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

by Sarah J. Maas

Delighted surprise lit Rhys’s eyes, there and gone in a heartbeat.

“Cresseida made many sacrifices on behalf of her people,” Tarquin offered gently—to me. “Do not take her caution personally.” “We all made sacrifices,” Rhysand said, the icy boredom now shifting into something razor-sharp. “And you now sit at this table with your family because of the ones Feyre made. So you will forgive me, Tarquin, if I tell your princess that if she sends word to Tamlin, or if any of your people try to bring her to him, their lives will be forfeit.” Even the sea breeze died. “Do not threaten me in my own home, Rhysand,” Tarquin said. “My gratitude goes only so far.” “It’s not a threat,” Rhys countered, the crab claws on his plate cracking open beneath invisible hands. “It’s a promise.” They all looked at me, waiting for any response. So I lifted my glass of wine, looked them each in the eye, holding Tarquin’s gaze the longest, and said, “No wonder immortality never gets dull.” Tarquin chuckled—and I wondered if his loosed breath was one of profound relief. And through that bond between us, I felt Rhysand’s flicker of approval.

“Do you like that Tarquin can’t stop looking at you? I can’t tell if it’s because he wants you, or because he knows you have his power and wants to see how much.” “Can’t it be both?” “Of course. But having a High Lord lusting after you is a dangerous game.” “First you taunt me with Cassian, now Tarquin? Can’t you find other ways to annoy me?” Rhys prowled closer, and I steadied myself for his scent, his warmth, the impact of his power. He braced a hand on either side of me, gripping the dresser. I refused to shrink away. “You have one task here, Feyre. One task that no one can know about. So do anything you have to in order to accomplish it. But get that book. And do not get caught.” I wasn’t some simpering fool. I knew the risks. And that tone, that look he always gave me … “Anything?” His brows rose. I breathed, “If I fucked him for it, what would you do?” His pupils flared, and his gaze dropped to my mouth. The wood dresser groaned beneath his hands. “You say such atrocious things.” I waited, my heart an uneven beat. He at last met my eyes again. “You are always free to do what you want, with whomever you want. So if you want to ride him, go ahead.” “Maybe I will.” Though a part of me wanted to retort, Liar. “Fine.” His breath caressed my mouth. “Fine,” I said, aware of every inch between us, the distance smaller and smaller, the challenge heightening with each second neither of us moved. “Do not,” he said softly, his eyes like stars, “jeopardize this mission.” “I know ...

My cheeks heated—shame. Shame for what? Wanting to throttle her for no good reason? Rhysand teased and taunted me—he never … seduced me, with those long, intent stares, the half smiles that were pure Illyrian arrogance.

I didn’t realize I’d been waiting for him until the barge docked at the base of the island-city, and I’d somehow spent the entire final hour alone. When I filed onto land with the rest of the crowd, Amren, Varian, and Tarquin were waiting for me at the docks, all a bit stiff-backed. Rhysand and Cresseida were nowhere to be seen.

Not one word—I had not uttered one word to Rhysand. And I wasn’t about to start as I looped my arm through Tarquin’s, and said to none of them in particular, “See you later.” Something brushed against my mental shield, a rumble of something dark—powerful. Perhaps a warning to be careful. Though it felt an awful lot like the dark, flickering emotion that had haunted me—so much like it that I stepped a bit closer to Tarquin. And then I gave the High Lord of Summer a pretty, mindless smile that I had not given to anyone in a long, long time. That brush of emotion went silent on the other side of my shields. Good.

Rhysand was lounging on my bed as if he owned it. I took one look at the hands crossed behind his head, the long legs draped over the edge of the mattress, and ground my teeth. “What do you want?” I shut the door loud enough to emphasize the bite in my words. “Flirting and giggling with Tarquin did you no good, I take it?”

I chucked the box onto the bed beside him. “You tell me.” The smile faltered as he sat up, flipping open the lid. “This isn’t the Book.” “No, but it’s a beautiful gift.” “You want me to buy you jewelry, Feyre, then say the word. Though given your wardrobe, I thought you were aware that it was all bought for you.” I hadn’t realized, but I said, “Tarquin is a good male—a good High Lord. You should just ask him for the damned Book.” Rhys snapped shut the lid. “So he plies you with jewels and pours honey in your ear, and now you feel bad?” “He wants your alliance—desperately. He wants to trust you, rely on you.” “Well, Cresseida is under the impression that her cousin is rather ambitious, so I’d be careful to read between his words.” “Oh? Did she tell you that before, during, or after you took her to bed?” Rhys stood in a graceful, slow movement. “Is that why you wouldn’t look at me? Because you think I fucked her for information?” “Information or your own pleasure, I don’t care.” He came around the bed, and I stood my ground, even as he stopped with hardly a hand’s breadth between us. “Jealous, Feyre?” “If I’m jealous, then you’re jealous about Tarquin and his honey pouring.” Rhysand’s teeth flashed. “Do you think I particularly like having to flirt with a lonely female to get information about her court, her High Lord? Do you think I feel good about myself, doing that? Do you think I enjoy doing it just so you have the space to ply Tarquin with your smiles and pretty eyes, s...

His snarl was soft—vicious. “I didn’t take her to bed. She wanted to, but I didn’t so much as kiss her. I took her out for a drink in the city, let her talk about her life, her pressures, and brought her back to her room, and went no farther than the door. I waited for you at breakfast, but you slept in. Or avoided me, apparently. And I tried to catch your eye this afternoon, but you were so good at shutting me out completely.” “Is that what got under your skin? That I shut you out, or that it was so easy for Tarquin to get in?” “What got under my skin,” Rhys said, his breathing a bit uneven, “is that you smiled at him.” The rest of the world faded to mist as the words sank in. “You are jealous.” He shook his head, stalking to the little table against the far wall and knocking back a glass of amber liquid. He braced his hands on the table, the powerful muscles of his back quivering beneath his shirt as the shadow of those wings struggled to take form. “I heard what you told him,” he said. “That you thought it would be easy to fall in love with him. You meant it, too.” “So?” It was the only thing I could think of to say. “I was jealous—of that. That I’m not … that sort of person....

“To the people who look at the stars and wish, Rhys.”

“To the stars who listen—and the dreams that are answered.”

Rhys waved a lazy hand. “By all means, Tarquin, spend the day with my lady.”

“You think like an Illyrian,” Rhys murmured. “I believe that’s supposed to be a compliment,” Amren confided.

“You sound as if you plan to stay here for a while.” A bland, but edged question. “I can find my own lodging, if that’s what you’re referring to. Maybe I’ll use that generous paycheck to get myself something lavish.” Come on. Wink at me. Play with me. Just—stop looking like that. He only said, “Spare your paycheck. Your name has already been added to the list of those approved to use my household credit. Buy whatever you wish. Buy yourself a whole damn house if you want.” I ground my teeth, and maybe it was panic or desperation, but I said sweetly, “I saw a pretty shop across the Sidra the other day. It sold what looked to be lots of lacy little things. Am I allowed to buy that on your credit, too, or does that come out of my personal funds?” Those violet eyes again drifted to me. “I’m not in the mood.” There was no humor, no mischief. I could go warm myself by a fire inside, but … He had stayed. And fought for me. Week after week, he’d fought for me, even when I had no reaction, even when I had barely been able to speak or bring myself to care if I lived or died or ate or starved. I couldn’t leave him to his own dark thoughts, his own guilt. He’d shouldered them alone long enough. So I held his gaze. “I never knew Illyrians were such morose drunks.” “I’m not drunk—I’m drinking,” he said, his teeth flashing a bit.

“Again, semantics.” I leaned back in my seat, wishing I’d brought my coat. “Maybe you should have slept with Cresseida after all—so you could both be sad and lonely together.” “So you’re entitled to have as many bad days as you want, but I can’t get a few hours?” “Oh, take however long you want to mope. I was going to invite you to come shopping with me for said lacy little unmentionables, but … sit up here forever, if you have to.” He didn’t respond. I went on, “Maybe I’ll send a few to Tarquin—with an offer to wear them for him if he forgives us. Maybe he’ll take those blood rubies right back.” His mouth barely, barely tugged up at the corners. “He’d see that as a taunt.” “I gave him a few smiles and he handed over a family heirloom. I bet he’d give me the keys to his territory if I showed up wearing those undergarments.” “Someone thinks mighty highly of herself.” “Why shouldn’t I? You seem to have difficulty not staring at me day and night.” There it was—a kernel of truth and a question. “Am I supposed to deny,” he drawled, but something sparked in those eyes, “that I find you attractive?” “You’ve never said it.” “I’ve told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find you.” I shrugged, even as I thought of all those times—when I’d dismissed them as teasing compliments, nothing more. “Well, maybe you should do a better job of it.”

The gleam in his eyes turned into something predatory. A thrill went through me as he braced his powerful arms on the table and purred, “Is that a challenge, Feyre?” I held that predator’s gaze—the gaze of the most powerful male in Prythian. “Is it?” His pupils flared. Gone was the quiet sadness, the isolated guilt. Only that lethal focus—on me. On my mouth. On the bob of my throat as I tried to keep my breathing even. He said, slow and soft, “Why don’t we go down to that store right now, Feyre, so you can try on those lacy little things—so I can help you pick which one to send to Tarquin.” My toes curled inside my fleece-lined slippers. Such a dangerous line we walked together. The ice-kissed night wind rustled our hair. But Rhys’s gaze cut skyward—and a heartbeat later, Azriel shot from the clouds like a spear of darkness. I wasn’t sure whether I should be relieved or not, but I left before Azriel could land, giving the High Lord and his spymaster some privacy. As soon as I entered the dimness of the stairwell, the heat rushed from me, leaving a sick, cold feeling in my stomach. There was flirting, and then there was … this. I had loved Tamlin. Loved him so much I had not mind...

And he would have kept staring at me as he informed the shop ladies that the store was closed and they should all come back tomorrow, and we’d leave the tab on the counter. I would have stood there, naked save for scraps of red lace, while we listened to the quick, discreet sounds of them closing up and leaving. And he would have looked at me the entire time—at my breasts, visible through the lace; at the plane of my stomach, now finally looking less starved and taut. At the sweep of my hips and thighs—between them. Then he would have met my gaze again, and crooked a finger with a single murmured, “Come here.” And I would have walked to him, aware of every step, as I at last stopped in front of where he sat. Between his legs. His hands would have slid to my waist, the calluses scraping my skin. Then he’d have tugged me a bit closer before leaning in to brush a kiss to my navel, his tongue— I swore as I slammed into the post of the stairwell landing. And I blinked—blinked as the world returned and I realized … I glared at the eye tattooed in my hand and hissed both with my tongue and th...

“What did you dream of tonight?” He shook his head, looking toward the window—to where snow had dusted the nearby rooftops. “There are memories from Under the Mountain, Feyre, that are best left unshared. Even with you.” He’d shared enough horrific things with me that they had to be … beyond nightmares, then. But I put a hand on his elbow, naked body and all. “When you want to talk, let me know. I won’t tell the others.” I made to slither off the bed, but he grabbed my hand, keeping it against his arm. “Thank you.” I studied the hand, the ravaged face. Such pain lingered there—and exhaustion. The face he never let anyone see. I pushed up onto my knees and kissed his cheek, his skin warm and soft beneath my mouth. It was over before it started, but—but how many nights had I wanted someone to do the same for me? His eyes were a bit wide as I pulled away, and he didn’t stop me as I eased off the bed. I was almost out the door when I turned back to him.

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

Thank you—for last night, was all it had said. No pen to write a response. But I’d hunted down one anyway, and had written back, What do the tattooed stars and mountain on your knees mean? The paper had vanished a heartbeat later. When it hadn’t returned, I’d dressed and gone to breakfast. I was halfway through my eggs and toast when the paper appeared beside my plate, neatly folded. That I will bow before no one and nothing but my crown. This time, a pen had appeared. I’d merely written back, So dramatic. And through our bond, on the other side of my mental shields, I could have sworn I heard his laugh.

At least you make up for your shameless flirting by being one hell of a High Lord.

He’d returned that evening, smirking like a cat, and had merely said “One hell of a High Lord?” by way of greeting. I’d sent a bucket’s worth of water splashing into his face. Rhys hadn’t bothered to shield against it. And instead shook his wet hair like a dog, spraying me until I yelped and darted away. His laughter had chased me up the stairs. Winter was slowly loosening its grip when I awoke one morning and found another letter from Rhys beside my bed. No pen. No training with your second-favorite Illyrian this morning. The queens finally deigned to write back. They’re coming to your family’s estate tomorrow. I didn’t have time for nerves. We left after dinner, soaring into the thawing human lands under cover of darkness, the brisk wind screaming as Rhys held me tightly.

Amber eyes slid to me. To my crown. Then Rhys’s. “An emissary wears a golden crown. Is that a tradition in Prythian?” “No,” Rhysand said smoothly, “but she certainly looks good enough in one that I can’t resist.” The golden queen didn’t smile as she mused, “A human turned into a High Fae … and who is now standing beside a High Lord at the place of honor. Interesting.”

The eldest queen swapped a glance with the golden one before saying gently, placatingly, “You are young, child. You have much to learn about the ways of the world—” “Do not,” Rhys said with deadly quiet, “condescend to her.” The eldest queen—who was but a child to him, to his centuries of existence—had the good sense to look nervous at that tone. Rhys’s eyes were glazed, his face as unforgiving as his voice as he went on, “Do not insult Feyre for speaking with her heart, with compassion for those who cannot defend themselves, when you speak from only selfishness and cowardice.”

The eldest stiffened. “For the greater good—” “Many atrocities,” Rhys purred, “have been done in the name of the greater good.”

Amren’s attention cut to me. “Feyre was not enough?”

“She is more than enough,” Rhys said with that deadly calm,

“What I have to be tomorrow, who I have to become, is not … it’s not something I want you to see. How I will treat you, treat others …” “The mask of the High Lord,” I said quietly. “Yes.” He took a seat on the bottom step of the stairs. I remained in the center of the foyer as I asked carefully, “Why don’t you want me to see that?” “Because you’ve only started to look at me like I’m not a monster, and I can’t stomach the idea of anything you see tomorrow, being beneath that mountain, putting you back into that place where I found you.”

I took Rhys’s hand, and his thumb brushed against the back of my palm. I tried not to think about the ease of that stroke as I said in a hard, calm voice I barely recognized, “Tell me what I need to do tomorrow.”

“Amren and Mor told me that the span of an Illyrian male’s wings says a lot about the size of … other parts.” His eyes shot to mine, then to pine-tree-coated slopes below. “Did they now.”

“They also said Azriel’s wings are the biggest.” Mischief danced in those violet eyes, washing away the cold distance, the strain. The spymaster was a black blur against the pale blue sky. “When we return home, let’s get out the measuring stick, shall we?”

I pinched the rock-hard muscle of his forearm. Rhys flashed me a wicked grin before he tilted down— Mountains and snow and trees and sun and utter free fall through wisps of cloud— A breathless scream came out of me as we plummeted. Throwing my arms around his neck was instinct. His low laugh tickled my nape. “You’re willing to brave my brand of darkness and put up one of your own, willing to go to a watery grave and take on the Weaver, but a little free fall makes you scream?” “I’ll leave you to rot the next time you have a nightmare,” I hissed, my eyes still shut and body locked as he snapped out his wings to ease us into a steady glide. “No, you won’t,” he crooned. “You liked seeing me naked too much.” “Prick.” His laugh rumbled against me. Eyes closed, the wind roaring like a wild animal, I adjusted my position, gripping him tighter. My knuckles brushed one of his wings—smooth and cool like silk, but hard as stone with it stretched taut. Fascinating. I blindly reached again … and dared to run a fingertip along some inner edge. Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. “That,” he said tightly, “is very sensitive.”

“Does it tickle?” He flicked his gaze to me, then to the snow and pine that went on forever. “It feels like this,” he said, and leaned in so close that his lips brushed the shell of my ear as he sent a gentle breath into it. My back arched on instinct, my chin tipping up at the caress of that breath. “Oh,” I managed to say. I felt him smile against my ear and pull away. “If you want an Illyrian male’s attention, you’d be better off grabbing him by the balls. We’re trained to protect our wings at all costs. Some males attack first, ask questions later, if their wings are touched without invitation.” “And during sex?” The question blurted out. Rhys’s face was nothing but feline amusement as he monitored the mountains. “During sex, an Illyrian male can find completion just by having someone touch his wings in the right spot.” My blood thrummed. Dangerous territory; more lethal than the drop below. “Have you found that to be true?” His eyes stripped me bare. “I’ve never allowed anyone to see or touch my wings during sex. It makes you vulnerable in a way that I’m not … comfortable with.” “Too bad,” I said, staring out too casually toward the mighty mountain that now appeared on the horizon, towering over the others. And capped, I noted, with that glimmering palace of moonstone. “Why?” he asked warily. I shrugged, fighting the upward tugging of my lips. “Because I bet you could get into some interesting positions with those wings.”

And then Rhysand appeared. He had released the damper on his power, on who he was. His power filled the throne room, the castle, the mountain. The world. It had no end and no beginning. No wings. No weapons. No sign of the warrior. Nothing but the elegant, cruel High Lord the world believed him to be. His hands were in his pockets, his black tunic seeming to gobble up the light. And on his head sat a crown of stars. No sign of the male who had been drinking on the roof; no sign of the fallen prince kneeling on his bed. The full impact of him threatened to sweep me away. Here—here was the most powerful High Lord ever born. The face of dreams and nightmares. Rhys’s eyes met mine briefly from across the room as he strolled between the pillars. To the throne that was his by blood and sacrifice and might. My own blood sang at the power that thrummed from him, at the sheer beauty of him.

Mor stepped off the dais, dropping to one knee in a smooth bow. Cassian and Azriel followed suit. So did everyone in that room. Including me. The ebony floor was so polished I could see my red-painted lips in it; see my own expressionless face. The room was so silent I could hear each of Rhys’s footsteps toward us. “Well, well,” he said to no one in particular. “Looks like you’re all on time for once.” Raising his head as he continued kneeling, Cassian gave Rhys a half grin—the High Lord’s commander incarnate, eager to do his bloodletting. Rhys’s boots stopped in my line of sight. His fingers were icy on my chin as he lifted my face. The entire room, still on the floor, watched. But this was the role he needed me to play. To be a distraction and novelty. Rhys’s lips curved upward. “Welcome to my home, Feyre Cursebreaker.” I lowered my eyes, my kohl-thick lashes tickling my cheek. He clicked his tongue, his grip on my chin tightening. Everyone noticed the push of his fingers, the predatory angle of his head as he said, “Come with me.” A tug on my chin, and I rose to my feet. Rhys dragged his eyes over me and I wondered if it wasn’t entirely for show as they glazed a bit. He led me the few steps onto the dais—to the throne. He sat, smiling faintly at his monstrous court. He owned every inch of the throne. These people. And with a tug on my waist, he perched me on his lap. The High Lord’s whore. Who I’d become Under the Mountain—who the world expected me to be. The dangerous ...

Rhys’s hand slid along my bare waist, the other running down my exposed thigh. Cold—his hands were so cold I almost yelped. He must have felt the silent flinch. A heartbeat later, his hands had warmed. His thumb, curving around the inside of my thigh, gave a slow, long stroke as if to say Sorry. Rhys indeed leaned in to bring his mouth near my ear, well aware his subjects had not yet risen from the floor. As if they had once done so before they were bidden, long ago, and had learned the consequences. Rhysand whispered to me, his other hand now stroking the bare skin of my ribs in lazy, indolent circles, “Try not to let it go to your head.” I knew they could all hear it. So did he. I stared at their bowed heads, my heart hammering, but said with midnight smoothness, “What?” Rhys’s breath caressed my ear, the twin to the breath he’d brushed against it merely an hour ago in the skies. “That every male in here is contemplating what they’d be willing to give up in order to get that pretty, red mouth of yours on them.” I waited for the blush, the shyness, to creep in. But I was beautiful. I was strong. I had survived—triumphed. As Mor had survived in this horrible, poisoned house … So...

Rhys’s hand flattened on my thigh as he angled his head to look at me. “She is lovely, isn’t she?”

“No one for me to punish?” A cat playing with his food. “Unless you’d like for me to select someone here, no, milord.” Rhys clicked his tongue. “Pity.” He again surveyed me, then leaned to tug my earlobe with his teeth. And damn me to hell, but I leaned farther back as his teeth pressed down at the same moment his thumb drifted high on the side of my thigh, sweeping across sensitive skin in a long, luxurious touch. My body went loose and tight, and my breathing … Cauldron damn me again, the scent of him, the citrus and the sea, the power roiling off him … my breathing hitched a bit. I knew he noticed; knew he felt that shift in me. His fingers stilled on my leg.

His thumb stroked again—this time joined with his pointer finger. A dull roaring was filling my ears, drowning out everything but that touch on the inside of my leg. The music was throbbing, ancient, wild, and people ground against each other to it. His eyes on the Steward, Rhys made vague nods every now and then. While his fingers continued their slow, steady stroking on my thighs, rising higher with every pass. People were watching. Even as they drank and ate, even as some danced in small circles, people were watching. I was sitting in his lap, his own personal plaything, his every touch visible to them … and yet it might as well have been only the two of us.

This time, his nose brushed the spot between my neck and shoulder, followed by a passing graze of his mouth. My breasts tightened, becoming full and heavy, aching—aching like what was now pooling in my core. Heat filled my face, my blood. But Keir said at last, as if his own self-control slipped the leash, “I had heard the rumors, and I didn’t quite believe them.” His gaze settled on me, on my breasts, peaked through the folds of my dress, of my legs, spread wider than they’d been minutes before, and Rhys’s hand in dangerous territory. “But it seems true: Tamlin’s pet is now owned by another master.” “You should see how I make her beg,” Rhys murmured, nudging my neck with his nose. Keir clasped his hands behind his back. “I assume you brought her to make a statement.” “You know everything I do is a statement.” “Of course. This one, it seems, you enjoy putting in cobwebs and crowns.” Rhys’s hand paused, and I sat straighter at the tone, the disgust. And I said to Keir in a voice that belonged to another woman, “Perhaps I’ll put a leash on you.” Rhys’s approval tapped against my mental shield, the hand at my ribs now making lazy circles. “She does enjoy playing,” he mused onto my shoulder. He jerked his chin toward the Steward. “Get her some wine.” Pure command. No politeness. Keir stiffened, but strode off. Rhys didn’t dare break from his mask, but the light kiss he pressed beneath my ear told me enough. Apology and gratitude—and more apologies. He didn’t like this any more...

I opened my shield enough to let him in. What? His voice floated into my mind. I reached down the bond between us, caressing that wall of ebony adamant. A small sliver cracked—just for me. And I said into it, You are good, Rhys. You are kind. This mask does not scare me. I see you beneath it. His hands tightened on me, and his eyes held mine as he leaned forward to brush his mouth against my cheek. It was answer enough—and … an unleashing. I leaned a bit more against him, my legs widening ever so slightly. Why’d you stop? I said into his mind, into him. A near-silent growl reverberated against me. He stroked my ribs again, in time to the beat of the music, his thumb rising nearly high enough to graze the underside of my breasts. I let my head drop back against his shoulder. I let go of the part of me that heard their words—whore, whore, whore— Let go of the part that said those words alongside them—traitor, liar, whore— And I just became. I became the music, and the drums, and the wild, dark thing in the High Lord’s arms.

His eyes were wholly glazed—and not with power or rage. Something red-hot and edged with glittering darkness exploded in my mind.

Rhys shifted his hips, rubbing against me with enough pressure that for a second, I didn’t care about Keir, or the Autumn Court, or what Azriel might be doing right now to steal the orb. I had been so cold, so lonely, for so long, and my body cried out at the contact, at the joy of being touched and held and alive. The hand that had been on my waist slid across my abdomen, hooking into the low-slung belt there. I rested my head between his shoulder and neck, staring at the crowd as they stared at me, savoring every place where Rhys and I connected and wanting more more more.

I knew Rhys was still holding Keir’s gaze as the tip of his tongue slid up my neck. I arched my back, eyes heavy-lidded, breathing uneven. I’d burn and burn and burn— I think he’s so disgusted that he might have given me the orb just to get out of here, Rhys said in my mind, that other hand drifting dangerously south. But there was such a growing ache there, and I wore nothing beneath that would conceal the damning evidence if he slid his hand a fraction higher. You and I put on a good show, I said back. The person who said that, husky and sultry—I’d never heard that voice come out of me before. Even in my mind. His hand slid to my upper thigh, fingers curving in. I ground against him, trying to shift those hands away from what he’d learn— To find him hard against my backside. Every thought eddied from my head. Only a thrill of power remained as I writhed along that impressive length. Rhys let out a low, rough laugh.

I turned around again, meeting Rhysand’s now-blazing eyes, and then licked up the column of his throat. Wind and sea and citrus and sweat. It almost undid me. I faced forward, and Rhys dragged his mouth along the back of my neck, right over my spine, just as I shifted against the hardness pushing into me, insistent and dominating. Precisely as his hand slid a bit too high on my inner thigh.

I felt the predatory focus go right to the slickness he’d felt there. Proof of my traitorous body. His arms tightened around me, and my face burned—perhaps a bit from shame, but— Rhys sensed my focus, my fire slip. It’s fine, he said, but that mental voice sounded breathless. It means nothing. It’s just your body reacting— Because you’re so irresistible? My attempt to deflect sounded strained, even in my mind. But he laughed, probably for my benefit. We’d danced around and teased and taunted each other for months. And maybe it was my body’s reaction, maybe it was his body’s reaction, but the taste of him threatened to destroy me, consume me, and— Another male. I’d had another male’s hands all over me, when Tamlin and I were barely—

But as I passed Keir, even with the High Lord at my back, he hissed almost too quietly to hear, “You’ll get what’s coming to you, whore.” Night exploded into the room. People cried out. And when the darkness cleared, Keir was on his knees. Rhys still lounged on the throne. His face a mask of frozen rage. The music stopped. Mor appeared at the edge of the crowd—her own features set in smug satisfaction. Even as Azriel approached her side, standing too close to be casual. “Apologize,” Rhys said. My heart thundered at the pure command, the utter wrath. Keir’s neck muscles strained, and sweat broke out on his lip.

“I said,” Rhys intoned with such horrible calm, “apologize.” The Steward groaned. And when another heartbeat passed— Bone cracked. Keir screamed. And I watched—I watched as his arm fractured into not two, not three, but four different pieces, the skin going taut and loose in all the wrong spots— Another crack. His elbow disintegrated. My stomach churned. Keir began sobbing, the tears half from rage, judging by the hatred in his eyes as he looked at me, then Rhys. But his lips formed the words, I’m sorry. The bones of his other arm splintered, and it was an effort not to cringe. Rhys smiled as Keir screamed again and said to the room, “Should I kill him for it?” No one answered. Rhys chuckled. He said to his Steward, “When you wake up, you’re not to see a healer. If I hear that you do … ” Another crack—Keir’s pinkie finger went saggy. The male shrieked. The heat that had boiled my blood turned to ice. “If I hear that you do, I’ll carve you into pieces and bury them where no one can stand a chance of putting you together again.” Keir’s eyes widened in true terror now. Then, as if an invisible hand had struck the consciousness from him, he collapsed to the floor.

And for the long hour afterward, my focus half remained on the High Lord whose hands and mouth and body had suddenly made me feel awake—burning. It didn’t make me forget, didn’t make me obliterate hurts or grievances, it just made me … alive. Made me feel as if I’d been asleep for a year, slumbering inside a glass coffin, and he had just shattered through it and shaken me to consciousness. The High Lord whose power had not scared me. Whose wrath did not wreck me. And now—now I didn’t know where that put me. Knee-deep in trouble seemed like a good place to start.

Rhys rasped, “I will never—never lock you up, force you to stay behind. But when he threatened you tonight, when he called you … ” Whore. That’s what they’d called him. For fifty years, they’d hissed it. I’d listened to Lucien spit the words in his face. Rhys released a jagged breath. “It’s hard to shut down my instincts.” Instincts. Just like … like someone else had instincts to protect, to hide me away. “Then you should have prepared yourself better,” I snapped. “You seemed to be going along just fine with it, until Keir said—” “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.” “You are my friend,” I said, and my voice broke on the word. I hated the tears that slipped down my face. I didn’t even know why I was crying. Perhaps for the fact that it had felt real on that throne with him, even for a moment, and … and it likely hadn’t been. Not for him. “You’re my friend—and I understand that you’re High Lord. I understand that you will defend your true court, and punish threats against it. But I can’t … I don’t want you to stop telling me things, inviting me to do things, because of the threats against me.” Darkness rippled, and wings tore from his back. “I am not him,” Rhys breathed. “I will never be him, act like him. He locked you up and let you wither, and die.” “He tried—” “Stop comparing. Stop comparing me to him.” The words cut me short. I blinked. “You think I don...