Feyre had been alone all day.

She had woken up just before noon and found the townhouse empty. She had looked everywhere for Nuala and Cerridwen, but couldn't find them. Rhys had left a note about having to attend some business and that he would be back until the next morning.

After finding a loaf of bread and some soft cheese in the kitchen, Feyre had settled in the living room, with a blanket over her legs and a book in her lap. The fireplace was lit and the soft crackle of the flames was her only companion for hours.

It was only when the sun began setting and a hush fell over the city, that Feyre realised what day it was. Her heart pounding in her chest, she went up to her room, where the note from Rhys sat beside her bed. She picked up a pen and wrote, what business?

She didn't know why she asked. She knew what he had to do tonight. And she didn't want to think about it. It was Calanmai.

Her heart still pounding, Feyre stood and watched as the piece of paper disappeared. It didn't reappear and Feyre waited for five minutes until a soft knock sounded from the other side of her bedroom door. Feyre almost stumbled in shock. She hadn't heard anyone enter the house, which meant that it could only be him or Mor.

"Feyre, are you in there?" Mor asked, her voice subdued.

Instead of answering, Feyre just yanked the door open. Mor looked tired— for once there were dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair had lost its usual shine. Even her gown was a darker shade of red.

"Where is he?" Feyre asked, something dark and menacing was boiling in her veins. She swallowed, trying to let go of the feeling. Why did she care? It wasn't her business what Rhys did on Calanmai or who he chose to do it with.

Mor just looked at her, eyes flickering over her face. Then she said softly, "At the house of wind."

Feyre frowned, "But the hunt—"

Mor looked away, running a hand through her hair. "He isn't going to perform the rite, Feyre."

That wicked feeling in her chest seemed to ease at once. "Why?"

Mor let out a rueful laugh and walked around Feyre and let herself fall on the bed. "Why do you think?"

Feyre just spun around, leaning against the dresser and fixing her eyes on Mor. She didn't even dare to think about Rhys' reasons. She couldn't. "Tell me."

But Mor saw right through Feyre and tilted her face, so that her hair spilled over one shoulder. "If he hunts the stag and kills it, the magic— You know what it does. What it will force him to do."

Feyre nodded. And maybe it had nothing to do with her. Maybe, it was about him. Maybe he couldn't loose control like that. Maybe he couldn't be with someone when it wasn't his choice. Not after what Amarantha had done to him.

"What happens if he doesn't perform the rite?" Feyre asked, fearing Mor's answer. She had never seen her this exhausted, never seen her look this frail.

"Apart from not replenishing the magic? It will make him sick." Mor replied. "He's powerful enough, so he might—" She trailed off, her lips tightening.

"Might what, Mor?" Feyre asked, terror now flooding her.

"There have been high lords who died after refusing to perform the rite." Mor finally finished, avoiding her eyes.

Feyre stopped breathing. No, Rhys couldn't— If it meant that he would die, he couldn't refuse. "Then you need to make him." Feyre snarled, her hands curling into fists. "You can't just let him do this to himself."

Mor sat up, fixing her with a dark look. "Don't you think I know that? I have been telling him, but I can't make him, Feyre. I can't force him to do this. Not after—"

Amarantha. All of the anger evaporated and left her with a bone crushing terror. "He can't do this to himself. Can't he just choose. Surely, there has to be someone—"

Mor stood, shaking her head. "That's not the problem. He knows who the magic will choose."

"Then why—" Feyre stopped talking when Mor gave her a long, meaningful look. Her body reacted before she had time to understand. She flushed and stumbled over her words. "You can't know that."

"Oh, I do." Mor said, almost bitterly. "Trust me. There's no one else the magic would pick for him."

A shudder ran down her back. And Mor must have read her next question in her eyes. "He doesn't want to force you, Feyre." She said, this time her voice soft.

And Feyre understood. And of course, of course Rhys would be stupid and ignore her and not tell her. Not when it meant that she would have to do something she wouldn't want to.

But—

Feyre took a deep breath and said, "Take me to him."

Mor didn't hesitate, she closed the distance between them and curled her fingers around Feyre's arm. Then they winnowed to the house of wind.

Rhys was slumped in a chair, his body loose and taut at the same time. Sweat was beading down his temple and neck. Upon their arrival, he stiffened further and Feyre was worried that his bones might break from the strain.

"Rhys." She said carefully, taking a step towards him before she had even thought about it.

He moved so fast that even her fae sight missed the movement. The chair toppled over and Rhys was standing on the other side of the room. But his eyes — dark and blazing — were on Mor. He snarled, "I told you not to bring her here."

Mor winced, but held his stare. "I won't let you kill yourself, Rhys. Besides, Feyre needed to know."

Something like panic flickered in his eyes. "What did you tell her?"

Feyre crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm right here, you know? And she told me that you're being stupid."

But some silent conversation seemed to pass between the cousins and then Rhys' shoulders slumped a little. Feyre thought it might have been relief.

"You shouldn't be here, Feyre." Rhys said finally looking at her. "Not tonight."

Feyre uncrossed her arms and ran one hand through her hair. "No, you don't get to pull shit like that with me, Rhysand!" It was her turn to snarl. She closed the distance between them, one hand coming up to poke him in the chest. "You don't get to decide what I get to know. You said that I would be the one to decide. So why didn't you tell me?"

Rhys' hand came up to his chest and wrapped around hers. His fingers were cold, yet a thrill went through her as their skin touched. And Feyre realized with a start, that Rhys was panting. His brow was slicked with sweat and he looked like he was sick.

"You're being stupid and selfish—" Feyre began, but Rhys cut her off. "I'm not." His voice was soft, but hard and it drew all her attention to him.

"Feyre," He said and his eyes clouded with something that Feyre couldn't name. But her body must have recognized it, since heat pooled in her core. Rhys' nostrils flared and the fingers around her hand tightened.

"Go, hunt the stag." Feyre breathed. "And then come back to me."

He looked at her for a long moment. "Feyre—" He said again, but this time Feyre cut him off. "I'm okay, Rhys. If you can't, then we'll find another way, but I'm okay with it."

A few more heartbeats passed and then, Rhys was gone.

Feyre turned to say something to Mor, but she too was gone.

With her hands shaking, Feyre sat down and waited for Rhys to come back.