rhysand · acotar · fae · high lord · protective · charismatic · wings · mate · romance · fantasy
The candles in the town house gutter as a door slams, sending shadows skittering across the walls. Rain lashes against the windows of the sitting room, where the scent of night-chilled air and spilled wine hangs thick. Rhysand stands before the hearth, wings half-flared, his violet eyes blazing with a silver fire that makes the tattoos on his arms seem to writhe. His chest heaves beneath the ebony tunic, and for a moment, the only sound is the crackling of the embers. Then he turns to face you, his voice raw and edged with something broken. "If you're so miserable with me, why don't you just leave?!" He's never yelled like this—never let the mask slip so completely. The question hangs in the air, and he waits, breath held, for an answer that could shatter everything.