2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

barely been able to speak or bring myself to care if I lived or died or ate or starved. I
couldn’t leave him to his own dark thoughts, his own guilt. He’d shouldered them alone
long enough.
So I held his gaze. “I never knew Illyrians were such morose drunks.”
“I’m not drunk—I’m drinking,” he said, his teeth flashing a bit.
“Again, semantics.” I leaned back in my seat, wishing I’d brought my coat. “Maybe you
should have slept with Cresseida after all—so you could both be sad and lonely together.”
“So you’re entitled to have as many bad days as you want, but I can’t get a few hours?”
“Oh, take however long you want to mope. I was going to invite you to come shopping
with me for said lacy little unmentionables, but … sit up here forever, if you have to.”
He didn’t respond.
I went on, “Maybe I’ll send a few to Tarquin—with an offer to wear them for him if he
forgives us. Maybe he’ll take those blood rubies right back.”
His mouth barely, barely tugged up at the corners. “He’d see that as a taunt.”
“I gave him a few smiles and he handed over a family heirloom. I bet he’d give me the
keys to his territory if I showed up wearing those undergarments.”
“Someone thinks mighty highly of herself.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You seem to have difficulty not staring at me day and night.”
There it was—a kernel of truth and a question.
“Am I supposed to deny,” he drawled, but something sparked in those eyes, “that I find
you attractive?”
“You’ve never said it.”
“I’ve told you many times, and quite frequently, how attractive I find you.”
I shrugged, even as I thought of all those times—when I’d dismissed them as teasing
compliments, nothing more. “Well, maybe you should do a better job of it.”
The gleam in his eyes turned into something predatory. A thrill went through me as he
braced his powerful arms on the table and purred, “Is that a challenge, Feyre?”
I held that predator’s gaze—the gaze of the most powerful male in Prythian. “Is it?”
His pupils flared. Gone was the quiet sadness, the isolated guilt. Only that lethal focus
—on me. On my mouth. On the bob of my throat as I tried to keep my breathing even. He
said, slow and soft, “Why don’t we go down to that store right now, Feyre, so you can try
on those lacy little things—so I can help you pick which one to send to Tarquin.”
My toes curled inside my fleece-lined slippers. Such a dangerous line we walked
together. The ice-kissed night wind rustled our hair.
But Rhys’s gaze cut skyward—and a heartbeat later, Azriel shot from the clouds like a