Unable to help the smirk blooming on her mouth, she aimed for the door. But a hand on her arm stopped her.
Cassian’s eyes blazed, the red Siphon tethered on the back of the hand that gripped her fluttering with color. A wicked, taunting smile curved his lips.
“Glad to see you woke up ready to play, Nesta.” His voice dropped to a low rumble.
She couldn’t help the thundering of her heart at that voice, the challenge in his eyes, the nearness and size of him. Had never been able to help it. Had once let him nuzzle and lick at her throat because of it.
Had let him kiss her during the final battle because of it. Barely a kiss—about all he could manage in his injured state—and yet it had shattered her entirely.
I have no regrets in my life, but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta. I will find you again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.
She relived those moments more often than she cared to admit. The press of his fingers as he’d cupped her face, the way his mouth had felt and tasted, tinged with blood but still tender.
She couldn’t bear it.
Cassian didn’t so much as blink, though his grip on her arm gentled.
She willed herself not to swallow. Willed her surging blood to chill to ice.
His eyes again narrowed with amusement, but he let go. “You have five minutes until we leave.”
Nesta managed to step away. “You’re a brute.”
He winked. “Born and raised.”
She managed another step. If she refused to leave the House, Cassian or Morrigan or Rhys could just haul her to Windhaven. And if she flat-out refused to do anything, they’d drop her in the human lands without a second thought. The realization was enough to steel her further. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”
“Noted.” His eyes still blazed.
Her fingers curled once more. She selected her next words like throwing knives. “If you think this training nonsense is going to result in you climbing into my bed, you’re delusional.” She added with a slice of a smile, “I’d sooner let in a mangy street dog.”
“Oh, it’s not going to result in me climbing into your bed.”
Nesta snickered, victory achieved, and had reached the stairs when he crooned, “You’ll climb into mine.”
She whirled toward him, foot still suspended midair. “I’d rather rot.”
Cassian threw her a mocking smile. “We’ll see.”
She fumbled for more of those sharp-edged words, for a sneer or a snarl or anything, but his smile grew. “You have three minutes to get ready now.”
Nesta debated chucking the nearest thing at him—a vase on a little pedestal beside the doorway. But demonstrating that he’d gotten under her skin would be too satisfying for him.
So she merely shrugged and walked through the doorway. Slowly. Utterly unaffected by him and his swaggering, insufferable boasts.
Climb into his bed, indeed.
Those pants were going to kill him.
Brutally, thoroughly kill him.
Cassian hadn’t forgotten the sight of Nesta in Illyrian fighting leathers during the war—not at all. But compared to the memory … Mother above.
Every word, every language he knew had vanished at the sight of her striding past, straight-backed and unhurried as any noble lady presiding over her household.
Cassian knew he’d let her win that round, that he’d lost the upper hand the moment she threw him that little shrug and continued into the hall, unaware of the view it presented. How it made every thought beyond the most primal eddy out of his mind.
Settling himself required the entire three minutes she was downstairs. The Mother knew he had enough to deal with today, both with Nesta’s lesson and beyond it, without descending into thoughts of peeling those pants off her and worshipping every inch of that spectacular backside.
He couldn’t afford distractions like that. Not for a million reasons.
But fuck—when had he last had a satisfying roll in the sheets? Certainly not since the war. Maybe since before Feyre had freed them all from Amarantha’s grip. Cauldron boil him, it had been the month before Amarantha had fallen, hadn’t it? With that female he’d met at Rita’s. In an alley outside the pleasure hall. Against a brick wall. Quick and dirty and over within minutes, neither he nor the female wanting anything more than swift release.
That had been more than two years ago. It had been his hand ever since.
He should have scratched that particular itch before deciding that living in the House with Nesta was a good idea. She was hurting and adrift and the last thing she needed was him panting after her. Grabbing her arm like an animal, unable to stop himself from drawing near.
She wanted nothing to do with him. She’d said as much at Winter Solstice.
I’ve made my thoughts clear enough on what I want from you.
A whole lot of nothing.
It had cracked an intrinsic piece of him, some final resistance and shred of hope that everything they’d endured during the war might amount to something. That when he spilled his heart to her as he lay dying, that when she’d covered him with her body and chosen to die alongside him, she’d chosen him, too.
A stupid fucking hope, and one he should have known better than to harbor. So that Winter Solstice night on the icy streets, when he knew she’d only shown up at the town house to get the money Feyre had dangled in exchange for making an appearance, when she’d asserted that she wanted nothing to do with him … he’d thrown the present he’d spent months hunting down into the frozen Sidra and then busied himself with quelling the growing dissent amongst the Illyrians.
And he’d stayed away from her for the intervening nine months. Far, far away. He’d come so close to making a stupid mistake that night, to laying his heart bare for her to rip out of his chest. He’d hardly managed to walk away with some semblance of pride. Over his cold, dead body would she do that to him again.
Nesta emerged, her braided hair now coiled across the crown of her head like a woven tiara. He made a point not to look beneath her neck. At the body left on display. She needed to gain back the weight she’d lost, and pack on some muscle, but … those fucking leathers.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice rough and cold. Thank the Cauldron for that.
On the veranda beyond the dining room’s glass doors, Mor landed, as if plunging from the thirty feet above the wards was nothing. For her, Cassian supposed it was.
Mor hopped from foot to foot, rubbing her arms and gritting her teeth, and gave him a look that said, You owe me so big for this, asshole.
Nesta scowled, but slung on her cloak, each movement graceful and unhurried, then aimed for where Mor waited. Cassian would fly them both out beyond the wards’ reach, then Mor would winnow them to Windhaven.
Where he’d somehow find a way to convince Nesta to train.
But thankfully, Nesta knew that she had to do the bare minimum today, which meant going to Windhaven. She’d always known how to wage this kind of emotional, mental warfare. She’d have made a fine general. Might still be one, someday.
Cassian couldn’t tell if it would be a good thing. To turn Nesta into that sort of a weapon.
She’d pointed at the King of Hybern in a death-promise before she’d been turned High Fae against her will. Months later, she’d held up his severed head like a trophy and stared into his dead eyes.
And if the Bone Carver had spoken true about her emerging from the Cauldron as something to fear … Fuck.
He didn’t bother with his cloak as he yanked open the glass doors, breathing in a face full of crisp autumn air, and stalked toward Mor’s opening arms.
No ice or snow crusted the mountain hold of Windhaven, but it didn’t stop the bitter cold from slamming into Nesta the moment they appeared. Morrigan vanished with a wink at Cassian and a warning glower thrown at Nesta, leaving them assessing the field stretching ahead.
A few small
stone houses rose to the right, and beyond them stood some new residences made of fresh pine. A village—that was what this place had become recently. But immediately before them lay the fighting rings, right along the edge of the flat mountaintop, fully stocked with various weapons, weights, and training supplies. Nesta had no idea what any of the impressive varieties were, beyond their basic names: sword, dagger, arrow, shield, spear, bow, brutal-looking round-spiky-ball-on-a-chain …
On their other side smoldered fire pits, clouds of smoke drifting to a fenced-in array of livestock, sheep and pigs and goats, all shaggy but well fed. And, of course, the Illyrians themselves. Females tended to steaming pots and pans around those fires—and all of them halted when Cassian and Nesta appeared. So did the dozens of males in those sparring rings. None smiled.
A broad-shouldered, stocky male whom Nesta vaguely recognized sauntered their way, flanked two deep by younger males. They all had their wings tucked in tight, perhaps to walk as a unit, but as they stopped in front of Cassian, those wings spread slightly.
Cassian kept his in what Nesta called his casual spread—not wide, but not tucked in close. The position conveyed the perfect amount of ease and arrogance, readiness and power.
The familiar male’s gaze snagged on her. “What’s her business here?”
Nesta gave him a secretive smile. “Witchcraft.”
She could have sworn Cassian muttered a plea to the Mother before he cut in, “I will remind you, Devlon, that Nesta Archeron is our High Lady’s sister, and will be treated with respect.” The words held enough of a bite that even Nesta glanced at Cassian’s stone-cold face. She had not heard that unyielding tone since the war. “She will be training here.”
Nesta wanted nothing more than to shove him off the nearby cliff edge.
Devlon’s face curdled. “Any weapons she touches must be buried afterward. Leave them in a pile.”
Nesta blinked.
Cassian’s nostrils flared. “We will do no such thing.”
Devlon sniffed at her, his cronies snickering. “Are you bleeding, witch? If you are, you will not be allowed to touch the weapons at all.”
Nesta made herself pause. Contemplate the best way to knock the bastard down a few pegs.
Cassian said with remarkable steadiness, “Those are outdated superstitions. She can touch the weapons whether she has her cycle or not.”
“She can,” Devlon said, “but they will still be buried.”
Silence fell. Nesta didn’t fail to note that Cassian’s expression had darkened as he stared down Devlon. But he said abruptly, “How are the new recruits faring?”
Devlon opened his mouth, then shut it, irritation flashing there at a fight denied. “Fine,” he spat, and turned away, his soldiers following.
Cassian’s face tightened with each breath, and Nesta braced herself, a thrill slowly building in her blood, for him to rip into Devlon.
But Cassian growled, “Let’s go,” and began walking toward an empty training area.
Devlon glared over a shoulder, and Nesta threw him a cool look before striding after Cassian. The Illyrian’s gaze lingered like a burning brand on her spine.
Cassian didn’t go for one of the countless weapons racks stationed throughout the training area. He just halted in the farthest ring, hands on his hips, and waited for her.
Like hell would she join him. She spied a weatherworn rock near the rack of weapons, its smoothness either from the harsh climate or the untold number of warriors who’d taken a seat on it as she did then. Its frigid surface bit into her skin even through the thickness of the leathers.
“What are you doing?” Cassian’s handsome face was nearly predatory.
She crossed her legs at the ankles and arranged the fall of her cape like the train of a gown. “I told you: I’m not training.”
“Get up.” He’d never ordered her like that.
Get up, she’d sobbed that day before the King of Hybern. Get up.
Nesta met his stare. Willed hers to be distant and unruffled. “I am officially attending training, Cassian, but you can’t make me do a lick of it.” She motioned to the mud. “Drag me through it, if you want, but I won’t lift a finger.”
The Illyrians’ stares pelted them like stones. Cassian bristled.
Good. Let him see what a waste of life, what an utter wretch, she’d become.
“Get the hell up.” His words were a soft snarl.
Devlon and his group had returned, attracted by their argument, and gathered beyond the edge of the circle. Cassian’s hazel eyes remained fixed on her, though.
A slight pleading note flickered in them.
Get up, a small voice whispered in her head, her bones. Don’t humiliate him like this. Don’t give these assholes the satisfaction of seeing him made a fool.
But her body refused to move. She’d drawn her line, and to yield—to him, to anyone—
Something like disgust filled his face. Disappointment. Anger.
Good. Even as something crumpled inside her, she couldn’t stop the relief.
Cassian turned away from her, drawing the sword sheathed down his back. And without another word, without a glance, he began his morning exercises.
Let him hate her. It was better that way.
CHAPTER
6
Each series of steps and movements Cassian went through was beautiful and lethal and precise, and it was all Nesta could do to not gawk.
She’d never been able to look away from him. From the moment they’d met, she’d developed a keen awareness of his presence in any space, any room. She hadn’t been able to stop it, to block it out, no matter how much she suggested otherwise.
Go! he had begged her as he lay dying.
I can’t, she’d wept. I can’t.
She didn’t know where the person she’d been in that moment had gone. Couldn’t find her way back to her.
But even as she sat on that rock and stared at the swaying pines covering the mountains, she watched Cassian from the corner of her eye, aware of every graceful movement, the rasp of his steady breathing, the flow of his dark hair in the wind.
“Hard at work, I see.”
Morrigan’s voice drew Nesta’s gaze from the mountains and the warrior who seemed so much a part of them. The stunning female stood beside her, brown eyes fixed on Cassian, admiration shining in them. There was no sign of Devlon or his followers, as if they’d drifted away long ago. Had it been two hours already? Mor said mildly, “He is pretty, isn’t he?”
Nesta’s spine stiffened at the warmth in her tone. “Just ask him.”
No amusement lit Morrigan’s face as she shifted her attention down to Nesta. “Why aren’t you out there?”
“I’m taking a break.”
Morrigan’s gaze swept over Nesta’s face, noting the lack of sweat or flushed skin, the hair barely out of place. The female said quietly, “My vote would have been to dump you right back in the human lands, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Nesta refused to stand, to meet the challenge. “Good thing being Feyre’s sister has its advantages.”
Morrigan’s lip curled. Beyond her, Cassian had halted his smooth movements.
Dark fire simmered in Morrigan’s eyes. “I knew plenty of people like you once.” Her hand drifted to her abdomen. “You never deserve the benefit of the doubt that good people like him give you.”
Nesta was well aware of that. And knew what manner of people Morrigan referred to—those who dwelled in the Court of Nightmares in the Hewn City. Feyre had never told her the full story, but Nesta knew the bare details: the monsters who had tormented and brutalized Morrigan until she was thrown to the wolves.
Nesta leaned back on her hands, the cold rock biting through her gloves. She opened her mouth, but Cassian had reached them, breathless and gleaming with sweat. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to see how things were coming along.” Morrigan pulled her burning gaze from Nesta. “Seems like today was a slow start.”
> Cassian raked his fingers through his hair. “You could say that.”
Nesta clenched her jaw hard enough to hurt.
Morrigan extended a hand to him, and then threw one toward Nesta without so much as a glance. “Shall we?”
Morrigan was a self-righteous busybody.
The thought raged through Nesta as she stood in the subterranean library beneath the House of Wind. A vain, self-righteous busybody.
Cassian hadn’t spoken to her upon their return. She hadn’t waited to see if he’d offer lunch, either, before going to her room and taking a bath to warm her bones.
When she’d emerged, she found that a note had been slipped beneath her door. In tight, bold lettering, it told her to be in the library at one. No threats, no promises to ship her off to the human lands. As if he didn’t care whether she obeyed.
Well, at least breaking him had been accomplished faster than she’d anticipated.
She’d ventured to the library not because of any desire to obey his or Rhysand’s commands, but because the alternative was equally unbearable: sitting in her silent bedroom, nothing but the roaring in her head to fill the quiet.
It had been more than a year since she’d last been down here. Since those terrifying moments when Hybern’s assassins had snuck in, chasing her and Feyre into the dark heart of the library. She peered over the edge of the landing’s stone railing, straight into the black pit far below. No ancient creature slumbered in that darkness anymore, but the dimness remained. And at its bottom lay the ground where Cassian had landed, reaching for her. There had been such rage on his face at the sight of her terror—
She sliced off the thought. Pushed back the tremor that went through her, and focused on the female sitting at the desk, nearly hidden by columns of books stacked there.
The female’s hands were wrecked. There was no polite way of describing them beyond that. Bones bent and knobbed, fingers at the wrong angles … Feyre had once mentioned that the priestesses in this library had difficult pasts. To say the least.
Nesta didn’t want to know what had been done to Clotho, the library’s high priestess, to render her thus. To have her tongue cut out and then deliberately healed that way so the damage might never be undone. Males had hurt her, and—
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