She was drunk on the music. But the second dance required no wild spinning or excess of emotion. As if the conductor of the orchestra hidden in this room wanted her to have a breather. Or at least talk to her partner.
Eris’s amber eyes studied hers. “Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away.”
Right. She was to flatter him, keep him on their side. “I just saw you the other week.”
Eris chuckled. “And as riveting as it was to see you send Tamlin scrambling off with his tail between his legs, I didn’t see this side of you. The time since the war has changed you.”
She didn’t smile, but she met his stare directly as she said, “For the better, I hope.”
“Certainly for the more interesting. It seems you came to play the game tonight after all.” Eris spun her, and when she returned to him, he murmured in her ear, “Don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Oh?”
Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, her face neutral and aloof. “She knows the truth but has never revealed it.”
“Why?”
“Because she is afraid of it.”
“You don’t win yourself any favors with your behavior.”
“Don’t I? Do I not ally myself with this court under constant threat of being discovered and killed by my father? Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand wishes?” He spun her again. “They believe a version of events that is easier to swallow. I always thought Rhysand wiser than that, but he tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned.”
Nesta’s mouth twitched to one side. “And you? Who do you love?”
His smile sharpened. “Are you inquiring after my eligibility?”
“I’m merely saying it’s hard to find a good dance partner these days.”
Eris laughed, the sound like silk over her skin. She shivered. “Indeed it is. Especially one who can both dance and tear the King of Hybern’s head from his shoulders.”
She let him see a bit of that person—see the savage rage and silver fire he’d witnessed before Tamlin. Then she blinked and it was gone. Eris’s face tightened, and not from fear.
He twirled her again, the waltz already coming to a close. He whispered in her ear, “They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you outshine her tonight.” His hand stroked down the bare skin of her back, and she arched slightly into the touch.
Nesta made her throat bob, let a hint of color rise to her cheeks.
The waltz finished, and they seamlessly fell into the next dance, a little more demanding this time. She remembered this one from her lessons with Mor—it was lovely and sweeping and like being in a dream, until its final minute became so grand it always knocked the breath from her. Anticipation thrummed through her, brightening her eyes.
“You’re wasted at the Night Court,” Eris murmured as she twirled, skirts enveloping the two of them. “Absolutely wasted.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Another chuckle. Motion lurked at the corner of her eye, but she didn’t break her stare from Eris’s, didn’t halt her steps until—
“Move.”
Cassian’s cold voice cracked through the spell of the music, halting her. He stood before them, amid the sea of people twirling around and around, and even though most wore black, his armor and blades made him seem … different. Like a true piece of the night.
Eris looked down his straight nose at Cassian. “I don’t take orders from brutes.”
Nesta stifled her snarl and said coolly to Cassian, “Am I to understand that you would like to dance with me?”
“Yes.” His hazel eyes were burning with violence. Had he really believed what he’d seen on this dance floor?
Eris bared his teeth at Cassian. “Go sit at your master’s feet, dog.”
It took all her concentration, every moment of Mind-Stilling, to keep from ripping out Eris’s throat. But Nesta shoved her fury down, to the place where she’d stifled her power. “No one likes a selfish partner, Eris.” She didn’t so much as look at Cassian. Didn’t trust what she’d do if she beheld pain in his eyes at Eris’s insult. Feyre and Rhysand had given Eris one of her blades just to ensure his continued alliance. She wouldn’t jeopardize it. So she added with a croon, “Time to share.”
Eris threw her a mocking smile. “We’ll play later, Nesta Archeron.” He ignored Cassian as he aimed for the dais again.
Alone with Cassian, the packed dance floor teeming around them, Nesta demanded, “Are you happy now?”
His face was like stone. “No.” A glance over his shoulder showed her a tight-faced Rhys and Feyre, who were undoubtedly shouting at him mind to mind. But if she and Cassian lingered like this for too long, the spell she’d woven around Eris might be disrupted, and …
Cassian offered up his hand. Swallowed once.
He was nervous. This male who had faced down enemy armies, who had battled to the brink of death more times than she cared to count, who had fought so many dangers it was a miracle he lived … he was nervous.
It softened some crucial piece of her, and Nesta slipped her hand into his, their calluses rasping against each other. His hand slid around her waist, so large it spanned nearly halfway across. She gathered her skirts, and lifted her gaze to his.
Nesta fell back a step, leading him, them, into the dance, and Cassian went with her.
He was not graceful like Eris. He did not instinctively move to each beat like she did. But he kept up, willing to follow her into the music, into the sound and the movement, and his eyes did not, would not, leave her face.
Their steps quickened, and Cassian found his rhythm.
He spun her, and she whipped herself around, his arms waiting to catch her.
His hand on her waist tightened, his only warning as he launched them further, faster into the music. Cassian smiled at her, and the world faded away.
The music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence. He was.
Nesta couldn’t stop it then.
The answering smile that bloomed through her at last, stealing across her face, bright as the dawn.
Cassian would only yield Nesta to Azriel, who swept her into a waltz as easily as breathing.
Wandering over to the wine table to pour himself a goblet, Cassian met the eyes of a few courtiers gawking at Nesta and let them see what would happen if they so much as approached her. They quickly fell away, and he leaned against a pillar, content to watch Nesta dance with his brother.
Mor was at his side a moment later, her lips curving upward. “Looks like our lessons paid off.”
Cassian kissed her cheek. “I owe you one.” They’d been training in secret these past weeks. Mor had been positively giddy when he’d asked for her help.
But her eyes were dark now, her face wan.
“How are you doing?” he asked neutrally, well aware of the people around them. What Mor had been and was now to them.
Mor lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “Fine.” She nodded to Nesta. “I enjoyed seeing what she did.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Though I suppose you didn’t. You just had to cut in, didn’t you?”
He crossed his arms. “Rhys can deal with it.”
“It seems like Rhys is,” Mor said, and Cassian followed her stare toward the dais, where Eris stood beside the thrones, speaking with Rhys and Feyre.
Without Rhys so much as blinking in their direction, Cassian found that Rhys had let him in on the conversation—he was inside Rhys’s mind, seeing and hearing the conversation through Rhys’s eyes. From Mor’s sudden stillness, he knew she’d been brought in, too.
“All right,” Eris was saying to Rhys, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You showed me what I can have, Rhysand. I’m intrigued enough to ask what you’d want in return.”
Feyre blurted into Rhys’s thoughts, What?!
Cassian wanted to echo the same, his entire body tightening. But Rhys didn’t move from where he l
ounged on his throne. “What do you mean by that?”
Lust glazed Eris’s eyes. Covetous, calculating lust. Cassian swallowed his growl. “I mean that whatever you want, I’ll give it to you in exchange for her. As my bride.” He jerked his chin to the box with the dagger at Rhys’s feet. “I’d rather have her than that.”
He danced three dances with her! Feyre squawked. Rhys’s lips seemed to be fighting a losing battle not to smile.
Cassian could only stare at Eris’s throat, pondering whether to strangle him or slit the skin wide open. Let him bleed out on the floor.
“That’s not my decision,” Rhys said calmly to Eris. “And it seems foolish for you to offer me anything I want in exchange for her, anyway.”
His jaw tightened. “I have my reasons.”
From the shadows in his eyes, Cassian knew something more lay beneath the rash offer. Something that even Az’s spies hadn’t picked up on at the Autumn Court. All it would take was one push of Rhys’s power into his mind and they’d know, but … it went against everything they stood for, at least amongst their allies. Rhys demanded their trust; he had to give it in return. Cassian couldn’t fault his brother for that.
Eris added, “It is a bonus, of course, that in doing so, I would be repaying Cassian for ruining my betrothal to Morrigan.”
Asshole. Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but Mor’s fingers landed on his arm. Gentle and reassuring.
Can’t we throw him to the beasts under the cell and be done with him? Feyre seethed to Rhys.
Again, Rhys’s lips twitched. So bloodthirsty, Cassian heard his High Lord croon to his mate. But Rhys said, “Anything I want, whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me in exchange for Nesta Archeron as your wife?”
Cassian growled low in his throat. His brother was letting this carry on too far.
Eris glared. “Not as far as the firstborn, but yes, Rhysand. You want armies against Briallyn and my father, you’ll have them.” His lips curved upward. “I couldn’t very well let my wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?”
You can return every Solstice present in exchange for letting me tear him apart, Feyre said. Cassian clamped his mouth shut to avoid shouting his agreement toward them.
But Rhys, the bastard, silently laughed. His face remained stone-cold as he said, “I’ll consider it, and talk to Nesta. Keep the dagger, though. You might need it.”
Cassian glanced to Azriel and Nesta, still beautifully waltzing.
It didn’t spark one ember of his temper.
But Eris … Ally or not, he’d make sure the prick got what was coming to him.
CHAPTER
58
Nesta had stood here once before. A year before, actually.
A different house, in a different part of this city, but she had stood outside while the others celebrated the Winter Solstice within, and felt like a ghost looking in through a window.
Ice crusted the Sidra behind the house, the lawn sloping down to it winter white. But evergreen garlands and wreaths decorated the river house—the epitome of merry warmth.
“Stop scowling,” Cassian said. “It’s a party, not a funeral.”
She glared, but he opened the front door to a riot of music and laughter.
She hadn’t slept with him after the ball, or since. He’d looked inclined when they’d returned to the House of Wind, but she’d simply said she was tired and had gone to her own room.
Because as soon as that music had faded and the dance had stopped, she’d realized how stupidly she’d been smiling at him, how low those walls in her mind had dropped. Eris had danced with her twice more after Azriel, and he’d had such intent in his eyes she knew she’d woven her spell around him well. He’d bid for her, she’d learned with no small amount of smugness.
Nesta left it to Rhysand and Feyre to decide how to wield that offer.
Instead, she’d focused on training. Gave herself over to it. The sessions had been halted through the holiday, but she’d gone up to the ring the next morning to practice anyway, punching the wood beam vigorously to work out her roaring thoughts.
Now, she followed Cassian into the river house, where he immediately aimed for the family room, shucking off his snow-crusted cloak and dropping it onto a bench in the grand foyer on the way. Nesta frowned at the dripping snow on the brocaded material and picked it up, eager for anything to do with herself to avoid going into that room. She unfastened her own cloak, scanning the hall for a coat closet or rack, and found the former tucked under the stair archway. She hung both garments there, and heaved a long breath as she shut the door.
“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends. Gone was the ill-suited black dress from the ball, replaced by a gown of amethyst velvet, her hair half-up and curling down to her waist. She glowed with good health. Except …
Her brown eyes were wary. Usually, that look was reserved for Lucien. The male was definitely in the family room, since Nesta knew Feyre and Rhys had invited him, but for that look to be directed at her …
They hadn’t spoken of their argument in the few minutes they’d had together before the ball’s procession, and then she’d avoided Elain entirely until the event was over. She didn’t know what she’d say. How to make it right.
Nesta cleared her throat. “Cassian said it might be … good if I came.”
Elain’s eyes flickered. “Did Feyre pay you, like last year?”
“No.” Shame washed through her.
Elain sighed, glancing over Nesta’s shoulder to the open doorway across the entry. The party within, only for their small inner circle. “Please don’t upset Feyre. It’s her birthday, first of all. And in her state—”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nesta snapped, and then choked.
Elain blinked. Nesta blinked back, horror lurching through her.
And then Elain burst out laughing.
Howling, half-sobbing laughs that sent her bending over at the waist, gasping for breath. Nesta just stared, torn between questions and wanting to throw herself into the icy Sidra. “I— I’m so sorry—”
Elain held up a hand, wiping her eyes with the other. “You’ve never said such a thing to me!” She laughed again. “I think that’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
Nesta shook her head slowly, not understanding. Elain just linked her arm through Nesta’s and led her toward the family room, where Azriel stood in the doorway, monitoring them. As if he’d heard Elain’s sharp laugh and wondered what had caused it.
“I was just checking on dessert,” Elain explained as they approached the doorway and Azriel. Nesta met the shadowsinger’s stare and he gave her a nod. Then his gaze shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting before brushing past, leading Nesta into the room.
Mor lounged on a green velvet couch before the fireplace; Amren sat in Varian’s lap on the matching couch opposite her, Feyre beside them, a hand on her belly. Rhys sprawled in an armchair, and Cassian occupied a second armchair with Lucien leaning against it, arguing with them about something that seemed related to a sporting event.
Nesta had tried to convince Emerie and Gwyn to join her, but both had refused. Emerie had said she was obligated to visit her horrible family, and Gwyn merely said she wasn’t ready to leave the library to go farther than the training ring. So here Nesta was, alone with the same group she’d dealt with last year.
When they’d watched her sit sullen as a child in the back of the town house living room, then storm out.
Feyre smiled at her, glowing with health and life. But Nesta’s gaze snagged on Amren.
The female did not so much as look her way.
Varian did, and he threw her a wary glance that said
enough: No, Amren wouldn’t speak to her.
Her chest tightened. But Cassian beckoned her over. He rose from his seat, offering it to her, even though there were a dozen more in the room. “Sit,” he said. “Do you want some peppermint tea?”
She knew they all watched her, hated that they did, and understood why, too. But she nodded at Cassian and sat, saying to Feyre, “Happy birthday.”
Feyre smiled again. “Thank you.”
And that was that. Nesta ignored the collective sense of relief that filled the room and pivoted, finding herself peering up at Lucien, who greeted her with a wary dip of his chin. Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get. Azriel remained in the doorway. “How’s the Spring Court?” Nesta asked. The fire crackled merrily to her right, and she let the sound ripple through and past her. Acknowledged the crack and what it did to her, and released it. Even as she concentrated on the male she’d addressed.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “How you’d expect.”
Tension rippled through the room, confirmation that Tamlin had heard the news of Feyre’s pregnancy. From Lucien’s grim face, she knew he hadn’t reacted well. Nesta said, “And Jurian and Vassa?”
“At each other’s throats, as they like to be,” he said, a tad sharply. She wondered what that was about—and for the life of her couldn’t read it. Lucien asked, sipping his tea, “How’s the training?”
She gave him a smile—a true one. “Good. We’re learning how to disembowel a male.”
Lucien choked on his drink, nearly spewing it onto her head. Cassian appeared, a cup of tea steaming in his hands, and passed it to her before he declared proudly to Lucien, “As you’d expect, Nes excels at it.”
Mor lifted her glass in a mockery of a toast. “My favorite part of training.”
Nesta frowned. “We haven’t cut the ribbon yet, though.”
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