bloodlust

15: Rhysand's POV

Rhysand had always been very good at compartmentalizing. It was one of the few skills that had kept him alive through five centuries of war, betrayal, and bloodshed. Pain, anger, and fear all had their places. Everything could be controlled.

He had learned that lesson young, when softness was punished and hesitation was exploited. He had learned it again beneath the mountain, when every emotion he allowed himself became another weapon Amarantha could turn against him. Control was survival. It was power. And it was the only reason he was still standing.

And yet, somehow, one human woman with paint-stained fingers and an infuriating tendency to speak her mind had managed to disrupt centuries of carefully constructed discipline. He hated that.

The fact that she made him hesitate was the problem.

Rhysand stood alone on the balcony of his private study, one hand resting against the smooth black stone railing as the wind of the Sidra carried through the open doors behind him.

The Night Court glittered beneath him. Velaris was beautiful in the way all dangerous things were beautiful. The city curved along the river like a jeweled serpent, its streets glowing with golden lanterns as evening settled over the mountains. Music drifted faintly from somewhere below, carried upward by the cool breeze. The scent of fresh bread from the bakeries mixed with the crisp bite of snow from the peaks surrounding the city.

A paradise. His paradise. The one thing he had protected through centuries of blood and war.

And now a war was coming for it. He knew it was inevitable, but it didn't make him any less protective of this place. The human armies were moving. The queens were gathering their strength.

Tamlin had chosen his side.

It seemed like everything required his attention and demanded strategy. It could be so simple. Without her. 

His mind betrayed him again.

He imagined Feyre standing in his office the previous night, crossing her arms and explaining humanity to him as if he were some creature incapable of understanding anything beyond violence. Her looking at him with disappointment.

That was the part that lingered.

Fear was easy and predictable, but it could be manipulated. Disappointment was far worse. It suggested expectation. It suggested that somewhere in that stubborn human mind of hers, she believed he could be better.

The thought was absurd. And dangerous. Yet it irritated him more than any insult ever had.

A knock suddenly sounded against the door. Rhysand did not turn.

"Come in," he said loudly enough to carry outside the room. The heavy wooden door opened, and Cassian entered carrying a stack of reports beneath one arm.

The Illyrian warrior filled the doorway with his massive frame, dark hair slightly disheveled, leather armor still strapped across his chest from morning training. He carried himself with the careless confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place in the world.

Rhysand had always found that both admirable and deeply irritating. Cassian glanced around the room, then at Rhysand. Then back at the room.

"You look miserable," Cassian said with no small amount of amusement in his voice.

Rhysand's eyes narrowed. "I was unaware you had developed an interest in my emotional state."

"I haven't." Cassian tossed the reports onto the desk. "I've developed an interest in pointing out when my friend is being painfully obvious."