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The throne room was bustling with life. 

Its ornate silver chandeliers hung low, magically dimmed light scattering across familiar, onyx stone; fae danced and mingled in groups, voices raised to be heard over the pulsing music. The revel was in full swing: a festivity thrown solely for the newly appointed High Lord of Summer, who, together with his delegation, was travelling around Prythian to garner official acquaintance with the other Courts. 

Feyre Archeron stood alone, tucked into one of the more secluded corners, nursing a goblet of wine. Anyone would think she was uninterested in the festivities, and they’d be right: dancing and participating in the tedious debauchery of Hewn City – even if it was, supposedly, a special night – was one of the last things on her mind tonight. 

No, the only interest she could dredge up was aimed at her High Lord, who was seated above them all on his stupid, fancy throne. He’d swung one leg carelessly over the armrest while the other neatly followed the sharp edges of his seat, allowing the room a wonderful view of his clothed crotch. A goblet of flashy silver dangled from his long fingers, tilted precariously to one side. 

All of her High Lord was visible from Feyre’s position, her view immaculate. His should be too, but she had chosen this spot carefully and was all but hidden from his heavy-lidded eyes. 

All part of the game they’d played for years. 

Nesta had called it a treacherous ego-boost when Feyre had confided in her, convinced it would get her killed. Their High Lord was well-known for his devilish demeanour, and should Feyre ever tire of their little play, he would chase and he would catch—and when push came to shove, he would maim. 

Feyre knew this all too well. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t noticed that all of the unfortunate males who dared to touch her would vanish into the night after revels, never to be seen again. And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t as if she did not like it. 

It was a losing battle to argue that toying with their High Lord’s precarious temper was part of the appeal. Feyre didn’t bother to mention Nesta’s own teasing brushes with danger, that she’d seen her sneak out to rendezvous with the Lord of Bloodshed when Nesta thought her sisters were asleep. 

And, regardless of the hypocrisy, Nesta’s worries were all but unfounded. Rhysand had never truly touched her, though it was obvious he wished to. No matter how much his fingers twitched, no matter how much she silently encouraged him, he’d only ever trapped her against walls by caging her in; at most, his lips would ghost over her pulse point, hitching breath tickling her skin. Feyre was certain that, if she only thought the word, he’d listen. 

She wished he wouldn’t. 

With an annoyed twitch of her nose, Feyre brought the goblet up to her mouth and took a careful sip. The wine was sour, leeching saliva and leaving her tongue feeling dry. A particularly intoxicated female claimed it was a Spring Court specialty—Feyre had picked it based on the drunken enthusiasm, and because its crimson tint was a match to the colour she’d painted her lips with. What a disappointment. 

She swirled the liquid around, scowling. In order to fetch a new goblet she’d have to saunter into Rhysand’s view, something she had not planned to do for at least another hour; that, and none of the attending fae were drunk enough to not pay her any mind. She did not wish to mingle.

But the wine was awful, and she was thirsty, and perhaps—

Earlier on in the night, Lord Tarquin had taken up Rhysand’s attention with a lengthy conversation that had included a lot of cocky grins. It had been a blessing of sorts: with Tarquin serving as distraction, Feyre had been able to avoid Rhysand’s heated gaze with ease if, and when, she decided to traverse through the sea of fae gathered in the hall. When Tarquin, accompanied by his delegation, eventually descended from the dais and disappeared into the mass of bodies, Feyre actually considered it a shame. 

Especially considering Keir, the old bastard, had finagled his way into the spot Tarquin abandoned, ready to spout his usual nonsense and complaints. The smirk had slid off Rhysand’s handsome face within seconds and his gaze, that had barely drifted away from Tarquin before, begun to sweep over his semi-loyal subjects as he attempted to hide his boredom. It was likely he would be looking for her. 

But the wine…

It took less than thirty seconds for Feyre to break and strut resolutely out of her secluded corner, a straight line for the refreshments. 

Then a hand seized her dangling wrist.

“Pardon me,” a low, male voice breathed. “I did not know how to catch your attention otherwise.”

Feyre turned to stare whomever had the audacity to grab her down—and found their guest of honour staring right back. 

All thoughts of chastising flew out of the window. Before he’d gone out to mingle, Feyre had been able to admire Lord Tarquin from her little corner. He’d been a sight for sore eyes then, but up close, he was extraordinarily beautiful: his face was as even as the Mother would allow, dark skin glowing in the faelight and eyes a wonderfully vibrant turquoise. His long, shiny hair was just a shade above ivory and looked strong and healthy. She wondered, briefly, if the ends would tickle if they brushed her skin. 

She swallowed dryly, ignoring the pair of violet eyes burning holes in her back. 

“I would just like to say,” the High Lord murmured, voice just loud enough to be audible over the music, “that you truly are the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen.”

Feyre’s eyebrows raised at his boldness, though she could feel a corner of her mouth turn up. “Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes slid over her face, down to her barely concealed breasts. Feyre was not offended: she had purposefully chosen to wear one of her more revealing dresses tonight, a sheer, dark navy material with a high slit and a deep neckline, tailored to bring attention to the parts of her body she was proudest of. It was not for him, of course, but she did not fault him for looking.

Another male, though, possibly did. 

Lord Tarquin swallowed roughly, dragging his gaze back up to hers with visible effort. “May I ask your name?”

“Feyre Archeron,” she answered, holding up her hand when he parted his full lips to speak. “I know who you are, my Lord. You’re rather recognisable.”

He grinned boyishly. “Am I?”

“Of course. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re not well known.”

“Is it because I am young?”

“It’s because you are handsome,” she said, watching his eyes widen and grin grow wider. He really had a lovely smile. “Not a rarity, but in addition to your position, quite interesting indeed.”

His laugh was low and pleasant to the ears, and it made him all the more handsome. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

Feyre suppressed a smile. “You should.”

“The Night Court truly is peculiar,” he said, shaking his head. “You are all so blunt: no matter how much I know Rhysand doesn’t tell, he still says it like it is.” 

“We enjoy being straightforward at times, my Lord.”

“Then I hope my boldness won’t offend you,” he immediately retorted, smiling, “but you are taken?”

Feyre stiffened imperceptibly. It was a valid question: he was obviously interested in her, but did not wish to offend any fae who had already claimed her. And technically, none had; only Rhysand could count, but he had not done so officially. 

And so, all she said was: “I am unwed, my Lord.”

“Oh?” he asked, boldly stepping closer with visible curiosity. 

“My sisters and I have avoided it thus far,” she elaborated. “Our family is not of… particular political importance.”

“Lucky,” he murmured, mouth pulling into a charming grin. “A chance to wed for love.”

Feyre raised her eyebrows, amused. He was so young, still, so green—barely seventy, if she remembered correctly. Truly a child of Summer; especially considering he still entertained the idea of a marriage out of love.

“Sure,” she said. “I suppose we are very lucky indeed. At least we are not married to a male who sees us as broodmares.” 

Tarquin nodded in genuine sympathy, though Feyre’s attention had scattered: from her peripheral, she could see the throne was suddenly empty. Her heart seized her throat—and deep down on her belly, excitement coiled itself into a sturdy knot. 

“Lord Beron has lots of ideas like this as well,” Tarquin said, oblivious. “It is absurd to me. Though he does have many heirs to choose from, having children, blessed as they may be, does not take away from a female’s power or intelligence.” 

“When Lord Rhysand is not looking, this Court thinks otherwise,” Feyre replied. “I assume you know what happened to The Morrigan?” 

His mouth pulled into a thin line. “I did,” he admitted. “It is truly a shame this is how society works.” 

“It is changing,” Feyre said. “Slowly, but it is changing. I long for the day when I can fuck whoever I choose, and there are no true social consequences.” 

Tarquin’s eyebrows raised and his shoulders loosened. If he hadn’t been so dark skinned, and if the light hadn’t been so low, Feyre was certain she would have seen him blush. “That is quite the wish.” 

Before Feyre could even think of a reply, the back of her neck started to prickle, and a wave of sea-salt and petrichor washed over her. Her breathing hitched, and when she stepped back to make room, a large hand drifted over her elbow as though to stop her. 

Tarquin‘s eyes widened, the grin spreading across his face bright and excited. “Rhysand!” 

“Tarquin,” Rhysand greeted, a heavy gaze flicking between the two of them. He shoved his hands into his pockets, smirking. “Are you enjoying the revel?” 

“Most certainly,” Tarquin replied, and he shot Feyre a wink. Thankfully, the brief flare of Rhysand’s nostrils went unnoticed. “The members of your Court are incredible conversational partners; Spring and Autumn have nothing on you.” 

“You tell Beron that, won’t you? He’d love to hear it.” 

“And Tamlin won’t take offense?” 

Rhysand snorted. “Tamlin takes offense to everything, Tarquin. You’ll learn that soon enough.” 

Tarquin barked out a laugh, eyes closed and head thrown back. Feyre’s eyes focussed on the lines of his throat without her permission; a talon of violent darkness brushed against her mental shields, scratching in warning, and Feyre yanked her gaze away. 

“How is my Court?” Rhysand then asked. His smile was as charming as could be. “I am assuming it is quite a change for you.”

“It is very dark,” Tarquin replied, smiling. “But it is beautiful, especially taking the brief glimpses of the night sky into account. This has truly been a pleasurable visit so far.” 

“Darkness is our speciality.” Rhysand’s violet eyes slid to Feyre, trapping her under his heated gaze. “Isn’t that so, Feyre darling?” 

A challenge, or a boon. She never knew with him, when he was like this.

Feyre lowered her chin in a nod. “When you are born in the dark, it becomes your home. I cannot imagine living in constant sunlight.” 

Tarquin tilted his head in unveiled curiosity; his white hair shifted, exposing one muscular, dark-skinned shoulder. 

Feyre didn’t dare allow her eyes to linger. 

“You wouldn’t truly?”

“I quite enjoy the darkness.” Feyre took a sip of her wine, unable to hide her distaste at its acrid flavour. “Have you explored the city yet, my Lord?”

“Haven’t had the chance, I’m afraid,” he replied. His grin widened, then, and he leaned closer. His scent flooded her nose, encircling her. “Would it be too much to ask of you to give me a tour?”

Feyre looked to the side, where Lord Rhysand stood. Though his stance was relaxed, mouth pulled in an amused tilt, his jaw had tensed. She could feel him against her mental shields, pounding, as though he had any sort of control of her—any sort of claim. 

Feyre smiled, bright and dazzling. “If you wish, my Lord, I will. For you alone, of course.”

“Brilliant!” Tarquin called out, clapping an incredibly stiff Rhysand on the back. “And to think your Court terrifies mine—your kindness is truly a hidden gem. Should we meet tomorrow, Feyre?” 

“You’ll have to give me some time to recover from the festivities,” Feyre said, ignoring the way Rhysand threw himself at her mental shields. “How does three in the afternoon sound?” 

“Amazing, I look forward to it, genuinely.” His eyes twinkled with mirth and excitement. “Cauldron, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it—can I fetch you anything to drink?” 

Feyre held out her goblet. “Anything but the red from Spring,” she said. 

Tarquin nodded, already reaching for the cup—but then Rhysand snatched it. 

“Let me,” he purred. “Feyre is a member of my Court, after all; why doesn’t she continue to… entertain you, Tarquin.” 

Feyre raised her eyebrows, questioning, but Rhysand refused to meet her gaze. Tarquin, to his credit, only showed a little surprise; his eyes merely flicked between the two of them, before he nodded yet again. 

“Alright,” he said. “She’s doing a good job of it already.” 

Feyre couldn’t help the genuine smile from crossing her face this time. Tarquin blinked at her, a bit dazed; Rhysand huffed out a grating laugh and then turned on his heel, stalking towards the refreshments. The crowd parted for him without batting an eye. 

Tarquin watched him go, a contemplative expression on his handsome face. “Are you sure you’re not claimed yet, Feyre?” 

Her heart stuttered. “I am sure, my Lord.” 

He hummed and smiled again, a bit crookedly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll have to believe you then, don’t I?” 

 “You will,” she agreed. “If a male has claimed me, he has done so without my explicit knowledge, and I do not count that as a claim.” 

“I’ll have to take my chances, in that case,” he said, still smiling. Then he sidled a bit closer to her, reaching out for her back. 

He pulled her closer to him. 

“What—”

A particularly desperate couple barrelled past them, almost fused together. She’d been in the way, and they weren’t taking any note on where they were going. Knowing Hewn City faeries, she would’ve accidentally ended up in a fight. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, shooting an offended glare at the two heated fae. “By the Cauldron—I can’t believe I forgot why I hate revels.” 

Tarquin hummed again. “You do? I find this quite… fun, actually.” 

“It will get significantly less fun as the Night drags on. It’s a miracle fae don’t end up dead more often.”

“Dead?” 

“Only once every three years or so,” Feyre said offhandedly, watching as the taller male wrapped his legs around the shorter and started, in full view of every guest and the Mother, grinding on his partner like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Many get rather… aroused, which causes quite possessive behaviour. The sustained injuries rarely warrant a passing of a soul, though,” during the revel, “so do not worry.” 

“Perhaps I should be,” Tarquin murmured, audibly amused. 

Feyre was about to reply that he was a High Lord and he therefore had nothing to worry about, but then Rhysand appeared in front of them in a wave of shadow—empty handed. 

“Your sister is looking for you, Feyre darling,” he drawled, eyes lingering on Tarquin’s hand resting on her lower back, politely touching only fabric. 

His mouth tightened. 

Feyre sighed. She wasn’t sure whether he was being truthful; then again, both Elain and Nesta could be quite insistent. 

“It wasn’t my business, of course, so I do not know why. But I did promise to fetch you,” he continued. He inclined his head. “Are you coming?”

“Ehm—” she glanced at Tarquin, shooting him a grimace. “Sorry, it’s just…”

Tarquin’s eyebrows shot up, but he released her with an easy smile. “It’s fine. I’ll have you to myself tomorrow, anyway. Isn’t that right, Rhysand?” 

Rhysand smiled tightly. “Whatever you believe, Tarquin.” 

They stared at each other, Tarquin still with that easy smile and Rhysand all tight lines; though the posturing would have been enjoyable, Feyre felt impatient. She pinched the black fabric of Rhysand’s sleeve between her thumb and pointer finger and tugged. 

Rhysand jerked, breaking his staring contest with Tarquin to briefly glance at her, before his bored gaze flicked back to his fellow High Lord. 

“Have a nice revel,” he said. “Don’t drink too much.”

Tarquin inclined his head with a curious little smile, and waved them off. 

Rhysand walked fast. Feyre, in heels, was struggling to keep up without breaking her ankles. 

She was so focused on matching his strides that she noticed far too late they hadn’t stepped outside the palace: instead, they’d walked up to the family wing, abandoned with the High Lord’s lack of siblings and cousins. 

“I thought,” Feyre huffed, “my sister was asking for me?” 

He didn’t answer, not even sparing her a glance as their hurried steps echoed through the wide, darkened halls he was leading her through, seemingly focussed on one thing and one thing only: getting her alone.

In the absence of his gaze, Feyre smiled to herself.

It took a set of stairs and another long hallway before Rhysand took a sharp left turn, grounding to a halt in front of a door. He pressed his hand flat against the lock, skin barely lighter than the door’s material, and it clicked, swinging open.

Feyre got a quick glance of the room – dark, empty, possibly having laid unused for centuries – before he roughly shoved her inside and entered as well. The large, iron-wrought door shut behind him with a barely decipherable flick of his wrist; with another, the abandoned, empty fireplace sparked to life. He made a bee-line for it, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders heaving up and down.

She left him to his inner turmoil, instead taking the time to look around. As all rooms within the palace, both the floor and walls were hewn from onyx, polished until shiny. Two windows were carved into the rock on either side of the fireplace: on one side, two plush, dark green arm chairs and a small table; on the other a chest, with across from that, a large canopy bed with dark sheets.

Her gaze flicked back to where her High Lord stood, silent and tensed. Feyre took a step forward, thought better of it, and crossed her arms impatiently.

“So?” she then asked, voice loud over the muted crackle of burning logs. “Is my sister hiding in the armoire?”

The lines of Rhysand’s body tightened. She almost smirked.

“My Lord?”

“Do not act dumb,” he hissed, voice low and venomous.

Feyre froze, heat sparking to life in her chest. “Excuse me?”

“Your ears work, don’t they?” Rhysand turned, face dark and promising. “I told you to not act as though you are dumb.”

White-hot pleasure pooled in her belly when her meeting his gaze made his face darken even further. Feyre feigned a sigh, allowing her arms to dangle along her body, and tilted her head to one side.

“You told me my sister was asking for me,” Feyre said. “Neither of them is here—I was making a joke.”

Rhysand didn’t reply.

“Did you wish to speak to me in private, my Lord?”

He simply stared at her, heavy and intense. Goosebumps pebbled along her skin and in a fit of daring, she raised one brow.

“If you do not wish to speak I’ll return to the revel, my Lord,” she said, taking a leisurely step back. “I was having a lovely conversation with the High Lord of Summer—”

“Do not—” he barked, seemingly frozen between wishing to approach her and waiting for her to approach him. “You—”

“You do not wish for me to speak with the visiting High Lord?”

“The visiting High Lord,” Rhysand breathed, “does not need to be entertained.”

Feyre’s eyebrows shot up. “He does not? I thought it good form to amuse him, seeing he is your honoured guest, but…”

“He does not need to be entertained by you,” he said. “Anybody else can entertain him—but not you.”

“And whyever not?”

His jaw tensed. “I do not need to explain myself.”

“I wish you would, my Lord.”

“Why is it of interest to you?” with an odd shudder, as though he was stepping through a shield, Rhysand finally approached her. His steps were slow, calculated, as though he was playing predator.

The skin fit him well.

“What is of interest to me?” she asked. “That you are not allowing me to entertain Lord Tarquin?”

His mouth contorted into a violent grimace momentarily, before it morphed into a tiny, daring smile. He’d donned his favourite mask. 

“Saying his name comes so easily to you,” Rhysand purred, his voice teasing the very edge of anger. “Do you wish to entertain him? Do you truly wish to guide him through our city, show him the sights, as he hangs from every pretty word falling from your lips?”

“I do not see an issue,” she murmured, watching his eyes narrow. “And as I don’t—how will I ever be able to listen? What, exactly, is your problem?”

“My problem? My problem?” he barked out a laugh. “You wish to know what my problem is?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Feyre said quietly. “I would love to know what your problem is.”

“My problem,” he hissed, teeth bared, “is that you smiled at him.”

And there it was.

She could have scoffed. It was such a simple reason for their little tit: so boring, so benign. Under any other circumstance, Rhysand would have allowed his imagination to flow freely, or he would have stuck to baser instincts.

Tarquin was kind, easy to smile at without it being used for other purposes. It hadn’t meant anything; Feyre smiled at her sisters more often than not. But Rhysand was snarling in her face, eyes glowing with a thirst for blood, and whatever retort had been building up stayed put beneath her tongue.

This wasn’t play. Not anymore. Not now, when his jealousy was a palpable tension in the air, growing thicker with every heaving exhale.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “My Lord—”

“Do not call me that,” he interrupted. He stepped closer, all ruse of his self-control gone and flung into the all-devouring flames. “Your loyalties do not lie with me, surely, if your joy is so easily bought by a charming façade and a promise of sunshine. Tell me,” he continued, his breathing irregular, “did you wonder what he would be like in bed?”

When had it gotten this far? When had their little game left the bounds of the board and embedded itself in reality? Sure, a decade of teasing and quiet, polite, stolen moments in darkened corners had at times felt too long, even for her… but it worked for them, did it not?

Perhaps it did not any longer. 

He leaned in, close enough for her to count his individual lashes in the dim faelight, close enough to spot the raised remnants of a gnarly scar under his eye, cutting through the apple of his cheek. She wished to touch him, if only to feel the authenticity of the rage boiling under his skin no matter the needlessness.

His anger, his jealousy, was real. Yet, despite the thought that she should be afraid, Feyre felt excitement take hold of her.

And so, she breathed out, “Yes.”

Rhysand had her trapped against the wall in an instant. He smelled so mind-numbingly lovely, of rain and sea and the sharp tartness of citrus; it took all of her willpower to not breathe him in, right at the little depression in his skin above his collarbone, or the curve of his throat.

Instead she watched, heart stuttering in her chest as his power spilled out of him like ink dripping over stone, as his pupils slitted and irises glowed; if he’d looked menacing before, then he looked downright feral now.

He still found it in him to smile at her, fanged and sharp, to brush a lock of hair behind her ear with talons she hadn’t seen appear.

“Then why are you here, darling?” he asked, tilting his head to one side in some distorted display of genuine curiosity. A wisp of shadow curled around the strong line of his jaw. “He’s interested in you—everybody could smell it on him. If it was any more obvious, he would have been on his hands and knees, begging you to ride him.”

Feyre said nothing.

“And considering you’d like to know how talented the little runt would be at satisfying you,” he continued, “it is quite baffling you have not taken him up on his soundless offer. Unless…” he breathed, eyes sparking with a monstrous, corrupted kind of glee, “you find him far too young.”

And yet again, Feyre did not comment. His smile fell away for a snarl; the sound he produced came from his diaphragm and he brought his face closer to hers, hissing out through gritted teeth, “Answer me.”

There was nothing to say. One glance at her mind and he’d find all the answers, plain and clear as day, which would leave him soothed for another year or so—or, perhaps, until another attractive male took an interest in her, and she in him, and Rhysand would feel threatened again. 

But it was obvious he was not interested in putting in the effort to find out for himself, so all Feyre did was raise her hand and slowly, but surely, rest her palm against his chest.

Rhysand’s breathing hitched. She suppressed a smile, allowing her hand to slide upwards, fingertips catching against the buttons of his tunic.

“Is it truly only me having smiled at Lord Tarquin that upsets you so,” she murmured, brushing the flat over her thumb over the soft brown skin of his collarbone, “or are you so ridiculously angry because I also hadn’t rejected him outright, for something he did not even ask?”

“I—” Rhysand started, but then her hand closed around his throat and he trembled all over, swaying even closer to her.

“Tell me,” Feyre whispered, pulling until she could brush her lips over his without leaning in. “One or two, both or neither. It is quite simple, my Lord. You only have to give me an answer.”

She placed her other hand on him as well, flat against his chest, inches below his peck; his heart beat at an almost alarming pace, flinging itself against his ribcage. 

“I’m waiting.” 

Rhysand stared at her, throat bobbing under her palm as he swallowed. 

“Both,” he whispered. “It’s both.”

Keeping a firm, gentle hold of his throat, she brought her other hand up to cup his cheek. His brilliant eyes fluttered shut; his sigh expelled from his lungs in spurts. 

“Good boy,” Feyre murmured. She stroked the apple of his cheek with her thumb and silently marvelled over how soft his skin was. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

Carefully, making sure she wouldn’t let him go, he shook his head and then rested it against her palm. 

“Use your words, my Lord.”

His eyes opened; the violet was nothing more than a thin ring around his pupils. “It wasn’t hard.” 

Feyre smiled. Rhysand blinked at the sight, dazed, and then leaned closer to her. 

“Oh, no,” she tutted, pushing lightly with the hand around his throat. “Not yet.” 

“But—”

“Not yet,” she repeated, satisfaction mixing with the hot pool of arousal deep down in her belly as he nodded dutifully.

“What do you—”

Feyre released his throat from her grip and stepped backwards, delighted at the unabashed confusion and pure longing in his heated gaze. She flicked her eyes down and then back up to his beautiful face, quirking an eyebrow.

“Kneel.” 

Rhysand sank to his knees almost immediately, without any discernible hesitation. He looked up at her with undisguised reverence, mouth parted, as though he was waiting for her next order. 

Resisting the urge to caress his face, Feyre swept the front plane of her dress aside and relaxed against the wall. “You know what to do, don’t you, my Lord?”

He descended upon her like a man starved.

Slowly, at first: he was still discovering, mouthing leisurely at her outer labia as if he had permission to take his time. His lips were soft, if a little chapped, and the sensation was genuinely pleasant; Feyre had to suppress a sigh, slid her hand down to rake her fingers through his hair. 

Yes, their game had ceased; it was finally time. 

He shivered as she touched him, kissing her sex with more enthusiasm, more fervour. The tip of his tongue teased the very entrance of her cunt, once, twice, before he lapped at her, groaning.

“Do I taste good, my Lord?” Feyre asked, cursing how breathless she sounded. 

Rhysand moaned in lieu of a reply, pressing the flat of his tongue against her as he continued to slowly, almost teasingly, eat her out. Feyre allowed her eyes to flutter shut, fingers still tangled in his thick hair, and then threw one of her long legs up, around, the back of her thigh resting solidly on his shoulder. 

The slight alteration of position was well-received. Rhysand pressed his face against her, close enough that she was certain he could scarcely breathe, and then he dragged his mouth up, up, lips closing around the little bundle of nerves.

He sucked. Hard.

Feyre’s back arched, mouth falling open on its own volition, and barely managed to reel in the high-pitched moan threatening to leave her throat. Her fingers tightened in his hair, caught between yanking him away and pushing him even closer, and Feyre didn’t know what to do.

Then his right hand curled around her thigh, grip firm and almost bruising, and he simply mouthed at her clit, kissing and sucking, circling it with the tip of his tongue before relaxing his jaw and licking her entirely—she ceased to care about what was supposed to happen next. 

Soon, too soon, her body started to tremble and heat up. She had half a mind to tell him to stop, to wait, to drag this out until the first streaks of sunlight crawled above the horizon – they had all night and a good part of day, after all – but she wanted him to help her finish. Pleasure spread throughout her alarmingly fast, the back of her head pressed against the wall so firmly it was almost painful, and he just kept licking her—

Feyre came with a strangled shout, vision whiting out for a brief second as her entire body tensed and trembled. He did not stop, simply continued to eat her out as though he could not stop, would not unless she told him to; she ground her sex against his face, using him to ride out her orgasm and he let her, moaning.

Breathing shakily, Feyre tried to relax against the wall, allowing him just a moment more as she came to. Every time his nose brushed her clit her muscles seized and pleasure slowly started to rebuild. If she was being honest with herself, she could spend the rest of the night like this, with him below her in a position of worship: but this was not in her plans.

She tightened her grip on his hair and pulled until he rose to his full height and collapsed against her, heavy and panting, both of his hands settling tentatively on her waist. Feyre allowed it, smoothing her free hand down the powerful, clothed planes of his back; his breathing hitched again. 

Rhysand was unbelievably hard. She could feel the length of him, only barely contained by his trousers, poking her pelvic bone. Curious, she slid her hand from the bottom of his spine to his crotch, cupped his clothed cock, and squeezed. 

He jerked his hips, muffling a moan in her shoulder. 

“I’d say you enjoyed that, my Lord,” Feyre whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Didn’t you?” 

He nodded, grinding against the flesh of her palm.

That wouldn’t do. 

She pulled her hand away and rested it on his hip, gently keeping distance between their hips and shushing him when he made the decision to whine. “Use your words, my Lord.” 

“Yes,” he breathed needily, pushing himself against her. “Yes, I did, I—Oh—”

 “That’s what you get when you’re being good,” she informed him, rubbing leisurely at the throbbing bulge in his trousers. “You see? Listen, and I’ll touch you. Okay?”

Rhysand whimpered as he rutted into her hand, his grip on her waist tightening and loosening in intervals; he was completely at her mercy and, as wretched as it sounded, it brought a thrill like no other.

His grinding started to stutter, signalling he was close already. Though Feyre was very entertained by the idea of her High Lord coming in his trousers on the mere feeling of her hand, she wished to play with him for a bit longer.

With a gentle, featherlight kiss to his neck, Feyre retreated her hand and pushed him away from her.

He stumbled back, eyes wide and confused, breathing heavy—and then a disgruntled expression settled on his handsome face. He immediately stepped closer again with a hissed, ‘Feyre’, as though he wished to chastise her.

One look had him frozen in place.

“You’re wearing so many clothes, my Lord,” she murmured. “Why don’t you undress for me?” 

It took him less than a second to jump into action, sitting down on the bed to remove his boots and socks. Then he stood again, hurried, shimmying his trousers and undergarments down his hips simultaneously; his cock sprung up, hard and engorged, precum smearing against the dark fabric of his tunic. 

It was so incredibly lovely to watch him fumble with the buttons of his top, hands shaky and hasty. If she’d tell him to bow for her, would he? If she’d tell him after this night that she wished to do this again, would he want to? He was being so enthusiastic, so excited, so willing to please—

By the time he’d managed to shrug off his tunic, leaving him entirely bare to her, his breathing had turned irregular with anticipation and arousal. The beauty of his form was breath-taking: Feyre dragged her gaze across the tattoos curling over his broad shoulders, noting the ink followed and emphasised the natural shape of his body. A light smattering of chest hair matched the dark happy trail that started at his navel and trailed down from there, blending into a neat bush of hair surrounding the base of his large cock. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, built to be used, to fight.

Feyre wanted to climb him like a tree. 

Instead, she pursed her mouth, walking closer to him. Every single step caused his muscles to tighten just a bit more: so much so that when she finally reached out to touch him, flicking a perked nipple with the flat of her thumb, he was trembling top to bottom.

“I could do anything to you, can’t I, my Lord?” she stated, smiling as his mouth parted. “I bet that I could only touch you like this, and you’d be happy. Frustrated, yes, but happy. Isn’t that right?” 

He started to nod, paused, and then said, with difficulty: “Just me.” 

“Just you?” 

“Only me,” he corrected himself, eyelids fluttering when Feyre dragged her hand back up to his throat. “You’ll only touch me.” 

“Oh, my Lord,” Feyre tutted, “we’ll see about that.”

Even though his brows pulled together, he still leaned against her with an appreciative groan, his right hand sliding back to her waist. She reached for his face again, touching his plump lips with just the tips of her fingers, and with a slow and heady blink he sucked the digits into his mouth.

“You’ll need to open me up a little bit,” she said, heart stuttering as he swirled his tongue around her pointer. Her smile had him groan, and she released his throat to cup the back of his neck. “Can you do that for me?”

Hastily, almost too hastily, Rhysand grabbed her pussy with his free hand, his long middle finger entering her in one swift moment. A breath punched out of her as he impatiently pumped in and out, barely waiting before he added a second; at this rate, he’d be sheathed in her within the next minute or so.

Feyre extracted her fingers from his mouth and tangled her fingers with the hair on the back of his head to drag his face to the curve of her shoulder, successfully muffling his wordless whine. It brought them just that much closer together: the velvety head of his cock rubbed against her belly and Rhysand cursed low in his throat, fingers curling inside her. 

“There’s no need to rush, my Lord,” she breathed, pressing her mouth against his temple. “We have all night.”

Rhysand exhaled shakily, scissoring his fingers and then, without being asked, he rubbed his thumb against her still-sensitive clit. Her toes curled; she yanked him even closer, rocking back and forth on his fingers.

“There’s a good boy,” she gasped out, when he rubbed hard enough for her to see stars. “You pleasure me so well–”

“I want to take you against the wall.” The words were a low growl, tapering off into a whine when she tightened her grip on his hair. “Please, Feyre, I need to be inside you, please–”

She stepped away from him, cunt clenching around nothing as his fingers slid out of her, and saw him sway in place. His eyes were clouded with lust and desperation and he reached for her, obviously confused. 

“Get on the bed,” she whispered. 

She hadn’t even finished speaking before he moved and sat down on the edge of the mattress, hands twitching atop his strong thighs. Feyre watched him, dragging her gaze over his heaving chest and up to his face, lingering on the red flush high up on his cheekbones. 

Slowly, trying her hardest to take her time, Feyre pulled at the silky fabric slung over her shoulders; it slid down to her upper arms without too much resistance. 

Then she reached behind her. 

Rhysand groaned low in his throat when the belt popped loose and the garment, barely held up by the curve of her breasts, slid down her body with one yank at the neckline. His mouth had parted, eyes dark and hooded: he stared at her like she was the moon, or a goddess, a deity—like he’d been kneeling at her altar with an offering for hours and she’d materialised in front of him just to grant him a wish. 

“Scoot up,” she said. 

Rhysand scrambled until his back reached the wall, obedient, waiting. He was trembling still, likely almost jumping out of his skin with anticipation. 

“Excited, my Lord?” Feyre asked, brushing her pointer finger down her hip. At his lack of an answer, she tilted her head to the side, wisps of hair brushing her cheeks. “Well?” 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Feyre, please…” 

“So demanding,” she tutted, though she stepped onto the bed anyway, crawling closer until they were a hairbreadth away from touching. “It’s alright, though. You said the magic word.” 

And then she reached out and closed her hand around his cock. 

He threw his head back, entire body tensing; his hands had grabbed hold of the silky black duvet, and Feyre thought, with a weird mixture of amusement and arousal rushing through her veins, that the maids would undoubtedly be puzzled to find the fabric punctured in the morning. 

One sure, firm stroke of her fist caused his hips to buck up. She tutted again, bracing her free hand against his hipbone to press him back onto the bed.

“Stay,” she said, punctuated by a twist of her wrist.

Rhysand cursed quietly under his breath, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew shallower with every single pass of her hand, muscles flexing whenever her thumb brushed the beading pearls of precum off the slit of his cock. He was so pretty like this, flushed with arousal and her touch; the fact that it was her doing, that he was minutes from falling apart because of her, only added to his beauty.

It made her feel almost feral.

Before she was aware of what she was doing, Feyre crawled even closer, swinging one long leg over his lap and casually manoeuvring his dick inside of her.

Gravity had never been more useful. Rhysand was big enough for her to feel the burning stretch down to her toes, but allowing her own weight to help her sink down made the whole ordeal significantly more pleasant. Especially the look on Rhysand’s face, screwed tight with pleasure, caused her lust to grow tenfold.

She scraped her nails down his chest, middle finger catching on a perked nipple. Rhysand rocked his hips in response and Feyre’s vision briefly blurred at the pressure: she breathed through it, repetitively clenching and relaxing around him, before she’d gathered herself enough to cup his cheek and offer him a small smile.

“Alright, baby,” she murmured. “Now you can move.”

And he did.

With a strangled moan he thrusted upwards, and Feyre moved with, holding herself up inches before his body rested on the mattress again. And then she started meeting him, thrust by thrust, feeling so unbelievably full that she did not doubt the feeling of him inside of her would linger for days to come.

He pushed himself forward, large hands landing on her hips just to hold, not to guide; his forehead dropped against her neck and she hugged him close in silent reply.

“You feel so good,” he slurred, mouthing and nipping at her bare skin. “So good, Feyre, I—”

She shushed him, raking her fingers through his thick hair. He did not need to speak or voice his feelings, not now. This was about them joined together, an echo of the intense, almost primal attraction they’d felt for one another when their gazes first crossed all those years ago, something that morphed into a game exciting and tentative and teasing.

Nesta had been right in a way: their play had been a ticking bomb ready to explode, a bucket threatening to overflow. This wouldn’t end in tragedy, though. Feyre would not allow it to.

The sound of their flesh connecting with every thrust was downright filthy, but Feyre found that she quite liked it. That it was something she quite wanted to hear again, something that made her burn with need. And it wasn’t just the sound: it was him clutching at her like a lifeline, it was him looking at her like that, it was him always giving her the urge to smile.

It was the finally, really.

“You’re so good at this,” Feyre said finally, gasping through a moan that was a tad too breathy for her liking. Then his tongue laved at the sensitive spot behind her ear, and her answering moan was far breathier than the last. “Makes me suspect you’ve done this before.”

“Never again,” he groaned. “Only you—only—”

She squeezed around him, and whatever he’d wanted to say tapered off into a guttural moan.

 “My lord—"

“Rhys,” he gasped into her neck, whining hoarsely when she ground down. “I—I want you to call me Rhys.”

“You’ve told me that before,” she murmured, raking her fingers through his hair until she found hold, pulling his mouth away from her skin. “I’ve never accepted your offer, have I, my Lord?”

He looked at her, thrusting up into her with a shaky kind of hesitance, as if unsure what she wanted him to do. “You—you haven’t.”

Feyre smiled. His perfect mouth went slack and she released his hair, hand sliding until she was cupping his cheek. The other, ever-greedy, travelled to his beautiful throat. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” he gasped, “yes, yes, yes—”

“Well, alright,” she conceded, still smiling, and she brought his face closer to hers. “Just because you’ve asked so nicely, Rhys.”

He accepted her kiss with fervour, lips already parted and waiting before she even managed to slant her mouth over his. The taste of him – herself, and sour wine, and the cold, dark magic that permeated his bones – was resplendent, pinpricks of burning starlight spreading throughout her at his tongue touching hers. 

The kiss caused him to groan deep in his throat, hips stuttering briefly before he found his rhythm again. She did not blame him: it was a feeling unlike any other so far to kiss him now, his mouth soft and his tongue hot, almost too overwhelming to cope with. By the Mother, did she want to swallow him whole; nobody would ever match up to this, and nobody should for him.

A strange feeling had started to pulse in her chest sometime between the last breath she’d taken before kissing him and the moment their mouths had touched. It was smug, some kind of annoying satisfaction, accompanied with the white-hot feeling of jealousy.

Feyre was pulled back into reality by the insistent quality of his cock grinding inside of her, as though he was testing his limits. His hands had tightened around her hips, almost as if he wished to guide her instead of her guiding him.

It only took a little pressure on his throat to make him go pliant again. A little more fight would have been lovely—perhaps, next time…

Now, though, she’d grant him one thing. 

Keeping her hand wrapped around his neck, she pulled away, successfully keeping him where she wanted him despite his desperate attempts to follow. He whined as soon as her mouth left his, tapering off into silent, hitched breaths when her lips brushed the shell of his ear. 

“Pleasure me, baby,” she whispered, smiling when his hand released her hip before she’d even finished speaking, thumb already rubbing against her clit. Her eyelids fluttered and she hugged his face against her neck, pleasure zapping up her spine. “There you go. Good boy.” 

He kept up with the movement of his hips, Feyre meeting him with every shallow trust. Yes, this—this was lovely. This was how it was supposed to go. Her in control, him listening to her, and nothing else mattered.

Then Rhys spoke.

“‘M—I’m—” he cut himself off, words morphing into a deep moan. His hips stuttered again, breathing heavy yet slow; he was, undoubtedly, close to completion.

Feyre bit down on his earlobe, relishing in the little gasp that followed. “Not yet.” 

“But—”

“Not yet,” she repeated, pulling his mouth away from her. He looked wrecked, hair mussed and cheeks red with exertion and pleasure, mouth slick and swollen. She tightened her grip on his throat briefly. “You’re going to be good, right? You can control yourself, can’t you?” 

Rhys set his jaw and nodded. 

“Words, Rhys,” she murmured. 

His eyes squeezed shut. And then, with another hitching breath, he slurred: “I can be good.” 

Feyre wished to press her thumb to his bruised lips, to push the digit behind his teeth and force him to suck. She wished he’d never let her go. She wished, fervently, to be back in the throne room, where the fae would watch her ride him just like this and watch him submit to her just like now.

But then he ground up into her, deep and slow, and his thumb made slow circles around her clit, and his brilliant eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at her with an expression akin to awe—and the desire to be in public scuttled off, to be filed away for later.

He was so beautiful it made her ache.

“I know,” she said, cunt clenching around his cock. At his moan, she brushed her free hand down the side of his face, pressing the flat of her thumb just-so against the corner of his mouth. “You’re being so good, Rhys.”

He whined quietly, trying, in an almost desperate manner, to bring his face closer to hers again. 

Feyre smiled.

“Is this what you wished for?” she asked quietly, tilting her head and tightening her grip. Rhys’s breath was stuttering in his throat, eyes heavy-lidded and cloudy; still, he managed to produce a confused groan that told her he had no idea what she was talking about.

“You, under me,” she whispered. “Is this what you’ve dreamt of, Rhys? Is this what you wanted? Or was your little tantrum simply an attempt to get me to fuck the High Lord of Summer whilst you watch?” 

It took a moment before the words settled and Feyre watched, delighted, as understanding and rage sparked in his irises. His teeth bared, sharp and straight and a perfect, shiny ivory; the growl started deep in his chest, hissing out from behind his canines like the steaming, violent froth of boiling oil. 

“Did you?” she cooed, barely able to keep the smile on her face as his next thrust punched the breath out of her. “Was—was that what you wanted instead, Rhys? Watching me get fucked by another—” 

“Feyre—”

“He’s so handsome,” she said breathily. He thrusted again, deep and hard, and she tightened her grip on his throat to prevent herself from falling. “Don’t you think so, my Lord?” 

With a guttural snarl, Rhys flipped them over, setting a punishing, mind-numbing pace. The sheets were positively freezing against her sweat-damp back; Feyre barely took note of it, too wrapped up in his cock sliding in and out of her, his thumb rubbing teasingly at her clit. Pleasure, white-hot, rendered her entirely unable to speak—unable to so much chastise him for taking control when he shouldn’t have. Her legs wrapped around his waist on their own accord, ankles locking together.

“Don’t speak of him,” he growled. “Not while I’m in you, not while you’re touching me.” 

“Rhys,” she gasped, releasing his throat so she could scrabble at his back with both hands, desperate to find purchase. “Oh, fuck—”

Rhysand pressed his forehead against her neck, sweaty hair tickling her jaw. His mouth was open above her collarbone, breath hot and teeth sharp against her skin.

“You cannot ever torture me like that again.” His voice was gravelly with lust and jealousy, lips just barely skimming her as he spoke. “The way you looked at him earlier, how you smiled—it drove me mad. It drives me mad. And to hear your little fantasies—”

He ground himself into her, deep and slow and torturous, and Feyre’s own moan took her so off guard that it morphed into an embarrassing squeak. 

“Only me,” he breathed. “Only I can touch you like this, and it’s only you—only—”

She grabbed his face and wretched it away from her neck, only to push their mouths together. Rhysand moaned into their kiss and she swallowed the sound greedily, drinking him in.

It truly had been far too long; after ten years of only the barest of touches, of dark looks and briefly shared breaths, this was pure bliss. She had him everywhere and he had her, and his hair was spider-silk between her fingers and his mouth was golden dripping honey and he was hard and soft and warm against her, and she never wanted it to end. Just this, just them, forever—that would be enough.

His hips started stuttering again; Feyre did not even attempt to comment. He deserved it at this point, and the way he was kissing her was so sweet and so hungry that she could not find it in herself to take completion away from him for another moment.

Then he rubbed at her clit harder than before, as if trying to urge her along. Their mouths disconnected and Feyre gasped for air, inhaling greedily, the breaths exiting her lungs in breathy moans as quickly as they could enter. Her entire body was tingling, her legs were trembling around his waist. And still, she was trying to hold it off, despite being desperate for release—

He bit down on her pulse point, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break skin, and Feyre’s vision completely whited out, his name a mere gasp on her lips. Through the all-encompassing haze of pleasure she could feel him chasing the final leg of his own pleasure, could feel him pushing his cock deep inside of her, thrusting harshly once, twice, three times before they turned shallow and gentle.

Rhys collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily, and as the world slowly came back into focus she stroked his hair and his back. He was sticky with sweat, still trembling with exertion, and – to her complete and utter surprise – his wings were out.

“Aren’t you a good boy,” she mumbled after her breath was caught, when she was certain her voice would not fail her.

 He chuckled throatily. “I do hope it was better than just good, darling.”

“Fantastic,” she replied, blinking slowly. “It was—yeah.”

She moved just the littlest bit. His hips jerked when she did so, and she could feel his cock twitch inside of her. Then he pulled out, dropping himself onto his side next to her, and completely wrapped her up into his embrace.

She pressed her lips against the space between his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and his eyes blinked open, irises still so impossibly large.

“I am sorry,” she whispered into the warm, damp air between them.

He frowned. “What for?”

“I was prodding you, wasn’t I?” Feyre laughed lightly, trailing her finger over the pointed curve of his air. “With the High Lord of Summer. He is attractive, but I—”

“Only wished to make me jealous?” he asked, and when she nodded, his face relaxed. “That—I suppose that makes sense.”

“It was exciting,” she said, “to watch you like that. It’s always been exciting—I just didn’t expect you to lose your composure as much as you did.”

A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s a bit more threatening than any old third son of some Lord,” he said. “I couldn’t just break his brain and mist his body. And when you smiled at him… you’ve rarely smiled at me. I couldn’t handle it.”

Feyre pressed a kiss against his mouth, chaste and small. “I’ll save my happiness for you, Rhys.”

He sighed, tightening his arm around her and pulling her against his chest. “Don’t give Tarquin a tour,” he then murmured.

“And whyever not?”

“Because,” he said, almost whining. He buried his face in her neck. “I don’t like it.”

“I made a promise.”

“You did not,” Rhys retorted. “You merely agreed to his ridiculous request—and considering he is the visiting High Lord, my word overrules his. And I say you don’t need to guide him throughout Hewn City.”

Feyre could not help but smile. “And what do you reckon I am supposed to do instead?”

“Be in my bed,” he replied, pulling back from her neck when she slapped his shoulder in admonishment. “I am being serious.”

“You cannot be.”

“I have finally touched you,” he said. “Years of just barely being able to feel the heat of your skin—and now you have put your hands on my body and pressed your mouth against mine. Forgive me, Feyre, if I am no longer able to resist the pull between us; it is far easier to separate two magnets that have not yet connected, than those that are already attached.”

She looked at him, at his earnest expression and the promise in his beautiful eyes, and reached out to cup his cheek.

“Game over,” she whispered, and he smiled.