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

by Sarah J. Maas

I went still. “Rhysand.” I breathed. Rhys, I said through the bond, putting a hand against that inner shield. The dark shuddered.

“It was a dream,” I said. His hand was so cold. “It was a dream.” Again, the dark paused.

“Feyre,” I said. “I’m Feyre.” His breathing was jagged, uneven. I gripped the wrist that held my throat—held, but didn’t hurt. “You were dreaming.”

And he was naked above me—utterly naked. I didn’t dare look lower than the tattooed panes of his chest.

Stupid little woman

“Feyre,” he said, his voice hoarse. As if he’d been screaming. “Yes,” I said. He studied my face—the taloned hand at my throat. And released me immediately.

but my attention snagged on the twin tattoos on each of his knees: a towering mountain crowned by three stars.

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 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?

Awws Feyre

Rhys still knelt, wings drooping across the white sheets, head bowed, his tattoos stark against his golden skin. A dark, fallen prince. The painting flashed into my mind.

What a delightful way to end the night. Im pleased

So I wrote back, 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.

Only the dark crown atop his head—the metal shaped like raven’s feathers—was different. The crown that was the sibling to my gold diadem.

“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.”

into a faerie—because one of the commanders from Hybern killed me.” Through our bond, I could have sworn I felt Rhys flinch.

“So, what do we offer them instead?” I asked. “What do we show them?” Rhys’s face was bleak. “We show them Velaris.” “What?” Mor barked. But Amren shushed her.

Oh no

“I’m debating asking you to stay tomorrow.” I crossed my arms. “I thought I was going.” Don’t lock me up in this house, don’t shove me aside—

“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.

“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.”

rhys baby

Worried for me, I realized.

“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.”

“When we return home, let’s get out the measuring stick, shall we?”

“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,”

“No, you won’t,” he crooned. “You liked seeing me naked too much.” “Prick.”

Rhysand shuddered, a soft groan slipping past my ear. “That,” he said tightly, “is very sensitive.”

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.”

“Have you found that to be true?”

“Take her to the palace, and stay there until I’m back. Az, you’re with me.” Cassian reached for me, but I stepped away. “No.” “What?” Rhys snarled, the word near-guttural. “Take me with you,”

And before the crowd could begin murmuring, I felt it. Felt—him. The very rock beneath my feet seemed to tremble—a pulsing, steady beat.

them. If one Siphon was what most Illyrians needed to handle their killing power … Cassian and Azriel had seven each. Seven.

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.

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.

Damnnnnnnnn

Rhys’s boots stopped in my line of sight. His fingers were icy on my chin as he lifted my face.

“Welcome to my home, Feyre Cursebreaker.”

Everyone noticed the push of his fingers, the predatory angle of his head as he said, “Come with me.”

And with a tug on my waist, he perched me on his lap. The High Lord’s whore.

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.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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—

Another male. I’d had another male’s hands all over me, when Tamlin and I were barely—

I will fuck you up feyre.

Alone at the edge of the lake, Rhys said hoarsely, “I’m sorry.” I blinked. “What do you possibly have to be sorry for?”

His hands were shaking—as if in the aftermath of that fury at what Keir had called me, what he’d threatened. Perhaps he’d brought us here before heading home in order to have some privacy before his friends could interrupt. “I shouldn’t have let you go. Let you see that part of us. Of me.” I’d never seen him so raw, so … stumbling.