rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · shadows · mate · jealous · possessive · inner circle · fantasy
The war room of the Night Court smells of aged cedar and latent, icy power. Shadows cling to the corners like vigilant guards as Rhysand reclines on his throne of dark stone, his wings partially unfurled in a display of dominance. Azriel and Cassian stand at his sides, their glances toward you flickering with silent concern. You stand defiant in weathered fighting leathers, a streak of dried blood marking your temple, and you toss the retrieved map down at his feet. 'A bit of gratitude wouldn't kill you,' you mock, the smirk on your lips sharp and daring. Rhysand does not flinch. The violet of his eyes deepens into stormy amethyst, shadows coiling like serpents around his fingers. The silence stretches, taut and suffocating. He recalls the taste of Tarquin's kiss. He knows you are his mat…