Archive of Our Own

“Well, goodbye for now,” Rhys said to Feyre, his heart hammering in his chest. The image of her body, broken and twisted on the ground still hung just behind his lids. He could still scent the copper tang of her blood, could all but taste the rotting presence of death just in the shadows. Rhys didn’t know if he’d ever forget that sight—or forgive Tamlin for dragging her into all this in the first place.

His rage was a palpable thing, strumming in his chest until it was all but taut. He wanted to go home, to see his family, his city, his people. He’d figure out what to do about Feyre after all that. Too much still lingered, unfinshed. That bargain threaded between them, binding her for at least a time. He’d see her again when he was ready.

When she was ready.

He lifted his eyes to her own, drinking in the bright blue. She was alive.

Vibrant.

Exhausted, and reeking of sex which rankled him. She’d been dead. Tamlin couldn’t give her a minute of peace? Rhys wanted to wipe those purple smudges from the hollows of her face, to chase away the darkness until only the brightest starlight remained. 

Feyre held his gaze, her upturned, pink lips parted. Rhys’s heart sped up, racing in his chest. His blood bubbled as that string he’d mistaken for rage snapped viciously in his chest. He could scent it then, burning in his nose, taunting him for knowing and yet still doubting.

He’d known the moment Amarantha turned her fury on Feyre’s still human body.

Mate. She’s my mate. She’s mine. 

He stumbled back a step, his nostrils flaring as he drank her in. Rhys felt wild—out of control. He needed to get out before he did something stupid, needed to leave her.

She’s my mate.

And she reeked of another male. 

Rhys summoned his magic to winnow away. He had every intention of leaving her behind. He swore he did. 

And yet at the last moment, as she began to ask him what was going on, Rhys lunged, yanked her into his arms, and ripped them both from that cursed mountain before anyone could stop him. Vaguely, he had the sense that Feyre had hit him, but Rhys didn’t realize anything beyond getting his mate far away from everyone and everything that might hurt her.

Rhys slammed into the center of the dining room, knees buckling against ivory marble. He was in the moonstone palace, he realized. He was home. He’d forgotten for a moment that he was still clutching Feyre to his chest. Rhys drank in the soft scent of jasmine as cool air brushed over his cheeks.

Welcome home, High Lord. 

“Rhys?”

Rhys’s head snapped up. Morrigan was sitting at the dining table, dressed casual in amethyst pants. Her blonde hair cascaded around her shoulders and those eyes—Rhys had long forgotten how big and bright and brown they were—looked both horrified and relieved. 

He wanted to go to her but he still held Feyre, who wasn’t moving at all. She was staring around the opulent room with open fear, flinching when Mor screamed for Cassian. 

Mor stood from the table and Rhys tried to, too. “She’s my mate,” he said by way of greeting. 

Mor’s steps faltered, the breath dying in her chest. Feyre twisted then, palms braced against his chest to push herself away.

“Rhys,” Mor whispered, eyes flicking between the pair of them. 

“I’m not your mate!” Feyre hissed, putting distance between them. “Take me back!”

Cassian rounded the corner with Azriel just behind him. Both winged males froze in the arched entryway, mouths open. 

Azriel was the first to notice Feyre, who had gone very, very still at the sight of them. His brothers posed no danger to her, which was the only thing that convinced Rhys to take a step toward them.

Cassian caught him first, pulling Rhys into a hug so tight it bruised his ribs. “You’re alive,” Cassian whispered, his voice rough with emotion. 

“We’d heard—” Azriel cleared his throat, silencing whatever Mor had been about to say. Rhys could guess what they’d heard, what they were wondering. He held his brother a little tighter before he let go, turning to look at Azriel.

“It doesn’t matter what they said,” Azriel told Rhys in lieu of a hug, though he did put his hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “We never believed it—and we never fucking cared, Rhys. Do you hear me?”

There was a dull roaring in his ears at Azriel’s words, at the glassy shine to Cassian’s eyes and how Mor had gone to Feyre and offered her a friendly smile. He had to tell them, so they knew how awful he was, how he didn’t deserve any of this, how—

“It doesn’t matter,” Azriel repeated, fingers digging into the fabric of Rhys’s tunic. “Tell us if you have to, but not because you think we should hate you.”

“You did what you had to, Rhys,” Mor added.

Cassian slapped Rhys lightly on the cheek. “You’ve gotta try a hell of a lot harder to get rid of us.”

“You saved us,” Mor added, swallowing hard. “And everyone in this city knows it.”

There was ringing silence for a moment, and then— “Oh. Are you back, then? Well, it took you long enough.” Amren’s voice sliced through the tension. She was just as small and terrifying as he remembered. Her gaze settled on a frightened, exhausted Feyre, inching closer and closer to Mor. Her nostrils flared, scenting what everyone else in the room could smell, too.

Sex—not from him, but Tamlin. Death, and blood, too. But beneath the horror was the thread between them, their mingled scents that whispered the truth of what they were. Feyre didn’t move, all eyes firmly on her.

“Take me back,” she whispered, her eyes steely.

Cassian huffed out a breath and Azriel cocked his head, clearly curious what male she’d been with before Rhys intervened. They were going to absolutely lose it when they found out. He braced himself for their laughter.

“Back where?” Mor asked kindly, clearly deciding that she would be Ferye’s friend.

Feyre was still looking at him, half pleading, half furious. “Back to Spring. To Tamlin.”

Right on cue, Cassian burst out laughing. Azriel clapped his hand on Rhys’s arm while Mor shook her head, chiding him without saying a word. 

“Settle this,” Amren warned him, fingers brushing the back of his hand before she returned to whatever she’d been doing before he’d arrived.

“Tamlin?” Cassian wheezed, hand on his stomach. “Your mate is with Tamlin?”

“Good luck,” Azriel murmured, his eyes jewel bright. 

“Come on,” Mor said to Feyre, taking her hand. “You look like you could use a hot meal and some sleep. I’ll show you around.”

There was no arguing. Rhys straightened his spine, trying to remember who he’d been under the mountain. He’d just left, had been doing it for fifty years and all it took was seeing the faces of his family for Rhys to forget. Feyre’s wariness unsettled him a little. 

He’d have to send her back. Tamlin would be waking soon. He’d be looking for her, and when he didn’t find her, he’d put two and two together. Rhys needed to have things locked down before Lucien Vanserra came knocking on his door.

Or worse. 

Tamlin could march an army into Night and Rhys didn’t think anyone would mind. He had no allies, no friends, but plenty of enemies. Plenty of people who would like to see him fall, to perhaps carve up his territory amongst themselves. 

Rhys wanted to throw himself at her feet and apologize. To explain himself. To beg her to forgive him and then accept the bond. That was risky, though. Feyre might reject him—reject the bond. And she’d certainly tell Tamlin, who would never let her within a hundred feet of him again. 

So he forced a sultry smile on his face, as if he weren’t seconds from breaking down. “Your week starts now. Azriel will let Tamlin know not to worry—you’re safe and sound.”

Cassian and Az both shot him a look, recognizing the mask of the High Lord. 

“He’ll kill you for this,” Feyre snapped.

Cassian laughed again. Even Az had to smother a smile. Rhys couldn’t pretend he didn’t love her spirit. 

“I’m sure he’ll try,” Rhys all but purred. “Enjoy my home.”

“I hate you,” she whispered. Azriel and Cassian both looked away, wincing at her words. Rhys was used to her venom and unaffected for the most part. Anxiety threaded through his chest at that hateful stare. How could he ever move her from this place, get her to look at him with affection and maybe even love. 

He only shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Feyre stalked out, leaving Cassian and Azriel alone in the large, open dining room. All three exhaled a breath they’d been holding and then Cassian grinned.

“Same old shit, Rhys.”

Azriel chuckled, his shadows trailing after Feyre to keep watch. 

“I’m so fucked,” Rhys admitted, running a hand down his face. “Tamlin is going to kill me.”

“He’ll try,” Cassian repeated, eyes bright with amusement. 

“He’s got to get through us, first,” Azriel added darkly. 

Rhys swallowed. He could figure this out in a week. All he truly needed was for Feyre to accept it—everything else would come later. Nodding to his friends, he said, “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Rhys had a lot of catching up to do.

FEYRE: 

Mor hadn’t been wrong. Feyre needed food and a hot bath, and then, when she’d clutched the female’s arm in fear and said she couldn’t sleep alone, was given a draught that chased away her nightmares. Feyre woke to glittering light pooling into her bedroom, turning the open space gold. The windows were clamped shut to ward away the chill of the mountains, though the curtains were pulled back. Everything felt intentionally big and spacious, as if whoever had put her in knew she was terrified of being locked away again. 

She hated that she appreciated that. 

Feyre hated even more than she was grateful not to be back in Spring. The thought slammed into her the moment she slid out of the satin sheets and padded toward the bathing chamber. Her back in Spring was smaller, was closed off and dark until someone came in to wake her. Feyre’s bedroom door was open, the curtains still open, the lights still flickering from the night before. 

Feyre swallowed and made her way to the window, where a vast expanse of snow and sky greeted her. There was a whole world untouched by the horror under the mountain. Beautiful and peaceful, unaware of what had happened to her. 

Of what she’d done. 

It was tempting to get back into bed. Instead, Feyre dug out a pair of wool lined leggings and a sweater that smelled suspiciously like Rhysand. She ignored that, yanking it over her body before hastily braiding her hair. Feyre pulled on thick socks and didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror. She knew what Tamlin would think of her garb. She could picture how he’d wrinkle his nose and remain silent, saving his praise for when she came out in one of Alis’s hand-picked gowns.

She didn’t want a dress, though. And she didn’t care if Rhys liked what she wore. Feyre padded out of her bedroom, admiring the high ceilings made of moonstone and marble. Mor had told her the palace belonged to Rhysand’s family and was built into the mountain. She made it seem as if they didn’t stay there often, and Feyre had heard someone mention a city—she wanted to see it, if Mor would take her. 

She found Rhys sitting in a chair a little off from a table laden with food. More than he could ever eat, piled atop plates and trays. She didn’t think he’d registered her presence and she could have turned around and left him brooding in that chair, staring out at the open archways that allowed mountain air in, warmed by whatever magic governed his palace. 

She’s my mate.

Feyre took a breath. She needed answers and to convince him to let her go back—even if going back turned her stomach. And to get back, she needed to try and play nice. If only a little. So she cleared her throat and made her way to the table, where she put food on two identical plates. Feyre noticed how Rhys stiffened as he turned to look at her, his eyes focused on the food.

He didn’t want to look at her? Even better. She didn’t want to see him, either. His face was too lovely, was too distracting. Feyre dropped the plate in front of him on the little round table, well aware he was too far away to reach.

“Eat,” she said, taking to her own seat. There was no sign of his wings, or claws, or anything but the slick male she’d come to know. Rhys brought his chair closer, eyes darting to her face for a moment as though he expected something else. 

Smart.

She took a bite of food like it was nothing and after a beat, he did too. Neither of them spoke, both hungrier than she’d expected. Feyre resented his presence, resented the cord she could feel in her chest, solidifying with each new breath she took. Rhys kept his eyes pinned on her, as if he expected her bolt at any second. 

She waited until he finished, only half done herself. Heart in her throat, she said, “I want you to take me home.”

Rhys laughed. “You are home, darling.”

Feyre clenched her fork in her chest. “This is your home. Mine—”

“Is with me,” he replied, silky as ever. “Your mate.”

“About that,” she pressed, holding his starry gaze. Warmth was spreading through her, loosening her limbs and prompting her to do something foolish and stupid. That, she realized, must be the mating bond between them. “How do I break it?”

His grin was positively feline. “You don’t. Azriel will be on his way as we speak, giving Tamlin the good word.”

Her heart sank. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Rhys replied, picking some small piece of lint from the sleeve of his black tunic. “Have I not demonstrated the lengths I’ll go to to keep you with me?”

His eyes traveled to her hand, still inked with the bargain she’d made under the mountain. Feyre snatched it away, hiding herself beneath the table. Rhys only smiled. 

“I can say no,” Feyre told him, though there was an underlying question to her words. 

Can’t I?

Rhys was practically preening. “You could have ten minutes ago. You could have said no right until you served me breakfast.”

And then, because Rhys was a monumental, stupid bastard, he ripped on the cord between them to illustrate his point. Feyre gasped, pulled forward so viscerally she threw her palms against the table, knocking a crystal cup to the floor. It shattered at her feet, a strange metaphor for the life she’d once had. As Feyre stared at the pieces, wondering how it would ever be replaced, she couldn’t but wonder if some things shouldn’t be fixed. If they simply couldn’t, and it was better to start all over. 

“Why wouldn’t you stop me?” she whispered, waiting for the horror to settle in. All Feyre felt was relief. She didn’t have to go back and face Tamlin. She didn’t have to return to endless Spring, to a life of…whatever was waiting for her. She felt different, stretched over her bones. 

She’d broken herself for him. She’d gone under the mountain to prove herself worthy, to show him she would fight for him—and in the end, she’d died. 

Alone. 

Whoever that girl had been hadn’t come back. She’d known it the minute she’d drawn her first immortal breath that human Feyre was still dead, though she’d been dying long before Amarantha ever snapped her spine. Each day of silence from Tamlin, his mask of indifference had worn her down until death had been a relief. Feyre felt like a traitor, and yet she might have started sobbing if Rhys had agreed to send her home. She didn’t want to face that place. Or Tamlin.

Maybe even herself. 

Feyre wanted peace. 

She’d never had it—not when her family had been wealthy, not when they’d been poor, and not in Spring. Feyre took a calming breath. She had nothing but time. Didn’t she deserve a say in her life—in what she wanted? To just be?

“Why would I?” Rhys shot back, interrupting her thoughts. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t think you want to leave, either.”

She hated him for saying that. Hated him for being right. Feyre stood, narrowly avoiding cutting her foot that was only clad in a sock. “Fuck you, Rhysand.”

“You will,” he called after her retreating back. “And I’ll be waiting.”

Feyre only turned to offer him her middle finger. 

She wanted to hate him for tricking her into accepting the bond.

But Feyre had the feeling he was right.  

RHYSAND: 

Tamlin’s response came to Rhys four days after Feyre left. Two words, written in red ink that, upon closer inspection, might have been blood.

Return her. 

Delivered by an amused Azriel, who promised he’d informed a rather irritated Lucien Vanserra that Feyre knew of the mating bond and had accepted it. Rhys needed to prove it and that was trickier given Feyre was openly avoiding him and the pull that was, frankly, driving him insane. Rhys was strung tighter than a bow and almost constantly erect. 

It was agony staying away from her and agony still to feel her own want and be unable to go to her. Rhys was constantly locking himself in the bathroom, trying to take the edge of his need, and it was barely helping. He swallowed before turning that letter to ash. He had three days left before the bargain was up and if Feyre was still hell bent on returning, Rhys would have a bloody war on his hands.

He had no doubt Tamlin would send Lucien from court to court to court with the tale of how he forced Feyre into accepting the mating bond. How he was still the villain, unchanged and evil. 

Just like his father. 

Rhys reclined in his chair and considered calling for Azriel. How much trouble would he be in if he just killed Tamlin? He could lie and say Tamlin tried to steal his mate…and Feyre would almost certainly tell the world the truth. 

Fuck fuck fuck.

Rhys buried his face in his hands, up far later than he wanted to be. He needed to go to bed and dreaded it, knowing his dreams would be a mix of needing Feyre and untangling his life beneath the mountain. That he was likely to wake up in come soaked sheets again, rutting into the mattress like an untested youngling. 

He exhaled a breath before stilling. The wood just outside his office groaned, bringing with it the sound of soft shuffling, like socks on slick marble. He waited, praying when he scented Feyre’s crisp, pear and lilac scent mingled with something that made his whole body shake with relief.

Arousal. 

Sweet and musky—salty, and still threaded among everything else. Rhys reclined himself in his chair and picked up some random piece of paper like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. His door creaked open and there she was in one of his sweaters and a pair of skin tight leggings he wanted to peel off with his teeth. Her shoulder was bared, freckled as the too big sweater slipped off her frame. She was so fucking beautiful, so utterly stunning it robbed him of his ability to breathe. 

She looked tired, but well—he knew Mor was looking after her, dragging Feyre from place to place and ensuring she ate. 

“There you are,” he purred, letting his paper slip from his fingers. 

“Take me back, Rhys,” Feyre said, closing the door behind her with her foot. His stomach flipped—so that’s how she wanted things to be. She wanted a fight? Rhys would give her a fight.

“No.”

“Rhys–”

“No.”

“Rhys!”

“You keep saying my name like that and I’m going to put you on your knees,” he warned, arching a brow in her direction. “Show you exactly what you're doing to me.”

Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, cheeks bright pink. “You’re disgusting.”

He grinned, stretching out his legs while resisting the urge to arch his hips. His cock was rubbing painfully against his trousers, desperate to be freed—to be between her pretty pink lips. He was so close to snapping, his restraint tenuous. 

“Why are you here? To beg to return to your great love?” he taunted, unable to hide his own jealousy. He knew she heard it, that she knew Tamlin was under his skin.

But Rhys also knew the very first thing Feyre had done upon returning was let Tamlin into her bed. And he was jealous of that. He wanted to be in her bed, wanted to be taking care of her. Giving her pleasure, showing her the home he loved—that he wanted to share wholly with her. 

“Is that what it would take, Rhys?”

He hated himself for his next words. “Are you going to fuck me to go home, Feyre?” Rising to his feet, fingers pressed against the top of his desk, Rhys looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you going to open those pretty legs and let me fuck you all so you can see Tamlin again?

Feyre bit her bottom lip before reaching for a glass globe on his desk and flinging it against his bookshelf. Glass and water exploded around them, curiously violent for someone her size. He had to throw up a hasty ward to keep them both from being hit in the blast. What, he wondered, had they made when they brought her back?

Something beautiful. 

She turned to face him, as if she’d realized the same thing he had. Rhys squared his shoulders, a battle hardened soldier who could take whatever his mate threw at him. She needed to rage and scream and vent? If she was a storm, he was a mountain. Unyielding. Unbreakable. Let her throw herself against him.

Hell, let her throw everything she had at him.

Rhys would take that anger. That fury. Anything over the silence.

Feyre’s palms slammed against his chest with impressive force. Rhys caught her by the wrist to keep them both from falling to the ground and instead whirled her around and, in one smooth, fluid motion, hoisted her up on his desk.

Feyre slapped him in the face. Rhys blinked back stinging tears, shocked she’d dared. Feyre, too, seemed a little dazed that she’d actually hit him. He watched as her body tightened and the scent of her fear invaded his senses. Rhys held her gaze.

“Don’t do that again,” he warned her, every inch of him tight. He’d snap if she did and fuck everything up. “Why don’t you go to bed, Feyre. Put your fingers between your legs and dream of me—”

She slapped him again, striking so quickly he barely had time to register it. He swallowed hard, leaning over her. “What is it that you want, Feyre?”

She was panting, sucking in air so fast he couldn’t tell if she was still aroused or having a panic attack. He started to step away, dropping his hold on her wrist to give her space when all he wanted was to bend her over his desk and fuck her within an inch of her life. They were too close and the scent of the bond was eroding all his good sense. 

“I hate you,” she whispered, reaching for his tunic and bunching it in her fist. “I hate you so much I can’t stand it.”

Her arousal slammed back into his chest. Rhys’s knees wobbled though he managed to keep himself upright, spreading apart her legs with one of his own. Rhys reached for her neck, fingers pressing ever so slightly against her windpipe.

“I’m your High Lord,” he whispered, sliding his nose through her hair. “You have to love me.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Do you know what the punishment is for disobedience, Feyre darling? For striking the High Lord in his own home?”

Her heart fluttered in her throat as she looked up at him through long, dark lashes. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Her words shattered his battered heart. Everyone was afraid of him—except his inner circle. His family.

His mate.

His mouth slammed against hers before he had a chance to think better of it. It wasn’t the kiss he’d first imagined, though it was familiar. Unlike before, when he’d had to pry Feyre’s mouth open with his tongue, she was already waiting for him. Her teeth caught against his bottom lip and when she tasted the tang of blood, she growled softly.

There you are, he thought in a daze. Rhys was wrecked when her tongue met his own, her fingers sliding up his back to yank at his hair. This was not soft nor was it nice.

But it was her. And Rhys had promised to weather whatever she threw at him, and if this was how she wanted to punish him, he was all too happy to take it. Standing between her legs, Rhys used a pulse of magic to shove everything else off his desk, not caring if it was ruined in the process. He could get new things—he would never have her like this again. 

This was the frenzy, though she didn’t know it. And Rhys intended to lose himself to it, to take her straight to bed just as soon as he could think straight. His cock was throbbing, pleading to be released. 

Feyre broke the kiss to gasp for air, leaving Rhys to nip down her neck. “Already in my clothes. Drenched in my scent.”

“Fuck you,” she panted as he reached for a fistful of her hair.

“Not yet,” he breathed, pulling her from the desk. Rhys settled Feyre on her knees, waiting for her to protest. “I promised you punishment. Though…my cock has been referred to as a gift from the mother on more than one occasion.”

“By who?” she crooned, not taking her eyes off him. “Your hand?”

“Would you like a list?” he asked, struggling internally to get his pants off with only one hand. What the fuck was wrong with him?

Feyre Archeron was what was wrong with him. He couldn’t be cool around her, could only wear the mask for so long before it slipped and she saw the male lurking beneath. 

Feyre was strong, something he wanted to explore with her later.If she wanted to be rid of him, she could have shoved him across the room. Feyre remained on her knees long enough for his cock to spring free, swollen and rigid and weeping precome. 

She laughed. Rhys had never heard her make such a sound and nearly dropped her in his surprise. 

“Is that all?”

“Open your mouth and find out,” Rhys replied, nudging his head against her soft lips. He was going to explode, clenching his ass to keep himself together. Feyre looked up at him, bratty as ever and he wondered if somehow she knew this was exactly what he wanted. This push-pull, her sass, that look in her eye that made her seem so alive. 

“Or wha—” He didn’t wait for her to respond. Rhys pushed past her teeth, hissing as they scraped the most sensitive part of him. 

“Too much talking, darling,” he managed, his rasping voice utterly betraying him. She’d tucked her lips over her teeth and as Rhys pushed himself into her throat, her tongue greeted him. Rhys couldn’t stop the low groan that escaped him, nor did he miss the look of triumph on Feyre’s face.

So he kept going, until her hands flew to his thighs and she was gagging around him, widening her jaw for a breath of air. Her nose didn’t quite reach his abdomen, though the sight of her swallowing him was so erotic his legs were shaking.

Rhys clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “We’ll have to work on your skill. I expected better, darling.”

She snorted, nipping him with her teeth as he withdrew. Feyre made an obscene sucking sound, trailing saliva over his skin. He’d never been more jealous of Tamlin than he was in that moment. No wonder he was screaming about getting her back. Rhys would have, too. He knew he’d rip apart the world to keep her, that he would commit heinous, unspeakable atrocities to keep her forever.

But in the meantime, Rhysh had to reckon with the fact that Feyre was sucking the soul from his body. She didn’t move her head—he did that for her—but her cheeks were hollowed, her tongue wet and inviting. He couldn’t keep going like this—not when he needed her on his face.

Rhys pulled back, fist still tight in her hair. Feyre’s lips were bright red and swollen and he was delighted to find her scent of arousal was stronger. 

“On your feet,” Rhys said, yanking her up for a messy kiss. He could taste himself in her mouth, salty and slick and most importantly, his. He wasn’t particularly kind or gentle as he ripped those leggings off her body, ignoring how Feyre smirked when he had to get on his knees to do it. Still, she was half naked, and when he managed to get the sweater off, Rhys was certain he would have prayed solely to her if she’d demanded it. Feyre was everything— smooth and soft and so fucking pretty it made his teeth ache. 

“Did you come?” she asked with mock sympathy. “That was quick.”

“When I come, you’ll know it,” he snarled, hauling her up off her feet before she could protest. It was merely a show of power, hardly necessary. He dropped her back on the desk, legs spread.

Gods, but Feyre was unbearably pretty. He swallowed, unable to meet her gaze as he undid his own pants entirely. Those moon bright eyes widened, drinking in his naked form, eyes narrowing on the mountains tattooed on his knees. 

Rhys sank to the ground, running his hands up and down her smooth thighs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone half as lovely as you,” he purred, holding her attention while pressing feather light kisses over her skin. Feyre’s breath caught in her throat. 

“I’ve been thinking of all the ways I want you—all the things I’d do to you.”
“And?” she managed, her voice cracking as he came higher up her body. Rhys pulled her closer, until she had to drape her legs over his shoulders to keep from falling to the ground. 

“Will you beg me to taste you, Feyre?”

She laughed again, the sound repairing the fissures of his heart. Eyes sparking, she said, “I’m not the one on my knees.”

As if she hadn’t just been sucking his cock. Rhys spread her cunt open, drinking in the aroused, pink flesh practically dripping with need. He lowered himself before his mate—his queen, even if she didn’t know it yet—and took that first taste.

Rhys growled, the scent of her cunt filling his senses. She was perfect, sweet and salty in equal measure. He’d intended to lick her just enough to drive her a little wild, to break that bratty facade she wore.

Now he thought he’d die if he wasn’t suffocated against her. Feyre’s fingers slid through his hair, yanking viciously at the strands. 

“Please,” he said, not thinking of anything but the instinct to pleasure his mate. Rhys pulled her against his face, fingers digging against the curve of her hip. Feyre exhaled a soft shriek when his tongue circled around her, teasing and taunting before he finally sucked that nub of flesh between his lips.

He ought to have warned his friends mind to mind before he started this. It was too late now–and Feyre was far too loud. They’d be clearing out, realizing the frenzy was about to make both Rhys and Feyre intolerable to be around. 

Feyre ground herself against his face, panting like a wild animal. He glanced up, drinking in her flushed cheeks and eyes so dark they reminded him of a dusky night sky. Was his heart pounding because he was so aroused, or because he loved her as much as he did? Rhys wasn’t sure, didn’t care. He just needed her, however she was willing to let him have her.

Rhys slid a finger into her body, groaning at the wet, tight heat of her. He needed her on his cock, currently twitching between his legs at the phantom touch. He doubled his efforts, thrusting another finger into her as he licked and sucked, driving her up. Feyre’s hold on his hair was enough to make him whimper though he didn’t dare remove himself from his lady’s grip. Not when he could feel her convulsing against him rhythmically, or how the taste of her was flooding through his mouth.

“Rhys,” she panted—and that, he thought, might have been the first time she’d ever said his actual name. Breathy and full of need. Rhys sucked again and Feyre clamped tight around him, breaking apart with a scream loud enough to drive an avalanche down the mountain. He didn’t stop, desperate to lap it all up, to have every last bit of her. It was only when Feyre released his hair to push at his forehead that Rhys reared back. 

With one fluid motion, he stood, wrapped his arms around her, and tossed her over his shoulder. Rhys caressed her ass before delivering a ringing slap against her cheek. The flesh bounced and Feyre yelped, caught off guard by the ringing smack. She was still coming down from what he’d done to her with his mouth. 

“Another, for striking me twice,” he said before delivering another blow to her other cheek. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her tender flesh bright red from his hand. Rhys couldn’t resist grabbing, squeezing in his hand before he brought them both into his lap. 

“Rhys—” But he didn’t wait before he sheathed himself inside her, too busy trying to get them both situated in front of his desk.

Feyre let out a soft moan when she felt him fill her while Rhys saw a burst of cerulean stars just behind his eyes. A low groan left him—Feyre’s body was sheer bliss, was heaven. He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, trying to remember what his plan had been. He could still feel her last orgasm rippling around her. 

Ah—right. Torture.

He snapped his fingers and everything he’d shoved off his desk reappeared exactly as it was supposed to. Feyre, panting, asked, “What are you doing?”

“Working,” he replied like the liar that he was. Losing his mind was more like it. Feyre was like second skin, a wet, warm vice squeezed against his aching, needy cock. All he’d thought about since he’d offered him breakfast was fucking her and now he was inside her body—and he was telling them both they couldn’t move.

“You’ll break,” she whispered, even as her hips rolled ever so slightly. Rhys stilled her with his hand. 

“You’re so desperate,” he taunted, like he wasn’t too. “By the end, you’ll be curled up in my bed like the sweetest little kitten, won’t you?”

She gritted her teeth, her eyes clamped shut. Rhys reached for a piece of paper, recalling the one Tamlin had sent. He needed to forget about the High Lord of Spring, especially given Feyre was currently squirming in his lap. But he couldn’t.

“How am I supposed to send you back like this?” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “Reeking of my cock?”

She said nothing, hips jerking as if she couldn’t help herself. Rhys could see a bead of sweat slide down the back of her neck. He leaned, licking the salt from her skin. He wanted it all, wanted to feel her come round him so badly it was making him reckless again. Dragging his hand down her body, Rhys found her clit and began to rub slow, lazy circles. 

“Do you want to go back, Feyre?”

He refused to call Spring her home. Velaris was her home.

He was her home. 

Feyre didn’t answer, though she did tighten around him. Rhys wasn’t done. She had to say she wanted to stay—that she wanted to be with him. He kept rubbing, intending to draw her up, to make her feel so good she fully submitted to the frenzy unraveling around them. He’d sent Cassian and Azriel back to spring in their Court of Nightmare masks with a warning.

Touch her and die. If you try and take her from me, I’ll kill you and everything  you love.

“Oh, Feyre,” he murmured, kissing the side of her neck. She was panting, clenching around him with closed eyes. Rhys was losing his fucking mind. “Answer my question.”

“What question?” she panted, hips bucking outside of her control. Feyre dug her nails into his bare thighs, trying so hard to ride him. The sight was nearly his undoing, and it took every ounce of his will, to slam his free hand to her shoulder and hold her still.

“Do you want to go back?”

“I can’t,” she said, twisting to look at him. “I can’t—”

“Why?” he growled, wondering what he’d missed. Had something slipped through, some message from Tamlin that upset her?

“I’m too broken, too—”

Rhys roared in fury, yanking her off him just long enough to turn her around. Legs wrapped around his waist, his arms holding her, he snarled, “You are perfect.”

Feyre looked at him with those big, starry eyes. “Something broke beneath the mountain. I don’t think I can go back…whoever went down…she’s gone now.”

He slid his hands up her spine and over her shoulders to cup her face. “I know exactly how you feel,” he murmured, kissing her gently. “That doesn’t mean you’re broken, though. Only that you survived something.”

Feyre held his gaze. “Don’t make me leave.”

He could almost pretend they were having this conversation somewhere else, under better circumstances. Certainly not when his cock was twitching inside her. Instinct was running a river through him, making him more animal than anything.

“Never,” he managed, which was the truth of things. “Never.”

Feyre rolled her hips and this time Rhys helped, his fingers digging into her skin to keep her steady, to let her brace the majority of her weight against him. 

“Whatever is happening, Feyre,” he whispered, kissing the line of her jaw, resisting the urge to fuck her quickly in favor of long, deep strokes. “I can handle it. I can take it. You don’t have to hide from me.”

Feyre bit against his shoulder, hands running up his chest. “Take this off,” she whispered and Rhys was powerless to do anything but oblige her. With a wave of his hand his tunic was gone. He had to shift in order to bring out his wings, hidden with magic to keep from frightening her. Ferye looked up, eyebrows raised not in disgust, but awe. 

Cocooning them within the safety of his wings, Rhys let Feyre ride him until they were both panting and breathless. He was mindless with need, his mouth everywhere he could reach. Teeth tugged at her ear until she turned for a messy, desperate kiss. Release gathered along his spine as his blood all but burned in his veins. 

Feyre’s orgasm was a religious experience. Rhys went right over that edge with her, coming apart like a million falling stars. He realized he was chanting her name, kissing and fucking like a mindless creature bent only on the female writhing and moaning in his lap. It took him a moment to come down, his lust only barely slaked. He was surprised by how badly he still needed her. Maybe, he thought, it would always be like this.

Feyre grazed her fingers over his shoulders, tracing his tattoos with curiosity. “What do they mean?” she asked before pressing a kiss to his skin.

“Illyrian tattoos,” he murmured, mouth in her hair. “One day I’ll explain each one, but they’re for luck and glory in battle.”

She brought her own hand up to her face, a question on her face.

“I was always rooting for you,” he whispered, taking her palm and pressing it to his cheek. 

She looked at him. “You were suffering, too.”

Rhys swallowed. “And you died. I—” He didn’t know how to tell her how terribly sorry he was. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “I can’t go back there. I can’t…I…”

“I’ll send Cass and Az to tell him you’re too lost to the frenzy to explain. You can see him when you’re ready. You’ve earned that.”

“And until then?”

“Consider this a honeymoon—a relationship in reverse,” he said, hope fluttering painfully in his chest. “Once we can walk again, I’ll court you the way you deserve. The way I used to dream about under the mountain.”

“You dreamt of me?” she asked, her eyes so full of wonder. Feyre was pure starlight, glowing with some unknown magic he wanted to explore. Happiness, he hoped. Love, eventually. 

Rhys smiled. “Of course. You, my darling, are my salvation.”