How to Protect the Ones You Love

The Preparations

I make sure that she eats. I have the guards bring her hot food and count the seconds until I can see her again. Amarantha doesn't say anything even though I know that she got word of Feyre and I's little deal. By the outraged look on Tamlin's face, I would bet the last dregs of my powers that he knows about it too. During my sleepless nights, while Amarantha slumbers next to me, I stare at the ceiling and devise my plan. I need to convince her that Feyre means little more to me than a human toy that caught my cat-like eye. So the night of Midsummer, I sent Cerridwen and Nuala to bathe and dress her. When I arrived, they had just slipped her into the gossamer dress. Feyre took one look at the dress and abruptly tried to tear it off of her body.

"I wouldn't do that," I say as I step into the room. Feyre spins around, eyes already lowered into a harsh glare that could have frozen seas.

"Our bargain hasn't started yet." Her whole body is tense with anger and the words coming out of her mouth are sharp and harsh.

"Ah, but I need an escort to the party."

As I speak, she studies my posture like the huntress she is, noting my relaxed shoulders and lazy grin, held in place by years of practice. Before I can stop myself, I offer her a small nugget of honesty.

"And when I thought of you squatting in that cell all night, alone..." I wave a hand to dismiss my spies, noticing Feyre's flinch when they walk straight through the wood of the door. I let out a small chuckle. She's seen so much, yet two girls walking through a door is what startles her?

"You look just as I hoped you would." And she does. Her hair falls down her back in glossy waves and the dark kohl emphasizes the gold specks in her grey/blue eyes. The rest of her body is covered in dark swirls of paint, a small layer of armor against wandering hands and a torcher device for Tamlin, all wrapped up in one. Two birds, one stone.

"Is this necessary?" she asks. Her voice is soaked with disgust as she gestures to her costume.

"Of course." I let a little bit of my anger seep into my voice. "How else would I know if anyone touches you?" I walk forward and run a finger down her arm to prove my point. The paint snaps back into place as soon as I remove my hand from her beautiful skin. "The dress itself won't mar it, and neither will your movements. And I'll remember precisely where my hands have been," I practically growl. "But if anyone else touches you---let's say a certain High Lord who enjoys springtime---I'll know." I move my hand up to flick her nose. Her face scrunches up in response to my action. "And, Feyre," I steel myself because I know my words are wrong, but necessary to keep her safe. "I don't like my belongings tampered with.

"Come," I say, beckoning her to follow me into the hallway beyond. "We're already late."