I knew similar dreams chased him from his slumber as often as I fled from mine. If he knew or heard, he said nothing about it. He never woke when the nightmares dragged me from sleep never woke when I vomited my guts up night after night. I never had the nerve to ask if he was awake. But with my Fae ears … sometimes I wondered if I heard his breath catch, only for a heartbeat. The sheets were now cool and dry, and I slipped in, curling my back to him, wrapping my arms around myself. I continued to the bed, each step heavier, harder. For a moment, I just admired the powerful muscles of his back, so lovingly traced by the moonlight, his golden hair, mussed with sleep and the fingers I’d run through it while we made love earlier.įor him, I had done this-for him, I’d gladly wrecked myself and my immortal soul. Tamlin remained asleep as I crept back into my darkened bedroom, his naked body sprawled across the mattress. Instead of the shredded bit of blackness that it now was, leaking its ichor into me. I wished my human heart had been changed with the rest of me, made into immortal marble. I uncoiled to my feet, and flushed the toilet before padding to the sink to rinse out my mouth, then wash my face. I squeezed my fingers into a fist, blocking out that eye, the tattoo. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all. I’d told no one about that meeting, what he’d said to me, what I’d confessed to him.īe glad of your human heart, Feyre. Mountains and darkness and stars and death.īut I hadn’t felt like Rhysand’s enemy the last time I’d spoken to him, in the hours after Amarantha’s defeat. No one really knew what existed in the northernmost part of Prythian. So few went over the borders of the Night Court and lived to tell. Not with the tattoo.Įven if Rhys, at the end … even if he hadn’t been exactly an enemy. Nor could Tamlin, Lucien, or anyone else. I hadn’t dared ask Tamlin, or Lucien, or anyone-lest it’d somehow summon the High Lord of the Night Court, somehow remind him of the fool’s bargain I’d struck Under the Mountain: one week with him every month in exchange for his saving me from the brink of death.īut even if Rhys had miraculously forgotten, I never could. I hadn’t heard from Rhys in the three months I’d been here. As if it adjusted to the light, as any ordinary eye would.Īt whoever might be watching through that tattoo.
The eye etched into the center of my palm seemed to watch me, calm and cunning as a cat, its slitted pupil wider than it’d been earlier that day. I tilted my left hand over, the whorls of dark ink coating my fingers, my wrist, my forearm all the way to the elbow, soaking up the darkness of the room. Sighing through my nose, I unfolded my fingers. I’d dented and folded every piece of silverware I’d touched for three days upon returning here, had tripped over my longer, faster legs so often that Alis had removed any irreplaceable valuables from my rooms (she’d been particularly grumpy about me knocking over a table with an eight-hundred-year-old vase), and had shattered not one, not two, but five glass doors merely by accidentally closing them too hard. Immortal strength-more a curse than a gift. I’d somehow curled them into fists so tight my nails were close to puncturing my skin. I kept mouthing them until I could loosen my grip on my legs and lift my head. Unless it was a dream-just a fever-dream in Amarantha’s dungeons, and I’d awaken back in that cell, and. I leaned my head against the wall, flattening my hands against the chill marble floor.
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Just to the adjacent wall, near the cracked window, where I could see the night sky, where the breeze could caress my sticky face. When it seemed like I was done heaving, I eased from the toilet-but didn’t go far.
I focused on my breathing-in through my nose, out through my mouth.
Three months of adjusting to my immortal body, to a world struggling to piece itself together after Amarantha had fractured it apart. It had been three months since Under the Mountain. One of many, asleep and waking, that haunted me these days. Panting, I braced myself over the bowl, counting each breath. I’d been here for fifteen minutes now, waiting for the retching to subside, for the lingering tremors to spread apart and fade, like ripples in a pool. And when I hadn’t been able to tell the darkness of my chamber from the endless night of Amarantha’s dungeons, when the cold sweat coating me felt like the blood of those faeries, I’d hurtled for the bathing room. Tamlin hadn’t stirred as I’d jolted awake. Moonlight leaked into the massive marble bathing room, providing the only illumination as I was quietly, thoroughly sick. I vomited into the toilet, hugging the cool sides, trying to contain the sounds of my retching.
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