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

by Sarah J. Maas

I made to jump off the stone, but he gripped my chin, the movement too fast to detect. His words were a lethal caress as he said, “Did you enjoy the sight of me kneeling before you?” I knew he could hear my heart as it ratcheted into a thunderous beat. I gave him a hateful little smirk, anyway, yanking my chin out of his touch and leaping off the stone. I might have aimed for his feet. And he might have shifted out of the way just enough to avoid it. “Isn’t that all you males are good for, anyway?” But the words were tight, near-breathless. His answering smile evoked silken sheets and jasmine-scented breezes at midnight.

WOW OKAY I'M TEAM RHYRE

I frowned at the eye in my palm. “What—literally shout at the tattoo?” “You could try rubbing it on certain body parts and I might come faster.”

RHYS IS FUCKING SLAYING

Mor rubbed her stomach in lazy circles as we paused beside the river. “I want to go dancing. I won’t be able to fall asleep when I’m this full. Rita’s is right up the street.” Dancing. My body groaned in protest and I glanced about for an ally to shoot down this ridiculous idea. But Azriel—Azriel said, his eyes wholly on Mor, “I’m in.”

May be shifting from team Rhysre to team Moriel

My hands slackened at my sides. A reduced version of the symphony I’d heard in a chill dungeon, when I had been so lost to terror and despair that I had hallucinated—hallucinated as this music poured into my cell … and kept me from shattering. And once more, the beauty of it hit me, the layering and swaying, the joy and peace. They had never played a piece like it Under the Mountain—never this sort of music. And I’d never heard music in my cell save for that one time. “You,” I breathed, not taking my eyes from the musicians playing so skillfully that even the diners had set down their forks in the cafés nearby. “You sent that music into my cell. Why?” Rhysand’s voice was hoarse. “Because you were breaking. And I couldn’t find another way to save you.” The music swelled and built. I’d seen a palace in the sky when I’d hallucinated—a place between sunset and dawn … a house of moonstone pillars. “I saw the Night Court.” He glanced sidelong at me. “I didn’t send those images to you.” I didn’t care. “Thank you. For everything—for what you did. Then … and now.” “Even after the Weaver? After this morning with my trap for the Attor?” My nostrils flared. “You ruin everything.” Rhys grinned, and I didn’t notice if people were staring as he slid an arm under my legs, and shot us both into the sky.

Okay Rhysre is fighting for contention

I was reading in bed, listening to the merry chatter of the toasty birch fire across the room, when I turned the page of my book and a piece of paper fell out. I took one look at the cream stationery and the handwriting and sat up straight. On it, Rhysand had written, 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. Something clicked against the nightstand, and a pen rolled across the polished mahogany. Hissing, I snatched it up and scribbled: Go lick your wounds and leave me be. The paper vanished. It was gone for a while—far longer than it should have taken to write the few words that appeared on the paper when it returned. I’d much rather you licked my wounds for me. My heart pounded, faster and faster, and a strange sort of rush went through my veins as I read the sentence again and again. A challenge. I clamped my lips shut to keep from smiling as I wrote, Lick you where, exactly? The paper vanished before I’d even completed the final mark. His reply was a long time coming. Then, Wherever you want to lick me, Feyre. I’d like to start with “Everywhere,” but I can choose, if necessary. I wrote back, Let’s hope my licking is better than yours. I remember how horrible you were at it Under the Mountain. Lie. He’d licked away my tears when I’d been a moment away from shattering. He’d done it to keep me distracted—keep me angry. Because anger was bet...

Rhysre in the lead again

My hands slackened as another shuddering sob worked its way through me. “It should have been me.” And there it was. Standing there under the cloudless sky, the winter sun beating on my head, nothing around me save for rock, no shadows in which to hide, nothing to cling to … There it was. Then darkness swept in, soothing, gentle darkness—no, shade—and a sweat-slick male body halted before me. Gentle fingers lifted my chin until I looked up … at Rhysand’s face. His wings had wrapped around us, cocooned us, the sunlight casting the membrane in gold and red. Beyond us, outside, in another world, maybe, the sounds of steel on steel—Cassian and Azriel sparring—began. “You will feel that way every day for the rest of your life,” Rhysand said. This close, I could smell the sweat on him, the sea-and-citrus scent beneath it. His eyes were soft. I tried to look away, but he held my chin firm. “And I know this because I have felt that way every day since my mother and sister were slaughtered and I had to bury them myself, and even retribution didn’t fix it.” He wiped away the tears on one cheek, then another. “You can either let it wreck you, let it get you killed like it nearly did with the Weaver, or you can learn to live with it.” For a long moment, I just stared at the open, calm face—maybe his true face, the one beneath all the masks he wore to keep his people safe. “I’m sorry—about your family,” I rasped. “I’m sorry I didn’t find a way to spare you from what happened Under the M...

But then Cassian crossed to Nesta, the guards stiffening as the Illyrian moved through them as if they were stalks of wheat in a field. He studied Nesta for a long moment. She was still glaring at the queens, her eyes lined with tears—tears of rage and despair, from that fire that burned her so violently from within. When she finally noticed Cassian, she looked up at him. His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.” I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.

Fuck, Cassian making me tear up, what's next?

“It is your choice,” Nesta said with unusual gentleness. For her, Nesta would go to Prythian. Elain swallowed, a doe caught in a snare. “I—I can’t. I …” But my mate nodded—kindly. With understanding. “The sentries will be here, and remain unseen and unfelt. They will look after themselves. Should you change your minds, one will be waiting in this room every day at noon and at midnight for you to speak. My home is your home. Its doors are always open to you.” Nesta looked between Rhys and Cassian, then to me. Despair still paled her face, but … she bowed her head. And said to me, “That was why you painted stars on your drawer.”

And now Rhys. Fuck.

I’d written to Rhys, How do I tell Cassian and Azriel I don’t need them here to protect me? Company is fine, but I don’t need sentries. He’d written back, You don’t tell them. You set boundaries if they cross a line, but you are their friend—and my mate. They will protect you on instinct. If you kick their asses out of the house, they’ll just sit on the roof. I scribbled, You Illyrian males are insufferable. Rhys had just said, Good thing we make up for it with impressive wingspans.

Oh my god

“And the bond,” Amren breathed, Cassian’s blood shining on her hands as she slowed its dribbling. Mor said, “She asked the king to break the bond. He obliged.” I thought I might be dying—thought my chest might actually be cleaved in two.