Everything was starting to dance. “Get out,” I breathed.
“You’d turn down my offer—and for what?” I didn’t reply, so he went on. “You must be holding out for one of your friends—for Lucien, correct? After all, he healed you before, didn’t he? Oh, don’t look so innocent. The Attor and his cronies broke your nose. So unless you have some kind of magic you’re not telling us about, I don’t think human bones heal that quickly.” His eyes sparkled, and he stood, pacing a bit. “The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer.”
I spat at his feet, but he kept pacing, only giving me a disapproving look.
“The second option—and the one only a fool would take—would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus Tamlin’s, in the hands of chance.”
He stopped pacing and stared hard at me. Though the world spun and danced in my vision, something primal inside me went still and cold beneath that gaze.
“Let’s say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he’ll come in five days. Perhaps he won’t come at all. Between you and me, he’s been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha’s not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared—such a noble warrior, your High Lord. She listened, of course—but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien’s punishment. Twenty lashes.”
I started shaking, sick all over again to think about what it had to have been like for my High Lord to be the one to punish his friend.
Rhysand shrugged, a beautiful, easy gesture. “So, it’s really a question of how much you’re willing to trust Lucien—and how much you’re willing to risk for it. Already you’re wondering if that fever of yours is the first sign of infection. Perhaps they’re unconnected, perhaps not. Maybe it’s fine. Maybe that worm’s mud isn’t full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you’ll either be dead, or they’ll find your arm so infected that you’ll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.”
My stomach tightened into a painful ball.
“I don’t need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you’ve slowly been realizing.” He again crouched in front of me. “You’re dying.”
My eyes stung, and I sucked my lips into my mouth.
“How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?”
I stared at him, sending as much hate as I could into my gaze. He’d been the one who’d caused all this. He’d told Amarantha about Clare; he’d made Tamlin beg.
“Well?”
I bared my teeth. “Go. To. Hell.”
Swift as lightning, he lashed out, grabbing the shard of bone in my arm and twisting. A scream shattered out of me, ravaging my aching throat. The world flashed black and white and red. I thrashed and writhed, but he kept his grip, twisting the bone a final time before releasing my arm.
Panting, half sobbing as the pain reverberated through my body, I found him smirking at me again. I spat in his face.
He only laughed as he stood, wiping his cheek with the dark sleeve of his tunic.
“This is the last time I’ll extend my assistance,” he said, pausing by the cell door. “Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead.” I spat again, and he shook his head. “I bet you’ll be spitting on Death’s face when she comes to claim you, too.”
He began to ripple with darkness, his edges blurring into endless night.
He could be bluffing, trying to trick me into accepting his offer. Or he might be right—I might be dying. My life depended on it. More than my life depended on my choice. And if Lucien was indeed unable to come … or if he came too late …
I was dying. I’d known it for some time now. And Lucien had underestimated my abilities in the past—had never quite grasped my limitations as a human. He’d sent me to hunt the Suriel with a few knives and a bow. He’d even admitted to hesitating that day, when I had screamed for help. And he might not even know how bad off I was. Might not understand the gravity of an infection like this. He might come a day, an hour, a minute too late.
Rhysand’s moon-white skin began to darken into nothing but shadow.
“Wait.”
The darkness consuming him paused. For Tamlin … for Tamlin, I would sell my soul; I would give up everything I had for him to be free.
“Wait,” I repeated.
The darkness vanished, leaving Rhysand in his solid form as he grinned. “Yes?”
I raised my chin as high as I could manage. “Just two weeks?”
“Just two weeks,” he purred, and knelt before me. “Two teensy, tiny weeks with me every month is all I ask.”
“Why? And what are to … to be the terms?” I said, fighting past the dizziness.