I'd forgotten how cold those halls were and how long the walk felt each night, with my toes going numb and my jaw aching from clenching my chattering teeth. I found myself gravitating closer and closer to Rhys, as if I could leech some of his heat, but short of climbing into his arms I didn't think it would help. I was amusing myself with that idea when we finally reached the throne room.
After years of ruling the Court of Nightmares, none of the stares bothered me. The hardest part was keeping my face blank and wary rather than falling into the disdainful arrogance that would have been my normal mask.
As we approached the dais, I didn't bother to look at Tamlin. This was when it all started, when he first began to wonder if I was under an evil spell laid by Rhys. Nothing of the vows of love I'd uttered last time had convinced him otherwise; there was certainly no point in trying now. Instead, I stared at Amarantha, letting the barest hint of a smirk flit across my face.
"What have you done with my captive?" she said, sounding congenial enough, but I saw now what I hadn't before, when I had been lost in my fear of what Tamlin would think of me.
Amarantha was jealous. Of me, a human nobody. First I'd had Tamlin's love, which she desired more than anything, and now I had attracted the attention of her whore. Rhys may mean nothing to her beyond what he could make her feel in bed, but he was still hers and now he was showing an interest in me.
"We made a bargain," Rhys said, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. As his fingers caressed my cheek, I looked away from Amarantha and Tamlin and focused solely on Rhys, as if he was the only one in the entire room worth looking at. His eyes slid to mine and then danced away. "One week with me at the Night Court every month in exchange for my healing services after her first task." Only when he lifted my left arm to show my tattoo did I turn my attention back to Amarantha, lifting my chin defiantly. "For the rest of her life," he finished.
I heard the crowd murmur around us and felt the shift. Rhys had thrown out his gauntlet. He had bet on me in the first task and anyone who had thought it was some sort of mockery now knew he was deadly serious. For the rest of my life—and he expected to be able to collect for a long, long time.
Amarantha chose to address none of it. "Enjoy my party," she said dismissively, but as Rhys turned us away I felt her eyes burning holes in my back. Hers and Tamlin's both.
As we approached the banquet table, I slid a thought toward him. She'll punish you for that.
He reached for a goblet and filled it. And then I'll punish her and she will love me for it. Bile rose in my throat. His expression was bland as he offered me the goblet. "Wine?"
What was the point in objecting? I took the goblet and downed it in swift gulps, then almost dropped it, barely managing to set it down on the table with an unsteady clang. The wine hit me fast. My vision swam and I swayed—but that was it. It was an effort to release my grip on the goblet.
I lifted my hand and squinted at it. The elegant swirling ink danced and crawled along my skin, writhing like a living thing, and I shuddered uncontrollably.
I was definitely drunk, but I was still present. That had never happened before.
It seemed to be enough of a reaction for Rhys. He grabbed my arm, leading me across the room as I staggered and tried to remember how to walk.
The walls were lined with plush couches and it was to one of them near the front of the room that he led me. From our vantage point, I could see Tamlin seated on the dais but only the edges of Amarantha's skirt and one long elegant hand as it stroked Tamlin's thigh. Rhys was positioning us to taunt Tamlin more than Amarantha.
He threw himself down on the couch, his arms stretched along the back as he sipped from his own goblet of wine. I stared at him blankly as his gaze swept over me, a feral grin sliding across his face as his violet eyes glowed. "Dance for me," he said in such a low and sensuous voice that I felt a pulse deep in my belly and an instant flush that washed away the last of my chills.
Dance. I could handle dancing.
I had no idea why the wine hadn't swept away my senses, but I could use it. I could use this extra time, all of these extra nights with Rhys even if we were surrounded by enemies. As long as no one realized I wasn't as completely out of my head on faerie wine as I should be.
I let a coy smile curl my lips as I watched Rhys from under lowered lashes. I blocked the image of Tamlin, somewhere behind me, from my mind. I blocked out Amarantha. I made myself forget about every other person in the entire room, except for Rhys and the way he was looking at me and what I wanted to make him feel, even without laying a single finger on him.
I danced.
I danced for hours, until I could barely move my legs.
And then Rhys gave me a second glass of wine, but it only made me nauseous, tripping over my own feet in what could hardly be called dancing, until I made myself dizzy and vomited behind the couch. Rhys only chuckled, vanished the mess and then pulled me down onto his lap. I was too tired and sick to care at that point and slumped against him, heedless of what anyone thought of it or if I could be using the situation more to my advantage somehow. His hands traced new patterns in the paint around my waist, but never strayed.
I didn't remember falling asleep, but when I woke in my cell I found that I was exactly as sick from the wine as I had been before. I vomited so many times that I lost count and I was alternately hot and cold. How the hell had I done this for weeks on end?
Lucien snuck in later that day and I tried to look grateful when he wrapped his heavy, warm cloak around me, but he only grimaced at me. "Look at all this," he said, shaking his head as he took in the wispy dress and smeared paint. I could only imagine how haggard I looked after a day of sicking up over and over. "Bastard," he muttered.
I stayed silent, looking down at my hands where the tattoo stood out starkly on my left arm. Let him think I was ashamed. After a moment he sighed, grabbing my wrist so he could examine the tattoo himself. "What were you thinking? Didn't you know I'd come as soon as I could?"
I tugged my arm free, but I didn't want to fight with Lucien. Vomit on him maybe, but not fight. I opened my mouth, then closed it. I couldn't even answer him. The only one I could speak with here was Rhys. I realized I had wrapped my hand around my own throat, frowning in my frustration, and Lucien's expression had morphed into horror. "Is he the one that took your voice too? What other bargains have you made with him?"
I dropped my hand almost guiltily and shook my head, the motion sending me reeling. Lucien caught me before I tipped onto the floor and I gripped his sleeves as I stared up at him imploringly. I shook my head again, more slowly this time.
"Alright," he said, helping me sit back. "Alright. Something else then. Don't worry, Tamlin will find a way to get you out of it, when this is all over." He squeezed my hands and I gave him a brave nod. "I should go. The rotation's about to shift." I braced myself on the edge of the cot as he moved away.
He glanced back at me just before he slipped out the door. "Stay strong, Feyre," he whispered. "We're all counting on you."
The next few days were—difficult. Even if the wine didn't make me black out completely, it still made me roaring drunk. I spent half the day sick and half in an exhausted stupor. I barely had time to sleep, let alone think about my next steps with Rhys.
But each night, as he handed me that goblet full of faerie wine, I looked at him. I looked at him the way I was supposed to be looking at Tamlin, full of secrets and words that couldn't be spoken. With Tamlin the stare had meant "I love you" but Rhys would never have believed that, not at this point, so instead I stared "I know you" and "I understand" at him. His face was always a careful mask of boredom, but he never looked away until the wine hit me.
My stare after that probably did mean "I love you", but by then it hardly mattered. So many things could be blamed on the wine.
In spite of the faerie version of alcohol poisoning, which never lessened, I found myself growing stronger in other ways. I got better at keeping food down and Rhys was still making sure I got good, hot meals every day. Dancing all night was almost as strenuous as one of Cassian's daily workouts. The languorous state I spent each night in never abated, but I felt like I could think more, even if it was like thinking without any inhibitions about what might be a good idea or a bad one.
Once, late into the night, I was curled at Rhys's feet, resting my head on his thigh as he ran his fingers idly through my hair. It felt gloriously soothing, and if I closed my eyes I could almost pretend we were home and out of this nightmare. Almost.
The muscles beneath my head went tense and the hand in my hair stilled. Fingers curled into my scalp possessively. I stirred, glancing up at him, my movements slow and lethargic, to find his attention focused elsewhere. I followed his gaze to the throne. Amarantha was speaking to someone, one of the other High Lords, and with her attention diverted Tamlin had turned his head ever so slightly. Just enough that he could see us out of the corner of his eye. His knuckles were white where he gripped the arms of his chair, though he had managed to keep his claws hidden. I looked back to Rhys, whose expression had morphed into that of a cocky, satisfied male.
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes, barely. I brought my feet under me and stood up quickly. Almost too quickly, but I turned my drunken swoon into a stretch. That left Rhys staring, completely by accident of course, directly at my chest as I raised my arms over my head and arched my back, yawning. As I lazily lowered my arms again, he pointedly did not look away from his new target. He gave me a sly grin as he leaned back more comfortably on the couch, as if preparing to enjoy a good show, but his eyes were full of amused recognition at how I had deliberately interrupted his challenge to Tamlin.
I swayed my hips and arched a brow at him inquisitively, but he gave a slight shake of his head and made a dismissive gesture. No more dancing tonight. I shrugged and batted my eyes at him before retreating to the entrance where the guards escorted me back to my cell as usual.
In bits and pieces, I began to find time to send my "dreams" down the bond again. I had been hesitant about trying again after the first disastrous results, but I didn't have a lot of other options available to me. Rhys's attempt to wipe my mind had truly shaken me. If he realized that it hadn't worked, would he assume that his own memories were spilling into my mind and nothing could be done to stop it? Would he continue to try to wipe them out each night?
Or would he probe more deeply to look for some other source? I shuddered at the thought of Rhys discovering who I was by forcing himself into my innermost thoughts. I would tell him everything before I let it come to that, I decided.
I started small, smaller than I had before. Just wisps of memory. An indistinct view of the town house foyer with a feeling of home and comfort. The billowing curtains of the mountain palace with the scent of jasmine. A blur of gold hair and a woman's laugh.
The first night, it was difficult to wait while the wraiths dressed and painted me. I kept sneaking glances at the door. I'm sure they noticed, but neither showed any reaction. When at last Rhys appeared and the wraiths slipped silently away, it was all I could do to keep my breathing steady and not reveal my tension. He said nothing as I turned to face him, only watched me with an unreadable expression. I felt him probing at my shield and I swallowed, lifting my chin stubbornly.
But he merely turned away, gesturing for me to follow, and I sagged in relief. On weak legs I hurried after him, struggling to hide my trembling.
I was lucky, so very lucky. He must've decided that the "dreams" would keep coming back to me and wiping my mind repeatedly might indeed damage me as he'd feared had happened the first time. But I had no doubt that if it seemed like I might reveal any information about him or his family to Amarantha, he would be inside my head in an instant.
After that, I slowly grew more bold, sending more vivid images. I mixed in scenes of my mortal life as well, hoping it might seem more natural that way, but slowly, carefully I let my sendings grow in detail again.
That silver thread that was our bond seemed stronger to me now—I envisioned it more like a rope than a string. I still felt very little from Rhys's side of it, but I wasn't really sure what I could expect while I was still human. Could a human and a faerie even have a full mating bond? I had never had a reason to ask.
Maybe it just felt stronger because Rhys was opening up to me a tiny bit. We rarely spoke, but I had felt his presence lurking at the edges of my thoughts in those brief moments we were alone each evening. Sometimes I could swear I felt him linger over one image or another, turning the memory over and over like a cherished heirloom that he'd thought was lost.
Whatever the reason, I found that I could send more detailed images. I visualized them as paintings, letting them drip down the bond as they took shape in my mind. The horrible red of Amarantha's hair became the vivid fabric of Mor's favorite dress, with sweeping strokes in all shades of swirling gold for her long hair and two dots of the rich brown that perfectly matched her eyes. The silky black of Cassian's hair framing that tanned skin and hazel eyes, oozing with the warmth and solidity of the male they belonged to. For Azriel, just the outline of his face in elegant lines, the details lost in swirling shadows, except for his hands and the smokey lines of the scars that he bore without shame.
I lingered the longest over Amren, as I always did in truth. I could capture her silhouette easily enough, from the sharp line of her glossy chin-length hair to the curl of her lips that somehow promised death and destruction with that small smile. But I could never get her eyes quite right, that essence of mercurial thunderclouds. I went over and over them in my mind until my head ached from mentally repainting again and again.
Assessing the full portrait of the four of them, I mentally showed it to Rhys. What do you think? I'd call it The Friends of My Dreams. I felt such an ache of loneliness in my heart when I thought of them. I wonder who they are, or if they're even real. If they're still alive, or if they're more of Amarantha's victims, haunting these dungeons along with me.
As always, there was no response, but the next night Rhys showed up early, watching with a heavy, thoughtful gaze as his wraiths put the finishing touches on my paint and makeup. When they were done and had left us alone, I met his gaze in the mirror and felt him probing gently at my thoughts. I held my breath, wondering if I had gone too far, mentally bracing myself for him to swoop in and drown out those memories as he had the first time. And then—
They're real, he whispered into my mind. They're alive. They're safe. Even his thoughts were quiet as he shared that precious secret. The breath left my lungs in a rush as I exhaled, overwhelmed with relief that I didn't entirely understand.
Then I realized—it wasn't my relief I was feeling, but Rhys's. He hadn't moved from where he lounged with deceptive casualness against the wall but he was sending emotion down the bond in uncontrolled waves. I could only let it wash over me, stunned.
It's been decades since I let myself think of them. His thoughts were still quiet, as if fearful that even safe inside his own head someone might overhear and strip away the only things he had left. I had almost forgotten their faces. Until you reminded me. I could only sit, frozen, watching him in the mirror.
He swallowed and our connection shut down abruptly, replaced by only bleak silence. He stepped up behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, the dark mask dropping over his features once more. "Forget them, Feyre. Forget about all of your dreams." His fingers tightened, digging into my collarbone. "I would take them from you myself if I wasn't worried I might disrupt that delicious stubbornness of yours that keeps you fighting," he purred.
An excuse, though neither of us acknowledged it. His grip on my shoulders had tightened, almost painfully. I knew he had to be wondering how I knew these things, how these so-called dreams kept reaching me. He had to be considering the bond between us and what it might mean, even with me being merely a mortal human.
Abruptly he released me and stepped back, but I caught a glimpse of the red marks on my skin before the paint corrected itself. Even when we arrived at the party that night, something in his expression remained stricken.
I had absolutely no idea how to fix it, and so I did nothing. For the next few days, I daydreamed in my own head, only letting the general feelings of home and family and loneliness seep out. I knew he could look if he wanted to, but I stopped pressing the memories on him.
I thought about trying to convince him to skip the wine, or let me only pretend to drink it. I could play along just fine without it and I wouldn't have to suffer through the after effects. But I hated to give up any advantage I had, and Rhys not knowing how aware I was each night was a chance for me to gain his attention when he least expected it.
I thought about telling him the truth too. The whole truth. All of it. If anyone could know the future and still hold to the same path, it would be my mate. On the other hand, if someone told me I had to let my mate die to preserve the future—could anyone be strong enough for that?
What it came down to was that I had no idea how to proceed. I hadn't considered that he would have blocked out memories of everything outside of Amarantha's court so thoroughly, as a means of survival. Now I had crashed through those walls and forced him to remember that he was more than a monster intent on destroying the witch queen. That there were good things out there that had been taken from him, but could be his again. I hadn't expected him to recoil from the idea. Perhaps he was afraid to hope.
But time was not on my side. I had to do something.
