared? “My vicious, cruel little wife.”

Wife.

The word clanged through her, settling deep in her chest. Oh, but how she liked hearing him say that. She might have asked him what he was talking about, but Rhys leaned to kiss her again.He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body. Feyre clung to his shoulders, kissing him like he might save her life. Perhaps he would. His knee came between her legs, half closed after the orgasm he’d given her with his tongue, and pushed them wide again.

Feyre moaned, running a finger along the edge of his wing. Whatever careful control he’d planned on was ruined by that small touch—his hips jerked, cock wedging itself just against her opening. Their teeth clashed with thrilling violence, and when her teeth sank against his bottom lip, causing blood to fill both their mouths, Rhys moaned, pushing his thick cock a good inch or so into her.

Feyre gasped, fingers dipping into his biceps. The stretch of him was pain edged in pleasure—her favorite kind. 

Rhys broke the kiss.

“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes scanning her face. The monster was lurking just behind the mask, watching with animal fascination.  “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”

“I can’t—” Feyre didn’t think he’d fit.

“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”

Even if she’d wanted to escape him—and she didn’t—, it was too late. Rhys continued pushing without giving her a moment to adjust. All Feyre could do was breath and grasp on to him until he was fully seated inside her. He gave her no time to relax, pulling himself out with a soft groan of pleasure before sliding himself right back into her. 

“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well. Just as I knew you would.”

Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong. 

Rhys kissed her again, a soft distraction against what was building slowly between them. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “I will lay this ruined world at your feet and together, we’ll bring an end to the chaos.”

Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow, into the inky darkness that had always been hovering just at the periphery. 

Where she belonged. 

“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”

As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her. When she looked up, he’d abandoned his illusion. Perhaps he’d lost his focus, or he no longer cared—whatever the case, Feyre couldn’t help the bolt of lust that surged through her when she saw him. Desire so potent it threatened to strangle her began blooming through her body, settling in her cunt until Feyre lost control of everything.

Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself. Feyre tasted blood, hot and salty, against her tongue. She came again without meaning to, squeezed so tight she could barely take a breath. Above her, the monster was huffing, head thrown back in sheer ecstasy. 

He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights. He didn’t move, his body weight pressing her further into the mattress. 

“Feyre,” he breathed, whispering the word into her hair. “Oh, Feyre. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you.”

“I’m here now,” she said, scraping her nails against his scalp. 

He looked up at her, violet eyes searching hers. “What could stop me now?” he asked seemingly himself. “Who could prevent us from our glorious destiny?”

Feyre smiled, pressing a kiss against his temple.