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Feyre leaned against the door, staring at Rhys’ back as he walked away.
“Rhys,” she called. He slowed his walking, as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard, and slowly turned to look at her. She wanted to think of something remarkable to say—something sensual, and smooth, that would make her seem like she wasn’t nervous out of her wits. Her hands were even shaking. She laced her fingers together behind her back and squeezed, hard, to stabilize herself.
But she lost her voice, and her gumption. She swallowed thickly, then mustered a bravado that belonged to someone else—to Mor, or Amren.
“Do you want to come in?” She looked up at him with her too-blue eyes.
Something lit in Rhys’ expression; she couldn’t quite place the emotion, but it reminded her a lot of how he’d looked at her when she sat in his lap at the Court of Nightmares. When she’d opened up the flood gates to this dangerous game they were playing by asking those three little words, ‘Why’d you stop?’
She didn’t let herself remember any more. She shook her head lightly, as if to clear the memory and bit her lips to give her something to do while Rhys circled back, walking slowly towards her. She half expected him to start teasing her for her brazen flirting, but to her quiet relief, she saw a genuine, glowing smile begin to fill his face. His eyes sparkled. He still had his hands in his pockets, still had his head tilted just the slightest bit, inclined towards her with such intensity it was as if he were about to tell her the most precious secret in the world.
He stopped in front of her and looked down. “I would love that,” he said simply, eyes still on hers. She offered a smirk up at him before releasing the death grip on her own hands and turning to open the door. She felt his gaze like a sunray, burning her skin and shooting a wave of anxious heat across her neck, down her back. She felt the need to buffer the moment—to prattle on uselessly to rid herself of this burning intensity directed solely at her.
“Really, it should be you inviting me for a drink. I did steal the liquor I’m about to serve you from your private reserve.” Feyre said in an attempt to laugh off her nerves.
“Oh?” he said, and Feyre turned slightly as she walked, just to see his expression. He was cocking an eyebrow, looking suddenly amused. He broke into his familiar half smile as he strode into the room behind her. Nothing but mischief danced in his eyes now. Feyre turned away again, but not before realizing she was smiling and blushing like an absolute idiot. She didn’t care. She had to press her lips together to keep from smiling wider.
Rhys walked casually until he reached the small bar area on the other side of Feyre’s bed. Hands still in his pockets, he said, “Here I was, blaming Cassian for all the missing bottles.” He scanned the bar cart slowly, clicked his tongue, and shook his head in mock disappointment before turning back to her with a grin on his face.
“Oh, don’t think that Cassian isn’t the main culprit,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she reached up to unclasp her earrings. She placed each one gingerly on the vanity before moving to the cuffs adorning both wrists. Rhys’ eyes tracked every movement.
Suddenly self-conscious, Feyre felt the urge to launch into any form of motion whatsoever, just to give her shaking limbs an outlet. She strode towards Rhys, towards the bar area, and reached for a decanter of dark liquor. She grabbed two beautifully engraved glasses and poured a healthy amount of liquid into each glass.
“I just happened to be there the last time he was pilfering your stash,” she went on, desperate to get an ounce of liquid courage into her body as soon as possible.
“Ah,” he replied, smirking. Mercifully, he sauntered over to the fireplace, giving her room to be nervous in her own space. He left one hand in his pocket and lifted the other casually to unfasten the top button of his doublet. Feyre pretended not to notice as she approached him with his glass. She tried not to think of what it would be like to slowly unfasten each of those buttons, one by one. . . .
Stop, stop, stop . . . . Feyre sucked in a breath and smiled tightly up at Rhys as she clinked her glass on his.
“Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful that you have such excellent taste in stolen goods, then. This’ll be a good nightcap,” Rhys winked at her, then took a small sip of his drink.
“Thank you,” he said softly—genuinely—even though it was his liquor they were drinking.
Feyre thought she might combust. She wasn’t supposed to be feeling this way. Not this soon. She was supposed to be level-headed, and calm. They were supposed to talk, slowly. Maybe ease into this new role that Feyre had only recently decided she wanted to play with him.
Trash.
Filth.
Whore.
The words echoed in her head. And, as if someone had turned the light on in a dark room, Feyre’s fire went out. She felt dread bloom in her stomach. If Rhys knew or felt it, he didn’t say anything. Feyre took a breath and tried to release herself from that emotion, from the effect of those words. If just for tonight.
She walked towards the couch and made her way to sit down. Rhys followed her.
Feyre sat, breathing deeply and taking a long sip from her glass. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, and she couldn’t help but feel still, at peace. And, as she did, with Rhys comfortable and gazing at the same fireplace, her mind drifted.
Feyre was lying to herself. She knew that. She’d been lying to herself for a while now, and the only person who came close to calling her on it was Rhys when he’d asked her what she wanted after the Court of Nightmares. And, of course, her hot-headedness and temper (hailing undoubtedly from her mother) had claimed the better of her in that conversation. She felt sick at what she’d said to Rhys. Sick at the thought that he’d ever consider himself unworthy of anything, anyone.
“I want you to know something,” she blurted, without thinking. She didn’t have a plan for how she wanted to say it, but she knew she needed to try.
Rhys just sat, patiently.
“You saved my life, you know. In more ways than one. And you saved the people of this city, and your friends. It’s not just me that’s here because of you,” she paused, looking at him. His glass was frozen at his lips, unmoving, eyes intent on her. She continued. “It’s the thousands of people whose reality you helped to change,” she paused, looking at him with a sincerity in her eyes that she hadn’t shown to anyone in a while. She felt raw, naked. Like she was baring the entry of a private diary to him.
“But I am,” she went on, her voice quiet. “Here because of you. Because you bet on me when no one else did,” she looked down then, shame shading her eyes. Shame at what she’d said to him. At how he’d confided in her, and she’d thrown it back in his face. He already knew she was sorry for what she said. But he needed to know something else, too.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever bet on me. Not really. Only you.”
‘You are not him,’ she wanted to say outright. ‘And it is so obvious. He would never have done what you did for his people—would never have done what you did for me.’
But she didn’t need to say it. Rhys dropped the glass from his lips and smiled softly down at his lap. She knew she was forgiven.
“Guilt riding you a bit hard, Feyre?” he winked at her, and as if someone had snapped their fingers, he was once again that bright, swaggering high lord she’d come to be friends with. The one that made her feel alive at her darkest moments. ‘There you are,’ she thought.
“If so, I can think of better ways for you to make it up to me,” he continued as he smirked in amusement.
“You ruin everything,” she rolled her eyes and turned back to the fire, but smiled despite her words. She felt a little more relieved than she did before. Even if what she’d just confessed was only a fraction of everything she wanted to say to him—what he deserved to hear.
“That I do,” he said, agreeing and smiling, returning to his drink. Feyre laughed almost imperceptibly. Absentmindedly, she uncurled her leg and extended it out as if to stretch. Only, she didn’t fold it back underneath her. Instead, she let it drape lazily over the cushion in front of her. It only registered to her afterwards that it was then within reaching distance of Rhysand’s hand. She didn’t make a move to reposition herself.
Would it be so bad if he touched her? If he just ran one of his hands up her leg, over her thigh. . . . She wanted him. She couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t resurface from the pools of his eyes—those beautiful swells of violet. Was it horrible for her to want to end such a perfect night in this way? Would it really be such a terrible thing if, just for this one night, she let herself have a taste of the tonic that was Rhysand’s body?
She was starting to feel the first licks of her drink start to sharpen her resolve, straighten her spine. Before she could talk herself out of it, she spoke.
“So, that truth you told me—is that something you think you ruined? Or just something you wish you never did in the first place.” She said the last part as a statement, daring him to agree. She kept a mischievous grin on her face despite her racing heart. He looked at her before raising his eyebrows in confusion.
“Our first kiss,” she clarified.
Rhys let out a startled, if not nervous, laugh before adjusting the fabric around his throat—as if it were suddenly too tight for him to breathe.
“That is something I definitely ruined,” he responded, trying to sound carefree about it, and thinking that he was probably failing miserably. Desperate for some outlet for his shaking nerves, he drained his drink and reached forward to set the empty glass on the low-lying table in front of him. He sat back, in a feign of casualty, and hooked his arms behind him to rest on the edge of the couch.
Feyre laughed at his response. The noise was silvery and bright, and the sound weakened him so thoroughly that he couldn’t help but laugh softly with her.
His laugh in response made Feyre bolder, more certain that he wasn’t about to recoil or reject her. So she inched slightly closer to him, closing the small gap between them to nothing more than a few fingertips in length. And it was like he was a puppet, controlled by something else entirely, when he dropped an arm down and brushed his hand softly up her calf, feeling the ridges and texture of the gems on her dress beneath his fingers. He could feel the strong muscles of her legs through the fabric. He came to rest his hand on her knee, his fingers curling around it. His boldest move, but it was too late to turn back now.
He swallowed, staring at his hand on her knee, and braced himself for her to freeze. Only, she didn’t. It was like the movement was too natural for her to notice, and Rhys felt a rush of immense relief that she wasn’t about to shake him off. To his utter delight, she leaned even closer—resting an elbow on the back of the couch over his shoulder and letting her head fall to rest on her fist. She was close enough to kiss him, if she wanted to.
And, as he thought it, simultaneous pangs of fear and hope shot through him. All at once, he was both terrified and desperate to kiss her.
Feyre noticed his eyes glaze over with something like indecision. She felt another wave of confidence wash over her as the liquor rooted itself deeper.
She wanted to show him, she thought, recklessly, brazenly; she wanted to show him that he’d saved her life. What she could be now—what she could give, because of him. She wanted to give him something in return. And it was more than that—she knew—there was something else that she wanted to give him, too. She just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.
In that moment, Feyre pretended she was the sensual, mysterious thing that made the high lord squirm on his own throne at the Court of Nightmares. She pretended like she wasn’t a traitorous piece of trash, and that her broken body was worth someone as selfless as Rhysand.
Feyre dragged her eyes across Rhys’ strong jaw. She flicked them up to his tousled hair, and down to his bedroom eyes, glowing bright with curiosity. She landed, finally, on his lips—parted slightly, as if he were about to say something.
She didn’t let him get that far. Feyre leaned forward until their lips were hovering next to each other, then paused. Rhys’ breathing hitched, then seemed to stop altogether.
Feyre brushed her lips, soft as a butterfly’s wing, against Rhys’. His eyes were heavy-lidded but open, and he could see that Feyre’s were the same. Something like a pulsing current started throbbing in her veins, but she pulled away, letting their lips linger within grazing distance of each other. They were sharing breath, and Rhys thought it might be the only air he needed to survive, since he was having such a hard time breathing normally.
Feyre dared another kiss, reaching her lips to his. The touch was firmer this time. She pulled away and looked at him, met his eyes. They were burning with a silent question she couldn’t quite place.
He leaned in to kiss her this time, firmer and longer than they had before. Again, he pulled away and looked at her—looked at her to tell him to stop. Only she didn’t. Instead, she moved slowly as if she were going to sit in his lap, making her way slowly up onto her knees. Her eyes never left his as she pulled the sides of her beautiful dress up and hooked one leg over his so that she could straddle him.
Rhys thought absentmindedly that it must have been a full minute he’d gone without taking a breath, but he was too scared to do anything. It was like this moment was a soap bubble in his palm, one that he was trying desperately to keep intact. He just softly braced his hands her hips as she moved into position, trying to remember how to swallow. Feyre reached her own hands up and placed them on either side of Rhys’ face.
Feyre leaned down, and this time, they both moved towards each other in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He started to move his hands up her sides, feeling the swell of her hips, the strength of her back. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she felt a great flare of heat between her thighs in response. She raised up a little onto her knees, as if her body needed to move just to keep from imploding. But she tried to keep it contained as she fought the urge not to start grinding into him right there.
Rhys broke the kiss, pulling away slightly, but didn’t remove his hands from where they rested on either side of her ribs. There was no more than a hair’s width between their noses. He looked into both eyes, searching. Looking for her to say no. Still, the word did not come.
He kissed her wildly then, passionately, moving his hands to wind through her hair, closing his eyes and opening his mouth for her, inviting her in. He couldn’t get enough. It was like telling a starving man to only take one bite of food. He couldn’t stop—couldn’t keep from craving her in this ravenous, insatiable way.
She moved her hips into him with open desire. The movement must have tempted Rhys’ restraint, as he groaned into her mouth. He braced his powerful hands on either side of her arms to keep her in place as he kissed her deeper. Her breathing turned uneven as he broke the kiss only to graze his way down her throat, her eyes closing as her head fell back. He moved slowly, his touch a duet of tongue and lips, trailing down her throat, across her collarbone, to the edge of temptation where that beautifully crafted gown met skin. One of Rhys’ hands moved to cup the back of her neck as the other slid to her waist. He gripped her hip and squeezed gently before moving his hand to wrap around her exposed knee.
She was going to burn them both alive. She was going to ignite the whole house in flames. She was going to . . . .
“Feyre,” he whispered into her mouth. But it didn’t sound as she’d imagined it would; in those dark daydreams she wouldn’t admit having to anyone, maybe ever. It didn’t sound passionate and consuming like she thought it would sound in those fantasies. It sounded, instead, like a plea.
Rhys pulled away from her lips with great effort, but with one hand still on the back of her neck, he tugged their heads gently together to touch. They were both panting, eyes closed, utterly exposed in the ashes of whatever bridge they’d just forever burned.
“As much as I want to do this,” Rhys said, a little breathlessly, “I want to do it right. And not after a sleepless night of drinking.”
Feyre’s mind started to clear, like there was a fog in her mind that was slowly fading. ‘Yes,’ she thought, ‘of course he’s right,’ reason returning to her as surely as if she were waking up from a dream. She nodded her head slightly and made to move herself from his lap, but he held her tight for a moment longer, squeezing his hands gently on her arms and taking a long, deep breath, as if he were trying to suck all the air out of the room. But he let her go, and pulled his face away.
Feyre looked at him then, looked at him like she was seeing him differently. She remained unmoving with that strange sort of expression on her face as he met her eyes. It was almost like there was a question she wanted to ask. Her head tilted, and his thought his heart might have stopped beating. It was almost like she was seeing something new—like a new type of paint for her canvases; a new landscape for her to create; a new color she’d never seen before. Was it. . . . could she be seeing. . . . Rhys dared himself to think it. Was she seeing the mating bond?
But Feyre seemed to wake from her trance. Rhys was right. She didn’t want any excuse for either of them to feel like this wasn’t right in the morning. Her body felt it was right, though—felt it right down to her gods-damned bones. As if to prove that point—to herself, or to him, she wasn’t sure— she let the primal lust on her face shine through, even now, while her hands fanned over his chest in brazen possessiveness. She savored the warrior’s strength of the muscles underneath as she ran her hands from his chest up to his shoulders, where she gave a gentle squeeze. Then slowly—so, torturously slowly—she rose from Rhys’ lap, her gaze never leaving his, and his hands not releasing their grip on her waist until she was fully out of reach.
She looked down at him with pure desire for the faintest of heartbeats, and then her expression changed. A teasing smile spread across her face, and she was once again the sharp-tongued Feyre that Rhys had fallen in love with Under the Mountain.
“So noble,” she said, in a low, playful, voice, as if she were trying to sound like Rhys.
A rush of relief ran though him. Relief for so, so many things he hadn’t known weighed so heavily on his mind.
“You could say I’m the most noble high lord,” he said, standing, straightening the fabric of his lapels.