bloodlust

20

The twins, who she discovered were named Nuala and Cerridwen, found her in the bathing chambers. Shrouded in shadows like dark silk, they assisted her in slipping into a plain gown that bordered on boring. Feyre furrowed her brows as Nuala tightened the corset at her back.

This gown was nothing like the dazzling and revealing dresses Rhysand had been putting her into against her will. No, this dress was... comfortable and modest. It even had pockets, the dull brown shade of the fabric doing nothing for her pale complexion.

Wasn't this supposed to be a gala? Why was she being dressed so poorly?

Nuala placed a hand on Feyre's shoulder, causing her to look up and meet the shadow wraith's eyes. "I know he's difficult..." She paused, squeezing Feyre's shoulder slightly she looked deep in thought, like she was choosing her words carefully. "He's not someone you want as an enemy."

Feyre narrowed her eyes at Nuala, and Cerridwen stepped forward, stealing her gaze.

"She's right, my lady," Cerridwen said somberly.

"What do you mean?" She turned to them, pleading in her eyes. They looked to each other, seeming to communicate silently between one another. Feyre had always been curious about twins and their deep connections to one another.

Finally looking back to Feyre, Cerridwen spoke first. "He wants very much to trust you. Don't give him reason not to."

Had Rhysand put them up to this? She growled in frustration, turning back to the mirror and continuing to work on securing pins into her brown hair.

"He views me as his property. I owe him nothing." She said with an air of finality, but the twins stepped closer, their eyes attempting to communicate their perceived dire situation.

"My lady, please hear us. Be careful how you tread. He's not keen on forgiveness."

Feyre looked up at them in the mirror blankly. "If he wanted me to be threatened to stay in line, he might as well say it to my face." Something about her tone must have resonated, because the twins didn't say another word.

After her last conversation with Rhysand, she was more frustrated with her circumstances than ever. Locked away in a tower like a damsel in distress, not even allowed the company of a friend. She knew it was better than being his true prisoner- she'd seen the tunneling prison beneath his Court. That didn't stop it from chafing, though.

Feyre simply wasn't used to being told what to do. Her mother was dead and her father was no more her boss than she was his to command. She was used to hunting and trading of her own accord, making her own living and life.

Nuala and Cerridwen lead her through the halls of Rhysand's grand home and down toward the wing that housed his ballroom. As they drew nearer, the swooning violins sang louder, coaxing her forward.

As soon as she rounded the corner and caught a glimpse of the boisterous party swelling inside, she felt her breath catch, feeling eyes fall to her expectantly. Every fae female in the room was wearing the most extravagant evening gowns she'd ever seen, emphasizing glaringly just how plain she looked.

Her gut tightened as the nerves made her hands shake. She busied them straightening her dress and wiping the dampness from her palms. Rhysand sat upon his obsidian throne, watching her with a contradicting look on his face. He studied her, his face utterly expressionless.

This time, though, she wasn't ushered to his side. He did nothing to beckon her toward him, looking out into his sea of constituents with mimicked boredom. She could tell he was slightly too tense for it to be authentic, though.