Chapter Text
“So, that went well.”
Rhys snarled, extracting another delighted chuckle from Mor, who added teasingly, “You really know how to woo a female, cousin.”
“Shut up,” he grumbled, slumping into his usual chair and summoning a very full glass of wine, then rubbing the back of his head where Feyre’s shoe had collided with it. He wouldn’t be surprised if it had drawn blood, if there wouldn’t be a bruised lump, at least until his healing magic kicked in.
I deserved that.
He hadn’t meant to push Feyre so far — hadn’t meant to push her at all, actually. He could feel how distraught she was, her panic and confusion and rage, and had hoped she would feel calmer once she was safely away from the wedding she didn’t want to go through with. But he couldn’t think straight over the rush of blood roaring in his ears, couldn’t calm his racing heart, couldn’t conjure the perfect soothing words to say. So he’d fallen back into his old habits with Feyre from Under the Mountain, taunting and riling her up, and gotten a shoe to the head for his troubles.
She’d been lightning fast, and fucking strong. He’d have to unravel that mystery later. Once his head stopped pounding.
He took a big gulp of wine, then set the glass down so hard that a tiny wave crested over the top and sloshed onto the table. “Five minutes with her and I’m already a wreck.”
“Keep drinking,” Mor said sagely, gesturing with her own glass in hand. “Calm down.”
“I can’t,” he hissed, leaping back up and beginning to pace. “She was miserable, Mor — absolutely freaking out. Begging to be rescued. So that’s what I fucking did, and she’s furious with me.”
“Maybe demanding to be thanked and insulting her hideous dress wasn’t the best approach,” Mor speculated.
“You heard that, did you.” Rhys winced, pausing in his pacing long enough to take another very long sip of wine, then set it down and kept walking. His skin felt too tight, like he could burst out of it, and he feared that if he stopped moving, the world would keep spinning around him.
My mate. My mate is here.
He’d never expected to see Feyre again — had never allowed himself to hope for that. Especially not alone, uninterrupted, unencumbered by prying eyes. He’d always had to be careful Under the Mountain, never knowing when Amarantha might send spies to watch him, so he kept his interactions with Feyre all too sharp and brief.
Don’t think about that fucking bitch queen. She’s dead. You’re free. You can forget her.
But Feyre hadn’t forgotten, clearly. She’d suffered these past three months, languishing at that rotting cesspool that Tamlin called his court, and Rhys had barely restrained himself from tearing that bastard limb from limb. What had happened to his fierce, indomitable mate? When had she become so docile and obedient that she would be paraded down the aisle to a wedding she didn’t even want?
He’d been relieved to see that defiant spirit come back out again once they were safely in his palace — but chagrined at how angry she’d been at him.
Mor chuckled lightly. “It’ll be all right. You have an entire week to make it up to her.”
Rhys groaned, flinging himself back into the chair. A week seemed far too short, when what he wanted was a lifetime — but a week was also seven whole days, and he hadn’t planned out what he’d do with Feyre other than get her here.
“What am I going to do? She’s pissed at me for disrupting her wedding,” he complained, “and scared half out of her mind. And I don’t think she’s forgiven me for Under the Mountain.”
“You could try apologizing,” Mor suggested.
Rhys snorted, but then took in Mor’s stern expression. “Apologize? For what, saving her?”
“For frightening her,” Mor said tightly. “For insulting her. For not returning her when she said she wanted to leave.”
“Where else would I bring her?” Rhys grumbled, though he knew Mor had a point. “And I’ve called in the bargain, which specifies a week. I’m not going to fuck with the magic.” He picked up his glass, frowning at how much of the wine he’d already drained. “As for Under the Mountain, I had damn good reasons for doing what I did.”
“You may think so, but that doesn’t change her experience,” Mor retorted. “She’s traumatized. And you had a role in that.”
Well, that was a diplomatic way of putting it.
Cass and Az had accepted his version of events without question, had agreed with his actions and his reasoning once he’d explained it. Amren had been pragmatic, indifferent. But Mor had been horrified at how he’d treated his mate, even given the circumstances. It reminded her too much of how females were treated at the Hewn City, what she’d escaped. She knew too well what it felt like to be powerless, to be seen as a belonging to be possessed and displayed, or used and discarded.
He grimaced, recalling all the times he’d made himself laugh at Feyre’s humiliation and pain, the times he’d caused that pain himself. His cheeks burned with the shame of it.
I was a fucking bastard to her. And she’s expecting more of the same.
“A week’s not enough time to fix all that,” he said forlornly. “Not even close. I’m not going to suddenly convince her of my good intentions. Maybe I should just let her be, give her some time to herself to rest and relax.”
Mor shook her head, her blond curls scattering. “If three months of avoiding her hasn’t helped her so far, another week of avoiding her won’t do the trick.”
“But I’d be avoiding her in my own palace, at least,” Rhys quipped, then sighed. “You’re right, damn it.”
Mor smiled brightly. “Say that louder.”
“No.”
“Suit yourself,” Mor shrugged, draining her glass in a final swig, then rose to her feet. “I’m heading out. I promised Cass we’d go to Rita’s tonight. I don’t suppose you’d want to join us.”
Rhys wordlessly shook his head. He didn’t want to leave Feyre, though logically, he knew that she was safe at the palace, that Nuala and Cerridwen were nearby to help her should she need it, that she probably wouldn’t want his help anyway. He felt a sharp pang of regret over that — that he’d ever let things get so bad, that he’d ever done anything but make his mate feel safe, loved, and cared for.
I have a lot of damage to undo.
Tomorrow. He’d start tomorrow. He had a week — it wasn’t enough time, but it would be a start. If he could convince Feyre that he wasn’t that bastard from Under the Mountain, that he was trying to help her, maybe she would come around. Maybe she would go back to Spring understanding that he was not her arch-enemy, after all.
He wouldn’t try to convince her to stay — he wasn’t stupid enough to think she would ever want to do that. He’d have to be insanely lucky to win her over that much. Still, I have to try.
“Come to breakfast tomorrow,” Rhys said to Mor, by way of farewell. “I’ll introduce you.”
She nodded, sashaying towards the door. “I’ll wear my favorite gown.”
“That sparkly red one? Maybe don’t. She doesn’t react well to red,” Rhys said, recalling Feyre’s revulsion at anything resembling blood.
He winced at the thought of her deep guilt for killing those two innocent faeries, when he had killed — Cauldron, he didn’t want to think about how many.
It was for Velaris. It was for my family.
Somehow, that failed to make him feel better.
Mor shrugged agreeably. “Does she like blue?”
“I think so?” Rhys managed a small smile.
Mor nodded, then turned to leave again. But she said over her shoulder, “You did the right thing, bringing her here.”
“If only Feyre believed that."
“Cheer up, Rhys. A lot can happen in a week,” Mor reminded him.
Rhys didn’t know if that would be a good thing, or not.