Acotar #rhysand Novels & Stories

"Watch how I break his crown." Rhys vaulted over the broken cage railing, dropping ten feet to land heavily on the concrete arena deck. The impact shattered the flagstones beneath his boots, but he didn't stumble. He straightened up, his broad chest bare, the Apex Core radiating an unshakeable, majestic light that cut through the toxic fog of the stadium. Agnes and Maeve dropped down to the corner platform, Agnes holding her slate high, her fate-ring primed and ready. "You aren't getting any relics today, Malakor," Rhys growled, his deep voice echoing through the empty, cavernous amphitheater. "You're getting what you paid for."

"Who is this Master Dutachi, Asher? And why are we seeking him out?" Asher adjusted his satchel and explained, "Master Dutachi is a renowned magician in these parts. He's known for his deep knowledge of ancient relics and artefacts, particularly those with mystical properties. We're seeking him because he might be able to guide us in our quest for the Amulet of Serapis." Elara nodded in understanding but couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and trepidation. The journey was growing more intriguing by the minute, and the prospect of unlocking the amulet's power was both thrilling and daunting.

Rhys scoffed grabbing her by the wrist. "All the cocaine in the world, and your nose is still in my business." Rhys darkly muttered as Adrian's jaw tensed. Before he knew it, he was lunging forward and tackled him. Amara looked wide-eyed at them as she stumbled back. "RUN, AMARA! RUN!" Rhys screamed as he straddled Adrian and rained punches on him. She looked at Rhys as his desperate angry eyes glared at her. He did not want her to go. She felt her chest tighten once again as she took a few steps back without taking her eyes off Rhys.

Rhysand. Tall, dark-haired, devastatingly handsome in a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He stood at the urinal, magnificent cock in hand—thick, long, veined, already half-hard. I froze, staring. He didn’t flinch or cover up immediately. Instead, he took his time, those intense eyes locking onto mine as he slowly tucked himself away and zipped up with deliberate calm. “You lost, sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough velvet.

The diseased demon dropped, lifeless, its corpse sizzling from the titanium that poisoned its corrupt bloodstream. Rhye whirled around, his breath sawing out from between his lips, clouding in the chill air. “Goddamn it, Jessa– go!” he roared, just as the remaining Rogue vaulted into a further attack on him. Jessa jolted into movement.

Why don’t you try stamping on his fine leather shoes next or snatching the Rolex off his wrist and smashing it off the ground? His lips pursed, he fixed me with a cold, hard glare. “Yes, that’s me, grotty Greyson, also known as grimy Greyson, Greyson Smelliot and Smelly Elliot. I tend to go by Greyson or Mr Elliot these days. You can call me Mr Elliot. I assume we went to school together?” “Zoe, Zoe Smithson.”

“You’ve shocked us both, not that I speak for him, but… if this is what makes you happy, then I guess I’ll have to accept it.” Aaron smiled. Margaret’s eyes welled up. But of course, Rhysand like the arse he kept on proving himself to be won't let us have one nice moment. “I’m sorry,” he said, pushing back his chair. “But no. I won’t support this.” The entire table went still. Aaron’s face twisted with frustration. “Rhys—” “No,” Rhysand cut in, his eyes blazing. “This isn't right. I can't support this!”

Ravyn had agreed, because she was not going to be the one to undermine a commitment Dante had made and also because Rhysand's expression when he was determined about something was nearly impossible to argue with. By Thursday morning Rhysand was already dressed at seven forty-five AM, which was forty-five minutes before he needed to be dressed for anything. He was wearing his outdoor clothes—the ones he'd selected himself, which were the navy shorts and the white shirt and the sneakers that lit up when he walked, which he'd been told approximately four hundred times were for casual wear rather than school but which he maintained were appropriate for all occasions because they made him feel fa

The only thing that should make him suspect it's me has been changed now so I step forward boldly and offer my hand in a handshake. "Dragmir Fenrir, at your service." He nods and plants the most flirty smile he has in his arsenal on his face as he takes my hand. "Rhysand, of the northern Lycans. Eager to have you." I take my hand back and watch him get into the car. Safira is deathly still when I look at her but she's noticed it too. I get into the car and keep my distance from Rhys. I think the playing field just became a tad bit more even.

Each lunge sent a ripple of pain through my side. I winced but didn’t stop. Pain meant progress. Pain meant I was alive. “You should be resting.” I froze at the sound of his voice. Rhysand stepped out of the shadows, arms folded, and expression unreadable. He was shirtless, sweat-slicked, his hair damp like he’d just finished a session of his own. “I’m fine,” I said quickly, not meeting his eyes. “You’re wincing.” “Doesn’t mean I’m not fine.”