2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

Even as snow lashed the protective magic of the hall, even as I toiled over the sentences
—Rhysand is interesting; Rhysand is gorgeous; Rhysand is flawless—and raised and
lowered my mental shield until my mind was limping, I thought of what I’d heard, what
they’d said.
I wondered what Ianthe would know about the murders, if she knew any of the victims.
Knew what Cesere was. If temples were being targeted, she should know. Tamlin should
know.
That final night, I could barely sleep—half from relief, half from terror that perhaps
Rhysand really did have some final, nasty surprise in store. But the night and the storm
passed, and when dawn broke, I was dressed before the sun had fully risen.
I’d taken to eating in my rooms, but I swept up the stairs, heading across that massive
open area, to the table at the far veranda.
Sprawled in his usual chair, Rhys was in the same clothes as yesterday, the collar of his
black jacket unbuttoned, the shirt as rumpled as his hair. No wings, fortunately. I
wondered if he’d just returned from wherever he’d met Mor and the others. Wondered
what he’d learned.
“It’s been a week,” I said by way of greeting. “Take me home.”
Rhys took a long sip of whatever was in his cup. It didn’t look like tea. “Good morning,
Feyre.”
“Take me home.”
He studied my teal and gold clothes, a variation of my daily attire. If I had to admit, I
didn’t mind them. “That color suits you.”
“Do you want me to say please? Is that it?”
“I want you to talk to me like a person. Start with ‘good morning’ and let’s see where it
gets us.”
“Good morning.”
A faint smile. Bastard. “Are you ready to face the consequences of your departure?”
I straightened. I hadn’t thought about the wedding. All week, yes, but today … today
I’d only thought of Tamlin, of wanting to see him, hold him, ask him about everything
Rhys had claimed. During the past several days, I hadn’t shown any signs of the power
Rhysand believed I had, hadn’t felt anything stirring beneath my skin—and thank the
Cauldron.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Right. You’ll probably ignore it, anyway. Sweep it under the rug, like everything else.”
“No one asked for your opinion, Rhysand.”
“Rhysand?” He chuckled, low and soft. “I give you a week of luxury and you call me
Rhysand?”