bloodlust

1

A/N: Ever wished Rhysand was morally black? Well, here's your formal trigger warning for sexually explicit content, violence, and other morally black things. 

Rhysand felt like a god as he watched his court fall to their knees before him. A sadistic smirk crossed his face as he watched their display of submission. Their heads stayed bowed, too afraid to raise their eyes to him. His power thrummed around him like black smoke. He took a deep breath in through his nose, savoring this moment.

"Rise," he instructed finally, allowing his power to ease as he seated himself atop his throne. His rings glittered in the lights of the chandeliers above him. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of the throne as he watched his constituents slowly rise.

They all watched him, waiting to obey his every command. They knew better than to step out of line. Rhysand's patience had been thin lately.

"As you were," he rolled his eyes with a brief, dismissive wave of his hand. They all blinked, attentive to a fault. He arched a brow and they skittered about, desperate to appear as though they were loyal and obedient servants to their master.

"My Lord," one of his knights spoke as he approached the throne, kneeling before it.

"What is it?" He sounded irritated, likely because he was.

"We have brought something for you, my Lord." The knight still did not lift his eyes to Rhysand. He'd trained them well.

"Well?" He said impatiently, picking a small piece of lint from his shirt and dusting it into the floor. "I haven't all night."

"A prisoner," the knight swallowed. "She shot one of the shifters you had sent into the human lands on patrol. Killed him with an arrow to the heart." Now this caught Rhysand's attention.

"She?"

"Aye, sir. She awaits your judgment now."

"Bring her to me." Any woman who had shot and killed a shifter so easily was someone he wished to meet. If she were from the human realms, that would make her mortal. She had faced up against one of his most powerful servants and come out alive? It baffled him.

"As you wish, my Lord." The knight rose to his feet, turning on his heel and disappearing down a hallway to Rhysand's right. Moments later, he emerged again.

He was holding a young girl roughly by the arm, dragging her forward for presentation. She was a gangly, awkward thing. Her clothing was dirty and ripped; his soldiers had likely not been gentle in their wrangling of her. What struck him most was how small she was. Her arms and legs were frail, breakable. She looked like it'd been ages since she'd dined on a hearty meal. This was the girl?

The knight forced her to her knees at the foot of the throne, and Rhysand looked down his nose with intrigue. She did not meet his eyes, instead keeping them cast to the floor. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was not in submission, but rather in disrespect. Disrespect was something he did not tolerate.