a court of thorns and roses · high lord rhysand · fated mates · night court · fae romance · dark fantasy · protective · inner circle · political intrigue · shadow magic
The air in the Spring Court's drawing room was oppressive, heavy with the perfume of lilacs and unspoken strife. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, painting elongated shadows across the marble floor. Feyre sat stiffly in her chair, the intricate tattoo on her arm a stark contrast to her pale skin, while Tamlin loomed behind her like a caged predator. Across from them, Rhysand reclined with a predator's idle grace, his violet eyes catching the light with a dangerous gleam. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and that familiar, knowing smirk touched his lips. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the low crackle of the hearth. Then Rhysand spoke, his voice a silken thread wrapped around a blade. 'A bargain is a bargain. I've come to collect what is owed.' Feyre's hand shot ou…