2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

laughed until wine came out of her nose, and when I scowled at her, she told me I should
be proud: when Rhys was prepared to brood, it took nothing short of a miracle to get him
out of it.
I tried to ignore the slight sense of triumph—even as I climbed into bed.
I was just starting to drift off, well past two in the morning thanks to chatting with Mor
on the couch in the living room for hours and hours about all the great and terrible places
she’d seen, when the house let out a groan.
Like the wood itself was being warped, the house began to moan and shudder—the
colored glass lights in my room tinkling.
I jolted upright, twisting to the open window. Clear skies, nothing—
Nothing but the darkness leaking into my room from the hall door.
I knew that darkness. A kernel of it lived in me.
It rushed in from the cracks of the door like a flood. The house shuddered again.
I vaulted from bed, yanked the door open, and darkness swept past me on a phantom
wind, full of stars and flapping wings and—pain.
So much pain, and despair, and guilt and fear.
I hurtled into the hall, utterly blind in the impenetrable dark. But there was a thread
between us, and I followed it—to where I knew his room was. I fumbled for the handle,
then—
More night and stars and wind poured out, my hair whipping around me, and I lifted an
arm to shield my face as I edged into the room. “Rhysand.”
No response. But I could feel him there—feel that lifeline between us.
I followed it until my shins banged into what had to be his bed. “Rhysand,” I said over
the wind and dark. The house shook, the floorboards clattering under my feet. I patted the
bed, feeling sheets and blankets and down, and then—
Then a hard, taut male body. But the bed was enormous, and I couldn’t get a grip on
him. “Rhysand! ”
Around and around the darkness swirled, the beginning and end of the world.
I scrambled onto the bed, lunging for him, feeling what was his arm, then his stomach,
then his shoulders. His skin was freezing as I gripped his shoulders and shouted his name.
No response, and I slid a hand up his neck, to his mouth—to make sure he was still
breathing, that this wasn’t his power floating away from him—
Icy breath hit my palm. And, bracing myself, I rose up on my knees, aiming blindly, and
slapped him.
My palm stung—but he didn’t move. I hit him again, pulling on that bond between us,
shouting his name down it like it was a tunnel, banging on that wall of ebony adamant