A Court of Mist and Fury (A Court of Thorns and Roses #2) by Sarah J. Maas

“Welcome to the Night Court,” was all Rhys said.



It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

Whatever building we were in had been perched atop one of the gray-stoned mountains. The hall around us was open to the elements, no windows to be found, just towering pillars and gossamer curtains, swaying in that jasmine-scented breeze.

It must be some magic, to keep the air warm in the dead of winter. Not to mention the altitude, or the snow coating the mountains, mighty winds sending veils of it drifting off the peaks like wandering mist.

Little seating, dining, and work areas dotted the hall, sectioned off with those curtains or lush plants or thick rugs scattered over the moonstone floor. A few balls of light bobbed on the breeze, along with colored-glass lanterns dangling from the arches of the ceiling.

Not a scream, not a shout, not a plea to be heard.

Behind me, a wall of white marble arose, broken occasionally by open doorways leading into dim stairwells. The rest of the Night Court had to be through there. No wonder I couldn’t hear anyone screaming, if they were all inside.

“This is my private residence,” Rhys said casually. His skin was darker than I’d remembered—golden now, rather than pale.

Pale, from being locked Under the Mountain for fifty years. I scanned him, searching for any sign of the massive, membranous wings—the ones he’d admitted he loved flying with. But there was none. Just the male, smirking at me.

And that too-familiar expression— “How dare you—”

Rhys snorted. “I certainly missed that look on your face.” He stalked closer, his movements feline, those violet eyes turning subdued—lethal. “You’re welcome, you know.”

“For what?”

Rhys paused less than a foot away, sliding his hands into his pockets. The night didn’t seem to ripple from him here—and he appeared, despite his perfection, almost normal. “For saving you when asked.”

I stiffened. “I didn’t ask for anything.”

His stare dipped to my left hand.

Rhys gave no warning as he gripped my arm, snarling softly, and tore off the glove. His touch was like a brand, and I flinched, yielding a step, but he held firm until he’d gotten both gloves off. “I heard you begging someone, anyone, to rescue you, to get you out. I heard you say no.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

He turned my bare hand over, his hold tightening as he examined the eye he’d tattooed. He tapped the pupil. Once. Twice. “I heard it loud and clear.”

I wrenched my hand away. “Take me back. Now. I didn’t want to be stolen away.”

He shrugged. “What better time to take you here? Maybe Tamlin didn’t notice you were about to reject him in front of his entire court—maybe you can now simply blame it on me.”

“You’re a bastard. You made it clear enough that I had … reservations.”

“Such gratitude, as always.”

I struggled to get down a single, deep breath. “What do you want from me?”

“Want? I want you to say thank you, first of all. Then I want you to take off that hideous dress. You look … ” His mouth cut a cruel line. “You look exactly like the doe-eyed damsel he and that simpering priestess want you to be.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Or us.”

Rhys gave me a knowing smile. “Does Tamlin? Does he ever ask you why you hurl your guts up every night, or why you can’t go into certain rooms or see certain colors?”

I froze. He might as well have stripped me naked. “Get the hell out of my head.”

Tamlin had horrors of his own to endure, to face down.

“Likewise.” He stalked a few steps away. “You think I enjoy being awoken every night by visions of you puking? You send everything right down that bond, and I don’t appreciate having a front-row seat when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Prick.”

Another chuckle. But I wouldn’t ask about what he meant—about the bond between us. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking curious. “As for what else I want from you … ” He gestured to the house behind us. “I’ll tell you tomorrow at breakfast. For now, clean yourself up. Rest.” That rage flickered in his eyes again at the dress, the hair. “Take the stairs on the right, one level down. Your room is the first door.”

“Not a dungeon cell?” Perhaps it was foolish to reveal that fear, to suggest it to him.

But Rhys half turned, brows lifting. “You are not a prisoner, Feyre. You made a bargain, and I am calling it in. You will be my guest here, with the privileges of a member of my household. None of my subjects are going to touch you, hurt you, or so much as think ill of you here.”

My tongue was dry and heavy as I said, “And where might those subjects be?”

“Some dwell here—in the mountain beneath us.” He angled his head. “They’re forbidden to set foot in this residence. They know they’d be signing their death warrant.” His eyes met mine, stark and clear, as if he could sense the panic, the shadows creeping in. “Amarantha wasn’t very creative,” he said with quiet wrath. “My court beneath this mountain has long been feared, and she chose to replicate it by violating the space of Prythian’s sacred mountain. So, yes: there’s a court beneath this mountain—the court your Tamlin now expects me to be subjecting you to. I preside over it every now and then, but it mostly rules itself.”