A Court of Curse and Roses; acotar

𝕾𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌

A week passes and I finally decide to leave my bedroom.

Goosebumps rise along my arms as I slowly open the door.  There is faint chatter coming from deep within the manor. Two males. One is shouting.

Unwavering, I step out and look around the long hallway coming off my room.

The flooring is marble, with tiles of black and white. The walls are a gentle cream colour with dozens of wide windows that look out onto the rose garden. It is sunny today, warm. Sickly sweet Spring Court weather.

There are many paintings between the windows. Tamlin is in most of them. He stands in some and sits in others. But in each painting, he looks powerful and unyielding, surrounded by vines and roses. I peer closer. The roses drip with blood.

I turn away and follow in the direction of the chatter. I reach a winding staircase that leads down into a spacious foyer. Ignoring my nerves, I choose the first door I see. It opens to an art gallery.

I step inside and gasp.

Each painting, brush and tube of paint has been torn to shreds. The room is a mess. Colours are splattered across the walls in a fury of pinks and blues, hateful reds and mossy greens. And there are so many vines, choking the room and blocking out any light that could infiltrate.

I pick up a bit of canvas at my feet and turn it over. A single violet eye stares up at me.

I scowl. Rhysand. The Night Court lingers in every crook and cranny across Prythian. Even here, I can not escape them.

But still, as I look down at the familiar face, I yearn to be back in the Night Court. A week ago, I was cheerfully in love, mopping the kitchen of the townhouse, gossiping to Mable. And now, I am in the Spring Court, mated to its pitiful, ghostly High Lord.

I let the painting drift back down to the floor.

"Don't let the mess fool you, it was once beautiful in here," a bitter voice says from behind me. "Everything she touches is beautiful. Until she takes it away. Then the beauty hurts, "

I hear footsteps and turn, Tamlin is right behind me.

This morning, the circles under his eyes have faded slightly. There is life to him, although he doesn't smile. He is even dressed brighter, his tunic a soft green, his pants a tight, brown leather.

I look down at my own clothing and realise we match. Earlier, I had rummaged through the clothes in my armoire and pulled out a green tunic and loose pants. How comical. Although, I am glad to see he is not wearing his daggers today.

Tamlin looks at me. His stares are long and unbashful.

"You look well," he says. His words are slow and careful as though he is holding back what he truly wishes to say.

"I feel well," I admit, and look anywhere but at his watchful eyes, so curious and powerful.

But I don't miss the way his eyes run down my body. Or the way his voice deepens as he says, "You've put on weight. That's good," the High Lord frowns, "Feyre was mere skin and bones the last time I saw her,"

His fists tighten at his sides as his green eyes gloss over with memories. I am unsure what to say or do. So I change the subject.

"I heard voices, who were you talking to?"

Tamlin straightens and looks down at me, "A very important man, Jurian. You will meet him soon."

I raise my eyebrows, "So what are we to do now?" I ask.

"For now, we dine." The High Lord looks down at me, "And we plan our revenge."

***

Tamlin leads me to a dining room, where we sit across from each other, food aplenty stretching between us.

The food is hot to the touch and as I eat, I wonder who cooked it. I haven't seen any members of Tamlins court besides a few gardeners since I arrived. Where is everyone? Does he not have an Inner Circle as Rhysand does? Or has that been taken from him too?

I can not help but also notice the disarray of his manor. From the gallery to the dining room, a faint layer of dust has settled on the windowsills and in the corners. Again, I think to myself, where is everyone?

I'm sipping tea when Tamlin finally speaks.

As he does, I look up at him in disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

Tamlin places his fork on his plate gently and looks up at me in annoyance, "What is the name of the fae who broke your heart?"

"I never told you that anyone broke my heart," I hiss.

"When you arrived here, you gasped one word repeatedly. And you had that look on your face - one I know too well. So you need not lie to me," Tamlin pauses, mulls over his next words for a long minute, "We are mates, after all,"

Mate. The word tastes like torture. I am the mate to the one fae I never cared for, never knew of. And Cassian, the Illyrian I love, is mated to another. To the nasty, spiteful Nesta. Pain hits me again, but this time it is followed by anger.

I am so angry.

"I do not want to be anyone's mate," I spit, "I want revenge,"

Tamlin gives me a hint of a smile and says, "Then tell me who broke your heart. Tell me, and then we can get revenge,"

I clutch my fork in my hand so hard that my knuckles turn white. I don't want to tell him this. Mate or not, he is a stranger. And talking about Cassian feels too private. Too intimate.

But as I hunker down in my chair, I find that the words want to be said. My heart aches to let it out. Is this part of the mating bond? Being unable to hide things from each other? I sigh at the thought.

"His name is Cassian, he is a member of Rhysand's Inner Circle," I force the words out, the pain overwhelming me. As I talk, it becomes real. I will not be waking up from this nightmare.

"And he is mated to Feyre's sister. I loved him," I pause and take a deep breath as I admit, "I still love him."

At the mention of Feyre, Tamlin sucks in a sharp breath as though her name is enough to wound him. His handsome face contorts and when he opens his eyes, they are wild and primal. This High Lord, this god, is broken into pieces by a once mortal girl.

"I have heard of Cassian, Commander of the Night Court armies, he will not be easy to hurt," Tamlin explains.

At this, I scowl, "He lets me into his bed with a flutter of my eyelashes. He's needy, he'll come crawling as soon as I shed my clothes,"

Tamlin's expression darkens at my words. His hand atop of the table clenches into a fist.

He watches me for a long minute before he says, "Then why the request for my aid?"

"I do not want to physically hurt Cassian. I want to hurt everyone he loves," I look at him, "and that includes Feyre,"

Tamlin doesn't move a muscle. "Why?" he asks.

"Because that sort of pain hurts more than any wound I could inflict on him,"

Tamlin nods before he raises his glass.

"To the fall of the Night Court," he says, halfheartedly.

I raise my own glass, "To the demise of those we love."