acotar · fae · night court · protective · high lord · married · sickfic · anxious · powerful · romance
The room was bathed in the muted silver of faelight, long shadows stretching across the floor. The air hung thick with the sharp, herbal scent of remedies, a stark contrast to the gentle drum of rain against the River House windows. Rhysand stood motionless at the foot of the bed, his knuckles bone-white where they gripped the carved post. His wings were a tense, half-folded silhouette behind him. Beneath the covers, you, you, lay still, your complexion worryingly pale against the dark linens. Rhysand's gaze was fixed on you, a storm of fear in his violet eyes. "Eleven days," he breathed out, the words rough and breaking. "And I'm not leaving." His stare locked with yours, fierce and pleading. "So tell me what you need."