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She awoke a moment later with a jolt. Feyre wasn't sure what had stirred her from her slumber until she realized the carriage had stopped.

It took her a moment to rouse completely. But as she looked around their cabin, she saw Rhysand was awake as well.

But he gave no notice to her. Instead, his eyes were wide to the window, his back pressed to the seat as he craned his neck to see better.

Just when Feyre was about to ask what the hold-up was about, she heard shouting from outside.

A sudden body hit the ground outside her window. Feyre had to silence her scream as she beheld the driver groaning from the fall.

But when she turned to Rhysand, she watched him slowly slip a dagger from an invisible sheath in his boot.

"Rhys—" Feyre tried to whisper, but he pressed a finger to his lips as a sign to be silent. She swallowed her words with a nervous gulp.

Feyre instead beheld the Prince across from her. Whatever ruckus was going on outside, his shoulders were set as he waited. For what, she had no idea.

But his eyes were careful, calculating. The opposite of what Feyre felt at the moment.

She heard more indistinct shouting. And her heart thundered louder.

And Feyre finally understood what was happening.

They had been held up by roadside bandits. The criminals were most likely there to loot. But if they recognized Feyre or Rhysand, they would no doubt be taken for ransom.

And all they could to was wait.

The voices suddenly shifted louder, and she swore her heart was about to burst right out of her chest.

And even after spending a youth on the dirty streets of the capital; begging for food and paying with her body, Feyre had never felt more vulnerable.

More shouting came from outside. Rhysand only cursed under his breath, drawing himself away from the window to turn to her.

"Feyre, I need you to listen to me."

She barely managed to, she was trembling so hard.

"Turn into a plain face now," he murmured, "And if someone asks who you are, say you are a handmaiden, and no one else. No matter what they do to me, you must lie, Feyre. Tell me you understand."

"I understand."

Rhysand put a firm hand on hers, and Feyre realized that her entire body was shaking.

"Everything will be fine, I promise," he vowed. And something in those violet eyes: either determination or blatant stubbornness, made Feyre believe him.

And then he was gone.

She heard the clashing of metal a moment later. And the unmistakable sound of men fighting for their lives.

Feyre looked around the cabin, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. But she came up short.

So all she could do was remain silent, and wait like nothing more than a sitting duck.

"He said you'd be fine," Feyre whispered to herself.

Either seconds or minutes dragged by. Feyre imagined the many ways Rhysand would be struck down. Or what they would do to her once he was…

Feyre couldn't take it any longer. She had to see what was happening outside. If Rhysand lost, she had to be ready to flee.

As she peeked outside, Feyre was careful to keep low. But as soon as she saw what was transpiring, she couldn't help but gasp.

Nearly six dirty men fought for their lives. Their clashing swords and fast feet spiraled in a whirlwind of dust as they all fought a single opponent.

Rhysand.

And even if the Prince was severely outmatched, Rhysand continued to dip and swerve and block each attack with sheer ferocity.

For with each body Rhysand struck down, he seemed to forge stronger. And Feyre's own heart lifted lighter.

But the more she watched the Prince fight, the more she realized that this man lived up to his reputation.

And more.

Rhysand still only fought with that slim dagger. But he was so swift and cunning in his style, that he made it seem an advantage over the other men's heavy swords.

And perhaps at that moment, Feyre should be fleeing, or helping in the fight. Yet all she could do was watch in awe; of how rapid each movement was, or how expertly Rhysand carried himself…

But then the Prince barely avoided a slice to the shoulder. Feyre saw the edge of the sword nearly cut Rhysand's arm before he maneuvered elsewhere.

And though he was ultimately unharmed, Feyre couldn't help but shriek from seeing the near blow.

And then all the fighting halted.

Her scream had caused Rhysand to break concentration as a criminal kicked the dagger from his hands. Another punched him across the face.

She was frozen to watched. And then one second Feyre was inside the carriage, the next moment, she was being hauled out and onto the ground.

She blinked into the harsh sunlight, stumbling to catch her balance. But then she was falling, the soft pine crinkling underneath her feet.

Someone had tripped her.

Feyre's arms barely came out to catch herself; the brown ground careened towards her face as she winced in preparation for the pain.

But then she was no longer falling. No, she was actually going the opposite way.

Because another pair of hands caught her before her body could meet the ground.

And these hands were not like any Feyre had ever felt before. They were warm and solid. And she knew in an instant, who they belonged to.

Rhysand.

Feyre spun to apologize, but he was already being hauled away from her.

"Not so fast, your Highness," The men cackled when Feyre outstretched her arm. Rhysand's eyes were solemn as they pushed him to his knees.

There were no words between them as her eyes met. His violet gaze remained calculated as he nodded once.

But before she could warn him, a sword pommel struck him in the head.

He fell to the ground like a limp sack, and Feyre let out another scream.

The men laughed harder. Feyre ran towards Rhysand, but they caught her by the stomach. She fought and slashed against whoever held her. But it was no use.

"Let us go!" she yelled.

"I don't think so!" The man announced as he set her on her feet. He smelled of dirt and dead animals as he brought her to his chest, "It seems we know why the Prince had fought so hard. He was protecting his prize."

"Let. Us. Go," she ordered, doing her best to rid herself of his hold. But it was useless. He was so strong.

"Come on sweetheart, we mean you no harm," he cooed as the others started to laugh. There were four bandits in total. Two others lay unconscious or dead on the ground.

Put there by Rhysand.

The Prince himself was started to come to. And Feyre could do nothing but convey with her eyes how sorry she was.

"Don't look to him, darling," one bandit laughed. "He can't help you anymore. Only we can."

Feyre clenched her teeth as they all started to laugh.

And even if she had spoiled everything. And Rhysand couldn't help her, that didn't mean Feyre wasn't going to help herself.

So with all her strength, Feyre aimed her elbow into the stomach of the man that held her.

He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. But Feyre could only get two strides before another restrained her.

"Quite the feisty one, aren't you," The man called as he held her. This one smelled of blood and dirt.

"If one of you even thinks of hurting her, I swear to the Gods you will regret it," Rhysand groaned. Feyre winced to see the side of his temple oozing with blood.

And it all happened because she had screamed.

She turned her attention to their convoy. Feyre didn't know where the other carriages and guardsmen had gone. Perhaps the rest of them they had escaped…

And despite her current situations, she sent a silent prayer thanking the Gods that the others were at least safe.

But as she looked around the scene before her, she saw that their own driver was either lying unconscious or dead. And her throat closed in fear.

"Who are you, girl?" The one holding her asked. His face was covered in scars and grime. But Feyre's eyes only flashed to Rhysand's.

It was then she felt a sudden flash of pain across her left cheek, followed by a roaring in her ears. They had slapped her.

"You will answer me when I speak to you." He said.

"You rutting bastard!" Rhysand roared against his restraints.

Feyre pressed her lips against the tears she felt forming in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not show them how frightened she was.

"If you want money and jewels, take it." Rhysand heaved, "But leave her be."

The leader only sneered at the offer. "What good is your money when we have the King's ward?"

Feyre watched the same horror cross Rhysand's features as it did hers.

Their secret was out.

"That's right, Prince," the bandit went on, "We know you took the King's ward as your mistress. And If I'm putting the pieces together correctly. That means you are her." The bandit laughed when Feyre's face turned white.

Mistress.

The King had been right. Rhysand hadn't wanted Feyre as a dignitary to his country.

She was merely his whore.

"You know nothing," Rhysand spat, straining against the arms that held him. But he did not look at Feyre as he said, "But if you tell me who you work for, I might let you live."

All of the men chuckled in unison, the sound reminding Feyre of what it was like to be alone on the streets those six years ago.

"I think we have exactly what we want, eh boys?" The leader grinned as he pivoted to her, "Although I must admit from the stories I've heard, I thought the King's temptress would be prettier."

Feyre managed to silence the words she wished to spit: that she was anything but the King's temptress. Or the Prince's mistress.

But it would only sound pathetic.

"But perhaps, you still hold value to us," the man came closer to trail a disgusting finger down her cheek. He turned to his men with a knowing smile; a smile Feyre had seen too many times in her life.

"I'm going to kill you all," Rhysand all but growled, "I'm going to slit your throats like the pigs you are." His voice was dark with lethal promise. So much that Feyre shuddered from the sound of it.

But the bandits only laughed harder.

So she made sure her jaw was set when she looked at the leader to say, "You all can go to hell."

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't speak in such a way, flower," The leader said, inhaling her perfume. Her stomach turned from the foulness of his touch; of that pet name.

Feyre looked to Rhysand. His nostrils flared at the sight, those violet eyes a harbinger of death itself.

"Everything will be okay." Rhysand promised.

"The Prince is right. Everything will be okay. But not for you," The leader cackled as Feyre looked up to his gnarled face, "What a price you will make us, flower. It will be enough for—"

But the man's words only turned into gurgles as a dagger coated his throat with red.

Blood spurted and pooled from the open wound in his neck. It soaked soak the soft dirt beneath. And his body fell to the ground with a thud.

Feyre did nothing but stare.

Only when she managed to pull her eyes upward, did she find Rhysand heaving with anger. His blade was covered in the proof of his deed.

Somehow, Rhysand had ridden himself of his guards. For each of them now bled out next to their master; a matching slice along each of their throats.

And the more Feyre took in the sea of red, the more she started to shake; her body trembling in a way she couldn't control.

"Feyre, look at me."

She dimly heard Rhysand's voice calling after her, but her eyes were glued to the man who was just holding her a moment ago. Now he was dead.

Everyone was dead.

"Feyre."

She flinched when Rhysand took hold of her shoulders, forcing her eyes to his, "You're in shock. It's completely normal, but I need you to breathe."

She hadn't realized she had stopped taking in air, but sure enough, she gobbled it to her lungs a moment later. But it did nothing to ease her spinning head.

"Alright, good," he took her hands in his, "Now squeeze my fingers for me."

She did, and his warmth seeped into her skin.

"Good, very good," he said, stepping a bit closer as he held her shivering palms, "This is real, and you are alive," Rhysand squeezed her hand in proof, "I am real, and you are safe."

She nodded dimly, unable to speak; unable to form even a single thought as she was too busy staring at the blood seeping into ground.

"Now can you do me a favor? Can you wait in the carriage? I have to clean this up."

Feyre glanced to where somehow, their horses stood in wait for them. And thankfully, the driver was slowly gaining consciousness. He wasn't dead after all.

"I think so."

"Good," Rhysand nodded, watching warily as she turned, "There should be a blanket under the carriage's seats. It will help with the shivering."

Feyre didn't answer as she stumbled back to the coach, doing her best to erase the image of Rhysand's hands caked in blood.

But to no avail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Feyre held herself for, she didn't know how long. The image of Rhysand's red coated fingers were the only thing she saw as she waited.

Until the click of the carriage door snapped her from her thoughts.

"The driver is alright," Rhysand said, the sun nearly sinking below the horizon by that time.

Thankfully his hands were clean, and he seemed to have changed his shirt as well, "I sent him to inform the others of what happened. I made us a camp for the night."

Feyre only nodded, hating the way he was looking at her.

"I'm sorry you had to see all of that."

"I'm fine."

"I never said you weren't."

"Then stop looking at me like that," she snapped.

"I'm sorry."

"You should be sorry!" Feyre shouted.

She knew she shouldn't be taking her anger out on him. But they ended up in this situation somehow. And it was easy to blame the man in front of her.

And things those bandits had said; about Feyre being nothing but Rhysand's mistress… it was ingrained into her head.

He let out a sigh. "I am sorry you had to see that. But who do you think sent them?"

"No one sent them!" she said, "They were bandits set out to make a fortune for their own profit!"

Rhysand shook his head, "Don't be an idiot, Feyre. They knew far too much to be just any band of thieves. Your King hired those men to kill me. And force you back into his arms. But then, I think you already knew that."

He left her to the carriage. But Feyre was not done.

She all but fell out of the cabin as she stalked after him, hot on his trail. Her temper equally so.

"Do you even hear yourself?" she called. Rhysand just kept walking.

So Feyre went on, "You just don't want to admit this is partly your fault. You don't want to admit just why those men thought I was your whore."

He spun to her, and the sudden anger in those violet eyes made her pause, "I'm just telling you what I know," he said, "You can disagree with me until the end of time. But those rumors were not spread by me. And only because I've once known men like that, I also know how they operate. And they worked for something greater than personal gain."

"How would you know that?" she pressed, suddenly terrified that those men, whoever they were, had friends and she would never be safe again, "Who's to say more will not come back? Who's to say we are safe?"

Rhysand walked on. "We're safe, Feyre. I will no longer be caught off guard. And definitely not by the likes of such piss poor robbers," he spat.

"I'm sure those men had friends. Will they not come back looking for them—for us?"

"No," Rhys groaned as a tiny camp came into view, "No one else is coming back. But our travel plans will have to be altered."

"Why?"

"Because," He let out a strangled breath, "I just sent a rather frank message to their employer."

"How can you be so calm?" Feyre accused, "I'm still now sure how you were able to kill over six men!"

Rhysand only paused. "Come and eat some dinner, Feyre. Then we can talk."

"Why should I do anything you say? Give me one good reason I shouldn't turn back home this very second."

"Because no matter what you think of me. I gave you my word to take you to the Night Court. And you agreed to that same bargain."

She scowled at his answer, "Only because the King needs your retched vote. Not as any favor to you."

"Thanks for the reminder, I was starting to forget." He gave Feyre a tight smile, gesturing for her to lead, "Now if you please, it's going to be dark soon and you'll want to be near the fire."

"Fine." Feyre grumbled, roughly gathering her skirts. But she nearly tripped over a log in the process.

Rhysand glanced down to her dirt-stained dress. "Do you want to change?"

"I would if I had anything to change into. But someone wouldn't let me to bring my own clothes."

"I told you that you could bring them."

"Well I didn't," Feyre snapped, "As a sign of good will, I decided to listen to you. Now look where that has brought me!" She glared backwards: to where blood still coated into the earth.

That struck him silent.

Rhysand instead, led her to an overturned log as a seat. Feyre took it. And glancing around, she observed the camp he had made for them.

The fire was large and crackling with warmth. There was a kettle of water boiling for tea, and he had killed some sort of small animal that was now roasting over the spit.

"You will have to eat with your fingers, I hope that's alright," Rhysand quirked a brow at her hands that sat folded in her lap. Feyre raised her chin.

"I will have you know I grew up in the slums. I know what it is to be dirty." To make her point, Feyre swiped a nearby knife and dug out herself a lob of meat from the cooking carcass.

Then sitting down with a plop, she made an effort to take bigger bites than needed. And even though the animal was gamey and greasy, it silenced her rumbling stomach.

"I stand corrected," he chuckled before taking his own slab.

They ate in silence for a while, Rhysand keeping to himself while Feyre couldn't help but observe him.

It was so different than the first dinner table they had met. He was different.

Rhysand was not mere smirks and innuendo like Feyre had once thought. He had skill and a fierceness to back all that ego.

And no matter how she tried, she couldn't rid herself of the image of Rhysand dislodging all those men.

There had been so many, and he had swiped past them in only a moment.

All to save her.

Resolve and skill. More traits of his to add to the ever-growing pile.

But what bothered her, was how easy it would have been for Rhysand to let those men take her.

He could have simply ransomed Feyre and been on his way. Then he would have succeeded in taking away the King's pet, while gaining some gold for the trouble.

Yet Rhysand had fought for her; in risk of his own life, and his conscience.

But that didn't erase the fact that he had killed men. Without blinking actually. And seemingly, without remorse.

So shaking off the feeling of blood on her hands, Feyre rose from her perch.

Rhysand's head perked up instantly.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to into the woods to go to relieve myself, is that all right with you?" Feyre waited for his answer; knowing she was being rather short.

But she was angry.

And despite it all that horror and death she had no part in, she also felt guilty.

Because it felt as those men's blood—as evil as they were—was her own for tangling herself in a game she didn't understand.

Perhaps a private match between Rhysand and the King that she wasn't fit to participate in.

Rhysand merely went back to his meal, "I would tell you to hurry up. But instead, I'll just remind you, that there are wolves in these woods. Be wary."

Feyre didn't answer. Teasing or no, she would take the chance; much rather preferring a pack of canines rather than the man in front of her.

But she did not have to relieve herself at all. No, she was going to find the stream she had heard earlier.

Feyre so desperately needed to wash the phantom blood she felt on her hands before she retched from the feeling.

Thankfully, the sky was lit by a pale moon as she stumbled through the forest.

But annoyingly, Rhysand had been right when it came to her dresses only being a burden. Because in that moment, Feyre would have loved nothing but trousers.

Still, she managed to find the stream, albeit with her ears alone.

And crouching to the bubbling water, Feyre sought to wash the invisible grime from her fingers.

Yet no matter how much she tried, it was as if the feel of blood would not leave her.

It was suddenly it was as if she never left the streets. Never got past the bowing and the scraping, all to find herself alone in the world once more.

But a snap of a twig made her jolt upright.

"What are you doing?" Rhysand called from down-stream. He was moving towards her in a way that made Feyre feel like a fawn he was scared of spooking.

Perhaps there were wolves in the woods after all. But Feyre was surely not to be the fawn.

"It's good to know you have no thought to my privacy," she grumbled, hiding her hands in her skirts. But his eyes caught the movement.

"You wanted to wash it off, didn't you?" he said, stopping a healthy distance away. But Rhysand was still close enough that Feyre could see the shadow of his features catch the moonlight.

And it was as if he was more beautiful because for it.

"I wish a great many things, right now," she said. "I wish I never saw those men slaughtered. I wish I never agreed to come with you."

"I wish those men didn't have to die," he agreed, "But I could not let you be put in harm's way, either."

"I—" she blinked past the honesty in his words, "I thought we lived in a better world than this. I thought it had changed after I left the slums. But I was wrong."

"I know," Rhysand turned his head to the sky, his face turning wistful as his eyes reflected the sparkling stars. "I won't insult you by saying those bandits are a rarity in this world. But I can tell you that we can do something about it."

"How."

"That's why I'm bringing you to the Night Court. Despite what the rumors tell, or what you believe, I don't want you as my mistress. I want you to help me. Not by fear and cruelly like the King, but care and passion."

Feyre paused. Hearing the conviction in his words struck her speechless. "I hope you kept that fire warm while you were busy sneaking up on me," was all she said.

Rhysand gave a wry chuckle. And the tense atmosphere dissipated with the trickling river.

"Come on then," he said with the tilt of his head, "I saved a spot just for you."

They returned to the quaint fire, and as the breeze fell through the trees, Feyre shivered for real this time.

"You said you lived in the slums," Rhysand started as he sat across from her, "Tell me, how did you become a royal ward of the King?"

"Luck, I suppose," Feyre sighed, "The King found me begging one day. I don't know why he chose me. Heaven only knows what I must have looked to him: a girl all of fourteen selling her body to the highest bidder. I always assumed that it was some God or another, that finally took pity me and my sisters, and made the King intervene."

"You believe in such things as Gods?"

"I believe there is something else controlling the world, yes. And I believe there is good in everyone. Even in the King you hate so much." She eyed with him with meaning.

"Don't think me full of nothing but hatred, Feyre," Rhysand scoffed, "Now hearing what the King did for you, I appreciate that. But it doesn't mean I appreciate all that he does."

"And what has he done?"

Rhysand looked to Feyre then, his gaze unyielding. "He took something very important from me."

Her skin bristled from his dark voice. Feyre only wrapper her arms around herself for warmth.

"The King cares not for stolen goods. Especially from you court," she said instead, "Or else I would have heard about it."

"The King is good at hiding a lot of things, Feyre."

"How would you know?"

His shoulders went taught. "Because I have seen a lot of parts of our world. Good and Evil. And in every crevice of evil, the King had has his hands in."

"What kind of evil?"

"To begin with," Rhysand sighed, "Thieves and assassins and extortionists have all had dealings with the Northern crown. Not to mention the crime of him guilting you for your magic."

"Really? You think he guilted me?" Feyre sputtered. Rhysand nodded. "One could argue that you did the same. You blackmailed here against my will, did you not?"

"Yes, well—" Rhysand wiped a rough hand down his face. "I wanted a way to get you from under his control, while also seemingly keeping your allegiance."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" she laughed. But Rhysand's face turned dark.

"The King is fouler than you could ever know, Feyre. I would have done anything to make it look like you still belonged to his side. In order to keep you safe."

She bristled slightly. "I do belong to his side." Feyre said it as a reminder more to herself than to him. Rhysand seemed to buy it as much as she did.

"Do you?" He shone a slow smile, and Feyre recoiled.

"This is all so rich coming from an enemy sovereign. You said yourself you've had dealings in your own dose of corruption. So what makes you so much better than the King?

"I admit my past is not as clean as I would like," Rhysand grumbled, "But as soon as we reach my country, you will see it all. Unlike the King, I would never keep you in the dark. Then you can decide for yourself, what side you are on."

His gaze met hers through the dancing fire. And it wasn't the heat of the flames that made her look away.

"You think yourself above him. Above us," Feyre straightened. For she knew how the Prince of the Night Court tricked and deceived for his own gain. Perhaps that was what he was doing right then, with her.

"Am I above using cruelty and fear over my people?" he quirked, "Yes. But I have never held myself above anyone. Quite the opposite actually."

"But its more than that, isn't it?" Feyre said. He only waited.

So she went on, "I think you wanted to rid the King of his prize and gain your own in the process." She paused for Rhysand to confirm what everybody else thought.

Feyre was used to being scowled at from her own court. For what she was.

Nothing but a glorified whore meddling in things she didn't understand.

But Rhysand said none of that.

"At first, perhaps," he confessed quietly, "Maybe I wanted to see what the King would do once his tool was taken from him. But now I want more." He glanced to her. "I want you to be free."

"No one is free," Feyre scoffed, "Those men you killed were not free. The King himself is not free. And no matter where I go, I will always have a duty to my magic and my homeland."

Something passed over his features then. Perhaps sadness or frustration that Feyre had such a mind-set.

"You forget who I am, Feyre. I am not what the King has told you. The world does not start and end with the North. There is more to have."

Feyre met his glare, rising from the log to find her bedroll he had laid out for her.

She suddenly couldn't bear to be near him.

Because Rhys was speaking as if he knew her better than herself.

"Forgive me if I remain skeptical," Feyre said, settling herself on the ground, "I think that you heard of my reputation, put two and two together and threatened me with nothing more than an empty threat to hurt me, and the King."

"I'm not your enemy, Feyre. We are on the same side."

She turned her back to him. "You may have saved me from the King's disappointment by striking this deal, but I will not forget how you got me here. You blackmailed me and took me from my sisters. So we are not on the same side."

Feyre might only have said it to keep him at arm's length. Because even if she refused it aloud, she felt deep in her bones that they were one in the same.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She awoke the next morning with an ache in her back and head. And just about everywhere else she could think of.

But Feyre eventually rose with a scowl to her useless bedroll. It would have been better if she slept on rocks.

Yet she had been comfortably warm all through the night. And as Feyre glanced to see Rhysand's blanket and jacket atop her own, she knew why.

"Good morning," Rhysand called from across camp. Feyre looked up with a groan.

"I presume you got all your beauty sleep?" his violet eyes gleamed with sarcasm, as she fought not to roll her eyes.

"Do you ever stop your incessant teasing?"

"I'd hate for you to think I only value you for your magic."

"Oh Gods, don't tell me I've hurt your feelings," Feyre collected up her bedroll, as he packed his own things. "Remind me again, who tricked me here while the rest of my country assumes I'm nothing but your whore?"

"That's what they think, Feyre. A filthy rumor started by your King."

His words made Feyre go quiet. Perhaps Rhysand was speaking truth. Perhaps the King had started the story in a last effort to sully Rhysand's reputation.

But she would still be smart to remain wary of the charming Prince for her own good.

They ate breakfast in tense silence. Feyre perhaps, taking longer than needed only to avoid talking to him.

Rhysand excused himself to pack up more of their camp. So quickly and efficiently that she wondered if this was not his first time having to rely on nature alone.

She only spoke after noticing Rhysand packing their things on a single horse, not on the back of the carriage.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm packing," he paused to look over his shoulder, "You could help if you want."

"Forgive me, your Highness," Feyre drawled his title, "But I meant, why are we not taking the carriage?"

Rhysand turned to her, making a show of looking all around, "Unless you see the driver and another horse hiding somewhere I don't, we'll have to continue on horseback."

"Prick," she ground out.

"We've already discussed my prick, remember? Don't tell me you want to go over it again," he replied with a grin. She ignored it.

"And just how am I going to ride in this dress? Is there a sidesaddle hiding somewhere in all that luggage?"

"No, but I packed you some of my sister's trousers in the carriage storage that you can borrow. I warned you that your dresses would be useless."

"How is a Princess even allowed to have a pair of trousers?"

Rhysand tightened the saddle, "Night Court fashion is different than the North. Women can wear whatever they want."

"Alright then. I guess for the sake of traveling, I have no choice."

"Glad we agree on something," Rhysand said before striding to the end of the carriage.

Feyre waited as he rifled through a pack to find a pair of flowing pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt.

They were unmistakably feminine; with silken sleeves and velvet cuffs and trousers made in a similar fashion.

"Thank you," she mumbled, trying not to admire the rich hues of the outfit as he threw them her way.

But she couldn't help but notice they matched the embroider of Rhysand's black tunic. He must have changed before she woke. And now her sunset orange and turquoise blue were identical to his.

And she also couldn't help but to notice the garments were exactly her size. As if they had never belonged to the Princess at all.

But packed specifically with Feyre in mind.

"You can change over there, I even promise not to look." Rhysand called. His smile said otherwise.

Feyre leveled an unimpressed glare before stomping into the woods. But all irritation left her as she slipped on her shirt and pants. The fabric was even softer than it looked.

It had Feyre sighing as they brushed over her skin; far better than the scratching ruffles of her layered northern dresses.

"Ready?" Rhysand quirked a brow as she emerged. He was leaning against a horse whose coat rivaled the night itself, "I'm sorry to say that we'll be riding bareback. But as you so nicely pointed out before, I packed no saddles for the occasion."

"I assume we're doubling up as well."

"Promise to keep your hands to yourself, and I'll try to do the same."

"That should be no problem," Feyre said as she prepared to mount. But paused as she remembered she had never been a favored rider. Rhysand noticed her hesitation.

"Anything wrong?"

"Nothing you can help with," Feyre said. But she still gulped at the height of the great beast.

She had never been a marks horsewoman, by any means. And when Feyre did ride, she rode side saddle.

But she would not let Rhysand know her shortcomings.

Yet as Feyre put her hands over the steed in preparation, she felt his strong hand grasp her knee and push her onto the horse in one swift move.

The silk trousers did nothing to hide Rhysand's burning touch from reaching her skin underneath.

No man had ever touched her and brought forth such a reaction. Perhaps it was because she was used to men grabbing and pulling at what they wanted.

But Rhys climbed up behind her like nothing had happened.

The move was smooth enough to tell her he was not only an accomplished warrior, but a horseman as well.

And Feyre could do nothing but inhale sharply when she felt him seated behind her. Gods, he was a nothing but a wall of warmth and muscle as his arms came around her to grab the reigns.

Her treacherous siren was unable but sigh against him. And Feyre shivered again.

"Warm enough?" he chuckled.

"Do you have to sit so close?"

"Is it bothering you?"

"Let's just get going already, I'm anxious to get out of these horrid trousers." The cutting remark was meant to put him in his place.

Rhys merely bent to grab a handful of the fabric that covered her calves, the silk bunching in his hands as he said with mock confusion,

"If these are bothering you, then I can't image what those lace underthings did to your sensitive skin the night you came to my rooms."

It was an effort for Feyre's siren not to melt as the warmth of his palms seeped through the cloth. But his smart reminder of the night she tried and failed to seduce him had Feyre quickly elbowing him in the stomach.

Rhys let out a muted groan. Feyre smiled over her shoulder, "You broke your word by speaking of that night, Prince," she said, "So take that as a warning to never do it again."

He managed to let out a chuckle through his cough, "Then by all means Feyre darling, let's get going."

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A/N Tell me what you think! And thank you for reading and reviewing :)