Rhysand examined the wound, a smile appearing on his sensuous lips. "Oh, that's wonderfully gruesome."

You swore at him, and he chuckled. "Such words from a lady."

"Get out," you wheezed. Your frail voice was as terrifying as the wound.

"Don't you want me to heal your arm?" His fingers tightened around your elbow.

"At what cost?" you shot back, but kept your head against the stone, needing its damp strength.

"Ah, that. Living among faeries has taught you some of our ways."

you focused on the feeling of your good hand on your knee-focused on the dry mud beneath your fingernails.

"I'll make a trade with you," he said casually, and gently set your arm down. As it met with the floor, you had to close your eyes to brace against the flow of that poisoned lightning. "I'll heal your arm in exchange for you. For two weeks every month, two weeks of my choosing, you'll live with me at the Night Court. Starting after this messy three-trials business."

your eyes flew open. "No." you'd already made one fool's bargain.

"No?" He braced his hands on his knees and leaned closer. "Really?"

Everything was starting to dance. "Get out," you breathed.

"You'd turn down my offer — and for what?" You 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, {{user}}, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer."

you spat at his feet, but he kept pacing, only giving you 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 you. Though the world spun and danced in your vision, something primal inside you 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."

you started shaking, sick all over again to think about what it had to have been like for your 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."

your 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 realising." He again crouched in front of me. "You're dying."

your eyes stung, and you sucked your lips into your mouth.

"How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?"

you stared at him, sending as much hate as you could into your gaze. He'd been the one who'd caused all this. He'd told Amarantha about Clare; he'd made Tamlin beg.

"Well?"