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separatist-apologist · 2 years

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High Tide Came And Brought You In

Summary: Desperate to escape her impending marriage, Feyre throws herself from a cliffside. Anything is better than what's waiting for her.

Even the monster hiding in the waves.

Happy BEACH DAY for @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

YOU KNOW WHAT THIS IS DONT PRETEND LIKE YOU DONT

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Warning: attempted suicide, tentacles used inappropriately

Feyre wasn’t going to marry him.

Not in a year, or a million years. Not to save her ruined family and certainly not because her father, a man who had only ever noticed her in the periphery, decided someone ought to. Not Nesta, who’d flat out said no and was so terrifying even their father yielded. And not Elain, who the prince had taken one look at before discarding. His attention fell solely on her, those green eyes brightening with a hunger Feyre didn’t particularly care for.

Each time that golden-haired prince tried to set a date, Feyre threatened to throw herself into the sea, and each time Nesta bullied their father until it was pushed back and back and back. Feyre is too young, Nesta would scream, and their father would cow at the sight of their mother's furious face reflected in his eldest daughter's countenance.

Feyre bought three whole years that way. And then, Nesta was shipped away, far, far north and Elain was sent south and for the first time in Feyre’s life, she was isolated. Trapped in a crumbling palace, Feyre decided it was time to make good on that promise. She wasn’t going o marry a beastly man just to save her father from ruin.

Feyre had heard a story of a western princess who drowned at sea. Pulled beneath foaming waves by a creature so unearthly, so grotesque, and terrifying that no one dared to speak its name, let alone capture its likeness.

And Feyre, desperate as she was, was jealous. That princess vanished from an equally miserable wedding, escaping what was likely to be a cruel marriage to an intolerable man. Feyre had to wait, given her betrothed was currently in her home, sleeping a mere two doors down. He’d come to set an unmovable date, declaring he would remain until the marriage was done.

He’d force his way regardless of her own opinion. It was enough to spur Feyre into action. She didn’t bother with shoes, or a jacket, or anything that might convince her to turn back. A light, spring rain caressed her skin when she stepped into the night, her feet sinking into the muddy grass.

Feyre turned to look over her shoulder at the once magnificent manor. It had been a wedding gift from her mother's family, gifted by the king for such a profitable and favored union. Her mother had died long before, taking all their father's will to live with her. It wasn’t that he missed her, or even that he loved her—it was his unwillingness to put any care into that home. He simply did not care, and was so tight-fisted that Nesta wasn’t allowed to step in and run things like she might have.

One of the spiraling towers had crumbled in a particularly vicious storm, taking the entirety of the east wing with it. Curling vines had pulled more stone back to the earth, as if the world was physically taking back what had been stolen. In the silvery moonlight, Feyre half thought the entire place looked abandoned. A fairytale she’d accidentally stumbled on, one that she ought to leave alone.

She turned back to the dark landscape, forcing one foot in front of the other. She was shaking with fear by the time she reached the very edge of the cliffside. Beneath her, the inky ocean churned with a ferocity that nearly sent her running back inside, tail tucked between her legs. She didn’t want this.

She didn’t want to be married, either. If Tamlin learned she’d come out here, he’d put guards on her at night like he did during the day.

Still, Feyre didn’t think she could go through with it. She stood there, toes hanging off the edge of the cliff, and just watched the water crash towards her—taunting her. Moonlight reflected silver over the surface, creating shimmering bands of violet just beneath the foam. The wind whipped around her, blanketing her gently.

As if promising whatever was waiting at the bottom of the sea would be gentle. Kind. Feyre lifted her foot, took a deep breath, and before she could truly consider the utter insanity of her plan–or the fact that at her core, she liked being alive, she flung herself into the night air. For one blissful moment, Feyre felt free. Like she was flying, weightless in a world so hell-bent on beating her into the dirt.

And then she hit the water, and all her good sense, along with her self-preservation, came screaming back.

What are you doing?! Her mind demanded as her body tumbled in the water, locked up from the shock of cold. The world might be warming, but the water sure hadn’t. Feyre didn’t mean to gasp, and thus flood her lungs with the burning sting of salt water—her body was merely operating on instinct.

And her instincts were apparently very stupid. She tried to open her eyes, which only served to terrify her further. There was nothing to look at, which made her imagine the worst sort of lurking monsters. Had she wished to be that drowned princess to the west?

Stupid.

Feyre struggled for the surface, bounced back and forth by water that no longer felt playful. Feyre’s body was dying and unlike her hope that perhaps it might be easy or kind, it was in fact painful—torture. She flailed, desperate for even a breath of air, when something smooth slid over her bare leg.

She twisted in the water, wondering if she’d floated down so far she was now at the seabed, trapped in a tangle of weeds. The lack of light was disorienting, and the need for air was choking the rest of her good sense. Feyre kicked at whatever slithered up her leg. If some fish meant to make a meal of her, it would have to wait until she was well and truly dead.

Her sluggish brain forced another breath from her, sucking in more water she couldn’t expel. Feyre blinked against the salt, her vision spotting. She swore it was hands circling her ribs, that it was a cold chest she was being cradled against. The last vestiges of a frightened brain look for meaning, she decided, because when she opened her eyes, it was a dark tentacle wrapped over her middle, pulling her through the water.

Feyre was grateful for unconsciousness.

She slipped in and out. She had the vaguest sense of water being expelled from her lungs while a voice, rich like the night around her, murmured, that’s a good girl. And she thought, once, she blinked open her eyes to find herself staring at a pair of twinkling violet stars, only to lose focus and slip back into sweet, blissful nothing.

Feyre dreamt of a truly beautiful face. Golden brown skin and hair so black it gleamed blue in the moonlight. A sensual mouth pulled upwards with a graceful smile, his well-groomed, dark brows raised into his wet hair.

“There you are,” she dreamt, his long, sturdy fingers brushing hair from her face. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She knew he didn’t exist because that man, for all his broad shoulders, sculpted torso, and bulging biceps, was made of tentacles at his tapering waist. And when Feyre actually woke to a mouthful of sand and a cheerful spring sun beating down on her, she exhaled a sigh of relief he wasn’t real. That the last dreamt words—I’ll be back for you—were merely a figment of her exhausted imagination.

Feyre picked herself up and plodded back home–there was no hiding what she’d tried to do. Her nightdress was torn and soaked through, her body a tangled mass of sand and ocean debris. Her father’s fury had nothing on the quiet anger radiating from Tamlin. He took her into the study he’d been using and promptly flung a chair across the room while quietly insinuating to her if she ever resorted to such antics again, perhaps it wouldn’t be a chair he threw.

Feyre spent the rest of her day in the bathtub, soaking in hot water until her skin was shriveled and the cold and salt had finally leeched itself from her bones. Feyre fell asleep that night, indulging in a fantasy that there really was a man, and he would do exactly as he promised.

That he’d come back.

In truth, Feyre would have taken any savior over what she currently had. She wanted her sisters or at least a father who wasn’t so motivated by greed to recognize that his youngest daughter had flung herself off a cliff to avoid this terrible marriage he refused to undo. Her father, while not an outright violent man, was a coward. He could solve his problems and only had to sacrifice one daughter to do it.

Feyre forced herself down the next morning in a conciliatory dress of sea foam green. She’d left her golden brown hair in long curls, pulling it off her face with a simple pearl-studded headband. She could get through this. Perhaps, once married, she’d find Tamlin’s home agreeable. He might leave her to her own devices. She could paint if she wanted.

Or run away. That was a different thought, one she kept so private she just barely dared to think about it. Feyre channeled her inner Elain when she stepped into the dining room, dropping ino a graceful curtsey and offering a smile to Tamlin.

Not Tamlin.

Him.

Seated at the far end of the long, wooden table was the man she’d hallucinated. Same dark hair pushed casually off his beautiful face. Same sensual smile, same teasing violet eyes. He was dressed in a black and silver tunic, a match for the circlet set against his brow. He had one long, powerful leg crossed over the other, his fingers tapping impatiently against the arm of his chair.

“My daughter Feyre,” her father said, clearing his throat. Feyre opened her mouth to say they’d met, but the stranger interrupted.

“Fey-ruh,” he said, as though tasting the words in his mouth.

“My betrothed,” Tamlin added, his eyes narrowed to slits. That seemed to amuse this lord, whose eyes never left her face.

Is that so, he seemed to wordlessly taunt.

“Feyre, this is King Rhysand of the Southern Isles,” her father explained with some embarrassment. “He’s staying only for the evening.”

“I was robbed,” he explained as if that made any sense at all. Feyre opened her mouth to call him a liar, but he raised his brows and cocked his head in warning.

Don’t spoil our fun.

“How unfortunate,” she murmured, taking her usual seat beside Tamlin. She didn’t dare look at him again, well aware Tamlin was watching her like a hawk. “Your majesty–”

“Rhysand,” he all but purred. Beside her, Tamlin stiffened, as if he somehow knew they’d met before. “But for you, Feyre darling, call me Rhys.”

She dared to look up at him and instantly regretted it. All at once, her heart sped up, leaping into her throat where it pounded a furious, traitorous beat. A new plan began to take shape in her mind. Perhaps she could beg this stranger to take her with him. To shelter her, at least long enough to find a better plan. One that offered her agency, if nothing else.

Freedom.

Seeking him out was a wholly different matter. After breakfast, Tamlin demanded she escorted him through the gardens, warning her not to get too close to the stranger.

“I’ve never even heard of the Southern Isles,” Tamlin had grumbled, as if his knowledge was all that existed in the world. To Feyre, that only added to the allure of Rhys. Somewhere Tamlin had never heard of? Perhaps it was too far for one of his ships then, too. Maybe Rhys lived somewhere so remote that even in a hundred years, Tamlin would never reach her.

She managed to track him down in the ruined part of the castle. She’d watched him slip behind a door quick as a shadow and followed just behind. She’d ditched Tamlin’s sentries back in the library, who, as far as she knew, still thought she was asleep beneath that heavy blanket.

Rhys was panting as though he’d run a mile, his hand pressed to the damp stone.

“Are you well?” she asked. She turned quickly, some color reblooming on his golden cheeks.

“Perfectly so,” he said, eyes straying towards the glittering amethyst water in the distance.

“Do you swim?” she asked, thinking it might be fun to walk along the same beach she’d washed along two days before. She wanted to ask him something else—did you rescue me?

The teasing smile curved along his lips was answer enough. “Quite well, my lady.” Yes.

“Lord Tamlin says he’s never heard of the Southern Isles,” Feyre continued, wondering how bold she could be.

Hand still planted along the stone, Rhys turned to face her. “Why were you in the water the other night, darling?”

No pretending, then. Feyre sucked a breath in through her teeth and decided to lie, lest he think she was insane. “I slipped.”

His eyes flashed. “Oh? Off a cliff?”

“It was windy—”

“It was not,” he interrupted, not moving from his post. He seemed to be glued to the wall, revealing the whites of his knuckles. Feyre thought the rigid way he held his body betrayed his silent suffering of pain. As if it were agony standing there talking to her.

“Do you know what I think?” he whispered, rooting her to place among the ruined wing of the estate. Feyre was held captive by his gaze, as though he’d wrapped a string about her neck whose very presence bound them in some deep, interlocking way. “I think you jumped to escape your marriage.”

She shook her head, but he knew what a liar she was. “I didn’t,” she whispered.

“No,” he conceded, some soft breath of air escaping him. “An accident, then.”

Feyre was trembling when he looked away, releasing her from whatever spell he’d wound. She almost collapsed to the ground abandoning her plan to ask him for help. Feyre turned her back to him, though it made the hair on her neck stand upwards. She paced to the door, halting when she touched the cool, silver handle.

“Were there tattoos on your chest?” she asked, blinking at the memory of him without a shirt…of a creeping, violet-black tentacle caressing her cheek. “Did you—”

Feyre looked over her shoulder, but Rhys was gone.

Dinner was odious—it was clear Tamlin meant to one-up Rhys at every turn, who only seemed amused by their little game. Feyre pushed the food around her plate, feeling very much like a pawn caught in the middle of a game she did not understand. Every time Feyre closed her eyes, she saw Rhys looking down at her and whenever she opened them, she saw Tamlin watching her. There was no escape, not when the golden prince followed her to her bedroom and pressed a hand against the door.

“What is the point of waiting?” he began, but Feyre merely snapped it shut in his face. The point was, she almost said, that she was tired. Feyre changed into a thin nightdress, discarded her headband, and crawled into bed. Outside her window, she could hear the sea crashing and, distantly, a melodic call beckoning her to join. The music—whatever it was—made her restless.

She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she did jerk awake in a panic. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, revealing her soon-to-be husband standing just beside them, peering out at the ocean with a moody expression.

“Tamlin?” she asked, understanding what frightened her. He was forbidden from her chambers until the day they were wed and was, currently, trespassing in forbidden space.

“The Lord is still here,” Tamlin told her, as if they were united in their hatred of him. Feyre was more intrigued, though she didn’t dare admit that. Instead, she pulled her covers up to her chin, hiding any part of her form from him. “He wants to take your father's court out for a swim. Apparently, he has access to great wealth and a large ship—all of which arrived in the dead of night.”

“That’s lucky for him, then,” Feyre commented, wishing Tamlin would leave. It was as if he didn’t realize how uncomfortable he’d made her, or had any sense this intrusion was not welcome.

He continued to stare, color creeping up his neck.

“He wants to repay your father for his generosity.”

Feyre’s patience reached her limit. “So?”

Tamlin finally turned to look at her, eyes blazing. “So, I have never heard of a monarch ruling so far south, first of all. He overstays his welcome, showering the palace with gifts–”

“We need the help,” Feyre interrupted, frustrated by Tamlin’s lack of gratitude. “If he wants to pour gold into fathers coffers, that only spares you a later expense.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well. You should dress for his boat. Your father insists we spend the afternoon there.”

Feyre offered him a saccharine smile. “As you say.”

Tamlin swept from the room furiously, unaware that Feyre still intended to align herself with this strange, foreign prince. If he so easily angered Tamlin, she thought it was all the better. Feyre dressed in a buttery rose-colored dress, with fluttering sleeves. She left her hair unwound around her face, devoid of pins or a headband to keep it from blowing in her face. Feyre would have preferred a simple braid slung over her shoulder, though many women found that stylish to be too childish.

And she wanted to leave just enough of an impression on Rhys that he was willing to shield her, at least for a time. She found him, along with the majority of her father's court, her father himself, and Tamlin, milling about the open dining hall with clear excitement. Several large chests of gold had been hauled in, proving Rhysand was, if nothing else, exactly who he said he was. If this was his show of good faith, no wonder Tamlin was so frustrated.

It was a measuring contest, of which Rhys was winning.

Unlike the other courtiers, Rhys’s dark hair was windswept rather than neatly styled, as if he’d flown on a particularly kind breeze. He’d forgone his elegant tunic for a black shirt half laced over his chest so he could see the whorling ink against his golden brown skin. Tamlin clocked the way Rhys smiled at her, causing Feyre to look away.

She didn’t need any more scrutiny than she already had.

“Are we ready—”

“Feyre hasn’t eaten,” Rhysand interrupted her father, nodding towards a table already picked apart by greedy fingers.

More disapproving frowns kept her from accepting the chair he’d pulled out. “I’m fine.”

“She eats like a bird,” her father agreed while Tamlin nodded fervently. Feyre’s eyes slid back to Rhys, letting him see the defiance flash, if only for a moment. He swiped a croissant from the table and, striding towards her, put it in her hand.

“I’ve never met a woman who ate that delicately,” he replied, his eyes wholly on her face. Feyre swallowed, noting the pastry was filled with heavy chocolate. “A day on the water will suck the life right out of you if you’re not careful.”

Something about his words felt distinctly like a promise.

The ship was large enough to keep Feyre far away from Tamlin, though she noticed in the wake of the breakfast debacle, he continued to try and feed her—or otherwise ply her with sweet wine that made her headache under the increasingly hot summer sun. While they all remained mostly indoors on the rocking yacht, Feyre made her way towards the edge of the ship where she could sit on a railing and dip her legs into the crystalline water. It was warmer in comparison to the night she’d jumped.

Calmer, too.

A splash on the side of the ship revealed Rhys had convinced several younger courtiers to hop into the water with him. He was close enough that she could see the gleaming droplets on his skin, but not so close she could hear the murmuring conversation. He saw her, grinning like a rogue and waving a hand before reclining backward. Shirtless, his hair flopping in his face, and utterly beautiful.

He was, undoubtedly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life.

She turned her attention back to the vast expanse of sea, wondering where he came from. Would he take her with her when she went to him that evening and begged? Or would he scoff, unwilling to start an incident with a new ally? She wanted to believe the gold was more than a gesture of friendship and knew too well that men did not pay bride prices.

Her father had already given everything they had to Tamlin. He could only return the gift Rhysand had given, were Rhys ever interested. Feyre kicked her legs into the water sullenly, her dress floating like sea flowers around her. Sighing, she wondered if she couldn’t convince one of the serving staff to row her back to the distant shore.

Something cool drifted over her skin, eliciting a panicked shriek as she pulled back. Seaweed, she told her pounding heart when her foot came back to the surface unharmed. Feyre forced her foot back into the warmth where once again, the tangled weeds slid over her shin.

Teasing. She swore there was a method to the rocking madness, something too firm to be plant life. Peering into the water, Feyre thought maybe it was a playful school of fish swarming, given the way little mouths seemed to kiss over her skin. She kept herself still—even when she thought what was lurking just below seemed more like a moving shadow than anything distinctly animal.

Something she’d seen, hazy, once before.

Her eyes drifted to where Rhysand floated lazily with a ring of other men, his eyes burning like starlight as he watched her right back. He’d drifted closer, his lower half utterly invisible in the gentle waves.

Up, up, up, the sucking touch went, until whatever it was had breached the water entirely to continue gliding over her thigh. Feyre was panting, her heart racing. She reached for the hem of her dress, earning a soft slap against her leg and Rhys shaking his head almost indiscernible. She wanted to ask what he was doing, but more of those thick, prodding arms had wrapped around her ankles, tugging her into the water with a friendly splash.

Feyre went under for a moment, eyes blurred against the stinging salt water. It wasn’t a school of fish or seaweed, but a large, splintered tail, wholly attached to the shirtless Rhysand just above.

She twisted, fingers gripping the edge of the boat to haul her face back to safety.

The tentacles of his tail kept her from doing so, though he did let her rest her chest on the wood, cheek pressed into the grain. He was exploring her with abject curiosity, tugging at her underclothes until they vanished deep into the inky abyss.

“Did you fall, darling?” her father called from a higher deck. Tamlin, just beside him, held a goblet of that sickly sweet wine in his hand. His mouth was pulled with disapproval, eyes very much demanding she get back on the boat. Feyre lowered herself back to the water, ignoring the way the smooth appendage rubbed appreciatively between her thighs, as if to say very good girl.

“I’m enjoying the water!” she called back, now braced only on her elbows. Another rub nearly made her moan—it certainly made her gasp.

Tamlin kept his eyes on her even after her father stepped away. “Get out,” he hissed, which only served to inflame her. Feyre parted her now bare body in the water, not that Tamlin could see. She would deny him this–the expectation of having her first. Even if whatever she was currently yielding to was hardly human, and certainly going to damn her in some way.

Feyre slipped an inch in Rhysand’s excitement. He tugged, drawing his own body closer without arousing Tamlin’s suspicion, as though he couldn’t help himself. Perversely, Feyre wanted to feel his hands on her skin, too. His lips, his mouth—all of him as he finished what he’d begun just under her father and Tamlin’s nose.

The warm water met the cool tentacle of Rhys’s tail drawing a shiver down her spine. Feyre was breathing heavily, fingers gripping the edge of the boat as he pushed closer to the nub of flesh just between her legs. She’d only ever dared to touch herself there in the middle of the night, fingers hidden beneath layers and layers of blankets.

It was so open, so brazen when she felt the soft suck. The water lubricated the gesture, drawing hot arousal into her throat. And still, Feyre did not take her eyes off Tamlin, who was trying to intimidate her into bending to his will.

Another gentle flick had her rolling her hips in time with the gentle waves, urging him to keep going. He spread her open obscenely, pulling her knees upwards while arching her spine ever so slightly. Feyre’s eyes fluttered shut as if she were merely warming her skin against the sun.

“That’s it,” she heard Rhys whisper. Her eyes flew open to find Tamlin was gone, along with the men he’d been swimming with. They were alone, unwatched in the water and he was touching her. With both hands on her shoulders, he drew her against his bare chest as he continued to tease and stroke, the feel of him both immensely wrong and utterly right.

His lips ghosted over her shoulder as something else prodded at her open cunt. She squirmed, but Rhys whispered softly, “It’s only my tail, darling.”

“You…” she didn’t know what she was trying to say. Feyre ground her body against him, wishing she could turn and fully look at him. More of those curling arms were tugging at her breasts, exposing them beneath the water while he poked and touched. Rhys’s breath was warm against her neck, nosing her skin just behind her ear.

“Me,” he agreed, his actual hands ripping open her dress. “Have you figured it out, darling? Do you understand?”

Feyre didn’t—and she didn’t care. Instead, Feyre tipped her head backward, exposing her neck as she stared upwards at a cloudless sky. His fingers grasped her now freed breasts, teasing her nipples as another tentacled arm wrapped itself gently around her waist and yet another wound itself against her throat.

“You’re mine,” he nipped at her ear, teeth sharp against sensitive skin. “I’m not leaving without you. I know you want to ask me to take you away. Ask. Ask me, Feyre, darling.”

“Rhys,” she panted, the sound muffled by her own sense of propriety. At any moment Tamlin might return to the deck, might look below and find her losing herself to mindless pleasure, held in a monster's arms.

“Ask,” he ordered, one of the tentacles teasing at her cunt pushing itself inch by inch into her body. Feyre gasped, writhing against the cool intrusion suddenly filling her. She couldn’t think straight, not when so many sensations were pulling her attention. Another of those long arms rubbed at her backside, as if it were preparing her for something else.

Her urge was to tense herself, to push him back and squirm away, even as her blood practically boiled beneath his ministrations.

“Relax,” he murmured, his hands massaging her breasts while he angled her back. Ferye was practically floating against him, her fingers pulled from the boat. They were adrift on the current like weeds, unnoticed by the world around them. She wondered how he’d managed it and decided, when that sucking tentacle was replaced by one of his fingers at her clit, that she didn’t care.

“Ask me,” he whispered again, the prodding tentacle against her ass pushing a mere inch. Ferye moaned, unable to help herself. Feyre rocked, chasing more of the friction. Relaxing helped, along with the warm water and his expert touch. Rhys’s fingers were making Feyre stupid, convincing her that maybe she wanted more than just to escape with him.

“Take me away,” she replied, turning her head to face him. Dark slits against his golden brown skin betrayed gills, her eyes adjusting the true sight of him. His violet eyes seemed darker, more ominous—built to see through the piercing black of the water, so deep not even light could penetrate. Arched ears glistened in the warm sunlight, half hidden under the blue-black of his hair.

There was no hiding what he was. Not below, not above. Rhys pushed further into her body working her from all angles with more appendages than he should have had available to him. She moaned again.

“I should have the night I found you,” he panted, his voice strained. “Should never have sent you back, my pretty, perfect Feyre.”

Feyre moaned again, losing herself entirely. Pleasure was pooling like a bright, burning star in her gut. She was going to finish around a monster's tentacles, on his hand, bound in his arms. She should have screamed—should have demanded he stop.

“Why did you?”

His teeth grazed her shoulder. “I wanted to know who drove you over that cliff. I wanted to know who I had to punish for hurting my mate.”

The word mate ripped through her at the same moment her orgasm did. Feyre might have screamed if Rhys hadn’t yanked her fully into the water, filling her lungs with salt to avoid being detected. He rode her through it, the pumping tentacles reaching a fevered pitch. His excitement was apparent if his own furious heart pulsating against her back was evidence.

Feyre twisted in his arms to look at him as he actually was, stunned by the sheer size of his body. Rhys was large, a creature that seemed as if it couldn’t go as unnoticed as he presumably had. His carved, muscular body tapered into the midnight black tail at his waist covered in shimmering scales glinting blue in the shifting water just overhead before they splintered into eight curling tentacles, some of which were still buried in her body.

Feyre, ignoring the way she was still convulsing around him, reached out a tentative hand and touched his chest. Just to see if he was real.

His eyes rolled upwards. “I’m going to devour you,” he told her with a clear, melodic voice. Feyre wanted to respond, wanted to breathe. She twisted against him, freed from the arms and tentacles holding her. Rhys let her break the surface, though he remained just below, still buried to the gills inside her.

“Ferye!” Tamlin’s voice drew her attention back to the boat which had become smaller in the distance. “Are you okay?” She wasn’t. She could feel Rhys’s mouth sliding down her spine as he pulled apart her still-shaking legs. Devour her, he’d said. She turned to look but he held her in place so only her neck and face were readily available.

Feyre could see what Tamlin surely could, floating like a lilypad between the boat and her body. Her tattered, ruined dress bounced against gentle waves, the focus of Tamlin’s pine-green gaze.

“I…”

A warm tongue slid between her thighs as playful tentacles began gently thrusting back into her. How was she supposed to speak when she could barely think?

“I—” Rhys’s tongue licked a stripe through her still-aching folds, swirling over her clit. Feyre squealed, swearing she heard rumbling laughter just beneath.

“What happened?” he called, and Feyre wished he’d stop talking. She slid her fingers through the floating, silken hair of the male beneath her, urging him not to stop. Not that she thought he would. It was clear he was getting some perverse pleasure from her circumstances, from everyone's panic as they tried to figure out how she’d managed to float unnoticed from his own ship for so long.

Feyre ground her cunt against his face. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, release gathering along her spine. She was going to come again, and again if he willed it. Tamlin couldn’t see, even as he crouched at the edge of Rhys’s ship, growing smaller and smaller with each frantic pass of Rhys’s tongue.

He pushed himself into her with a groan that sounded like thunder. Overhead, clouds had begun to form and the water became choppier, drawing her further from Tamlin even as the boat worked to reach her. She watched through a half-lidded gaze when he scooped up her dress, holding it up to see the shredded seams.

“Rhys,” she panted, her voice lost in the warm wind. “Rhys, please—”

His lips sucked while he fucked, stretching Feyre to the point of insanity. With the flat of his tongue unrelenting as he rubbed, Feyre came with a violent scream of pleasure. It was an unmistakable sound, one she knew Rhys could have silenced sooner than he did. He wanted Tamlin to know, wanted whatever suspicions her ill-gotten fiance imagined to be confirmed before he yanked her under.

Sharp teeth sank into the side her necks as the tentacles in her body receded, leaving Feyre momentarily bereft—and then panicked. She struggled, realizing he might actually eat her and what he’d done between her legs was merely a prelude to the violence.

Tentacles and strong arms pinned her against his chest, holding her utterly still while the blooming maroon of her blood darkened the water just overhead. Feyre swore she heard yelling on the surface, drowned by the crashing of thunder and a streaking bolt of lightning.

“Breathe,” Rhys ordered, his voice ripping through her like a golden cord. The world was sharpening, coming into focus for the first time in her life. Feyre, with burning lungs, had no choice but to do as he said and hope this wasn’t a terrible trick. She inhaled, ignoring the stabbing at her neck and the pulling of her ribs.

Air—glorious and warm—flooded through her in a rush. Rhys’s body relaxed, his hold loosening. “That’s it,” he praised, kissing just behind her ear. “You’re doing so well. Deep breaths.”

“You…” Feyre twisted, not to escape him, even as he pulled her further from the choppy, roiling surface. “Did you plan this?”

“Yes.” He offered her a sensual smile, one wholly devoid of shame or apology. “I told you–I returned you only to learn who had harmed you.”

“And do you know?” she asked, winding her arms around his neck, bringing their faces closer. She could kiss him like this, if she wanted—and Feyre very much wanted to. Rhys nuzzled his nose against hers, lips parted.

“Yes,” he breathed, bubbles floating from his mouth. “I intend to make them suffer as you would have, had I not been there when you jumped.” He slanted himself against her, holding her as his tentacles rose overhead, terrifying and large like corporeal shadows. Feyre closed her eyes and clung to him, wrapping her bare legs against his waist not to keep her steady, but to keep her close.

She understood, at that moment, why the boat had been so important. Why he’d come looking that day, wasting his time getting to know her father, her fiance? As wood splintered over them, echoing even in the violet swirling water, Feyre knew it had only ever been a ruse to lure them away from the palace where a storm blowing through would cover the truth of his fury. Waves crashed overhead, though they remained just as they were, floating safely just out of reach.

“Did you know?” she asked, still kissing him everywhere she could reach. Rhys seemed to vibrate with boundless fury, his face tilted towards the surface. “About the storm?”

“I am the storm, my wife,” Rhys replied, his voice rich like the now night sky around them. “I never lied when I said I was the King of the Southern Isles—those islands, and the water, their shores, their sand—all of it—belongs to me.”

She could feel the whirling current, dragging the ship and everyone who’d been aboard further and further into the abyss—he hid the worst of the violence from her, pinning her with his starlit gaze.

“I was always going to take you with me. Leave the gold for your sisters. ”

“How did you end up here?” she asked, caressing his beautiful, terrifying face. “How did you find me?”

“I have been looking for you,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers again. More of the tentacles of his tail slid around her waist, stroking against her skin lazily. “Your life is tied to mine by a string—you can feel it, can’t you?”

Feyre pulled at the muscle in her chest, the cord she’d felt when he’d sunk his teeth into her neck to change her with whatever strange magic he governed. Rhys groaned, sending more bubbles to the heavens. He was dragging her further and further out into the open ocean, the only light his own eyes. She could still see the violent churn of the ship he’d ripped apart, sinking in pieces to the depthless fathoms.

Feyrw turned her head, hiding it from view.

That could have been me, she thought with no small amount of horror. Because she would have jumped again. Had she been forced to go through with the marriage, Feyre would have flung herself off the cliffside a second time, determined to make it stick. No regrets, no last-minute attempts to live.

“You found me,” she said instead, pushing the blue-black strands of hair from his face. His smile softened, chasing the shadowed fears from his eyes.

“I found you,” he repeated, the words echoing through the new, aquatic world around them. “And I intend to keep you.” Rhys took her wrists in his large hands, braceleting them as he ran her fingers down his broad, sculpted chest. Down, down, down, until she was touching the cool, unbroken scales on his tail. Something seamed was pulling apart, and when she turned to look, Feyre understood that Rhys, for being a monster, was put together much like a regular man.

If regular men had two cocks one atop the other. He was achingly erect, the first much thicker than the second, though both were strangely tapered just at the end. Ferye had the sense that Rhys, with his tentacles, had been preparing her for something.

Now she knew.

Their eyes met for only a moment. His chest rose and fell with his anxiety, waiting for the moment she’d finally rebuke him. Feyre drank him in, the writhing mass of dark shadow trailing around him, still holding her casually—she could have pushed away. Feyre thought he’d let her go if she wanted.

She wrapped her fingers around the first, tugging experimentally. Rhys gasped, eyes widening with clear and obvious surprise.

“Be gentle,” she said, the words pressed to his mouth.

“Whatever you command,” he replied, his words coming in short, panting bursts.

Feyre tugged at the strands of his hair, ripping to bring them closer. The slide of their slick bodies shoved her hand off his cock which was just as well. She wanted to touch him, wanted to know every groove, every contour of his body just as thoroughly as he was coming to know her own.

He moaned, the sound of music in the churning silence around them. They were alone in the inky sea, floating just beneath a storm of his design. Feyre clung to him, tasting the inside of his mouth when his lips parted, allowing her to sweep inside. Every inch of him was decadent, seemed made specifically for her.

She swore he tasted like citrus and salt, like the sea made tangible. She rubbed herself against his cock, slick even in water.

“Will I–” he captured her lips, one hand on the back of her neck, the other kneading at her ass. She spread her legs without realizing what she was doing, giving in to the instinct of wanting—no, needing—more of him. “Will I have a tail, too?”

He groaned. “I’m told it takes some time, but yes.” He made it sound as if he wanted nothing more in the world than to see her take scales, just as he had. “You’ll be able to move far freer on land than I will.”

“Why would I ever want—Rhys, Gods—” he punctuated her question with a push of both cocks into twin holes, making a compelling argument for why there were two. Forehead to forehead, the two did nothing but breathe while he worked himself inside her. Rhys’s fingers dug into the bone of her hips, gently pulling her onto him while one of his tentacled arms snaked over her shoulder, wrapping carefully about her throat.

It wasn’t like before—that stretch had nothing on the strange, throbbing cock now pushing inch by inch into her willing, wet cunt. Fully seated, Feyre squeezed tightly around him, looking for any room to breathe. Rhys merely panted, kissing and quietly begging some god she’d never heard of for mercy.

“Is it okay?” she asked when he kept himself there, letting her warm him with her body when all she really wanted was for him to move.

“Fuck—Feyre, your body, I—”

His words choked into an intelligible moan, hips rocking slowly, still letting her acclimate to being filled as she was. She was used to it, stretched to absolute capacity and burning beneath the sensation. Feyre felt like a comet caught in his gravity, pulled home without ever knowing that was what she’d been looking for.

“More,” she pleaded when it was clear he meant to ease her into him until she died. “Rhys, please—”

His mouth bruised against her. “You don’t have to beg. Not me. Not for anything,” he growled, teeth nipping at her neck. More tentacles wrapped around her arms, inclining her until she was angled just enough for him to fuck himself into her. Fingers spanning her ribcage, Rhys drove relentlessly, like the monster she’d once thought she was.

Brutal, pounding force was the only threat of drowning Feyre faced, even beneath the volatile waves. There was a strange beauty to the violence, both lurking in her chest and crashing overhead. All of it was punctuated by him, controlling the world like a vengeful, unforgiving God.

But to her–and perhaps only to her—his touch was loving. Gentle. Hard only because she’d asked him not to hold himself back. Unleashed, Rhys was magnificent, his hair floating around his glorious face, and when another tentacled arm of his tail slid over her taut stomach to rub at her clit, Feyre thought she’d never wanted anything or anyone more.

Feyre came with a scream she thought overpowered the raging storm, her body clamping hard against his cocks. Rhys pushed, stretching the ringed muscle of her ass and cunt to the point of pain, as though he was trying to fuse their flesh and make them one. Hips jerking, she felt him come, spending himself with a whimpering jerk.

All at once, he released her, pulling her against his chest as he slipped out of her body. The water washed away the worst of their sins, and the absence of him left Feyre strangely bereft. For a moment she clung to him, focusing on nothing but pushing air in and out of her lungs.

His hands slid up her bare spine.

“What now?” she asked him, inclining her head to look at him.

Rhys stroked her cheek. “Now we go home.”

#do i tag this?#like more than it already is?#you know what i trust the feysand girlies #feysand #DONT MAKE ME REGRET IT

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