#love to see them coming to an understanding JK feyre is still feral

[separatist-apologist]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

The pikis returned that evening and though they tried, Feyre refused to speak to either of them. Why, when they’d turn around and tell the horde king everything she said should it benefit them. Perhaps they were angling for a chance in his bed? 

Unlikely.

Nuala, with cheeks flushed with what Feyre assumed was embarrassment, spoke to her anyway. She explained the roles of pikis in-depth, perhaps thinking it would engender Feyre to her. As she bathed Feyre, she said pikis served the wives of the horde warriors, which made no sense to Feyre. She wasn’t the horde king's wife—she was his whore. 

It was apparently a custom for unmarried women—females, as they called themselves—to do this in order to attract a mate of their own. The unclaimed males would see how well they did, that the horde king had hand chosen them for his plaything, and apparently it made the other warriors find them marriageable. Feyre couldn’t imagine how, and part of her wanted to explain how humans did it.

There had been true customs in the past—she knew her father had courted her mother with money and gifts before they’d dated for a period of time, and then they’d married. Now, though, it was simpler. For either love or security—sometimes both—partners were chosen. There was no grand ceremony, no one to perform the rites. It typically happened among families behind closed door. One day they lived separately, the next they were together. 

Had Elain already reached out to Graysen, she wondered? He had connections to the federation—perhaps he could get her off the planet. Maybe Nesta would go, too. The thought made Feyre’s chest ache. She didn’t want to be left here alone, used up and discarded before dumped back in the village she hated.

She’d never get off. 

Feyre kept her eyes down as the piki prepared her for the brute she was saddled with. This was the promise she’d made him—and it was too much to hope he’d honor his word and not touch her until she healed. She supposed the piki had also told him she refused the salve. Perhaps he’d only said it to lower her guard, knowing he’d go back on his word just as soon as it suited her. 

When a mirror was held before her painted face, Feyre hated what she saw looking back. She barely looked human, let alone alive. Once again, Feyre thought she looked like a heathen gods plaything in her sheer night dress that covered nothing. The piki had somehow managed to set soft waves into her hair and made her face seem brighter despite the hollow hunger she could see gazing from her eyes. 

She doubted the horde king cared much about her own desire or interests beyond getting what he wanted. Still. Once it was done a few times, he might tire of her entirely. She couldn’t imagine, with a horde of women his own species to choose from, he’d stay interested in her for long. 

The piki left just as the sun had fully set, leaving Feyre kneeling on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down. She had but minutes before he arrived, and she intended to take advantage of it. She didn’t trust him not to hurt her, to maybe even kill her in the pursuit of pleasure. The horde king was careless—there were several sharp, curved daggers half hidden around his tent. Feyre stole one, sliding it beneath her pillow.

Just in case, she told herself.

The flaps moved just as she’d righted the pillows. Kneeling on the furs, she hoped she looked demure and submissive and not guilty. She certainly felt it. He seemed wary looking at her—perhaps it was the uncharacteristic silence she greeted him with. 

“I’m tired,” he announced. Feyre felt her irritation rise, though she swallowed it. 

Grit your teeth and bear it. 

She knew what to expect, at least. Did the Drakkari use any kind of protection, she wondered? Feyre had wedged half a lemon into her body before letting Isaac have her. Something told her the horde king wasn’t going to allow that. What would he do if she ended up with a half Drakkari, half human child?

She shoved the thought from her mind. Feyre very much doubted they were compatible that way. Surely this man—male, whatever—wasn’t the first to take a human woman. If it was possible, Feyre would have heard by now.

He dropped his belt without ceremony, turning toward her as she raised her eyes to look at him. He was trying to get a rise out of her, to provoke a little temper. Did he want her to fight him?

She wouldn’t. Not unless she had to, anyway, just to ensure she remained unrestrained for as long as possible.

“This was not how I imagined this moment,” he murmured as he came to stand before her. “Will you speak to me, kalles?”

“What do you want me to say?” she replied, hating how her voice betrayed her. “Take me, horde king, my body is yours?”

He cocked his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You’ll never hear those words,” she scoffed, hands forming fists at her side.

“You are mine,” he snarled in return, clearly frustrated. It had been a day, she wanted to scream—a day in which he’d examined her naked body, pinned her against him and forced her to eat, and dressed her up like his personal pet. Did he genuinely expect her to fall to her knees in gratitude?

Looking up at him, it was clear he did. For a moment, it occurred to Feyre that he might think he’d rescued her from her previous circumstances. It was arrogant of him to assume he’d saved her at all—that she’d required his presence, that he’d fixed her life.

All he’d done was made her more miserable than she already was. Feyre loathed seeing how the Drakkari lived, with all their opulent excess. No one was hungry here. Everyone was absurdly clean, they were safe, they were happy. She seethed with her resentment that she wasn’t even allowed to participate in it—only ever witnessed as an outsider, forced to obey the whims of truly cruel man.

Feyre only shrugged her shoulders before laying flat on her back with exaggerated boredom. She’d hoped to get away with not undressing, but he’d caught her.

“Stand, Morakkari,” he murmured, a strange reverence seeping into his tone. Morakkari. What did that mean? Feyre sat up, trying to hide her frustration as she did what he wanted.

“You swore to serve me,” he murmured, standing before her utterly naked. Feyre was trying not to notice his erect cock but it was hard. Even with her eyes fully on his face, she could see it bobbing from the corner of her eye. Must everything about him be so excessive? So large? 

Feyre lifted her chin, the little defiance she could offer when the odds were so against her. The horde king reached for her shoulders, brushing his fingers over the sheer material of the gown.

“Do you like this?”

“It’s clothes,” Feyre replied with a shrug. In truth, it was likely the nicest thing

His mouth dropped immediately, his frown prominent. “What would please you?”

Feyre didn’t dare answer that question to the naked male standing in front of her. “Just tell me what you want.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Take off your nightdress,” he ordered, removing his hands from her. His slow seduction had been ruined by her refusal to play along, but Feyre preferred it this way. The less touching, the better. Feyre dropped it, letting him once again look at her. There should have been lust—and perhaps there was—but it made her uncomfortable to see his concern.

“You didn’t eat today.” It was an accusation.

“And I never will,” she replied, heart pounding in her chest.

“I’ll give you something, if you do,” he said, catching her off guard. 

“What could you possibly give me?” she demanded, certain what he was offering hung between his legs. 

He seemed guarded—almost wary, as he said, “What do you want?”

Feyre considered this for a moment. “Anything?”

His brows furrowed, creating two creases between his eyes. “Do not order me to kill myself, kalles.”

Feyre hadn’t even considered that. Indignant, she said, “I wasn’t going to! I was going to ask…”

Feyre bit her inner cheek as he dared a step toward her, seemingly forgetting they were both naked. The Drakkari seemed more casual when it came to nudity—perhaps this was simply familiar to him. It seemed strange to Feyre, though. Intimate in a vulnerable way, even. Resisting the urge to cover her chest, Feyre said, “I want to know your name.”

He cocked his head, considering this. “Names have power, kalles. Are you asking to have power over me?”

“I just want to know what to call you.”

“No one can ever know,” he replied, perhaps assuming she was going to announce it to everyone she met. Maybe she would, if she felt so inclined, though some small sliver of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. 

“Who would I tell?” Feyre heard herself say, voice small and sad. “I only know you.”

There was a pause. “If I tell you my name, you’ll eat?”

“Broth only,” Feyre informed him, thinking he’d lay out a massive spread she’d never be able to finish without vomiting. Besides, she still felt guilty when she looked around at how nice everything was here, even if he was about to push her to the bed and have his way with her. 

“You’ll eat the portion I serve you?” he demanded. There was a trick to it, though Feyre was too tired to figure it out.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He swallowed, as if it pained him to say this. Perhaps it was just unusual given no one shared names, except for herself. Or maybe this was some kind of violation, telling his stolen whore his name only to have it used against him.

“My name is Rhysand,” he finally said, the words coming so softly that they felt like a dream. “But you, Morakkari, should call me Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she whispered, catching how his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “What happens now?”

“Exactly what I promised,” he said, though he hesitated as he looked down at her. “I’m…”

“Yes, horde king?” she pressed, certain he wasn’t going to now. He should, though. This was too intimate, too soft. Push her to the bed—force himself on her. At least she could go back to thoroughly hating him then. It would be so easy. 

He sighed, crouching for her nightdress. Feyre didn’t dare move as he fixed the fabric before sliding it over her head. Like a child, she held her arms up to get them into the sleeves. “Sleep with me tonight,” he murmured, climbing into the bed utterly naked. Feyre stood there dumbfounded.

“What about—”

“Veekor, kallas,” he murmured, reaching for her. “Sleep.”

He was warm, his hold strong. Feyre let him pull her against his chest, a million questions running through her mind. “Can I ask you other things?”

He groaned. “In the morning.”

Feyre felt him angle his pelvis away from her, well aware his cock was still rigid. It was a small gesture he didn’t need to make and it bothered her. “I have questions.”

“Yes, your questions are endless, I imagine,” he replied, his mouth in her hair. “I want to hear them. In the morning.”

“What did you do that made you so exhausted?” she demanded.

“I spoke with you. That’s enough.”

She twisted to find his unserious face smiling down at her. “You’re rude.”

“So you say, kalles.”

“Would you call me Feyre?” she asked him after a moment. “Where I’m from…female is an insult.”

He paused. “But you are a female.”

“No, I’m a woman,” she protested as he snorted.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. When…when human men want to put women back in their place and remind us we’re lesser, they call us females. It’s how you’d describe an animal. They’re more…elevated, I guess? But we’re little more than cattle.”

Rhys blinked. “Why would they want you to believe you’re lesser?”

“The same reason you took me to be your whore, I guess? Power?”

Rhys sat up quickly, the fur covering his body sliding to his waist. “My what?” he demanded, tone thundering. 

“Your whore,” Feyre repeated, careful to keep her tone even. “Remember when you exchanged my sisters life in favor of servitude—”

“I never said whore,” he replied, those violet eyes flashing. He was so strange to her right then with his tail, tattooed gold right before the little tuft at the end. Those dark, nearly colorless eyes were staring so intently that Feyre thought he could see right down to her bones if he wanted to.

“You said kasikkari,” she reminded him. “Whore.”

He spluttered then, murmuring what sounded like both curse and prayer to his goddess “It does not mean whore.”

Feyre stilled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought this up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperately wanting to avoid whatever came next. “We should—”

“It means mate,” he continued, determined she would hear him. “Blessed by Kakkari herself.”

“Rhys—”

“Not my whore. My mate, my wife, my Morakkari—my queen.”

Feyre was going to be sick. In a way, that was the best she could have hoped for, and yet…Feyre’s mind turned immediately to a man Nesta had a brief flirtation with—Tomas Sr. and his wife. He’d beaten her behind closed doors, taking his every little frustration out on his wife and no one had ever said a word because wives were the property of their husbands.

And she was the property of the horde king. Tomas had no power at all and still was allowed to do whatever he liked. The people here couldn’t even look at Rhys. If he wanted to harm her, who was going to help her? Her own piki told him everything she said. She had no friends, no allies.

Feyre felt her chest rising and falling, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. He was going to kill her, she realized. There was no escape, no way she’d convince him to let her go back home once he tired of her. All her plans were crumbling around her because wives couldn’t leave. 

She felt his hand on her back, rubbing a line down her spine as he murmured something she couldn’t hear. Blood roared in her ears and right then, Feyre was determined to escape, no matter the cost. She had the weapon under her pillow. She could wait until he was asleep and kill him before escaping on foot. She’d lay low for a while—maybe in the mountains? 

“Don’t touch me,” she managed, pulling further away from him. “Don’t ever touch me.” His jaw clenched, eyes going dark, but Rhys said nothing. Feyre gripped her knees, chin tucked against her chest as she worked to settle her racing heart. 

You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re safe.

It was an old mantra she’d repeated from the time she was young. It didn’t need to be true to settle her down, it just needed to be repeated. Feyre had never been safe a day in her life, and she certainly wasn’t here. But she had herself, and Feyre had never let herself down. Not when it mattered.

Rhys settled back to the bed, covering himself while he waited for her to make a decision. Every inch of him was taut, coiled like a waiting spring. He expected her to try and run and was prepared to grab her. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She knew better. It was pure hell to force herself to lay beside him, rolling to her side so her back faced him.

She heard him huff out a breath, like he wanted to say something before thinking better of it. Smart. Feyre knew if he tried to talk to her, her temper would get the better of her and she’d give away the only card in her hand. 

Just breathe.

“Feyre—”

“Not tonight,” she snapped, silencing him entirely. “Sleep, remember?”

He huffed again, clearly not used to being told what to do. He was silent, his breath steadying as Feyre laid beside him, counting slowly in her head in an attempt to make it seem like she was sleeping. Once, she’d started to move to her back and he’d made a soft noise, reaching for her before Feyre slapped his hand away.

If he felt it, he gave no indication. His breathing was even and slow and didn’t budge even when, this time, Feyre did move. She tested how deep he slept by sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. His eyes remained closed, his face soft. She almost didn’t believe this man—male—slept at all.

Pulling her legs back to the bed, Feyre reached beneath her pillow for the Drakkari blade. The metal sang softly against the scabbard it was sheathed in, causing her to suck in a breath as her heart pounded. Had he heard? 

Rhys didn’t move. 

Feyre crept closer, thinking of the people she’d killed in her village. She knew how to end a life, now. One decisive slide against his throat would keep him from screaming, and a second to his chest—piercing the hard breastplate—would stop his heart. He’d be dead before he knew what was happening, and she’d have the necessary head start to avoid his warriors. 

Still, her hand trembled as she brought that curved blade to his throat. Unlike the dagger that had been taken from her, this one was sharp—capable. Feyre took a breath, willing herself to move, but her vision was flooded with the sight of red blood as the echoes of the gasping filled her senses.

Fingers curled around her wrist. “Have I displeased you, kasikkari?”

His grip was iron-clad, keeping her from cutting him open but also preventing her from moving away. She’d been so lost in her memories that Ferye hadn’t noticed his eyes had opened and he was watching her. 

“I’m not your wife. Not yet,” Feyre hissed, trying to jerk back. The blade made contact with his throat, causing a thin line of flood to slide over his golden brown skin. The horde king didn’t react. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed, but Feyre did. 

“Where have you gone, kasikkari?” he whispered, his gaze burning against her skin. “I know that look.”

Feyre hated him for noticing. No one else ever had. Feyre tried to pull back but he was stronger, yanking her forward until he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His free hand held her in place, and fuck him, he was erect and pressed against her body. The only thing between them was her night dress, so thin there might as well be nothing at all.

Feyre’s body responded against her will and she knew he felt the rush of heat that flooded between her legs.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she snarled in response. 

“You swore to serve me in all things,” he reminded her, darkness creeping into his tone. “Answer me.”

Feyre managed to break free from his hold, falling off the bed as she did so. The knife slid from her hand and she could have impaled herself on the sharp blade had Rhys not caught it easily, flinging it across the room. The blade hit one of the golden chests at the far end of the tent, clattering loudly. 

“I didn’t swear to tell you all my thoughts!” Feyre replied, her voice rising in anger.

“You will do whatever I ask you to!” he growled, rising from the bed like a terrifying, dark king. Feyre was almost afraid of him at that moment, even when she reached for her sandal lined on the floor nearby. His eyes flashed. “Do not do whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, launching the sandal at his face. Rhys caught it easily, tossing it to the side as he advanced toward her. Feyre threw her other shoe, which he batted away from his face without blinking. “I’ll always hate you.”

“You will be my wife,” he breathed, reaching for her. Feyre stumbled back, nearly at the flap of the tent. “My queen! I will fill you with my heirs and you will bear warriors for the horde, and you will like it!”

“I agreed to be your whore!” she shot back, screaming her words loud enough that anyone near them could easily hear. “I never agreed to be your wife or your queen! You may have my body, but you can have nothing else!”

“Know this, kasikkari,” he breathed, reaching for his discarded trousers instead of her. “When the Black Moon rises, you will be my wife and I will have you in all ways—your body and your mind.”

He stormed from the tent, unconcerned with his nakedness. Feyre didn’t bother chasing after him to tell him he was wrong. Maybe he would get her body, but he’d never have her mind. Feyre would fight him until she died. 

Rhys didn’t return that evening and Feyre didn’t sleep, waiting for a continuation of their argument. Instead, the piki were back, regarding her with wary eyes as they coaxed her into the bath. Remind her of her promise to the Vorakkar, they brought a massive bowl of broth for her to consume. It was nearly too much and yet a welcome reprieve from nothing at all. 

She barely finished it, protesting when she had a third left. The piki merely regarded her without sympathy, informing her the Vorakkar would be displeased if she didn’t. He’d given her his name—this was the bargain between them. Feyre did, strangely satisfied by the end of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been full. 

“I’m not wearing that,” Feyre informed them when the small skirt was brought out. “I’d rather walk around naked.”

That was a lie, but the piki weren’t Rhys. They weren’t about to call her bluff, either. After they realized she would not put the clothes on, even with cajoling and several threats to get the Vorakkar, the two left, she assumed to bring him back so he and Feyre could have another go at each other. 

Instead, a different woman stepped into the tent. She had similar features to Rhys—and was easily just as beautiful. Feyre had never seen hair so blonde on Drakkari before, but this woman’s cornflower hair fell in glossy waves down her back. Her eyes were closer to the Drakkari gold so many others had, though a shade darker—almost brown. They reminded her of her sister Elain, if she was honest. 

“Hello,” she said in a sunny voice. 

Feyre was immediately suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Morrigan,” she said without an ounce of concern she’d shared her name with Feyre. “Do not tell me yours.”

“Because names have power?” Feyre asked in a huff. Morrigan smiled, a pretty thing even in the gloom of the tent.

“Exactly. You’re learning. I heard you refuse to wear the clothes I provided for you?”

Oh, was that what this was about? She’d offended the seamstress? “You made the clothes?” 

Tail swishing behind her, Morrigan looked around the tent. “And lent you some, yes. I saw the rags you came in with—I burned them, by the way.”

“Of course you did,” Feyre replied through gritted teeth. “And my dagger?”

“Some of the young are playing with it,” she said dismissively, eyes flicking toward the flap of the tent. “It’s not dangerous.”

“It was all I had.”

“That’s sad,” Morrigan replied, back to examining Feyre. “I would be surprised if the blade could slice through butter.”

“Did you come to insult me?”

“Why not?” Morrigan replied with a shrug, her gaze flicking toward the golden chests before turning back to look at Feyre fully. “You insult the horde so well. My cousin is unwilling to give you any back, but I am not so kind.”

“How have I insulted the horde?” Feyre demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Morrigan’s clawed, six-fingered hand unfurled so she could tick off the insults. “I hear you will not eat. You do not wear our clothing, you shout at our Vorakkar, you hide in this tent all day and night making your demands, you have—”

“He kidnapped me!” Feyre nearly exploded.

Morrigan wasn’t impressed. “You disrespect our goddess Kakkari, burn the land and then lie when our warrior come to repay the goddess. Lie, even. And then, I hear, you swear to serve only to turn around and act ungrateful for the mercy of my horde. Or do I misunderstand? I speak the universal tongue best of us all…but sometimes I do not get it right.”

“I agreed to be his whore—”

“Ah, yes, we all heard that,” Morrigan replied, tail swishing angrily behind her. “You are content to be a whore but not a queen. Humans are so curious—I should think being a respected member of our horde would be better than…that. But enlighten me, kallas. What is so offensive about becoming Morakkari?”

“I don’t want to be his wife,” Feyre retorted stubbornly, feeling a little shamed by Rhys’s apparent cousin. She saw it, then—the similar features, the near-otherworldly beauty. Even the way she conducted herself screamed royalty. Though if she was or not, Feyre wasn’t sure. She didn’t understand how someone became a horde king to begin with.

“Have a lot of suitors back in your human village?” Morrigan asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “Perhaps someone who puts our Vorakkar to shame? I would be careful if I were you—he’s likely to end them if he learns your feelings lay elsewhere.”

Feyre wanted to sink into the ground. “There’s no one else.”

“Then explain it all to me,” Morrigan replied, plopping down on one of the large cushions beside the table. “Perhaps I can ease some of your worries.”

Feyre stayed standing just long enough for Morrigan to huff out an impatient sigh. “Sit,” she ordered, and something in her voice compelled Feyre to comply. She left space between them, just in case Morrigan decided to attack her. Those claws, painted gold, seemed deadly enough. 

“I came to save my sisters. I thought…” Eyes cast downward, Feyre didn’t dare admit what the female beside her was piecing together.

“You thought you’d let him bed you a few times, he’d grow tired, and let you go?” she guessed. 

“Yes,” Feyre whispered, embarrassed by the whole thing. “Men have never been interested in me. I thought he simply wanted to punish me.”

“Males have never liked you?” Morrigan asked with slight disbelief. “Human males are blind, I suppose? You have been all the horde warriors have spoken of since we arrived—the human kalles and her great beauty. Well…and how you looked the Vorakkar in the eyes.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Feyre demanded.

“It isn’t done,” Morrigan replied casually, reaching across her chest into the satchel she’d brought. She pulled out a long strip of folded leather and laid it out in front of her. “I suppose the Morakkari is allowed. But the rest of us would be showing great disrespect to look him in the eyes.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” she said with a playful smile. “Though, he tolerates it on occasion. When we were children, I used to do it simply to remind him he wasn’t that special.” Feyre tried—and failed—to hide her smile. She didn’t want to like Morrigan.

“Is that why no one will look at me?”

“It is,” Morrigan agreed. “It would be disrespectful to you and our Vorakkar. I hope you don’t mind—”

“Please,” Feyre said, a little embarrassed by how badly she wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t so deferential. “At least…in private, it would be nice. Humans look each other in the eye to convey respect.”

“Interesting,” Morrigan replied, eyes shining. “And they take whores before they take wives?”

“Noooo…” Feyre dragged out the syllables, because she didn’t know how to explain that marriages as they’d once been simply didn’t exist here. “It’s complicated.”

“So you say,” Morrigan replied, sliding a razor between her teeth as she drew across the leather with a piece of white chalk. “Most things aren’t that complicated.”

“Oh yeah? Like the Vorakkar taking a human for a wife?”

“Exactly,” Morrigan said, words muffled. She pulled it out, urging Feyre to stand so she could measure her hips, waist, and legs. “He decided he would take a wife and that wife is you. Simple.”

“And everyone agrees with his decision?”

Morrigan grimaced. “Nik, they do not. But he is the Vorakkar, so he will do as he wishes.”

“And if people decide to leave?”

“They’re free to return to Dothik if they wish. No one here is a hostage…except, perhaps, you in your mind. They won’t, though. Everyone here would gladly follow the Vorakkar anywhere, even if he has a human Morakkari. They might even like you if you stopped screaming at him and left the tent.”

“Or they’d hate me more,” Feyre said glumly, not bothering to add that nearly everyone else in her life did. Even her sisters didn’t truly like her—seeing Nesta speak out in her defense had been shocking and unexpected. If she’d been Elain, perhaps it would have been different, but Feyre and Nesta had always been at odds.

“I like you,” Morrigan informed her cheerfully, jotting some things down on the leather with the white chalk. “And I came prepared to hate you.”

Feyre sat back down gingerly, her body measured for whatever Morrigan was putting together for her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you know of our goddess? Kakkari?”

“Very little,” Feyre admitted, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Morrigan pulled out heavy thread from her bag and a curved needle, threading it with deft fingers.

“Kakkari is all life,” she began in that soft, lilting voice of hers. “Think of her as the earth—all life comes from her. She is steady and solid. Her counterpart is Drukkar, who is her foundation. If she is steady and forgiving, he is the opposite. Violent storms, punishing droughts, unrelenting heat—all is Drukkars wrath. And still, Kakkari always opens for him and accepts him, and in return he loves her, protects her, and punishes all that would harm her.”

Feyre only blinked. Humans had once had gods, too, though she figured they’d been destroyed along with her planet. She didn’t know the stories anymore. Nesta did, and sometimes clung to them when they were younger, praying to this god or that, for all the good it did any of them. It all felt like stories meant to explain a confusing and harsh world.” It was clear that the Drakkari believed in their gods, though. Feyre kept her mouth shut.

“The Vorakkar is much like Drukkar,” Morrigan said when it was clearly Feyre had missed the subtleties. “He is still a male.”

Again, the whole conversation was lost on Feyre. “Oh. Okay.”

“If you want things from him, open up for him,” Morrigan explained, all but spelling it out for Feyre. She laughed to herself, shaking that head of golden hair “Drakkari males worship their females.”

“Rh—the, uh, Vorakkar doesn’t…”

Morrigan glanced over, pressing her lips into a line as Feyre’s mind betrayed her. She’d held a knife to his throat and he’d simply tossed it to the side. He’d threatened to have his way with her twice and stopped, both times because she was hurt and frightened. Even last night after their fight, he’d left rather than push her further.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Morrigan replied with a shrug of delicate shoulders. 

“Gone?” Feyre demanded. 

“Yes, gone. Out with some warriors. And do not ask me when he will return because that is something you should know. I am certain he will return—the Black Moon is nearly upon us. He won’t want to miss it.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” she said glumly.

“He’s ordered a tassimara,” Morrigan said, before quickly explaining it was something equivalent to a marriage. It seemed to be more of a festival than anything, but he’d make his intentions known then and there would be no argument or debate from anyone. The emphasis Morrigan put on that word implied that Feyre, too, would keep her mouth shut as well. 

Morrigan left not too long after that, promising to have a decent compromise for Feyre in the form of a pair of pants. Maybe she’d feel better if it was only her breasts that were exposed rather than all of her. Feyre turned over Morrigan's words—who later insisted she call her Mor—for the two nights Rhys wasn’t home. Heart pounding, she’d begun to think he wasn’t coming at all.

That something might have happened to him and she’d be trapped here in a hostile place, with no friends or allies save for his cousin.

But the night before the infamous Black Moon, she heard the ground thunder beneath the feet of the pyroki. Feyre stepped into the cold evening air, ignoring the chill to watch the eight of them ride in.

There he was.

The man who would be her husband. Their eyes locked for only a moment before he trotted on. He’d be in to see her soon.

And she’d be ready.