Illyrian Bonds

3

A/N: This is genuinely my magnum opus. I poured my heart and soul into this filth. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. 

The next night, Feyre was staring at herself in the mirror with no small amount of smugness. She'd picked the smallest, skimpiest dress she could on purpose. Rhysand wanted to play dress up and show her off? Oh, she'd make it a show alright.

The white gossamer fabric was borderline sheer. On either side of her body, the dress split from her feet clean up to the top of her hips. The muscled soft skin there was on display, begging the eye to wonder just what else could be hidden under the cobb web fabric. Her pert nipples were faintly visible through the garment, peaked from the cool air and the power she felt admiring herself.

She couldn't wait to see the looks on her Bonds' faces. She blushed her cheeks and lengthened her eyelashes. Plumped and glossed her lips, teasing her hair to look tousled and intentionally messy. She took a deep breath, giving herself a thumbs up in the mirror before scurrying out of the room and into the hallway to meet up with her Illyrians.

Her Illyrians. Gods, was she claiming possession of them already? She needed to remember who she was. Wearing this dress was a phenomenal start. She creaked the door open, expecting dropped jaws and drooling stares.

"Finally," Cassian whined, standing up from where he'd been leaning back against the walls. Rhysand grabbed her arm roughly, yanking her down the hall after them. Azriel didn't even bother looking her way. Like he was too high above her to care.

"We're late," Rhys growled, dropping her arm to straighten the lapels of his black jacket, smoothing his hair into place, and dusting himself off before nodding to the guards to open the doors to the throne room. Courtiers halted their motions and conversations to direct their entire focus to where the four of them now stood on the threshold. Rhysand looked bored. What had him in such a foul mood?

Rhys offered her his arm, but she scoffed at him, rolling her eyes and walking ahead of them all into the room. Rhysand was moments behind her, gripping her arm roughly again as he drug her along with him toward the carved obsidian throne at the pinnacle of the room.

He sat down on the stone, spreading his legs wide to make room for her. He patted his thigh, beckoning for her to sit on his lap. She opened her mouth to protest, but he gripped her hips with force, digging his fingers in painfully, and yanked her back onto his lap. She squeaked, ass pressed against his warm thigh. She squeezed her legs together, already regretting her outfit choices.

With a wave of his hand and haughty roll of his eyes, Rhysand dismissed his Court to galavant amongst themselves. Feyre watched Azriel and Cassian wade into the crowd, friends calling out to them and females giggling as they brushed past.

"You get off on that?" Rhysand growled into her ear. "Do you get off on acting like a brat and embarrassing me in front of my Court? Is that any way to treat your High Lord, Feyre?" She almost cracked a smile until she saw just how serious he was. Oh.

Heat swirled low in her gut.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered.

Rhysand hummed, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.

"No you aren't," he said, voice flat and emotionless. "But it's okay. Brats get punished, and I cannot wait to punish you." His eyes sparkled with wickedness and a shiver whispered down her spine, spreading goosebumps across her skin.

His hands gripped her hips possessively, fingers grasping bare skin. He growled, tugging her back closer to him. She relaxed into his touch. He ran teasing strokes down the sides of her rib cage, a mere ghost of a touch. Her body was a livewire, reacting to every move he made.