𝔸 ℂ𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕎𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕙 (Book 2)

Hundred-Sixteen

    "You fell in love with me," I said flatly, "because I remind you of your brother?" Friend. Brother. He considered them family either way.

    Again, he rolled his eyes. "I fell in love with you, smartass, because you were one of us—because you weren't afraid of me. I felt Cassian's spirit beside me in that moment, and I could have sworn I heard him say, 'if you don't marry her, you stupid prick, I will.'"

I grinned, huffing a laugh as my limbs moved of their own accord. Suddenly I was straddling Rhysand's waist, watching as his smirk grew tenfold. I grinned down at him from where he lay below me.

I slid a paint-covered hand over his tattooed chest. Paint—right.

We were both covered in it. So was the bed.

Rhys followed my eyes and gave me a grin that was positively wicked. "How convenient that the bathtub is large enough for two."

My body heated, and I pulled myself away from him and off the bed, only to have him move faster—scooping me up in his arms. I yelped—half laughing—as he hoisted me into his arms.

Rhys was splattered with paint, his hair crusted with it much like my own, and his poor wings...those were my handprints on them. Naked, he carried me into the bath, where water was already running, the magic of this cabin acting on our behalf.

He strode down the steps into the water, his hiss of pleasure a brush of air against my ear. I might have sighed a little myself when the hot water hit me as he sat us both down in the tub.

"I do know how to walk, you know." I said, though practically rejoicing in the way the heat felt against my skin.

"Yes, but I'm just so much better at it than you are."

I arched a brow at him, "You're better at walking?"

    He opened his mouth, looking confused at his own words. "Yes?"

    I snorted, "You truly have a way with words."

Pushing away from him, I sunk deeper into the water. The steam wafted between us, and Rhys picked up a bar of soap—that pine-ash smelling soap—and handed it to me, along with a washrag. "Someone, it seems, got my wings dirty."

    I ticked up a shoulder, "Couldn't have been me." I said but took the soap, "I was too busy being bad at walking."

    Rhys glared lightly, "I hate you."

    "You love me."

    "I'm rethinking that." he grumbled.

    I scrunched my nose, "Awe, such a romantic." I twirled my finger, motioning for him to turn around. He obeyed, spreading those wings enough for me to find the paint stains. Carefully, I soaped up the washcloth and began washing the colors away.

    The candlelight danced over his countless, faint scars—nearly invisible save for harder bits of membrane. He shuddered with each pass, hands braced on the lip of the tub.

    Silence engulfed us for a moment, blanketing us with its cool hands in a peaceful quiet. I interrupted it, "I think I fell in love with you a while ago," I murmured, "But I knew on Starfall. And I was..." I paused, searching for the right word, "scared. I've never been one for sentiment, not since I was young. And loving you was—new. I couldn't give in."

    "Why?" he asked. No judgment. No blame. As though he merely wanted to know. Maybe he did.

    I inhaled, lightly rubbing away another paint stain. "I told you that things I care about have a tendency to be taken from me." I breathed and he nodded. "My mother betrayed me when I was very young, sold me away as though I was an object. I..." I gulped, "My friends—Flynn and Astrid—I told you how they died. That their throats were slit in front of me. And after I watched Feyre die..." I squeezed my eyes tight, "Every time I thought about giving in, I saw you dying in front of me too. And I couldn't...I couldn't imagine that."