Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The forest was no longer a labyrinth of snow and ice. By some miracle, Feyre Archeron had made it through another winter without starving to death, and in a few days, spirits would light up the Night Court's sky as if to celebrate.

But she'd slept through Starfall every year since her father died—long days hunting in the woods left her exhausted. Feyre only looked at the sky when she shot down a bird for dinner.

Rustling leaves in the distance caught her attention. With the silence of a predator, she moved toward it, nocking an arrow. It could be her chance to ensure she'd still eat if the traps she'd laid that morning were empty. But even bagging a deer wouldn't stop her stepsisters' whining.

She rounded a tree slowly, listening for anything that might reveal something about her quarry. Her heart sank at the sound of voices, just a shade too monstrous to be faerie. Naga.

Feyre turned to go, but the sound of another voice made her pause. Raspy, ancient, and accompanied by the clicking of bone on bone. She should have run, should have left the scene to play out without her, but curiosity won out. Her grip around the bow tightened as she crept closer to the clearing.

The naga had formed a loose circle around their prey, something half-hidden by a threadbare cloak. It turned its head, and milky-white eyes locked on hers, a pleading look on its face of bone. Feyre had never seen one before, but she'd heard the stories.

A Suriel.

It wouldn't be much of a meal for so many naga, and when they were finished with it, they'd turn their attention to Feyre next. She was outnumbered—the sensible thing to do would be to run.

But if she ran, Feyre knew she wouldn't be able to forget those eyes, the obvious desperation. There were only heartbeats before the naga realized she was there. Precious little time, but it would be enough.

Feyre raised her bow, aimed, and fired at the closest naga. It fell but didn't die—her arrows weren't ash—but she hardly paid attention. Her hand was already reaching back to the quiver to re-load, and within seconds, there was an arrow buried in every single one of them. The Suriel ran off.

With her magic, Feyre let her wings unfurl from her back, then shot into the sky. By the time the naga recovered, she was long gone. They were no match for the power of an Illyrian with a weapon in hand, even an untrained half-breed female like Feyre.

Once she'd put enough distance between them, Feyre landed gently and hid her wings again. It was time to check on her traps, and even with game becoming more plentiful as the weather warmed up, there was still no time to waste. She pushed the Suriel from her mind and got to work. After all, the rabbits she caught wouldn't skin themselves.

By the time Feyre returned home, carcasses in hand, the sun was setting. She headed straight to the kitchen, hoping to avoid Elain's sad, hungry eyes and refusal to help cook and Nesta's cutting remarks that seemed to hit every single one of Feyre's soft spots. Unlike Feyre, her stepsisters had two High Fae parents to Feyre's one. And they never let her forget it. Their mother—Feyre's stepmother—made sure of that.

The three of them were seated at the table when Feyre entered, her stepsisters reading over their mother's shoulder. They didn't acknowledge Feyre as she hung the bow near the door and slipped off her boots. Feyre preferred it that way.

She couldn't read whatever it was they were so engrossed in, but even from a distance, she could tell the paper looked expensive, heavy cream parchment and the darkest black ink Feyre had ever seen.

"I'll need the table to prepare dinner," Feyre said flatly, walking over and unsheathing the hunting knife strapped to her thigh. "Can you do whatever it is you're doing somewhere else?"

The three of them looked up at her, an identical trio of disgusted looks on their faces. Feyre bit back a retort about how they could always stop eating meat if they found the sight of a carcass so repulsive—after all, it's not as if she enjoyed hunting to feed the four of them. But it was that or eke out a living in Illyria, where her wings might be clipped and no one treated half-High Fae kindly, so Feyre stayed and did her best to keep them all afloat.

"I know manners are unheard of for your kind, but do that after we've left so we don't have to see entrails for once. We won't be eating here tonight," her stepmother said.

Feyre took in a deep breath and willed herself not to fling the dead rabbits onto the table just to make a point. She didn't have the energy for a fight tonight. "Where are you going?" she said. As far as she knew, none of them had plans for Starfall.

After all, it had been years since the Archerons had been invited anywhere. Feyre's father had once been a successful merchant, but his luck had turned shortly before he'd died. When her stepmother took over as head of the household, they hadn't been any better off. The Archeron name was still known among Velaris's elite, but invitations like this had stopped coming years ago.

"The prince is giving a ball," her stepmother said, as if that explained it. But there was no reason the High Lord's son would invite a once-noble family clinging to the last shreds of their dignity, not unless he was insane. Or desperate. Feyre had never met Rhysand, so as far as she was concerned, it could truly go either way.

Before she could ask for details, her stepmother had turned her attention to Nesta and Elain, lamenting that the invitation hadn't come in time for them to lose a little more weight before the ball—as if years of near-starvation hadn't already left the four of them too thin. Feyre tuned it out. Privately, she thought there was no point in trying to catch the prince's eye. A High Lord's son could have anyone he liked, and if he was resorting to throwing a ball to find a wife, then there had to be something repulsive about him driving females away.

The meat would spoil if she waited too long to cook it, so Feyre ignored the sounds of her stepmother forcing Nesta and Elain into the fine gowns she'd refused to sell, no matter how much food the money could have bought. After all, as her stepmother said, they had an Illyrian to hunt for them, and it's not as if Illyrians were good for much else other than being the High Lord's canon fodder.

Feyre didn't bother to ask if they'd allow her to come to the ball, too. Even the most powerful camp-lords in Illyria didn't get invites to events in Velaris—a half-breed female certainly wouldn't be welcome. Instead, as she skinned and butchered the rabbits, Feyre let herself dream about a night of dancing and watching the star-spirits' annual migration.

Besides, Rhysand was probably a prick. And at least she was getting some peace and quiet for once.

As Feyre's knife separated muscle from bone and entrails, she told herself it was for the best. There was no reason to be jealous. In some ways, it was a blessing to be spared from her stepmother's machinations and desperate social climbing. And she still had her wings.

But still, at the sight of Nesta and Elain in all their finery, Feyre couldn't help a flutter of envy. They could have Rhysand to themselves—Feyre just wanted to see Velaris and the famed House of Wind for herself, to have one night of dancing and music and beauty, to forget, just for a little while, the constant, draining struggle to survive.

More than anything, Feyre just wanted a break.

When she was alone with nothing but a pot of poorly-spiced rabbit soup, Feyre poured herself a bowl and tried not to think about the elaborate spread that the guests at the House of Wind were dining on tonight. She brought her food to the front steps, hoping the first few spirits streaked across the sky early enough that she'd catch it before going to bed.

She'd nearly drained the bowl when she caught sight of something moving through the trees. Dark grey, too large to be an animal. Heart pounding, Feyre leapt to her feet and started to reach inside for her bow.

But the sight of the Suriel made her freeze.

It walked across the Archerons' yard, carrying a bundle of cloth in its arms. And those unsettling eyes were staring right at Feyre.

"I'm here to repay you, Feyre Archeron," the Suriel said.

Hearing her name when she hadn't given it made Feyre shiver, even if the Suriel did know everything. "You owe me nothing," she said.

The Suriel held out the bundle of cloth to her, and now that it was closer, Feyre recognized it as a cloak. "Put it on."

It seemed best not to argue. Feyre took the cloak, carefully avoiding the Suriel's fingers of exposed bone, and wrapped it around her shoulders. The fabric was fine, much thicker and softer than anything that Feyre had worn in years. "Thank you."

"Turn around."

Feyre just blinked. The Suriel repeated its order.

Slowly, she spun in place, and the Suriel's cloak transformed into a gown fit for a queen. The silver-blue fabric was covered in tiny gems that glinted like starlight itself. The bodice fit with snug perfection before pooling gently onto the ground. Feyre lifted a hand to her hair, which was now pulled back with twin pearl combs. The tips of her shoes peeked out from underneath her skirts, no longer the work boots she'd been wearing all day, but a pair of delicate glass slippers.

"Well, these are hardly practical," Feyre said with a stunned laugh. The Suriel waved a hand, and the glass turned to silk.

Somehow, humor found its way into the Suriel's voice like nails on a chalkboard. "Perhaps glass isn't the best choice to dance in."

"Dance?"

The Suriel laughed, revealing rows of brown teeth and black gums. Feyre did her best not to cringe. "You wanted to attend the ball, did you not?"

"I— I did." The Suriel cocked its head at her, and Feyre had the distinct impression it thought she was stupid. Still stammering, she continued, "But I don't— There's no invitation, and I don't have a way of getting to the House of Wind and—"

"An invitation was extended to the Archeron family. You are an Archeron, are you not? And wings will be sufficient to get you there. Use them."

Perhaps there was a reason the gown was completely open-backed. Feyre let her wings unfurl again, stretching them out wide. She normally kept them hidden to stay inconspicuous in forest or to avoid knocking into things in her family's too-cramped cottage. Arriving at a ball with her wings out was almost too much to contemplate.

But then she remembered that most of the High Lord's family had wings—his mate, the Lady of Night, was fully Illyrian and couldn't hide them. Just the thought of it gave her courage.

"Thank you," Feyre whispered, but the Suriel had already bounded off into the trees. It couldn't have heard her, but perhaps verbalizing her thanks was unnecessary. If it knew everything, then it understood how grateful she was.

There was no reason to waste time and squander the Suriel's gift. Feyre bent her knees and launched herself into the air. Though she'd never been to Velaris, she knew the way, and it felt as if a string in her chest was pulling her closer.

The House of Wind was easy enough to find, the many windows lit and filled with silhouettes of partygoers. She was likely the last to arrive, and the thought of it made her stomach flip. All eyes turned in her direction.

At first, Feyre was mortified, convinced that she must have violated some sort of court protocol or offended the prince by arriving late to the ball. But a hush fell over the crowd.

Starfall's first spirits streaked across the sky just as Feyre Archeron landed in the House of Wind.

Chapter Text

This was the worst Starfall of Rhysand's life. In the past few weeks, his father had doubled down on his insistence that Rhys make himself useful by finding a wife ("These things take time, Rhysand. Be responsible for once and get started before you're a High Lord with a succession crisis."), and as usual, his mother had doubled down on her insistence that her mate was being far too harsh ("Don't rush him. It's not a decision to be taken lightly, and it's not as if you're dropping dead any time soon."). Rhys had spent most of the last week in the library just to get away from it.

But even his mother hadn't gotten the High Lord of the Night Court to budge on this particular issue. This year's Starfall party was a last resort—invitations had gone to every family with the smallest shred of political significance and marriageable daughters. Rhys was to choose one for a bride tonight, or his father would choose for him.

And so Rhysand had found himself pretending to look interested as various Night Court females threw themselves at him. Though if he was being honest, they did that anyway, which was only to be expected when you were a young, handsome High Lord's heir. There had never been a shortage of females warming his bed, but none Rhys would ever ask to be anything more. If he married, his wife would be the future Lady of Night, a position that was fraught at the best of times. There was no shortage of would-be assassins and kidnappers with vendettas against the Night Court, who would happily use its Lady to settle scores or force the hand of its High Lord.

Rhysand had seen the strain it had put his mother under. The thought of asking anyone else to endure it made him feel faintly sick.

The spirits' annual migration was about to begin, the perfect excuse to end yet another tiresome conversation. As Rhys stepped closer to the open balcony where the view was best, he caught his sister's eye. Rhiannon didn't even try to look sympathetic, just snickered into her wine glass.

At least someone was having fun.

But the first streak of silver across the sky wasn't one of the spirits—it was an Illyrian. An Illyrian female. As she came into view, Rhys realized she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The faelights made her dress glitter in a way that brought out the gray-blue of her eyes, and sharp talons gleamed at the top of each wing.

Wings that she had flown here with.

She seemed unsure of herself as she landed, tucking her wings in tight, and as she turned her head to look around, he noticed pointed ears. One Illyrian parent, one High Fae parent, just like him, then. Perhaps that explained why her wings weren't clipped.

"Who is she?" Rhys said to his sister, who'd come to stand next to him at some point. He'd been so distracted by the female alighting on the balcony that he didn't notice when.

"I don't know," Rhiannon murmured back, "but if you're going to find out, pick your jaw up off the floor first."

For once, Rhys didn't have a retort. The crowd had cheered at the sight of the first stars crossing the sky, but he hardly noticed. He felt pulled to this female, as if by a string tied to his ribs. He'd never been so desperate just to know someone's name. Pushing through the crowd, he made his way towards her.

She was telling someone to get their hands off her, and Rhys tried not to think about why it bothered him so much that anyone would touch her against her will. Perhaps it was just particularly aggravating to think someone would have the poor manners to do that at his party, to think they could get away with that sort of behavior in the House of Wind.

Or maybe there was some other reason he didn't want anyone else touching her.

"There you are," Rhys said, slipping a casual arm around her shoulders. "I've been looking for you."

It wasn't quite true, but signaling to the faeries who were bothering her that she'd caught the prince's interest would keep them from touching her again. Rhys steered her towards the dance floor.

"If you wanted to dance with me, the polite thing to do would be to ask," she said, shooting him a glare. "Should I take this to mean that as the High Lord's son, you think you're above manners?"

So she'd figured out exactly who he was and still hadn't thanked him. Rhys's smile widened. "I'm not owed a dance from you, but I'd consider it an honor," he said.

She was still looking at him warily, and for some reason, just the thought of her rejecting him made Rhys's stomach churn. But she said, "Then I'll try not to step on your toes."

Rhys hoped he didn't look too obviously relieved as she let him lead her to the dance floor. She was the first female he'd shown any real interest in all night, which meant they were being watched closely.

Which was unfortunate, because she proved to be a barely competent dancer at best. Rhys didn't quite understand it—her family had to have some claim to nobility if she were here at all, and even the lowest rungs of the upper crust taught their daughters better than this. Stepping on his toes shouldn't have been this much of a real concern.

"What's your name?" he said, lifting an arm to lead her through a turn. Her wing came dangerously close to brushing against him as she moved; formal dances like this hadn't been created with Illyrian wings in mind. His own were hidden tonight, mostly to avoid accidentally knocking them into another partygoer in the crowded ballroom.

"Feyre Archeron."

The name sounded like pieces falling into place, even though he'd never heard it before. Rhys resisted the urge to parrot it back, just to have it on his lips.

As she completed the turn, obviously trying very hard not to look down at her feet, Rhys splayed his free hand on her lower back. It was so, so tempting to use it to pull her flush against him, but they had an audience. And he certainly didn't want to scare her off.

"Rhysand, but please call me Rhys."

"Is it strange to introduce yourself at a party where most of the attendees are here because they want something from you?"

Rhys faltered, and years of practice were the only reason he didn't miss a step in the dance. Everyone else here was a courtier who stuck to the polite fiction that they'd just come to enjoy Starfall, not improve their social standing. Feyre was an outsider in more ways than one.

"And are you one of them, the attendees who want something from me?"

A part of Rhys hoped the answer was yes, but instead Feyre just laughed. And Cauldron, did Rhys want to hear her do it again. He was so taken aback by the beauty of it that he almost didn't catch what she said next.

"Absolutely not," she said, smiling as if he'd made a joke. "My stepsisters are the ones who came here hoping to leave with your ring on their finger. I'm just here for a night off away from my bitch of a stepmother."

It might have been a relief to hear she didn't want him, but that was the moment the string pulling him to her snapped into place.

Mate.

The one woman who hadn't come here intent on marrying him was his mate.

The surprise sent Rhys stumbling right into her. Feyre caught him before he knocked her over, bracing a hand against his chest. It felt like her palm burned through the layers of his jacket, and the whiff he caught of her scent drove all rational thoughts out of his mind.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

The urge to touch her, to claim her was strong, especially with so many people staring at them in fascination. So was the drive to mist anyone who'd upset her, and if Rhys had known who Feyre's stepmother was, that woman would be nothing more than blood rain.

But Feyre had already made it clear she didn't want him, and Rhys wouldn't repeat his father's mistakes. He forced himself to take her hand again, continue dancing, and school his expression back into something normal.

"My apologies," he said smoothly. Or at least, as smoothly as he could manage.

Feyre was still looking at him as if he'd grown a second head, but if Rhys wasn't mistaken, there was a flash of reluctance as she lifted her hand from his chest. But perhaps that might have just been wishful thinking.

"Are you alright?" Feyre said.

"Fine, thank you."

She definitely didn't believe him, but keeping time to the music seemed to take up too much of her concentration for her to dance while also pushing for a real answer. As they went quiet, Rhys tried to formulate a plan.

He couldn't let his father choose a bride for him tonight—the thought of marrying someone else when he knew he had a mate was too painful to dwell on. But he wouldn't be a brute and strong-arm her into accepting the mating bond, not when she'd said that she wasn't here for a husband.

He'd have to convince her by the end of the night. The only question was how.

But it was so damned difficult to think when she kept brushing close to him, her lilac-and-pear scent making him lose every last train of thought, and the dress made her glitter like a star every time she moved. Maybe he could have come up with something if she'd looked slightly less perfect.

Information. He needed information. "What's made you so eager to get away from your stepmother?" he said.

"My parents are dead," Feyre said, so matter-of-fact that he guessed they'd passed a long while ago. "There's nowhere else to go but Illyria, and I'll endure almost anything if it means avoiding wing-clipping."

"I understand that," Rhys said softly. A sense of sadness tempered the instinct to find that stepmother and kill her. One of Feyre's hands rested in his, and he squeezed it.

Feyre forced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm sure you know how it is. Illyrians might be uncivilized, but we're certainly useful."

Rhys did know. He'd heard it countless times, even from his own father. "Your stepmother is High Fae, then? And your father was Illyrian?"

"Is this a dance or an interview?" Feyre said, raising her brows as she passed by him in another turn. Rhys caught amusement in her eyes, but also that lingering sense of wariness. He'd have to tread more carefully.

"Just making conversation," he lied. The wheels were already turning in his head.

"But yes, my father married two High Fae females in a row, two of his very many unwise decisions."

Rhys changed the subject after that, hoping not to look too obviously like he was trying to learn every single thing about her. Every new scrap of information just convinced him further that she was perfect—a huntress, a survivor with a seemingly unending well of determination and a sensible head on her shoulders. And she was smiling and laughing and if he wasn't mistaken, there was a glimmer of lust in her gaze when she glanced at him and thought he wasn't looking.

Which would all be well and good if there were a way to marry her without bringing her into the dangerous den of vipers that was Night Court politics.

The dance ended all too soon, and Rhys tried to ignore the way it hurt to watch Feyre pull away and lose herself in the crowd. He headed straight for the table laden with food and drink. His cousin Mor was already there, pouring a glass of wine.

Before she had a chance to ask the questions he knew were inevitable, Rhys whispered, "She's my mate."

Mor pressed the glass into his hand. Rhys downed it.

"What are you going to do about it?" Mor said, and it was a relief to hear her skip the congratulations on finding his mate and focus on the dilemma at hand. Rhys didn't know what he'd do without her.

Before he could answer, Rhiannon's talons scraped against his mental shields. Because of course she had questions. He was fortunate his brothers weren't here tonight to pounce on him, too. Rhys ran a hand through his hair and sighed. His eyes didn't leave Feyre.

He opened a crack in his shields to let Rhiannon listen in as he quietly told Mor everything. When he was done, Mor nearly spit out her mouthful of wine, and his sister's laughter echoed through his mind.

It was the last thing he wanted to hear when he didn't have a better plan. But Mor gave him a gentle shove towards the dance floor with a whispered encouragement to "go get her," and his sister grinned over her dance partner's shoulder as Rhys passed by her on his way to Feyre.

Thank the Cauldron, Feyre was standing at the edge of the crowd and not dancing in someone else's arms. If that had been the case, Rhys wasn't sure he would have had the willpower not to rip her dance partner to shreds.

"Dance with me again?" he said, holding a hand out to her. Feyre just gave him another wary, assessing look, as if his request were a trap. "Please?" he added. The words came out a touch too desperate, and if Rhys had room in his head for anything but Feyre, he would have been embarrassed.

"I'd love to," she said. And it was definitely wishful thinking, but Rhys thought she sounded like she meant it.

She took his outstretched hand, and her skin against his made the bond flare to life in his chest. He nearly stumbled into her a second time. As the music started again, she rested a hand on his upper arm, and Rhys had to hold back an audible gasp.

But there was a plan to execute. He dropped his voice low, leaning his head towards hers, and said, "I have a proposal for you." Feyre started to say something, but he cut her off and added, "No, not that sort of proposal. Don't give me that look."

"Then what?"

"The inheritance laws in Illyria are changing," he said. In truth, Rhys was the one changing them, a project he'd embarked on after his father, uninterested in Illyrian affairs if there was no war raging, had delegated most of his authority in the region to Rhys. He'd called it "practice"—so typical for High Fae to write off Illyria as an acceptable training ground for a High Lord's heir, not a place that deserved an experienced ruler. "When that's final, you'll be entitled to a portion of your father's estate and funds to make up for the delay. Back pay, if you will."

Feyre narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't see where you're going with this."

"You'll want to get away from your stepmother until then, won't you? And you're well aware of the pressure I'm under to find a wife. Agree to marry me, stay at the House of Wind instead of returning to your stepmother, and then we'll break the engagement once you have access to the money you're owed. We both stand to benefit."

It wasn't enough, but it was the best he could do for Feyre. He'd never be able to have her the way he wanted, but at least he could be sure she had the freedom to live life on her own terms, away from her stepmother. It would have to be enough.

His heart hammered in his chest as she considered it, her attention obviously split between thinking the plan over and remembering the steps to the dance. Rhys prayed to the Mother that she'd agree.

"It could work," she said slowly.

"There's no reason it wouldn't."

Feyre spotted something over his shoulder and stiffened. A jolt of panic crossed the bond—she'd caught sight of someone she knew in the crowd, perhaps her stepmother. Rhys tried to follow her gaze to finally lay eyes on the woman who'd made it to the top of his hit list that night, but the sound of Feyre's voice dragged his attention back to her.

"I'll do it. We have a deal."

Chapter Text

Rhysand's smile was almost enough for Feyre to believe she wasn't insane for agreeing to his harebrained fake engagement scheme. He seemed so gods-damned happy, it was almost as if she'd agreed to marry him for real.

And she had to admit, it was a good look on him.

"So is that all? Do we…make an announcement or something?" she said.

"Well, yes. I suppose we'll need to make it clear we're absolutely besotted with each other," Rhys said.

It seemed unnecessary to Feyre. After all, he was the High Lord's son and hadn't paid much attention to anyone but her since she'd walked in—that alone should have made it obvious enough. Powerful males like Rhys got who they wanted, consequences or the female's feelings be damned.

"Haven't we already done that?"

"I'd rather not have the entire Night Court thinking I'm pathetic enough to propose when the interest is painfully one-sided. Kiss me?"

"Now? " Feyre had already accepted that kissing Rhysand was part and parcel of a fake engagement, but Mother above, she hadn't considered that it might happen on the dance floor in the middle of a crowded ballroom. But there really wasn't a better place for it, considering their goal was to make a statement. Before he could answer, she added, "Dip me first. Turn some heads."

Rhys's eyes glittered in a way that made her stomach flip, a convincing enough performance that for a moment she almost believed he really was in love with her. She barely gathered her wits in time to plant her foot for balance as Rhys bent her backwards, not that it mattered. He held her far too firmly for there to be any chance she'd fall.

"I've got you," he whispered, leaning in.

And then there was nothing in the world but his mouth against hers and his salt-and-citrus scent. All thoughts of keeping up appearances and the partygoers' stares disappeared from Feyre's mind, and she felt herself parting her lips in hopes of more. And Rhys seemed to have the same thought because his tongue was pressing forward just as Feyre's hand at his shoulder fisted in his tunic and her wings cocooned around him.

But an irritated clearing of a throat in the distance, followed by a giggle, brought them both back to reality.

Rhys pulled back and Feyre straightened up, keeping her hand on his chest but tucking her wings close to her body. A low growl escaped him, lips pulled back in a snarl, and he tugged her the slightest bit closer, the perfect picture of a protective, territorial male.

Cauldron boil and fry her—he was an excellent kisser and actor. Feyre just hoped she could keep up.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"Too many of them are having unpleasant thoughts about you," he muttered.

Feyre double-checked her mental shields—she'd almost forgotten the High Lord and his children were all daemati. Most courtiers knew how to keep them out, even Feyre, but if Rhys was anywhere as powerful as the rumors said, he could break their shields with half a thought. She should have known he'd be listening in for reactions.

With her hands still on Rhys, Feyre could feel the tension in his body, as if he were preparing for a fight. His power seemed to ripple in the air, his grip on it loosening. The faelights flickered.

"That bad?"

He just growled again in response, not even bothering to start dancing again. Feyre wasn't a daemati, but she didn't need to be to detect that the crowd's mood had gone from curious to concerned. This could end badly.

"Rhys, let's get somewhere quiet," she said.

The sound of her voice seemed to bring him back to himself, though Feyre couldn't imagine why. He looked back at her and nodded once slipping out of her arms but keeping her hand in his. The crowd parted as he led her away.

They passed through a confusing series of hallways and staircases that Feyre tried and failed to memorize, until they emerged on a small, empty balcony several floors up above the party.

"What the hell was that?" Feyre said, crossing her arms across her chest.

Rhys ran a hand through his hair and started to pace across the balcony. "The attention gets overwhelming," he said.

Feyre saw through the lie. "If you're not telling me what it was to spare my feelings, don't. I can handle it."

She leaned back against the railing, looking at him expectantly. He sighed, seeming to gather himself, and stopped to stare up at the stars vaulting across the sky, as if that might give him strength. Feyre just waited.

"I slipped into your stepsister's mind. And the vile things I heard...Cauldron, no wonder you wanted to get away."

Rhys didn't have to say it, but Feyre knew with bone-deep certainty that he'd nearly killed Nesta or Elain just then. And if it had been her stepmother, there would have been blood on his hands tonight.

She just didn't understand why.

"It's probably nothing I haven't heard before," she said with a shrug.

Rhys moved to stand next to her, gripping the railing so tightly his knuckles went white. "That doesn't make it acceptable."

He was right, though that didn't make Feyre any less used to it. And she supposed he'd probably heard the same insults lobbed at him over the years—barbarian, Illyrian brute, rat with wings. That would explain why it had gotten under his skin so badly.

Yes, definitely that and not at all the faint sensation of a string pulling her towards him that she'd felt since landing on the balcony.

"It is what it is."

Rhys's anger had faded, but Feyre couldn't quite name what seemed to have replaced it. Not quite pity—she certainly wouldn't have tolerated that from him—but something that went deeper. Voice soft, he asked, "You don't dream about something better?"

Feyre turned around and watched the sky, tipping her head back and drinking it in. She couldn't remember the last time there had been a Starfall where she hadn't needed to wake up early and hunt the next day. It was difficult to look up at the stars when your survival depended on not burning daylight.

"When I can, which isn't often. And who knows if the stars even listen?"

Rhys didn't speak, just let their fingers brush. The touch sent something crackling along her skin, a faint tugging in her chest. She pushed aside thoughts of what that could mean because if there was one thing Feyre Archeron refused to do, it was build up impossible hopes.

But even though Rhys was a near-stranger, she found herself curling a wing around him again. An unthinkable show of vulnerability for an Illyrian, but something about him made her feel safe, which was half the reason she'd agreed to the engagement in the first place.

They stood like that and watched the stars in silence together.

Feyre wasn't sure how long it lasted, but Rhys swore under his breath, his eyes going distant for a second. "What is it?" she said. "Are you alright?"

Rhys's gaze snapped back into focus as he said, "Yes. That was my sister."

Daemati abilities. Feyre hadn't realized how unsettling they could be. But she let out a breath, relieved nothing was wrong.

Rhys continued, "She just informed me that we created quite the stir by leaving so suddenly. Apparently most of the guests have concluded that we ran off to… fuck."

Feyre refused to be ashamed about that. She stood up a bit straighter and smiled. "I think I recall you saying we were supposed to appear 'completely besotted with each other.' Seems like we managed it."

Rhys smirked, and the arrogance would have been off-putting if it had been anyone else. "Don't make it sound like such a feat. Anyone would be on their knees within seconds of meeting someone as beautiful as you."

Feyre found herself glancing at the door, which was closed behind them. They were alone, with no one around to overhear. She didn't understand what he was getting at—Rhys didn't have a reason to call her beautiful, not now.

Not unless he meant it.

That was a dangerous line of thinking, and Feyre refused to allow herself to continue down it. She'd let herself dream of something better, but not something impossible.

So instead, she forced herself to smile back and said, "Maybe it wasn't a feat for you. But I deserve credit for making them believe I'm head over heels for a prick like you."

Once the words were out of her mouth, Feyre half-expected Rhys to be offended. She felt comfortable around him, but perhaps it was too much to assume he was level-headed enough to stand some teasing. After all, she didn't really know him, even though she couldn't shake the vague feeling she'd been missing him all her life.

But she needn't have worried. His eyes glittered again, and she was beginning to believe he liked it when she insulted him.

Rhys held an arm out for her, and Feyre took it, though she would have rather stayed out here with him than returned to the party. They made it about halfway when they rounded a corner and found a female in a black gown leaning against a doorframe with her arms crossed, waiting for them. With the same angular face, dark skin, and deep blue eyes as Rhys, she had to be his sister. Cauldron, even the way she was smirking at them was identical to his.

"Please go speak to our parents before father levels Velaris," she said. "I can look after Feyre."

Rhys narrowed his eyes at her and said, "Are you plotting something?"

"For once, no. But I don't think you want to subject my new sister to mother and father quite yet."

For a long moment, they just stared at each other, probably speaking mind-to-mind. Feyre's gaze flicked back and forth between the two of them, not quite sure what to make of it. Eventually, Rhys let out a breath and said, "Thank you."

He let go of Feyre's arm and strode off towards the ballroom without another word. Feyre still wasn't sure what she'd just witnessed. Before she could ask, Rhiannon was looping her arm through Feyre's.

A talon rapped politely on Feyre's mental shields, and she opened them, just a crack. Rhiannon's voice floated into her mind. Rhys told me about the deal you agreed to, so please don't pretend just for my sake. Morrigan, our cousin, knows, too.

The talon disappeared from Feyre's mind as quickly as suddenly as it had appeared. They started walking back towards the ballroom, and out loud, Rhiannon said, "You should stay in my room tonight. Mor and I have had a sleepover every Starfall. Join us!"

They were alone and too far from the ballroom that they might be overheard; if Feyre wasn't mistaken, Rhiannon's enthusiasm was genuine. Feyre blinked, surprised Rhiannon had welcomed her, even knowing the engagement was fake. But returning to the cottage in the woods at the end of the night wasn't an option, so Feyre said, "I'd love to."

Once they returned to the ballroom, the next several hours were a blur of dancing with Rhys, watching the stars, and talking with Rhiannon and Mor. It was obvious enough to Feyre that the three of them were deliberately keeping her occupied, almost certainly to avoid an unfortunate run-in with her stepmother, stepsisters, or anyone else unpleasant at the party. Rhys put on an excellent show of not wanting to leave her side. When they weren't dancing, he stood with an arm around her waist or hand on her lower back. Leaning into the touch felt like the most natural thing in the world.

But before long, Feyre's feet began to ache. She'd been up since dawn; staying awake started to become a struggle, though it wasn't even midnight. After making her excuses and saying goodnight, Feyre found herself flanked by Rhiannon and Mor as they made their way to the floor of the House that consisted of private living quarters.

The clock struck twelve just as the door to Rhiannon's bedroom closed behind her. Magic crackled in the air as Feyre's dress turned back into the Suriel's cloak. The combs in her hair disappeared, and the silk slippers shifted back into work boots. She stood in the middle of the room, blinking in surprise. She felt like an outsider, back in her threadbare tunic stained with mud while Rhiannon and Mor still wore their ball gowns.

Feyre wished the Suriel had told her this would happen—but then again, the stories about its kind all warned about the dangers of not wording your questions carefully.

Rhiannon just smiled and said, "Perfect timing, I was just about to find a nightgown for you to borrow anyway."

The nightgown in question turned out to be much finer than anything Feyre had ever worn to bed, made of thick, soft cloth and cut to accommodate wings. Within a few minutes, the three of them were in pajamas, sitting on a trio of bedrolls spread out on the floor. Feyre pulled a blanket over her lap, glad to be off her feet as the faelights dimmed. But once the three of them were comfortable, the chatter about the ball petered out.

"Feyre," Mor said, her expression going serious, "can I ask why you agreed to a fake engagement with Rhys?"

There was nothing accusatory there, just a sort of soft sadness if anything. Feyre didn't know what to make of it. "I thought he told you about my stepmother?" she said slowly.

"I want to hear it from you. Too many females in this family have been in desperate situations they barely made it out of, myself included. I'll be damned if I watch that happen to you too, even if…you're just one of us for a short while."

For a moment, Feyre was too stunned by the ferocity in Mor's voice and the concern in Rhiannon's eyes to say anything at all. It had been a long time since anyone worried about her. And she especially wasn't used to getting help from a near-stranger.

But they listened as Feyre told her story, and when she was done, they launched into a rundown of the key players in the High Lord's court, namely who to trust and who to avoid, in both Velaris and the Hewn City, arming Feyre with information and initiating her into an unofficial sort of sisterhood.

Chapter Text

Rhysand didn't sleep that night. It was impossible, knowing that Feyre was in his sister's room just down the hall. All he could do was stare at the ceiling and replay the night in his head, wishing the circumstances had been different. Feyre had slotted herself into the House of Wind—and if Rhys was being honest, his heart—as if she'd always been there, which made it so much worse that all of this was going to be temporary.

A mating bond might be a gift from the Cauldron, but when you were a High Lord's heir, that gift came with strings.

The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon when the door opened. Rhys didn't bother getting up—only one person came into his room without knocking anymore.

"I'd say I hope you know what you're doing," Rhiannon said, "but I know for a fact that you don't."

Still staring at the ceiling, Rhys said, "Have you come to lecture me, sister dear?"

"Yes."

Rhys sighed and sat up, scowling at her. It was bad enough his parents had actually agreed on something for once, lecturing him like a disobedient youngling for his behavior at last night's party. The worst part of it all had been that they'd had a point. He'd barely kept his instincts in check, and it had been obvious to everyone that the night had nearly ended in violence. And it would have, if Rhiannon hadn't reminded him that Feyre deserved the chance to decide her stepmother's fate herself. Rhys wouldn't rob her of that.

"Then get it over with."

Rhiannon perched on the side of the bed and poked Rhys in the stomach. "Then pay attention." Rhys shot her a glare but said nothing. She continued, "Be careful with Feyre."

"Do you really think I wish harm on my—"

"She's in over her head, Rhys. She's amazing and doing her best, but she could come away from this very hurt. Be. Careful."

She was right, and Rhys had stayed up half the night torturing himself with thoughts about how this could go wrong. Rhiannon and Mor seemed convinced it would, and mind-to-mind, they'd pushed him to tell Feyre about the bond sooner rather than later. He raked a hand through hair mussed from hours of tossing and turning.

"I won't let anyone hurt her. Not even me."

Rhiannon stood from the bed, apparently satisfied. She crossed the room to leave, then paused with a hand on the doorknob and looked back over her shoulder. "Good. If you mess this up badly enough that she rejects the bond, I hope there's still a chance I can stay friends with her," she said softly.

And with that, she left. Rhys considered going back to bed.

But there was too much that needed doing for that—at the very least, his brothers would kill him if they found out about his engagement through the rumor mill. And weeks ago, he'd made plans to meet with the camp-lords in Illyria after Starfall, figuring that he'd probably want to get away from Velaris after what he was sure would be a complete disaster of a ball.

But he hadn't counted on an engagement to an Illyrian.

Rhys refused to force his way into Feyre's mind, but through the bond, he could feel that she was awake. He caressed her shields with a talon, a request for permission. She let him in.

How do you feel about coming with me to Illyria and helping me make a point this morning?

At first, Feyre didn't reply, but Rhys sensed her confusion and wariness. He prayed to the Mother she'd agree to come with.

What sort of point are we making?

That I'm attracted to you because of—not in spite of—that large wingspan of yours. And that your ability to fly is in no way a threat to my masculinity.

When do we leave?

Alone in his room, Rhysand grinned. He let Feyre know where to find a set of leathers and a bow, then tried to contain his excitement as he washed up and got ready for the day. When he'd scheduled these meetings, he hadn't anticipated that the trip to Illyria might be fun.

Feyre met him on the balcony, and Rhys had thought she'd looked perfect in her gown the night before. But in truth, he wasn't prepared for what the sight of Feyre in Illyrian leathers with a weapon strapped to her back would do to him.

His own wings were out, and he smirked as he watched her take in the sight of them. He flared them out wide behind him, preening like a peacock. Cauldron, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been this desperate to impress a female.

A female, he reminded himself, that could only be in his life a short while.

But Rhys decided he'd enjoy it for now because the way she seemed to struggle to drag her gaze from his wings back to his face sent a rush of heat and male pride through him. Fake engagement or not, Feyre wanted him, and if circumstances were different, she would have woken up in his bed that morning.

"Ready to go?" she said.

"With you? Always," Rhys said, then launched himself into the sky, glancing back over his shoulder at Feyre as she followed suit.

Normally, flying cleared Rhys's head like nothing else. But the urge to stop and stare at the sight of Feyre's wings beating was ferociously strong. He'd be lucky if they made it to Illyria without him falling out of the sky.

After a few minutes, he tapped on her mental shields again. Still unused to it, Feyre turned and looked at him as she dropped them. I doubt it will come up, Rhys said, but in case anyone asks, you should know about my mother's ring.

In truth, the ring was Feyre's now, but Rhys could hardly tell her that. But it would gut him to send anyone else after it. At this rate, it would remain in that cottage forever.

There is an heirloom ring that's been passed from female to female in my family for generations. My mother gave it to the Weaver and said if I were to marry or mate, the female would have to get it back. If she couldn't, then she wouldn't survive the marriage.

It was a long time before Feyre answered, and Rhys began to fear he'd gravely miscalculated. For a moment, he half-expected her to turn around and fly straight back to Velaris.

Good luck to the poor woman you send after it one day.

Rhys couldn't string together enough words for a reply. He pulled out of her mind before he inadvertently told her everything and created a larger disaster. Instead, he dove towards the ground, just for a chance to let the wind sting his face a bit, before climbing back upwards.

It wasn't long until Windhaven appeared below them. Rhys held his wings out wide to slow his descent as he glided towards the center of the camp. Just as he'd hoped, heads snapped up at the sight of the High Lord's son arriving with a female. And as usual, none of them looked particularly thrilled to see him.

Rhys landed directly in front of Devlon, who was staring at Feyre through narrowed eyes. "Who is this?" Devlon spat.

Feyre landed gracefully on the grass next to him, and Rhys held a hand out for her. She took it and let him pull her closer, then rest his palm on the small of her back, right below the bow between her wings. It hardly took any effort to sound delighted as Rhys said, "Feyre Archeron, future Lady of the Night Court. My fiancee."

He'd made sure to say it loud enough that the rest of the Illyrians going about their day around them heard every word. Many of them stopped what they were doing and watched the conversation with open interest. They took everything in: the bow, the fighting leathers, the way she seemed comfortable and relaxed with Rhys so close to her wings.

Feyre kissed his cheek, as casually as if it was something she did every day. Rhys gave her a soft smile, one clearly meant just for her despite their growing audience, then returned to glaring daggers at Devlin. In some parts of Illyria, females who trained to fight were deemed unmarriageable. But he'd do his damnedest to show that Feyre was wanted—by a Carynthian—even armed and even with her wings intact.

She looked at Devlon as if she were sizing him up, then said mildly, "Is it so surprising to see an Illyrian in Illyria? Or is there something else?"

Devlon ignored it, still looking at Rhys as he said, "Congratulations on finding another half-breed."

"Feyre has just as much a right to be here as you and I," Rhys said evenly, holding back a warning growl. He wasn't willing to appear as if Devlon had gotten under his skin in any way.

Devlon clearly didn't agree, but there was nothing to be done about it, not when Rhys held authority and could best Devlon in a fight—or crush his mind like a grape. Both of them knew it, too. Rhys watched, face impassive, as Devlon muttered something about how Windhaven was going to the dogs, then stalked off.

"Should I take that to mean he isn't invited to the wedding?" Feyre said.

"Planning the guest list so soon?"

She took a half-step closer, and for a moment, Rhys could almost convince himself it was because she felt just as pulled to him as he did to her, not because she was playing the part of an enamored fiancee. Feyre rested a hand on his bicep, just as she had when they were dancing, but without music, there was a possessive edge to the gesture. 

"Maybe I'm just eager to make you mine."

Cauldron, if she wasn't careful, half the camp would be smelling his arousal before long. Before he could think it through, Rhys found himself saying, "I'm already yours. Always will be."

A traitorous part of him wished that Feyre could see the truth in those words. He leaned in and kissed her, keeping it brief this time, as much as that pained him. But it wouldn't do to have half of Windhaven see him with his tongue in Feyre's mouth, not when he was still in the early stages of asserting his authority. Before his self-control unraveled the rest of the way, Rhys stepped back.

Feyre, it turned out, had never actually been to Windhaven. In fact, she'd hardly spent any time in Illyria at all since her father had died. It was a convenient excuse to walk around, so close the talons at the top of their wings nearly knocked together, and let the word spread that the High Lord's heir was engaged to a woman who could hold her own, and he preferred it that way.

But even the largest Illyrian camps were barren, without much to see. Cassian and Azriel were expecting him, though Rhys still wasn't sure exactly how to explain everything that had transpired last night to them. But he'd have to try, lest he risk them pummeling him into the mud for keeping news to himself.

Rhys launched himself into the air again, turning back around so he could watch Feyre do the same. After years of training, he'd seen Illyrians take off hundreds of times, and it was no more consequential than standing up or taking a step. But when Feyre did it, his breath caught. She shot him an expectant look, not sure where they were going, and Rhys veered towards his mother's house, where his brothers had been staying. It was some distance from the camp, secluded in the forest for quiet and privacy.

As he flew, Rhys considered his words carefully, weighed the pros and cons of telling his brothers about the bond—less people aware meant less risk, but they might be angry with him if Rhiannon and Mor knew but they didn't. And Feyre would certainly be upset to learn she was the very last to know. Cauldron boil and fry him—this was a mess.

And perhaps, if there hadn't been so much on his mind that morning, Rhys would have thrown up a shield before the first poison-tipped ash arrow pierced his wing.

Chapter Text

Rhys was screaming her name. Feyre rolled backwards in the air and soared towards him without consciously choosing to, her body reacting instinctively to his distress before she even knew what was happening.

He was falling. There were arrows in Rhys's wings and legs, and he was falling right out of the sky. He should have winnowed or put up a shield or something, but Rhys was falling.

Feyre had shot countless birds while hunting, and a direct hit meant nothing if she couldn't find the carcass on the ground afterward. With years of practice, it only took a heartbeat's worth of time to track Rhys's movement and estimate where he'd land if she didn't intervene. 

And his bones would shatter against the mountain if she got it wrong.

Feyre winnowed to the spot just below him, hoping she'd guessed the speed and angle just right. She extended her arms. And Rhys fell right into them.

It was awkward, her wings straining with effort as she tried to climb with the additional weight of him. As she adjusted, one of his talons nearly grazed her cheek. But he was safe.

"I've got you," she whispered. She kept flying, taking two beats of her wings to catch her breath and pull him closer to her chest. Then Feyre winnowed again.

Only half-High Fae, Feyre couldn't winnow far. But she was fast, and that was what mattered. Rhys's blood would leave a trail that any idiot with a sense of smell could track. She winnowed them several times in quick succession, covering enough ground each time to make sure they wouldn't be followed.

In an empty clearing, she finally set Rhys down gently. He swayed a bit, catching her around the shoulders with an arm before he stumbled and fell. With him leaning up against her, Feyre looked him over as best as she could.

More arrows than she cared to count had shredded his wings, and one was still embedded in his thigh. Ash arrows, with a greenish tinge that could only mean poison.

That explained why he hadn't winnowed himself to the ground and the sickly pallor on his face. Feyre could feel his heart hammering, working overtime to make up for the blood loss. His breath was beginning to come in shallow gasps.

"Which way is the house?" she said. They were too far from Windhaven for her to take him back now.

"North," he managed to say, and Feyre let out a silent prayer of thanks to the Mother that he was still clear-headed enough to give her directions. There were wards that kept her from winnowing in, but she could get close.

She winnowed again, short bursts of distance each time. Her own power began to flag as so much repeated winnowing drained her, and Rhys's eyes fluttered shut. They couldn't keep this up much longer.

When standing became too difficult for Rhys, Feyre hoisted him across her shoulders, holding him in place with one arm and leaving the other free. Not that it mattered—if anyone caught up to them, she'd be outnumbered. There was nothing to do but trudge ahead on foot as Rhys's blood left a trail behind them. She wouldn't risk flying when someone might be watching the skies.

Someone must have heard or sensed her coming, because as Feyre emerged from the trees, the door to the house flung open. The two Illyrians inside must have been the brothers she was supposed to meet.

"Rhys was shot with poison arrows. One of you go get a healer," Feyre said before they could get a question out. There was a note of command in her voice she hadn't known she was capable of.

The one with blue siphons nodded once then took off without another word, and the other helped Feyre bring Rhys inside. They laid him out on the bed, on his stomach to keep his wings free. With hardly a word, the male pulled a box of gauze from a cabinet, and they got to work applying pressure to the wounds.

Wounds that the poison kept from closing.

The arrows had ripped his wings, leaving long, ugly gashes from serrated edges. Without Rhys's healing magic, there was more blood flowing than Feyre and his brother could stanch on their own. All they could do was press on the worst of it to buy time.

It seemed to take an age, but the brother who'd left returned with the healer. When the healer reached for Rhys's wings to examine them, Feyre let out an involuntary growl. His brothers shared a look. Feyre snarled.

The healer was there to help, but for some reason Feyre didn't understand, the sight of another female getting close to Rhys's wings sent a primal, irrational sort of rage lancing through her.

The brother with red siphons ushered her out the door before the situation could devolve. In the yard, with the door closed behind them and the scent of Rhys's blood fading, Feyre took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.

"Who are you?" the male said. "And what happened?"

"I'm his fiancee," Feyre said.

"Fiancee? Are you also his ma—"

She snarled again. "Don't."

Feyre knew what he'd been about to say. Just like she knew what it meant that there had been a feeling of emptiness in her chest, as if something was missing and silent with the poison suppressing Rhys's magic. Deep down, she knew, even if she wouldn't admit it—to herself or anyone else.

Her eyes flashed, daring Rhys's brother to finish that sentence, but he just raised his brows and said, "I'm Cassian. Sorry we're not meeting under better circumstances."

"I'm Feyre," she said, then launched into a description of the attack. Cassian would want to know all the rest later, but for now, Feyre was sure he was mostly worried that Rhys's attackers might arrive at their doorstep to finish the job. But the forest around them was quiet, even if Cassian was scanning it for threats instead of looking at her as she spoke.

The door opened again, and the other brother—Azriel, Feyre assumed—appeared in the doorway. "Rhys is going to be fine," he said, face impassive. "He's asleep now."

Feyre and Cassian followed him back inside, where the healer was packing her up her things. Rhys was still on the bed, shirt gone, wings braced open and covered in bandages and coated in some sort of salve, another bandage wrapped around his leg. But his breathing was deep and even, and his skin had already lost its sickly cast.

Feyre let out a breath. He was going to be alright.

But for now, she still owed his brothers more answers, so the three of them dragged chairs around the bed and talked. Rhys hadn't mentioned how much of the truth he'd intended to tell his brothers, so Feyre lied through her teeth about a perfect, whirlwind night of falling in love with a prince. She didn't know either one of them well enough to be sure if they believed her. At the very least, however, they trusted her enough to leave her alone with Rhys while they went to Windhaven in search of more information.

Feyre didn't know how long she sat, watching the rise and fall of Rhys's chest. But eventually he stirred, groaning as his eyes opened. "Feyre?" he said, and something deep within her uncoiled at the sound of it.

"It's me," she said. "You just missed your brothers. They'll be back soon."

Feyre watched the clarity return to his eyes as he took in the sight of her bloodstained leathers. He was lucid, even as he grimaced in pain. "Are you hurt?"

"Not at all. The blood on me is all yours," she said, and Rhys's grimace softened slightly.

"Thank you."

Feyre ducked her head, unable to face everything shining in Rhys's eyes as he looked at her. Forcing a tight smile, she said, "I wouldn't be a very convincing fiancee if I let you fall to your death, now would I?"

"You carried me here."

"It was that or leave you to bleed out in the mud. Which would also have been a horrible thing to do." Rhys said nothing, just reached out a hand, and Feyre laced their fingers together. He tugged her hand gently, urging her to come closer. She added, "It's just us here. You don't have to pretend."

"I'm aware," he said, tugging again. "Come here anyway."

With his wings stretched out and immobilized to heal, there was no room to perch on the bed next to him. Hiding her own wings, Feyre ducked under his and lay down on her back next to him. She stared up at the membrane, took in the sight of the dried blood caking it, the carefully wrapped bandages. "How badly does it hurt?" she whispered.

"Not as badly now," he said, dropping her hand to band his arm around her and pull her closer. Feyre found herself relaxing against him in spite of herself. She swore she could draw a bright, unbroken line along every place they touched, from where their ankles knocked together, up their sides, to where Rhys's arm crossed her chest.

As much as she hated seeing his injuries, it was a relief in some ways, to be looking at his wings instead of his eyes. She wasn't sure she could face what she might find there.

Mother above, what were they doing?

Maybe it didn't matter—he'd been terrified and probably just wanted someone to hold, and Feyre was the only one there. If that was the case, she decided she didn't mind. Being next to him was comfortable. And maybe she'd take what she could get while this engagement lasted.

She felt a sharp inhale against her hair, Rhys taking in her scent. It would be so easy, she realized, to turn her head and press her lips to his—and it was becoming more difficult to believe he wouldn't welcome it if she did. But it was also becoming increasingly obvious that walking away at the end of this engagement would take something out of her, and she refused to make it harder on herself. So Feyre just continued staring resolutely up at his wing.

"I was afraid they'd shot you, too," Rhys said quietly. "While I was falling, I thought you might have just been killed because of your association with me."

It wasn't even an unreasonable conclusion to come to. Feyre had just seen firsthand how much Rhys was disliked in Illyria, and it stood to reason that being close to Rhys came with a risk of getting caught in the crossfire. He'd be High Lord one day, and that came with enemies from other courts, too. Feyre couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound like a hollow platitude.

After a moment, Rhys added, "So if you want out after what happened this morning, I understand."

The resignation in his voice ran deep, and Feyre knew he was talking about a bigger sort of rejection than just ending their engagement early. But that was as far down that road she'd allow her thoughts to go.

"I'm an archer, in case you forgot. It takes more than a few arrows to scare me off."

With the arm circling her chest, Rhys squeezed her closer for a second. Feyre let her head fall to the side, her temple brushing against his, and the tight feeling in her chest seemed to fade away.

"And I couldn't be more fortunate for that."

Feyre found herself smiling slightly as they lapsed into a comfortable silence. There would be more people in and out of the house soon, she realized—once word got to Velaris, she was sure his family would want to come see him, and the Cauldron only knew when his brothers would be back. The failed assassins would have to be rooted out, and there would be delays in the changes to the inheritance laws he'd come to meet with the camp-lords about.

But it was peaceful for now, just the two of them. Feyre just wished it could last a bit longer.

Chapter Text

Feyre was touching him. In his bed. She was hardly the first female ever to find herself in that position, but the fact that it was Feyre doing it was almost enough for Rhys to forget how much his wings hurt and the circumstances that led them here in the first place.

She hadn't left.

He wouldn't have blamed her if she did—at the very least, she hadn't signed up to be his nursemaid. Or to be shot at. But instead she'd saved his life and then brushed it off as nothing, as if facing down danger was just routine.

A sharp, insistent talon threatening to break open his mental shields pulled his thoughts from Feyre. He let down his shields for Rhiannon. She was too worried for words, letting her frantic desire to know if he was alright and what had happened slam into his mind. Rhys showed her everything.

Father is furious with you for dropping your guard. I'd be in Illyria already if that didn't mean leaving mother alone to deal with it.

It's alright. I have Feyre here.

Mother's tits, just tell her you want to marry her already.

With an angry huff, Rhiannon pulled her mind out of his. Rhys sighed. He wasn't surprised—so far, his father's reaction seemed milder than when Rhys had been shot down and captured during the war. He didn't look forward to the dressing down that awaited him. And he deserved it for getting too lost in thoughts to pay attention.

"I'm going to go wash off the blood," Feyre murmured, sliding out from under his arm. "I'll be right back."

Even though she wasn't leaving the house, Rhys still found it difficult to resist the urge to ask her to stay. He twisted his head to watch her go, as if to keep her in his line of sight until the very last second. Her scent still lingered on the sheets, and Rhys wished it could always be like that.

She was still in the bath when his brothers returned with information. The attackers hadn't been hard to find—Rhys knew exactly who stood to lose the most money and pride when the laws changed to give females their fair share. And after they'd won the Blood Rite, there were vanishingly few who were stupid enough to act on their dislike of him or his brothers. For the most part, grudging respect was still respect.

But the would-be assassins were still alive, Rhys's to be dealt with when he recovered. He had half a mind to have Feyre be the one to mete out the punishments. But when the time came, he wasn't sure she'd still want anything to do with him.

Cassian sank down into the chair that Feyre had just been occupying, looked him in the eye, and said in a low voice, "Is there a reason Feyre nearly bit my head off when I started to ask if you were mates?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Rhys watched Azriel's head snap in his direction, eyes lighting up with interest. Cauldron, he should have known he was in for another ambush today.

"She doesn't know," Rhys said. His brothers were silent, and Rhys recognized it as an interrogation tactic. Azriel might as well have been giving him a pointed look while sharpening Truth-Teller, if they were really going to be so obvious about it. But still, as transparent as it was, it was still effective. "It snapped right after she laughed at the idea of ever wanting to marry me. The engagement is fake, just something to get her away from her bitch of a stepmother for a while."

Azriel snorted. "Then she's an excellent liar. You should have heard the story she spun about falling madly in love with you last night," he said.

Feyre was an excellent liar—how easily she pretended to be in love with him just proved it—and Rhys was beginning to suspect there was nothing she wasn't naturally good at. It made his gut twist to think about what she'd said to his brothers about him, the way her eyes had probably been shining when she talked.

Cassian added, "And with the way she snarled over your wings…Cauldron, she's not stupid. She's going to figure it out."

Cassian was right, of course. It was a testament to how undone Rhys was that he hadn't already come up with a contingency plan to handle things if that came to pass. He sighed again and pressed his face into the pillow. Cassian mussed his hair and added, "It's been a while since you've had this much girl trouble, Rhysie."

Azriel chuckled. Rhys wished he could disappear. Or at least throw a punch.

Watching Feyre around his brothers seemed to be the same sort of torture that it had been to see her in the House of Wind. Feyre seemed comfortable, fitting in as if she was always supposed to be there. She hovered at the side of the bed, finding her way back to his side almost without realizing it. Rhys noticed. So did his brothers.

Cassian and Azriel had gone back to Windhaven, leaving him alone with Feyre when the healer arrived to check on his wings again. Feyre stood on his other side, arms crossed but not snarling, as the healer replaced his dirty bandages. She made quick work of it, but having his wounds pressed on still had Rhys gritting his teeth in pain.

When it was done, the healer produced a small jar and said, "I have a salve that will ease some of the irritation. I'll leave it here. I'm sure you'd be more comfortable having your fiancee apply it."

Feyre gave her a tight smile and said, "Thank you. That's very thoughtful."

Anyone else would have explained away the tension in her posture as nothing more than lingering stress from seeing her beloved nearly die. But Rhys knew she was cornered without a reason to ask the healer to do it instead.

As soon as they were alone again, Rhys said, "You don't have to do that."

"Someone has to," Feyre said, taking the lid off the jar.

"If you're not comfortable—"

"Are you?"

Rhys could've sworn the bond between them went taut as a bowstring. Had Feyre done that? She was looking at him intently, almost expectantly, as if she'd given him an opening. The whole world seemed to go still.

"I don't mind if you don't," Rhys said slowly.

Feyre nodded once, giving him another smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I promise I'll warm my hands up first."

The sharp, medicinal smell of the salve filled the air, and Rhys would never admit it, but he was grateful it would potentially cover up the scent of his arousal at the feel of Feyre's fingers on his wings. At the sound of Feyre rubbing her palms together to warm them, he swallowed thickly, pressing his face into the pillow again because even the thought of looking at her was too much.

At the first gentle brush of her fingers, a shudder wracked his entire body. Feyre froze. "They're just sensitive. Keep going, please," Rhys said. The words came out a bit strangled-sounding.

It was all he could do not to groan at the salve easing the pain and Feyre's fingers stroking every single sensitive spot. The tension in his body melted away, and for a moment, Rhys's mind was filled with nothing but a sense of relief at the absence of the pain that had been gnawing at him for hours. He thought he might melt into the mattress.

Then Feyre's fingers moved upwards, closer to the places that she knew would bring him to completion if she touched them the right way. She rubbed the salve in even more gently there, but Rhys found his toes curling anyway. His cock twitched.

Cauldron, that was only the first wing.

Feyre kept going, and her hands finally traced the scar tissue from the last time he'd been shot. Her voice went low and deadly as she said, "Who did this to you?"

"Hybern. I was captured during the war."

Her hand stilled. "Did you kill them for it?"

"Yes."

"Good."

It was so gods-damned Illyrian of her that Rhys almost snorted. She almost certainly would have been disappointed with him if he'd said no. But he had no desire to discuss old wounds, so they went silent again as she finished applying the salve. Rhys let himself relax into her touch until it was over.

When she finished and started to step around him to go wash her hands, Rhys caught her by the wrist. "Thank you," he said, twisting his head to the side to look up at her.

"I don't like seeing you in pain," she said softly, then slipped her arm out of his grip.

Feyre, Rhys quickly learned, had almost no ability to sit idle with nothing to do. Before long, she was pacing the house like a caged tiger. She seemed unwilling to leave his side, but there was also nothing to be done but wait and let the healing magic work.

"There are books upstairs, if you're that bored," Rhys said drily.

"I'm not much of a reader," Feyre said, not looking at him.

"Then I take it your hobbies include wearing a hole in the floor with all that pacing? Scintillating."

Something that might have been hurt flashing in her eyes, but it was gone in a moment, so fast that Rhys thought he might have imagined it. "I paint. When I can," she said softly. Now certainly wasn't the time to mention his recurring dreams of a hand painting flowers on a table. Rhys hadn't considered that the hand might be hers. The surprise must have shown on his face, because she added, more sharply. "Is it really that surprising?"

"No," Rhys said quickly. "I can ask someone to bring paints. But…would you mind doing it where I could watch? There isn't much to look at while the healer insists I stay on my stomach to heal."

In truth, there was plenty to look at, but Rhys could hardly ask her to stand in front of him so he could stare at her. But he suspected that he could probably watch her paint for hours if she'd let him. That was just fine, too.

"I don't mind an audience if it's you," she said with a small, shy smile.

If it's you. Those last three words made his heart squeeze and his chest go tight with the prospect of being an exception to every single one of Feyre's rules.

Maybe when this was over, he wouldn't have to give her up.

"In the meantime, since neither of us has much to do, would you mind reading one of those books aloud?"

And then all the warm feelings Rhys was just having dissipated, like a room full of bubbles bursting at once. Because at that, Feyre looked upset.

"I— I can't read," she whispered.

He should have known. Cassian and Azriel hadn't been able to when he'd first met them, either. And it was clear enough from everything that Feyre had said about life with her stepmother that no one had given much thought to her education.

"Then let me teach you," Rhys said, perhaps a little too quickly. But when Feyre inevitably left, he could tell himself he'd done this one thing for her, that her life would be improved in some small way because he'd been in it.

That would be enough for him. It had to be.

She snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"I don't try. I succeed."

Feyre just raised her brows, an obvious challenge. Rhys flicked a wrist, and the books appeared on a stack on the bedside table. They got to work.

The next few days were a blur of bandage changes, Feyre's hands on his wings, watching her paint, and balled up pieces of paper flying at his face as she deciphered yet another practice sentence about how handsome and delightful he was. Even stuck in bed with his wings immobilized, Rhys was happy. And if he wasn't mistaken, so was Feyre.

He should have known it would all come crashing down eventually. But he wouldn't have predicted the soup was what would do it.

The container, he'd learn later, had appeared in the kitchen with a note from Rhiannon. Still handling their father, she hadn't been able to visit, but she'd convinced the cooks in the House of Wind to make Rhys's favorite, and she'd used her magic to send it straight to the kitchen.

And Feyre had found it, along with the note from Rhiannon apologizing again and telling him to get well soon, and she'd taken it upon herself to heat up the soup for him.

Then to Rhys's horror, his mate appeared in the doorway with a tray of food for him.

He didn't need to speak, the look of naked panic on his face was enough. Feyre nearly dropped the tray.

"How long have you known that I'm your mate?" she said.

"Almost since we met," Rhys said. "The bond snapped right after you told me you didn't want my ring on your finger."

"And when were you going to tell me?" She took a step towards him, and he allowed himself to hope that this might not end badly.

But Rhys couldn't lie to her. "I didn't have any plans to," he said quietly.

And with that, Feyre dumped the soup on him and stormed out of the house without another word.

Chapter Text

Feyre didn't winnow or fly, just ran. There was no plan in her mind, hardly another thought other than a desire to put distance between herself and Rhys. As much as possible, as fast as possible.

It wasn't until she was too winded to go on that Feyre stopped to think about what she was doing. Returning to the house wasn't an option, not with Rhys there. And she wouldn't go back to her stepmother, either. Or any of the Illyrian camps.

The only place for Feyre was the forest.

She could make do with that—she'd been keeping a hunting knife strapped to her thigh, a precaution since Rhys had been shot. Ideally, she'd have more supplies than that, but Feyre Archeron had made herself a master of surviving on very little.

She'd intended to split the soup with Rhys, but now she found herself right back where she started–hunger clawing at her stomach as she prowled the woods for game. Perhaps she'd been a fool to think she'd have a chance at ever doing anything more than that.

Feyre cut branches from a sapling and began to build a snare. The process had become so intimately familiar that the steady motion of her hands left her mind free to stop and think.

Rhysand had known. And for the life of her, Feyre couldn't understand why he hadn't just said something instead of taking the most roundabout route to getting her to agree to marry him. They were mates—there was no way he wouldn't have her if he wanted her. Until a few hours ago, she'd been convinced he had wanted her, but now she wasn't sure what was true any more.

Feyre finished the snare, then perched in a tree above it to wait, still alone with her thoughts. She replayed the last few days on an endless loop in her head, trying to make sense of them.

The leaves rustled. A rabbit squeaked. The snare held.

Feyre got down from the tree and started on the work of slaughtering and butchering her meal. Skinning the carcass and building a fire took more of her concentration, but even then, she still couldn't quite escape the conclusion she'd come to, as much as she wished she could.

She'd have to talk to Rhysand.

While Feyre roasted the meat on a makeshift spit, she considered what to say, whether she owed him an apology for throwing soup and asking questions later, what questions to ask, how those answers might change her mind about what she wanted. Between the confusion and the hunger, her head was pounding.

She'd taken her first bite of the unseasoned meat when the snap of a twig and the sound of her name had her hand flying back to her still-bloody knife. Feyre leapt to her feet, heart pounding.

But it was just Rhiannon and Mor who emerged from the trees. For a moment, they just stared, taking in the sight of the fire, the snare, and the pelt she'd cast aside. Feyre didn't move her hand from her knife.

"What the hell are you doing? " Rhiannon said. "I thought you said you hated hunting."

"I needed to eat," Feyre said, keeping her chin up. She refused to be ashamed about it.

"You didn't have to run off to the woods to do that," Mor said. Feyre just gave her a flat look—there hadn't been a more appealing option. Mor sighed and added, "I meant what I said before, about not watching you end up in a desperate situation."

There was a long moment of silence, and Feyre considered whether or not to accept the help. Being alone in the woods might not be comfortable, but it was familiar. She couldn't quite find the words to ask for what she needed.

Mor just held a hand out, obviously ready to winnow them somewhere else. Feyre took it.

The world disappeared into smoke and shadow, and when it reappeared again, they were outside a log cabin. Before Feyre could ask, Rhiannon said, "It's been in the family for generations. The wards keep out anyone who doesn't have permission to be here."

"We were sent up here for 'reflection' when we were younger. No one's going to be using it for a while," Mor said.

They ushered Feyre inside, showing her how the cabin was spelled to take care of its occupants. Then Feyre found herself being shooed out of the kitchen while Rhiannon reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out more of the soup that she'd originally meant to send to Rhys that night. Feyre started to ask about it, but Rhiannon just winked and said her brother's soup privileges were revoked for the time being.

Feyre spent several days in that cabin, the first time in her life there was nothing to do but rest and consider her next steps. Mor and Rhiannon stayed with her that first night, but after that, they were in and out, sometimes keeping her company and sometimes giving her the stretches of alone time she needed. They shared news, though only when Feyre asked. Rhys was recovering well, back on his feet and pursuing changing the Illyrian inheritance laws with a renewed fervor. The updated statutes would go into effect in a matter of days.

And when they did, Feyre would have options, something that had been so rare in her life thus far. The money from her father's estate would keep a comfortable roof over her head and food on her table for a few months, enough time to decide on a path dictated by her own desires. She'd never have to speak to her stepmother again.

The morning of the day the changes would be signed into law, Feyre was waiting for Rhiannon when she arrived at the cabin. Rhiannon took in the sight of Feyre in leathers again and said nothing, just raised her brows.

"You still have the Suriel's cloak, don't you?" Feyre said. "The one I left in your room?"

"Of course. What do you need it for?" Rhiannon said.

"I want to see what the Weaver is willing to trade for it," Feyre said with a shrug.

Somehow, Rhiannon's brows climbed higher. "Are you…?"

"We'll see. It's an heirloom ring. If he ends up alone, then I hope you find someone to give it to instead."

That afternoon, Feyre arrived in Windhaven with a newly acquired star sapphire on her right hand. Just outside the tent where Rhys was meeting with the camp-lords and signing paperwork, she found a place to sit and wait.

When he emerged from the tent, speaking to Cassian, Feyre took a second just to watch him. She's known his wings were healed, but it was a relief to see it for herself. Deep down, she'd still worried.

His nostrils flared slightly as he caught her scent, and his head whipped around in her direction. Rhys went still. Feyre raised her right hand in greeting, letting the ring glint in the late afternoon light.

His steps were carefully measured as he moved closer to her, but Feyre had the sense that he was doing everything in his power not to run. The bond went so taut she nearly pressed a hand to her chest.

"What brings you to Windhaven?" he said, carefully casual, even as his eyes moved back and forth between her face and the ring on her finger.

"I'm here to claim what's mine," Feyre said. There was one stiff nod from him, then she continued, "How are your wings?"

"Intact, thanks to you."

There was scar tissue from the first time he'd been shot, perhaps that was true this time around, too. Feyre hoped that was the worst of it.

She watched Rhys's throat bob, and after a beat of silence, she said, "We should continue this conversation in private."

When she held out her hand to winnow them, Rhys had never moved more quickly to take it. Within seconds, they were outside the cabin. Feyre pulled her hand from his, and a part of her hated how reluctant she was to do it.

"Is this where you've been staying?"

Feyre just nodded and gestured for him to follow her inside. She sank down into a chair at the kitchen table, and Rhys followed suit, though from the way he was looking at her, she'd half-expected him to wait for her to give him permission to sit. Taking a breath to steady herself, she toyed with the ring.

"I'm going to ask questions, and you're going to explain everything and leave nothing out. And I'll decide at the end of it whether I'm giving this ring to you or your sister."

She'd already decided she wouldn't be accepting the bond that day. There would be time for that eventually, when everything between them wasn't so new and she had a better sense of what she wanted now that she was out of that cottage in the woods. Today, all she'd decide was whether there would be a chance for Rhys to use the ring to ask her properly one day. He seemed to understand, going silent and weighing his words before he spoke again.

"I didn't want a spouse, either," he said softly. "That's why my father held that ball in the first place. You've seen for yourself now that being close to me comes with danger, and I couldn't ever imagine asking another person to shoulder that burden because of me. Especially not someone I loved."

Feyre said nothing, just let that sink in. When she didn't ask a question, Rhys continued, "Then you landed on that balcony, and even though the bond hadn't snapped yet, I think I knew who you were, deep down. You were so different from everyone else there. And then you said that you were only there for a night off, and that's when the bond snapped and everything became more complicated. I wouldn't marry anyone else, but I couldn't— I could ask anything of you, not like that."

"You could have told me right then," Feyre whispered. She still didn't understand why he hadn't or where he'd gotten the willpower to keep from blurting it out in the moment.

For the first time that day, Rhys looked her in the eye properly. "I wouldn't force you to choose between accepting the bond or returning to your stepmother. Those would have been your options, and a choice like that is no choice at all. You deserved better."

Feyre could see the truth in those words, the way history would be repeating itself if he'd told her about the bond then. She was half-Illyrian; of course she'd heard the stories of how the bond snapping with the High Lord had saved his mother from wing-clipping. Feyre's life in poverty and Rhys's as a High Lord's heir left a gulf between them too wide for a mating bond to properly span.

"But I wasn't strong enough to stay away," Rhys continued, "so I schemed, the one thing I'm good for. And you seemed to want me, and that was intoxicating. I couldn't decide if I hoped you'd change your mind and stay, even after you received the money you were owed, or if I hoped you'd run far away and stay safer that way. Then I was attacked and I'd known you less than a day and I already thought I'd lost you. I didn't know how to tell you about the bond, after that. I just…wanted to stop feeling like I was in a crisis first."

"Were you ever going to tell me?" Feyre said, voice sharp. Rhys flinched.

"I don't know. Probably. But it was hard to think very far ahead after coming so close to death. I knew you'd figure it out eventually, but I didn't anticipate you'd do it that fast."

Feyre considered that, too. He was being honest, more concerned with giving her the truth like she'd asked than trying to win her. And maybe that's what she needed from him.

"I couldn't stay away, either," she admitted softly. "You should have factored that in."

"That would have been mighty conceited of me."

"Did I really deflate that massive ego of yours so quickly?"

For the first time in days, Feyre was smiling. And so was Rhys. The bond uncoiled in her chest, and she started to believe they both might actually be alright.

"I promise the other massive parts of me are—"

Rhys stopped abruptly as Feyre slid the ring off her finger. As he watched her, Feyre wasn't even sure he was breathing.

"I want you to try again, when the time is right. No lies, no scheming. Ask me for real next time," she said, holding the ring out to him.

Rhys took the ring and pocketed it. "One day, only when I'm sure the answer will be yes."

Feyre stood up from her chair,  holding a hand out to tug Rhys out of his and closer to her. "And what will you do to make that happen?" she said, tipping her head back to look at him.

Rhys cocked his head, his eyes taking on a predatory glint. "Would you believe me if I said I made a list?"

She'd started to lift her hands to rest on his chest, but they froze in midair. "You— You made a list? "

"Of everything I wanted to do to you but couldn't because I was stuck on my stomach."

"How long is it?"

"I thought you'd be more concerned with the length of–"

Feyre pushed up on her toes and kissed him; Rhys had no business finishing that sentence when there was nothing handy she could throw at his head. She pulled away just long enough to mutter, "Don't dig a bigger hole for yourself."

Before he could respond, she was kissing him again, deepening it and leaning him backwards until he was nearly splayed out on the table for her. She wasn't sure exactly what was on the list, but she guessed there were plenty of items that involved getting Rhys on his back.

There was still more to figure out–what to do with her stepmother, how they fit into each other's lives, what settling into the role of future High Lady might even look like. But for now, Feyre was just concerned with how to get Rhys out of his clothes as fast as possible.

And that was more than enough of a happily ever after for her.