fireheart

Part III

Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader

Summary: it is finally the night before the wedding and you learn interesting things you must do the night of your wedding to prove the union between you and Rhys.

Warnings: Baron…, arranged marriage, small thoughts of suicide, smut, p in v, that’s about it but please message me if you find anything for me to add🙏

Authors note: not my favorite chapter but please remember this is going to be a slow burn for this couple… the sex and everything will not anything but a duty to them until later🤭. But please as always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

Taglist: @thisfireheart, @florizota, @potatoplace, @shinyghosteclipse, @marrfil

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The air in the room is thick with the scent of lavender and the scratch of pins against fabric. You stand on a small pedestal in the center of Mor's office, feeling like a statue being chiseled into shape. For the past hour, you have been enduring the meticulous adjustments of the tailor, who is finalizing your mother's wedding dress.

It has been a quiet, restless eternity since you last saw Rhysand. The silence between you since that night with your brother has been heavy—a void where his witty banter and grounding presence used to be. You weren't sure if he was giving you space, or if the sheer weight of ruling the Night Court had swallowed him whole. You hadn't realized how much you would come to miss his company until he wasn't there to provide it.

Instead, you were saddled with Cassian.

His presence had been like a relentless storm. "Why that dress? Why not eat? Is that a dagger? Are you actually hiding a weapon in a ballgown? What book is that—is it one of those spicy ones again?" He was a whirlwind of interrogation, and frankly, you were ready to bury his head in the sand just to get a moment of silence.

Thankfully, Mor finally shooed him away, ushering you into her office for the final fitting.

The door to the main room creaks open as you step out, the weight of the silk and heirloom lace trailing behind you. You hear them before you see them—a sharp, collective intake of breath.

Mor and Luna are standing near the hearth, and when their eyes land on you, their expressions go soft. Mor's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of nostalgia and genuine awe.

"Oh," Luna whispers, the word barely audible. "You look..."

You turn slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror, bracing yourself for the sight of your mother's ghost. Instead, you find yourself staring at a stranger. The dress, which felt like a relic in the box, has been altered to fit your frame as if it were spun specifically for you. The bodice hugs your waist, the neckline perfectly framing your collarbones, and the material catches the light like captured starlight.

You raise your eyebrows, genuinely stunned. The reflection staring back at you looks regal, fierce, and undeniably breathtaking.

Mor steps forward, a warm, radiant smile transforming her face. She gently adjusts a fold of the skirt, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

"Breathtaking," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "You look absolutely breathtaking."

You look back at your reflection, smoothing a hand over the intricate embroidery, and let out a soft, surprised breath. "Wow," you finally manage to say, meeting Mor's gaze in the glass. "It... it looks perfect."

Mor claps her hands together, the sharp sound echoing slightly in the opulent room. "Well, that settles it. It fits perfectly—no further adjustments needed." She turns her bright, knowing gaze toward the tailor. "Thank you for coming, Luna."

Luna offers a respectful nod, bowing her head to Mor and then to you as she gathers her equipment and slips quietly out the door. The heavy oak door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the sudden silence of the office with Mor.

You shift slightly, the weight of the dress rustling against the floor. You've never really spent time alone with her, and the history between her and your brother casts a long, complicated shadow in your mind. You remember the whispers of that betrothal—the way it shattered—and the years your brother spent wallowing in the guilt of leaving her to face the border alone. You quickly shake those thoughts away, forcing your expression into something neutral.

Mor takes a few steps closer, her movements fluid and elegant. Her voice drops, losing its previous playful edge as she looks at you intently. "You'll be good to him, won't you?"

You freeze, your head tilting in genuine confusion. "Excuse me?"

She lets out a soft, weary sigh, crossing her arms. "My cousin. You'll be good to him?" She looks at you, her gaze searching. "I know how this works. I know this is an arrangement for the court, a matter of politics and optics. But you are going to be tied to him for a very long time. It would be... much easier if you found some common ground."

The weight of her words hits you. You think of the empty space Rhysand has left in his absence, the frustration, and the strange, spark-filled tension that always seems to hum whenever the two of you are in the same room.

You straighten your posture, meeting her eyes with a steady, fierce resolve. "I'll play nice as long as he plays nice," you say, your voice firm. "But you need to understand—I can't promise my loyalty to this court. My loyalty lies with my brother, first and foremost." You pause, softening your tone just a fraction as you add, "But whatever this court and he are planning? Whatever he needs in this partnership? I'm with you."

Mor stares at you, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat as she weighs your words. Slowly, a small, genuine smile touches her lips, acknowledging the honesty behind your stance. She nods, a silent mark of understanding, and turns toward the door.

"I'll give you a moment to get out of that dress," she says softly, walking out of the office and leaving you alone with your own reflection and the heavy reality of tomorrow.

The moment the door clicks shut behind Mor, you reach behind you, straining to find the hidden zipper. Your fingers brush against lace and silk, but you can't quite get a grip. You let out a frustrated, muffled groan, dropping your arms in defeat.

Then, a low, familiar chuckle vibrates from the doorway.

You spin around, startled, and find Rhysand leaning against the doorframe. His eyes are squeezed shut, his expression one of amused concentration. You roll your eyes, your heart doing a strange, frantic somersault in your chest.

"What are you doing?" you snap, though there's no real heat in it.

"Listening to you struggle," he hums, a playful lilt to his voice.

"How long have you been standing there?"

Rhysand gives a lazy shrug. "Long enough to hear you pacing, and long enough for Mor to give me the rundown of what you were doing. So, here I am."

You freeze, a sudden, inexplicable rush of warmth flooding your cheeks. You lower your voice to a whisper. "Did you see it? The dress?"

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes firmly closed. "You didn't want me to until tomorrow. Remember, darling?"

You nod, biting your lip. "Yes," you whisper, the word barely audible.

Rhysand steps forward, his presence suddenly filling the room, shifting the air around you. He holds out a steady hand. "Take my hand. Lead it to the back of the dress."

You hesitate for only a heartbeat before reaching out. You place your hand over his, guiding him to the zipper at the small of your back. As you turn away from him, you feel him hum in that low, dark register you've come to know so well. His eyes remain shut, but his touch is deliberate.

As he slowly drags the zipper down, his fingers brush against the warm skin of your spine. The contrast of his cool touch against your heated skin sends a shiver racing through you. He leans in, his breath hitching as he comes closer, his lips brushing near your ear.

"Gods," he whispers, his voice dropping into a ragged, hungry register. "I wish I could see you right now."

You close your eyes, leaning back instinctively against him, grounding yourself in his proximity. He presses a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips trailing down to your shoulder. He whispers, "But I'll see you in this exact position tomorrow night."

You turn in his arms, his mouth ghosting over your shoulder one last time. You quickly cross your arms over your chest, clutching the slipping silk to keep the dress in place. You look up at him, your gaze searching his face—the face he is still keeping hidden from your view.

"Why do you believe that we will be in that position, Rhysand?" you ask, your voice breathless.

Rhysand sighs, a sound that is part amusement and part something deeper, more intense. He nods toward the dressing screen, his expression unreadable behind those closed lids. "Get dressed into something so I can see you," he says, his voice dropping to a low, velvet command. "And I'll explain."

You retreat into the bathroom, the cool air hitting your skin as you trade the heavy, suffocating silk for the comfort of your sweater and pants. When you step back out, Rhysand is sitting on the couch, his fingers pressed against his closed eyes, as if he's trying to stave off a headache.

You sink onto the cushion beside him. He drops his hands, and the intensity in his gaze—now wide open—is enough to make your pulse stutter.

"Are you going to explain?" you whisper.

He pauses, weighing his words with a gravity that makes your stomach churn. Instead of answering immediately, he pats his thigh, a silent invitation that you ignore, keeping your distance. "Do you remember the old tales? How the ancient High Lords and their wives had to prove their union?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. You nod, your voice barely a thread. "They had to... they had to perform the act in front of a select group of the court."

Rhysand nods slowly. You let out a shaky, jagged breath, your hands trembling in your lap. "Is that what we have to do? Is that what this requires?"

"Your father added it to the bargain," Rhysand says, his voice dangerously low. "Right before we shook hands. He insisted on public proof."

You stand up abruptly, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. "I am not doing this," you say, your voice rising in panic. "I am not a mare to be paraded or a broodmare to be tested."

Rhysand stands, moving with that predatory grace of his, and catches your hand before you can storm away. He tugs you back, his grip firm but careful. "I told your father I would never do that," he says, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "We made a different deal."

You roll your eyes, though your vision is blurring with the tears of frustration and fear you've been holding back. "I am not bearing your children, Rhysand," you spat, your voice cracking. "My body—it wasn't built for Illyrian babies. I won't be shackled to you by a child."

Rhysand's expression softens instantly, his eyes filled with a flash of genuine hurt that you could even think that of him. He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a fierce, steady vow. "I would never force you into that. Never."

You glare at him, though your eyes are swimming with tears now, the betrayal and the stress of the impending wedding finally breaking your composure.

He reaches out, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the moisture gathering under your eyes. He leans in close, his voice a low, raspy secret. "Azriel will be standing outside our room that night. He will be the one to bear witness to your father—to tell him that we had..."

"That we had sex," you finish for him, a groan of pure, unadulterated annoyance slipping from your lips.

Rhysand nods, his expression serious. You push his hands away from your face, spinning away so he can't see the flush creeping up your neck.

"Fine," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly. "Whatever. If it gets him off my back, fine."

Rhysand's eyes remain closed, his head dipping forward in a rare display of genuine exhaustion. "I didn't know he was going to do that," he whispers, the words heavy with a frustration that feels almost as raw as your own.

You let out a sharp, jagged scoff, your fingers trembling as you aggressively swipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. "Why are you acting so surprised, Rhysand?" you challenge, your voice tight. "It's my father. He's been orchestrating my life like a game of chess since the day I was born—why would my wedding night be any different?"

Rhysand doesn't retort. He doesn't offer a smooth defense or a charming deflection. He simply nods, the tension in his shoulders confirming that he knows exactly who you are dealing with, and perhaps, that he feels the weight of his own inability to protect you from that specific demand.

You shake your head, feeling a sudden, overwhelming need to escape the suffocating air of the office and the sight of him sitting there—part accomplice, part stranger. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and storm toward the door.

You don't look back to see if he tries to stop you. You just walk out, leaving him alone in the quiet, the heavy burden of tomorrow's performance hanging between you like a physical weight.

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The moon hung high over the Night Court, casting long, mocking shadows across your bedroom floor. You spent the night staring at the ceiling, your mind a relentless loop of betrayal and calculation. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your father's smug smile and felt the phantom touch of Rhysand's hand on your back.

The anger was a cold, sharp thing in your chest. Not just at your father for the bargain, but at Rhysand for waiting until the eleventh hour to tell you. He had let you believe you were entering a partnership of equals, only to reveal that you were essentially being sold as a prize to be authenticated.

But as the hours ticked by and the sky began to bleed into a pre-dawn grey, the anger began to harden into something far more useful: resolve.

You sat up, pushing the heavy blankets away. Your feet hit the cool stone floor, and you walked to the window, staring out at the expanse of the Night Court. You wouldn't be shackled to him. Not for long. This wasn't a life; it was a cage, and you were a master at finding the weaknesses in any structure.

You began to mentally map out your options. You needed resources, you needed a route, and you needed a way to move without alerting the most powerful High Lord in history or his spymaster, Azriel.

The wedding was tomorrow. You had the dress, you had the audience, and you had the performance. You would give them the show they wanted, and while they were busy watching the door for your father's sake, you would be busy watching the shadows for your own.

You paced the room, your mind sharp and clinical now, discarding fears in favor of strategy. You were a Vanserra, and you didn't bow to anyone—especially not to a husband who thought he could bargain your future away.

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The sharp, insistent rap at your door cuts through the haze of your sleepless, restless morning. You groan, dragging yourself out of the tangle of sheets and stumbling toward the entrance, your mind still half-buried in the logistics of your escape plan.

When you pull the door open, the words of annoyance die in your throat.

Your mother is standing there.

You gasp, a sound that is half-sob, and before you can stop yourself, you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around her. She smells like home—like the gardens of your childhood before everything turned to ash and politics. She tucks you against her, her hand coming up to stroke the length of your long red hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.

You bury your face in the crook of her neck, letting out a shaky, broken sigh. You can't remember the last time you were held like this, the last time you weren't an asset to be traded or a daughter to be managed. The memory of your father's schemes and Rhysand's hidden secrets feels worlds away, eclipsed by the simple, grounding pressure of her arms.

She sighs against you, a sound of profound, weary sadness, and you feel her lips press gently against the top of your head.

"Let's get you ready," she whispers, her voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.

You pull back just enough to look at her, searching her face for a sign of the mother you used to know, the one who understood the cost of a crown. She offers you a thin, melancholic smile—a look that says she knows exactly what today is, and perhaps, what it is costing you to stand there.

Your mother moves through the room with a grace that seems almost at odds with the heaviness of the day. She shuts the door softly, sealing the two of you away from the prying eyes of the court, and then beckons you toward the vanity. You sit, the velvet cushion firm beneath you, and she begins to weave your hair into intricate patterns, her fingers nimble and practiced.

"How do you want it done?" she asks, her voice light, attempting to maintain a facade of normalcy.

You describe the style—pinned up, elegant, yet structured—and she gets to work, her reflection appearing over your shoulder in the mirror. You find yourself watching her movements with a strange intensity. You've spent so much time dissecting your father's cruelty that you've almost forgotten the woman who survives him.

The question that has been burning in your throat all night finally slips out. "Did you and Ber... father, have to..." You pause, unable to force the words past your lips, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Your mother's hands falter for a mere second before she tilts her head, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror with sudden, piercing clarity. "Perform the marriage act in front of court members?" she finishes the question for you, her tone devoid of its earlier lightness.

You nod, your throat tight. She freezes, her comb hovering in mid-air, and a long, tired sigh escapes her—a sound that carries decades of secrets. "Yes," she whispers.

You close your eyes, the crushing reality of what you agreed to last night resurfacing. A single, hot tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. But before you can spiral, your mother spins your chair around so you are facing her. She reaches out, her thumbs gently brushing the moisture from your skin.

"Him and I never did it," she says.

You blink, stunned, looking up at her in utter confusion. "What?"

Your mother lets out a laugh—a genuine, sharp, and slightly wicked sound that you haven't heard in years. She looks back at that night with a glint in her eyes that reminds you exactly where your own defiance comes from. She leans in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"We just rubbed our legs together and moaned so the others would believe us. He said he would never touch me until I proved my full worthiness to bear his children." Your mother finished that sentence with an eye roll.

The absurdity of it hits you all at once. The image of the terrifying High Lord of the Autumn Court and your mother putting on a theatrical performance for a room full of gawking sycophants is so ridiculous that a soft, genuine laugh bubbles up from your chest. Your mother joins you, her laughter ringing out, light and free, temporarily breaking the tension that has held you hostage for days.

The laughter dies down, fading into a comfortable, shared warmth that feels like a rare, stolen treasure. The heavy oak door creaks open just enough to reveal Eris, his gaze sweeping the room with his usual guarded curiosity. He stops in the doorway, his eyes traveling from your mother's composed expression to your own flushed face.

His brows knit together for a split second, clearly baffled by the sight of the two of you—usually so poised and distant—dissolved in genuine mirth. But then, a slow, uncharacteristic smile softens the sharp lines of his face. He doesn't offer any cutting remarks or probing questions; instead, he simply closes the door behind him with a quiet click and walks toward the bed, sinking onto the edge of it with a weary grace.

You feel your mother's hands return to your hair, her touch steady and rhythmic once more. She catches your gaze in the vanity mirror, a conspiratorial wink sparkling in her eyes, reminding you that this moment—this tiny rebellion against the misery of the day—is yours to keep.

Eris watches you both for a moment, his presence surprisingly grounding. He doesn't press for the joke, but the tension that usually surrounds him when he's near the politics of the court seems to evaporate in the quiet of this room.

"You look like you're plotting something," Eris remarks, though his voice is devoid of its usual bite. He leans back, resting his elbows on his knees, watching your mother weave the final pins into place. "Or at least, you're enjoying yourselves enough to make me suspicious."

You turn your head just slightly, catching his eye in the mirror. You don't tell him the truth, but for the first time in a long time, you don't feel the need to hide from him, either.

"Just enjoying the quiet, Eris," you say softly, a small, genuine smile lingering on your lips. "It's a rare commodity today."

The room remains quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of hairpins clicking and the delicate scent of powders and perfumes. Eris stays put on the edge of the bed, a silent, steady sentinel, while your mother works with focused precision. She handles your face as if she is painting a masterpiece, though her hands tremble just slightly when she catches your eye in the reflection.

When the last touch of makeup is applied, she lets out a long, shaky breath, her composure wavering for a split second before she masks it with a mother's iron will. "Stand up," she whispers.

She leads you into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind you to leave Eris to his thoughts. The wedding dress, the heavy, intricate silk, awaits. As she helps you slip into it, the fabric feels cool and grounding against your skin, like armor.

You move to the small, circular window set into the stone wall of the bathroom to catch a glimpse of the sky, but instead, your gaze is drawn downward to the town square below.

Your stomach drops.

A sea of people has already gathered in the center of town. They are waiting—a massive, restless crowd, humming with the energy of a spectacle about to unfold. Flags are flying, and the anticipation is so thick you can practically taste it through the glass. They aren't just here to witness a union; they are here for the theater, for the confirmation, and for the spectacle of a Vanserra bride being handed over.

You turn away from the window, the reality of the coming hours crashing down on you. The time for plotting, for laughing, and for private moments is over.

"They're waiting," you murmur, your voice tight.

Your mother meets your gaze, her hands coming up to adjust the lace at your throat, her eyes filled with a desperate, fierce pride. "Then let them wait," she says, her voice steel. "You are a Vanserra. You walk out that door, you hold your head high, and you don't give them an inch more of yourself than you choose to."

The final zip of the gown echoes in the silence of the bathroom. You turn, and your mother's breath hitches, a single tear tracing a path through her makeup as she stares at you. "My beautiful daughter," she whispers, the words heavy with a lifetime of unspoken apologies.

You tilt your head, reaching out to brush that tear away with your thumb. "I know, Mama," you say softly. "I know."

You straighten your spine, pulling your composure around you like a second skin. You open the bathroom door, and Eris is there, checking the time on his watch. He looks up, his expression unreadable, before he nods. "It's time."

He reaches out, his hand gripping your arm and your mother's, and in a blink, the world dissolves into the familiar, nauseating pull of winnowing.

You materialize in the hidden staging area just outside the venue. Through the thick velvet curtains, you can hear the roar of the crowd—a restless, eager ocean of people waiting for their prize. The music begins, a haunting, sweeping melody that signals the start of the end. Your mother presses the bouquet into your hands, kisses your cheek with a fierceness that makes your heart ache, and slips away to walk down the aisle ahead of you.

Eris offers his arm. You take it, your grip steady.

"Smile," he whispers, his voice low and commanding.

You offer a practiced, regal tilt of your chin. The curtains are pulled back, and the sudden rush of sunlight and noise is blinding. You look up, searching through the sea of faces until your eyes lock with his.

Rhysand is standing at the altar, but the way he looks at you—as if the thousands of witnesses are mere shadows and you are the only solid thing in the world—strikes a chord deep within you. A strange, unexpected sigh of relief escapes you. In the center of this trap, he is a familiar anchor. You don't break his stare, even as Eris guides you forward, step by steady step.

As you reach the base of the small stage, the world seems to hold its breath. Rhysand extends his hand, his palm open and waiting. Eris gives you a subtle, encouraging nudge.

You don't hesitate. You release your brother's arm, and with a soft, deliberate movement, you place your hand into Rhysand's. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, pulling you up into the light.

Rhysand's hand is warm as he leads you up the final step, his touch grounding despite the vertigo of the moment. He leans in just enough so that his breath stirs the hair at your temple. "You are breathtaking," he murmurs, his voice a low, private vow that contradicts the public nature of this charade.

You offer him a smile—a fragile, practiced thing—and settle into your place across from him.

The Autumn Court priestess steps forward. Her voice is like dry parchment, ancient and melodic, echoing across the silent square. "We stand beneath the gaze of the stars and the turning of the seasons," she intones, her hands sweeping wide. "This union is not merely a contract of land and blood, but a binding of spirit. You, daughter of the flame, are called to be the hearth of this court. You shall offer your loyalty to your new High Lord, your obedience to his mantle, and your grace to the people who now look to you for guidance. You are the shadow to his light, the stillness in his storm, and the vessel through which the future of this lineage shall be carved."

The weight of her words is suffocating. As she begins the vows, the air seems to curdle.

"Do you," the priestess asks, turning to you, "vow to be a faithful and obedient wife? To bear his children, to honor his decrees, and to serve your High Lord with a submissive heart until the very end of your days?"

The silence that follows is deafening. You see your father in the front row, his eyes narrowed, waiting for the crack in your armor. You look at Rhysand, who is watching you with an unreadable expression, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. The words bare his children, obey him taste like ash in your mouth. You hesitate, the pause stretching into an eternity, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

"I do," you finally force out, your voice thin and brittle.

Rhysand's own vows follow, but they are a blur of polished lies and political pageantry. When the priestess finally pronounces you bound, the world feels as though it is tilting on its axis.

Without warning, Rhysand's hand settles firmly on your waist, pulling you into his space. The distance between you vanishes. He tilts his head, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is startlingly soft—a mere peck—but the sudden proximity of him, the scent of him, and the finality of the act hit you like a physical blow.

A gasp escapes you, swallowed by his lips.

Then, the crowd erupts.

A roar of cheering, stamping, and applause surges around you, drowning out your own thoughts. People are rising to their feet, their faces blurred masks of approval. You look out over the sea of cheering citizens, and the terrifying truth crystalizes in the center of your chest, colder and harder than any blade:

You just sold the rest of your life away.

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The reception is a blur of opulence and noise, a sensory assault of clinking glasses, heavy perfume, and the rhythmic thrum of music that feels increasingly distant. You remain anchored to the head table, a silent ornament, while the court whirls around you in a kaleidoscope of celebration.

Your attention, however, is tethered to the tension unfolding a few yards away. Rhysand is a study in controlled, lethal patience as he stares down your father. Whatever your father is demanding—some final concession, some hidden clause in the pact—he is pushing hard. Rhysand's jaw is locked, his hand white-knuckled around the stem of his glass.

You look down at your hand. The ring on your finger feels less like a piece of jewelry and more like a shackle forged of lead. You trace the cold, intricate metal, and a dark, seductive thought drifts through your mind: The lake. It's deep and obsidian-black just beyond the terrace doors. If you were to slip away, if you were to simply sink into the silence of the water, would the weight of this day finally dissolve?

The thought is so sharp it almost draws blood, but it's interrupted by the sudden shift in the air behind you.

Rhysand's presence washes over you, a familiar, grounding pressure. He leans down, his chest brushing the back of your chair, his lips hovering mere millimeters from your ear.

His voice is a low, rough rumble that vibrates right through your skin. "Let's head up."

A involuntary shiver cascades down your spine, the heat of his breath a stark contrast to the cold dread that has settled in your marrow. You don't ask where, or why; you simply nod, the motion stiff. You rise from the chair, the heavy skirts of your gown rustling like dead leaves, and turn to face him.

His eyes are dark, searching yours with a guarded intensity, as if he's trying to read the very thoughts you just tried to drown in the lake. He extends his arm, and despite everything, you find yourself reaching out to take it.

The hallway leading to the chambers is dim, the echoes of the party fading into an oppressive, heavy silence. Azriel is standing there, a shadow against the stone, his usual stoic mask fractured by a small, mournful smile. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second—a look of profound pity that makes your stomach churn. He knows. He knows what he has to stand guard for, and he knows what you have to do inside that room.

Rhysand walks with a deliberate, measured pace. When he reaches the heavy door of his chambers, he pushes it open, the hinges silent. He gestures for you to enter first.

As you cross the threshold, the air changes—it's cooler here, scented with mountain air and the faint, lingering trace of ink and citrus. You hear the soft, gravelly murmur of Azriel from the hall.

"I'll be out here, brother."

The sound of the door shutting is final. The click of the lock—a heavy, mechanical sound—reverberates through the room, sealing you both in.

Rhysand stands by the door for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders tight beneath the tailored fabric of his doublet. You are finally, truly alone. The theater is set. The audience of one waits outside in the hall, and the rest of your life is contained within these four stone walls.

You stand in the center of the room, the weight of the wedding gown feeling like a leaden shroud, clutching your arms across your chest. You don't know if you should speak, move, or simply wait for the script to continue.

Rhysand turns slowly. His expression is unreadable, stripped of the charming, High Lord veneer he wears for the court. He looks tired—bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. He slowly begins to unfasten his cloak, letting it slide to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your eyes trace the rhythmic movement of his fingers as he undoes his shirt, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. You step forward, reaching out to catch his wrist before he can unfasten another button, your frustration overriding the fear.

"Why can't we just lie?" you whisper, your gaze locking onto his.

Rhysand furrows his brows, his hand stalling against the fine fabric. "How would we do that?"

You shrug, letting go of his wrist, your expression hardening into a challenge. "Just tell Azriel to take a walk for thirty minutes. Keep him moving. Then, when the time is up, go tell my father you've... done what you needed to do. He isn't going to demand evidence beyond the word of his favorite spy, is he?"

Rhysand leans back slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he gives you a dry, lopsided look. "I'm offended you think it would only be thirty minutes, love."

You roll your eyes so hard your head hurts. "Fine. An hour."

Rhysand's smirk deepens, sharp and dangerous, as he leans into your space. "I don't know," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, velvet purr. "You are breathtaking tonight. I probably wouldn't have my fill of you after an hour."

The audacity of him, even in this staged reality, sends a surge of genuine heat through your blood—not just from the situation, but from the raw, infuriating playfulness he's bringing to a moment that feels like a prison sentence.

You let out a sharp, feral sound of protest as you step back and, without thinking, you kick off one of your heels and hurl it at him.

Rhysand doesn't even flinch. He stands perfectly still, letting the shoe smack against his bare chest before it clatters to the stone floor. He looks down at the shoe, then back up at you, his eyes glinting with a mix of genuine surprise and newfound, wicked delight.

Then suddenly, you pull his shirt, the fabric bunching in your fists, and press your lips against his with a desperate, hungry energy that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the frantic chaos of the day.

Rhysand gasps, the sound sharp and surprised, his hands instantly abandoning his pockets to tangle into your hair and pull you flush against him. He moans into the kiss, a low, vibration that you feel in your own chest. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his eyes are darker than the midnight sky, searching your face as he rasps, "Are we doing this?"

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. You let out a shaky, jagged breath, trying to summon that cold, detached resolve you promised yourself. "It's just the duty we must do," you whisper, though your voice lacks the conviction you were aiming for.

Rhysand's gaze drops to your lips, his expression shifting into something unreadable—something heavy with both the role he has to play and the man he is beneath the High Lord's mask. "Just a duty," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath.

He doesn't waste another second. Before you can retract the words or overthink the reality of what is about to happen, he sweeps you up into his arms. The sudden weightlessness makes you cling to his shoulders as he carries you toward the bed. He lays you down against the soft, cool linens, his movements fluid and precise.

He hovers over you for a heartbeat, his shadow falling across your face, and you can practically feel the tension in the room spiking. Outside, you know Azriel is waiting, his super-hearing sharp enough to catch the rustle of sheets and the cadence of your breathing.

Your eyes move slowly across his shoulder towards the door as if you could see Azriel pacing.

Rhysand's growl is low, a visceral sound of frustration that vibrates against your skin. You were staring at the heavy oak door, your mind fixated on the spymaster standing guard on the other side, waiting for the sounds of a marriage being consummated. The violation of privacy, the absurdity of the theater—it all feels suffocating.

He catches your chin, his fingers firm as he forces your gaze away from the entrance and back to his face. "Don't worry about him," he commands, his voice dropping to a jagged edge.

"It's hard not to," you scoff, your heart hammering against your ribs, "when he's standing right outside just to hear us having sex, Rhysand."

Rhysand rolls his eyes, a flicker of genuine annoyance breaking through his composure. He releases you, rolls off the bed, and strides toward the door. With a sharp, decisive movement, he wrenches it open.

"Go walk around, brother," he says to the hallway, his tone clipped. "After thirty minutes, go tell Beron it's done."

A low, rich chuckle drifts into the room before Azriel even appears. "Just thirty minutes, Rhys?" the shadowsinger's voice is laced with dry, teasing amusement. "Is that really how long you can last, brother?"

Rhysand's jaw tightens. He doesn't bother with a witty comeback; he just rolls his eyes and slams the door shut, the heavy bolt sliding into place with a definitive thunk.

The room is suddenly, blissfully private. You scramble to your feet, your legs feeling unsteady, but Rhysand is already there. He closes the distance in two long strides, his expression softening as he reaches for you. He presses a lingering, soft kiss to your lips, then steps behind you, his hands ghosting over the silk of your gown.

He turns you around, his lips curling into a knowing, triumphant smirk against your skin. "I told you," he whispers into the curve of your neck, his voice a dangerous, heady thrill, "I would be in this position again."

His fingers find the zipper at your spine. With a slow, deliberate pull, he drags it downward. The air in the room feels electric as the heavy fabric gives way, sliding down your frame until it pools in a heap of discarded silk at your feet.

The silk gown lies in a forgotten heap at your feet, leaving you standing in the dim light in nothing but delicate white lace. Rhysand's smirk deepens, his eyes darkening as they travel over you, stripped of the last of his High Lord pretense.

He steps closer, which makes you turn around and face him. The heat radiating from him a stark contrast to the cool, quiet air of the room. His hand reaches out, his touch impossibly light, as he begins to trace a slow, deliberate line from your collarbone, down the center of your chest, and across the sensitive skin of your stomach.

His fingertip drags against your skin, lingering over the lace, and you feel your breath hitch. The teasing tension from the hallway—the banter about the thirty-minute window—seems to vanish, replaced by a sudden, heavy gravity.

"You look..." he starts, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful edge for something far more raw. He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

You stand there, shivering slightly under his touch, the reality of the moment settling in. Azriel is gone, your father is being misled, and for the first time since the wedding began, there is no performance, no audience, just a duty between two high fae. There is only the two of you, the silence of the room, and the way his hand is tracing paths against your skin as if he is trying to memorize you.

He looks up from your midriff, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your pulse drum erratically in your throat. He doesn't pull away, instead, he presses his hand flat against your stomach, grounding you, his thumb brushing the edge of the lace.

"Thirty minutes," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours for an answer to a question he hasn't yet dared to ask. "What would you like to do with them?"

A soft, challenging chuckle escapes you, and you look up at him through your lashes. "I thought you said you could last longer than thirty minutes," you whisper, the taunt echoing in the quiet space between you.

Rhysand's smirk sharpens into something predatory. He lunges, his hand tangling firmly in your hair to tilt your head back as he seals his mouth over yours. The kiss is deep, grounding, and demanding. As he tugs at your hair, a low, needy moan escapes you, and your hands move with a frantic, renewed urgency. You drag your fingers down his chest, the buttons of his shirt giving way under your impatient touch. With a swift movement, he shrugs the fabric off his shoulders, letting it join your dress on the floor.

His hands find the delicate lace of your undergarments at your back. With a sudden, decisive rip, the fabric gives way. You gasp, the cool air rushing over your exposed skin, and a deep, guttural groan tears from Rhysand's throat. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his gaze hungry and reverent. He pulls you against him, his lips finding your collarbone, dragging downward until he takes your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the sensitive peak.

The sensation sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core. You reach for him, your fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt and the button of his trousers. You work them open, and as his trousers slide down, he leans back, his breath hitching, a dark, pleased sound vibrating in his chest. "Greedy girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire.

You don't bother with a reply. You simply nod, your eyes locked onto his, a silent admission of everything you want. He returns to his work, his mouth hot and insistent against your skin, but the need to be closer, to take control, overrides your patience.

With a swift, fluid movement, you turn, pressing him back against the linens. You move with a surge of adrenaline, straddling him, pinning him to the bed.

The friction of your body against his is electric, a sharp, jarring contrast to the tension of the last few days. As you grind against him, Rhysand's head falls back against the pillows, a low, guttural moan vibrating through the bedframe as he realizes just how ready you are.

He reaches up, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, his eyes burning as he looks up at you. "Let me stretch you out, darling," he rasps, his voice ragged with the effort of holding back.

You shake your head, your hair cascading over your shoulders, your expression fierce and unyielding. "I'm too impatient," you whisper, the admission raw.

Rhysand's smirk is a wicked, handsome thing. He lets you lead. You lift yourself, shifting until you find your rhythm, and then you lower yourself down. As you take him in, the world seems to sharpen and then blur. You both moan in unison—the sound a mix of pleasure and pure, overwhelming relief. The stretch is intense, a feeling of being filled completely, and you feel his muscles lock beneath you as he gasps at the exquisite tightness of your body.

Rhysand doesn't stay passive for long. He sits up, his hands gripping your waist, and begins to grind upward, meeting every one of your movements with a synchronized, driving force. You gasp, your head thrown back, as he shifts his focus back to your chest. He nips at your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he moans around it, a sound that fuels the fire already consuming you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to keep him exactly where you want him, lost in the rhythm you've created together.

You move with a rhythm that is both frantic and deliberate, bouncing on him until the friction feels like it's set your very nerves on fire. Rhysand's moan erupts, loud and unbidden, and you quickly clamp your hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"I didn't realize Illyrians were so loud during sex," you whisper, a breathless, teasing laugh escaping you despite the intensity.

He lets out a muffled huff against your palm, then reaches up to smack your backside with a playful, stinging force. The sensation sends a jolt through you, and he takes advantage of your distraction to grip your hips, pulling you down harder, faster, onto him.

Rhysand groans at your words his next words are his rough and his voice vibrates against your skin as he pushes up to meet you, "your pussy just feels so good, darling. I can't help it."

You let your head fall back, a groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure tearing from your throat. Your resistance is dissolving with every thrust. Rhysand buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he begins to set the pace, his hips grinding up into you with a relentless, heavy force. He tugs you down onto him harder, dragging you into a collision of bodies that makes the rest of the world—the court, the wedding, and the looming threat of the future—completely vanish.

The tension that has been building since the moment you entered the room shatters in a spectacular, breathless collision. You tighten around him, your body convulsing as you reach your peak, and with a guttural, primal growl, Rhysand follows you over the edge, his hands gripping your hips so hard they surely leave marks.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your ragged, synchronized breathing and the heavy thud of your hearts slowing back to a human cadence.

You collapse forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder, a soft, victorious giggle bubbling up from your chest. Rhysand, his strength momentarily spent, simply hums, his lips trailing lazy, lingering kisses from the hollow of your collarbone up to your sensitive skin, his tongue flicking against your nipple in a final, languid possessiveness.

You tilt your head back, catching his gaze with a glint of mischief that he is too dazed to immediately parse.

"I guess you were wrong," you whisper.

Rhysand blinks, his pupils still blown wide, looking up at you with a hazy, utterly confused expression. He opens his mouth to ask what you mean, but you don't give him the chance. You lean in, your voice dropping to a teasing, breathless purr.

"You couldn't even last thirty minutes."

His confusion evaporates instantly, replaced by a slow, lopsided smirk that radiates pure, unrepentant satisfaction. He doesn't even try to defend his pride, he just pulls you closer, tucking your head back into the crook of his neck, and lets out a soft, low chuckle that rumbles through his chest.

Pairing: Azriel x oc!Archeron

Summary: Lyra Archeron has spent her life fading into the background—until Azriel’s quiet, constant presence reveals she was never as unseen as she believed. As his shadows linger and truths come to light, Lyra realizes she was never a mission to him… but someone he chose all along.

Warnings: smut!, p in v, oral (f&m receiving), dirty talk, obsessed!Azriel (as he should be), unprotected sex (sigh, wrap it people), size kink, multiple orgasms (Az is hard the WHOLE time), small angst

Masterlist

part II

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Lyra Archeron had grown used to being overlooked.

It wasn’t something her sisters did out of cruelty. Feyre always asked if she was eating enough, if she was sleeping, if she needed anything. Nesta made sure she could defend herself, pushed her harder than anyone else ever had. They cared—she knew they did.

But they had lives now. Full ones.

And Lyra had learned how to exist in the quiet spaces left behind.

The training ring buzzed with the usual morning energy—steel clashing, wings rustling, Cassian barking orders that no one truly listened to unless he raised his voice. Lyra stood near the edge, fingers tightening around the leather wrap in her hand as she watched the others spar.

She could step forward.

She should step forward.

Instead, she lingered.

There was comfort in being unnoticed. No expectations. No disappointment.

A faint brush curled around her ankle.

Lyra stilled.

The shadows were back.

They were always back.

She didn’t look down this time. Didn’t react at all, really. If she acknowledged them too much, they’d retreat—and she had grown strangely accustomed to their presence. To the quiet company they offered without demanding anything in return.

They slid higher, cool and weightless, like a whisper against her skin.

Watching.

Waiting.

She exhaled slowly and finished tying her wrap, pretending she didn’t feel them.

Across the ring, Azriel stood still as stone.

Cassian followed his line of sight, then snorted. “You’re staring again.”

“I’m observing.”

“Mm.” Cassian rolled his shoulders, wings shifting lazily. “Funny. You only ever ‘observe’ one person.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Cassian’s grin widened anyway. “You planning to do something about that, or just keep lurking like some lovesick shadow?”

Azriel’s shadows flicked sharply at the word, but his expression didn’t change. “She’s alone.”

“She’s standing ten feet from a dozen people.”

“She’s alone,” Azriel repeated.

Cassian glanced back at Lyra, really looking this time. Not just at her stance, but the way she hovered at the edge of everything—never quite stepping in, never fully stepping away.

His smirk faded, just slightly.

Before he could say anything else, a calm voice cut through the air.

“She knows, you know.”

Nesta didn’t bother looking up from where she adjusted her gauntlets.

Azriel’s attention shifted. “Knows what?”

“That you’re watching her.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Oh, this I have to hear.”

Nesta finally glanced at them, her gaze sharp and steady. “She’s not stupid. She feels the shadows. Notices when they’re gone.”

Azriel went still.

“And?” he asked.

Nesta shrugged. “She doesn’t mind.”

That… wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Lyra didn’t stay long that morning.

She watched a few rounds, stepped forward once, sparred just enough to avoid questions, then slipped away before anyone could stop her.

No one called after her.

No one noticed.

Except him.

Azriel’s shadows followed her all the way down the mountain.

They slipped through the open window of her apartment as easily as breath, curling through the quiet space. The place was small—smaller than anything she’d ever lived in before—but it was hers.

Bare walls. A simple table. A couch that looked like it had seen better days.

But it was hers.

She kicked off her boots near the door, running a hand through her hair with a tired sigh.

“I know you’re there,” she murmured.

The shadows stilled.

Then, slowly, they crept closer.

Lyra didn’t turn around. Didn’t seem alarmed in the slightest. She just moved to the small kitchen, pouring herself a glass of water like it was the most normal thing in the world to be watched by something unseen.

“You don’t have to hide,” she added softly.

The shadows lingered, uncertain.

Then, like a retreating tide, they slipped back out the window.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next morning, Lyra didn’t show up.

Azriel noticed immediately.

There was a space where she should have been—a quiet absence that felt louder than any clash of steel.

Cassian opened his mouth, no doubt ready with another comment, but Azriel was already gone.

The wind tore past him as he descended, wings cutting clean through the morning air. His shadows stretched ahead, reaching, searching—

There.

Her apartment.

The door wasn’t locked.

It never was.

Azriel stepped inside without a sound.

And stopped.

Lyra stood in the center of the room, barefoot, hair unbound and falling wildly around her shoulders. She held a lamp in both hands, raised like she fully intended to swing it.

Her eyes met his.

Relief washed over her face almost instantly.

“Oh,” she breathed, lowering the lamp. “It’s just you.”

Just you.

Azriel didn’t move.

“You missed training,” he said.

She set the lamp down on the table with a soft clink. “I noticed.”

His shadows drifted toward her, brushing lightly against her arm as if confirming she was unharmed.

“You could have been hurt.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t answer when I—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Lyra tilted her head, studying him in a way few ever dared. Not wary. Not intimidated. Just… curious.

“Your shadows checked on me,” she said. “A lot.”

He said nothing.

“I figured if something was actually wrong,” she continued, “you’d come yourself.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing.

It was certain.

Azriel stepped further into the room. “You expected me.”

She shrugged, like it was obvious. “You always wait after training. Thought maybe today you’d switch it up.”

His shadows curled around her wrist briefly, almost unconsciously.

She didn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come?” he asked.

Lyra hesitated.

For a moment, it seemed like she might brush it off—deflect, joke, disappear the way she always did.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she looked at the floor, voice quieter when she spoke.

“Because it doesn’t really matter if I’m there.”

Something in his chest tightened sharply.

“It matters.”

She gave a small, almost sad smile. “To you, maybe.”

“Yes,” Azriel said, more firmly this time. “To me.”

Her gaze snapped back to his.

There was surprise there.

And something softer, more fragile.

“…why?” she asked.

Azriel didn’t answer right away.

His shadows did.

They slipped around her again—gentle this time, not watching but… settling. Familiar. Like they had already chosen her long ago.

He stepped closer, close enough now that he could see the faint exhaustion beneath her eyes. The way she held herself like she was always ready to step back, to make space for someone else.

“You don’t disappear to me,” he said quietly.

The words landed between them, heavier than anything else he could have said.

Lyra paused, her fingers tightening slightly around the base of the lamp before she set it more firmly against the table.

“You don’t need to do this.”

Azriel frowned, the words catching him off guard. “Do what?”

She let out a slow breath, like she had been holding it in for a long time. “I know my sister asked you to look after me.” Her voice softened, but it didn’t waver. “You don’t have to pretend it’s anything more than that. I get it.”

His brows pulled together. “Pretend—”

“I’m just another mission,” Lyra finished quietly.

The word landed wrong.

Azriel shook his head immediately, shadows stirring with a sharp, restless energy. “You aren’t a mission.”

Lyra huffed under her breath. One of his shadows brushed along her wrist again, instinctive, and she groaned lightly at the contact.

“Stop lying to me.”

“I’m not lying, Lyra.”

She didn’t look convinced.

Azriel exhaled slowly, then shrugged one shoulder, voice quieter—but steadier than before. “I was the one who told Feyre I was checking on you.”

That made her hesitate.

“I was the one who made you breakfast,” he continued, watching her closely, “every morning for months while you were in a coma after the Cauldron.”

Lyra stilled.

A visible shiver ran through her at the mention of it.

Azriel didn’t stop.

“I was the one who noticed you stopped eating properly,” he went on, his voice dropping lower, more deliberate. “When you’d just sit there and stare at your plate like you didn’t know what to do with it.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I was the one who stayed until you finished,” he added. “Even when you didn’t realize I was there.”

His shadows curled tighter around her now—not restraining, not claiming, just… present.

“I was the one who sent my shadows to make sure you slept,” he said. “The one who asked Madja every single day what else I could do to help you.”

Each word stripped away the distance she had built.

Each one placed him closer.

Until—

He stopped.

Because suddenly, he was right in front of her.

Chest to chest.

Close enough that if she leaned forward even slightly, she would touch him.

Lyra slowly tilted her head back.

He towered over her—easily more than a foot taller—but there was nothing intimidating in the way he stood now. No looming presence. No edge.

Just him.

Watching her.

Waiting.

“I…” Her voice came out softer than before. “I never realized.”

Azriel nodded once.

“That was the point.”

His hand lifted—slowly, giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

His fingers brushed along her jaw, calloused and warm, a stark contrast to the cool whisper of his shadows. He tilted her chin just slightly, enough that she had to meet his gaze fully.

“I never wanted to overwhelm you,” he murmured.

Lyra’s breath hitched.

Then she shook her head, just barely, her voice almost a whisper.

“You could never, Az.”

The nickname settled between them like something fragile—and entirely natural.

Azriel stilled.

His shadows went quiet.

And for the first time in a long time—

he didn’t feel the need to hide how much she mattered.

Azriel hesitated only for a fraction of a second before closing the distance between them.

His lips brushed hers—soft, almost cautious, like he was still giving her time to pull away.

Lyra didn’t.

She exhaled into the kiss, something in her finally giving way, her hands gripping the front of his leathers as she pulled him closer. The gentleness shattered, deepening into something more certain—more real.

Azriel’s hand slid into her hair, steadying her, not controlling—just holding her there like he needed to be sure she wouldn’t disappear.

She didn’t.

Not this time.

A quiet sound escaped her as he shifted, his forehead resting briefly against hers, his breath uneven for once.

“Lyra…” he murmured, voice low, grounded. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

She shook her head immediately, her fingers tightening in his leathers.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

Something in his expression softened—something rare and unguarded.

Azriel nodded once, like he was committing that answer to memory.

Then he lifted her effortlessly, her breath catching as her arms instinctively wrapped around his shoulders. She didn’t hesitate this time, didn’t second-guess—just held on.

His shadows followed as he carried her down the short hallway, quieter now, calmer—like they, too, understood this wasn’t something to rush.

At the doorway, he paused.

Not because he was unsure—

but because he wanted her to be.

His gaze met hers again, steady, searching.

Lyra didn’t look away.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said softly.

And that was all he needed.

Azriel stepped inside.

He set her down on the edge of the bed, his hands framing her face as he kissed her again, deeper this time, less cautious. It was a kiss that tasted like relief, like a long-held breath finally released. His fingers found the buckles of her tunic, working them with a quiet, focused intensity.

Lyra’s own hands were just as eager, tugging at the straps and fastenings of his leathers, her movements clumsy with need. There was no patience, no slow seduction—only the desperate, shared hunger to feel skin on skin.

He helped her, shrugging off his jacket, then the shirt beneath. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her palms smoothing over the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of old scars, the warm, living proof of him. His hands made quick work of her clothes, peeling them away until she was bare before him, the cool air of the room a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from their bodies.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his hazel eyes dark, his shadows curling around them both in a silent, protective embrace. Then he lowered her back onto the bed, following her down, his mouth leaving a trail of searing kisses from her lips, down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts—lingering to swirl his tongue around a peaked nipple until she cried out—and further still, across the flat plane of her stomach.

He didn’t pause. He settled between her thighs, his hands spreading her open for his gaze, for his mouth. He looked up at her, a slow, possessive smirk touching his lips. “Let me hear you, baby.”

Lyra blushed, the endearment and the raw hunger in his eyes sending a fresh wave of heat through her. But the blush dissolved into a shattered moan the second his mouth met her core. His tongue was wicked, knowing, laving broad strokes before zeroing in on her clit with devastating precision.

One finger, then two, slid inside her, curling, stroking. She arched off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets. A third finger joined, stretching her gently, preparing her. The stretch was delicious, filling, but it was the curl of those fingers against a spot deep inside that made her see stars.

He leaned up, capturing her mouth in a deep, claiming kiss, letting her taste herself on his lips. “Gotta stretch you out, baby,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough with need. “I don’t know if my cock will fit.”

The crude, possessive words sent a jolt straight to her already throbbing core. She nodded frantically, pulling him down for another kiss, her hips rocking against his hand. “Can I come?” she begged, the words a breathless whisper against his lips. “Please, Az, let me come.”

He chuckled, the sound dark and utterly male. He lowered his head again, his mouth returning to her with renewed fervor, his fingers working in a relentless, perfect rhythm. “Come, baby,” he whispered into her heat, the vibration of his words pushing her right to the edge. “Come for me.”

The command, the feel of him, the building pressure—it shattered her. Her climax ripped through her with a force that stole her voice, leaving her gasping, her body trembling violently as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

As she floated down, he moved, kneeling between her legs. He freed himself from the last of his clothes, and Lyra’s breath caught. A soft, awed moan escaped her. Now she understood the whispered jokes among the Inner Circle about the Illyrian with the biggest wingspan. He was… considerable. Thick and long, veined and fully erect, the sight of him sent a fresh, needy ache through her well-sated body.

He guided himself to her entrance, the broad head nudging against her sensitive flesh. He watched her face, his own a mask of strained control. “Look at me,” he breathed.

She did. Her eyes, hazy with pleasure, locked with his.

He pushed in.

A shared, guttural moan filled the room. The feeling was overwhelming—the exquisite stretch, the profound fullness, the rightness of it. He sank into her slowly, letting her adjust to his size, his muscles corded with the effort of holding back.

When he was fully seated, he leaned down, his lips brushing her shoulder before his teeth sank in—a gentle, claiming bite. “Gods,” he groaned, the word ragged. “You’re so tight. So perfect.”

He began to move, withdrawing almost completely before driving back in with a deep, rolling thrust that made her cry out. He set a steady, deep rhythm, each stroke hitting that perfect, deep spot within her, building a new coil of tension so soon after her last release.

Then his shadows joined.

They’d been swirling around them, but now they grew more purposeful. One tendril, cool and silken, wound its way down her body to circle her swollen clit, mimicking the rhythm of his thrusts. Another brushed over her peaked nipples, teasing, pinching lightly. The dual sensations—the deep, filling thrusts and the teasing, everywhere touches—were too much. It was overstimulation of the most exquisite kind, pushing her rapidly toward another peak.

“Azriel,” she sobbed, her nails scoring down his back. “I can’t—it’s too much—“

“You can,” he growled, his pace increasing, becoming more urgent. His shadows tightened their ministrations. “Come with me. Now.”

He was right there with her. She could feel the tension in his body, hear the ragged edge in his breathing. She surrendered to it, to him, letting the overwhelming sensations pull her under. Her climax detonated, a silent scream tearing from her throat as her body convulsed around him.

The feeling of her tightening around him pulled his own release from him. With a hoarse shout of her name, he buried himself to the hilt, his own climax rolling through him in powerful waves as he spilled deep inside her.

He collapsed over her, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, his forehead resting against her shoulder as they both fought for air. His shadows, now calm and satiated, gently caressed her sweat-damp skin. In the quiet aftermath, there were no words—only the sound of their slowing breaths, and the unshakeable feeling that something fundamental had just shifted, and settled, into place forever.

Lyra watched, her breath hitching as he leaned down, his dark head dipping towards hers. She caught his chin, pulling him up to meet her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. He tasted like power and possession, and she couldn’t get enough.

As they broke apart, he finally withdrew from her, the two of them gasping. Lyra watched, her heart thundering in her chest, as he watched, a hand trailing down to cup and stroke his still hard and thick cock. She gripped the sheet beneath her, steadying herself as he groaned, the sound vibrating against her skin.

"Gods, this has never happened," he whispered, his voice raw with desire. "I'm obsessed."

His words sent a shiver through her, making her shiver with anticipation. Lyra flipped them over and then she crawled up his body, her nails dragging lightly over his skin. He arched into her touch, his cock twitching at the contact. "You like that, don't you?" she whispered, her voice husky with want.

He groaned, nodding jerkily. "Fuck yeah."

She smiled before leaning down and wrapping her lips around the broad head of his cock. It was warm and heavy against her tongue, filling her mouth with its velvet roughness. He tasted salty and male and completely addictive.

His hips jerked, driving himself deeper into her mouth. "Good girl," he growled, his fingers threading through her hair as he started to fuck her face gently. She took him deep, loving the feeling of him filling her throat, the way his skin smelled of leather and the night air.

Her tongue laved the seam of his cock, swirling around the vein that pulsed so close to the surface. She tightened her lips around him, sucking harder as he moaned louder, his hips meeting each rhythmical movement of her head.

Finally, he pulled back with a harsh cry, his seed spilling into her mouth. She swallowed eagerly, her lips pressing a soft kiss against the still-hard length of him. She looked up at him through her lashes, the barest hint of a smirk on her lips. "Bet you want another round."

He growled low in his throat, eyes darkening. "Oh yeah."

With that, he flipped them, pushing her back onto the bed with a rough grace. He knelt between her legs, his hands on either side of her head as he thrust into her mouth again. This time, it was different. Harder, faster.

She clung to him, scratching down his chest with her nails as he moaned into the crook of her neck. "Fuck," he breathed out, his hips meeting hers in perfect syncopation.

She loved the feel of him moving inside her throat—the power and possession of it all. And then he was pushing her off him again, his cock pulsing as he released into her mouth once more.

She didn't pull away, instead swallowing him down greedily. Her tongue darted out to lap at the head of his cock, tasting him deeply as he groaned and fell against her. The weight of him pinned her down as he panted above her, his eyes fierce as he stared down into hers.

"You're so wet," he rasped out finally, his hands cupping her face tenderly. "So fucking wet for me."

Lyra smiled up at him, her eyes bright with something that felt like adoration. She lifted one leg and wrapped it around his hips, pulling him closer as she rocked her hips in time with the last few waves of his orgasm.

They both groaned as Azriel withdrew from her again and Lyra looked down when Azriel whined and her eyes got wide when she saw that Azriel still was as hard as a rock.

He leaned down, capturing her lips again, slower this time—grounding, like he was trying to memorize her. The moment shifted, softened, even as the intensity between them still lingered, heavy and unfinished.

A quiet breath left him, almost a frustrated sound, like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Then—

A voice slipped into his mind.

Sharp. Commanding.

Rhysand.

Azriel froze, his shadows snapping taut around him.

I need you. Now. There’s a situation.

Azriel’s jaw clenched, a low groan slipping out before he could stop it.

Lyra blinked up at him, the warmth in her expression faltering slightly. “What is it?”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair, clearly torn. “I’m needed.”

The words felt wrong leaving his mouth.

He leaned down again, pressing a softer kiss to her lips, then her cheek, her temple—like he couldn’t quite stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her skin.

Lyra just watched him, her eyes wide now—not upset, not angry… but something closer to overwhelmed. Uncertain.

Still, she nodded.

“I understand,” she whispered.

Azriel pulled back just enough to look at her, searching her face as if making sure she meant it. Whatever he saw there had him hesitating again.

Then he kissed her once more—deeper this time, like a promise.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to stand, reaching for his clothes. His movements were quick, but there was tension in every line of his body, like leaving her took actual effort.

At the doorway, he stopped.

Groaned softly.

Then turned back.

In two strides, he was at her again, one hand cupping her face as he kissed her hard—brief, but full of everything he wasn’t saying.

“Next time,” he murmured against her lips, voice low, rough, “no one interrupts us.”

Lyra nodded, breathless, still trying to keep up with everything that had just changed.

Azriel held her gaze for one last second—

then he was gone.

The room fell quiet.

Too quiet.

Lyra sat there, unmoving, her heart racing in a way that had nothing to do with what had just happened.

Because underneath it—

something else pulsed.

Louder.

Stronger.

Insistent.

Her breath hitched.

Her hand pressed lightly to her chest as the feeling surged again, unmistakable now.

One word echoed through her mind, over and over, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to be heard.

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

Lyra’s eyes widened.

Part II

Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader

Summary: it has been three days since you’ve moved into the night court and the High Lord believes you should already trust him. But after moments of wedding planning and just listening to your brother you overthink your words you spoke to your soon to be husband.

Warnings: basically just mean reader… kinda, her rudeness is so valid, talks of Eris’s soldiers accident, … I think that’s it… Lmk if yall find any tho!

Authors note: SURPRISE! I decided to post early because I love this chapter😭. There is so much to come with this series and I am so excited just brain storming what I want to come next. Tbh… I have no clue how long this will be now because I want to write so much for this! But as always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The silence of your chambers in the Night Court was a brittle, precious thing—a stark contrast to the constant, suffocating weight of the Autumn Court's politics. Three days. Seventy-two hours of living in a gilded cage that, while beautiful, felt like an insult to everything you had been raised to believe.

You adjusted your position in the velvet armchair, the heavy fabric of your gown rustling softly. Your book lay open in your lap, but the words were beginning to blur. You weren't here because you missed the biting winds of home or the way the leaves turned to embers underfoot. You were here as a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game played by men who thought they understood the board better than you did.

A faint, scuffing sound outside your door earlier had alerted you that Cassian was looming nearby, likely looking for another "effort" to integrate you into the Inner Circle. The General. The thought made your blood simmer with a cold, sharp bitterness. You remembered the carnage of that skirmish—the way he and the Shadow Master had carved through Eris's soldiers. They had seen monsters, enemies to be dismantled, never realizing that those men had been puppets, their wills hollowed out and discarded by the Queens command.

The memory had been enough to send a flicker of flame toward the door when Cassian tried to usher you to dinner earlier. The look of genuine surprise—and the undignified yelp—that had escaped him as he scrambled back from the singed wood had been the only moment of satisfaction you'd had since arriving.

It seemed the message had finally landed. He hadn't returned for hours.

The room was quiet now, save for the crackle of the hearth and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the city below. You took a slow, steadying breath, pressing your thumb against the page of your book. For the first time since being dragged to Velaris, the suffocating presence of the Night Court's guardians was gone, leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts and the mounting, dangerous plans you were already beginning to weave against them.

You finally had the solitude you craved. But in a court built on secrets and shadows, you knew that privacy was rarely as simple as a closed door.

As you finally relaxed into the chair, you couldn't help but feel as if you were being watched.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a warning instinct honed in the treacherous halls of the Autumn Court. You didn't need to look to know who was there. You could feel the shift in the air—the sudden, heavy of power that made the atmosphere feel thick and pressurized.

You turned your head slowly. Rhysand was leaning against the bookshelf, looking entirely too comfortable, his violet eyes tracking you with that infuriating, predatory calm.

You rolled your eyes, a sharp, dismissive gesture, and turned back to your book. But the air shifted again. He moved with the silence of a predator, and before you could blink, his hands settled onto your shoulders. The contact felt like a brand. You were up and out of the chair in a heartbeat, spinning to face him, your voice a lethal whisper:

"Get your filthy hands off of me."

Rhysand didn't recoil. Instead, he simply slipped his hands into his pant pockets, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "There's the Vanserra snark I was waiting for."

You snarled, the sound raw and visceral, and turned on your heel to storm out. You were finished with the pleasantries, finished with the games.

"Wait," he called out.

The command hit your spine like a physical weight. You paused, your hand gripping the cold stone of the doorway, and looked back over your shoulder. Rhysand closed the distance between you, his movements fluid and intentional. He reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of hair away from your face with an intimacy that made your stomach churn. You swatted his hand away with a sharp crack of your palm against his skin.

He smiled, undeterred. "I hope you realize that you have to at least pretend you like my company."

You shook your head, the disdain evident in every line of your posture. He watched you, a glimmer of genuine curiosity in his eyes. "What must I do?" he asked, his voice lower, lacking the performative edge.

You paused, your silhouette framed by the hallway light. You leaned back slightly, your voice barely a breath. "Nothing. Do absolutely nothing."

His brows furrowed, the mask of the High Lord slipping just enough to show genuine confusion. You turned to face him fully, your expression hardening. "Because everything you and your court does is all lies anyway."

He let out a long, weary sigh, his name for you dying on his lips as you turned your back on him for good.

The dining hall was a cavern of light and noise, a jarring transition from the suffocating silence of your room. As you strode in, the atmosphere at the table shifted. You didn't wait for an invitation; you pulled out the chair next to Cassian and sat.

Cassian looked up, his expression guarded, while Azriel's eyes widened, his gaze darting toward you with a wariness that spoke volumes. You didn't bother with greetings. You began to eat, the silver clinking sharply against the fine porcelain.

"Finally come to your senses, Vanserra?"

Amren's voice cut through the air, sharp and jagged. She smirked as she spoke your name, imbuing it with a weight that felt like a curse. You hated it. You hated the way she spat the syllables, as if the very name was a dark, roiling presence in the room. You knew the weight of that name better than anyone—you knew the history, the blood, and the inherited trauma that clung to it like smoke—and hearing it from her only reminded you that, here, you would never be anything more than the monster's daughter.

The tension at the table was thick enough to carve. When Rhysand finally entered, the air in the room seemed to compress. He took the seat directly across from you, his violet eyes unblinking, tracing the line of your jaw and the way you held your fork before he finally lifted his own glass.

You were too focused on the meal—and the sheer audacity of your presence there—to notice the silent exchange between Cassian and Azriel. They traded a sharp, measuring look, their gazes flickering between you and their High Lord, a silent communication that spoke of things you weren't meant to hear.

Then, the silence shattered.

"Manon will be here tomorrow," Rhysand said, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm.

You paused, your fork hovering over your plate. You furrowed your brows, irritation flaring in your chest. "Who the hell is that?"

Rhysand's smirk was slow and deliberate. "Our wedding planner."

The reaction was instantaneous. A spray of deep red wine erupted from Cassian's mouth as he choked, coughing violently. Mor, seated beside him, began to pat his back, her expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. You spared a sharp, unimpressed glance at the General as he wheezed, "I keep forgetting... this arrangement you have."

You rolled your eyes, the gesture heavy with disdain. Rhysand didn't even look at his friend; his gaze remained locked on you. "Manon wants to meet with both of us to know what we both want."

A scoff escaped your throat, turning into a bitter, incredulous laugh. "What we both want?"

Rhysand nodded, unfazed. "Exactly."

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a jagged whisper, cold and precise. "So, can she cancel the wedding in general?"

Rhysand's eyes darkened, and he let out an exasperated huff, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "You know we can't do that."

You didn't wait for him to elaborate on the political necessity of your misery. You stood abruptly, your chair scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm full."

You turned and walked away, not caring how the room fell silent in your wake. Behind you, the sound of Cassian choking resumed, more frantic than before. You could see the faint, irritated pinch of Rhysand's fingers against the bridge of his nose as the General hissed, loud enough to carry, "Go to her."

You kept walking, your footsteps rhythmic and sharp, though you felt the weight of Rhysand's gaze lingering on your back, heavy and insistent. Even as you retreated, the sense of being pursued—not by a hunter, but by a man who refused to let you escape the cage he'd built—followed you into the shadows of the hallway.

When you make your way into your bedchamber, you shut the door carefully and begin pacing as you think about this wedding planning.

A wedding you never wanted.

A wedding that shouldn't even be real.

As you pace, you groan at the itch from the night court dress you have been wearing today.

The frustration had been clawing at your skin all evening, the fabric of this Night Court finery feeling more like a shroud than a gown. You retreated to your room, your fingers fumbling clumsily with the intricate, infuriating fastenings at the back of the dress.

"Stupid, useless thing," you hissed, tugging at a knot that refused to give.

A soft, melodic chuckle drifted through the quiet air of your chamber. You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs, to find Rhysand just closing the bedroom door behind him, his violet eyes alight with a maddeningly calm amusement.

You glared at him, your hands balling into fists at your sides. "Would you mind?"

Rhysand didn't look away. Instead, he gave a slow, lazy nod and gestured with a circular motion of his finger, a silent command for you to turn back around.

You hesitated, the heat of your indignation warring with the simple need to be out of the dress. You turned. You felt the shift in the air as he stepped close—too close—the heat of his body radiating against your back. His fingers, warm and steady, began to work the fastenings with practiced ease.

"I thought," he whispered, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your neck, "that you would only let me do this on our wedding night."

The audacity of it sparked a fire in your blood that had nothing to do with your magic. You whipped around, your hand flying out to slap his cheek with a sharp crack.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Rhysand paused, his head turned to the side, the mark of your palm blooming on his skin. He didn't blink. He didn't grow angry. He simply reached out, his hands firmly grasping your waist, and forced you to turn back around, his touch immovable. He resumed working on the dress, his movements methodical and agonizingly slow.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers grazed your spine. "Why must you make jokes of this?" you whispered, your voice trembling with the effort to remain cold.

He shrugged behind you, his voice low, lacking its usual veneer of High Lord perfection. "I don't know. I guess it's because it's the way I'm dealing with this."

The dress finally loosened, pooling around your ankles in a heap of silk and lace. You stepped out of it, leaving you in nothing but your thin underdress. You turned to face him, defiant, watching as his gaze swept slowly down the length of you before snapping back to your eyes, dark and unreadable.

"This will be our life, Rhysand," you said, your voice cutting through the space between you. "For as long as my father is alive. And all you do is make fun and just irritate me."

He held your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically guarded, as if the reality of your words had finally breached the armor he wore so easily.

Rhysand studies your face for a long, heavy moment after your statement, the playfulness finally bled out of his expression.

Finally he moves, and his hands moved to your face, his palms cupping your cheeks with a firm, grounding pressure. He held your head steady, forcing you to look at him, to see the intensity that burned behind his violet eyes. Your breath hitched, you hadn't expected the sudden shift from his teasing to this raw, focused gravity.

"Make your father regret this," he whispered, his voice like velvet dragged over gravel.

You furrowed your brows, your heart thumping against your ribs. "What?"

He gave a sharp, resolute nod. "Make him regret the decision of forcing his strong, only daughter into the hands of the coldest High Lord."

A shiver raced down your spine, the sheer weight of his suggestion settling in your stomach. You pulled back, your voice barely a broken thread of sound. "I can't."

Rhysand leaned back slightly, his hands slipping from your face as if the rejection burned him. "You can't?"

"How can I trust this court?" you countered, your voice growing sharper with the effort to mask your vulnerability. "How can I trust your men—and you—after what you did to my brother?"

Rhysand's jaw tightened, his expression darkening with a flicker of defensive steel. "That was an accident, and Eris knows it."

You shook your head, the bitter memory of that battlefield—of men you had known, turned into puppets by Queen Briallyn and Koschei cruelty and then cut down by the Night Court—surging to the surface. "That doesn't mean I can trust you."

He watched you for a long, heavy silence, his expression unreadable. "Will you ever?"

You offered a small, dismissive shrug, the movement stiff. "I don't know."

Rhysand let out a frustrated, sharp breath, running a hand down his face before he snarled, a low, dangerous sound of pure agitation. "We have no clue how long this arrangement will last, and you can say you will never trust me—"

"I can't trust you, Rhysand," you interrupted, your voice dropping to a weary, cynical tone. "People leave. They always leave before I can even blink, so why should I waste my time on you?"

The silence that followed was brittle. Rhysand looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie, but all he found was the hardened, defensive wall you had built to survive the life your father had forced upon you. He looked as if he wanted to argue, to demand, to command, but the raw honesty of your fear seemed to anchor him to the spot.

Rhysand stands there, his hands finally dropping to his sides, looking at you not as a pawn, but as a person who has been pushed to the brink.

The heavy silence of the chamber stretched on, charged with the sudden, jagged honesty of your words. Rhysand stood motionless for a long heartbeat, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. He seemed to be weighing every syllable, every drop of defensive venom you had just poured out.

Finally, he let out a slow, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping from their rigid posture. He turned his head away from you, his gaze drifting to the dark, intricate patterns on the stone walls, as if he couldn't bear to look at you while he spoke.

"This is what you want?" he whispered, his voice stripped of the High Lord's usual iron command. It was quiet, almost defeated. "You want this arrangement to be just that? Nothing more than a contract signed in blood and resentment?"

You felt a hollow ache in your chest, but you hardened your heart against it. You couldn't afford to see the flicker of vulnerability in him; you couldn't afford to see him as anything other than the man who had ordered your brother's soldiers to their deaths.

You gave a sharp, definitive nod. "That is all it was ever going to be," you whispered back, the words firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

Rhysand stood still for a long moment, the air between you humming with suppressed power. Then, he moved. He didn't roar, and he didn't command. He stepped into your space, the scent of night-blooming flowers and ozone surrounding you, and leaned in. He pressed a brief, cool kiss to your cheek—a gesture that felt like a goodbye, or perhaps a sealing of the very fate you had just demanded.

You let out a shaky, involuntary sigh, your eyes closing against the sensation. When you opened them, he was already walking away. You watched, frozen, as he reached the door and pulled it shut behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the stillness like a gunshot.

You kept your gaze locked on the door, your breath held tight in your chest, waiting for the handle to turn, for him to storm back inside and shatter your resolve. You waited for the arrogance, the demands, the cruel humor—anything to break the crushing weight of the silence.

But after a minute, then two, the hallway remained stubbornly quiet.

The realization hit you then: he had listened. He had given you exactly what you asked for.

With a shaky hand, you wiped your face, as if to rub away the lingering warmth of his skin. You turned away from the door, the emptiness of the room suddenly pressing in on you. You walked to the bed, your legs feeling heavy and leaden, and collapsed onto the mattress. You stared up into the dark rafters, the weight of the night settling over you, realizing that for all your defiance, you were still here—trapped, alone, and bound to the very man you were so desperate to hate.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The next morning, The sharp, insistent rap at your door acted like a jolt to your system. You groaned, the remnants of a restless, dream-filled sleep clinging to you, and stumbled out of bed to pull the door open.

Rhysand stood in the hallway, looking entirely too composed for the early hour. His eyes scanned your disheveled state for a fraction of a second before he clipped out a single command, "get dressed."

You rolled your eyes, a retort already poised on the tip of your tongue, but he didn't give you the satisfaction of a debate. He turned on his heel and walked away, his stride long and purposeful, leaving you staring at his retreating back.

You slammed the door shut, the wood vibrating with your frustration. Get dressed. As if you were a child being ordered about. You stomped over to the closet, ignoring the rows of ornate, restrictive gowns provided for you. Your fingers brushed past the silks and velvets until they found comfort—a pair of sturdy jeans and a soft, worn-in sweater. You pulled them on with a grim sense of satisfaction, relishing the feeling of fabric that wouldn't irritate your skin or remind you of your status as a prize to be displayed.

Once you were ready, you made your way downstairs, the quiet of the house belying the tension you knew waited below.

As you stepped into the dining area, the scene stopped you in your tracks. Rhysand was seated at the head of the table, his attention fully occupied by a woman with striking, ice-white hair. They were huddled over a series of sketches and fabric swatches—flower arrangements, by the look of the intricate, thorny blossoms splayed across the mahogany.

The woman looked up as your boots clicked against the floor, her gaze sharp and assessing, her features possessing a cold, regal beauty that made your own posture stiffen in immediate defense.

Rhysand didn't stand, but his focus shifted to you, his expression unreadable. "You're late," he murmured, though there was no heat in it. "We were just discussing the logistics."

The white-haired fae tilted her head, a slow, predatory smirk touching her lips as she took in your attire—your jeans and sweater—and then looked back to Rhysand. "I see," she said, her voice like crushed glass. "So, this is the bride-to-be."

You pulled out the chair beside Rhysand, the legs scraping against the floorboards with a sound that felt too loud in the sudden quiet of the room. You settled into the seat, pointedly ignoring the way the High Lord shifted his posture, his attention tethered to you even as he pretended to focus on the papers.

Manon's gaze flickered between you, her smile tight and professional. She fanned out a series of parchment sheets across the table, each depicting different floral themes—some bright and ethereal, others dark and sharp. "Any of them you like?" she asked, her voice calm and clinical.

You looked down at the sketches, your expression carefully neutral. You gave a small, noncommittal shrug, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of an opinion. But you felt Rhysand's eyes on you, heavy and perceptive. He reached across the table, his long fingers trailing over the options until he snagged a picture featuring deep, burnt-orange foliage, rich golds, and dark, thorny vines—an unmistakable echo of the Autumn Court.

"I like these," he murmured, his voice low.

You glanced over at him, surprised by the choice. For a second, the mask of the cold High Lord flickered, revealing something almost... nostalgic. You looked back at the picture, the familiar colors tugging at a piece of you that you'd tried to bury. "Those are pretty," you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it.

Manon's eyes brightened, a knowing light entering them. "So, we are going for an autumn feeling?"

You opened your mouth to shrug it off, to clarify that you weren't "going for" anything, but Rhysand beat you to it. He nodded firmly. "Yes," he said, his tone resolute. "We agreed so we bring her home to Velaris."

Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, startled. Bringing her home. The phrasing felt like a double-edged sword—a concession to your origins, or a way to stake his claim on your past.

Manon tilted her head, her smile turning genuine. "Isn't that sweet?"

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, caught between irritation and a strange, unwelcome surge of warmth. You quickly looked away, hiding your expression by focusing intensely on the next stack of plans Manon was sliding your way. You didn't want to think about why he'd chosen the autumn theme, or what it meant for him to acknowledge that part of you, so you let the chatter of wedding logistics drown out the sudden, erratic rhythm of your own heart.

The vibrancy of the autumn colors on the table suddenly felt like a physical weight, suffocating and sharp. Every shade of burnt orange and deep gold reminded you of the court you had spent your entire life trying to escape—a place that was, for you, nothing but a gilded hell. The thought of walking down an aisle surrounded by the aesthetic of your father's cruelty was more than you could stomach.

You stood so abruptly your chair clattered backward. The air in the room grew too thin.

"I'll be back," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Before Manon could even register the shift, you were already moving toward the door. You didn't look back, but you felt the sudden shift in the room as Rhysand rose to follow. You made it to the hallway, your back pressing against the cold stone wall, your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to regain control of your spiraling thoughts.

When he stepped into the hallway, his presence was a dark, grounding anchor. He stopped a few feet away, his hands sliding into his pockets, his posture cautious. "You alright?"

You shook your head, the motion jerky. He didn't hesitate; he pulled his hands out and stepped into your space, his palms finding your shoulders. His touch was firm, steadying. "What is wrong?"

You cast a fearful look back toward the dining room, toward the remnants of the autumn theme. "I don't want an autumn wedding," you whispered, the confession raw.

His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. "What? I... I thought that's what you would want. To feel a piece of home here."

"No," you breathed, shaking your head vigorously. "I don't. I want something that will not remind me of that place. I want nothing to do with it."

Rhysand studied you, his violet eyes scanning your face, looking for the truth—and finding it. He nodded slowly, his expression softening into something you hadn't expected to see: absolute, unwavering support.

"How about a starlight wedding?" he offered, his voice low and intimate. "It will be at night. We can have it outside, under the stars of Velaris. No leaves, no embers. Just the night."

You blinked, stunned. "You'll do that? You'd open up Velaris to my father, just for a theme?"

"I would do anything for you," he said, the words simple but carrying the weight of a vow.

You felt a hot sting of shame behind your eyes, the realization of how unfairly you had treated him warring with the relief you felt. You looked down at your boots, your voice barely audible. "Thank you."

Rhysand gave a small, affirming nod. He glanced back at the dining room, where Manon was still waiting, watching the door with a sharp, curious expression. "Why don't I deal with Manon?"

You looked up, startled by the offer. He nodded again, his jaw set with quiet determination. "You just show up in the most beautiful dress you can find, and I'll do the rest."

You offered a soft, hesitant nod, a ghost of a smile touching your lips. Rhysand returned the gesture, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes, before he turned back to the dining room. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, cutting off any chance for you to hear how he intended to convince the planner to scrap everything they had just discussed.

You stood alone in the quiet hallway, your heart beating a little steadier, the dread of the morning replaced by a fragile, newfound sense of possibility.

Inside the dining hall, the atmosphere had shifted from professional collaboration to a tense, singular focus. Rhysand didn't bother with pleasantries. He gathered the rejected sketches of orange and gold foliage, the edges of the parchment crinkling under his grip, and set them aside.

"She doesn't want this," he said, his voice flat.

Manon leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. She wasn't just a planner; she was a woman who knew power when she saw it. "Well," she sighed, resting her chin on her hand, "what does the bride want?"

Rhysand tilted his head, his gaze unfocused as if he were still replaying the moment in the hallway. "I think her and I are just going to plan everything."

Manon's brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine incredulity crossing her features. "Rhys, it doesn't even seem like your bride stands you," she pointed out, her voice dropping into a sharp, observant whisper. "How exactly do you intend to plan a wedding with someone who can barely look at you without wanting to throw a fireball?"

Rhysand shrugged, the movement careless, though his jaw remained tight. He stood, his presence suddenly looming over the table. "I'll figure it out."

Manon smirked. She saw right through the bravado, she knew the High Lord was already prepared to move heaven and earth—or at least the entire Night Court—to get his way. "Rhys," she said, her voice softening into a warning. "Let me help you."

He looked up, his expression hardening. "I told her we should do a starlight wedding. We'll hold it at night, under the open sky, and bring people here when the stars are out."

Manon blinked, clearly taken aback by the magnitude of the request. Opening the Night Court, exposing its heart to the prying eyes of the other courts—it was a massive security risk, even for him. "And what did she say?"

Rhysand ran a hand over his face, a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered your reaction. "She agreed. So I told her to just get a dress and show up."

Manon let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Very High Lord of you."

Rhysand grumbled, his cheeks flushing a faint, irritated shade of violet. "Shut it."

He didn't wait for her to tease him further. He turned his back on the papers, his mind already racing with the logistics of starlight and secrecy, determined to make the night perfect—even if he had to dismantle his own court to do it.

You are still out in the hall, unaware of the exact words exchanged, but you can feel the shift in the room's energy

The hallway felt endless as you sat on the carved bench, the silence pressing in on you. You were just about to stand, your patience for the uncertainty of the morning wearing thin, when the heavy oak door finally swung open.

Manon stepped out, her expression no longer clinical or sharp, but surprisingly softened. She offered you a small, knowing nod as she passed, a silent farewell that left you feeling strangely exposed.

You watched her retreating figure for a moment before turning your attention back to the doorway. Rhysand was there, leaning casually against the frame, his violet eyes tracking every micro-expression on your face. He wore a small, lingering smirk, but there was a depth behind it that made your pulse quicken.

You felt a warmth crawl up your neck, a soft blush that you couldn't quite suppress under his intent gaze. You shifted, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

He didn't deflect it with a joke or a sharp retort. He just gave a small, slow shrug. "I understand."

For a fleeting second, the wall between you dropped. You looked into his eyes and, for the first time, you truly saw it—he did understand. The weight of his own burdens, the isolation of his position, the way he was trying to navigate this impossible arrangement—it was all there. He was offering you a tether; if you ever wanted to talk, if you ever needed to drop the act, the door was open.

You nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the truce, and turned to walk away. You took a few steps down the hall before the impulse hit you. You paused, your hand resting against the cool stone of the wall, and looked back over your shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words small but sincere.

Rhysand gave you a sharp, affirming nod, his gaze steady as he watched you move toward the stairs. He didn't follow. He didn't command. He just stood there, watching until the curve of the corridor finally pulled you out of his line of sight.

Only then did he move. He let his head fall back against the wood of the doorframe, a long, ragged sigh escaping him—the sound of a man who had just played the most difficult hand of his life and was starting to realize just how much of himself he was putting at stake.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The library was the only place in the Night Court that felt somewhat neutral, a sanctuary of paper and ink where you could forget the political chess match for a few hours. The soft clearing of a throat pulled you from your book, and you looked up to see Eris standing there, looking uncharacteristically out of place against the dark, starlit shelves of Velaris.

Your breath hitched. You were across the room in a flash, throwing your arms around him. For a moment, you weren't the High Lord's betrothed or a pawn; you were just his sister.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice low, pulling back to study your face with searching eyes.

"I'm okay," you lied, though the ghost of a smile felt real for the first time in days.

Eris gave you a knowing look. "I have a surprise for you."

You groaned, already suspecting his brand of 'surprises.' He chuckled, steering you toward your chambers. The anticipation made your stomach churn with a strange blend of anxiety and irritation. "I swear, Eris, if you hired a male to—"

"Quiet, you," he interrupted with a pained groan, opening the door to your room.

You stepped inside, and the words died in your throat. Drapped over your bed was a dress—gorgeous, intricate, and painfully familiar. Your mother's wedding dress. You gasped, your hands flying to your mouth. You turned to Eris, your voice a trembling whisper. "What... how did you?"

Eris smiled, a sad, weary thing. "Mother found me when Beron was in a meeting in the Summer Court. She heard what was happening, and she wanted you to have this."

You reached out, your fingers hovering over the fabric, then recoiled. You turned back to him, brow furrowed. "I can't. Why would I wear a dress on a day where she was bound to a monster?"

Eris moved closer, his gaze softening. "She was hoping this dress might hold better memories this time. New beginnings, sister."

A single tear tracked down your cheek. "Then why can't I wear it on my real wedding day?"

Eris sighed, his hand resting heavy on your shoulder. "You know how long this arrangement might last. This dress... it needs to be worn for the show, my dear sister."

You looked at the dress, then back at him. You nodded slowly, the weight of the reality settling in. Eris used his thumb to gently wipe the tear from your cheek.

"Okay," you whispered. "I'll wear it."

He kissed the top of your head, a gesture of comfort you had been starved for. "What is the theme?" he asked, his voice curious.

You glanced away from the dress, a small, genuine smile forming as you thought of the conversation in the hallway. "Rhysand... we decided on a starlight theme. Outside, under the stars."

Eris's eyebrows shot up, but as he looked at your face, he noticed something he hadn't seen in years: a faint, internal glow, a flicker of genuine hope. He didn't question it. "Okay," he said simply.

"I must go," he said, turning to leave. "But I'll see you in a couple of days."

You grabbed his arm, pulling him back for just a second. "Eris? Can you walk me?"

He looked confused for a moment, and you couldn't help but chuckle. "Down the aisle. You're the one who practically raised me..."

His expression softened, and he nodded with profound solemnity. "I would be honored."

"Will Beron be mad?" you asked, a flicker of your old fear surfacing.

Eris let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "He'll be too drunk by the time the ceremony starts to notice anything at all."

You laughed, the sound bright and unburdened, and for the first time since leaving home, you felt like you might actually survive the path ahead.

The sound of your laughter had been a siren song, pulling Rhysand toward your door. He had stood there for a moment, the ghost of a smile touching his lips at the rare, genuine sound, only to knock and find his composure shattered when the door opened to reveal Eris, not you.

You didn't give Rhysand a chance to react to your brother's presence. You slipped past them both, pulling the door shut behind you and leaving Eris inside, effectively shielding the room from the High Lord's sight.

You turned on Rhysand, glaring, though your cheeks were already heating up. He furrowed his brows, confused by your sudden, defensive posturing. "What?" he whispered.

"You can't look in there," you snapped.

Rhysand looked back at the closed door, then down at you, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and challenge. He shrugged, his voice dropping to a teasing, low hum. "And why can't I?"

You sighed, frustration and embarrassment warring in your chest. You muttered the words under your breath, hoping he wouldn't catch them.

He didn't miss a beat. He leaned closer, his face dipping toward yours, his voice a gravelly rumble. "What was that?"

You let out a sharp, ragged breath and muttered it again, louder this time. He took the opportunity to close the distance, nudging his nose against your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. "I can't hear you, love."

A shiver raced down your spine, undoing your defenses entirely. "My wedding dress is in there," you whispered, the admission soft and vulnerable.

Rhysand turned his head, and you followed suit, the movement fluid and magnetic until your noses were brushing—a touch so light it was almost electric. He smirked, the expression dark and wicked. "Are we doing that? Keeping secrets before the big day?"

You felt your heart hammering against your ribs, a stuttering, frantic rhythm. You shrugged, your voice failing you. "I mean... we don't have to."

Rhysand's smirk widened, his eyes darkening with a promise that made your knees weak. "Okay then. We will."

Your eyes widened, a deep crimson flush staining your neck and cheeks. You opened your mouth to protest, but a loud, impatient thud from behind the door silenced you.

"You brute!" Eris's voice grumbled through the wood. "You better not touch my sister!"

Rhysand didn't even look at the door. He smirked, his eyes locked on yours as he called out, "No, Eris. I'll wait for our wedding night for that."

Eris let out a guttural groan of disgust. You swatted Rhysand's shoulder, half-mortified and half-breathless, and whispered a hasty, "Goodnight."

You didn't wait for him to respond. You squeezed back into your room, slamming the door shut and bracing your back against it to ensure Eris wouldn't storm out to throttle the High Lord.

From the other side, through the thick oak, you heard Rhysand's voice, low and smooth, a final, lingering promise: "Goodnight."

The hallway fell silent, the echo of Rhysand's footsteps fading into the distance, but the air in your room remained thick with the aftermath of the encounter. Eris sat on the edge of your bed, the fabric dipping under his weight as he watched you with a knowing, infuriatingly calm expression.

"I didn't realize you and Rhys were getting close," he remarked, his tone light, far too casual for the tension that had just filled the air.

You turned to him, your heart still racing, and snapped, "We aren't."

Eris merely smirked, rising to his feet and smoothing his tunic. "It's okay if you do, you know. You are marrying the male, after all."

You glared at him, the heat of the encounter with Rhysand still stinging your cheeks. "Don't remind me."

He laughed, a low, resonant sound that felt alien in these halls. He shrugged, his shoulders losing their typical defensive hunch. "They aren't terrible males, you know."

You whirled around, the shock of his words hitting you harder than a blow. "What? Do you not remember what they did—"

Eris held up a hand, his expression sobering instantly. "I will never forget what they did," he interrupted, his voice steel. "But they also didn't realize what was happening. They were fighting monsters, not realizing the puppets were my soldiers."

You felt the breath leave your lungs. You stared at him, trying to find the lie in his eyes, but found only a weary sort of truth.

"What I'm saying," Eris continued, his voice softer, "is that you can trust them."

The words hung in the air, mirroring the conversation you'd had with Rhysand just a day or two ago.

'People leave before I can... why should I waste my time?'

You had told the High Lord that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford, yet here was your brother—the person who knew the truth of your past better than anyone—telling you that the very men you loathed were worthy of your faith.

You nodded, a stiff, mechanical motion, your mind spinning as you processed the shift in the foundation of your world.

Eris didn't press further. He gave you a brief, bracing squeeze on the shoulder before stepping back. "Stay safe, sister."

With a swirl of embers and heat, he winnowed away, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of smoke and the sudden, jarring cold of the room. You let out a jagged gasp, your legs finally failing you as you slid down the back of the door, leaning your forehead against the wood.

Chapter One

Rhysand x Eris’sSister!Reader

Summary: you just learn from your father, that you are to be married to the High Lord of the Night Court for his benefits. But, after talking with your brother, you learn a different story.

Warnings: arranged marriage, Baron, fire powers, small mention of abuse

Authors note: omg… I am so excited for this small series and already started chapter 2 the minute I was done editing this! This story was requested by two or three people and I changed it up a little so it can be around 4 to 5 parts. As always, hope yall enjoy🫶🏻

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The fire in the hearth of the Autumn Court manor crackled, the orange flames casting long, flickering shadows against the mahogany walls. You sat stiffly in your chair, staring at the embroidery on your lap, until your father's voice cut through the stillness like a serrated blade.

"Look at me," Beron commanded.

You tilted your head up, meeting his cold, assessing gaze. He paced before the mantle, his movements restless—predatory. "I have concluded a negotiation," he stated, his voice devoid of any warmth. "A formal arrangement with the High Lord of the Night Court".

You felt your heart skip a beat, though you kept your expression carefully blank. You were used to his political maneuvering; it was rarely anything that concerned you personally. "Rhysand," you murmured, tasting the name. It felt like ash on your tongue. "Another deal to keep the borders quiet, then?"

Beron stopped pacing. He turned, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "Hardly." He leaned in, the scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke clinging to his heavy robes. "It is not a treaty of borders, but of blood. You are to be wed to him, girl. By the next full moon".

The air left the room. You sat frozen, the fine silk of your skirts suddenly feeling like a shroud. You had braced yourself for many things—a lecture on duty, a reprimand for your recent behavior—but not this. You looked at your father, searching for a trace of a lie, but his eyes were as unyielding as iron. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until you finally nodded, the movement jerky and mechanical.

You had been a pawn in his games for centuries, but for the first time, the weight of the board felt like it might crush you.

You stood slowly, your legs feeling heavy, as if the floorboards were turning to lead beneath your feet. You leaned down, your voice a mere whisper that barely carried over the dancing flames. "As you wish, Father."

Beron's thin lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with a cold, jagged triumph. "Finally," he muttered, the word sharp with disdain. "I can be rid of you, and in doing so, secure a far more profitable proximity to the Night Court."

He stepped toward you, his movements fluid and predatory, closing the distance until the sharp, woodsmoke scent of him overwhelmed your senses. With a sudden, stinging motion, he reached out and hooked a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head up to force your gaze to meet his.

His grip was bruising, his voice dropping to a low, venomous rasp against your ear. "You are to be my eyes and ears in that wretched city. Tell me everything you see, everything you hear—every weakness that high lord hides behind his mask."

You freeze, every muscle in your body locking tight, unable to even draw a full breath as his proximity turned your blood to ice. Beron smiled, a hollow, and brittle thing that never reached his eyes, before he abruptly let you go. He leaned in once more, pressing a cold, perfunctory kiss to your cheek.

"You move courts tomorrow," he dismissed, turning back toward the fire as if you had already ceased to exist in the room. "Go pack."

You turned from your father without another word, your footsteps echoing hollowly against the stone as you retreated from his study. The walk to your chambers felt like navigating a dream—the familiar tapestries and flickering wall-sconces of the Autumn Court suddenly appearing alien, like a home you were already mourning.

Once inside, the heavy oak door groaned on its hinges as you shut it behind you. You didn't even make it to the center of the room. Instead, you slumped, sliding down until your back hit the solid wood of the door, your knees pulling tight against your chest.

The silence of your sanctuary didn't bring comfort, it only amplified the thrumming of your pulse in your ears.

The mask of composure you had worn for centuries finally shattered.

A jagged, hitching breath escaped you, quickly followed by the first of many hot, stinging tears that carved paths through the dust of the manor on your cheeks. You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to stifle the sound of your own unraveling, but the sobs came anyway—sharp and desperate.

The reality of your situation finally anchored itself in your gut. By this time next week, the life you had known—however cruel—would be gone, replaced by the unknown reach of the Night Court.

You were being handed over to him. Rhysand. The High Lord who was whispered about in every court as the most dangerous, the most secretive, and the most cunning of them all. You were his prize, his political leverage, and the thought made a fresh wave of panic crest over you.

You sat there in the dark, the silk of your skirts crumpled around you, trembling as you realized that the door you were leaning against was the only thing standing between you and a future that felt, quite literally, like a death sentence.

The tears eventually ran dry, leaving your skin tight and salt-crusted. You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, the jagged edge of your panic beginning to dull into a cold, hard resolve.

No.

You wouldn't be a broken thing for Beron to discard. If you were to be a pawn in his game, you would be a pawn that learned how to cut. You hauled yourself up, your muscles stiff from the floor, and moved toward your vanity.

The reflection staring back at you was pale, eyes rimmed in red, but you saw the flickering light of defiance behind your own irises. You began to ready yourself for the night, stripping away the heavy, ornate jewelry that felt more like shackles than adornments.

Every hairpin you removed, every layer of silk you cast aside, felt like shedding the skin of the person you had been forced to be.

You spent the rest of the hours in a strange, heightened state of clarity. You paced the floor, mind racing, calculating and discarding options.

If you were going to the Night Court, you weren't going there as a victim—you were going as a ghost in the machine. You started mentally cataloging the information you possessed, the secrets you'd overheard in the halls of the Autumn Court, deciding what to hoard and what to eventually trade.

When you finally collapsed into bed, the exhaustion was heavy, pulling you under into a deep, dreamless void before settling into something more vivid.

In your dreams, you weren't standing on the burning, orange-leafed ground of Autumn. You stood on a cliffside overlooking a city of starlight, the air cool and smelling of ozone and jasmine instead of woodsmoke.

It was a place of shadows, but in your dream, those shadows didn't feel threatening—they felt like a cloak you could vanish into. Your mind turned over a hundred ways to leverage that new, darkened landscape.

You mapped out escape routes, whispered alliances you might forge with the court's inner circle, and plotted ways to make Rhysand believe he had a loyal spy, all while you quietly dismantled the web Beron had spun around you.

You were moving to the heart of the enemy's nest, and as you drifted deeper into sleep, a dangerous, thin smile touched your lips.

You would play his game, but you would be the one to change the rules.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The heavy, rhythmic thud against your door dragged you from a restless sleep. You groaned, the sound raw in your throat, and fumbled for your silk robe.

You cinched it tight, pulling your hair away from your face before storming over to the door, ready to snap at whichever servant had the audacity to wake you before the sun had fully crested the horizon.

You yanked the door open. The words died on your lips.

Eris was there, leaning casually against the doorframe, though his usual smirk was entirely absent. His eyes, typically sharp and calculating, were clouded with a depth of sorrow that made your chest ache.

He glanced over his shoulder at the line of maids waiting in the hall, their eyes downcast, ready to descend upon your room like vultures to strip it bare.

Eris sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the entire court, and turned his gaze back to you. "I needed to speak with you," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the bustle of the servants. "Before you go."

You stepped back, allowing him inside, and he ducked his head to enter. You shut the door, and as you turned, you gestured wildly toward the stacks of wooden crates and packed trunks littering your room.

"Did you know?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a mixture of betrayal and exhaustion.

Eris went still, his expression hardening into a mask of confusion. "Know what?"

"That I'm being traded!" you hissed, your hands shaking as you pointed to your life packed into boxes. "That I'm being forced to marry Rhysand!"

Eris let out a long, shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping. You glared at him, the heat of your anger flaring. "Don't lie to me. You knew."

"No," he said, his voice firm, shaking his head. "I didn't. Beron brought up the possibility of a marriage alliance months ago, but he never told me he had actually finalized it. He kept this entirely to himself."

You rolled your eyes, pacing the small space between your bed and the window. "Whatever. It doesn't matter now. What do you want, Eris?"

He walked toward you, his movements cautious. He stopped just inches away, lowering his voice until it was little more than a ghost of a sound. "I have an alliance with the Night Court."

You froze, your eyebrows knitting together as you searched his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I have been meeting with the Inner Circle," he whispered, the intensity in his eyes making you dizzy. "We've been discussing... removing our father from the throne. Taking it over."

You gasped, the air hitching in your lungs. Eris nodded, his expression grim. "That is why Rhysand agreed to this marriage. It wasn't for an alliance with Beron—it was for me. I spoke to him about my concern for your safety, about how Beron would eventually break you just to spite me. Rhysand told me he would handle it. I didn't realize until this moment what he meant."

The room seemed to tilt on its axis. You stumbled back, the back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, and you collapsed onto the mattress.

You stared up at your brother, your mind racing to reconcile the image of the cruel, power-hungry heir of Autumn with the man now standing before you—the man who had been playing a dangerous, shadow-filled game to keep you out of your father's reach.

Eris moved your vanity chair with a scrape of wood against stone, pulling it close until he was sitting directly before you.

He leaned in, his familiar armor and the scent of dry, fallen leaves a stark contrast to the internal storm you were weathering. He took your hand in his, his calloused fingers firm and grounding.

"This is the best thing for you," he whispered, his voice stripped of the performative cruelty he usually wore like a shroud. "I know how it feels—like you're being cast out—but you're being rescued."

You shook your head, the motion jerky and desperate. "I'm not ready, Eris. I'm not ready to be a wife, let alone the wife of a High Lord. He's... he's everything we're taught to fear."

Eris didn't pull away. Instead, he squeezed your hand, a rare show of sibling solidarity that felt like a lifeline.

"I can't believe I'm saying this, given everything," he admitted, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "But Rhysand will keep you safe. His family—they aren't what they seem. They aren't the monsters the history books or Father paint them to be. All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Just get to know them. Please."

You froze at his words. The thought of the Inner Circle was clouded by centuries of propaganda and the deep-seated bad blood between your courts, yet, looking at Eris's sincere, tired face, you found yourself giving a slow, uncertain nod.

A sharp, authoritative knock at the door shattered the moment.

Eris stood abruptly, his mask sliding back into place, cool and impenetrable, as a nervous servant hovered in the doorway. "The High Lord is waiting," the servant stammered, casting a fearful glance at the packed trunks.

Eris looked down at you one last time. There was a softness in his eyes that he would never allow anyone else to see. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, protective kiss to your forehead. "I'll see you soon," he whispered, so quietly that even the servant didn't catch it.

He walked out, his stride long and commanding, leaving the door ajar. You were left in the sudden, ringing silence of the room. You stood, your legs finally finding their strength, and began the final, frantic work of packing the remainder of your life.

Every item you touched now felt heavy with a new, terrifying purpose. You weren't just leaving for a marriage, you were stepping into a game that your brother had started, and you were now the primary piece on the board.

You took a final, steadying breath before stepping out of your chambers and beginning the long, winding descent down the grand staircase. The cold stone bit into your feet through your boots, a grounding reminder of the world you were finally, mercifully, leaving behind.

When you reached the foyer, the sight of them made your stomach tighten. Beron stood by the heavy front doors, his posture radiating that familiar, suffocating arrogance. Eris stood a few paces behind him, his jaw set in a line of forced indifference.

"Took you long enough," Beron sneered, his gaze sweeping over you with a disdain that didn't even pretend to be paternal.

You didn't offer a retort, choosing instead to keep your expression carefully neutral. You knew better than to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

However, when his second-in-command, Evan, stepped forward and stiffly offered you his arm, your brows furrowed in confusion.

Beron caught the look and let out a harsh, barking laugh. "You thought I would go to the trouble of dropping you off myself? I have a court to run, girl. I don't waste my time on messengers."

He stepped into your personal space. You didn't flinch—at least, you tried not to, but a muscle in your jaw betrayed you when his cold hand reached out to pat your cheek.

The touch was skin-crawlingly soft, a mockery of affection. "I'll see you at your wedding," he murmured, his eyes glittering with cold expectation.

He turned on his heel and strode away without a backward glance.

Eris stood there for a moment, his eyes squeezed shut as if warding off a headache. He let out a long, weary exhale before opening them and turning his sharp gaze toward Evan.

"Evan, go," Eris commanded, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. "I'll take my sister."

Evan hesitated, his face paling as he looked toward the direction Beron had disappeared. "But the High Lord... he specifically—"

"I will take her," Eris snapped, a low, dangerous groan rumbling in his throat.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a biting, mocking stage-whisper. "Go suck my father's dick to keep on his good side if he gets mad. I'm sure he'll appreciate the effort."

The silence that followed was absolute. Evan turned a shade of crimson that bordered on purple, his mouth agape as he stammered, unable to find a single word of defense.

A startled, genuine giggle escaped your lips, breaking the tension. You had watched for years as Eris tormented Evan with these crude, cutting remarks about his sycophantic devotion to your father, and not once had the man ever dared to fight back. Watching him sputter in indignation now, you felt a rare, fleeting sense of lightness.

Eris caught your eye and offered a microscopic, conspiratorial wink, his tension breaking just enough for him to gesture toward the carriage waiting in the courtyard.

"Come on," he muttered, reclaiming his composed, Heir-of-Autumn persona. "Let's get you out of here before he changes his mind."

Eris stepped outside, the cool air of the morning biting against your skin. He didn't lead you toward the carriages, instead, he stepped close, wrapping an arm firmly around your waist.

The familiar, sickening pull of winnowing seized you—a sensation like being stretched thin across the world—and then, in a blink, the oppressive heat and suffocating orange light of the Autumn Court were gone.

"Oh," you breathed, the word tiny against the expanse before you.

Velaris stretched out below like a dream carved from starlight and shadow. It was a sprawling, glittering tapestry of silver-roofed buildings, winding rivers, and bustling streets that looked like scattered diamonds. The air here didn’t taste of woodsmoke and decay; it was crisp, clean, and carried the faint, sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine.

"In all my centuries..." you whispered, your fingers tracing the cool iron of the balcony railing. You had heard the propaganda—that the Night Court was a dark, desolate pit of misery—but this? This was vibrant, living art. "I never imagined it could be like this."

"It’s beautiful, isn't it?"

The voice was like velvet draped over steel—low, resonant, and effortlessly calm.

You spun around so sharply that your hair whipped against your cheeks. Your posture instinctively shifted into a defensive stance, your pulse spiking.

Leaning against the doorframe just a few feet away stood Rhysand.

He was effortlessly striking, his violet eyes framed by thick lashes, his expression one of calm, detached curiosity. His wings—those massive, terrifying appendages that defined his legend—were absent, seemingly tucked away beneath a powerful glamour. He looked less like a monster and more like a king taking a moment of quiet reflection, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied you with a gaze that felt like it was reading the very intent of your soul.

Eris gave you a slight, encouraging nudge, his presence a silent wall of support behind you.

Rhysand pushed off the doorframe, his movements fluid and predatory, like a panther in human skin. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. "I hope the view is to your liking," he said, his tone lacking any of the malice you had been raised to expect from him. "It’s been a long time since anyone from your court has truly looked at the City of Starlight without trying to burn it down."

You shifted your gaze, taking in the reality of him—the tailored clothes, the relaxed posture, the sheer, quiet power radiating from his frame. It was a stark departure from the frantic, jagged energy of the Autumn Court.

"Velaris is real," you said, the observation slipping out before you could check it. It felt strange to say aloud, a testament to the fact that your entire life had been constructed on a foundation of lies.

Rhysand didn't bristle at the skepticism in your voice. Instead, a slow, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he offered a slight nod. "I forget that for most of the world—especially those kept within the walls of your father's estate—our existence after the war was relegated to little more than a whisper or a myth."

You nodded softly, unsure of how to process the lack of bite in his words. You kept your gaze steady, though you felt his eyes on you. He wasn't glaring, nor was he assessing you like a political asset to be traded, he was looking at you with a softness that felt weird.

It was a look of quiet consideration, almost... kindness. It made the hair on your arms stand up, more so than any threat could have.

The tension in the air was thick, a bubble of confusion and curiosity, until a sharp clap broke the silence.

Eris stepped forward, the sound of his hands coming together echoing against the marble. The spell shattered instantly. You blinked, pulling your attention away from Rhysand's violet eyes, and found Eris offering his arm to you with a smirk that was entirely too smug for the circumstances.

"Dinner," Eris announced, his tone brisk and intentionally forward, as if he were trying to keep the pace of the evening moving before you could overthink it.

Rhysand's eyes drifted from you to Eris, and a low, melodic laugh escaped him—a sound so unexpected that you nearly stumbled. He didn't seem offended by your brother's brashness; if anything, he looked amused.

"Right," Rhysand said, stepping aside from the doorway with a graceful sweep of his hand. "Lead the way, Eris. I wouldn't want to keep you both waiting."

He gestured for you to precede him into the hallway, his presence trailing behind you like a shadow. As you walked, Eris's arm firm and warm against your own, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had just walked into the center of a game far more complex than the one you had left behind in the Autumn Court.

The hallway toward the dining room was a blur of exquisite detail. You took in everything: the soft, glowing orbs of light that seemed to hover like captured fireflies, the intricate tapestries that depicted history rather than conquest, and the open balconies that invited the night breeze inside. It was suffocatingly beautiful, a stark contrast to the rigid, stifling stone of your father's halls.

But when you reached the dining room, the atmosphere shifted from grand to chaotic.

Rhysand, who had been walking a few paces behind you and Eris, let out a long, weary sigh that sounded more like a father dealing with unruly children than a High Lord greeting a guest. You followed his gaze and paused in the doorway.

Two Illyrian males were hunched over the mahogany table, their forearms locked in a fierce, trembling grip. The one with longer hair was squinting, his teeth gritted as he muttered a stream of curses about the other man "cheating."

You squinted, leaning forward slightly.

Cheating?

You looked closer, ignoring the brawny display for a moment, and saw them: three distinct, swirling pools of darkness manifesting around the shorter-haired Illyrian's wrist. The shadows were dancing, literally nudging his elbow forward with a playful, semi-solid resistance. It was the Shadow Master himself, playing a petty, impossible game of influence.

"Azriel," Rhysand cleared his throat. The sound wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a bell.

The effect was immediate. The arm-wrestling match froze. The two males looked over, their faces flushing—the long-haired one looking disgruntled, and the shadow-wielder looking almost comically unbothered as the darkness dissipated into nothingness.

Then, you noticed the others.

Two females were seated at the table, their attention shifting from their wine and plates to the doorway. As they looked up, their eyes landed on you and Eris. One of them—with hair like a sunset—had her gaze sharpen instantly, moving from your brother to you with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. The other, her face soft but her posture guarded, set her glass down with a silent, deliberate thud.

You stood there, the heir of Autumn at your side, feeling the weight of their combined attention.

The "Inner Circle" you had heard whispered about in fear were here, and they were currently assessing you as if you were a puzzle they weren't sure they wanted to solve.

Rhysand stepped up beside you, his presence a sudden, grounding anchor in the room. He didn't look annoyed anymore; he looked amused.

"Everyone," Rhysand said, his voice smooth as silk. "I believe you've all met Eris. And this—" he gestured toward you with a subtle, graceful movement of his hand, "—is our guest of honor. Please, try to behave yourselves for at least the first course."

Cassian didn't seem to care about the tension at all. He abandoned the table with a predatory grace, closing the distance between you and him until he loomed, his broad frame casting a shadow over you. He offered a cocky, crooked smirk that practically shouted trouble, then extended a hand.

"I'm Cassian," he purred, his voice rough and deep.

You took his hand, expecting a firm, standard greeting. Instead, he bowed low, pressing his lips against your knuckles in a display of courtly flirtation that felt completely out of place given the current circumstances.

You stared at him, your nose wrinkling. You didn't pull away immediately, but your expression was one of pure, unadulterated disgust, as if he had just wiped a smudge of dirt onto your skin.

You slowly pulled your hand back, wiping it against your dress with a slow, deliberate motion. You didn't even look at him, instead, you turned your gaze to your brother.

"How lovely," you whispered, your voice dripping with such dry, biting sarcasm that it seemed to freeze the air.

Cassian recoiled as if you'd slapped him. The cocky smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of genuine, indignant shock. He blinked, clearly having expected a shy, intimidated bride-to-be, not someone who would dismiss his charm like a bad smell.

The reaction from the rest of the table was instantaneous.

The two females erupted into laughter. It wasn't polite, muffled court giggling, it was loud, raucous, and genuinely delighted. Even the shadows around the quiet one seemed to ripple with amusement.

Rhysand stood by the door, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he watched his general look utterly baffled.

"Well," Rhysand managed, his voice strained with mirth. "It seems Cassian has finally met his match."

Eris stood beside you, suppressing a smirk of his own as he looked down at you. He leaned in, his voice a low, amused rumble meant only for your ears. "I told you, they aren't quite what you expected, are they?"

You looked back at Cassian, who was still staring at you with wide eyes, his ego clearly bruised, while the rest of the room continued to dissolve into hilarity.

Rhysand moved with a fluidity that was almost predatory, and as he stepped into your space, the air seemed to thicken with his raw, dark power.

You stiffened, your heart hammering against your ribs, as he came to a stop just behind your shoulder. A warm, heavy hand settled against the small of your back. It wasn't a claim—not exactly—but a firm reminder that you were currently under his protection.

The entire table went silent. You could feel the weight of their collective gaze, measuring your reaction to his touch. Rhysand offered a serene, unbothered smile. "Let's sit down and eat."

You and Eris moved to take your seats together, but as you pulled your chair out, Rhysand bypassed the head of the table entirely. He took the seat directly to your left. You glanced at him, your brow arched in silent question, and he merely offered a soft, knowing smile before gesturing for everyone to be seated.

The meal began with the clinking of silverware against fine china, the only sound in the room.

But despite the food, the tension remained sharp. You felt a prickle at the back of your neck and looked up to find a woman with ancient, hollow eyes—Amren—studying you with a scrutiny that felt like a blade.

Rhysand sensed the shift immediately. "Amren," he muttered, a warning edge to his voice.

She ignored him, her gaze never wavering from your face. "Why do we have the pleasure of having the princess over tonight, Rhys?"

Rhysand set his fork down with a sharp clack against the plate. He didn't look at her; he looked at you. "If you must know, the arrangement is finalized. Y/n and I are to be married."

The room went deathly still. You heard Cassian's wine glass rattle against the table as he dropped it. The four of them—Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Amren—shuttled looks between you and Rhysand in stunned silence.

"Rhys," Cassian finally choked out, his usual bravado shattered. "My brother... what in the cauldron is going on?" He looked at you, his face tight. "No offense."

You merely gave a careless shrug, hiding the tremor in your hands. Beside you, Rhysand scoffed, his tone dismissive. "It's a business deal between me and the Autumn Court."

Amren's lip curled in a vicious sneer. "A deal? Is that all you think of her? She is going to be your wife, Rhysand! She isn't just a commodity to be traded." She turned her icy glare back to you. "How can we even trust her? She's Beron's spawn."

Eris growled, a low, guttural sound of warning, and half-stood. "Watch your tone, Amren."

"Oh, bite me, princely," she hissed back, her eyes flashing with a predatory, inhuman light.

You had reached your limit. The exhaustion of the day, the loss of your home, and the suffocating judgment of these people ignited something hot and violent in your veins. You slammed your hands onto the table and pushed yourself to your feet. The wood groaned under the sudden force.

"Do you even think I want to be here?" you snapped, your voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. "To be ripped away from the only place I've ever known? To come here, surrounded by strangers who think they know everything about me before a single word has left my lips? No. I don't want this."

You glared at the table, your chest heaving. "So, why don't we all shut up, eat the food, and enjoy our dinner? Stop judging your High Lord and friend, for his politics just because he didn't run the details by you first."

The room was so quiet you could hear the distant roar of the city outside. You looked down and gasped—where your palms had pressed into the mahogany, the wood was smoking. Little wisps of grey curled up from the scorched grain where your latent power had flared in your rage.

You dropped back into your chair, mortified, keeping your hands hidden in your lap.

A beat passed. Then, Amren's lips tugged upward into a genuine, shark-like smirk. "I can like her."

Rhysand took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes dancing with dark amusement as he watched you over the rim. Across the table, Mor broke into a wide, impressed grin, and even Amren gave a single, sharp nod of approval.

The remainder of the dinner was a study in controlled civility. While the initial tension had been punctured by your outburst, the air remained thick with unasked questions.

Every time you reached for your wine or looked up to catch a stray thought from the room, you felt the weight of their scrutiny—not the hostile glare you were used to in the Autumn Court, but a wary, protective assessment. They were guarding their High Lord, and by extension, their city.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

When the meal finally concluded, Rhysand stood, his movements fluid and easy. "I'll show you to your chambers," he said, his violet eyes catching yours with that same unreadable softness from earlier.

You followed him through the sprawling, starlit halls of the House of Wind. The architecture was dizzying, a beautiful labyrinth of stone and shadows. When he finally opened the heavy, carved doors to your room, you stopped dead on the threshold.

The room was vast, bathed in the soft, silver glow of the moon filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. But it was the contents that stopped you. Every single trunk, crate, and box had been emptied.

Your clothes were hung neatly in the wardrobe, your personal effects were arranged on the vanity with precision, and even your books were stacked carefully on the nightstand. It was a stark, jarring contrast to the frantic packing you had done in the dark, panicked hours of the previous night.

You turned to Rhysand, a genuine note of surprise coloring your voice. "You didn't have to do all this. Thank you."

Rhysand stood by the door, his posture relaxed, though his presence seemed to fill every corner of the room. He gave a small, graceful nod. "It's your home now. I only wanted to make sure you felt settled."

He shifted his gaze toward the hallway, where Eris was lingering a few paces back, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression uncharacteristically somber.

"I'll leave you two to your farewells," Rhysand said, his voice dropping to a low, respectful pitch. He turned to your brother. "Eris? I'll see you soon?"

Eris gave a stiff, silent nod. Rhysand offered you one last look, a subtle, acknowledgement, before he turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the marble.

The heavy door clicked shut behind them, leaving you in the sudden, ringing quiet of your new life.

You turned toward Eris, who stood just inside the room now, his usual smirk replaced by a look of profound, heavy-hearted relief.

Eris didn't wait for you to move. He closed the remaining distance in two long strides, pulling you into a fierce, suffocating embrace that felt like the last bit of warmth from the home you were leaving behind. You collapsed into it, the tears you had been holding back since the morning finally spilling over, hot and silent, against his tunic.

"You'll be fine here," he whispered, his chin resting atop your head. His voice was raw, lacking any of the polished, arrogant veneer he showed the rest of the world. "More than fine."

You clung to the fabric of his coat, shivering. When you leaned back to look at him, he wiped a stray tear from your cheek with a gentle thumb. You searched his face, your voice trembling. "What will people say? When, Rhysand and I... when we finally marry?"

Eris shrugged, a dismissive, sharp movement of his shoulders. "Let them talk. By the time this is over, they'll be too busy fighting for their own scraps to care about where you've gone." His eyes turned steely, burning with a cold, quiet ferocity. "When Beron is dead, you are free of this life. You can leave it all behind—the titles, the politics, the forced alliances."

He took your hands in his, squeezing them tightly. "You'll find the real love of your life, and you'll marry that fae—someone who actually deserves you, someone who isn't part of this charade. You aren't staying here for a marriage, sister. You're staying here for a head start on your freedom."

A lump formed in your throat, so large it was difficult to breathe. You nodded, the weight of his sacrifice finally sinking in. He was playing the longest, most dangerous game in Prythian just to ensure you could eventually just exist without being a pawn.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words small but heavy with everything you couldn't say.

Eris reached up, his fingers brushing your hair back from your forehead in a gesture of genuine, brotherly tenderness. He smiled—not the smirk he gave your father's commanders, but a soft, fleeting expression of hope.

"I'll see you soon," he promised.

He turned and walked toward the door, leaving you standing in the center of your new, silver-lit room. You watched him go, the realization of what he had started for you echoing in the quiet chamber.

The silence of the room was heavy, not with the oppressive, suffocating heat of your father's manor, but with the weight of the unknown. You walked the perimeter of the chamber one last time, trailing your fingers over the fine linens and the cool, polished wood of the furniture.

Everything was perfect—almost too perfect—and yet, it felt like a gilded cage.

You moved to the vanity, your reflection in the silver-backed mirror looking like a stranger. The girl staring back was still the daughter of Autumn, still marked by the shadow of the man you'd left behind, even if you were now standing in the heart of the Night Court.

You began the slow process of undressing, the silk of your gown whispering against the floor as you let it pool at your feet. You pulled on a simple sleep robe, your movements sluggish and heavy, as if your limbs were filled with lead.

Every time you glanced at the balcony, the starlight outside seemed to mock your anxiety, its serene beauty a stark contrast to the churning storm of dread in your gut.

You blew out the candles, leaving the room illuminated only by the pale, ethereal glow of the moon.

Crawling into the bed was like sinking into a cloud, but it provided no comfort. You pulled the duvet up to your chin, staring up at the intricate, dark molding of the ceiling.

You braced yourself, your body coiled tight, expecting the familiar terrors—the memories of Beron's temper, the phantom sensation of his iron grip, the crushing realization that tomorrow you would be one day closer to a wedding vow you never asked to take.

(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something

soft!dark!rhysand x fem!highfae!reader

You have spent your entire life knowing that one day, you might belong to Rhysand.

cw: mdni, dark(ish) themes, possessive/obsessive behaviour, big fat power imbalance, arranged marriage kinda trope, reader is terrified of rhys, feyre and him aren't mates in this story, problematic themes overall

a/n: writing rhys is so fun

You had been promised to Rhysand long before you understood what marriage even meant.

It was one of those facts that simply existed. Like the Sidra. Like starlight. Like the mountains surrounding Velaris.

Something decided by adults in rooms you were never permitted to enter and discussed over wine while children played elsewhere.

Your father had been one of the Night Court's most trusted courtiers. One of the few males Rhysand's father had genuinely respected.

The agreement had been reached when you were barely old enough to speak in complete sentences.

If Rhysand did not find his mate by the time you came of age, if fate did not intervene with its unpredictable hand, then you would marry.

It wasn't uncommon. It was the sort of arrangement noble families made every day.

Only there was one small problem.

You were completely and utterly terrified of Rhysand.

The first time you remembered meeting him, you had been perhaps sixteen, young enough to still hide behind your father whenever unfamiliar people addressed you.

Rhysand had already been well over a century old. Already taller than most males in the room. Already powerful enough that people unconsciously moved aside when he entered. Already carrying himself like someone destined to rule.

You remembered peeking around your father's shoulder, and seeing violet eyes settle on you.

Gods.

You had nearly died, not literally. But your heart had certainly attempted to flee your body.

Rhysand had smiled at you, a slow curve of his lips that was equal parts amusement and something else entirely, something you were far too young and far too sheltered to identify. And you had immediately hidden again.

The sound of his laughter had followed you all evening.

From that moment onward, you had spent most of your life avoiding him at all cost.

When he returned from training in the Illyrian mountains, you disappeared. When he attended court functions, you developed sudden illnesses. When your father informed you that Rhysand wished to spend time with you, you found increasingly ridiculous excuses.

Once, you had claimed you needed to reorganize your books, all three hundred of them, alphabetically, by color, and then by height. Another time, you insisted that a particular flowerpot in the garden required your immediate and undivided attention, as it had been looking "rather sad" lately.

Your father had nearly laughed himself sick.

Rhysand, unfortunately, had only smiled.

"You know," he'd said conversationally while watching you attempt to disappear behind a particularly decorative shrub, "I'm beginning to think she's avoiding me."

You had nearly tripped over your own feet.

Your father had sighed into his wine. "You frighten her."

Rhysand's gaze had remained exactly where you stood frozen.

"I know."

Nothing more, just that quiet, god-forsaken certainty he'd always possessed.

It only made everything worse.

He never chased you. Never cornered you. Never insisted you stay. He simply watched you flee with the endless patience of someone entirely unconcerned by the distance between you.

Like he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did.

You certainly didn't. You couldn't help it.

He was overwhelming, even then. Before becoming High Lord. Before the reputation of being the most powerful male in Prythian.

He had possessed a presence unlike anyone else.

And whenever those impossible violet eyes settled on you, it felt as though he saw entirely too much.

So you hid. And he watched. Patiently, always patiently, because he had never been anything else when it came to you.

Years passed. Then decades. Then centuries.

Your father died. Soon after the tragedy that took both his sister and mother, Rhysand's father followed.

And suddenly the terrifying heir became High Lord.

The entire Night Court shifted beneath his command. Cassian became General. Azriel became Spymaster. Amren became his second-in-command. Mor his third-in-command.

The Inner Circle slowly took shape around him. They were warriors, leaders, survivors, bound together by blood, battle, and an unshakeable devotion to their High Lord.

They had fought in wars long before you were born, had bled and killed and nearly died for the court they loved.

And somehow, there was you.

You had no idea what your place among them was supposed to be.

You couldn't fight, couldn't spy, couldn't command armies. Had never even stepped foot on a battlefield. While they carried centuries of scars, your life had remained sheltered, peaceful and safe. You often felt like an accidental addition to a group you had no business belonging to.

Still, when Rhysand informed you that you too would be moving into the Town House, you weren't exactly surprised.

But disappointed. Hopeful, perhaps, because some foolish part of you had whispered that maybe, just maybe, the arrangement would die alongside your fathers. That Rhysand would become too busy, too occupied ruling an entire court, too distracted by the weight of his new responsibilities to remember an agreement made centuries ago.

You had been wrong.

Instead, your belongings were packed. Your room prepared. Before you knew it, you found yourself living beneath the same roof as the most powerful male in Prythian.

And your future remained exactly where it had always been; tied to Rhysand. The subject unspoken of, but always present. Neither of you discussed it. You certainly weren't brave enough to. And Rhysand…Rhysand never seemed interested in forcing the conversation.

Which, somehow, was even more unnerving. It was as though he had already decided the ending and was merely waiting for the story to catch up to his expectations.

You spent years navigating around him, around all of them. Growing closer to the Inner Circle while never quite feeling like one of them.

Mor dragged you shopping until your feet ached and your stomach hurt from laughing. Cassian annoyed you relentlessly and somehow made you feel more like a younger sister than an outsider. Azriel appeared silently whenever you needed help. Even Amren grew strangely fond of you, though she would sooner drink spoiled blood than admit it aloud.

You loved them, truly.

But there was always a distance, an invisible line. Because they belonged to one another in a way you never quite did.

Then Amarantha came. And when Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the world changed in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.

For fifty years he was gone.

The strangest thing about those years was discovering how much space he'd occupied in your life.

Because suddenly he wasn't there. No deep laughter drifting through the Town House late at night. No familiar feeling of awareness prickling over your skin whenever he happened to look your way.

Nothing.

And somehow his absence felt larger than his presence had.

You hated admitting that. Especially to yourself.

You had expected to feel relief. Instead, you found yourself pausing whenever anyone mentioned Under the Mountain. Listening a little too carefully whenever the others talked of Amarantha.

Sometimes, standing on the balcony of the Town House long after everyone else had gone to sleep, you caught yourself staring toward the horizon, wondering whether someone like Rhysand could truly be broken.

Whether anything in the world was capable of dimming a force that had always seemed…inevitable.

The answer, it seemed, was yes. Though not entirely.

During those decades, life continued in Velaris. It had to. The city endured, and the Inner Circle protected Velaris with fierce determination, ensuring that Amarantha's corruption never touched the hidden sanctuary Rhysand had so carefully build.

The Town House remained full. Just…quieter. Even Cassian laughed a little less.

For the first time in your life, the future felt strangely unwritten. There was no Rhysand quietly existing at the edge of every decision, no overwhelming presence unconsciously shaping the rhythm of your days.

And somewhere during those fifty years, you began building something that belonged solely to you.

Your own friends. Your own routines. Your own apartment.

The apartment had been a battle. Not a dramatic one. There hadn't been any shouting or arguments. Just subtle resistance, the kind Rhysand's family excelled at, the kind that wore you down through sheer persistence, until surrender seemed easier than insisting otherwise.

Cassian had argued that you would be safer at the Town House, that being alone made you vulnerable. Mor had worried that you would become isolated. Azriel had said nothing, but you had felt the weight of his disapproving silence like a physical presence.

Amren, surprisingly, was the one who sided with you. "Let her go," she had said, her voice flat and disinterested. "She's not a child. If she wants to live alone, she should be allowed to."

Eventually, they relented.

You got your apartment. Under the compromise that you would stay at the Town House at least twice a week, a promise you gradually became worse and worse at keeping.

Because your apartment represented freedom. Limited freedom, certainly, but freedom nonetheless. It was a space that belonged entirely to you, filled with books you had chosen, plants you liked and paintings you had admired.

You built a life entirely separate from Rhysand. Or as separate as it could truly be.

Cassian still dropped by unexpectedly under increasingly transparent excuses. Azriel's shadows somehow always seemed to know when you walked home alone. Mor continued dragging you to Rita's whenever she decided you'd spent too many evenings hiding with a book.

You loved them for it. Even if it occasionally felt suspiciously coordinated.

Sometimes at Rita's, you watched Mor flirt openly with strangers. Watched her laugh, choose whichever male caught her interest that evening, and leave with him without a backward glance. Watched her return the following day like nothing had happened, no explanations required, no apologies offered.

You wondered what that kind of freedom felt like.

What it might be like to someday find your person. Not a future husband selected by men long gone. Not the High Lord. Not something arranged through politics.

Someone yours. Someone who chose you. Someone you chose back.

You held onto that dream stubbornly.

Even when Cassian scared away half the males who approached you. Even when Azriel's learned the identities of every male who expressed interest.

Even when part of you suspected Rhysand would never truly allow another male near you.

Not even from beneath a mountain.

You still hoped.

Because fifty years was a very long time. Long enough, you told yourself, for promises to fade. Long enough for old arrangements to lose their meaning.

Long enough to believe that perhaps, when Rhysand finally returned—if he returned—everything would be different.

Then fifty years ended. And the world changed. Without your knowledge, without your permission, without warning.

You were finishing dinner with your friends when Rhysand returned, a mundane moment interrupted by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something had shifted in the Night Court.

You felt something deep beneath your ribs tighten so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, though you could not have named it then as anything more than unease, a strange, inexplicable wrongness threading through your thoughts like a hand brushing over the back of your neck.

Rhysand had returned.

The entire Inner Circle was gathered at the Town House when it happened.

Everyone, except you.

You wouldn't learn exactly how furious he had been until later, how he had appeared in the Town House, exhausted and damaged and barely holding himself together. How he had embraced his family, his warriors, his closest confidants. How he had looked around the room, noting each familiar face, his expression growing darker with every moment that passed. How he asked one question.

"Where is she?"

No one dared to answer.

You were not there.

Which, to Rhysand, became the only answer that mattered.

You would not learn later how still he had gone after that moment. How every trace of relief, every fragment of survival, every hard-earned breath Under the Mountain had been set aside like something irrelevant.

How he had simply asked again, calmer, slower this time.

"Where?"

And how no one had been able to answer him immediately because the implication of what it meant to return without you in sight had not yet settled properly into words.

By the time you unlocked your apartment door later that evening, your hand was trembling. You noticed it, and frowned faintly at yourself, blamed the long day, the wine you'd shared over dinner, anything except the truth your body was already beginning to understand.

He was already waiting, seated in your chair, legs crossed elegantly. Surrounded by shadows and looking impossibly beautiful, impossibly dangerous, and impossibly alive.

And when he looked at you, you stopped breathing entirely.

For a moment you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at the male you had been running from your entire life.

You had imagined this reunion a thousand times. None of those fantasies involved him being angry.

His gaze was already fixed on you, dark and intense and burning with something you couldn't quite identify. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness, your heart pound in your chest, your knees threaten to give out beneath you.

"You weren't home," was the first thing he said.

Home. You weren't sure if the Town House had ever truly felt like home.

"I…" Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "N-No."

You could see the muscle in his cheek twitch, the way something in him tightened at the sound of your voice. His gaze moved over you then, reassuring himself that you were real. That you were unharmed. That after fifty years, he had finally made it back to you.

Then the bond snapped. And the world exploded.

Mate

The word echoed through every part of you.

Mate Mate Mate

You had imagined the mating bond before. Dreamed of it, even. Wondered what it might feel like to experience that cosmic connection, that magical recognition, that perfect union of two souls meant for each other.

You had imagined warmth and certainty and joy.

Not this.

Not your entire soul lurching forward as if recognizing something it had spent centuries searching for. Not your knees nearly giving out. Not your heart breaking and healing simultaneously.

Across the room, Rhysand had frozen. For the first time in your life, you saw him stripped utterly bare. Shock, wide and unguarded flashed across his face. Relief so profound it nearly stole your breath.

Then something else crept into his expression. Something infinitely more possessive. Something that made your blood run cold.

The expression terrified you. Because suddenly every fear you'd ever carried became real.

You had wanted a mate. You had dreamed of one.

But not like this. Not someone who already had a claim on your future. Not someone powerful enough to remove every alternative.

Tears burned your eyes, and you stumbled backward.

His face immediately changed. Something wary entered his expression. Like he recognized exactly what was happening inside your head.

You hated that. Hated that he knew you so well.

And when he took a step toward you, you ran. Actually ran. One heartbeat he stood across the room. The next you were lunging for the front door. Not because you thought you could outrun him.

Because prey ran. It was instinct. Pure, thoughtless instinct.

You barely reached the door, before a solid body blocked your path. You slammed directly into his hard chest.

A startled noise escaped you as his strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could fall.

Your palms landed flat against his chest. The entire thing happened so quickly your mind struggled to process it.

For one awful second, all you could think was that if he'd wanted to, he could have caught you before you'd even taken the first step.

"Mm," he murmured quietly above you, almost to himself. "So that's how we're starting?"

Your heart stopped. Then immediately started trying to beat its way out of your chest.

His voice was not raised, not sharp, not even angry. Nothing about this situation had surprised him at all. As though he had already seen every possible version of this moment and chosen the one where you were in his arms anyway.

His hands remained around your waist, not tightening, not pulling, only there, steadying you. It somehow felt far more intimate than if he'd held you tightly.

You throat bobbed.

His eyes followed the movement instantly.

The invisible thread seemed to hum, warmer now, heavier, like it was settling into place with growing certainty that made your chest tighten painfully.

Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip.

You immediately stepped backward.

Rhys let you. He simply released you enough that you could move, though the space between you did not truly feel like space at all, because he followed the motion with nothing more than a subtle shift of his body, as though he had already accounted for exactly how far you might go.

As though he had already measured every possible escape you might attempt.

"I need you to breathe." The words were impossibly gentle.

You hated how your body obeyed. Air filled your lungs in one shaky inhale.

His shoulders eased. Just slightly. As though your breathing had been affecting him too.

"You don't have to run," he said. His voice was quieter now, more careful.

You looked at him, really looked.

At the tension beneath that impossible composure. At the tremor in the fingers hanging motionless beside his thighs. At the way his chest expanded a fraction too deeply before every sentence. Like speaking calmly required conscious effort. Like there was something inside him straining so violently against its leash that even breathing had become work.

"Would you let me reject the bond?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

The answer arrived instantly. Not through words. Through his expression, through the absolute steel in his eyes.

No. No, he wouldn't.

Your heart sank.

Rhysand's gaze dropped for half a heartbeat. Not to your face or your hands. But to you. Like he was seeing you in a way he had never allowed himself before.

"I need you to listen to me," he spoke, his voice even lower than before. Somehow that made it infinitely more dangerous.

"I know this isn't what you wanted." He paused, "I know. And I know you're frightened."

Something had slipped through his control like a breath he hadn't meant to let out.

"But I have waited for you for a very long time."

The words landed too softly. Because nothing about the way he was looking at you matched softness at all. His gaze held yours, unblinking and steady. Patient in a way that made your skin crawl.

"As for what happens next," he murmured quietly, a faint shift in his stance barely perceptible, "you are going to hate me for a while."

A beat passed.

"And I will still be here."

Still, he did not move closer, did not touch you. Your gaze landed briefly to the front door. To the impossible distance between it and you. To the male standing in the way. You knew for a fact, that if he decided you weren't leaving, the door might as well not have existed.

As if he'd read your thoughts, Rhys followed your gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't amusement, not quite. Something rougher, something honest.

"That," he said, "is a different conversation."

That expression returned. The one that made him seem less like a High Lord and more like a male who had been starving for far too long.

Then, just as quickly, control slammed back into place. His throat bobbed. A swallow. A very mortal gesture.

And somehow that affected you more than anything else.

You forced your shoulders to relax. It didn't work.

The connection stretched taut.

Your weight shifted forward without you meaning it to, just slightly. A fraction of movement, the kind your body made when something inside you leaned before thought could stop it. Toward him.

It was not even conscious. Not a decision rationally made. Just the bond, pulling like gravity disguised as instinct.

And yet the effect on him was immediate. Rhysand went utterly still. Like the world had narrowed to that single, almost imperceptible motion.

His breath changed. A sharp inhale that he did not fully complete. His hands flexed once, slowly. Like he was physically stopping himself from doing something he had already begun to prepare for.

"Don't," he said, the word quiet.

But it was not directed at you. It seemed to be directed inward, at himself.

You froze, heart suddenly too loud.

"I didn't—" you started, confused, because you hadn't meant to move at all.

"I know," he interrupted gently. Rhysand took a deep breath. "But I am asking you to be careful anyway."

You frowned. "I don't understand."

"No." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. "I don't suppose you do."

The restraint was suddenly louder than anything else in the room.

Rhysand exhaled slowly. His shoulders lowered by a fraction, like he was forcing himself back into himself. Back into control. Back into the version of him you had always known.

But now you had seen the crack. And cracks did not disappear once you noticed them. They only became harder to unsee.

"You are going to make this difficult," he sighed quietly. It almost sounded like amusement, almost.

But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made you want to clench your thighs together.

And then, softer again, "I already know I won’t mind."

Chapter 19 — Nothing to Report

series masterlist <- Chapter 18 ✦ Chapter 20 -> Coming Soon!! word count: 1773 author's note: y/n is goin THRU it, my bad...... >:)

The first few days were easy to explain away. 

Not easy, exactly. Nothing felt easy these days. But you had classes. You had lab hours. You had papers and meetings that bled into each other until the week lost its edges. If Gwyn noticed you were answering her in half-sentences, she didn’t push. If Lucien caught the way you slipped out of the lab before he could ask if you wanted lunch, he only watched you go with that quiet, too-observant look of his. If telling yourself there were more important things to do was the only thing keeping you from texting Rhysand, then fine. Who was anyone to deny you that?

You were busy. That was all. 

Chapter 18 — The Cost of Clarity

series masterlist <- Chapter 17 ✦ Chapter 19 -> word count: 2067 author's note: GUYS HI i know its been quite some time since the last update, things just got very busy for me for a while. first was finals, then i took a very well deserved graduation trip to europe, then came back and immediately got a reality check in the form of remembering i actually have to pay off the cards i used while i was over there. oops. so ive been working. and now i have to revise a manuscript i submitted to see if this journal actually wants to publish it. and also im moving in a month sooo packing and also touring apartments. yeah. anyway this is a shorter chapter and so is the next one, so i'll be posting them together for yall, and hopefully i'll have the next (more substantive) chapter soon. these are still IMPORTANT chapters though so enjoy :)

The apartment was quiet. 

idk who made this but i found it on pinterest and since then i’m cracking up everytime i see this in my gallery

Xaden: Violet threw daggers at Halden.

Garrick: That’s bad because?

Xaden: long hair, short height, beautiful eye-

Violet: Your blood type, Xaden

Xaden: Red

Rhiannon: Do you want to die?