A COURT OF JEALOUSY AND HATERS: ACOTAR chapter 21 or “Zoo Tragedy”

I’m shamelessly plugging my new Fantasy Romance serial in the intro to an unrelated post. Join the new Patreon tier or my Ream page , or read it on Kindle Vella.

As promised, I’m importing the A Court of Thorns and Roses recaps here from Patreon. These were originally written beginning in August of 2020, so there will be references to upcoming or seasonal events that won’t fit with our current timeline. I am not a time traveler and you’ll never be able to prove that I am. I will also include editors notes like this every now and then as we go, mostly to amuse myself but to give re-read value to those who’ve already been on this awful, awful journey with me.

CW: Rape

Chapter twenty ended on the pulse-pounding cliffhanger of Feyre seeing the most beautiful man she’s ever seen–again.

Everything about the stranger radiated sensual grace and ease. High Fae, no doubt. His short black hair gleamed like a raven’s feathers, offsetting his pale skin and blue eyes so deep they were violet, even in the firelight.

Excuse me, sir, but I believe it’s a Mary Sue’s job to have raven-black hair, pale skin, and violet eyes. You’re such a poser. I’m gonna put my middle finger up at you.

Thank you didn’t seem to cover what he’d done for me, but something about the way he stood with absolute stillness, the night seeming to press in closer around him, made me hesitate to speak–made me want to run in the other direction.

Starting to notice a pattern here. Feyre is only afraid of sexy, sexy dudes and anything non-European.

He, too, wasn’t wearing a mask. From another court, then.

Wait, wait. Wait. This guy is getting the kind of introduction a major player gets in a book like this. He gets compared to a raven and has super speshul eyes. So, he’s not just here today, gone tomorrow. We’ll hear from him again. ed.—god above, do we ever fucking hear from him again. He’s on god damn merch.

I mean, we better. Because nobody is that bad at writing, are they? ed.—as this entire genre of Hyphen Fantasy sprung from thousands of Maas imitators has proven…yup. Yup, they for sure can be that bad at writing.

But so far, all of the people Feyre needs to meet in order to move the story forward have to come to her. And that’s what’s making this so…boring. We never leave the same small circle of people, we never move on from this very limited setting of the manor and the woods to go out and do anything. In a fantasy novel. There’s no “we must leave the safety of the manor and go on an incredible journey where we’ll meet all sorts of folk.” We’re sitting on our asses watching Feyre paint and then occasionally something important will wander in to rescue her from something else that’s wandered by.

That’s all this book is going to be, isn’t it?

Sexy Stranger asks Feyre why she’s at the ritual.

His voice was a lover’s purr that sent shivers through me, caressing every muscle and bone and nerve.

I predict this series is going to be like the Sookie Stackhouse books in that by the end there will be seventeen different male characters, each hotter than the last, desperate to bang the heroine.

I took a step back. “My friends brought me.”

This is the kind of shit I say when I’m at the movies alone and I run into an ex-boyfriend. “My husband is totally here! And my friends! SO MANY FRIENDS HAVE I! I AM POPULAR AND WORTHY OF LOVE!”

The drumming was increasing in tempo, building to a climax I didn’t understand.

LOL, climax. Don’t worry, Feyre. By the end of this chapter, you’ll totally get it.

But also, here’s a sneaky thing that gets into everybody’s writing and it’s so obnoxious when you realize you’ve done it and you have to go back and try to find all the places you did it like a scavenger hunt of anger and regret: instead of “the drumming was increasing in tempo” using “the drumming increased in tempo” makes it more immediate and engaging. And that’s a lesson you’re gonna hear right now and go, “Wow, I’m gonna watch out for that in my work.” But you won’t. Because our brains are not wired to think differently than we talk. It will only be after it bothers you in another author’s work that you will remember how often you fuck that up.

It had been so long since I’d seen a bare face that looked even vaguely human.

In the previous chapter, she mentioned that the fairies who attacked her looked like High Fae but with “sharper” features, and that they weren’t wearing masks. And High Fae look human.

So, she just saw bare, vaguely human faces.

But whatever, if I point out every single time the author contradicts something two pages back, this would be an endless project and tbh, at this point, I’m halfway through and ready to be done.

Sexy Stranger doesn’t buy the “my cool friends are all in the bathroom” Jenny-style lying Feyre tries out.

“And who are your friends?” He was still smiling at me–a predator sizing up prey.

Say it with me: an em-dash is not a suitable replacement for a complete metaphor. This punctuation makes Feyre the predator on the first read.

Feyre is like, two ladies brought me, which sounds like a kindergartener making up a lie. Two ladies, yeah. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

When Sexy Stranger asks for the names of these ladies, Feyre realizes she’s pretty much dug herself into a hole.

Had I just traded three monsters for something far worse?

Who fucking cares at this point? Look, this is gonna sound victim blamey. And I guess it is. But I’m totally comfortable blaming Feyre for whatever happens to her when she’s been told multiple times that this is not a place for a human to be, that it will be dangerous for her to be anywhere near these festivities, and that there is a 100% chance that yes, she will get hurt.

It’s like telling someone, “Hey, that’s the polar bear enclosure, so it’s full of polar bears and you shouldn’t go in there,” and that person is like, “Well, I’ll just put on this suit covered in dead penguins and get in there and it’ll probably be fine.”

This isn’t a case of, “Don’t walk home from work alone in that short skirt or you’ll get assaulted and it will be all your fault.” This is a case of, “Don’t jump into the polar bear enclosure, especially since you’re wearing a suit covered in dead penguins.”

Sexy Stranger adheres like Gorilla Glue to the Sexy Stranger Code, Section 8: concerning rescues of Strong Female Characters, subsection xii, which reads: “In the case of thwarting a potential gang rape, all Sexy Strangers must deliver a trite phrase that will be perceived as cocky or arrogant by the Strong Female Character and the reader.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “For saving you.”

He’s not about to end up penalized by Pipe Fitters and Sexy Strangers Union local 308 again.

I bristled at his arrogance butt retreated another step. I was close enough to the bonfire, to that little hollow where the fairies were all gathered, that I could make it if I sprinted. Maybe someone would take pity on me–maybe Lucien or Alis were there.

Yeah, maybe you should run into a crowd of fairies to escape the fairies. You’re so good at this, Feyre.

Sexy Stranger points out that it’s not super common for fairies to be friends with mortals, what with humans being, you know, super afraid of them as the result of centuries-long animosity and violence. He points out, too, that humans are supposed to stay on their side of the wall. She tells him that she’s been friends with these fairies her whole life and has no reason to be afraid of them, and he’s like, yeah, but they ditched you at the Great Rite so…

Feyre’s response? That they went off to get snacks.

Like my very cool and popular friends at the movie theater.

He smiled for a heartbeat longer. I had never seen anyone so handsome–and never had so many warning bells pealed in my head because of it.

Except for when you saw Tamlin in his human form. And when you met Lucien. I swear, the next named male character Feyre meets is gonna be too attractive to look at without having the eyeballs melt from one’s head.

Feyre knows she’s caught in her lie when Sexy Stranger tells her that there aren’t any refreshments yet, but they could go somewhere together, and she’s like, no thanks. He tells her to “stay out of trouble” and to enjoy herself at the Rite.

His eyes gleamed in a way that suggested staying out of trouble meant staying far, far away from him.

But rather than doing that…

Though it might have been the biggest risk I’d ever taken, I blurted, “So you’re not a part of the Spring Court?”

That’s the biggest risk you’ve ever taken? Not, idk, snaring a dangerous fairy and forcing it to answer your questions? Or showing up at a festival you’ve been repeatedly warned against going anywhere near?

The most infuriating part of this is that he’s not wearing a mask, so she knows the answer already. I’m supposed to believe she’s taking a big, scary risk and being oh so super brave for asking someone a question she already knows the answer to.

He returned to me, every movement exquisite and laced with lethal power, but I held my ground as he gave me a lazy smile. “Do I look like I’m part of the Spring Court?”

Every single hot guy in this book must be described as a potential killer. I’m starting to worry that this series was written specifically to appeal to readers who feel Tate Langdon was an innocent woobie widdle soft boi in American Horror Story.

If this were not so heavily marketed and word-of-mouthed as “spicy” YA fantasy, I wouldn’t care. Worse shit happens in other fantasy novels. Erotic horror? Yeah, you’re supposed to be terrified of the thing getting you horny. But YA is meant for a specific age group and fantasy, well, yeah, sometimes you’re terrified and horny at the same time but NOT WHEN YOU’RE WRITING FOR TEENAGERS. ed.— In recent years there has been discourse surrounding whether or not this book is YA, especially considering the books that follow are adult fantasy romance (I’m supposed to call this High Fantasy or Epic Fantasy, but I refuse to, as the fandom seems only to talk about the romance aspects of the series, indicating that the romances are the driving plots, with any good vs. evil stuff used as a setting for those romances). I see people argue that ACOTAR is only classified as YA because people hate women for reading and they want to denigrate their tastes, which, like…if you feel like your tastes are being denigrated because someone suggests you read YA, that’s a YOU problem. The real reason ACOTAR is often classified as YA is because THE PUBLISHER AND AUTHOR SPECIFICALLY MARKETED IT TO THAT AUDIENCE. It’s not sexism, it’s literally the author’s and the publisher’s fault.

Now, is this book specifically billed as YA fantasy on the author’s website? No. I believe she and her publisher describe it as “high fantasy.” It is not. We’ve discussed why, in the past. It’s not “high fantasy,” it’s not “epic fantasy,” it’s swords and sorcery and that’s fine, but if we’re all meant to pretend that the author never intended this book for YA audiences…why did she and her publisher use the fact that it won numerous YA fantasy reading polls and reader’s choice awards in their marketing? Why did the author attend various industry conferences as a YA author, specifically to talk about YA and meet teen fans? ed.—Ah. I see I already ranted about this and only had to contain my rage for another paragraph.

It was reviewed by School Library Journal and the publisher added the review to the book’s “praise for” page and Amazon page. That’s pretty damning.

But let’s move on to more of this “it’s okay to be afraid of being Or Worsed so long as the guy is hot,” because this chapter is basically…that. Just that.

He gestured to his face, where a mask might go.

Um. No, that’s like…that’s exactly where a mask does go.

I’m so glad I didn’t have to be around this author during the pandemic because thinking, “Hmm, a mask might go on your face,” is some alarming shit.

There were so many better ways to phrase it, I’m sure you can come up with one on your own.

Just like every other situation in this fucking book, Feyre thinks about how she should be running but gosh, she’s just so curious, she has to ask questions.

“Why are you here, then?”

Excuse me, but why the fuck are you here, then, Feyre?

The man’s remarkable eyes seemed to glow–with enough of a deadly edge that I backed up a step.

Does Maas get paid per em-dash? That one isn’t even necessary!

“Because all the monsters have been let out of their cages tonight, no matter what court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn.”

More riddles and questions to be answered.

Uh. None of that was a riddle or a question. It was an entirely straightforward answer.

Now that she’s had this spooky experience, Feyre goes back to the house as she was originally instructed and–

Gotcha!

I hurried back to the hollow, too aware of the fact that I was putting my back to him. I was grateful to lose myself in the crowd milling along the path to the cave, still waiting for some moment to occur.

Can you imagine being the sheriff at that zoo tragedy presser? “We managed to rescue the individual from the polar bear enclosure unscathed, at which point she draped herself in more dead penguins and leaped back in.”

That’s right, Feyre is back in the fray, surrounded by fairies, including more of the kind that just tried to Or Worse her, and she’s really more concerned with once again describing the fact that the gathering has fairies that are wearing masks and fairies who aren’t wearing masks.

As I scanned the crowd, my eyes met with those of a masked faerie across the path. One was russet and shown as brightly as his red hair. The other was–metal.

OH WOW I WONDER WHO THIS IS I HOPE THE AUTHOR BUILDS A SHIT TON OF NEEDLESS SUSPENSE.

I blinked at the same moment he did,

Then how do you know it happened? Your eyes were blinking.

and then his eyes went wide. He vanished into nothing, and a second later, someone grabbed my elbow and yanked me out of the crowd.

WHOA I’M SO FREAKING FREAKED OUT RIGHT NOW WHO COULD IT BE?!

Yeah, it’s Lucien. It’s the character we’ve heard described that way a million times.

Lucien is like, what are you doing here, then he calls her an idiot and I’m like, “get her ass, Lucien! Drag her, metal-eyed queen!”

He picks her up and throws her over his shoulder and of course, she’s all put-me-down about it. He gets her back to the house.

Lucien dropped me on the floor of the manor hallway, and when I steadied myself, I found his face just as pale as before. “You stupid mortal,” he snapped. “Didn’t he tell you to stay in your room?”

Well, of course, he did. You didn’t expect Feyre to like, do that, did you?

“There was hardly anything–”

Feyre knows better than the dude who actually has lived in Prythian the whole time, and she’s gonna tell him.

“That wasn’t even the ceremony!” It was only then that I saw the sweat on his face and the panicked gleam in his eyes. “By the Cauldron, if Tam found you there …”

“So what?” I said, shouting as well. I hated feeling like a disobedient child.

Stop acting like a fucking child then? Just like, off the top of my head?

“It’s the Great Rite, Cauldon boil me! Didn’t anyone tell you what it is?”

YES! YES, TAMLIN DID! AND HE WARNED HER TO STAY AWAY.

But Lucien tells us again because Maas thinks we can’t handle the awesome complexity of her pathetic attempts to cobble together a mythology.

“Fire Night signals the official start of spring–in Prythian, as well as in the mortal world,” Lucien said.

“WE FUCKING KNOW,” Jenny said.

Not to belabor a point I’m going to beat like the skeleton of a horse that died during the Crimean but this world-building is shitty and not-good. It’s the “official start of spring in Prythian,” but until now the lands of the Spring Court have been described as being spring full-time. It was winter in Feyre’s world when she left it, and when they crossed into Prythian, it was spring.

You know, just for fun, let’s make a little list of all the times prior to this statement that we were told it’s fucking spring in fucking Prythian:

Of course it would be magic, because it was spring here. What wretched power did they possess to make their lands so different from ours, to control the seasons and weather as if they owned them? (Page 47)Mercifully, I was soon astride a white mare, riding with Lucien through the spring-shrouded woods beyond the gardens. (Page 84)Even the balmy spring woods seemed to recoil, to wither and freeze. (Page 90)Again, no markers, but it was filled with touches of spring: trees in bloom, fickle storms, young animals … At least I was to live out my days in one of the more moderate courts, weatherwise. (Page 116)I repeated Lucien’s instructions as I walked out of the manor, through the cultivated gardens, across the wild, rolling grassy hills beyond them, over clear streams, and into the spring woods beyond. (Page 123)Perhaps I was the first human in five hundred years to walk beneath those heavy, dark branches, to inhale the freshness of spring leaves masking the damp, thick rot. (Page 124)Did Tamlin or Lucien ever grow tired of day after day of eternal spring, or ever venture into the other territories, if only to experience a different season? (Page 125)I wouldn’t have minded endless, mild spring while looking after my family–winter brought us dangerously close to death every year–but if I were immortal I might want a little variation to pass the time. (Page 125-126)We were crossing a meadow of new spring grass when he caught me glancing at him for the tenth time, and I braced myself as he fell back from Tamlin’s side. (Page 165)

So, yeah. There are all the times it is explicitly stated that it’s done been spring this whole ding-dang time. But then somewhere around page 170, Sarah went, “Oh shit, but I want to put the Beltane scene from The Mists of Avalon in here!” and just abandoned the whole fucking thing, I guess?

If we get to the end of this book and it’s fucking Christmas or some shit in the Spring Lands I’m going to burn down a Barnes & Noble. ed.—from what I understand, there absolutely is a truly tragic Yule story written as a bonus or something.

Anyway, back to Lucien’s re-explaining of Calanmai:

“Here, our crops depend upon the magic we regenerate on Calanmai–tonight.”

\

HEY EVERYBODY WERE YOU AWARE THAT CALANMAI WAS TONIGHT?! I TOTALLY MISSED THAT AND I’M SO GLAD SARAH KNOWS I HAVE THE MEMORY RETENTION AND READING COMPREHENSION OF A BLOBFISH WITH REPEATED TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY.

The crops thing also throws me, considering how many times we’ve seen food just magically god damn appear from nowhere at all and now there’s people who have to cook it and grow it and idk, are these people going to starve without these crops that have never been mentioned?

“I want to put Beltane in my book because I decided it’s about fucking and that way I can put fucking in it and yeah, sure, it’s a seasonal thing and I’ve established that there are no seasons and also that food magically appears like it’s no big deal but I’m sure by the time the reader reaches this point in the book they’re going to be so dazzled by Tamlin’s super hot abs that I don’t really need to worry about writing well at all! Huzzah!” Sarah said, probably.

Tamlin had said something similar two days ago.

WE WERE THERE WE FUCKING KNOW.

“We do this by conducting the Great Rite. Each of the seven High Lords of Prythian performs this every year, since their magic comes from the earth and returns to it at the end–it’s a give-and-take.”

Every High Lord. Even in the courts that aren’t associated with spring? Does the winter court celebrate a spring festival? Does the autumn court celebrate the rebirth of power? ARE YOU SURE THIS IS THE ROAD YOU WANT TO GO DOWN, MS. MAAS? ARE YOU SURE?

“Tonight, Tam will allow…great and terrible magic to enter his body,” Lucien said, staring at the distant fires. “The magic will seize control of his mind, his body, his soul, and turn him into the Hunter. It will fill him with his sole purpose: to find the Maiden. From their coupling, magic will be released and spread to the earth, where it will regenerate life for the year to come.

THIS IS JUST MISTS OF AVALON! Seriously, if you doubt me, go to the library, pick up a copy of this book, read chapters fourteen and fifteen. This is EXACTLY THE MISTS OF AVALON BUT WRITTEN SO MUCH SHITTIER.

I mean, with the exception of the random child rape right in the middle of the scene that’s like, just mentioned like it’s no big and the kid is super into it. Like, damn, that bitch was telling us exactly what she was into that whole fucking time.

But I digress.

Feyre wants to know who the maiden is and Lucien is like:

“No one knows until it’s time. After Tam hunts down the white stag and kills it for the sacrificial offering, he’ll make his way to that sacred cave, where he’ll find the path lined with faerie females waiting to be chosen as his mate for tonight.”

Not to be a broken god damn record here, but…

MISTS. OF. AVALON.

What’s even funnier about the change from the Hunter hunting the King-Stag to the Hunter slaying the White Stag is that the White Stag is part of Arthurian myth, as well.

“But you were there–and other male faeries.” My face burned so hot that I began sweating.

Help! Someone help Feyre, she’s gay-panicking!

“Well, Tam’s not the only one who gets to perform the rite tonight.

Yeah. You just said there are seven other High Lords doing it.

Once he makes his choice, we’re free to mingle. Though it’s not the Great Rite, our own dalliances tonight will help the land, too.”

NO, and I cannot stress this enough, HOMO.

Lucien didn’t want Feyre to be there because:

“Because he would have smelled you, and claimed you, but it wouldn’t have been Tamlin who brought you into that cave.”

I think she’s safe, since she doesn’t have a brother she can be tricked into fucking like Morgaine did.

But no, that’s not what Lucien is talking about. He’s talking about how Tamlin would have Or Worsed her, violently.

“I should go,” Lucien said, gazing at the hills. “I need to return before he arrives at the cave–at least to try to control him when he smells you and can’t find you in the crowd.”

Nah, Lucien, just say, “I should go get my dick wet because this is the only time it’s gonna happen since I have to spend all my fucking free time with Glowery McStraightdude for the rest of the year.”

It made me sick–the thought of Tamlin forcing me, that magic could strip away any sense of self, of right or wrong. But hearing that … that some feral part of him wanted me … My breath was painful.

It makes her sick that he would do that to her…what about the fairy he’s gonna do it to? What’s up with that? No concern there or just phew, glad he’s not gonna Or Worse me?

And yeah, Feyre, it’s SUPER SEXY that Tamlin would want to rape you. You’re right. So fucking hot. Definitely appropriate for a book that’s TOTALLY NOT YA.

“Stay in your room tonight, Feyre,” Lucien said, walking to the garden doors. “No matter who comes knocking, keep the door locked. Don’t come out until morning.”

SIR WE ALREADY KNOW SHE’S NOT GOING TO DO THAT.

So, let’s head over to ye olde section break, where she’s gonna leave her room.

At some point, I dozed off while sitting at my vanity.

I choose to imagine Feyre falling asleep while gazing at herself because she’s that vain but also that boring.

The drums suddenly stop and magic just whooshes over everything, including her, in her room.

Though I tried not to, I thought about the probable source and blushed, even as my chest tightened.

Can you imagine hours and hours of endless drumming that only stops when you climax? Imagine the anxiety. Am I taking too long? Are the drummers’ arms getting tired? Are they thinking, god, when is this dipshit gonna jizz so I can go home and put ice on my tennis elbow?

Also, does Tamlin just splooge magic and everyone knows when to stop or does he have to wave a white flag out the cave door?

Well, he’d certainly taken his time with the ritual, which meant the girl was probably beautiful and charming, and appealed to his instincts.

Because men famously have increased staying power when they’re more aroused by their partner.

Don’t criticize him, Feyre. He had to do all this to a soundtrack.

And let’s talk about this roundabout compliment Feyre is giving herself. She’s just been told that she can’t be at the ritual because Tamlin would choose her out of animal instinct and now she’s saying, oh, I bet the girl he chose instead is so beautiful and charming because that appeals to his instincts. The instincts that would have made him choose Feyre. Those instincts. The ones that are inspired to priapism by beauty and charm.

Feyre thinks about how the girl was probably psyched to be chosen because Tamlin is a High Lord.

And I supposed Tamlin was handsome. Terribly handsome. Even though I couldn’t see the upper part of his face, his eyes were fine, and his mouth beautifully curved and full. And then there was his body, which was … I hissed and stood.

Oh, do you like his body, Feyre? None of us outside of the book could tell because you hardly ever mention his flowing golden hair or rock-hard abs.

I stared at my door, at the snare I’d rigged. How utterly absurd–as if bits of rope and wood could protect me from the demons in this land.

The prosecution reminds the jury that Feyre has caught two fairies, including a High Lord, in snares before this point.

Needing to do something with my hands,

eyebrows eyebrows

I carefully disassembled the snare.

…oh.

Then I unlocked the door and strode into the hallway.

She doesn’t just not stay in her room. She STRIDES THE FUCK OUT OF IT.

STRIDES.

She thinks about how stupid the holiday is and how she’s glad humans don’t have them, and she goes to the kitchen for a meal that seems like it was written by someone who just started the Atkins diet and desperately misses carbs. Then she heads off to paint, only to be stopped in the hallway by Tamlin, who’s just come back from the ritual.

His bare chest was painted with whorls of dark blue woad, and from the smudges in the paint, I knew exactly where he’d been touched. I tried not to notice that they descended past his muscled midriff.

I’m sorry, Feyre, were you expecting that he somehow had sex with someone without anything touching his dick? But if you were wondering, yes. The woad is also used in The Mists of Avalon.

From The Mists of Avalon:

She could not see him clearly; the rising sun was in her eyes, and she could see only that he was tall, with a shock of fair hair, and strongly built. He is not one of their own people, then? But it was not for her to question. The men of the tribe-and especially an old man, with the gnarled swollen muscles of a smith, blackened like his own forge were painting the youth’s body from head to foot with the blue woad […]

Look, if Maas were a better writer, the sameness of the scenes would be obvious. Before Tamlin even returned to the house, I was like, “I bet he’ll have symbols drawn on him in blue paint when he gets back, and hopefully it doesn’t turn out that he accidentally fucked his own sister.”

Anyway, back to excerpts of ACOTAR:

I was about to pass him when he grabbed me, so fast that I didn’t see anything until he had me pinned against the wall.

My favorite part of this scene is that she’s eating a cookie when she runs into him, and the sentence right after the one above is about her dropping the cookie.

“I smelled you,” he breathed, his painted chest rising and falling so close to mine. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there.”

Damn, Feyre. Take a bath.

He reeked of magic. When I looked into his eyes, remnants of power flickered there. No kindness, none of the wry humor and gentle reprimands. The Tamlin I knew was gone.

You mean “the thing that is happening to me now is exactly the thing Lucien told me would happen?”

“Let go,” I said as evenly as I could, but his claws punched out, embedding in the wood above my hands. Still riding the magic, he was half-wild.

He has you pushed up against a wall, with his claws out, talking about he could smell you. I feel like that’s probably full-wild.

“You drove me mad,” he growled, and the sound trembled down my neck, along my breasts until they ached. “I searched for you, and you weren’t there. When I didn’t find you,” he said, bringing his face closer to mine, until we shared breath, “it made me pick another.”

Thanks for clarifying that you were out there stalking Feyre to rape but you settled for a consenting partner. I was worried you were sitting in that cave alone, crying and jacking off while the drummers tried to avoid eye contact.

I couldn’t escape. I wasn’t entirely sure that I wanted to.

Yeah, he’s scaring me but it’s so haaaawt.

The thing is, the sexual tension in this scene is hot, and that’s the problem. Because as I noted before, Maas can be a competent writer, when she wants to be. And this scene is just roiling with “omg do it already!” vibes that have me suddenly invested in these characters boning despite their lack of chemistry in every scene they have together. It’s totally unearned, but the fact that she can pull me back into the story even a little bit is pretty impressive.

But…it’s also assault. He’s got her arms pinned, she’s telling him to let her go, but he ignores her so he can tell her all about his recent sexual encounter:

She asked me not to be gentle with her, either,” he snarled, his teeth bright in the moonlight. He brought his lips to my ear. “I would have been gentle with you, though.”

And to verbally fantasize, without her consent, about how he would have had sex with her:

Every inch of my body went taut as his words echoed through me. “I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time, Feyre.” He said my name like a caress, and his hot breath tickled my ear. My back arched slightly.

To me, it’s not enough that Feyre’s all, oh, maybe I don’t want to escape. I would have liked this scene better if she wasn’t turned on by his ferocity so much without any assurance to the reader that she’s actually enjoying this and not conflicted about it, and that deep down she’s not afraid of him at all.

You know. Because that fairy that always tells the truth told her she would be safe with him.

“Why would I want someone’s leftovers?” I said, making to push him away. He grabbed my hands again and bit my neck.

THE POLAR BEAR GOT HER.

I cried out as his teeth clamped onto the tender spot where my neck met my shoulder. I couldn’t move–couldn’t think, and my world narrowed to the feeling of his lips and teeth against my skin. He didn’t pierce my flesh, but rather bit to keep me pinned. The push of his body against mine, the hard and the soft, made me grind my hips against his.

SHE IS NOW GRINDING ON THE POLAR BEAR.

I should hate him–hate him for his stupid ritual, for the female he’d been with tonight …

I mean, if we’re continuing with this polar-bear-enclosure-penguin-suit metaphor, I guess “female” is correct. But come on. We all know it’s derogatory. This fairy wasn’t a fairy or a woman, she was a “female.”

Also, why should she hate “the female?” Give me one good reason to hate her for participating in a ritual that is part of her faith, a ritual that doesn’t harm anyone and does measurable good for her community?

His bite lightened, and his tongue caressed the places his teeth had been.

I hate finding this sexy but if Feyre wasn’t so angry, if she hadn’t asked him to let her go, if he wasn’t doing shit like punching his claws into the wall and biting her while she wonders if she really likes this, it would be a really hot scene.

But it’s too late. Feyre’s pussy juices have activated.

He jerked away. The air was bitingly cold against my freed skin, and I panted as he stared at me. “Don’t ever disobey me again,” he said, his voice a deep purr that ricocheted through me, awakening everything and lulling it into complicity.

She disobeyed you like three times already tonight, so good luck with that.

Then I reconsidered my words and straightened. He grinned at me in that wild way, and my hand connected with his face.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I breathed, my palm stinging. “And don’t bite me like some enraged beast.”

Okay, thank you, Feyre, for having the common sense to protect yourself from the dude who just shoved you against the wall, talked about how he would fuck you, and then bit you. We’re cautiously back in the game.

That said…maybe when he tells you what to do, you actually should listen. Because you were in real danger when you disobeyed before. This might actually be good advice, especially considering how not too long ago you had a fairy tell you that this dude is the only person you’ll be safe with.

Which tbh, I’m sitting here like, I bet he’s evil and that fairy meant Lucien, who is somehow a High Lord and we don’t know it yet or he becomes it before the end of the book or something.

He chuckled bitterly. The moonlight turned his eyes to the color of leaves in shadow. More–I wanted the hardness of his body crushing against mine; I wanted his mouth and teeth and tongue on my bare skin, on my breasts, between my legs. Everywhere–I wanted him everywhere. I was drowning in that need.

I so wish there was just one additional sentence in here about how she wants these things, but not when he’s acting like a freaking rapist.

His nostrils flared as he scented me–scented every burning, raging thought was pounding through my body, my sense. The breath rushed from him in a mighty woosh.

The Mighty Woosh is my favorite British comedy.

He growled once, low and frustrated and vicious, before prowling away.

Because everyone loves a sullen rapist.

That’s the hook. He’s frustrated because he can’t fuck her, and this is described as “vicious,” which makes me believe that Feyre ultimately made the correct choice in slapping him.

This isn’t the most rapey thing I’ve ever read for my league of jealous haters, but it’s probably the most frustrating. If Feyre had simply acknowledged that she knew she was safe with him even though he was exhibiting those behaviors, and that she knew this because she had outside confirmation from that Suriel thing and not because she’s just horny, it wouldn’t have been rapey at all.

I can’t believe she’s survived jumping into the polar bear enclosure this many times.