Filed to story: A Court of Mist and Fury Book by Sarah J Maas
“Report,” Rhys said, stroking a knuckle down my ribs. He gave a dismissive nod to Cassian, Mor, and Azriel, and the trio faded away into the crowd. Within a heartbeat, Azriel had vanished into shadows and was gone. Keir didn’t even turn.
Before Rhys, Keir was nothing more than a sullen child. Yet I knew Mor’s father was older. Far older. The Steward clung to power, it seemed.
Rhys was power.
“Greetings, milord,” Keir said, his deep voice polished smooth. “And greetings to your … guest.”
Rhys’s hand flattened on my thigh as he angled his head to look at me. “She is lovely, isn’t she?”
“Indeed,” Keir said, lowering his eyes. “There is little to report, milord. All has been quiet since your last visit.”
“No one for me to punish?” A cat playing with his food.
“Unless you’d like for me to select someone here, no, milord.”
Rhys clicked his tongue. “Pity.” He again surveyed me, then leaned to tug my earlobe with his teeth.
And damn me to hell, but I leaned farther back as his teeth pressed down at the same moment his thumb drifted high on the side of my thigh, sweeping across sensitive skin in a long, luxurious touch. My body went loose and tight, and my breathing … Cauldron damn me again, the scent of him, the citrus and the sea, the power roiling off him … my breathing hitched a bit.
I knew he noticed; knew he felt that shift in me.
His fingers stilled on my leg.
Keir began mentioning people I didn’t know in the court, bland reports on marriages and alliances, blood-feuds, and Rhys let him talk.
His thumb stroked again-this time joined with his pointer finger.
A dull roaring was filling my ears, drowning out everything but that touch on the inside of my leg. The music was throbbing, ancient, wild, and people ground against each other to it.
His eyes on the Steward, Rhys made vague nods every now and then. While his fingers continued their slow, steady stroking on my thighs, rising higher with every pass.
People were watching. Even as they drank and ate, even as some danced in small circles, people were watching. I was sitting in his lap, his own personal plaything, his every touch visible to them … and yet it might as well have been only the two of us.
Keir listed the expenses and costs of running the court, and Rhys gave another vague nod. This time, his nose brushed the spot between my neck and shoulder, followed by a passing graze of his mouth.
My breasts tightened, becoming full and heavy, aching-aching like what was now pooling in my core. Heat filled my face, my blood.
But Keir said at last, as if his own self-control slipped the leash, “I had heard the rumors, and I didn’t quite believe them.” His gaze settled on me, on my breasts, peaked through the folds of my dress, of my legs, spread wider than they’d been minutes before, and Rhys’s hand in dangerous territory. “But it seems true: Tamlin’s pet is now owned by another master.”
“You should see how I make her beg,” Rhys murmured, nudging my neck with his nose.
Keir clasped his hands behind his back. “I assume you brought her to make a statement.”
“You know everything I do is a statement.”
“Of course. This one, it seems, you enjoy putting in cobwebs and crowns.”
Rhys’s hand paused, and I sat straighter at the tone, the disgust. And I said to Keir in a voice that belonged to another woman, “Perhaps I’ll put a leash on you.”
Rhys’s approval tapped against my mental shield, the hand at my ribs now making lazy circles. “She does enjoy playing,” he mused onto my shoulder. He jerked his chin toward the Steward. “Get her some wine.”
Pure command. No politeness.
Keir stiffened, but strode off.
Rhys didn’t dare break from his mask, but the light kiss he pressed beneath my ear told me enough. Apology and gratitude-and more apologies. He didn’t like this any more than I did. And yet to get what we needed, to buy Azriel time … He’d do it. And so would I.
I wondered, then, with his hands beneath my breasts and between my legs, what Rhys wouldn’t give of himself. Wondered if … if perhaps the arrogance and swagger … if they masked a male who perhaps thought he wasn’t worth very much at all.
A new song began, like dripping honey-and edged into a swift-moving wind, punctuated with driving, relentless drums.
I twisted, studying his face. There was nothing warm in his eyes, nothing of the friend I’d made. I opened my shield enough to let him in.
What? His voice floated into my mind.
I reached down the bond between us, caressing that wall of ebony adamant. A small sliver cracked-just for me. And I said into it,
You are good, Rhys. You are kind. This mask does not scare me. I see you beneath it.
His hands tightened on me, and his eyes held mine as he leaned forward to brush his mouth against my cheek. It was answer enough-and … an unleashing.
I leaned a bit more against him, my legs widening ever so slightly.
Why’d you stop? I said into his mind, into him.
A near-silent growl reverberated against me. He stroked my ribs again, in time to the beat of the music, his thumb rising nearly high enough to graze the underside of my breasts.
I let my head drop back against his shoulder.
I let go of the part of me that heard their words-whore, whore, whore
–
Let go of the part that said those words alongside them-traitor, liar, whore
–
And I just became.
I became the music, and the drums, and the wild, dark thing in the High Lord’s arms.
His eyes were wholly glazed-and not with power or rage. Something red-hot and edged with glittering darkness exploded in my mind.
I dragged a hand down his thigh, feeling the hidden warrior’s strength there. Dragged it back up again in a long, idle stroke, needing to touch him, feel him.