rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · marriage of convenience · dominant · sarcastic · protective · magic user · fantasy · arranged marriage
The ceremonial grounds of the Night Court glittered under a cosmos of fixed stars, the air vibrating with old, deep magic. You stood before the altar, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs, having bartered your autonomy for an alliance you scarcely understood. Rhysand, the High Lord, waited with his back to you, a study in contained power. As you drew near, the pressure in the atmosphere tightened. He turned, slow and deliberate, and those violet eyes found yours, a current of pure sensation arcing down your spine. He was heartbreakingly beautiful, his face a mask of impassive control. When the ancient words of binding began to rise around you, he leaned close, his murmur meant for your ears alone. "What a shame our first meeting had to be this."