Feyre had been at the Night Court for several months. And while she’d initially been afraid of the Fae in general, and Rhysand specifically, she’d long since become accustomed to him and his inner circle. She was adjusting, becoming used to life there. She might even have been coming to care for the High Lord. Especially when he looked at her with those heated violet eyes.
They’d been dining alone that evening - Mor off partying with Cassian and Azriel, and she’d been about to say something when Rhys stiffened, ordering her in a whisper to not move an inch. The taste of magic in the air tickled her nose. He must have put a glamour over her. And then a golden haired lord entered the room, sneer firm on his face and Feyre’s breath caught. Rhys had sensed him coming. Whoever he was.
“I don’t believe I invited you into my court, Tamlin,” Rhys drawled.