Aeyre

Feyre POV part I

Feyre wondered if she'd ever get used to the Night Court. Since becoming one of the them, she supposed, many of the Faerie Realms' enchantments had become commonplace to her. Or at least, this was the case in the Spring Court. Feyre never quite felt like she could let her guard down in the Night Court; she never knew what was hiding in the shadows.

Or perhaps, if Feyre was truly being honest, the reason she was always on her toes was not so much a what as a who.

The who, of course, was nonetheless than the High Lord Rhysand, whose piercing blue eyes always seemed to see a part of Feyre she couldn't see herself.

Rhysand, whose piercing blue eyes were currently fixed on Feyre from across the table.

Feyre found her dinner very interesting, even though she couldn't eat very much of it by the third course. Rhys had established a tradition months before that they eat every dinner together. Most were surprisingly simple meals, but the first dinner of the week was always several courses long. By the time they reached the end of the meal, Feyre had usually eaten more than she had in a month of her... old life. Then again, High Fae needed to eat more than humans.

Despite the elaborate meal, however, as usual it was just the two of them.

"So," Rhys purred, "did you enjoy the book I sent you?"

Feyre narrowed her eyes at the High Lord. At the end of each visit, Rhys sent her home with a book from his library. Gradually, as her reading improved, he gave her more and more complex ones. The latest, however...

"No."

"Really?" He had the nerve to smirk. "The plot went over your head?"

Hardly. "No, the plot was about as complicated as porridge. As you know. I can't believe you gave me that book," Feyre growled with a shake of her head.

Rhys's smirk widened.

"Do you know," she barked, "how horrifying it was to explain to Lucian what I was trying to pronounce? I told him I was trying to pronounce clay tournament!"

"Clay tournament!" Rhys laughed. "That's one butchering of such a lovely word."

When he laughed like that, his blue eyes crinkled as he threw his head back, looking her age instead of like the centuries old manipulating High Lord he was. It was almost enough to soften Feyre's ire. But really, no. It had been horrifying when Feyre realized what she was reading.

"Still, you must've been enjoying what you read because the the clay tournament doesn't come about until the sculptor doesn't enter the clay tournament until he finishes--"

Feyre shoved a palm on Rhys's mouth, hoping to stop him from finishing his sentence before Feyre's face could turn any redder.

After a few moments, their antics ceased, and Rhys was mostly forgiven. The teasing took the edge off the atmosphere. It made Feyre feel at home. Conversation went on for a bit until Rhys suddenly stood after the fifth course. Feyre eyed him, confused.

"Someone's in my private library."

Feyre's eyes widened. No one ever came into Rhys's home without permission, let alone his private rooms. This was out of respect and fear, she figured, but Feyre wasn't sure anyone could enter if they tried.

And yet, someone had. Someone very foolish.

Rhys's icy eyes narrowed as he looked to the side. "They are not of my court. Nor any court, as far as I can tell."

With that, Rhys stood and walked. He didn't both using the door; he just walked through the wall knowing exactly how to get where he pleased. Feyre followed him, grabbing his hand so she, too, would go through the walls. After a few twists and turns, they entered the library. They wound up behind the apparent intruder, who had a single sword attached at her side and held a book Feyre had read last month in her hand.

"And who exactly," Rhys drawled, "might you be?"