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“I’m not sure you understand how to negotiate. You claim to be the most uniquely powerful female in Prythian’s history. You’ll bear my children—at least two of them, more if there are daughters—and in the meantime, I owe you no attention or affection beyond my own wicked pleasure. What’s in it for you?”
Just a fun look at what Feyre and Rhys's first meeting from Rhys's perspective.
tThis is a companion to the latest chapter of In Vino Veritas, so if you haven't read that yet, check it out HERE and come back later!
Also shout-out to my girl @nikethestatue for making sure my Rhys was the most loveable, spoiled, little rich boy he could possibly be!
Rhysand's POV
Rhysand Sadeghi wasn’t a person accustomed to the word “no”.
Cash and Az swore it was a consequence of growing up super-rich, and sure, maybe that was part of it. Money was magic–everyone knew that—and it had a marvelous way of making obstacles into opportunities.
But when it came to women, Rhys liked to think that being rich was only a small part of his appeal. Despite being a surprisingly gawky teenager, Rhys was well aware of how generous puberty had been to him, and he’d wasted none of the gifts he’d been given when it came to wooing women.
He understood that there were plenty of people who looked at him and saw a womanizing prick, but the truth was simply that Rhys loved women—loved their wit and their grit, their humor and their charms—and in most cases, he preferred their company to men.
And while he knew that even his closest friends probably wouldn’t believe him, the deepest truth was that Rhys was just as desperate as everyone else to meet his person and start his forever.
It was that truth, quiet and resolute, that had him agreeing to Cash’s rules, even when rules were not generally something Rhys felt applied to him.
And maybe it was crazy, but some part of Rhys had been dreaming about Feyre since he’d seen her painting hanging in Nesta’s dining room, and for the first time in his adult life, he didn’t feel like he needed his normal trappings of wealth and charm; he just needed to speak to her.
Needed to understand what had driven her to create something that had spoken to him on such a primal level.
Still, he repeated the rules to himself as he made his way over to where she stood at the bar.
“Don’t touch her, don’t take her anywhere, don't buy her shit.”
He repeated the words so many times that he realized as he drew close that he had no idea what he would actually say to her. He’d be stupid not to think she’d been warned of his…reputation, and he was suddenly terrified she’d write him off before he even got a chance to show her there was more to him than the facade he’d spent so long hiding behind.
He was still drawing a blank as he slid into the spot beside her at the bar, but before he could panic and blurt out something regrettable, she surprised him by turning fully in his direction, offering him a blinding smile and saying, “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Confused, he opened his mouth to suggest she maybe had him confused with someone else before noting the poignant look on her face, eye widening slightly and lips pursed as if to say, “play along.”
It was only then he noticed the hopeful sod bobbing on the other side of her, glancing expectantly between them.
Ah.
“Hello, darling,” he purred, standing as close as he could manage without actually touching her. “Sorry I’m late.”
If Cash was still watching, Rhys wasn’t going to risk getting disqualified on a technicality.
Feyre’s expression didn’t change as she continued to gaze up at him, but her eyes flashed a bit, seeming to suggest she was unimpressed by the fervor of his response.
Before he could decide how to proceed, Feyre made the decision for him, pressing a hand to his chest and brushing her mouth against his in a hot, open-mouthed kiss.
Well, that was unexpected. Still, Rhys wasn’t in the habit of denying beautiful women. If she wanted to kiss him, he wasn't stupid enough to object. And technically Feyre had initiated it, so technically he hadn’t broken any of Cash’s stupid rules.
That in mind, he decided he was under no obligation to end the kiss early, choosing instead to curl an arm around Feyre’s back and pull her slightly closer.
Let her decide when she was ready for this to be over.
To his delight, she pulled back only briefly before leaning in to kiss him again, this time with slightly more intention and the barest hint of tongue. Fuck, that was hot. He bit back a moan as he pulled her a little tighter against him, wishing he could invent an excuse to make this last longer.
It was only when she pulled back, head settling on his chest that he let his arm drape over her shoulder, turning to smirk at the stranger currently deflating like a punctured balloon.
“Thank you for finding her for me,” he said, still gazing at Feyre as he stroked a casual hand down her unbound hair.
“You must be the boyfriend,” the man replied, making no effort to hide his disappointment.
Rhys only raised his eyebrows, careful to keep his hand placement respectful should anyone glance their way.
“Lucky me,” he said, gently steering Feyre away. “Enjoy your evening.”
It was only when the idiot had wandered out of hearing range that Rhys let his arm drop, glancing down at Feyre.
“Sorry about that,” she said with a conciliatory smile. “Some guys just can’t take a hint.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Rhys said with an answering grin. “I love a bit of theatre.”
Feyre laughed, and it was possibly the best sound that Rhys had ever heard.
“It’s Rhysand, right?”
“Rhys, please. Only my enemies call me Rhysand.”
The fuck, Sadeghi? He’d promised himself he wouldn’t come on too strong, and this was how he was choosing to start?
“Sorry,” he amended, rubbing his neck with a rueful laugh. “That was–I promise I’m not usually that corny.”
“It was pretty bad,” Feyre agreed, smiling. “But for some reason–” she gestured to his face. “I feel oddly compelled to allow it.”
He relaxed, safe it the temporary knowledge that he hadn’t completely blown his chance.
“I think that kiss just addled my brain a bit,” he said.
Christ, he was an idiot.
However, Feyre’s smile only grew, the slight wickedness in it making his gut tighten in pleasure.
“Because it was so good?” she offered.
“Of course,” he said. “And because I am slightly terrified of your sister?”
Feyre’s lips pursed a bit at this, as if annoyed he would let Nesta’s opinion dictate their interaction.
“Don’t be, Elain’s not as intimidating as she seems.”
He laughed, and she flashed him a small smile.
“Besides, we aren’t supposed to tell you this, but Nesta described you as a ‘nice man’ in the car ride over here.”
Feeling emboldened by Feyre’s blatant flirting, Rhy allowed himself to relax.
“Makes you wonder what she’d say if she knew I came over here to talk to you.”
“You’re here to talk to me?”
“Is that alright?”
Feyre smiled, a little more shy than she’d been a moment before.
Easy boy, he reminded himself, she’s only twenty-one.
“Of course,” Feyre said. “I guess I just wouldn’t imagine being on your radar.”
This made Rhys frown outright.
“Why not?”
Feyre laughed, and Rhys caught a glimpse of Nesta in the gesture, proud and aloof.
“Because unfortunately for you, I’ve heard the story about your threesome with the model twins in Mikyonos.”
“That was Azriel,” he said immediately. “And I don’t actually think they were related. At least, I hope they weren’t.”
At this Feyre only smirked, drumming her fingers on the bar.
“But you admit you were there that weekend.”
“Only as an innocent bystander,” Rhys lobbed back. “And for the record, neither of those girls were as pretty as you.”
It was clear the comment pleased her, even if she seemed undecided on whether she actually believed him. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why she wouldn’t; did she not realize how gorgeous she was?
“You seem to be finding your stride, I’ll give you that,” she said.
“You haven’t seen anything yet, darling.”
She laughed again, giving him an appraising one-over before turning back to accept a fresh drink from the bartender.
“Look, obviously you’re…perfection, but you should know I’m still getting over a nasty breakup, so a one-night-stand isn’t in the cards for me tonight.”
He blinked.
“I assure you that’s not what this is,” he said. “And if sex was all I wanted, please know I’m not stupid enough to try and solicit Nesta’s little sister for it.”
She considered him then, studying his face as if she was trying to read his thoughts.
“What do you want then, Rhysand?”
“To talk about your painting.”
Okay, perhaps more blunt than he’d planned on being, but he was still trying to recover from her thinking he was simply trying to pick her up.
“My…painting?”
“The ‘Sun’s Gone Dim’ one.”
Her demeanor changed immediately, back straightening and eyes growing wary.
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s just what I’ve been calling it in my head. I mean the one in Nesta’s dining room.”
“Why would you call it that, though?” she demanded, and he immediately felt an unfamiliar self-consciousness sluice through him.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he assured her. “I just, it reminds me of this song, The Sun’s Gone Dim and the Sky’s Turned Black? I didn’t mean to name your piece–”
“How could you know that?” she said, looking at him now as if she was just seeing him for the first time.
He blinked again, confused.
“Sorry?”
“That song,” she said, sounding almost breathless. “That was all I listened to while making that piece, over and over again. But I…I never told anyone that. Not even my sisters. How did you know?”
He felt his mouth go dry, heart beating so hard he was sure she could probably hear it.
“I didn’t. I just look at that painting, and that song is all I can hear. It reminds me of…”
He swallowed, not sure how they’d gone from flirting to this in the span of several sentences.
“Reminds you of what?” she pressed, still studying him with almost unbearable scrutiny.
“I–” he began, needing to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m pretty sure that song is about a breakup, but for me, it reminds me of my mum and sister. Of how I felt after they died. ‘The sky’s gone dim and the sun’s turned black’. I guess if I’m…being honest, that painting reminds me of them, too. Of losing them.I know that’s an insane meaning to assign to someone’s else’s art, but–”
“A car crash,” she said, and he felt his pulse spike, throat absolutely burning now.
“What?”
“Cash mentioned they died in a car crash,” she said, eyes lined in silver now.
“Yeah,” Rhys croaked. “Five years ago.”
“That painting is about my parents,” Feyre said. “About the car crash that killed them, and the way it felt to try and move on. I started working on it after I heard that song and couldn’t stop thinking about them. I was little when they died, so I don’t think I’d ever fully let myself mourn them as an adult. And maybe I should have given Nesta a heads up what inspired the painting before I let her hang it in her fucking dining room, but I didn’t know how she’d react, and I didn’t want to upset her, so I just–didn’t tell her, or Elain.”
“Fuck,” Rhys said,pressing a hand to his own eyes to ensure they stayed dry. “That at least explains why I’ve been so obsessed with it.”
Feyre laughed, a tear slipping down her cheek that she quickly wiped away.
“Are you serious?”
“You can ask your sister; I’ve tried to buy that painting off her at least a dozen times. Sometimes I will wake up in the middle of the night thinking about it, and it will take me hours to fall back asleep.”
Rhys glanced at Feyre to find her expression unreadable, and he let out a shaky laugh to try and dispel the energy crackling between them.
“I’m realizing now what a creepy thing that is to say, but it’s the truth.”
“It’s not creepy,” Feyre said, assessing him now with something much headier than physical interest. “It’s what every artist dreams of hearing, that their art has the power to move people.”
Rhys smiled, wishing she’d given him another excuse to touch her again.
“Consider me very moved,” he said. “And know that whenever you’re ready to sell me that piece, I’ll have a blank check ready with your name on it.”
Feyre smiled again, some of the heat from their kiss creeping into her eyes.
“There’s the unrepentant little rich boy that Cash has told us much about.”
“It can’t all be heartfelt confessions,” he said, matching her heated gaze with a brazen assessment of his own. “I fear I still have a reputation to protect.”
x
How they managed to settle into a normal conversation after their shared revelation about the painting, he didn’t know, but an hour later he found himself seated on a low couch across from her, chatting as if it were the most comfortable thing in the world.
“So,” he said, resting his temple on a fist and allowing himself to admire just how pretty she looked until the glittering half-light. “Tell me about this horrible breakup.”
She snorted into her glass of champagne, a gesture he couldn’t help but find painfully charming.
“His name was Tam.”
“Not a promising start, I’ll admit. I went to Eton with a Tam; Tam Dalgleish. God, what an absolute prick.”
She sat up from where she’d been lounging, hand going to her mouth.
“Did you say ‘Dalgleish’?”
Rhys straightened as well, unable to help the bitter laugh that escaped him.
“No!” he said. “Oh you can’t be serious! How on earth did you meet him?”
“I met him at a club in Edinburgh,” she said. “He’d just moved back.”
“Still picking up college girls in clubs,” Rhys said, chuckling into his glass. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Didn’t you say you were in the same year at Eton?” she said pointedly, and Rhys laughed despite the jab.
God, it was hard to believe she was ten years younger than him. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who was much older than twenty-one.
“Fine, yes, but I didn’t try to pick you up in a club. All the proof I've ever needed that I’m better than Dalgleish in every conceivable way.”
“Are you saying that if this event were in a club, you wouldn’t have approached me?” she challenged.
“If this event were in a club, I would have a lot of questions about the legitimacy of this charitable organization.”
She laughed before glancing around, as if only just remembering that her overprotective sister could happen upon them at any moment.
“You do realize we’re on borrowed time being here, right?”
“You really think your sister would be that upset at seeing us together?”
“Tell me you’re joking.”
“I dunno, now that I know you’ve dated Tam fucking Dalgleish, the bar for your next boyfriend feels attainably low.”
“Let’s get out of here,” she said, eyes glittering. “Somewhere my sister can’t happen upon us and explode.”
Rhys considered, weighing the possible consequences against the increasingly tantalizing upside. On the one hand, he doubted Nesta would be pacified by Rhys’s intention to keep things noble with Feyre tonight, and he could be opening a whole can of worms by whisking her away to secondary location.
On the other hand, he was fairly sure he could talk to Feyre for the next hundred years straight without ever getting bored, and cutting the night short just to please someone else’s agenda felt unnecessarily self-sacrificial.
Besides, he was happy enough to take things slow, but she’d giving him eyes like she wanted to kiss him again, and if she was willing, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say no.
“Did you have a place in mind?”
Feyre bit her lip.
“How much do you know about The Tonga Room?”
Rhys couldn’t help a wince.
“Only the barest details. But I recall Cash threatening to burn the place down about a hundred times that weekend we were in Vegas.”
“Obviously it’s got a bit of an…unsavoury history in my family, but that’s also what makes it perfect. I can guarantee you that Nesta would never go there in a million years. Makes things…less complicated.”
“I don’t love the idea of sneaking around behind your sister’s back,” Rhys said. “We aren’t doing anything wrong by sitting here and getting to know each other.”
“So she knows that you were planning on coming over and chatting to me?” Feyre challenged. “You told her that?”
“Right, fair point. Grab your coat, I’ll call a car.”
Rhys made to stand offering his hand to Feyre before remembering Cash’s rules.
Here’s a sketch of Feyre that I like. Idk what it is, but I love her face. I lowkey made her chubby (a happy accident that is not accurate to the canon) and yes she has more “modest” clothes because I like it. idk I think it was unnecessary to have her wear a sheer dress.
Summary: To save the people she loves, there is nothing Feyre wouldn't do.
For @ablogofsapphicpanic, the best DM a girl can ask for, even if she refuses to let me sleep with the Devils we encounter
Note: I've borrowed all the character classes from @ablogofsapphicpanic, who has done incredible, thoughtful work putting together which DND class would belong to which ACOTAR Character.
Feyre Archeron
Tamlin
Read on AO3
-
Feyre stared at the damp, stone wall before her and the riddle etched in a neat hand. Her torch wavered as her lips formed the words she’d only learned to read about five years earlier.
“...for though each of my strikes land a powerful blow,
When I kill, I do it slow…”
Feyre didn’t understand how adventurers did it—all these stupid puzzles, these tests of agility…the monster that was absolutely lurking just behind that dark door. Feyre adjusted her bow and read the riddle again. All she could think about was Tamlin, her…whatever he was. Not her partner, but not her enemy either.
She’d ended things, but he’d forced her hand. That was the part that made her bitter. She hadn’t wanted to leave him, but what choice had he offered in return? He’d taken to following her around the village, using his wealth to pay people to spy on her, just so he could confront her later in the evening.
“Love,” Feyre said after a long, silent moment, “the answer is love.”
The answer could have been anything—she was just guessing. But the door began to slide loudly into the wall, dragging with it a waterfall of dust and debris. Feyre didn’t care if it coated her already dirty hair, stepping forward with a small dagger in hand.
This time, there wasn’t a Beholder waiting to devour her, and nothing was hidden inside the waiting maw of a Mimic. There was simply the book, left abandoned on an obvious trapped plate that she quickly disarmed.
The final book. Feyre ran a finger over the leather bound book, dyed purple and almost certainly made of demon skin. It was, after all, the missing book in Tasha’s Demonomicon. The last book she’d written before the series was stolen by some vainglorious wizard hoping to reach new heights.
Feyre would have bet the limited gold jangling in her pocket that the wizard was being slowly devoured in Nessus, though it was equally as possible he now sat among the ever expanding pantheon of deities.
It didn’t matter—Feyre had what she needed and a clear path out of the dungeon. She tucked the heavy book into her knapsack and made her way back out the way she came, this time stepping over the littered corpses of those who tried to stop her.
This was the book she was missing, the tome that would finally allow her to piece together the knowledge she needed in order to save her family. Feyre didn’t dare open the book out in the open wilderness as she traveled back to her village. Even carrying it was a risk—anyone clever enough might recognize the magical signature and come looking for her. Magic that big, that powerful, almost always left some kind of trace.
She didn’t sleep for three days while she traveled. She rested, sure, mostly because her horse required it and driving the only working animal her family had left into the ground was a horrible proposition. If Nesta wasn’t so sick…
Well, Feyre wouldn’t have needed the horse at all.
Feyre made it to her village just before dusk on the third evening. Her bag seemed to have gotten heavier over the journey, a fact she was doing her best not to think about.
The streets were mostly empty by then, save for a few stragglers looking to spend the day's coin in the local tavern. She could hear music coming from the closed doors and every window was lit up with candles of varying heights.
The modest houses in the village center were darker. Curtains were drawn, though windows were also left open so a breeze could filter in. Her house, far in the distance, was similar. It was one room, with a sagging thatched roof and windows that were framed by uneven shutters. It had belonged to her mother when she’d been a child, and for years had been a little cottage they rented out for a few silver pieces every month.
Now they lived there.
Feyre took a breath of crisp air, adjusted the heavy strap on her shoulder, and pushed her way inside. It reeked of death. Her older sister, Elain, rose from her spot in front of the fireplace with glassy eyes. She’d been working on needlepoint poorly, though Feyre couldn’t say her stitches would be any neater. “Mother—”
“Where is Nesta?” Feyre interrupted. She hadn’t admitted before that moment that she’d gone looking for the book solely for Nesta. Feyre had no intention of trying to save her mothers life. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her parents, it was more that they didn’t seem to love her. Or any of them, really. Sure, their father doted on Elain but that had stopped being cute by the time Elain turned nine.
Their mother was mean. She hit Nesta, she only spoke to Elain in terms of husbands and men, and she had nothing kind to say to Feyre, ever. Too lanky, too freckly, too this, too that. Too ugly. If only you’d been born a boy.
Elain hesitated, brown eyes illuminating the weak firelight. What choice would Elain make if she could only save one? Nesta was only as sick as she was because she’d been forced to care for their mother. Even their father refused to go inside once the flesh rot set in. Only Nesta had, and she’d done it out of duty.
Feyre did this out of love, though Nesta wouldn’t understand when it was all over.
Elain exhaled softly, the only voice she was willing to give her relief. “Alive, but weak.”
“I’m going out back. Please…no matter what…stay in the house.”
Elain nodded, biting her lower lip. “I won’t.”
Feyre pried open the floorboards for her other three tomes and gathered them in her arms. “Where’s father?”
“The tavern,” Elain murmured, eyes cast downward with shame. Feyre wanted to rage, wanted to throw her books at the wall and scream. For all the good it would do. He’d still be there, reasoning to himself that he wasn’t going to spend all their gold. Just a little. Just a pint here, a pint there, and he’d return with almost nothing and expect Elain to figure out how to make do for them all.
Feyre would be back in the woods by the evening desperately trying to hunt a week's worth of meals. This wasn’t going to fix any of that…but Feyre had enough to bargain for Nesta’s life.
She went deeper in the woods than she ever had in the dark, settling near an open grove of trees. There were several mushroom circles scattered along the path and Feyre didn’t doubt for a second that the fey knew what she had and what she intended to do.
It was foolish to think they’d aid her. If she stepped wrong, they’d drag her into the feywilds and steal her books before finishing her, too. Ferye was careful when she found a large enough clearing to work. She opened the first three books, each tabbed to the section on Asmodeus. The Supreme Master of the Nine Hells. The Great Devil. The Lord of Lies.
Feyre didn’t know if the final tome would help her reach him—she knew he wasn’t trapped in the books like so many other demons and devils were. There was a rumor that Tasha had spoken with him—enough to learn how to call upon him multiple times. Feyre needed that knowledge in order to call upon him herself.
She needed the supreme lord of the devils. No one else would do. She couldn’t trust a lesser demon or devil to keep their word, and believed they’d be too tempted by the feast of desperate souls living in her home. Elain was so easily persuaded that she was easily preyed upon.
With nothing but a candle, Feyre sat propped against a tree and began flipping through the fourth book. So many demons were trapped inside, their visages filled with pure hatred. Feyre skimmed some of the details about them—demons of pestilence, of lust, of horror. They were far more frightening than the ones trapped in the other books, and Feyre supposed it was because of how much the witch Tasha had learned as she’d begun to write.
In the back of the book, she found near perfect transcriptions of the conversations between Tasha and Asmodeus. The witch had summoned him for information on the nine—how they might be defeated, their weaknesses, their usefulness to the cosmos themselves.
Asmodeus didn’t answer the way Feyre would have liked. His answers were buried in layers and layers of double speak, which had irritated Tasha, too. Feyre told herself she didn’t need to have a conversation with him—she just needed to lay the bargain at his feet and let him decide.
And Tasha, for all her care, had written how to call upon him. That was all Feyre needed. She pulled out the salt, stolen from the same tavern her father was currently occupying, and began to draw her circle. It would trap the Lord of Lies within it—or, it would trap a devil, anyway. It might not be powerful enough to contain him. Perhaps Nesta could have managed, given her own magical strength, but Feyre was merely a ranger. Her circle was a little lumpy and not quite circular, but it was good enough.
A skull from one of her recent kills sat in the northern most part of the circle. At the bottom, Ferye used her own dagger to slice open her palm, letting blood stain the white salt and green grass. The moon was high above her, luminous and still too dim to be helpful. She only had to speak the words, broken and jagged in her mouth. She didn’t know how to speak infernal, and Tasha hadn’t provided a pronunciation guide.
So Feyre made four attempts before she smelled the brimstone and sulfur emanating from the trees. She felt a crackle of electricity on her fingertips, the air surging with magic. And then…there he was.
“I warned you, Ta…sha…” The Archdevil turned a full circle before his violet eyes landed on her. He didn’t move for a moment, giving Feyre a chance to take him in. He was just as tall and imposing as she’d expected, though he looked more mortal than devil. His hair was neatly styled and as dark as the sky around them. He wore a well tailored tunic, embroidered with silver thread against the inky blue.
It was only then that Feyre realized his wings were merely tucked against his back. Two curling horns jutted from his forehead, larger than any she’d ever seen before.
He cocked his head to the side, clearly studying her just as closely as she studied him. “I was expecting the witch.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Feyre replied with more bravado than she felt.
“Foolish mortal,” he said with a deep, sensual chuckle. “Do you know who you’ve summoned this eve?”
“The Lord of Lies, I hope,” she replied. Surely it must be—the stories of his beauty were only matched by the stories of his cruelty. “Asmodeus.”
“That’s one name,” he agreed, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Do you know any others?”
Feyre looked down at her feet. She did…but she was keeping that a secret just in case she needed to force him to do her bidding.
“I have a bargain for you,” she said instead, waiting a beat before she dared to look up at him again. He’d moved from the center of her lopsided circle to the very edge, his shiny boot pressed against her skull.
“Oh? I can’t resist a good bargain. Tell me your terms, and I will tell you mine.”
Feyre’s heart picked up. He already knew what he wanted? He hadn’t even heard her tell him what she could offer.
“I want you to save my sister's life,” she began, the words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush.
He waited a moment. “And…what else? There’s always something else.”
“That’s it. That’s all I want. My sisters life.”
“And what would you offer me?” he pressed, nudging the skull with his toe.
Feyre reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny shard of stone, jagged at every edge. The devil in front of her suddenly went still.
“Where did you find that, little mortal?”
“Save my sister’s life and I’ll give it to you freely.”
His eyes were so dark they might have been the very darkness around her. Feyre had a shard of night. In truth, she’d stumbled on it by accident when looking for the first of Tasha’s Demonomicon, and hadn’t known what it was. Nesta had been the one to tell her it was from the famed cities of Netheril and imbued with netherese magic. Feyre could have sold it for gold—if she’d known where to sell it, and who might want to buy it—but once she found the Demonomicon, she’d decided it was better used for bargaining.
What could a devil do with some of the magic of Netheril? That was none of her business, truly. It was clear he wanted it, and she had it.
Asmodeus stepped on her skull, crunching bone loudly beneath his boot as he walked out of her circle. She’d suspected he might be able to be.
“Mortals never ask so selflessly. Tell me what it is you truly want,” he crooned, keeping about six feet of distance between them. “A love returned? Wealth beyond reckoning? Tell me.”
His voice was irresistible to her for a moment. Feyre’s lips parted, almost unwillingly, and she felt the words rise in her throat. Fix her father’s failed business so they didn’t have to live in squalor. Make Tamlin a better man so she could love him.
His brow furrowed, head shaking. Feyre pulled back some of the charm fading into dislike. “Don’t do that.”
“There is nothing that might tempt you?”
“My sister's life,” Feyre said forcefully stepping closer, “for the shard of night. Yes or no?”
A smile lit up his face. “No, I don’t think I care for your bargain.”
Despair filled Feyre’s chest. She turned her back to the Archdevil so he would see her hastily wipe away tears. She’d been so sure he’d agree that it hadn’t occurred to her what she might do if he said no.
She felt his warm fingers lay gently on her shoulders, each one laid slowly, one after another. “I could be tempted to help.”
“Name your price,” she said, hating the way her voice shook. She nearly admitted that there was no price to steep, nothing she wouldn’t give away, nothing she wouldn’t agree to. Maybe he knew it instinctively the way creatures like him seemed to. She was desperate, he was all but a god. She turned to face him, wishing he’d pick an aspect that wasn’t so handsome.
“In exchange for your sisters life, I want your name so I can call upon you again.”
“For what purpose?” Feyre asked, knowing damn well she’d give it to him anyway.
“My reasons are my own. Now, turn around and tell me what to call you.”
She couldn’t resist. Feyre, ever impulsive, blurted out, “I know your true name already. I could make you.”
A soft, almost comforting laugh escaped him. “Oh? And what would you make me do, little mortal?”
“Save my sister,” she pleaded, before whispering, “please.”
“Your name,” he replied, hooking his finger under her chin so she was forced to look at him. “Please.”
There was the strangest note of desperation in his voice—Feyre was certain she was imagining it. “Feyre. My name is Feyre.”
“Fey-ruh,” he replied, testing out the syllables on his tongue. “An old name. However did your mother choose it?”
Feyre didn’t know, so she shrugged.
“Go, Feyre darling,” he murmured, nodding toward the thinning treeline far out of view. Feyre didn’t look back, didn’t stop to gather up her books. She took off running, needing proof that the devil had lived up to his promise. She didn’t care about him at all. Nesta was a person, was her sister, and Feyre wasn’t going to let her parents selfishness take that from her, too. Even if she and Nesta didn’t always get along, even if they were mean. It wasn’t lost on Feyre that the Archdevil of the nine hells now possessed her name, and who knew what kind of magic that came with.
She’d worry about it later.
Feyre burst into the house where Elain waited, hands twisting over and over. “Mother is dead,” she said, tears falling down her cheeks. Feyre waited for despair to overtake her, but she only had one question.
“And Nesta?”
“Her fever broke,” Elain managed, the words coming out high pitched and wet.
“Well…” Feyre whispered, her glee getting the better of her. Mother was dead and father was at the tavern pissing away their gold, but Nesta was turning the corner. She exhaled, swearing she could smell brimstone and fire…and something else. Something colder, like salt air and citrus.
Feyre couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she said.
And Ferye believed it.
In the days that followed, Nesta’s strength returned. She was well enough to sit beneath a large oak tree while they buried their mother. If Nesta grieved, she didn’t show it outwardly. Elain and their father wept, but Nesta and Feyre remained stone faced and unmoved.
There was something different about Nesta. Her eyes, always an unnerving shade of pale blue, were brighter than they’d ever been. Sometimes they seemed to shift like magic, turning from blue to silver and back again before Feyre could fully register the change.
“What did you do?” Nesta once whispered to Feyre as they passed one another outside. Fingers brushing, Feyre wondered if Nesta didn’t already know.
“What I had to do,” Feyre replied resolutely.
Feyre finally dared to return to the site of her ritual when the moon was set to return. It occurred to her that she’d left four powerful books on demonology just laying about for anyone to find. Dread filled every step as she walked, hands balled to fists at her side. She wasn’t surprised to find him waiting in the clearing.
The books were gone, as was the salt, and any trace she’d ever been there before. His eyes were almost hungry when they fell upon her—two violet specks against the darkness of his sclera and the night itself.
“I was starting to think you’d never return,” he said in that rich, suggestive voice of his. It made her want to apologize.
“I came for my books,” she forced herself to say.
“No need,” he replied, gesturing at the pristine grass. “I took care of the fey, too.”
“What a gentleman,” Feyre replied with an eyeroll. “You’ve thought of everything, which means you don’t need me—”
“Feyre,” he breathed, interrupting her dismissal. It wasn’t a command, carried no magic and yet that note of desperation was back. It was enough to convince her to hesitate.
“Have you been waiting for me?”
“What if I was?”
“That seems foolish given I’m just a mortal and you…” you might be a god.
Not to mention that he was a devil. She needed to get as far away from him as she could, pledge her support to a good aligned god, and pray they could keep her from Asmodeus.
“You claim to know my name. Say it,” he ordered, the command laced with magic. Feyre couldn’t have resisted if she wanted, and she didn’t want to resist him at all. Not with this, anyway. She might be the only mortal in the realm who knew his true name.
“Rhysand,” she murmured. His name, before his fall from grace, written down and forgotten in a dungeon she’d plundered in her desperate quest to find him.
His eyes fluttered closed just as his massive, leathery wings flared outward. Feyre stumbled back a step, nearly falling to the grass. He was terrifying. Horrifying.
Beautiful, too.
“No one has spoken my name in ages,” he told her, opening his eyes slowly again. “How did you learn it?”
Feyre only shook her head. She wasn’t going to tell him.
“Do you understand the power you possess? An Archdevil at your feet, unable to resist doing your bidding.”
“I just want things to go back to normal,” she admitted. He advanced on her, keeping barely any distance between them at all.
“Why would you want that?” he demanded harshly. His eyes, once as placid as the stars above, ignited with unmistakable hellfire. “Why would you want to live this life?”
“It's mine?” she asked, her voice small.
“The woman who traversed the land for all of Tasha’s books on demons…who discovered my name…the shard of night…wants to live in squalor?” he asked, eyes blazing as they held her own.
“I…” her breath caught in her throat.
“I could give you riches,” he began, his voice seductive all over again, “power beyond your wildest imaginings, magic that would make Mystra herself weep. Everyone has a price—name yours.”
“And you’ll leave?”
“Yes,” he agreed. Feyre didn’t want whatever it was he was offering. It would all come with strings, would ruin her life somehow, and in the end she’d have nothing but misery to show for it until he came to claim her soul. She’d made a mistake telling him she knew his name, and a bigger mistake admitting she knew it at all. Better to end this quickly and hope he forgot about her entirely.
Mortals were short lived, and she was only human. Her race didn’t live much longer than a hundred years unless they enhanced themselves magically, which Feyre had no intention of doing. One life was enough, she reasoned.
“A kiss,” she heard herself say. Even Rhysand, Archdevil supreme, seemed taken aback by the request. “On the cheek.”
“A kiss wherever I wish it,” he interrupted, waving his hand dismissively. “No one has ever…”
“Yes, it's a month of surprises,” she grumbled, turning her face to present him with her cheek. Best to just get it over with. Maybe that would end whatever strange fascination he had with her. Had he never experienced love? Did he not understand the lengths someone would go to in order to protect the people they loved?
He pressed his mouth to her skin, a chaste kiss by all measures. Feyre waited until he pulled back to look at him, unaware that Rhysand had no intention of upholding his end of the cheek kiss. Feyre opened her mouth to ask if he was over it now only for him to lean down a second time, capturing her mouth with his own.
Her palms flew to his chest to shove him backwards. He caught her wrists quickly, holding them between long fingers tipped with sharp claws. His mouth was warm, physically, but the taste of him was chilly—like the cold run. Feyre could have pulled back if she’d wanted to.
But maybe some small, wicked part of her liked that this devil was a little taken with her. That there was something about her he found fascinating. Men had liked her before, and Feyre was no novice when it came to their attention. But this was hardly a man, even if he appeared so. He was older than time itself, had more power than Feyre could have dreamt of. There was something intoxicating about that.
So she kissed him back. What did it matter, in the grand scheme of things? One day she’d be eighty and he’d have forgotten about her—she’d be able to tell her grandchildren that for a moment, an Archdevil had been taken with her.
For whatever that said about her.
Rhysand deepened the kiss, loosening his hold until both wrists were held in one large hand, the other cupping the back of her head. There was nothing erotic about it, save for the way his body pressed itself up against hers…and the way his tongue carefully flicked against her own.
Feyre sighed, arousal flooding through her. It was just biology, she lied to herself. Just the feeling of his hands on her body that made her feel this way. It could have been Tamlin’s hands. It could have been anyone's.
“Another bargain,” he whispered, forehead pressed against her own. She could feel the grooves of his horns pressed against delicate skin, a reminder that there was no softness he could offer her.
“I think that’s a bad idea,” she replied, though it wasn’t a no, either. He knew it.
“A night with me in Nessus, and I will grant you anything you want,” he replied.
“That’s a foolish bargain. What if I want you to die?” she asked.
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. “You don’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Feyre murmured. She held his stare, not to prove anything, but to let him peer a little deeper into her soul. To see the things she’d done that she wasn’t sorry for…and the things she might do without a moment's hesitation.
She could have chosen her mother. Any good daughter would have. Nesta had never been kind to Feyre and wasn’t likely to improve just because Feyre had gone to so much trouble. If Nesta ever learned at all. And yet, the choice had been automatic. Easy.
Nesta understood Feyre much like a looking glass. There was no hiding from Nesta’s gaze, no lying in their shared reflection. Whatever Feyre was, Nesta had been longer. It was, perhaps, why Nesta felt so protective of Elain and so dismissive of Feyre.
Of course you’re clever, of course you’re capable. We are alike.
But that would be only a half-truth weighted in the devil's sight. Feyre hated her mother, too. Hated her for her apathy, her cruelty, her greed. Everything could collapse around her and what did she care? Their neglectful father who doted only on his mirror image and wife had no interest in telling his wife no. And she took no accountability for any of it, whining and crying and spending.
Nesta had watched it all, punishing and disgusted in her silence. But Feyre, as she always did, begged. On her knees before creditors beating her father while her mother wept and cowed behind her eldest daughter. On her knees again, begging her mother to stop spending their gold, they were going to starve, to begging her mother to just do something.
Did her mother regret any of it, in her final rattling moments? Feyre took a moment of sick pleasure to hope she had. Mothers did not need to love their daughters unconditionally, let alone love them at all. Daughters, however, were duty bound in their very bones to love their mothers. Especially when they had a cruel sister.
But Feyre needed her mother to pay for all the ways she’d hurt Feyre, no matter how selfish it was. The choice was layered and tangled and still, impossibly simple.
He looked away, eyes drifting to something just beyond her shoulder. Whatever interest she held to him was multiplied in herself right then. Feyre hadn’t stopped, truly, to consider why he’d want to see her twice. It seemed almost assumptive. Had she been surprised? Truly?
His gaze snapped back to her face with a kind of excited hunger that thrilled her. No one wanted the attention of a Devil. Certainly not like this. He wasn’t an ordinary Devil, either, which was dangerous in the best of circumstances.
He was their ruler. People worshipped him like a god.
You aren’t scared enough, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.
“Wanting to kill your mother is hardly unique, Feyre darling,” Rhysand told her, recapturing her attention. “It’s forgivable.”
“When did I ask for your forgiveness?” Feyre snapped.
His smile widened a fraction. “You didn’t, but I’m offering absolution all the same.”
“That’s not yours to give,” Feyre reminded him. His smile didn’t fade.
“For you, I think it is."
“Are you—”
“Feyre?”
Feyre paused, heart racing at the sound of that familiar, deep voice.
Tamlin. Oh, of course he’d find her here. Find her with him. They hadn’t spoken in weeks at her insistence while she tried to figure out how she might move forward with Tamlin. Turning slowly, she saw him standing a few feet away, eyes trained fully on the Devil in front of her.
“What are you doing?” Tamlin whispered breathlessly. His own eyes, a pine green, were pinpricks in the dark. He’d brought no weapon to fight with, though Feyre had seen Tamlin fight—he might do alright against another man with just his bare fists.
He stood no chance here.
“You need to leave,” Feyre told him, taking a step toward him. Tamlin wasn’t looking at her. His blonde hair swayed in the breeze, shirt half opened, revealing the necklace he wore against his toned, tanned chest—a collection of animal claws, teeth, and fur that helped him shift, at least partly, into a massive wolf.
Feyre looked over her shoulder to find Rhysand, wings spread wide, watching Tamlin with open, unguarded amusement.
“Listen to her. Walk away with your life,” the Devil murmured.
Tamlin openly bristled, turning fully back to Feyre. “Feyre, whatever you need, whatever…whatever happened…I’ll help you. If you need money, or medicine–”
“I don’t need anything,” Feyre said flatly. Any help she took from him would bound her closer, would entangle her further. It had never occurred to Feyre to go to Tamlin for help at all, now that she thought about it. He could have saved both her mother and her sister, and Feyre could have avoided blackening her soul.
She said nothing as the realization swept over her with an iciness that left her rooted in place. There had been options, if she’d thought to look for them. There was no reason to invoke a Devil, let alone an Archdevil, as her first line of defense.
“I heard about your mother,” he tried again, his voice rich with sympathy. His eyes had gone yellow and his fingers were tipped with claws. He was prepared to fight. There was no axe on his back, no sword at his hip. Maybe a dagger in his boot that he could throw, but that was it. She didn’t think shifting into a wolf would help him much, either.
“She’s dead.” Feyre said it with as much finality in her tone as she could muster. “There’s nothing left to save.”
“Feyre,” he breathed, inching closer. A sliver of moonlight fell across his face, illuminating his lovely, golden features. He really was so, so beautiful. And right then, even moreso because Feyre knew he was going to die. “Feyre, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Tamlin paused again, clearly taken aback by the frankness of her statement. She slid her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see how they shook, finding the jagged piece of the shard of night still hidden within. Feyre curled her fingers around it, letting the cool weight settle against her palm.
“You need to go home,” she repeated firmly, letting him see the plea in her gaze. Tamlin had begun shaking his head. He wasn’t going to let her—he couldn’t let her. Even when there wasn’t a Devil at her back, Tamlin couldn’t hear the things Feyre said. Not when they contradicted his own thoughts and feelings and fears. She could see he was afraid, and Tamlin was at his most dangerous, his most controlling, when his fears overtook him.
“Tamlin, listen to me—” she tried, but he’d turned his gaze to Rhysand as he lunged for Feyre, intending to grab her and pull her back. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it.
But it was the last.
Feyre reacted on instinct and, perhaps, desire. Her hand, hidden in her pocket, came into the moonlight as she pierced through his thin shirt, his skin and finally bone. It required force and all of her effort before she felt the shard slice through his soft underbelly.
His eyes were wide. “Feyre?” he breathed, “Feyre, what have you done?”
“Very good,” Rhysand whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “You have done so well, my darling. You know what you must do, now, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she replied, still holding Tamlin’s gaze. She wanted to tell him she was sorry.
But she didn’t want to lie to him, either. Not as he was dying. Feyre twisted her wrist without thinking, still holding his gaze. Tamlin’s mouth opened and a hiss of pain escaped him. Wobbling, Tamlin’s knees buckled. Feyre withdrew the shard as he began to sink to the ground, causing more carnage in her wake. Blood coated her hand and slid down her arm, staining the ground around her.
Rhysands’s fingers curled over her shoulders, pulling her against his chest. “I didn’t realize you were already mine.”
Feyre turned to look at him, but darkness was swallowing them in a billowing cloud of ash. Feyre choked, turning her face into the lapel of his jacket to breathe in that icy citrus smell. It was only a moment, though a panicky part of her worried it was forever. He was taking her to the Hells, to Nessus.
To…his personal chambers. Feyre blinked as the smoke cleared, leaving her in a room larger than her little cottage combined thrice over. A large fireplace crackled cheerfully, warming the room to just the right temperature. Large windows overlooked a jagged landscape, revealing a raging, fiery storm just outside.
None of that mattered when her eyes fell on the massive, four poster bed draped in rich purples, vibrant silvers, and inky blacks. It was large enough if could outstretch his wings on either side without them draping over the ends. He’d asked her for a night in exchange for anything she wanted, but in truth, Feyre didn’t want anything else.
He clearly did.
She wondered if there wasn’t an argument to be made for just the night. No bargain at all, just a night of passion before he dropped her off back home and she…spent the rest of her life thinking about him while he never thought of her again.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Rhysand murmured, leaning casually against the bedpost.
“I’m…considering your bargain,” she admitted, daring a step toward him. Feyre hadn’t realized the floors were made of marble until her boot, worn smooth from all the wear, skidded against it. There was an overstated opulence she found strangely charming. He knew who he was—what he was—and he was fine with it.
Proud, even.
He shook his head, amusement bright. “I no longer care for that bargain.”
“Oh.”
Feyre paused, stopping in place. He said nothing at all, waiting, ever serpentine, for her to ask another question.
“Why am I here, then?”
“I wanted to see what you’d look like standing here. I wanted to see if it lived up to my imagination.”
Her heart raced at the admission. “Does it?” she asked a little too eagerly.
His smile seemed to soften around the edges. “Almost. In my mind, you’re never wearing so much clothing.”
Feyre didn’t know what to say to that. She remained in place as he came toward her. “In truth, I wanted to see what you might look like seated atop my throne. But then, I had this thought…this is the only throne that matters.”
As he spoke, he took her wrist gently and slid her open palm against the erection she hadn’t noticed in his trousers.
“I didn’t realize you were such a braggart,” Feyre complained, noting he felt quite large through the fabric. The look of satisfaction on his face told Feyre he’d been hoping she’d notice, had been looking for any subtle clue in her expression.
“I am Archdevil Supreme, after all,” he murmured, lowering his head. Feyre allowed it with breathless anticipation, though she’d kissed him once before. His mouth was just as soft as she remembered, though far more insistent than it had been in the woods. Feyre leaned fully into him this time, forgetting about the blood drying on her fingers. She felt hungry in a way she’d never experienced, like there was no amount of him that could satisfy her.
Some small part of her wondered if it wasn’t magic before she dismissed it entirely. If it was, he wouldn’t admit it and Feyre didn’t care enough to stop, besides. Let him imagine he was manipulating her if that was what he wished. Feyre was exactly where she wanted to be.
It was easy to forget everything waiting for her back home as she pressed so close, she could feel the heat radiating from beneath his clothing. Her still blood-stained fingers slid into his thick hair, tapered neatly at his neck.
He hadn’t touched her beyond the kiss until that moment. His arms, impossibly strong, wrapped around her torso and held her in place. Feyre had to stand on tiptoes to fully reach him, though she didn’t mind once his tongue found hers again. There was nothing tentative about either of them, no slow exploration like was typical the first time she was with a man.
Rhysand knew what he wanted, which was lucky because Feyre did, too.
“Look at me,” he demanded, pulling back so she had to look at him. “Look at me.”
Whatever magic he used to make himself beautiful had dissolved, his glamor revealing the creature beneath. Feyre understood he took whatever form suited him best and whatever he was had no bearing on what she’d seen.
But he was still achingly beautiful. That was what she found painful—even with the twisted features that made him seem more animal than man—blood red skin that cracked like molten lava and held deep, ancient swirling tattoos in a language she couldn’t read. In between those cracks and marks, Rhysand was covered in brutal, open wounds, twisting, curling horns that branched off in multiple directions, and his eyes—a stark purple flame against onyx, an unfathomable void that threatened to suck her deeper.
He was unbuttoning his jacket with long, clawed fingers, still holding her gaze. Did he want her to scream? Feyre wasn’t afraid. This was her deal, her devil. Feyre waited, concealing her emotions until he stood before her entirely naked. He was powerful, muscularly built with a tail pointed exactly like the pictures described at the end and feet tipped with the same claws his fingers held.
And every inch of him was covered in wounds. Feyre dared to reach out her hand, pressing her thumb against one on her chest. Rhysand sucked in a breath, catching her wrist before she could apply too much pressure.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured, the words slipping from behind his teeth as though they had a mind of their own.
“They tell stories about you,” Feyre murmured, watching, dazed, as the wound she’d touched began to knit itself together. “They say if you ever could, you’d conquer the hells, the heavens, and the realms between.”
“I would,” he admitted without an ounce of shame. “I will.”
“Not like this,” she murmured, pulling out her blooded shard of night. “You must be in so much pain.”
“I am,” he admitted, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. Feyre pressed the jagged stone against his chest, exhaling as she did. What had been the weapon to condemn Tamlin was now Rhysand’s salvation. Feyre watched it melt against his skin with a soft, glowing light tipped orange just as the edges. The burst was gone just as quickly as it came, taking his wounds with them.
“You never thought of this before?” she tried to joke, mesmerized by the new expanse of skin emerging from beneath the trauma.
“I’ve tried everything,” he murmured, “it had to be you. It could only be you.”
A moment later, he’d pulled her off the ground and tossed her to that bed. Rhysand stalked toward her, his form shimmering before the monster became the man all over again. She knew she’d see the creature before the night was through, if only because she asked to.
Why should he have any secrets from her? She had none from him.
“A new bargain,” he murmured, gripping her legs and yanking her to the edge of the bed. Feyre said nothing as arousal twisted through her gut, eyes fixed on him. Rhys removed her pants with methodical slowness, letting the shadow of his claws drag along her skin. Feyre shivered with anticipation.
He knelt, spreading her legs so wide it made her hips ache a little. Did he intend to draw her?
“You heal me with the shard of night,” he began, pressing his lips against her inner thigh and inhaling deeply, “and I will give you everything.”
She felt the words settle in her chest, tying themselves around her rib cage. The other end was leashed to him, tied just as tightly. It didn’t matter if she agreed—his word was law, here, and Feyre had already used the shard of night exactly as he asked.
Not that it mattered—Feyre would have done it regardless of the circumstances.
Still, though, Feyre responded. “Yes,” she breathed.
It was done with a magical finality that filled her with excitement. He, too, seemed unable to contain himself. His mouth worked its way upward, finding the apex of her thighs and the small nest of curls just between.
All she could see was dark hair and horns, his gaze fixed on her cunt as his tongue found the source of her arousal. It had been too long since someone had touched her like this—not with reverence, but need.
“Rhysand,” she breathed when his tongue flicked against her clit.
“Rhys,” he groaned in response. “Call me Rhys.”
Feyre arched her hips as Rhys licked, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to tease his tongue over her clit. Over and over, in rhythmic circles, until she felt like she might die. Feyre was too hot, the desire burning through her from the inside out. She reached for his horns, gripping them as though they were the only thing from keeping her on this mortal coil. Something had curled its way around her leg—his tail, she realized. Oh, but why did she like it so much?
Rhys moaned against her skin, fingers spreading her wider before teasing her sensitive opening. Inch by agonizing inch he went, pushing that finger further and further until Feyre was whimpering, hips rolling against his hand and mouth looking for relief. Rhys only chuckled.
“Greedy,” he taunted, his voice strained. “I haven’t even set you on my cock, yet.”
“Please,” Feyre replied, though she wasn’t sure if she was asking him to return to licking or shutting up. “Rhys, please.”
He lowered his face again, eyes now fixated entirely on her,before he resumed his attention on her swollen clit. Feyre barely noticed the way he worked that second finger into her body until he pulled away again, swearing softly about the tightness of her dripping cunt. She was so close to finishing and desperate for release.
He knew it. Rhys began pumping his fingers in and out of her body rougher, his mouth sped up until Feyre’s head was practically buried in the mattress, staring upward at the canopy instead.
“Rhys,” she pleaded. Her body was on fire, electric and aching. Her arousal wound its way up her spine, settling at the back of her throat and in her lower belly. He sucked, fingers curling so they found some secret spot only she’d ever known about and Feyre was undone. She screamed without meaning to, half plea, half prayer to the only god she believed in—though the only word she managed to articulate was his name. Rhys didn’t stop until Feyre whimpered, boneless and exhausted on the bed.
“You’re not done, pretty little thing,” he murmured, crawling up her body. Feyre pushed herself backward so her legs were fully on the bed, ruching the bedding beneath her as she went. Who cared? “My vicious, cruel little wife.”
Wife.
The word clanged through her, settling deep in her chest. Oh, but how she liked hearing him say that. She might have asked him what he was talking about, but Rhys leaned to kiss her again.He tasted sweet after having his tongue in her body. Feyre clung to his shoulders, kissing him like he might save her life. Perhaps he would. His knee came between her legs, half closed after the orgasm he’d given her with his tongue, and pushed them wide again.
Feyre moaned, running a finger along the edge of his wing. Whatever careful control he’d planned on was ruined by that small touch—his hips jerked, cock wedging itself just against her opening. Their teeth clashed with thrilling violence, and when her teeth sank against his bottom lip, causing blood to fill both their mouths, Rhys moaned, pushing his thick cock a good inch or so into her.
Feyre gasped, fingers dipping into his biceps. The stretch of him was pain edged in pleasure—her favorite kind.
Rhys broke the kiss.
“Breathe,” he ordered, eyes scanning her face. The monster was lurking just behind the mask, watching with animal fascination. “You’re doing so well, Feyre, darling.”
“I can’t—” Feyre didn’t think he’d fit.
“You can,” he interrupted, pushing deeper. “You will.”
Even if she’d wanted to escape him—and she didn’t—, it was too late. Rhys continued pushing without giving her a moment to adjust. All Feyre could do was breath and grasp on to him until he was fully seated inside her. He gave her no time to relax, pulling himself out with a soft groan of pleasure before sliding himself right back into her.
“Look at you,” Rhys breathed, the tendons in his neck strained from keeping himself still inside her. “You take my cock so well. Just as I knew you would.”
Rhys pulled out and thrust back in with the same brutality she’d come to associate with him. Feyre gasped, not out of pain, but desire. It felt good to be treated like she could handle something rough. Like she wasn’t fragile—like she was strong.
Rhys kissed her again, a soft distraction against what was building slowly between them. “You’re mine, and I’m yours,” Rhys breathed, nose nuzzling her own. “I will lay this ruined world at your feet and together, we’ll bring an end to the chaos.”
Feyre met him thrust for thrust, kissing him rather than answering. She could feel the cold of the dark sliding through her, washing out the light that had once existed. With each new slide of Rhys’s cock, Feyre fell further and further into shadow, into the inky darkness that had always been hovering just at the periphery.
Where she belonged.
“Take it,” Rhys moaned into her neck, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “Take all of it.”
As if she had a choice. Rhys gripped her hips, pulling her into him harder and faster, until all Feyre knew was the taste of the salt on his skin and the sound of his breathing in her ear. His hand found her throat again, pinning her beneath him as Rhys thrust over and over. His fingers squeezed just enough to leave her breathless without hurting her. When she looked up, he’d abandoned his illusion. Perhaps he’d lost his focus, or he no longer cared—whatever the case, Feyre couldn’t help the bolt of lust that surged through her when she saw him. Desire so potent it threatened to strangle her began blooming through her body, settling in her cunt until Feyre lost control of everything.
Feyre came again, surprised by the intensity of her orgasm. Her teeth sank into his shoulder to suppress the urge to scream again as Rhys moaned her name, whining ever so softly before slamming himself entirely into her body so he, too, could release himself. Feyre tasted blood, hot and salty, against her tongue.
She came again without meaning to, squeezed so tight she could barely take a breath. Above her, the monster was huffing, head thrown back in sheer ecstasy.
He collapsed a moment later, face nuzzled into her neck. Sweat slicked down his back and over his forehead, making his golden skin glistening beneath the lights. He didn’t move, his body weight pressing her further into the mattress.
“Feyre,” he breathed, whispering the word into her hair. “Oh, Feyre. You don’t know how long I’ve waited for you.”
“I’m here now,” she said, scraping her nails against his scalp.
He looked up at her, violet eyes searching hers. “What could stop me now?” he asked seemingly himself. “Who could prevent us from our glorious destiny?”
Listen. Listennnnnn. I started writing this in September 2024 after a phone call with my wife @whatishowedyouinthedark and then I abandoned it and then a few months ago she goes hey remember that fic you started? and i was like yeah but I've given up it went nowhere. And she said for my birthday 🥺 and i said MAYBE. And so at the start of June I picked it up and nearly finished it, and then my ADHD ass dropped it again only to look at it 2 days ago, realise my laptop was dead, and then spend the entirety of today working on it and then slide the whole thing onto AO3 literally on the deadline day. I mean her birthday. Anyway HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY I LOVE YOU
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Remember the tags I left on this post about cursed-suit-of-armor Rhys/mortal Feyre? Well…
The crate arrived on Feyre's thirteenth birthday.
She didn't take much notice of it, other than to poke her head out of the unused drawing room that she'd long since turned into a makeshift painting studio to watch a team of three huffing and puffing men maneuver it into the foyer of Archeron Manor.
They made an awful racket getting it off the cart that hauled it up the long gravel drive and through the wide front door. It didn't look particularly heavy, but it was far larger than the crates of exotic fruits and sumptuous textiles that typically came through the manor before Father sold them on. The nails were rusted, bleeding coppery streaks into the dark, patinated wood, as if it had been tucked away in an attic for centuries.
Runes were marked in crumbling paint on the front of the crate, the sort that charlatans charged a copper to carve above thresholds. The sort meant to keep faeries out—or in.
They were probably the reason one of the men had a wild look in his eye, like the rabbit Feyre once found caught in a snare set up by one of the groundskeeper's sons just beyond the hedges that ring the outer edges of the estate. The son, when Feyre freed the poor thing and carried it to the hothouses to see if Elain knew how to set its broken leg, had gotten the same look in his eye until Feyre promised not to tell her father that the groundskeeper and his boys were poaching on Archeron land.
He still got a shifty look about him whenever Feyre took her rabbit out into the gardens on nice days, and she'd long since committed it to memory. The rapid eye movements, the ruddy cheeks, the thinned lips—
The men dropped the crate like it was on fire, and the frightened one turned away, scrubbing his hands on his trousers.
His fear was contagious, it seemed. Even the footman who opened the door had backed himself against the wall, fingering his iron cuff links, and the maids waiting in the slim doorway leading to the servants' staircases stood stock still, frozen.
No one made any move to sweep up the dust and splinters that followed in the crate's wake.
One maid—the one who'd warned Feyre last week that she could not lay the fire in the hearth in Feyre's bedroom as long as she was thirteen, because thirteen was an unlucky number—spun herself in three circles and made a superstitious sign over her apron.
It didn't matter much to Feyre that she did so, not at the time. Whatever was in the crate was clearly not a birthday gift for her—it was rare that anyone but Elain remembered—and so the crate and the servants' superstitions were nothing to concern herself with. Her father wouldn't bring a live faerie into his own home, if only out of shrewd self-preservation than any sense of paternal protectiveness for his daughters, so Feyre didn't bother getting invested.
It wasn’t like she had ever seen hide or hair of any faeries below the Wall, nor any of the smoking rubble or mushroom rings they supposedly left behind whenever they broke through the barrier between the mortals and the fae. And although the girls Elain invited over for tea sometimes whispered stories of kidnapped maidens to one another, Feyre always found it hard to believe any of them, since Nesta so delighted in meanly poking holes in their flimsy tales.
Besides, even if it were true, what faerie lord would want a pretty mortal girl? Were there not enough breathtaking faerie ladies above the Wall for them?
All in all, she didn't feel particularly compelled to cross herself or count the beads on the iron bracelet around her wrist or reach for one of the hideously costly ash branches her father had conspicuously placed inside the umbrella stand beside the door.
The maids would have been better off fearing the oily noblemen from the continent who came to bargain for Nesta's hand with Father or the rats that sometimes hid under the sacks of flour in the pantry. There were all sorts of dangers an intrepid servant girl might stumble across in the line of her work worth fearing.
A dusty old crate did not seem like one of them.
And Feyre was so amused with her list of all the sensible things the maids ought to fear instead—loose stair treads, stomach bugs, possibly even a pack of rabid wolves that somehow developed a taste for pretty serving girls—that she almost didn't notice when Father appeared in the doorway of his study across the hall, a proud grin splitting his face.
But how could she not when he clapped his hands together loudly enough to make everyone else jump a foot?
"Perfect, perfect," he said, rubbing his hands together at the sight of the crate, "I heard there was some trouble over the channel, but I knew my men were tougher than a little storm!"
His tone was lighthearted, and he clasped hands with each of the men, smiling as if they were good friends. No one smiled back.
"Well, come on then. In here," he continued after an awkward pause, but his own smile didn't fade. He simply waved the men inside that mysterious den of dark wood and leather, and with a symphony of grunts, the crate disappeared.
Feyre, sensing the excitement was at an end, turned back toward the drawing room—
“Feyre!”
She startled at the sound of her name in her father’s voice.
“…Yes?”
The superstitious maid sucked in a breath and shot her a furtive look.
Father did not notice, even when Feyre raised a brow at the girl. He was too busy watching the men in his study as he jerked his chin at her. “Come, come see.”
He seemed especially proud. He must have been, if he had decided one of his daughters was a worthy audience for the unveiling of his new… whatever was inside the crate.
Feyre waffled for a moment over the paintbrush and palette she was still clutching in one hand; she'd been too nosy and curious when the fuss started to waste time setting them down. But this was the first time in recent memory that Father had bothered to look at her, much less address her, and if she disappeared back into the drawing room—even for just one second—to free her hands, he might forget about her again.
And, a plaintive, wounded little voice whispered, in the most distant reaches of her mind, it's my birthday.
So she held them close but carried them with her, angling herself carefully in the study's doorway so her paint-smeared pinafore did not mark Father’s fine suit.
The men had already set the crate in an empty space between two tall windows. The rabbit-eyed man looked horrified when he looked up and saw her, the same way Father’s business associates used to look horrified when he dragged his three small daughters along to meetings when they were very young—only worse. Much worse, somehow, in a way Feyre could not quite put her finger on.
But Father did not notice him either, too busy snatching up the crowbar one of the men pulled from a loop on his belt and offered to him. He wedged it between the slats of the crate eagerly, working and pulling until the painted panel came loose.
Feyre watched and tried to pretend she wasn't hoping that he'd finally remembered to buy her a birthday gift. A large one, to make up for all the birthdays he had forgotten since Mother died.
The front panel fell forward, and the men caught it before it could hit Father's hand-knotted Scythian rug.
Oh.
Feyre's heart stuttered in her chest.
A tall, broad suit of dark armor stood at attention inside the crate. It was breathtaking, unlike anything Feyre had ever seen, all sharp points and lethal edges, fashioned from scales of ebony leather and onyx metal that seemed to gobble up the light rather than reflect it. The helm was carved from the same black metal, its overlapping ridges resembling feathers or scales—or perhaps folded wings. Feyre could not quite decide.
Two black hollows marked where the eyes should have been, tilted upward. Feline.
Some trick of the shaping made the forged faceplate appear almost amused. Feyre stared at it, not quite as unsettled as she knew she ought to have been by the thought of amusement stamped into a suit of armor.
There were nicks in the leather and dents in the metal, signs that whichever warrior had worn it had seen battle.
She wondered if that cold, cruel amusement had been the last thing his enemies ever saw.
At her side, Father put his hands on his hips, beaming. “A little reward from one of my business partners on the continent for the success of the Bharat shipment. A suit of faerie armor, left in one of the camps they fled at the end of the War.”
A hand fell on Feyre’s shoulder, and she jumped, the paintbrush and palette rattling against one another, only to discover it was her father, trying to pull her into his side.
"Rumor has it," he whispered down to her, "that it belonged to a High Lord's son."
Feyre let out a squeaking sound.
“What a prize,” he chuckled, squeezing her.
Beyond the wide windows, the sun shifted behind a cloud, and the shadows that fell across the room seemed to gather in the hollows of the armor’s cut-out eyes.
Feyre's teeth sank into her lower lip.
And, unbidden, her fingers twitched around her paintbrush.
Feyre grabbed his wrists, steering them from her hips to the ties on the front of her trousers. "You're going to give me everything?" she breathed.
Her scent sweetened, flooding the cave with a rich perfume. Rhys's head spun. "Yes."
"Then give it to me," Feyre demanded.
I swear I didn’t mean to start another WIP, but then I went on a historical romance reading binge, and out of my docs popped a Feysand regency-hewn-city mashup loosely based on Devil in Winter by my new queen Lisa Kleypas, and LOOK AT HOW EXCITING IT IS:
Rhys was right: the girl was a poor dancer. She didn’t stumble, but her first steps were uncertain, and they didn’t gain confidence even as the other dancers found a rhythm. There was a sweetness to her inexperience, and he found himself pulling her needlessly close.
Rather than avert her eyes in embarrassment, she assessed him with a cool, storm-grey gaze. “I have a proposition.”
“Propositions from beautiful females are my favorite kind.” If she proposed a liaison, he would have a hard time refusing her. She was slighter and younger than he usually preferred, but her fresh-faced innocence was at odds with the wariness in her eyes. He indulged himself for a moment by imagining her nestled in the white down of his duvet, naked and blushing, her eyes colored with lust rather than cleverness.
“You should marry me.”
Mother above. “Ah, that’s my least favorite proposition. I get so many marriage proposals that they’ve become tiresome.”
“Once you choose a wife, you’ll no longer receive them. You’ll be able to hold court unencumbered by dolled-up girls and fathers with ulterior motives.” The statement was punctuated by an unintentional stomp on his left toes.
He wondered if she’d bring her boldness to the bedroom. “Why should I choose you, Miss…?” Instinctively, he reached out to pluck her name for himself, but his power bounced off an impressive boundary of solid mental iron.
“Feyre Archeron.”
“Your father is the Prince of Merchants? Unless I’m mistaken, you have two older sisters.” If Archeron was throwing his youngest daughter at Rhys like this, he must be truly desperate. “If I wanted to connect myself with your family, why wouldn’t I have chosen one of them?”
“Just because they don’t interest you doesn’t mean I won’t.”
“And why should I be interested?” The music swelled, and Feyre tensed as he lifted her by the waist in a turn. “You have the rest of the waltz to make your case.”
The pale length of her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the only sign of faltering confidence. “I’m aware of your… proclivities, my Lord, and if you were to marry me, I would expect neither your attention nor your fidelity.”
He pulled her close enough that her breath brushed against his collar. “Go on.”
“I will come to your bed upon request until I bear you an heir, and in the meantime, you will be free to do what—and who—you please.”
“Just one son?”
“Two, then.” She didn’t miss a beat. “If that would reassure you.”
“Hmm.” He touched his nose to her temple and pretended to consider. She smelled incredible, like lilac and pear, her scent amplified by the exertion of dancing. Perhaps he could spin this in his favor yet. “I could negotiate a similar arrangement with any number of females, and the Archeron bloodline is not particularly powerful. I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”
“My family might not be powerful, but I am.”
It wouldn’t be the first time someone had lied about their power in an attempt to snare him. “Is that so?”
She gave a barely perceptible nod against his collar.
“You’ll have to be more specific. How far can you winnow?” Poor Feyre, sent here by her father to sell herself to him, and he was engaging with the offer in bad faith. The longer he had her pressed against him like this, though, the more he felt the deception would be worth it to get her in his bed. His body was already responding to the small hands clutching at his jacket in an attempt to follow the waltz, but sweet, determined Feyre didn’t appear to notice.
“I’ve yet to try a distance that proved challenging.” There was a touch of childish pride in her voice, and he resisted the urge to press his lips to her forehead.
“What’s the furthest distance you’ve done?”
“Cesere and back. My mother wanted to buy a carpet.”
He almost missed a step. Archeron’s wife had been dead nearly a decade, which meant Feyre was claiming to have winnowed halfway across the Night Court, presumably towing her adult mother, when she was just a child.
It was laughable, really. Rhys renewed his effort to slip through her mental shields, eager to catch her in the lie and see a little mortified color on her face. “Winnowing isn’t an unusual skill,” he said, buying time. “I’d expect the mother of my heir to have other talents.”
“I can do more than winnow,” she said with a hint of endearing defensiveness.
“The waltz is nearly over, darling, and I’m starting to consider better uses for your tight lips.”
It’s not a discussion for polite company. The soft whisper against his mental barriers made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, so intimate and sweet he could almost taste it.
He missed a step, then. Just a small one. You’re a daemati.
“That boy seems nice. Is it serious?”
“No! No. Definitely not. Just a couple of dates.”
“Are you going to see him again?”
Feyre looked down at her lap. “I don't think so. The chemistry just isn’t there.”
Rhys took a seat next to her. “That’s good. It’s good to know what you want.”
