Chapter no 37 – 38

Chapter no 37

The days following the trial blurred into a feverish haze for Feyre, with no relief for her injured arm. The wound remained open, the embedded shard of bone unyielding, and blood continued to seep. Every throb radiated pain so severe it left her breathless, her strength slowly draining as panic gnawed at her. Infection loomed—a slow, creeping threat that compounded her misery. Her cell, damp and frigid, offered no reprieve, and the stale, putrid food only made her sicker. Vomit tainted the air, mixing with the scent of mud still caked on her skin. Sleep came in fleeting, fevered bursts, offering little solace.

It wasn’t the guards or Lucien who finally appeared but Rhysand, stepping out of the shadows like a phantom. His sudden presence twisted her fear into fury, though her weakened body betrayed her resolve. His violet eyes gleamed with amusement, a predator toying with prey, as he mocked her condition and marveled at her gruesome wound. Despite her protests and insults, he crouched before her, inspecting her arm with casual indifference.

Rhysand offered her a deal—a choice between suffering and survival. He would heal her, but the price was steep: two weeks of her life each month in his court. Feyre refused outright, her voice trembling with rage and defiance. But Rhysand didn’t leave. Instead, he painted a grim picture of her reality—how Lucien, punished and under Amarantha’s watch, might not come in time. How her infection would spread, and how, without his intervention, her death was inevitable.

The cold truth struck her. She was dying, and Lucien might not be able—or willing—to save her. Tamlin was trapped, her life was slipping away, and Rhysand held the only lifeline. Desperation clawed at her, but Feyre’s pride refused to yield entirely. She bargained with him, whittling down his demand to a week each month. When Rhysand agreed, she sealed the deal, knowing she had just sold a part of her freedom.

The healing was instantaneous but agonizing. The bone shard shattered, the infection purged, and her body was restored—but not without a price. When Feyre awoke, her arm bore the mark of their bargain. A swirling black tattoo stretched from her fingers to her elbow, intricate and inescapable, with a feline eye staring from her palm—a permanent reminder of the debt she owed.

Rhysand reveled in her reaction, his laughter echoing through the cell. The tattoo wasn’t merely a mark of their bargain; it was a weapon against Tamlin, designed to hurt him as much as it haunted Feyre. Rhysand’s parting words were laced with cruel satisfaction, leaving Feyre with the bitter realization that she had fallen into his trap, even as he saved her life.

As Rhysand disappeared into the shadows, Feyre was left alone in her cell, her arm healed but her spirit weighed down by the choices she had made. For Tamlin, she had sacrificed her freedom. But at what cost? Only time would reveal the true price of her bargain with the High Lord of the Night Court.

Chapter no 38

The weight of my bargain with Rhysand pressed heavier with every passing day, a constant reminder inked into my skin. The dark blue tattoos on my arm—so deep they looked black—were a curse and a mockery. The eye on my palm, in particular, seemed alive, as if it watched me, aware of my every thought and movement. I avoided looking at it as much as I avoided thinking about the High Lord who had branded me with it.

The guards wasted no time in tormenting me, assigning me impossible tasks meant to humiliate and break me. Scrubbing the marble floors of the hallway with filthy water was the first. No matter how hard I worked, the grime only multiplied. I scrubbed until my arms burned and my hands throbbed, my mind spiraling into dark places as the minutes stretched into hours. The guards’ promise to tie me to a spit and roast me alive lingered like a shadow in my thoughts. I could still hear the screams from the dungeons—horrible, guttural cries that seemed to echo in the walls of my cell.

When the Lady of the Autumn Court appeared, stepping through a doorway with her red hair and porcelain skin, I didn’t recognize her at first. Her soft, warm voice was startling in its gentleness. She came to repay a debt, she said, for giving my name in exchange for her son’s life. I had no chance to thank her before she disappeared, leaving only the faint scent of chestnuts and fire. But when I dipped my fingers into the bucket she had touched, the water was clean. Real, clean water.

I poured it over the marble floor, watching as the muck dissolved and disappeared. The task was finished before I knew it, and though the guards scowled when they returned, I relished the brief sense of victory.

The next day brought a new torment: sorting lentils from ashes in a massive, dark bedroom. The fire’s embers glowed faintly in the hearth, the task as impossible as the last. I picked through the soot, my fingers blackened, my back aching, my chest tight with the knowledge that the owner of this room could return at any moment. The guards’ warning rang in my ears: *He’ll peel off your skin in strips.*

When the door finally clicked open, I braced myself with a poker hidden behind my back, ready to swing. But it wasn’t an unknown faerie who entered. It was him.

Rhysand.

Darkness poured in with him, chilling the room as the candles flickered and dimmed. He moved with an effortless, predatory grace, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement as he lounged on the bed as if I were nothing more than a diversion. He didn’t seem surprised to see me, nor did he appear angry. Instead, he mocked the situation, teased me for my shame, for the bargain I’d made with him.

When I snapped back at him, accusing him of lying to Amarantha about Clare, his smile turned sharp. “Amarantha plays her games,” he said, “and I play mine.” He spoke of his powers—of the remnants Amarantha had left him—and demonstrated by conjuring black, membranous wings that flared out behind him like a nightmare. Talons replaced his hands, and the candlelight caught the veins in his wings. He was monstrous and mesmerizing all at once, a vision of something far older and more dangerous than I could comprehend.

He let the transformation vanish in an instant, leaving only the beautiful, infuriating male I had come to loathe. “You have a high-enough opinion of yourself already,” I told him when he waited for flattery. His laugh slid over my skin like a caress, sending chills down my spine.

I dared to ask about Amarantha’s riddle, but his answer was as unhelpful as it was infuriating. He couldn’t tell me—even if he wanted to, her orders made it impossible. Still, he offered a small reprieve: with a snap of his fingers, the soot and grime vanished from my skin and clothes. The fireplace, too, was spotless, and the lentils I had been tasked to sort were neatly piled in my bucket.

Before I could thank him—or question him further—he commanded the guards. His words were silken and cruel, laced with the power to bend their minds. “No more household chores,” he said, “no more tasks. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, gut yourselves with your own daggers.” The guards obeyed, their yellow eyes dull and vacant, and I was left trembling at the force of his control.

“You’re welcome,” Rhysand purred as I was escorted out of the room, his grin one of triumph and amusement. I walked away with my head high, though my legs trembled beneath me. His presence lingered, as suffocating as the ink on my arm, as maddening as the bargain I couldn’t escape.