She didn’t note the city around her, the people who either beheld her face and kept well away or simply went about their business. Didn’t note the vibrant oranges and reds and yellows of the autumn trees or the sparkling blue of the Sidra as she crossed one of the countless bridges spanning its winding body, aiming for its western bank.
Nesta yielded to her fury. Later, she would have no memory of racing up the steps to the loft. No memory of the walk over before she slammed a hand into the wooden door. It shattered beneath her palm, wards fracturing like glass.
Amren and Varian were in bed, the petite female naked as she rode the Prince of Adriata. Both of them halted, Amren twisting toward the door, Varian bolting upright, a shield of water coming around them as Nesta stepped into the room and growled, “You. You thought I shouldn’t even be told what my power can do.”
Amren moved with the swiftness of the High Fae, leaping off Varian, who grabbed a sheet to cover himself as she slung a silk robe around her body. That shimmering wall of water made it seem as if they were beneath the ocean’s surface. Amren shot Varian a look. “Drop it.”
He obeyed, sliding from the bed and shoving his long, muscled legs into his pants.
Nesta snarled at him, “Get out.”
But the Summer Court prince watched Amren, his face tight with concern. He’d stay, go down defending her. Nesta snorted, bitterness coating her tongue. Once, Amren had been that person for her—the person she knew would defend her in a fight, would speak for her. Amren nodded to him, and Varian threw Nesta a warning glare before hurrying from the room.
Presumably to tell the others, but Nesta didn’t care.
Not as Amren said, “I suppose that loudmouthed bastard told you more than was necessary.”
“You voted against me,” she said, her cold voice belying the crack in her chest.
“You have done nothing to prove you are able to handle such a terrible power,” Amren said with equal iciness. “On that barge, you told me as much when you walked away from any attempt at mastering it. I offered to teach you more, and you walked away.”
“I walked away because you chose my sister.” Just as Elain had done. Amren had been her friend, her ally, and yet in the end, it hadn’t mattered one bit. She’d picked Feyre.
“I didn’t choose anyone, you spoiled girl,” Amren snapped. “I told you that Feyre had requested you and I work together again, and you somehow twist that into me siding with her?” Nesta said nothing. “I told them to leave you alone for months. I refused to speak about you with them. And then the moment I realized my behavior was not helping you, that maybe your sister was right, I somehow betrayed you?”
Nesta shook. “You know how I feel about Feyre.”
“Yes, poor Nesta, with a younger sister who loves her so dearly she’s willing to do anything to get her help.”
Nesta blocked out the memory of Tamlin in his beast form, how she had wanted to rip him limb from limb. She was no better than him, in the end. “Feyre doesn’t love me.” She didn’t deserve Feyre’s love. Just as Tamlin hadn’t.
Amren barked out a laugh. “That you believe Feyre doesn’t only proves you’re unworthy of your power. Anyone that willfully blind cannot be trusted. You would be a walking nightmare with those weapons.”
“It’s different now.” The words rang hollow. Was it any different? Was she any different than she’d been this summer, when she and Amren had fought on the barge, and Amren’s utter disappointment in her failure to be anything had surfaced at last?
Amren smiled, as if she knew that, too. “You can train as hard as you want, fuck Cassian as often as you want, but it isn’t going to fix what’s broken if you don’t start reflecting.”
“Don’t preach at me. You—” She pointed at Amren, and could have sworn the female stepped out of the line of fire. Just as Tamlin had done. As if Amren also remembered that the last time Nesta had pointed at an enemy, it had ended with his severed head in her hands. A joyless laugh broke from her. “You think I’d mark you with a death-promise?”
“You nearly did with Tamlin the other day.” So Cassian had told them all about that, too. “But I’ll say to you again what I said on that barge: I think you have powers that you still do not understand, respect, or control.”
“How dare you assume you know what is best for me?”
When Amren didn’t answer, Nesta hissed, “You were my friend.”
Amren’s teeth flashed. “Was I? I don’t think you know what that word means.”
Her chest ached, as if that invisible fist had punched her once again. Steps thudded beyond the shattered door, and she braced for Cassian to come roaring in—
But it was Feyre.
Paint splattered her casual clothes; a smear of white graced her freckled cheekbone. Varian must have run half-naked through the streets to reach her studio. Feyre panted, “Stop this.”
Whether Feyre noted or cared about the splinters and debris on the floor, she didn’t let on as she moved closer. Feyre pleaded, “Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.”
“Did Cassian tell you that?” He’d gone to Feyre, rather than here?
“No, but I can guess as much. He didn’t want to keep anything from you.”
“My issue isn’t with Cassian.” Nesta leveled her stare at Amren. “I trusted you to have my back.”
“I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.”
Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands raised. “This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the House. Amren, you …” She hesitated, as if considering the wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully, “You stay here.”
Nesta let out a low laugh. “You are her High Lady. You don’t need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.”
Feyre’s eyes blazed. “Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.”
“Is it respect that she offers you?” Nesta spat. “Is it respect that your
mate offers you?” Feyre went still.
Amren warned, “Don’t you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.”
Feyre asked, “What do you mean?”
And Nesta didn’t care. Couldn’t think around the roaring. “Have any of them told you, their respected High Lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?”
Amren barked, “Shut your mouth!”
But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling, Feyre whispered again, “What do you mean?”
“The wings,” Nesta seethed. “The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both.”
Silence rippled through the room, the world.
Feyre breathed, “Madja just said the labor would be risky. But the Bone Carver … The son he showed me didn’t have wings.” Her voice broke. “Did he only show me what I wanted to see?”
“I don’t know,” Nesta said. “But I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.” She turned to Amren. “Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?” Before Amren could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. “Didn’t you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for
weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn’t tell you.”
Feyre began shaking. “If I die …” Her gaze drifted to one of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears as she asked Amren, “You … all of you knew this?”
Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta’s direction, but said, “We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.”
“Rhys knew?” Tears spilled down Feyre’s cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. “About the threat to our lives?” She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen.
And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy growing within her.
It broke something in Nesta—broke that rage, that roaring—seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre’s paint-smeared face.
She had gone too far. She … Oh, gods.
Amren said, “I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.”
Nesta couldn’t bear it—the pain and fear and love on Feyre’s face as she caressed her stomach.
Amren growled at Nesta, “I hope you’re content now.”
Nesta didn’t respond. Didn’t know what to say or do with herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the apartment.
 |
Cassian had gone to the river house. That had been his third mistake of the day.
The first had been how clumsy he’d been in asking about a sword name, prompting Nesta’s suspicion. He hadn’t been able to lie to her, so he’d told her everything.
The second mistake had been letting Nesta hide in her room and not barging in to speak to her. Letting her take a bath, thinking it’d cool her off. He’d done the same, and when he’d emerged, he’d followed her scent to the floor with the exterior stairs, where the door stood open.
He had no idea if she had made it out or if she’d collapsed within, so he’d taken the steps, too. All ten thousand of them, her scent fresh and
furious.
She’d made it to the bottom. The door had been left open.
He’d launched skyward, knowing he’d have trouble tracking her scent in the bustling city, hoping to spot her from the air. He assumed Amren was working at the river house, so that was where he’d gone.
Only Amren wasn’t there. And neither was Nesta.
He’d reached Rhys’s study when word came. Not from a messenger, but from Feyre—mind to mind with her mate.
Rhys was at his desk, face tight as he silently spoke to her. Cassian saw that look, knew who he spoke to, and went still. Neither was here, which meant they were probably at Amren’s apartment, and if Feyre was giving a report …
Cassian whirled for the doors, knowing he could be there in a two-minute flight, praying he’d be fast enough—
“Cassian.”
Rhys’s voice was a thing of nightmares, of the darkness between the stars.
Cassian froze at that voice he’d so rarely heard, and never once directed at himself. “What happened?”
Rhys’s face was wholly calm. But death—black, raging death—lay in his eyes. Not a star or shimmer of violet remained.
Rhys said in that voice that was like hell embodied, “Nesta saw fit to inform Feyre of the risk to her and the babe.”
Cassian’s heart began thundering, even as it splintered.
Rhys held his stare, and it was all Cassian could do to weather it as his brother, his High Lord said, “Get Nesta out of this city. Right now.” Rhys’s power rumbled in the room like a rising storm. “Before I fucking kill her.”
