Chapter Text
For fifty years, my court suffered because of the deluded, twisted attraction Amarantha felt for me. That unhealthy fascination cost countless lives. I tried to stop my court members from volunteering for suicide missions in search of a mortal girl—our supposed salvation. Again and again, I argued with Lucien about surrendering myself to Amarantha, but he insisted it was not an option. Not when we had no idea what she would do to the Spring Court afterwards.
Pain and grief carved an aching cavern into my chest. Desperate to save my people, terrified of what Prythian would become once Amarantha had me, I never imagined I would fall in love with the mortal meant to break the curse. Feyre. Her name splinters me. I loved her simply for existing—and then I loved her for who she was. My fragile Feyre: a brave, fierce-eyed human, delicate and breakable all the same. Terrified of what Amarantha would do with her wicked hunger for cruelty, I tried to let Feyre go. She returned anyway. She loved me. She came back for me.
I am no gentleman. Raised a warrior, I was made to kill. A starved beast, not a man. How Feyre saw through that and chose to love me is still a mystery—yet her tenderness only made me love her more. So when Amarantha stole Feyre’s life, whatever good she believed she saw in me died with her. When it was over, when Feyre was revived and back in my arms—warm skin, but empty eyes—I was already lost.
Feyre was sick. And I thought… I thought we understood each other. Night after night we woke screaming; she would vomit and shake, and I would stand guard at our door, drenched in terror. I truly believed we were healing—slowly, painfully, but together. We had each other. Time was all we needed. And I needed her more than anything. But Feyre never reached back for me. She withered while I tried to rebuild a court I had not been raised to rule. I only wanted certainty that she was safe, that our nightmares would never become real. I loved her. I was grateful for her love, powerful enough to save Prythian. My beautiful Feyre… I loved her.
But a beast does not know how to love. To guard, to protect—yes—but affection from claws comes out as violence. I know I was wrong. I despise myself for making Feyre afraid of me. Her love faded, piece by piece, and instead of speaking to me, she found solace in Rhysand. She fought for me once, and Prythian survived because of it. But she still left. I was wounded too. I had suffered for too many years. I needed her as deeply as she once needed me. Feyre left. I am a monster—my own thoughts devour me, stealing every breath. A constant war inside me: shame for what I did to her, grief that she abandoned me. Sorrow and bitterness tangled together, choking. Feyre chose Rhysand.
And as fate enjoys its cruel amusements—Feyre and Rhysand are mates. Of course they are. He made her High Lady, gave her a future. They call him a monster, a whore of the Night Court, feared and reviled—but even Rhysand did what he had to, to protect the ones he loved. I will never admit I admire him. Still, I hate him. So here I stand, a coward with no heir to inherit my curse, alone in an empty court. Feyre turned them all against me—clever girl. I sit at the dining table, staring into nothing. I’ve shattered most of the manor in my rage. I’ve ruined everything.
Feyre. Feyre was right to leave. And even so—I love her. Everyone left. But it is her absence that guts me. I was not enough for her. She does not need me. She does not love me. It hurts, Feyre. It hurts that you are not here. I survived centuries before you—how? How do I live without your love, without your scent in every breath? I love you still. I miss you. Gods, Feyre, I’m sorry I frightened you. Sorry I hurt you. At least you live. At least you are happy. You broke me, and I was cruel, and I regret every wound I gave you. Everything I did, I did because I loved you—because I needed you. There is no rage left, no hatred—only pain, and this endless love. I do, Feyre. I love you.