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⋆⭒˚.
It was past midnight by the time Feyre collapsed into bed, exhausted after several nights of broken sleep and working flat-out in the studio. She still lingered at the edges of unconsciousness when she heard Rhys return, felt his night-kissed power radiate through the house. He had been in the Illyrian mountains for a week, helping Cassian to wrangle control of some of the unrulier camps.
Trying to keep herself awake long enough to greet her mate, Feyre hummed contentedly when she felt Rhys pull back the covers and slide into bed behind her a few minutes later. The invisible thread between them pulled taut and then relaxed as he deftly banded his arms around her and kissed the back of her head.
Feyre let out a small, sleepy laugh as his hands immediately found their usual resting places—one at her waist, his fingers just brushing the underside of her breast, and the other pushed under the hem of her little silk camisole and splayed over her abdomen.
“You’re back.” The words came out a little garbled. She settled her arms over his, snuggling into his warmth.
“I’m here,” he whispered, nuzzling his face into her neck. “Sorry it’s late. Go back to sleep, my love.”
Too tired to explain that she hadn’t actually been asleep properly yet, Feyre finally allowed her mind to drift off, feeling more settled than she had all week without him here; she never had been good at sleeping alone.
Despite his encouragement for her to sleep, Rhys continued to fuss at her, pressing his nose into her skin and inhaling deeply. Slow kisses were pressed down her neck, each one illiciting a shiver and holding her at the edge of sleep.
His lips traveled down to the juncture of her shoulder, where he inhaled again and released a low groan. Almost on instinct, his body curled around hers more tightly, and she felt the hard length of him against her backside.
“I can’t sleep if you keep doing that.” Despite her drowsiness, Feyre moaned softly as he nipped at the sensitive spot below her ear.
Rhys laughed—that sensuous, sinful laugh that had always affected her in the most primitive of ways—and kissed her shoulder blade. Once. Twice.
“You smell good.” He inhaled again, his nose pressed into her neck as his hips rocked against her backside.
“Thank you.” It came out like a question, humour lacing her tone. “I take it you missed me?”
Rhys tangled his legs with Feyre’s. “Am I supposed to deny it?” Strong fingers flexed over her stomach. “I always miss you.” An open-mouthed kiss to the nape of her neck. “And while there are lots of things we can do remotely, mind-to-mind—” he licked the shell of her ear at this, and her breath hitched, heat coursing through her at the memory of the filth they were known to project into each other’s minds when apart, “—I always miss your scent.”
Rhys inhaled again—a deep inhale that lifted his torso against her back. “And your scent is particularly mouthwatering tonight.”
“You sound like you’re going to eat me.” Feyre turned in his embrace as much as his arms would allow.
“Always happy to oblige, Feyre darling.” Rhys leaned in and tilted his mouth over hers, coaxing her lips open with his own. He drew her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down ever so slightly. Feyre moaned, her hips bucking automatically at the sensation. She felt him smile against her mouth.
Feyre twisted enough to be able to bring one of her hands up to cradle the back of his neck, deepening their kiss as the sleepiness she’d felt earlier was replaced with consuming need. She granted entrance to his tongue into her mouth, moaning at the sensation.
“Shall I let you sleep, then, my mate?” Rhys mumbled against her lips, pulling away enough to allow her to properly turn over onto her back, even as his fingers began to trace the hem of her pants.
Feyre growled in response, her nails scratching lightly down the back of his neck and over his tattooed shoulders. “You’ll finish what you’ve started, Mate.” Her teeth snapped on the last syllable, earning an amused smirk from Rhys.
“I am at your service,” he vowed.
Rhys gave her one last slow, searing kiss before yanking down the straps of her top and moving to claim one of her nipples with his mouth. Feyre arched into him, mewling as her head fell back onto the pillow.
I’ve missed these, too, he all but growled into her mind, apparently unwilling to remove his mouth from her breasts to speak the words aloud, as if in anger that he ever had to be parted from them.
The fingers of his other hand came up to tease her other breast, circling first the full swell, then her nipple at a torturously slow pace.
Feyre huffed needily, trying to arch into his touch, her hands fisting into his hair as he continued to suckle at her flesh, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud.
“So impatient,” Rhys admonished, releasing her nipple with a wet pop and pinning her down with his violet stare. Feyre whimpered at the loss of sensation, unable to keep the pout from her face as she looked up at him. “I should make you wait, but…” He trailed off, lowering his head once more and skimmed his nose across her cleavage, breathing in her scent.
A somewhat desperate groan rumbled from Rhys’s chest before he reclaimed her nipple once more, tweaking the other harshly between his fingers. Feyre hissed at the sudden stimulation, a cry issuing from her lips.
Rhys reacquainted himself with her breasts until Feyre was little more than a trembling wreck, desperate for his attention to turn to the overwhelming ache between her thighs.
“Please,” she found herself whimpering when he finally unlatched his mouth from her peaked nipple.
“Please what?” Rhys kissed his way down her torso, down over her belly, down over the hem of her underwear. He pressed a torturously light kiss at the apex of her thighs, over the material, before resting his chin against her thigh and blinking up at her innocently. “What do you want, Feyre?”
“Finish what you started,” she all but breathed out, pupils blown wide as she met his star-filled gaze.
Holding his weight over her on one muscled forearm, Rhys trailed a long finger round and round her belly button, widening the circle each time. Feyre bucked her hips upwards, chasing the friction she craved.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather sleep?”
“Fuck you.” She’d meant to sound irritated but even she could hear the neediness in her voice. How dare he have pulled her from the clutches of sleep up only to tease her this way?
“Such a filthy mouth for a High Lady,” Rhys admonished, a wicked smile on his lips as he finally trailed his finger down to her centre, pointedly avoiding that one spot she wanted him to touch the most. Pushing the material of her underwear to the side, he glided fingers over her centre and growled roughly as he felt the wetness already there. “Is this all for me?” Rhys’s eyes were dark as midnight as he looked up at her.
Feyre nodded, a strangled sigh ripping from her throat as he circled her clit torturously slowly. “Please,” she whispered.
“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you, Feyre.”
“You.” A gasp as Rhys slid his fingers along her slick entrance and back up to her clit, circling slowly until finally applying a whisper of pressure against the swollen bud.
“You have me already.”
Feyre’s eyes rolled back, practically whining in relief and desperation as he rubbed his knuckles lightly against her clit, providing only enough stimulation to make her crave more of it. She felt overcome with need—delerious.
“You,” she repeated, stronger this time. Feyre reached a hand down, tangling her tattooed fingers through his hair, urging him closer to her centre. “I want you on me, inside me, all over me.”
Rhys didn’t need to be told twice, his violet eyes flashing with unrestrained delight. In a movement that was so swift she couldn’t actually see what happened, her underwear was ripped away and replaced by his merciless mouth—licking, sucking and nipping at her centre until she was writhing underneath him, his hand at her stomach holding her down as her orgasm ripped through her.
“Rhys,” she choked out, watching with hooded eyes as he ran his nose along the inside of her thigh, inhaling deeply. She would have felt a pang of embarrassment at the intimacy—the indecency of it—had she not seen the lust in his eyes, heard the pleasurable groan he emitted.
“Gods, I will never get enough of you.” Rhys crawled slowly back up over her, his chest heaving and his wings a formidable shadow above him.
Feyre worked a hand between them, tracing the solid lines of his muscled stomach and ghosting her fingers over his hard length. He twitched in response, his skin hot against hers. With her other hand, she reached out and trailed a fingernail ever so gently down the edge of his wing, watching with satisfaction as he shuddered under her touch.
“I want you inside me. Now.” A hiss slipped from between Rhys’s clenched teeth as Feyre gripped his cock more firmly, brushing the pad of her thumb over the sensitive underside. “Please,” she added, a knot of needy pleasure building anew in her core.
Rhys’s restraint fractured as she dragged her fingernail back up the underside of his wing, gliding over the spot she knew would be his undoing. With a guttural sound, Rhys moved himself fully over her, the head of his cock sliding over her centre. He rutted against her, coating himself in the wetness that had gathered between her thighs, so much of it that she could hear him moving against her. The sound only made her more aroused, melting in the heat that he stoked within her. Feyre moaned with need as he slid against her clit, a jagged oh escaping her lips as she bucked her hips up to his just as he slid forward, just enough to allow him to notch the tip of his cock inside her.
“Fu-uck.” Rhys breathed, just as Feyre panted a yes, arching into him, hooking her legs around his back, seeking the fullness she wasn’t sure she would ever get used to. Reaching upwards, Feyre cupped his face, tracing a finger across his lips before pushing it into his mouth. Rhys moaned in response, twirling his tongue around the digit, his own fingers digging into her hips as he thrust forward a little more, then more, then more, then more, until he was fully sheathed inside of her.
You feel so good, Feyre. Stars swirled in his eyes as he crooned into her mind, pulling out torturously slowly before spearing himself back inside. So fucking good.
“Mmph,” was all she could reply with, rendered incoherent as Rhys thrust in and out again and again, one of his hands gripping one of her breasts roughly, his dark, hooded gaze watching the other bounce along with his thrusts. Feyre carded her fingers through his ink black hair, sending every sensation she was feeling straight down the bond in replacement of the words that were failing her.
“I missed you,” he ground out, his forehead falling onto hers as his pace quicked. Feyre could feel her release coiling tighter and tighter in her stomach, her thighs beginning to tremble where they cradled Rhys’ hips. She tilted her head upwards, capturing his lips with hers with a sloppy, indecent kiss—all teeth clashing and tongues dancing.
“I missed you, too,” she breathed into his mouth, whimpering as he released her breast only to bring his hand to where they were joined and worry her clit. In response, Feyre jerked her hips upwards, meeting his thrusts with her own as she chased her high. A strangled, keening sound broke in her throat as Rhys rutted into her, trailing feverish kisses over her jaw, down her neck.
“Come for me again, Feyre.” He sucked at her skin just below her ear, groaning as he felt her teeter on the edge of release, her walls fluttering around him. “Let go.”
Feyre canted her hips, torn between wanting to prolong the anticipation and submitting to the building euphoria. Her fingers gripped Rhys’ broad shoulders, dragging across the whorls tattooed over the golden brown skin.
“R-rhys,” she choked out, feeling just about ready to burst into flames from the pressure in her core. Her nails scratched over his shoulders as he continued to pound into her. Rhys rubbed his thumb against her clit just as his teeth clamped over the skin at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “O-oh gods, I-I….”
That's it, good girl. The praise was enough to send Feyre tumbling over the edge, pleasure ricocheting through her and light radiating from her skin. Rhys tangled his long fingers through hers with his free hand, smothering her cries by slanting his mouth over hers, riding out the waves her orgasm with slow and indulgent thrusts that began to ignite a fresh build-up of pleasure.
Before Feyre could get too wrapped up in the sensation, Rhys abruptly pulled out of her, eliciting a whimper from her that she couldn't quite bring herself to be embarrassed about. Rhys ignored her pout, flipping her effortlessly onto her front and yanking her hips upwards.
“A-oh!” Feyre all but squeaked as Rhys reseated himself to the hilt in one sharp snap of his hips. “Rhys—” The new angle punched all the air out of her lungs, her fingers fisting into the sheets.
Rhys reached his arm around Feyre’s front, his fingers teasing her nipples, still oversensitive from his earlier ministrations. She hissed through her teeth, lifting her ass up into his thrusts. Rhys grunted in appreciation, his other hand wrapping around her hair and pulling just hard enough to straddle the line between pain and tingly pleasure. He pulled again, this time using his other hand to guide her torso upward until she was flush against him, supporting her as she rebalanced, his large palm splayed across her stomach.
“F-fuck.” Feyre's eyes rolled, panting as she adjusted to the new position, his cock hitting the most delicious spot against her inner walls. Her hands gripped his forearm, desperate for something to hold on to as blinding hot pleasure coiled tighter and faster within her.
“Does that feel good, Feyre darling?” Rhys nipped at her neck, his nose buried under the braid of hair he still had hold of.
“Mm hm,” Feyre replied, almost sobbing at the overwhelming sensations, her head thrown back against his shoulder.
“Your scent is driving me fucking wild.” Rhys’ voice was barely more than a growl, letting go of her hair to wrap his fingers around her throat and licking a line up the back of her neck. Feyre shivered, turning her face into him, his name a repeated prayer on her lips. “Are you going to come again for me?”
“Ye-yes, yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, urged on by the telltale feel of Rhys’ thrusts becoming more erratic. She reached down the bond again, channeling what she was feeling into Rhys’ mind, his shields down for her. He reciprocated, and their combined ecstasy pushed both of them over the edge, Feyre coming with a cry as Rhys spilled himself deep into her, his hips fused to hers as his cock twitched over and over.
After several blissful, breathless seconds, Rhys slowly lowered them to the bed, curling himself around Feyre, still buried inside of her. She keened at the sensation, overstimulated and boneless.
“Mmm.” Rhys nuzzled his face into Feyre’s neck, inhaling deeply again. “Delicious.”
Feyre laughed breathlessly, the noise turning to a moan as the movement shifted her against his still half hard cock.
“I love you,” she whispered, arching her neck into his touch. “And if this is the attention I get when you go away, then maybe I don't hate it so much after all.”
Rhys’s laugh was a gravelly, sated thing that skittered along her skin. “I love you, too.” Slowly, Rhys pulled out of her, earning a groan from each of them that he stifled with a lazy kiss. He waved a hand, cleaning them both up with his magic before curling his wing over them both.
Feyre turned to face Rhys, snuggling into his warm chest and relishing having him back in bed with her after several nights apart. Rhys cupped her face with his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb under her eyes.
“I am sorry I woke you. I intended to be back sooner,” he said softly, concern flitting across his violet eyes. “You look tired.”
“I feel tired,” she agreed. There was no point denying it; he already knew she’d woken from strange dreams while he’d been away, sending a soothing night breeze down their bond to calm her racing heart from afar. “I’ve been covering for Ressina while she visits her family, so the studio has been crazy.” Feyre leaned into his touch, a yawn stretching her jaw before she pressed a kiss to his palm. “And, y’know, I've been busy pining after my mate who went away for a week.”
Rhys’s lips twitched up at the sides. “And to think you once threw a shoe at my head at the mere thought of spending one lousy week with me.”
Feyre whacked his arm, burrowing closer into his warmth, sleep already burdening her eyelids. She really was tired, even more so after their activities. “I'm not above throwing more shoes if you continue to disrupt my sleep.”
Rhys’s chest vibrated against her ear as he laughed, the sound lulling her further and further back into slumber. “Then sleep, darling.” Rhys tucked his arms around her, taking in another deep inhale, his lips pressed against her temple.
⋆⭒˚.
Despite having slept better than she had in days, Feyre woke the next morning still feeling an achy tiredness in her body. Rhys was still asleep on his stomach next to her, half of his body lying across hers. One of his arms lay across her chest, fingers curled over her shoulder, while one of his thighs pinned both of her legs down. His wings were stretched languidly across the expanse of the bed, early morning sunlight staining magnificent colours into the membrane.
For a while she merely watched him, admiring his relaxed features and deep, even breathing. Nightmares still occasionally plagued both of them, and no matter how few and far between they were now, neither of them ever took for granted a peaceful night’s sleep.
Unable to resist the temptation any longer, Feyre gently brushed an errant lock of Rhys’s raven hair from his forehead. He stirred slowly, his long, straight nose scrunching slightly and those mesmerising violet eyes blinking open.
Seeing him like this—how no one else got to see the most powerful High Lord ever to exist—sleepy and vulnerable and all the more devastatingly handsome for it would never grow old for Feyre.
She threaded her fingers through his hair, watching in adoration as his wings rustled lightly as he stretched out, the muscles of his back rippling.
“Mmm.” Rhys dragged her closer into his body, hooking his leg between hers and nuzzling his face into the side of her neck where he pressed a kiss. “Good morning.”
“Hi,” Feyre whispered, smiling as she stroked her fingers over the nape of his neck, scratching lightly. Rhys inhaled against her skin, and Feyre could swear he purred, pushing his nose under her jaw.
“Why do you smell so good?” His sleep roughened voice seemed to reverberate along her bones.
Feyre twisted to press a kiss to his temple, inhaling his citrus and sea scent greedily. Gods she’d missed him this last week. “I could ask you the same.”
They remained quiet for a time, Feyre tracing patterns into the skin of his broad shoulders while Rhys twirled the ends of her hair around his long fingers. Feyre’s eyes were just starting to grow heavy again when Rhys began to press a trail of kisses from her jaw, down her neck, over her shoulders and onto her breasts. Her nipples pebbled the closer he drew to them, her back arching slightly in anticipation of his mouth closing over—
“Ouch!” Feyre hissed as Rhys’s teeth nipped at the pink, swollen bud in the same, usually-pleasurable way he’d done endless times before. He drew back, looking up at her in surprise at the genuine flash of pain he’d felt down their bond.
“Too sensitive today?” Rhys lowered his head again, lapping more gently her nipple to undo the small hurt. Feyre whimpered, squirming as pleasure and pain mixed together, the latter winning out.
“Too much,” she admitted, her hands batting lightly at his shoulders and huffing a laugh at the pout Rhys gave her as he withdrew. “You look like I’ve just taken your favourite toy away.”
“You have.” Rhys winked at her before pressing a gentle kiss between her breasts instead, his nose skimming along her skin before he rested his head against her chest. “Are you ok?”
“All good,” Feyre replied, giving his shoulders a squeeze. “Just sensitive after last night, apparently.”
“Is the rest of you too sensitive?” Rhys looked up at her from under his long eyelashes, his hand trailing down her side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Feyre’s lips tugged up into a smile, her breath catching as he circled her hip bone, but before she could answer her stomach growled loudly. Rhys laughed into the side of her breast, his warm fingers splaying over her abdomen. “Seems like there are other needs to be tended as a priority.”
Feyre debated arguing, aware of the heat pooling at her core, but her stomach growled again—paying the price for picking at leftovers after work last night because she was too tired to cook and had waved off Nuala and Cerridwen’s offers of help.
“C’mon,” Rhys said, sitting up and offering his hand to pull her up with him. “Let’s get some food in you.”
Rhys sent Feyre off into their shared bathing chamber, insisting that preparing breakfast was not a two-person job. When she emerged into the River House’s kitchen a short while later, freshly bathed, it was to find Rhys with his back to her at the stove, wings unfurled in a rested state, his black lounge pants slung low on his hips as he plated up eggs and bacon. Her heart squeezed at the simple domesticity of it all—the High Lord of the Night Court, capable of misting armies with a click of his fingers, making breakfast.
Feyre sidled up behind him, humming as she wrapped her arms around his waist, careful to avoid his wings. “This all looks and smells divine. Thank you.”
Rhys turned in her arms, cupping her face in his large hands and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “My pleasure, Feyre darling.” He stared down at her for a moment, his striking eyes searching hers as he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired, still,” Feyre admitted; there was no point lying to him when he could always sense her emotions, even if she knew it would worry him unnecessarily. “And hungry.”
Rhys kissed her nose and wrapped his arms around her, sliding his hands down her spine, over her ass and then hoisting her up, hands gripping her thighs as she squeaked. Feyre locked her legs around his waist, fingers clutching at his biceps as he walked them over to the breakfast bar, where he deposited her onto a stool.
“Eat,” he commanded as he set her down, plates of food appearing on the bar in front of her. Fruit, pastries, cheeses, and the eggs and bacon he’d been frying.
“Yes, High Lord,” she replied in a mockingly serious tone, her lips twitching knowingly as his pupils flared slightly. She snatched a cube of melon and popped it into her mouth, watching him as she chewed.
“Good girl.” Rhys’s deep, silky voice slithered down her spine. Stars twinkled in his dark blue eyes as he noticed her shiver. Two can play at that game, love, he lilted into her mind.
Feyre cleared her throat, pulling her hair over her shoulder as she grabbed another piece of melon, a small bead of juice rolling over her lip. “Are you just going to stand there and watch me eat or are you going to join me?”
Rhys smirked sinfully, leaning into her space, his large hands bracketing her hips as he dipped his face to hers, licking the bead of melon juice from her chin before sucking her bottom lip into his mouth. Feyre moaned softly, pitching forward, her hands coming to rest on his bare chest. He released her lip, skimming his nose along her jaw and breathing in. His hands tightened at her hips, pupils blown wide when he pulled back to look at her.
“Have you used a different soap or something? Some perfume?” He sounded surprisingly off balance.
“What?” Feyre’s brow crinkled, confused by the sudden question. “No. Why?”
Rhys blinked away some of the haziness in his eyes, stealing another kiss from her lips as his hands squeezed the top of her thighs. “Your scent seems…stronger.” Feyre raised an eyebrow at him. “In a good way,” he added, flicking the end of her nose affectionately.
“Or you’ve just spent a week surrounded by sweaty, stinky Illyrian warriors?” Feyre suggested, dragging her fingers down the hard planes of his stomach.
Rhys tilted his head slightly, considering her for a moment longer before seeming to accept whatever he found in her eyes. “Well, you smell wonderful. Good enough to eat.” His white teeth flashed as he grinned at her.
“Maybe later,” Feyre replied playfully, and definitely without squirming in her seat. She definitely didn’t squirm in her seat. Gods, would he ever not have this effect on her?
Another loud grumble from Feyre’s stomach interrupted their moment, earning her laugh from Rhys, who swivelled her stool towards the counter.
“Eat, darling,” he insisted, swiping a piece of crispy bacon from the plate in front of her, his arm brushing her shoulder. “Before I have to worry about you eating me.”
⋆⭒˚.
Feyre yawned as she hopped up onto the kitchen counter by the window later that evening; it seemed that managing to get away from the studio at a much more reasonable hour hadn’t helped her feel any less tired.
She had just taken a rather large bite of a cheese and pickle-filled sandwich—the only thing she'd felt like eating—her legs swinging beneath her as she looked out at the Sidra, when Rhys walked into the kitchen.
“Feyre darling,” he crooned, striding straight to her. He nudged her legs apart so that he could stand between them, his hands sliding along her waist as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Interesting choice for dinner.”
Feyre said nothing, choosing instead to merely hold the sandwich out to Rhys for him to take a bite. She watched him chew, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at seeing how he somehow even managed to make licking pickle juice off his lip attractive.
“You sent Nuala and Cerridwen home again.” It wasn’t a question. His eyes seared into hers as she ate, a mixture of amusement and slight annoyance.
“I’m perfectly capable of making my own sandwiches,” she replied, hooking her legs loosely around his thighs. “They do enough around here.”
Rhys’s eyes softened as he appraised her, thumbs stroking along her sides. “You’re tired.” Again, it wasn’t a question.
“My mate kept me up in the middle of the night,” she chided, squeezing his legs with hers.
“Did he, now?” Rhys took another bite from the offered sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, mischief in his eyes. “How terrible for you.”
Feyre leaned into him, her gaze returning to the river outside as she finished eating. Rhys stroked a hand up and down her back comfortingly, and Feyre felt her eyes grow heavy as she watched the moonlight glisten off the river outside.
“A thought for a thought?” Rhys asked after a cosy silence.
Sandwich demolished, Feyre shuffled herself closer to Rhys, sliding her arms around his waist and slipping her hands under his jumper.
“I’m thinking,” she mused, “that no matter how many times I paint the Rainbow, I can never quite capture the way it makes me feel to see it.”
She felt Rhys smile against her temple, his fingers scratching lightly at her scalp where he’d buried them under her braided hair.
“Good job you have eternity to try, then,” he replied. “But for what’s worth, I think your paintings are always as emotive as they are beautiful.”
“You would say that,” Feyre snarked, but smiled anyway, basking in the praise from her mate. “Thank you, though,” she added, tilting her face up to his and sighing as he captured her lips in a soft kiss.
Rhys nipped at her bottom lip as he pulled away, skimming his nose along her own before kissing down under her jaw. He laved his tongue against the skin of her neck, making her giggle and squirm against the counter.
“Your turn,” Feyre said, barely more than a whisper.
Rhys pressed another kiss into her neck, the dip of her shoulder. He inhaled, the fingers of his hand that had come to rest at her waist tightening.
“I’m thinking that I haven’t been able to get your scent out of my head all day.” Another deep inhale followed his words. “And that it’s even more intoxicating than I remembered it.”
Feyre laughed. “One week back with those Illyrian warriors has really awoken the Alpha male in you, hasn’t it?”
Rhys pulled back to grin at her, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“You have no idea, Feyre darling.” His hands slid to her backside, gripping her cheeks as he hoisted her up from the counter and lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs securely around his waist, her arms winding around his broad shoulders. “I’ll happily show you what one week away from you has awoken in me,” he practically purred, beginning to walk them from the kitchen toward the staircase.
Feyre’s slightly breathless laugh, however, became a yawn, unable to hold it at bay.
“Or perhaps I’ll show you another night,” Rhys said lovingly, kissing the tip of her nose. “You need sleep.”
Part of Feyre—the part that would love nothing more than to be ravished by her mate all night—wanted to argue with him, but he was right; she felt bone-tired in a way she hadn’t for a long time, and they had a big day tomorrow, with several visitors arriving to Velaris from other courts for a meeting.
So she did not protest when he carried her first to their shared bathing chamber where they both quickly washed up and then on to their bedroom, where he gently deposited her onto the sheets.
“I could’ve walked from the bathroom, Rhys,” she grumbled, even as she snuggled into her pillow, her eyes already half closed.
“Humour me,” he replied, kissing the side of her forehead as he settled himself behind her, his warmth immediately lulling her further and further into the sleep she desperately seemed to need. “Good night, love.”
“Mmm,” Feyre hummed, her fingers linking with his where they lay at her stomach. “Good night, most handsome High Lord.”
Rhys’s soft, snickering laugh followed her into unconsciousness.
⋆⭒˚.
The bloody knife clattered from Feyre’s hands as the reality of what she’d done sunk in. She had killed them. Two innocent faeries were dead because of her.
“Well done, Feyre.” Amarantha’s hateful voice cut through her like a knife. “Just one more to go.”
Feyre’s whole body shook violently, sweat pouring from her as Amarantha’s long red-tipped fingers gripped the sack covering the head of the third and final victim.
“I think you’ll enjoy this one, Feyre,” Amarantha sneered, smiling viciously as she pulled the cloth upward to reveal Rhys, bound and gagged like the two other faeries had been.
“No!” Feyre screamed, but her voice sounded far away. “NO! NO!” The louder she tried to shout the less sound seemed to emanate from her mouth.
A heavy weight was pressed into her palm, her fingers curling around it automatically. Another knife, she realised, this one clean and sharp and lethal.
Rhys’s eyes widened. They were such a beautiful colour, she thought through the choas. Deepest sapphire blue, twinkling like the Sidra at twilight.
She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t do it.
Amarantha laughed, that terrible, mirthless, merciless laugh.
“Do it, Feyre.”
Bile rose up her throat, stinging her insides. She clenched the knife harder, and held Rhys’s gaze as she plunged the knife into her own stomach.
“FEYRE!”
Feyre gasped awake, disoriented and covered in sweat. Rhys was above her, two hands on her shoulders, his thumbs stroking against her collarbone as she gulped down air.
“You’re ok, you’re safe, we’re safe, it’s not real,” Rhys chanted, his voice strong and soothing.
It was a dream. A nightmare. Not real.
Amarantha was dead. She wasn’t Under the Mountain. She wasn’t holding a knife.
Feyre’s stomach churned and she felt bile—real as it had felt in her dream—surge up her throat.
Too real.
With a panicked, close-mouthed whimper, Feyre pushed against Rhys and stumbled into the bathroom, only just making it to the toilet before her stomach emptied itself.
Cool fingers brushed against the back of her neck as Rhys swept her hair out of the way, his other hand rubbing up and down her back as she continued to wretch into the basin.
“It’s ok, you’re ok,” he murmured every now and then, his lips pressed into the bare skin of her shoulder. He sent cooling pulses of night-kissed breeze down their bond, his mind curling protectively around hers.
“I’m sorry,” Feyre croaked at last, her hands shaking as she tried to pull herself up a little more once she was relatively confident there was nothing else to eject.
Rhys reached over her and pulled the lever to flush the toilet, dropping a kiss to her forehead as he settled back down.
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Feyre,” he admonished gently, his mouth twitching up into a small supportive smile even as his eyes remained concerned. “You had a nightmare.”
Feyre nodded and leaned into his touch as he brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek.
“You’ve been having lots of nightmares again recently,” Rhys observed, his eyes searching hers as he held her gaze. “Is there anything on your mind? Anything bothering you?”
“No,” Feyre responded truthfully, cupping Rhys’s own face as she looked at him. “Genuinely, I’ve never been happier.” She let out a small, slightly sad laugh, her voice still scratchy. “Maybe that’s why. The balance of nature and whatnot. Something Amren would probably say.”
Rhys continued to watch her, lifting a hand to trace his pointer finger over her eyebrow and down her cheek.
“You’re allowed to be happy, Feyre,” Rhys said quietly. “We’re allowed to be happy. You told me that, remember?”
Feyre gave him a watery smile and nodded.
“I figured the dreams were worse last week because you weren’t here and I don’t like sleeping without you, but…” she trailed off. “Doesn’t explain why I had one tonight.”
Rhys smoothed a hand over her head, combing his fingers through her hair rhythmically until Feyre felt her eyelids start to close.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Rhys got his feet gracefully, and held a hand out to slowly, steadily pull her up to standing. He waited a moment to check she wasn’t about to drop back down before turning to the sink, where he splashed some cold water onto a washcloth and caringly dabbed it against her clammy face, her neck, her arms.
Sufficiently cooled down, Feyre quickly brushed her teeth and rinsed out her mouth before letting Rhys lead her back to their bed. The sheets had been magically changed, for which she was thankful; they were cool and crisp against her skin.
“Feel ok?” Rhys asked, facing her as he lay down.
“My stomach’s a bit tender, but I think I’m alright,” she replied, reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. “Thank you,” she added after a beat of silence.
She knew he didn’t need her to voice why she was thanking him. That he knew she was remembering how it had felt to be left to deal with her night terrors and their after effects alone, like a shameful, inconvenient secret.
“I love you,” he said by way of reply.
“Love you too,” she whispered, snuggling close to his chest, their joined hands between them.
Rhys kissed the top of her head, shifting slightly so that her head was more neatly nestled into the crook of his neck. He curled a wing around them both and took a deep breath, sighing as he did so.
“You’re not about to tell me I still smell good after being sick are you?” Feyre teased sleepily, her nose pressed against his skin. She felt him smile against her temple.
“Mmm, I was actually,” he replied, laughter in his voice. “You do smell very good.”
“Gross,” Feyre chided. “I’m a sweaty mess.”
“I love it when you’re a sweaty mess,” he taunted, lips at her ear, always quick on the draw to play with her.
“Not a sickly, sweaty mess,” Feyre corrected, still feeling the echo of her stomach churning despite the pleasurable shiver that trickled through her from the feel of his lips against her skin. “Go back to sleep, Rhysand.”
“Rhysand!” He gave a mock cry of hurt. “Back to full name terms after all that.”
Feyre yawned, her jaw cracking loudly. She tried to think of something clever to retort, but sleep was already pulling her back down into its arms.
“Sleep well, Feyre,” she heard him say as she once again drafted off.
⋆⭒˚.
The meeting with the High Lords of Dawn, Day and Summer had gone well, so well in fact that the latter two, along with their envoy, had agreed to stay for the night and join them in a meal at Sevenda’s—followed by a dance at Rita’s if Mor had anything to do with it.
Despite it not being the first time Velaris had hosted other courts since the war, Feyre knew that Rhys still struggled with his lingering guilt over exposing the secrecy of
his beloved City of Starlight to the world, no matter for a good cause, so she hadn’t been surprised to find him brooding when she’d entered their bedroom earlier to get changed.
Nor was she surprised to hear him ask her for what felt like the hundredth time that day whether she was sure she was feeling up to a night out.
Feyre resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she stripped out of her clothes and donned her silk robe. It did not escape her notice that Rhys’s eyes darkened as they always did at the sight of her breasts before she covered them back up. That was one way to distract him from his brooding, she supposed.
“You’re hovering again,” Feyre warned him, leaning her head back against his hard stomach as he came to stand behind the stool she had perched on at the vanity unit. She caught his gaze through their reflection in the mirror in front of her.
She had made the mistake that morning of answering honestly when he'd asked how she was feeling. “A little sick, actually. But also hungry. And tired.”
So had ensued a day of Rhys being nothing short of a mother hen, recruiting Nuala and Cerridwen to the cause too. Between the three of them she’d been fed, followed and fussed at from the moment she got out of the covers. More than once she’d had to pull the I’m High Lady, your equal, and you can’t tell me what to do card in order to stop Rhys from insisting that she simply go back to bed instead of attending the meeting.
“Am I not allowed to be worried about you?” Rhys asked, massaging his thumbs into her shoulders.
“You are allowed,” Feyre appeased, groaning as he worked at a knot in her muscles, “but you don’t need to be, I’m alright.”
“You’re not sleeping well, your energy is low, you were sick, and you still feel sick.” Feyre opened her mouth to refute his claim, but he raised an eyebrow at her, tugging at the bond between them as if to say I can feel what you’re feeling, remember?
“It’s not the first time a nightmare has made me sick,” she argued, although it was true that she did not usually continue to feel unwell. “I just feel a bit…” Feyre searched for the right word. She felt fine, mostly. Just not quite herself. “A bit bleurgh.”
Rhys’s mouth quirked up. “Bleurgh?”
Feyre stuck her tongue out at him. “Sorry we can’t all be silver-tongued like you.”
“You love my silver tongue,” Rhys quipped, pinching the top of her shoulder lightly between his thumb and forefinger.
“I don’t deny it.” Feyre smirked up at him before pouting for a kiss. He obliged, leaning down over her to claim her lips slowly, indulgently.
Frustrated at the awkward angle, Feyre pivoted on the stool, breaking away from the kiss just long enough to spin around and surge to her feet, standing up on her tip toes so that she could reclaim his mouth.
Reaching up, she slid her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. Rhys pushed his tongue into her mouth, his own fingers leaving her shoulders to trail down her front, pushing the sides of her robe down until they fell away.
Large, warm hands cupped her breasts and squeezed with delicious pressure. Feyre moaned into his mouth, heat shooting through her core. In response, Rhys deepened the kiss and circling a finger around one of her peaked nipples before glancing his knuckle over it.
“Ah-ah,” Feyre half breathed half squeaked into the kiss, jumping involuntarily at the sharp pleasure. He repeated the action, applying just the right amount of pressure, and Feyre damn near melted on the spot, already overstimulated.
A satisfied growl emanated from Rhys’s chest. He pulled away, sucking on her bottom lip as he did so, and greedily drank in the view of her chest, his fingers pressing into the supple flesh. “Still so sensitive, hm?”
Feyre mewled, arching into his hands, wanting more even as it became too much. She could feel the hard length of him pressing into her stomach and ached with need, her fingers curling into his biceps.
“Do you think we have time to-”
Feyre’s breathy words were cut off by three sharp knocks on the door, followed by Mor’s musical voice.
“Whatever you’re both doing, stop it right now,” she called through the door. “Thirty minute warning for being ready to go and I need all thirty of those minutes to make sure Feyre doesn’t wear some sort of paint stained jumper and leggings to our night on the town!”
They both groaned, Feyre’s head falling forward to rest against Rhys’s chest.
“To be continued, Feyre darling,” Rhys promised, his words hot against her ear, while also mumbling about warding the house against all of their Inner Circle.
Giving Feyre a moment to reinstate her robe, Rhys waved a hand, using his magic to open the door. He glowered at his cousin for the intrusion, but Mor simply grinned.
Laden with supplies of make-up and the Cauldron only knew what other instruments of torture, Mor strode into the room and sniffed.
“Ugh, mates.” She grimaced, shooing Rhys away as she guided Feyre back onto her stool at the vanity unit.
“Ugh, people who do not live here turning up uninvited,” Rhys retorted, pressing a kiss to Feyre’s head before disappearing into the closet, sending a vulgar gesture in Mor’s direction as he did so. Mor only laughed wickedly.
“Right, let’s make you look so good little Rhysie will have a horrible time keeping his hands off you, shall we?”
Feyre laughed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”
⋆⭒˚.
Whether it was down to Mor’s handiwork or just the usual gravitational pull they felt towards each other, Rhys barely left Feyre’s side for the entire evening.
A steady hand at her waist as they walked down the street; at the back of her neck, warm and comforting, as they chatted with the others; at the inside of her thigh, his thumb stroking just above her knee, in the lulls between courses of outrageously tasty food.
Not trusting the strength of her sensitive stomach, Feyre had subtly avoided the faery wine everyone else was enjoying, content with a gently sparkling citrus tonic that Sevenda herself had brought over in a champagne flute upon Feyre’s quiet admission that she had been feeling a bit off colour.
In spite of her persistent sleepiness, she'd humoured Mor and Cassian’s insistent pleas to join them at Rita’s, waving off Rhys’s repeated offers to fly them home. She’d even managed to dance with them all, swaying joyously between her friends, her sisters and their guests until two strong arms banded around her waist from behind.
“Feyre darling,” Rhys mumbled into her ear before pressing a kiss to the juncture between her neck and shoulder.
“Hi.” She melted into him, smiling sleepily as she folded her arms over his, her head lolling back onto his shoulder.
A gentle caress of talons against her mental shield. Feyre let her mate inside her mind, understanding the question he didn’t need to voice aloud.
I’m feeling ok, I promise, she assured him, mind to mind. I’ve had fun.
Rhys held her tighter, one hand now at her hip and the other splayed across her stomach as they moved to the beat of the music.
Are you ok? Feyre returned the question, knowing how conflicting it was for him to have Helion and Tarquin here like this.
Rhys simply kissed her neck again, sucking gently at the sensitive spot below her ear. Feyre shivered, her eyes rolling back slightly.
“Have I mentioned,” he purred, pushing his nose against her skin, “how indescribably appealing your scent is at the moment?”
“Several times,” she replied, pinching his forearm playfully. “I’m actually starting to wonder if I should be offended. Are you saying I normally smell worse?”
Rhys spun her in his arms, one hand moving to cup her face, the other resting at the side of her neck, his thumb against her pulse.
“I don’t know what I’m saying, I can barely think straight around you at the best of times, let alone when you look and smell like this,” he admitted, eyes roving greedily down her body before stealing a kiss. Two kisses. Three. He pulled back, pupils blown wide.
For a few moments they simply watched each other, swaying with the crowd. Rhys slid his hands down her body, bringing them to rest low on her hips.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Feyre curled her fingers into the silver-trimmed lapels of Rhys’s jacket. “Are you ok?”
Rhys curled his wings around them, drawing her closer against his body as he moved her out of the way of a particularly merry group of High Fae males. She was surprised to feel the low vibration of a genuine growl against her chest, inky, star-filled shadows swirling around them.
“Hey,” Feyre exclaimed softly, concern lacing her words now. She reached up and placed her palms against his face. “Rhys.”
Rhys took a breath and let his forehead rest against Feyre’s, eyes closing.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “I’m being a big Illyrian baby, I know.”
Feyre breathed a laugh. “What’s gotten into you?”
I can’t help it, it’s instinct when I’m worried about you. Rhys sent an image of herself as seen through his eyes into her mind. She looked beautiful, but she would admit that her eyes were tired and she was a little paler than usual, the smattering of freckles across the nose and cheeks more noticeable.
I’m alright, Feyre promised, nuzzling her nose against his, their lips brushing gently. Is there anything else bothing you?
It’s just…a lot sometimes, he said into her mind. There was a time when I didn’t think I’d ever be here in Velaris again. I didn’t think I’d see my friends again. And now I’m here, and you’re here. My mate. My High Lady. And Velaris isn’t a secret anymore. And it’s good, but it’s also still…a lot.
Feyre leaned up and kissed him softly, brushing her thumbs under his eyes. I know, I understand. She smiled up at him, pouring all the love she felt for this male into her expression.
Cocooned within his wings and warm in his arms, Feyre felt the tiredness she’d been experiencing seep to the forefront of her awareness, her body sinking further and further against Rhys’s until he was all but but holding her upright.
“Will you please allow me to escort you home now, Feyre darling?” he asked, fingers trailing up and down her spine, explosed by the low cut of her dress.
She hummed into his chest, blinking her eyes open sleepily. She hadn’t realised they’d closed. “I’d like that.”
⋆⭒˚.
Feyre felt as though she’d only just closed her eyes when her alarm clock sounded the next morning, lurching from sleep disoriented and still impossibly tired.
Groaning as she slammed a tattooed hand over the clock, she sat up and closed a hand over her mouth as a wave of nausea hit. Her dreams had been strange again. Nothing specific this time; abstract. She inhaled slowly, then released the breath even slower.
She felt Rhys stir beside her, a warm hand pushing under her top to rub against her back, his nose pressed into her hip.
“You feel sick again.” Not a question.
“Just another weird dream,” she assured him, breathing deeply again as the nausea ebbed.
Rhys sat up proper, rubbing a hand over his face before moving to face her, his wings rustling as he stretched them.
“Stay here today,” he said, a hint of pleading in his voice that few outside of Feyre had ever heard. “Please.”
Feyre sent him a lopsided smile and patted his face gently. “It’s already passing. I’m good”
Rhys’s jaw ticked, his eyes searching hers.
“I need to go to the studio, Rhys,” Feyre insisted. “But I’ll compromise with you. I’ll promise to take it easy and not be annoyed when you inevitably keep checking up on me.”
Rhys shook his head, but recognised the resolve in his mate’s eyes. He flicked her nose lightly and mumbled something about sending Amren to do the checking up.
He didn’t send Amren though.
Rhys arrived exactly as she expected him to; as soon as her last class of the day had filtered out and she’d sat down to try to do some painting of her own, to clear her mind of the unnerving dreams she’d been having.
Ther first rays of moonlight were filtering through the windows of the studio, casting it in a cool but comforting light.
Rhys came up behind her and wrapped her in a warm embrace. Burying his face into her neck, he inhaled deeply against her skin, drawing his nose up the length of her neck and into her hairline.
“Are you sure you’ve not done something to your scent? You’re driving me crazy.”
“Not this again,” Feyre laughed, tilting her head to the side to give him better access. “You're imagining things, Rhys.”
“I’m not,” he insisted, moving to stand in front of her. “Your scent is different, it’s…”
He trailed off, going wholly still. Feyre’s brow furrowed, placing her paintbrush down as she tried to guage the emotions whirling through Rhys’s violet eyes.
“You smell like you…and me…and…and…”
Feyre startled as Rhys fell to his knees at her feet. Wide-eyed, lips parted and chest heaving, he placed reverent fingers against her stomach.
“Feyre, you're pregnant,” he whispered. Whispered it like a prayer.
For a moment, Feyre stood frozen, her mate’s words seeming to float up to her at a slower speed than normal. The bond between them pulsed with awe and devotion and love—the feeling settling like a warm fire under Feyre's ribs.
Tears formed in Rhys’s violet eyes as he pushed up the hem of her jumper, inhaling deeply as he placed his palm flat against the skin of her stomach, splaying his long fingers. His other hand rested at her hip, his fingers pressing gently into her skin.
“You’re pregnant, Feyre,” Rhys repeated. “That's why your scent has been changing. I didn't…I’ve never…I didn't even think…”
“I'm pregnant?” Feyre asked, the words finally breaking to the surface. “Really?”
Rhys nodded, his fingers twitching against her skin. Slowly he looked up at her, and the expression on his face was so heartbreaking, so full of adoration, of disbelief, of longing, that a sob burst from Feyre's chest, tears of her own sliding down her face.
“You can really tell just from my scent?” There was unconcealed yearning in her voice. Feyre reached forward and wiped away the wetness on Rhys’ cheeks with her thumbs. He tilted his head into one of her hands as the fingers of the other threaded into his hair.
“We’ll get Madja to confirm, of course,” Rhys replied softly. His eyes drifted back down to Feyre's stomach, where his hand still rested, warm against her skin. “But yes, my love. I am certain. "You're growing our babe.”
His voice trembled on the last word, and Feyre had never seen so many stars swirl in his midnight eyes.
Rhys took another deep breath, sliding his hand from her stomach to her other hip as he skimmed his nose along her skin.
“The loveliest scent,” he murmured, speaking almost to himself. “I should’ve realised…”
Feyre shivered as Rhys adorned kiss after kiss into her abdomen.
“Rhys,” Feyre whispered, brushing his hair back from his forehead and tilting his face up to here, her fingers gentle under his chin. He complied, meeting her gaze, a blissful smile curling his lips. “We’re having a baby.” Her words were tentative but joyful, a smile of Feyre's own on her trembling lips.
“We’re having a baby,” Rhys affirmed. His reply seemed to snap some final resolve in Feyre, who also sank to her knees, steadied only by Rhys’s hands still holding her hips.
Feyre immediately rested her forehand against Rhys’s, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders as his own banded around her waist, drawing her body flush against his.
For a few moments they simply breathed in and out, absorbing the news, adjusting to the new chapter that was about to unfold.
“To the dreams that are answered,” Feyre whispered, more tears rolling down her cheeks.
Rhys lifted his forehead from hers, his eyes star-bright. He flashed her a dazzling smile and leaned forward to lick away her tears, as he had so many times before. Feyre laughed, sniffling through the happy tears.
“I love you.” The words had barely left his mouth before he claimed her lips in a slow, indulgent kiss that had her melting into his embrace. Rhys cradled the back of her head with one hand, the other sliding up and down her body in adoration.
By the time he pulled back she was breathless and burning with desire. “I love you more than you'll ever know,” he repeated, a rougher edge to his voice.
“But I do know,” Feyre replied, casting out with her mind and curling herself around the solid wall of adamant in his mind until the wall dissolved, allowing her access.
I love you too, just as much, she said into his mind. You're mine. And I'm yours. And we made a baby.
Rhys took in a shuddering breath, one hand working between their bodies so that he could once again press his fingers to the place where their babe now grew.
At least this explains why you've been so obsessed with my breasts of late, she joked.
A primal growl ripped from Rhys’s chest, his eyes darkening. Slowly, as if giving her time to stop him, Rhys reached for the hem of her jumper and began to peel it up, pulling it over her head along with the top she was wearing underneath.
Feyre watched silently as he drank her in with his gaze, tendrils of dark, starflecked power swirling from his shoulders.
Rhys tucked her hair, mussed up from removing her layers of clothing, behind her ear before slowly dragging a finger down, down, down.
He traced her collarbone, then the swell of her breasts, stopping when he got to the hem of her bra. He snapped his eyes up to hers, seeking permission. Feyre sent him the slightest nod, and with a wave of his hand, the garment was gone, a breeze of night kissed power brushing against her skin.
Feyre's nipples hardened, whether from the chill or from the desire burning in her mate's gaze she didn't know. What she did know is that they'd been extra sensitive the last few days and Rhys had delighted in teasing her for it.
Rhys reached up and drew slow, tortuous circles around one of her nipples. Feyre arched into his touch, a whimper escaping her as she tried to move his finger to where she wanted it.
“Rhys,” she breathed. “Please.”
A groan broke from Rhys’s throat, and he relented, brushing the pad of his thumb gently over one nipple and leaning down to latch onto the other with his mouth, sucking her flesh into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure.
Feyre's core tightened, wetness forming between her legs. Her hands came up to weave into Rhys’s hair, holding him against her. His ministrations became more insistent, rolling one nipple between his thumb and forefinger while nipping at the other with his teeth.
Feyre hissed at the sensation and Rhys pulled back, releasing her breast with a wet popping sound.
“For clarification, Feyre darling,” he drawled, sinful hunger in his eyes. “I've always been obsessed with your breasts.”
Feyre released a breathless laugh that sounded more like a pant. “Well you better enjoy them while you can because you'll have to share them soon.”
A mixture of annoyance and absolute adoration flashed across his face, and Feyre laughed again.
“I better start now then,” Rhys replied, lithely getting to his feet and holding a hand out to pull Feyre up with him. Feyre didn't miss how his eyes watched her breasts bounce with the movement, before his gaze travelled down to her stomach, his eyes softening.
Feyre brought his hand back to her stomach, threading her fingers through his.
“I love you,” she said, smiling up at him. She felt his midnight power swirl around them, preparing to winnow them home.
“I love you,” he repeated, before a teasing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “And I'm willing to accept your apology for saying I was imagining that your scent was different whenever you're ready.”
Feyre lunged with enough force that they both tumbled back to the ground, Rhys pinned beneath her.
They weren’t going to make it home just yet.
⋆⭒˚.