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Summary
A rare moment of clarity broke through the thick fog of alcohol.
“Rhys, this is where he made me stand next to him like a plaything” she said, remembering her first and last tithe in the Spring Court.
Rhys stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “No worries, Feyre darling,” he purred, trailing kisses down her neck, the spot between her neck and shoulder, then lowering the straps of her dress. “We can do some wicked things on it, that way he’ll never sit there again.”