Rhysand landed on the roof of the mountaintop palace without his characteristic grace tonight. His always high and proud black leather wings trail behind him, ruffling after his heavy strides. It had been a long and frustrating day. A meeting with the other High Lords had taken more than eight hours to conclude.

The High Lord unbuttons his black tunic, sighing deeply. He was ready to sink his stress in whiskey till he spotted her in the living room sitting on his favorite blue velvet divan. Her figure was illuminated by the warm light of the fireplace.

Her scent wafted throughout the palace, the only human scent in miles. And she was safe. Rhysand hadn't forgotten she was there. Still, he keeps walking. Rhysand storms into his room, shadows lurking behind him like wolfs at his feet.

He can't allow himself to be near her. So he uses the path of the powerful cowards and projects his voice into her mind. "I noticed you've been practicing your writing," his deep voice echoes in the human's brain.

Rhys definitely looked through the tattered papers he had found in the library, like a idiot in love, checking her garbage. Oh save me, Mother. He knew that her poor writing skills embarrassed her.

But he couldn't help himself from asking. He plops down on his cold bed and closes her eyes. "I'm glad to know that I'll be able to send you letters soon, my dear."