#ccpop

“I dare you to kiss me.”

My heart nearly stops beating in my chest.

To cover it up, I scoff as loudly as I can. “Seriously, Rhys?”

“Seriously, Feyre.”

My best friend sits on the couch across from me, smirking like a cartoon villain.

“You just spent the last hour telling me how you were undateable, cursed, unmarried and afraid like - who was it? Charlotte Lucas?”

“It’s Jane Austen,” I mumbled.

“So kiss me, Feyre. I can tell you if somehow your horrible dating history is from your lacking skills. Or at the very least, I can make your last kiss before spinsterhood especially memorable.”

My breakup with Tamlin was fresh, ink still drying on proverbial paper. But if I was being honest, our relationship had been dead ages ago.

Rhys knew. Rhys knew everything about me. If I had really been hurting he wouldn’t be teasing me like this.

So why was this making me so nervous?

I realized that this was the first time both of us had been single since we met. Between my on again, off again thing with Tamlin and the abrupt ending of Rhys’s last thing with Cressida, the timing had never really…worked.

Not that there was anything to work. We worked just fine, Rhys and I. As friends.

Sometimes when Tamlin was in a mood I’d lie and say I was going to see Nesta and come here to Rhys’s swanky apartment instead. And when he was single he was less reluctant to let me slip under his arm while we watched a movie, unguarded as I wrapped my arms around his waist.

The fact that tonight he had stayed far away on the other couch all night, through three rounds of drinks, had been driving me a little wild.

Why was I thinking like this? This was Rhys, for Christ’s sake. We had never even kissed!

Okay - except that one time, sloppy and drunk in college. I was certain he had no memory of it. I had mostly forgotten it myself.

Mostly.

“Take the dare and kiss me, or you have to do three more shots.”

I winced. “That’s not fair. I didn’t even know we were playing.”

Three shots would put me well on the way to bad decisions. The fancy vodka Rhys had was already going down too smooth.

“You said this was a sleepover. And since you didn’t bring any face masks or popcorn, I thought we had to start somewhere.”

“I wanted to use your fancy face masks. I know you have that dead sea shit in your cabinets.”

“Quit changing the subject, Feyre.”

Kissing Rhys would mean…well I didn’t know what.

His handsome face was smiling back at me like the cat that caught the canary.

But I knew better. There was a flash of something there - uncertainty maybe.

Did Rhys…want me?

Did he know I wanted him?

Either way, I wouldn’t let the asshole win so easily.

Sighing, I leaned forward, poured another slippery smooth shot, and downed it, watching his eyes flicker.

I poured a second and knocked it back before I could smile in response to his pouty frown, letting the vodka burn down my throat.

When I poured the third, I was surprised he didn’t stomp his feet. “Am I really so loathsome you won’t even consider it?”

I held the shot in my hand. Carefully, I stood up. The floor shifted underneath me a little. But I found my balance and padded on socked feet over to him.

His eyes got wider with every step.

I was careful as I braced myself on his hard shoulder. I slipped onto the couch, thighs sliding over thighs, until I was mounted on top of his lap.

He swallowed as I wiggled my hips to adjust. I held the full shot out to him, proud I hadn’t spilled a drop. Freshman Feyre hadn’t lost her touch.

“Do you want this, or should I?”

Rhys’s long fingers ran over mine, my skin on fire at his touch. He brought the glass to his lips and tipped it back.

I watched, greedily, as he swallowed.

When I kissed him, I was gentle, tasting the vodka burn on his lips.

Until his hand was in my hair and his other arm around my waist, pulling me impossibly close. His tongue slipped into my mouth and I groaned, pulling myself closer.

Holy shit.

I was about to pull away, desperate for air, when his hands came to my hips and dragged me over his lap. I could feel him, rock hard, underneath my jeans.

Holy shit.

“Is that what you had in mind?” I asked when I finally broke free to breathe.

But any semblance of control I had taken was lost as he lifted me, thighs still wrapped around his waist, and carried us into bed.

His sheets were soft and maybe I was drunker than I thought but he was here, Rhys was here on top of me, grinding into me and driving me insane, and it was so good. It had never been like this before, not with my skin on fire and my body so instantly blissed out I felt like I might burst. Hands and lips and fingers were all over me, and I couldn’t track him or make sense of it, like he was some sensuous creature in the shadows determined to drive me mad.

“Rhys,” I moaned as he palmed my breast.

Suddenly my hands were pulled up over my head, pinned in his strong grip. The rest of me was stuck under his heavy body and I bucked for a moment, panicked.

Until I saw his face. This was Rhys - my best friend. The lust in his eyes might be new but I melted back into the safety of him.

“Listen to me, Feyre.” His voice was a low growl in my ear. I tried to clench my legs together for some relief, but his thick thigh was holding them open. “You’re going to promise me something.”

“Rhys, please.” I knew he was vicious and no-nonsense in his job as a prosecutor but I had no idea he was like this in bed. His voice carried a low command that had my stomach melting.

He kissed me, hard and deep, until I was seeing stars, panting for oxygen. “You’re going to wake up tomorrow, Feyre, and see me sleeping in bed.” I nodded, completely out of my mind. I needed him to finish whatever this was so he would get his mouth back on me. “And you’re going to panic.”

I stilled, the words finally breaking through the lust-haze of my mind. “What?”

Rhys nodded. He had slowed; placing small kisses on my forehead, my cheek. “I’ve known you for eight years, Archeron. You’re going to wake up tomorrow morning and panic. You’re going to put on your clothes as quietly as you can and sneak out of here like some one night stand.”

“I -”

“Shhh. Just listen to me, Feyre.” He kissed me again, and how was I supposed to be annoyed when his tongue could do that?

“You’re going to promise me that you won’t leave.”

Something seized in my stomach. His weight on top of me was a lot. I struggled, finding his grip on my wrists too tight to move.

He smiled and oh - that wasn’t fair.

His lips were on me, kisses trailed down my jaw, my neck. My breathing kicked up again and my back arched, almost against my will, trying to push him further, faster.

“You’re going to promise me you’ll stay, and let me cook you breakfast, and tell you how I’ve wanted to make love to you since the first time I saw you across the dining hall.” I squeaked as he mouthed at my bra, teasing the hard nipple underneath. “You’re going to promise to stay, or I’m going to tie you to the bedframe. And Feyre.” He stopped to look at me, his eyes dark and hazy. “I am very good at tying knots.”

I took a deep breath and watched his face. His beautiful and intense face - a face I had loved and relied on for so much of my life.

I could do this. I could do this for Rhys. Because I loved him, because I trusted him. And because when I bucked my hips they grinded on his leg in between my thighs and…

“I promise,” I whispered.

He smiled again, devilish and wicked.

My life was forfeit anyway. Amarantha had no idea how close she’d come to winning tonight—she had won. Tamlin had watched, eyes wide open and body unmoving, as Lucien and I were almost killed. Whatever part of me had thought that he just needed motivation—that certainly , if he worried enough for my life, he would come around—was dead in my chest. 

I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. Had anyone ever loved me? Put me first? If I’d been the one captured here, would anyone have ever come?

The cries strangled in my throat, a garbled sound coming out unbidden at the thought. 

Pathetic.

Still, I sunk my face into my hands, letting the grief consume me. I’d come here for him, and I’d die here for it. He couldn’t even be bothered to speak my name. The reasons I’d had for coming here seemed to evaporate, each straying just out of reach as I tried to grasp and hold them close. I thought I’d loved him. I laughed at myself harshly—it sounded threadbare. I didn’t know what love was. I wouldn’t have recognized love if it had taken my hand in its own.

I felt the moment the air changed, Rhysand’s presence so obvious to me even in the smothering dark. I didn’t want to run from it. I wanted to lean into the void—see how far and deep it went. See if it might swallow me whole and save us all the trouble.

“Go away.” I still muttered the words, but there was nothing behind them. They emerged flat and lifeless, falling onto the floor between us. I didn’t look at him.

“Now, now,” came his smug and chiding response, though I thought I sensed the slightest hesitation in his words. Perhaps it was my loss of common sense. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“You’ve just won your second task, Feyre. There’s no need for tears.” 

I scoffed, but the sound felt hollow. Everything felt hollow. I didn’t want to spar with him, didn’t have the energy to send scathing comments his way. What better position was he than I? Sleeping in that monster’s bed each night. For the first time since I saw him in the Spring manor, it wasn’t hate I felt for him, but a splash of appalling pity. Surely, I’d hit rock bottom if I was commiserating with the pampered High Lord of Night.

In another life, I might have been disgusted. But in this one, I was just tired. I simply lay my temple to my knee and closed my eyes, the hot tears spilling down my leg. When he gripped my wrists, I didn’t fight him, didn’t even pull back. And when I felt his breath fan across my face, I let it happen, inhaling slowly. He smelled…warm. It was strange and lovely, jasmine and wine and something that smelled like the days when the winds would rip across the woods of my village.

It took me a moment to realize that he’d licked a tear from my face, a stripe of wet heat across my skin in the frigid cell. I pulled back, not quickly, and looked at him waiting with a smirk playing on his lips. But then, while my gaze settled into his, a piece fitting into a slot, it was as though he’d been punched. Twilight eyes wide and horrified, Rhysand’s hand gripped his chest. It was enough to make me straighten my spine.

“Rhysand…”

But then I felt it, something strange crawling up my chest, up my throat. The emotion choked me, horror and fear and confusion and…adoration? The feelings were strong, so violent that they whirled around inside me and took pieces of me with them. It rushed through my ribs, down my spine, clearing out parts of me and setting them down somewhere else. When my eyes met his, I somehow understood that the feelings weren’t my own. My exhale was sharp, and Rhysand looked stunned enough that the breath might have blown him over. He was still so close to me, the warmth of his body physical against my prickled skin. 

He looked wild, feral, his breath heaving as he scanned every inch of my face. Then, my chest caved inward. The air gasped into me, sawing back out as the pressure on my chest intensified to blinding levels. Had he been sent to kill me? Was this how it ended?

“What is—what’s happening?” But I didn’t get a response. “Are you here to kill me?” Even through the panic, I was struck by how tired my voice sounded. His brows furrowed, his movements twitchy and strange against the elegance he normally held. The twinkling darkness exploded around us as though he couldn’t control it anymore, and a strangled sound ripped out of Rhysand in the dark before it embraced us both, pulling and tugging and ripping the very fabric of me until the air changed around us.

My eyes opened, and I was no longer on the ground. Instead, I could feel fabric brushing against my skin, a murmur of lips against my hair as I came back into myself. It took me a moment to adjust, the low light of scattered sconces bathing this new room in a soft glow. A fire in the hearth. The smell of food in the air. The scratch of embroidery against my cold and dirty skin. Rhysand’s warm arms banded around me. Searing. Good.

Instinct told me to scramble away, that I shouldn’t be so close, but something in me felt so brutally settled, so intimately soothed, in his arms. The pain in my chest had dulled to a steady but quiet thrum, the feelings swirling in my mind back to being my own. I felt a curious sense of loss. Had he lost control of his magic? Had the bargain somehow pushed us together when he’d gotten close?

It didn’t matter, none of it did. 

It felt good to be held.

“Feyre.” My name was a whisper on his tongue speared directly into my veins. I’d never felt such startling clarity in a moment, such a strangely vivid feeling of being outside myself looking in. “Feyre,” he whispered again—a hymnal, a prayer. It was such a departure from our normal nature, but it didn’t feel wrong at all.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, his arms pulling tighter, my body easing into his. What did it mean that I didn’t want him to let me go? I hated him. I—

It was the first time I’d felt good in as long as I could remember. Oddly, the first time I’d felt safe. The notion was ridiculous.

Suddenly, we were moving, his body cradling mine as he stood, long, graceful legs carrying us across the room. A door opened, candles flickered to life, and the sound of water filled my ears. I wanted to ask why he was filling a bath for me—if he planned to drown me. If he wanted me dead, he could do it within my mind, save himself the wetted sleeves.

At the thought, he seemed to hold me tighter to him, arms strangling like vines around me—like he couldn’t pull me tightly enough. If he was going to end my life, at least I would know this comfort at the end. I thought, in all my days of hunting, I’d never seen a predator soothe their prey before consuming it whole. 

I could feel his lungs expanding beneath my cheek, chest pressed tight to my face. Could hear the pounding of his heart. I tried to sync my beats to his, focus on the warmth of him, the foreign but strangely settled feeling of being cared for. It was wrong, but I wanted the comfort of it. I craved it on some level that felt beyond consciousness, beyond sense. My muscles were coiled tight, something bordering painful still twisted around the bones of me, but it seemed to vibrate with every synced breath the two of us took.

He set me down gently, and my body screamed in protest at the distance. He reacted like he’d heard it, fingers lingering long past what was appropriate, holding on to touch an elbow, a shoulder, as though he couldn’t bear to let entirely go. What had happened to us? This was not my enemy, and somehow, that was more concerning than anything else.

When I lifted my gaze to look upon the male I’d have sworn just hours ago I hated, my breath caught along my throat in a jagged line, tearing out of me like I’d never seen him before. His hair was wild, an onyx halo around him, tufted up in places. Those eyes of indigo were wild, wide, open and without an inkling of the smugness I’d come to expect. In fact, every bit of him looked so honest and broken open, I almost swore I could see inside . 

There was a tug to him, a need to keep him close that I’d never felt before. Not with him, not with Isaac, not with Tamlin. Not with anyone. I felt as though I might scream if he wasn’t close, like if he left my sight for even a moment, the mountain might come crumbling around us.

“The bath. It’s for you.” His words were stunted, stuttered. For the first time since I’d met him, the High Lord seemed unsure. But I couldn’t think over the swell of emotions inside of me. I yearned to feel clean—the hot water and steam and oils so inviting I could nearly cry with the feeling. But the want to be close to him, to stay with him, seemed to override all else. He stepped back, and a whine crawled up my throat. The sound had hardly hit air, but Rhysand had frozen stock still in the doorway, his fae ears probably hearing it like a scream.

“Don’t go.” The words were out before I could stop them. I vacantly thought I might hate myself for it, but I needed him to stay. He had to stay.

He hesitated, eyes squeezed shut, pausing for just the smallest moment before turning back as though some quiet decision had been made. He took a step back towards me, fists clenching and unclenching again, skin white over the knuckles. He spun on his heel to face the door, his fingers tugging wildly through strands of inky black hair then settling in a death grip on the door frame. I could feel him coming undone, and it comforted me, oddly enough. 

“Undress, and get in.” It was a plea, spoken softly through gritted teeth. I moved, shuffling out of the rags on my body and letting them fall to the floor. I was embarrassed by the pile of them at my feet, nothing but horrid strands of cloth telling the story of what I’d seen since I arrived. I’m sure I didn’t look much better. There was a mirror back over the sink, but to see it, I’d have to walk past him. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see myself that badly anyway.

Rhys was so still it felt otherworldly, unnatural. My eyes rested on his back while I leaned down to graze my fingers across the surface of the water, so warm that my skin pebbled in reactivity. I could feel the tightness of his chest, the tense hold of his shoulders. I knew without any explanation how hard he was holding back from looking. He wanted to see me, and I knew it with such a clarity that it felt like a thought of my own.

Who was the last to see me so bared? Tamlin? Something about the thought of him felt twisted, wrong. I had given Tamlin everything, and in return, he’d given me silence. Tamlin had no place here in this room, humid with steam and notes of tea like my father once brought back from the continent, heavy and spiced.

When my legs hit the water, I shuddered, the heat enveloping me. I wanted to wash the sweat and fear and crumbling stone from the dungeons off my skin. I wanted to scrub away the failure, the shortcomings, the humanity of me, until I felt nothing but the ache of raw skin. I sunk in until the lapping surface covered my chest, smoothing hands up and down my arms.

Still, Rhysand waited, preternaturally still, his back to me. I felt suddenly, achingly alone.

“You can turn around.” The words were a whispered permission, a quiet acquiesce. I wasn’t sure where this sudden change of heart had come from, perhaps the idea that we were both idiots caught in a trap here. Neither of us wanted to be here. At least he might survive.

I closed my eyes, laying my head back as my body floated beneath the bubbles. He was close to me, though he moved without sound. His presence was all-encompassing, consuming, that strange sparkling night of him comforting rather than frightening as it pulsed beside me, within me. 

He didn’t speak. There were no quiet remarks, sharp on his tongue—no prodding or poking to rile me up enough to respond. He simply sat by the tub, our thoughts loud and our bodies closer than ever. There was no fae wine to dull the sensations, to pull a curtain across these memories tomorrow. There was just him beside me, close enough to feel his breath.

When he moved, I felt it, the darkness ebbing and thrumming around us, and I cracked open my eyes. He offered out a muslin cloth to me over the water, no tricks on his face, no challenge offered. His fingers were inches from my skin, jaw tight, and eyes fixed so steadfastly on my face that I wondered if he thought he might turn to stone if his gaze strayed. But I wanted it to stray. Some part of me, some loud part, wanted him to see me. Wanted him to want me. I could feel that he did.

So, instead, I held his gaze in mine, turning my head slowly to the side and exposing my neck. It was quiet, more submission than I’d ever showed to him, perhaps to anyone, and the effect was immediate. His sharp intake of breath exploded in my own chest, the world collapsing in his eyes. Then, almost painfully slowly, he dipped the cloth beneath the water and drew it up softly to press against my neck.

His eyes focused on my skin and my eyes focused on him as he moved it softly, purposefully over me. He worked in silence, and I watched, the movements unhurried and reverential, steady and quiet, only our breathing and some unearthly tension coiled tighter than a spring between us. For once, I wasn’t focused on survival. For once, I remembered what it felt like to just exist. 

It was so strange to be cared for, the gentleness and comfort such a contrast not only against the life I’d been living, but from what I’d come to expect from him, too. He washed every exposed part of me, methodically dipping the cloth into the water in between. Only when he finished did his eyes meet mine again.

When I was out in the woods, hunting for food for my family, I would sometimes come home late just to see the night sky. Especially in winter, the sharpness of the stars stole my breath away. I could never explain it, the call that I felt when it was just me and the constellations and the wide open sky. But I felt it now.

Those galaxies in his eyes were blown open as Rhysand reached beneath the water and stayed there, his movements agonizingly slow as he brushed the cloth over my skin. I didn’t flinch, just gave him a nearly imperceptible nod when he hesitated. And then, I closed my eyes. 

The feeling that exploded across my ribs was something like humility, something like awe. There was no doubt in my mind that I was feeling him, either through the bargain or through some other means. And when I heard his voice, not in my ears but in my mind, whisper Feyre like a devotion, I thought nothing had ever sounded so beautiful.

There was nothing sexual about his touch, though it moved gently over my breasts, cleaned across my stomach and between my legs. But I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so close to anyone. The feelings carried as he washed me in silence, the intimacy of it so overwhelming that I wasn’t sure when I’d begun to cry again. I noticed when he wiped a tear, with the tip of his finger this time, from the peak of my nose. Could he feel me too? Was there any way for him to know that, against all odds, these tears were the result of feeling safe? Of feeling true comfort?

It was over too soon, his throat clearing as my head lolled against the porcelain edge of the tub. 

“There are towels. Come out when you’re ready, and I’ll be there.” It was a voice I didn’t recognize on him, soft and low, quiet and lacking the unrelenting snark I’d grown accustomed to. It was both unfamiliar and, at the same time, a voice I felt I’d known all of my life. What had happened between us tonight? What had changed?

The door clicked quietly closed behind him, his footfalls silent as he moved away and a strong ache resounding in my chest as he did. I dipped my hair beneath the water, running my fingers through the knots patiently, though the water was cooling. I stepped out, my body already searching for the presence of his. The towels were soft, lush against my skin as I took my time, the gift of being clean one I’d never take for granted.

I wrapped the towel around me, no replacement clothes as mine still lay in dirty tatters on the floor. Instead, I crept from the bathroom, finding Rhysand sitting with his head in his hands on the side of the bed. It was as though he hadn’t heard me, didn’t notice me there, and for a moment, he looked more human than fae. His shoulders were hunched, curved inwards in a way I’d never seen. For his enormous stature, he looked…almost small. And a part of me ached so desperately to comfort him that I stepped forward.

His spine straightened as the floor creaked, eyes on me like an animal caught in a trap, then flashing to the towel. They were rimmed in red, and if I didn’t know better, I might have thought he’d been crying.

“There’s food. I brought food.” He gestured to the table where a bowl of stew sat. I hadn’t had anything warm in….how long had it even been? I wondered vacantly back to when I’d thought eating the food given to me by a fae would trap me forever. It hadn’t been true, and I was already trapped. Still, a very quiet voice in the back of my consciousness wondered if there was a reason accepting food from Rhysand felt different…right. I moved toward the table, only feet away from him as he ran a hand through wild hair. He grabbed at the pile of clothes folded beside him as though just remembering they existed. This was not the male I knew. 

“And new clothes for you. What I had and could find.” He held them out and I took them, new pants and underthings and a linen shirt that smelled like him.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, and he turned away, scrubbing a hand over his mouth but not answering as I let the towel drop to put on the clothes. They were painfully soft, so gentle against my skin that I nearly cried. The smell of him was so heavy that my eyelids fluttered while I inhaled greedily, sliding into the seat and taking in the bowl and fresh bread in front of me. The first bite was like pure pleasure, the hearty broth warming yet another place inside me that hadn’t seen the sun in months. I relished it as it slid down my throat.

He hadn’t spoken, still stood with his back turned, so I tried a different way.

“Why do I want you so close to me?” Even though my words were quiet, I could tell they’d hit, his back stiffening as he turned. His face worked, jaw tensing and brow furrowed. He looked as though he wanted to say something, words ready and pressed just behind his lips, fighting and failing to break free. Instead, he crossed the space in two strides, pulling the opposite chair to sit in front of me, our knees nearly touching.

“Things will be different now.” As if I hadn’t known that. As if I could ever go back after tonight, after whatever I could feel pulsing between us.

“Tell me why.” It was a demand, but his shoulders dropped.

“I can’t,” he responded. Oddly, I believed him, detecting no lies in his words. I ate another spoonful, then another, my eyes on him. His gaze tracked the movement of my throat as I swallowed. 

“You’re different,” I observed aloud after a moment, though the silence between us was not uncomfortable.

There was a whisper of a smirk on his lips, plush and perfect despite the anguish written into the lines of the rest of his face. With a small shrug of a single shoulder, he let those twilight eyes meet mine again. 

“Everything’s changed.” There was an apology in his eyes, something broken there, fractured. I felt it, too, rattling in my chest like something had clattered loose and was falling, falling, falling. Unable to be put back in place ever again. But he was right, and I could feel it: Everything was changed.

“Rhysand…” I whispered, a question, but something else, too. Something like an understanding.

“Please call me Rhys,” he responded, that quiet voice fluttering through me lightly like the wings of a moth, soft and gentle and so unlike him. And yet…so undeniably Rhysand. 

Rhys.

I finished my soup in silence, then after a few moments, he stood slowly, like he was holding the weight of the entire mountain upon his back.

“I have to bring you back.” I’d never heard a voice filled with such regret, such sorrow. I just nodded, standing and holding my hand out for his. I wanted him to take it, wanted to feel his calloused fingers against mine. The magical air between us felt as flimsy as a cloud, like any sudden movement would break it, and it would be like tonight had never happened at all. But when he took my hand, it was steady, strong. I could feel his heartbeat in his fingers, matching pace with mine. It was an olive branch, a promise, something that neither of us really had the words to explain. But it whispered that tonight had happened, it had been real.

I expected the winnow straight away, but was surprised when he pulled me to his chest again instead. The weight of him was grounding, the warmth and smell and sturdiness of his chest against me and his arms on my back so poignant that it stole the breath from my lungs. The feelings swimming in my chest told me that it wasn’t just me, and when my arms closed behind his back, his body slumped in relief against mine. It felt natural—it felt like home.

“I am so, so sorry, Feyre.” The words landed like blows, one after the other, as his head rested on mine. I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how to. “But I promise you, I will do everything I can to get you out of here alive.” I felt the press of his lips against my temple, and for just a moment, I imagined them pressed to my mouth.

No one had promised me help. No one had dared to hope for it, let alone speak it. It was a support, a hand in the dark. It was something like trust.

Before I could respond, we were tumbling through that familiar and comforting dark, the rush of a roaring river and the salty wind of the sea barreling around us before the stagnant, humid cold of the dungeons surrounded us once more. Tears were already prickling my eyes when I stepped back and turned away. I didn’t want to shatter the magic, didn’t want him to see. 

I didn’t have to worry. The second I stepped back, he was gone. The emptiness of my cell was exactly how I remembered, cold and dark and fathomless. Full of nothing but my own suffocating sense of loss. Except, now, there was a spark. Something quiet and softly blooming in my chest that hadn’t been there before. Something like hope.

I stepped back to find my pallet, easing myself down and almost jumping in shock to find a fully stuffed mattress beneath my hands. I looked down and saw only straw. Still, I knew what I felt, my hand passing oddly through the material. I felt blindly around what my eyes told me was coarse hay, only to feel plush down and blankets that I couldn’t see. In looking down, I noticed my clothes too, back to the rags I was so familiar with, riddled with holes and grime and blood and tears. But on my skin, they were still the soft muslin of Rhys’s shirt. I could still smell the spice and the sea.

I laid down on the bed, pulling the invisible blanket, soft as a lamb, over my shoulder and closing my eyes. I nearly jumped when I heard his voice in my mind.

Sleep, Feyre. The guards won’t be bothering you anymore.

My heart thudded with the presence of him, the urge to thank him writhing inside me. I wonder if he could hear me, too.

The pulse of the bargain was bright and strong inside my chest, stirring and swirling with the beats of my heart, echoing strangely as though another pulse joined them, too.

Rhys…

“Rhys?”

Her sweet voice bounced softly around the room. 

Rhys.

In his head this time, he could hear the amusement in her voice. Did you fall asleep, love?

Me? Never.

He cracked an eye open, her face swimming above him. She was beautiful, the firelight catching in her eyes and softening the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and cheeks. There were 183 of them. He’d counted them more than once on nights he couldn’t sleep, tracing his eyes over the best gift he’d ever been deemed worthy of receiving. 

Well, one of them.

“Nyx is down—out like a light tonight,” Feyre mused, sliding down onto the couch beside him, his arms wrapping around her as naturally as breathing. She leaned into him, sighing with contentment. Rhys loved the way her body relaxed against his, like it waited until it knew she was with him, that she was safe and home. 

“He’s always exhausted after an afternoon up at his aunt and uncle’s. I swear Cassian might as well start training him now with how much he likes that ring.”

“And the weapons in it,” Feyre added dryly.

“His flying has gotten so much better,” he mused, eyes focused on the dancing flames. Nyx was actually starting to get off the ground recently, and Rhys smiled every time he thought about the way he’d furiously flap his little wings. Rhys always waited for the second he’d gain any height off the ground—watching his whole little face light up with pure, unfiltered joy was something that filled his chest so thoroughly with pride and love that it almost hurt sometimes.

“He is,” she agreed quietly. He knew that Feyre always watched on nervously but excitedly. He didn’t blame her. It was her first time watching a child with Illyrian heritage—especially one that held the pieces of her heart outside of her body—as he learned the most sacred gift of his genetics. It was a gift, but one that could be nerve-wracking. He remembered the way her fingers would tighten around his whenever Nyx got more than a few feet off the ground, her lips pressed so hard that they paled even as she smiled.

It was silent for a moment between them, just the logs crackling and their breathing in the air. It was silent in the River House, just the soft pop of the firewood and the distant hush of wind against the windows. No more periodic wake-ups, no more bedtimes that lasted hours and hours. 

As though hearing his thoughts, Feyre spoke.

“It’s so quiet now.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Rhys chuckled softly. The quiet returned, but Rhys could feel Feyre thinking beside him, her brow furrowed just barely. He knew his wife’s tells, the minutiae that only her mate would recognize.

“What’s on your mind, darling?” he asked, holding her tighter. When she tilted her face to look at him, his breath caught. He hadn’t been prepared for whatever emotion swam in her eyes—a mix of nerves and happiness, a blend of quiet hope and tentative excitement.

“I want another baby.”

Whatever Rhys had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. His heart stuttered. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested on her hip.

He hesitated too long, and he saw the look in Feyre’s eyes begin to shut down.

“Sorry—I just–” she fumbled for the right words. “He’s growing up. He’s becoming a person all his own. And I love watching that, and I love seeing him grow. I love all of this.” She grabbed his hand and placed it over her heart. “I love what we have—what we’ve built. I want a big family, a full table. I want to do all this with you.” 

The words all came out in a rush, falling and landing with a massive impact inside his chest. The house had gotten quieter lately—Nyx was playing harder, more independent, and ready to crash every night when the sun went down. It was nice to have some autonomy back, though many of those nights Rhys found himself standing in his son’s doorway, staring at the perfection that they’d created. He and Feyre, all the best parts of them in one small body.

If he thought about it, he did miss the chaos of it all a bit.

His eyes flicked down to Feyre’s stomach. Despite everything, seeing her pregnant had been awe-inspiring for him. Never before in his life had he known joy like watching her grow their child, her belly rounding, her body filling out and happy and healthy the way it always should have been. 

But with those memories came the others, too. Rhys had never been more afraid in his life. Not being shipped to the Illyrian camps to train as a child, not when he’d fought tooth and nail to climb Ramiel, not through wars or Amarantha. 

He’d never known fear like what had faced him as he’d had to count down Feyre’s last days alone. Wondering if he was doing the right thing keeping the knowledge from her, hoping to let her enjoy being a mother for as long as she could. As long as they had before—

He blinked hard, her hands suddenly on his face and her body much closer to his.

“It won’t be like that this time,” she said, her voice confident and firm. He hadn’t realized he was projecting his thoughts so loudly. Her expression softened.

“You weren’t, but I can see it all over your face.”

He brushed a knuckle over those freckles. A constellation artfully painted across her beautiful face. 

His.

“You aren't afraid?” he asked. He had long ago abandoned trying to put on a false front in front of his mate. She knew when he was scared, when he felt joy. She settled into his lap, leaning her head against his chest so she could hear his heart. It was an old habit, started after the war with Hybern during the long nights of nightmares in the dark. Her voice was quiet in the room, but the certainty in it was undeniable.

“I am afraid, of course.” There was a time, long ago, where she’d have done anything to hide the vulnerability in her voice. Rhys would never take for granted the trust she’d allowed him—the gift of her heart, but also her faith. “But logically I know that it won't be the same this time. We've seen Nesta deliver a baby safely now.”

Meira had come, red-faced and screaming and perfectly healthy, into the world last year—wings and all.

“I know.” He knew. He did . But still his heart beat like the wings of a frightened bird. Sometimes, when he woke disoriented from nightmares, he could still feel that pain in his chest as she’d died. As she’d told him no goodbyes. He had never figured out if the pain had been the mating bond, cold and lifeless in his chest, or the slowing of his own heart. It was all the same, anyway.

Could he really do this again? Could he survive the fear?

She tilted her head back to look up at him, and Rhys pressed his forehead down against hers. Held her a little closer just to reassure himself that she was here. That Nyx was upstairs. That they were okay.

After a few moments, Feyre pulled back, bright eyes glittering. “No wings this time?” 

The laugh burst out of Rhys unbidden, bubbling from his throat like water from a fountain. He wasn’t sure how she could always do it, always pull him back from the dark.

“No wings,” he agreed, his lips pressing to her nose. 

“She might have them, anyway. Or maybe she'll be able to change them at will like you. Then she’ll be just like her father,” Feyre offered. Rhys froze.

“She?” Had Feyre spoken to Elain? Did she already know something? But she just shrugged, smiling.

“Just a feeling.” But Rhys was already imagining it. A little girl, the same wild dark curls as Nyx, wide blue eyes, and 183 freckles across chubby cheeks. A burst of something that felt like euphoria spread through him.

A little girl. A sister for Nyx.

A sister like…

The knot crept into his throat abruptly, less familiar now in all the centuries that had passed, but no less painful. 

His children would have a different life. A different father. A different world.

They would have everything.

Rhys could imagine them flying wild and low over the Sidra, the sun dipping behind the mountains and painting the yard golden as they swooped, giggling together. They would never know what it felt like to fight for the love of their father, to feel like they needed to hide parts of themselves from the world. They would decide if they wanted to train in Illyria or at home or not at all. They would be friends with whomever they chose. They would always be able to prioritize their happiness.

They would not grow up the way that he or Feyre had.

He'd give them the entire world.

Rhys looked at Feyre, staring at him with pools of silver in her eyes as he realized he’d lowered the wall in his mind entirely. She gave a small nod, chin wobbling as she laid back against him. 

She fit against him like an answer to a question. She tucked her hands between his back and the couch the way she always did, and Rhys smiled. 

Lucky. He was so incredibly lucky.

He'd give her the world, too.

“Let's do it.” The words were out before he’d had a chance to think twice. She looked up at him again, the hope in her wide eyes overriding all else. 

She was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen.

“Yeah?” Her voice was a whisper, as though she didn’t believe it. As though if she spoke it too loud, it would all go away.

“Yes. I want to have another baby with you.” Watching the smile spread across her face was like watching the break of day after a lifetime of darkness. He’d once thought he’d never see that light again—never deserve it.

“Really?”

He nodded as she threw her arms around him, peppering kisses over his jaw and face. It hadn't been so long ago that Rhys hadn't imagined a future for himself at all, darkness consuming every part of him. Now, with the world wide open in front of him, he wouldn't second guess it.

She leaned back in the reclining chair, letting the soft winds toss her hair and the fabric of her dress lightly over her skin. It was a truly beautiful night, and she always liked having a reason to spread out on the rooftop deck of the River House. Her hand splayed over her belly, fingers spread and pressing gently in response as she felt the tiny kicks from the other side. Feyre smiled. 

They were strong now, the skin stretching and her belly adjusting every time the little one moved. It wouldn’t be much longer before she’d get to gaze upon their little face, pick out which features favored whom, reflect on how their eyes crinkled, and who their trilling laugh reminded everyone of. It was one of her favorite parts of motherhood—parsing out all of the things she loved best about her mate with all the best parts of herself and finding them nestled snugly within the heart and flesh of someone entirely new.

She slowly dragged a finger up the side of her stomach, prodding gently again when she felt the undulating response. An elbow, perhaps, or a foot, bumped her back. She tapped the bump with her fingers and it drew back, almost as though it knew and understood the game they played. 

She did this for hours sometimes when the baby was active during the night. Unsurprisingly, he or she much preferred to sleep during the day and play once the sun went down. Truly their father’s child.

She heard the approach of wingbeats before she turned, grabbing her water with one hand and sipping while keeping the other planted on her belly to continue the game.

“You’re still out here?” a voice called out across the roof veranda, deep and teasing. Feyre looked up and watched his approaching silhouette in the near-dark.

“Where else am I going to be?” she volleyed back, voice light.

He brushed his hand through his dark curls, longer than she’d seen them in years, pushing them out of his face. He gave her a lopsided smile. “Thought you might be hungry, raiding the kitchen instead.”

Feyre scoffed. If she could move any faster at this point, she might have gotten up to give him a loving shove. She had been eating just about everything that wasn’t nailed down this time around. This baby had a penchant for sweet things, and she was certain every local bakery was monitoring the pregnancy just as closely as she was, if only for inventory purposes.

“Where are the others?” she asked as he pulled up a chair, sitting next to her and extending his wings before relaxing back. 

“Oh, they’ll be here any minute.” As if summoned, raucous laughter suddenly pierced the night, coming closer. On the darkening horizon, she could make out multiple figures, wings beating in the air softly and elegantly. It was a sight she’d never tire of, but she missed being in the sky herself so sorely that she found her throat tightening at the image. She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“You alright, Mom?” 

She nodded tightly. Nyx had truly become the sweetest male, strong and kind and brave, but always her little boy. Even if he wasn’t so little anymore. 

“Just a little emotional, is all,” she replied. That wasn’t anything new, either—she’d spent half this pregnancy fighting back tears over one thing or another. When she’d gotten the letter about Elain’s second pregnancy, she’d been so happy she cried about it nonstop for a week. Everyone understood and expected it now.

“Dad and Azriel hung back to practice dives with Aida and Sylric,” Nyx explained with a smile, just as the first wave of arrivals hit the roof. Two teenage girls tumbled in first, wings pulling in as they shoved each other across the roof deck. The competitive cousins—long, dark braids and bright blue eyes making their relation unmistakable—didn’t miss a beat in their lively arguing. 

“I touched down first, Meira,” the taller of the two said, braids swinging as she walked into the light.

“Yeah, because you shoved your updraft at me, cheater,” the other spat back. “Aunt Feyre! Nyx! Who won?” Feyre sat up in the chair—no easy feat—as her second born, Ryka, and niece stepped fully into the light. They truly did look more like siblings than cousins, and they certainly argued like sisters.

“Can’t it be a draw?” Feyre asked, wincing a bit as her back twinged. The girls stared at her, aghast.

“Tiebreaker competition,” Nyx declared, clapping his hands together and standing. The girls groaned but walked through the door he opened into the house as he turned back to his mother with a wink. She mouthed a thank you at him as he closed it behind them. In the distance, she could see the others approaching—three males and two smaller forms.

Feyre stood as the children landed, Cassian and Azriel right behind them. Aida’s bright red mop of hair was a wild tangle as she grinned up at Feyre, her front tooth and a single fang missing. “Aunt Feyre, I did a loop!” The pride in Azriel’s eyes behind her just about sent Feyre crying again as she bent down to the sweet six-year-old. 

“Those wings are getting strong, hmm?” she asked, smiling conspiratorially. “Soon you’ll be flying loops around everyone.” Aida nodded enthusiastically, grabbing back for her dad’s hand and tugging him into the house.

“I’m hungry,” the youngest said, the spitting image of Nesta, but with wings and the chubby cheeks of youth still hanging on. He was only five, but he was tall and already broad for his age. Still, Cassian effortlessly grabbed him and hoisted him onto his shoulders. 

“I’m sure we can find something, as long as Auntie Feyre hasn’t stashed all the treats away.”

“I’m not too pregnant to punch you, Cassian,” Feyre threatened halfheartedly. He guffawed as he walked away.

“Hittin’s not nice, Auntie,” the boy murmured, resting his head down on top of his father’s, tired eyes fluttering under the glow of the faelights.

“That’s right, Sylric. You tell her.” He turned back to grin as he opened the door, ducking down as they walked through. Both he and Sylric tucked their wings in tandem as they made their way through it.

It was just her and Rhys on the roof now, and she closed the gap between them, tucking an errant curl behind his ear as he smiled at her.

“Good flight?” she asked, trying not to let the jealousy peek through.

He nodded. “Great night for it.” He bent low, placing a kiss on the high swell of her stomach. “How’s the littlest tonight?” he asked, brushing a hand down the side of her stomach and grinning when he was drawn into their game of prod.

“Restless,” she responded, not wanting to rush through or waste any moment of pregnancy but also ready to have some freedom again. She knew Rhys understood, with this being their third time through it. His fingers pressed into the muscles of her back and she nearly moaned with the relief.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, not stopping the circles he pressed into her back.

“Only everything I could find,” she answered, laughing into his chest.

“When we get back to the room, I’ll give you a proper massage. Then run a nice bath.” 

Feyre hummed. There was nothing nicer, especially in these last few weeks. Even if what she really wanted was the wind in her hair as she climbed closer to the stars. Her mate’s loving fingers and a bath would have to do. Not that it would take much convincing, but perhaps she could persuade him to occupy her mind and his fingers in other ways, too.

“That sounds lovely,” she whispered, his hands moving to her neck as she relaxed into him, the loud sounds of their family echoing up from the open windows below. She could never have anticipated a life like this—could never have dreamed that her wish for a family and a house and table full of people and love would be possible. She let the contentment she felt slide down the bond, smiling again when she felt adoration blooming back. 

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But first—”

Feyre yelped as Rhys grabbed under her back and legs in one fell swoop. She barely had time to catch her breath and laugh before they were shooting up towards the moon. It had been a long time since they’d flown this way—her arms twined tightly around his neck as they rocketed up high over Velaris.

“What? Not convinced I can hold my mate?” Rhys teased, quirking a brow as he looked down on his wife.

“I’m certainly a bit more unwieldy these days,” she said lightheartedly back. In response, he hefted her up and easily wrapped his arms more tightly beneath her as she laughed. She trusted him, though—more than anything—so she tipped her head back and closed her eyes.

The breeze felt just as nice as she’d imagined it would against her face, Rhys easing into a glide high above the glittering city. It was delightful, everything she remembered, and absolutely perfect.

After a few minutes of silence, Rhys nuzzled her cheek, pressing another kiss to her lips.

“Not much longer now,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the swell of her stomach from the side.

“I hate to rush it, especially since it’s the last time.” They’d agreed three was a good number, and they were ready and excited to experience what growing together as a family was like. 

He nodded, and she knew he understood. In a flash, a series of images floated from his mind to hers—Nyx years ago, helping Ryka learn to fly, then another of Ryka and Meira helping to teach Aida and Sylric. The last image was fuzzy—not a memory, but a hope. Another little mop of dark hair and bright eyes, small wings fluttering valiantly in the breeze as their family held him aloft in the skies. Feyre was there this time, holding chubby hands as they soared across the Sidra.

Her throat tightened, eyes burning, but excitement bloomed in her chest, mixing with that of her husband’s as they paused on the image together.

“There’s no shame in looking forward to what’s still to come,” Rhys whispered in her ear as they circled the mountains that protected their city, drifting slowly back towards their home.

Her hand smoothed over her stomach again as the lights of the River House came into view, and a firm prod hit the palm of her hand. She leaned into Rhys’s chest and smiled.

She knew he was faster than her, easily, but he never ventured too far—never left her behind. 

By the time they’d reached the side of the Sidra, they’d been stifling giggles like children caught past bedtime, Feyre’s hand over her mouth as they walked beneath the archway that led inside. The carvings on the walls began at the front steps, each stone so ornately decorated and with such precision that she longed to run her fingers across them—ached to paint the scenes depicted in such delicate detail.

Rhys had sent word ahead—no details, of course—just a notice that the High Lord would be coming to the temple. He trusted the people here, knew them all personally despite his time away. Feyre knew, even if he’d never admit it, how deeply the people of Velaris loved him. If he sent word he was coming, the acolytes and priestesses would be here.

Ahead, beneath the flickering light of candles and a solitary altar, stood a priestess, her robes brushing softly over the floor over her feet. She was fae, that much was certain, but not unlike the healers of the Night Court, she looked aged. Feyre wondered idly how old a fae would need to be to begin physically aging. 

The priestess smiled warmly, holding hands out, her palms facing up in welcome as they approached. As though she understood without either of them having to say why they were there. 

“Dahlia,” Rhys greeted, the woman’s face crinkling with a kind grin so warm and maternal that Feyre felt it in her very body.

“High Lord.” She offered a small, informal bow. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

He held up a hand. “How many times do I need to beg you to call me Rhys?”

“At least one more,” she said, her grin widening. She turned to Feyre, taking her hands easily in her own. The skin was warm and weathered, soft still against Feyre’s skin. “I’ve known him since he was just a boy, you see. Even back then, he was Little Lord to me.” 

The conspiratorial glint in her eyes drew a genuine smile from Feyre, who decided, then and there, that she very much liked Dahlia.

“But you, Feyre Archeron, you are new to me.” She glanced over Feyre’s face as though she was inspecting her, but the glint never left her eyes. “I heard what you did for our city. We will be indebted to you forever.”

“No debt required. It was my honor,” Feyre responded without hesitation. She meant it.  She would do it again without question.

“I received your letter, and took the liberty of clearing the temple of the acolytes. I wasn’t sure of the level of discretion you wanted.” She took a moment to pull what looked like long, wrapped sticks from the bowl of hammered metal at the altar, catching the flame and lighting more candles behind them and illuminating the room further.

The movement pulled Feyre’s gaze around the massive room they were in, eyes widening to see how it opened into the full night sky in front of them. The temple pressed out into a carved balcony, the Sidra and the mountains and stars all in a beautiful display ahead.

Home , she thought, effortlessly. This was home.

Behind her, she could still hear Rhys and Dahlia talking. 

“A mating ceremony, High Lord?”

“I’ll be swearing in Feyre as our High Lady tonight.” 

The shock was brief on Dahlia’s face, though Feyre saw it flicker there before something like joy overtook it like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Without hesitation, Dahlia stepped forward and embraced Rhys, who—being a great deal taller than her—immediately leaned down to return the gesture.

“Your mother would be so proud,” Feyre heard Dahlia whisper, the tears well and truly springing to her eyes this time. She felt the pulses of grief and love and nostalgia flicker through Rhys and echo around her heart. She would do everything she could to honor the memory of the woman who had raised him to be the male she now loved beyond reason. Feyre made the silent promise in the temple then, hoping that, somehow, she might hear it.

Dahlia’s voice was the only sound in the low light of the temple as Rhys took Feyre’s hand.

“Then let’s get started, shall we?”

It took only a moment to gather them in front of the flaming altar, Dahlia ready with small bottles clinking in hand. Rhys’s grip on her hand grounded her, her heart thundering with resonant joy.

They were doing this. It wasn’t a wedding, but it was more than that. It was a sign of their commitment—lasting forever, for as long as they lived. There would be time for the rest once they nullified the Cauldron, once everything had been settled. They could have a million ceremonies, but Feyre knew without a doubt that this was the one she’d always remember the most fondly. 

When Rhys had asked her, she’d simply said yes, ready to jump with his hand in hers. 

“Not consort, not wife,” he’d explained. “You will be my High Lady. My equal in every way; you would wear my crown, sit on a throne beside mine. Never sidelined, never designated to breeding and parties and child-rearing. My queen.” 

The words settled inside her, filling something that had too-long been left deep and wanting. He wanted her, he loved her, and above all, he trusted her. 

The fire flared as Dahlia tipped the vials into the fire, the flames’ colors changing to a deep purple then blue so dark it was almost black. She held out a small, jewel-hilted dagger across the flames and Rhys took it without hesitation, cutting a shallow wound across his palm and letting it drip down into the flames that flared wildly in response.

Would you like me to do it for you, too, love? His voice echoed in her mind. She loved how it sounded. It was as much a part of her as her own. She couldn’t believe how long she’d resisted, how long she’d held out, when the bond felt like every good thing that existed between them. It was all the love and warmth and safety that she needed, everything she’d had to live so long without.

I want to do this myself, she responded, her voice reverent, her heart full. She watched his eyes soften as she took the dagger from him.

It didn’t even hurt as she dragged the blade over her skin, mirroring his actions and letting it drip into the flames.

When it flared, his voice echoed again, the comfort and joy and contentment in it a visceral thrum in her chest.

I love you, Feyre. Always.

And I love you, Rhys. 

Dahlia stepped forward, her voice quiet but carrying, steady as the mountains beyond the temple’s edge

“Do you swear to protect the Night Court with all that you are? Your life, your magic, and your soul?” Dahlia smiled as though she knew the answer.  Feyre supposed she did.

Feyre looked at her, but her hand was still clasped in Rhys’s, the heat of his skin anchoring her.

“I do.”

“Do you swear to guard its people and its peace? To lead with wisdom, with mercy, and with strength?”

“I do.” The words left her easily, not because they were simple, but because they were true.

Dahlia’s eyes held hers, deep with knowing. “And do you swear to walk beside your High Lord as his equal? To rule with compassion, to share in power and burden alike, for as long as you both live?”

There it was. Not just the oath to the court, but the vow to him.

She turned to Rhys fully now. The flickering light of the flames danced across his face, catching the moisture in his eyes. Through the bond, she felt it all: his awe, his love, his certainty.

The promise that she meant this—forever. 

“I swear it,” she whispered.  

A single tear slipped down Rhys’s cheek. 

“Forever,” she added, as he closed his eyes and nodded. She could feel the tears on her own face now, the sense of longing that she’d always felt evaporating into nothing as she realized she had all she’d wanted. 

A home. A family. A place where she was loved. A place and people she could protect with everything she was—and know they’d do the same for her.

Something shimmered at the edge of her vision. A glow. A ripple. And then, the magic was curling up her arm. The shimmering, tingling crawl of it winding from her fingers to her forearm was familiar, almost comforting in its warmth. She looked down to find the edges curling, dark, beautiful whorls of black as dark as night adorning her skin. 

They were the marks of a warrior, and they matched her mate’s.

She thought she’d never seen anything more beautiful.

She could feel the power settling into her bones, into the spaces between her ribs, her breath, her heartbeat. She wasn’t just his now. She was theirs . The court. The people. 

“I know it’s not a mating ceremony, but I don’t think anyone would mind if you sealed the magic with a kiss,” Dahlia whispered conspiratorially from across the fire. 

Feyre laughed—light, unburdened. And Rhys, grinning, was already leaning toward her.