2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

will.
Fae males were territorial, dominant, arrogant—but the ones in the Spring Court …
something had festered in their training. Because I knew—deep in my bones—that
Cassian might push and test my limits, but the moment I said no, he’d back off. And I
knew that if … that if I had been wasting away and Rhys had done nothing to stop it,
Cassian or Azriel would have pulled me out. They would have taken me somewhere—
wherever I needed to be—and dealt with Rhys later.
But Rhys … Rhys would never have not seen what was happening to me; would never
have been so misguided and arrogant and self-absorbed. He’d known what Ianthe was
from the moment he met her. And he’d understood what it was like to be a prisoner, and
helpless, and to struggle—every day—with the horrors of both.
I had loved the High Lord who had shown me the comforts and wonders of Prythian; I
had loved the High Lord who let me have the time and food and safety to paint. Maybe a
small part of me might always care for him, but … Amarantha had broken us both. Or
broken me so that who he was and what I now was no longer fit.
And I could let that go. I could accept that. Maybe it would be hard for a while, but …
maybe it’d get better.
Rhys’s feet were near-silent, given away only by the slight groan of the stairs. I rose to
open the door before he could knock, and found him standing there, tray in his hands. Two
stacks of covered dishes sat on it, along with two glasses and a bottle of wine, and—
“Tell me that’s stew I smell.” I breathed in, stepping aside and shutting the door while
he set the tray on the bed. Right—not even room for a table up here.
“Rabbit stew, if the cook’s to be believed.”
“I could have lived without hearing that,” I said, and Rhys grinned. That smile tugged
on something low in my gut, and I looked away, sitting down beside the food, careful not
to jostle the tray. I opened the lid of the top dishes: two bowls of stew. “What’s the other
one beneath?”
“Meat pie. I didn’t dare ask what kind of meat.” I shot him a glare, but he was already
edging around the bed to the armoire, his pack in hand. “Go ahead and eat,” he said, “I’m
changing first.”
Indeed, he was soaked—and had to be freezing and sore.
“You should have changed before going downstairs.” I picked up the spoon and swirled
the stew, sighing at the warm tendrils of steam that rose to kiss my chilled face.
The rasp and slurp of wet clothes being shucked off filled the room. I tried not to think
about that bare, golden chest, the tattoos. The hard muscles. “You were the one training all
day. Getting you a hot meal was the least I could do.”
I took a sip. Bland, but edible and, most importantly, hot. I ate in silence, listening to the
rustle of his clothes being donned, trying to think of ice baths, of infected wounds, of toe
fungus—anything but his naked body, so close … and the bed I was sitting on. I poured