Professional Feysand Simp™️

Feyre wished she'd thought about a revenge dress.

For the past year, she'd spent no less than an hour and a half in the weight room most days. She'd clocked enough miles to wear out three pairs of running shoes. A constant ache had settled in her shoulders from all the drills that honed her catching, throwing, and aiming. After all the work she'd put in to bring her body to peak physical condition, she really ought to have found something slinky.

But she'd put off packing until the last minute, and now the steam from her shower hadn't done anything to fix the wrinkled mess she'd shoved into her suitcase. Wrapped up in a scratchy hotel towel, she sighed in dismay at the stodgy black outfit she'd bought for her father's funeral years ago.

She forced herself to change before Ianthe banged on the door. Just a few days ago, they would have gone shopping for something new, but since Feyre had ended things with Tamlin, her roommate communicated solely in dirty looks. Ianthe's chipper demeanor had gotten on her nerves, especially before 6 AM practices, but now, Feyre would take it over the frosty silence that had followed them all the way from their dorm to the latest hotel room they'd been assigned to share.

Maybe it was just the thought of the last time she'd worn the dress, but Feyre suddenly missed her sisters fiercely. Despite their childhoods full of cutthroat competition, constant tears, and hurt feelings, Nesta and Elain would still rally behind her after a breakup. And it helped that they both had nicer closets to raid.

But college recruitment and Exy Pro League drafts had scattered the Archeron sisters across Prythian, so Feyre found herself getting ready for the Collegiate Player of the Year awards ceremony alone.

The formal, televised awards ceremony where she'd be seated next to her roided-up meathead of an ex-boyfriend. The ex who was also her team captain.

The occasion called for looking killer. But in the whirlwind of celebrations and interviews, congratulations and sponsorship offers since her game-winning goal ended Springfield University's fifty-year long championship drought, she hadn't had much time to herself.

And these days, Feyre spent her free time crying and beating herself up for not ending things the first time Tamlin put his hands on her.

She put on enough makeup to avoid being told she looked sick, then tied back her hair. After one last frown in the mirror, Feyre let Ianthe have the bathroom. Her teammate said nothing, but the disgusted curl of her lip spoke volumes about how Feyre looked.

She wandered down the hotel lobby, hoping to find Lucien. Since the breakup, hardly anyone on the Springfield Bucks spoke to Feyre unless they absolutely had to, but Lucien remained friendly. Or at least, he did when Tamlin wasn't around to glare.

A few of her teammates had already gathered on the sofa, Tamlin in the center. Irritatingly enough, he looked damn good in a forest green suit that stretched over his hulking muscles, and by some miracle, he'd managed to knot his floral tie correctly. He'd even washed his long, blonde hair for once.

Feyre just silently hovered at the edge of the group. None of her teammates looked at home in clothes that didn't wick sweat, dry fast, and stretch in all directions, save Lucien, who could command a runway just as well as he could dominate an Exy court. He caught Feyre's eye, flashed her a warm smile, and then went right back to nodding along as Tamlin spoke.

She tried not to take it too personally.

As they waited, a few of the Bucks took pictures together. Pictures that pointedly did not include Feyre. Ianthe would probably flood the Exy hashtags with captions about how they all clean up nice, but even that couldn't drown out excited online chatter about Feyre "the Cursebreaker" Archeron.

Breaking records got people talking a hell of a lot more than a few nice photos ever did. Feyre let that knowledge bolster her spirits.

Time seemed to drag on as the team gathered and boarded the bus. Ianthe snagged the seat next to Lucien before Feyre could, so she spent the ride to the Middle Theater staring moodily at downtown traffic. Each time Tamlin's booming voice cut through the Bucks's conversations, she nearly flinched.

As they arrived and took their seats. Feyre tried not to fidget. With all the recent travel, she hadn't gotten a workout in, and even though she needed the off-season to rest up, she felt like she might explode if she didn't run a few laps to burn off excess energy.

Since the breakup, she hadn't gotten this close to Tamlin without the benefit of a helmet, pads, and a mouthguard. The memory of that smashed study room still burned behind her retinas. As the lights dimmed and the ceremony began, she forced herself to breathe slowly. In through her nose, out through her mouth.

Feyre tuned out the introductions and the season recap—after all, she'd lived through it. Eventually, her ears pricked at the sound of her name as the nominees for Rookie of the Year were announced. A camera probably zoomed in on her face, and somehow, she managed to smile through the host listing out the nominees' achievements.

It helped that Feyre's stats blew everyone else's out of the water. Despite her limited playing time as a second-stringer, Feyre put up insane numbers of goals and assists all year. From her very first on-count appearance, when she'd body-checked a Middengard senior then twisted out of the tackle to steal the ball and score, she'd made Bucks fans believe in an end to the Springfield curse. And in the championship, she'd made it happen by slamming Amarantha, Hybern's captain, into a wall to clear the way for the game-winning goal.

The Cursebreaker was a freshman phenomenon if there ever was one.

And yet, when the host opened the envelope and read out her name, Feyre still blinked in surprise. Everything about this season felt like a dream.

She stood, and next to her, so did Tamlin. He pulled her into a hug, every inch the proud team captain the fans expected to see despite the breakup, and it took everything in Feyre to push down on the instinct to shove.

If Lucien hadn't gotten to her next, Feyre might have vomited. By some magic, he always seemed to smell like cinnamon and campfires, even drenched in sweat—decidedly not like Tamlin. "You earned it," he whispered, pulling her close.

Feyre let those words steady her as she walked up to the stage. She hadn't thought about an acceptance speech—couldn't think of one even now, amid the too-bright lights and too-loud applause. All she could focus on was not making a fool of herself and tripping as she stepped up to the podium.

But Feyre Archeron always landed on her feet, and she dutifully got through all the necessary thank-yous. The words felt like ash in her mouth, and she didn't mean most of them. Her father, who'd pushed his daughters into Exy because a shattered kneecap ended his dreams of going pro. Her sisters, who she'd been pitted against. Her teammates, who'd rallied behind Tamlin despite the abuse. Her coaches, who'd never really cared about her off the court.

Her hands still shook as she returned to her seat, only vaguely aware of her teammates clapping her on the back as she walked. The ceremony moved on to the next award, and Feyre's heart stopped hammering in her chest.

Something ugly coiled in her gut ahead of the final prize of the night—Player of the Year. Feyre hadn't been nominated. The old guard at the PCAA—Prythian College Athletics Association—still expected underclassmen to pay their dues. Despite exceptional performance that would have earned it, she wasn't eligible for the award.

But Tamlin was a finalist.

Feyre could practically taste something bitter on her tongue as Tamlin's highlights were read out. His stats weren't any better than hers—but he had the benefit of being a starter. Unlike him, she'd managed those numbers while waiting around for him to tire out and need a sub.

He'd graduate in a year. Feyre would get the playing time eventually. She knew that.

Yet…she couldn't help but wonder what she could have achieved if she'd been on the starting lineup from the beginning.

The smile froze on her face as Tamlin's name was called. It wasn't a surprise; the captain of the championship-winning team was always a shoe-in for Player of the Year. But something inside her seemed to burn anyway.

She hated it all—that dopey smile that once charmed her, his massive bear-paw hands that dwarfed the host's as they shook, the good-natured way he bumbled through the acceptance speech. He was such an oaf. And the more the Exy community applauded him, the more Feyre wanted to scream.

She did her best to push those thoughts aside for the rest of the evening. The season had ended, after all. After tonight, she'd have a whole summer ahead of her, plenty of time to catch her breath away from Tamlin. Maybe with a chance to relax, the thought of setting foot on the Springfield campus again wouldn't make her feel quite so nauseous.

After the ceremony, there was still a banquet dinner to get through. Just the thought of it sounded exhausting, and Feyre didn't know how the teams in other college leagues managed two whole banquets a year.

But at least, there would be players and coaches from other teams, and even if the Bucks all hated her, the Archeron name meant something in Exy. Nesta had gone pro with the Velaris Valkyries, and all the analysts were predicting that Elain would be chosen during the first round when the draft occurred in a few weeks.

Feyre had gotten used to all the gawking years ago.

She lost track of everyone that came to congratulate her. Helion from the Suns, Adriata's goalie Tarquin, that dealer named Kallias that she'd bowled over during the game against the Frost, plus an assortment of coaches and officials she'd never met before…

Players mingled freely—the league wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone else, at least by reputation. Feyre had wanted to melt into the floor and disappear every time a player she'd just met told her they were sorry things didn't work out between her and Tamlin. But as usual, Velaris was the exception.

The Velaris University Stars always kept to themselves, not that anyone wanted to get mixed up with them anyway. Like everyone else, Feyre had heard all the whispers about bribing officials, and rumor had it the Stars kept a slush fund to pay players for intentionally knocking out opponents. Someone had even said Velaris had mafia connections, like some of the teams over in America. Rhysand Darling, their captain, had refused to shake Tamlin's hand before the coin toss at all of their games.

Springfield and Velaris had one of the longest, bitterest rivalries in all of college sports, so Feyre would have dismissed it as immature drama. But one tackle from Rhys had concussed Lucien despite the helmets all Exy players wore, and for weeks, she'd worried the hit had scrambled her friend's brain.

In retaliation, she'd knocked Rhys on his ass no less than five times when they'd faced off again during the playoffs. She'd delighted in the angry flash of his violet eyes behind his facemask, and with Feyre covering him, he'd hadn't scored once.

She felt those same violet eyes landing on her throughout dinner. Feyre tried to ignore it. He probably just held a grudge because she'd made him look like a chump in the playoffs, and some idiot event organizer had been stupid enough to put the Stars's table near the Bucks's.

Feyre wasn't quite sure when it all became too much. But she could barely take a bite of her chicken without another player coming to talk to her, and a few seats over, even more of them were fawning over Tamlin. She needed air.

Once she caught sight of the line to the ladies's room snaking around two corners, Feyre tried to find somewhere quiet. She walked through the halls without any sense of where she was going, other than just…away from everyone else.

She finally stopped in front of a door labelled "EXIT" that was probably in some staff-only section of the building she shouldn't have entered. But it didn't seem to be a fire door. And when she pushed, it opened without alarming.

The smell of garbage hit her like a freight train. Good—it might stink, but no one would come find her near the dumpsters. Feyre stepped outside, careful to wedge a doorstopper into place just in case it locked from the outside.

She let out a shaking breath, tipping her head up to look at the sky. Even on a cloudless night, the city was too bright for stars, but she took in the sight of the full moon rising over the skyscrapers.

She could do this.

Feyre Archeron could be as enduring and faceted as the night. Her teammates in Springfield just couldn't see in the dark.

"I was hoping to find the woman of the hour out here," a voice purred behind her.

Feyre's face twisted into a scowl before she'd turned around. But there Rhysand was, smirking at her with his hands shoved into the pockets of his suit. Impeccably dressed and camera-ready, he looked out of place in the dingy alleyway.

"What do you want?" she said, too drained to put any venom behind it.

"To speak to you privately."

For a moment, Feyre said nothing. She'd assumed he'd sought her out to gloat after hearing about her breakup, but that was the sort of thing people generally did in public, the bigger the audience the better. Narrowing her eyes, she said, "Why?"

"I assume you're thinking of transferring. Anyone in your position would be."

"I'm not," she lied. Admitting it to Rhysand before she'd made a firm decision wouldn't end well.

He shrugged, the simple movement of his shoulders somehow painfully elegant. "If you want to spend your time warming Tamlin's bench, then it's your season to waste."

So he was here to gloat, then. "Fuck off," she said, moving to push past him and head back inside.

Rhys didn't move out of her way—his hand shot out, and he stiff-armed her just like he would on an Exy court. Feyre growled, dropping her shoulder and shoving properly. But the godforsaken heels on her feet made her movement wobbly. He still didn't budge.

"And that," he said, sliding his hand back into his pocket, "is why you should come to Velaris."

Feyre let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I should've known you weren't above player tampering. Did your team bribe someone to ignore that, too?"

Technically, he'd just tried to recruit her before she'd entered the PCAA portal and officially declared herself open to a transfer. Players could talk to each other, but if a coach had put him up to it, the PCAA would hit their team with a fine and suspension. The officials didn't look kindly on schools who swooped in and seduced away proven talent. But Velaris, apparently, didn't care.

His gaze roved down her body, a predatory gleam in his violet eyes. Feyre's mouth went dry. She knew that look—had worn it herself often enough.

Rhysand was hungry.

"Maybe I just think you look good in black," he murmured.

Until tonight, Feyre hadn't attended a formal event since her father's funeral. The black dress she'd bought amid a fog of grief covered her knees and collarbones, but she had the strangest sense that Rhys wanted to tear it off her with his teeth.

Feyre didn't mind. There was something deliciously heady about no longer scurrying back into Tamlin's shadow when someone looked at her like that.

But not quite heady enough that she wouldn't make him work for it. With a shrug, she said, "If I wanted to transfer, I'd have options. Adriata also needs a striker, and their jerseys match my eyes."

"Tarquin couldn't handle you."

"And you think you could?"

"You've watched enough film to know your play style is far too aggressive for the Summer Court. They rely on quick, short passes, and there's no room for someone who prefers to slam her way through lines of defenders. You'd thrive in Velaris, Feyre."

He wasn't wrong. Feyre understood how the defenses in the league operated just as well as he did, and damn near every article last season said Archeron's got that dawg in her. From what she'd heard, the culture in Adriata was good—no one ever had anything bad to say about Tarquin, and the Jellyfish would welcome a newcomer with open arms, even if they quietly grumbled about her holding onto the ball too long.

But Velaris…well, she'd heard the rumors. And even if she hadn't, Rhys rattled Lucien into dropping passes with taunts about Jesminda rolling in her grave, their quiet backliner had once grabbed Eris Vanserra by the neck when the refs weren't looking, and that tiny demon of a goalie actually bit Varian last year.

If it were any other team, Feyre could deal with a few cutthroat, psychotic teammates. An eventual spot on a pro roster would be worth it. But she'd catch hell for leaving Springfield for its biggest rival, especially after a breakup with the Bucks's beloved golden boy.

She should have just written it off. Even if she decided against Adriata, Helion might have a spot on the Suns, and there was the possibility of putting real distance between her and Tamlin if she transferred to the Continental League and joined Vallahan or Rask or Montessere. Or hell, even that ragtag American team with the orange uniforms.

But a clean break didn't compel her as much as Rhysand did.

"How would you make it worth my while?" she said, drinking in the desire burning behind his eyes and gulping it down like wine.

"Strikers come in pairs, Feyre. I need an equal partner I can split the court with and trust implicitly, but unless you transfer in, I'll be picking up the slack of whichever halfwit underclassman makes the roster," he said, not answering her question.

Feyre opened her mouth, fully intent on telling him she didn't care what he needed. But before she could, he advanced on her and added, "Tell me what you want, and if it gets you on the Stars, it's yours."

She almost said she wanted him. A cruel part of Feyre wanted to see if he'd kneel and bury his head between her thighs, just to convince her to transfer. She could imagine tangling her fingers in his blue-black hair, keeping his mouth exactly where she wanted it until he'd proved just how badly he needed her on the team.

But she wouldn't. After Tamlin, Feyre couldn't argue that she had great taste in men, but at the very least, she preferred entirely willing partners. Beyond that, she wouldn't be able to look Rhysand in the eye again, let alone play alongside him for a year.

Her good sense won out. "I need player development, a spot on your starting line, and teammates who won't cause problems."

"We'd treat you right in Velaris," Rhys purred. No one had any right to make a discussion of team culture sound that…well, sensual. Feyre shivered.

"Would you?" she said. "I'd be a distraction."

"Hungry dogs run faster, Feyre. Springfield might have tried to protect Tamlin, but it's hard to keep secrets when a captain is violent enough to throw a desk at his girlfriend. I know this is personal for you. And I'll put up with a media circus if it means I'm playing alongside a talented striker with something to prove."

Rhysand might have been the next in a long line of people who only wanted her for what she could do on an Exy court. But at least he wanted her. Besides, he didn't have to care as long as their goals aligned.

She crossed her arms. "I'll think about it."

Feyre had never seen Rhysand smile. And maybe that was the for the best because if it had happened on an Exy court, she might have been dumbstruck long enough for him to steal the ball from her racquet. Despite all the muscles, most Exy players looked like thumbs. But Rhys was devastating.

"We'll talk once you've entered the transfer portal," he said, as if it were inevitable Feyre would join the running list of players who'd officially declared their intention to leave for new schools.

With that, Rhys sauntered back inside, and Feyre silently glared at his back until he'd disappeared down the hallway. Definitely at his back and not at all at the sculpted ass perfectly accentuated by his well-tailored, stupidly expensive-looking suit.

When she was alone again, Feyre took a few deep breaths of cool night air. It didn't do as much to clear her head as she hoped. She needed to sit and think about this—make a list of the pros and cons, maybe even talk to her sisters and get their opinions.

But no one wanted to snatch that trophy back from Springfield more than Velaris. And no one wanted to shut Tamlin up more than Feyre.

If she closed her eyes, Feyre could imagine the boos if she entered the Spring Court in black. Each goal would quiet them down until the Bucks fans just sat in stunned silence or left early in disgust. All of the hype and excitement ahead of the biggest rivalry game of the season, the hype that only came after winning a championship…fizzled out into nothing.

It would be a perfect end to Tamlin's college Exy career. He might even cry.

But then again, if she transferred for more playing time and underperformed, she'd be Exy's biggest bust. A freshman who let one good season go to her head, then floundered. Too confident for her own good, too temperamental to play alongside her ex, too emotional to play Exy at the highest levels. A disappointment compared to her sisters—someone cracked under pressure with a national audience watching.

It could kill her chances of going pro.

Feyre couldn't stay out in the alleyway much longer before someone came looking for her. Steeling herself to get through the rest of the night, she headed back to the banquet. The rest of it seemed to pass in a blur, and she pretended not to notice the Velaris players whispering among themselves.

She'd left her phone in the pocket of her jacket. It had been sitting on a hanger at the coat check all evening, but when Feyre checked her messages on the bus, there was a new text from a contact that definitely hadn't been there before the awards ceremony.

Rhysand Darling 🌟: It was a pleasure meeting you tonight.

Feyre locked the screen before any nosy teammates had a chance to peek over her shoulder. The whole ride back to the hotel, Feyre felt like her phone was burning a hole in her pocket. Lucien even seemed to notice—she'd forced an uncertain smile when he'd shot her a worried look.

It wasn't until Ianthe's snores filled their shared room that Feyre dared sneak off to the bathroom. The tile was cold against her legs as she sat on the floor, back against the door. Before she had a chance to sleep on it or talk herself out of the decision, she started drafting an email to Springfield's coach and administrators. Once she'd typed it, she just stared at the subject line as her stomach did backflips.

Notification of Transfer

Feyre squeezed her eyes shut and hit send. She waited to feel regret or horror or even the urge to un-send the email and pretend nothing had happened. But it never came, and she'd run out of tears. Something inside her hardened into cold, icy resolve.

She switched to her messaging app and replied to Rhysand. The Spring Court had better not be standing when we're done with it. And no bitching if I get a penalty for spearing Tamlin's head on my racquet.

We'd been speaking of the blight, and Tamlin shot to his feet so quickly that for a moment, I thought I might have summoned it. His claws gleamed in the midday light as he snarled at the open doorway, canines elongating.

The house, usually so full of busy footsteps and servants chattering and so much life had gone silent.

The way the forest did when a raptor passed overhead.

And like a field mouse, I wanted to scurry under the table and tremble until it was safe to emerge. Or just start running and hope for the best. Lucien swore and drew his sword.

“Stand down,” Tamlin growled, all command. The voice of the High Lord. “He’s here to collect what’s his, and we will not stop him.”

“You can’t be serious,” Lucien hissed. “We’re not really going to—”

“No one will ally with us if we try to stop him. You know the laws.”

Lucien sheathed his sword, even as the baldric of long, serrated blades appeared from thin air across Tamlin’s chest. I snatched one of the knives from the table, and neither one of them made any attempt to stop me.

Perhaps because a measly steak knife would do no good against whoever was coming. Someone awful enough to frighten them, even as Tamlin slouched in his seat and picked at his nails in a vain attempt at looking unaffected.

They hadn’t been like this with the Attor. Or the naga or the Suriel or the Bogge. My grip tightened around the knife.

Footsteps sounded from the hall. Even, strolling, casual.

Tamlin continued cleaning his nails, and Lucien sat down, tension radiating off his body. He’d curled his hands into fists and bent his knees like he was ready to fight or flee a moment’s notice.

The footsteps grew louder—the scuff of boots on marble tiles.

And then he appeared.

No mask. He, like the Attor, belonged to something else. Some one else.

And worse…I’d met him before. He’d saved me from those three faeries on Fire Night.

With steps that were too graceful, too feline, he approached the dining table and stopped a few yards from the High Lord. He was exactly as I remembered him, with his fine, rich clothing cloaked in tendrils of night: an ebony tunic brocaded with gold and silver, dark pants, and black boots that went to his knees. I’d never dared to paint him—and now knew I would never have the nerve to.

He stopped in the doorway and stared and stared at me. For a moment, I could’ve sworn pure shock flashed across his features, but the look he leveled at me was pure predator. As if I were nothing more than prey to him.

“I remember you. It seems you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble,” he purred, like a cat playing with its dinner. He turned to Tamlin. “Who’s your guest?”

“Feyre Archeron,” Tamlin said. He said my name with a heavy finality, like a judge delivering a death sentence.

“Did you really just give that— that bastard her name? Lucien cried.

“Names have power. It’s Rhysand’s right,” Tamlin said.

I braced myself for an attack—slashing talons, snarling and growling. But Rhysand just laughed—a lover’s laugh, low and soft and intimate. A shiver skittered down my spine.

“A bastard? Is that really something you ought to call a High Lord of Prythian?” he said.

My heart stopped dead. This High Lord, with darkness rippling from him and violet eyes that burned like stars, could only belong to one place.

The High Lord of the Night Court had come to Spring.

With the hand that wasn’t holding the knife, I gripped the table as my knees threatened to buckle under me. Rhysand’s eyes slid to me, and his perfectly shaped lips twitched for just a moment.

But Lucien was undeterred. “This isn’t the Night Court—you have no power here. So scurry back to Amarantha’s bed where you belong.”

“Enough. If you can’t behave yourself, leave us, Lucien,” Tamlin said.

Lucien moved slowly, as if he were fighting the High Lord every step of the way. I’d never seen such anger smoldering in his expression. Rage and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a hint of betrayal.

But he obeyed. And cast one last apologetic look at me before the dining room door shut behind him. Something told me I’d just lost my only ally.

I tried not to tremble at the thought.

Tamlin turned back to Rhysand. “My apologies, High Lord. The Spring Court wants no quarrel with Night, and we won’t keep you from taking what’s rightfully yours.”

“She’ll be pleased to see the brutal war-band leader finally learned his manners. And just in time for you to join the rest of us.”

“I’m obeying the old laws, nothing more and nothing less,” Tamlin said tightly.

“Now?” Rhysand said, arching elegant, groomed brow. “They’ve been dead for centuries. I don’t see what would cause a change of that stone heart of yours after all this time.”

“What are you talking about? I burned them when— Oh, you wouldn’t know, would you?” Tamlin barked a humorless laugh, the harshest sound I’d ever heard him make.

Rhysand’s face became a mask of calm fury—terrible, fearsome, and heartbreakingly beautiful—as he stalked towards the High Lord of Spring. Tamlin raised his claws but made no other move to attack. I nearly ducked under the table to shield myself from whatever was coming, but I didn’t dare so much as breathe.

“Explain yourself.”

“I hardly believed it myself when Lucien told me he saw the mating bond—a High Lord and a human girl are far from equally matched. The clever magic of his mechanical eye doesn’t lie, but I thought it was a trick nonetheless. You and your mistress, forcing me into a war with the Night Court if I dared attempt to save my lands.”

I’d hoped they’d both forget I was there, but Rhysand turned and stared at me again. Really looked, as if he were searching for answers written in my eyes, my face, my body.

I raised the knife, though I knew he’d kill me long before I could bury it in his chest.

An invisible, talon-tipped hand pressed its way into my mind. I couldn’t move. Against my own volition, my muscles went taut, and the knife dropped from my hand and clattered against the floor.

One swipe of those mental claws and who I was would cease to exist. And I could feel them rooting around in my mind, flipping through my thoughts and memories like the pages of a book. Everything laid bare to him, no matter how private or personal.

I would have vomited if I had enough control over my body to do so.

“Leave, Rhys,” Tamlin said. “You can do this elsewhere.”

It wasn’t—I noted—a plea for Rhysand to release the magic binding me. No, Tamlin hadn’t lifted a finger. Perhaps I meant so little to him that he’d hand me over to appease a monster. Perhaps…he hadn’t cared, after all.

I would have whimpered at the thought if I’d had the freedom to draw breath. But even my heart only beat as Rhysand willed it.

“Tell me who she is,” Rhysand demanded, a slight frantic edge to his voice. The first crack in his cool demeanor.

“Feyre Archeron is your mate.”

The talons in my mind stilled but did not release their hold on me, and Rhysand’s eyes widened in pure shock. Tamlin grinned wolfishly.

Like he’d just delivered devastating news to his worst enemy.

I heard Rhysand’s voice inside my head, far softer and gentler than anything he’d said aloud. If I’d been able to move, the sound would have stopped my trembling.

Has he hurt you at all? You can be honest with me, love.

No. If anything, he’s protected me.

I felt a rush of relief—Rhysand’s relief, not my own. Whether he’d deliberately shared it with me or it had just traveled along some sort of connection between us, I couldn’t say.

Those invisible claws caressed my mind, then pulled out gingerly and vanished. My knees finally gave out, but Rhys moved with inhuman speed and caught me by the shoulders before I could sink all the way to the floor.

He hooked his other arm under my legs, cradling me against his chest. Too overwhelmed to fight, I merely tried not to sob or scream. Rhysand had seen everything—I hadn’t known it was possible to be violated so deeply in my own mind.

And yet, I had the strangest urge to bury my face in the crook of his neck.

“We’re finished here,” Rhysand said coldly. “Needless to say, if you breathe a word about her to Amarantha when we meet again, I’ll reduce your court to ash and skin your pelt for fur-lined mittens.”

He sounded like he’d go to war over me. I could barely understand it—faeries looked down on mortals, and a human girl should have been far below a High Lord’s notice.

But Tamlin had called me Rhysand’s mate. A bond so deep, it made even marriage seem insignificant in comparison, he’d once said. But plenty of husbands considered their wives little more than property—and I had no doubt Rhysand guarded his belongings jealously.

If I was no more than a thing to him, then perhaps I was a valuable one, at least.

“I have no desire to see Feyre harmed, either,” Tamlin said, though he didn’t even get up from his seat. “Take care of her.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “I’ll see you Under the Mountain.”

And with that, he carried me into the void between worlds, like a bride over a threshold.

***

We emerged in a wood. Somewhere I could feel in my bones was older—more aware—than anywhere in the Spring Court. The Night Court, perhaps. But I wondered if we’d left Prythian entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Rhysand said, before I could ask. “Fuck. I am, so so sorry.”

“Put me down. Please,” I said.

I’d almost expected him not to, but he did, moving slowly and bracing an arm behind my shoulders until I was steady on my feet. Then he stepped back and left a healthy distance between us.

His violet eyes had gone wide and wild. Desperate.

And yet…when he spoke again, his tone gentled, as if I were the feral creature that might bolt or lash out at any moment. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I believed him. But nothing else made a lick of sense, and I’d never known a forest as quiet as the one where we stood. No birdsong, no distant breaking branches, no hum of insects. It set my teeth on edge.

“Then what do you want with me?”

“My first priority is keeping you alive. There is quite a lot you don’t understand and very little time to explain. So…may I?”

The invisible talons hovered at the edge of my mind but did not pierce it. Rhysand looked at me expectantly.

The silence between us stretched on and on. But those talons did not encroach any closer. I waited to feel them slashing through the very core of myself, but…they never did.

He was waiting for permission, I realized. It set me at ease just enough to say, “Alright.”

A party, somewhere underground. A throng of fae dripping in finery—jewels, elaborate clothes, displays of wealth and power. The crowd parted, and my eyes landed on a surprisingly plain, redheaded female.

Amarantha. The woman I’d come here to kill tonight.

I gasped, realizing it had been a memory. That he had been the one intent on killing Amarantha.

Gods, hadn’t Lucien said that was the woman whose bed Rhysand warmed?

“It’s a painful memory, but one you need to see,” Rhysand said.

There was a gentle pressure against my palms. Caught up in the vision, I hadn’t realized I’d reached out and clasped his hands, and he’d squeezed back. I didn’t let go; the touch was…grounding.

It was a wonder my hands didn’t shake with rage as I plucked a glass of wine from a try proffered by a passing servant. How unfair—how monstrously unfair—that she sat here tonight in a gown of glittering rubies smiling and surrounded by sycophants, thriving and unpunished after all the lives she’d ended. The human slaves she’d killed, the soldiers she’d tortured in an attempt to break me…they all deserved justice.

I couldn’t wait to see her brain leaking out her nose.

But her mental shields were damned difficult to tunnel through. I slunk to a corner of the room, grateful for once that no one wanted to come make small talk with the High Lord of the Night Court. Breaking her defenses would take all of my mental concentration.

I didn’t bother listening to the speech as a toast. It was probably some utter bullshit about ushering in a new era of peace. No, I just kept digging, desperate for a way in. But to avoid arousing suspicion, I lifted my glass along with everyone else.

I sipped my wine and realized my mistake the second the bitter taste hit my tongue. Poison. The well of power I drew from, a vast sea of magic, began to drain away.

In the last few seconds my power was wholly my own, I wiped memories, flung out shields, and cried desperate mental warnings to my friends to stay away. And then it was done. I’d become her slave.

The memory faded, and when I came back to myself, I realized my nails were digging into Rhysand’s hands. He didn’t seem to notice or mind—his violet eyes bored into mine with single-minded intensity. “She intends to help the King of Hybern tear down the Wall and invade the mortal realm. Now do you realize the danger you’re in?”

I nodded weakly. “She’ll kill my family.”

“It gets worse,” he said, and the next memory sucked me under like a riptide.

Another party, a masquerade this time. I sat at Amarantha’s right side, and the lingering scent of what we’d done together in bed still clung to me. She hadn’t let me bathe—had wanted the smell clinging to me, marking me like a brand.

I might as well have attended the revel with a sign around my neck declaring me her whore. And if it continued to keep my court and my family safe, I’d endure a thousand more humiliations.

But I wasn’t the one she was most interested in that night. Tamlin had been foolish enough to slap her hand away when she’d tried to touch him. He should have known how badly that would enrage her.

“I’d sooner touch a human—sooner marry a human—than ever touch you,” he said, the fool. “Even your own sister preferred Jurian’s company to yours.”

The crowd tittered at that—some in shock, others in excited anticipation of the coming bloodshed. By bringing up Clythia, Tamlin might as well have been digging his own grave.

“You’re lucky I'm in a generous mood,” Amarantha drawled. Dangerous words. “I’ll give you a chance to break the spell that binds your power to me.”

Tamlin, the idiot, spat in her face. She laughed.

“I’ll give you seven times seven years before you join the rest of us Under the Mountain, my dear Tamlin. If you want to break the spell before then, you’ll have to find a human girl to marry you. And not just any girl, one with ice in her heart, willing to kill a faerie. Maybe after sending your sentries across the wall like lambs to slaughter, you’ll learn your lesson. Your courtship can only begin after she’s murdered one of your men in an unprovoked attack, killing for hatred alone. Perhaps then, you’ll understand my grief for my sister, and you’ll change your mind.”

This time, as the memory faded, another one pulled me in immediately.

In the dream, I saw a hand. A beautiful, human hand painting flowers on a table. Such a simple thing, but whoever she was, she was living in relative safety if she was painting something entirely ornamental. Something beautiful.

There was still hope.

I tried pushing back an image—the night sky. Stars and the moon. It had been so long since I’d seen an open sky, but the thought of it had kept me going for nearly fifty years. I wasn’t sure the human would receive it, but…I had to try.

“There’s more,” Rhysand said aloud, as the talons in my mind retreated again, “but that’s the gist of it. There isn’t time for me to explain the details right now.”

I just gaped at him as I tried to process all of it. The girl with ice in her heart had been me. But so had the painter from his dreams. His mate.

No wonder Tamlin had thought it was a trick—he’d known I was another male’s mate. Winning me would save his lands…only to earn the ire of the wicked Night Court.

Lucien’s words came back to me. The Night Court, of course, manages to remain unscathed.

But that was all due to Rhysand’s sacrifices. I didn’t quite understand what it meant to be mates, but I had his loyalty. That might be enough to keep me alive. And I needed to get a warning to my family, a message to flee to the Continent before Amarantha made it below the Wall.

I straightened my spine. “What are you planning?”

“To fake your death. Enough people have seen you that I’m sure word of your existence will get to her eventually. When I go back Under the Mountain, I’ll say you fled for the Wall and were eaten by some creature before you could make it home.”

As sound a strategy as any, I supposed. He’d need evidence if it was going to work. My blood, perhaps. Locks of my hair, torn up clothes with my scent still clinging to them. Anything to fake a struggle.

“I don’t know what happened to the body that belonged to the head you left in the garden,” I said, reaching for the buttons at my collar, “but if you’re in need of a mangled corpse, a faerie bled out in the manor after Amarantha took his wings. Tamlin buried him nearby.”

I slipped off my tunic, leaving me in just my pants and the thin undershirt I wore beneath it. And despite the gruesome turn the conversation had taken, I watched Rhysand’s eyes trail down towards my chest, then very quickly back up to my face.

Pig.

Rhys laughed—a real one, I realized, not the affected one meant to intimidate that I’d heard in the dining room. It might have been the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. “Oh, most definitely. But you didn’t have to think it quite so loudly.”

I tossed the tunic at his face, and he caught it handily. In an elegant movement that spoke to refined manners, he folded it over his arm like a dinner jacket.

“If we’re faking my death, where am I to hide in the meantime?”

“Here, in the forest to the east of the sacred mountain Amarantha claimed as the seat of her court. Neutral territory. In this wood, there is no High Lord, and the law is made by who is strongest, meanest, most cunning. She does not dare touch these creatures or disturb this wood.”

If Amarantha wouldn’t set foot here, I shuddered to think what monsters lurked among these trees. Something far worse than the Bogge or the naga or even the Attor.

So much for thinking Rhysand wouldn’t throw me to the wolves.

“You won’t be entirely without help,” he said, sounding almost…affronted. If he had wings, they would have rustled. But he’d clearly been listening to my thoughts again, so I couldn’t help but scowl.

A tang of magic stung my nose. I shivered at the way the spell skittered along my skin, though there was something oddly familiar about it. Like I knew Rhys’s power.

I glanced down at my arm, which had become a blur of color, like I was made of half-mixed paint. When I tried to focus on a specific part—my fingers, my elbow—my attention merely bounced elsewhere. I’d seen something similar before.

“A glamour?” I guessed.

“The scraps of power at my disposal aren’t enough to completely glamour you, but you’re…camouflaged. Not entirely invisible, but the creatures here will pass you by as long as you don’t draw attention to yourself.”

I’d manage. Out of habit, I moved quietly through the woods anyway, intent on not scaring away any game. I knew how to keep myself hidden.

A pack appeared at my feet, laden with supplies. A small tent, some rope, a flint, a bedroll, a bandana, another set of clothes. The sort of things I would have killed for when I was hunting in the woods.

“There’s no knife—she limited my magic so I’m unable to summon weapons. And I can’t give you food, either. But this should be a start,” he said.

I picked up the pack and slung it over my shoulder. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know,” he said, face darkening. “She rarely lets any of us out from Under the Mountain. And give it a wide berth—get too close, and her sentries guarding the entrances will spot you.”

I’d be alone in the woods—besides the more fearsome creatures, it wasn’t all that different from my life below the Wall. And at least this time, there was only one mouth to feed.

“So is this…goodbye?” I said, hating the way my voice wavered.

“For now. If you stay in the forest, you’ll be close enough that I’ll be able to reach your mind. We can speak that way when I’m not…” He trailed off, but his wince and the memories he’d just shown me spoke volumes about whatever duties he carried out in Amarantha’s hellish court.

“And you’ll answer my questions?” There was so much I needed to know.

“I won’t keep secrets from you, especially not after rifling through your mind earlier. I’m sorry for the harm it caused.”

Something told me Rhysand didn’t apologize very often. That he’d bothered, with time running so short…

“Thank you,” I said with a nod. “You should go.”

My jacket was still folded over his arm. He lifted his other hand and started to reach towards me, then dropped it as if he’d thought better of it. His fingers curled into a fist at his side.

“I’ll find you again as soon as I can,” he said. It sounded like a vow.

His violet eyes held mine until he faded completely into mist. It was just me and the moss and gnarled trees and lichen. And somewhere…the unholy creatures that called this place home.