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Feyre had been alone all day.
She had woken up just before noon and found the townhouse empty. She had looked everywhere for Nuala and Cerridwen, but couldn’t find them. Rhys had left a note about having to attend some business and that he would be back until the next morning.
After finding a loaf of bread and some soft cheese in the kitchen, Feyre had settled in the living room, with a blanket over her legs and a book in her lap. The fireplace was lit and the soft crackle of the flames was her only companion for hours.
It was only when the sun began setting and a hush fell over the city, that Feyre realised what day it was. Her heart pounding in her chest, she went up to her room, where the note from Rhys sat beside her bed. She picked up a pen and wrote, what business?
She didn’t know why she asked. She knew what he had to do tonight. And she didn’t want to think about it. It was Calanmai.
Her heart still pounding, Feyre stood and watched as the piece of paper disappeared. It didn’t reappear and Feyre waited for five minutes until a soft knock sounded from the other side of her bedroom door. Feyre almost stumbled in shock. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the house, which meant that it could only be him or Mor.
"Feyre, are you in there?" Mor asked, her voice subdued.
Instead of answering, Feyre just yanked the door open. Mor looked tired— for once there were dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair had lost its usual shine. Even her gown was a darker shade of red.
"Where is he?" Feyre asked, something dark and menacing was boiling in her veins. She swallowed, trying to let go of the feeling. Why did she care? It wasn’t her business what Rhys did on Calanmai or who he chose to do it with.
Mor just looked at her, eyes flickering over her face. Then she said softly, "At the house of wind."
Feyre frowned, "But the hunt—"
Mor looked away, running a hand through her hair. "He isn’t going to perform the rite, Feyre."
That wicked feeling in her chest seemed to ease at once. "Why?"
Mor let out a rueful laugh and walked around Feyre and let herself fall on the bed. "Why do you think?"
Feyre just spun around, leaning against the dresser and fixing her eyes on Mor. She didn’t even dare to think about Rhys’ reasons. She couldn’t. "Tell me."
But Mor saw right through Feyre and tilted her face, so that her hair spilled over one shoulder. "If he hunts the stag and kills it, the magic— You know what it does. What it will force him to do."
Feyre nodded. And maybe it had nothing to do with her. Maybe, it was about him. Maybe he couldn’t loose control like that. Maybe he couldn’t be with someone when it wasn’t his choice. Not after what Amarantha had done to him.
"What happens if he doesn’t perform the rite?" Feyre asked, fearing Mor’s answer. She had never seen her this exhausted, never seen her look this frail.
"Apart from not replenishing the magic? It will make him sick." Mor replied. "He’s powerful enough, so he might—" She trailed off, her lips tightening.
"Might what, Mor?" Feyre asked, terror now flooding her.
"There have been high lords who died after refusing to perform the rite." Mor finally finished, avoiding her eyes.
Feyre stopped breathing. No, Rhys couldn’t— If it meant that he would die, he couldn’t refuse. "Then you need to make him." Feyre snarled, her hands curling into fists. "You can’t just let him do this to himself."
Mor sat up, fixing her with a dark look. "Don’t you think I know that? I have been telling him, but I can’t make him, Feyre. I can’t force him to do this. Not after—"
Amarantha. All of the anger evaporated and left her with a bone crushing terror. "He can’t do this to himself. Can’t he just choose. Surely, there has to be someone—"
Mor stood, shaking her head. "That’s not the problem. He knows who the magic will choose."
"Then why—" Feyre stopped talking when Mor gave her a long, meaningful look. Her body reacted before she had time to understand. She flushed and stumbled over her words. "You can’t know that."
"Oh, I do." Mor said, almost bitterly. "Trust me. There’s no one else the magic would pick for him."
A shudder ran down her back. And Mor must have read her next question in her eyes. "He doesn’t want to force you, Feyre." She said, this time her voice soft.
And Feyre understood. And of course, of course Rhys would be stupid and ignore her and not tell her. Not when it meant that she would have to do something she wouldn’t want to.
But—
Feyre took a deep breath and said, "Take me to him."
Mor didn’t hesitate, she closed the distance between them and curled her fingers around Feyre’s arm. Then they winnowed to the house of wind.
Rhys was slumped in a chair, his body loose and taut at the same time. Sweat was beading down his temple and neck. Upon their arrival, he stiffened further and Feyre was worried that his bones might break from the strain.
"Rhys." She said carefully, taking a step towards him before she had even thought about it.
He moved so fast that even her fae sight missed the movement. The chair toppled over and Rhys was standing on the other side of the room. But his eyes — dark and blazing — were on Mor. He snarled, "I told you not to bring her here."
Mor winced, but held his stare. "I won’t let you kill yourself, Rhys. Besides, Feyre needed to know."
Something like panic flickered in his eyes. "What did you tell her?"
Feyre crossed her arms over her chest. "I’m right here, you know? And she told me that you’re being stupid."
But some silent conversation seemed to pass between the cousins and then Rhys’ shoulders slumped a little. Feyre thought it might have been relief.
"You shouldn’t be here, Feyre." Rhys said finally looking at her. "Not tonight."
Feyre uncrossed her arms and ran one hand through her hair. "No, you don’t get to pull shit like that with me, Rhysand!" It was her turn to snarl. She closed the distance between them, one hand coming up to poke him in the chest. "You don’t get to decide what I get to know. You said that I would be the one to decide. So why didn’t you tell me?"
Rhys’ hand came up to his chest and wrapped around hers. His fingers were cold, yet a thrill went through her as their skin touched. And Feyre realised with a start, that Rhys was panting. His brow was slicked with sweat and he looked like he was sick.
"You’re being stupid and selfish—" Feyre began, but Rhys cut her off. "I’m not." His voice was soft, but hard and it drew all her attention to him.
"Feyre," He said and his eyes clouded with something that Feyre couldn’t name. But her body must have recognised it, since heat pooled in her core. Rhys’ nostrils flared and the fingers around her hand tightened.
"Go, hunt the stag." Feyre breathed. "And then come back to me."
He looked at her for a long moment. "Feyre—" He said again, but this time Feyre cut him off. "I’m okay, Rhys. If you can’t, then we’ll find another way, but I’m okay with it."
A few more heartbeats passed and then, Rhys was gone.
Feyre turned to say something to Mor, but she too was gone.
With her hands shaking, Feyre sat down and waited for Rhys to come back.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Feyre was pacing.
She had never been alone in the House of Wind before and now she’d been here alone for too long. Two hours had passed since both Rhys and Mor had vanished and Feyre had tried not to think. Not to think about what he was doing— what they were going to do once he returned.
Her heart was racing wildly in her chest and no matter what she did— looking down at the lights of Velaris, sitting at the table, wandering the halls or pacing in the dining room— she couldn’t slow down her wild heart and even wilder thoughts.
Her palms were clammy and her throat was constricted. She wasn’t scared. The opposite, actually. She wanted this. Him. Wanted to finally give into that feeling. Wanted to touch him. To taste him.
But Feyre knew that the thing that would come back to her— it wouldn’t be Rhys. Not really. Not the Rhys she had been aching for.
And Feyre felt guilty. For wanting him when he was forced to do it. He didn’t choose to be with her and Feyre felt guilty for wanting him despite it all.
She was about to take her next step, when she felt something in the air. Like a gust of magic passing by her face, rustling her hair and stinging her skin. She breathed deeply and almost closed her eyes as the smell nearly overwhelmed her.
Rhys.
She could feel him there. Even before he had fully finished winnowing, she could feel him arriving. And when she could finally see him, the mist and shadows around him took her breath away.
He was magnificent. The power was coming off of him like steam and every part of her wanted to be closer. Wanted to touch him, feel him, taste him—
"Feyre." Rhys said, his voice barely a whisper of a growl and her feet began moving.
He stood still, frozen in place and the only thing that moved where those tendrils of power and his chest. He was taking quick, shallow breaths and his fists were clenched. When she finally looked into his eyes, they were darker than she had ever seen. Gone were the silver flecks, the brilliant violet. It was a deep, deep blue, so dark it almost looked black.
She stopped half a breath away from him. No matter what her blood was singing to her, she didn’t want to make the first move. Didn’t want to take advantage of him. Not after everything that had been done to him. Not after he had given her the time and space to heal.
Instead, she tipped her head back and looked at him. And slowly, so slowly, she lifted her hands and placed them on his trembling chest. Rhys closed his eyes and she felt him shudder beneath her touch.
"I want you, Rhys." She said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "I wished that we could do this without being forced to, but I want this. You."
Something like a whine sounded from his throat and her knees almost gave out. "I’m so sorry." She whispered and his eyes flashed open.
"Don’t be." He said, his voice rough. "I want you, too, Feyre."
"Then take me." She told him, boldly. Her fingers dug into the fabric covering his chest and she felt the magic rumbling in response to her touch.
And it felt as if she had snapped something in him. She only felt his movement because she was holding on to him. But from one heartbeat to the next, Rhys had pressed her flush against him and his mouth was on her neck, lips and tongue and teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh he found there.
Feyre groaned when his teeth bit down harder and her own hands slipped across his chest and around his waist. His own had found their way under her tunic, calloused fingers dragging over her back, pulling the fabric with it.
She let go of him to lift her arms and Rhys pulled it over her head. Then his mouth was back on her, kissing her collarbones, down her chest and Feyre felt her back hit the dining table behind her.
Her head was spinning, she couldn’t see, hear or feel anything but him. She hadn’t felt them move but now she was lying on the dining table with her legs wrapped around his waist. Rhys’ hands were roaming over her skin, calloused fingers leaving trails of fire on her. And his lips— they were hungrily trailing kisses up her throat.
Feyre’s own hands pushed against his dark tunic and Rhys didn’t bother stopping the kiss as the rest of her and all of his clothes disappeared, leaving them both naked. She felt him then— felt every inch of skin that was touching him and the sensation made her feel breathless. Alive.
Feyre sat up and finally his lips met hers and they were kissing. It wasn’t soft or gentle, but wild and demanding and edged with an urgency that resembled panic. Feyre dragged her teeth over his bottom lip and Rhys snapped his hips to hers, eliciting a groan from her.
"Rhys." She moaned, her core throbbing and desperate and utterly wild.
He stopped then. Gently lifted his lips from hers and found her eyes. Somehow, despite the darkness swirling from him, his face was tender. He slid his hands down to her hips, callouses scraping softly against the soft skin there and pulled her closer.
"I need you to tell me." He said, his voice a broken whisper.
And Feyre felt her eyes burn as she leaned forward, cupping his face between her hands. She looked at him, blinking away the tears and placed a soft kiss on his lips before whispering, "I want you, Rhys."
He slid into her slowly, arms trembling, heart pounding and Feyre held his gaze through it all. They were barely moving, but both of them were panting.
Rhys stopped when he was fully inside her and Feyre let out a sound that she herself couldn’t explain. Slowly, her hands slid down his neck and over his shoulders. She gripped him a little tighter. "Please."
And then he was moving. Still gentle, still holding her gaze and Feyre almost sobbed at the look in his eyes.
She had thought that Rhys would come back to her half feral, thinking of nothing but releasing the magic now coursing in his veins, but as he moved, she felt him strain against every instinct that told him to hurry.
But Feyre felt the magic, too. Felt the darkness brush against her skin, her own power, maybe even her soul. And she couldn’t bear the heartbreaking gentleness that Rhys was offering her. It felt too much like an apology.
So, her hands wrapped around his body and slid down his back, nails digging softly into his flesh. Rhys let out a hiss at the touch and his pace quickened.
"Feyre." He groaned and the sound sent a shiver down her spine.
She thought she might die from this. Her skin felt too tight, too constricting and something tugged at her heart. Tugged and begged for her attention. But she was too far gone in the pleasure of feeling him move inside her at last.
She meet him on each of his strokes and soon, she felt her muscles tightening almost painfully as she was barely holding on to sanity. And he must have felt it, too, because Rhys finally kissed her again and one of his hands slipped between them to circle around her clit.
Feyre came with a shout that was swallowed by their kiss and she felt him strain too. Felt him release a growl that reverberated through her whole being. Rhys came hard and hot and fast inside her and Feyre pressed her forehead against his shoulder, kissing the hot skin of his chest.
She felt the darkness lift, the magic freed from the high lord before her and drift into the night air like smoke in the wind.
And it left nothing but them.
Panting and sated and utterly wrecked.
Rhys didn’t move away from her and once their breathing quieted, she felt him go utterly still.
She pushed off his shoulder and when she finally opened her eyes to look at him, the sight hit her like a blow to the gut.
The pull against her heart was almost painful and she gasped as the knowledge clanged through her.
Mate.
She gasped. Her body going tight and loose and all she could think about was that Rhys was her mate. She felt it with such clarity that there could be no doubt, no other reason for the way her soul called out to him.
Rhysand was hers. Her mate. Hers.
Still, he did not move and Feyre could have sworn that he had stopped breathing all together.
Did he know? Could he feel the roaring in her blood as she looked at him?
"You’re—" Feyre gasped, but couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Still, Rhys finally moved. He moved barely an inch, but it was enough for him to slide out of her and Feyre almost chocked at the loss of the contact. Somehow, it felt wrong to be separated by him.
"Yes." He said and Feyre watched as his eyes returned to their natural color. The effects of Calanmai fading fully.
"You knew?" Slowly, the world was righting itself. It felt as if the realisation had shifted everything and Feyre had lost her footing, but with each breath, she could think a little clearer. Could think around the words that still sounded through her body.
Mate. Mate. Mate.
Rhys nodded, holding her gaze.
"How long?" Her voice was blank, despite the maelstrom of emotions that warred within her mind. Still, she knew that her mental shields were in shambles and she did not have the will to rebuild them.
And somehow his own shield must have slipped, too, because the scene flashed before her eyes. She saw herself, standing on that balcony under the mountain. Seeing the sun and sky for the first time in three months. And felt the shock and realisation that she was his mate. Felt how the knowledge rolled over him like a wave and left him breathless.
And she didn’t have to ask why he hadn’t told her. Didn’t have to ask what had made him hold back. And she didn’t know where it left them, but she knew that if their positions had been reversed she would have done the same.
So, instead of saying anything, Feyre closed the distance between them and kissed Rhysand. She kissed her mate and he— he kissed her back.