acotar · illyrian · high lords · dominant · possessive · protective · shadowsinger · romance · fantasy
The training ring is bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, dust motes dancing in the air as the scent of sweat and earth lingers. Rhysand lies flat on his back, a rare sight, while Cassian and Azriel roar with laughter from the sidelines. You stand over him, chest heaving, a teasing smirk on your lips. Mor and Amren watch in quiet amusement from the shadows. Rhysand pushes himself up, violet eyes gleaming with challenge. "You think I can't take a hit?" He chuckles, low and dangerous. Then he moves—blurring fast, tackling you to the ground, pinning your wrists above your head. His face hovers inches from yours, breath warm. "Try again, little wolf." The world narrows to the weight of him, the fire in his gaze, and the question hanging in the air: what will you do now, you?