A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses, #3.5)

by Sarah J. Maas

“I want to draw you,” I said. “As my birthday present to me.” His smile was positively feline. I added, flipping open my sketchbook and turning to the first page, “You said once that nude would be best.”

But it wasn’t Nesta who stood on the front step, cheeks flushed with cold. No, as Elain took a step back, hand falling away from the doorknob, she revealed Lucien smiling tightly at us both. “Happy Solstice,” was all he said.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Before I could object, he said, “You ruined any chance I have of going back to Spring. Not to Tamlin, but to the court beyond his house. Everyone either still believes the lies you spun or they believe me complicit in your deceit. And as for here …” He shook off my grip and headed for the door. “I can’t stand to be in the same room as her for more than two minutes. I can’t stand to be in this court and have your mate pay for the very clothes on my back.”

“Tamlin sent it to our manor yesterday,” Lucien hissed. “My clothes. My belongings. All of it. He had it sent from the Spring Court and dumped on the doorstep.”

Cassian’s yowl echoed off the mountains around us. Followed by, “You bastard!” Rhys’s answering laugh was bright as the sun on snow.

“They’re having a snowball fight.” Another nod. “Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.” Mor’s eyes practically glowed with wicked delight. “Since they were children.” “They’re over five hundred years old.” “Do you want me to tell you the running tally of victories?”

Illyrian babies indeed.

I was promised a wall, Rhys. A pause. A long pause. I’ve taken you against a wall before. These walls. Another long, long pause. It’s bad form to be at attention while in the birchin. My lips curved as I sent him an image. A memory. Of me on the kitchen table just a few feet away. Of him kneeling before me. My legs wrapped around his head. Cruel, wicked thing. I heard a door slamming somewhere in the house, followed by a distinctly male yelp. Then banging—as if someone was trying to get back inside.

Mor’s eyes sparkled. “You got him kicked out, didn’t you?” My answering smile set her roaring.

“I have no idea where you might hang it,” I said, “but I wanted you to have it.” To see. For on that painting, I’d shown him what I had not revealed to anyone. What the Ouroboros had revealed to me: the creature inside myself, the creature full of hate and regret and love and sacrifice, the creature that could be cruel and brave, sorrowful and joyous. I gave him me—as no one but him would ever see me. No one but him would ever understand. “It’s beautiful,” he said, voice still hoarse. I blinked away the tears that threatened at those words and leaned into the kiss he pressed to my mouth. You are beautiful, he whispered down the bond. So are you. I know. I laughed, pulling away. Prick.

Elain bit her lip and then smiled sheepishly. “It’s for the headaches everyone always gives you. Since you rub your temples so often.” Silence again. Then Azriel tipped his head back and laughed.

The floorboards thudded behind me, and then I was being gently but forcibly moved to the side. It happened so fast I barely had time to realize that Cassian had gone storming past—right out the front door. To my sister.

He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled that box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact.

She hadn’t felt anything in months. Had days when she didn’t really know where she was or what she’d done. They passed swiftly and yet dripped by. So did the months. She’d blinked, and winter had fallen. Blinked, and her body had turned too thin. As hollow as she felt.

“You never told me where you got it—where you got all my favorite dresses.” Rhys arched a dark brow. “You never figured it out?” I shook my head. For a moment, he said nothing, his head dipping to study the dress. “My mother made them.” I went still.

Just as I found myself somehow leaning against the wall near the doorway, as if he’d winnowed us. My head hit the wood with a soft thud as Rhys lowered his mouth to me.

In his stare, I could have sworn galaxies swirled. In the shadows between his wings, the glorious depths of the night dwelled.

“But mostly I think about this. How you feel around me, Feyre.” He drove into me, exquisite and relentless. “How you taste on my tongue.” My nails cut into his broad shoulders. “How even if we have a thousand years together, I will never tire of this.”

We had no bodies here, but I felt him as he seduced me, his dark power wrapping around mine, licking at my flames, sucking on my ice, scraping claws against my own. I felt him as his power blended with mine, ebbing and flowing, in and out, until my magic lashed out, latching onto him, both of us raging and burning together.

I lifted my eyes to his again and found stars and darkness waiting. Found home waiting.

The painting shone before me: Night Triumphant—and the Stars Eternal.

His face became deadly serious. “Not for you. Never for you.” He slid his arms around my waist, kissing my temple. “Build a house with a painting studio.” He kissed my other temple. “Build a house with an office for you, and one for me. Build a house with a bathtub big enough for two—and for wings.” Another kiss, this time to my cheek. “Build a house with rooms for all our family.” He kissed my other cheek. “Build a house with a garden for Elain, a training ring for the Illyrian babies, a library for Amren, and an

enormous dressing room for Mor.” I choked on a laugh at that. But Rhys silenced it with a kiss to my mouth, lingering and sweet. “Build a house with a nursery, Feyre.” My heart tightened to the point of pain, and I kissed him back. Kissed him again, and again, the property wide and clear around us. “I will,” I promised.

Early-morning mist hung between the bumps and hollows of the sprawling estate. Her estate. Athelwood. She’d bought it three hundred years ago for the quiet. Had kept it for the horses.

Nothing, except— There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch. Familiar and yet foreign. Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance. Mor obeyed. But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep amongst them. Not like Azriel’s shadows, twining and whispering. Something different. Something that stared back, watching her in turn. Best left undisturbed. Especially with the promise of a crackling fire and glass of wine at home.

“I didn’t know it existed,” I managed to whisper. Even with all the committees that I volunteered to help, they had not mentioned it. I didn’t know that there was a place, a world, where artists might be valued. Taken care of. I’d never dreamed of such a thing.

I looked up to find him not at all ashamed to have tears slipping down his cheeks in public. I brushed a few away before the chill wind could freeze them, and Rhys whispered in my ear, “I will never stop being grateful to have you in my life, either, Feyre darling. And no matter what lies ahead”—a small, joyous smile at that—“we will face it together. Enjoy every moment of it together.”