#also pro rhysand but only because he's going to be an asshole and the narrative won't paint him as a saint

[seleneprince]

A Court of Shadows and Blood Chapter 1

Prologue

Nesta already expected the worst when she set off for the Wall.

But she couldn't have ever imagined this.

She's laying in a pristine, king-sized bed with sheets made of the most exquisite silk her skin has ever touched, in the middle of a massive room with some lit candles floating around, giving off an mysterious allure to the place. In theory, this should be a dream come true.

Except it's not.

Nesta grits her teeth, tugging futilely against the chain that keeps her bound to the bed by the ankle. The metal bites into her skin, and she feels the sting of each small movement, a constant reminder of her captivity. The luxury of the room, which once would've made her swoon, only added fuel to her anger now.

The elegance, the refined decoration around her felt like a mockery of her situation.

She scans the room, searching for anything that might help her break the cursed chain. The candles that hover mid-air cast a soft, golden glow, and the shadows they create dance across the stone ceiling. There are no windows, so the only exit is the door. Not that it matters; even if she managed to break free from the chain, there's no telling what—or who—would await her out there.

Her thoughts drift back to that damned Fae male, the one who’d dragged her here. His sharp, predatory smile, the cold amusement in his voice as he taunted her. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her chin, the way his magic had restrained her so effortlessly. A shiver runs through her at the memory, but she quickly suppresses it, forcing herself to think clearly. She can’t panic. Panic is useless.

She pulls at the chain again, testing its strength, but it doesn't give, and her skin is already red from the many previous attempts. Frustration bubbles inside her, and she digs her nails into her palms, trying to keep her mind from spiraling. There has to be a way out of this. There always is.

She tries to think what would Feyre do. Knowing that little beast, she probably would've found a way out of this already, and the thought makes her heart ache.

Feyre. Wild, unruly, stupidly brave Feyre. Her little sister who took the burden that belonged to their father and carried the family on her shoulders since they arrived to that filthy cottage. Her sister, who in her task to bring them food, provoked a powerful Fae beast and was taken away from her house in front of them. In front of Nesta.

It had been worse when she realized neither Elain or their useless father knew the truth . The next day, Nesta was subjected to excited talks about how lucky Feyre have been to be taken by some rich aunt Nesta knew nothing of, how some winter breeze had shattered their door. It got to the point Nesta really thought she was going mad, that what she vividly remembered from that night never happened. But whenever these thoughts pestered her, she looked at claws marked on the table, and knew she was right.

Then that weird stranger appeared at their door and asked their father to invest his money for him with a too good of an offer. And when money started pouring in like old times, allowing them to move to a beautiful mansion, Nesta snapped. She couldn't handle living in that bubble of deceit her family seemed blissfully trapped in.

Her sister had been stolen away that night, yet everything went on as if it had never happened. It wasn’t right. It was utterly, completely wrong. And she was the only one aware of it.

Nesta decided it right there and then. She went up to that mercenary from town and hired her to act as guide through the unfamiliar winter woods. Towards the Wall. The woman insisted there was no way through, but Nesta was determined. That Fae had to go through that way to take Feyre with him. There had to be some kind of entrance. A hidden path, or a secret door. Something.

Then she heard a voice, calling her from afar—a soft, indecipherable echo that sounded a bit too much like Feyre, making her walk towards it without hesitation. Had she stopped to think for a second, Nesta would've have realized that the air was filled with the same energy as that Fae's spell at the cottage, which, for some reason, didn’t affect her in the slightest.

But she was tired and eager to see Feyre again, to bring her back home once and for all. Whatever shields had protected her before against the influence of a Fae had weakened. And before she realized it, a blinding light struck her face with force, making her trip and stumble backward. She opened her eyes to a dark forest that looked straight out of a nightmare, with no sight of Feyre or the mercenary.

She fell into a trap. Probably set up by the same horrible Fae that cornered her. Or maybe it had been her imagination, a product of her stressed mind leading her to disaster.

It doesn't matter anymore.

With a deep breath, she refocuses, taking in her surroundings once more. If she can figure out where she is—or at least what he wants from her—she might be able to turn the situation in her favor. She’s survived worse odds on her way to the Wall. And she refuses to be a helpless, weak girl to be saved by someone else. Not anymore.

Suddenly, the candles go off and the whole room is coveted in darkness. Nesta grasps the bedsheets instinctively, as her eyes can no longer see what's around her. She needs to ground herself, ignore the strong drumming of her heart that resonates in the room through the heavy silence that reigns now.

She goes still, blood freezing in her body. There's no way to know what's happening and it drives her mad. ¿Has her time finally come? Has that twisted man grown sick of keeping her alive? She still remembers the stories told of what happens to the humans in Prythian. Ripped apart and their remains wasting in some Fae's stomach. Is this how it ends for her, really?

Her body shivers. Something has moved right besides her. She holds her breath, waiting for her painful demise.

"Did you miss me, dear?"

It takes her some seconds to recognize the voice. Her fear is guttered with a wave of rage when that bastard chuckles.

The fireplace crackles with a burst of flames, bringing some light back to the room. Nesta makes a show of slowly turning her heard towards him, as if he's the most uninteresting thing here.

He stands there, leaning casually against the bed post, his silhouette outlined by the flickering flames. That damnable smirk is plastered on his face, his eyes glinting with mischief as he watches her reaction. He looks far too pleased with himself, like a cat that’s cornered a mouse, and she feels the urge to strangle him with the chain.

“Sorry, did I scare you? Forgive me.” he asks, voice low and mocking. “You looked so... tense. I wanted to surprise you.” He takes a step closer, his boots silent against the polished floor, the shadows curling around his feet like living things.

Nesta’s hands grip the sheets tighter, her nails digging into the fabric as she forces herself to maintain her composure. She can't let him see how shaken she is, how his little game rattled her. Instead, she cocks her head, falling back into the cold indifference that's part of her.

“What do you want now?” she snaps, her voice harsher than she intends, but it’s better than letting him hear her true emotions. “If you plan to kill me, just do it already. You're wasting both of our times.”

He laughs, the sound rich and infuriating, filling the space between them. “Now, where would be the fun in that, dear? Specially after the trouble it took to bring you here.” He takes another step forward , the firelight casting sharp angles across his face, highlighting the dangerous amusement in his expression. “You’re far too interesting to rot so soon. You see, it gets rather boring around here, day after day, and you'll help me with that."

She feels the chain tug against her ankle as she instinctively tries to shift back, the bite of metal sending a jolt of pain up her leg. She grits her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her wince. Instead, she meets his gaze head-on, letting her fury show. “You should look for better hobbies."

He shrugs, the motion casual, but she catches the glint of menace beneath the veneer of nonchalance. “Maybe, but you're the first thing to truly entertain me in fifty years. You ought to be worried that it remains that way, little thing. If you can't, well..."

He doesn't continue, but Nesta knows what he means. If she can't be of use to him, there's no point in letting her live then. She's stuck being his personal plaything, and expected to act accordingly, or else she'll die. She doesn't know how it is dying by a Fae's hands but she knows it won't be merciful in her case. He'll take his time with her, surely to amuse himself until the end.

He squints his eyes at her, burrows furrowing. His expression turns more serious, focused even. As if he's trying to find something in her.

Nesta doesn't look away, shoving her fear back down from the millionth time and pulling of every fiber of stubborness within her to stand her ground.

He huffs. Then leans his knee on the bed, slowly moving closer to her until his face hovers inches above hers, the heat of his breath mingling with her own. She lays back on her hands, her breath falling short when she realizes she's caged between him and the damn bed. His violet eyes are piercing her, staring at her unblinking.

Nesta's heart stutters in her chest, but keeps her expression locked in a mask of indifference.

The bed dips slightly under his weight as he inches closer, the shadows casting dark, flickering shapes across his already inhuman features. Her pulse pounds in her ears, each beat echoing in the silence that hangs between them. But she refuses to flinch, refuses to give him any satisfaction of seeing how vulnerable she feels.

"Interesting," he mutters, cocking his head slightly. "I can't hear you at all."

Nesta frowns, reading his comment as another mockering, but pauses when a flash of confusion blinks in his eyes for a second.

"What do you-?"

"I felt something was off earlier, but I didn't think-" he shakes his head, somehow without interrupting his intense stare. "Sweet Mother, you're full of surprises."

Nesta blinks, unable to hide her confusion at the moment. He seems to notice and lets out a light chuckle. A sound almost human.

"Let me guess, do you see through glamours too by chance?" A hint of genuine curiosity in his voice, as if he's just asking about the color of her dress.

"I don't know what you're talking about." She doesn't like this. It feels like he's figuring out something about herself that she doesn't know. It unsettles her.

He lifts a groomed, dark brow. "Have you ever witnessed something really strange that you had no explanation for, but no one else noticed? Things that just didn't make sense in your mind?"

A shattered door. Claw marks on the table. A rich aunt Nesta never heard of before but suddenly everyone knows.

A roaring beast that steals little sisters away in front of their families and no one else remembers.

Her mouth dries up.

"What do you mean?" She manages to get out.

He clicks his tongue. "Stop it. You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

"Frankly, I don't understand a single thing you say or do. Nor I want to."

He purses his lip. "I could peel your skin off from talking to me like that, little thing."

She gulps, lifting her chin up. "And what's stopping you?"

He sits up, creating some distance between them. Nesta feels like she can breathe again.

"There are better ways to discipline pets. Besides," he drawls. "I'll hate to spill blood in my bed."

She grits her teeth, terror and rage tangled within her. Of course, that would be the main concern for an egotistical, twisted monster like him.

Wait.

He said his bed.

Suddenly, the chain feels like it’s burning, and not because she’s pulling it. A wave of shame, disgust, and fury creeps over her skin.

"You son of a bitch." She doesn't even think how improper it is to curse like that, how dissapointed her mother would be. She lunges at him, catching him by surprise enough to wrap her hands around his throat.

Blood is rushing to her ears. His bed. He chained her up to his bed. It all dawns to her. Calling her pet. All those suggestive taunts. Getting all over her personal space.

It seems like men are all the same, regardless of the race.

She won't let it happen. Absolutely not. He's writhing under her, grabbing her wrists painfully hard, but she ignores it. He didn't see it coming, which gives Nesta the advantage she needs.

She'll kill him before he gets to lay a singer finger on her. Fae, deadly as they are, are still made of skin that can bleed. And bones that can be broken.

Nesta's fingers dig into his throat, her nails pressing against his skin as she leans all her weight into her grip. Her pulse thunders in her ears, drowning out everything but the single-minded determination to stop him—forever. The fury coursing through her is a potent fire, pushing aside all rational thought.

He snarls beneath her, his fingers biting into her wrists in an attempt to pry her hands away, but she holds on with a ferocity that surprises them both. His skin is warm beneath her touch, too human for someone like him. The thought only fuels her, and she presses harder, her knuckles whitening with the strain.

"Enough," he growls, his voice tight, his eyes darkening with anger. But she doesn’t stop; she won’t stop. She’ll make him pay for every single one of his twisted words, his taunts, his degradation. She’s done letting men think they have any right over her.

A flicker of something flashes in his eyes—understanding? Perhaps even a touch of respect? But he grins up at her, a cruel, sharp smile that twists his handsome face into something chilling. With a swift, forceful move, he shifts beneath her, breaking her hold and pinning her wrists above her head with ease, trapping her in place beneath him.

Nesta resists with all her desesperation, kicking and scratching, her efforts becoming obviously futile. He has an inhuman strenght, not to mention his powers, but it'll be a cold day in hell before she gives up.

"Well, well," he murmurs, a wicked grin in his mouth, "and here I thought you couldn't surprise me more."

She glares up at him, her fury still burning, her breathing ragged, unyielding. She feels no regret. Whatever happens now, she'll face it with dignity.

His grip tightens, but she doesn't waver.

"You think you’re so brave, right?" he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s almost gentle, deceptively soft, but she can hear the threat coiling beneath it. She pissed him off.

He leans in close, the shadow of his breath against her cheek. His lips brush her ear as he speaks, the touch so light it’s barely there. "But I wonder… how much of that is real? And how much is just an act to protect your pride?"

Nesta swallows, her throat suddenly dry, but she manages to keep her voice steady. "Why don’t you try me and find out?" she bites out, her tone cold and daring, even as she feels the tremor building in her hands.

It's foolish, really. She has no way of defending herself, even if she wasn't chained. There's nothing for him to find out.

His smile widens, and she hates how he seems to find this all so amusing—how he treats her defiance as a game rather than a challenge. But there's a shift in his gaze then, something darker and more dangerous than the playful facade he’s kept up until now. His hand comes up to her face, but instead of grabbing her harshly, he traces a finger along her jawline, a feather-light touch that makes her skin prickle. Not entirely by fear.

She hates it.

"I just might, dear," he says, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a low, velvety purr. "But don’t worry… I’ve got all the time in the world."

She can feel the chain around her ankle pulling taut as she instinctively tries to edge away, but she forces herself to stop. Refuses to give him any hint of how much his words have shaken her.

Nesta matches his gaze with all the fire she can muster, letting her fury rise to the surface.

"All the time in the world to be disappointed, then," she hisses, eyes blazing as she looks into his, lifting her chin up. "Because you’ll get nothing from me. I'll never give you anything."

A beat of silence passes, and for the first time, she sees his expression falter, just slightly—a flash of something inscrutable crossing his features. His fingers pause against her skin, the warmth of his touch lingering as he studies her with an intensity that makes her feel as though he’s peeling away every layer of her resolve. Seeing through her.

But then, just as quickly, the mask of amusement returns, and he leans back, releasing the tension between them.

"Of course," he says simply, rising back to his knees. His voice carries a note of satisfaction, a promise of further games to come. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

He steps back from the bed, leaving her with the firelight casting long shadows across his retreating form. She can only stare at him, words dead in her throat.

"You can have the bed. Don't worry, we won't share it. I barely use it anyway."

He shoves his hands down his pockets, walking away in a nonchalant way. He turns his head at her one last time, his eyes connecting with hers. Something shifts in the air.

Nesta tenses.

"By the way," he snapped his fingers. "There. A little gift—for having the balls to try that."

It's only when he shuts the door behind him when she looks at the gift.

A trail of warm food placed in the table right besides the bed. Just by the smell alone, Nesta can tell last time she ate something like that was when her mother was still alive.

Hesitantly, she reaches out, fingers trembling as they brush against the edge of the tray. Her gaze remains fixed on the door, as if he might return any moment to snatch it all away, or mock her for daring to accept his so-called gift.

She picks up a piece of bread, bringing it to her lips, and nearly flinches at the warmth, at how it softens the edge of her hunger. She forgot how it was. The water is cool, soothing her parched throat, and each bite steadies her just a little more.

As she munches eagerly, a realization hits her:

She doesn't even know his name.