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It’s nearing dawn when Feyre wakes up. Even inside the tiny hovel she calls home, winter is thick in the air. The chill wraps her up thicker than any blanket she sleeps under forcing her skin to break out into goosebumps.
Where she sleeps on her side, she can feel a lump of warmth behind her radiating close to her back. Nesta. Or maybe Elain. She can’t remember which one crawled into bed after her.
Fighting off the yawn that will only make getting up that much harder, Feyre sits up in a fog and rubs at her eyes, elbows propped on her knees. She thinks she sees her bow in the corner near the dresser, but maybe she doesn’t. She’s not sure. And it’s too early to tell where her clothes are, but she always sets them out so they’ll be there somewhere.
She stands up and blindly shuffles along with little light to see by. But if she waited longer to wake up, most of the big game to hunt will have already taken cover for the day and there is little left in the woods for her to chase as it is.
Finding her pants, her tunic, her coat, Feyre shrugs everything on noticing how tired she is, more so than usual. Winter does that to her. She allows herself to risk falling back asleep as she sits on the floor to lace up her boots rather than do it standing up. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s fallen asleep in the middle of getting dressed.
The floor looks oddly different without the light of day on it, she thinks. Her fingers pause on the laces as her eyes gloss over trying to focus and make sense of the wood grain. It’s darker than it should be or… maybe that’s just a trick of the dark early morning light.
Her eyes fall heavy and she’s almost asleep right where she sits until…
The bed creaks behind her, one of her sisters turning over no doubt and enjoying the extra space Feyre has vacated in getting up. The noise snaps Feyre back awake and she stands up.
But she didn’t finish lacing her boots up properly and as she steps, reaching for her bow, she stumbles a little, but she’s near enough to the wall where the bow leans that she can brace herself on it.
The collision startles her and Feyre feels something inside her mind shift. There is a scent in the room that shouldn’t be there. She’s not even sure why she smells it at all. And with every second it’s starting to press in on her more and more and Feyre has but all of a second to think that one single word before a hand gently grazes her shoulder.
Faerie.
She spins and the fae male is more than she dared imagine. He is tall and seems to fill up all of the space inside the room. Behind, a pair of dark membranous wings are tucked in tight at his back. He leans in and for a second Feyre thinks he means her family harm, means to kill her, but then he’s looking at her with such concern, and his eyes are soft, and there are little wisps of darkness dancing off his skin. And his touch is kind, not rough. And he’s… he’s…
Feyre looks down at the floor where she nearly fell. Her bow isn’t there.
“Feyre?” Rhysand says.
Her mate. The man is her mate and it was all just an illusion. A cruel reminder of a harsher time brought by the cold winter night to haunt her.
Feyre feels a horrible weight drop into the pit of her stomach sinking lower and lower to betray her all too trusting heart that has grown comfortable, grown safe in her court.
Rhys brings his hands up to cup Feyre’s face and the full weight of his scent envelops her finally. When Feyre looks at him, her mate looks pitifully heartbroken.
“I know,” and it’s all Feyre says, nodding to make sure he knows she realizes she is awake now and understands.
She closes her eyes and Rhys pulls her in close, kissing her forehead. He helps her undress, change back into her night gown, and when she’s done, he carries her to bed.
Feyre doesn’t fall back asleep. She rarely does when this happens. And it has happened before. Not often, but every now and then when the night is particularly cold and nothing in her court seems amiss.
She knows Rhys will pretend to sleep for her sake, but eventually, he’ll wink an eye open and tug at the corners of his lips in an almost smile. “I love you,” he’ll say. “You know that right?”
“I know what you know,” Feyre always replies. “And I love you too.”
xx