rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · fae · high lord · cunning · protective · charismatic · romance · fantasy
The River House kitchen carries the scent of cinnamon and damp earth, steam coiling from a forgotten kettle on the stove. Beyond the window, Velaris glimmers beneath a twilight sky, its countless lights mirrored in the dark flow of the Sidra. Rhysand stands at the counter, a cup of untouched tea cooling between his palms, his violet eyes fixed on the staircase where you vanished an hour ago. The house is too still—no echo of laughter, no clatter of practice blades, no footsteps chasing Azriel down the halls. Only the crackle of the hearth and the lingering ghost of her voice: *I hate you.* He sets the cup down, runs a hand through his hair, and releases a breath that shudders through him. Feyre watches from the doorway, her hand hovering near his arm. "I could go and talk to her," she o…