A Court of Curse and Roses; acotar

𝕾𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌

A week passes before 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.

The flooring is marble, with black and white tiles. The walls are a gentle cream color, with dozens of wide windows showcasing a magnificent rose garden. It is sunny and warm today —sickly sweet Spring Court weather.

There are many paintings on the walls, crafted with a talented artistic hand. 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.

Shuddering, 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 sneak down the stairs and choose the first door I see. It opens to an art studio.

Stepping inside, I cannot help but gasp.

Each painting, brush, and tube of paint has been torn to shreds. The room is a mess. Colors are splattered across the walls in a fury of pinks and blues, hateful reds, and mossy greens. And there are so many vines, growing furiously from the windows and floorboards. They choke the room and block 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, a broken part of me yearns to be back in the Night Court. A week ago, I was cheerfully in love, mopping the kitchen of the townhouse, innocent to the pain I have endured the past few days. 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 and I flinch. "Everything she touches is beautiful. Until she takes it away. Then the beauty just hurts, "

I hear footsteps and turn. Tamlin stands right behind me.

This morning, the circles under his eyes have faded slightly. There is some 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 clothing and realize 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 meets my gaze. His stares are long and unbashful, his green eyes too peircing.

"You look well," he finally 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 with a scowl, "A very annoying but 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 the peice of canvas I dropped. He simply stares at the violet eye for a moment before he says, "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.

At his words, 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 weak when it comes to woman,"

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

He watches me for a long minute before he says through clenched teeth, "Then why the request for my help? You seem quite capable of dealing with him alone,"

"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 glass, "To the demise of those we love."