✔ Mrs Mandray

55. Whiskey

Rhysand

Whiskey has never tasted so good.

Nor the stars ever looked this bright. Well... they probably have but he's currently laid flat out on the roof staring up into the sky like it will have the answers for whatever the fuck is going on right now.

Because this is ridiculous.

He's a High Lord for Mother's sake, he should have his own mate to ensure his line of heirs is continued. Everyone in every history book knows this. High Lords don't share mates. Admittedly there's a few edited and redacted books that would suggest a few Lords over the centuries decided to... remove their competition to follow the one mate trend but there has never been any concrete evidence of that.

Other than common sense and logic.

But– fuck.

He was so screwed. Though his brain kept stumbling over the thought because it makes no fucking sense. Isabella has Cassian and Azriel, his brothers finally have a female who makes them smile and laugh like he has never seen before.

So what would be the point of roping him into the bond as well.

Now that's getting a little too close to the other thought at the back of his mind. The thing that lurks in the shadows of his thoughts. His power had always been so much stronger than everyone else's, more volatile and vast. It's a constant presence and weight on his shoulders.

Mate bonds are designed to provide the strongest offspring.

So it makes sense to lump him in with Cassian and Azriel. Individually, as children, they could rival the High Lords and now they're grown. Perhaps the Mother is trying to... consolidate their power. Keep their bloodline contained to avoid three powerful warring families developing down the line.

Not like having one ridiculously powerful family will cause less issues but at least it would be one against all rather than dog eat dog bloodlines.

"So it's true then."

Rhys bolts upright at the sound of the cold voice. His magic hums to life as he peers at the shadowsinger standing in the doorway. He's not visible, even to Rhys' fae sight. His shadows have done a good job at hiding everything but the outline of his wings and the burning gold of his eyes.

"You'll have to be more specific." He tries to drawl but his voice comes out hoarse.

The scent of violence fill the air and he can feel himself straighten up, muscles flexing in anticipation of a fight. Azriel knows. Or he suspects. Which means Rhys is fucked considering he hasn't gained back much muscle or skill since under the mountain.

"Oh?" Azriel's voice comes out in a silken purr as he stalks into the moonlight. Every step is slow and precise, the thud of his boots echoing in Rhys' chest. "My mate seems to have grown a morbid curiosity for you." A predatory tilt of the head as he scan's Rhys head to toe. "One you have been happy to encourage."

"Azriel–"

"I came here to apologise." Azriel cuts him off and Rhys blinks up at him in surprise. The shadowsinger sighs as he sits down next to him on the roof. "For what I said while... drunk."

Rhys remains silent, face blank as he watches his brother carefully. He's on edge. A hair's breadth away from snapping. Yet this is what he chooses to speak about.

"You were drunk Azriel, let's just leave it at that."

"Drunk words, sober thoughts."

"Are you trying to insult me?" Rhys scowls at his friend, already uncomfortable with the topic at hand and his previous revelation that he would like to go back to panicking over. "Because you're doing quite a shit job."