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It had been two days since the High Lord of the Night Court had been taken ill. Rhysand lay sprawled across the massive bed in their Velaris townhouse, wings slightly unfurled, face buried in a pillow, and a sound that could only be described as a groan of epic proportions escaping his lips.
Feyre stood at the doorway, arms crossed, trying—really trying—not to laugh at the sorry state of her High Lord.
“You’re pathetic,” she finally declared, shaking her head as she leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve faced armies, Amarantha, Hybern… and now you’re being bested by a common cold?”
Rhys turned his head just enough to peek at her with bleary violet eyes. “This isn’t a cold, Feyre,” he croaked, voice raspy and mournful. “It’s a vicious malady… a plague. Surely my end is near.”
Feyre snorted. “Oh, is it now? Should I call the Inner Circle to say their final goodbyes? Maybe we can get Cassian to weep over your bedside. That should be entertaining.”
Rhys let out a wounded noise, like a dying bird. “You mock me in my darkest hour. What kind of mate are you?”
“The kind who knows you’re milking this for all it’s worth.” Feyre pushed off the doorway and crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed.
She reached out to brush a hand over his forehead. Warm, but not worryingly so. “You’re not dying, Rhys. You have a cold.”
“A mortal cold,” he corrected, rolling onto his back dramatically. His wings draped over the edge of the bed, and he winced as if the action had cost him all his strength. “Do you even know what this is like for me? My Illyrian constitution isn’t built for this kind of suffering. Damn Lucien and his trips to the human lands.”
Feyre bit her lip to hold back her laughter. “Poor Rhysand,” she cooed mockingly. “The most powerful High Lord in history, brought to his knees by a runny nose.”
“It’s more than a runny nose!” Rhys shot back, though the effect was ruined by the fact that his voice cracked halfway through the protest.
He reached for a handkerchief on the bedside table, dabbing at his nose with all the gravitas of someone signing a peace treaty. “My throat is on fire, my head is pounding, and I can’t even taste anything, Feyre. Do you know what it’s like to lose one’s sense of taste?”
She couldn’t stop herself from laughing this time. “You’re unbearable.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious, Feyre. I’ve been betrayed by my own body. Tell Azriel he can take over as High Lord until Nyx is of age. He’s always been the reasonable one.”
Feyre rolled her eyes and leaned closer, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead. “You’re not dying. What you are is a giant Illyrian baby.”
Rhys gave a pitiful sniff. “Maybe if you kissed me, it would help.”
Feyre raised an eyebrow. “You’re sick, and you want me to kiss you?”
“I might rally if I had the healing power of my mate’s love,” he said, his voice dipping into that familiar, silken drawl that usually accompanied his flirtations.
The effect was somewhat ruined by the sniffle that followed.
“Oh, now you’re playing the seductive invalid?” Feyre leaned back and crossed her arms, smirking. “You’ve been lying here whining like a child, and suddenly you want to be kissed?”
“It’s worth a try,” he said, pouting.
She sighed dramatically and leaned down to press a quick kiss to his temple. “There. Feel better?”
Rhys closed his eyes and sighed as though he’d just been blessed by the Cauldron itself. “I think I feel a little stronger already.”
Feyre rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. She stood and walked to the small table by the window, where a steaming cup of tea sat waiting.
“Here, drink this. I made it for you while you were busy composing your will.”
He sat up slightly, propping himself against the headboard with exaggerated effort. “Do I even want to know what’s in it? You have a suspicious gleam in your eye.”
“Just some honey and herbs,” she said innocently, holding the cup out to him. “Drink up.”
Rhys took the cup and sniffed it cautiously. “If this is poison, I’ll haunt you.”
“It’s not poison,” she said with a laugh. “Though if you keep complaining, I might reconsider.”
He took a tentative sip, then sighed. “Not bad. Though it would taste better if I could actually taste anything.”
Feyre sat back down beside him, her smile softening. “You really are hopeless, you know that?”
Rhys set the cup down on the bedside table and gave her a pitiful look. “You’re supposed to take care of me in my hour of need, Feyre darling.”
“I am taking care of you. But I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly while I do it.” She reached out to smooth a wrinkle in the blanket draped over him. “Besides, you’re not exactly the easiest patient.”
Rhys smirked, his usual mischief sparking in his eyes despite the fatigue. “You should see me when I have a fever. Very dramatic. Think fainting spells and declarations of undying love.”
Feyre laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”
Rhys sighed and rested his cheek against her hair. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured. “Even if you’re a cruel and heartless nurse.”
“Someone has to keep you humble,” she said lightly, though her hand found his and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Now rest, you ridiculous Illyrian baby. You’ll live to annoy me another day.”
“I suppose I could rally,” he said, his voice already thick with sleep. “If only to make your life more difficult.”
Feyre smiled as his breathing evened out, her High Lord finally succumbing to the mortal malady that had knocked him down. She pressed a soft kiss to his temple before slipping out of the room, already planning the teasing remarks she’d unleash on him once he was back to full strength.