Chapter 6: The Hidden Reclamation
The plan for the Day Court was a live wire between them in the days that followed, buzzing with unspoken risks and the ghost of a spring-thawed temper. Feyre found herself staring at maps in the war room, tracing the border between Spring and Day with a fingertip, feeling the phantom ache of old boundaries. Rhys was often beside her, a silent, potent presence, but his mind was a whirlwind of strategies and contingencies.
The tension wasn’t unpleasant—it was the charged quiet before a storm. It hummed in their glances, in the way his hand would linger at the small of her back a second too long. It was a need for reassurance written in a language more primal than politics.
It found its outlet in a forgotten corridor on the third afternoon.
They were returning from the library, a stack of tedious trade ledgers hovering in Rhys’s magic behind them. The hallway was quiet, sun streaming through high windows to gild the marble floor. He was explaining something about Helion’s notorious vanity when he suddenly stopped, his head tilting as if listening to a sound only he could hear.
“What is it?” Feyre asked.
Instead of answering, he grasped her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but brooking no argument. He pulled her toward a seemingly seamless section of wall paneled in dark wood. With a push of his shoulder against a specific carved rosette, a door clicked open—not to a room, but to a shallow, luxurious closet. Inside, the walls were hung with silks the color of twilight, embroidered with silver thread that caught the faint light like captured starlight. The air was close, sweet with dried jasmine and the dusty scent of old parchment.
“Rhys—”
He pulled her inside and the door sighed shut behind them, plunging them into a dim, textured gloom. The space was narrow, barely wide enough for the two of them to stand facing each other. Her back was against cool, slick silk. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. His violet eyes were nearly black in the shadows.
“I need you,” he said, the words stripped bare of all lordly pretense. It was a raw confession. “Right now. I can’t think about envoys or treaties or his fucking face. I just need to feel you.”
Her own breath hitched in response. The intellectual tension of the day crystallized into a sharp, physical point. “Then feel me.”
A silken whisper filled the air as he reached up and untied the deep violet sash from around his own waist. It was cool, heavy silk. In one fluid motion, he spun her around to face the wall, gathering her wrists behind her back. He looped the sash around them, once, twice, pulling it tight in a complex, secure knot. The restraint was immediate and profound, not just of her limbs, but of something else—a surrender of control that was both terrifying and exhilarating.
Before she could process the binding, his body pressed against her from behind, hard and unyielding. One large hand slid around to cover her mouth, his fingers splayed across her cheek. His other hand went to the skirts of her gown, gathering the layers of fabric with brutal efficiency. The cool air of the closet kissed her bare thighs, her ass.
“Not a sound,” he murmured directly into her ear, his voice a low vibration that went straight to her core. “Unless I tell you to.”
His exploring hand found her without hesitation. She was already wet, her body anticipating his every move. A low, approving groan rumbled in his chest. His fingers slid through her slick folds, a slow, maddening glide.
“Fuck,” he breathed against her neck. “Look at this. Soaked for me already. You’re fucking perfect.”
He circled her clit with the pad of his middle finger, a ruthless, precise pressure. She jerked against him, a muffled whimper escaping against his palm. He held her tighter, his body caging her in. His fingers worked her with intimate knowledge, tracing every fold, dipping lightly into her entrance only to retreat, spreading her own wetness. The sensation was amplified a thousand-fold by the darkness, the restraint, the sheer illicit thrill of their location.
“You want my fingers inside this pretty cunt?” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Beg me for it. In your mind. Scream it down the bond.”
She did. She threw the thought at him, filthy and desperate. Please. Fuck me with your fingers. Now.
He chuckled, dark and satisfied. “Good girl.”
Without further preamble, he plunged two fingers deep into her. She arched, a silent cry trapped against his hand. He curled them, searching, and found the spot that made her vision flash white. His thumb settled on her clit, applying a rough, circular grind that matched the rhythm of his pumping fingers. The dual assault was unbearable. She was panting through her nose, her body straining against the silk binding her wrists, pushing back against his hand. The slick, wet sounds of his fingers moving in her filled the closet, obscene and thrilling.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come on my hand. Do it.”
Her climax shattered her. It ripped through her with a violence that buckled her knees. He held her up, his hand still sealed over her mouth as her inner muscles clenched and fluttered around his thrusting fingers. He didn’t stop, working her through the pulsating waves, drawing them out until she was a trembling, boneless weight against him, soaked and thoroughly spent.
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers. She felt the loss acutely. He brought his wet hand up, removing the one from her mouth only to let her taste herself on his skin, slipping his fingers past her lips. She sucked them clean, the salty-musky flavor of her own pleasure a dark delight. Then his mouth was on hers, kissing her with a possessive ferocity that stole the last of her breath.
He turned her around again. In the dim light, his face was all stark planes and hungry eyes. He untied the sash from her wrists with a single tug, his magic perhaps loosening the knot. He didn’t rub her skin. He just let the silk fall to the floor and then gripped her ass, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively.
He was already free from his trousers, his cock a thick, insistent heat against her stomach. He aligned himself, the broad head nudging at her entrance. She was so sensitized, so open from her climax, that the pressure was almost too much.
“Look at me,” he growled.
She did. Her eyes locked on his as he lowered her onto him. It was a slow, devastating impalement. She felt every inch stretch her, fill her, claim her all over again. He didn’t stop until he was fully sheathed, until their bodies were flush. A ragged moan escaped her. He swallowed it with another kiss.
Then he began to move.
He fucked her against the silk-draped wall, each drive of his hips a deliberate, powerful stroke. There was no gentleness, only a consuming urgency. The wall shuddered with their impact. His grip on her ass was bruising, fingers digging in as he lifted and dropped her onto his cock, controlling the entire brutal pace.
“This cunt,” he grunted, his forehead slick against hers. “Is mine. You understand? Say it.”
“Yours,” she gasped, the word punched out of her with a thrust.
“Mine to fuck. Mine to fill.” His pace increased, becoming punishing. His balls slapped against her with each deep plunge. “He will never touch you. He will never even smell your scent again without knowing it’s mingled with mine.”
It was possession, raw and unchained. And she met it, match for match. She rolled her hips, taking him even deeper, scraping her teeth along his neck. “Then show me,” she challenged, breathless. “Make me forget my own name.”
A snarl tore from him. He shifted his angle, pounding into her with a renewed ferocity that stole coherent thought. The coil of another climax, impossible so soon, tightened low in her belly, spun from overstimulation and raw emotional need. She could feel his own control fraying, the tension in his muscles coiling to a breaking point.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Now, Feyre.”
It was the plea beneath the command that undid her. She fell apart, her second orgasm a sharp, blinding crack of pleasure that seemed to fracture her very bones. She cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as her body clamped around him in vise-like pulses.
With a shout that was half curse, half prayer, he slammed into her one final, deep time and spilled. His release was hot and seemingly endless, pumping into her as he shuddered, his big body trembling with the force of it. He held her there, pinned to the wall, both of them gasping, sweat-slicked, utterly spent.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing in the perfumed dark. Slowly, he softened inside her. Even more slowly, he lowered her until her feet touched the floor. Her legs barely held her. He kept an arm around her, his other hand gently smoothing her tangled hair back from her face.
He didn’t speak. He just rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. The frantic energy that had seized him was gone, replaced by a weary, sated calm.
Finally, he whispered, “I lose myself when I think about it. About him. About that time.”
“I know.” She leaned into him. “So do I.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. In the faint light, his expression was stark, vulnerable. “Going to the Day Court… it’s the right move. But it puts you in his orbit again. Not physically, but in every conversation. I hate it.”
“I’m not afraid of conversations,” she said, finding strength in the afterglow of their coupling. “Or of being seen. Let them look. Let him hear. Let him know that I stand beside you by choice. That every time you touch me, it’s because I want you to.” She gestured faintly to the rumpled silk wall behind her. “This is my choice.”
A ghost of his real smile touched his lips. He bent, retrieving his sash from the floor. With a flick of his wrist, it was clean and smooth again. He tied it around his waist, then helped straighten her gown, his hands tender now, smoothing the fabric with a care that contrasted violently with his earlier roughness.
“We should get back to the ledgers,” he said, his voice regaining its usual melodic composure, though his eyes remained soft.
“Helion’s vanity can wait another hour,” Feyre replied, taking his hand. “I want to bathe. And I want you to tell me everything you know about the Day Court’s inner circle. Not the political summary. The real gossip. The hatreds and the affairs.”
He raised a brow, intrigue flashing in his gaze. “That’s my cunning High Lady.”
They emerged from the closet, blinking in the brighter light of the hallway. The stack of ledgers still hovered patiently where they’d left it. As they walked, Rhys began to speak, his voice low.
“Very well. Helion’s closest advisor is a female named Thesia. She’s been with him for three centuries and is rumored to have been his lover once, though now their relationship is… complex. She dislikes the Night Court on principle—she finds our aesthetics gloomy. She will be the one to watch. She will try to undermine you by focusing on your mortal origins, but politely, with a smile.”
Feyre listened, filing the information away. This was a different kind of armor. Not steel or stone, but knowledge.
They reached their suite. The bathing chamber was already filled with steaming, scented water. As she sank into the deep tub, Rhys sat on the edge, rolling up his sleeves. He took a sponge and began to wash her back, his touch now purely cherishing.
“And Helion himself?” she asked, leaning her head back.
“Helion enjoys beauty, wit, and power. You possess all three. He will flirt with you outrageously, simply to get a rise out of me. It’s a game to him. The key is to play along, but never give ground. Make him work for your smile.” He poured warm water over her shoulders. “He respects strength above all else. Showing any fear, any uncertainty around our… situation with Spring, would be a mistake.”
She met his eyes over her shoulder. “So we show a united front. Not just in love, but in strength. Unshakeable.”
“Exactly.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her damp shoulder. “We make our bond, our court, look like the only sane port in a gathering storm. He’s a hedonist, but he’s no fool. He won’t side with a losing cause, or with instability.”
She soaked in the heat and the information, feeling the pieces of their strategy click into place. The raw, frantic need in the closet had been one side of their coin; this calm, calculated planning was the other. Both were essential. Both were true.
Later, wrapped in a clean robe, she stood before the windows of their bedroom. Rhys came up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. The first stars were pricking through the twilight over Velaris.
“We leave in four days,” he said. “I’ll send the formal missive tomorrow.”
She nodded, watching the city lights begin to glow like fallen stars below. A quiet resolve settled in her bones. Tamlin’s shadow might stretch long, but she would not let it darken this. She was not a hunted thing anymore. She was a High Lady, and she was going to visit a Court of sunshine, armed with the love of her mate and the steel in her own spine.
“Four days,” she echoed. “Let him see what he lost. Let them all see.”