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Rhysand met his lover beneath an abandoned grain mill, its wood sagging with rot and its wheel long since stilled. The place stood at the ragged edge of two courts—Autumn’s borderlands bleeding into the soft green fringe of Spring. It was an empty, forgotten place, and that was why they had chosen it.
Tamlin leaned against the mill’s crumbling wall, a yellowed stalk of grass twirling idly between his fingers. The hood of his cloak shadowed his golden face, as if the night sky wasn’t dark enough to hide him from all but the stars.
The sight of Spring’s golden boy trying and failing to look inconspicuous almost made Rhysand laugh.
Almost, as the caution was more than warranted, given who they were, and where they came from. Rhysand himself moved like a shadow, each step swallowed by the tall grass. He did not let himself relax until the distance closed between them, even though any sort of village was far in the distance, and any sensible farmstead would be fast asleep after a long day of hard labor.
“Tam,” Rhysand called softly.
Tamlin's head lifted. The corners of his soft mouth turned up into a quick smile. “Rhys.”
They met in the middle, both taking quick strides that had them crashing together. Just barely shorter than Spring’s lordling, Rhysand tucked himself beneath Tamlin’s chin, and had to bite back a pleased sigh as warm hands caressed the tender space between his wings. With chilled fingers, he pushed back Tamlin’s hood. A mess of curls spilled free, tumbling across Tamlin’s brow. Rhysand traced the curve of one pointed ear, then dragged his fingers down the sharp planes of Tam's face.
Tamlin hissed through his teeth. His odd little fangs glittered in the dim moonlight. “Cauldron boil me,” he muttered. “Why are you always freezing?”
Rhysand grinned wickedly. “Have you considered that it's because you constantly make me trek across the entirety of Prythian to come see you in the dead of night?” Rhysand shook his head. “Where is your honor, Tam? What if I was robbed? Murdered ?”
Tamlin rolled his eyes and threaded his fingers through the long strands of Rhysand’s dark hair. He leaned in, kissed Rhys’ temple tenderly, and said, “You look more likely to be the murderer, dressed like that. No thief would dare.”
And he wasn’t wrong. Dressed in the armor of his mother’s people, skin thrumming with more night-born power than any heir to any Court had ever had or would ever know what to do with, Rhysand knew the figure he cut: severe, dangerous, untouchable.
That was the point.
Being his father’s son was not a point of honor among the Illyrians. It was a provocation. It painted a target on his back, making him the perfect outlet for every hot-blooded male who longed to bleed his resentment into something tangible. But if Rhysand bared his wings wide, sharpened his smile into a sneer, and wore darkness like a weapon, then perhaps they would think twice. Perhaps they would see his shadow and remember his father’s cruelty before testing him.
And with Tamlin, he could turn that edge into something else entirely.
If he let his lashes flutter, if he was mindful of the barbed nature of his power as he coaxed a whisper of power across his lover’s mind, then the leather clinging to his skin was not armor but an invitation. He could spin promises with nothing more than a look: buckles undone by teeth, claws raking earth, dark hair spilling over grass like a river of ink, the hoarse rasp of Tamlin’s voice begging—
He knew that he’d ensnared his lover fully when Tamlin shuddered once more, something dangerously close to a purr building in his chest. Rhysand smiled as if oblivious. “And what does that say about your own discernment?”
Gold-flecked eyes dragged down the line of him, lingering on the blades strapped to his thighs. Tamlin sounded grave as he replied, “Nothing good.”
Rhysand chuckled. “No,” he said. “In fact, one may be inclined to think you are fond of the danger.”
Tamlin agreed, “They might.”
Rhysand shifted closer still. Until they were chest to chest, and there was no air that did not smell or taste like Tamlin. A heavy hand pressed to the nape of his neck, grounding him as Rhysand’s fingers curled into the vine-shaped brooch at his throat. He tugged, gently, deliberately.
“And would they be correct in that assumption?”
Tamlin swallowed. “What?”
The scent of his interest was thick in the cool night air, and Rhysand inhaled, greedy for it. He wanted to bottle that scent—to seal Tamlin away, and never let another catch a whiff. He ran his nose along the lovely line of Tamlin’s jaw as he murmured, voice soft as silk, “Do you have a fondness for danger? For the would-be murderer who seeks you out in the dark, beyond your father’s sight?”
Most High Fae liked their foreplay sweet, to be strung along and dotted on. Kisses, whispers, the scrape of teeth along tender skin. With smooth enough words, Rhysand could thoroughly knot them around one of his clawed fingers, as easy as plucking lint from a tunic. Tamlin was one of them, yes. But Rhysand knew he also had claws beneath his softness, waiting for the right prod. And Rhysand lived for it—the twitch of his jaw, the darkening of his eyes.
Craved a push and pull, a chase that Tamlin was always so generous to indulge in.
A sharp breath left him now. He cupped Rhysand’s face in one hand, pushed him back just enough to breathe. “What I have is a continuous lapse in judgment that leads to a needy Illyrian rubbing against me like a cat in heat.”
That pulled a rough, loud laugh from Rhysand. He tipped his head back, a bright grin splitting his face. Tamlin’s ears had gone pink, and the sight alone was enough to tempt him into pressing harder. But mercy, rare as it was, won out. He eased his grip on the male’s mind.
“You love it,” he said smugly. “Every night we don’t meet is a night you spend staring at the stars, pining for me.”
“Truthfully, those nights are spent wondering who I have to thank for my moments of peace.”
“You are in hysterics,” Rhysand corrected. “You miss me every time the sun sets.”
Tamlin replied, thumb brushing over Rhys’ bottom lip, "I could bury you tomorrow and never shed a tear."
Rhysand laid his hand over Tamlin’s and turned into the touch to his cheek. He pressed a brief kiss to the inside of his wrist, directly over Tam's pulse, and sighed, “Well, I always miss you.”
Something softened in Tamlin’s face. It had only been two days, hardly enough time to feel absence. But when so much distance stretched between them, when every stolen moment was paid for in secrecy and effort, each second apart was a second felt.
Tamlin brushed his thumb over Rhysand’s cheekbone and asked, "Have you had your fill of taunting me? Or will we waste our whole night under this mill?”
Rhysand wouldn’t exactly call any night spent under the stars and wrapped within Tamlin’s earthen scent a waste. In fact, he’d consider it a night remarkably well spent. Still, he paused.
“In a rush, are we?” he asked, leaning back—though the hand pressed between his wings held him firmly in place. A thrill of delight curled through him. “Don’t tell me you have places to be.”
Tamlin was quiet. Rhyand’s brows raised in surprise.
“Really? You’ve made… plans ?”
“For us both,” Tamlin was quick to correct. “I’d never leave you, not when we could have a night together.”
Rhysand’s brows arched higher, at that.
The last time they’d decided, on a whim, that the night called for an adventure, he had been the one to suggest it—and they had nearly been skewered by a furious farmer’s wife wielding a heavy crossbow. Evidently, she did not appreciate two young males harassing her herd of horses. It was a miracle that they had both gotten away unscathed, vaulting her fence line and disappearing into the trees surrounding her property—and that they had even heard the shrieks of the wild-haired female over Rhysand's full-bellied cackles and Tamlin’s shouts of pure fear.
His expression must have given him away, because Tamlin’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Nothing as entertaining as you’re thinking, I’m sure. I only thought…” He grew quieter. “I wanted to take you somewhere. Somewhere we can sit in peace. Where no one will interrupt us.” He added, softer still, “I thought it might be nice.”
Rhysand had to draw in a breath. “To do what?”
Tamlin confessed, voice honey-sweet, “Just to go to one place where we won’t have to worry about interruptions. Where we can sit in peace. Be together.” He paused. “If you’d like.”
Something in Rhysand began to ache as tenderness softened Tamlin’s expression. Because threaded through those words, caught in every faltering pause, was a dangerous implication. A request more daring than any crossbow-dodging mischief.
If you’ll trust me.
And it wasn't as if he didn't trust Tamlin.
The bad blood between their families—the rest of their courts—was a deep, ancient thing. As wide as the Illyrian mountains and as deep as the seas of Summer, it ran on for miles and miles, and when they were in the presence of their fathers, threatened to drown them both. But it wasn’t between them. Never them, if Rhysand had it his way. Not when he could trust Tamlin in a way he could trust so few others.
So he nodded. And the brightening of Tamlin’s face made it worth it.
He reached for Rhysand's hand, who gave it willingly, vanishing his wings before Tamlin winnowed them away.
The world slipped from beneath his feet, a soft spring breeze carrying them, until it snapped back again on a sloping hill. When Rhysand glanced behind them, the yellow leaves of Autumn were long gone. Now there were only thick boughs and lush greenery on all sides.
He was somewhere in the heart of Spring, then.
Tamlin began to tug him forward, impatient, and Rhysand followed. They crossed a stream that broke away from a wider river, the water whispering over stone. Mud sucked at their boots, and more than once they slipped into each other on the steep incline of the bank. Several times Tamlin pulled at Rhysand's arm, almost making him fall into the river, and several times more Rhysand had threatened to outright shove his lover into it.
By the time the river was behind them, the scent of wet clay gave way to the spice of fresh wood. Towering trees loomed on every side, the canopy swallowing the night sky. The sight sent a flicker of unease down Rhysand’s spine. He masked it before it could touch his scent.
“Are you finally out to kill me?" He wondered. "Because if so, it would have been quicker to do it by the mill.”
Tamlin snorted, squeezing his hand. “It would,” he replied, “but no. You’ll live another night, Rhys. Be patient.”
Patience was a luxury they didn’t often have—not with only a handful of moonlit hours carved out for them. Rhysand was on the edge of saying so, but then—
The trees opened up into a glade, their branches stirring with a soft breeze that begged Rhysand to summon his wings and let the cool air skim across them. Sweet grass rolled outward, dotted with small tufts of pale flowers perfuming the night. At the glade’s heart lay a clear pond, the water glistening like crystal under the moon’s light.
And on the bank: a quilt. Two bottles of whiskey leaning against a half-opened basket. The scent of bread and cheese carried toward them on the breeze.
The sight hit him square in the chest, a blow that stole his breath. Rhysand was speechless as Tamlin gently led him toward the blanket, his eyes lingering on the basket. A picnic. It was a picnic.
"You did this for me." He said it slowly, not quite comprehending what was happening.
Tamlin laughed softly, as if embarrassed. “It’s an awfully nice place to die, yes?”
A place just for them. A picnic just for him.
It was absurd, really, how much it mattered. How it unraveled him. Not the secrecy or the stolen time—that was expected—but the tenderness. The care threaded through every choice. Tamlin sneaking whiskey out of his father’s kitchens. Finding a glade hidden far enough from the estate that they might pretend, just for a while, that the world wasn’t watching. Setting it all up alone, waiting at the border with no guarantee Rhysand would even come. It had been just as likely he wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
Tamlin swept invisible dirt from the blanket and began pulling small bundles from the basket, pouring whiskey into twin glasses. When he finally noticed that Rhysand hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, he tilted his head.
“Is it too much?”
Rhysand nearly laughed. Too much, Tamlin asked. Silly male. “No,” he said. It came out faster, harder than he meant it to. He swallowed before adding, softer, “This is…”
The words wouldn’t come. It was simple. That was the beauty of it. So much of Rhysand’s life was a performance, posturing in order to withhold the reputation of his court. And Tamlin’s was much the same.
But it was never like that when they were together. When it was just them on some forest floor, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and wrapped up under the same cloak. Or when Rhysand fought to see just how much trouble he could talk the shy prince into, like they were simply two rambunctious males, friends and rivals and lovers with no titles or expectations to uphold.
Rhysand took in a breath, his chest tight with gentle warmth. Adoration. He stepped forward and pretended not to notice how the nervous edge left Tamlin’s shoulders. He fell to his knees on their picnic blanket, cupped his lover's face in both hands—cold fingers be damned—and kissed him, firm and grateful.
“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Rhysand admitted when he drew back. “Much better than making out against some old mill. Thank you for bringing me here.”
“It was my pleasure,” Tamlin replied.
This time the pink blushed spilled all the way down to his neck. It was a gorgeous sight, one that rivaled their surroundings. Rhysand wanted to kiss him again, hard. He didn't, though. His spring prince was very proud of their little picnic, and who was Rhysand to deprive him of the joy of showing off?
Tamlin pulled away to continue unpacking the basket. One by one, he unveiled the small spread that he had managed to sneak out of his manor. Bread and cheese, yes, but also a small napkin full of ripe-smelling strawberries, a handful of plump grapes, and two unpeeled oranges. Rhysand reclined on one elbow, sipping stolen whiskey, openly watching as Tamlin carefully peeled an orange. His claws scored half-moons into the skin, juice dripping down his fingers, the sharp-sweet scent rising between them.
Tam licked the juice from the inside of his wrist. Rhysand swallowed a mouthful of whiskey with deliberate calm.
“Where in the court are we?” he asked at last, voice thick with something he hoped passed for casual curiosity.
Tamlin only lifted a shoulder. “Not close enough to the estate for it to matter,” he assured him. “You’ll be able to winnow back to the border if you have to.”
Rhysand took his half of the orange when it was offered. He reached out and tapped his finger against Tamlin's nose. "That's sweet," he said with a wry little smile. "But not what I meant. How did you find this place?"
Tamlin’s eyes scanned the waving grass. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and for a moment Rhys thought he might refuse to answer.
"It was very long ago," he admitted at last. "Before I met you or joined my father's war bands. The Lord and Lady of Spring were out in the villages, settling a land dispute on the borders near the Wall. They’d be gone for days, they said, and my brothers were tasked with managing the estate until they returned.” His jaw clenched. “I just… needed out of that house. So I rode. I rode until I couldn’t anymore, until either the sun set or someone dragged me back. I thought I’d lost myself in the woods when I stumbled onto the glade.”
Rhysand didn’t have to ask why. He had seen enough of Tamlin’s brothers at galas and dinners—and the sons of Autumn didn’t hold a candle to their behaviors. If they were insufferable in public, he could only imagine what Tamlin endured behind closed doors. Could only imagine how they’d act, once they received any semblance of power.
As carefully as he could, Rhysand took Tamlin’s mind into his hands. He didn’t delve in, and certainly didn’t push past the branching, thorny canopy of Tamlin’s inner barriers. Instead, Rhysand brushed against the surface, offering feelings of understanding and regret.
He did not have to finish if it was a memory more bitter than sweet.
But Tamlin only shook his head. “Here,” he went on, “I let myself forget time. I spent those days sleeping beneath the trees, hunting hares, drinking straight from the creek. I went back only when I had no choice, to find my parents had returned just a day prior. My brothers couldn’t invent an excuse that appeased Father. He was furious. Mother—” his voice softened, “—she was pale with worry. And the servants weren’t exactly thrilled when I returned home after days of being missing. Father wanted to punish me, but Mother just wanted to be certain that I hadn't been half-drowned by a wraith.”
Tamlin paused. Almost as if he wasn't sure that he should, he sheepishly admitted, "And when she was finished soothing my father's temper, Mother scolded me for hours, for making her worry. Then I had to clean the floors myself."
Rhysand laughed under his breath as Tamlin’s memory unspooled in his mind. He stood in the center of his fine manor, servants and Lady of Spring fretting as he shook out his wet hair like a dog. Muddied boot prints trailed behind him, and the smile he gave his Mother was boyish, only half apologetic.
“And was it worth it?” Rhysand asked.
Tamlin’s mind reeled back to his mother. The Lady of Spring was a woman with green eyes that were dark not in color but in presence. She reminded Rhysand, painfully, of the Illyrian women he would see at the War camps, the ones who weren't lucky enough to be the bride and mate of the High Lord. In the memory of his lover, despite the admonishments spilling from her lips, there was a rare crinkle of amusement to the Lady of Spring's nose.
Tamlin's attention flicked toward the lake. His eyes—his mother's eyes—gleamed brighter with delight, with eagerness.
He licked the remnants of orange from his fingers, then rose to his feet. He extended his hand to Rhysand.
“Why don’t you see for yourself?” Tamlin countered.
Rhysand took his hand without hesitation. He would be cold in his grave before he would ever deny a pretty male such a simple request.
Tamlin hauled him up with one hand, as though Rhysand weighed nothing. Then he took off his boots and stripped down to his underclothes. Rhysand followed suit, without any of the usual grace he was trained to carry himself with, and much more irritation. He fumbled with the plethora of belts and straps that held his leathers together and hissed under his breath when Tamlin chuckled at his struggle.
“You are ridiculous,” Tam said.
Tossing aside one gauntlet, then the other, Rhysand shot back defensively, “I came straight from camp. Give me some grace."
He was supposed to be running drills until sunrise for one of the many insolent comments he’d made in training hours prior, and had just barely managed to slip away from his training group, abandoning his spear and shield in the woods.
However, Rhysand had been sloppy in his rush, and had been followed. He’d been prepared to winnow when a male with close-cropped hair grabbed him by the neck, forcing Rhysand to his knees for his companion to land a wild swing at his exposed ribs. The brawl that followed had dragged far too long. By the time he finally knocked both Illyrians unconscious and winnowed out of Illyria, he’d kept Tamlin waiting longer than he liked.
He had wanted to wash the blood and dirt from his skin, to comb and braid his hair out of his face. When that wasn't possible, he wanted to at least maintain some of his composure.
“Here,” Tamlin stepped closer. “Let me help you.”
Rhysand froze as Tamlin cupped his elbow, urging his arm upward. He relaxed before he could think better of it. Tamlin’s fingers brushed against the exposed skin of his wrist, warm and steady as he dragged his palm up Rhysand’s arm. His hand settled at the buckles cinched around Rhys’ elbows. His expression was all concentration, brows furrowed, mouth set. When a piece of armor loosened, tumbling to the spongy ground with a muffled thud, triumph would glitter in his eyes and then he'd move on to the next piece.
Rhysand found himself staring.
He knew he should make a show of protesting. Most males would have sooner died than let another unfasten their armor for them. It was humiliating, demeaning. But Rhysand found that salvaging his pride with a scoff and an eyeroll wasn’t worth nearly as much as watching the pleased little expression on Tamlin’s face whenever a piece of leather fell away.
With one final tug from Tamlin, Rhysand finally shook free from his last stubborn piece of armor. The breastplate slid from his shoulders and hit the earth with a dull thud. For the first time that night, he could breathe without the squeeze of hardened leather and steel. His linen underclothes, meant to keep his leathers from chaffing, clung to his skin. They were dampened with sweat, but he hardly cared.
He stretched his arms high over his head, delighting in the brush of cool air against his neck and arms. It was, it seemed, Tamlin’s turn to watch him.
“I like you better like this, I think,” he said absentmindedly. “That armor hides the gentleness of your face.”
Rhysand blinked, arms still lifted, unsure if he’d misheard. That wasn’t a word anyone had ever used for him—not his brothers, not his fellow warriors, not even his mother when she’d thought him asleep and whispered her pride into the dark.
“I am many things, Tamlin,” he attempted a lazy smirk as he dropped his arms. “Gentle is not one of them.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it,” Tamlin’s smile softened. “It suits you in a way those blades don’t.”
He faltered. “Whoever is teaching you sweet talk,” Rhysand said, “keep learning from them. You’re doing wonderfully, Tamlin dear.”
“I try my best,” Tamlin replied with disarming sincerity.
Before he could offer a retort, Tamlin caught his hand and tugged. Clearly delighted by the lack of resistance he was getting tonight, he led Rhys toward the water’s edge. The grass gave way to damp sand, and together they waded in. The lake was colder than he’d braced for. Water slipped against his legs, his thighs, creeping higher until the chill coiled around his ribs.
A shiver coursed through him despite his best effort to mask it. Rhys clenched his jaw, willing his body to still.
Tamlin noticed anyway.
“Cold?” The question was soft.
Rhysand flicked a glance at Tamlin. Before he could deny it, Tamlin closed the distance between them. Strong arms wound around Rhysand’s waist, drawing him close. The warmth of him was startling in the water, and something inside Rhys stirred—a pulse of want, coiling low in his chest.
At last, he found words. “Not anymore.”
Tamlin’s hand brushed along the line of his spine. “Good.”
Rhys tilted his chin up, searching Tamlin’s face. All words slipped from him, dissolved by the weight of Tamlin’s tender eyes, by the steady press of those hands at his spine.
His voice, when it finally came, was uncharacteristically unsteady. “Tamlin. You’re making it very hard for me to be clever.”
A huff of laughter left Tamlin, soft and breathless, and when he leaned in—Rhysand rushed to meet him.
The lake rippled around them as their bodies moved, warmth meeting warmth, and for a moment the cold ceased to exist entirely. Tamlin tasted of citrus, and he smelled like damp earth, and the kiss deepened as Rhys tilted his head and fisted a hand in Tam’s mess of curls, dragging him closer.
Maddeningly, Tamlin pulled away. Rhys didn’t allow the distance. He chased it, pressing quick kisses along Tamlin’s jaw, his chin, the curve of his throat, unwilling to let go of the heat.
“You have to know,” Tamlin said, voice rough, “I truly did bring you here to relax. Not to seduce you.”
Rhysand purred against his skin. “I was far more relaxed stretched out on the bank with wine on my tongue and your very pretty eyes on me.”
Tamlin’s brows lifted, a flush creeping high on his cheeks though his grin didn’t falter. “Pretty, am I?”
“Oh, devastatingly,” Rhys said. He gave Tamlin’s curls a sharp tug before releasing them, letting his hand trail down the line of Tam’s throat. The skin flexed beneath his fingertips. “I might even forgive you for pulling away so soon, if you keep fluttering your lashes at me like that.”
“You’re insatiable,” Tamlin muttered. He dipped his head and pressed another swift kiss to Rhys’s mouth, softer than before, before pulling back just enough to add, “And impossible to ignore.”
Rhys’s laugh was muffled against his lips, but it spilled into the night air nonetheless. “Is that right?”
He pulled back enough to look at Tamlin. The moonlight brought out the gold threaded in his emerald eyes, making them glow. He felt something within him pull taut, something deep in his chest. It made Rhys want to say something unbearably foolish.
So, instead, he splashed him.
Water smacked against Tamlin’s chest and cheek. His jaw dropped in mock outrage.
“You didn’t.”
“I very much did.” Rhys smiled, wicked and sharp, and then Tamlin retaliated.
They devolved quickly into chaos—splashes and laughter echoing off the trees, their bodies twisting and sliding through the water as they chased each other around the pond, as if they were children again.
Rhysand ducked under the surface to avoid being grabbed, his hair streaming around him in a cloud as he kicked off the ground, only to rise for air a few feet away and find Tamlin waiting to shove water into his face. He sputtered, blinked, then launched himself forward in retaliation.
They thrashed, half wrestling, half laughing, until Tamlin gave in and tipped backward, carrying both of them under. The lake swallowed them whole. Cold closed around them, bubbles racing up from their lungs, and for a breathless moment there was only muffled quiet, only the press of water and skin and Tamlin’s hand still anchored at Rhys’s hip.
They surfaced together, gasping, Rhys shoving his soaked hair from his eyes as he laughed. Tamlin blinked water from his lashes. “You’re a bastard,” he said.
The water calmed, ripples ebbing outward. Rhys was still perched against him, chest heaving with breath, face inches away.
“Not quite,” Rhysand replied. “Though I do know several.”
Tamlin’s thumb brushed a lazy circle at his hip, anchoring them both. They hovered in silence, their breath the only sound, until finally Rhys let himself exhale and lay his forehead against Tamlin’s shoulder.
For a long while, they drifted like that—two warriors not at war, two heirs not carrying anyone’s expectations, simply two . The lake lapped at them. Crickets hummed in the grass. The moon climbed higher, scattering shards of silver over the water. It was Rhys who broke the quiet.
“You could have taken me anywhere tonight.” Rhysand lifted his head, studying him. “Why here?”
Tamlin hesitated, gaze skimming the dark treeline. “I find that this is where I often return to when I want peace. No court, no brothers, no obligations. Just me, as I truly am. I also find that… It's lonely.”
Rhys absorbed that. “And so you brought me here.”
Tamlin’s gold-green eyes flicked back to him, unreadable. “I did.”
No, Rhysand realized as he watched him, fascinated. Those eyes were not unreadable. They were vulnerable. Every emotion that Tamlin wore, he allowed them to sit there, on the surface. It struck sharp in his chest, and Rhysand wanted nothing more than to reach out and cradle that vulnerability, to curl around it, to tuck it away somewhere safe, where no one would reach it. So that no one could abuse it.
Because he couldn’t help himself, Rhys lifted a hand. A droplet of water clung to his fingertip, gleaming. “You’ve shared with me something of Spring tonight,” he murmured. “Maybe I should share something of Night in return.”
Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “And what would that be?”
Rhysand tilted his chin toward the sky. “Just watch.”
Stars trembled above them, caught between Spring’s restless clouds. Lifting his hand, he reached deep into the well of magic within him, setting his veins alight as the sky rippled in response.
Tamlin felt the shift instantly. His hand at Rhys’s waist stilled. “What are you doing?”
Rhysand smiled to himself. He brought up his second hand, cupping his palms together as darkness stained his skin, dripping down to his wrists like spilled ink. As he lowered them to his chest, pure starlight glittered in his palms, pulsating like a still-beating heart.
Above his head, there was a spot in the Spring sky that was without a cluster of constellations.
He dipped his hands into the water. Shadows unfurled, the dark tendrils that had stained his skin spilling into the lake. But instead of blotting it out, the magic caught. The water shimmered. Constellations rippled within it, caught on the surface. Every wave sent starlight scattering like diamonds.
Tamlin’s breath left him in a rush. “Rhys…”
Rhys only watched him, pleased by the awe in his voice. Pleased to leave some mark—something unmistakably his—on this place. “Do you like it?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.
For a long while, Tamlin only stared, his expression caught between marvel and something far more fragile. Slowly, he reached down, letting his palm drag across the surface, watching stars follow in his wake like the tail of a comet. “What is it?”
“It’s starlight,” Rhys shrugged. “A glimmer of night in your Spring. So that when you visit, you won’t be lonely. A piece of me will be here, too.”
Tamlin’s brows knit together in wonder. Or maybe it was concern. “Is it just the appearance of stars? This won’t affect the surrounding flora and fauna in any other way?”
Of course, he would rip the very sky apart for his Springborn lordling, and Tamlin would be more concerned about the wellbeing of local daisies and rabbis. He had to admit, though—it was a very good question.
“It’s still boring old water, I’m afraid.” He laughed lightly. “Or maybe it’s not. Maybe now, if you drink from it, you’ll be happy ‘til the day you die.”
Tamlin considered the glittering surface of the lake. "Eternal happiness is a very weighty promise." When he shifted, the stars spun away in lazy patterns. "Do you think we should test it?”
Rhys’s gaze snagged on him—on the glint of gold around his pupil, the strong curve of his upper lip. The water had plastered Tamlin’s hair to his forehead, and his throat went dry. The words were pulled from him, raw and unwilling.
“No,” Rhys said. He reached out, thumb tracing the line of Tamlin’s cheekbone. “I don’t think I need to.”
Tamlin looked away, then back again, as if unsure whether to believe what he’d just heard. Rhysand pulled him in for another kiss. It was softer this time, lingering. No frantic clash, no desperate proving. Just a quiet, inevitable press of lips against lips, the slow collapse of intimacy and want. Rhys’s hand slid to the back of Tamlin’s neck, guiding him deeper, pulling him closer. Every ripple lit brighter, constellations blooming and scattering until they were surrounded by a galaxy caught in liquid form.
When they finally broke apart, Tamlin pressed his forehead to Rhysand’s. “Insatiable,” he reminded.
Rhysand grinned, utterly unrepentant. “I’ve been told.”
Tamlin’s hand smoothed down his back, fingers splaying across damp skin. “And now you’ve ruined my lake.”
Rhysand feigned offense, glancing around at the shimmering surface. “I’ve improved it.”
Tamlin let out a sigh. There was a moment, and then he said finally, quiet and honest, “It is beautiful."
Rhys didn’t tease him. Didn’t gloat. He simply stared, heart aching in ways he could not voice. He thought, so are you.
But his lips remained firmly pressed together, and his tongue, he found, was leaden. He couldn’t find the courage to crack open his chest, to let that tightness in his ribs unspool.
And so, instead, Rhysand pressed his mouth to Tamlin’s once more, and prayed that a pool of starlight made up for what he would not say.