A Court of Thorns and Roses

Tamlin smiled at me one last time. “I love you,” he said, and stepped away.

I should say it—I should say those words, but they got stuck in my throat, because…because of what he had to face, because he might not find me again despite his promise, because…because beneath it all, he was an immortal, and I would grow old and die. And maybe he meant it now, and perhaps last night had been as altering for him as it had been for me, but…I would not become a burden to him. I would not become another weight pressing upon his shoulders.

“Is this the girl you saw at Tamlin’s estate?”

He brushed some invisible fleck of dust off his black tunic before he surveyed me. His violet eyes held boredom—and disdain. “I suppose.”

“But did you or did you not tell me that girl,” Amarantha said, her tone sharpening as she pointed to Clare, “was the one you saw?”

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Humans all look alike to me.”

[…]

Humans all look alike…I didn’t believe him for a second. Rhysand knew exactly how I looked—he’d recognized me that day at the manor.

I was dying. I’d known it for some time now. And Lucien had underestimated my abilities in the past—had never quite grasped my limitations as a human. He’d sent me to hunt the Suriel with a few knives and a bow. He’d even admitted to hesitating that day, when I had screamed for help. And he might not even know how bad off I was. Might not understand the gravity of an infection like this. He might come a day, an hour, a minute too late.

Rhysand’s moon-white skin began to darken into nothing but shadow.

“Wait.”

“Did—did Tamlin see it?”

Lucien nodded. “Rhys was only doing it to get a rise out of him.”

“Did it work?” I still couldn’t look Lucien in the face. I knew, at least, that I hadn’t been violated beyond touching my sides. The paint told me that much.

“No,” Lucien said, and I smiled grimly.

“Wait,” I said. “Is—is Tamlin all right? I mean…I mean that spell Amarantha has him under to make him so silent…”

“There’s no spell. Hasn’t it occurred to you that Tamlin is keeping quiet to avoid telling Amarantha which form of your torment affects him the most?”

No, it hadn’t.

Rhysand didn’t deign to acknowledge any of them, his shoulders still loose, his footsteps unhurried. I wondered whether anyone but he and the High Lord of the Summer Court knew that the killing had been a mercy. I was willing to bet that there had been others involved in that escape plan, perhaps even the High Lord of the Summer Court himself.

But maybe keeping those secrets had only been done in aid of whatever games Rhysand liked to play. Maybe sparing that faerie male by killing him swiftly, rather than shattering his mind and leaving him a drooling husk, had been another calculated move, too.

“Why do you think I’m doing this?” He waved a hand to me.

“Because you’re a monster.”

He laughed. “True, but I’m also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. Seeing you enter into a fool’s bargain with Amarantha was one thing, but when Tamlin saw my tattoo on your arm…Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him.”

“Be glad of your human heart, Feyre. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.”