What if I lived? ✔️

Home

"Rise and shine, sleepy head!" I demanded, strutting into my brother's darkened hall of gloom.

As always there wasn't a thing out of place in Rhysand's room. The desk to my right spot blank, all paper stacked up in the right corner, his pens on the left, lined up as if measured with a ruler. All the books in the shelves organized alphabetically and for all their color, plus not a clothing object on the floor. At least that's what I could make out in the dim afternoon light shimmering in through a crack of the closed curtains. In the afternoon!! This just wouldn't do.

A groan came from the bed when I slid the black pieces of fabric open, letting in the warm sun, while the black-haired Illyrian turned into the opposite direction.

I glared at him, no way he hadn't heard Dad dropping in for a surprise visit three hours ago. Then again, darling Rhys had come home only yesterday evening himself, his first stop? Rita's. And obviously he took those two brutes with him, leaving me bore myself to death alone in the townhouse. With nineteen years, everyone still thought that going out, or having fun, cauldron forbid, would corrupt me, like it had my brother.

Rhysand wasn't really any help, mostly because my brother dreaded the day he'd see his baby sister take a drink or flirt with random strangers at a bar. It might have been no surprise to find him still in bed by noon, but I had suffered enough.

For some reason, Dad thought it a good idea to sit my dumbass brother down to talk politics even though the idiot would rather listen to Father go on about his fishing for a day if it would get him out of a discussion on compromise.

Very sad for the heir apparent to end over a night out, because Dad would definitely chop his head off if he knew that lazy idiot was still nursing his hangover. The final straw had been Nuala asking where I'd like to take lunch. An honest answer would've been as far away from the Town house as possible. Rhysand and Father? Definitely a recipe for disaster. 

Tiptoeing to the head of his bed I declared: "This is for your own good" then ripped away his blanket.

A pathetic yelp echoed from my brother, who for some reason, had long hair. Rhysand's face with long hair? Never, Dad would rip into him even more, because he'd definitely look like mom's male clone. Super creepy. I'd make him cut it as soon as possible. Probably tonight. Only, before that, I'd have to get him out of bed.

"Addy, what are you doing?" a voice came from behind me.

Confused I pivoted to the bathroom. Strangely, there stood my brother, raising an eyebrow at me, a towel around his shoulders. Thankfully, fully clothed and now I had pictured it. Gross.

My eyes flew back to the bed, where a drowsy Cassian in yesterday's fighting leather shielded his eyes from the light. Despite the clothes, there were multiple red blotches all over his neck. Now it was my turn to arch a black brow suggestively.

"Oh, shut up. You know exactly I prefer my partners shaved" he snapped the towel in my face crossing the room.

I scoffed: "I should've known that's not you in the bed."

Rhysand started digging through the papers on his desk: "How come?"

"Your wings are smaller" I schooled my features in innocence.

My brother threw me a glare: "You're a real pest, you know that?"

I shrugged: "You still love me."

The black haired male, in need of a shave himself, rolled his eyes: "Won't you give Cassian back the blanket? He seems to be freezing."

"Why is he in your bed anyway? Who's sleeping in the guest bed?"

The heir to the High Lord began skimming a sheet of paper: "Az, but please leave him alone, he drank more than all of us combined last night. Also, I didn't need my bed anyways, so why not let Cass have it? He was in no condition to fly back to the house of wind."