I smiled a bit. “But he and Mor—they never … ?”
“That’s between them—and Cassian. I’m not stupid or arrogant enough to get in the middle of it.” Which I would certainly be if I shoved my nose in their business.
We walked in silence across the packed bridge to the other side of the river. My muscles quivered at the steep hills between us and the town house.
I was about to beg Rhys to fly me home when I caught the strands of music pouring from a group of performers outside a restaurant.
My hands slackened at my sides. A reduced version of the symphony I’d heard in a chill dungeon, when I had been so lost to terror and despair that I had hallucinated—hallucinated as this music poured into my cell … and kept me from shattering.
And once more, the beauty of it hit me, the layering and swaying, the joy and peace.
They had never played a piece like it Under the Mountain—never this sort of music. And I’d never heard music in my cell save for that one time.
“You,” I breathed, not taking my eyes from the musicians playing so skillfully that even the diners had set down their forks in the cafés nearby. “You sent that music into my cell. Why?”
Rhysand’s voice was hoarse. “Because you were breaking. And I couldn’t find another way to save you.”
The music swelled and built. I’d seen a palace in the sky when I’d hallucinated—a place between sunset and dawn … a house of moonstone pillars. “I saw the Night Court.”
He glanced sidelong at me. “I didn’t send those images to you.”
I didn’t care. “Thank you. For everything—for what you did. Then … and now.”
“Even after the Weaver? After this morning with my trap for the Attor?”
My nostrils flared. “You ruin everything.”
Rhys grinned, and I didn’t notice if people were staring as he slid an arm under my legs, and shot us both into the sky.
I could learn to love it, I realized. The flying.
I was reading in bed, listening to the merry chatter of the toasty birch fire across the room, when I turned the page of my book and a piece of paper fell out.
I took one look at the cream stationery and the handwriting and sat up straight.
On it, Rhysand had written,
I might be a shameless flirt, but at least I don’t have a horrible temper. You should come tend to my wounds from our squabble in the snow. I’m bruised all over thanks to you.
Something clicked against the nightstand, and a pen rolled across the polished mahogany. Hissing, I snatched it up and scribbled:
Go lick your wounds and leave me be.
The paper vanished.
It was gone for a while—far longer than it should have taken to write the few words that appeared on the paper when it returned.
I’d much rather you licked my wounds for me.
My heart pounded, faster and faster, and a strange sort of rush went through my veins as I read the sentence again and again. A challenge.
I clamped my lips shut to keep from smiling as I wrote,
Lick you where, exactly?
The paper vanished before I’d even completed the final mark.
His reply was a long time coming. Then,
Wherever you want to lick me, Feyre.
I’d like to start with “Everywhere,” but I can choose, if necessary.
I wrote back,
Let’s hope my licking is better than yours. I remember how horrible you were at it Under the Mountain.
Lie. He’d licked away my tears when I’d been a moment away from shattering.
He’d done it to keep me distracted—keep me angry. Because anger was better than feeling nothing; because anger and hatred were the long-lasting fuel in the endless dark of my despair. The same way that music had kept me from breaking.
Lucien had come to patch me up a few times, but no one risked quite so much in keeping me not only alive, but as mentally intact as I could be considering the circumstances. Just as he’d been doing these past few weeks—taunting and teasing me to keep the hollowness at bay. Just as he was doing now.
I was under duress, his next note read. If you want, I’d be more than happy to prove you wrong. I’ve been told I’m very, very good at licking.
I clenched my knees together and wrote back, Good night.
A heartbeat later, his note said, Try not to moan too loudly when you dream about me. I need my beauty rest.
I got up, chucked the letter in the burbling fire, and gave it a vulgar gesture.
I could have sworn laughter rumbled down the hall.
I didn’t dream about Rhys.
I dreamed about the Attor, its claws on me, gripping me as I was punched. I dreamed about its hissing laughter and foul stench.
But I slept through the night. And did not wake once.