Rhys pulls a nasty prank on Feyre while in the forest near the Illyrian Steppes, and Feyre enacts a plan for revenge.
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It had worked once before, she thought, as her fingers swiftly set up the snare she was so familiar with. She kneeled down on the forest floor, setting up a simple rope snare, one she had set up a hundred times before, with some minor adjustments fit for a High Lord, of course. But Rhys is much smarter than Tamlin.
An old memory washed over her, and suddenly, she was in the library in Rhys’s home, her pen poised over a piece of parchment with familiar handwriting, her brow furrowed. Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord. Rhysand is the most delightful High Lord. Rhysand is the most cunning High Lord. She chuckled under her breath, remembering his successful, if not arrogant and obnoxious, attempt to teach her how to read and write. She hoped that she had become more cunning than him, if only to see the look on his face as he dangled from a nearby branch in the dense forest.
They had been in the Illyrian Steppes for a time now, presiding over Lord Devlon’s camp and making sure the women got the chance to train. Az and Cassian were there now, and she and Rhys had gone for a walk in the forest – well, mostly walking, with plenty of interludes for kissing and… other things. In the middle of a particularly steamy kissing session, without warning, he shot them into the sky, only to drop her from a healthy distance up in the air. Her scream didn’t get the chance to leave her lips before he caught her only a hand’s breadth away from the ground. She had sworn revenge – especially after he laughed himself hoarse for minutes on end once he deposited her lovingly on the soft bed of pine needles and snow. She wasn’t even sure it would work, but it was worth a try. Especially when there was not much else to do out here, and she had finished her training with Cassian that morning.
So she sat in her perch in a nearby tree and waited.
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Rhys chuckled as he watched his mate set up her cunning little snare, no doubt to get him back for his devilish prank earlier. He felt bad, but probably not as bad as he should feel. He still couldn’t fathom how this amazing, strong, fearless woman could take on fully-grown Illyrian soldiers and brave the Court of Nightmares, but flying still made her anxious. That would have to change.
He had to admire the effort, as well as the skill it must have taken to learn how to put together something so effective and discrete, something so lethal. As he watched, a thought came to him. It involved some well-placed winnowing, as well as some necessary seduction on his part. Oh, wouldn’t that be delicious.
Feyre darling, where did you wander off to? I’m missing you terribly, and it’s so, so cold out here.
He felt her slip through that crack in his mental shields, the one left open just for her, and an image filled his mind of the previous night, where Feyre had showed off some of her newest purchases from that infamous little store in Velaris with all of the pretty, lacy things.
Are you warmer now? He could almost hear her smirk.
I’d be warmer if you were here to replay that for me in person.
Come and find me so I can warm you up. I have a surprise for you.
I hope it doesn’t involve clothing. He laughed softly, and he could feel her pleasure at the other end of their bond.
He walked out from behind the tree he was hiding behind, and stalked toward her with feline grace. “Hello, Feyre darling.”
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She almost jumped out of her skin – she hadn’t expected him to find her so quickly. How was he so quiet? She had just finished assembling her snare, and had assumed a lazy posture, leaning against a birch tree.
“You know, when I said I had a surprise for you, I didn’t mean that kind of surprise.” He let out a low laugh, and it slithered down her spine. His laughs always had this effect on her. If she could listen to him laugh all day, she would be content to do so. More than content.
There was a gleam in his eye that suggested nothing but pure, undiluted mischief. “Illyrian fighting leathers is hardly nothing, darling. Would you allow me the pleasure of removing them for you?”
“As much as I would love that, I’m freezing to death out here. I’ll take you up on that later though.” She returned his impish smile. “Come on, the surprise is this way.”
She made an effort not to look too suspicious as she avoided the tree where her snare was set up, and she checked to see that her mental shields were intact. She skirted around the tree, all but forcing him to walk straight into where she’d laid the snare.
At least, that had been the plan.
Faster than she could detect, Rhys winnowed in front of her, causing her to stumble back – straight into her own trap. She felt a sickening lurch as she was heaved into the air by her ankle, and hung there, swaying upside down from the branch of the old birch tree. He tipped back his head and howled with laughter. “Nice try.”
She tried to winnow out of the trap, but nothing happened. She remembered belatedly that she had enchanted the rope so that one could not escape using magic – one had to be untied by hand by someone else, if they were feeling charitable. Which, she supposed, Rhys was not. Yet.
Rhys’s laughter turned into a lazy half smile, and he beheld her, dangling upside down, scowling. “You know, you look rather pretty upside down. I think I’ll keep you that way for a while.” Insufferable prick. Then again, she allowed, she had planned on doing the exact same thing to him. But she had been justified! Hadn’t he let her fall from gods know how many feet in the air?
He must have sensed her thoughts, because he said, “I’m sorry about earlier. I know I said I wouldn’t mess up your hair.” He smirked at her, hanging inverted in the air. She was glad that she wasn’t wearing a dress.
She thrashed in the rope snare, but it held. She had always been excellent at making snares, and this one had been made for a High Lord. It would not break so easily.
All of the blood was rushing to her head, and she knew she looked ridiculous, but she smiled nonetheless. “I don’t think we’ve tried kissing upside down yet. It would be a shame to waste this opportunity, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” he said, a feral smile creeping across his face. He covered the distance between them, which wasn’t that great to begin with, and kissed her. Gently, sweetly – an apology if ever she knew one. I’m sorry, he said mind to mind. She forgave him, granting his tongue entry into her mouth. She could never stay upset at him for long. The kiss intensified, and she cupped his face in her hands. She felt his arms lift, and in one smooth motion, he untied the snare, and she winnowed herself upright, somehow managing to not break the kiss. His hands travelled to her waist, and she combed her fingers through his hair, marvelling at its silkiness, and loving the feeling of his hands on her.
It took all of her willpower to step back from him, though it was only after several minutes of apologizing. “I am sorry I dropped you, Feyre. Do you forgive me?” She could see the sincerity in his eyes, though they were still clouded over with lust.
“Oh, I don’t know… I can think of a few ways you could make it up to me,” she said, biting her lip.
“I’m listening.” That insufferable, mischievous gleam re-entered his eyes. She tried not to lunge for him; she had plans to execute first. No way was he going unpunished for nearly killing her earlier, though she knew full well that he would neverhave let her hit the ground.
Before he could see her plan taking place, she summoned a bathtub’s worth of ice-cold water and dumped it on him, as she winnowed a safe distance away. He didn’t have time to react as the water cascaded over him. He swore under his breath, but took it with grace. “I d-d-deserved that,” he admitted, shivering.
“Yes, you did, now come here. Didn’t I mention something about warming you up earlier? I think it’s about time I made good on that promise,” she added with a playful smile. It was laced with warmth, and perhaps a bit of guilt. She gripped his hand, wincing at how cold it was, and they vanished.
-
Feyre winnowed them back to the bedroom they occupied while they were there. Rhys marvelled at how good she’d gotten at that. She snapped her fingers, and a fire sprung to life in the hearth. “Look who’s been p-p-practicing,” he said with a roguish grin.
He peeled off his sodden clothes slowly, conscious of the fact that she was watching him intently, and left them unceremoniously on the floor, gritting his teeth as cold air met his wet skin. She followed suit, taking her sweet time – much to Rhys’s dismay – and they both finally tumbled onto the comfortably-sized bed. It was large enough to fit them both, but small enough that there was no denying that the other was there.
Rhys wrapped his arms around her, and she flinched. “You’re freezing, love.”
“Now, whose fault is that?” he said, his breath warm on her neck. She shuddered at his touch, and he held her closer. My mate. My beautiful, clever, wicked mate.
“Point taken. Shall I start warming you up now?” She drew suggestive circles on his already warming stomach, travelling ever downward.
“If you wish it, my love,” he purred.
Those hands. Those wicked, cunning hands. Those hands that could assemble a snare so masterfully that a High Lady of Night could not escape it. Those hands that could wield a paintbrush and bring colours and textures and lines together to give them life. And now, those hands were giving him life. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had ensnared him better than any trap ever could. And at the first stroke of her deft fingers on him, he knew that she knew it too.