2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

about to make, binding me to him forever, shackling him to my broken and weary soul.
The thing inside me was roiling now, my body shaking with the building force of it as it
hunted for a way out—
Forever—I would never get better, never get free of myself, of that dungeon where I’d
spent three months—
“Feyre,” Tamlin said, his hand steady as he continued to reach for mine. The sun sank
past the lip of the western garden wall; shadows pooled, chilling the air.
If I turned away, they’d start talking, but I couldn’t make the last few steps, couldn’t,
couldn’t, couldn’t—
I was going to fall apart, right there, right then—and they’d see precisely how ruined I
was.
Help me, help me, help me, I begged someone, anyone. Begged Lucien, standing in the
front row, his metal eye fixed on me. Begged Ianthe, face serene and patient and lovely
within that hood. Save me—please, save me. Get me out. End this.
Tamlin took a step toward me—concern shading those eyes.
I retreated a step. No.
Tamlin’s mouth tightened. The crowd murmured. Silk streamers laden with globes of
gold faelight twinkled into life above and around us.
Ianthe said smoothly, “Come, Bride, and be joined with your true love. Come, Bride,
and let good triumph at last.”
Good. I was not good. I was nothing, and my soul, my eternal soul, was damned—
I tried to get my traitorous lungs to draw air so I could voice the word. No—no.
But I didn’t have to say it.
Thunder cracked behind me, as if two boulders had been hurled against each other.
People screamed, falling back, a few vanishing outright as darkness erupted.
I whirled, and through the night drifting away like smoke on a wind, I found Rhysand
straightening the lapels of his black jacket.
“Hello, Feyre darling,” he purred.