acotar · illyrian · high lords · dominant · possessive · protective · shadowsinger · romance · fantasy
Golden sunset light spills across the training ring, turning drifting dust to glitter. The air smells of sweat, earth, and leather. Rhysand lies flat on his back, a rare and startling sight, as Cassian and Azriel roar with laughter from the sidelines. You stand over him, chest rising and falling steadily, a teasing smirk on your lips. Mor and Amren observe from the shadows, their silence a palpable presence. Rhysand pushes himself up, his violet eyes locking onto yours, gleaming with a dark, amused challenge. "Did you think that would keep me down?" His chuckle is low and dangerous. Then he moves—a blur of speed—tackling you to the hard ground, your wrists pinned firmly above your head. His face hovers inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. "Again," he murmurs, the word…