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

by Sarah J. Maas

“Welcome to the Night Court,” was all Rhys said. It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

“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?”

I was not a pet, not a doll, not an animal. I was a survivor, and I was strong. I would not be weak, or helpless again. I would not, could not be broken. Tamed.

“There are good days and hard days for me—even now. Don’t let the hard days win.”

Elain, to her credit, did not faint. And Nesta, to hers, did not hiss at them.

“I can eat, drink, fuck, and fight just as well as I did before. Better, even.”

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

Life is better when you’re around. And look at how lovely your handwriting is.

People often made the mistake of assuming Cassian was the wilder one; the one who couldn’t be tamed. But Cassian was all hot temper—temper that could be used to forge and weld. There was an icy rage in Azriel I had never been able to thaw.

“I am no one’s pet,” I said. Rhys’s face was contemplative, and I wondered if he remembered that he’d told me the same thing once, when I was too lost in my own guilt and despair to understand. “What next?”

“The Court of Dreams is founded on three things: to defend, to honor, and to cherish.

“Thank you. For everything—for what you did. Then … and now.”

“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.”

“Am I supposed to deny,” he drawled, but something sparked in those eyes, “that I find you attractive?”

“And what about my story?” I hissed. “What about my reward? What about what I want?” “What is it that you want, Feyre?” I had no answer. I didn’t know. Not anymore. “What is it that you want, Feyre?” I stayed silent. His laugh was bitter, soft. “I thought so. Perhaps you should take some time to figure that out one of these days.”

Just … him. The person who had sent music into that cell; who had picked up that knife in Amarantha’s throne room to fight for me when no one else dared, and who had kept fighting for me every day since, refusing to let me crumble and disappear into nothing.

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 painted the night sky.”

“I was looking for you, too,” Rhys murmured.

“But then she snapped your neck.” Tears rolled down his face. “And I felt you die,” he whispered. Tears were sliding down my own cheeks. “And this beautiful, wonderful thing that had come into my life, this gift from the Cauldron … It was gone. In my desperation, I clung to that bond. Not the bargain—the bargain was nothing, the bargain was like a cobweb. But I grabbed that bond between us and I tugged, I willed you to hold on, to stay with me, because if we could get free … If we could get free, then all seven of us were there. We could bring you back. And I didn’t care if I had to slice into all of their minds to do it. I’d make them save you.” His hands were shaking. “You’d freed us with your last breath, and my power—I wrapped my power around the bond. The mating bond. I could feel you flickering there, holding on.”

But I couldn’t … I couldn’t stop being around you, and loving you, and wanting you. I still can’t stay away.”

“I think I was falling in love with you for a while,”

“I do not think,” I said, “that it was mere coincidence that the Cauldron let us find each other on the eve of war returning between our two peoples.”

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.”

“Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

“Not consort, not wife. Feyre is High Lady of the Night Court.” My equal in every way; she would wear my crown, sit on a throne beside mine. Never sidelined, never designated to breeding and parties and child-rearing. My queen.

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