𝒜 𝒞𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝑅𝑒𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒮𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓈 | ᴀᴢʀɪᴇʟ

Chapter 92

Chapter 92

Rhysand and Arwen ate their evening meal together in the sunroom, watching as the burnt rays of sunset danced across the garden. He picked mindlessly at the plate that rested to his left on the cushioning of the chaise. Under his other arm, Arwen was securely tucked, holding her own plate close to her stomach. He filled her mind with the scents of the garden, despite the window being closed. He sent her images of birds that weren't truly there, observing every now and then how her eyes would flicker to watch them. It calmed her—and calmed him to know she was at ease.

His dinner didn't sit well in his stomach, but that wasn't new.

"I think I did it to myself." His chin cocked down at her quiet voice. It was steady. Even. But her throat had long since become hoarse. Arwen shifted her head against the front of his shoulder. "Tethering. It wasn't there at first, but I panicked. I didn't want to leave you."

He knew it wasn't the blame she was trying to deal with. Rhysand didn't want to talk about it all in detail, but if she did, he wouldn't make to stop her. "Did you... Did you wake immediately?"

She nodded. "We were still in the town house. It was all blurry at first. Misty." Rhysand's stomach sunk as he put that description to the memory he had seen that night they pulled her from the bath. "I was being pulled away and I didn't want to go. I made the tether and then the mist went away. Seeing my own body was... Strange."

Rhysand clutched her closer, hating the limpness, hating the coldness. It felt like another part of him was being torn out. A wound that would never heal. His shield around them both strengthened as Mor tried to press against it again. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He was sure his cries were heard by the entire city. Let them hear.

Rhysand revelled in feeling the small expansion of her ribs against his. "Feyre felt the same," he offered. "How does it feel now? Having this body?"

She glanced down at herself, flexing her bare toes upwards. "It doesn't feel like anything has changed. It was seeing myself from a distance that was odd. This body has always belonged to me. It's just not dying anymore."

"I forbid it." He smiled tightly and gulped away the pit in his throat, looking down as she frowned up at him. "I forbid you from doing anything like that again. My heart is one scare away from giving out."

Arwen gave a tired laugh and put her plate aside. "You say that like I plan on any of this."

"Well I am powerful, but not powerful enough to forbid fate," he said, leaning down to her with his own gentle chuckle, "so I will settle with commanding it of you. For all our sakes."

Humming lowly, she rolled her neck and turned a dull stare back to the garden. "Cassian is... pissed at me." She huffed. "Will you talk sense into him?"

Rhysand rolled his eyes. "I don't want to deal with him either. And he's not angry at you, he's frustrated." Arwen continued glaring at nothing. He rubbed her arm. "It's not what he expects of you, it's what he expects of himself. Cassian never said it aloud, but he prided himself on the fact that you opened to him first. Now he's realising that you kept things from him and it's a blow to that pride." Rhysand was frustrated too—at himself, much as he imagined Cassian was. But he knew to keep it internal. To vent to Feyre and Mor rather than show that to Arwen.

He was glad now, to have taken the week before coming down. If he hadn't waited long enough to cool his thoughts, his temper would not have kept. Just as it hadn't that day they came home from Dawn.

"Can you tell me about these?" Rhysand took her resting wrist from her thigh. "When they happened."

She looked at herself with disdain. "Why?"