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Feyre wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep playing the traumatized card. It had been months since she’d returned to the Spring Court, and still she pleaded for space. Still Rhys’ scent lingered. She could see how it pricked at Tamlin’s pride and suspicions.
Tonight had been the closest he’d ever come to making any outright accusations. “You can’t stay away from me forever,” he had said tersely, oblivious to the threat in his tone.
What had shut him down was when she’d cried, “Keeping pushing and you’re no better than he is.” Tamlin had paled, and she heard the echo of Rhysand’s voice saying, Stop comparing me to him. Evidently it pushed Tamlin’s buttons, too, because she’d been left to her own rooms in peace for the night.
When she finally drifted off into a hesitant sleep, it was to images, borrowed from Rhys’ own nightmares through whatever bond still lurked under the ruins of what they had once shared, of Amarantha, of a bed, of a room with a locked door and no windows. And when Tamlin replaced Amarantha and the room filled with the sickly perfume of oversweet roses, the locked door didn’t change.
It was no surprise Feyre woke up ready to hurl.
Once her breathing had calmed and she had washed the taste from her mouth—lit a citrus candle and chased the smell of roses from her nostrils—she left the relative safety of her chambers and wandered down the expanse of the hallway. A plush runner with a twining, golden filigree design cushioned the padding of her bare feet. She glanced at the art on the walls and couldn’t make out the familiar subjects, shadowed as they were. She turned the corner and settled in the hollow of an open window overlooking the front gardens.
Even miles, mountains, oceans apart, the sky didn’t change. Or, it did, but Feyre could still pick out familiar constellations, the patterns unchanged even if their placement shifted. Birds, horses, lions. A man. A book. Ancient stories charted in the stars, there for those who remembered them. She wondered if that was why Starfall was a passage of the dead: perhaps gone, but never forgotten.
As are you, a velvet voice interrupted her philosophical musings. And if it was a bad idea, to strengthen that bond, to stoke the scent that lingered—whatever the repercussions, it was worth it.
I miss you. Not a witty repartee, but the truth was out there before Feyre could even think about not thinking it. There was a pulse of warmth, not untinged with sorrow, which she returned in kind.
Are you well? A ridiculous question.
I am undiscovered, was the best she could truthfully offer, and Rhys seemed to recognize that was the best either of them could hope for. Where are you? she asked instead. She missed the Night Court; she missed Velaris, with its glittering view of the sea, the sweep of snow-topped mountains, the colorful streets and kind faces. Rhys sent an image overlooking the city, evidently from a balcony at the House of Wind. Not in town?
It seems our family doesn’t appreciate my brooding. She caught the tail end of a memory of Amren chewing him out. That, in addition to the love that swelled at the reference to “our family,” brought a slight smile to her lips, and under the cover of night she didn’t have to hide it for once.
It didn’t completely mask the misery of her situation, but she savored the sound of his voice in her head. His presence, solid and reassuring, if intangible. His company. When her dreams didn’t stray into the realm of terror, if she was lucky, she would dream of him, lying next to him in bed, all the things they would do when finally—finally—reunited.
The tenor of their bond changed as Rhys easily picked up on her train of thought. And what things are those, he purred, all too willing to join her refuge of fantasies.
She sent him vision after vision, mouth going dry when he tweaked them with his own suggestions. Mother bless every female with a mate as creative as hers.
Feyre didn’t realize she had sent that thought until her mind was filled with his uproar of laughter, obvious amusement threaded through with a streak of pride. It’s true, she said simply instead of playing at indignance.
Mother bless every male with a mate as brave as mine, he corrected more somberly. Feyre had slipped deep enough into his mind that she could see it when he glanced at the time. It’s late, he observed reluctantly. You should try to get some rest. Tomorrow’s scheming awaits, she supplied.
As should you. Both of them paused in the silence, unwilling to leave the other. I love you, she added, though the words were unnecessary for the sentiment he could already feel emanating from her, and for what she could feel from him.
You are my mate, is what he said instead. I’ll wait for you as long as it takes. But if you ever need a quick getaway, don’t forget I can be there in an instant. And break a whole host of rules in the process, he didn’t have to say, but she knew he would do it. Be the accomplice to her crimes, if ever she asked.
Once she was left sitting at the window, alone with her thoughts and the stars winking back, something settled inside her. The deep ache of longing was still there, as was the ever-present fear of being caught out and the inescapable sense of not belonging, but beside all that was the hard knot of knowledge that this wasn’t forever. She would return to the Night Court. She would return to Rhysand.
When her work was here done and Tamlin’s realm was in ruins, only then would she return home.