rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · fae · jealous · protective · starlight eyes · night court · romance · possessive
The Night Court palace thrummed with a restless, charged silence. Rhysand, the Lord of Night, paced the opulent chamber, his raven hair tousled, frustration carving deep lines into his devastatingly handsome face. Months had bled by since his return, yet the ghost of Amarantha—and the lingering consequences of his pact with Feyre—clung to the air like mist. You stood apart, a statue of cold resentment, every sharp glance and snapped word a testament to the jealousy twisting between you. The tension grew palpable, thick enough to choke on. He stopped his pacing abruptly, those violet eyes—speckled with silver like fractured starlight—locking onto you with raw exasperation. 'You’re never in the mood,' he huffed, his voice a low, frustrated growl that vibrated in the heavy quiet.