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Cassian
“Nesta.”
The others remained in the study, but Cassian had watched Nesta see herself out with hardly a word. And like the lovesick asshole he was, he’d followed her.
She paused, already halfway to the house’s grand entry. He allowed himself the seconds spent closing the distance to observe her in a way he hadn’t dared earlier.
Her Illyrian leathers hung looser than they had a month ago. Her eyes seemed colder.
That was no surprise. Her eyes had been cold since the day Bryce Quinlan had returned to her own world. He knew why. He’d put that coldness there.
“What is it?” she demanded by way of greeting.
“You’re not staying for lunch?”
She lifted a brow as if to say, That’s really why you came running after me? But she answered, “I’m not hungry. And I don’t want to see round two of Feyre and Amren going at each other.”
“All right.” The words died in his throat. He had no idea how he could stand here, aching to touch her, to bury his face in her neck and breathe in her scent, while also wanting to just . . . roar at her.
What the fuck were you thinking? How could you be so reckless? How could you have given that stranger the Mask and not talked to any of us about it first? Do you know what could have happened?
He wished he could trust her again, but he couldn’t. Not yet. That had gone unsaid, when they’d been discussing the locations of the Trove and the weapons. They’d stay in Rhys’s possession until Nesta could prove herself trustworthy.
The thought alone made Cassian queasy. As did the question of whether she’d ever be able to accomplish it.
Nesta lifted both brows now. “Anything else?”
He swallowed hard and said plainly, “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Her mouth thinned. It had been the wrong thing to say. “You don’t do anything with me. You are my mate, not my keeper. Though Rhys seems to think otherwise.”
He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, the red Siphons tethered to the backs of his hands glinting. “That’s not what I meant. Do whatever the fuck you want—burn everything to ashes if that’s what pleases you—”
“Keep talking to me like that and I will.”
He dragged both hands through his hair. “This thing,” he said, motioning between them to indicate the bond, the fraying threads along it these days, “wasn’t only my doing, you know. You’re not some victim we’re all ganging up on—”
Silver fire gleamed in her eyes. As it always did, the sight of that power stirred something deep in his soul, beckoning to him. His Siphons blazed in answer. “You’re right. I am not a victim,” she seethed. “And I do not see any of you as ganging up on me. I see you as a bunch of idiots who are holding a grudge at a time when such things are pointless.”
He blinked.
She gave him a simpering grin that set his temper surging to answer her own. “Don’t tire yourself too much trying to come up with a witty answer,” she said, pure venom, and turned on her heel.
He lifted a hand to reach for her but stopped himself. What was the point? They couldn’t have it all out in this hallway, with the others probably listening with ears pressed to the door. And he had to sort out his thoughts first. Figure out what the fuck he wanted and needed to say. They were mates—they owed it to each other to at least try to talk it out. Even if they wound up killing each other in the process.
So Cassian let her go. Let her keep walking down the hall, and out the front door.
Nesta didn’t look back at him. Not once.
Nesta
Panting, Nesta gazed out at the gray sea, the waves thrashing against the towering pale cliffs on which she stood. There was nothing on the horizon save storm-tossed ocean. But there, due north, several miles off the coast, beyond her sight . . . there lay the Prison.
The icy wind ripped her hair free from its braid, and even in her warmest Illyrian leathers, a numbness settled through her body that belied the sweat running down her face and neck. She’d winnowed all the way out to the coast today—the farthest she’d gone yet.
But to make the last jump, from these cliffs to the misty, barren rock that was the Prison . . . she hesitated. Nesta flexed her fingers at her sides, willing some warmth into them.
She’d never had a desire to winnow before, but she’d spent days traversing the caves and tunnels under the Prison with Azriel and Bryce Quinlan, and something had shifted. Bryce had winnowed clumsily—she was clearly just learning. But it was the sight of Bryce, mastering this skill imperfectly but doggedly, that had awoken in Nesta a curiosity. A yearning. Watching Bryce had ignited a spark that couldn’t be extinguished. What had been merely one more oddity of the Fae world became a goal, a new mountain she strove to summit. If Bryce could do it, Nesta knew she could, too.
