Datura Epilogue I
Summary: Set after the events of the Datura Series, Rhys x Reader return to the Night Court and meet the Inner Circle in the Moonstone Palace. Part I of a multi-part epilogue following their healing journey post!UtM
Content Warnings: Mentions of trauma, Reader has a brief panic attack, suggestiveness
Author's Note: This has been finished for like two weeks now, I spent the rest of the time deciding how I wanted to break this chapter up. Pls enjoy some fluffy Rhys x Reader
Previous Chapter/ Masterlist
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You hadn’t expected leaving the Mountain would make you feel so… different.
Flying into the Night Court in your mate’s arms feels like a dream as his sprawling court comes into view, the snow kissed mountains a sight to behold. He gives you a brief summary of the settlements you pass, of the people who call this place home, but banks away from any major cities, promising to take you there personally once you’re settled in. He’s being very cryptic about it, but you’re just happy that he’s happy and don’t push. He takes you instead to the Moonstone Palace, a sprawling estate carved into a mountain face. The sight of another mountain is the first unexpected response your body gives you, hands shaking as Rhys sweeps down onto an ornate balcony overlooking a cliff’s edge. There are tables and lounge chairs, all empty, the doors leading inside thrown open, white silk curtains snapping in the breeze. There’s some sort of ward over the open doors that keep you from seeing anything other than darkness inside and your whole body locks up as Rhys sets you down on your feet.
“Darling?” He asks, the bond flooded with concern.
You can’t do this again. You can’t go back underground, into the dark!
Before you can tell him as much, something red comes shooting out of the darkness and your claws tear through your nail beds as you ready yourself for a fight that never comes.
The red thing, is in fact, a very well cut dress, on a blonde female, who is very much not the threat your body seems to think it is; a female who sobs into Rhys’s chest as he wraps her arms around her.
Cassian and Azriel slam into the deck beside you, faces solemn as the reunion plays out.
It is an effort for you to put the claws away, even as you keep them tucked behind your back.
“Mor,” Rhys says softly, hands soothing down her back, tears in his own eyes.
A second female emerges from the darkness, the smallest of the bunch, her dark hair cut sharply at her chin. Silver eyes appraise you for a very long moment, before she turns them to Rhys. “What were you thinking? Leaving me here with these idiots?”
Rhys laughs as he pulls away from Mor, using the back of his hand to wipe his eyes. “It’s good to see you too, Amren.”
She frowns at that. “What did you bring back with you?”
Rhys turns to you, grinning again as he says, “My mate, Y/N.”
Mor lets out something between a squeal and a sob as she throws her arms around you too. It’s as awkward as hugging Cassian had been and you don’t really know what to do with your hands other than pat her on the back, thankful that your claws aren’t still out. Still, you have to look over her shoulder, through the thick locks of blonde hair falling in your face to avoid looking at her dress. You might throw up right here on the deck if you do.
“How did this happen? I want all the details!” She insists.
“Mor don’t squeeze the life out of her,” Azriel warns.
“Yeah, she’s already died once,” Cassian mutters.
It’s that that gets Amren to leave the doorway where she lurks to come appraise you, silver eyes inspecting every inch of you as if she can see right through your skin and bones to the power that lies beneath.
“What?!” Mor says, head whipping back to look at Rhys, who’s very meticulous in removing some lint off his shoulder.
“I wasn’t really dead,” you stammer, running a hand over your scarred throat. “Well, at least I don’t think so.”
“Inside,” Mor declares. “For wine and details. All of them.”
Cassian leads the way, Azriel quiet, clinging to the shadows behind him as you’ve begun to notice him do. His shadows relax over his broad shoulders, as if they’re taking a breath now that they’re home.
Amren remains staring at you, nose crinkling as she sniffs at you like a dog, even as Mor reaches for your hand to pull you in. There is something about her that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, despite her stature, and you shrink closer to Mor as she continues to appraise you.
“You smell like death,” Amren muses.
You glance at Rhys for help as Mor says, “Don’t be rude, Amren!”
She pulls you inside as if she means to spare you from anymore of Amren’s appraisal but you can’t think past the roaring in your ears as the darkness of the palace closes in around you. There are fae lights in the ceiling, bobbing on a phantom wind, giving the hewn walls a soft glint; a far kinder light than the torches of the Mountain had ever been, but her grip on your wrist feels too much like iron biting into your skin.
You’re trapped.
You can’t get out.
There’s no way out.
Mor has no idea that your fangs are tearing through your lip, body shifting beneath you as you lose control, a bit of dark mist seeping from your skin.
There’s more light at the end of the hallway; how far you’ve gone you have no idea, you don’t even remember moving your legs, it’s just suddenly there, bright and blinding ahead of you and gods there’s going to be another monster waiting for you, another leering crowd around a mud covered pit and…
Strong hands settle on your shoulders, pulling you out of your thoughts. Rhys’s breath is warm on your flushed skin as he puts his lip to your ear. “Breathe,” it’s the command of a High Lord, the dominance in it making all the irrational thoughts spinning in your head still. He brushes a mental talon over your mind, making you shiver at the suddenness of it. “You’re safe.”
Mor waits in this new doorway, more silhouette than anything against the lights. “Come on! I want to hear your stories!”
“Give us a minute,” Rhys says softly and that is all she needs to hear before turning to follow the boys inside.
Amren slides past Rhys, still eyeing you warily as she follows after the promise of wine.
Tears stream down your cheeks as you press yourself into his chest. “I’m sorry,” you whimper. It’s too much at once. You aren’t sure what you expected when you got here, but this isn’t it.
He runs his hands through your wind swept hair, making soothing sounds as he holds you tight. “It’s ok. You’re ok. Just breathe for me.”
It’s his scent that calms you, the citrus and jasmine that invades your senses. No mirthroot. No incense. Not rot and decay.
“We’re out,” he whispers, hands still stroking your hair. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you. I should have.”
It’s not his fault he lives on the side of a mountain, you honestly should have expected someone with wings to live somewhere accessible by flight, but it hadn’t occurred to you it would be like this.
“Do you want to go back outside?” He offers.
You never heard the door close behind you, if you strain your ears enough you can still hear the fluttering of the curtains on the breeze--still a way out. You close your eyes and lean further into his chest, letting the evenness of his own breathing calm you as you focus on the sound of the fluttering curtains. There’s a door, you’re not trapped, you have a way out.
“N-no, I think I’m ok,” the way you're clinging to his shirt might say otherwise, but you can breathe again, so maybe you’re somewhere in between.
He kisses the top of your head, the bond warm with the soothing thoughts he projects down it.
“Are you ok?” You’d been Under the Mountain a couple of months, how is he this calm after fifty years?
“Having the walls this close makes me feel a little itchy,” he confesses, “but the doors are open. We can sit somewhere with a view. We’ll be ok.”
You nod and slowly pull yourself away from him, using your shirt sleeves to dry your eyes.
“Tell me if it gets too much, we can go somewhere else,” he assures.
You take his hand in yours and let him lead you into the room where they all sit around a blazing fireplace. All the couches and chairs are built with someone with wings in mind. Cassian sits with his draped behind the couch, booted feet propped up on an old coffee table. Azriel sits in a chair in the corner, where the fire light doesn’t quite reach him, already drinking from a glass filled nearly to the brim with red wine. Mor’s pouring everyone a drink, each glass filled to the brim; it takes two bottles for everyone to have a glass, and judging by the dust along the green glass, it’s a nice reserve too.
Behind them, as Rhys promised, is a long set of windows, all overlooking the snow capped mountain ranges you’d crossed to get here. With a slight flick of the wrist, he uses a bit of magic to push one of the windows open.
“Why’s it so stuffy in here?” He says as if that’ll make the gesture less suspicious.
“I don’t know, maybe because you’ve been gone for fifty years,” Cassian retorts. His glass is already half empty, though you suspect he says things without thinking about them even when sober, if the way Mor sucker punches his arm is anything to go by.
“Shut up!” She hisses.
Rhys lowers himself onto the couch on the opposite end of Cassian and Mor, pulling you along so he can tuck you into his side against the plush cushions.
Amren downs her entire glass in one gulp and holds it out for a refill before saying, “He does not lie, I don’t know why you always berate him for being honest.”
“‘Cause some of us don’t like to be an ass about things,” Mor hisses as she refills the glass with a third bottle.
“Well I just assumed you’d all be using the place, since most of my good wine is here and it appears to be dwindling,” he teases.
“We waited until the Townhouse ran out of your good whiskey,” Cassian says with a grin as he finishes off his own glass and steals the bottle from Mor for a refill.
You take the glass left out for you and take a sip, careful not to spill it all over the couch.
Mor rubs her hands together, now that she’s free from holding the bottle, and says, “So tell us what happened. I want to hear how you two met!”
You take a big swig of the wine, savoring the way it helps settle your frayed nerves. It’s still hard to look at her without seeing someone else, but your body begins to relax under the alcohol whether you’re ready to or not.
“Well,” Rhys starts, realizes what he’s about to admit to his family, and then downs half the glass for the liquid courage he’s going to need to face the needling they’re going to give him.
“That bad, huh?” Azriel asks.
“There was a lot more trickery and blood than one would expect from Calanmai,” you say and Cassian snorts so hard a bit of wine comes out his nose.
“What?!”
Mor smacks him again. “You always make a mess when you get wine drunk!”
“I’m not drunk!” He insists through a cough.
Amren huffs and rolls her eyes from the other side of the room as if this is something she’s been dealing with for a long, long time.
“Calanmai, huh?” Mor asks once Cassian has recovered himself, her perfectly manicured brows wiggling teasingly across her forehead.
Rhys takes another drink. “Not as fun as it sounds.”
“I started having these visions of these flowers a couple years ago, and I ignored it for a while until one night I couldn’t and it led me to him,” you recall.
“Flowers, huh?” Mor teases. “What kind?”
You take another sip of wine as you glance at Rhys, hand absently going to your chest, where that same flower should have still been inked. “What was it called again?”
“Datura,” he says softly. The moonlight streaming in from the open windows bathes him in a soft, ethereal glow. The violet of his eyes seems so much brighter here, like they’d been carved from starlight and plopped into his head.
“Flowers and an orgy, romantic,” Cassian laughs.
“Poetic,” Azriel says, raising his glass in salute.
“We didn’t have an orgy,” Rhys sighs like he knows he’s never going to hear the end of it.
“Just a kidnapping,” you say with a shrug.
Rhys takes another long drink as Mor starts yelling at him about his choices.
“It was a little rocky in the beginning,” you add to spare him further injury.
“KIDNAPPING, RHYS?! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU LURED HER OUTSIDE TO A SEX PARTY AND THEN KIDNAPPED HER?!”
It’s your turn to take a long drink from your glass.
“I was trying to get her out of the Spring Court, everything just went horribly wrong!” He counters.
“There are marriages built on worse,” Amren says with a shrug.
It takes a good five minutes for Mor to calm down enough for Rhys to explain further what had happened, and by that point, your glass is mostly empty and the wine has made you feel nice and warm and relaxed. There’s a slight breeze coming in from the window and you tilt your head back against Rhys’s shoulder to enjoy the kiss of it against your skin. For all the pain that the beginning of this journey had caused you, it had led you here in the end.
“By the Mother,” Mor whispers in disbelief when he finishes telling the tale. Her eyes flick back and forth between the two of you, unsure which of you to address over the chaos of the story. There’s a blend of pity and awe in that gaze and you can’t help but glance at your mate; how much more pity would there be if he’d told her the full truth? He had not shirked away from the pain he’d caused you, the ass he had been in the beginning in an attempt to keep you at arms length, but he never once mentioned the things he’d endured before meeting you. He’d made it sound as if this was the whole tale, the years of abuse and darkness before were irrelevant, they were nothing to speak of at all.
“I’ve got a lot to make up for,” he says as he presses a gentle kiss to your temple.
“Oh I’d be wielding that promise over him for a while if I was you, Y/N,” Mor says teasingly, her eyes gleaming in challenge.
And just like that the relaxed feeling is gone. “It’s over,” it takes all your restraint to not snarl out the words, teeth aching from how hard you have to hold back your fangs. It’s not their fault they don’t know what he’s been through, but it’s not your story to tell either. If he doesn’t want them to know, you can’t force him. Still, the mere implication of holding anything over Rhys’s head, wielding any power over him for what he had to do to survive the Mountain makes you want to start tearing at your skin. “There’s nothing to make up for.”
“A classic case of Stockholm Syndrome,” Amren says and you’re pretty sure it’s supposed to be a joke, but Rhys stiffens behind you all the same.
“Now who’s being an ass?” It’s from Azriel, who’s stayed mostly silent in his dark corner, wreathed in his shadows, during the story. You’re pretty sure he is the only one who’s noticed that your fangs have torn through your gums and you’re grateful for the interjection. Mother knows what you might have done if no one had butted in.
You swallow down the rest of your glass, trying not to shatter it against your fangs.
“You’ll have to forgive, Amren,” Rhys says smoothly, the mask of pure ease still adorning his features, though you still feel a flicker of pain down the bond regardless. “She never really learned her manners.”
“They’ve gotten worse since you’ve been gone,” Cassian says. He’s on his third glass now, slumping further into the worn couch.
A part of you envies his ability to relax. The other curses him for being so focused on the damn wine that he doesn’t see his brother is lying through his teeth about how he feels. The bond roars at you to defend and protect, cover every wound and sting as fast and efficiently as possible. Your powers pull at your bones, aching to be released in his defense. How are they so blind? Can they not see his mask for what it is?
Mor refills your glass for you, then offers more to Rhys, who declines despite his glass being empty. He hasn’t relaxed into the couch behind you, body still rigidly upright. He’d vanished the wings sometime in between entering the house and sitting, only a bit of darkness drifting from his shoulders in their absence.
“Is this a senior moment, Amren?” Rhys croons. “Forgetting the basics already?”
That earns a chuckle from his brothers and a snort from Mor, even more so when the ancient female flashes a perfectly manicured middle finger at him.
Perhaps this is just how they talk to each other. Mother knows that you’d never lived anywhere long enough to have a close knit group of friends, let alone a family, but still, the bond aches and rages over the quiet suffering he still endures. Is it not enough what strangers and the other High Lords say to and about him? Is he supposed to endure it here too?
You take another drink of wine, trying to hide the scowl you still feel pulling at your features. It’s once again Azriel’s hazel gaze that sweeps to you, one dark brow raised in a question you don’t know how to answer. This is all so different compared to what you know--compared to who you used to be. No matter how many times you’d moved, you’d always tried to make friends, had fallen into smooth and easy conversations with people. It had been easy. But this feels like pulling teeth. It feels like…
You almost break the glass as you bring it to your lips again. It feels like being the uncontrolled monster Amarantha had unleashed in her fighting pit all over again. All your powers want to do is rage and scream and break things. It's angry and miserable and it’s different. You are irreparably different from the girl that went Under the Mountain.
Rhys, somehow, starts directing the conversation away from the Mountain and back to what his family has been doing in his absence. It’s a lot of joking and needling and Cassian is half way through a fourth glass and starting to hiccup every time he answers. Amren continues to sneer from her seat, even as she too starts in on her fourth glass, though she certainly handles it better than the Illyrian. Mor, to her credit, tries to draw you into the conversation, but as the hours start to tick by, you find yourself slipping deeper and deeper into the darkness of your own foul mood and even the wine can’t save you. It’s bitter in your mouth, more and more with every sip.
Rhys still hasn’t relaxed anymore, his glass still empty on the coffee table. The mask never comes off, he is so outwardly smooth and unbothered that every time he speaks it makes your heart clench and your mood worsen.
By the time Azriel suggests you all continue the conversation over breakfast, you’ve lost track of the last time you spoke at all. It might have been hours.
Cassian, fumbling over himself, hugs Rhys again, large hands slapping him hard on the back as he slurs, “It’s good to have you back, brother.”
Rhys returns the sentiment as Azriel dutifully drags him upstairs to his room, promising to see you both in the morning.
Amren disappears without a word.
Mor hugs you tight, her grip so firm you can’t help but wonder what kind of training she’s had. Even a little tipsy, her eyes still shine when she tells you she’s so glad you’re here. After kissing Rhys’s cheek, she winnows herself, presumably, to her own room.
It’s impossibly late, the moon full and shining through the open window. Rhys yawns as he stretches his arms above his head. “So, Darling, can I persuade you to join me in my chambers tonight? Or would you like to have a little privacy?”
“Trying to get rid of me already, huh?” The words are out before you can think better of them and he’s sweeping you into his arms and kissing your forehead in apology immediately.
“Hardly,” he assures. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”
The thought of trying to sleep without him sounds as appealing as cutting off one of your limbs after all the nights you’d spent trying to stay warm in a cell. “As long as you know you don’t have to if you don’t want to either.” You have not established any boundaries in your relationship, or even discussed what you plan to do other than eventually you want to fully accept the bond. You’re not really sure what any of this is supposed to look like and after everything, you don’t want him to feel like he has to drag you along.
He grins as he winnows the both of you into his bedroom. “I’d prefer you to always be within reach, but I realize that’s asking for too much.” He raises a hand to touch your damaged throat, eyes dark as he traces the still raised and pink skin, clearly thinking of what happened the last time you’d left his sight.
“Why didn’t you tell them what happened to you?” You drift your hands absently over his chest, thankful that there is no bruising or blood on him any longer. “What I did to you? Or what…” you can’t bring yourself to say her name. Not here, in his bedroom, in the house with his family that he fought so hard to get back to.
“It’s over,” he says as he pulls away. “There’s nothing more to talk about.”
You want to argue, but there’s circles under his eyes and a yawn on his lips, and for the first time in months you’re in a room you can sleep in safely and maybe this isn’t the time to push him.
“I don’t know about you, but I want a bath and then I want to sleep for a week,” he says, changing the subject as he heads to the attached room, candlelight flickering to life behind him as he moves.
The bedroom is massive, the centerpiece a bed large enough to accommodate someone with massive wings. The far wall, like the living room, is framed with floor to ceiling windows, a world of glittering star light and snow capped mountains on full display. The attached bathroom is equally as big, equally as luxurious as the silk sheets and expensive wallpaper the bedroom sports. The tiled floors are a smooth, polished stone, dipping ever so slightly into an in-ground tub that’s big enough to be a pool. On Rhys’s command the water bubbles and steams, a couple bottles of soap and oils flittering off the shelves to empty themselves in the water, until the whole room smells like lavender and night blooming jasmine. A scent so distinctly Rhys it makes you pause in the doorway as he peels off his shirt and tosses it into a hamper. Nothing in the room is dusty, the air isn’t stale, it’s pristine and inviting, as if the palace had been waiting eagerly for its Lord’s return. Everything about the place feels like a piece of him, something etched and carved into the essence of the High Lord. The title has always been there, but this is the first time you understand it, the first time you really feel it.
“I’ll happily give you a show, Darling,” he teases, hands undoing the ties of his pants, even as his violet gaze remains transfixed on you. “But the tub is big enough for two.”
Despite the fact that you’ve slept with him, that you’re mated to him, this feels very intimate, enough to make a blush creep its way up your cheeks. “This tub is big enough for eight,” you reply.
“Plenty of room for activities,” he says with a wink as he pushes his pants down his hips.
The shift in conversation to this is a pleasant distraction, but you know he’s doing it on purpose. He’s very good at shifting conversations away from things he doesn’t want to talk about and this thing between you that’s been there from the beginning is so much easier to slip into than the honest, brutal truth of the last fifty years. You bite down on the need to push him. He has been giving you an out to avoid your own pain all night, the least you can do is give him one in return. He will talk when he is ready. So you peel off your own shirt and pants and climb into the bubbling water after him--pretending you aren’t staring at his ass the entire way in.
Rhys settles into the built in seat along the edge of the tub, lythe body leaning back against the cool tiles with a sigh of relief.
You take a seat opposite him, fingers digging into the lip of the tub as you focus your attention on the feel of the tiles against your bare skin. You haven’t been fully submerged since your trip into the Cauldron and the bubbling hiss of the water sets you more on edge than anticipated, but focusing on the tiles helps. As long as you can feel some sort of bottom, as long as you can claw your way out, you’ll be fine. And once your body starts to calm under the delicious heat, the lavender and jasmine filling your senses, your body blissfully begins to relax.
“Why are you so far away?” Rhys whines after several long minutes of comfortable silence.
“Didn’t feel like swimming laps,” you retort.
A tendril of shadow slithers along the water’s edge, dipping between your shoulder blades in a gentle caress before it twines around your hips and spins you across the open space between you two. It’s a blink and you’re suddenly straddling his waist, his large hands settling on your hips, nothing but a bit of water between your bodies.
You, instinctively, wrap your arms around his neck, fingers playing in the damp strands of his hair.
He grins lazily at you, nose brushing over yours as he nuzzles into you. “Much better.”
“You know you can talk to me about… everything--anything--right?” You can give him a distraction, but you can’t act like you don’t see that pristine mask for what it is. It makes your chest ache.
“Mhhm,” he says absently, distracting himself as he dips his head and places a kiss along your throat.
You shiver despite yourself. “It doesn’t have to be now.”
“Ok.” Another kiss, following the jagged pink skin that will forever decorate your throat, a twin to the mark slashed across your palm from ripping your hand off the Cauldron.
“Or tomorrow.”
He brushes your hair off your shoulder to reach more of you, humming like he’s listening but you’re not entirely sure he is.
“I just need you to know that I’m here for you.”
He only stills when he reaches your shoulder, the marks from the chimera somehow the least devastating scar out of the three. “Thank you,” he says softly, the bond flickering with emotion.
You drag your hands through his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp and he shivers under your ministrations as he resumes his exploration of your skin. This is nice, gentle amidst several months of stress and misery. It’s the first you’ve felt him relax all night and you’ll do anything to give him more of this.
There’s a dip in the floor behind his head, a little alcove that holds bars of soap and bottles of shampoos and you reach a hand out and grab the first one you can reach. You lather up the citrus scented shampoo in your hand while he’s still distracted and bring it up to start washing his hair before he can stop you.
“What are you doing?” He asks, lips still roving over your skin.
“Washing your hair,” you retort.
He tilts his head back to look at you, a lazy grin still cutting across his candlelit features. Everything about him glows like moonlight here, and you don’t stop yourself from gently placing your lips against his, even as you finish thoroughly getting the soap all leathered in his dark hair.
“Why?”
“Your hands are full,” you return, fighting the urge to grind yourself down on his lap for emphasis. This is about him, you want to focus on taking care of him.
His fingers kneed your hips teasingly as you reach around him and grab a bar of soap next.
“And maybe I like taking care of you,” you admit.
“You don’t need an excuse to touch me,” he returns, eyebrows raised teasingly.
You get the bar wet and run it gently over his tattooed chest, tracing the swirls of dark ink over his tan skin. He’s still so pale from being underground for so many years.
“No but I think you still have some blood on you,” there’s a particularly stubborn stain of something between his pectorals and you focus your attention on getting it off. In the days it had taken you all to get the Cauldron hidden and fly here, there hadn’t really been time to do anything other than magic away the gore and dirt and keep moving. Now that you have time, you want to clear away the feel of the Mountain from both of you. Even if no amount of soap will ever really do that.
Rhys watches you closely as you give all your attention to tending to him, taking your time to make sure you don’t miss an inch of skin. His body relaxes more and more under your minstriations, finally allowing his head to lean back against the tiles, eyes closing as he sighs in contentment.
This draws a grin from you as you continue your path upwards to a smear of dirt across his shoulder, still following the ink. The bond hums with its own contentment, as if this is what it had been looking for all night.
“I didn’t think we’d get this,” he admits so quietly you almost miss it over the bubbling of the water.
You keep scrubbing, hands tracing over his arms, his wrists, even his hands, every bit of him you can reach before attempting to scrub the parts of him submerged under the bubbles. The water and the soaps he’s already thrown in the tub will do most of the work for you, but you’re not ready to stop. Your mate, relaxed in your grip after all your hands have done to him feels both like penance and a gift you’re not sure you deserve, but it is here in your hands and you’d be damned if you didn’t take every opportunity you could get.
He swallows audibly as he continues, “It sounded too good to hope for. It still feels… too good to be true and I’m scared that I’ll wake up tomorrow and it will all have been nothing but a dream.”
You pause your scrubbing to take his hand and bring it to your chest so he can feel your heartbeat beneath his palm. “I’m real. This is real. We got out.”
He sits up so he can nuzzle his forehead against your own, a smattering of bubbles dripping from his hair. “We got out,” he repeats once, then twice, as if he needs to ground himself in it.
“We’re free and alive and we have the rest of our lives ahead of us,” you affirm as you resume your scrubbing, a little more rushed now as the heaviness of the day starts to wear on you. It’s time the two of you tumble into bed and get some much needed rest.
“I want to show you my home,” he says as you start rinsing the soap from his hair.
“Is this not your home?” You ask.
“It’s one of them,” he replies. “But it’s not as spectacular as the others.”
One. Sometimes you forget that being High Lord comes with a lot of luxuries. “Well you’ve piqued my interest, High Lord.”
His eyes flash playfully at the title and you’re sure, under other circumstances, that kind of teasing might get you into trouble, but he’s too tired to act on it tonight. You’ll have other nights for that. “Tomorrow? If you’re up for it.”
You place another quick kiss to his lips as you finish rinsing the soap from his hair and skin. “Tomorrow.”
Rhys carries you out of the tub as soon as the soap is gone, all the water dripping from your bodies gone in a quick flash of night chilled magic, before depositing you into the center of his very large bed. He doesn’t bother with pajamas for either of you, just slides under the warm sheets and pulls you flush against his chest.
This is familiar, grounding amidst all the change that has followed you here. It’s only a matter of minutes before you’re drifting off to sleep, the stars keeping watch through the window.
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