surren (mid-acomaf)
“I brought blood.”
Amren looks up, her lips already sliding up at the sound of this voice. “Hello, Suri.”
The Suriel grins back and perches on the edge of Amren’s bed, flipping its cloaks off to the side so they don’t wrinkle. “How are things, little dragon girl?”
Amren bares her canines and the Suriel laughs, handing over the crystal glass of blood. “Keep that. I stole it off a witch in the woods.”
“She didn’t catch you, I assume.”
“I’m only caught when I want to be.”
Amren takes the goblet of blood and drains half of it. “Excellent.”
“Things, fire drake. How are things?”
“Things are fine, you insatiable gossip. Feyre’s staying with Rhys permanently, now.”
The Suriel gasps, flattening its hands on the bed. “And you didn’t open with that?”
“I like to take my time.”
“Well, don’t. I need details.”
Amren sits on an antique (very antique) velvet armchair across from it. “Alright. You’d better be eternally grateful for this. I’m talking blood for centuries.”
The Suriel gestures to the glass resting between Amren’s sharp-filed nails.
“They’re mates. Feyre doesn’t know.”
The Suriel lets out a shriek that could probably be heard all the way up at the cabin.
“Oh Gods,” Amren says.
“Mates? Mates? Do you know what this means?”
“It means Rhys is too damn nice for his own good, because he won’t tell her.”
The corners of the Suriel’s lips poke up. “She’ll figure it out.”
“She will not.”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
“Suri. No.”
The Suriel’s mouth spreads into a wide grin, and it’s out the window before Amren can protest.