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starfall-spirit · 2 years ago

Text

Okay, I'm home with my laptop now.

This chapter was all over the place in the best way.

Just starting right of in the dreamscape like this:

“You’re sorry?” Feyre echoed.

“Unspeakably.”

Poor Rhys. He knows this scenario is the last thing she wants because he hasn't confessed his identity.

Then finally getting to touch her and she's so confident he's a whole different person. the whole conversation about her bargain and freedom from him. 😭😭😭 LB, I'm holding you to the promise of him having a better time in the next chapters. I'm deciding to trust you because of everything that happened at the market.

Feyre, asking if everything is magic was so cute. All she's known is this little bubble of spring and Rhys gets to be the one to show her the world.

And then this little section comes along:

“That’s my new favorite sound.” He leaned closer, until the clouds of their breath mingled. “I want to hear it again.”

Her laughter? It wasn’t the sort of thing someone could do on command—

Feyre shrieked as he lifted her by the hips, spinning them around. “Brute!”

His new favorite sound. OMG

GIF by matcha-kitt3n

LB I await Rhys' confession.

As the River Flows - (6/8)

Summary: As Feyre lamented quietly over the misfortune of her life, there, in the marketplace, she heard a merchant instruct to its patron: Place a butterfly wing under your tongue before you sleep, and you will dream of your true love

A gift for @sideralwriting 💕

Read on AO3・Series Masterlist

When Feyre peeled her eyes open to darkness, she knew she was still sleeping.

Even though she could not see the bedroom, it was clear it was not the one she had fallen asleep in. The biggest tell was the drift of a warm breeze, delivering the fragrant salutations of spring when it had been an alpine winter that kissed her goodnight. If she held her breath and listened, there was no sign of the crackling hearth that had lulled her to sleep. But she could hear crickets just outside her window. Swaying wisteria. The heralding creak of floorboards beneath familiar feet.

Her hands tightened on the blanket that pooled over her lap. She didn’t know whether to be distraught or overjoyed. Feyre had told him her last letter was a permanent goodbye, that continuing to meet in these dreams would be too painful.

Already, she could feel her eyes welling up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice sounded different, she noticed. Disguised, like something in the dream was distorting it. The wood shifted again as he took another step toward her. Then there was a subdued thud just before the edge of the bed, like he’d dropped to his knees. If she reached out, she was certain she would find his silken hair beneath her fingers. “I’m a selfish man, and I couldn’t resist visiting you like this.”

“You’re sorry?” Feyre echoed.

“Unspeakably.”

Did that mean… he hadn’t been waiting for her at the Archeron gates?

“You are my true love.”

For such a beautiful statement, it sounded so ugly with the way Feyre had to pry the words past her constricting throat. She blinked rapidly, trying to stave off the tears because once they started falling, she knew they would not stop.

“You are my true love, and I married another man, and you are apologizing to me?”

“I would have done everything differently, Feyre.” His voice sounded so small. “If I had known—I was overly confident. I messed this up and I wish so desperately to fix it, but I don’t know how.”

Feyre crawled towards the edge of the bed, letting her legs hang over the side as she tentatively reached into the dark. Her fingers pressed into soft skin, a gentle scrape of stubble. She heard him exhale.

“It is already done,” she whispered. “I am already married, and bound to him through magic. There is nothing that can be done, my love.”

Strong fingers closed around one of her wrists, drawing it towards his lips. His kiss was fleeting, quick as her fluttering pulse. Then he bowed his head forward, resting his forehead where his lips had just touched. His eyelashes brushed the back of her hand as he screwed his eyes shut, and she was relieved that they felt damp as well.

“Do you think you could ever be happy with your husband?” he asked. Excruciatingly quiet. Like he feared the answer.

No, Feyre wanted to say. To comfort him, to protect her own pride. But she hesitated on that answer, which felt so cruel that she settled on confessing, “I don’t know.” Then, when that felt insufficient, she added, “They say that he is cruel.”

“Has he been cruel to you?”

“Not yet.”

She could hear him swallow. There was a grit to his words as he choked, “But you expect he might be. That it is only a matter of time.”

“I…” Feyre started to speak, then bit her lip, thinking better. How much longer could she speak to her true love of her husband, before she became the one who was cruel?

“Do not hide from me, Feyre. Not here.” His fingers tightened, gripping her the same way she remembered gripping onto Nesta and Elain at their mother’s funeral. Like it was all too much. Like it was all he could do to hold on.

“We have not laid together,” she said. “As husband and wife. I expect he is not being cruel to me for that reason. So that I might be easier to… coax.”

Her true love gave some strangled rendition of a laugh. A sound that a wingless butterfly might make, weakened and crumpled and still trying to pretend it was whole. Or at least, that is how she felt sitting before him, knowing that he was hers but she could never be his.

“I see,” he said hoarsely. “You deserve better than a wicked man like him, Feyre.”

“I deserved you,” she cried.

He raised his head, her wrist still encircled in his large hand. “No.”

She started to stand and he tugged her arm as a means of discouraging her, but she pushed forward anyway, fell to her knees on the floor in front of him.

“No,” he was saying. “No, Feyre, you deserve bet—”

It was effortless, the way her body slid against his, how her arm hooked so cleanly around his neck, as though that had always been its intended resting place. When her mouth slotted against his, she knew that its shape had been molded to fit his. And when his grip on her wrist surrendered, sliding up to thread his fingers through her own, she knew they were made to lock in place.

“Feyre,” he moaned, his voice expressing the discouragement his body did not have the strength to. Even as he said it, that small two syllable protest, his palm roved over her lower back, pulling her closer. And it was not her tongue gliding against the seam of their lips, though it was her mouth that opened.

When his tongue stroked over hers, Feyre felt his entire body shudder. She could feel him pulling away, and Feyre thought if this was the small fraction of eternity that she would be granted with her true love, then she would not let him slip between her fingers. So she wound them through his hair, instead, holding him with that same vigor he had held her wrist. Like it was all she had, her lone possession in this world.

“Please,” she whispered against his mouth. “Don’t let go of me until the sun rises.”

Who had the power to decide what was a dream and what was reality? Maybe this could be her life, and the daylight beside her husband just a nightmare. A thing that faded away when the dark set in, warm and rich and lovely. It was the night that had always known her. The stars that had never judged her.

“I can’t,” he said, tearing his mouth away. It was how the butterflies must have felt to have their wings stripped. Feyre knew it because she felt like dying for every second she could feel his ragged breath caress her face and his lips did not follow.

Maybe that was the true cost of the magic. To feel whole just long enough to have it ripped away.

“Because I’m married.”

“Because I have ruined everything and I cannot—” Reprieve came to her in the shape of his hands, fingers curving behind her neck, thumbs sweeping the shape of her cheekbone. He whispered, “I cannot ruin this, too.”

“I want you to ruin it. Ruin me.”

The fingers stilled. “Feyre.”

It was a groan more than anything else.

She raised up on her knees, pushing against his hold to seek his lips again. He did not stop her, but kept himself utterly still.

In an effort to persuade him, she confessed, “I want the first time I’m touched to be from you.”

Like a letter thrown into the flames, he crumpled, body curling forward until his forehead slumped against hers. He was gasping.

“I can’t let myself take that from you—“

“It is not my husband’s to take,” Feyre said, pulling at the hem of her nightgown. If he was too much of a gentleman, then she would do it. “I should get to decide, and I choose—“

“Feyre,” he begged, reaching out to still her hands. “Feyre, please. I know you will only regret it.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped. Her frustration made her impatient. In a different world, she might have allowed this dance of propriety and doing what was right. But the sun—the one who hid so much from her, who never let her look too closely even as it scrutinized her in turn—it would be up too soon. Feyre took his hand and guided it between her thighs, letting him feel the evidence of her wanting. He sucked in a breath as his touch feathered over the slick seeping through her underwear.

“I’ve thought about you touching me like this before,” she whispered, thankful that the darkness wouldn’t betray the flush spreading over her chest.

Slowly, Feyre guided his hand upwards, until the tip of his index finger nudged against a small bud that made her gasp.

“Like this?”

His voice was so guttural. A man condemned, surrendering to her whim as he swept his fingers likely over that sensitive spot. Feyre’s breath sped up. The sensation rushed to her head, making her feel light, airy—powerful, to be taking this right from her husband. From a Prince.

“Yes,” she lauded, tipping her head back. “Just like that—please.”

He brushed the silken fabric aside to touch her with his bare skin, and immediately she felt like she was on fire. It was clear he knew what he was doing, even in the dark—she tried not to think too carefully about that as she focused on the way he drew tight, small circles with his fingers. Over and over.

“Feyre,” he breathed. An absolution. She was surprised to hear him so close until his lips found her neck, laying a trail of devoted kisses from her shoulder to her collarbone.

A glowing chord inside her twisted tighter and tighter, fracturing every breath so they splintered at her lips. She could hardly speak, but in that surging euphoria she needed to return that feeling of devotion, of desperation and unbecoming and utter ruination.

As her pleasure crested, her fingers flew to his hair, burying her nails into his scalp as she gasped out, “Tamlin!”

The dream shattered.

Like a lashing whip, her body was ripped into the physical world, leaving her skin stinging against the winter chill, her chest rising and falling. Residual pleasure tremored down her spine, feeling so wrong in the absence of his warmth.

What had happened?

It was not yet day—though she could catch its embers on the horizon, warming the twilight sky.

The hearth was still on, chasing away the winter chill, which she supposed would have felt less invasive if she hadn’t kicked the blankets off the bed. The armchair, she noted, was empty. It’s occupant was nowhere to be seen—though by the sounds of retching from the bathing room, she had a decent guess as to where he’d gone.

Feyre tried to smother her resentment as she realized that her husband’s movements had likely woken her up, dragging her forcefully from sleep. Or maybe when her true love had warned her that his name couldn’t be spoken, he wasn’t being mysterious for the sake of it.

Either way, Feyre summoned enough pity to pad across the bedroom. She rapped her knuckles softly against the doorway, a small warning before she pushed the door open.

The only light came from the frosted window across the room and the hearth crackling at her back. It was enough to make out Rhysand, hunched over the sink. The porcelain caught in the moonlight, glowing a lovely ivory that stood in sharp contrast to the dark figure draped against it. His arms shook where they braced either side of the bowl and his knuckles, normally a tawny brown, sported four pale circles where they protruded against the skin.

He was gasping, black hair flopping across his forehead, stray pieces clinging to the damp collecting on his skin. It was hard to tell if he had been sweating or if he’d splashed water in his face, but either way he painted a portrait of a man so unkempt Feyre wouldn’t have recognised him from the Prince that had strode into her family’s manor days ago.

“I’m fine,” he said, before Feyre could ask.

He didn’t sound like it.

“You should go back to bed.”

She might have, if only because staying risked her husband believing that she cared. But the command, its abruptness, drove Feyre forward.

Rhysand laughed, soft and breathless. Resigned. “I suppose your father warned me you would never do as you’re told.”

Her father had likely said many things to try and dissuade the Prince from calling in the bargain. Feyre tried not to let that sting, but already she was a child picking at the scab, wondering at all the reasons her father might have painted Feyre as an unfavorable match. Until the wound was fresh again.

“You’re the one who wanted a bride, knowing nothing about her,” Feyre accused.

Rhysand shook his head. “Go to bed, Feyre.”

Suddenly Feyre’s spine forced her upright, not of her own will. She could feel the black ink coiling around her arm like a sentient creature, hissing its silent laughter as she was forced to turn, to walk back to the bedroom.

“Wait.”

She stopped. Then turned, finding her husband in the doorway. He clutched the frame, silver light pouring over his curved shoulders, clashing with the warmth of the fire that lit his face. Feyre could see, now, the red splotches sitting high on his cheekbones. Almost like he’d been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tickling something in the back of her mind. “I didn’t mean to—that wasn’t a command.”

Feyre shifted on her feet, painfully aware of the night gown she wore. It felt too intimate to be dressed like this for his perusal, so soon after being held by her true love.

She crossed her arms. “It sounded like one.”

“I know,” Rhysand said ruefully. “And I will be more mindful of my wording.”

“Or you could release me from this bargain—from both of them.”

“And if I did,” he murmured, stepping into the bedroom. Feyre retreated a step, an unconscious reaction that the Prince certainly noticed. He was frowning as he stared at her feet, the way she yielded every stride. Feyre thought he might have cornered her all the way to the bed, but he stopped again at the armchair, tilting his head as he studied her. “Where would you go, princess?”

Feyre wondered that, too. She placed herself tentatively on the edge of the bed, watching him. “I suppose that depends. Would you let me go freely, or would I be on the run?”

She already knew the answer. He had said as much in the carriage. I would have searched as long as it would take to find you again. Because you are mine.

Mine.

Pinned beneath his gaze, that memory turned over and over. A spit in her mind, burning the longer he stared.

“Suppose, for the sake of the question, that you went freely.”

A careful way to answer.

She leaned forward to curve her arm around the bedpost, so sturdy she thought she might draw strength from it. Let the solid wood keep her upright as she steeled her nerves to ask, “Do you believe in true love?”

A piece of wood popped in the fireplace, erupting in a swarm of sparks. It was so loud in the smothering quiet. She could hear the wind whipping against the glass outside, cold and stolid as the man before her. He’d turned his head away, staring toward the fire like the noise had distracted him from answering.

“As one of my five questions,” Feyre pressed, heart thundering. “I want you to answer, do you believe in true love?”

It was a fool’s gamble, to waste one of her questions in the hope she could appeal to his empathy. But she’d seen him genuinely laugh, and just a moment ago he had seemed truly vulnerable. And perhaps he wasn’t so hardened by the North as the rumors would have her believe.

“Yes,” he said finally. To the fire. A secret he shared with the flame.

“If you freed me,” Feyre whispered, “I would find him. My true love.”

Rhysand turned to glance at her over his shoulder, a dark brow raised. “And you presume I’m not your true love?”

“I know that you aren’t.” Feyre had to grind her teeth through every syllable to keep her temper at bay. “I know that he is a kind man. He wouldn’t have held me to a bargain that was made by my father—”

“He wouldn’t have needed to,” Rhysand said. He grabbed a poker, thrusting it into the fire with more force than was necessary. Sparks burst beneath the iron prod, hot as the words that flew from his mouth. “You would have married him by convention. You would have praised him for using the bargain to take you away from that place. Tell me, Feyre, would you have viewed my actions so deplorable, if you perceived me as your true love?”

Feyre stared, watching him work the fire with a set jaw. She imagined he was angry that she would always belong to another man, connected to him in a way the ink on her arm could never erase.

“It does not matter,” Feyre insisted. “I find you deplorable because you are not him—because you took him from me and ruined my chances of marrying for love.”

The Prince seemed to contemplate that answer. “Sounds like a nice idea,” he said. “A pity for your true love that you are my wife now.”

My wife.

“A pity for me.” Feyre flopped backwards, glaring at the velvet drapes overhead. “I will be the one caged.”

Rhysand likely thought she didn’t notice the way his eyes drifted back towards the bed. “From the way I see things, you have been freed, Feyre. No more walls surround you.”

“A wall of stone or a ring of gold.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I see no difference between them.”

“Then you mistake the ring’s purpose.”

“It’s a claiming—“

“It’s a promise.”

Don’t look, she whispered to herself. But she was a traitor, turning her head to glimpse her husband standing before the dancing embers. The light caressed him, soft and warm, a match to the expression that swept his face. What’s the promise? She wanted to ask. But she could tell, by the look on his face, that the man who would answer was the same one who had bowed before her in the snow.

An answer from him was dangerous.

She wanted the man who had purposely intimidated an entire ballroom. The one who had tricked her into a second bargain. He was sharper with his words, easier to hate.

“When do we leave?” She asked instead, turning her head towards the window to see the purpling sky, already tangled with vines of orange and gold.

“You can take another hour or two of rest,” Rhysand answered. He straightened his sleeves, glancing at her one last time before he covered the distance to the door. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

The door shut before she could form a response. Feyre sighed, left marveling in the wake of their anger. She knew she should rest, but whenever she shut her eyes, burning violet stared back at her. Who had started the fight, again? He had looked… upset. But she had been so irritated that her dream was interrupted that she hadn’t stopped to care. But oddly enough, she cared now, enough to be curious. Enough to keep her from sleep, wondering what had bothered him while she absently watched the sun’s slow conquest across the sky.

Rhysand returned hours later, wearing what Feyre was certain was a new set of clothes. The cape slung over his shoulders he had certainly not left with. And Feyre remembered a flash of collarbone beneath his loosened collar, which was now freshly pressed, a fine black waistcoat buttoned over it.

His hair, at least, was still rumpled. Like he’d been threading his fingers through it.

“Good morning.”

He strode past the bed, hardly glancing towards her as he threw open the curtains to let in more of that oppressive light. Feyre groaned, burying her face into a pillow to mutter a string of complaints that would have sent her governess on a rampage.

Rhysand only laughed. “Would you like to have a bath before we leave?

Even beneath the warming sun, frost still curled against the glass at Rhysand’s back, and frozen hair would only make a miserable carriage ride all the more miserable. When she said as much, Rhysand went immediately to their trunks, withdrawing a dress she had never seen before.

“Did you bring that from the North?” she blurted.

He offered her a faint smile. “I assumed that my spring-bound bride wouldn’t have much in the way of winter dresses. Couldn’t have you freezing before we made it to my kingdom.”

Feyre took a moment to process that. The preparation that had been involved to have dresses made for her in advance. How many months ago had he decided he was ready to claim the youngest Archeron as his bride?

At least he’d done it with forethought. The woolen petticoat he’d brought was warm, though heavier than she was used to. The navy overdress was fur-lined, with silver eyelets at the back that she was certain Rhysand had chosen deliberately, so she would need to call him into the bathing room to clasp the bodice shut.

“Our clothing suits you,” he murmured, sweeping his eyes over the full length of the mirror. Feyre was staring, too, particularly at the decorative buttons sewn at the front, each stamped with the crest Rhysand had shown her yesterday. The skirts were ornamented around the bottom with an intricate golden border and above it the fabric had been pressed with flowers of the same rich color, stopping just below her knees.

She thought she truly looked like a princess of the North.

“You look beautiful,” Rhysand added, meeting her eyes in the glass.

Feyre pressed her lips together, saying nothing.

He raised his brows. “Another day of silent treatment?”

How the mirror did not splinter beneath those piercing eyes was a mystery. Feyre had to look away, certain she would be the thing cracking if she endured his assessment any longer.

Rhysand sighed. “Very well, then,” he said, before escorting her out of the inn.

She had only a moment to savor the glimpse of freshly laid snow before she was urged back into the wretched carriage. Like the day prior, she kept her gaze fixed towards the window. The alternative was facing her husband, who would either be amused or disappointed that they’d regressed back to silence.

Feyre wasn’t prepared to confront either, though she imagined his expression in his head all the same. She could feel him watching her, swore her skin warmed beneath his stare, like she was sitting beneath a shaft of sunlight. Fortunately, she didn’t need to weather the unrequited glances very long.

Hardly an hour into their journey, the gilded carriage bumped to a stop. Peering out the window, Feyre could make out the tips of colorful tents, pitched row after row. Smoke stacks rose among them, heat rising to defy the ceaseless cold, twining like lovers with the drifting snow crystals.

Rhysand opened the door to a blast of frosted air and Feyre leaned into it, her curiosity outweighing the sting on her cheeks.

“Where are we?”

“A market,” he answered, sliding gracefully out of the carriage. He extended his arm to help her out and when she resisted, he grabbed her by the elbow anyway, murmuring, “Careful—it’s slippery.”

Feyre didn’t believe him until she touched the ground and found her foot sliding, unable to find traction against the slick surface. She yelped, falling forward, and the Prince immediately slid an arm around her waist to steady her.

“What is this?”

“Ice,” he said, and she could tell he was holding in a laugh. “We’re standing on a river.”

That was such a fascinating answer that Feyre could embrace their proximity. She continued clutching onto him for balance so she could use her foot to brush the powdery snow aside, revealing the solid ice beneath them, swirling like clouds over the dark blue water.

“A river,” she repeated, her breath condensing in the cold as it fled her lips. Her eyes roved back to the rows of tents, the sheer number of people walking around them, gathered around great fires that suddenly seemed impossible. “They’re holding a market over a river? It won’t… it won’t break? Or—melt?”

“Neither,” he said with a sideways smile.

“Is it magic?”

“No.” He tugged gently at her waist, taking a confident step backwards on the ice in an effort to move her closer to the tents. “Come, see for yourself.”

Feyre stared for a long moment at their feet, trying to process how to move without falling.

“It’s okay to hold on to me,” he added. “I assure you, the only type of falling I’ll allow my wife to be doing is—”

“Don’t start,” she snapped, venturing a step forward so she could slap his arm.

He was grinning, unbothered by the slap and, if anything, pleased to have Feyre so close. The thumb at her hip began drawing a small circle as he purred, “It’s like you’ve been walking on ice your whole life.”

A blatant lie, given how effortlessly the patrons around them seemed to be moving. No other women looked to be hanging on to their husband’s for support, but Feyre didn’t feel confident enough to let go. Even as she loathed the way Rhysand’s lips tilted into a smirk, far too satisfied with the excuse to be touching.

They slowly made their way into the market, soon enveloped by the hollars of peddlers and tradesmen trying to sell their wares. It was much like the marketplace she and her sisters used to attend on the rare occasion they needed a dress fitted, though there was a crackling energy to this market that was incomparable.

And more importantly, she was permitted to look anywhere she wanted. None of the passersby spared many glances on Feyre, despite her fine clothes and despite the Prince at her side. There were more intriguing things to focus on, like the roasting of an entire ox and the tents selling warmed alcohol.

A crowd was gathered around a man contorting his body into unnatural positions and Feyre stopped to stare with them, mouth agape.

“Magic?” She asked quietly.

“Could be,” Rhysand murmured, unexpectedly close to her ear. “Or perhaps the fellow is just extraordinarily flexible.”

They carried on, passing more performers. A man swallowing swords, another breathing fire.

“Magic?”

“Hard to say.”

There was a group of musicians playing beside a large wooden platform, where couples gathered to swing each other about. Not the same ballroom dancing she was accustomed to. Something looser, more carefree. Feyre watched a woman with unbound hair twirl and twirl and twirl, her laughter puffing into the air around her, visible proof of her joy as the music twisted in time with her skirts.

“Care to dance?” Rhysand asked, smile nothing short of devilish.

“Can we dance like that?”

As royalty, perhaps they weren’t allowed. Held to a different standard—

“We can dance however you’d like,” he said, already guiding her towards the platform.

Higher up, she had a better view of the market. She could see children playing games, tossing balls at stacked bottles. There was a man standing beside a large, colorful wheel. It was too far away to see what was written on each painted section, but she watched them blur together as the man gave it a hearty push.

Then Rhysand was turning her, reclaiming her attention with those infuriatingly bright eyes. A snowflake caught on one of his lashes, many more landing on his hair before melting into the inky strands, and she hated how badly she wished she could capture the moment in a painting.

He smiled in response to her staring, a smart comment inevitably on the tip of his tongue, but Feyre didn’t wait for what he had to say. The fiddlers had picked up the pace and she grabbed her husband's hands, surprising even herself. All she knew was that the music burst around them, upbeat and lively, and that her body simply moved, pulling Rhysand with her into the thrall of dancing bodies. Clapping and hopping and swinging in time.

There were whoops from the other dancers and the patrons that passed, spurring her onward. Feyre danced until she was gasping for breath, left swallowing the cold winter air with abandon, and the whole time Rhysand was beside her, only letting go to let her spin and spin and spin and—just when she was dizzy from it, he caught her with laughter etched on his face, the sound dispelling into a cloud of frost.

He looked so different from the Prince she had danced with at the ball. He was equally lithe and graceful, but this Rhysand was filled with light and life and joy. It shone in his eyes, so infectious she found herself laughing, too.

And that only made his smile wider. “That’s my new favorite sound.” He leaned closer, until the clouds of their breath mingled. “I want to hear it again.”

Her laughter? It wasn’t the sort of thing someone could do on command—

Feyre shrieked as he lifted her by the hips, spinning them around. “Brute!” she shouted, but she could feel the wind lift her hair and saw the other dancers cheer and the laughter erupted from her anyway. “Put me down!”

Rhysand obeyed, setting her back on her feet with a guilty chuckle. She grasped the lapels of his overcoat, leaning in to be heard over the music.

“You are a fiend!”

“I believe the proper term is Prince,” he crooned. “Though for the lucky few—husband.”

“They all mean the same to me,” she said, breathless.

“Precisely.”

The music lulled and Rhysand helped her off the platform, his breath just as short as her own. One of the musicians grinned at her as she looked over, clapping his hands for the dancers coming off the platform. The fiddle in his lap continued playing, even with his hands removed from the instrument.

She blinked. “Magic?”

“It felt like it,” Rhysand murmured. He still held her hand in his own, which he raised to his mouth to leave a kiss against her gloved knuckles. “Would you like to see more?”

Feyre peered down the rows of tents—so many that they could spend the entire day at the market and still not see everything. Vendors passed by, selling baked gingerbread and skewered meats and one of them, a woman with a crystal ball swearing she could see the future.

“Please,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I want to see it all.”

#reblog #amazing chapter #as the river flows #atrf #lb you're amazing #i can't wait for the next chapter

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