The Dark Heir - Nyx

47. Nyx

Nyx had never felt so light. After dancing and laughing in the rain with Theia, he couldn't imagine feeling any better than he had in those moments. The weight of her uncertain emotions and the arguments with his father had been downright crippling, but he now felt like he could breath. Nyx didn't forgive Rhysand, not entirely, but he had never truly lived a life without his father in it. He couldn't do that to himself or his parents, so he chose to speak to him and push it all away for the time being.

It didn't matter, though. He wasn't focused on his family, not now. He was focused on the way Theia squeezed his hand, a breathy giggle escaping her lips as she dragged him out of the rain and into the house. They'd been outside for the better half of the morning and afternoon, dancing and laughing in the rain. He was cold, wet, and tired, but Nyx didn't mind. Not when Theia was smiling and laughing with him. He'd do anything to see her smile.

He loved her. Gods, he loved her. She was breathtaking with her dark wet hair plastered to her face and neck, her cheeks flushed and her gown dripping with mud and rain. He couldn't help the smile that stretched across his lips as she rushed to shut the doors and drag him down the corridor. There was something about this female that put him into a trance. He was completely lost in her.

"Are you hungry?" Theia asked as she slowed, lifting his arm up and over her shoulder. Nyx pulled her into his side, his wings mindlessly stretching out around hers. They brushed against each other and his lashes fluttered, the tingling sensation running through his body.

"No, are you?"

Theia bit her lip as she shook her head, her eyes running over his face before she turned back forward. Nyx cursed in his mind, shaking his head at how boyish he felt. He was an Illyrian warrior, trained for battle and to run this court after his parents were gone, yet his heart raced and his hands trembled slightly when Theia looked at him. He let out a slow breath as he pulled her closer into him.

Theia's steps slowed as they neared his mother's studio. She'd taken such a beautiful room of the estate, wide windows and the perfect view of the garden and mountains. Nyx's heart thudded a little harder when he looked down to see the longing on Theia's face.

"Let's go in," he urged, nudging her with his hip. Her lip was still caught between her teeth as she glanced up at him and shook her head. Nyx frowned, his eyes battling between looking at her mouth or her eyes.

"I'm all dirty, I don't want to ruin anything. Maybe later when I'm clean," she whispered, though Nyx didn't think she meant to speak so softly; nor did he think that was her only reason. Her head turned back to the closed door before she started to move again. Nyx pulled her back and nodded to the door, reaching out to open it. Theia's lips parted, ready to protest, but Nyx opened the door to the studio and pushed her into the room. It was empty, dim sunlight drowned in clouds the only light in the room.

"You used to love art," Nyx murmured. He slipped his arm from her shoulders and started walking towards the easel with the blank canvas. He glanced over his shoulder to see the female with her arms crossed and a pout on her lips as she looked around the room. He knew it must be difficult for her to try and place a happy memory in the river house, but he knew she used to love it in here. If she couldn't remember that, he would remind her.

Nyx ran his finger over the blank canvas, the rough fabric numbing his fingertip. There were a few brushed dropped in the small ledge beneath the canvas, the jars of paints closed but scattered around the table beside it. His mother had improved significantly over the years. She had done a portrait of each family member multiple times and the most recent looked like the real person.

Nearly forgetting the purpose of coming in here, his eyes lifted to the wall of discarded pieces. Stretched canvases of all sizes were leaning against each other, some nearly finished. Feyre had a habit of starting a project and then finding a new idea to paint. His throat bobbed as he began flicking through the pieces, seeing flashes of half drawn faces, half colored landscapes, a few woodland creatures. There had been a time in his life where he wanted to take part in the creative side of life, not the logic and war side of things. He'd enjoyed music, painting, drawing, poetry. That was until he decided to go to the war camps and many other males had told him that art made a male weak. He thought it was foolish, but he listened all the same.