bloodlust

8

    Feyre didn't see Rhysand for nearly a week after their last encounter. She grew more comfortable than she wanted to within the padded walls of her routine. She woke up when her body naturally did, reveling in all the rest she was getting. She wasn't sure where Rhysand had gone, only that he wasn't here. She'd tiptoe to the library, browsing the rows of intricately designed books until she picked one she liked. She'd then stare at the pages with furrowed brows until she developed a headache and sauntered back to her room drowsily. She could recognize letters and she was getting better at piecing together smaller words.

    She'd never had so much time to just... exist. She was loathe to admit that her prison wasn't entirely uncomfortable, especially when Rhysand wasn't around to bother her. So, on the seventh day she didn't see him, she became bolder than she should have. She decided today she'd start snooping around, finding what was hidden behind shut doors around here.

She knew Rhysand told her that the rest of the castle wasn't safe, and she'd experienced and seen enough since being here to believe him, but this was his personal private wing, she'd discovered. Which meant one of these bedchambers were his. She felt the magic heavier here like a blanket over her senses.

The first door she came to was the most ornate on the hallway, the door frame a wide-set arch above her head. It was an educated guess that the most elaborate chambers within the hall would be Rhysand's. She expected the door to be locked. When the knob turned easily beneath her grip, the door swinging wide like a brazen welcome sign, she couldn't stop herself from stepping inside.

The room was different than she expected, somehow. It was... cozy. A large fireplace framed by windows that overlooked the Rainbow with the vast terrain of the Steppes in the far distance. His bed was clad with slick black silk bedding and draping canopies. The furniture was also dark toned, flecked with interesting patterns. A plush rug covered most of the floor, and the seperate archway to his bathroom revealed just how similar the layout was to her own room. Rhysand had given her chambers as nice as his own? To what gain?

She walked to his bathroom, peering into the closet beyond. All of his simple yet beautiful clothing properly stored and hung neatly. Everything about his space was orderly and welcoming. It was unlike the cold, calculated front he insisted on showing his Court. What did it all mean?

She looked over her shoulder to check again that she was alone before she lifted one of his shirts to her nose, inhaling the same intoxicating smell of him that always surrounded her in his presence. Rhysand smelled more delicious than anything she'd ever smelled, and she hated that. Her cheeks pinkened at the sheer audacity of her own exploration. She was so distracted in her thoughts that she never heard the light, lithe footsteps behind her.

"Breaking into my room, Feyre? And here I thought you liked playing hard to get."

Feyre's heart leapt in her chest and she shrieked, grabbing her chest and turning to see Rhysand leaning in the doorway of his closet, his ankles crossed and eyebrow arched in utter amusement. Her pulse hammered in her throat as she waited for him to smite her dead on the spot for invading his privacy. But he just stood there watching her with that smug smirk painting his lips.

"Your door was unlocked," she swallowed hard.

"Was it," he mused. "How careless of me." He said it with an air of arrogance that hinted he'd left it open on purpose, and that she'd wandered directly into the spindles of a spider's web.

He strode toward her slowly and deliberately until his chest was inches from her face. He looked down his nose at her, eyes searching her face. She sucked in a nervous breath, unsure what to do. "What did you hope to find, Feyre? All my dirty little secrets? I'd tell you them if you asked."

She forced her chin higher. "The truth about you."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't deal too much with truth."

His proximity and smell was like a drug. She despised the innate parts of her that ached to step even closer, to close that distance. Something about him made her entirely lose her head. She tried to remind herself how terrible he was, but looking up into his face was distracting. Rhysand was the kind of beauty you only saw once in a lifetime. It's a shame such a good face was wasted on him, she thought bitterly.

"You're blushing," he said, his thumb tracing lightly across her cheek. "Tell me... is it because you're embarrassed to be caught? Or because you were hoping I'd catch you?"

She tried to straighten her spine. "Neither."

"Another lie," he purred, his eyes trailing lazily and intentionally down her body. "When will you learn you can't lie to me, Feyre darling? Your body tells me everything you won't."

"Move," she commanded. He grinned at her bravery.

"Gladly," he shrugged a shoulder, "once you admit it."

"Admit what?"

"That you were starving for my attention enough to come in here."

"I didn't-"

"Then why," he interrupted softly, "are you still here, letting me stand this close?"

Her breathing quickened, her mouth drying out. His violet eyes kept her pinned in place for a few moments before he stepped aside, freeing her exit and breaking the tension. "Run along, Feyre. For now." His voice was silk-coated midnight steel. "But next time, don't walk into a predator's cave not expecting to be made prey."