A Court of Death || ACOTAR

31

Rhys was tired. Exhausted, really.

He had always been one for hiding behind different masks, but he hadn't had any reprieve from his masks in the last two decades. There was no pause, no time to go home and remember he was still a person. No, this was a constant. He played his role constantly. It was still hard not to vomit when Amarantha touched him. He wondered if she ever knew how he imagined killing her every time he was inside of her. It had become the only way to make it out of those encounters with his sanity even somewhat intact. He gave her everything she wanted all the while he was picturing different ways he could kill her.

She had to know he hated her. He was convinced of that. How could she not know? But she was so secure in the knowledge that he could do nothing about that hatred that she didn't care. That had to be it. She had begun to trust him to some degree, but he wasn't sure any amount of his acting could let her forget he hated her. And she hated him too. That was part of why she had chosen him. A hatred for the son of the male who had killed her friend. That was what fueled this. At the start of it at least. By now, it seemed she was just addicted to him. Maybe she was delusional enough to believe he was addicted to her too.

She had kept him in her bed overnight last night, even after she was done using him. It wasn't often she had him stay while she slept. He wondered if the action of keeping him here overnight while she slept was to just rub salt in the wound. She could sleep peacefully next to him because she knew he couldn't hurt her.

He got no sleep in her bed. After Amarantha decided she had gotten off enough times, he just laid there and stared at the ceiling. He did not imagine better days or better nights. He did not think of the family he left behind or the home he believed he would never go back to. There was not enough hope left in him to imagine or think of those things.

He laid there and he stared at the ceiling and he did not think about or hope for or imagine anything. There was but cold, empty silence.

And then the morning came, and Amarantha woke and she wanted more. So he gave her more until she had her full and he could leave her bed.

He spent hours after that bathing, scrubbing his skin until it broke. The small scrapes healed within moments. And then he kept scrubbing until he felt as clean as he could. Never completely clean anymore. Even if this all ended today, he wasn't sure he could ever feel completely clean again.

After leaving his chambers, he faced the ever present sneering and whispers.

Whore. Whore. Whore. Traitor. Whore. Whore. Whore.

Never ending, harder to ignore every time. He wasn't a traitor. He knew he wasn't a traitor. He was doing what he was doing for his people. He was protecting his people. He was not a traitor. That much he could at least deny to himself.

"Who would've guessed it?" a familiar voice mocked. Rhys stilled for a moment and then turned to face Beron Vanserra.

"Oh, please do enlighten me about what we're making guesses about," Rhys drawled, hands tucked into his pockets.

"You and your sister," Beron said with a grin, "you're a whore now just like she was for my son back when she was my guest. You know, before she was his wife. He never did get a chance to use her after they married. And now she's dead, of course. Funny that it was you who killed her in the end. How did it feel to kill the little thing you put so much into saving?"

Rhys kept his mask in place, a smirk setting on his lips.

"Oh, Beron, did you think I saved Astryn from you because I cared if she lived or died?" Rhys taunted, arching an eyebrow. "I just didn't want to have to deal with all the messy posturing I'd have to go through if one of yours killed one of mine. I mean, if you had killed my sister, and let's face it your idiot son would have accidentally killed her, then I would have had to slaughter your entire family or risk seeming weak."

Beron stared at him for a moment, as if trying to piece together whether or not he was lying. His own ego led him to believe that really might be truth of the matter. It would be his own thought process. He would be more concerned about the wounded pride of someone killing one of his own than of the loss of life.

"And all that saving face is gone now," Beron mused after a moment, "why?"

Rhys cocked his head and his eyes were assessing.

"Power is shifting, Beron," he said smugly, "and which of us currently has the trust of the High Queen of Prythian?"

"Whoring your way into her good graces," Beron scoffed, "what a way to secure her trust."

"I'm on the inside, in more ways than one. Where are you?" Rhys asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I could kill you right now and laugh about it with her later. It wouldn't go that way if you tried to end me."

"And when all this ends?" Beron shot back, and Rhys grinned.

"When it ends? That's downright treasonous," he taunted, "now I really have the grounds to kill you. I bet she'd reward me for getting rid of you."

Beron held his stare for a moment before turning and leaving, mumbling more about Rhys being a whore.

Rhys watched him walk away, feigning arrogance while self-loathing filled him. He hated this role he was playing, and he hated himself for playing it.