Chapter Text
Each moment under the mountain was worse than the last. Between the beating, the frigid cell, and the sounds from the other prisoners, Feyre couldn’t imagine any task that would be worse than what she’d already endured. She was exhausted and hungry and maybe more than a little afraid. In her mind, Feyre replayed the sight of Tamlin beside Amarantha.
Helpless.
Silent.
And so she endured, because he was, too. It made her feel like they were in this horrible torment together, even if he refused to look at her. She wished he would, even once. Just so she could see his eyes, so she would know that he was just as miserable and scared as she was.
He didn’t, and Feyre forced herself to understand. They did what they had to in order to survive. She would free him and he’d look at her again with that same joy she’d seen when they’d been in Spring together. He’d touch her face, he’d tell her how much he loved her.
They would survive this, if only because they had to.
Only, Ferye didn’t know how. The Lady of Autumn Court had helped her with the filthy floors, but today no one was coming to help pick lentils out of the filthy, ashy hearth. Feyre filled her bucket, and then the other, and yet every time she ran her fingers through the ash, more appeared.
A clock was ticking in her head, spelling certain doom. Who was going to walk through the arched, heavy door at the far end of the bedroom? Whose large, dark blanketed bed all but taunted her with the promise of what would happen when some High Fae lord found a helpless human in his room? She still remembered the promise of those picts from Calanmai and the lewdness in their words.
Feyre, for all her softening towards faeries, had never forgotten the whispered stories of what the males did to human females, should they get their talons in one. Feyre couldn’t look when she heard the lock click, when she heard heavy boots on the marble floor, instead reaching for a poker. She lunged across the room, back to the wall.
And of course it was him. He was more swirling darkness than physical male, though his presence had the same effect either way. Her heart pounded violently, waiting for him to take his true shape—whatever it was.
The lock to the door snapped back into place loudly, shattering the silence. Rhysand appeared mere moments later sprawled out over the bed, his violet eyes burning with amusement.
“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” he all but purred, his head propped up on his fist, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my fireplace?”
She hated him. Feyre wanted to spit on the floor, to make her displeasure known. His eyes slid up and down her form, lips curling into a cruel smile when he saw the poker in her hand. They both knew it was useless. If he wanted, he could rip her to ribbons before Ferye had time to scream.
“They said I had to clean out lentils from the ash, or you’d rip off my skin.”
His smile was feline. “Did they now?”
Feyre glanced down at her hand, hidden in her tattered clothes. The faintest glimmer of those inky whorls appeared beneath the fabric she’d pulled over her fingers. If Tamlin saw…
Rhysand chuckled. Feyre meant to ask him if this was his doing. If he’d called in his bargain to start now, so he might have his fun early.
Rhysand leaned upwards, resting his forearms on powerful thighs. “Tell me, darling,” he half whispered. Long fingers curled through nothing, wrenching the poker out of her grip without ever having touched her. “What is it that Tamlin does that would make you risk all this?”
She blinked. His words were so openly suggestive that Feyre was afraid to even look at him.
It didn’t matter. Those shadowy hands gripped her by the tops of her arms and pulled her forward, until she was standing at the end of his bed, unable to look at anything but him.
“Tell me,” he murmured, violet eyes searching her own.
“You’re disgusting,” she spat. “I’m here because I
love
him—”
Rhysand rolled his eyes, scoffing loudly. “Yes, of course. Love. How could I have forgotten?”
She couldn’t pull away, though it wasn’t from a lack of trying. He was still studying her, that clawed talon scraping against her mind.
“Don’t–”
“Tell me,” he ordered, that touch in her head a warning.
Feyre pressed her lips together. She wouldn’t betray Tamlin just to save her own skin.
Rhysand barked out a laugh. “So
noble,
while your lover sits silently and watches you suffer. I wonder if he would offer the same courtesy, should the choice present itself.”
And then he
dug,
the pain of it dragging tears to her eyes. Ferye tried to blink them away, but several slid down her ashy cheeks. Rhysand pulled out that night with Tamlin when they’d said goodbye before rooting in further, looking for
anything
else he might humiliate her with. He found Isaac Hale and those stolen moments, when the only thing keeping Ferye from falling into misery was the taste of his mouth and the touch of his hands.
It was so at odds with her night with Tamlin. Isaac had been clumsy in his intentions, though decent enough. Never warm. Never loving.
She hadn’t realized Rhysand could hear her thoughts until he snorted a laugh. “Is that loving?” he asked, his voice rich with some dark emotion she was too afraid to name.
“I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference,” she snapped, trying so hard to pull from his invisible grasp.
His eyes glittered as he rose upwards, towering over her on his knees. Ferye couldn’t move as his hand reached out, snapping just in front of her lips. “That’s better, I think,” he practically whispered, eyes raking up and down her form. Cool air touched her skin and with no small amount of horror, Feyre realized she was naked. Clean, somehow, and utterly naked.
He reached for her tattooed arm, examining it with obvious pleasure.
“What did you do with my clothes?”
Rhysand chuckled. “I don’t think you’ll be needing those ugly things,” he replied. “I much prefer you like this.”
He was sitting up, thighs parted until she was standing between them. He reached for her face, tilting it back and forth like she was merely some curiosity to him. Feyre tracked his every movement, certain her heart must be visibly beating beneath her skin. Rhysand’s curiosity turned dark quickly, those violet eyes dragging over her breasts and between her legs.
“What would you have done had it been me—”
“I would have left you here to
rot,”
she spat. Rhysand laughed a second time.
“I’ll bet you would have crawled,” he whispered, coming closer still. She could feel the fabric of his black jacket against her rapidly stiffening nipples, could feel the way the muscles of his legs shifted in his pants.
“What are you doing?”
His eyes flicked towards the fireplace. “You didn’t clear out the lentils. I’m allowed my wicked way if you fail, am I not?”
“Rhysa—”
He pressed his finger to her lips. “None of that. Let’s not sully what promises to be an exquisite night with needless pleading.”
“I hate you,” she whispered, legs trembling. He leveled a bored stare before taking that silencing finger and plunging it between her legs. Feyre yelped, unable to do anything but take this new, terrible torture. She tightened around him without meaning to, trying so hard to push him out.
He dragged the wet touch back up the center of her body, pushing past her lips and onto her tongue.
“Do you want to try that again,
darling?”
he taunted. “I don’t think you hate me at all.”
It was just her body’s reaction to being touched, she swore. Nothing more. Feyre didn’t want this. Not when that same finger, wet from both her cunt and her tongue, slid over one of her pebbled nipples. He drew teasing circles over the bud until Feyre closed her eyes so she could pretend he was anyone else.
“Open your eyes,” Rhysand barked, his voice rough and angry. Her eyelids fluttered open of their own accord, her entire body apparently primed to do his bidding. Rhysand leaned closer, sharp teeth grazing against her neck. “When you come, you’ll think
only
of me.”
“I’m not going to come,” Feyre replied. Defiance came naturally. He couldn’t have everything.
He smiled, reaching for her neck to arch it back.
“You’ll come on my fingers,” he whispered, licking the length of her skin. “And on my tongue.” Teeth tugged at her earlobe, even as his free hand continued to toy with her breath. “And then, and
only
then, will I let you beg to come on my cock.”
“I’m not going to beg you for anything,” she hissed.
“Care to make another wager? Say…one more week every month? Or two weeks, on the bet you don’t come at all?”
Feyre hesitated, swallowing hard. Their eyes met, his mouth inches from her own. He held her still, fingers still teasing. Either way, he was going to do what he liked with her. And Feyre…Feyre knew better than to make another foolish bargain with him. One week was going to ruin Tamlin. What would he say when he learned how she’d lost that second week…or the third? Could he even forgive her for it?
Could she forgive herself?
Her silence was answer enough. Rhysand smiled, pressing his mouth against her own. It wasn’t a kiss, not as he spoke, “You know you’d lose. But I’d have fun watching you try.”
“I’m not coming,” she swore.
“I can smell your arousal. Did Tamlin tell you about that? Or did he keep that little secret for himself? You
reek
of desire, Feyre…and I don’t think it’s for the poor High Lord of Spring.”
“You can’t have everything,” Feyre replied, daring to look him in those bottomless eyes.
“I can have you,” he snarled, yanking her against his body. The kiss was almost violent in its intensity, a claiming—a branding. As if he could physically push Tamlin out by sheer will alone. No one had ever kissed her like he was. She could taste his desperation tinged with blood when sharp teeth sank against her bottom lip. Feyre gasped and Rhysands surged forward, tongue invading her mouth just as his fingers were doing between her legs.
He plunged back into her slick body with two fingers instead of one. It wasn’t gentle or particularly nice—but it was good. And Feyre, who’d felt nothing but utter misery since she’d arrived, felt wobbly and needy when that first bolt of pleasure speared through her gut. His hands were everywhere, warm and stroking, tugging and teasing. Too late, she realized whatever strange, shadowy magic he commanded—the very same that coiled tight around her, preventing her from making her escape, was also stroking and kissing against her clit.
Feyre thanked the Gods above that she hadn’t made that deal with him. Not when heat was racing through her veins and her legs were shaking so hard she would have collapsed to the ground had he not been forcing her to stand. Not when Feyre wasn’t even sure she wanted to escape him.
The magic pulled her forward, though Rhysand never stopped his bruising, forceful kiss. Feyre dug her heels against the marble, trying to keep from being draped over one of his powerful, still clad thighs.
“That’s better,” he groaned as he nipped biting, bruising kisses over her collarbone. “I need to feel the heat of your pretty pussy on my body.”
Feyre couldn’t respond— wouldn’t respond. Not when he was still thrusting those fingers into her, curling with each pass so he hit the sensitive flesh just inside. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Rhysand didn’t seem to care either way. He licked and sucked until her skin was so marked, there was no denying what had happened to her. She wanted release so badly, even as she pretended desperately not to.
“Stop—”
“Don’t lie to me,” he snarled, lips back on hers. She whimpered without meaning to when he yanked his fingers out of her so he could use both hands to hold her face and
forced her
to look at him. “I fuck you better with just two fingers than any male has ever done with his cock. Don’t I?”
She didn’t dare respond. Tamlin was—
“DON’T I?” His dark voice washed over her, shuttering the light coming from the sconces on the wall. Bathed in darkness, all Feyre could see was the violet glow of his eyes.
“I’m not going to beg you.” That was all Feyre could manage.
He pushed back into her, rougher than before. Determined he’d prove her wrong.
“You want this more than I do,” he whispered, sucking a kiss against the pulsepoint of her throat. The teasing, licking shadows had returned, rubbing over her without mercy. Feyre was tempted to beg him to stop, though she knew he wouldn’t. Rhysand was going to take what he wanted.
And Feyre wanted him to finish this. Sick and terrible as it was, Feyre was so achingly, frustratingly close that when he stopped again, her hips jerked against his thigh. He chuckled.
“Messy, darling. Do you need something?”
She could feel her pussy gaping, trying so hard to grip around something— anything that would offer release.
“No.”
“Pretty little liar,” he crooned. “I do hope you’ll be sweeter when I have you on my face.”
“I’m not—” she choked on her protests when he entered her again, thrusting without mercy until she was dangling on the edge.
Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—
“Stop—” she gasped just as she came with a jerking, arching scream. She couldn’t move the way she wanted, though it hardly mattered. Rhysand held the back of her neck so she didn’t fall to the floor, still plunging those fingers in and out of her until she was practically sobbing with pleasure. She hated him for what he’d done, and hated even more that he’d been right—his hands felt better than any cock she’d ever ridden.
He heard her think it.
“That's my girl,” he snarled, dragging her forward. Laying her among the pillows of his bed, Ferye felt his sticky fingers wrench apart her thighs. Warm bands of that shadowy night spread them further, drawing her legs upwards until she was obscenely bared. Even in the unyielding dark around them, Feyre suspected he could see her perfectly with his fae sight. She slapped at his face only once before more ribboning shadows curled over her wrists and dragged them far over her head.
“I like it when you’re rough,” he growled, his breath hot against her still convulsing cunt. “You owe me, Feyre.”
“For what?” Her voice was high pitched and desperate—they both heard it.
“For my generosity. This is
supposed
to be a punishment, and yet your release is smeared all over my pants.”
Who talked like that? Tamlin had been silent, had let his body do the talking, but Rhysand—
“Don’t you dare compare us,” he whispered through the dark, lips kissing up the side of her leg. Feyre squirmed, for all the good it did. She wasn’t even sure if she was trying to get away from him or push his face against her. She felt almost high with lust, ridden hard with whatever magic—
Magic.
“You’re in my head,” she breathed. That was the only explanation for how desperately she wanted him. “You’re
making me—”
“If I was making you, you’d be on your knees
gladly
choking on my cock,” he purred, his voice as rich as the darkness swirling around them. “Don’t mistake your own lust for what I could do to you with merely half a thought.”
He gave her no chance for a rebuttal. His lips replaced the once kissing shadows, sucking over her already swollen clit. Ferye bowed off the bed only to be pushed back by his strong, broad hand. Rhysand chuckled, licking over her slowly, just as his fingers had once done. Feyre didn’t want another slow, steady build. She wanted him to devour him.
“All you have to do is ask, Feyre darling,” he whispered, still reading her every thought. “If you want to come, just ask.”
She remained resolutely quiet, for all the good it did her. Rhysand pulled back until just the tip of his tongue was toying with her, ghosting over her needy flesh. It was all a game to him, one he meant to drag out.
Foolishly, she thought she could calm herself down when he changed the way he went after her. His little teasing licks had the opposite effect, each new touch burning through her until she was rolling her hips, trying desperately to get him to eat her.
“You know how to end this,” he whispered, speaking the words against her aching flesh. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want–” Betrayal! Tamlin’s face flashed before her eyes, steady and resolute on that throne. He’d never forgive her for this and what would it all have been for?
“Yes?”
“I want to come,” she whispered, shame sliding through her. Rhysand chuckled.
“Say
please.”
Feyre closed her eyes, only to have a ribbon of darkness wrap itself around her throat. “Please—”
“Please,
High Lord, Rhysand.”
Feyre blinked away the remainder of her shame. “Please, High Lord Rhysand.”
His mouth was back on her in a moment, his teasing replaced with his own desperation. Feyre swore she heard him groan as his fingers dug into her thighs, hauling her so hard against him her lower body wasn’t even on the bed anymore. He was buried in her pussy, devouring her just like she’d wanted.
Feyre swallowed hard, squinting to see the outline of him. His tongue slid against her over and over until Feyre screamed, shattering the silence around them. Anyone nearby would have heard—and known exactly what was happening behind the door. She didn’t care, shame replaced with near frenzied desire. Tamlin, alone on that throne, couldn’t even— wouldn’t even look at her. Didn’t even ask Lucien to help her, was resolutely silent to ensure his survival. Ferye had tried to endure it, just as she’d endured everything, but just once, she wanted someone to care about her. Openly. Unabashedly.
Desperately.
Rhysand rode her through it, determined to taste every last inch of her. Only when Feyre began angling her hips away, desperate for relief, did Rhysand drop her carefully.
One of the lights at the far end of the room flickered on, bathing the two of them in a dim, warm glow. She was still bound, still at his mercy. And Rhysand was disrobing, just as he’d promised. There was no part of her that didn’t want to see him. She was too far gone, too boneless and tired to pretend she wasn’t fascinated by what came next.
“That’s it,” he praised, a softness sliding over his features when he realized she intended to watch him undress. “You’re the High Lord’s best girl, aren’t you?”
Feyre nodded her head, inhaling sharply when his jacket fell away. Rhysand was miles and miles of beautiful brown skin, his broad shoulders and arms inked in the same whorling tattoos that graced her own hand.
“What do they mean?” she whispered as he reached for the clasps on his pants.
“Another night,” he replied, his voice rich with promise. “I’ll tell you everything another night.”
She couldn’t argue with him, not when he pushed his dark pants over well-defined hips. His cock jutted between powerful legs, the tip glistening with his own desire. She blinked, half furious that Rhysand—beautiful as he was—possessed the biggest, thickest cock she’d ever seen. She wanted to lick him, but couldn’t—he still had her bound.
He laughed when he heard the thought. “Is that so?”
She didn’t bother with a verbal response, not when he was back in her mind, picking through her night with Tamlin and the memory of his own cock. It was so absurd, so utterly possessive and—
“Jealous,” she breathed. That was the emotion she hadn’t been able to place. It was too ridiculous to imagine a beautiful High Lord like Rhysand jealous over her.
“Drowning in it, darling,”
he hissed, dropping his muscular form over her own. “Ever since I saw you.”
“But I’m—”
“Everything,”
he groaned, pushing the head of his cock into her aching pussy. “You are
everything.”
She didn’t get to ask him what he meant by that. Not when he snapped his hips, thrusting into her so hard it robbed them both of the very air they were breathing. Feyre tugged at the bonds on her wrists and Rhysand released, either because he wanted to see what would happen or he’d merely lost control of his own magic. She didn’t care.
Hands that might have slapped now reached for his powerful shoulders, pulling him closer. And her traitorous mouth devoured him like he’d once done her. Rhysand groaned, opening for her sweetly. Each new drag of him seemed to fix something angry and broken in her chest, until Feyre forgot where she was or what she was doing.
“Rhysand,” she breathed, nails raking over his flexing back.
“Rhys,” he gasped. “Please, Feyre— oh Gods, you’re so tight–”
“Rhys,” she agreed, kissing again and again, until she was nothing and no one but his creature. It wasn’t lost on her that he was the one begging. A soft whine escaped him, his pace increasing until there was nothing but their combined breathing and the wet slap of their skin.
“Rhys, please,” she begged, just as he’d sworn she would. Far from gloating, Rhysand whimpered, teeth scraping over her neck. She was so achingly close.
Soft shadows brushed over her clit with just enough pressure to push her off that final, dangling ledge. She screamed, not caring who heard her.
“That’s it,” Rhysand whispered, holding her by the throat with his powerfully large hand. “Let Tamlin hear how well you take your High Lord’s cock.”
She came again, as if pulled by strings only he controlled.
“Who is your High Lord, Feyre? Who do you obey?” A vicious thrust punctuated each new word.
“You, just you—
“Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court,” he said, his voice edged with that familiar whine. He was going to come. She wanted to see it, wanted to feel him spiral into the same desperation.
“Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court,” she repeated.
He grunted, hips pumping erratic. The fullness of his cock that threatened to split her apart pushed one final time, filling her with come. Feyre arched, squeezing as tightly as she could, if only to prolong his pleasure. The whole room seemed to quake, that light guttering so a blanket of night fell over the pair of them.
He collapsed on top of her, panting and boneless. Kissing her neck, her jaw, her mouth.
“Feyre,” he breathed.
“My Feyre.”
“Your Feyre,” she agreed softly, certain there was some sort of magic afoot, even if she didn’t understand it.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” he whispered, letting her rake her fingers through his thick hair. “I’m going to take you home.”
Home. She could picture it, soft and warm and lovely—a city of starlight, tucked safely beyond the mountains. He was showing her, she realized. Showing her this place, showing her something other than the horror of their current circumstances.
“And you?” she asked him gently. “Who gets you out?”
His lips pressed to her cheek. “You will, Feyre. You’re my
salvation.”
She thought he might be hers, too.