Release, an a court of thorns and roses fanfic

Rhysand

The innkeeper took one look at the pair of us and said flatly, "We're full."

I narrowed my eyes and pulled out a gold coin, setting it wordlessly on the counter between us.

He grunted. "No vacancies."

I slid another gold out of the purse tucked into my belt, letting a scowl settle over my features. "Don't tell me there isn't anything you can come up with."

He eyed me shrewdly, taking in the dripping wings, the knives bristling across my chest. I might have taken pains to blunt my particular presence, but an Illyrian warrior was not one to trifle with.

He closed his hand over the coins and jerked his head toward the staircase. "All the way up."

I put a hand out to stop him as he turned away. "I require two beds."

The innkeeper just laughed and jerked his arm out of my grip, tending to the bar behind him.

My frown deepened. I didn't relish the idea of spending the night on the floor, but I believed him when he said there were no vacancies and rather suspected that for two gold, he'd sold away his own bed for the night. I sighed. At least there would be privacy, and hopefully a comfortable place for Feyre to sleep.

She'd hung back as we entered the dingy tavern, looking bone-weary, and I gestured for her to precede me up the stairs.

"The bathing room is on the right," I murmured quietly as we reached the first landing. Feyre stared at me with dull eyes for a moment, uncomprehending, before disgust surfaced, ultimately losing to the exhaustion still etched on her frame. She excused herself briefly as I continued upward, toward the lone door at the top of the stairs.

Shit, was my first thought as it opened at my touch. The room was so small I could barely stand upright, with no space on either side of the double bed that took up most of the room. We would have to share, and I tried not to think of what sleeping next to her would do to my state of mind…

Pull it together, I ordered myself. Surely I had enough self-control to spend a night sharing space with a female. Not just any female… the traitorous part of my mind whispered as I heard footsteps on the stairs behind me.

I held the door for her as she entered then pulled up short, noticing the same thing I had. She glared accusingly back at me, and at her incensed expression, I felt the relief of amusement cool the panic-laced heat rising in me.

"I asked for two," I said placatingly.

She huffed tartly, the air in front of her mouth forming a white cloud. Then she shivered, surveying the tiny room. "If you can't risk using magic, then we'll have to warm each other."

My eyebrows rose in surprised delight, and I grinned suggestively, enjoying teasing her, using it as a distraction.

"Body heat," she said through gritted teeth. Her eyes narrowed at my unchanged expression. "My sisters and I used to share a bed," she said dismissively. "I'm used to it."

I only grinned wider. "I'll try to keep my hands to myself."

Her expression shifted slightly, and she looked away. "I'm hungry," she announced.

I lost my good humor abruptly, cursing inwardly. I should have thought to have something brought up. "I'll go down and get us food while you change," I decided.

She lifted her eyebrow in a silent question.

"Remarkable as my own abilities are to blend in," I echoed her earlier thoughts, "I'd rather not be down there long enough to be noticed." Gossip was just as effective a tracking device as whatever was snared around my power.

I dug into the pack I'd brought and found my cloak, settling it over my shoulders and pulling up the cowl. Less effective than a glamour, I thought sourly, but it would have to do. At least there might be less chance of anyone connecting the menacing, hooded figure with our earlier entrance.

Feyre was studying me in the dim light of the candles flickering at the side of the bed, her gaze intense, hungry.

I smiled softly. "I love it when you look at me like that."

She licked her lips. "Like what?"

I struggled to put it into words. "Like my power isn't something to run from. Like you see me."

She didn't flinch. "I was afraid of you at first."

I grinned. "No, you weren't." I thought of that night in the woods, the way she'd stared, her thoughts far from anything resembling fear. "Nervous, maybe, but never afraid. I've felt the genuine terror of enough people to know the difference." My thoughts turned brooding. "Maybe that's why I couldn't keep away," I murmured, more to myself than her.

Before she could respond, I escaped down the narrow stairs, trying to regain my focus. I would need it if we were going to be sharing a bed… I nearly groaned at the thoughts that clawed mercilessly up my spine.

I finally reached the tavern on the main floor, which had filled considerably even since we arrived, and veered toward the kitchens.

Three females looked up as I entered, and I resisted the urge to reach out and turn away the attention of the two young assistants as I addressed the cook. "Two hot meals, please."

She nodded toward the door I had come through—"We're serving in the dining room"—then turned dismissively back to her work.

I retrieved my coin purse, letting its contents jingle with the movement. "I'd prefer to have them brought up to my room."

She turned appraising eyes on me, then nodded to one of her assistants, who hurriedly retrieved a large tray. "What'll it be? I've a rabbit stew on the hearth and meat pies coming out of the oven."

"That sounds fine, thank you."

"You'll have to bring it up yourself."

I nodded, depositing five silver coins on the countertop, then retreated to the hall near the stairwell to wait.

The tavern was growing louder. I peered into the main area to ensure no one was there looking for us after the expediency of this morning. My thoughts snagged on the image of Feyre with wings outstretched, staring down the Spring minions who had tried to reclaim her in Tamlin's name, and a shiver made its way down my back.

My eyes lit on a bottle of wine displayed prominently behind the bar, and I stared. I hadn't resumed my pursuit of Feyre after Starfall, too afraid to break the companionable truce between us, but as my thoughts wandered upward, to the too-small room with one bed…

The innkeeper, who I realized with unease had been watching me, noticed my attention and leered. "Fifty silver," he said grandiosely, bringing the bottle down for my inspection.

I raised my brows in surprise as I read the label. How had a vintage that fine made its way here, to this poor excuse for a hamlet, out of the way of any notable trading route—and how had the innkeeper ever expected to sell it? The male in question gave me a knowing look, and I decided that, as High Lord, I probably didn't want to know.

My thoughts returned to the bedroom upstairs. A bottle like that would make quite a statement, a declaration, even… or an offer, another part of me crooned, the beast stirring restlessly.

"Thirty," I said dismissively.

The innkeeper frowned. "Forty."

I handed over the coin, and he retrieved two clear, long-stemmed glasses.

"Here, sir," a timid voice spoke from behind me. I turned, and the spicy scent of wild game reached my nostrils.

Well, it was hot, I supposed.

She set the tray next to me on the bar, and the innkeeper expertly added the glasses, reaching for the bottle I still held. On impulse, I ripped off the label, which I shoved awkwardly into the maid's hand, wishing I could have simply vanished it as I took the fully laden tray. I chafed at the reminder of the small, everyday things I could no longer rely on—not to mention the rising tightness within me as the power built up, like a persistent itch just under my skin.

I exhaled slowly as I ascended the stairs, the bottle of wine seeming to tilt the balance of the tray, though it had been expertly placed.

I had just decided it was too much when the door opened and Feyre gasped, "Tell me that's stew I smell."

A smile stole onto my lips as I placed the tray carefully onto the only surface available in the candlelit room. "Rabbit, if the cook's to be believed."

She made a face. "I could have lived without hearing that."

My smile widened, and she met my gaze for a heartbeat before turning back to the meal. "What's the other one beneath?"

"Meat pie. I didn't dare ask what kind of meat," I added wickedly, shedding the cloak. I moved gingerly around to the far side of the bed, at her back. "Go ahead and eat. I'm changing first."

She looked up guiltily, then hurriedly snapped her eyes away as she realized the direction of her gaze. I enjoyed the color of her thoughts as she tried to divert them. She'd gotten better at maintaining her shield, but in her exhaustion, it had become somewhat permeable tonight. "You should have changed before going downstairs," she murmured, fixing her attention on the dish before her.

I drew off my shirt, biting off a hiss as the chill air bit my skin. "You were the one training all day," I said to distract myself—both from the cold and from the sense of her nearness that threatened to drive me more thoroughly insane than any effect of my congested power. "Getting you a hot meal was the least I could do."

The sound of the cork popping and the heady scent of the wine as she poured both glasses wasn't helping, but I managed to finish the task and made my way back around the cramped space. I had to duck my head as the roof slanted on one side, and the wings made the whole process that much more arduous. I felt again that nudge that told me life would be far easier if I just vanished the wings and wet clothes altogether.

Feyre watched the whole thing over the lip of her wineglass, with an appraising look that set my blood boiling. I pointedly turned my attention to the stew, trying and failing to rein in my raging desire.

"How do you get it over the wings?"

I nearly choked before realizing she meant my shirt. Trust Feyre to come up with some mundane observation to quench the rising tide inside me. "The back is made of slats that close with hidden buttons," I answered, after swallowing thickly. "But in normal circumstances, I just use magic to seal it shut." Indeed, there was a distinct breeze without it, especially in the frigid room, and I felt again that tightness struggling for a vent.

"It seems like you have a great deal of magic constantly in use at once."

I shrugged. "It helps me work off the strain of my power. The magic needs release—draining—or else it'll build up and drive me insane." Not unlike other urges I could think of. "That's why we call the Illyrian stones Siphons—they help them channel the power, empty it when necessary."

"Actually insane?" she asked curiously.

I eyed the glass in her hands ruefully. "Actually insane. Or so I was warned. I can feel it, though." I rolled my shoulders, as if I could stretch out the persistent itch. "The pull of it, if I go too long without releasing it."

She reached for one of the pies. "That's horrible."

"Everything has its cost, Feyre." Her name weighed heavy on my tongue. "If the price of being strong enough to shield my people is that I have to struggle with that same power, then I don't mind." I let my thoughts wander, away from this too-tight space. "Amren taught me enough about controlling it. Enough that I owe a great deal to her. Including the current shield around my city while we're here."

A sharp pang of melancholy wafted off her, and with it, one of the clearest thoughts I'd overheard in weeks.

Everyone around him has some use, some mighty skill. And yet, here I am… nothing more than a strange hybrid. More trouble than I'm worth.

"You're not," I breathed.

She glared up accusingly. "Don't read my thoughts," she snapped.

"I can't help what you sometimes shout down the bond. And besides," I hurried on, seeing she was unconvinced, "everything is usually written on your face, if you know where to look." My voice softened. "Which made your performance today so much more impressive."

She didn't answer, laying aside the empty tin and cradling her wineglass as she settled herself sexily—I wrenched my thoughts away from that perilous avenue, digging forcefully into the last meat pie—back on the pillows.

She sipped contemplatively, then asked quietly, "Did you think I would go with him?"

I stiffened as a chill washed over me, taking me back to that moment on the steppes. "I heard every word between you," I said carefully. "I knew you could take care of yourself, and yet…" I looked away, busying myself with my meal again. I kept my voice neutral as I continued, keeping it from betraying the fear I'd felt in that moment, the irrational dread that it had all been an illusion, these last months, everything between us… "And yet I found myself deciding that if you took his hand, I would find a way to live with it. It would be your choice." Always her choice.

A beat, as she absorbed this. "And if he'd grabbed me?"

My voice was flat as I met her eyes gravely. "Then I would have torn apart the world to get you back."

She stared, intensity rising in her gaze, and blurted, "I would have fired at him—if he had tried to hurt you."

I stifled the smile that rose to my lips, not wanting her to misinterpret. How I loved that fierce protectiveness, her fearless mettle. I said simply, "I know."

I looked down and realized that my own tin was now empty, and my mouth went dry. Slowly, I stacked the dishes neatly on the tray and discarded it beside the door, retrieving the wine bottle, which seemed to pulse in my hand, an emblem of the declaration I desperately wanted to make but still somehow feared to voice.

She said nothing as I refilled our glasses, then, "One thought in exchange for another. No training involved, please."

I laughed hoarsely at her light jab, then, before I could change my mind, downed the entire glass in one gulp.

"I'm thinking," I said breathlessly as I watched her take a slightly more judicious pull, "that I look at you and feel like I'm dying. Like I can't breathe. I'm thinking that I want you so badly I can't concentrate half the time I'm around you, and this room is too small for me to bed you properly. Especially with the wings," I added, to cover my sudden dread as the words hung between us.

Her eyes widened, and she quickly drained her own glass before answering. I steeled myself for—"I'm thinking that I can't stop thinking about you. And that it's been that way for a long while." My heart stumbled as she hurried on, "Even before I left the Spring Court. And maybe that makes me a traitorous, lying piece of trash—"

"It doesn't." It sounded like a plea to my ears, a desperate attempt to make her see herself the way I did, to wipe away the dark cloud that fell over her face as she withdrew, once again. And yet—she'd admitted to thinking about me, often enough that she apparently felt some guilt over it...

"We should go to sleep," she said, not meeting my eyes.

I stood there for a long moment, more words fighting to surface, but in the end, my deference won out. "All right."

Her choice, my own voice whispered mockingly as I eased myself slowly between the sheets, still warm from where she'd sat atop them, and blew out the candles.

I could feel the heat from her body, and I clamped down on the response it drew from me, putting all my energy into lying still and silent in the dark room.

The sound of teeth chattering distracted me, and I frowned, noting the slight tremors radiating from the other side of the bed.

"You're shivering so hard the bed is shaking," I growled, knowing she would object if I tried to do anything about it.

"M-my hair is wet," she retorted predictably.

I rolled my eyes. Feyre Archeron would freeze to death if only to preserve the illusion of not needing anything or anyone. As she had so astutely pointed out, I couldn't use my power to heat the room or the bed, and that left me with only one option at my disposal.

"No expectations," I said preemptively as I rolled into her, resisting the urge to laugh as she feebly considered protesting. "Just body heat."

I pulled her in close, covering as many surfaces of her shivering form as I could with my own, enjoying in spite of myself the intimate way she sank against me as I folded a wing over top of us, trapping as much heat as possible, though the sensitive membranes protested the sharp bite of the open air beyond.

An icy brush traced the underside, leaving a trail of fire in its wake all the same as she stroked the length of me. Every part of me tightened, and I fought to keep my body neutral, knowing it would be unmistakable the moment I lost that battle.

My breath came out in a hiss. "Your finger… is very cold," I managed deliriously.

Instead of withdrawing, this time she tilted her head coyly, giving me access to her neck, to which I lowered my mouth almost involuntarily, even as she intensified her treatment of my wing.

"You cruel, wicked thing," I breathed raggedly, drawing her even closer, which hardly seemed possible in the tight space. "Didn't anyone ever teach you manners?"

"I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies," she said flirtatiously, punctuating her words with another long, slow drag.

I lost my grip on my body's response, or perhaps gave into it, I couldn't say, as she kept moving and stroking and I followed her, spiraling down into the warm embrace of that insistent need I'd denied for so long.

She squirmed as my hands explored her waist, unmistakably demanding more, and I crooned, "Greedy…" My head was growing clearer, sharper, as I finally unleashed my desire, honing it to a fine point where my fingers met flesh. "First you terrorize me with your cold hands"—my voice sent a shiver through her, reminding me of that first night in the woods, when we'd both felt only echoes of the bond that now swirled insistently around our entwined bodies—"and now you want…" I paused deliberately, lowering my voice to a purr. "What is it you want, Feyre?"

The taste of her name almost undid me, but I kept my movements deliberate, slow, drawing out of her the words that would send us both over the edge. I began nipping at the exposed bit of neck she'd offered up, and her breath came in gasps.

"What is it you want, Feyre?" I snarled softly, turning my attention to her ear.

She whimpered and bowed, trying to demand more from me, but I kept my hands soft, teasing, waiting.

"I want a distraction," she gasped. "I want—fun."

I froze.

A thousand thoughts tumbled through me in a single instant. Fun? This was my mate, my soul, everything I'd fought for. And just when I'd thought she might feel even a shred of the soul-piercing anguish I'd endured for her sake… I thought back to her shame at the Court of Nightmares, or perhaps guilt, for using me, for taking what I offered when she felt only the physical echo of what reverberated through my very bones.

A distraction. I had once teased her about taking Cassian to bed if she felt the need for release—and I would have honestly tried not to rip his head off if that had been her choice. But this… I couldn't decide if it was better or worse, couldn't say which route would destroy me quicker.

All this in the space of a heartbeat before I found myself saying, "Then allow me the pleasure of distracting you."

I would burn either way. Touching her, not touching her. Simply lying here with her… At least this way perhaps I might find some release as well, some vent to the crushing need I felt, had felt for so long.

I pushed aside the deeper emotions roiling within me and concentrated on drawing out her pleasure. She wasn't wearing anything beneath the wool sweater she'd borrowed, and the feel of her bare breasts sent me reeling off again. "I love these," I groaned. "You have no idea how much I love these." How often I'd thought of, even discreetly admired them in weaker moments.

She ground into me, as if she could sheath me through our layers of clothing. But that would be too quick, the beast protested, and I agreed. I wanted to enjoy this thoroughly—slowly.

"Stop that," I growled. "You'll ruin my fun."

She twisted stubbornly, reaching for me, but I tsked lazily, using one hand to restrain her as I continued stroking with the other.

"I want to touch you first. Just—let me touch you," I begged hoarsely.

She did then, and I poured out all my ardor and skill into the pressure of my hands as they moved on her, relishing each moan and tremor as she drove for the release.

[* * *]

As she drifted off to sleep in my arms, I finally let myself think about what this would do to me. It was a new kind of torture, this half-fulfillment.

What now?

If she knew what lay between us, how deep this bond truly went, would she still be content just to have fun? Or would she withdraw even further, awkward in knowing it meant more to me? I thought of Azriel and the careful space Mor kept between them, even as their friendship strained under the weight of his longing.

And yet, even Az admitted there was no more to it than that. And in everything I'd ever heard about the mating bond, it wasn't something that had to be said, it just—was. At first I'd assumed Feyre simply denied the connection out of spite, or at least her deep loathing for who she'd thought I was. But at that first glance inside her wide-open mind, before I'd taught her to shield, before she'd even known to build a shield, I'd known immediately that whatever I'd felt, it had bypassed her entirely. I didn't know if it was an effect of being Made or if she simply couldn't recognize what it was, but the fact remained that she was wholly oblivious.

And if I did finally take her to bed—really to bed… Would she feel that snap that had resounded through every part of my body and soul, finally feel that all-consuming desire that had been slowly killing me? Would she finally comprehend what it was that lay between us, what it had always been?

She stirred and murmured slightly in my arms, and I resumed my light stroking, smiling slightly as she stilled with a contented sigh. I tightened my hold a fraction, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her scent. How I had longed for this closeness, and now I was here, holding her, touching her… Did it really matter if her feelings only ran shallow? Couldn't I just enjoy the simple pleasure of holding her?

My mind drifted as I followed her into sleep. I pictured myself striding forward as she paused at the threshold of her bedroom, as she had the other night, the unspoken invitation enough to bring me to her bed, again, and again…

We said as little as possible as we got dressed the next morning and headed back out to the steppes. I could sense Feyre expected something more, given the intimacy we'd shared, but my thoughts were still a jumble of questions, and I preferred to focus on the reason we were out here in the first place.

Which, of course, was easier said than done. Every movement, smile, touch sent me spiraling into a new fervor, and I was keenly aware of every point of contact as we flew across the vast forest.

"Where do we start?" she asked once we'd found a suitable clearing.

I considered, trying not to think of the way the leathers hugged her frame, the way those curves had felt under my hands—

"Well," I said, measuring my tone carefully. "Seems like you discovered something new yesterday." It was light, almost teasing, though I faltered as her eyes snapped up, looking cornered.

"It's a useful skill," I said gently. "And you really should be training with all of your powers."

She swallowed nervously but squared her shoulders, closing her eyes as she summoned the great wings that had burst majestically out of her the day before. They flickered behind her shoulder blades and then winked out as she panted.

"Again," I told her. "See how long you can hold it."

Her next attempt resulted in little more than a pair of wide shadows. I frowned. "Try something smaller," I instructed.

She nodded, holding her hands out in front of her and concentrating. I braced myself for the sight of claws, and a thrill of pleased surprise ran through me as her fingers instead grew into talons, like the ones I'd briefly shown her Under the Mountain.

She grinned up at me, and my heart stopped, as it did every time she really smiled. I raised an eyebrow. "Anything else?"

She experimented with various changes throughout the morning, slowly circling back to the vision of the day before, until the wings burst out of her once more, and she grinned victoriously, giving an experimental flap.

And suddenly it wasn't Feyre standing before me, but another Illyrian female, in another time. I stumbled back a step, biting back panic at the sight of her face glowing in triumph, so like my mother it knocked the breath out of me.

Other images came fast, unbidden, to my mind. Bloody, ruthless attack, impossible to fend off or avoid—only this time it was Feyre's body at the end of Tamlin's sword, her head delivered like a trophy.

The light in her eyes faded as I stood frozen, unable to respond, and the wings slowly dissolved into shadow.

I attempted a weak smile. "I think that's enough shapeshifting for now," I said quietly, retreating toward the far edge of the clearing. "Fire," I barked out, and she reacted instinctively, confusion lingering on her face.

I couldn't get the image of Feyre being targeted because of me out of my head as we ran through more of her drills from the day before, and the old, familiar doubt began to surface. Maybe it would be better to keep that distance between us, dabble in some "fun" and then settle comfortably into our separate spheres within my Court. Maybe she would be better off far away from my Court altogether. She wouldn't go back to Spring, and the blood rubies made Summer impossible, but perhaps Helion would offer her a place…

The thought of effectively banishing her sent a pang of agony through me. How could I live, knowing she was out there, leading a life separate from mine? What could I possibly say to make her go that wouldn't make her hate me?

And to deceive her in that way, make her think I didn't want her, wouldn't have her, would be unconscionable. I'd promised her truth, and I had kept that promise, revealing parts of myself few others had seen. She knew everything now, knew it all well enough to understand the risks, and she wouldn't appreciate having the choice made for her.

Her choice.

My own mantra taunted me. Until now it had always been an excuse to let her walk away, the certainty that I would have to let her choose something else—someone else, no matter what it cost—driving me relentlessly. Could I even ask her to choose… me? Could I even bear to hope that she might?

She kept throwing glances my way as she shifted her practice to working with Day wind, and I didn't need to feel her thoughts to read her increasing worry over my brooding silence, as she began to wonder whether I regretted our "fun" from last night.

Did I? I didn't have a straightforward answer to that question, though if I had regrets, it was nothing to do with the reasons she feared. I wanted to reassure her, but every time I tried to say anything of substance, words escaped me.

I had bared my soul in that tiny, cramped room, had all but told her I loved her. And perhaps I should have just come right out and said it, I cursed myself bleakly. My cowardice continued to gnaw at me as, even now, I struggled to find my voice.

I had to tell her, I realized as the light began to fade, signaling the end of training for the day. My reticence the night before had cost me, and would continue to do so until it bled me dry.

I gathered her into my arms as we finished for the day, launching into the sky, careful not to let my frayed nerves affect the passage of the flight.

With her attention now undivided, it wasn't long before she burst. "What is it?" she asked, her voice cautious.

My heart sped up. "There is… one more story I need to tell you." And yet, I still couldn't summon the words I needed, that would make her understand…

She reached up, cupping my face in her hand, and I finally looked into her eyes. There was concern there, but not fear. Never fear. "I don't walk away," she vowed. "Not from you."

She looked for all the world as if she would give her heart to me completely. "Feyre—" I began, but I didn't finish the thought as blinding pain seared through me from a dozen barbed points across my wings.

Ambush.

My mind worked frantically, assessing the damage, trying to evaluate our chances of escape. My transformation yesterday had seemed worth the risk, hardly enough to draw notice, and yet here we were, paying the price of my arrogance—made deadly by distraction, as I always knew it would be.

Through the pain, I summoned my power, and it burst out of me, quickly dissipating into wisps of impotent smoke as we plummeted toward our attackers.

Ash, I realized at the same moment Feyre did.

Another volley tore through me as I tried to shield, and Feyre's screams penetrated the haze of pain. I gathered all the strength I still had in me and shoved her body out of my path toward the canopy of trees below.

I screamed in rage and pain as I hit the forest floor, immediately surrounded by soldiers in gray cloaks. At an order from their captain, half of them peeled off to search the surrounding area for a second body, and I hoped fervently that my push had been enough.

I lay, panting, every movement agony, as they riffled through my pack, distributing the extra set of clothes and my cloak among them.

Move, I told myself grimly, but my body wouldn't obey. I felt sluggish in addition to the pain, and I realized there must have been some kind of poison in the arrows that still riddled my limbs.

Cold metal was clamped around my wrists, and my eyes snapped open. The odd blue stone swam in my vision as an echoing silence descended on my mind. Faebane.

Redundant, really, some distant part of me mused distractedly—seeing as the ash arrows had already rendered me all but useless.

I cried out again as the pain in my legs intensified, and I realized they were removing the shafts, breaking them off unceremoniously and sealing the wounds. They must want me to walk.

When they were finished and I could breathe again, albeit raggedly, the Attor stood over me, grinning fiendishly. There was no trace of the damage Az had inflicted on its body only a month before; the king of Hybern must have healing secrets as well.

It grinned, baring sharp teeth. "A pleasure to see you again, High Lord. Not an easy one to track down, are you? But we knew you'd have to use that… impressive power eventually, and the king is remarkably patient."

I couldn't muster the energy to so much as glare back.

Its eyes glittered. "Where is Feyre Cursebreaker?"

When I didn't answer—what did it expect?—it barked a set of orders to the surrounding grunts. I tried to follow the words, but the fog in my head wouldn't clear. I gathered enough to know they were splitting up, hoping to lure Feyre, knowing she would come for me.

And she would, I realized with dread. I had no time to linger on the thought as I was forced to my feet, and of course, no way of warning her to stay away. Please, I begged the Cauldron, the Mother, anything that might be listening. Let her do the smart thing, for once. Assuming she'd been thrown far enough clear, she could go back to the camps, find Cassian and Azriel, and then they would keep her safe. I would survive. I was fairly certain the king preferred to have me alive, keeping my power out of play, if not at his command.

I had expected to be taken to a ship, but it seemed they still thought they could break me. I was strung up by my arms, and suddenly I was back in Amarantha's war camp as a whip cracked behind me.

"Where's the girl?" a harsh voice demanded.

They could have my wings this time, I thought bleakly, the only loss I could bear less that of my mate. I thanked the Cauldron they clearly didn't know what they were asking, even as the first cut of the lash bit into me, eliciting a raw scream.

I lost track of time after that, as my captors systematically shredded my back, pausing only to ask again about Feyre, then questions about the Night Court.

I vaguely registered a dull thud somewhere behind me, and then her scent flooded my nostrils. There was shouting, and the lash halted. I barely had time to register the fear of what that meant before she was there, crouching in front of me, her hands splattered with gore but gentle as they held my face.

"Feyre," I tried, but it came out as a wordless groan. Her hand retreated as she moved to my side.

I was unprepared for the sudden release of my wrist, and my knees jarred painfully as they hit the floor, but I managed not to cry out as she swiftly freed my other arm.

"Rhys," she said urgently. "Rhys—we need to winnow home."

I nearly laughed, feeling a bit hysterical, but as it was, I could barely rasp out, "Can't."

A pause, and then she gripped my hand in hers. "Hold on."

It felt like being dragged through dense, gritty fog, and my battered wings protested the jerky movements. Finally, with effort, she deposited us onto cold, damp stone.

I rested my cheek against the cool surface, fighting unconsciousness.

"Rhys." Her pleading voice pulled me back to the surface. I couldn't leave her alone here—wherever here was.

She paused. "I have to get these out."

Arrows. Yes. The ash arrows were still embedded in my wings. I grunted in acknowledgment.

"This is going to hurt."

I braced myself as best I could, wishing for something to bite down on, but she hesitated.

"Do it," I said harshly. My body would only start to heal itself once they were out.

She gripped the first arrow, bracing it to break the shaft, and my breath hissed out of me. "Do it," I forced out as she faltered again.

I clamped my teeth shut as she sawed carefully through the shaft, each movement sending waves of agony coursing through me, but I kept quiet. Crying out would bring Hybern—or worse—down on us.

"Did you know…" Feyre asked conversationally, and I realized she was trying to distract me. I focused on the sound of her voice as she began a story about paints her sister had once bought for her.

Then, without warning, she yanked out the first shaft, and I clenched my teeth against the roar I couldn't loose.

She continued, "…we had this old, black dresser in our room…"

One by one, she pulled out all the arrows from my right wing, describing the paintings she'd made for Elain and Nesta on each of the drawers, her voice low and gentle.

"What did you paint for yourself?" I rasped out when she paused.

She yanked out the next arrow, eliciting a long, low hiss from me, before answering.

"I painted the night sky."

I stopped breathing as realization struck. My night sky. She continued, "I painted the stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. I never knew why." I pictured myself lying next to Amarantha, sending out a wish, a prayer, really, not knowing whether it would even be heard. "I rarely went outside at night—usually, I was so tired from hunting that I just wanted to sleep. But I wonder…" She paused, yanked. It was getting easier to bear. "I wonder if some part of me knew what was waiting for me. That I would never be a gentle grower of things, or someone who burned like fire—but that I would be quiet and enduring and as faceted as the night. That I would have beauty, for those who knew where to look." Her description seemed to soothe me, and my taut muscles finally started to relax. "And if people didn't bother to look, but only to fear it… Then I didn't particularly care for them, anyway." I grinned slightly at that. "I wonder if, even in my despair and hopelessness, I was never truly alone. I wonder if I was looking for this place—looking for you all."

As she trailed off, she moved around to kneel by my head, and I realized she was done.

"You saved me," I told her fervently, lifting my face to hers.

She smiled crookedly. "You can tell me who they were later."

Not what I meant. But my energy was waning, and she might very well need that information before I could fully recover. "Ambush," I choked out, still hardly able to believe she was here, had escaped unscathed. The Attor had made a grave miscalculation in setting its trap, and Feyre had outsmarted it once again. "Hybern soldiers with ancient chains from the king himself, to nullify my power. They must have traced the magic I used yesterday…" Was it still yesterday? My head started to swim. "I'm sorry," I whispered weakly.

Her fingers in my hair sent a shiver through me.

"Rest," she ordered quietly, retreating.

I grabbed her hand, suddenly desperate to make her understand. "I was looking for you, too."

[* * *]

I slept fitfully, dreaming in fragments of my life that had led me here—to my mate. When I woke it was with sharp clarity of purpose, which faded to confusion as I registered the empty silence of the small cave around me, then the odd sluggishness of the muscles in my back—which really should have healed by now—as I tried to sit up.

Poison, my slurred mind reminded me. The clarity was fading, and Feyre… I bolted upright in a panic, falling back again as my weak muscles failed. Feyre.

Her scent was on the layers of clothing that had been draped over me, and I realized I was shivering. She must have gone out to find… something. I faded back into sleep, too weak to replace the clothing I'd dislodged.

I was awoken again by the sound of her approaching footsteps, and I forced myself into a half-sitting position, smiling tiredly as she entered.

Something soft and gritty thunked into the center of my chest with alarming force, and she ordered, "Chew on that."

Confused, I looked down into my lap, and discovered it was a stalk of elswort, an old Illyrian fever remedy, that had been entirely pulled up by the root. As far as I knew, it wasn't a poison antidote, but I dutifully plucked off a handful of leaves and began to chew, the taste as bitter as I remembered.

"Drink this. Now." Feyre thrust her forearm, on which she had opened up a long gash, into my view, and my brain finally caught up to what I'd initially missed—her tone, the grim set of her mouth, the unbridled fury in her eyes.

I opened my mouth to ask, but it was roughly shoved over the wound, and I gulped reflexively.

The taste was sharp, in the way that medicines often are, and I felt the distinct vibration of magic as it flowed down my throat. Dawn, I realized with awe. Thesan's gift.

The source was yanked unceremoniously away, and it was an effort to keep from toppling forward after it.

"You don't get to ask questions," she spat. "You only get to answer them. And nothing more."

The fog in my head was beginning to clear, and I tensed, unsure what to make of her seething wrath.

"How long have you known that I'm your mate?"

My blood froze. She knew. Had—? No, if she had felt the snap, she wouldn't be so livid, I was certain.

"Feyre…" I started, trying to buy time as strength slowly returned to my limbs. If I could just think—

"How long have you known that I'm your mate?" she repeated, punctuating each word.

"You…" I said slowly, still searching furiously for an answer. Answers. She must have gone looking for an answer, for— "You ensared the Suriel?" I guessed.

"I said you don't get to ask questions." Her nostrils flared, and I had the distinct impression she'd brought me back only for the privilege of murdering me herself.

I felt sweat beading on my forehead and grabbed another handful of the elswort, though I knew it was no longer fever that had me feeling hot and cold all over. I had hoped to have this conversation a million different ways, but now time was up, and all I could do was answer the question.

"I suspected for a while," I said quietly. "I knew for certain when Amarantha was killing you. And when we stood on the balcony Under the Mountain—right after we were freed—I felt it snap into place between us." I didn't know how to stop, so I just rambled on. "I think when you were Made, it… it heightened the smell of the bond. I looked at you then, and the strength of it hit me like a blow." I trailed off, watching her face as she put the pieces together, and I knew she remembered that moment too.

Despite the recognition my words sparked, her rage hadn't cooled. "When were you going to tell me?"

"Feyre—"

"When were you going to tell me?" she practically shouted.

"I don't know. I wanted to yesterday. Or whenever you'd noticed that it wasn't just a bargain between us. I hoped you might realize when I took you to bed, and—"

"Do the others know?"

I winced. "Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cassian suspect."

She looked as if I'd slapped her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were in love with him!" I burst out. "You were going to marry him. And then you…" I deflated just as suddenly. "You were enduring everything and—it didn't feel right to tell you."

Her expression was unyielding. "I deserved to know."

I could feel my own temper rising, against my better judgment, and I snapped back, "The other night you told me you wanted a distraction, you wanted fun." I spat the word. "Not a mating bond. And not to someone like me—a mess," I finished bitterly. Was she afraid I would force her into a union she didn't want? Did she really think so little of me—still, after everything?

"You promised," she heaved, blinking furiously. "You promised no secrets, no games. You promised."

"I know I did." My anger turned to desperation as I realized there were tears in her eyes. "You think I didn't want to tell you? You think I liked hearing you wanted me only for amusement and release? You think it didn't drive me out of my mind so completely that those bastards shot me out of the sky because I was too busy wondering if I should just tell you, or wait—or maybe take whatever pieces that you offered me and be happy with it?" She flinched, and my voice turned hollow. "Or that maybe I should let you go so you don't have a lifetime of assassins and High Lords hunting you down for being with me."

"I don't want to hear this. I don't want to hear you explain how you assumed that you knew best, that I couldn't handle it—"

"I didn't do that—" I said incredulously, but she cut me off.

"I don't want to hear you tell me that you decided I was to be kept in the dark while your friends knew, while you all decided what was right for me—" Her voice was thick with unshed tears, and I was drowning in them.

"Feyre—"

"Take me back to the Illyrian camp. Now."

I felt as if the cave walls were closing in. My heart clenched painfully, and for a moment I thought her healing powers had taken hold too late, before wondering if I would wish they had before the day was spent. "Please," I begged, trying to think of something, anything that could fix this, that could—

She stalked forward and grabbed my hand roughly. "Take me back now," she hissed.

There was nothing I could do but what she asked, and my world seemed to crumble around me as I pulled from that slowly refilling well of power and winnowed.

[* * *]

It took another full day for my wings to heal completely. Mor made herself scarce after taking Feyre away, and I had no one but Cassian for company as I paced restlessly, waiting for the delicate membranes to regain strength so that I could—

What? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Mor had utterly refused to tell me where she'd taken Feyre, telling me in no uncertain terms what she thought of the situation. She'd only relented when she realized I had no defense. Even in my earlier temper, I'd known I was the one at fault. In hindsight I could see clearly every moment I might have told her, confessed myself—or at least given her a real choice, the only thing she'd ever asked of me.

But I had to talk to her, had to at least try once more to explain…

"You assumed that you knew best, that I couldn't handle it."

Her last words haunted me. It wasn't fair of her to compare me to Tamlin like that, but I had promised not to lie to her, and the fact that it never occurred to me that this would fall into that category was no excuse.

I took to the skies as soon as I was able, cursing the lingering weakness that necessitated a rest between each flight. I searched Mor's various residences, growing more frantic with each search that came up empty as days passed, until it occurred to me that I might be going about it all wrong.

Mor wouldn't leave Feyre unwarded; I knew she hadn't stayed with her for protection. There were only a handful of places that were sufficiently safeguarded…

I tried Velaris first, afraid I'd been so consumed with the search, I had overlooked the obvious, but there was no trace of her there.

Finally, as I reached the hunting cabin we'd often used for escape before the press of responsibility began taking up more and more of our time, I sensed her.

I pounded desperately on the door, unsure if she would even answer. It opened mid-knock, and words utterly abandoned me as she looked up in surprise. For one long, torturous minute, we simply stared at each other, and I felt my heart preparing to shatter. I somehow sensed that if she rejected me now, it would be forever.

Finally, she stepped aside wordlessly, and I nearly sagged with relief, releasing the breath I'd been holding as I crossed the threshold.