A Court of Mist and Fury

Chapter 3

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Ianthe went on, “But it makes the right statement. I’ve spent time amongst enough courts to know

how they operate. Trust me in this.”

“I do trust you,” I said, and waved a hand toward the papers before us. “You know how to do these

things. I don’t.”

Silver tinkled at Ianthe’s wrists, so like the bracelets the Children of the Blessed wore on the other

side of the wall. I sometimes wondered if those foolish humans had stolen the idea from the High

Priestesses of Prythian—if it had been a priestess like Ianthe who had spread such nonsense

among humans.

“It’s an important moment for me as well,” Ianthe said carefully, adjusting the circlet atop her hood.

Teal eyes met mine. “You and I are so alike—young, untested amongst these … wolves. I am

grateful to you, and to Tamlin, to allow me to preside over the ceremony, to be invited to work with

this court, be a part of this court. The other High Priestesses do not particularly care for me, nor I for

them, but … ” She shook her head, the hood swaying with her. “Together,” she murmured, “the

three of us make a formidable unit. Four, if you count Lucien.” She snorted. “Not that he particularly

wants anything to do with me.”

A leading statement.

She often found ways to bring him up, to corner him at events, to touch his elbow or shoulder. He

ignored it all. Last week, I’d finally asked him if she’d set her sights on him, and Lucien had merely

given me a look, snarling softly, before stalking off. I took that as a yes.

But a match with Lucien would be nearly as beneficial as one with Tamlin: the right hand of a High

Lord and another High Lord’s son … Any offspring would be powerful, coveted.

“You know it’s … hard for him, where females are involved,” I said neutrally.

“He has been with many females since the death of his lover.”

“Perhaps it’s different with you—perhaps it’d mean something he’s not ready for.” I shrugged,

searching for the right words. “Perhaps he stays away because of it.”

She considered, and I prayed she bought my half lie. Ianthe was ambitious, clever, beautiful, and

bold—but I did not think Lucien forgave her, or would ever forgive her, for fleeing during

Amarantha’s reign. Sometimes I honestly wondered if my friend might rip her throat out for it.

Ianthe nodded at last. “Are you at least excited for the wedding?”

I fiddled with my emerald ring. “It’ll be the happiest day of my life.”

The day Tamlin had asked me to marry him, I’d certainly felt that way. I’d wept with joy as I told him

yes, yes, a thousand times yes, and made love to him in the field of wildflowers where he’d brought

me for the occasion.

Ianthe nodded. “The union is Cauldron-blessed. Your survival of the horrors Under the Mountain

only proves it.”

I caught her glance then—toward my left hand, the tattoos.

It was an effort not to tuck my hand beneath the table.

The tattoo on her brow was of midnight-blue ink—but somehow still fit, still accented the feminine

dresses, the bright silver jewelry. Unlike the elegant brutality of mine.

“We could get you gloves,” she offered casually.

And that would send another message—perhaps to the person I so desperately hoped had

forgotten I existed.

“I’ll consider it,” I said with a bland smile.

It was all I could do to keep from bolting before the hour was up and Ianthe floated to her own

personal prayer room—a gift from Tamlin upon her return—to offer midday thanks to the Cauldron

for our land’s liberation, my triumph, and Tamlin’s ensured dominance over this land.

I sometimes debated asking her to pray for me as well. Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

To pray that I’d one day learn to love the dresses, and the parties, and my role as a blushing, pretty

bride.

I was already in bed when Tamlin entered my room, silent as a stag through a wood. I lifted my

head, going for the dagger I kept on the nightstand, but relaxed at the broad shoulders, at the

hallway candlelight gilding his tan skin and veiling his face in shadow.

“You’re awake?” he murmured. I could hear the frown in his voice. He’d been in his study since

dinner, sorting through the pile of paperwork Lucien had dumped on his desk.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, watching his muscles shift as he moved to the bathing room to wash up. I’d

been trying to sleep for an hour now—but each time I closed my eyes, my body locked up, the walls

of the room pushed in. I’d gone so far as to throw open the windows, but … It was going to be a

long night.

I lay back on the pillows, listening to the steady, efficient sounds of him preparing for bed. He kept

his own quarters, deeming it vital for me to have my own space.

But he slept in here every night. I’d yet to visit his bed, though I wondered if our wedding night

would change that. I prayed I wouldn’t thrash awake and vomit on the sheets when I didn’t

recognize where I was, when I didn’t know if the darkness was permanent.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t pushed the issue yet.

He emerged from the bathing room, slinging off his tunic and shirt, and I propped myself on my

elbows to watch as he paused at the edge of the bed.

My attention went right to the strong, clever fingers that unfastened his pants.

Tamlin let out a low snarl of approval, and I bit my bottom lip as he removed his pants, along with

his undergarments, revealing the proud, thick length of him. My mouth went dry, and I dragged my

gaze up his muscled torso, over the panes of his chest, and then—

“Come here,” he growled, so roughly the words were barely discernable.

I pushed back the blankets, revealing my already naked body, and he hissed.

His features turned ravenous while I

crawled across the bed and rose up on my knees. I took his face in my hands, the golden skin

framed on either side by fingers of ivory and of swirling black, and kissed him.

He held my gaze through the kiss, even as I pushed myself closer, biting back a small noise when

he brushed against my stomach.

His callused hands grazed my hips, my waist, then held me there as he lowered his head, seizing

the kiss. A brush of his tongue against the seam of my lips had me opening fully for him, and he

swept in, claiming me, branding me.

I moaned then, tilting my head back to give him better access. His hands clamped on my waist,

then moved—one going to cup my rear, the other sliding between us.

This—this moment, when it was him and me and nothing between our bodies …

His tongue scraped the roof of my mouth as he dragged a finger down the center of me, and I

gasped, my back arching. “Feyre,” he said against my lips, my name like a prayer more devout than

any Ianthe had offered up to the Cauldron on that dark solstice morning.

His tongue swept my mouth again, in time to the finger that he slipped inside of me. My hips

undulated, demanding more, craving the fullness of him, and his growl reverberated in my chest as

he added another finger.

I moved on him. Lightning lashed through my veins, and my focus narrowed to his fingers, his

mouth, his body on mine. His palm pushed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs,

and I groaned his name as I shattered.

My head thrown back, I gulped down night-cool air, and then I was being lowered to the bed, gently,

delicately, lovingly.

He stretched out above me, his head lowering to my breast, and all it took was one press of his

teeth against my nipple before I was clawing at his back, before I hooked my legs around him and

he settled between them. This—I needed this.

He paused, arms trembling as he held himself over me.

“Please,” I gasped out.

He just brushed his lips against my jaw, my neck, my mouth.

“Tamlin,” I begged. He palmed my breast, his thumb flicking over my nipple. I cried out, and he

buried himself in me with a mighty stroke.

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