A Court of Heart and Fealty | Rhysand

Chapter 72: Where Beron Became a Saviour

Chapter 72: Where Beron Became a Saviour

Clucking her tongue, Amarantha turned Galadriel's face away so she could only see the fire. The dry heat wicked away the tears in her eyes. "No," she said. "A dainty little thing like her doesn't belong in my city."

Galadriel heard the shift of Rhysand's clothes. "You're going to send her back to the Night Court?" Hope dared taint the question.

The fingers tightened, Amarantha's nails gouging into her cheeks. "It's much easier to just kill her now. A lot more fun, too. I like watching them squirm and beg. Tell me, Rhysand does she squirm? Scream? Or will she squeak like a little mouse when I put a blade to her heart?"

"I haven't been able to try anything beyond her mouth," Rhysand replied almost boredly. "Not much sound managed to come out of her. If you want to, my lady, you have an entire flock of faeries waiting below you. Why bother your time with this one?"

Amarantha spun Galadriel around, her wicked grin sitting over Galadriel's shoulder as they faced Rhysand. "You sound like you don't want me to kill her," she drawled. "Is she special to you?"

Rhysand refused to look at Galadriel who bit her tongue. "I have peculiar tastes. I don't want to have to bother finding another. It's tiresome."

Before Amarantha could respond, the door to the common room swung open. It was Beron that stormed through, his face red with fury. But whatever he was going to say, he never managed to get out. Staring at her, his eyes widened, his chest lifting like a predator getting the scent of its prey. Then he took in Rhysand, the way Amarantha held Galadriel in place.

"Come to kneel, Beron?" Amarantha inquired, as if she had been the one to invite him in rather than intruded upon, though the annoyance in her voice was a clear enough warning.

But Beron turned on Rhysand. "She's supposed to be dead."

Rhysand raised his brows, twisting loosely at the hips to glance between the other High Lord and Galadriel. "She's standing right there," he said, smiling. "Clearly not dead."

"I watched you kill her!" Beron moved forward, watching Galadriel like she was a ghost. "You had your spymaster split open her neck right in front of me."

Galadriel swallowed thickly. The world thought her dead, Rhys had told her. He'd gone to Hewn City to deal with Beron after her capture in Autumn. Azriel. Oh, gods, Azriel. She wanted him here, wanted his shadows to be the ones deep in the corners, wrapping around her ankles, letting her know he was watching.

Beron turned to Amarantha. "That girl is a spy—Rhysand's spy."

"Spy?" Amarantha echoed, eyes turning pointedly on Rhysand. "I thought she was your toy."

Rhysand smirked. Such an empty motion, nothing of it belonging to the male Galadriel loved. "She is both. She whispers secrets to me when I don't have my cock in her mouth."

"And Beron thought her dead?" Amarantha laughed, head thrown back. "Oh, you are naughty Rhysand. Tell me, did you mess with his head or did you glamour some other girl to look like her."

The line of Rhysand's lips had gone thin, the only sign that he hated this. "Glamour," he answered, sweeping his fingers across the sleeve of his jacket in distraction. "It's easier than getting into every mind of the audience we had. Couldn't be bothered." There was no lie about that. Galadriel couldn't bare thinking of that image—a girl who looked like her in Hewn City, how Azriel slit a knife across her neck, letting her bleed across the marble.

'The female Azriel killed had murdered her child,' Rhys said into her mind. 'For nothing more than loving a Lesser Fae.'

"I am owed her death," Beron seethed, his voice booming throughout the chamber, bouncing back at them, ringing in her ears. "It is my right! Prythian law—"