(n.) the strong urge to avoid someone or something
soft!dark!rhysand x fem!highfae!reader
You have spent your entire life knowing that one day, you might belong to Rhysand.
cw: mdni, dark(ish) themes, possessive/obsessive behaviour, big fat power imbalance, arranged marriage kinda trope, reader is terrified of rhys, feyre and him aren't mates in this story, problematic themes overall
a/n: writing rhys is so fun
You had been promised to Rhysand long before you understood what marriage even meant.
It was one of those facts that simply existed. Like the Sidra. Like starlight. Like the mountains surrounding Velaris.
Something decided by adults in rooms you were never permitted to enter and discussed over wine while children played elsewhere.
Your father had been one of the Night Court's most trusted courtiers. One of the few males Rhysand's father had genuinely respected.
The agreement had been reached when you were barely old enough to speak in complete sentences.
If Rhysand did not find his mate by the time you came of age, if fate did not intervene with its unpredictable hand, then you would marry.
It wasn't uncommon. It was the sort of arrangement noble families made every day.
Only there was one small problem.
You were completely and utterly terrified of Rhysand.
The first time you remembered meeting him, you had been perhaps sixteen, young enough to still hide behind your father whenever unfamiliar people addressed you.
Rhysand had already been well over a century old. Already taller than most males in the room. Already powerful enough that people unconsciously moved aside when he entered. Already carrying himself like someone destined to rule.
You remembered peeking around your father's shoulder, and seeing violet eyes settle on you.
Gods.
You had nearly died, not literally. But your heart had certainly attempted to flee your body.
Rhysand had smiled at you, a slow curve of his lips that was equal parts amusement and something else entirely, something you were far too young and far too sheltered to identify. And you had immediately hidden again.
The sound of his laughter had followed you all evening.
From that moment onward, you had spent most of your life avoiding him at all cost.
When he returned from training in the Illyrian mountains, you disappeared. When he attended court functions, you developed sudden illnesses. When your father informed you that Rhysand wished to spend time with you, you found increasingly ridiculous excuses.
Once, you had claimed you needed to reorganize your books, all three hundred of them, alphabetically, by color, and then by height. Another time, you insisted that a particular flowerpot in the garden required your immediate and undivided attention, as it had been looking "rather sad" lately.
Your father had nearly laughed himself sick.
Rhysand, unfortunately, had only smiled.
"You know," he'd said conversationally while watching you attempt to disappear behind a particularly decorative shrub, "I'm beginning to think she's avoiding me."
You had nearly tripped over your own feet.
Your father had sighed into his wine. "You frighten her."
Rhysand's gaze had remained exactly where you stood frozen.
"I know."
Nothing more, just that quiet, god-forsaken certainty he'd always possessed.
It only made everything worse.
He never chased you. Never cornered you. Never insisted you stay. He simply watched you flee with the endless patience of someone entirely unconcerned by the distance between you.
Like he had all the time in the world. Perhaps he did.
You certainly didn't. You couldn't help it.
He was overwhelming, even then. Before becoming High Lord. Before the reputation of being the most powerful male in Prythian.
He had possessed a presence unlike anyone else.
And whenever those impossible violet eyes settled on you, it felt as though he saw entirely too much.
So you hid. And he watched. Patiently, always patiently, because he had never been anything else when it came to you.
Years passed. Then decades. Then centuries.
Your father died. Soon after the tragedy that took both his sister and mother, Rhysand's father followed.
And suddenly the terrifying heir became High Lord.
The entire Night Court shifted beneath his command. Cassian became General. Azriel became Spymaster. Amren became his second-in-command. Mor his third-in-command.
The Inner Circle slowly took shape around him. They were warriors, leaders, survivors, bound together by blood, battle, and an unshakeable devotion to their High Lord. They had fought in wars long before you were born, had bled and killed and nearly died for the court they loved.
And somehow, there was you.
You had no idea what your place among them was supposed to be. You couldn't fight, couldn't spy, couldn't command armies. Had never even stepped foot on a battlefield. While they carried centuries of scars, your life had remained sheltered, peaceful and safe. You often felt like an accidental addition to a group you had no business belonging to.
Still, when Rhysand informed you that you too would be moving into the Town House, you weren't exactly surprised.
But disappointed. Hopeful, perhaps, because some foolish part of you had whispered that maybe, just maybe, the arrangement would die alongside your fathers. That Rhysand would become too busy, too occupied ruling an entire court, too distracted by the weight of his new responsibilities to remember an agreement made centuries ago.
You had been wrong.
Instead, your belongings were packed. Your room prepared. Before you knew it, you found yourself living beneath the same roof as the most powerful male in Prythian.
And your future remained exactly where it had always been; tied to Rhysand. The subject unspoken of, but always present. Neither of you discussed it. You certainly weren't brave enough to. And Rhysand…Rhysand never seemed interested in forcing the conversation.
Which, somehow, was even more unnerving. It was as though he had already decided the ending and was merely waiting for the story to catch up to his expectations.
You spent years navigating around him, around all of them. Growing closer to the Inner Circle while never quite feeling like one of them.
Mor dragged you shopping until your feet ached and your stomach hurt from laughing. Cassian annoyed you relentlessly and somehow made you feel more like a younger sister than an outsider. Azriel appeared silently whenever you needed help. Even Amren grew strangely fond of you, though she would sooner drink spoiled blood than admit it aloud.
You loved them, truly.
But there was always a distance, an invisible line. Because they belonged to one another in a way you never quite did.
Then Amarantha came. And when Rhysand was trapped Under the Mountain, the world changed in ways you couldn't fully comprehend.
For fifty years he was gone.
The strangest thing about those years was discovering how much space he'd occupied in your life.
Because suddenly he wasn't there. No deep laughter drifting through the Town House late at night. No familiar feeling of awareness prickling over your skin whenever he happened to look your way.
Nothing.
And somehow his absence felt larger than his presence had.
You hated admitting that. Especially to yourself.
You had expected to feel relief. Instead, you found yourself pausing whenever anyone mentioned Under the Mountain. Listening a little too carefully whenever the others talked of Amarantha.
Sometimes, standing on the balcony of the Town House long after everyone else had gone to sleep, you caught yourself staring toward the horizon, wondering whether someone like Rhysand could truly be broken.
Whether anything in the world was capable of dimming a force that had always seemed…inevitable.
The answer, it seemed, was yes. Though not entirely.
During those decades, life continued in Velaris. It had to. The city endured, and the Inner Circle protected Velaris with fierce determination, ensuring that Amarantha's corruption never touched the hidden sanctuary Rhysand had so carefully build.
The Town House remained full. Just…quieter. Even Cassian laughed a little less.
For the first time in your life, the future felt strangely unwritten. There was no Rhysand quietly existing at the edge of every decision, no overwhelming presence unconsciously shaping the rhythm of your days.
And somewhere during those fifty years, you began building something that belonged solely to you.
Your own friends. Your own routines. Your own apartment.
The apartment had been a battle. Not a dramatic one. There hadn't been any shouting or arguments. Just subtle resistance, the kind Rhysand's family excelled at, the kind that wore you down through sheer persistence, until surrender seemed easier than insisting otherwise.
Cassian had argued that you would be safer at the Town House, that being alone made you vulnerable. Mor had worried that you would become isolated. Azriel had said nothing, but you had felt the weight of his disapproving silence like a physical presence.
Amren, surprisingly, was the one who sided with you. "Let her go," she had said, her voice flat and disinterested. "She's not a child. If she wants to live alone, she should be allowed to."
Eventually, they relented.
You got your apartment. Under the compromise that you would stay at the Town House at least twice a week, a promise you gradually became worse and worse at keeping.
Because your apartment represented freedom. Limited freedom, certainly, but freedom nonetheless. It was a space that belonged entirely to you, filled with books you had chosen, plants you liked and paintings you had admired.
You built a life entirely separate from Rhysand. Or as separate as it could truly be.
Cassian still dropped by unexpectedly under increasingly transparent excuses. Azriel's shadows somehow always seemed to know when you walked home alone. Mor continued dragging you to Rita's whenever she decided you'd spent too many evenings hiding behind a book.
You loved them for it. Even if it occasionally felt suspiciously coordinated.
Sometimes at Rita's, you watched Mor flirt openly with strangers. Watched her laugh, choose whichever male caught her interest that evening, and leave with him without a backward glance. Watched her return the following day like nothing had happened, no explanations required, no apologies offered.
You wondered what that kind of freedom felt like.
What it might be like to someday find your person. Not a future husband selected by men long gone. Not something arranged through politics. Not the High Lord.
Someone yours. Someone who chose you. Someone you chose back.
You held onto that dream stubbornly.
Even when Cassian scared away half the males who approached you. Even when Azriel learned the identities of every male who expressed interest.
Even when part of you suspected Rhysand would never truly allow another male near you. Not even from beneath a mountain.
You still hoped.
Because fifty years was a very long time. Long enough, you told yourself, for promises to fade. Long enough for old arrangements to lose their meaning.
Long enough to believe that perhaps, when Rhysand finally returned—if he returned—everything would be different.
Then fifty years ended. And the world changed. Without your knowledge, without your permission, without warning.
You were finishing dinner with your friends when Rhysand returned, a mundane moment interrupted by the sudden, inexplicable certainty that something had shifted in the Night Court.
You felt something deep beneath your ribs tighten so suddenly it stole the air from your lungs, though you could not have named it then as anything more than unease, a strange, inexplicable wrongness threading through your thoughts like a hand brushing over the back of your neck.
Rhysand had returned.
The entire Inner Circle was gathered at the Town House when it happened.
Everyone, except you.
You wouldn't learn exactly how furious he had been until later, how he had appeared in the Town House, exhausted and damaged and barely holding himself together. How he had embraced his family, his warriors, his closest confidants. How he had looked around the room, noting each familiar face, his expression growing darker with every moment that passed. How he asked one question.
"Where is she?"
No one dared to answer.
You were not there.
Which, to Rhysand, became the only answer that mattered.
You would not learn later how still he had gone after that moment. How every trace of relief, every fragment of survival, every hard-earned breath Under the Mountain had been set aside like something irrelevant.
How he had simply asked again, calmer, slower this time.
"Where?"
And how no one had been able to answer him immediately because the implication of what it meant to return without you in sight had not yet settled properly into words.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door later that evening, your hand was trembling. You noticed it, and frowned faintly at yourself, blamed the long day, the wine you'd shared over dinner, anything except the truth your body was already beginning to understand.
He was already waiting, seated in your chair, legs crossed elegantly. Surrounded by shadows and looking impossibly beautiful, impossibly dangerous, and impossibly alive.
And when he looked at you, you stopped breathing entirely.
For a moment you couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at the male you had been running from your entire life.
You had imagined this reunion a thousand times. None of those fantasies involved him being angry.
His gaze was already fixed on you, dark and intense and burning with something you couldn't quite identify. Something that made your skin prickle with awareness, your heart pound in your chest, your knees threaten to give out beneath you.
"You weren't home," was the first thing he said.
Home. You weren't sure if the Town House had ever truly felt like home.
"I…" Your voice came out embarrassingly small. "N-No."
You could see the muscle in his cheek twitch, the way something in him tightened at the sound of your voice. His gaze moved over you then, reassuring himself that you were real. That you were unharmed. That after fifty years, he had finally made it back to you.
Then the bond snapped. And the world exploded.
Mate
The word echoed through every part of you.
Mate Mate Mate
You had imagined the mating bond before. Dreamed of it, even. Wondered what it might feel like to experience that cosmic connection, that magical recognition, that perfect union of two souls meant for each other. You had imagined warmth and certainty and joy.
Not this.
Not your entire soul lurching forward as if recognizing something it had spent centuries searching for. Not your knees nearly giving out. Not your heart breaking and healing simultaneously.
Across the room, Rhysand had frozen. For the first time in your life, you saw him stripped utterly bare. Shock, wide and unguarded flashed across his face. Relief so profound it nearly stole your breath.
Then something else crept into his expression. Something infinitely more possessive. Something that made your blood run cold. The expression terrified you. Because suddenly every fear you'd ever carried became real.
You had wanted a mate. You had dreamed of one.
But not like this. Not someone who already had a claim on your future. Not someone powerful enough to remove every alternative.
Tears burned your eyes, and you stumbled backward.
His face immediately changed. Something wary entered his expression. Like he recognized exactly what was happening inside your head.
You hated that. Hated that he knew you so well.
And when he took a step toward you, you ran. Actually ran. One heartbeat he stood across the room. The next you were lunging for the front door. Not because you thought you could outrun him.
Because prey ran. It was instinct. Pure, thoughtless instinct.
You barely reached the door, before a solid body blocked your path. You slammed directly into his hard chest.
A startled noise escaped you as his strong hands closed around your waist, steadying you before you could fall. Your palms landed flat against his chest. The entire thing happened so quickly your mind struggled to process it.
For one awful second, all you could think was that if he'd wanted to, he could have caught you before you'd even taken the first step.
"Mm," he murmured quietly above you, almost to himself. "So that's how we're starting?"
Your heart stopped. Then immediately started trying to beat its way out of your chest.
His voice was not raised, not sharp, not even angry. Nothing about this situation had surprised him at all. As though he had already seen every possible version of this moment and chosen the one where you were in his arms anyway.
His hands remained around your waist, not tightening, not pulling, only there, steadying you. It somehow felt far more intimate than if he'd held you tightly.
You throat bobbed.
His eyes followed the movement instantly.
The invisible thread seemed to hum, warmer now, heavier, like it was settling into place with growing certainty that made your chest tighten painfully.
Slowly, deliberately, he loosened his grip.
You immediately stepped backward.
Rhys let you. He simply released you enough that you could move, though the space between you did not truly feel like space at all, because he followed the motion with nothing more than a subtle shift of his body, as though he had already accounted for exactly how far you might go.
As though he had already measured every possible escape you might attempt.
"I need you to breathe." The words were impossibly gentle.
You hated how your body obeyed. Air filled your lungs in one shaky inhale. His shoulders eased. Just slightly. As though your breathing had been affecting him too.
"You don't have to run," he said. His voice was quieter now, more careful.
You looked at him, really looked.
At the tension beneath that impossible composure. At the tremor in the fingers hanging motionless beside his thighs. At the way his chest expanded a fraction too deeply before every sentence. Like speaking calmly required conscious effort. Like there was something inside him straining so violently against its leash that even breathing had become work.
"Would you let me reject the bond?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.
The answer arrived instantly. Not through words. Through his expression, through the absolute steel in his eyes.
No. No, he wouldn't.
Your heart sank.
Rhysand's gaze dropped for half a heartbeat. Not to your face or your hands. But to you. Like he was seeing you in a way he had never allowed himself before.
"I need you to listen to me," he spoke, his voice even lower than before. Somehow that made it infinitely more dangerous.
"I know this isn't what you wanted." He paused, "I know. And I know you're frightened."
Something had slipped through his control like a breath he hadn't meant to let out.
"But I have waited for you for a very long time."
The words landed too softly. Because nothing about the way he was looking at you matched softness at all. His gaze held yours, unblinking and steady. Patient in a way that made your skin crawl.
"As for what happens next," he murmured quietly, a faint shift in his stance barely perceptible, "you are going to hate me for a while."
A beat passed.
"And I will still be here."
Still, he did not move closer, did not touch you. Your gaze landed briefly to the front door. To the impossible distance between it and you. To the male standing in the way. You knew for a fact, that if he decided you weren't leaving, the door might as well not have existed.
As if he'd read your thoughts, Rhys followed your gaze, and one corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't amusement, not quite. Something rougher, something honest.
"That," he said, "is a different conversation."
That expression returned. The one that made him seem less like a High Lord and more like a male who had been starving for far too long.
Then, just as quickly, control slammed back into place. His throat bobbed. A swallow. A very mortal gesture.
And somehow that affected you more than anything else.
You forced your shoulders to relax. It didn't work.
The connection stretched taut.
Your weight shifted forward without you meaning it to, just slightly. A fraction of movement, the kind your body made when something inside you leaned before thought could stop it. Toward him.
It was not even conscious. Not a decision rationally made. Just the bond, pulling like gravity disguised as instinct.
And yet the effect on him was immediate. Rhysand went utterly still. Like the world had narrowed to that single, almost imperceptible motion. His breath changed. A sharp inhale that he did not fully complete. His hands flexed once, slowly. Like he was physically stopping himself from doing something he had already begun to prepare for.
"Don't," he said, the word quiet.
But it was not directed at you. It seemed to be directed inward, at himself.
You froze, heart suddenly too loud.
"I didn't—" you started, confused, because you hadn't meant to move at all.
"I know," he interrupted gently. Rhysand took a deep breath. "But I am asking you to be careful anyway."
You frowned. "I-I don't understand."
"No." A faint smile ghosted across his mouth. "I don't suppose you do."
The restraint was suddenly louder than anything else in the room.
Rhysand exhaled slowly. His shoulders lowered by a fraction, like he was forcing himself back into himself. Back into control. Back into the version of him you had always known.
But now you had seen the crack. And cracks did not disappear once you noticed them. They only became harder to unsee.
"You are going to make this difficult," he sighed quietly. It almost sounded like amusement, almost.
But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made you want to clench your thighs together.
And then, softer again, "I already know I won’t mind."
Summary: You were his equal, his cauldron-blessed mate made to stand beside him in everything. Or, you thought you were. After a few choice words from your mate, your High Lord, you were not so sure anymore.
Word count: 2k
Warnings: Angst!!, miscommunication, issues with self-worth
a/n: Guys I literally cannot write so we are experimenting with Rhys! This will be a two-shot hehehe <3 love u thanks for reading!!
Part 2
Main Masterlist ♡
~~
To be completely and utterly truthful to yourself, you felt like you were drowning.
Being a High Lord’s mate often came with periods of stress, but the benefits typically outweighed the lows. When you would come home from a grueling day, Rhysand would be equally as tired, and the two of you would fall into bed together and sleep until the next day called. When you found yourself unable to take the pressure, he would be able to tell; the knock at your mind’s barrier would be unnecessary when compared to the connection of the bond. When Rhysand was the one slipping, you would be there, ready to hold him up and stand by his side.
But now, in light of everything, you were drowning with no end in sight.
You hadn’t taken the title on purpose; the honor of being High Lady seemed incongruent with who you really were. You’d fallen in love with Rhys as a healer’s apprentice and grew in ranks as your affection blossomed. It was a shock when the mating bond snapped, the connection forged in almost a decade of loving him. That love had been fragile, unsuspecting. The love of a mating bond was intense, filled with responsibilities.
You weren’t simply a healer any longer. You were a healer and a politician—a diplomat and a bringer of life. The pressure often weighed on you, but it was always manageable. Always worth it when you looked to your family and the love you were granted.
But now, Rhysand was looking at you with closed disappointment, and you weren’t quite sure how to handle that.
“I didn’t even know he would be there,” you repeated, fiddling with your fingers at your waist. “I would have prepared more. I would have—”
Rhys raised his hand, a sturdy desk separating you. His gaze tracked to the floor, and you began chewing at your lip, body wound tightly. Your mate blinked at the carpet.
“I thought we discussed this,” he replied evenly, breath coming out in a sigh. “If there were ever a time anyone from Spring was at a meeting or negotiation, you would leave. We don’t have any kind of relationship with that court. Not since—”
“I know,” you stressed, feet becoming antsy.
Rhys had never been disappointed in you before—not really. He was always tender and forgiving, understanding your role and the stress of the duality. Granted, you had never made an error quite like this one before, and Rhys was under a considerable amount of stress. You hadn’t seen him for longer than a few hours in weeks, the darkness rimming his eyes evidence of that. As you stood there, you came to the humbling realization that you did not feel like a team. You felt alone.
Rhysand’s jaw worked. He flicked his gaze back up to you. “Then why—” he started, “—did you make a deal with the emissary? It goes against everything we’ve discussed.”
Your shoulders slumped. “It’s more complicated than that. Dawn has been blocking resources we need because of their treaty with Spring, and they refused to budge without some semblance of peace. They said they wouldn’t be allied with either side of a war.”
“So the solution was for Night to ally with Spring?”
“I know how it sounds, but if you read the treaty I had written up, you’d see that it’s only—”
“There should be no treaty to begin with.”
“Rhys, there was no other way. The people of Night would have lost vital resources. Herbs and medicines and—”
“Are you not capable of making the medicines? Are you not the head healer of this court?”
Momentarily stunned into silence, you could barely feel the flicker of anger light within you. You jarred back as if pushed, unfamiliar with the man before you. You huffed out a breath, and then another. Rhysand remained stiff behind his desk, tire pulling at his hard expression.
With a confirming nod, you felt the sting of tears spring behind your eyes—whether from hurt or exhaustion, you couldn’t tell. “So I’m not doing that right either, then?”
Your mate flung a lackadaisical hand in the air. “Well, if we are lacking supplies.”
This time, your anger was more present. Your voice rose. “I am doing everything I can for this court. You weren’t there. You aren’t in the clinics. I am running myself ragged to ensure the betterment of our people.”
“My people,” Rhysand bit out. “These are my people. You made your stance clear when you didn’t want to be High Lady. When you didn’t want the responsibilities that went with the title.”
Your shock was like an ugly brand, heating your core until it simmered into a dull ache. You took in an effortful breath, some of your fight still remaining. “I didn’t want the title because it doesn’t mean anything to me. I am a healer first, not a-a ruler. But these are still my people. I still stand by your side.”
If Rhysand saw the hurt marring your face, he didn’t show it. He ran his palm along his jaw and stared up at the ceiling. A tick of silence passed. And then another. His features softened slightly, and when he looked at you again, his gentle eyes lulled you into a false sense of comfort.
“In truth, perhaps it’s better you didn’t take it,” he said, so quietly you almost hadn’t heard it. “It’s not you.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You couldn’t handle it. Not as I do. Not equally.”
The insinuation was devastating. You remembered each of Rhysand’s careful words when you were mated—how you were his equal, his cauldron-blessed mate made to stand beside him in everything. He had spent countless nights murmuring the words against your skin and whispering them into your hair as he thought you slept.
And now he was going against those words; now he was using them against you. He must’ve been. He must’ve known what being his equal meant to you. It was why you worked so hard, why you went against every instinct and placed yourself in the role of a diplomat. He must’ve known, right? There was no better way to hurt you, and he was frustrated, angry, primed to want to lash out.
As you stood before him, once again silent, you considered that he had never meant those words. That he had repeated them, over and over, only because he needed to make himself believe. A mantra, of sorts, to help him grow accustomed to his weak-minded mate.
Your stomach turned, an unfamiliar dread rising in your gut. But maybe you always knew this was coming, because the dread wasn’t so unfamiliar. It had been smaller before, mitigated by Rhysand’s loving gaze, his touch, his assurance that he loved you and valued you and you were his equal.
Now, the feeling was ugly and raw. It was all-consuming, and there was nothing to quell it. This was the truth your mate believed.
You snapped a wall up to stifle the bond, unwilling to let Rhysand know how much this had hurt you. He reared back at the feeling, pressing his palm into his chest.
“What—”
“I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you,” you stated evenly, swallowing hard. “I cannot undo the treaty I’ve had signed, but I will have it sent to the study so you can review it in its entirety.”
“Disappointed?” Rhysand repeated, beginning to round the desk with his hand outstretched.
You stepped out of his path. “If you find the terms of the agreement unsatisfactory, might I suggest sending Mor. She may be more equipped for the task of renegotiating.”
You felt him reaching on his side of the bond, your mate obviously unused to the silent echo. You were always so quick to offer him reassurances, proofs that you were alive and well. He often did the same, and it used to warm you. Now, you were sure the feeling would only add to the sickness you were experiencing.
Not equals.
Obviously, you were not equals, and you had been a fool to think otherwise.
Rhysand said your name, the sound rough and strained. When you didn’t offer him what he desired, he tried again. “I wouldn’t send Mor. I would send you.” He tugged at his roots. “I—I’m at a loss, darling. I don’t understand.”
“Well, I understand plenty. You’ve made your opinions quite clear.”
“Why did you close the bond?” he asked, desperate. As if he hadn’t just insulted that very connection.
“It’s not needed at the moment,” you offered. You were trying to sound detached, emotionless, but the hurt was crawling up your throat, making your words sound wet without tears. They would fall soon, and you needed to leave before that happened.
“Not needed—I’m sorry I was so hard on you. I was—Spring is a sensitive subject, but that is no reason for my ire. I’m sorry, darling. I can’t even—”
Rhysand stopped himself, a seemingly painful breath escaping his chest. You felt bad for a moment, a strong desire to throw yourself into his slightly outstretched arms and explain the hurt almost taking over, but you leaned into resignation instead. He would only lie again—tell you the words you wanted to hear that he so obviously did not believe.
“It’s alright,” you brushed off, swiping away a traitorous tear that punched another breath from Rhysand’s lungs. “I made a mistake. You are right to be angry.”
“No. No, you are right. I wasn’t there. You have supported me and this court through—”
“Just stop, Rhysand.”
Your resignation echoed, weaving through the next excuse he was going to make for you. Had it always been this way, your mate excusing your shortcomings? Or had he cleaned them up quietly, desperate for no one to see?
“Let me feel you again,” Rhysand eventually whispered, searching the planes of your face with hurried eyes. “Or let me in. I don’t understand what’s going on. I-I am truly sorry, my love. Let me fix this.”
You couldn’t meet his gaze, instead fixating on his hands that flexed and clenched into fists. You watched them twitch and pull away from his sides, but he didn’t reach for you again. He remained rooted in his spot, and you remained stagnant in yours.
“I think I just need to be alone.” To process this change, this truth. It felt dramatic after such a short argument—you’d had much louder ones with him before—but none had ever hurt this much.
Rhysand leaned his head down in your peripheral, seeking your eyes that you would not give him. “For how long?” he croaked.
You swiped at another tear. Rhysand’s knuckles whitened by his sides. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to go to the cabin?”
The cabin was his. Everything was his. His friends were yours. His court was your career. His people were not your people.
But healing was yours. You were a healer before him.
You shook your head, the threat of more tears imminent.
Rhysand took a hesitant step forward. “Will you tell me where you go?”
A beat of silence.
“Please.”
You sniffed, unable to open your mouth without a sob tumbling out. And then you winnowed out of the townhouse, only able to do such a thing because Rhys had deemed you family. Because he had deemed you worthy of the privilege.
You weren’t entirely sure that was the truth anymore.
Imagine you have multiple piercings and he’s OBSESSED with them. He thinks they look so absolutely beautiful on you. The stack is so uniquely you somehow, catered to your tastes, and the different studs and earrings you choose to decorate them with reflect your personality and your mood that day. Like on days you’re feeling especially girly, there’ll be diamonds, butterflies, more dangly pieces, but on days you’re feeling a bit more relaxed or not as girly, you’d have coloured stones, even spiders or plain hoops in them. Ever since he started dating you, he’d learned that you cared for your piercings meticulously. Once a week, usually every Sunday, you’d take out all the jewelry and take a shower, paying special attention to your ears, and then you’d use piercing floss to clean out each one. He didn’t even know piercing floss was a thing! But one day he asked if he could do it, just because he wanted to be part of the process, and eventually it became a routine. Every Sunday you’d take out all your jewelry, and he would help you clean each piercing and put it all back. He absolutely adored it when you asked him to pick a stack for you, or asked for help with closing one of the backings. Mostly because he got to touch you and he loved feeling needed, but also because this was so you. He knew your piercings reflected your entire personality, so he adored the thought of getting to choose how you dressed your piercings. And the BUTTERFLIES he’d get when you walked out wearing earrings he picked. Especially if he bought them for you! Ugh, this man is on his knees!! He thinks you're the coolest person ever to have customized your character without caring what other people thought. If anyone ever brings up anything about piercings around him, his first response is to refer them to you about which ones are painful, easily healing, or difficult. Mainly, he just wants a reason to bring you up, though.
Summary: One overheard sentence. One High Lord pushed too far. One mistake that nearly breaks their bond.
Warnings: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, misunderstanding, implied cheating (doesn't actually happen), Amren becoming a peacemaker (shocking), fluff towards the end
See masterlist
She didn't mean to overhear.
Truly, she hadn't. She'd only gone upstairs to find Rhys--she had felt the tug in their bond, the faint ache at the back of her ribs that always meant he was struggling more than he let on. She wanted to check on him. Maybe even convince him to sleep for more than two hours for once.
But when Y/N reached the hallway outside his study, she froze.
Voices. Cassian's. Azriel's. Low, serious.
And Rhys's--quiet, tired in a way that made her chest squeeze. She should have walked away.
She didn't.
"Rhys...you should tell her," Cass was saying.
"What's the point?" Rhys' voice came, rough. "She'll find out eventually."
Y/N's stomach hollowed. Find out...what?
Azriel's voice followed, soft but cutting. "It already looks bad. If she hears it the wrong way- "
"I know how it looks," Rhys snapped. Not angry, just frustrated. Defeated. "Cauldron, Az, I know."
Then Cassian, with a sigh:
"You've spent more time with her this week than with Y/N--your mate, may I add--anyone would get suspicious."
Y/N's heart stopped cold.
Her.
With her.
Who is this...her?
She stepped back without meaning to, the floorboards groaning softly under her heel-
And she panicked. She turned and slipped down the hallway before any of them could sense her, before Rhys could feel the spike of hurt through the bond. She buried it down, smothered it under a tight layer of control until she felt sick.
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, her breathing was all wrong. Her mind was already devouring her alive.
Rhys had been pulling away for weeks. She tried to brush it off as stress, exhaustion, the endless demands placed on him--but gods, she felt him drifting like a tide she couldn't pull back. Late nights. Closed doors. That fading warmth in the bond that she tried so hard not to read into.
Three nights in a row. All with vague excuses: "meetings," "unexpected issues," "I'm sorry, love--another time."
And she believed him. She always believed him.
A soft, sweet scent she didn't recognise lingering on his clothes days ago. She'd asked, testing, light-hearted. Rhys had brushed it off with a too-casual, "Probably from someone I walked past."
But now...now that excuse burned like a lie.
It was a lie.
Her palms were cold. Her throat tight.
Rhys wouldn't cheat. He wouldn't.
But the words she heard, the tone he used, the exhaustion, the distance-
It all twisted together until she couldn't breathe.
Maybe this was why he'd been so withdrawn. Maybe she'd done something wrong. Maybe...maybe he no longer loves her.
And the cruelest past?
The bond between them was quiet. Muted. Like he'd thrown up walls to keep her from feeling too much. From finding out. Her steps faltered as her vision blurred for a heartbeat.
The Mother above, what if he really didn't want her anymore?
Y/N woke up alone.
Again.
Rhys's side of the bed was cold, the sheets barely rumpled--as if he hadn't even tried to sleep beside her. The bond between them throbbed faintly, a dull, weary ache that told her he was still awake, still working, still somewhere she wasn't invited.
She stared at the empty pillow for a long moment, something tightening painfully beneath her ribs. Yesterday's overheard words replayed like a curse. It looped. And looped. And looped.
By midday, she wasn't angry. Not yet. She was...hollow.
She went about her day in a daze--smiling at conversations she couldn't remember, her thoughts always snapping back to the same poisonous possibilities.
Every time the door opened, she looked up.
Every time footsteps sounded down the hall, her heart leapt.
She kept expecting Rhys to appear--tired, apologetic, reaching for her.
He didn't.
He didn't even send a mental touch through the bond. Not one flicker of reassurance. Not one warm pulse to say I'm thinking of you.
It was silence.
And silence--she learned--was the sharpest blade of all.
By nighttime, the hollowness had clarified into something colder. Harder. Her chest felt tight and metallic, her breathing shallow as she sat curled on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket that did nothing to warm her.
When the clock reached past midnight, she finally heard his footsteps.
Late...again.
The door opened softly, cautiously, as if he already knew he'd failed her without knowing why.
Rhys stepped inside.
He looked...wrecked. Shoulders tense, hair mussed from running his hands through it, eyes shadowed with exhaustion so deep she could barely read the violet beneath.
But he smiled when he saw her.
A small, soft smile that once would have melted her whole world. Now, it made her stomach twist.
"Hello, darling," he said quietly. His voice was frayed, but gentle. He crossed the room slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. "I didn't want to wake you."
"I wasn't asleep," she replied flatly. The smile slipped the tiniest bit--but he kept coming. He leaned down, reaching to press a kiss to her temple.
She turned her head away. His lips met air and he froze.
A beat of silence filled the space between them--heavy, startling.
"...Y/N?" His voice was careful now. That High Lord calm he used when he sensed something dangerous. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she said, her tone ice-smooth. "Long day."
He crouched in front of her, searching her face with those keen, perceptive eyes--the ones she used to adore. The ones she now resented for not seeing the obvious.
"You've been quiet since yesterday," he said softly. "Talk to me."
She let out a sharp, humourless huff of laughter.
"Oh, talk to you?" Her voice was sweet, poisoned by honey.
"Why? So you can tell me more lies? Or should I just go ask Cassian and Azriel what else you've been keeping from me?"
Rhys blinked. Confusion flickered. Concern deepened. "What?" he whispered.
She smiled. A cold, wicked little curl of her lips--because the pain had finally curdled into something sharp enough to wield.
"You heard me," she said, each word clipped, dark. "Or should I ask her directly?"
His brows knit, breath catching. "Ask--who?"
And that was it. Her composure, her restraint, her silence--shattering cleanly down the middle.
She stood so suddenly he rocked back on his heels, and when she spoke, her voice was no longer cold.
It was ice cracking.
"You really want to know?" she seethed, eyes blazing.
She took one step toward him-
And delivered her first devastating blow:
"Fine. Let's start with who the hell you've been spending all your time with instead of me."
For a heartbeat, Rhys didn't move. Her accusation hung in the air like smoke, thick and choking.
He stared at her, stunned--because it was so absurd, so impossible, that for the first time in days, something flickered in him that wasn't exhaustion.
Now it was his turn to let out a low, humorless laugh.
"There is no such thi- "
But her face--gods, the way she flinched at that laugh--it punched straight through his chest.
Before he could soften his voice, before he could step closer-
She exploded.
"Oh, don't you dare lie to me now!" Y/N shouted, voice cracking under fury. "Don't you DARE stand there and lie to me like I'm some clueless idiot!"
"Y/N- "
"I overheard you!" she screamed over him, not giving him a single breath to speak. "Last night--outside your office--Cass and Az were practically spelling it out for you!"
Rhys's blood ran cold.
"You what- ?"
"You spent more time with her this week than with me," she spat, venom and heartbreak woven together. "It looks BAD Rhys--that's what Azriel said. Bad."
The floor felt like it tilted under him.
"Wait. Wait. Just--let me explain- "
"Oh, NOW you want to explain?" she barked a laugh, sharp and pained and cruel. so different from his beloved Y/N. "Now that I already know? Now that it all makes sense?"
Rhys closed his eyes for one second--one--trying to breathe, to center himself, to keep control.
She was his wife. His mate. His High Lady. He did NOT yell at her. Ever.
"Y/N," he tried again, "You're not hearing- "
"Oh I'm hearing perfectly," she hissed. "I understand EVERYTHING now. The late nights. The scent on your clothes. The constant excuses. The distance. The way you barely look at me anymore- "
"That's not- "
"Save it!" she cut him off, stepping closer, eyes blazing. "Save your little High Lord excuses, Rhysand. I am DONE being made a fool."
His jaw clenched. His pulse pounded.
He felt it--that dangerous line inside him, the one he guarded with iron control--begin to tremble. She didn't let him speak. She didn't let him breathe.
And Cauldron, he was trying. He was trying so hard not to break but she just kept going.
"Y/N, just STOP for one- "
"You don't touch me, you don't talk to me, and now I KNOW WHY!" she screamed, her voice raw. "I cannot believe I trusted you. I cannot believe-"
Something inside him snapped.
The weeks of sleepless nights, the threats against Velaris, the political sabotage, the collapsing treaty, every burden he'd carried alone so she wouldn't have to-
It all collided with her words and detonated.
"SHUT. UP."
His roar shook the air. She froze.
Silence suffocated the room as her eyes widened--not in anger now, but in shock. Wounded shock.
"I have been having the WORST weeks of my life," he snarled, voice frayed with restraint he was no longer managing. "Trying to keep this court safe, trying to stop an impending, possible war, trying to do EVERYTHING--and instead of asking me what's wrong, you accuse me of cheating on you?"
Her throat bobbed. But she said nothing.
"So forgive me," Rhys spat, "if I don't have the patience tonight for your assumptions."
He saw the hurt bloom across her face--saw it, recognized it--and still the words kept coming.
He couldn't stop himself.
"You think I'm distant?" he demanded. "You think I'm choosing someone over you? Maybe if you acted like a proper High Lady you'd understand what I've been dealing with instead of throwing tantrums- "
Her lips parted in disbelief. Horror.
But he wasn't finished. It spilled out of him--ugly, raw, unfiltered.
"Maybe it was a mistake," he said, cold and furious, "to think you were ready for any of this."
She flinched. A full-body flinch.
Rhys felt it like a blade twisting in his gut. And gods help him--he still didn't take it back.
They stared at each other, breathing hard, the air electric and broken. Then she blinked--slow, shaky--fighting tears with every ounce of strength she had left.
She stepped around him without a word.
"Y/N- " Rhys said, reaching out.
She pulled away from his voice like it burned.
"I'll send someone for my things," she said flatly, not looking at him. "Don't come after me. Don't speak to me. Don't even THINK about me."
His heart stuttered. "Y/N- "
"We're done," she whispered, pulling on her coat with trembling hands. "And we will be discussing how to sever the bond--since I'm such a terrible mate and High Lady."
She walked to the door, opened it and didn't look back.
The slam of the door echoed through the halls long after she disappeared. Rhys stood alone in the silence.
He didn't chase her. Couldn't.
All he felt was a crushing storm of anger. Shame. Exhaustion.
And the gaping hole in the bond where her presence had just vanished.
"Say that part again, girl. Because I must've misheard you the first six times."
Amren's voice cut through the room like a blade dipped in frost.
Y/N sat curled on the edge of the guest bed, eyes red, cheeks wet, hands shaking so badly she had to grip the blanket just to stay upright.
"He...he said..." Y/N choked, voice breaking all over again. "He said I wasn't acting like a proper High Lady. That making me one was a mistake. He- " Her breath hitched sharply. "He said- well, implied that it would've been better if he didn't have me as a mate."
Amren blinked once. Slowly.
As if the words themselves insulted her ancient existence. "Rhysand actually said that to you? Out loud? With his mouth?"
Y/N nodded, another sob ripping free as if the confirmation stabbed deeper. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, he did."
Amren's expression didn't soften--but something inside her eyes shifted. A dark, simmering storm of fury that promised bloodshed if she chose it.
"That idiot." Her voice was quiet, lethal. "That absolute, insufferable, self-sacrificing idiot."
Y/N let out a broken sound that might've been a laugh, might've been another sob. Amren sat beside her--not touching, but close enough that Y/N felt anchored by the sheer solidity of her presence.
"Well?" Amren said. "Keep going. Empty it out."
So she did.
She told her everything--raw and unfiltered. Every accusation she had thrown, every word Rhys had snapped at her, how this whole thing even started and...the final moment--the bond she'd felt splinter under his voice. How she'd walked out while he just stood there, silent and furious.
By the time Y/N finished, she was shaking so violently that she had to press both palms against her knees just to steady herself.
"And- and the way he looked at me," Y/N whispered, chest heaving, "I don't even know if he still loves me. I don't- I can't- "
Her voice caught, broke, collapsed. Amren finally placed a hand on her back.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It wasn't motherly.
It was Amren. Grounding. Precise. Certain.
"He loves you, you fool."
Y/N sobbed harder. After a long moment, voice trembling, she whispered:
"...Do you know who she is?"
Amren frowned. "Who?"
"Who Rhysand has been cheating on me with," Y/N said desperately, wiping her cheeks with trembling fingers. "Cassian and Azriel clearly know. They didn't tell me. They didn't tell ME. So if YOU know--if you've heard ANYTHING--please, just tell me. Please."
Amren stared at her for a full three seconds. Then:
"Girl."
It wasn't an endearment. It was disbelief.
"If Rhysand were actually sticking his dick somewhere it didn't belong, I would've told you before he finished buckling his pants. I fear no male, and certainly not that brooding bat."
Y/N blinked at her through tears. Amren continued, curt and blunt as always: “But I've heard nothing. Seen nothing. And believe me--if something was happening behind your back, I would smell it before anyone else."
Y/N's face crumpled.
"So...you don't know?"
"No," Amren confirmed. "Because there is no one."
"But Cass- Az- "
"They know something," Amren cut in sharply. "But it isn't what you think."
Y/N swallowed, shaking her head. "No. You're wrong. I heard it all properly clear. Why are they hiding something?"
Amren looked away, jaw tight.
"Because they are hiding something. And I'm gonna get to the bottom of this."
That didn't soothe Y/N. Not even close.
Her breaths grew shallow. Erratic. Her lip trembled as if the weight of everything finally became too much.
"Amren," she whispered, voice tiny, broken. "Why would he say all those things to me? Why would he--why would he hurt me like that?"
Amren closed her eyes.
"Because he is tired," she said quietly. "And stupid. And reckless with the things he holds dear when he is drowning."
Y/N let out a soft, strangled cry. "I don't want to lose him but if what I heard is true, I do need to break our bond."
Amren's voice gentled by a fraction. "Then don't make any decisions tonight."
Y/N nodded faintly. And then her body gave out.
She slumped sideways, exhaustion finally dragging her under. Her breaths evened. Her fingers loosened their death grip on the blanket.
Amren watched her sleep.
For a long, silent minute, she simply stood there--arms crossed, ancient mind calculating, fury simmering with every inch of her.
Then she sighed.
"I suppose I'll have to deal with the three batshits myself."
She pulled the blanket higher on Y/N, tucking her in with surprisingly careful hands.
"Unbelievable," she muttered. "You would think the High Lord of the Night Court knew how to use his words."
She stepped away, her eyes flashing silver.
Then: "Time to drag Cassian and Azriel into this mess--before those idiots let the whole mating bond go to hell."
With that, she put on her boots and closed the door.
Oh how Cassian had missed his bed. After three whole weeks away in the Illyrian camps, it felt amazing to be back at home, in his beloved bed. And now, he was in a beautiful, peaceful dream--one where he was shirtless (obviously), admired (as he deserved), and for some reason, winning a wrestling match against a very smug-looking Rhysand--when a voice like a razor dragged across stone slashed into the dream.
"Wake up, you overgrown, winged buffoon."
Cassian jerked so hard he nearly rolled off the bed. His eyes flew open to-
"Amren," he croaked, blinking at the petite creature standing on his mattress like some vengeful housecat. "Are you--are you standing on me?"
"Unfortunately," she said, stepping over his leg with a look of disgust. "Get up."
Cassian pushed himself onto his elbows. "It's- " he squinted toward the window "-The middle of the Cauldron-damned night. Why are you here? Did you run out of victims?"
Before Amren could reply, a groan came from near the door. Azriel came in slowly, shadows sluggish and sleepy around him, hair a disaster.
"What's happening?" Az rasped, rubbing a hand over his face.
Amren didn't even look at him as she pointed toward the door. "Both of you. Out. Now. And put on pants, Cassian. No one wants to see all...that"--she gestured vaguely at his bare torso--"at this hour."
Cassian sputtered. "Everyone wants to see this. This is public art."
Azriel yawned so wide his eyes watered. "Just...do what she says," he muttered.
Cassian stared at him, betrayed. "You're siding with her?"
Az just shrugged in that exhausted, "I've already accepted my fate," way and trudged toward the door.
Cassian scrambled for his pants, hopped into them halfway successfully, and followed.
When he stepped into the living room, Amren was perched on an armchair like some ancient gargoyle preparing to deliver judgment. Azriel leaned against the table, arms crossed, shadows awake now and twitching with mild concern.
Cassian dropped onto the couch, rubbing his eyes. "Okay." He pointed at Amren. "Start talking. Did Rhys blow up something? Are we being invaded? Because if I got out of bed for anything less than an apocalypse, I swear- "
Amren exhaled slowly, heavily--which immediately shut him up.
"This," she said, "is worse."
Azriel's posture sharpened.
Cassian sat up straighter. "What's worse than the apocalypse?"
Amren fixed them both with a deadly look.
"I'm about to tell you. And you both better answer all of my questions."
Amren had explained everything. Every shouted word, every accusation, every razor-edged insult Rhysand had spit in a moment of idiocy. By the time she finished, Cassian's jaw was on the floor and Azriel looked like someone had knocked all the air from his lungs.
Cassian was the first to speak. "So...why did they even fight?"
Azriel dragged a hand down his face, shadows coiling with agitation. "I knew this would happen," he muttered, voice low. "I knew this was going to blow up like this."
Amren snorted. "Oh, that isn't even the worst part."
Both males stiffened.
"The worst part," she continued, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve, "is that they- or more like Y/N, is going to break the bond."
Cassian's wings flared. "What?"
Azriel's head snapped up. "Break the- Amren, no. Rhysand would never do that. He loves Y/N down to the marrow of his bones. He would never- "
"Don't be an idiot," Amren cut in sharply. "He did. Or at least, he said enough to make her believe it. And she's at my house right now, sleeping after sobbing into one of my pillows because she is convinced that her mate regrets her existence."
Cassian's voice cracked. "What did he say?"
"Oh, something about her being an incompetent High Lady and their mating being a cursed mistake," Amren said with a dismissive flick. "You know. Very romantic."
Both males stared at her as if struck.
Azriel whispered, horrified, "Rhysand wouldn't- "
"He did." Amren snapped. "Now stop saying what he wouldn't do. He already did it."
Cassian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay--okay, but--how did it even start? You told us everything that happened during the fight. But what started all this? How did it begin?"
Amren slowly lifted an eyebrow. A dangerous eyebrow.
"Oh? You don't know?"
Cassian blinked. "No?"
Azriel turned to him sharply. "Cassian- " he shot him a look--a stop talking look-- shadows twitching nervously.
Amren jabbed a finger toward Azriel. "No. Don't do that. Don't you dare. Both of you started this mess to begin with."
Cassian threw up his hands. "How the hell did we start a fight between Rhys and his mate?"
Amren's smile was razor-thin. "What have you been keeping secret for Rhysand?"
The room went dangerously quiet.
Amren continued, voice silken and lethal: "Y/N overheard your little conversation with him. The one where you told Rhys how he's been spending more time with her than with his mate. Y/N heard it all--every word you two geniuses whispered behind her back."
Azriel went still as stone.
Amren leaned back. "She told me everything. The mysterious female scent on his clothes. The late nights. The excuses. The distance. And then--your conversation confirming it all. She thinks he's cheating. And she's not just hurt by Rhysand." Her eyes flashed. "She's hurt by you two keeping whatever this secret female situation is hidden from her.”
Cassian swallowed. Hard.
Amren crossed her legs. "Now," Her voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "Spill it."
"No," Cassian and Azriel said at the exact same time.
Amren's eyebrow climbed so high it nearly left her forehead.
The two males exchanged a look of pure panic.
Azriel clenched his throat, shadows curling tight. "We...can't. But tell Y/N that it's not what she thinks it is. What she heard- " He shook his head. "It wasn't that."
Cassian bobbed his head vigorously. "Yeah, yeah, not like that at all. And Rhys would never cheat. He knows damn well that if he ever did, we'd be the ones he'd have to face first."
"And we'd skin him," Azriel muttered.
Amren's voice was frost. "Then why the fuck aren't you saying anything? Spill. It."
Cassian immediately descended into garbled nonsense. "Amren, look, we really can't, we made Rhys a promise--like a blood-oath-but-without-the-blood-kind of thing--and we can't break it and- "
Azriel cut him off sharply. "We simply can't. But it's not what she thinks. None of this is."
Amren rose from her chair in one slow, lethal movement. She planted her hands on her hips, staring at the two of them like they were particularly disappointing children.
"Who is this female?" she demanded. "Why is she so damn important that you're shielding her from your High Lady?"
Cassian choked. "It's not like that! It's not- it's not even someone in that way- "
"We gave Rhys a promise," Azriel said, voice flat with finality. "And we cannot break it. Under any circumstances."
Then he turned and glared at Cassian.
"I told him this would happen. I told him that if Y/N heard about this from anyone except him, she would interpret it the wrong way. And look at that--she did. But does anyone in this Court ever listen to me?" His wings flared. "No. And yet I am always right."
Cassian threw up his hands. "Oh, come on--Az don't start with that- "
"Don't start?" Shadows crackled around him. "I said this would happen. I explained it in detail. And what did he do- "
"Oh, please," Cassian groaned. "Like you didn't help keep the secret- "
Amren snapped. "ENOUGH."
Silence slammed into the room.
She looked up at the ceiling as if praying for patience from a god who had long abandoned her. Then she exhaled, sharp and deliberate.
"Well," she muttered. "I suppose we're going to have to do this the hard way."
And with that, she swept past them, heading for the door.
Cassian and Azriel exchanged one more helpless look before scrambling after her--both still in their pyjamas, hair mussed, wings ruffled, dignity entirely forgotten.
"Amren?" Cassian called, half-panicked as they followed her out.
"Where are we going?" Azriel demanded.
Amren didn't slow. "Fixing this mess," she said. "Before the two of you make it worse."
The townhouse door creaked open beneath her hand. Silence greeted them--thick, heavy, wrong.
Cassian and Azriel stepped in behind her, wings folding as their eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Then Cassian let out a low, horrified whistle. The place was wrecked. Chairs overturned. A table split clean in half. Books scattered in a glittering pool on the floor. The living room looked like a brute had torn through it, except this brute was the High Lord himself.
Azriel's shadows recoiled from the debris, twitching nervously. "He lost control."
Cassian nudged a broken picture frame with his boot. "This is bad. Really bad."
Amren didn't even glance at the destruction. "Search the lower rooms," she ordered, already heading for the stairs. "I'll take upstairs."
She didn't need to explain who they were looking for. Rhysand might as well have been bleeding on the floor for how god-awful everything felt.
Amren ascended the staircase slowly, letting the charged air guide her scent trail. At the top, she turned left toward the bedroom. The door was half-open. She pushed it with a fingertip. And...there he was.
Rhysand lay on Y/N's side of the bed. Fully clothed. Flat on his back. His eyes were open but unfocused, staring through the balcony doors into the night sky like he expected answers to fall out of it.
Amren approached the bed, walked around it, and snapped her fingers in front of of his face. "Hey."
Nothing.
She leaned down until her eyes were level with his. "Hey."
Rhysand's gaze slid toward her, dull and empty. Then back to the balcony.
"She's going to break the bond," he whispered. "I didn't mean any of it. I swear."
Amren rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. "Don't get all sappy on me. I hate it when you people do feelings."
When he didn't move, she grabbed his arm with both hands and hauled him upright--because if she waited for him to stand on his own, they'd be here until the end of days.
Rhys swayed, staring straight through her.
"Leave me alone, Amren," he murmured. "I've made the greatest mistake of my life tonight. I don't think I'll recover from it."
"Yeah, you did." Amren said tartly. "And then you also didn't follow after her or give her any explanation without insulting her. Who the hell calls their wife, their mate, an incompetent High Lady or a cursed existence."
He flinched. "So she told you."
"She's staying with me, you dipshit," Amren snapped. "Of course she told me."
Rhys's jaw clenched. "She said she'll send someone to gather her things. She...she really wants this to be over."
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Something close to terror.
Before Amren could respond, footsteps thundered up the stairs.
Cassian burst into the room first, looking like he expected Rhysand to be half-dead. "We're in deep shit right now," he groaned. "Rhys, this isn't the time to wallow. Go and get your woman back."
Azriel followed silently, wings tucked tight. He didn't hesitate--he walked right up and crouched in front of Rhys, glaring at him like a judge sentencing a criminal.
"This is all your fault," Azriel said, voice low and lethal. "You made us keep that secret. Now all three of us look like traitors to Y/N."
Rhys stared blankly at him. "This is what you're worried about? Your precious reputation?"
Azriel's shadows flared. "No. I'm worried about Y/N. I'm worried about the fact that you didn't explain the situation to her. I'm worried because I told you--multiple times--that this would happen. That she needed to hear it from you. That she would misunderstand everything if she found out some other way."
He jabbed a finger toward the ruined room. "And look. Look at your house. It's falling apart because you didn't fucking listen."
Cassian gave Rhysand a pitying look. "He's not wrong, brother- "
Amren grabbed Azriel by the back of his shirt and yanked him upright with one hand. "Enough."
Both males shut up instantly.
She crouched down slightly, leveling her gaze at Rhysand. "Are you sorry?"
Rhys blinked. "What?"
"Are you sorry for what you did?" she repeated, much slower.
He swallowed. "Amren..."
"Answer."
Rhysand closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice cracked. "Yes. YES. I am so fucking sorry you have no idea. I love her more than anything or anyone in my entire existence. And I hurt her. I hurt the only person I never wanted to see cry. And I'd give up my throne, my crown--my wings, my power--if it meant taking back the words I said."
Amren hummed thoughtfully. "Good."
"Good?" Cassian echoed.
She stood. "If you're that sorry, Rhysand..." A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. "...then I think you should make it up to her."
Rhys's eyes snapped to hers, panic flaring. "How? She doesn't want to see me. She won't even look at me."
Amren's smirk widened into something downright devious. "Oh, don't worry," she purred. "I have an idea."
Y/N woke with a headache carved right between her eyebrows, the kind that came from crying until her ribs ached.
For a moment she didn’t remember where she was.
The sheets smelled like metal and jasmine.
Not Rhysand.
Not home.
Amren.
Right.
She pushed up on her elbows, swallowing hard. Light filtered in through the curtains--late morning, or maybe early afternoon. Time had blurred into something useless.
Her throat felt raw. Her chest felt hollow.
She’d cried herself into exhaustion.
Amren’s guest room was tidy, cold, and painfully quiet. Her dress from last night--torn in one seam, wrinkled from her shaking hands--was folded neatly over a chair. Amren had put a cup of steaming tea on the nightstand.
A note sat beside it, written in Amren’s sharp, elegant handwriting:
“Drink this. And then go breathe in the garden before your mind eats you alive.”
Y/N’s lips trembled. Gods, even Amren was worried.
She forced herself to stand. Everything inside her felt strange--brittle, almost. As if she’d stepped wrong and cracked the bones of her own heart.
She drank the tea slowly, letting the warmth fight the cold coiled in her stomach.
But her thoughts… they wouldn’t quiet.
Last night replayed itself again and again:
Rhysand’s distant voice.
His cold eyes.
The way he’d looked at her like she was a burden.
The way he’d told her she was incompetent, not ready, a mistake-
And gods, the scent...the female’s scent that clung to his clothes.
Her chest tightened so sharply she had to press a hand to it.
She inhaled once. Twice.
It didn’t help.
Neither did the fact that Cassian and Azriel had known. Known something. Kept it from her.
Let her walk around clueless while whatever this… female situation was unfolded behind her back.
A humorless laugh slipped out of her.
Mor had once joked that the Illyrians would rather fight the King of Hybern naked than break a promise.
Apparently that applied even when the promise harmed her. A knock came on the door.
Short. Sharp.
“Get up,” Amren’s voice drawled. “You look like a corpse and smell worse. The garden’s the only thing that’ll keep your mind from imploding for the next five minutes.”
Y/N exhaled shakily. “Thank you,” she whispered, though she didn’t know if Amren heard.
She pulled on a soft sweater Amren had left out and stepped into the hallway. The house was quiet--unnervingly so--and Amren was nowhere to be seen. Probably giving her space.
Or lurking nearby in case Y/N tried to run away again.
Y/N padded barefoot down the stairs, then toward the back door.
The handle was cool under her palm.
For a moment she just… hesitated.
She didn’t know why.
Something in her chest fluttered--warning or instinct, she couldn’t tell.
She stepped outside.
The garden was bright with midday sun, warm despite the tightness in her chest. Silver leaves rustled in a lazy breeze. A few purple blossoms were open, dotting the path.
Y/N inhaled shakily and stepped forward.
And froze.
Someone was standing in the center of the garden.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
Wings tucked tight, as if he feared they might tremble.
Black hair, messy like he hadn’t slept--or had ripped his hands through it too many times.
His back was to her.
But she knew that stance.
That silhouette.
That presence that always filled a room like a tide.
Rhysand.
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs, once, twice. He turned.
And when his eyes met hers--violet, rimmed with exhaustion, lined with regret--her breath disappeared entirely.
Y/N’s hand hovered over the door handle, fingers trembling, heart still hammering in her chest. Her chest ached from anger, from frustration, from the raw betrayal she thought she’d felt. She just wanted to walk away, leave it all behind.
“Y/N, please.”
The voice cracked through the air, desperate and ragged. Her hand froze. She turned slightly, eyebrows furrowed, unsure why she even listened. “Please, let’s just talk. Let me explain myself to you, just once,” he added, each word weighted with raw urgency. “Whatever decision you make after that, I’ll respect it. I’ll move out of your way. But please… just listen to me. Just once.”
She exhaled slowly, almost against her will. Something inside her softened, if only a little. With a reluctant sigh, she turned to face him fully, arms crossed over her chest, not moving closer but not leaving either. That small gesture, that quiet hesitance, was enough.
Rhysand stepped forward slightly, careful to keep the distance that wouldn’t scare her, and exhaled with the kind of quiet tension that made her stomach twist. “I… didn’t explain myself properly last night,” he said, his voice low. “I was just… exhausted.”
“Don’t give me that same bullshit,” Y/N cut him off sharply. “We’re all exhausted. I am, or--no, I was--the High Lady. I know what it’s like to carry weight on my shoulders. And I never once took my anger out on you. I never did that to you, Rhysand.”
He sighed, long and heavy, the sound echoing around them. “I know. I know I fucked up. I meant none of it. Please.”
She didn’t move. She just let him go on.
“I… consulted a curse-breaker,” he began, voice careful, eyes never leaving hers. “I was worried about you, about your bond. I didn’t want you to feel… forced, overwhelmed, or unsafe. I made Cassian and Azriel promise not to tell you anything until I could explain it properly, because I wanted to understand it myself before alarming you. The curse-breaker was helping me gauge your connection, how the bond was responding… everything, from start to finish. That’s why I was coming home late. That’s why I seemed distant. And I know I have no excuse for the times I locked you out, or for the way I’ve been… distant. But none of it was ever meant to hurt you. I swear, Y/N, none of it.”
Her arms slowly unfolded, the tension in her shoulders easing imperceptibly. He took a cautious step closer. “I would die for you, Y/N. I would kill everyone in this world to make sure you are safe. Everything I’ve done… it’s only ever been for you. And that night… what I said… I was angry, exhausted, frustrated. I was trying to hurt back because I felt hurt myself. But none of it was true. None of it. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I wouldn’t--couldn’t--want another mate. I wouldn’t do this with anyone else.”
Y/N’s eyes shimmered, a mix of shock and relief, and she whispered, almost disbelievingly, “You spoke with the curse-breaker because you were worried about me… and you didn’t want me to feel forced into this bond… or overwhelmed.”
“Yes,” he breathed. “Exactly. I wanted you to make your own choices, in your own time. I didn’t want to corner you. I wanted you to feel safe and… loved. On your terms.”
Her gaze softened, and she shook her head slightly. “But you could’ve told me. We could’ve talked together. Hiding things from me… it only makes me misunderstand you. We talk. That’s what mates do. We share our burdens. I am your partner, Rhysand. For life.”
“I know,” he said, his voice low and earnest, almost reverent. “I know. I swear to you, that’s what I’ll always do. No hiding, no lashing out, no locking you away when I’m stressed. I promise.”
Y/N nodded slowly, the tight knot in her chest loosening further. “I wasn’t even going to break the bond,” she admitted quietly.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Good. Then maybe I’ll just have to prove myself harder until you fully trust me again.”
She allowed herself a tiny, weary smile in return.
He took another small step, until they were mere inches apart, foreheads gently touching. “By the way,” he said with a soft smirk, “that female I was meeting? Very old. Very wrinkly.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
He grinned. “Grandmother-level old.”
“Rhysand!” she laughed, hitting his chest lightly, but she leaned into him anyway, wrapping her arms around his waist.
He hugged her back firmly, just once. “I know this isn’t fully resolved,” he murmured into her hair.
“No,” she said, pulling back slightly, but still holding him. “Next time… you tell me immediately.”
“I promise,” he said, voice steady, “never hiding anything from you again. Never lashing out. Never locking you out when I’m stressed.”
Just then, from behind the open garden door, Cassian and Azriel emerged with Amren in tow.
Cassian’s voice called out, teasing: “So… are we also forgiven now, or are we on permanent probation?”
Y/N turned, smirk tugging at her lips, “Depends on whether you two can behave like responsible adults for five minutes straight.”
Cassian shrugged dramatically, hands up. “Hey, I consider standing still for ten seconds straight a win. That’s about as adult as I get.”
Azriel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Focus, Cassian. It’s not about you this time.”
Y/N let out a soft laugh, and Rhysand tightened his hold on her, letting the moment of relief wash over them both.
The tension hadn’t vanished completely, but for the first time since last night, they could breathe.
hi!! I have this little idea (if you’re okay with that) of reader being cassian or azriel’s sister who has a thing for rhysand, and growing up she would always want to spend time with them but they would always just leave her chasing behind them because they’re doing “boy stuff”. Fast forward, they’re all grown up and Rhysand sees that her friend group treated her badly and they keep making plans without her and he goes all protective over her and realizes he has feelings for her
Background Noise
pairing: rhysand x reader
warnings: angst but there’s plenty of fluff sprinkled in too for my softies, swearing, mean!az :( but it’s okay bc we have rhys to comfort us, bullying, drama, takes place before UTM, left the ending open for potential for a pt.2 but who knows
—
Solitude and you had become fast friends.
You were used to being left alone.
Familiar with being the one waving goodbye as your brother and his friends disappeared off for hours and days and weeks at a time to explore—to live.
They’d always return with scrapes and bruises, new tattoos and tales to tell, bright smiles and inside jokes shared amongst each other while you silently tended to their wounds. Surviving vicariously through their thorough reenactments and the occasional mental projection from the heir of the Night Court. “Sounds like quite the adventure,” You’d murmur softly, carefully stitching the gash on Rhysand’s calf. “I’m almost jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” Cassian questions as if they were the most absurd words you’d ever spoken. “You have plenty of friends.”
“Right.” You can’t find the courage to delve any further for if they’d bothered to prod a little more; to actually ask for details about these so called ‘friends’, they’d realize you’d been lying through your teeth. Any attempts made always leaves you feeling dejected. Too used to being the butt of all their jokes. The object used as their punching bag on bad days; pushing you in mud, the horrible names, the awful rumors they spread at your expense.
No one wants to be friends with a dud.
A bastard born, rejected from not only her father and hometown but your brother too. You couldn’t even recall the last time Azriel had regarded you as anything more than a nuisance—his face morphing into a sneer at the very sight of you, all happiness suddenly leeched from his features the second you come into frame.
You learn to adapt.
Squeezing your presence down into the tiniest of boxes. Making hushed promises to whoever will listen that you’ll be good. Swearing in every language you know that no one will even notice you’re there as long as they just allow you to be around them. Praying to the God above for forgiveness of your faults, to cleanse you of whatever stains your soul so profoundly that not a single person dares enter your orbit.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you out with them?” Azriel questions, his voice void of warmth and you freeze like a doe under a hunters stare.
“If she leaves then who else is going to play nurse?” Rhys’ leg is crossed over his knee, his teasing just as casual as his body language and gratefulness seeps from every pore when you quickly glance up at him, muscles unlocking from their rigidity.
“I’d rather suffer.”
Cassian lets out a noise, displeasure evident in the cutting glare he throws Azriel’s way but he remains sat, spine sinking into the soft couch cushions as he waits in line for you to dress his wounds. “Speak for yourself, asshole.” Wings rustle behind him, raised tall and taut against his back. “She’s got the softest hands around.”
“Can’t imagine where she got it from—certainly not her father that’s for sure.”
Another verbal assault thrown your way with no mercy for the fact that you were unarmed. No armor or weapons to defend yourself with; constantly bashed for inheriting the features of a male too cruel to croon soothing words to his offspring.
You try to understand, attempt to relate to the anger Azriel harbors; reasoning with yourself that his ire is warranted because he’d been burned, his scars visible—a permanent reminder of the endless cruelties of his childhood. From half-brothers raised with hate in their hearts and plenty of hurt to spread around.
Perhaps, that’s why he ignores your trauma for it’s not as obvious as his own.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
“Running a bit low on that, aren’t you?” Rhysand’s cadence cuts through the fog of your brain, saving the day yet again and giving you an out. An opening to run away from the verbal onslaught Azriel rains down like hellfire.
The healing salve you hold is filled to the brim, the safety seal still stamped in place but you nod along anyway. Rhys takes in your every move, watches how you eat every hit Az throws as if you truly believe you deserve it. Your steps are silent, ghostly, reminiscent of an out of body experience. Distantly nodding. The sequestered way you gather your medical kit and all but disappear like a puff of smoke in the breeze.
He waits until he’s sure you’re gone, the front door closing so silently he wouldn’t have noticed you’d left if it weren’t for the click of the lock sliding in place. “Your mother never taught you that if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all?”
“Oh, get over your stupid crush already,” Azriel grumbles. “She doesn’t need you running to her rescue everytime someone says anything you don’t agree with.”
Rhys doesn’t deny it, never tries to hide it—his infatuation with you. The lingering glances. Always including you in conversations. Trinkets and gifts collected on outings with your bashful face in mind. Anything to get you to smile. To break you out of your shell and sometimes it works. Until Azriel opens his stupid mouth and your shoulders cave in, snuffing out the embers of light within until it has your head bowing and mouth pursed into a firm line. “You’re right,” Rhysand stands at attention, a distant throb aching in one leg from his newly tended injury. “That should be your job.”
“You don’t get it.”
“No, I don’t.” His octave raises, anger urging the slip on his restraint to loosen. To release some of that power he always keeps a leash on. “She’s your sister, she lived through the same awful things that you did—if not worse and while you got to be freed of your anguish, you subject her to more.”
“Seriously Rhys, shut up.”
He doesn’t, refuses to even. Flame has touched gas and the reaction is explosive. “You blame her for looking like her father but by the Mother—one could say you act like him.”
The room goes still. Azriel’s face morphing from annoyance to anger. Fists ball up at his sides, nose twitching with rage as Rhys’ words hit their target with expert-level accuracy. “Take that back.”
“No, I won’t. It’s the truth.”
Shadows fill the room, expanding and growing. Blocking out the light from the windows and covering the walls in a thick layer of sentient obsidian. Power crackles with life, tensions so strong it emits its own oud.
It’s no surprise when the fight breaks out. Glowing blue combatting against a magic so violent it sends the skies rumbling.
Cassian doesn’t even bother intervening, simply moving valuables within reach out of the way before settling further into the couch as the throb of his wound aches as it waits for his turn of your healing touch. He watches almost bored-like, humming when Rhysand lands a perfect punch or cheering when Azriel dodges in a stealthy maneuver they’d been practicing for weeks.
It’s never taken too seriously, males being males. Their testosterone being burned through with physical violence and blood spilled but something seems more serious than normal when Rhys actually uses the power he usually keeps leached, his reach bending Az to his will, shoving him down to his knees. An arm is bracketed around the shadowsingers neck, blood dripping down his nose and staining a straight set of teeth as Rhys sneers in his ear. “Stop being such a prick to her. She’s hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Azriel struggled against the hold, shadows tugging at Rhys’ shoulders, wrapping around his neck, binding around limbs until both of them are red in the face with veins popping from the thin skin of their necks. “Yeah, nothing except for existing.”
“Stupid, foolish, cruel male you are. It’s like he’s standing right before me.”
Another sensitive nerve plucked and a renewed sense of urgency surges through Azriel’s body. Syphons glow as he breaks free from the hold, punches and kicks are thrown, bodies tossed into walls and tables until wood splinters and plaster crumbles to dust. “I am nothing like him.”
“With all that hate in your heart?” Rhys’s words come out heavy, teeth gritted and blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Even then, he refuses to back down. “Might as well be twins.”
“Alright,” Cassian interjects, refusing to stand between them and their quarrel to avoid catching stray knuckles but the way Azriel’s face crumples as the hostilities is enough to initiate a ceisefire. “Maybe it’s time to calm down, she’ll be back any second.”
His hands are still clenched at his sides, knuckles split and blood already crusting over thanks to fae’s advanced healing but the rage doesn’t dissipate from Rhysand’s body—it only transforms. Locks itself away at the mention of you in order to spare you of getting singed by the aftermath of his burning ire.
He and Azriel dance around the other, this odd tension existing between them as they attempt to let this go; to diffuse the conflict—to pretend like nothing ever happened in the first place.
It doesn’t work.
Especially when rage bleeds into worry when you don’t return for an hour. Two. Three. The time tick, tick, ticks away without a single inclination on when you’d come sneaking through the entrance.
“Maybe we should go look for her?”
“Maybe she’s finally getting the hint and following her own friends around instead of mine.”
Cassian rolls his eyes, Rhys scoffs, but neither of them get to say anything more when the front door opens and slams shut.
It’s so unlike you, drawing such attention to yourself and all three heads snap in your direction just for eyes to widen and mouths to gape open like fishes out of water because you don’t return the way you left.
“What the fuck?” Azriel’s usual contempt fades instantly at the sight of you. An unfamiliar protectiveness blooms when acknowledging the tears streaming down your face and the soaking wet hair dripping fat drops onto the hardwood floor. Every inch of you is covered in goosebumps and if it weren’t for the arms crossed over your chest, you’d have flashed the whole room. “Where the hell are your clothes?”
You can’t even form a single word as you stand there in nothing but your underwear, shaking like a flag in the wind, chest heaving as the panic amplifies; embarrassment growing even deeper and your brothers heart absolutely drops to his stomach at the sob that cleaves through you. Turning on the ball of your heels, you’re off; bare feet smacking against polished floors in your hurry to run away.
To find safety.
Rhys is the first to take action, taking the stairs two—three at a time until he’s going so fast he slips against the imported rugs that run through the length of the hallway. He’s just barely reached the door to your room when it slams shut in his face, rich mahogany holding sturdy against his fists when the lock twists with a distinctive click. “Who did this?” He demands, knocking and smacking the palms of his hands against it so hard it rattles. “Did they touch you?”
“Leave me alone.” The words are like a whine, drawn out and laced in agony. Every syllable trembles, wet with raw anguish and utter humiliation.
It makes him sick, curdles the food in his belly. Triggers instincts deep rooted in his Illyrian blood until every inch of him vibrates with the need to avenge. To cause equal or greater torment upon whoever dared lay their hands on you and rob you of the little security you’d had. “I swear I will the second you just tell me who did this to you. Darling, please just let me in.”
Azriel and Cassian are steps behind him, certain that if anyone could lure the truth from you it’s Rhysand but the door doesn’t budge. Minutes pass and you can’t be heard anymore, harsh sobs shifting to thick sniffles until complete silence fills the space.
Somehow, that’s more unsettling than hearing you cry.
The spymaster steps forward, allowing his sentient shadows to slink ahead, teasing at the seam of your door until they slip through like a cool breeze seeping through the gaps of windowpanes. What they find is heartbreaking, at first all they detect is a seemingly empty room before they catch onto a slight crack on the closet door. You’re curled inside, knees tucked to your chin with a robe secured around your body and silent tears drawing silver tracks down the curve of your cheeks.
You’re stuck in your own world, a victim of constant torment; eyes distant as you rock and rock in attempts to self soothe.
Shadows creep closer, their cool touch just barely grazing your ankle before you detect their presence. Fingers angrily wipe away the evidence of your sorrow, limbs curling further into yourself as you sneer at the extension of the brother that makes it his life’s mission to make you smaller—to prove you have no worth. “If you’re here to humiliate me some more, don’t bother. I’ve had enough for one day so you can go find someone else to use as your personal punching bag.”
They flinch at the truth, recoiling back at a tone you never take with them—with anyone. Perhaps that’s Azriel’s fault too and that guilt weighs heavy in his chest to the point where he can’t even utter a word to his hovering friends, only mustering up the ability to unlock the door as his shadows quietly retreat.
Your brother doesn’t enter though. Instead, he urges Rhysand along, pleading with his eyes for him to fix the things that Azriel broke.
Rhys jumps at the opportunity, entering without hesitation and closing the door behind him. Every step is measured, calculated; carefully intruding into your space and taking up surveillance until he finds you curled inside your wardrobe. It makes him ache in the worst way, reminds him of the little boy he’d first befriended who’d been used to being shoved into darkness, locked away from light for hours and days and weeks until their cruel father deigned him access to a sliver of sunshine. Rhys has to swallow down the emotion that clogs his throat, the closet door opening with a little squeak, the final stages of sunsets copper glow providing just enough warm light to cast over your form. “Oh darling,” He croons ever so softly, brows knitted in sadness when violet eyes rest on you.
He moves slowly, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal. Fingers brush hair from your face, tucking damp strands behind your ear and coaxing the length of it behind your shoulder. Your gaze is downcast, eyes red-rimmed and nose pink from the constant rubbing and sniffling.
You don’t fight his touch, barely register it, head subconsciously tucking into the safety of his neck when he lifts you from your hiding space with ease. He smells of outside, lingering traces of wind and earth, faint touches of his body wash and that light, citrusy cologne he refuses to admit he enjoys over the more manly options loitered on his desk. “I don’t need your pity.” The words crack on their way out, your breath tickling the line of his collarbone and yet you still don’t shuffle away when Rhys kicks off his shoes and sits on your bed. He tucks you both under the covers, keeps his arms wrapped around you and begins running his fingers through your hair, tracing lines down the slope of your shoulder and the length of your back. Slow, soothing motions that send shivers along your spine and goosebumps along your flesh.
“I have no pity to give you.” He holds you close, desperately grasping onto every second he can in your bed—your space. Smelling your sheets. Sinking into the girlish softness of your pillows and silently cataloging the books you keep stacked on your bedside table. “Only rage for whoever dared put their hands on you in the first place.”
“It’s not a good look for a High Lord to take out personal vendettas out on his citizens.”
“I’m more than willing to desecrate my image for your sake. You deserve to feel safe. You’re entitled to take up space.”
The frown that creases the corner of your mouth broadcasts the physical way you deny his words. Fresh tears well in your waterline, eyes pinching shut as you attempt to hide your hurt. Rhys doesn’t let you, a thumb swiping along the thin skin under your eye to collect salty saline. “That’s not true. All I seem to do is make things worse. My presence—my existence. Even when I attempt to blend in, to be quiet, to not be seen or heard; I mean, don’t think I don’t notice the strain between you and my brother every time you stand up for me. Each kind thing you’ve ever done for me, you’ve been given such grief over and that’s not fair to you.” You suck in a deep breath, knees tucking in closer, nudging against the strong bone of Rhysand’s ribs. “I’ve been thinking of moving back home with my mom.”
“What? No. This is your home.”
“Yeah, right.” You fiddle with the hem of his shirt, nail running over the stitching, stopping yourself before you snag a fray free. Knuckles graze at the bare skin of his abdomen, muscles tensing and flexing at the touch and you’re quick to retract your touch, a blush heating up the length of your neck. “No one here likes me. I have no friends. No family. No love to tie me to this town—leaving before it’s too late is the most logical choice.”
The High Lord goes quiet, teeth clenching, jaw ticking as he fights a battle within. Confess his feelings or scare you off.
Confess.
Or watch you flee.
His heart hammers against his chest, loud enough for you to hear the steady rhythm pressed against your ear. His tongue wets his lips, gaze dipping down to memorize the slope of your nose and the dip of your cupids bow. For too long he remains silent, contemplating; memorizing the softness of your cheeks and the smell of your perfume that clings to the sheets—to you. “Sleep on it.” Rhys tucks you in closer, buries his nose in the crown of your hair and forces the notes of dates and vanilla to permanently fuse themselves in his sinuses. “We’ll talk more about it in the morning.”
You hum in agreement, the exhaustion of the day weighing heavy on your bones and coupled with the unconditional comfort that Rhysand provides, you’re asleep in no time.
He lingers longer than he should, long enough to miss dinner and for the clock to chime at midnight.
You don’t even flinch when he shifts away, too deep in sleep to notice him softly leaving you to your own sheets and the phantom warmth he provided.
He exits like smoke but the moment your door closes Rhys can’t hide his panic, can’t conceal the anger when he charges through the hallway like a bull on a mission until he finds Azriel lurking in the shadows. He barely realizes he’s gripped him by the fabric of his shirt and shoved him against the wall until the thud of weights impact reaches his eardrums. “You fix this,” He commands, hazel battling a deep violet. “Say or do whatever you need to in order to make things right with you and your sister. I swear to the Mother, if she does this, if she leaves because of you,” The syllables seethe through gritted teeth, nose scrunched in a snarl so sharp it borders on animalistic—beastly. “If she leaves because of you, considered yourself fired from your post. Banished from your duties. Exiled from the city you love so much. If she leaves, be prepared to leave with her.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me, brother.” Rhys shoves him further into the wall, so hard the wood paneling creaks under the strain, so hard that cracks form along the very foundation. “I love her more than I care to coddle your fragile ego. Do the right thing or find a new home—find a new family.”
“Rhys.”
“I will choose her,” He confesses, his heart pouring out on a platter and seeping into the rug below. “She belongs to me, brother. If you don’t fix this, I will choose her over you.”
rhys x reader whos a thief and he catches her during a party- the mating bond slaps them in the face (she hates him 🌚)
slaps them in the face you say...
--
"You're early. I hadn't planned on bringing you here for hours."
The voice that seems to snake beneath the silence of the room, infiltrate without shattering it like ducking just beneath the motion sensor of an alarm, is velvet-smooth, low and calm. You'd have expected more outrage from the High Lord of the Night Court, especially since you've got your hand wrist-deep in the jewelry box that rests atop his dresser, but he's throwing up a fairly convincing facade.
Your spine straightens, and you turn on your heel, not too fast and not too slow, hands behind your back to stuff a jeweled choker into the lined seam of your skirt. He's watching you like a hawk, his eyes practically glowing, maybe with bloodlust, maybe with whatever dark magic he must possess.
"Pardon me, my Lord." You ignore his greasy insinuation, "I'd intended to find a bathroom, but everything is so opulent here that I couldn't tell the difference."
His smirk deepens, and his teeth glint in the room's low mood lighting, "Well, one way you can tell the difference is to figure out whether you're standing in front of a toilet or a bed."
"It looks like I've got the wrong one, then," You breathe a sheepish-sounding laugh, glancing at the High Lord's massive four-poster, elegant and as dark as his reputation, "Your residence is very- impressive," You nearly choke on the words, watching as he begins walking towards you, his polished shoes treading over the floor until he's only one step away from you. You're trapped against the dresser, the knob digging painfully into your back, the High Lord looming over you in front. You wonder if the jewels stuffed into your skirt are cut sharp enough to wield as weapons- could you slice his throat and run away before anyone else caught you?
"So is my jewelry collection," Rhysand purrs, and the cunning in his voice makes sense now- he wasn't going to look the other way or let you distract him; he's not stupid.
"Ehm, yes. I'll admit," You duck your head to stare at his collar, the space between it where his tanned skin narrows to a point near his navel, "-I got distracted in here."
"I know," He hums, reaching around to your back with one hand while the other closes the lid of the jewelry box. He slips his fingers between the ornately-carved knob of the dresser and the ridge in your spine that it had been biting, soothing the pain by circling the spot with the pads of his fingers. "And I also know," He moves his hand now to the waistband of your skirt, both palms now spreading over your skin, "That you've snuck about ten-thousand gold marks worth of rubies into the lining of your skirt."
Your throat dries but you swallow regardless, stomach melting and dripping down into your feet, "I won't return- please, let me go."
"You were foolish to think you could get here undetected," Rhysand croons undeterred, ducking his head down to meet your gaze, "Even if my shadowsinger hadn't alerted me to your deviation in course, I'd have felt you trip the wards of my private bedroom."
It was a foolish endeavor. Really, it was. You should have known better, but at the first chance to rob the infamous High Lord of the Night Court, you'd lost all of your sense.
You begin straining against Rhysand's hold, but unsurprisingly, it doesn't go well. You pant, chest rising and falling rapidly, and the more you struggle, the more he grins. He doesn't drag you off into his dungeons, he merely holds you tighter, uses more and more of his manpower until he must be squeezing your flesh to the bone. You can't escape, and though you know it's a piss-poor idea, your panic sets in, and one of your palms flies straight towards his face.
His wings jolt forwards, perhaps to block the slap or perhaps to slice your skin with the clawed tips. But evidently you catch him off-guard enough that he doesn't make it in time, and your palm connects with his face hard enough to jerk it sideways.
When his head snaps back towards yours, your heart stops in your chest.
His hands are no longer the tightest thing that's got a hold of you. Suddenly, the strength of his fingers falls dreadfully short of the golden thread binding your souls together, a tangible thing you feel like you can reach out and pluck like the string of a violin.
Rhysand recovers before you, pulling the ruby-encrusted choker out of your skirt's hem and dropping your waist. You're no longer physically restrained, but suddenly your fight is gone with the bruising force of his grip. You've lost the urge to run, and Rhysand deftly strings the choker around your neck, clasping it and sheathing you in ten-thousand gold marks.
"Well I don't suppose this was your plan," The corners of his mouth pull briefly upwards, carefully, hesitantly, "But you're walking away much richer regardless. If you walk away, that is."
"I'm allowed to?" You ask, not sure if it's because of the mating bond or because you'd just been caught giving yourself the five-finger discount of his personal wares, "I- um, I didn't expect to leave here tonight."
"You don't have to," He smirks, and you try remembering if the expression had made your heart pound pre-bond, because it certainly does now, "I wasn't lying earlier when I said I'd planned on bringing you here."
"How flattering." You groan, forgetting for just a moment that you're speaking to the most feared High Lord, even if he is your mate, "You wanted to disrobe me even before the Cauldron told you to."
"'Disrobe' seems unfair," His face shifts into a pensive one, "I have a little more decorum than that. I don't shove my guests into the hallway when I'm done with them. No matter- the bed is yours, if you want it."
You cast a glance over to the satin-clad mattress, the choker of rubies resting lightly on your neck. For such an opulent piece it doesn't weigh you down, and you feel it settle against you like a second skin.
Rhysand's palms press to your hips again, sliding behind you to take up his former grip on your waist. it's a lot lighter now, you're being held instead of restrained, and you breathe a long sigh into the dwindling space between you.
"I was going to rob you because I dislike the way you hoard your wealth." You admit, stabbing the words into the silence between you when it begins seeming meaningful, "Ten-thousand gold marks could feed the entire Hewn City for a month, and yet, I have to fight for my scraps."
His eyes darken slightly, dimming as he edges backwards. His hands still hold your waist, but he's not angling his face towards yours anymore, giving you space to fill with any more biting words.
"Would you like to sell it?" He asks, fingers reaching up to ghost over the necklace, "Or would you like to keep it, and feed the city with my other funds?"
You reach for the choker yourself, fingers coiling around it dangerously, like a snake prepared to strike and snap the chain, "I'll only keep it if every mouth is fed. The moment someone goes hungry," You tighten your grip, and Rhysand's eyes track the movement, deepening as he notes that you're speaking of more than a choker in the moment, "It's gone."
"I understand." He nods, his jaw tight and his words clipped, "My court's politics are... complicated, at best. But," He bites the inside of his cheek, "No one should starve."
"Fix it." You snap without thinking, and you wonder belatedly how you'd begun commanding your High Lord when a mere ten minutes ago had you pilfering through his dresser, "And- I will consider staying."
"Stay tonight," He glances slyly at you, "Relax- I will stay in my office. Your plan is ambitious, and I'll need to work on the schematics. But tomorrow," He releases your waist, and your back hits the knob of the dresser once more, "We'll put boots on the ground. And you can make your decision."
You nod, your jaw clenched just as tightly as his. You exhale, and he steps away from you to eye the way you drift towards his expansive bed- it's big enough for his wings, you realize, the ones he'd almost slit your throat with.
"Sleep." He gestures towards the bed, but his gaze is piercing as he eyes you amusedly, "Just remember- the mating bond will prevent you from slipping out without my knowledge. Should you run off with any more of my family jewels," He reaches for the box in his dresser, tucking it beneath his arm, "I will know. And I will find you."
"To get your jewels back?" You ask, despite knowing you shouldn't.
"To get you back," His face drops determinedly, and your stomach flips again, "The jewels are yours now, but you? You are mine."
