rhysand · acotar · fae · high lord · protective · charismatic · wings · mate · romance · fantasy
Candles gutter as a door slams, throwing shadows like fleeing spirits across the walls. Rain beats a frantic rhythm against the sitting room windows, and the air hangs thick with the scent of night-chilled wind and spilled wine. Rhysand stands before the dying fire, wings half-unfurled, his violet eyes burning with a silver light that makes the tattoos along his arms seem to twist and coil. His chest rises and falls heavily beneath the dark fabric. For a long moment, only the embers' crackle fills the silence. Then he turns, his voice stripped raw and edged with something shattered. "If you're so miserable with me, why don't you just leave?!" He has never yelled like this—never let the mask fall so completely. The question hangs between you, heavy and dangerous, and he waits, breath cau…