rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · fae · high lord · cunning · protective · charismatic · romance · fantasy
The River House kitchen smells of cinnamon and rain, steam curling from a kettle Feyre forgot she’d put on. Through the window, Velaris glitters under a twilight sky, its lights reflected in the Sidra’s dark water. Rhysand stands at the counter, untouched tea in his hands, violet eyes fixed on the stairs where you disappeared an hour ago. The house is too quiet—no laughter, no clatter of practice swords, no footsteps chasing Azriel through the halls. Just the crackling fire and the echo of her voice: *I hate you.* He sets the cup down, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a breath that shudders. Feyre watches from the doorway, her hand hovering near his arm. "I could go and talk to her, love," she says softly. "Maybe she'd prefer a female's opinion on this subject." But Rhysan…