At the Mercy of the Stars

What I Claim

AN: Sorry! I've been updating Ao3 and Tumblr, but totally forgot to post chapter three and four here!

Feyre

Feyre truly tried to resist the pull. But then that wasn't so easy when she woke up wrapped in the safety of her mate's arms, his long fingers running through her hair from her roots all the way down to her tangled ends. She groaned as his nails softly scraped over her scalp, instinctively nuzzling against him. "Good morning, darling. Sleep well?"

"Like a rock," she murmured. She didn't think she'd ever felt a softer mattress. "You have a very sexy morning voice." She froze as he chuckled. What the hell had just come out of her mouth? "I don't have much of a filter before breakfast," she stuttered, blushing brightly and keeping her face buried in his neck.

"Interesting," he purred. "I wonder how much trouble that's going to get you into." She sucked in a breath, itching to explore the promise beneath his jesting.

Hesitation? Hesitation was not the feeling fluttering around inside of her now. Rhys shifted enough that the silk sheets over them yielded to gravity's drag, exposing the entirety of his upper body as he took her in in equal measure. Tattooed, golden-brown skin fit over trained muscle. It was entirely unfair that her mate looked like some divine being every hour of the day and she was just—

"What did I ever do to deserve a female like you? What did I do to deserved someone so fucking perfect?"

"Perfect?" She scoffed. Elain was perfect. Nesta was too in her own strange way. Feyre was the youngest daughter and the greatest nuisance. The wild one, if you listened to the whispers. Not quite groomed correctly when there were two perfect daughters before her. Useful, yes. But no one had thought her perfect. "Your biased regardless. I'm not the girl people want to—"

"I told you, Feyre, here you are not a showpiece. Not a showpiece or a puppet or a pawn. You are mine."

His. She could get used to hearing that.

"Do you know what it means to belong to the Heir of Night?" he crooned into her mind.

She didn't know, but she wanted to. Desperately. "What does it mean?"

He grinned fiendishly, tracing his nose against her fluttering pulse. What would it feel like to have his mouth there instead? To have the heavy weight of him above her, his hand threaded in her hair while the other slipped past her waistband. "It means, darling, that you set the standard of perfection. And if your subjects choose not to meet it then I will enjoy ending their miserable existence early."

She gnawed at her lip, letting that vow settle in her mind before she spoke again. The vulgarity of the oath should disturb her and yet she was feeling something on the opposite spectrum at the moment. "You certainly have a high opinion of your authority here," she remarked cautiously.

"Some say the only limit to one's power is their moral compass. I say the heart of the matter more often lies in their fear. You will get nowhere in life if you can not first claim what you know belongs to you." She swallowed the startled sound that tried to break free when Rhys lifted her by the hips, flipping their position so he leaned back against the headboard, hands anchored to her waistline. One shift forward and she'd be able to feel what was waiting for her after they accepted the mating bond. "You don't want to be a puppet, but you haven't chosen the freedom you're due. Tell me something, Feyre. Tell me what belongs to you."

Dozens of things belonged to Feyre. Hundreds, even, if she counted every book and knickknack and trinket she had at her parents' residence. And yet, if you asked anyone what the law said, those things were her father's belongings, not that Feyre could pretend that's what her mate was asking her now. "What do you claim for yourself?"