Mil­lie exe­cutes a dar­ing act of ret­ri­bu­tion against Andrew, uti­liz­ing pep­per spray at close range to inca­pac­i­tate him. After ensur­ing he is unable to pur­sue her by lock­ing him in the room and dis­abling the lock screen on his phone, she appro­pri­ates his phone. Out­side, she main­tains her defi­ance against his demands for release, reflect­ing on a past act of vio­lence she com­mit­ted in defense of a friend—a moment that led to her incar­cer­a­tion but which she deems moral­ly jus­ti­fi­able.

She then skill­ful­ly nav­i­gates her imme­di­ate needs and the strate­gic con­trol of infor­ma­tion through Andrew’s phone, imper­son­at­ing him in a con­ver­sa­tion with his moth­er, who express­es dis­dain for his wife, Nina, and their child, Cecelia. This exchange reveals famil­ial ten­sions and Mil­lie’s empa­thy towards Nina and Cecelia, high­light­ing a con­trast in char­ac­ter and moral com­pass between Mil­lie and Andrew’s fam­i­ly.

As Mil­lie pre­pares to con­front Andrew, she asserts a psy­cho­log­i­cal upper hand, insist­ing he acknowl­edge his wrong­do­ing. Despite his reluc­tant apol­o­gy, Mil­lie demands an uncon­ven­tion­al form of pun­ish­ment, com­pelling him to expe­ri­ence a sem­blance of the vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty he imposed on her. This action sug­gests a deep­er pur­suit of jus­tice on Mil­lie’s part, empha­siz­ing her resolve to con­front and rec­ti­fy the wrongs inflict­ed upon her, arguably extend­ing beyond per­son­al revenge to a broad­er state­ment against those who abuse their pow­er.

In craft­ing this sum­ma­ry, par­tic­u­lar care has been tak­en to pre­serve the key ele­ments of the plot and char­ac­ter dynam­ics, mir­ror­ing the orig­i­nal chap­ter’s tone and pac­ing, while ensur­ing vital details such as names, loca­tions, and the sequence of events remain unal­tered.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER
54
I stared at Rhys.
He stared at me.
His cheeks were tinged pink with cold, his dark hair ruf­fled, and he
hon­est­ly looked freez­ing as he stood there, wings tucked in tight.
And I knew that one word from me, and he’d go fly­ing off into the crisp
night. That if I shut the door, he’d go and not push it.
His nos­trils flared, scent­ing the paint behind me, but he didn’t break his
stare. Wait­ing.
Mate.
My—mate.
This beau­ti­ful, strong, self­less male … Who had sac­ri­ficed and wrecked
him­self for his fam­i­ly, his peo­ple, and didn’t feel it was enough, that he
wasn’t enough for any­one … Azriel thought he didn’t deserve some­one like
Mor. And I won­dered if Rhys … if he some­how felt the same about me. I
stepped aside, hold­ing the door open for him.
I could have sworn I felt a pulse of knee-wob­bling relief through the
bond.
But Rhys took in the paint­ing I’d done, gob­bling down the bright col­ors
that now made the cot­tage come alive, and said, “You paint­ed us.”
“I hope you don’t mind.”
He stud­ied the thresh­old to the bed­room hall­way. “Azriel, Mor, Amren,
and Cass­ian,” he said, mark­ing the eyes I’d paint­ed. “You do know that one
of them is going to paint a mous­tache under the eyes of who­ev­er piss­es
them off that day.”
I clamped my lips to keep the smile in. “Oh, Mor already promised to do
that.”
“And what about my eyes?”
I swal­lowed. All right, then. No danc­ing around it.
My heart was pound­ing so wild­ly I knew he could hear it. “I was afraid
to paint them.”
Rhys faced me ful­ly. “Why?”
No more games, no more ban­ter. “At first, because I was so mad at you
for not telling me. Then because I was wor­ried I’d like them too much and
find that you … didn’t feel the same. Then because I was scared that if I
paint­ed them, I’d start wish­ing you were here so much that I’d just stare at
them all day. And it seemed like a pathet­ic way to spend my time.”
A twitch of his lips. “Indeed.”
I glanced at the shut door. “You flew here.”
He nod­ded. “Mor wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone, and there are only
so many places that are as secure as this one. Since I didn’t want our
Hybern friends track­ing me to you, I had to do it the old-fash­ioned way. It
took … a while.”
“You’re—better?”
“Healed com­plete­ly. Quick­ly, con­sid­er­ing the blood­bane. Thanks to you.”
I avoid­ed his stare, turn­ing for the kitchen. “You must be hun­gry. I’ll heat
some­thing up.”
Rhys straight­ened. “You’d—make me food?”
“Heat,” I said. “I can’t cook.”
It didn’t seem to make a dif­fer­ence. But what­ev­er it was, the act of
offer­ing him food … I dumped some cold soup into a pan and lit the burn­er.
“I don’t know the rules,” I said, my back to him. “So you need to explain
them to me.”
He lin­gered in the cen­ter of the cab­in, watch­ing my every move. He said
hoarse­ly, “It’s an … impor­tant moment when a female offers her mate food.
It goes back to what­ev­er beasts we were a long, long time ago. But it still
mat­ters. The first time mat­ters. Some mat­ed pairs will make an occa­sion of
it—throwing a par­ty just so the female can for­mal­ly offer her mate food …
That’s usu­al­ly done amongst the wealthy. But it means that the female …
accepts the bond.”
I stared into the soup. “Tell me the story—tell me every­thing.”
He under­stood my offer: tell me while I cooked, and I’d decide at the end
whether or not to offer him that food.
A chair scraped against the wood floor as he sat at the table. For a
moment, there was only silence, inter­rupt­ed by the clack of my spoon
against the pot.
Then Rhys said, “I was cap­tured dur­ing the War. By Amarantha’s army.”
I paused my stir­ring, my gut twist­ing.
“Cass­ian and Azriel were in dif­fer­ent legions, so they had no idea that my
forces and I had been tak­en pris­on­er. And that Amarantha’s cap­tains held us
for weeks, tor­tur­ing and slaugh­ter­ing my war­riors. They put ash bolts
through my wings, and they had those same chains from the oth­er night to
keep me down. Those chains are one of Hybern’s great­est assets—stone
delved from deep in their land, capa­ble of nul­li­fy­ing a High Fae’s pow­ers.
Even mine. So they chained me up between two trees, beat­ing me when
they felt like it, try­ing to get me to tell them where the Night Court forces
were, using my warriors—their deaths and pain—to break me.
“Only I didn’t break,” he said rough­ly, “and they were too dumb to know
that I was an Illyr­i­an, and all they had to do to get me to yield would have
been to try to cut off my wings. And maybe it was luck, but they nev­er did.
And Ama­ran­tha … She didn’t care that I was there. I was yet anoth­er High
Lord’s son, and Juri­an had just slaugh­tered her sis­ter. All she cared about
was get­ting to him—killing him. She had no idea that every sec­ond, every
breath, I plot­ted her death. I was will­ing to make it my last stand: to kill her
at any cost, even if it meant shred­ding my wings to break free. I’d watched
the guards and learned her sched­ule, so I knew where she’d be. I set a day,
and a time. And I was ready—I was so damned ready to make an end of it,
and wait for Cass­ian and Azriel and Mor on the oth­er side. There was
noth­ing but my rage, and my relief that my friends weren’t there. But the
day before I was to kill Ama­ran­tha, to make my final stand and meet my
end, she and Juri­an faced each oth­er on the bat­tle­field.”
He paused, swal­low­ing.
“I was chained in the mud, forced to watch as they bat­tled. To watch as
Juri­an took my killing blow. Only—she slaugh­tered him. I watched her rip
out his eye, then rip off his fin­ger, and when he was prone, I watched her
drag him back to the camp. Then I lis­tened to her slow­ly, over days and
days, tear him apart. His scream­ing was end­less. She was so focused on
tor­tur­ing him that she didn’t detect my father’s arrival. In the pan­ic, she
killed Juri­an rather than see him lib­er­at­ed, and fled. So my father res­cued
me—and told his men, told Azriel, to leave the ash spikes in my wings as
pun­ish­ment for get­ting caught. I was so injured that the heal­ers informed
me if I tried to fight before my wings healed, I’d nev­er fly again. So I was
forced to return home to recover—while the final bat­tles were waged.
“They made the Treaty, and the wall was built. We’d long ago freed our
slaves in the Night Court. We didn’t trust the humans to keep our secrets,
not when they bred so quick­ly and fre­quent­ly that my fore­fa­thers couldn’t
hold all their minds at once. But our world was changed nonethe­less. We
were all changed by the War. Cass­ian and Azriel came back dif­fer­ent; I
came back dif­fer­ent. We came here—to this cab­in. I was still so injured that
they car­ried me here between them. We were here when the mes­sages
arrived about the final terms of the Treaty.
“They stayed with me when I roared at the stars that Ama­ran­tha, for all
she had done, for every crime com­mit­ted, would go unpun­ished. That the
King of Hybern would go unpun­ished. Too much killing had occurred on
either side for every­one to be brought to jus­tice, they said. Even my father
gave me an order to let it go—to build toward a future of co-exis­tence. But
I nev­er for­gave what Ama­ran­tha had done to my war­riors. And I nev­er
for­got it, either. Tamlin’s father—he was her friend. And when my father
slaugh­tered him, I was so damn smug that per­haps she’d feel an inkling of
what I’d felt when she mur­dered my sol­diers.”
My hands were shak­ing as I stirred the soup. I’d nev­er known … nev­er
thought …
“When Ama­ran­tha returned to these shores cen­turies lat­er, I still want­ed
to kill her. The worst part was, she didn’t even know who I was. Didn’t
even remem­ber that I was the High Lord’s son that she’d held cap­tive. To
her, I was mere­ly the son of the man who had killed her friend—I was just
the High Lord of the Night Court. The oth­er High Lords were con­vinced
she want­ed peace and trade. Only Tam­lin mis­trust­ed her. I hat­ed him, but
he’d known Ama­ran­tha personally—and if he didn’t trust her … I knew she
hadn’t changed.
“So I planned to kill her. I told no one. Not even Amren. I’d let
Ama­ran­tha think I was inter­est­ed in trade, in alliance. I decid­ed I’d go to
the par­ty thrown Under the Moun­tain for all the courts to cel­e­brate our trade
agree­ment with Hybern … And when she was drunk, I’d slip into her mind,
make her reveal every lie and crime she’d com­mit­ted, and then I’d turn her
brain to liq­uid before any­one could react. I was pre­pared to go to war for
it.”
I turned, lean­ing against the counter. Rhys was look­ing at his hands, as if
the sto­ry were a book he could read between them.
“But she thought faster—acted faster. She had been trained against my
par­tic­u­lar skill set, and had exten­sive men­tal shields. I was so busy work­ing
to tun­nel through them that I didn’t think about the drink in my hand. I
hadn’t want­ed Cass­ian or Azriel or any­one else there that night to wit­ness
what I was to do—so no one both­ered to sniff my drink.
“And as I felt my pow­ers being ripped away by that spell she’d put on it
at the toast, I flung them out one last time, wip­ing Velaris, the wards, all
that was good, from the minds of the Court of Nightmares—the only ones
I’d allowed to come with me. I threw the shield around Velaris, bind­ing it to
my friends so that they had to remain or risk that pro­tec­tion col­laps­ing, and
used the last dregs to tell them mind to mind what was hap­pen­ing, and to
stay away. With­in a few sec­onds, my pow­er belonged whol­ly to
Ama­ran­tha.”
His eyes lift­ed to mine. Haunt­ed, bleak.
“She slaugh­tered half the Court of Night­mares right then and there. To
prove to me that she could. As vengeance for Tamlin’s father. And I knew
… I knew in that moment there was noth­ing I wouldn’t do to keep her from
look­ing at my court again. From look­ing too long at who I was and what I
loved. So I told myself that it was a new war, a dif­fer­ent sort of bat­tle. And
that night, when she kept turn­ing her atten­tion to me, I knew what she
want­ed. I knew it wasn’t about fuck­ing me so much as it was about get­ting
revenge at my father’s ghost. But if that was what she want­ed, then that was
what she would get. I made her beg, and scream, and used my lin­ger­ing
pow­ers to make it so good for her that she want­ed more. Craved more.”
I gripped the counter to keep from slid­ing to the ground.
“Then she cursed Tam­lin. And my oth­er great ene­my became the one
loop­hole that might free us all. Every night that I spent with Ama­ran­tha, I
knew that she was half won­der­ing if I’d try to kill her. I couldn’t use my
pow­ers to harm her, and she had shield­ed her­self against phys­i­cal attacks.
But for fifty years—whenever I was inside her, I’d think about killing her.
She had no idea. None. Because I was so good at my job that she thought I
enjoyed it, too. So she began to trust me—more than the oth­ers. Espe­cial­ly
when I proved what I could do to her ene­mies. But I was glad to do it. I
hat­ed myself, but I was glad to do it. After a decade, I stopped expect­ing to
see my friends or my peo­ple again. I for­got what their faces looked like.
And I stopped hop­ing.”
Sil­ver gleamed in his eyes, and he blinked it away. “Three years ago,” he
said qui­et­ly, “I began to have these … dreams. At first, they were glimpses,
as if I were star­ing through some­one else’s eyes. A crack­ling hearth in a
dark home. A bale of hay in a barn. A war­ren of rab­bits. The images were
fog­gy, like look­ing through cloudy glass. They were brief—a flash here and
there, every few months. I thought noth­ing of them, until one of the images
was of a hand … This beau­ti­ful, human hand. Hold­ing a brush. Paint­ing—
flow­ers on a table.”
My heart stopped beat­ing.
“And that time, I pushed a thought back. Of the night sky—of the image
that brought me joy when I need­ed it most. Open night sky, stars, and the
moon. I didn’t know if it was received, but I tried, any­way.”
I wasn’t sure I was breath­ing.
“Those dreams—the flash­es of that per­son, that woman … I trea­sured
them. They were a reminder that there was some peace out there in the
world, some light. That there was a place, and a per­son, who had enough
safe­ty to paint flow­ers on a table. They went on for years, until … a year
ago. I was sleep­ing next to Ama­ran­tha, and I jolt­ed awake from this dream
… this dream that was clear­er and brighter, like that fog had been wiped
away. She—you were dream­ing. I was in your dream, watch­ing as you had
a night­mare about some woman slit­ting your throat, while you were chased
by the Bogge … I couldn’t reach you, speak to you. But you were see­ing
our kind. And I real­ized that the fog had prob­a­bly been the wall, and that
you … you were now in Pry­thi­an.
“I saw you through your dreams—and I hoard­ed the images, sort­ing
through them over and over again, try­ing to place where you were, who you
were. But you had such hor­ri­ble night­mares, and the crea­tures belonged to
all courts. I’d wake up with your scent in my nose, and it would haunt me
all day, every step. But then one night, you dreamed of stand­ing amongst
green hills, see­ing unlit bon­fires for Calan­mai.”
There was such silence in my head.
“I knew there was only one cel­e­bra­tion that large; I knew those hills—
and I knew you’d prob­a­bly be there. So I told Ama­ran­tha … ” Rhys
swal­lowed. “I told her that I want­ed to go to the Spring Court for the
cel­e­bra­tion, to spy on Tam­lin and see if any­one showed up wish­ing to
con­spire with him. We were so close to the dead­line for the curse that she
was paranoid—restless. She told me to bring back trai­tors. I promised her I
would.”
His eyes lift­ed to mine again.
“I got there, and I could smell you. So I tracked that scent, and … And
there you were. Human—utterly human, and being dragged away by those
piece-of-shit picts, who want­ed to … ” He shook his head. “I debat­ed
slaugh­ter­ing them then and there, but then they shoved you, and I just …
moved. I start­ed speak­ing with­out know­ing what I was say­ing, only that
you were there, and I was touch­ing you, and … ” He loosed a shud­der­ing
breath.
There you are. I’ve been look­ing for you.
His first words to me—not a lie at all, not a threat to keep those faeries
away.
Thank you for find­ing her for me.
I had the vague feel­ing of the world slip­ping out from under my feet like
sand wash­ing away from the shore.
“You looked at me,” Rhys said, “and I knew you had no idea who I was.
That I might have seen your dreams, but you hadn’t seen mine. And you
were just … human. You were so young, and break­able, and had no inter­est
in me what­so­ev­er, and I knew that if I stayed too long, some­one would see
and report back, and she’d find you. So I start­ed walk­ing away, think­ing
you’d be glad to get rid of me. But then you called after me, like you
couldn’t let go of me just yet, whether you knew it or not. And I knew … I
knew we were on dan­ger­ous ground, some­how. I knew that I could nev­er
speak to you, or see you, or think of you again.
“I didn’t want to know why you were in Pry­thi­an; I didn’t even want to
know your name. Because see­ing you in my dreams had been one thing, but
in per­son … Right then, deep down, I think I knew what you were. And I
didn’t let myself admit it, because if there was the slight­est chance that you
were my mate … They would have done such unspeak­able things to you,
Feyre.
“So I let you walk away. I told myself after you were gone that maybe …
maybe the Caul­dron had been kind, and not cru­el, for let­ting me see you.
Just once. A gift for what I was endur­ing. And when you were gone, I
found those three picts. I broke into their minds, reshap­ing their lives, their
his­to­ries, and dragged them before Ama­ran­tha. I made them con­fess to
con­spir­ing to find oth­er rebels that night. I made them lie and claim that
they hat­ed her. I watched her carve them up while they were still alive,
protest­ing their inno­cence. I enjoyed it—because I knew what they had
want­ed to do to you. And knew that it would have paled in com­par­i­son to
what Ama­ran­tha would have done if she’d found you.”
I wrapped a hand around my throat. I had my rea­sons to be out then, he’d
once said to me Under the Moun­tain. Do not think, Feyre, that it did not
cost me.
Rhys kept star­ing at the table as he said, “I didn’t know. That you were
with Tam­lin. That you were stay­ing at the Spring Court. Ama­ran­tha sent me
that day after the Sum­mer Sol­stice because I’d been so suc­cess­ful on
Calan­mai. I was pre­pared to mock him, maybe pick a fight. But then I got
into that room, and the scent was famil­iar, but hid­den … And then I saw the
plate, and felt the glam­our, and … There you were. Liv­ing in my sec­ond-
most enemy’s house. Din­ing with him. Reek­ing of his scent. Look­ing at him
like … Like you loved him.”
The whites of his knuck­les showed.
“And I decid­ed that I had to scare Tam­lin. I had to scare you, and Lucien,
but most­ly Tam­lin. Because I saw how he looked at you, too. So what I did
that day … ” His lips were pale, tight. “I broke into your mind and held it
enough that you felt it, that it ter­ri­fied you, hurt you. I made Tam­lin beg—
as Ama­ran­tha had made me beg, to show him how pow­er­less he was to save
you. And I prayed my per­for­mance was enough to get him to send you
away. Back to the human realm, away from Ama­ran­tha. Because she was
going to find you. If you broke that curse, she was going to find you and
kill you.
“But I was so selfish—I was so stu­pid­ly self­ish that I couldn’t walk away
with­out know­ing your name. And you were look­ing at me like I was a
mon­ster, so I told myself it didn’t mat­ter, any­way. But you lied when I
asked. I knew you did. I had your mind in my hands, and you had the
defi­ance and fore­sight to lie to my face. So I walked away from you again. I
vom­it­ed my guts up as soon as I left.”
My lips wob­bled, and I pressed them togeth­er.
“I checked back once. To ensure you were gone. I went with them the
day they sacked the manor—to make my per­for­mance com­plete. I told
Ama­ran­tha the name of that girl, think­ing you’d invent­ed it. I had no idea
… I had no idea she’d send her cronies to retrieve Clare. But if I admit­ted
my lie … ” He swal­lowed hard. “I broke into Clare’s head when they
brought her Under the Moun­tain. I took away her pain, and told her to
scream when expect­ed to. So they … they did those things to her, and I tried
to make it right, but … After a week, I couldn’t let them do it. Hurt her like
that any­more. So while they tor­tured her, I slipped into her mind again and
end­ed it. She didn’t feel any pain. She felt none of what they did to her,
even at the end. But … But I still see her. And my men. And the oth­ers that
I killed for Ama­ran­tha.”
Two tears slid down his cheeks, swift and cold.
He didn’t wipe them away as he said, “I thought it was done after that.
With Clare’s death, Ama­ran­tha believed you were dead. So you were safe,
and far away, and my peo­ple were safe, and Tam­lin had lost, so … it was
done. We were done. But then … I was in the back of the throne room that
day the Attor brought you in. And I have nev­er known such hor­ror, Feyre,
as I did when I watched you make that bar­gain. Irra­tional, stu­pid terror—I
didn’t know you. I didn’t even know your name. But I thought of those
painter’s hands, the flow­ers I’d seen you cre­ate. And how she’d delight in
break­ing your fin­gers apart. I had to stand and watch as the Attor and its
cronies beat you. I had to watch the dis­gust and hatred on your face as you
looked at me, watched me threat­en to shat­ter Lucien’s mind. And then—
then I learned your name. Hear­ing you say it … it was like an answer to a
ques­tion I’d been ask­ing for five hun­dred years.
“I decid­ed, then and there, that I was going to fight. And I would fight
dirty, and kill and tor­ture and manip­u­late, but I was going to fight. If there
was a shot of free­ing us from Ama­ran­tha, you were it. I thought … I
thought the Caul­dron had been send­ing me these dreams to tell me that you
would be the one to save us. Save my peo­ple.
“So I watched your first tri­al. Pretending—always pre­tend­ing to be that
per­son you hat­ed. When you were hurt so bad­ly against the Wyrm … I
found my way in with you. A way to defy Ama­ran­tha, to spread the seeds
of hope to those who knew how to read the mes­sage, and a way to keep you
alive with­out seem­ing too sus­pi­cious. And a way to get back at Tam­lin …
To use him against Ama­ran­tha, yes, but … To get back at him for my
moth­er and sis­ter, and for … hav­ing you. When we made that bar­gain, you
were so hate­ful that I knew I’d done my job well.
“So we endured it. I made you dress like that so Ama­ran­tha wouldn’t
sus­pect, and made you drink the wine so you would not remem­ber the
night­ly hor­rors in that moun­tain. And that last night, when I found you two
in the hall … I was jeal­ous. I was jeal­ous of him, and pissed off that he’d
used that one shot of being unno­ticed not to get you out, but to be with you,
and … Ama­ran­tha saw that jeal­ousy. She saw me kiss­ing you to hide the
evi­dence, but she saw why. For the first time, she saw why. So that night,
after I left you, I had to … ser­vice her. She kept me there longer than usu­al,
try­ing to squeeze the answers out of me. But I gave her what she want­ed to
hear: that you were noth­ing, that you were human garbage, that I’d use and
dis­card you. After­ward … I want­ed to see you. One last time. Alone. I
thought about telling you everything—but who I’d become, who you
thought I was … I didn’t dare shat­ter that decep­tion.
“But your final tri­al came, and … When she start­ed tor­tur­ing you,
some­thing snapped in a way I couldn’t explain, only that see­ing you
bleed­ing and scream­ing undid me. It broke me at last. And I knew as I
picked up that knife to kill her … I knew right then what you were. I knew
that you were my mate, and you were in love with anoth­er male, and had
destroyed your­self to save him, and that … that I didn’t care. If you were
going to die, I was going to die with you. I couldn’t stop think­ing it over
and over as you screamed, as I tried to kill her: you were my mate, my
mate, my mate.
“But then she snapped your neck.”
Tears rolled down his face.
“And I felt you die,” he whis­pered.
Tears were slid­ing down my own cheeks.
“And this beau­ti­ful, won­der­ful thing that had come into my life, this gift
from the Caul­dron … It was gone. In my des­per­a­tion, I clung to that bond.
Not the bargain—the bar­gain was noth­ing, the bar­gain was like a cob­web.
But I grabbed that bond between us and I tugged, I willed you to hold on, to
stay with me, because if we could get free … If we could get free, then all
sev­en of us were there. We could bring you back. And I didn’t care if I had
to slice into all of their minds to do it. I’d make them save you.” His hands
were shak­ing. “You’d freed us with your last breath, and my power—I
wrapped my pow­er around the bond. The mat­ing bond. I could feel you
flick­er­ing there, hold­ing on.”
Home. Home had been at the end of the bond, I’d told the Bone Carv­er.
Not Tam­lin, not the Spring Court, but … Rhysand.
“So Ama­ran­tha died, and I spoke to the High Lords mind to mind,
con­vinc­ing them to come for­ward, to offer that spark of pow­er. None of
them dis­agreed. I think they were too stunned to think of say­ing no. And …
I again had to watch as Tam­lin held you. Kissed you. I want­ed to go home,
to Velaris, but I had to stay, to make sure things were set in motion, that you
were all right. So I wait­ed as long as I could, then I sent a tug through the
bond. Then you came to find me.
“I almost told you then, but … You were so sad. And tired. And for once,
you looked at me like … like I was worth some­thing. So I promised myself
that the next time I saw you, I’d free you of the bar­gain. Because I was
self­ish, and knew that if I let go right then, he’d lock you up and I’d nev­er
get to see you again. When I went to leave you … I think trans­form­ing you
into Fae made the bond lock into place per­ma­nent­ly. I’d known it exist­ed,
but it hit me then—hit me so strong that I pan­icked. I knew if I stayed a
sec­ond longer, I’d damn the con­se­quences and take you with me. And
you’d hate me for­ev­er.
“I land­ed at the Night Court, right as Mor was wait­ing for me, and I was
so fran­tic, so … unhinged, that I told her every­thing. I hadn’t seen her in
fifty years, and my first words to her were, ‘She’s my mate.’ And for three
months … for three months I tried to con­vince myself that you were bet­ter
off with­out me. I tried to con­vince myself that every­thing I’d done had
made you hate me. But I felt you through the bond, through your open
men­tal shields. I felt your pain, and sad­ness, and lone­li­ness. I felt you
strug­gling to escape the dark­ness of Ama­ran­tha the same way I was. I heard
you were going to mar­ry him, and I told myself you were hap­py. I should
let you be hap­py, even if it killed me. Even if you were my mate, you’d
earned that hap­pi­ness.
“The day of your wed­ding, I’d planned to get rip-roar­ing drunk with
Cass­ian, who had no idea why, but … But then I felt you again. I felt your
pan­ic, and despair, and heard you beg someone—anyone—to save you. I
lost it. I win­nowed to the wed­ding, and bare­ly remem­bered who I was
sup­posed to be, the part I was sup­posed to play. All I could see was you, in
your stu­pid wed­ding dress—so thin. So, so thin, and pale. And I want­ed to
kill him for it, but I had to get you out. Had to call in that bar­gain, just once,
to get you away, to see if you were all right.”
Rhys looked up at me, eyes des­o­late. “It killed me, Feyre, to send you
back. To see you waste away, month by month. It killed me to know he was
shar­ing your bed. Not just because you were my mate, but because I … ”
He glanced down, then up at me again. “I knew … I knew I was in love
with you that moment I picked up the knife to kill Ama­ran­tha.
“When you final­ly came here … I decid­ed I wouldn’t tell you. Any of it.
I wouldn’t let you out of the bar­gain, because your hatred was bet­ter than
fac­ing the two alter­na­tives: that you felt noth­ing for me, or that you … you
might feel some­thing sim­i­lar, and if I let myself love you, you would be
tak­en from me. The way my fam­i­ly was—the way my friends were. So I
didn’t tell you. I watched as you fad­ed away. Until that day … that day he
locked you up.
“I would have killed him if he’d been there. But I broke some very, very
fun­da­men­tal rules in tak­ing you away. Amren said if I got you to admit that
we were mates, it would keep any trou­ble from our door, but … I couldn’t
force the bond on you. I couldn’t try to seduce you into accept­ing the bond,
either. Even if it gave Tam­lin license to wage war on me. You had been
through so much already. I didn’t want you to think that every­thing I did
was to win you, just to keep my lands safe. But I couldn’t … I couldn’t stop
being around you, and lov­ing you, and want­i­ng you. I still can’t stay away.”
He leaned back, loos­ing a long breath.
Slow­ly, I turned around, to where the soup was now boil­ing, and ladled it
into a bowl.
He watched every step I took to the table, the steam­ing bowl in my
hands.
I stopped before him, star­ing down.

In an emo­tion­al­ly charged con­ver­sa­tion, Eve­lyn reveals her unwa­ver­ing love to Celia, a sen­ti­ment still burn­ing despite the pas­sage of years and Eve­lyn’s mar­riage to Max. Eve­lyn’s dec­la­ra­tion trig­gers a mix of hope and hes­i­ta­tion, reflect­ing the com­plex­i­ty of their past rela­tion­ship and the soci­etal pres­sures they face. The dia­logue cap­tures Eve­lyn’s des­per­a­tion to rekin­dle what was once lost and Celi­a’s fear of div­ing back into poten­tial tur­moil, both over­shad­owed by the real­i­ty of their pub­lic images and per­son­al oblig­a­tions.

Eve­lyn’s prepa­ra­tion for her trip to Los Ange­les, in hopes of reunit­ing with Celia, is metic­u­lous­ly described, illus­trat­ing her inter­nal con­flict and long­ing. Through the pack­ing of Celi­a’s letters—tokens of their undy­ing connection—readers glimpse the depth of Eve­lyn’s feel­ings. Her inter­ac­tions with her daugh­ter Con­nor and her note to Max con­vey a facade of nor­mal­cy amidst her tumul­tuous emo­tion­al state.

The nar­ra­tive takes a dra­mat­ic turn upon Eve­lyn’s dis­cov­ery of Max in their bed­room, her cher­ished let­ters torn and scat­tered, expos­ing her secret rela­tion­ship with Celia. Max’s con­fronta­tion and insen­si­tiv­i­ty bring to light his super­fi­cial love for Eve­lyn, con­trast­ing sharply with the pro­found bond she shares with Celia. Their exchange lays bare the harsh judg­ment and mis­un­der­stand­ing sur­round­ing their sit­u­a­tion, with Max using derog­a­tive lan­guage and Eve­lyn defend­ing her iden­ti­ty and love for Celia coura­geous­ly.

Eve­lyn’s courage to embrace her truth and declare her inten­tion to leave Max for Celia marks a piv­otal moment, sym­bol­iz­ing her readi­ness to con­front soci­etal norms and her pur­suit of authen­tic hap­pi­ness. The chap­ter elo­quent­ly cap­tures the ten­sion between per­son­al desire and soci­etal expec­ta­tion, the pain of con­cealed love, and the pow­er of truth, set­ting the stage for Eve­lyn’s jour­ney towards self-real­iza­tion and love reclaimed.