You nocked an ash arrow into your bow, cringing at the sheen poison coating it. “Thank you for your help,”

The suriels stained teeth blacked against each other. “If you wish to speed your mates healing, in addition to your blood, a pink flowered weed sprouts by the river. Make him chew it.”

You fired an arrow at the snare because you finished hearing the words. The trap sprang free. And the word clicked through you. Mate.

“What did you say?” You asked slowly.

“If you wish to….” the suriel paused, and grinned. “You did not know, then.”

“Say it.” You spit out.

“The High Lord of the Night Court is your mate.”

You weren’t entirely sure you were breathing.

“Interesting.” The suriel said.

Mate. Mate. Mate. Rhysand was your mate. Not lover, not husband, but more than that. A bond so deep, so permanent that it was honored over all others. Rare. Cherished.

The words slipped out of you, low and twisted. “Does he know?”

The suriel clenched the robes of its new cloak in its bone-fingers. “Yes.”

Mate. And he knew—-he had known. You glanced toward the river, as if you could see all the way to the cave, to where Rhysand slept.

———————

You found the pink weed, and ripped it out of the ground as you stalked to the cave. Rhysand was half awake, the layers you’d thrown on him now scattered across the blanket, and he gave you a strained smile as you entered.

You chucked the weed at him, showering his bare chest in soil. “Cure on that.”

He blinked blearily at you.

Mate.

But he obeyed, frowning at the planet before he plucked off a few leaves and began chewing. You tore off your jacket, shoved up your sleeve and strode to him. He’d known and kept it from you. Had the others known? Had they guessed?

He’d promised not to lie. To keep things from you.

And this the most important thing in your immortal existence.

You drew the dagger across your forearm, the cut long and deep, dropping to your knees before him. “Drink this. now.”

Rhys blinked again, brows raising but you didn’t give him the chance to inject before you gripped the back of his head and lifted your arm to his mouth, shoving him against the skin. He paused as your blood touched his lips. Then his mouth opened wider. His tongue brushing your arm as he sucked in your blood. One. Two. Three mouthfuls.

You yanked your arm back. Your wound already closing and you shoved down your sleeve. The color was already returning to his face.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” you said, and he looked up at you exhausted. “You only get to answer them. And nothing more.”

Wariness filled his eyes but he nodded, biting another mouthful of the weed and chewing.

You stared down at him, “how long have you known that I’m your mate,”

Rhys stilled. “You ensnared the suriel?” How he’d piece it together, you didn’t give a shit.

“I said you don’t get to ask questions.” You snapped back at him.

You thought something like panic might have flashes over his features. He chewed on the plant again as if it instantly helped, as if he knew he wanted to be at his full strength to face you. Face this. Color already blooming on his cheeks.

“I suspected for a while,” Rhys said, swallowing once more. “I knew for certain when we stood on the balcony Under the Mountain—-right after we were freed. I felt it snap into place between us.”

He has gone wide-eyed, had stumbled back as if shocked and then vanished. That had been over half a year ago.

Your blood pounded in your ears. “Do the others know?”

Rhys swallowed, searching your face as he slowly replied, “Amren and Mor do. Azriel and Cassian suspect.”