Chapter 7: Bound and Filled
The four days dissolved like salt in hot water, a blur of preparation that left Feyre’s mind buzzing. She spent hours with Mor, learning the intricate dance of Day Court etiquette—when to speak, when to smile, when a silence could be more pointed than a blade. She drilled with Cassian on defensive maneuvers that wouldn’t rely on brute strength, ways to use her smaller size and her unique, unraveling magic to disable, not destroy. Azriel provided whispered reports, his shadows coiling with unease: Tamlin was reportedly in a rage, patrolling his borders with a new, feverish intensity. Spring was a coiled spring, waiting for a trigger.
The knowledge was a cold stone in Feyre’s gut. It made the gilded invitations, the selection of gowns, feel like donning armor for a theater of war.
On the final night before their departure, the weight of it all pressed down. The townhouse was too quiet, the walls seeming to lean in. She found herself in the library, not for strategy, but for silence. The towering shelves groaned under the weight of centuries, and the smell of leather and ink usually soothed her. Tonight, it felt like dust.
She trailed her fingers along a row of spines, not reading the titles. Her mind was a riot of imagined slights, potential traps, the phantom feel of green, envious eyes on her back.
“You’re thinking loudly enough to wake the dead.”
Rhys’s voice was a velvet stroke in the quiet. She didn’t turn, hearing his soft footsteps on the carpet. He came to stand behind her, not touching, but his heat seeped through the thin silk of her dressing gown.
“He’s going to do something,” she said, her voice flat. “He can’t just let us go to Helion and form an alliance. It’s a direct insult.”
“Probably.” Rhys’s agreement was casual, which meant he’d already considered every permutation of ‘something.’ “Let him. It changes nothing.”
“It changes everything if it starts a war we’re not ready for.”
“We are always ready.” He said it with a finality that brooked no argument. But then his hands settled on her shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tense muscle. “You’re carrying tomorrow on your back, Feyre. Put it down. For tonight.”
She leaned into his touch, letting her head fall forward. “How?”
In answer, his hands slid down her arms, then one arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him. His other hand came up, palm covering her eyes, plunging her into warm, private darkness.
“Don’t look,” he murmured, his lips against her temple. “Just feel. I’ll guide you.”
He walked her backward, deep into the library’s heart, away from the firelight. The air grew cooler. She heard the faint scrape of a door she’d never noticed, hidden behind a tapestry of the starry void. He led her through it.
The space beyond was not a room. It was an alcove, a pocket of shadow carved between two monolithic bookcases. The air here hummed, thick with the scent of vellum and something else—a clean, sharp scent like the moment before a lightning strike. A single silver candle, unlit, sat on a small shelf.
Rhys removed his hand from her eyes. In the near-total darkness, his own seemed to glow with internal light. With a snap of his fingers, the candle wick caught, a tiny, unwavering flame that did little to push back the gloom. It only defined it, casting long, trembling fingers across the walls.
And on those walls, she saw them. Carvings. Not ancient. The marks in the dark wood were fresh, the edges still slightly raised. Her name. Feyre. Over and over, in every script—elegant, frantic, slashing, loving. It covered the wall beside a worn reading desk, a desperate, silent liturgy.
“I came here,” Rhys said, his voice rough, “when the bond was a screaming void. When I could feel you, but only as pain. I carved your name because if I didn’t put it somewhere solid, I thought I would unravel into pure, useless fury.” He traced one of the carvings with a reverent finger. “It kept me anchored. To you.”
The raw admission shattered her lingering anxiety. This was the truth beneath the politics. This was the core. She turned in his arms, framing his face with her hands, kissing him with a sudden, desperate gratitude. He met her hunger with his own, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming, soothing, devouring.
When they broke apart, he was already pulling a length of deep blue silk cord from the air. “Tonight,” he said, his eyes holding hers, “you feel nothing but this. No courts, no wars, no past. Just us. Just my hands on you. Can you do that?”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“Then give me your hands.”
She lifted them, and he brought them together above her head. His movements were deliberate, ritualistic. He looped the cord around her wrists, not tight enough to hurt, but with a secure, intricate knot that whispered of finality. He guided her hands upward, tying the other end to a cold, ornate brass sconce embedded in the bookcase. The position stretched her, pulled her up onto her toes, baring the line of her throat, the swell of her breasts against the open front of her gown.
He stepped back, his gaze a physical caress. “Perfect.”
He didn’t touch her body. Instead, he knelt.
The feel of his hands pushing her gown apart, of the cool air on her thighs, then the shocking, wet heat of his mouth on her cunt, made her cry out. He didn’t start slow. He buried his face between her legs as if starved, his tongue a broad, ruthless stroke from her opening to her clit. He licked into her, deep and messy, groaning against her flesh.
“Taste like home,” he growled, the vibration making her jolt against her bonds. “Always taste so fucking good.”
He settled into a ruthless rhythm, sucking her clit into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, then laving it with broad, flat strokes. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, his fingers digging in. The dual sensation of being bound and utterly exposed, completely at the mercy of his seeking mouth, burned away every coherent thought. She could only moan, her hips making small, involuntary circles, seeking more pressure.
“That’s it,” he muttered against her, his breath hot on her soaked skin. “Fuck my face. Use me. Let me hear how much you need it.”
She did, gasping curses, pleas, his name. Her world narrowed to the points of contact: the silk on her wrists, the wood at her back, and the devastating, expert work of his tongue and lips. He added a finger, then two, sliding them into her with ease, curling them to stroke that perfect, secret place inside as his mouth continued its focused assault on her clit. The buildup was rapid, intense, a coil pulled taut.
“I’m gonna…” she choked out.
“Not yet.” He pulled his mouth away, leaving her aching and empty. He stood, his lips gleaming in the candlelight. He was breathing hard, his eyes wild. “Turn around.”
He untied the cord from the sconce but kept her wrists bound. He turned her, her front now against the carved wall, her cheek pressed to her own name. He leaned into her, his hard cock a brand against her ass through his trousers. His hands smoothed over her shoulders, down her spine, coming to rest on her hips.
“Bend over,” he whispered. “Put your hands on the desk.”
She did, the polished wood cool under her palms. He pushed her gown up to her waist, baring her completely. His hands spread her ass cheeks, his thumbs running over the sensitive skin. She shuddered.
She heard him spit, a crude, wet sound. Then she felt it—the warm wetness against her other hole, the tight, untouched pucker. His thumb smoothed it over her.
“Relax for me,” he said, his voice strained. “I need to be in you. All of you.”
The broad head of his cock pressed against her. There was no gentle prep, just that relentless, slow pressure. It burned, a sharp, stretching fullness that stole her breath. She focused on the carvings under her hands, on his voice.
“Breathe out,” he commanded, and she did, a shaky exhale.
He pushed forward, an inexorable inch. The burn intensified, then subsided into a deep, overwhelming fullness as he seated himself fully. They both went still, panting. She was impossibly full, stretched to a breathtaking degree. He leaned over her, one hand braced on the desk beside hers, the other gripping her hip.
“Okay?” The word was gritted out, tender amidst the raw possession.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Move. Please.”
He pulled out almost all the way, then thrust back in. The rhythm he set was deep, measured, each stroke a deliberate claiming. The angle was different, deeper in a way that made her see stars. The slap of his skin against hers, the wet, filthy sounds of their joining, filled the tiny alcove.
Then his free hand disappeared between her legs. She heard a faint, mechanical hum, and a moment later, a smooth, buzzing pressure landed directly on her clit.
She jerked, a shocked gasp tearing from her. The vibrator—small, potent—held firmly in place by his hand, its relentless thrumming a counterpoint to his deep, pounding strokes in her ass. The dual stimulation was insane, too much, not enough. It built a climax from two directions, a vise tightening in her core.
“Rhys… fuck… I can’t…”
“You can,” he grunted, his pace increasing, becoming harder, faster. The desk shuddered with each thrust. “You will. Come on my cock while I fill this tight little ass. Come for your High Lord.”
His words, the vibrator’s unbearable buzz, the profound, stretching fullness—it all coalesced into a detonation. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that blinded her. She screamed, her body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses, milking his cock as he fucked her through it. The vibrations sent shockwaves through her oversensitized clit, prolonging the spasms into near-painful ecstasy.
Feeling her convulse around him broke his control. With a guttural roar, he slammed into her one final time, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her. Heat flooded her, a visceral claim. He collapsed over her, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, both of them slick with sweat, shaking.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the fading hum of the vibrator as he let it fall to the desk. Gently, he pulled out of her. He untied her wrists, the silk cord falling away. He turned her, catching her as her legs gave way, and lifted her onto the edge of the desk.
He stood between her spread knees, his hands on her thighs. He looked wrecked, beautiful. Then he bent his head and did something that made her whole body flush with a vulnerable, shocking heat. He licked her clean, his tongue tender and thorough, lapping up the combined evidence of their joining from her thighs, her folds. It was an act of such intimate service, such raw devotion, it brought stinging tears to her eyes.
He kissed her then, deep and slow, letting her taste them both on his tongue. When he finally pulled away, he rested his brow against hers.
“No matter what happens tomorrow,” he whispered, his voice ravaged, “no matter what he does, or what anyone says… this is your anchor. I am your anchor. Not a name on a wall. Me. My hands on you. My heart in your chest. Remember that.”
She clutched him close, her face buried in his neck. The specter of tomorrow still loomed, but it no longer towered. It was a challenge, not a terror. She felt solid. Real. Claimed and claiming.
“I remember,” she said into his skin.
They cleaned up in silence, using the basin of water and cloths he conjured. He re-tied the silk cord around his own wrist, a talisman. As they straightened their clothes, a soft knock echoed from beyond the hidden door.
“Rhys.” It was Azriel’s voice, calm but urgent.
Rhys’s eyes met Feyre’s. The aftermath of passion sharpened into immediate focus. He waved a hand, and the door swung open.
Azriel stood in the library light, his shadows unusually agitated, swirling around his shoulders like smoke. His face was grim.
“Report,” Rhys said, his voice now pure, unshakable authority.
“A message. From the Day Court. Not by parchment.” Azriel’s gaze flicked to Feyre, then back to his High Lord. “Helion sent it through the dawn light. It just manifested in the war room.”
“And?” Rhys prompted, a faint thread of impatience in his tone.
“The meeting is off. Or rather, postponed.” Azriel took a steadying breath. “Helion is coming here. He’ll arrive by midday tomorrow. He says… he says Tamlin has just formally invoked the Blood Duel.”