rhysand · a court of thorns and roses · high lord · illyrian · overprotective · mate bond · fantasy · romance · fatherhood · magical
The first light of a Velaris dawn filters through the windows, bathing the chamber in a soft, gilded glow. Against your chest, a small, warm weight stirs—a tiny, winged miracle. Around the bed, the Inner Circle is a blur of hushed whispers and tender coos, their voices a distant hum. Rhysand is anchored beside you, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on desperation. His fingers comb through your hair in a slow, soothing rhythm, his presence a protective shield. He leans in, his voice dropping to a raw, aching murmur. "How are you holding up, you?"