Lover of Demoncorns

Rhys heard the male snort behind him, a sound of disbelief. They’d been sitting in silence since they’d woken up on the cold cavern floor, most likely after being drugged at some point in the night.

He must have been already asleep, Rhys thought, for his memories of the night before were regretfully undisturbed. He’d been in a vulnerable state already, collapsing in exhaustion after Amrantha had run him ragged in her fury at his disobedience.

Foolishly, he’d thought her cruelty after the revel had been the pay off for killing that male against her orders. He should have known better—known that she was unhinged in the wake of the first trial, that any slight on his part would tip her over the edge.

Rhys had known she would take precautions in the second trial, had been unsurprised when she’d leaned over his naked body in the midst of coitus, hissing her command at his ear.

If you’re to discuss tomorrow’s riddle with Feyre, you’re only allowed to tell her the wrong answer—the one she’s most likely to believe.

Hearing Feyre’s name from Amarantha’s lips as she writhed above him was a torment he never wanted to revisit, and it had taken everything in his power not to withdraw from her in rage and disgust.

But it was his one job, his one avenue of protecting the people he cared about. So instead he’d pulled the witch closer, wearing his Lord of Nightmare’s mask like his only shield, and purred to her as he tasted and nipped at her skin, what business would I have helping that filthy human worm?

Amarantha had laughed—a disgusting sound—and had pushed Rhys back onto the bed with her grip on his neck. You tell me, Rhysand, since you seem to find her company so entertaining. Her voice was ripe with ridicule as her sharp nails buried themselves into his flesh.

Rhys had forced himself to groan at the pain, a sultry, loathsome sound that he could see shifted some of the darkness in Amarantha’s cold stare. He hated this. He hated speaking of Feyre, feeling the soft buzz of her consciousness as she slept, while he was surrounded by Amarantha's abhorrent scent. Still, he played his part well.

My only entertainment is the way Tamlin watches as I debase his toy. She can rot for all I care. It’s your company I truly seek, my Queen.

Those brutal onyx eyes had looked considerate, rabid with desire as she withdrew her hand, tongue snaking out to flick against the blood that coated her fingers—his blood.

Prove it then, pet, she’d crooned.

He’d done his best to, desperate to lose himself in the depravity so he wouldn’t have to think of Feyre.

Yet his efforts had seemingly been in vain, his prowess not sufficient in convincing Amarantha of his innocence. It was a clever plan on her part. If Feyre chose correctly, then she’d clearly do so without his interference and they’d both be vindicated. Just as well Feyre already knew the answer.

So is this your version of a lover’s quarrel?

Lucien’s snide response helped to draw him out of his dark recollection, of which Rhys was grateful, even if it was a dastardly remark.

Indeed, Rhys quipped. My mistress and I haven’t exactly been seeing eye to eye lately.

Pity, that. Lucien said mildly. I don’t suppose I should be concerned about our predicament?

Above, the crowd began to stir as Rhys sensed Feyre’s presence growing near.

Assuming nothing’s changed, Feyre already knows the answer to the riddle.

The cavern went silent. Then, Amarantha’s grating voice rang out.

“Well, Feyre, your second trial has come. Have you solved my riddle yet?”

Rhys could hear Feyre’s thoughts, moving a mile a minute as she relished in Amarantha’s ignorance. His heart swelled with pride as she conducted herself like a true queen, standing before a fraud. He was half tempted to break into the surrounding faeries minds, to see if the court secretly admired her the way she deserved.

One day, he’d make sure Prythian bowed before her.

“Too bad,” Amarantha continued. “But I’m feeling generous tonight. How about a little practice?”

Feyre’s steady determination trickled through their subdued bond. Rhys was moved by how eager she was to prove to herself that she’d grown in the last year, that she was capable of surpassing the trial on her own. That ambition sang to his soul, reminded him of he and his brothers in their youth, eager to prove themselves before the contemptuous Illyrian camps.

He was quickly finding that he utterly adored her tenacity.

“Begin,” Amarantha snapped. As her sharp command clamoured through the room, the floor beneath Rhys began vibrating, shaking his body as Feyre was lowered into the pit.

He hadn’t sought her out yet, and he could feel her mind wandering at where he was.

Thinking of me, Feyre darling? He teased, warmed to know it’d taken a conscious effort not to seek him in the crowd. Don’t worry, I’m here.

He wished he didn’t have a blindfold on so he could see her expression, wondering if she looked anything like she had in her first trial—vengeful and indomitable, a feral gleam in her eyes like she could take on an entire legion of warriors. He’d seen that hunger so few times before, in the rare Illyrian. It was the same spark that glinted in his brother’s eyes, in his own. It was a reminder that his soul called to her in a way that was entirely separate of their mating bond.

She burned like a kindred flame; Rhys was completely enamored by it.

I have a trial to focus on, she chided.

By all means, go focus. He tried to disguise the humor in his voice, knew she could hear it anyway.

Then Lucien was nudging his elbow into Rhysand’s back.Tell her if she makes me endure your company any longer, I’ll ensure every historian refers to her as Feyre Timeturner.

Rhys laughed around his gag. He was about to warn Feyre about the situation that had befallen him and Lucien, but her keen eyes found him before he had a chance to explain. The terror that seized her body, flooding the bond with enough vigor to make his heart palpitate, made him regret not telling her sooner.

Rhys had been under the thumb of that particular brand of panic enough times to recognize it instantly—the primal fear that a mate was in danger. It cut much deeper than worry for a loved one.

The way he used to search those lists of fallen warriors on bated breath, dreading that he might find his brothers’ names, even that vivid horror sometimes seemed eclipsed by the lived nightmare of watching Feyre put herself in harm’s way.

He despaired to consider what it would feel like with a fully realized bond.

“Do you like my little present?” Amarantha was crooning above. “I thought, if these two are so confident that you will succeed in the trials, they may as well prove it with more than just their money, hmm? Do be careful with the dark haired one, I’d be loath to find someone to replace him in the bedroom.”

The crowd erupted into laughter at his expense, but the mockery was hardly important when Feyre was practically drowning him in second-hand worry.

I’m alright, darling, he assured, dropping his mental voice into a soothing caress. This is her precaution to prove I won’t interfere. Unfortunately, I can’t say anything else about it.

Indeed, when he tried to summon words of warning, he felt his mental defenses slam shut, caging his thoughts inside as his own magic worked against him. It was a horribly invasive feeling, but for Feyre’s sake he pushed those violated emotions down, focused on comforting her.

But there’s nothing to worry about, you’ve already bested this trial once before.

He felt her rising anxiety subside, retreating from the bond like a gentle tide until his heartbeat steadied once more.

Do me a favor and tell Lucien he’s safe?

Already done, my Lady. He said if you take too long to answer the riddle, he’ll immortalize you as Feyre Timeturner.

Of course he did, she said with a mental sigh.

She says she’d love to be known as Feyre Timeturner, Rhys purred into Lucien's mind. Personally, I think it lacks flair. What about something like… Cauldronwielder?

Hmm, not bad, but I’m pretty sure Feyre’s going to hate it. She’s hard to please, your mate.

If not for his blindfold, Rhys would have grinned savagely. I thoroughly intend to challenge that notion.

Lucien groaned in disgust, but Rhys ignored it as he slid back into his mate’s mind.

I’m quite partial to Feyre Cauldronwielder myself.

He could hear the distaste in her voice as she responded, You are both terrible at names. Maybe you should commission whoever came up with Cursebreaker.

Rhys took the comment in stride. Lucien says he doesn’t think Cauldronwielder is so bad.

Tell Lucien he’s wrong, she said, sounding distracted as she considered the faeries above, exchanging coin as if there weren’t three lives on the line. She was correct in her thinking—no fae would risk Amarantha’s wrath betting on Feyre after today’s display, and he relished in knowing the whole court would lose their coin betting against her.

“Here, pet, you shall find your task. Simply answer the question by selecting the correct lever, and you’ll win. Select the wrong one to your doom. As there are only three options, I think I gave you an unfair advantage.” Rhys heard the faint sound of Amarantha snapping her fingers, followed by the unmistakable groan of metal high above. “That is, if you can solve the puzzle in time.”

The crowd murmured as the weight of the trial settled over them, but Rhysand forced himself to relax, to look the part of the unconcerned Lord of Nightmares, even as his face warmed from the heat of the spikes that began their descent.

What do you think of Feyre Timetraveler? He mused, wanting Feyre to know that he wasn’t worried. His trust was a warm, shining thing between them that he wanted her to draw strength from if she needed.

But he was entirely certain she didn’t. It’s better than Timeturner, she said, voice confident, almost amused. But I personally believe you and Lucien can put your two clever little heads together and come up with something better.

His heart shone with pride as she turned to the riddle, unperturbed by the danger that loomed with every increasing second. She took her time, reading over the passage carefully. Rhys focused more on the bond than the words that spun through her mind, like a knot she was delicately untangling.

While she mulled over the words of the riddle, her pride and delight swelled over him like a warm cocoon. He allowed the emotions to wash over him and become his own, suddenly overcome with admiration for that version of Feyre he had never known, and for the one who stood before him now. Awed both by the illiterate mortal woman who had courageously defied all odds, and the vengeful High Lady she had become.

He only hoped the Rhysand in the previous timeline had appreciated what a marvel of a woman he was mated to. Rhys was certain he’d never stop being amazed by her—all that she’d endured and grown from, and all that she faced still, undaunted and proud.

A powerful High Lord five centuries her senior, yet even he felt dwarfed by her iron spirit. Her willingness to take on the world, the Cauldron itself, for the people she loved..

She truly was exquisite.

She didn’t like Cauldronwielder, did she? Lucien taunted in his mind.

Rhys shook his head, knowing Lucien could feel the motion at his back. In fairness, I don’t feel the name truly captures her tenacity.

Feistiness is more like it. Despite the barb, Rhys could detect the affection in the male’s words. He might have teased Lucien for it, had the autumn prince not said, how does Feyre Fatechanger sound?

Something in his heart pounded at the words. He knew Feyre would love it. A little alliteration never hurt anybody, he said to the male.

Then, almost eagerly, he returned to the familiar warmth of his mate’s mind. She’d finished reading the riddle, and was practically shining in gratification.

Lucien proposes Feyre Fatechanger, he purred, brushing his mental presence against hers like a gentle caress, thrilled when he felt her heart lighten with exaltation.

Now you guys are getting somewhere, she crooned approvingly.

He watched through her eyes as she approached the levers, felt the way she soared with joy at having solved the riddle on her own as she placed her palm against the cool handle. His smug satisfaction mirrored her own as she glanced up at the imposing spikes, knowing Amarantha would be enraged by how high they still were.

Then—she paused.

At first, Rhys thought nothing of it as she flicked her attention back to the riddle, skimming over the words once more. It was rational to double check, their lives were on the line after all. But then her panic set in, at first a slow drop from a tap, almost imperceptible in the mix of excitement and adrenaline.

But then that stream of emotions became tainted with terror, doubt flooding through to him in near-impenetrable waves. He tried to keep his head above, to keep calm and be her tether.

What’s wrong, darling? He asked, pretending he hadn’t already overheard her mental deliberation, attempting to keep his voice level even as his heart took off in his chest, succumbing to the distress she fed to him like a medical drip.

The answer to the riddle. I-I think it’s different than before.

The fear in her voice was palpable, so different than the vindicated, collected women she’d been just a moment ago. But Rhys understood—of course he did. She was terrified of getting this wrong because his life was on the line.

And as much as he tried to distance himself from her rising tide of anguish, he knew it still shook his voice as he asked, are you sure?

Because, wasn’t he in an identical situation? Unafraid for his life, but terrified for hers?

No, she rasped. It absolutely shattered his heart. I was illiterate then.

He could feel her slipping away from rational thought, descending into a hysteria that threatened to pull them both under. Rhys clawed desperately against it, having to fight double the battle against their combined anxieties, almost unable to separate which emotions belonged to whom. He used those brief moments of clarity to focus on the words of the riddle he’d otherwise been ignoring, finding with no small ounce of apprehension that Feyre was right—the answer to the riddle had changed.

Ferye was drowning in this sea of terror, he could feel it, and he longed to do something to help her out of this debilitating panic.

Take a deep breath, love, he consoled. It will be okay. I trust you to choose correctly.

He might as well have been shouting into a void, for all it did to bring her out of this spiral. It was brutal, witnessing it through her mind, feeling his own throat close up as she convinced herself she couldn’t breathe.

Worst of all, he could feel that last shred of a lifeline she held onto, and he hoped desperately she wouldn’t reach for it.

Can you tell me the answer?

His heart dropped into his stomach.

The impending spikes creeped ever closer, elevating the temperature of the chamber to almost insufferable levels. He could feel Lucien’s body heat as well, their clothes damp where they pressed against each other. If his mate hadn’t been plummeting into a deep oblivion of dread, he may have joked about getting hot and sweaty with Lucien.

And had Lucien not been able to smell the trepidation in the thick, humid air between them, he might have made a comment as well.

Yet the only words that came to Rhysand’s throat were traitorous, pleading for him to tell her the answer is III, to end all of their miserable lives with one word. It was all he could do to grit his teeth and choke out, I-I can’t, darling.

Amarantha commanded you not to tell me?

She was clever—he appreciated that. And maybe if he kept his wits about him, he’d be able to dance around the spell on his tongue, to leave her with enough clues to guess at what had happened. Amarantha’s command was like a vice on his mind, and he had to fight for each word that wasn’t the wrong answer his lips so impudently wished to utter.

Not necessarily, Feyre, I—

Tell me Rhys!

He realized it at the same moment she did, that the spikes were close enough now that there was no time for him to be cryptic. And in a moment of blind panic, his control slipped.

It’s III, the words felt malignant and foreign coming from his mouth, like Amarantha had stepped into his body to speak on his behalf. He hated it, how violated he felt knowing his mate would die by his hand, by his knowing misinformation.

Rhys felt stuck somewhere between murderous rage and ruinous horror as Feyre calmed from his words. Yet he couldn’t say anything to stop her as she approached the third lever, thinking herself foolish for doubting the answer.

Lucien had gone stiff behind him, undoubtedly scenting his rising angst.

She’s about to pull the wrong lever, isn’t she?

Rhys swallowed thickly. It’s my fault. He could hear the grief in his own voice. Amarantha commanded me to give her the wrong answer if she asked.

Lucien yanked against the restraints, as if testing their strength one last time. Then he slumped against Rhys in resignation, tilting his head onto Rhys’s shoulder in a way that almost felt comforting, even as his skin went sore from the blistering heat of the metal above.

In the end, I guess you weren’t as much of a bastard as the world made you out to be.

It was an unexpectedly kind thing for Lucien to say, to offer him comforting words in their last moments. Perhaps the male grimly understood that Rhys mourned not be able to say goodbye to Feyre, that it was its own wicked form of torture knowing of their impending doom, being unable to leave his mate with words of love before the end.

I came pretty damn close, though, didn’t I? At least give a dying man that much credit, Lucien.

In this strange, tentative understanding between them, Rhys tipped his head back to lay on Lucien’s shoulder as well, to offer him that same comforting touch in his final moments.

Rhys shut his eyes, bracing himself for death, gently sliding his talons around Feyre’s mind so he could spare her from the gruesome pain. Still, the dreamer in him silently pleaded with her to change her mind, to trust her instincts instead of his words.

His mate’s cry of anguish shattered the heavy silence that had settled over the chamber, causing both males to jolt in surprise. Feyre pulled on the second lever, and sobbed a moment later when the contraption continued moving.

Rhys sat up in astonishment, heart swelling with relief. She’d done it. She’d saved them. Even with the odds stacked against her, she’d chosen to believe in herself. He was proud of her beyond comprehension.

As the spikes halted and began their retreat, Rhys and Lucien sagged into each other in mutual respite. He wasn’t sure who began it, but breathless, irrational laughter began bubbling from their chests,

I’m not sure what’s more terrifying, Lucien said, the fact that we almost died, or the fact that I was almost known as the male the Lord of Nightmares died chained to.

Cool air flooded into the chamber; Rhys welcomed the kiss of the cool breeze against his angry, welting skin.

Some people would die for a chance to be chained to me, Lucien.

Well you can have them speak to me personally, because I don’t recommend the experience. Anyway, send my praise to our savior, Feyre Fatechanger. May she continue mastering riddles and slaying wyrms to protect poor, helpless males like us.

Rhys laughed around his restraints, repeating those sentiments to his shaken mate. Amarantha commanded that if I were to speak to you about the riddle, I could only provide the wrong answer, he explained. I suppose we’ve proven that you don’t need my help to triumph.

She forced a victorious grin as the platform began moving, and though thoroughly exhausted, Rhys concentrated on sending his love and support through the bond, lending her his remaining strength so that she could wear a brave face before the court, deservedly so.

He beamed with pride as she faced Amarantha levelly, tipping her chin in the picture of defiant regality. Rhys swore in that moment that she was made for the Night Court, that she commanded the kind of attention that could bring the entire Court of Nightmares to its knees. And it could certainly bring him to his knees, any time she asked.

“You’re dismissed, human,” Amrantha said, attempting to sound dismissive and reproachful. But Rhys could hear the shake of envy and anger in her voice, and he absolutely delighted in it.

Feyre laughed haughtily, turning on her heels like a champion on her victory lap. This time Rhys couldn’t resist sliding into the minds of the surrounding fae as they parted for her like the Red Sea. He felt boastful as he witnessed their awe, wanting to scream to those gathered that she was his mate, that he was the luckiest male alive to be mated to someone so praiseworthy.

The hope in the air was tangible, settled thing, like the first fall of snow in winter—new and undisturbed and breathtaking.

You’re carrying the banner, Feyre, he told her. I may be Lord to a Court of Dreams, but I’ve never been able to inspire others the way you just did.

The crowd stayed silent, holding onto that feeling, that change in the air, long after his mate had been escorted back to her cell.

The world was changing, Rhys could feel it.

⟡⟡⟡

Hours later, he found Feyre bundled in her blanket, staring off at the far side of the wall in a daze. The reminder that she had nothing to keep herself occupied but her thoughts broke his heart anew, but the weight of it was lessened by the way her eyes widened at his arrival.

Those bright, stormy eyes could very well be his undoing.

“Hello, Feyre darling,” he greeted, feeling suddenly bashful.

“Rhys!” Instantly, the blanket was abandoned and she was on her feet, closing the distance between them. That weight in his heart lessened just a little bit more by her eagerness to see him. “Are you and Lucien okay? Are you hurt?”

Her eyes swept over him, scanning for injury in a way that was acutely familiar. Really, he should be the one asking her that. The one frantic and concerned for her safety. And he was—almost constantly—but he’d monitored enough from the bond to know that she was fine.

More than that, he was tired. Amarantha had seen to it that he was taken to her bedchambers promptly after the second trial. Just because he’d been exonerated didn’t mean she’d waste an opportunity to take advantage of him while vulnerable—as being close to death often made people. And she’d been no less brutal than usual.

In the back of his head, he could still hear her crooning over his pretty surface burns.

“I’m alright,” he said, though they both knew it was a lie.

“Have you come to give me my reward?” she asked with a sly grin.

Rhys recognized immediately what she was doing. Felt selfish for it, even, because wasn’t that exactly why he’d come? So that he could seek solace in his mate?

He forced a smile, found it came easier with the way she was looking at him, with so much unfettered love he almost felt the need to hide from it.

“Is that all the greeting I get?” he teased, playing along. “So greedy, my mate. Not even pleased to see me unless she gains something from it.”

Rhys clutched at his chest in feigned heartbreak, mood lightening when Feyre rolled her eyes and shoved playfully at his shoulder. He so rarely had a chance to play like this, to be teasing and enjoy another’s company just for company’s sake. The impossibility of it soothed the parts of his that were still sore after that day’s trials—for there were several.

“I was merely expecting a High Lord to follow through with his word.”

Rhys grinned. “Ah, but I didn’t specify when after your trial, now did I?”

Feyre groaned as she mulled over his wording from the night prior, mentally cursing him for being slippery tongued.

There was so much he longed to say to her, starting with a comment about showing her how slippery tongued he could be and ending with an explanation of how he’d intended on being true to his end of the bargain, but today had scared him—truly, beyond description.

Instead he laughed, saying nothing as he guided Feyre back to her pallet. She complied out of curiosity, allowing him to lay her down in his lap. Rhys settled comfortably against the cell wall, tenderly tucking the blanket back around her shoulders when he felt how cool the floor was to the touch. The hay offered little insulation and Rhys was grateful he could at least offer her this small luxury, when she was deserving of much more.

When they made it back to the Night Court—and they would make it back to the Night Court—he resolved to ply her with the most lavish blankets and bedding his court could offer. If she had to suffer three months in this putrid hellhole, the least he could offer her was an eternity of lavish comfort.

As if fancy pillows and plush bedsheets could ever erase the trauma they’d endured. That his mate had endured, at his expense.

He stroked his fingers through her hair comfortingly, wishing his trembling fingers didn’t give him away.

Feyre stiffened in his lap and Rhys fought the tightening in his throat to explain. “I came for a very selfish reason, really.” He brushed her hair aside, revealing the stunning frame of her face. He traced her hairline reverently, wishing his thumb alone could rub away those lines of worry that scored her forehead.

“I just wanted to hold you. I’ve rarely had a chance to, and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since the moment I met you,” the truth seemed to spill out of him involuntarily, as though he couldn’t help but bear his soul to his mate. It felt desperate and unfairly vulnerable. She’d had her fair share of horrors today, she didn’t deserve to be burdened with his as well. Yet he couldn’t contain the parts of himself that unraveled at her touch, raw and unbridled. “Today I… I realized I should seize that opportunity while it’s still available.”

Feyre reached for the hand that he had left hanging limply at his side, watching with near disbelief as she drew his hand to her mouth and brushed a kiss against each knuckle.

I love you, Rhysand. You never need an excuse to seek me for comfort.

Rhys sucked in a breath, unable to contain the sob that escaped him. He’d never had this—even before he’d been trapped Under the Mountain. The last glimpse he’d had of this kind of physical comfort had been in his mother’s arms as a babe, those gentle touches becoming less frequent once she’d sent him to the Illyrian camps to become a warrior.

Warriors were expected to be strong, unbreakable. They couldn’t rely on a mother’s coddling. And he had become strong, he was grateful to his mother for the ways she’d ensured he couldn’t be bent or broken. She’d done it out of love, which is what more than most had done for him.

But this love… it was not trying to teach him any lessons, it was not trying to change him or harden him or protect him. It was soft and accepting, in ways he never known, never been allowed to know. And it was his complete undoing.

“Gods,” he gasped, knowing the tightness in his voice gave everything away, as though his sob had not already. “You are wonderful.”

Saying the words out loud, he realized they just simply weren't enough. This beautiful woman, who drew him out of the deepest darkness he’d ever known, who offered him sanctuary he did not deserve, she needed to know how truly extraordinary she was, how deeply he cherished her.

I don’t know what I’ve done right, he murmured softly in her head, for if he attempted to speak he knew he would only find tears. I’d come to accept that for my court and crown, I would wander alone forever. I thought it’s what I deserved. But for the Cauldron to have sent me you… I will try every day of my life to deserve the honor it has bestowed upon me—the honor of being your mate. I will strive to be the male you see when you look at me, the male you remember—

You are already that male, Feyre cut off, moving to sit up. He stopped her, unwilling for Feyre to see the state he was in.

Please, just let me keep holding you like this, he begged, trying not to mull over her words.

He’d seen glimpses of the male she’d married and fought beside. Perhaps he was falling for his own mask, but that version of himself had seemed clever and confident and… happy. Unburdened.

A male like that felt like a distant dream. Rhys was certain he’d need more than a year to ever be that person, the type of mate and husband that Feyre truly deserved.

You are already that male, Rhysand, Feyre repeated, as though she were the daemati of the two of them. You have always been that male. I see you. I am not perfect, either. But the darkness we both carry, Rhys, they are mirrors of each other. I am your equal, in every way. Even the parts of us that are… unsavory.

Rhys swallowed, ignoring his own self-loathing to focus on the insecurities Feyre was revealing to him.

There is nothing you could do, Feyre, that would make me think less of you, he assured her. No terrible deed you could commit that I have not myself already committed.

Feyre ran circles into his hand, pressing loving kisses into his fingers. Those small, gentle touches melted him. Just as much as her words, which were just a mirror of his own words, as though Feyre recognized he extended the kind of love he’d always been desperate to have in return. Someone who saw him for everything he was and didn’t flinch away.

And there is no terrible deed you have or could commit, Rhys, that would make me love you any less. Look into my head, do you feel the truth in my words? I know you. All of you. And there is not a single part of you that scares me. You can throw your whole self at me, Rhysand. I am unafraid.

He took her words like a blow, releasing another shuddering breath. I truly don’t understand how I am worthy of such unconditional love from such an incredible woman. But I am yours, Feyre, in heart and body and soul.

She threaded her fingers through his from the back of his hand, turning his wrist so that she could press a gentle kiss to his wrist, trailing her lips to the center of his palm. He found her gentle touch steadying, his body relaxing for what felt like the first time in centuries.

And I am yours, Rhys. In heart and body and soul. In every timeline, in every world. I will find you. Always.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t even know if there were words to express the gratitude he felt. But Feyre seemed content to lounge in silence, holding him in all the ways he’d always needed but could never express. He felt boneless from her touch, an object finally finding its home, its resting place.

And as he continued his gentle, lulling strokes through his hair, almost in exchange for the sleepy, tender kisses she pressed to his palm and fingers, he felt her mind go quiet through the bond, that string that tethered them together pulling him after her.

For the first time since coming Under the Mountain, he slept peaceably.

⟡⟡⟡