A Court of Death || ACOTAR

27

The next time Astryn woke, her head was still in Rhys's lap, but he was asleep. This has been going on for days now, and she was certain now was the first time he had slept. She glanced towards the side, finding a half empty meal tray with an empty cup.

"A little mixture in his tea to make him sleep," a creature in the corner of the room taunted, "you'll be across the sea by the time he wakes."

"What?" Astryn muttered, trying to catch up with the change in circumstances. It was hard adjust to any change after dying over and over.

"Across the sea," the creature repeated with a wicked grin, "the King of Hybern requests you. Poor little High Lord of Night will think he killed you for real when he wakes and you're gone!"

Astryn tried to move, and it was then she finally noticed the shackles restraining her wrists and ankles. Ones far too similar to the chains she has spent her early life in. She didn't know how she didn't pick up on the stench sooner, didn't feel the slight burn of them against her skin.

The creature cackled before descending upon her, yanking her from Rhys's lap. He stirred slightly at the movement but didn't wake, whatever the creature had put in his tea keeping him unconscious.

Its claws dug into Astryn's skin as it dragged her away. She squirmed and thrashed but there wasn't much she could do in chains, especially not with her body and soul both thoroughly exhausted.

"Keep still," the creature hissed, "I'll just kill you if I have to! You'd be alive again by the time we reached Hybern."

Before Astryn could react, the creature did just that. It sliced her throat open again, and any chance she had of putting up a fight was gone.

Hours later, Rhys woke up alone, still sitting on the cold floor, still covered in blood, dagger at his side. There was blood everywhere. He hadn't realized before just how much blood had been spilled. How much blood he had spilled. He could hardly stomach it—knowing whose blood it was and that he had been the one to slice her open.

And she wasn't there anymore. He wasn't foolish enough to think she had gotten free. Amarantha wouldn't have let that happen. Either Astryn was dead for real or...well, the alternative was likely something much worse.

For a moment—a long, painful moment—Rhys considered grabbing the dagger and slicing it across his own throat. He couldn't do that though. He had people he still had to protect, people he still had to live for. And he didn't even know for sure if Astryn was dead or if she was off being tortured in some new way. So, he sat still and silent in the mess of blood and he waited.

Amarantha came in eventually, a gleam of utter delight in her eyes at the sight of all the dried blood on the floor and on Rhys. He didn't get up off the floor. He would have to put himself together again eventually, go back to playing the role he had crafted to keep himself and as many of his loved ones alive as possible. But right now...he couldn't be anything but broken right now. Amarantha knew it too.

She crossed the room, hips swaying slightly. She leaned down slightly, enough to ghost her fingertips over his jawline and under his chin. She tilted his head up to force him to look at her and she smiled a cold, cruel smile.

"You look good covered in blood," she purred, "I really wasn't sure if you would do it. I wondered if you might just end yourself instead. But you were magnificent. Slitting her throat over and over until it finally stuck. Shame I didn't get to see the body, but I was told she's been disposed of. And I think you've earned a reward."

He blinked a few times, his brain trying to catch up with the situation. She had been eyeing him with some wicked sort of interest from the moment she had him—had everyone—under her control. It was a desire fueled by hatred, he knew that much. But it was desire nonetheless and he was suddenly too aware of her hand on his chin. If she left him here alone, he wondered if he might take that dagger and flay off every inch of his skin she touched if only to be able to tell himself there was no part of him she had touched left. She ran her fingers through his hair and he imagined cutting all that off too.

"You impressed me," she remarked as she continued running her fingers through his hair as if she was petting a treasured animal. "I thought you'd be the one to make issues here but no."

She looked at him like she expected a response. A thank you, perhaps, for the compliment to his obedience.

His mind drifted to four centuries ago, when he had first found Astryn chained up in a cave. Trapped and used in so many abhorrent ways. Beaten and violated and starved. She survived that. She survived that, and she went on and made a happy life for herself. Or at least he hoped her life for the last few hundred years had been happy. Cassian implied that it had. Rhys never asked how he knew. He wished he had asked. But she survived and she was happy. After all that pain and darkness.

He reminded himself of that as he sat covered in her blood and stared up at the face of his own captor. He wondered if escape and freedom had ever crossed Astryn's mind when she was in that cave for the first twenty years of her life. Had she dreamed of a better life? Had she even known better lives existed? Rhys wondered if it was worse to be so trapped while never having known freedom like Astryn had been, or if was worse to have had so many years of freedom only to lose it.

He did not dare to hope that he could ever be free again.

He stared up at Amarantha, at her eyes full of desire. She was more prideful than she would outright admit. If he refused her, she would find some wicked way to retaliate. He had people to take care of. He couldn't risk her fury. She might still just take him anyway if he didn't play along. So, he forced himself to play along. He had already lost a piece of soul by permanently ending his sister's life. He would rip out another piece to ensure the people he loved stayed safe, to ensure it was never Azriel or Cassian that Amarantha turned that sickeningly lustful gaze on.

Rhys did not allow himself to remain outwardly broken, did not allow himself to process or mourn or fall into a pit of guilt. It took more energy than he expected, but he slid his mask back into place, and he smiled up at Amarantha as if they were sharing some secret moment.

And she smiled back, sealing his fate.