Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Night 34

Rhysand hated the dungeons.

Although he had a room of his own, it felt as though he was always teetering on the edge of calling these cells his home. One wrong move, one wrong word, a slight hesitation, a moment of perceived weakness — anything could land him here, imprisoned behind these bars.

The basic creature comforts of his room were nothing but a tenuous alternative to this place. He felt it was only a matter of time until he was made to swap places with whatever sorry soul cowered in the corner of their cell.

When would it be him cowering in the corner? When would it be someone he loved?

Rhysand walked such a fine line that he felt himself sinking into the ground, frozen by the possibility of a catastrophic failure. His bones vibrated from the stress of holding himself together while outwardly maintaining his calm, collected facade. How long until something snapped?

He turned the corner and released a shaking breath.

The smell of mildew and damp embers from the burning sconces permeated the stale air. There were very few of them lit, giving the already dank space an even more desolate quality in the dim light. Moans of pain and pleas for mercy echoed against the slick stone walls as he prowled forward, toward the largest cell at the back where Amarantha sat in a makeshift throne eyeing the forcibly prostrated forms of Bryce, Thurn and Axios. The Attor loomed in the corner and two red-skinned lesser fae guards flanked the prisoners.

Amarantha's eyes found his the moment his foot crossed the threshold, and by the ire in her glare, Rhysand knew the three fae from the Day Court weren't the only ones who would suffer this night.

He bent at the waist in a graceful arch, dropping his eyes to the ground and shoring himself up in the same motion.

"My Lady," he murmured in his most alluring voice. He lined the syllables with a droplet of magic.

A spark ignited in Amarantha's eyes, sharpening the daggers of her gaze to a malignant point. "Rhysand," she began, rising from her seat. Rhysand remained still as she rounded the trembling forms on the ground between them and sauntered his way. She reached out for him with esurient fingers, trailing them across his stomach as she moved to stand behind him.

Rhysand's most base instincts prickled, the fine hairs on his nape rising as they always did when Amarantha slipped out of view. Feeling her wasn't enough—he needed to be able to see her, to know where she was and when he couldn't, panic gripped him like a vice.

Both her hands splayed, wide-fingered, against the hard panes of his abdomen and little by little, she drew him back against her until his back was flush with her chest. It was like being buried alive. He had to force his breaths to remain steady and unhurried, slow, even. In her highest heels, Amarantha could tilt her head and draw the point of her nose against the back of his neck, and she did so now, breathing in the scent of him as a beast might right before tearing into his freshly killed prey.

"How did it feel? To have your magic back this morning," she asked, and Rhysand could feel her lips moving against the skin of his neck.

Rhysand drew a hand from his pocket to slide it over one of Amarantha's. "I was merely happy to assist you in your efforts," he said smoothly, turning his face to the side to put her back in his peripheral. He watched out of the corner of his eye as a wry smile split her ruby lips apart to reveal her teeth.

"You do so indulge me," she said, her words low and throaty. She slid her hands up to his chest until their joined hands were over his heart. With another lover, the gesture might have been sweet, but Rhysand knew it for what it was—and Cauldron damn him, his heartbeat kicked up a notch. "I sense you are chafing against your new duties, Rhysand, and that pains me. We make such a good team, you and I, don't you agree?"

Rhysand tried for a small, humble smile, thankful she could only truly see his face in profile. "I do."

"I am a patient queen as I am a benevolent one. I gave my Tamlin forty-nine years, did I not? A long enough time for him to truly understand his place is here with me."

Often, during their more intimate moments, Amarantha would speak of Tamlin, of her grace and fortitude. There were three of them in bed more often than not. It was bad enough that he had to fuck Amarantha, but having the ghost of Tamlin's presence lurking between them was enough to drive any man insane.

"I am not so ignorant to think that in a mere thirty days you have given in so completely to my wishes. These…unwindings take time," said Amarantha as she pressed him further into her. "I can feel your power inside me," she whispered like a taunt. "And so I know just how powerful you once were. It must be so…challenging for you to learn to take orders, to feel so vulnerable, soexposed. Though you do look delicious on your knees." She paused to laugh, the noise vibrating through Rhysand like quakes in the earth.

She was quiet for a moment. A guard shuffled nervously on his feet, two of the three Day Court boys were sniffling and shifting on the ground just past the toes of Rhysand's boots.

"I felt you hesitate today, Rhysand."

Fuck, he .

"I can't have that. You swore an oath to me, to serve me."

She dropped her hands and stepped back, her heels clicking out a death knell as she rounded on him. Her lips were still split by a smile, but it had become menacing. Rhysand stood frozen in place, one hand in his pocket, the other still covering his heart where hers had recently vacated. He bowed to her so the crown of his blue-black head dipped low enough for her to kiss.

"I do serve you, my queen," he said, squeezing his eyes closed where she couldn't see, the foul words coating his throat with poison.

"Of course you do," she cooed like an adoring lover. "Of course, my lord of night," she said again. Rhysand lifted his head and looked at her. She reached up to take his jaw in her grasp, tracing her thumb alongside the sharp line of it. "That's why I'm going to give you your power again and you're going to kill these three traitors for me right here, right now. Prove to me you're loyal."

Rhysand was no stranger to killing. He'd been to war. He'd seen enough of it, delivered enough of it to develop a certain numbness around the act. He had done what needed to be done during a time fraught with uncertainty and violence. But to kill three innocent fae in the prime of their lives? At the behest of an evil tyrant? The very thought of it had a ball of sickness rising into his throat—his palms itched with sweat, a strange high-pitched keening rang out in his ears. Amarantha would have him fulfill a task so vile it would tear chunks from what was left of who he was. And Rhysand knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was merely the beginning. The first black mark upon his soul.

And yet, he knew he was going to do it.

His magic flowed back into him in much the same way it had that morning, fast and dizzying. He clenched his teeth against the strain of it beneath his skin, clawing its way back to its master. It felt like he was being drowned—he knew she had opened the floodgates in a torrent on purpose to destabilize him and it worked. Rhysand stumbled forward into her waiting arms, his hands instinctively grasping her shoulders for support as his bleary vision slowly cleared.

Before he could get his bearings, he felt her slip a hand into the front of his trousers. A hum of pleasure fell from her lips as she closed her fingers around him. Her skin was ice cold but her grip burned into him like a brand.

He flinched unconsciously and, thrilled by catching him off-guard, she gripped him harder, then began to handle him with languid strokes.

"Go on, Rhysand. Do it," Amarantha purred into his ear in a silken voice. "Be good. Be my good pet and do as I command, won't you?" She whispered against his hair as she pulled his head down closer to her mouth with her free hand.

Still reeling from her unexpected touch and the onslaught of his power—more than he'd felt that morning, Rhysand choked on a groan, masking his despair with a noise of pleasure. His fingertips pressed hard into her shoulders and he had to force himself to hold her close to him and not shove her away. Everything felt impossibly out of control all at once. Not only was he to murder three fae in cold blood, but he'd have to be wrapped in her claws as it did it.

Amarantha's words of malicious encouragement were clumping together as she pushed them into his ear with hot breaths. The boys on the ground were crying in earnest, begging for their lives which they knew were about to be forfeit—the sound of their combined agony was rising like a king tide inside the tight chamber. The Attor was laughing, a great, wet rasping sucking sound from the corner. And inside of Rhysand, an unbearable pressure was building. Pressure in the tips of his fingers, pressure low in his abdomen, pressure at the base of his skull, behind his eyes—clawing up his throat, roiling in his chest, scrabbling up his legs and arms…

As quickly as the Illyrian warrior he was bred to be, Rhysand leashed his power, so sweetly familiar to him now that it had settled, and slammed into the minds of the three fae at the same time.

He delivered them a decisive blow which severed their minds from their bodies in one fell swoop. But for Amarantha's sake, he made it appear as though they were suffering a great deal, which he was sure she would expect as a show of good faith.

Their screams were rote, orchestrated by Rhysand alone and not the product of any real pain or torture. Their bodies convulsed through a series of harmless stretches that looked rather horrific. Amarantha yanked her lips from Rhysand to crane her neck back to see them slither along the ground like mindless slugs.

In agony, Rhysand dropped his forehead down against her shoulder, a gesture that could so easily be conceived as affectionate. The pressure built as her strokes quickened, her grip tightened. Rhysand squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to relax into her touch. He pulled her closer and turned his head to leave a trail of kisses up the side of her neck as she watched the three fae writhe in their death throes. He felt her heaving breaths as her excitement built and built until, finally, Rhysand released them from his hold completely. They slumped to the ground, ruby red trails of blood leaking from their ears, eyes, and noses.

Amarantha let out a cry of delight. "Leave us!" She shouted at the guards and the Attor. The guards, all too ready to return to tormenting the rest of the guests, left immediately at her command. But the Attor prowled past, teeth bared and eyes narrowed as he watched Rhysand. Feeling a tad raw and somewhat feral by what he'd just been made to do—what he was currently doing, Rhysand bared his own teeth at the beast. A savage growl ripped from his throat at the Attor's retreating form, thrilling Amarantha further.

He let her think he was wild with desire for her. He let her shove him to the ground onto his back, right next to the fae he had just killed. He let her unfasten his trousers and pull him free. He let her hike up her skirts and sink down onto him and take her pleasure like a bloodthirsty animal.

When she was finished, she remained seated atop him, keeping him fully sheathed to the hilt. Then she looked down at him with a dreamy malice in her half-lidded eyes and yanked back his power. The sudden callousness of it was like a cracked whip against his flesh. He was prepared this time for the sinking feeling that accompanied the absence of his magic. It was like a void had been opened and he was free falling into it head first. But he remained unflinching, hands steady as they grasped her hips.

"Good work," Amarantha said and leaned down to press her blood-red lips to his for just a moment. Then she rose and straightened her skirts. "I have matters to attend to this evening. You may wait in your suite until I have need of you."

She was gone in a swirl of violet skirts and ruby ringlets that looked like swathes of blood. She left Rhysand without another word—a fourth body, desiccated on the ground.

He rolled over onto his elbow and vomited.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 46

The chorus of insults didn't sink so deeply into Rhysand's flesh anymore. Was it because he cared less and less? Or was it because a numbness had spread out along the length of his skin like oil over water. Nothing was impenetrable—he certainly heard them, he felt them, he remembered them, but it was odd. He couldn't seem to find the space to hold a light to them.

Whore

Bastard

Traitor

Liar

Whore. Whore. Whore. Whore

Yes,he , you're right.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 59

It felt as though he was existing in only the moments he was required to physically move, to perform, to speak or obey or torture. Everything in between was just a stasis. The quiet of his room felt like a threat. The darkness that had once swaddled him in its safety felt like a noose. There was nowhere he could go that would offer any solace. There was nowhere but here.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Night 70

She was vicious in her want for him. He kept up with her out of sheer obligation. His vision was a blur of red hair and pale skin, long nails that tore into his quickly paling flesh and bright white teeth that closed over the accompanying blood that bubbled up. All he could hear was her voice, raspy, begging for more, more,more.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 100

Rhysand paused mid-step—had he just come this way? These fucking tunnels. All this time wasted and not even a good sense of direction to show for it.

He turned on his heel and went back.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Night 116

"Say it again," she crooned.

"My queen," he moaned against the apex of her thighs. Her fists tightened in his hair and pulled hard at the roots.

"Again," she demanded.

"My queen. My eternal queen."

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 141

His right knee twinged.

It happened suddenly, while he was standing mindlessly beside Amarantha's throne just after lunch. He was so surprised he thought he might have imagined it.

Then it twinged again. Rhysand shifted on his feet and felt a deep and familiar ache all the way down to the bone.

He turned his gaze toward the towering doors that had remained sealed shut since that first night and he wondered if, far, far above, it was raining.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Night 167

He'd stripped his sweat-soaked shirt off moments before hurling up what little dinner he'd managed to eat that evening.

He felt that same numbness creeping in, creating a barrier between his body and any real sensation. He was grateful for it.

The floor was just cool enough to quell the violent nausea roiling inside of him, but not cold enough to persuade him to rise. There was no real comfort in his bed, anyway.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 214

"Yes, my Lady," Rhysand said and turned immediately to exit the throne room.

He had just crossed the threshold of the Eastern tunnel when he heard a pattering against the stone in an unusual dissonance. When he looked down he saw that his magic had worn off completely and the deep gouges Amarantha had bestowed upon him that morning were seeping blood. He paused to watch as thick red droplets fell from the fingertips of his right hand. A shallow pool was forming next to his boot.

Odd, he hadn't felt the pain in the throne room moments ago. He supposed if he concentrated now he could feel the gashes rubbing against the deep violet fabric of his jacket.

But it hardly mattered.

Rhysand left a bloody trail of boot prints on his way to the dungeons.

Middle Lands - Under the Mountain - Day 336

The Attor flew menacingly over the small crowd gathered in the throne room. The sound of its leathery wings echoed throughout the chamber.

Rhys canted his head upward to track its progression along the cavernous ceiling and found himself thinking of Cassian and Azriel. If he closed his eyes, the sound of thumping wingbeats might belong to one of his brothers and not the creature from this nightmare. If he closed his eyes, the gentle swooping of wind catching on sturdy, membranous flesh might be his own wings in flight.

But Rhysand didn't close his eyes. And the wings weren't those of Cassian and Azriel, whose shapes were nearly as familiar to him as his own. These wings belonged to a demon and Rhysand wasn't flying freely through the sky.

He was in Hell. And he was alone.