Chapter Text
There were many perks to being a High Lord.
Paperwork was not one of them. Stacks of parchment lined his desk, varying in height and importance and completion. Requests from Palace governors, military reports from Cassian, household payroll, alterations to the High Schedule, requests and approvals for budget spending…. Not to mention the half-completed answers to each waiting for his seal.
It was a different kind of battle, Rhys mused, that a field with weapons and soldiers. But a battle it was, nonetheless, with his patience.
There was a light scraping sound, and then a soft, flurried swish, followed by a muttered “Shit”.
His violet gaze raised toward his mate, who was curled up in an oversized armchair. The handful of charity approvals she’d been working on lay scattered on the floor. With a flick of his fingers, Rhys’ magic lifted the papers back to rest on the curved armrest. “It would probably be easier to use your desk, you know.” he teased.
The appreciative look his High Lady had given him curdled into a frown of disapproval. “When you start breastfeeding your son, we’ll see what you find comfortable.” she retorted.
Rhys couldn’t restrain the glowing smile from his face as his eyes sank to his son, who was curled up contently on his mother’s chest after his lunch. Feyre’s hand absently patted the boy’s bottom as his milk-drunk eyes hovered in stubborn refusal to sleep, wings draped languidly in sheer exhaustion. “Should have known he’d be a trouble-maker,” Feyre continued, her eyes softening as she kissed the top of his small dark-haired head. “He takes after his father.”
Rhys gave a light snort. “It’s not his fault that’s such a comfortable spot to sleep. I’ve spent quite a bit of time there myself. He’s lucky I’m willing to share.”
A heated blush crept up his mate’s slender neck. “Stop it.”
He loved that she still blushed for him. Even after all their time together, after all of the wicked things they did to each other’s bodies, there was still a shy wonder in their connection. Still a nameless, ancient fusion that kept the excitement and comfort in equal balance.
As if to illustrate his mother’s point, Nyx suddenly frowned and began to squirm in irritation. A pinched whine promised the beginning of full-blown crying.
“Oh no, you don’t.” Feyre stood from her chair, bouncing slightly as she began to pace the carpeted office. “Go to sleep.”
Rhys watched her steps, in his oversized sweater and casual leggings, as her honey-colored braid trailed after her steps like an obedient pet. Murmuring soft words to his son. Wearing his mother’s ring and helping him as his High Lady.
The arrogant male in him preened itself.
Feyre’s steps paused as she noticed his stare. “What?”
Rhys swam in her blue-grey eyes for a moment, earning a tentative smile. “Nothing.”
He felt the stroke of her mind against his own, as sure as a pet to the cheek. I love you too.
The moment was broken as Azriel strode through the open doors to the study, a fresh stack of parchments in hand. “Good morning.” he offered coolly, pausing only momentarily to lightly tap Nyx’s nose as he passed. The boy grinned softly but didn’t stir.
The Ilyrian spymaster approached the desk, pausing only to make room for the stack of paper he carried to add to the stock. “Reports from my spies.” he clarified unnecessarily. A smaller, ribbon-wrapped package of letters bounced on the top. This he handed directly to Rhys. “And today’s correspondence.”
“Just when I thought I was making progress.” Rhys sighed, pulling on the ribbon and opening the top letter. As his violet eyes scanned it, though, he went wholly still. Assessing, calculating, analyzing…
It did not escape Azriel’s attention. “What is it?”
Feyre paused in her pacing, scanning her mate’s face with concern.
“Beron.” Rhys replied, re-reading the letter again from the top. “He is writing to inquire about Nyx’s Bestowal.”
Azriel snorted. “He would.”
Feyre’s nose crumpled in confusion. Rhys wished she were closer so he could nip at it with his teeth. She was so damned cute when she did that. “What’s a Bestowal?”
“An old High Fae custom.” Rhys replied smoothly, handing the letter to her to read. “Usually amongst the rich and noble classes, especially amongst Court royalty. Since it usually takes a long while, in some cases a great effort, for Fae children to be conceived, it became customary to celebrate the birth of the high-born. Usually it means a traveling visit to the other courts, or sometimes hosting other courts’ visits, but it’s to present the new babe for acknowledgement by the other Courts.”
Azriel added, “Or, in more modern examples, the High Lords will send congratulatory gifts in lieu of a visit.”
“Like Helion did.” Feyre’s gaze drifted briefly to the golden book on her desk, filled with children’s stories. No doubt a priceless edition from one of the thousand libraries of the Day Court.
“The Night Court has not participated in centuries.” Azriel added.
“There hasn’t been a Court birth in centuries.” Rhys corrected. “I suppose the last one would have been Lucien, anyway, but we both know Beron didn’t deign to celebrate him with a Bestowal.”
“So Beron wants to visit Velaris?” Feyre mused.
“Not happening.” Rhys interjected.
“Or he wants us to visit him.” Feyre added, quoting the letter. “To ‘experience the revelry of Samhain, their most celebrated holiday. And to solidify this new world, and these alliances, you pledged to build.’”
“Also not happening.” Rhys replied coldly.
Azriel shifted his assessing stare to his High Lord. “I don’t like either option, either, but… refusing his offer entirely may not be the wisest choice.”
“Why?” Feyre asked, handing the letter back to her mate, who not only took it but hooked her fingers with his own as he re-read it.
“It can be seen as an insult to the Court. A public rejection of good will, and even has been known to lead to outright animosity.” After a moment, Az added softly, “And some Lords have even used it as an excuse to retaliate.”
“Beron can throw a fit all he likes.” Rhys’ tone was still dismissive. “If he truly just wishes to be civil, he can send a gift.”
Feyre’s fingers gave his a light squeeze. We can talk it out. Samhain isn’t for a couple months… but there’s more to consider than first impressions, Rhys.
My first impression is to slaughter him on sight. Rhys chuckled back at her with a wicked grin. I’d say I’ve already re-considered rather well. But if it pleases you, we can discuss it later.
He pressed her fingers to his lips, his eyes catching his son’s tiny face. “Looks like he finally fell asleep.”
“That’s my cue to take him upstairs.” Feyre pulled her hand back and began walking toward the door. “How can such a tiny thing always feel so heavy?”
As she left the room, Rhys tossed the letter onto the desk with a sigh.
“Reach out to your contacts at the Autumn Court.” he told Azriel, tilting his head back and closing his eyes against the ceiling in thought. “I don’t trust Beron. At all. But something tells me this isn’t over. And I want as much information as possible before making a decision. If there’s traps being set at the Autumn Court, I want to see every single one of them.”
“Already working on it.” Az replied smoothly, hoping to allay some of his Lord’s fears. “But it might behoove us to call Lucien, too, as Emissary, if we decide to go.”
Rhys cocked an eyebrow at that, lifting his head again to meet his spymaster’s gaze. “You don’t think that’d be adding fuel to the fire?”
“Lucien knows the terrain of the Autumn Court and Hold better than any of my spies could possibly learn.” Azriel countered. “And as much as he has not yet earned a place amongst the Inner Circle, I wholly believe that his affection for Feyre and Nyx are real. He would defend them to his last breath, even if it means confronting his family. Maybe even because of it.”
For a moment, neither male said anything, silently weighing the options before them.
Finally, Az broke the silence. “Dinner tonight?”
Rhys’ tone was notably lighter, even if it was a bit forced. “Yes. Usual time.”
With a soft snap, Az was gone in a winnowed blink.
~~~~~~~~
The family dinner was its usual, chaotic affair.
“Where’s my baby boy?” Mor entered loudly, immediately approaching Feyre with outstretched arms. “Come see your favorite Auntie, handsome!”
Nesta snorted in disapproval from her place near the hearth, perched on Cassian’s knee. “Apparently the term ‘aunt’ means something different for Fae than for the rest of civilized society.”
“Aunt, cousin, best friend ever, makes no difference.” Mor said dismissively as she nuzzled Nyx’s cheeks with her own, bouncing him lightly. “As long as I’m your favorite, right, my handsome man?”
Nyx’s smile was the unbridled grin of a newborn.
“Probably just gas.” Nesta retorted coolly. Cassian choked on his wine.
Mor shot her a dirty look but continued to speak to the baby instead. “Don’t listen to cranky old Auntie Nesta, lovebug. She’s just fussy cause she’s familiar with the feeling.”
This time, it was Amren who chuckled, tilting her head in amusement. “To be fair, the whole… bathroom thing…. Is horribly inconvenient.”
“We’ve had this discussion before,” Mor rolled her eyes.
Amren shrugged. “I know. But it hasn't improved.”
“When are we eating?” Cassian all but whined from his seat, hand idling lazy circles on Nesta’s back. “The little princeling isn’t the only growing boy around here. I’m starving! Haven’t eaten since last night.”
“Did the stocks at the House of Wind run out?” Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “It’s yours for all of a few months, and you’ve mismanaged the funds already?”
“Food.” Nesta corrected starkly, her following words aimed purely to disarm. “He hasn’t eaten food since last night.”
Now it was Azriel’s turn to choke on his wine, sending him into such a coughing fit that Rhys had to pound between his wings for good measure.
“Gross.” Mor’s lip curled. “Stop it, you two, before your scents turn us all off from-”
“Dinner’s ready!” Elain announced with a smile, entering the dining room through the tall rear doors. Recently, she’d quite taken to helping prepare the family meals. It gave her a little of the same joy she found in the garden; chattering with the staff, learning how to prepare what she took the time to grow. With a snap of her fingers, the table bloomed with loaded platters and bowls.
The group gravitated toward the chairs nearest to them, ready to sample Elain’s newest dishes.
“Want me to take him?” Feyre offered to Mor, who responded by curling away slightly.
“No! I can eat and cuddle at the same time.” Mor shoved a forked piece of beef into her mouth. “See? Oh, gods, Elain, that is… that is divine.”
Elain blushed. “It’s a new spice blend. I visited the Palace of Bone and Salt this afternoon.”
“Cassian,” Amren drawled pointedly. “Can you even taste it at that speed?”
The winged general looked up from his plate at the sound of his name, cheeks full and seemingly oblivious. “What?”
The banter, the jokes, the howling laughter continued all through dinner. Nyx was passed around the table, too, enjoying time spent with each member of this motley bunch. Wine flowed. Dishes clanked.
Rhys watched it all and by the time dessert was finished (a lovely custard with salted chocolate and oranges), his head was resting sideways on his curled knuckles. They’d almost lost this. So many times, they’d almost lost all of this. There were so many close calls, so many hard moments that almost cost everything. A part of him was still terrified that he’d wake up to find all of this a fever dream, and it would evaporate just as quickly.
A thought for a thought? Feyre’s mental voice was delicate. Soft.
His eyes turned to her to meet her searching gaze. You’re beautiful.
That’s not what I meant.
It’s true, though. And I am thinking it. Rhys smiled gently, gripping her knee under the table and stroking it with his thumb. But so is all of this. We are so lucky… and I don’t want to lose it.
The ghost of a frown floated across Feyre’s lips. It made them a little poutier, and they challenged him to crawl across the table and ravage them. We won’t lose it, Rhys. We’re not in danger of losing it. We’re okay. Look at everything we’ve endured and yet… we’re okay.
Your turn. He reminded her, partially as a way to change the subject.
His mate hesitated, clearly trying to decide if she wanted to push the issue. But at last she shrugged nonchalantly, a playful spark in her eyes. I was going to tell you that I’m thinking about climbing into your lap right here, at this table, and giving you a proper dessert to end the meal- His eyes sparkled in flared interest. -but now I’m thinking I’m going to make you wait until later. You know, since you’re so wrapped up in the moment and all.
Rhys shifted in his seat to hide the tightening of his pants. Cruel thing.
Feyre startled slightly, the only indication she’d felt one of his shadows slide briefly between her legs in a teasing caress. Cruel recognizes cruel, She retorted, that graceful blush rearing under her collar again.
Rhys only winked at her.
Eventually, the hour came when the dishes were cleared, the wine was stoppered, and a mewling Nyx was handed back to his mother for feeding. The last to leave was Elain, who lingered only to give the baby a gentle kiss to the forehead, before heading up the stairs towards her chambers.
~~~~~~~
It took Feyre half an hour to feed and prepare her son for bed, and she left him in his nursery for the night with a smiling Nuala, who looked more than pleased to be in charge of the little prince tonight.
“Sweetest dreams, my tiny love.” Feyre brushed a kiss to the baby’s feathery hair before retreating.
It still struck her, sometimes, the difference in aging between Fae and Humans. If Nyx was human, he’d be holding his own head, rolling, attempting coos and laughter, at 4 months old. But the immortal lifespan of the Fae seemed to also apply to the growth rate of their young… longer pregnancies, and longer childhoods. He was still, visually and developmentally, closer to a one-month old human babe.
Not that Feyre minded. Both Madja and Rhys had assured her this was perfectly normal for Fae babies; it just meant more time to enjoy before they grew out of their need for mothers’ care.
She entered her bed chamber, eyes immediately drifting to the white silk drapes dancing in the breeze. She could sense her mate standing out on the balcony, but wasn’t going anywhere without wiping the dried breastmilk off of herself first.
A quick sponge bath later, after she’d changed into a smoky gray nightgown and robe, she joined her mate on the balcony.
He was watching the view of the Rainbow from here, in all of its twinkling glory; resting his weight against his palms on the stone railing before him. His hair was tousled by the kiss of the breeze; every muscle of his back highlighted by the dim glow of the moonlight. His wings were free, finally, after the weight of the day… arched lazily around him.
Feyre’s breath caught. Whatever she did to deserve this male as her mate, she didn’t know. But she would do it again, blindly, infinitely… as long as he was at the end of it. As long as she could come home to him.
His head turned slightly toward her over the curve of his shoulder as she approached. She ghosted her fingers across the back of his hips as she passed, because it was just a sin not to. “Nyx down already?” his voice was low and content.
“Yep, in record time.” Feyre hopped up to sit on the balcony next to her mate’s hand, facing toward the house instead of the city. “He always sleeps better after a family dinner.”
“You’re telling me we have to invite those clowns around more often?” his smile in the moonlight was bewitching.
“Maybe we can just keep it in mind.” Feyre replied, returning his smile with her own. “You know… in case of emergencies.”
A few moments of silence passed as they soaked up the peace of the silence and the stars. Finally, Feyre asked softly, “Are you ready to talk about it?”
His violet gaze pivoted to lock into hers. The resigned anger there, tinged with desperate longing, caught her off guard as he replied, “We really can’t just refuse, can we?”
Her expression softened. “No. Not if we want to actually make progress. Beron is horrible, but he’s still a High Lord. And we promised to strengthen and repair relations with the other courts. This is what that looks like.”
The inhale through his nose was sharp, and it made his eyes flare like an amethyst candle. “His sons tried to kill you on the ice. They left Mor to die, bleeding and broken. He nearly sided with Hybern… The whole family is hateful, twisted, elitist fucks. How am I supposed to let that go?”
Feyre leaned in close enough to press a kiss to his shoulder. “Because he also gave you back to me.” she whispered. “And me to you. He could easily have walked away after the Hyburn war, left you in the dirt out of pure spite.” her eyes filled with tears. “But he didn’t, for whatever Cauldron-known reason. Even after he was so pissed I’d taken some of his power, he stayed. And he brought you back to me.”
It was something she hated talking about, and he knew it. The silver lining was already dancing in her blue-gray eyes. So he simply leaned in until his forehead was resting against hers. I’ll always come back to you, he whispered to her mind.
“Beron is disgusting.” Feyre went on, after another kiss to his shoulder. “And I don’t want Nyx around him any more than you do. But it’s only a few days and he’s nowhere safer than with us. We will take every precaution. It’s going to take time, but the trust we’ve started to build after Hybern… it’s important, Rhys. So, so important.”
The corners of his eyes creased as his hand left the railing to cradle the side of her face. “When did you become so wise, Feyre, Darling?”
She smirked playfully as her hand covered his own. “I think it started when someone taught me how to read.”
He chuckled at that, so sincerely relaxed that it made Feyre’s lungs squeeze.
“Very well, Mate.” he exhaled in defeat. “You have bested me yet again. But for some reason, I’m not greatly irritated.”
“You’re not?”
“Oh no.” His arm left her face, then curled effortlessly around her hips to lift and slide her bottom across the railing until she was entirely in front of him. “Because someone, I recall, offered me a ‘proper dessert’.”
Her arms rested across his shoulders, fingers lightly running through the hair at the base of his neck. “Still hungry, High Lord?” she murmured, even as she licked her own lips.
The groan under his next words was almost inaudible. “For you? Always.”
And then his lips were on hers, kissing her with a heavy intensity that made her toes curl. He kissed her like she held every answer to his every question, like she was the reason the sun rose in the morning. He kissed her like his very life depended on it.
Maybe it did.
She met him in his passion, her back naturally arching in effort to be close to him. She swallowed his doubts, his fears, his anger…leaving behind only her own safety on his tongue.
His hands, which had been digging into her hips with each growing second, parted ways. One of them gripped the side of her face, his fingers tangling in her hair, and pulled backwards until she was staring at the stars. “Feyre, Feyre, Feyre…” he whispered reverently against the skin of her throat, making her eyes roll back in her head. “My.” kiss. “Beautiful.” kiss. “Feyre.”
When his tongue flicked the hollow of her collarbone, her fingers released the clutching grip of his head and instead drifted to the spread of his leathery wings. Softly they danced along the clawed tip, glided under the curves of bone, dragged their shivering echoes down to where they connected to his powerful shoulders.
The sound he made against her was somewhere between a choked inhale and a rough growl, and Feyre felt it vibrate within every fiber of her being.
In a puff of winnowed ash and stars, she found herself back-down on their bed, his great form kneeling between her legs. His mouth returned to hers, hungry and claiming, as though he could drink her very self into his own.
Their tongues danced that well-rehearsed, yet somehow still wildly new dance, as his hands gently lifted hers and pinned them, wrist over wrist, above her head. His hooded gaze held hers, burning in its intensity, as he nipped at her nose, her jaw, her collarbone, before finding her heaving breast.
His mouth closed lightly over a nipple, soaking the thin fabric of her nightgown. His tongue could feel how pebbled and perked they already were, begging his attention, and the moan that escaped her as he obliged was all the permission he needed. He turned his care to the other breast, repeating the gown-soaking licks until Feyre whimpered under him.
“Please, Rhys…” the words were breathless. Almost a whisper. “I need you to touch me.”
He’d meant to come back with some witty reply, but all that left him was a guttural rumble from his chest. Keeping her hands pinned, he used his other to pull the neckline of the nightgown down until her breasts were fully freed, and the rolling of his calloused fingers over her sensitive mounds was driving Feyre to writhe beneath him.
He hissed when her hips ground against the strain in his pants, which he couldn’t help but return. “Greedy…” he whispered teasingly.
The pressure of him grinding against her made her gasp sharply; she could already feel how it soaked the space between her legs. She was mewling softly, trying to guide his touch with nothing but her body language, because words were beyond her now.
His free hand finally, finally abandoned her breast, and instead traveled down her body, tracing shivering trails of goosebumps across her stomach, hips, thighs… and they were followed by his mouth, hot and insistent, as he captured sections of her skin with his teeth and tongue.
When those tortuous fingers reached the fabric of her panties, her breath was ripping from her in shallow pants.
“Rhys, let me go…” somehow the plea broke through in between heaves. She pulled at her hands, which only tightened his grip. “Please let me go.”
Her only answer was a wicked grin, before his fingers pulled the soaked fabric of her underwear aside, sliding once against her slick entrance before entering her entirely.
“No,” he murmured back, reveling in the way her eyebrows furrowed in ecstasy. “Not yet.”
He began to pump slowly, rhythmically, studying her face like it was the last thing he’d see in this life. When he added a second finger and simultaneously began rolling her clit under his thumb, the sound she made nearly undid him right there.
“That’s it, Darling,” he praised, increasing his speed with a slight curl of his fingers. “That’s it.”
She was riding his hand now, desperate for the extra depth and expanded touch. Without pausing the motion of his arm, he brought himself back up to kiss her mouth again, echoing his thrusting with the movement of his tongue.
Tension coiled in Feyre’s spine, threatening to snap it in two. Her skin was dancing with electricity, and all she could focus on was the feel of his fingers in her warmth. There was nothing else, no one else, and she was going to chase that tightness he was giving her until the end of time.
Right when she was at the edge, ready to fall helplessly into that ocean of bliss, he stopped. Feyre couldn’t stop her cry of protest.
No! She panted at him, eyes flashing in anger. No, don’t you fucking dare-
And then his hand moved again. That thumb was so fast across her nerve bundle it was unnatural, like it was the thrum of a cello string. Those fingers bounced against her inner spot so fast it made her vision vibrate. Her back arched and twisted sideways, her knees clamped around his hips, and her inner walls squeezed around his fingers so rhythmically he could have written music to it. She was shaking with her release, her breath nothing more than a ragged storm of air that he eagerly swallowed, trying desperately to steady herself as he stroked her through the lasting throes of orgasm.
“Rhys,” she finally sighed against his lips, surprised not to find that satisfied male smirk, but instead an expression of pure awe. Like watching her come was the most artful thing he’d seen in his 500 years. But her shaking voice soon found its authority, commanding him roughly in a gravely whisper, “Let. Go.”
This time, he obliged, and as he did so, their remaining clothing disappeared.
She wasted no time in devouring him, her hands flying over his skin so frantically it felt like she had two more. Where her hands didn’t reach, her mouth did, leaving sucking marks and love bites in her wake. Her hand finally found his throbbing length, pumping that velvet skin steadily and watching his face twist with the wrestle for control. Her thumb pushed across the head of him, earning a deep moan, and she used the distraction to bite the curve of his jaw with perhaps a little too much force. The shudder that went through him was primal.
I need you, Feyre. Now.
Without waiting for her reply, he lined himself up with her entrance, and she couldn’t protest if she wanted to. It wasn’t a choice; it was a need. A clawing, demanding need to be inside of her, as essential as breathing.
So he buried himself in her. Claimed her. Grabbed either side of her ass and hauled her to him as though he could melt right into her.
The grateful moan she gave him was the most stunning sound he’d ever heard her make. Like a gift from the very Heavens, like she’d been waiting for this connection for her whole life. He was fully seated to the hilt when he began to move inside her, and her breath immediately became short and panicked again.
Fuck, he answered, unable to trust his own voice. Just… fuuuck.
She caught his face between her palms, pulling him down to rest his forehead to hers. He was rocking harder now, more wild in his movements, but she matched his rhythm and speed like they’d be separated if she didn’t.
He’d never tire of her slick heat, not ever in a million years. This, she, them, was everything. Everything.
“Rhys,” her plea was high, breathless, with desperate need. “Please. I need…I need..”
He pushed up her knee, hooking it over his arm as he braced himself on his forearm. It allowed him to reach that much deeper inside her, and she could do nothing again but whimper, “Please, please, please, please…”
She bounced against him harder with each uttered prayer. His own release gathered behind his spine and through his cock like a clawing beast, braying to be freed, but still he pulled on that leash.
“What do you need?” he whispered, searching her eyes.
“You….” she was frantic. Panicked. “Rhys. I need you, Rhys.”
“I’m here.” he answered shakily, a deep grunt rolling between his words. “You have me.”
She took a deep breath then, eyes wide, and sent him only two more words: You’re mine.
His rolling howl poured through her being as surely as his release spilled into her body; her breath caught in her throat with her own shattering pleasure. There was no screaming, no moaning, no mindless mewling. Not this time. Instead, only the lightest and shortest of squeaks left her, as her legs trembled around him and she forgot how to breathe. Her hands smacked and pushed helplessly against his chest, powerless against the tidal wave of pleasure that threatened to swallow her whole, defenseless to do anything except stare into the eyes of the very center of her world: her mate. Her mate. And he cradled her through all of it, his shadows swirling and licking the rays of starshine that radiated off her skin like the sun off of the Sidra.
As their breath evened, as two pounding heartbeats slowed to a synchronized pace, Feyre stroked her thumbs against the sharp planes of his cheeks. “I love you.” she told him. Even though she knew he knew. And even though he didn’t, because that word wasn’t strong enough.
He kissed her again. “And I…” his words were breathless, spent. “...love dessert.”