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Chapter Text

II

It was still dark outside in Velaris when Feyre woke up one morning and she knew.

It was her breasts - they felt so tight, like they'd grown four sizes overnight. In surprise, she reached up to hold them and yelped at how tender they were. Rhys stirred next to her but didn't wake. She slipped out of bed and then out of their bedroom, pulling on her dressing gown before silently closing the door behind her. The tall clock which stood proudly at the end of the landing told her it was only four thirty in the morning. The house was still; not even the servants had arrived for work yet. And outside the tall windows the city slumbered too, as breathtaking as ever beneath a thin layer of late winter snow. But Feyre was wide awake. 

And pregnant. 

Bathed in moonlight and starlight as she stood alone, hands pressed into her lower abdomen, she breathed deeply and felt tears sting her eyes.  

At last. 

It had taken almost two years; three of those gods-awful cycles which left her in agonising pain for days at a time. The last one was just over two months ago, and she and Rhys knew from all their reading about Fae biology that she was most fertile in the two weeks afterwards. And so they got to work.

Not that it was work. Quite the opposite. 

In fact, they’d taken formal leave from their Court and disappeared, putting Amren in charge and only to be contacted in dire emergency. But now that peace had fallen upon Prythian, there were no emergencies. No distractions from each other, nor the job at hand. And it was blissful. Fourteen days of Rhys all to herself - the happiest either of them had ever been.  

And the sorest.

It was impossible to count how many times they made love. Firstly when they stayed in the cabin and then, in the second week, in the most beautiful rooms in the Summer, Sun and Dawn Courts. (Shielded, of course. Double shielded, by them both, because they were loud and they knew it.) 

They were guests of Tarquin, Helion and Thesan, but not there on official business. So there were no formal banquets or tedious meetings with dignitaries; just private lunches with their friends, a suite in their palaces and freedom to roam across their lands, exploring as visitors. There was so much of Prythian that Feyre had never seen; so much in fact that Rhys had missed out on too, when his Court had been an enemy of most of the land for most of his life.

And they thoroughly enjoyed their adventuring, seduced by the beauty around them and, inevitably, by each other. They got naked together on the vast, white beaches of the Summer Court’s west coast, running into the ocean afterwards to wash off the sand. They picnicked in the tranquil forests of Dawn, which glowed with pink and golden light as if perpetually illuminated by the warmth of the morning sun - and feeding one another soon became a feast of a different kind. And in the mountain glades of their own Court, surrounded by winter snows, their noses were cold on each other’s cheeks as they shared body heat and breathless kisses, wrapped up tight beneath their thick, fur-lined coats. 

It was the luxury of time: the time they never got to share after she accepted the mating bond. The time they’d lost before they even found one another. The time to finally relax, after the war, after the fight for peace that continued long beyond the battlefield. 

It had taken Rhys a few days to really switch off, to leave behind his title and just be himself; her mate. It was the first time since he was a child that he’d let go of every responsibility, every ounce of weight and expectation which had sat upon his broad shoulders for the past five hundred years. But once he did - by the Gods he was glorious. Unglamored, his mind unshielded from her, he just smiled and laughed and played and… radiated happiness. 

And Feyre found it devastatingly attractive. 

“Let’s never go back,” he murmured at one point, his breathing still heavy after their latest round of lovemaking. They were sat on the rug in the cabin’s living area, leaning back against the couch, their skin heated by each other and their exertion and the roaring fire in the hearth. Outside snow fell heavily against the windows, wind howling, cocooning them in against the cold. Against the entire world outside. Safe and secure, just the two of them - so frequently intertwined they were almost one. 

Feyre smiled and pulled a blanket over them. “As much as I’d love that… you would miss it.” 

“Would I? I’m not sure. Not when I can have this instead.” 

He pulled her onto his lap, his violet gaze capturing hers for a long moment before he kissed her mouth, then a lazy path along her jaw. The things she saw in his eyes when he looked at her like that: the haze of pleasure still thrumming in his veins. The love he had for her, as deep and ancient and unending as his power. The fiery passion, the unquenchable lust for her - for more. Always more.  

She could feel herself melting into him all over again, even though the last aftershocks had barely faded from her body, her mind. “You are insatiable,” she sighed, already wet for him.

“I know.” His face was buried in her hair, his lips moving over the sensitive curve of her ear as his fingertips traced patterns on her ribs. “I still want you as much as the very first time.” Feyre moaned, her hips grinding against his renewed erection. “I still want to be inside you every fucking minute of every damn day.” He bit her earlobe and she whimpered his name. “It’s… madness. Isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her again, his eyes black, his edges lost to darkness and night. When he dipped his head and swirled his tongue over her nipple, she rose up on her knees, positioning his rock-hard cock and sinking straight down onto him.

“Feyre,” he hissed. Rough hands held her face and his mouth claimed hers, needy and wild, as instinct made them move together in the rhythm that was theirs and theirs alone.

“Fuck me hard,” she commanded between ravenous kisses. This wasn’t enough - not yet. She needed to be owned. Split open. Destroyed. “Harder than… ever… before.”

He growled as he lifted her, as he stood and carried her to the wall beside the fireplace. But Feyre was barely aware of their surroundings as she cast her mind out towards his, grabbing him with impatient hands, pulling him in close - so close he enveloped her, smothered her, became her. Together they were the night sky, and the moon and the stars and the sun; together they were two fae bodies and two halves of the same soul and they were power incarnate.

She felt him hold her against the wall with a sliver of magic; felt his hands push her knees to her chest and then he was pounding into her and she was splintering, full to the brim with him, his cock hitting all her deepest spots. It was pleasure and stretching and exquisite, breath-taking pain, and just when she thought he might actually break her in two, she came.

And came.

And roared.

It went on forever. Her muscles clenched around him over and over as she gushed with wetness and pure ecstasy radiated outwards from her core, spreading all the way to her curled toes and her fingertips and further - bright light soaring into the world. It was so familiar and yet unlike anything she’d ever known before.

It was madness - just like he’d said.

Rhys slowed as she finally settled, just enough to reassure them both that she was alright. She managed to open her eyes and look at him; wanted to say something but there were no words. She might never be able to speak again, after that. But she knew he could feel it -everything she was. A fearsome warrior. A beautiful goddess.

A molten mess of hot, throbbing bliss.

“I love you,” he rasped, and winnowed them to the bed.

He lay over her and kissed her as he began to move again, his wings splaying out behind him. Feyre let him take her, let him lose himself inside her, powerless to do much other than enjoy. Her limbs still felt boneless, her body unable and unwilling to recover itself just yet. She knew it wouldn’t be long until he found his release. His momentary reprieve was already forgotten: he was thrusting hard and fast, and his mind was as untamed and dangerous as an ocean storm. It whipped and swirled around hers, crashing over them again and again, threatening to drown them both.

And always, underneath the chaos: Feyre. Love. Mine.

I love you, she whispered back, kissing him, holding him. I’m yours, and you’re mine. Until the end of time.

And then she took everything she’d felt just minutes ago - the indescribable rapture, the euphoria of the fall - and poured it into the bond between them. This, she said hoarsely, the memories and the feel of him right now bringing tears to her eyes. Become this, Rhys darling. Join me. Let go.

The ocean erupted.

Thunder and lightning and darkness filled the room, the cabin, the sky beyond. His uncontainable pleasure swallowed her, consumed her; the final thrusts of his hips shocked her into another orgasm, short but unbelievably sweet.

That surge of power between them was unlike anything they’d ever known before, and it took so long to recover that Feyre’s skin was entirely cold by the time she realised who and where she was again.

Rhys was lying half on top of her, his head on her chest. The light from the lamps was visible again, although outside she could still hear the rumble of his storm fading into the distance.

“What was that?” she managed to say, her voice barely audible.

He took her hand, threading his fingers through hers, and paused for a long moment before he spoke. “I don’t know. You told me to fuck you hard and then you grabbed onto my mind like that and I- I lost control of everything. Lost who I am. That’s never happened before.”

He leaned up on one elbow so he could see her. Then, realising that she was shivering, he reached over for the far edge of the duvet and wrapped it around them both. His gorgeous face, his dark blue eyes, were filled with a mixture of confusion and awe. “You never fail to surprise me, Feyre darling. You are… so dangerous.”

She couldn’t help but smile, even though she knew he was serious. “We are dangerous. Together we remade the Cauldron; remade the world. And I know it shouldn’t, but that power - it really turns me on.”

His laughter seemed to catch him by surprise, and the atmosphere changed in an instant. Feyre laughed too and reached up to kiss his cheek, his nose, the perfect arch of his eyebrow.

“I loved the storm,” she confessed, fingers sliding into his hair. “Very sexy.”

“I’ve never made lightning before,” he replied thoughtfully.

“That’s nothing compared to the way you made me feel.” Feyre pressed her mouth to his, overcome with affection. “I love all of you, Rhys,” she murmured, gazing deep into his eyes. “I love your mind and body all over mine. There is no piece of you that scares me. I want it all, always.”

He smiled at her, a truly beautiful smile, straight from his heart. And then he moved downwards, kissing her collarbone, between her breasts, her abdomen. “Do you think,” he mused, nuzzling his face into her lower belly, “With all that power… Maybe tonight we made something else?”

Feyre felt her chest constrict. “I hope so,” she said softly.

“Even if not tonight,” Rhys went on, crawling back up over her, drawing her with him towards the pillows so they could both settle into bed properly, “We will someday. I’m sure of it.”

She snuggled into his chest, taking his certainty and wrapping it tightly around herself like another layer of warmth. Now that the afterglow from the most intense orgasm of her life had finally faded, she realised she was utterly exhausted.

You were right, she told him drowsily. We should stay here forever.

He kissed her hair and squeezed her against him. I’m always right, darling. I thought you’d learned that by now.

Ssh. I’m sleeping. Goodnight.

“Goodnight my love.”

Feyre slept for a solid eight hours, and dreamed of nothing but their baby.

II

Back in snowy Velaris, in the quiet before dawn, she leaned back against the sink in the guest bathroom and waited. She had peed into a vial of clear liquid, which would change colour over the next few minutes as the compounds reacted with her pregnancy hormones. She had done several of these tests before, in secret in this room - always in hope rather than expectation, and always to be disappointed. Rhys never said anything, although she was sure he knew. He just held her when she was sad, and whispered that it wasn’t her fault, and that it would happen one day.

She rubbed her hands over her face and glanced at the vial.

This day.

A beautiful dark purple was blossoming there - just like the little life growing inside her body.

It wasn’t a surprise and yet Feyre still gasped; still put her hand to her mouth, trying and failing to hide her ridiculous smile. Her first thought was to run back to their bedroom; to leap on Rhys and wake him up and tell him the news between a thousand joyful kisses.

But something held her back. The stillness of the house, the calm of these solitary hours before the sun rose - she wanted to stay here just a little bit longer. To breathe deeply. To let her feelings wash over her, consume her: relief, excitement. Fear. Overwhelm.

Happiness.

The deep, soul-stirring happiness that only love could conjure. The kind that made her tremble and wrap her arms around her body, holding herself together even as she threatened to burst wide open. The kind that made her laugh, gathered tears beneath her eyelashes and shone through her skin like starlight. The kind that she felt with Rhys, with her friends and her sisters and now, with the tiny seed growing inside her - the newest member of their family.

She had wanted this for so long and now that it was real, it somehow didn’t feel real at all.

A baby.

Her and Rhys’s baby.

She wandered silently across the upstairs landing, feeling for her mate down the bond, checking he was still asleep. She sent him some reassuring thoughts: Feyre is fine; she woke up early and went to make a cup of tea. Sleep, rest. She’ll see you when the sun rises.

This lovely old house, which had been his but was now theirs. Over the past couple of years she’d added paintings, trinkets, books; an antique loveseat beneath the window which overlooked the back garden. And out there, the biggest change of all - her painting studio.

She passed one of the guest rooms on her way to the stairs; paused at the door and wondered if this would be the baby’s nursery. She would paint the walls - blue. The Bone Carver had shown her it would be a boy, and she believed him. Deep blue, like his father’s eyes, like the velvety night before the sunrise.

Her body trembled with disbelief, with hope.  

A baby.

She did make tea, in the kitchen, alone. Still no servants, thankfully. Then she slipped on her shoes and opened the back door. The air was crisp and clear; the only sound her footsteps on the snowy path. She used her power to wrap herself in warmth, and then again to heat and illuminate the inside of her studio. She wondered briefly if she should be careful using it, now that she was pregnant. But then again, she was made - literally Made - from magic. It pulsed through her with every beat of her heart. And Rhys was… well. He was Rhys. The most powerful High Lord there ever was. Their child was destined to be a magical being, probably even more so than his parents. And Feyre knew in that moment that her power could never hurt him. It had created him; it already swam through his blood.

She breathed in the familiar scent of her art space, which she and Rhys had built after the war ended. It was her sanctuary: two walls and the high ceiling made entirely of glass to let in the light during the day; the remaining surfaces all white but flecked with colour and scattered with canvases and paper, with ideas and sketches and endless possibility.

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to paint. When she was full of feelings like this, it was the best way she knew to start to make sense of them. And so she took a large, blank canvas and placed it on her easel; gathered brushes and colours - just black, white and one other; a mixing palette, a stool and a small table for her tea.

And she painted.

II

The sun had risen when Rhys found her.

A soft knock on the glass door startled her. She had no idea how long she’d been there.

Her mate entered, a fresh mug of tea in his hands. He was already dressed in his usual black, and she realised she was still in her long nightgown and robe.

“Good morning sweetheart,” he said, replacing her cup without looking at the canvas. He always waited to be invited to see her art; she didn’t like to reveal it until it was ready. Was this ready? She didn’t know. It would take days, weeks - maybe even months - to process all her emotions. She couldn’t sit here forever.

No, this wasn’t finished but it was… a start. Just like the dawn was the start of the day; just like today was the beginning of the rest of their lives.

She stood and walked into his waiting arms. “Hi.”

“I missed you,” he murmured into her hair. “I hate waking up alone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand. I’m just being petulant.”

Feyre laughed and glanced up, and he kissed her. Then his arms tightened around her back and she winced. Her breasts. Ouch.

Of course he noticed. “What, darling? Are you alright?”

“Yes. Sorry.”

“Stop saying sorry.” He met her gaze again, concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem… different.”

She felt him reach for her down the bond, and asked him to wait outside. He would know the second he was inside her mind. ‘I’m pregnant!’ were pretty much the only words in there, throwing themselves around with nervous energy.

His eyes widened but he did as she asked.

Feyre took a deep breath. Then she pulled on his hand, leading him to stand in front of the easel.

“Look,” she said softly.

Up close, the picture was all blue - shades and shades of blue, from the palest icy breath to the darkest, inky sky. She stepped back several paces, drawing him with her. And just as she’d planned, everything became clearer from further away.

The mountains of their home. The storm - lightning and thunder. Not literal, but the feel of it. The two figures, swirling around one another, light and dark - like how their minds melded, how they belonged. And in the centre, cradled between them - a flicker of white. A spark of hope.

A new life.

She looked up at Rhys. He was still staring at the painting but his breathing was heavier, his fingers gripping hers so tightly it hurt.

“Do you see?” she whispered.

He turned his head towards her and his eyes were shimmering. “Feyre.”

It was almost a question, and she beamed as she answered it anyway:

“Yes.”

“You’re…”

She nodded, feeling tears rise and spill straight over onto her cheeks. “I am. I’m pregnant.”

“We’re having a baby?”

“We are.”

The most incredible smile took over his face. “Feyre!” He crushed her in a hug, immediately making her whimper as he squashed her chest against his.

“Shit,” he said hastily, drawing back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I woke up this morning and my breasts hurt. And I just knew.”

He gazed at her, his expression a mixture of absolute joy and utter disbelief. Gods, she loved him so much. And then she was crying, and he was brushing his fingertips and his lips over her face, and then they were kissing and she wanted to hold onto this moment forever, to never, ever forget how this felt.

He trailed his mouth down her body, pressing kisses to every inch he passed. Then he knelt before her, knelt on his mountains and stars and rested his forehead against her belly. Feyre stroked his hair, her tears still falling.

Our baby, he said silently, reverently.

Feyre let down her shield, let him see the pregnancy test and the dreams she’d had that night in the cabin; let him feel her excitement, her elation, her relief.

Our baby, she echoed.

She sank down to the floor and into his arms, and they held onto each other for the longest time.

“You know,” Rhys said eventually, his tone light - but she could feel the waves of emotion crashing down the bond, every so often making him gasp for breath. “I was right. That night I made the storm - I told you we’d make a baby too.”

“Oh, so this is all about you?” she teased.

He kissed her again, smiling against her lips. “On the contrary, Feyre darling. This is all about you now. I just like to get credit where credit’s due.”

She laughed quietly and held his face in her palms. “You are insufferable, and ridiculous, and the most handsome and loving and wonderful thing in the whole world. And you are going to be the best father to our boy.”

He blinked. “You believe the Bone Carver?”

“Don’t you?”

He nodded slightly. “I do.”

And he seemed speechless again, so she stood up and pulled him to his feet. When he looked at her questioningly, she grinned and tugged him towards the door beyond which the new day’s sun was shining down, already melting the snow.

“Come on,” she said brightly. “I’m cancelling all our plans and sending the servants home. I want to spend the whole day just lying with you, and daydreaming about our baby, and maybe even recreating the night he was conceived. If that’s okay with you?”

She started to lead him back down the garden path, but didn’t get far.

Her delighted screams filled the winter air as he scooped her up and carried her straight to their bed.

II

TBC

Chapter Text

II

In the two days since the pregnancy test, Feyre and Rhys had barely spent a minute apart. They hadn’t even left the house. Official Court business was cancelled; plans with friends postponed. Rhys had asked the servants to prepare them a few days’ worth of food and then gifted them paid leave, so he and his mate could be completely alone.

It was just like their holiday to the cabin, when the entire world disappeared and all that was left was the pure luxury of each other’s full attention. Feyre was so happy she couldn’t stop smiling; Rhys spent his time either mirroring her joy or staring at her like he couldn’t quite believe they had finally made a baby - which she understood, given there were no outward signs except for her sore breasts.

And that very quickly became her first rule of pregnancy: no touching them. When he carried her upstairs from her studio on that first morning, the news and emotions were still so fresh that words were few and constant touching mandatory. It was like they had remade the world all over again: everything was the same and yet it was impossibly different too.

They slipped back into bed and wrapped themselves around each other in every way they knew how. Feyre stroked his mind and his face with her fingertips, gazing into his eyes, into the beginning and end of time. This kind of intimacy wasn’t new to them but it suddenly felt more meaningful than ever before. They had taken their love and created life. And she was honoured - truly honoured - to be growing his child inside her womb.  

When she told him so, he looked stunned. Then he was blinking back unexpected tears and saying urgently, his voice rough with emotion: “I am honoured, Feyre. You… you are everything.”

His expression was the most open and vulnerable she had ever seen it. She could hear his unspoken words: I am not worthy. He was heartbreakingly beautiful - and he was wrong. So, so wrong.

“You are worthy, Rhys,” she said firmly, still trapped in his violet gaze and unable to look away. “I see you. I know you. I am you, and you’re me; we don’t exist without each other. And we are going to have this baby and live happily ever after because that is what we deserve, after everything we’ve endured. Okay?”

He let out a long breath and slowly nodded. He trusted her implicitly - more than he trusted himself - and it still made Feyre marvel.

And then he said, “Okay,” and he kissed her.

It was soft and loving and gentle, until it wasn’t. Then it was hungry and searching. Kissing became undressing, which became warm, bare skin and eager hands and then -

“Ouch!”

He had squeezed her breasts; she pulled away sharply, wincing in pain.

“Fuck. Feyre, I’m so sorry.”

She glanced down at her chest, expecting to see hot, angry swelling because that was what it felt like - but nothing. She looked exactly the same.

“It’s alright,” she sighed as the soreness dissipated. “Gods, I hope this doesn’t last long.”

“Me too. For your sake of course, darling,” he added quickly, smirking. Feyre hit his tattooed shoulder with the back of her hand, which he took and kissed. “Do you want to stop?” he asked sincerely.

“No.” She did stand up though, walking around their enormous bed to her armoire. “But I am going to wear protection.” She felt his eyes on her naked body as she carefully slipped on a plain white bra.

“A serious question,” he said.

“Yes?”

“We can still have sex.”

She knelt on the bed beside him. “That’s not a question.”

Then she watched as his dark gaze travelled downwards, pausing at her abdomen, then the apex of her thighs. She tutted at his distraction, even though it turned her on no end. “Rhys.”

She waited until he looked at her again. She could feel his heat, his power, coiled like a spring - ready to claim her. Just as soon as she soothed his hesitation; gave him permission to pounce.

“We can definitely still have sex. It’s perfectly safe. Besides, I was pregnant last night - we just didn’t know it. And the day before, in the bath. And on the sofa. And the countless other times we’ve been together in the past few weeks - honestly, I lose track.”

His wings flared and a wicked smile graced his gorgeous face, and Feyre recognised it as a sign that she was stroking his ego. He was a High Lord, a fearless warrior, an adoring husband - but he could be such a male sometimes.

“Are you complaining, my love?” he asked devilishly. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was trying to get you pregnant.”

A shiver ran all the way through her. She couldn’t explain why, but that was one of the sexiest things he’d ever said.

“You succeeded,” she breathed, finally closing the space between them, pushing him onto his back and the covers out of the way so she could straddle his hips. Gods, he was ready for her, and she couldn’t help but rub herself against his hard, bare length, making them both groan. “I am not going through the next nine or so months without sex. Without you.”

Rhys’s big hands covered her thighs as he watched her grind on him. “Another serious question,” he said, and this time his voice was much, much deeper.

“Go on.”

“Can you come if I don’t play with your nipples?”

His playfulness took her by surprise and she couldn’t help but laugh, her head tilting back. And then suddenly he was sitting up, his mouth clamping onto her throat and sucking hard as he inhaled her scent, as wild as any animal. Then his hot tongue was licking her skin, from her collarbone all the way to her ear, and her core throbbed so hard it made her vision go black - or was that just his night, coming to take her?

“Mm,” he murmured, doing it again - slower this time. “Feyre… you taste divine.”

And more than anything else in the world, there was one thing she wanted in that moment. No, not wanted - needed.

Speech had abandoned her, and even between their minds her voice sounded breathless, pleading, but she didn’t care.

I can come if you use your tongue somewhere else.

His laughter lasted only as long as it took for him to lay her down and bury his face between her legs.

And afterwards, when she had indeed come in his mouth and then again when she rode him and he stretched her so exquisitely, Feyre fell asleep with his head resting on her belly.

And it was a shame, because she missed Rhys speaking to their baby for the very first time, his words softer than any he had uttered before:

“The stars listened, little one. They listened and they answered… and they sent us you.”

II

Two days later, as they were preparing to go for a walk and finally get some fresh air, Feyre’s second rule of pregnancy was forced into being.

They were dressed, they’d had breakfast; she had even spent time braiding her hair. But there was a strange new tension in Rhys which she didn’t understand, because the past forty-eight hours had been blissful.

“Do you not want to go out?” she asked, putting her palms on his broad chest and looking up at him. She could smell his fresh minty breath, the citrus-sea scent of his skin. The smell of home. “Because as much as I love you, you can’t keep me cooped up in here this entire pregnancy. I do have other friends apart from you, you know. Someone will miss me eventually.”

He chuckled, but didn’t relax.

Feyre frowned. “What is going on?”

And then she realised, even as he opened his mouth to explain. Her eyes widened and he closed it again, looking away.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Feyre. I can’t help it.”

His tension was anxiety. Fear.

“No. You will not overprotect me, Rhysand. You will not shield me from the world. Especially not in Velaris.” She stepped back from him, breathing hard. She knew she shouldn’t be angry but she couldn’t help it. With everything they’d been through - surely he trusted her by now?

“I can look after myself,” she went on, her voice as hard as steel. “After us.”

They both glanced down at her abdomen beneath her sweater; at the new soul that made her an ‘us’.

“I know you can. But Feyre -” He reached for her and she let him take her hand. His deep blue eyes were begging her to listen, to hear, to forgive. “Protecting you, and our offspring, is inherent. The animal in me that you love so much - it is a creature of pure instinct. If anything were to threaten its mate, threaten its child…”

His eyes flashed suddenly and he almost snarled his next words: “I would kill them. Rip their head clean from their body and tear their remains to shreds.”

Darkness billowed out from him, filling the room. She felt his talons pressing into her palm; felt a shudder course through her at the feral beast writhing just beneath his skin. Not a shudder of terror - of awe.

“Fine,” she breathed, equally as riled. “If you see a deadly foe about to attack me, and I am somehow both unaware and completely defenceless, you may kill them for me.”

“You jest, darling.” His voice was a deadly purr. “But you know what’s out there.”

“Not anymore. You hunted them down, remember? You already slaughtered them all.”

“There is always evil in the world, Feyre. No matter what we do, what we give… it never stays subdued for long.”

And she was reminded of his age then, and all the sacrifices he had made in his five hundred years: his people, his warriors, his brothers; his body, his power… his life. How many battles had he faced? How many wars won, how many brief eras of peace enjoyed before the next resurgence? Because there had been a resurgence. Every single time.  

The world was cruel, and brutal, and Feyre knew she had seen only a small piece of it. But they had already made so much change since Hybern; made strides towards alliances with the human realms, towards equality for all. And she believed with her whole being that they could have peace, and keep it. She had to. Especially now, with their son growing inside her, because what would be the point if there was no hope of a better future?

She felt her heart swell with sorrow, and love - and it vanished her anger.  

“There is always good, too.” She moved back into Rhys’s embrace, reaching up her hand to his cheek, brushing her thumb there. Light began to seep back into the room. “We are good. Velaris is good, full of good people. I don’t fear anything here.”

Her tenderness calmed him; she saw the beast take flight, leaving her tired, scarred, beautiful mate behind. “So what are we going to do?” she asked quietly. “I understand your perspective. Thank you for explaining it to me. But I will not be shielded and subdued. We’re all free now, Rhys.”

“I know.” He sighed heavily. “And I never want to subdue you. Never. But I'm not sure how much control I will have.”

“That’s interesting,” Feyre mused. “I’ve always known you to be a master of self-control.”

His smile banished the last of the night, finally allowing the winter sun to stream back in through the window. A strip of light fell across her right arm and then the idea came to her in an instant: “Make me a bargain.”

Rhys blinked. “What? I can’t do that. If I break it… The magic could do anything. It could hurt you, Feyre.”

She considered for a moment. “Let’s make our own then. A promise: that you will try your best. That’s all I ask. But I want it written on our bodies so we can’t forget.”

He gazed at her for a long time before he finally nodded. “Okay.”

“How did you get your tattoos?” she asked, running the tip of her finger over the ink which peeked out from the collar of his shirt. “I can’t believe I’ve never asked before.”

His own fingers glided along her right forearm, pushing back the sleeve of her sweater as he went. “With a fucking sharp needle, a lot of swearing and a lot of goynych. That’s an Illyrian spirit which can dissolve a blade if left overnight.” He shivered at the memory. “And it still hurt.”

Feyre pouted. “Well, that doesn’t sound appealing at all. Is there another way?”

She watched as he kissed her existing tattoos, pressing his lips along the inside of her arm, all the way to her elbow. “Yes,” he murmured. “I can use the magic that made these, just without the bargain enforced. But you are the artist, my darling.”

His eyes met hers and heat flared all over her skin. Then she pulled off her top entirely, leaving her bare except for her lacy lilac bra. "Here," she said, drawing a line with her finger below her navel, just above the band of her black fleece trousers. Right over her womb, where their little babe lay. 

Rhys's gaze darkened. "Really?"

"Yes."

He knelt before her and kissed the same spot. "I've always wanted to tattoo you here," he said gruffly, tugging her waistband lower. His nose caressed the soft skin just inside her left hipbone which dipped invitingly, leading him down to his favourite place.

Feyre filled with longing in an instant, her core melting completely at his words, his mouth, his love. 

He knew, of course, and smirked up at her. "You do it," he said, taking her hand. "Paint it on yourself." His voice dropped further, dripping with suggestion. "And then you can do me."

She thought of a design in her mind: swirls of night sky and twinkling stars, mountains and snow and in the centre, a space - a safe haven. A cocoon. Rhys held her fingers and made their promise come to life on her body, channelling his power through her hand, marking the skin below her navel and across into the hollow by her hip that he so loved.

He sat back to admire their work. His eyes were so dark, his breathing uneven as his gaze roamed up to her face. Then he pushed off her trousers, revealing matching lilac panties, and his hands slipped around to grip her backside. "Fuck. You are so beautiful Feyre."

He kissed the black ink, her belly button, her very centre. She stopped him with a breathless gasp of his name.

"My turn," she said, and pointed to the bed.

She unbuttoned his shirt and lay him back on the mattress. His erection was already straining against his pants and she gifted him the briefest stroke of her fingers before focusing her attention on his incredible torso and abs. Just like he loved this part of her body, Feyre loved the thick V of tanned muscle which enticed her downwards. She pressed her palm to the same space inside his left hip bone.

"I'm ready."

She felt so powerful at the way he trusted her. The way he was looking at her like she owned him; like he would do anything she said, for the rest of their lives.

His hand covered hers and she painted him with her mind. When he glanced down a second later, his mouth fell open in shock. “What the-”

And she fell about laughing, at the word Feyre's etched into his skin; at the glamour she'd quickly placed over the real ink beneath. She let it fall away, unable to torment him for too long, and he visibly relaxed when he saw the same pattern she'd drawn on her own skin, his head falling back onto the bed with a groan.

"You fucking tease.”

She leaned over him and kissed his dirty mouth. "Got you."

And then she was gone - standing up, pulling her sweater back on. She had to put some space between them, to quell the fire in her veins.

“What are you doing?” he asked, frowning.

“I am determined that we are going out for a walk,” she said seriously.

“Feyre…”

“Come on. You can practice your self-control.”

He grumbled a lot as they both redressed, but five minutes later they left the front door and breathed in the fresh, cold air of Velaris.

II

They strolled hand-in-hand through the city streets, clear of snow now but still frigid, still stunning. She could tell Rhys’s senses were on high alert, even though he seemed perfectly calm on the outside. The animal protecting his pack, she reminded herself.

She could live with that.

Her thoughts wandered. As they neared the Sidra, she asked: “Would it have been so bad?”

Of course, he knew exactly what she was referring to. “Feyre. Darling. I am High Lord of the Night Court.”

She glanced up at him, smiling mischievously. “So?”

“So?” he echoed. “So I can’t walk around with your name on my body.”

“Why not? Everyone knows you’re mine.”

He laughed then, as they came to the main bridge across the river. “True.”

They stopped halfway across, listening to the mid-morning bustle of people going past and the rush of icy water beneath them. Feyre watched its journey out to sea, Rhys standing beside her as they leaned on the wall.

“Thank you,” she said solemnly.

“For what?”

“For making me that promise. For trusting me.”

He turned to her, drawing her into the warmth of his body. His eyes were as serious as she was. “I have always been your biggest champion, Feyre. From the very beginning.”

“I know,” she breathed, and the world around them faded away. “You were my first champion, Rhys. The first person who ever believed in me.”

He gently held her face in his palm. “I still find that astounding. Because you are extraordinary.”

Sometimes his love made her the happiest Fae in all the land; sometimes it made her the horniest. And other times, like right now, it just made her cry.

He wrapped his big arms around her and held her close - but not too tight to hurt her breasts, which were still annoyingly tender. She silently thanked him for that and he laughed again.

Look at me, abiding by both your rules, he said proudly in her mind. Do I get a special present?

She smiled through her tears, gazing up at him and then out towards the ocean once more. There was a whole world out there, full of new things and wonder and - undoubtedly - danger. But the world right here, in their home, where they belonged: that was all she needed. 

She moved to stand in front of her mate, his chest pressed up against her back, and took his right hand in hers, sneaking it beneath her coat and sweater and over her brand new tattoo.

Here you are, she said softly, curling her fingers into the spaces between his and squeezing tight. But don’t tell anyone else just yet. It’s our secret.

He buried his face in the side of her neck and she felt his emotion and his adoration surrounding her, as warm and golden as the sun. People moved around them, birds swooped and soared, fish shimmied beneath the crystal clear water - and Feyre and Rhys held onto each other, and peace, and hope.

II

TBC

Chapter Text

II

Springtime came to Velaris almost overnight, and brought with it the end of Feyre’s sore breasts - and the start of her pregnancy sickness. The first time it happened - that sudden rush of saliva and dread, waking her from sleep just as the sun rose - Rhys held her afterwards on the gold-veined, white marble of bathroom floor, his face as pale as hers.

“A nightmare?” he asked quietly, and she could feel his heart pounding beneath his loose cotton shirt. It was rare for either of them to have bad dreams now, but they were still scarred by the memories of each other’s terror; still petrified of seeing their mate suffer in that dark, out-of-reach place.

“No.” She smiled and stroked his cheek, just like he’d stroked her back a minute before. “Morning sickness, I think. I feel much better now.”

Rhys pressed his lips to hers but she pulled away, frowning. “I just vomited.”

“I don’t care.”

She crinkled her nose and he kissed that too. “You’re disgusting, Rhysand.”

“Rhysand,” he repeated, amused. “So formal, Feyre darling.”

“If you had a surname, I’d use that too.” She stood up, crossing to the vanity where she picked up her toothbrush and applied minty paste from a brown glass jar. They watched one another as she brushed her teeth, Rhys’s gaze as intent as ever. He seemed to find everything she did fascinating, which she understood because she felt the same about him.

After she spat into the sink for the first time, she turned back to him and asked: “What kind of person, human or Faerie, doesn’t have a surname?”

“I don’t need one.” His power crackled around them suddenly, the lamps flickering as his cold night swept by. “Everyone knows who I am.”

Feyre, toothbrush still in her mouth, just rolled her eyes.

Her mate’s laugh was a low, rich sound from deep in his chest. It made all the small muscles of her body tremble. “If I had to choose one,” he went on, his eyes still sparkling with mirth, “I would be Rhysand Archeron.”

And then the air changed, and while his smile remained Feyre knew he was deadly serious. She slowly turned to rinse her mouth, feeling completely stunned. As far as she knew, no male in either realm she’d lived in, nor in any of the books she’d read, had ever taken his wife’s name. It just wasn’t the done thing.

She pressed a warm, plush towel against her face before looking at him again. He was still staring up at her from his position on the floor, his bare feet together, knees bent and slightly apart, thick muscled forearms resting on them. He looked so casual, so breathtakingly handsome. For about the thousandth time since they were mated, she just couldn’t believe he was hers.

“I am yours,” he confirmed, reading her body and her mind. He moved gracefully onto his knees, taking hold of her hips. There was only the silk of her nightgown between his breath and her skin, and she shivered. “You are mine, Feyre, but I am also yours. And that is why I would proudly take your name. In a heartbeat.”

“But- You can’t-”

His smile grew wider. “I can.” He pressed his lips to the still-flat plane of her belly. “In fact, I just might. And our son can have your name too.”

“Rhys…”

“What?” He stood, filling the bathroom with his bulk and his wings and his Gods-given confidence. But the way he lovingly held her face in his hands was nothing but tender. “Do you not like the idea?”

Feyre could feel herself falling under his spell with every passing second. Her sickness and nausea were long forgotten. “I do,” she sighed, slipping her own hands under his shirt and over the hot, hard muscle beneath. “But I don’t think you can just-”

He kissed her, stopping the words. Kissed her on and on, tasting the mint inside her mouth, collecting her little whimpers and moans beneath his tongue. When she was thoroughly dazed and desperate for air he finally pulled back, breathing hard.

“Feyre,” he said sternly, his dark eyes roiling with lust and power. At the sight of her face he hissed and his hips flexed, pushing his rock-solid erection further into her abdomen. “Who in the world is going to stop me?”

She didn’t have an answer for that.

But she did for the burning, pulsing ache in her core. She vanished their clothes - a trick she’d made him teach her - and conjured a rainstorm of hot water in the marble alcove behind her. Rhys lifted her and caught her yelp between his teeth, his fingers gripping the back of her thighs hard enough to bruise - just how she liked. He slowly walked them into the shower, his cock twitching between her legs as she ran her nails through his hair, over his shoulders and his wings.

“Put me down,” she murmured as soon as they were under the gloriously warm water. When he complied she went straight to her knees and took his whole length into her mouth, squeezing his thighs, his ass with her hands. His wings shot out as he groaned from the depths of his soul; they spread above her head, dimming the light and shielding her from the spray. Indeed, the sound of the water pummelling them reminded her of sheltering in the forest when it rained. And the thought of that, of hiding away with Rhys in a secret place, of fucking him in the wilds of nature like the animals they were, made her moan around his cock as desire exploded inside her veins; in her very bones.

She sent him that image, sent him all the ways she was feeling, down the bond - and in return she learned just how insanely arousing it was for him to have his wings so overstimulated while watching himself slide in and out of her mouth, feeling her fingernails scratch his skin, hearing her sounds of pleasure as he pulled her hair, just hard enough to hurt.

When she opened her eyes and looked up at him, he gasped and suddenly pulled away. His wings folded and she felt the torrent of rain on her body again - part relief, part torment. Then he was lifting her again, pressing her back into the wall. She tensed, expecting it to be cold, but he’d warmed it - ever considerate, even in his current state.

Thank you, she sent, linking her ankles behind his back as she felt the caress of his magic, holding her up.

Of course, darling, he purred.

His tip pressed into her but he didn’t go further; instead he held both her breasts in his big hands and feasted on them until she was writhing, wetter than the shower could ever make her. She was so glad they no longer hurt. Her nipples had a direct connection to her core; sex without these sweet, torturous waves of pleasure was still amazing, but with them…

Please, she whimpered, pulling him closer with her legs. Please, Rhys. I can’t- I need-

He did three things at once, and she nearly came: kissed her, pinched her nipples and slammed into her body, right to the hilt. Their shared cries echoed inside the alcove, momentarily drowning out the constant thrum of water.

“Look at me,” he growled and she felt his fingers curl around her neck, his thumb on her chin, as her eyelids fluttered open. He pulled back and thrust in again, dragging a guttural sound from her throat as they both felt her clench around him. Her eyes closed of their own accord and Rhys scolded her: “Look. At. Me.”

She did, but it was difficult: he was so stunning in his dark power, his brazen need of her. No one in the world could match up to him; couldn’t even come close. No one could stop him from loving her, from wanting her. No one could control who he was, or what he named himself, or what he did -

Except her.

“Fuck me,” she commanded, breathless and already halfway to falling apart. “Fuck me and don’t you dare stop, Rhysand Archeron. Not until we’re both screaming.”

He didn’t need telling again.

Neither did she: she kept her eyes on his the entire time, as he pounded into her, as he held her face still and his other hand toyed with her breasts. Feyre pushed two fingers into his mouth, feeling his wet tongue swirl all around them as it had done countless times between her legs. She clenched again and he swore, his pace increasing even further. When she slid her fingers down to her clit, circling with such perfect, delicious pressure, she was rapidly headed right to the edge of oblivion.

“Not without me,” Rhys said through gritted teeth. She slowed, distracting herself with the droplets of water collecting on his long black eyelashes; running down his nose and cheeks. She would paint him like this. The Drowning. And every time she looked at it, she would want to come.

“Open your wings,” she murmured.

As he did so, she doubled the rain. The sound was extraordinary.

Rhys’s eyes widened and darkened and she sped up her fingers again, because he was all sensation and thrust and friction - and then suddenly he was the one waiting on her.

Feyre, he panted. Please-

Don’t stop.

She pressed hard on her clit, intensifying the exquisite feeling of his cock fucking her most sensitive spots, and as she started to fall, he saw it in her gaze and let go. He buried his face in her neck, wrapping his arms around her back and holding her so close as he drove into her frantically, gasping for air as she came on him, roaring in ecstasy as he came inside her.

Feyre did scream. She screamed into his shoulder and then bit him there, because she didn’t know any other way to stop the sound. It might have gone on forever otherwise, along with the endless surges of pleasure which spread outwards from the very centre of her being.

Her power flared and then faltered; the shower stopped. The sudden silence, broken only by their heavy breathing, was deafening.

Rhys pressed her back into the wall, his legs weak; pressed his mouth to her jaw, her lips. They kissed for a long time, messy and tender.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.”

His forehead came to rest against hers. Feyre squeezed him with her internal muscles and he grinned.

“Don’t,” he warned, “Or you know what will happen.”

She laughed softly. Her hips and thighs were aching; she was already too sore to have him again. Plus, she was thoroughly sated. All she wanted to do was fall back into bed and take a nap. Pregnancy was more exhausting than she’d expected.

Rhys must have heard her thoughts, or perhaps it was obvious from her face. He lifted her off of him and gently set her feet on the ground. “Can I trouble you for another shower?”

She obliged, a much lighter rainfall this time. “You liked this. On your wings.”

It was a statement but he answered anyway, his voice hoarser than moments ago. “Yes. It was… I can’t describe it. Like if I were to lick every single inch of your body at once.”

She knew what that felt like: he’d done it with his power before.

“And you,” he continued, lathering soap in his hands, “Kneeling there in front of me.”

Feyre turned around so he could wash her hair; felt his erection rise again, pressing into her spine.

“I love you,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Which it did, in a way. She loved him and she wanted to please him. All the time, in every way she knew how.

He tilted her head back to rinse out the suds; then she felt his mouth on hers from above, wet and hot and sweet. His hands gently covered her breasts. “I’m so glad these are better,” he sighed.

“Me too.”

He pressed his palm against her abdomen, over the tattoo there that matched his own. “Only one rule for me to remember now.”

Feyre laughed. “I’m sure I can think of some others.”

“Such as?”

She turned and made him lean down towards her, soaping up his hair. “Anytime someone says your name, you have to correct them: they must add ‘Archeron’ to the end.”

“Okay.”

She frowned. “I was joking. I like it in theory. In private.”

“I’m not joking. I love it.” He straightened up, running his hands through his hair under the water. She stared at his muscular arms, his broad chest, covered in ink; down to his slim waist and strong thighs, his huge cock still at attention beneath his newest tattoo. Gods, if she wasn’t so tired she would have pounced on him all over again.

When she met his violet eyes, he was smirking at her.

“I love it when you look at me like that,” he said darkly.

“You are not calling yourself Rhysand Archeron.”

He stepped towards her, making her tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “I love the way you make me feel.”

“Are you listening to me?”

He held her waist, brushing his thumbs over her skin. “I love that I got you pregnant.”

“Rhys!”

“I can’t wait to see your belly grow.”

Feyre put her hand over his mouth. His eyes sparkled and she couldn’t stop herself from bursting out laughing.

“You are so annoying,” she said seriously, but her giggles ruined it entirely.

“I know. I just love you so much.” Then his expression changed to one of sympathy. “I don’t love that you vomited earlier though.”

She shrugged, letting him wash her body now. “I don’t mind. It means our baby is growing inside me.” She yawned, stretching her arms up, arching her back. “Don’t get any ideas,” she added, making him grin. “I am going back to bed.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Only if you let me sleep.”

Rhys kissed her as the water faded away. Then she wrapped them both in warm air, drying them in seconds. He summoned their dressing gowns, one black, one white, and used his hands to tie them snugly, first hers then his.

“I meant it, you know,” he told her softly as they settled back down beneath the covers. It was only seven thirty in the morning but the new light of spring was already seeping in around the curtains.

“I know,” she replied as he drew her into his embrace. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

“It would be an honour to carry your name. You are half of me, Feyre. The better half. And I want the whole world to know that.”

She closed her eyes, sinking into his warmth. “It was my father’s name too. My sisters’.”

“Three other heroes of our time,” he said quietly. “Definitely an honour.”

Feyre felt her breath catch in her throat. She saw her sisters often, with Cassian and Lucien. They were closer now than they’d ever been. But it still hurt to think about her father: about the dark place he’d been trapped in for so many years; about how her capture had broken him free, had led him to raise an entire fleet to save her. To save them all.

He had loved her, in his own way. But it was nothing like the way she and Rhys would love their child. Nothing.

“I’ll think about it,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest.

Just as she started to feel herself drift off to sleep, Rhys’s palm found her belly again. “Baby Archeron,” he said thoughtfully against her hair, testing out the words.

And then she was swallowing her tears and wondering what she ever did to deserve this mate, this joy, this life.

II

TBC

II