Illyrian Bonds

10

A/N: hahaha well uhhhh this one is for my ~dark~ romance girlies. my zade meadows girlies. tw for violence

Feyre's hand lifted to run her fingers across the velvet fabric of the black spaghetti strap dress hanging in the closet. There were no doubts in her mind that it was Rhysand who had meticulously stocked her closet. He'd chosen such intricate and beautiful designs. Feyre smiled to herself as she thought about the fact that Rhys hadn't neglected her comfort either. When she'd been with Tamlin, he'd dressed her up like a porcelain doll to parade and groom. Rhysand still bought her plenty of sweatpants and baggy t-shirts, too. He didn't force her into skimpy pajamas every night or demand she look proper. Sure, he had bought her things he found beautiful, but he had always kept Feyre at the forefront of his mind. He was just thoughtful like that.

    The boys were out tonight. Rhysand had them up in Illyria working over some plans they'd  formulated for reforming their childhood home into something they could be proud of. So reluctantly, they'd left Feyre at home. She needed the time to herself, too, so she wasn't too upset.

    So, like any woman left home alone, she wore a baggy shirt with underwear and no pants, wine glass in hand as she danced to herself in the closet, humming and taking in the beautiful clothes being displayed in their department store size closet.

    And yeah. Maybe she had the urge to play dress up. Whatever.

    She pushed the black dress aside to view the low-cut robin's egg blue top behind it with a pleased hum. Rhysand had known her color palette, too. He didn't pick any colors that washed Feyre's pale skin out, making her look like a ghost. She bit her lip, once again feeling the glowing warmth settling in her chest at the thought of her mate, her Bonded.

    Feyre gasped, spit choking her as a firm hand covered her mouth, yanking her back into a rock-hard chest, not quite tall enough to be her bat boys. The familiar scent washed over her, and all the blood drained from her face.

    "Tamlin?" She tried to say against the hand, but her voice was muffled nearly into extinction. He shushed her. The room began to spin slightly as Feyre's brows furrowed. There were three chandeliers chasing one another in circles. She couldn't quite focus, couldn't quite... remember? Wait...

    Feyre's eyes drifted closed, and she fell down into that dark abyss, the shadows clinging to her and holding her down as it dragged her deeper into its clutches. Then there was nothing.

—--------------------------------------------

    Feyre groaned, opening her eyes and rubbing the sleep from them. What a weird ass dream. She sighed, rolling over into her pillow and closing her eyes once more. It had to be so early. She could probably sneak in a few more hours of sleep before her Bonded came home.

    But it was the smell- and then the texture- of the pillow that sent her scrambling from the bed, the sheets tangling in her legs and sending her sprawling onto the cold hardwood. The cold, nauseatingly familiar hardwood.

    The light scent of the floral abundance of the Spring Court invaded her senses. Panic flooded her, her chest heaving as she blinked wildly. If she blinked hard enough maybe she'd wake up for real this time.

    "I didn't mean to scare you," she jumped out of her skin as the voice behind her rumbled. Spinning, she saw a shirtless Tamlin in the decorative armchair in the corner of her room, smiling softly as his blonde locks hung loose around his face.

    He was only wearing the linen sleep pants he always wore to bed. A chill crawled across the surface of her skin as she realized she was still only wearing a shirt and her underwear. Had he been sleeping next to her?