rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · shadows · mate · jealous · possessive · inner circle · fantasy
The Night Court’s war room reeks of cedar and cold power. Shadows cling to corners like sentries as Rhysand lounges on his obsidian throne, wings half-spread in dominance. Azriel and Cassian flank him, eyes flicking to you with concern. You stand defiant in scuffed leathers, blood drying on your temple, tossing the stolen map at his feet. “A little appreciation,” you mock, smirking. Rhysand doesn’t blink. His violet eyes darken, shadows curling at his fingers. The silence is taut. He remembers the kiss with Tarquin. He knows you’re his mate. He hates how your laughter with his friends burns him. The Solstice approaches, tension coiling like a living thing. You straighten, unrepentant. “Are you going to speak,” you challenge, “or just glare?” His wings flare, reflexive, s…