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The Spring Court dining hall was quiet except for the soft clink of silverware and the murmured conversation between Tamlin and Lucien. Feyre sat at her usual spot, absently picking at her food, though she couldn’t muster the appetite for it. She let her gaze flit over the table—Lucien’s sharp focus on his wine, Tamlin’s stiff posture as he listened to whatever mundane updates Lucien was giving about border patrols.
Are you bored yet, Feyre darling?
Rhysand’s voice slid into her mind, smooth and teasing, and she nearly choked on her sip of wine. She coughed lightly, waving a hand when Lucien glanced at her with a raised brow.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, plastering on a serene smile.
I’ll take that as a yes, Rhys continued, amusement laced through every word. So, tell me—what has golden boy done today to woo you? Surely, he hasn’t slacked off in his relentless pursuit of your favour.
Feyre pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, focusing instead on cutting a piece of roasted meat.
He picked wildflowers for me yesterday, Feyre replied through the bond, her tone dripping with sarcasm. A handful of them. Half-dead. I think one still had a worm clinging to it.
Romantic, Rhys drawled, and she could almost hear him leaning back in his chair, his wings rustling as he adjusted them. Did you swoon? Sweep them to your nose and cry about how they reminded you of his radiant soul?
Oh, absolutely, Feyre shot back. I was overcome. Nearly fainted. Lucky Lucien was nearby to catch me.
Rhys let out a rich, amused laugh, the sound warming her chest like a crackling fire.
Adding this to the Feyre Files: Tamlin’s attempt at floral courtship. Worm and all. I’ll bring it up at the next High Lords meeting if things get dull.
Feyre fully choked on her wine this time, coughing to cover the laugh that escaped her throat. Tamlin’s sharp gaze snapped to her, concern etched across his brow. “Are you all right?”
She waved him off, plastering a polite smile on her face. “Fine. Just… the wine went down the wrong way.”
Tell me he didn’t just fall for that, Rhys’s voice purred. Does he think you’re so fragile, Feyre, that you can’t even drink properly?
Shut up, she bit back, but her lips twitched with amusement.
I bet he thinks about rescuing you from your wine glass late at night. Standing heroically, shirtless, declaring himself your saviour from evil beverages.
Feyre’s nails dug into her palm under the table to keep from laughing outright. “This lamb really is delicious.” She smiled, taking another bite.
Go on, what else has he done? Don’t make me guess.
Against her better judgement, Feyre decided to indulge her mate. He left a poem on my pillow this morning.
Rhys’s amusement crackled through the bond. Please tell you memorised it.
No.
Feyre. His voice was a low purr now, filled with mock pleading. You can’t just leave me with that. What did it say? Did he compare you to a flower? A sunrise?
Feyre sighed, but she couldn’t stop the grin tugging at her lips. It was something about my eyes being like the first spring buds after a harsh winter.
Silence stretched through the bond, and then… Oh, I’m going to enjoy this for years.
Feyre bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, covering it with another sip of wine.
Years? she asked.
Decades, Feyre. His tone was full of delight. I’m saving this. Tucking it away for a rainy day when I need a good laugh.
She swallowed a laugh, shaking her head slightly as Lucien glanced her way, his metallic eye clicking at her. “Something amusing?” he asked, his tone light but curious.
“No,” Feyre said quickly. “Just... the wine.”
And now you’re lying to him , Rhys said, his voice filled with exaggerated disapproval. Shame on you, Feyre.
Go annoy someone else , she retorted, sipping more wine to cope with her current predicament.
Through the bond, Rhys was relentless. Do you think he wrote it himself, or did he force poor Lucien to play ghostwriter?
Lucien would never write something so atrocious, she replied, her lips twitching as she set her glass down. He’s a romantic. But it was smeared in places, so maybe he cried while writing it.
Rhys’s laugh was low and wicked, and it filled her head like the soft hum of a storm.
You’re awful, she shot back, her heart warming despite herself.
And you’re my spy - this is valuable information. His voice dipped, rich and teasing. Now, go on. What else? Surely there’s more material for my file.
You have a file?
Oh, Feyre, he purred. I have an entire collection. Filed neatly by category. Gifts, conversations, attempts at poetry…
She couldn’t stop herself this time. A short laugh escaped her, and she quickly buried it behind a cough. Tamlin’s gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? I can call for a healer.”
Through the bond, Rhys let out an exaggerated groan. Tell him you’re allergic to awkward High Lords.
Feyre ignored him and forced her most saccharine smile at Tamlin. “I’m fine, really. Thank you, though.”
Rhys’s amusement simmered. He’s so attentive, isn’t he? So caring. So… oblivious.
Rhys, she warned.
Come on, Feyre. I’m just helping you survive this misery with a little levity. His tone turned teasing. But really, do you think he practiced reciting the poem first? Maybe to his reflection? Or a convenient shrub in the garden?
You’re impossible. Feyre pushed back her chair slightly, the need to get out of Tamlin’s scrutinising presence almost overwhelming. And cruel.
Cruel would be sending Azriel to recite the poem aloud to Mor. Shall I?
She stood abruptly, placing her napkin on the table. “I need some air,” she said, offering a faint smile to Tamlin. He rose as if to follow her, but she shook her head. “Please, finish your meal. I’ll only be a moment.”
The cool evening breeze met her outside the manor, and she leaned against a stone column, exhaling.
He wanted to follow you, didn’t he? Rhys asked, smug as ever.
Of course he did.
Rhys hummed, the sound low and full of satisfaction. He’s so predictable.
Don’t you have more important things to do?
More important than this? Never.
She took a deep breath, tugging at the frills on her ridiculous dress. Tamlin had suggested she wear it while he offered to paint her portrait.
...Excuse me?
She silently cursed herself for not having raised her mental shields. Haven’t you had enough for your ‘Feyre Files’ for one evening?
Come on, darling, one more. You can’t plant a seed like that and not elaborate.
Fine. Feyre said, a laugh bubbling up despite herself. He decided he wanted to paint a picture of me.
The bond fell silent for a moment, and then Rhys let out a slow, disbelieving laugh. He painted you? Tamlin? With a brush?
Yes. Feyre bit her lip, trying to stifle her own laughter. It wasn’t… awful, I suppose. But it was painfully awkward. He had me sit on the edge of the fountain in the garden for an hour while he tried to capture the “light in my eyes.”
Rhys’s laugh grew louder, rich and wicked. Oh, this is going in the file. “The time Tamlin fancied himself an artist.” Did he at least show you the final product?
He did. She pinched the bridge of her nose, recalling the overly sentimental rendering of her face. Let’s just say I didn’t recognise myself. My eyes looked enormous, and my mouth— She shook her head. I didn’t know it was possible to draw lips that… puffy.
Rhys groaned with exaggerated glee. I need that painting. I’ll pay any price to hang it in our townhouse. Right over the dining table.
You’re insufferable, she said, though her laughter betrayed her.
Rhys’s laughter erupted again, loud and unrestrained. I can’t believe you survived this long without me. The things you endure for the sake of the mission, Feyre darling. Truly, you’re a saint.
I hate you.
No, you don’t, he replied smoothly. You love me. Now, go back inside and eat. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow. Who knows what ridiculous gesture awaits you next?
Feyre shook her head, laughter still lingering on her lips, as she made her way back to the manor. The cool evening air still clung to her skin, but the bond humming with Rhysand’s lingering presence warmed her from within.
She tucked away her small smile, donning a neutral expression as she returned to the dining room.
Lucien glanced up first, his perceptive gaze flickering over her. “Feeling better?” he asked casually, though there was a knowing sharpness in his tone.
“Much,” Feyre replied smoothly, taking her seat and reaching for her goblet of wine.
Tamlin’s eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, a faint crease in his brow. “You looked pale earlier. I was worried.”
“I just needed some air,” Feyre said lightly, taking a small sip to avoid his gaze.
Lucien stretched, pushing his chair back as he rose. “Well, it’s been a long day. I’ll leave you two to it.” His gaze lingered on her for a beat too long before he turned and exited the room.
Feyre barely had time to adjust her posture before Tamlin moved closer, his tone dipping into something quieter, more intimate. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his green eyes searching hers.
Feyre braced herself, keeping her features neutral. “I know.”
“I was thinking… maybe we could go to the lake tomorrow. Just the two of us,” Tamlin continued, his voice softening further. “Like we used to.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “That sounds nice.”
Encouraged, Tamlin reached out, his fingers brushing against her hand where it rested on the table. “I want things to feel right between us again, Feyre. I want us to be… close again.”
Her stomach twisted, but she kept her voice calm. “Tamlin—”
Before she could finish, he stood and moved beside her, his large hand cupping her cheek, tilting her face toward his. “I’ve missed you so much,” he murmured, leaning in.
Her instincts kicked in. Feyre turned her head sharply, his lips brushing against her temple instead of her mouth.
She slipped from her chair quickly, putting space between them as she clutched the back of it for support. “I’m tired. I think I’ll go to bed,” she said briskly, not looking at him.
“Feyre—” Tamlin began, but she didn’t let him finish.
“Goodnight, Tamlin.” She spun on her heel and walked out, her steps controlled and steady until the door closed behind her.
When she reached the safety of her chambers, she leaned against the door and let out a slow, shaking breath.
The bond flared to life instantly.
What happened? Rhys’s voice was sharp, his earlier teasing replaced with something dark and unyielding.
Nothing I couldn’t handle, she replied, trying to keep her tone steady.
Feyre, Rhys growled, his presence flaring dangerously in her mind. What did he do?
She hesitated, but she knew he’d pry it from her eventually. He… tried to kiss me.
The bond went deathly still.
Then, Rhys exploded. He what? His voice was a snarl, his fury crashing through the bond like a tidal wave. That bastard—
Rhys—
I’ll kill him, Rhys spat, his voice a lethal promise. I’ll rip him apart, Feyre. I’ll take my claws to his throat and make him beg for mercy before I—
Rhys, stop! Feyre’s voice cut through the bond, sharp and commanding. You can’t.
The hell I can’t, Rhys growled, his anger boiling over. He touched you. He tried to kiss you. He thinks he can take what’s mine—
And if you storm in here and kill him, everything we’ve worked for will be ruined, Feyre snapped, her voice laced with frustration. Do you think I want to stay here any longer than I have to?
Rhys went silent for a moment, but his emotions raged unchecked through the bond—pure, unbridled fury, possessiveness, and something raw and primal. He had no right, he muttered darkly, his voice trembling with barely restrained violence.
No, he didn’t, Feyre said softly, her tone calming now. But this is the game we’re playing. And if you lose control, Tamlin wins.
The bond pulsed with his conflicted emotions, his anger tangling with guilt and frustration. I hate this, Rhys admitted, his voice quieter now. I hate knowing he’s near you, touching you, trying to— He cut himself off, his breathing ragged through the connection.
I can handle it, Feyre assured him, sending a wave of calm through the bond. I’ve handled worse. And this won’t last forever.
If he tries something like that again, Feyre, I swear—
What? she teased lightly, trying to diffuse his jealousy. You’ll challenge him to a duel? Burn the entire Spring Court to the ground?
Both sound appealing, Rhys replied, his voice dark but tinged with humour now. Though I imagine the look on his face when I show up in his court would be priceless.
Tell Mor she has to keep you in line while I'm away, she teased lightly, hoping to coax a smile out of him.
Rhys’s voice softened further, his anger giving way to something deeper. I just miss you, Feyre. I hate knowing you’re there, with him, while I’m stuck here. But I’ll wait.
Her chest ached, her throat tightening as she slipped into bed. I miss you too, she whispered. I’ll be home soon.
Not soon enough. A flicker of desire pulsed through the bond. But when you do come home, I’m going to make sure no one ever forgets who you belong to.
Her breath caught at the possessive edge in his words, and she sent a wave of love through the bond.
Goodnight, Rhys.
Goodnight, my love, he murmured, and the bond thrummed with his unwavering presence as she drifted off to sleep, a smile tugging at her lips.
The soft glow of morning light filtered through the sheer curtains in Feyre’s room, warming her face as she stirred awake. For a moment, she remained still, letting the remnants of sleep cling to her. The bond hummed faintly in the back of her mind, a comforting reminder of Rhysand’s presence.
But then her eyes opened fully, and her gaze landed on the small table by the window.
Feyre blinked, pushing herself up onto her elbows. There, carefully arranged as though it were some grand gesture, sat a golden platter bearing…
A pile of fresh peaches.
She stared at it for a moment, her lips twitching. The platter gleamed in the sunlight, the peaches meticulously stacked in a pyramid, their skins glistening as if they’d been polished by hand.
At the base of the display was a small, folded note, Tamlin’s familiar handwriting visible even from where she sat.
Feyre groaned softly, dropping her head back onto the pillow.
Peaches? Rhysand’s voice was groggy, but the amusement that filtered through the bond was immediate and sharp. Really?
She stifled a laugh, reaching for the note on the table and unfolding it with deliberate slowness. The words scrawled across the parchment were as overdone as she expected.
For you, my darling—sweet and golden, like the love I hold for you.
Her lips twitched uncontrollably as she set the note down. He left me a pyramid of peaches, she replied through the bond, her tone deadpan.
Rhys was silent for a moment, and then his laughter erupted in her mind, deep and unrestrained. You know, if he keeps this up, I may consider forgiving him for last night.
Feyre swung her legs over the side of the bed, padding toward the table to inspect the ridiculous display more closely.
She plucked one peach from the top of the pile, turning it over in her hand. They’re… very shiny, she admitted. I think he might’ve polished them himself.
Rhys’s laughter intensified, and Feyre couldn’t hold back her own grin.
Oh, Feyre darling, this is going in the Feyre Files. Right at the top. His tone was rich with mirth.
She bit into the peach, the sweet juice dripping down her chin as she smirked to herself. It’s not bad, she admitted, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.
Of course it’s not bad. It’s a peach, Rhys replied. But a pile of them? Who does that?
Apparently Tamlin, Feyre said, tossing the pit into the trash as she surveyed the remaining fruit. You should be flattered. He’s really raising the stakes here.
Flattered? Rhys repeated, his voice turning mock-indignant. Feyre, darling, if peaches are what it takes to win your heart, I’ll have Velaris’s entire orchard delivered to your door by sundown.
She laughed aloud, shaking her head as she folded the note and tucked it into her pocket. Don’t bother. You’ve already won.
I know. Rhys’s voice softened, a thread of warmth weaving through his next words. But I still refuse to be out-peached by a fellow High Lord.
Feyre smiled to herself, casting one last amused glance at the golden platter before turning toward the door. I’ll let you know what he tries next. The Feyre Files are growing faster than I expected.
And I’m here for every ridiculous entry, Rhys replied with a low chuckle. Good luck, darling. Try not to choke on the sweetness of his attempts today.
As Feyre left the room, her smirk lingered, and the faint sound of Rhys’s laughter echoed in her mind like a secret she carried with her, even in the heart of the Spring Court.