A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #2)

by Sarah J. Maas

“Hello, Feyre darling,” he purred.

I smelled jasmine first—then saw stars. A sea of stars flickering beyond glowing pillars of moonstone that framed the sweeping view of endless snowcapped mountains. “Welcome to the Night Court,” was all Rhys said. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

“You are no one’s subject.” I went rigid at the flash of teeth, the smoke-like wings that flared out. “I will say this once—and only once,” Rhysand purred, stalking to the map on the wall. “You can be a pawn, be someone’s reward, and spend the rest of your immortal life bowing and scraping and pretending you’re less than him, than Ianthe, than any of us. If you want to pick that road, then fine. A shame, but it’s your choice.” The shadow of wings rippled again. “But I know you—more than you realize, I think—and I don’t believe for one damn minute that you’re remotely fine with being a pretty trophy for someone who sat on his ass for nearly fifty years, then sat on his ass while you were shredded apart—” “Stop it—” “Or,” he plowed ahead, “you’ve got another choice. You can master whatever powers we gave to you, and make it count. You can play a role in this war. Because war is coming one way or another, and do not try to delude yourself that any of the Fae will give a shit about your family across the wall when our whole territory is likely to become a charnel house.”

I said, “Don’t you have other things to deal with?” “Of course I do,” he said, shrugging. “I have so many things to deal with that I’m sometimes tempted to unleash my power across the world and wipe the board clean. Just to buy me some damned peace.” He grinned, bowing at the waist. Even that casual mention of his power failed to chill me, awe me. “But I’ll always make time for you.”

Rhys released my chin. But as he lowered his hand, I gripped his wrist, feeling the solid strength. “It’s a shame,” I said, the words nearly gobbled up by the sound of the city music. “That others in Prythian don’t know. A shame that you let them think the worst.” He took a step back, his wings beating the air like mighty drums. “As long as the people who matter most know the truth, I don’t care about the rest. Get some sleep.”

But you … She does not know you. You belong to every court.” “So I’m your huntress and thief?” His hands slid down to cup the backs of my knees as he said with a roguish grin, “You are my salvation, Feyre.”

“Did you enjoy the sight of me kneeling before you?”

🤯🤯

“You could try rubbing it on certain body parts and I might come faster.”

I might be a shameless flirt, but at least I don’t have a horrible temper. You should come tend to my wounds from our squabble in the snow. I’m bruised all over thanks to you.

Go lick your wounds and leave me be.

I’d much rather you licked my wounds for me.

🤯

Lick you where, exactly?

Wherever you want to lick me, Feyre. I’d like to start with “Everywhere,” but I can choose, if necessary.

Let’s hope my licking is better than yours. I remember how horrible you were at it Under the Mountain.

I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I’d be more than happy to prove you wrong. I’ve been told I’m very, very good at licking.

A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest. I got up, chucked the letter in the burbling fire, and gave it a vulgar gesture. I could have sworn laughter rumbled down the hall.

“One would think a High Lord would have more important things to do than pass notes back and forth at night.” “I do have more important things to do,” he purred. “But I find myself unable to resist the temptation. The same way you can’t resist watching me whenever we’re out. So territorial.”

“To the people who look at the stars and wish, Rhys.” He picked up his glass, his gaze so piercing that I wondered why I had bothered blushing at all for Tarquin. Rhys clinked his glass against mine. “To the stars who listen—and the dreams that are answered.”

To the huntresses who remember to reach back for those less fortunate—and water-wraiths who swim very, very fast.

Rhys still knelt, wings drooping across the white sheets, head bowed, his tattoos stark against his golden skin. A dark, fallen prince.

❤️

“Do not,” Rhys said with deadly quiet, “condescend to her.”

🤩🤩

“I will kill anyone who harms you,” Rhys snarled. “I will kill them, and take a damn long time doing it.” He panted. “Go ahead. Hate me—despise me for it.”

The painting—I could see it; feel it. I wanted to paint it. I wanted to paint. I didn’t wait for him to stretch out his hand before I went to him. And looking up into his face I said, “I want to paint you.” He gently lifted me into his arms. “Nude would be best,” he said in my ear.

Lucien said too quietly, “And I suppose the Night Court is so much better?” I remembered—remembered what I was supposed to know, to have experienced. What Lucien and the others could never know, not even if it meant forfeiting my own life. And I would. To keep Velaris safe, to keep Mor and Amren and Cassian and Azriel and … Rhys safe. I said to Lucien, low and quiet and as vicious as the talons that formed at the tips of my fingers, as vicious as the wondrous weight between my shoulder blades, “When you spend so long trapped in darkness, Lucien, you find that the darkness begins to stare back.”

He tugged on the hood, and I savored the shadows and menace and wings. Death on swift wings. That’s what I’d call the painting. He said softly, “I love it when you look at me like that.” The purr in his voice heated my blood. “Like what?” “Like my power isn’t something to run from. Like you see me.”

“I was afraid of you at first.” His white teeth flashed in the shadows of his hood. “No, you weren’t. Nervous, maybe, but never afraid. I’ve felt the genuine terror of enough people to know the difference. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t keep away.”

Fae males were territorial, dominant, arrogant—but the ones in the Spring Court … something had festered in their training. Because I knew—deep in my bones—that Cassian might push and test my limits, but the moment I said no, he’d back off. And I knew that if … that if I had been wasting away and Rhys had done nothing to stop it, Cassian or Azriel would have pulled me out. They would have taken me somewhere—wherever I needed to be—and dealt with Rhys later. But Rhys … Rhys would never have not seen what was happening to me; would never have been so misguided and arrogant and self-absorbed. He’d known what Ianthe was from the moment he met her. And he’d understood what it was like to be a prisoner, and helpless, and to struggle—every day—with the horrors of both.

“Did you think I would go with him?” He paused mid-bite, then lowered his fork. “I heard every word between you. I knew you could take care of yourself, and yet … ” He went back to his pie, swallowing a bite before continuing. “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.” I sipped from my wine. “And if he had grabbed me?” There was nothing but uncompromising will in his eyes. “Then I would have torn apart the world to get you back.” A shiver went down my spine, and I couldn’t look away from him. “I would have fired at him,” I breathed, “if he had tried to hurt you.” I hadn’t even admitted that to myself. His eyes flickered. “I know.”

He watched me take a long drink from mine. “I’m thinking,” he said, following the flick of my tongue over my bottom lip, “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 properly bed you. Especially with the wings.”

I lifted a hand toward that darkness, and met with a soft, silky material—his wing, cocooning and warming me. I traced my finger along it, and he shuddered, his arms tightening around me. “Your finger … is very cold,” he gritted out, the words hot on my neck. I tried not to smile, even as I tilted my neck a bit more, hoping the heat of his breath might caress it again. I dragged my finger along his wing, the nail scraping gently against the smooth surface. Rhys tensed, his hand splaying across my stomach. “You cruel, wicked thing,” he purred, his nose grazing the exposed bit of neck I’d arched beneath him. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?” “I never knew Illyrians were such sensitive babies,” I said, sliding another finger down the inside of his wing.

His eyes were open when I nestled my head against his arm. Within the shelter of his wing, we watched each other. And I realized I might very well be content to do exactly that forever.

“The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.”

Rhysand was my mate. Not lover, not husband, but more than that. A bond so deep, so permanent that it was honored over all others. Rare, cherished. Not Tamlin’s mate. Rhysand’s. I was jealous, and pissed off … You’re mine. The words slipped out of me, low and twisted, “Does he know?” The Suriel clenched the robes of its new cloak in its bone-fingers. “Yes.” “For a long while?” “Yes. Since—” “No. He can tell me—I want to hear it from his lips.” The Suriel cocked its head. “You are—you are feeling too much, too fast. I cannot read it.” “How can I possibly be his mate?” Mates were equals—matched, at least in some ways. “He is the most powerful High Lord to ever walk this earth. You are … new. You are made of all seven High Lords. Unlike anything. Are you two not similar in that? Are you not matched?” Mate. And he knew—he’d known. I glanced toward the river, as if I could see all the way to the cave, to where Rhysand slept. When I looked back at the Suriel, it was gone.

Knelt on those stars and mountains inked on his knees. He would bow for no one and nothing— But his mate. His equal.

Rhys followed my eyes and gave me a grin that was positively wicked. “How convenient that the bathtub is large enough for two.”

He was splattered with paint, his hair crusted with it, and his poor, beautiful wings … Those were my handprints on them.

“She is my mate. And my spy,” I said too quietly. “And she is the High Lady of the Night Court.”

And so Tamlin unwittingly led the High Lady of the Night Court into the heart of his territory.