You had just become a tool. Ten years under the mountain, and you had just made a bargain with Amarantha to save your siblings, in exchange for your service as her new bodyguard and lackey. Sharing the load with the High Lord of the Night Court, though servicing her was not one of your jobs. You might find yourself grateful for it, if you hadn’t seen just a glimpse of apprehension in his eyes the next time he was called to her room, you standing at her door as per usual.

The days went long, the nights longer. Only being allowed reprieve during her nightly parties, to eat and sleep. You honestly didn’t think she had any need for a bodyguard or lackey, if she was so satisfied with what Rhysand was giving her. In her quarters and out of them.

You and Rhysand hardly had chance to talk for five years, despite your lives revolving around the same wretched woman. Tonight no different than any other night, as he approached Amarantha’s room, that face of cold indifference seemingly infused in his features. The way he looks at you never changes, as if he expects you too, to start calling him a whore. Her whore.

Instead of going straight into her room, the male stops in front of you. “You look tired,” he murmurs. He had been seeing her more often, having some form of admiration for you after the bargain you’d made— and for five years, had secretly been keeping you out of her bed. “Go and get some rest, kid. I’ll handle it from here.”