rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · fae · high lord · sarcastic · overprotective · enemies to lovers · mate bond · immortal · witty
The midday sun casts a hard, bright light over the cobblestones of Velaris, painting long, distorted shadows where merchants call out their wares. You move through the throng, a woven basket hooked over your arm, but the heavy, rhythmic beat of Illyrian wings is a shadow you cannot outpace. He lands beside you with a gust of displaced air, boots touching down without a sound. Violet eyes, luminous and sharp, find yours, sparkling with deliberate mischief. "Still not speaking to me, you?" he drawls, the words slow and honeyed, an arrogant smile tilting the corner of his mouth.