There was blood, blood, so much blood. It covered my hands and arms and ran down my face–an impossible amount, but none of it was mine. If only it had been. But no, the blood wasn't mine, though it was because of me. My fault, all my fault. I'd held that ash dagger in my hand, and it was me who had driven it into each of those innocent hearts. The hearts that now no longer beat because of me, because of what I'd done to try save Tamlin, to save his court, to save all the courts of Prythian.

But in trying to save them, I had damned myself. Their cries and prayers filled my ears as I turned toward the accusing crowd, toward Amarantha on her throne of bones. And there was Tamlin before me on the ground, my dagger in his chest, and he wasn't moving. I moved to go to him, to reach him and somehow take it back–it was supposed to work, it was supposed to work. Why hadn't it worked?

I couldn't reach him, though, because Amarantha was suddenly in front of me, with lethal claws and a bloody smile as she whispered, "You were never worthy of us. You don't deserve to live, you filthy human scum."

Someone screamed behind me: my name. And I knew who it was, knew how it would end. But I was frozen; I couldn't stop Rhys as he threw himself at Amarantha with that lethal grace and rage, those shadow claws; as her shields threw him back and she pushed his talons back into his skin one by one, and I was told to kill him–the traitorous filth who consorted with humans. If he wanted to betray his queen, then he should face the shame of being killed by his lowly ally.

I couldn't, I couldn't, no, no, please, I wanted to scream. Not Rhys, not him. Not one more soul on my hands. But my feet forced me forward, against my own will, as I took up that bloody dagger and stood over the once powerful High Lord of the Night Court. The fae who had helped me keep my sanity Under the Mountain, who loved his court so fiercely that he sacrificed everything, who loved to fly but was stuck beneath a mountain, unable to taste the skies and the stars of his home.

His eyes were not accusing as I walked up to his frozen form, crouched and bleeding and broken on the stained marble floor. Those beautiful, starry eyes did not break my gaze, did not so much as flinch, as I took his chin in my hand against my will. As I heaved for air that would not come, and as bloody tears came and came, and as–finally–too soon, always too soon–I drove that cursed knife into his heart.

And as the ash dagger bit into his skin, I saw my reflection in his eyes, but it wasn't mine–it was Amarantha's. We were one and the same, entwined in this guilt and this blood, and his eyes were empty now, the stars gone out, and I opened my mouth to scream–

I fell out of bed in my room at the Night Court, a scream lodged in my throat as I tried to breathe. The walls, the ceiling, they were closing in, and all I could see was that empty violet gaze.

I shut my eyes and tried to steady my breathing. Slowly, I climbed to my hands and knees, pushing back against the image of closing walls. I crawled to the bathroom and threw up the contents of my stomach.

I sobbed and choked and shook, trying to at least push my long hair back from my face.

But I didn't need to. A large, familiar hand scooped the hair back with gentle fingers, holding it for me as another hand rubbed my back in soothing circles.

I knew without looking who it was, because who else could it be?

Rhys stayed silent as I finished emptying my stomach, as the shaking settled into tremors. When it was over, I wiped my mouth with one of the bathroom napkins and rinsed my mouth out with the cup of water I'd kept on the bathroom counter next to my head. I kept my eyes on the floor. I couldn't bring myself to face him, to see that look of disappointment or disgust that was surely on his face at my weakness.

Embarrassment burned in my stomach like a coal, and I wished I could vanish into the shadows like him.

Behind me, Rhys dropped my hair so it rested against my back. His other hand still laid across my shoulder blades, as if reluctant to let go.

"Was that the first time someone held your hair back for you?" His voice was soft, but that's all it needed to be; his voice filled up the silence in the bathroom.

The embarrassment caught fire and began searing my chest. I hesitated, and then gave the tiniest of nods, turning my head just enough to peek around at his face.

An emotion that looked very close to rage flickered there, but it was gone as soon as it surfaced. But why would he be angry?

I turned away again, squaring my shoulders as I stumbled to my feet. I took a breath. "I don't want to talk about it."

Cauldron, I'd have to turn around eventually and face him, but I didn't want to–didn't want him to see.

There was a pause, and it seemed to stretch into infinity. "Fine. We don't have to tonight"–the way he emphasized "tonight" made his real message clear: not tonight, but we would have this conversation eventually–"but on one condition."

The embarrassment leached away, replaced by wariness. Our deals never tended to work out well for me.

"And that would be?"

"First, face me."

I gritted my teeth, straightening my spine as the last of the tremors disappeared. Prick. I grudgingly turned around, forcing myself to meet those dark eyes, as starry as ever. I winced a little, remembering my dream.

His gaze was steady, voice even, as he said, "Let me stay with you tonight."

My eyes widened, and his sensuous lips crooked up on one side in amusement. "My, my, Feyre, such a dirty mind. Although I would enjoy that if you feel so inclined, I just meant to sleep."

I narrowed my eyes, stifling the blush that was threatening. I wouldn't rise to his teasing. "How did you know?" I asked instead.

He raised an eyebrow, dark against his pale skin. "That I was having a nightmare," I clarified. "I thought I had my mental walls up."

"You did," was his simple answer.

I raised an eyebrow, mirroring him. "Then how...?"

His smirk widened a bit, gaze unflinching. "I just did. No more avoidance now, Feyre darling. Do we have a deal?"

"What's in it for you?" I blurted, crossing my arms over my chest. I was in a large sleeping shirt and shorts, so at least he couldn't see anything.

He crossed his arms as well, chuckling a bit when I scowled and dropped the stance. If I hadn't known what had happened last time I slapped him, I would have done it now.

"I get to have a good night's sleep," he said casually.

I really looked at him then. I must have woken him, I realized, because he was barefoot, and though his pants and shirt were still black, they were definitely sleeping clothes. His short hair was even ruffled, as if he'd gotten out of bed quickly. I wondered again how he'd known. Even though our rooms were connected–to remind any mischievous members of his court that I was under his protection, he told me–I didn't think I'd made any noise to wake him. Which meant that somehow, he'd still sensed my dream, my emotions.

I glanced down at the stark black whorls that tattooed my left arm and hand. The tattoo, maybe? Or something else...?

I met those steady eyes again, a mischievous light dancing in them as he waited for my answer.

How much did I not want to have this conversation? Enough. I couldn't talk about it, at least not yet. And maybe it would be easier to sleep if...

Cauldron help me, I hope I didn't regret this.

"Okay," I breathed. Rhys's shoulders relaxed slightly; I hadn't realized he'd been tense.

"But you stay on your own side," I said, brushing past him, determined not to look at him.

He followed me, silent as a shadow.

For a few seconds, I stared down at my side of the bed, at the mussed sheets where I'd torn myself from my perpetual nightmare, from those dead violet eyes.

I risked a glance up, to the other side of the bed, just see that those eyes were still bright, still watching and not dead.

And froze. Rhys had taken his shirt off.

I swallowed. I'd noticed that he was well-muscled before–it was hard not to–but I couldn't tear my eyes away. His skin was more tanned now than it had been Under the Mountain, and it stretched taut across the smooth muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and trim waist. The lines of him were sharp and clean, his arms corded in muscle that led down to those hands that I knew could turn into shadowy talons.

He was every inch a predator. And undeniably beautiful.

For the first time in ages, my fingers itched to pick up a paintbrush, to try and paint that feline grace and strength, the tendrils of night that created a dark halo around his head, the black brows over glittering eyes and that strong nose and sensuous lips that were now positively smirking at me and–

"Like what you see, Feyre?"

Cauldron boil me, I was so dead.

"What–" My voice came out as a squeak. I swallowed again, forcing myself to breathe. "No!" I scoffed. "Of course not."

Suddenly he appeared beside me, a hand on my waist as he leaned in to purr into my ear: "Liar." His breath tickled my ear, and that damn shiver raced down my spine. Traitorous nerves. Traitorous spine.

I turned my head to scowl at him, at the amusement dancing in his eyes. I was not going to squirm. "And what do you think you're doing, exactly?"

"Why, getting ready for bed, of course."

"Without a shirt?" I deadpanned.

"I don't like sleeping with a shirt on. It gets too hot." He leaned in a bit, dominating my field of vision. "I could always take off–"

I pointed to his side of the bed. "Don't. Even. Finish. That. Thought. Pricks sleep on that side."

Rhys huffed a laugh, grinning cheekily at me before sauntering over to his side of the bed.

What I had I gotten myself into? And when did we start having sides?

"As my lady wishes," he said good-naturedly, lying down on his side and watching me with lowered lashes.

I glared at him for another second–to make myself feel better, at least–and then climbed under the covers, smacking his arm lightly before hiding my hands beneath the blankets.

He snickered.

"I am not your lady," I replied resolutely.

"That's true."

I blinked. He grinned a little again, and my stomach swooped at the sight of him like that, stretched out on top of the covers with that smile that lit up his eyes. The way his glorious chest expanded with each breath and–

His grin slowly widened.

I snapped out of my line of thoughts, berating myself as I raised an eyebrow, both a silent question and a challenge.

Rhys merely propped his head on his hand, elbow sinking into his pillow–this is not his pillow, some part of me yelled–as he said, "You're right."

I knew I really shouldn't, but I couldn't help myself. "I'm...right?" I asked, drawing out the last word in confusion.

He leaned in again. "A lady wouldn't have such thoughts," he whispered. "Like right now, for instance. You know, if you want to touch my hair–"

I smacked his arm again. His grin became decidedly feline and wicked as my face turned red and I hurriedly threw up my mental wall, which had slipped earlier.

He laughed softly and moved closer again, so our faces were almost touching. "Don't feel bad. I rather like your thoughts. They're absolutely delicious...just like you."

I threw my extra pillow at his head, taking the moment to roll away so I could hide my face. But it was too late, I knew, because he'd already seen.

Prick, prick, prick. Bastard, I threw at him through our mental bridge. He just laughed, and then I felt him hovering near me. "Don't be embarrassed, Feyre darling," he said, his voice quiet near my ear. "What if I said I had similar thoughts about you?"

"Go to sleep, Rhys," I said in exasperation, even as my traitorous stomach swooped at his words.

He chuckled, and I felt him start to draw away, but he paused. As if he were hesitating.

I lifted my head from my pillow and craned my neck to look at him, rolling over slightly to make it easier.

He was still hovering above me, and I couldn't describe the look in his eyes, but something about them seemed...different. They were brighter, somehow, as they watched me, and his expression was softer than I'd ever seen it. The teasing and laughter in his eyes were gone, replaced by something that I almost wanted to call wonder.

I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, as he reached down and gently took my chin in his fingers. They were warm against my chin, and if I'd wanted to, I could have pulled away. But I didn't, even as he leaned down and those brilliant, starry eyes were all I could see.

He paused, so close I could count those thick, dark lashes. Then the distance evaporated away as he brushed his lips against my cheek, the lightest butterfly kiss, and whispered against my skin, "Good night, Feyre."

He began to withdraw, his fingers falling away, and my traitorous body couldn't help it. Heart pounding a heavy bass in my chest, I reached out and touched his cheek with my left hand. The tattoo's ink gleamed darkly between us, its harsh beauty stark against our skin. The black ink on my fingers somehow looked right against his face; it picked up the night-darkness of his hair.

Rhys stilled beneath my fingers, watching me with those now-dark eyes. I felt my stomach squirm a little, even as my mouth quirked up at the corner. I spoke the words quietly between us–"Good night, Rhys"–and then I forced my hand to move away, to fall to my side as I lowered myself back down to sleep.

Even so, I caught the small, genuine smile on his lips, that spark in his eye. But then I forced myself to look away, to put my back to him as I curled on my side to sleep. I felt Rhys settle as well a few seconds later, but I didn't notice much more as my thoughts drifted off into sleep.

***

When I woke a few hours later, in the middle of the night, it was to find Rhys curled around me, his chest to my back and his hips hugging mine. His arms were wrapped around my waist, with one hand lightly holding mine in sleep. Behind me, his larger body was warm and as steady as a lullaby, the regular rhythm of his breathing somehow comforting.

Maybe it was my sleepiness, but I couldn't help settling back into him, snuggling into the cocoon of warmth and breathing in that scent that was becoming all too familiar: night skies, mountain air, and a wafting swirl of stars and freedom.

His arms tightened around me, hugging me closer to his bare chest.

You're awake, his voice whispered in my mind. Could mind voices sound sleepy? Apparently so, because his was husky in my head, wisps of dreams floating off each word to trail away in my head like mist.

Barely. I paused, and couldn't resist. You're not on your side, I pointed out.

I knew he was awake enough to smile because I felt him do it against my hair. On the contrary, love, you rolled over to my side.

Startled, I opened my eyes again, and realized he was right. We were in the middle of the king-sized bed. I must have reached for him while I was sleeping, which was strange in itself since I had stopped reaching out in my sleep months ago, when those nightmares had reached their peak and I'd begun using my arms to hold myself together while Tamlin slept on beside me.

There was a pause, extended this time, and I wondered if Rhys had fallen back asleep.

When his next trail of thoughts came to me, he sounded so tired that I wondered when he'd last truly slept. How long had he been reliving my nightmares because I hadn't had a shield to spare him from my dreams?

I didn't want you...to be alone, his mind whispered to mine. You were with him, but you were...always alone...no one should ever be alone...

Tamlin. Rhys's words rang in my mind, the truth of them cracking the shell I'd always built up while I was awake, unleashing the black ichor that ate at my dreams. You were with him, but you were always alone.

I felt a sob fighting to get out from where I'd locked it away in my chest for all of these months. His arms tightened around me in response, an automatic reaction. He knew, he'd known-–all of it, for all of this time since Under the Mountain. The nightmares, the guilt, the blood, and the loneliness. The feeling of being surrounded and yet isolated, of holding myself together every night as Tamlin slept beside me, never once waking up.

Rhys knew, but he understood too, and he didn't judge me for it. He had already done so much for me and–

It's okay to cry, Feyre, his voice whispered in my mind, soothing, calm. Be grateful for your human heart. It's okay to feel.

And so I did. I let myself feel, let that black poison that had been welling up inside–eating me alive–out, out, out in the form of tears. I wasn't loud, but the tears kept coming, spilling out. I let them fall, let them leave their marks on me as I cried for those fae who I'd held a dagger to and killed, for the pain and the horror and the ever-circling fear, for the girl who walked Under the Mountain for love and died there, never to come out the same.

It became harder to breathe, and I didn't want to see those walls closing in once more, see the spikes in the ceiling coming down to crush me in my panic. So I turned around in Rhys's arms and tucked myself into his chest. I held onto him like a talisman against the memories and the nightmares, against that fathomless pit in my mind full of all the screaming and the blood, all those bones and all that mud, where that darkness and panic threatened to crush everything I was.

And he held me, stroking my back as I fought to catch my breath against those tears, as I buried my face into the warm skin of his chest. We didn't speak–not now with both of us hardly awake–but I wasn't ready to either. Not yet.

He seemed to know that, because he didn't ask me to. Instead, he just held me against him and ran his hand along my back, up and down, as steady as a wave or the wind brushing through the trees. At some point, my sleeping shirt rode up my back, and he didn't hesitate when he sleepily slid his hand under it to continue those comforting patterns against my skin. As if the motion was natural, instinctual. And I didn't mind because his hand felt warm and good against my back. It was comforting. Right.

Beneath my cheek, his chest began to vibrate as he softly hummed a melody. I instinctively knew what it was, as anyone who was once a child would know: a lullaby. An unfamiliar one that spoke of stars and moonlit fields, tall mountain peaks and the singing and swaying of trees in the dark. Sleep, sleep, down beneath the waves of grain...

So I let myself go, and somewhere between the waking and the dreaming, I thought I heard a familiar voice, laced with dreams, whisper in my mind: You'll never be alone..., he whispered. Never again....I'll...stand...by you...always...

***

When I woke again, in the darkness right before the dawn, I had never felt as well rested. But even though my mind felt sound–peaceful even–something felt distinctly...wrong. I opened my eyes, looking at the shadows in the room. Whatever the wrongness was, it was what had woken me up. But there was nothing unusual about the room, nothing different at all...

Behind me, Rhys's breathing stuttered against the back of my neck, his chest locking up for a second before he drew in another breath. His arms tensed around me, and I felt my center tighten as something simultaneously pulled on the bond.

It felt...sickly, almost. Emotions started crowding through: fear and rage and panic. It flooded up to swamp my chest as I sucked in a breath and tried to sit up.

"Rhys," I whispered, touching the arm still around my waist. He didn't respond, and I felt another wave, stronger this time–more overwhelming. "Rhys, wake up," I said, more firmly this time. I tried to shake him awake, but he only rolled onto his back. In the dim light coming in through the window, I could see a pallor to his skin that wasn't there earlier. There was a thin layer of cold sweat on his chest and brow as well, and as I stared, his breathing caught in his throat.

And then came a sound that broke my heart.

Rhys whimpered.

And then he flinched. Actually flinched.

What nightmare would make a High Lord flinch? What dream would frighten the High Lord of the Night Court?

I quickly shifted to sit beside him, shaking him harder now, but no matter what I did, he wouldn't wake up. I could feel the pain and panic building–suffocating–but only some of it was my own.

And then came his screaming.

"Rhys!" I gently grabbed his face–not thinking, just doing, following that urge through the bond–and instinctively brought my face down to touch my forehead to his. As I did, his nightmare snapped into being before my eyes.

Suddenly, I was Rhys, seeing through his eyes as Amarantha stood in front of her mussed bed in her nightgown. Rhys was kneeling on the floor, the cold air uncomfortable on his naked torso as he stared unflinchingly up at her.

The scene felt disjointed, somehow. It was almost as if time was fluctuating, speeding up and slowing down in leaps and bounds, and Rhys and Amarantha's words were muffled. Almost as if I was being partially blocked still...as if his mental wall was still up.

But if his mental barriers were still in tact, how was I seeing any of this at all?

The nightmare leaped forward and Amarantha wasn't in front of Rhys, but behind him, wrapping those long fingers around the back of his neck as she yanked his hair to bare his throat. Her nails were red with blood.

His blood, my mind whispered.

"Where were you earlier tonight, Rhysand?" Amarantha asked softly.

Rhys's breaths remained calm, as if he weren't bleeding all over her bedroom floor. When he spoke, it was with that unflappable cool, the voice of Amarantha's whore.

"I went to Fire Night at the Spring Court, my queen," he said.

"And why would you do that, Rhysand, when you know the cost?" she asked, cutting his shoulders with those jagged nails.

I saw my face flicker through Rhys's mind. He remembered me standing there by the bonfires of Fire Night, bewildered and curious, my hair gilded with gold and eyes like the lightest sky. Beautiful and human. But then he pushed my image away, and the curiosity and the strange pull that came with it, and lied.

"To see if Tamlin has progressed with the curse," he said smoothly.

"And has he?" she hissed, gripping the back of his neck even harder. Rhys had to restrain the hiss of pain that threatened to come out.

"I don't know; I could not tell."

Lies. He remembered me; he had his suspicions, but he had hidden me anyway. Amarantha's face twisted, and Rhys bit his tongue as he felt a deep cut open on his back again. And then time flashed forward again and I felt Amarantha's rage at Rhys's disobedience, felt the savage pain she released upon his back, which did not heal.

Felt his horror, when she made him call forth his wings and she cut those too, breaking the small bones when not even that caused him to cry out.

And still he did not scream. Even when he was screaming inside with the pain of it, the anguish. His wings. Not his wings...

Though the panic grew, he would not break, would not give her that satisfaction. But the pain expanded within him, climbing along his rib cage and sitting on his lungs, pressing down, pressing the breath out of him, and it was becoming overwhelming. He was going to black out–

I did the only thing I could think of then: I somehow stepped out of Rhys's body, separating myself from him, and I called out to him, lying both broken and unbroken–alone–on that bloody floor.

You are not alone, I tried to whisper to his mind, hoping he could hear me buried beneath his pain. I thought I saw him lift his head slightly, as if he could hear me, even if only a little. Come back, come away, I'm here. I will not let you suffer alone. I tried to draw him away from that pain, from that memory of torture and horror that still poured into me through our connection. And I grabbed at what I could, at any sense of hope or happiness, at any sense of beauty...

And I found myself humming a song–an echo of beautiful, passionate music, of the beat of the drums that felt vaguely familiar, tickling the edges of my memory. The song sang of a palace of moonstone high in the mountains of the north, and peace and freedom and skies full of richest night, and the one he lov-....

The dream shifted, and Rhys lifted his head and saw me. Then he closed his eyes–

–and I was back on the bed, my forehead pressed against his as his eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused. He was breathing hard, still shaking, and then he moved faster than I could process. One moment I was sitting beside him, and the next I was pinned to the headboard, and Rhys's face was wild, eyes unseeing and teeth bared. His lethal talons were digging into the wood of the headboard, those glorious, bat-like wings spread out behind him, taking up the majority of the room at their full span. He was glorious and terrifying, beautiful and deadly–both the brightest dream and the darkest nightmare.

And he was also in a panicked fury.

Shaking, breathing hard, those talons dug into the wood on each side of my head. His nostrils flared, as if taking my scent, and I was waiting for the strike, the pain.

But I refused to be afraid. I didn't flinch, didn't blink–just lifted my tattooed palm and cupped his cheek. He was still breathing hard, but the mist of confusion in his eyes flickered.

I didn't dare risk crossing that mental bridge, so I settled for speaking.

"Rhys, please, come back." I lifted my other hand so I held his face in my hands. The mist was clearing–slowly–while the fury leaked away. Taking a deep breath, I pressed our foreheads together again so I could look into those unflinching eyes, at the darkness behind those galaxies.

"It's me, Rhys. It's Feyre. Amarantha's gone; she's dead. Please...you're not alone anymore."

Rhys froze under my hands, and then he blinked.

"Feyre?" he croaked, sounding lost. The talons faded, the wings folded home, and he slumped against me, as if he'd lost control of his body and limbs.

Shuddering slightly, he let his head rest against the crook of my neck and breathed in deeply, as if grounding himself in my scent.

When he spoke against the hollow of my neck, his voice was barely a whisper, but the word he spoke was no longer a question, but an answer, one that seemed to hold all the world–all its hope and longing and relief wrapped into one: "Feyre."

"Shh." I wrapped my arms around his bare back–wings now gone entirely–and held him tightly to me. "I'm here. You're not alone, you're not alone. She can't take your wings anymore."

I felt his breath catch against my neck, and I felt rage for Amarantha, for this evil woman who caused so much pain and horror in her wake, who made Rhys suffer at her hands for 49 years–his own personal hell.

Rhys held on to me as his breathing gradually calmed and he regained control. I let my hand run up and down his back, gut twisting in sympathy at the pale scars that cut across it–his perpetual gift from Amarantha. I remembered now the conversation we'd had Under the Mountain, when I had asked him about Fire Night and he'd looked me up and down and said, "I had my reasons to be out then. Do not think, Feyre, that it did not cost me."

I had believed him then, but I'd never realized how high the cost had been.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the darkness was beginning to leach away from the sky when Rhys drew away enough to look at me. His eyes were weary but normal, almost as if he'd never lost control at all.

"Thank you," he said. It was a simple phrase, but I understood his meaning. Thank you for waking me; thank you for leading me back; thank you for holding me and not letting me be alone. Thank you for understanding.

My answering smile was tired but real. "No one deserves to be alone."

He cocked his head a bit, crooking the corner of his mouth in the smallest of smiles. "No, they don't, do they?"

Then he paused, watching me. "But Feyre, I must know...how did you know that song? The one you hummed?"

I felt warmth rise to my cheeks. "I didn't think you'd remember that."

His mouth twitched. "That's not a song I'd forget. But how did you know it? You've never been to a Night Court Cal-...ah. I see." He had the gall to smirk at me.

"Oh no, you are not pulling the silent smirking act on me like you did with the fighting lessons." I poked his chest, emphasizing each word as I said, "Tell. Me."

He leaned closer. "Are you sure you want to know?" he taunted.

I set my chin and glared at him.

He chuckled before leaning forward to whisper in my ear. "You hummed the music of the Night Court's Calanmai in my head, Feyre. If there was any music that would get my attention, it would be that...especially if it was being sung by you."

"Oh." I croaked. I decided to ignore that last comment because my face was already flushed enough from embarrassment. Rhysand was positively grinning with amusement. "But how would I know your–" I paused, finally remembering where I'd heard that music before: in the cell Under the Mountain.

"But you weren't–"

He pulled away, chuckling. "No, the Night Court hasn't celebrated in 49 years. What you caught in your cell was but a dream."

I stared at him. "I experienced one of your dreams? But how–"

He tapped his head, expression rueful. "Most of my powers had been stripped that night. Amarantha was rather displeased with me again. Hence my normal defenses were rather...compromised."

If I could bring her back from the dead, I would kill Amarantha again and again–a thousand times over–for what she had done to him.

"I'm sorry." I'm sorry for what you went through; I'm sorry that you had to do it alone; I'm sorry for your pain.

He moved away to sit on his side of the bed, giving me the space to move away from the gouged headboard and slip back under the covers.

"It was never your fault, Feyre. But yes, I understand. I'm sorry as well, for what it's worth. If I'd been able to do it differently, to spare you some of that pain, I would have."

I reached out and gripped his hand. "I know."

He started to pull away, as if he were about to get up and leave, but I tightened my grip on his hand. "Where are you going?"

"I thought..." He looked pointedly at the headboard and then back at me, eyebrows raised.

I snorted. "Like a little mayhem has ever scared me before. I thought we had a deal. Are you telling me you're going to break it?"

Rhys cracked a grin then. "You are picking up this fae thing rather quickly, aren't you? You're quite the natural. But you forget." He pointed to the sky outside, at the gray edges of dawn. "The night is over."

I grinned back at him, throwing a pillow at his head as I slid back underneath the covers. "And you forget, oh mighty High Lord of the Night Court, that here night never truly ends."

Rhys's laugh filled up the room, echoing in my bones. Holding the pillow in his hands, he looked at me, eyes glinting from across the bed, as he purred, "I could get used to you calling me mighty. Or all of those other delightful adjectives you have to describe me."

I huffed. "Pricks sleep on that side of the bed," I said, pointing to his side.

Yes, even those adjectives, Feyre darling. But he did slip under the cover on his side.

I just wasn't expecting him to grab my arm and pull me to him, towards the center of the bed. I squeaked, but he just purred in content as he tucked me into his side. There, much better.

What happened to sides? I asked, exasperated.

He just touched his forehead to mine again, and I felt the strange zing along that bond. The one that had somehow let me past his shields...

Rhys distracted me from my trail of thoughts with his reply. It's compromise. I'm still on my side, you're on yours, but this way I still get to enjoy watching you squirm. So the middle is our side.

I huffed out a laugh, even as I let my head rest on his bare shoulder and felt sleep pounce on me from where it had been waiting in the shadows. You are incorrigible. And a prick...and a pig... and...

But I truly didn't know what else he was because I was already falling into that well of sleep, even as around us the world began to wake up for the few hours of daylight that the Night Court possessed.

And...

I felt the brush of his lips against my temple and then his voice in my head, already beginning to slip into my dreams. Sleep, Feyre, his voice whispered.

You'll...stay...?

He smiled against my temple, and that is the last thing I really remembered. Except for that final word that accompanied me into the warm darkness of peaceful sleep at last.

Always.