#collaborative fic

Rhys sensed Feyre breach his wards the moment she stumbled over the threshold to his rooms, his magic caught between tension and satisfaction that his mate was in his space. Still, it took far too long to disengage from his frankly gruesome obligation to return to his rooms—pretend he needed to investigate the how and why she’d been escorted from her cell to his chambers. He’d been painstakingly cautious navigating this loop to make it this far. Raising suspicions just to speak with Feyre wasn’t a mistake he could afford to make. Not after how they’d been discovered in the loop Feyre was conscious of. Between what that Feyre had shown him and the vision the Suriel had shared, he was done using the loop as a crutch to lean on.

He’d tested each reset carefully. Hoped there was another chance to hold the woman who knew and came to love him through her own series of trial and error, but that blessing was short-lived, and maybe they were better off for it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to see his mate turn a knife on herself again.

Play the game, keep her riled enough she didn’t break, earn her trust while showing the wretched court she was nothing more than a human plaything. And painful as it was to never feel that glorious possessiveness from his huntress, don’t let things slip far enough they risk exposing the bond. There was no timeline where Her Majesty would be willing to share the toy she got her claws into.

Winnowing directly to the bed, Rhys watched his mate—coated in grime by now—sifting through old ash to fish out the lentils planted there for her.

“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” he purred, reclining on the mattress to repeat their increasingly familiar song and dance, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my fireplace?”

She’d already whipped around to face him, ash shaken loose from her sleeves to dust the stone beneath her feet. Her face was pinched slightly, her chin high. “This wasn’t your idea then?” He raised a brow and she scoffed. “One of your mistress’ household chores, I suppose. Clean the lentils from the ash or have my skin peeled off in strips.”

Whatever missteps Rhys may take, one thing never changed. His mate certainly had a mouth on her. So he was left to complement it. Objective two: keep her riled. “Interesting. A bit messy for my taste, but effective. Tell me, darling, how far did you get?”

Feyre scowled, gripping the poker she held just a hair tighter, chin still jutting out stubbornly, refusing to seem cowed in the presence of a predator. Good girl. “I don’t care for your games, Rhysand. Since you don’t intend to skin me, I’d like to return to my cell.”

Rhys cocked his head. “Don’t feel like playing, darling? Pity.” He sighed, smoothly rising to his feet before taking a few steps closer. “I find your little quips quite entertaining. Very well. If you won’t indulge me, we can get straight to business. We don’t have long before the guards return, after all. You need an ally down here and neither your beloved or his emissary seem keen to step up to the plate.”

“And you think I trust you enough to call you an ally?”

He chuckled. “Oh, I would dare wish it, darling. Lady Luck abandoned me centuries ago and you’re too smart to not suspect my motives. This time, though, I simply ask you respect that everyone Under the Mountain has an independent agenda and mine rarely aligns with the witch.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “You’re plotting to move against her.”

“In a sense.” He dared another step, close enough to pry the poker from her hands and toss it behind him. “One day she’ll fall. But in the end, I won’t be the one to ensure it.”

The Suriel had made that clear enough upon its capture. He needed Feyre on his side, one way or another. He wouldn’t make it through this hell cycle without her. 

“What would you expect of me, then? Why would you think I have the means to help you succeed? Killing the worm was a challenge, but hardly on par with—”

He cut her a hard glare before easing into her mind with a tenderness even beyond what he’d granted her in Spring, now so well acquainted with the fragility of her human mind. “Even the walls have ears, Feyre. Enough has been said aloud as is.”

There was a sharp knock on the door, two guards waiting beyond it. “Tomorrow night I will send the wraiths for you. You will not argue. They will be acting under my orders. We’ll see where things go from there.”

If Amarantha doesn’t sniff out his plot once again.

He sighed, moving towards the door. “Wait,” she said. His hand stilled over the knob. “The riddle… Do you know the answer?”

“Yes. And no, I cannot reveal it to you. No soul Under the Mountain can, so don’t be a fool and seek out the fox, either. We’ve all been ordered to keep quiet—not to help you solve it. Even if Lucien could speak of it, he’s far too closely watched after that stunt he pulled, helping you in the wyrm’s lair.”

Watching her face fall, Rhys’ chest tightened with guilt. Still, he made himself maintain his mask and opened the door to let the two guards into the room, each of them closing a single hand over Feyre’s biceps.

Something hot and vicious coiled inside him, flaring when he saw her try to hide her flinch. It took so little effort to claim their minds in a mental talon-tipped fist.

“You’ll remove your hands from the lady, now.” They obeyed. “These meaningless tasks—the chores—are to come to an end. Each morning and evening you will provide her with a hot meal. No more molded bread and water. If you speak of these orders, defy them, or harm her…” His lips tilted up in a cruel grin, “…you’re to slit your own throats. Get out of my sight.”

Free of their hold, Feyre held herself back long enough she would trail behind them, rather than be caught between them. “Until we meet again, Feyre darling.”

It was hardly the first time Rhys had had his mate in his lap, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the the tenuous balance of guilt and need it brought, granting her one glass of wine after the next as she writhed in his lap, teasing the hard line of his erection with each pass of her hips.

Still, he mastered himself even as the paint gracing her waist and hips was smudged beyond recognition night after night. As for the path of his mouth, every word of his tongue was a tangle of praise and mockery, honey sweet and sharp as a blade. His mental coos became the tiny pieces to a grand plot, carefully placed to linger when she woke in the morning.

It started with little keys to lead her to the riddle’s solution. Hints to make sure she stayed on course through the second trial. The more risky bits of information he saved for the evenings, trusting she was back in her right mind. The roles he would have to play, the lines he would walk—that he wouldn’t risk sharing. The more Feyre knew, he’d discovered, the more likely one of them was to slip up. And the more likely Amarantha was to discover his disloyalty. Suffering this wretched cycle again and again, he’d seen enough of his mate’s torture to haunt him for a lifetime. 

A soft breath at his ear drew him back to the present. “What’s wrong tonight?” Feyre whispered, voice just barely audible under the music, conversation, and entertainment of the solstice revelry. It was a rare show of empathy and he clung to it the moment it was presented, even if that softness was nothing more than a drunken falter in her disgust with him.

He sighed, thumb curving along her thigh as he slipped into her mind. “Other than the fact I just killed a male acting on his High Lord’s orders to secure their freedom? To put it simply, darling, it’s been an excruciating forty-nine years. I’m also considering the risk of your second trial. Whatever it is,” he suggested, playing dumb, “your success with the wyrm will not be forgotten. The second challenge will be an entirely different test.”

He’d been more careful about her wine intake this time around, considering the trial she’d face tomorrow, even if he’d have to help her through the grasshopper riddle. But her eyes were still glazed and Rhys doubted she heard the warning in his voice. She dipped her chin all the same, shivering when the next sweep of his thumb dragged across the smooth skin closer to her center before he spread his legs enough she straddled one thigh. She ground down almost immediately and it was an effort not to clench his jaw. “Enough talking, pet.”

She tipped forward, her forehead falling to his collarbone. “I need…” He glanced down, watching her loose a ragged breath. “I don’t know what I need anymore. A distraction. Not another drink or dance or… Just a distraction.”

Rhys leaned down, mouth grazing her ear. “Well then, allow me the pleasure of distracting you, darling.”

It had been a risk to the loop, of course, taking Feyre to his bed again. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not when she was still wrapped around him in the early hours of the morning, one leg thrown over his hip as if it was the most natural thing to fall asleep and wake together.

Cauldron, he needed to be free of this hellscape.

He reached to stroke her hair out of her face, intending to savor the few moments before dawn, when he would have to wake her to return to her cell before her trial. When she would gather her senses and realize what they had done. What she had done after spending the past months navigating her dangerous bargain with Amarantha for her lover. 

He wasn’t sure he was prepared to face the regret and anger that waited for him. He could only hope it wouldn’t affect her when it came to the riddle. If her resentment played any sort of aide, she might manage to raise a mental shield to block him out before he could help her.

Realizing his mate was beginning to wake, he carefully eased her leg down from his hip. “Good morning, Feyre darling.”

“What—” Her eyes darted around the room, first raking in the scattered clothing, then her own bare figure, paint smears and all. She clutched the sheet to her chest, face twisting with her horror. “Oh, gods. Tamlin. I didn’t—” 

Feyre scrambled from the bed, her disgust with the whole situation laid bare. “You were hardly an unwilling participant last night,” he told her, his smugness not entirely for show. They’d been so damn lucky the bond hadn’t snapped. The way she’d felt around him—clung to him with each slow thrust… Lucky didn’t begin to cover it. 

“I was drunk,” she hissed back. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“You asked for a distraction, sitting so pretty on my lap. So, I gave you the one distraction I could manage. I don’t see your beloved offering such an escape.”

She jerked back as if he’d physically struck her, a fresh fire in her eyes. Good. She couldn’t afford to show weakness today.

Rhys stood from the bed, donned his usual pants and jacket before cleaning her of any evidence with a bit of lesser magic and dressing her too. “If you’re ready to face your cell again, darling.”

His summoning was an aberration. One that sent his pulse thrumming double time. “My queen, how may I serve you?” he asked, paranoid now that Feyre’s scent had lingered on his skin. Or his had been found when she was taken from her cell for the second trial.

“You were so careful to tell your little pet to mind her mouth. What is it that you keep telling her at my little parties?” Amarantha mused, brushing her cheeks with rouge, a saccharine smile curling her lips. ‘The walls have eyes and ears, darling’?"

He stilled, almost letting his mask slip. “My queen, what would the warning matter, when her mind is so open to me? If she were plotting against you—”

“And if you were plotting against me, Rhysand?” Dread settled heavy in his stomach. He’d get another chance, yes, but it didn’t make the defeat any easier to swallow. “Don’t get any ideas about helping her with the riddle I trusted you with. It’s long since changed. You’d best hope the little human can think quickly.”

Less than an hour later, Rhys found himself forced to his knees with a blindfold tied behind his head. A roaring crowd was their only preparation before the scalding heat began to make its descent. “I’m sorry, darling. I tried.”