Dorian Havilliard stood at the window of his tower bedroom, leaning out as far as he dared to catch just a breath of wind on his face. In the distance, the emerald roofs of Rifthold sizzled in the late summer sun, and beyond them, the foothills rolled toward the storm clouds gathering on the western horizon.

The rain would be a relief. It had been three weeks of stifling heat, two weeks without a whisper of wind off the Avery, and the reek from the rotting city had now reached even the highest spires of the glass castle. The stench of baking filth was so bad that most of his father's court had left—either for the sea or for the north. Or both.

The heat made the endless string of council meetings and state dinners unbearable, even when encircled by servants fanning them with palm fronds imported from Eyllwe. And if the miserable heat wasn't enough, the topic of those meetings made Dorian's temper fray.

Wiping the sweat from his brow on the back of a hand, Dorian shoved up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows and faced the Captain of the Guard.

Chaol, who had been reading some document or report or other on the couch by the unlit fireplace, looked up. "Well?"

"I'm still thinking about it," Dorian said, going to the oak table that once had been intended for dining but was now covered in ever-growing stacks of books and papers.

"Your father wanted your decision yesterday."

No hint of aggression or condescension—just worry. Chaol was always worrying. Even if he rarely showed it. No, even in the heat, Chaol was still wearing his black uniform, still looking crisp and alert and ready to face any threat.

"This . . . contest"—Dorian spat the word—"is absurd. A waste of gold, a waste of time, a waste of men's lives." He reached for the pitcher of water wedged between two piles of books and poured himself and Chaol each a glass. "I don't even understand why he needs a so-called Champion when he has you and your men. Plus the gods know how many shady people working for him."

Chaol set down the papers as Dorian handed him the glass, but frowned. "The other councilmen have already selected their Champions. Whether you want to or not, your father's competition will happen."

Chaol drummed his fingers on the worn fabric of the back of the couch. "If you refuse to play, it will make a statement." A flash of bronze eyes. "And I don't think it's the kind of statement you want to make right now."

Chaol knew—had always known—about Dorian's tumultuous relationship with his father. Dorian had never been outright rebellious, perhaps because Chaol was usually there to subtly interfere, to keep Dorian from saying or doing something he'd later regret. But each year, each month, each gods-damned day, it was getting harder and harder to submit.

He didn't know why, exactly. He'd never seen one of those far-off battlefields where his father's armies still fought to quell any rebel uprisings, had never seen the labor camps at Calaculla or Endovier, had never even been in one of his father's interrogation chambers, hidden away in Rifthold. Dorian didn't support the rebels, didn't want to be a part of anyone's rebellion, but . . . Perhaps it was just that he was as much a slave to the crown as the rest of the continent.

Dorian took a long sip of his water. It was already warm.

"If I'm going to be press ganged into this competition," Dorian mused, more to himself than to his friend, "then I want to win."

Chaol nodded as if he'd been expecting it. Which wasn't surprising at all. Nor were the captain's next words. "I have a list of possible Champions we could approach."

Dorian finished his water. "Who?"

Chaol rattled off four names—three of them soldiers of some notoriety, and one a mercenary Chaol had worked with in years past.

But Dorian shook his head.

"No. No, they're too . . . ordinary." The other councilmen had picked soldiers and mercenaries and thieves. And if Dorian couldn't make a statement to his father by refusing to participate, then perhaps . . .

He went back to the open window to study Rifthold, as if he could see every person and creature winding through the city. He'd never been allowed to roam Rifthold on his own, and the last time he'd had a night out had been a year ago. The party at the riverfront estate remained the most lavish Dorian had ever seen, and Chaol had nearly lost his position when they learned—when his father learned—who had actually been at that party.

Wealthy rebels from the kingdom of Melisande, courtesans from the finest brothel in Adarlan. And mixed in with them all had been thieves, mercenaries, and assassins.

Not just any assassins, gods above, but Arobynn Hamel, King of the Assassins, and his cabal of notorious killers. Dorian had unwittingly danced and drunk with them all, and Chaol, who had been told the estate belonged to the visiting emissary from Melisande, had let him remain there for hours. No one had known who either of them were, thanks to masks they'd donned at another party earlier that night, but . . . Even now, Dorian couldn't suppress a chill at the thought of whom he might have been dancing with, whom he might have clinked glasses with . . .

For a heartbeat, Dorian could have sworn he felt a cool northern wind on his face, faintly scented with pine and snow. He leaned his head out the window, trying to catch some more of it, but only the relentless, beating sunshine greeted him. He loosed a sigh and again studied the city.

Arobynn Hamel would be a good Champion, but the man had no incentive to participate. They probably wouldn't even be able to find him. Or come out of that meeting alive. But . . .

But.

"Celaena Sardothien," Dorian murmured.

"What?"

Dorian turned from the window to find Chaol approaching him.

"Celaena Sardothien."

Chaol just stared at him with narrowed brows.

It had been almost a year since the infamous assassin had been captured, tried, and sentenced to a lifetime of labor in the Salt Mines of Endovier. Dorian and Chaol had been in the seaside town of Suria when it happened, and though they'd raced back to Rifthold, by the time they'd returned, she was gone. The guards who had watched her had all been conveniently reassigned to border outposts, and his father had sealed each and every document regarding her capture. Or anything about her. Even the papers had little information, save for a list of victims and her punishment. They didn't even know how old she was.

"No," Chaol said—quietly but laced with a building temper.

Dorian angled his head. "Rumor claimed Sardothien was the best. Who better to be my father's Champion? Besides, I heard she was pretty, too." He grinned. "Why not have something pleasant to look at during the competition?"

"She's been in Endovier for a year, Dorian. I doubt she's much to look at. In fact, she's probably dead."

Dorian might have ignored it had Chaol not spoken so calmly, so clearly.

"Tell me what you know," Dorian said. Oh, Chaol was definitely hiding something.

"She's probably dead," Chaol repeated and crossed his arms. They had fought before—many times. And in this horrible heat . . . Dorian shoved his own temper down.

"Tell me."

Chaol gave him a pinning stare, one he usually reserved for his men. Dorian refused to break it, and in turn gave him the gloriously bored stare he reserved for sycophantic councilmen.

After a moment, Chaol sighed through his nose and said, "I've made a few . . . inquiries over the past year. They all have gone unanswered." A flicker of anger—and concern—in his eyes.

"If my father had all the documents about her capture and trial locked away, then he probably gave an order for all inquiries about her to be ignored."

"The question is why, though."

Dorian shook his head. "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe whoever—whatever—she is threatens him. Or undermines him in some way." He glanced again to the window, to the land beyond the city, and smiled slightly. "And if no one will answer your letters, then perhaps we should just go see for ourselves if she's alive or not."

"And if she's still capable of work."

Dorian grimaced. After a year in a place like Endovier, it'd be a miracle if she still breathed. He hadn't even considered the damage to her body. "I'm sure a few months of good food and exercise will help her recover."

"That won't mean anything if she's broken in other ways."

"You mean if she's still sane."

A half smile, edged with no little amount of disgust. "If she was even sane to begin with."

Silence fell, and Dorian had another glass of water. But if Sardothien was sane, if she wasn't yet broken, if she was still alive . . .

"Endovier is two weeks away," Chaol said slowly. "Not an easy journey to make. Or a safe one. It's right on Terrasen's border—and the rebels have been restless all summer."

"I'm going with you, so don't even start trying to convince me to stay here." Dorian couldn't keep the snap from his voice. Gods, just the thought of getting out of the castle, getting away from his father, even for a month . . .

Chaol held up his hands. "It's my job to at least attempt to keep you safe. And even if I say yes to your accompanying me, your father still has to agree. And I'll have some conditions of my own."

Dorian rolled his eyes. He might as well be living in the royal nursery. "Leave my father to me."

"That's what I'm worried about."

Dorian opened his mouth to object but found a faint smirk on Chaol's face. Perhaps the captain wanted to get out of the castle for a while, too. "So you're really not going to put up a fight about hunting down Sardothien?"

"I've learned to pick my battles with you."

He studied his friend. "Let's hear your conditions, then."

Chaol's smile faded, and he took a seat on the back of the couch.

"We travel with my men—men picked by me." Dorian nodded. That was fine. And smart, if Terrasen's rebels were indeed restless. "This journey might be your idea, but I'll be the one leading it." Dorian tensed a bit at that but nodded again. "And," Chaol added, "when we get to Endovier, if I think it's too dangerous to take her out of the mines, then you'll yield."

Dorian straightened. "So you get final say about whether she's suitable?"

A terse nod. "I'm not questioning your judgment—"

"Oh, I think all of your conditions say quite the opposite."

A flash of ire, then a shake of his head. "I'm not going to get into an argument with you about it. If you don't like the terms, then pick another Champion."

What Chaol didn't need to say was that if he refused to escort him, no other guard would dare cross the captain's orders to bring Dorian to Endovier. And Chaol also wasn't above going to Dorian's father to ensure that his order became a royal command.

Dorian gritted his teeth. "Those aren't unreasonable demands," he admitted. "But—in regard to Sardothien's suitability . . ." Chaol stilled. "We'll decide together."

Chaol loosed a breath. Then another. Judging, weighing, calculating. When Chaol had that contemplative look on his face, it was impossible to tell what he'd decide. Keeping Dorian and this castle safe was his first priority, but Dorian knew that he also considered their friendship to be almost as important, and sometimes weighed it in his decisions. Even if, as it had last year, it sometimes got him in trouble.

But Chaol sighed a third time and said, "Fine. We'll decide if she's fit to participate together. But"—Dorian groaned—"promise you'll not let your desire to needle your father cloud your judgment."

"I wouldn't—"

A pointed look.

Dorian lifted his eyes to the stone ceiling. "Fine, fine. I promise."

Chaol finished off the jug of water, and both of them approached the window to stare out across the sweeping city.

The Captain of the Guard rapped his knuckles against the stone window ledge. "To Endovier, then."

"If my father says yes," Dorian added, already wondering how he could approach the king about it.

"I have a feeling you'll find a way to convince him," Chaol said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

Thunder grumbled in the distance, the clouds sweeping closer, and Dorian could have sworn he heard all of Rifthold sigh in relief. He again wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned. "To Endovier, then."

Celaena Sardothien, Erilea's greatest assassin and now the King's Champion, hadn't bothered to hurry her black mare through the teeming streets of Rifthold. Even after two weeks of traveling to and from the base of the Ararat Mountains, even though she was half-frozen and covered in the dust of a hundred roads, she wasn't all that eager to reach her final destination.

She wasn't surprised to find Chaol Westfall standing at the bottom of the hill atop which the castle was perched—wasn't surprised to see the half-dozen or so guards doing their best to pretend they weren't watching every movement, or signaling up the winding path that she had returned. She'd already spotted the men Chaol had stationed in the city itself: at the wall gates, on street corners, on rooftops, all scouting for any sign of her return.

Chaol looked just as he had when she left, his black and gold uniform clean-pressed, the eagle-shaped pommel of his sword gleaming in the midmorning sun.

At least he was now using the blade. After killing Cain at the duel, he hadn't worn it for the few weeks it'd taken her to recover from her injuries. When she'd left last month, he'd still been using another blade. Still had those shadows in his bronze eyes.

But those shadows were gone now, as she looked down at him from beneath the black cowl of her hood. He was just standing to the side of the gate, arms crossed over his broad chest, that familiar frown on his lips.

She clicked her tongue and dismounted, tossing the reins to one of the awaiting guards as she turned to face the captain. "What—no flowers?"

The frown deepened. She smiled broadly.

This had been her first mission, the first test of trust, and genuine ability. Celaena jerked her chin to one of the mare's saddlebags. A massive lump pushed out from under the worn leather. "When do you suppose he'll give me targets worthy of my skill?"

Chaol's eyes flicked from her face to the head in the saddle bag, then back to her, the frown deepening. "You're three days late."

She shrugged, and didn't wait for his permission to begin walking up the sloped path to the castle itself. No, she didn't need any sort of permission anymore—not as King's Champion. But Chaol stiffened nonetheless.

She chuckled under her breath. "You try going to the foothills of the Ararat Mountains in the dead of winter and see if you make it anywhere on time. I almost lost my fingers and toes to the cold." She wriggled the former in his face. "You don't even want to know how I managed to keep warm."

Nothing. Not even a hint of a smile.

She sighed and looked skyward. "Will it be a whipping, or the rack, or shall I just be forced to attend the Queen's Court for an afternoon?"

He didn't react to that, either, but merely fell into step beside her. "I'm not the one you have to explain yourself to."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "Were you worried I wouldn't come back?" When he didn't respond, she said, "How long before you sent out your dogs to hunt me down?"

He looked at her this time, his golden-brown eyes fierce. "A week. I'd have given you a week before I sent out my men to make inquiries. But you were lucky—news of Sir Carlin's death reached us fairly soon after you…took care of him."

Killed him. Slit his throat and cut off his head. Dumped his body in the Ararat River. She watched him silently, daring him to say it, but he had already looked away.

They were halfway up the long path before he quietly said, "Were you hurt at all?"

She snorted. "Killing men in their beds doesn't involve much risk."

His eyes narrowed.

And though she knew she shouldn't, she added, "Or involve much honor. That's what you're thinking, right?"

A muscle feathered in his jaw. "I know what your position entails."

But she still wondered if he'd somehow forgotten until now—as if the Yulemas ball and the duel with Cain had made him think she was someone else, someone harmless. A wolf with no fangs.

More silence, the castle growing ever-nearer. "I suppose His Majesty knows I'm here?"

"He wants to meet with you immediately. And bring your…proof."

She made a face. "I knew he wanted the heads, but… He wants to see them in the meeting? Who will be there?"

"What concern is it to you?"

She shrugged again. Every detail of that meeting was a concern, especially Chaol with his too-keen eyes and ability to sniff out even the whitest of lies from her.

"I just want to know how candid I can be."

"In front of the king? Do you want to wind up back in the mines?"

She gave him a sweet smile. "And here I was, thinking he and I had become such good friends."

A flash of teeth. "Don't you even think of—"

"A month without me and you've returned to taking me seriously? We're back to that already?"

She hadn't realized just how deep that question ran until he had stopped walking.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, a moment during which she remembered that day after the duel when he'd held her—not a captain holding an assassin, or a friend holding a friend, but a man holding a woman…

If she tried to hold him now, would he shove her aside? She didn't want to know—didn't quite have the nerve to try it.

Or the nerve to wonder why she wanted to. "I trust you," was all he said.

"That's why you had men around the city spying on me?"

"I had men around the city," he said through gritted teeth, "because I wanted to have a chance to greet you first. To see if you were all right."

She blinked and cocked her head. Looking after her, not spying. It had been so long since she'd had who cared enough to bother.

She had to swallow a few times before she could reply. "Of course I'm all right." A stupid response, but he began walking again. She followed him, blinking against the brightness of melting snow off the glass castle.

"But if I wasn't all right," she dared ask, "what would you have done?"

A shrug of those powerful shoulders. "It doesn't matter now."

"Indulge me."

He didn't look at her as he said, "I would have done what I needed to do."

She ground her teeth. "Stop being so cagey."

"I don't see how knowing it makes any difference."

She felt her nostrils flare, but kept her mouth shut.

Fine. They reached the front gates of the castle. The usual hustle and bustle of courtiers, servants, guards, and visitors was hardly lessened by the frigid day. She glanced up at the upper spires, her stomach twisting at more than the thought of climbing all those stairs to the king's council room.

So much depended on this meeting—so much that she didn't dare let herself think about it. And certainly not in front of Chaol, who could read her face with unnerving ease.

So she grinned before he could turn to glimpse her face, to discover the doubt and fear underneath. Absolute confidence, absolute arrogance: her best shields and most beloved masks.

"I hope His Majesty has a decent spread of food for me to eat while I'm being interrogated."

"Watch your mouth or the only thing you'll be eating is hot coals."

"Do you actually make people do that?"

His eyes narrowed. "What kind of person do you take me for?"

"You are the Captain of the Guard of the most powerful man in the world. Wyrd knows what horrible things you've done to people."

"You must be nervous as hell if you're resorting to taunting me."

She wouldn't let that shake her, wouldn't allow the grin or the swagger to pause for an instant. But she halted before the wide, sweeping front steps into the castle. The best lies were always mixed with the truth—let him believe what he would.

"You know my history with His Majesty." After all, he'd been the one to bring her to that meeting with the king on the first day of the competition. He'd seen her near-panic at the thought of meeting him, seen her go pale.

Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the same encounter. His eyes softened, and he put a hand on her shoulder. "Just—be polite. Submissive."

"Now that is a true challenge worthy of me."

A half-smile. "If you're well-behaved, I'll have a chocolate-hazelnut cake sent to your rooms during our lunch."

"Our lunch?"

A hint of wariness, but a growing smile. "Unless you had someone else you'd prefer to dine with?"

She chewed on the inside of her lip, looking toward one of the stone towers—the tower in which Dorian had his rooms. She'd meant every word she'd said to the Crown Prince that day she'd ended things between them, and had kept away ever since.

So no—there was no one else she'd rather eat with today, not even Nehemia. "I suppose I could endure lunch with you," she said.

She couldn't help but wonder if his grin was from amusement or something else. But the full force of his smile was enough to make the world pause.

"I missed you," she admitted.

Chaol's smile faltered, and he again stared at her—questioning, calculating, wondering. She waited for him to look around, to factor in the people swarming the grounds and how best to respond, but he just kept looking at her. As if the world had paused for him, too.

And then he chuckled under his breath, more to himself than to her, and said, "It was boring as hell without you."

She laughed, and ascended the steps into the castle. And though she didn't reach for him, and though he didn't offer his arm, they walked a bit closer as they made their way to the king.

The midwinter day was warm enough that Celaena Sardothien didn't bother with gloves when she set out into Rifthold.

Princess Nehemia, however, was thoroughly miserable. Still, she declined Celaena's repeated offers to take a carriage to the most fashionable avenue of the capital city. Traveling by carriage would only make the day go faster, the princess said. And since they'd claimed the day solely for enjoying each other's company, neither young woman was in much of a hurry to see it quickly end.

So they walked through Rifthold, dressed as finely as they could while still being warm—and remaining relatively unnoticed. They took their time crossing the city, though they had an unspoken agreement not to venture near the docks, warehouses, or anywhere they might run into any living proof of Adarlan's empire—and brutal conquest of the continent.

Having spent a year as a slave herself, and not particularly inclined to discuss the topics of slavery, war, and the general hellishness of the world, Celaena was more than happy to stick to the broad, clean streets where they could pretend to be two young women on their way to spend obscene amounts of money.

Nehemia had already toured much of the city and disliked almost all of what she'd seen, but still indulged Celaena in a detour to walk past the Royal Theater, in going into her favorite bakeries and sweet-shops, and popping into a few bookstores. Unsurprisingly, by the time they reached Kavill's, the finest clothier in Rifthold, Celaena had spent a good chunk of her monthly salary as King's Champion.

That was another topic they'd agreed to ignore for the day.

The two young women paused outside the front of the shop, and Celaena ran an eye over the gilded woodwork wreathing the glass window. Two dresses were displayed—one a somewhat traditional blue ball gown, edged with gold and splashes of turquoise; the other a daring work of red velvet, long-sleeved and accented with midnight lace.

"Kavill's," Nehemia read on the ornate shop sign swinging in the breeze off the Avery River. The princess frowned at Celaena. "It's very... fancy," she said in Eyllwe.

Indeed, beyond the glass and the display, Celaena could see a cluster of well-dressed women offering advice to a companion showing off a potential purchase.

Celaena hid her own frown. They were supposed to have a private appointment. Not just for the safety of the princess, whose personal guards trailed behind them, but also to put Nehemia—who hated shopping and playing dress-up and anything 'useless'—at some degree of ease.

"We're a few minutes early, I think," Celaena said. Nehemia was still frowning at the storefront. "We could pop into a tea shop if you want and—"

"No, no. My hands are frozen through," Nehemia said, her gloved fingers curling into fists. "Let's just go in and wait."

It had been a month since Celaena had been appointed King's Champion—a month during which she'd had to face all the hardships the position presented—but somehow the thought of walking into Kavill's with an already ill-tempered Nehemia made even Celaena's nerves fray. She already pitied Lee Kavill himself...and the other customers inside.

"Just remember," Celaena said in Eyllwe as Nehemia walked to the green-painted door, "I'm Lillian Gordaina and I am just some—"

"Heiress in Rifthold, I know," Nehemia finished without looking back at her, and walked inside.

Celaena followed after the princess, giving Nehemia's two personal guards a nod as they moved into position: one by the storefront, the other going around the block to take up a spot by the back door. Once the appointment began, no one went in or out.

The lavender-and-mint smell inside Kavill's was altogether familiar and foreign.

Familiar, for in the years Celaena had lived in Rifthold, this had been her preferred clothier. Foreign, for the year she'd spent in Endovier and the months that she'd been in the glass castle had made everything from that past life into something strange and unknown.

Lee Kavill, whom Celaena had already visited twice since becoming the King's Champion, was standing by the gaggle of women before the dressing room curtains, his signature plain leather notebook in his arms and a glass pen in hand.

In his forties, Kavill was a decent-looking man, his clothes simple and elegant, despite some of the extravagant offerings in his shop. He was also quiet. Not shy, but calm. Balanced. He didn't fuss, and didn't push, and had an artist's eye for colors and cuts and changing trends.

But those very eyes went a little wide at the sight of them, darting between the gathered women and his one o'clock appointment.

Nehemia stopped just inside the door, but Celaena went a few steps further into the red-carpeted shop. Kavill was already before them by the time Celaena smiled and held out her hands.

"We're a little early," she said by way of greeting, "but we're more than happy to wait."

She inclined her head to the green-and-gold circular divan in the front of the room—a place usually reserved for ladies-in-waiting, patient husbands, and bored children.

Kavill took her hands with a smile. His fingers were just as calloused as hers, though his calluses and scars came from years with needles and pins, not blades. "Marta said my one o'clock was an important guest, but I had no idea I'd receive such an honor." As he finished, he looked to Nehemia and bowed. "You are most welcome."

Of course he'd recognize the princess. While it was fairly easy for Celaena to blend in, there was no hiding who Nehemia was. Not because of her creamy dark skin, but because Nehemia carried herself like a princess.

No matter where they went or how they were dressed, Nehemia always had that angle to her head and a glint in her eye, as if she'd come out of the womb knowing royal blood flowed in her veins. As if she always wore an invisible crown. Celaena still wasn't sure if she envied or pitied the princess for it.

Nehemia gave a shallow nod of the head—as much respect as Kavill deserved, if not more, given that he'd come from peasant stock and worked his way up.

"I can offer you my office to wait, if you'd prefer," Kavill said quietly, especially as some of the women by the dressing room curtains turned to examine the newcomers. "We shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

It was his step to the side that ultimately gave him away—gave away what he was trying to shield from them. And Celaena might have played along had Nehemia not noticed it, too.

The girl could have been from Fenharrow or Eyllwe with her tan skin, but it was the twin gold bracelets—manacles—around her wrists that marked her as a slave. Gold, chainless manacles that had been welded on—and would never come off.

"We can go somewhere else," Celaena said softly.

Nehemia just stared at the slave-girl, her face blank. The girl was dressed well, and looked well-fed, but the manacles, so horrifyingly beautiful, gleaming in the warm light...

The women were staring at them now, but the slave-girl kept her eyes down. Didn't even turn toward them. Celaena rotated her own wrists, a tinge of phantom pain going through the scars that marked where her own shackles—iron and scratched—had once been.

Celaena put a hand on Nehemia's elbow. "We can—"

"No," Nehemia said, looking away from the girl and giving Kavill a bland smile. "We shall wait. Please—return to your work," she said to him, and took a seat on the divan.

Celaena slowly sat down beside her, and Nehemia flashed her a brighter smile.

Today, they had agreed when setting out, would just be about enjoying themselves—about letting Celaena dress Nehemia up. Today, they were just two ordinary, perfectly happy girls, out to do some shopping.

Celaena gave her best smile in return.

So Kavill went back to his customers, the soft-spoken Marta came to take their cloaks and gloves and replaced them with jasmine tea, delicate cookies, and a selection of the day's papers.

"Such service," Nehemia said when Marta had slipped away to assist Kavill in taking down his measurements and seeing to the needs of their customers. The princess ran an eye around the gilded walls, the racks of sample gowns, the displays of jewelry, shoes, hats, and parasols. "Such wealth, too."

Celaena, who had been watching one of the women debate whether a quarter of an inch would make her neckline too daring, glanced at the princess. "If it makes you feel better, he's turned down positions as the royal tailor several times."

Nehemia raised a well-groomed brow, the gold jewelry she wore glinting in the light of the lily-shaped glass sconces. "I don't mean to be...difficult," Nehemia said in the common tongue, any trace of her fake, thick accent gone.

The accent, Celaena had learned, was just to deceive the royal court—to get them to think she was dimwitted, and make them speak more freely when they thought she couldn't understand. But Nehemia spoke better than the most refined of them. And she had been using the knowledge she'd gleaned to uncover any tidbits of maneuverings that might help the plight of her enslaved people.

It was why they had gone shopping in the first place: to find gowns that Queen Georgina would approve of—gowns to enable Nehemia to cozy up to the queen and her inner circle, to see if she might help Eyllwe by winning over the King of Adarlan's wife.

"Let's just enjoy ourselves," Celaena said, taking a long sip of her jasmine tea, almost groaning at the sheer perfection of it, then adjusting the folds of her forest-green gown. A piece that had been made in this very shop—a fact that she was certain Kavill had already noted.

The five other customers cast only a few curious glances their way before they finally left the shop in a flurry of fur cloaks, kidskin gloves, and moans about the endless winter.

The slave girl never once looked up, and Celaena could have sworn that Nehemia's hand twitched when she walked by—as if the princess had contemplated reaching for the girl, and then thought better of it.

When they were at last gone, Marta shut the curtains on the front window, lit a few more sconces, and escorted them to the silk couches before the dressing room curtains. Kavill himself bought them another ornate pot of jasmine tea, and then refilled both their cups.

After Celaena explained that Nehemia needed at least four dresses, two of them to be ball gowns, and all fit for Adarlanian royalty, Kavill crossed his arms behind his back and paced as he inquired after the colors and fabrics that Nehemia preferred or hated, about her feelings toward low or high necklines, how much mobility she desired, and on and on until Celaena started wondering if Nehemia would snap.

But the princess just smiled at the slender man, answering him with the thick, hesitant accent she used for everyone but Celaena. And then she patiently sat through Kavill and Marta's presentation of color, cloth, beading, and stitching. It wasn't until Kavill and Marta went into the back—to get a sample of the blue ball gown in the window—that the princess sagged slightly.

"I think I prefer just having the royal dressmaker bring me something," she said quietly.

"This is truly what you—you enjoy doing?"

Celaena winced, but smiled. "When the mood strikes me, yes." And now that she had the king's gold burning a hole in her purse, she was more than happy to spend most of it.

"I've always liked pretty things—dresses, jewelry, shoes... I suppose it's easy to dismiss it as frivolous, but a gown like the ones Kavill makes is art. It's art, and mathematics, and economics."

Nehemia's brows lifted and Celaena shrugged, but turned to point to the red velvet sheath dress in the window display.

"That gown in the window—think about how Kavill had to first come up with the design, then get the measurements just right to match the image in his head, then find the right vendor to supply the perfect red velvet and black lace. Think about where that velvet and lace came from—the velvet from the port in Meah, the lace from Melisande, the thread that holds the whole thing together from a spinner in Fenharrow. Think about where the dyes for the red and the black came from, too—think about all the people and places that had a hand in that dress coming together. It's like a map of the continent, and every part of it tells a story, and—" Celaena trailed off and snorted. "Well, map and story aside, it's also pretty as hell."

Nehemia chuckled quietly. "I think I'm beginning to understand. Though I think you also just like to look better than everyone else, my friend."

Celaena laughed, "I wish I could deny it."

Nehemia grinned. "Don't bother. It's why I like you."

Celaena's heart tightened at that, her smile growing even wider.

Kavill and Marta came back out a moment later, and Marta ushered the princess into the dressing room to try on the blue ball gown. Getting Nehemia out of her clothes and into the sample gown would take a few minutes, so Celaena browsed the selection of gowns displayed in the shop.

A lavender gown trimmed with white lace caught her eye—and she paused to run a hand over the silk. "Such a gorgeous color," she murmured, more to herself than Kavill, but he stepped up beside her.

"It'd bring out the color of your skin," he observed, picking up the three-quarter length sleeve. "I could make these full-length, if you wanted it."

She caught his glance at her hands—specifically, the scarring around her wrists and forearms from the shackles in Endovier.

In the castle, she didn't need to pretend to be a courtier anymore, and certainly wasn't ashamed of any of her scars, but... they did attract attention. And questions. Sleeves and high backs usually covered most of the damage of Endovier and ten years of training as an assassin—if only to avoid those questions. Or pitying looks.

"I'll think about it," she said, and moved to the red velvet dress in the window.

She knew Kavill well enough to understand he wouldn't ask about the scars, no matter what he might suspect. She'd always wondered if he'd known who and what she really was—wondered about her relationship with the red-haired man who'd once accompanied her in here, keen to dote on his most talented pupil.

But Arobynn wasn't a part of her life anymore, and the first time she'd come here since being appointed King's Champion, Kavill hadn't asked after him. Hadn't asked where she'd been, either. It was why she'd decided to bring Nehemia to him, fine dresses aside. Kavill didn't gossip—or pry.

But had he attempted to prevent them from seeing the slave girl for Nehemia's sake, or hers? She didn't want to know.

Nehemia emerged from the dressing room, already wincing, but Celaena beamed. Even Kavill let out a gasp of approval.

"Well, I'll be damned," Celaena said, putting a hand on her hip as she motioned for Nehemia to turn. "If you don't buy that, I'll never forgive you."

"It's...different," Nehemia said in the common tongue, facing Celaena again. "Perhaps something subtler—"

"Nonsense," Celaena cut in, shooing past Marta to adjust the dress herself. "You'll wear this to the next royal ball and make all the men pant after you." She cast a meaningful glance in the direction of Nehemia's ample bosom. "And don't you dare cover those up with a shawl."

Nehemia chuckled, switching to Eyllwe. "I'd never dare disobey a direct order from you."

Celaena grinned and replied in the common tongue. "Good. Then we'll get one of these." She turned to Kavill and Marta, who were standing quietly a few feet away, scribbling down measurement notes in Kavill's ledger. "Any thoughts on what jewelry might best accent this?"

Kavill opened his mouth, but Nehemia cut in using Eyllwe, "I have jewelry from Eyllwe."

"I don't think it'd match."

Nehemia straightened a bit and still said in Eyllwe, "I'd like some part of me to still remind people where I come from."

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, Celaena thought of the night Nehemia had come into her rooms after learning of the massacre of five hundred Eyllwe rebels. How the princess had wept for her people, for their helplessness, for their enslaved world.

It was for that world that Nehemia fought—why Nehemia would buy these dresses and play the part of the queen's confidante.

Perhaps Nehemia thought of the same thing, for the princess let out a long breath and said, "Maybe you are right, Elentiya."

Celaena didn't think Kavill or Marta would notice the name the princess had given her—but she glanced at them nonetheless. They were now just watching, faces bland but pleasant. Willing to get the jewelry and accessories at a moment's notice.

Nehemia turned to them and said in her perfectly false accent, "Show me your jewelry."

And just like that, they went through another presentation of necklaces and earrings and bracelets, then gloves and brooches and hair ornaments. And when they had decided what looked best, Nehemia was measured and pinned some more, and then ushered into the next gown. And the next, and the next.

The clock was striking four by the time they'd decided on the gowns, jewelry, and accessories Nehemia would purchase. Marta had long since brought out steaming cups of tea to Nehemia's guards outside. She'd come back looking a little pale-faced and shaken, but at least the teacups had been empty. Nehemia's guards weren't a chatty sort—and were nothing short of lethal.

Nehemia was shoveling cookies down her throat as Celaena again strolled through the shop, taking in the dresses. She'd already ordered the lilac and lace gown, and since Kavill had her most recent measurements, she hadn't bothered to try it on, save for holding it against her torso to make sure she really did love the color and fabric.

She paused in front of the red velvet dress in the display, running a finger down the skirts. There were no petticoats with this sort of dress, no corsets—she'd never seen a dress like it, actually. Never even heard of a gown like it, with the open back coated in midnight black lace, the plunging neckline, and form-hugging bodice. It left little to the imagination—and would surely turn heads.

"You should try it on," Nehemia said in Eyllwe from behind her, finishing her praline cookie. "You've been ogling it all day."

Celaena looked over her shoulder, brows high. "It's...a bit daring. People would be scandalized."

The princess grinned. "Who better to wear it then?"

Celaena found herself grinning as well. "Who indeed?"

Thus, five minutes later, Celaena found herself wearing the sample gown before the three angled mirrors of the shop, slowly turning in place.

Daring and scandalous were just the start of it.

Nehemia let out an appreciative whistle from where she was sprawled on the divan. "The Captain won't know what to do with himself."

Celaena shot her a glare over a shoulder. "He's not my concern." Though she could almost imagine Chaol's face at the sight of the gown: tight-lipped, wide-eyed, a bit confounded and more than a bit angry. She could almost hear him, too, the claims he'd make about the King's Champion spending such exorbitant sums on little more than scraps of cloth, the reputation she had to uphold now that she was employed by the king... Oh, she should buy the dress, if only to piss Chaol off.

Nehemia approached, and Celaena stepped off the small platform. "What sort of story does this dress tell you?" the princess asked in Eyllwe.

Celaena was about to open her mouth, but she caught the direction of Nehemia's stare: the open back. The black lace did a good job of hiding the gruesomeness of her scars, but this close, it was easy to see the mangled flesh beneath.

Their eyes met, and Celaena switched to Eyllwe as she said, "Do you think I should cover them up?"

Nehemia's attention again went to the scars beneath the black lace. After a moment, she said, "No." Celaena turned back to the mirror, but Nehemia spoke again, her voice a bit too calm: "How often do you think about them—about Endovier?"

Celaena met her own reflection in the mirror, the face that, like Kavill's, was now familiar and foreign. "Every day. Every hour."

It was a truth she hadn't admitted to anyone—perhaps even to herself until now.

"Would you free them if you could?"

Celaena snapped her head to the princess. "What kind of a question is that? Of course I would."

They had sworn—both sworn this morning—that they wouldn't have this kind of talk. And Celaena knew precisely where this conversation would go: into Nehemia talking about slavery, the empire, the need for good people to stand and fight.

Kavill and Marta were doing their best to look busy at the counter in the rear of the front room. Kavill's eyes lifted from his ledger, and when her gaze met his, she realized that he knew. He knew exactly who she was, and perhaps always had. She didn't know why, but it made her...sad. Surprisingly, absurdly sad.

She looked back to the princess, who gave a forced smile. "I should not have mentioned it," Nehemia said. "Today is for fun—for just being young women."

And for some reason, seeing that forced smile just made the weight in her chest sink a little deeper.

Nehemia had gone to the front door to tell her guards that she was ready—and to find a carriage for hire. The sun had dropped, along with the temperature, and neither Celaena nor Nehemia felt particularly inclined to walk home in the frigid night.

Celaena was standing at the polished wooden counter, filling out directions on how and where to deliver Nehemia's new clothes, and paying for her own purchases. She decided to take the red velvet gown, daring and scandalous as it was. If only because not buying it felt like some sort of defeat, some irreplaceable loss that cut her every time she thought about it.

She plucked the last piece of gold from her purse and set it on the counter, behind which Kavill stood, counting. "The red velvet gown should be ready in two weeks," he said, taking the last piece of gold. "Do you have any special occasion in mind?"

She shrugged, glancing at Nehemia, who remained by the door, already looking miserable at the oncoming cold. Celaena herself wasn't too keen to leave the warmth of the shop. She should have brought gloves—and a warmer cloak. "I'm sure I'll find some use for the dress before summer."

Kavill nodded, and closed his thick ledger. "Do let me know if it causes anyone to faint—or start a riot."

She laughed under her breath, and turned to go, stuffing her hands into her pockets and praying her fingers didn't fall off on the way home.

"Here," Kavill said, and she turned to find a pair of exquisite dove-gray suede gloves in his hands. "On the house. For many years of loyal patronage." His face bore its usual mask of polite calm and courtesy, but his brown eyes were bright. "And a gift—for a year spent without any gloves at all."

Had she had any doubt before, there was no shred of it remaining now. He knew who and what she was, knew where she had spent a year enslaved—knew what kind of money she used to buy his dresses.

She had no words—none at all to do justice to the kindness of his gesture—so she merely nodded, took the gloves, and left.

The carriage wasn't much warmer than the outside. Celaena and Nehemia huddled together, cursing violently and rather creatively at the endless winter.

Nehemia's latest vulgar concoction sent Celaena into a fit of howling laughter, so loud that one of the guards riding atop the carriage thumped twice to ask if all was right. Nehemia thumped thrice to assure him all was fine, but Celaena kept laughing until her stomach hurt.

When silence fell again, she looked at her friend and wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. "I'd pay good money to see you say that to Queen Georgina."

Nehemia chuckled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you, Elentiya, for helping me today. I—I needed the dresses. And to get out of the castle for a bit."

Celaena sobered, and nodded. They passed through the wealthiest district, a blur of alabaster houses and emerald roofs, now iced over and gleaming in the lamplight.

"Thank you for pretending. For one day, at least."

She felt Nehemia's eyes on her, but kept staring out at the wet streets, slick from a day of melting snow now turning to ice. After a while, Celaena asked, "Do you ever wonder what it'd be like if we truly were ordinary people?"

The princess chewed on her lip. "Sometimes."

"Do you ever wish you were? Ordinary, I mean."

Nehemia was quiet for a long moment, her eyes distant, as if she beheld some far-off land, warm and vibrant, its grasslands undulating under a hot summer sun. "It is my most selfish wish and daydream—to be normal, to be ordinary, to be free of my burdens."

She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath, hadn't realized just how important Nehemia's answer was to her until she'd heard it. Celaena sighed. "And yet you and I couldn't even pretend for a single day to be free of those burdens."

"I'm sorry," Nehemia said quietly.

"What have you to be sorry for? It was a foolish demand to make of you, anyway."

"I wish you could have a normal friend—not a princess or a captain or the son of the king. But just a normal friend, living a good, calm life."

"I don't have an interest in normal friends. Even if I were just an ordinary girl, I wouldn't want to be surrounded by ordinary folk. No, I'll take the rebel princesses and the sons of kings and the grumpy captains and the whores and the thieves any day. And I'd take you over a thousand ordinary girls."

Nehemia's smile trembled—just enough that Celaena had to turn to the window before she felt the sting in her own eyes.

The carriage turned down an avenue, and the glass castle arose before them, greenish and glimmering in the night sky.

"I am glad we're not ordinary, Elentiya." Nehemia was smiling into the darkness of the carriage. "It'd be so boring if we were."

Celaena grinned. "Incredibly boring."

"And, for what it's worth, I'd pick you over a thousand ordinary and extraordinary friends. I think even if we just met on the street, even if I just saw you in passing, I'd know what you are."

Celaena cocked her head to the side. "An assassin?"

Nehemia's dark eyes were bright as she shook her head. "The sister of my heart."

Celaena had to turn away. When she at last looked back, she didn't know who reached for who, but a moment later, her hand was grasped tightly in Nehemia's.

"I think I'd know, too," Celaena said quietly, and leaned against her friend's shoulder. Both smiling faintly, the assassin and the princess rode through the quieting city and into the glass castle beyond.

Months before Aelin reclaimed her identity as the long-lost Queen of Terrasen, she still called herself Celaena Sardothien and trained to wield her rekindled magic by a Fae Prince in a mountain fortress of Wendlyn . . .Despite their rough beginning, Aelin and Rowan have finally formed a solid friendship, based on mutual respect, trust and more than a bit of barter. But just when their bond begins to shift into something neither of them quite anticipates something far deeper– the fortress of Mistward receives a visit from three Fae nobles. And one of them claims some very, very personal ties to Rowan himself. Read on for an exclusive deleted scene from Heir of Fire, in which Aelin gets her first glimpse of the Fae nobility of Doranelle, and a bit more of Rowan’s history is revealed to her . . . with fiery consequences.}

“What’s your favorite food?” Lounging on a boulder like a lizard in the sun, Celaena chucked a nut in the air and caught it in her mouth.

“Whatever keeps me alive at the moment,” Rowan said from beside her, forearms braced on his knees as he monitored the foothills and valleys of Wendlyn rippling away below.

She clicked her tongue. “Could you be any more of an animal?”

He slid a glance in her direction, lifting a brow as if to say, you remember what my other form is, don’t you?

When she only scowled, he sighed. “There´s a street vendor in Doranelle who sells meat on a stick.”

“Meat on a stick,” Celaena said as steadily as she could, fighting to keep her lips in a straight line.

“And I suppose yours is some confection or useless bit of sugar.”

“Sweets aren’t useless. And yes, I’d crawl over hot coals for a piece of chocolate hazelnut cake right now.” Lies. The last time she’d had it, it had been with Chaol. She wasn’t sure she could ever eat it again.

“What good could that possibly be for keeping your blood strong? With your magic, you’d burn through it and be hungry again within half an hour.”

She propped herself up on her elbows. “Your priorities are obscenely out of order. Not all food is for survival and strength-building. You didn’t even try one of the chocolates from that town. I guarantee the moment you do, every time I turn my back, you’ll be shoveling them down.”

The thought of Rowan doing it made her clamp her lips together again. She knew he’d make her start training the moment she started howling, so she quickly asked, “Favorite color?”

“Green.”

“I’m surprised you actually know.”

He narrowed his eyes, but said, “What’s yours?”

“For a while, I made myself believe it was blue. But – it’s always been red. You probably know why.”

He made an affirmative sound. Celaena lay down and raised a hand above her, threading a line of fire through her fingers. She plaited it between her knuckles, then snaked it down her palm, until it curled around her wrist, twining and slithering along her skin.

“Good,” Rowan said. “Your control is improving.”

“Mmhmm.” She lifted her other hand, and rings of flame encircled her fingers. She set to work on carving the flames, forging them into individual patters.

“Try it on me,” Rowan said, and she turned her head toward him and frowned deeply. “Do it.”

He didn’t flinch when she fashioned a crown of flame for him. Right atop his head. She sat up, kneeling before him, her own jewelry still burning on her hands and wrists, and concentrated as she fashioned the crown into a wreath, each individual leaf a flick of flame, the gold and red and blue bright as any precious stone. Rowan’s silver hair gleamed beneath it.

“Bold move,” he said as she continued to add details to his crown. “One that doesn’t have much space for error.”

“I’m surprised you’re not encasing your head with ice.”

“I trust you,” he said quietly enough that she looked at his face. With the crown of flame, he looked kingly indeed – a warrior-king, as brutal as the lines of his tattoo.

“And now one for you,” he said, and a delightful chill went down her spine as a crown of ice formed in the space between them, its delicate spikes rising high. Rowan lifted it between his hands and set it on her head, its weight light, the chill a balm against the heat of her fire. Celaena smiled at him, and he gave her a tiny lift of his lips in response. But then she remembered – remembered that it was a crown he had made for her. A crown.

Her flames sputtered out as she rose to her feet and strode to the edge of the boulder, wrapping her arms around herself. A moment later, the crown of ice dissolved into mist on the mountain wind.

“We’re going to have visitors tonight,” Rowan said, approaching her side. “Should I be concerned?”

“I – need your help.”

“Ah. So that’s why you let me have an afternoon of peace.”

He snarled, but she lifted a brow. “Will I finally be meeting your mysterious friends?”

“No. They’re Fae nobility, passing through the area. They requested a place to stay for the night, and will arrive around sunset. Emrys is making them dinner, and I am expected to . . . entertain them.”

When he just looked at her, she said, “Oh, no. No.”

“They will not condescend to dine with the demi-Fae, and – ”

“I’m even less acceptable than a demi-Fae!”

“ – if I have to play host to them all evening, it will likely end in blood-shed.”

She blinked. “Not favorites of yours?”

“They’re typical nobility. Not trained warriors. They expect to be treated in a certain way.”

“So? You’re in Maeve’s little cabal. And you’re a prince to boot. Don’t you outrank them?”

“Technically, but there are politics to consider, especially when they’ll be reporting to Maeve.

She groaned. “So what – I’m supposed to play hostess?”

His face was about as miserable as hers. “No. Just – help me deal with them.” Another bit of trust, she realized.

“And what am I going to get out of it?”

He clenched his jaw, and she honestly thought he’d say, I won’t kick your ass, but he sighed. “I’ll find you a chocolate hazelnut cake.”

“No.”

When he raised his brows, she threw a wicked smile at him. “You’ll just owe me a favor that I can call whenever I please.”

He sighed, lifting his gaze skyward. “Just look presentable at sundown.”

***

The jingling bells and merry voices reached the fortress long before the party appeared through the ward-stones.

Standing in the small courtyard, Celaena slid a glance to Rowan. “Really? You need my help with these prancing idiots?”

But aside from those on watch, the demi-Fae had made themselves scarce. He glared at her. She’d bathed and dressed in her cleanest tunic, even going so far as to plait her hair into pleasant coronet.

“Keep your voice down,” he muttered, giving a pointed glance to her ears.

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t say anything else as they arrived. Their horses were all – gods, those were all Asterion horses. Each worth its weight in gold and then some. She’d owned one – well, she’d stolen one and kept it – but had sold it to pay off Sam’s debts to Arobynn. It had been utterly worth it, but . . . she still missed Kasida. She’d never seen or ridden a finer horse. There were five in the party now taking in the courtyard and fortress, two of them bored-looking guards whose attention fixed solely on Rowan, and the other three . . . the female in the front was stunning – and undoubtedly the leader. Beneath her pale blond hair, her face was a concoction of ivory and soft rose, her eyes a vibrant cerulean blue. They flared with delight as they fixed on Rowan. She didn’t so much as spare Celaena a passing glance as she slid gracefully off her white mare.

“Rowan!” She advanced, holding out her hands. Her fingers were slender and long – and as flawless as the rest of her.

“Lady Remelle,” Rowan said, his massive hands engulfing hers as he took them. His spine was straight as a rod, and though Remelle looked at their joined hands as if expecting him to plant a kiss – gods, the idea of Rowan kissing anyone’s hand – he dropped her fingers unceremoniously and turned to the other two nobles dismounting.

“Lord Benson,” he said to the tall, slender male, who just nodded at him. Benson, Celaena noted, bothered to look at her – his long nose and dark eyes sweeping over her body, then moving on. Dismissed.

“Lady Essar,” Rowan said to the small, dark-haired Fae female. Remelle might be the staggering beauty, but Essar had a set of curves that even Celaena found herself envying. Her light brown skin seemed to glow as if lit by an inner light, and her chestnut eyes glinted with genuine kindness as she held out her hands to Rowan and smiled. He took Essar’s fingers a bit more warmly than he had Remelle’s – and the blond-haired lady’s eyes slightly narrowed.

But Remelle recovered swiftly, smiled prettily, and placed a proprietary hand on Rowan’s shoulder as she said, “It’s been an age, hasn’t it? You never come to our parties, and Maeve keeps you all to herself.”

Rowan’s face went blank. Cold.

“There was a time,” Remelle pouted, “when I got to keep you to myself. Sometimes I miss those days.” Rowan just flicked his eyes to the watching guards, who looked in need of a decent meal – and a break from their companions. “Stables are to the left.” Celaena was too busy glancing from Rowan to Remelle to see if the guards obeyed the prince’s orders. Lovers.

She didn’t know why she’d thought that losing his mate meant he’d be celibate, but – but someone like Remelle –

Remembering she existed, Rowan extended an arm in her direction. Celaena honestly debated striding back into the fortress and leaving Rowan at their mercy, but found herself walking to him, closer and closer, until he could have tucked her into his side. He actually seemed to relax a bit as he said, “This is – Elentiya.”

She hadn’t thought of how he’d introduced her, but she was grateful for the anonymity he offered. “I´m training her at the queen’s request. Elentiya, this is Lady Remelle, Lord Benson, and Lady Essar.”

He began rattling off house names and other nonsense, and Celaena gave a shallow nod that had Benson and Remelle pursing their lips. Only Essar said hello, a sultry purr that made Celaena wonder why the hell Rowan hadn’t taken her to his bed instead of the bright, cold smiles of Remelle.

“So you are a half-breed, then,” Benson said, his eyes raking over her. Rowan, to her surprise, bristled – but held in the growl she knew was rumbling in him.

Celaena smiled tightly. “My great-grandmother was Fae. So, if that makes me demi-Fae, I don’t know.”

She caught the look Remelle gave Rowan: a mix of exasperation, as if to say, Really, Rowan? You brought a half-breed to meet us? How common of you.

But – Rowan hadn’t asked her to appear in her Fae form. No, he’d left her to appear in whatever form she wished. The thought warmed her enough that she stepped a bit closer to him, near enough now to nearly brush his arm with her own. Remelle didn’t fail to notice that, either. What sort of visit was this, anyway?

It was Essar who said, “Well, I look forward to hearing about your adventures, Rowan – and how you came to be here, Elentiya. But first, I think I should very much like a bath and something to nibble on.”

She slid an apologetic look in Celaena’s direction. “I’d kill for anything chocolate right now.” Despite herself, Celaena decided that she liked her.

“So, you and Remelle,” Celaena said from where she lounged on Rowan’s bed, her head propped up by a hand. At his worktable, sharpening his weapons with a bit too much interest, Rowan snarled.

They’d dumped the nobles at the baths, asked Emrys to bring foot to the rooms they’d be taking over while here (there had been three demi-Fae who were more than happy to vacate their large bedrooms if it meant getting out of the path of their visitors). They had an hour until dinner – and though Celaena could have scrounged up a dress . . . she didn’t feel like it.

“Remelle was . . . a very, very big mistake,” Rowan said, his back to her.

“Seems like she doesn’t think so.”

He glared over a shoulder. “It was a hundred years ago.”

Gods, sometimes she forgot how old he was. “She acts like you cast her aside this winter.”

“Remelle just wants whatever she can’t have. A condition many immortals suffer from stave off boredom,” he turned, the hunting knife in his hands gleaming in the firelight.

“She was practically clawing at you.”

“She can claw all she wants, but I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Sounds like you made that mistake a few times.”

Rowan leveled a vicious gaze at her. “It was over the course of a season, and then I came to my senses.”

“Mmmm.”

He stabbed the knife into the table and stalked to the bed until he glowered over her. Celaena lay as she was, brows high and lips pressed together. “One laugh,” he warned. “Just one laugh, and I’m going to dump you in the nearest pond.”

She shook with the effort to keep howl inside.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” he growled, leaning low enough that his breath warmed her mouth. “If you –”

The door opened, and Rowan froze, a low snarl rumbling in him, so violent that it echoed in her bones. But the threat was just Remelle, who blinked, and said, “Oh!”

It took Celaena a heartbeat to realize what it looked like, she was sprawled on the bed, Rowan braced over her, too close to be casual, but –

“What do you want?” Rowan said, straightening but not stepping away. Remelle surveyed the room, taking the details that suggested it was not Rowan’s space alone: the brush in the dresser, the undergarments Celaena had left tossed over a chair (oh, how that would be interpreted!), the ribbons she used to tie back her hair, the small boots beside Rowan’s massive ones, and even the various personal items they kept on their own nightstands.

“I wanted to catch up,” Remelle said, looking everywhere but at Celaena, “but it seems you are…occupied.”

“We’ll talk at dinner,” Rowan said. Celaena popped up from bed.

“I have to go help Emrys with the meal, actually.” She barely managed to hide her wicked grin. “Why don’t you stay, Remelle?”

Rowan could have melted her bones with the look he gave her, but Celaena was already out the door and down the hall, whistling to herself.

***

Rowan was going to kill her. As soon as they resumed training, he was going to murder her. And then murder her again. Remelle was still in the doorway, frowning in the direction Aelin had gone. When she turned, a serpentine smile danced on her red lips.

“Is this considered part of her training, too?”

“Get out,” was all he said. Remelle clicked her tongue.

“Is that how you speak to me these days?”

“I don’t know why you bothered to stop here, or what you expect of me –”

“I heard you were here, and thought I’d say hello and spare you the tedious company of halfbreeds, I didn’t realize you’d taken to them so much.”

He knew exactly what it had looked like when she burst in here. Denying it would only lead to a headache, but letting Remelle assume he was sharing bed with Aelin was equally unacceptable. He couldn’t decide how Maeve would interpret it. Unless –

“And who was it that told you I’m here?”

“Maeve, of course. I complained to her that I missed you.”

The question was whether or not Remelle was willing or unknowing spy. Or if Maeve had sent Remelle to see just what manner of relationship Rowan had developed with the princess.

“As your friend, Rowan, I have to say…the girl’s rather beneath you.”

He held in his laugh. Apparently, Maeve hadn’t informed her who, exactly, he was training. Remelle had been relentless in her pursuit of him a century ago, winning him over with her charm and smiles, but – he didn’t really care to think back that time.

“One,” he said, “you’re not my friend. Two, it’s not of your business.”

Her eyes narrowed in a way that made him realize Remelle would make every minute until she left a living hell for the princess – not knowing what manner of predator she was provoking. So rather than see Remelle’s blood splattered on the walls before dawn, he said, “There is a shortage of bedrooms here, and we’ve to share quarters as a result.”

Not quite a lie, but not the entire truth. Remelle’s brows remained high on her moon-white skin. “Well, I suppose that’s good news for Benson.”

“What?”

“He has needs that must be attended to, and finds her attractive enough. Maeve said it was more than fine if she –”

“If Benson lays one finger on her, he’s going to find himself without his insides.”

Maeve – Maeve had suggested that she was available for –

He clamped down on the blinding rage as Remelle blinked. “Honestly, Rowan, what do you think most of the half-breeds wind up doing in Doranelle?”

He had no answer – no words at all – as soon as she said that. She shrugged. “Benson will be gentle with –”

“Benson looks twice at her, and he dies. He looks twice at any of the females in this fortress and he dies.” The words were laced with a growl so fierce that they were barely understandable. But Remelle understood. Did Lorcan know? He was demi-Fae himself, had proven himself half a millennium ago. Was he aware what went on their city? It was disgusting – worse than disgusting. The Fae were better than that. But Maeve –

“I’ll make sure the warning in conveyed,” Remelle purred.

***

Celaena indeed went to the kitchen, where she helped Emrys prepare the meal. Luca was there, prattling away, but the chatter stopped mid-sentence. Essar was standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling faintly.

“Dinner won’t be ready for another twenty minutes,” Celaena said, wiping her hands on a dishcloth before approaching the lady. Luca was practically gaping at the small beauty, but Essar gave him a polite smile and he immediately found himself interested in whatever he was doing. “I can show you to the dining hall, if you’d like to wait there.”

Gods, being polite was . . . strange. “Oh no, Benson’s in there already, and he . . . I think I’d have more fun in here.”

She’d also make Emrys and Luca uncomfortable, if their silence was any indication, but Celaena found herself saying, “It can be chaotic and loud and messy in here –”

“I know how a kitchen operates,” Essar said. “Just tell me what work needs to be done, and I’ll do it.” Celaena looked to Emrys, who bowed and introduced himself and Luca – who went beet red – and then found herself chopping vegetables beside the lady.

Celaena said to Essar after a minute, “So, you’re just . . . traveling around?”

“Maeve gave us a task, which I’m bit supposed to talk about, but yes – it involved us traveling for a bit. We’re on our way back to Doranelle, though – thank the Bright Lady.”

Celaena raised a brow. “Mala?” Essar lifted a hand, and flames danced on her fingertips. “Not much of a gift, but it kept us warm on the road at least.”

Celaena swallowed. She’d never met another fire-wielder. Did Rowan know?

“Is it hard – to master the fire?”

Essar shrugged. “I was very young when my training began, and I’ve had about two centuries to master what little power I have. Aside from a few burns and blisters, I’ve never really been able to do much harm, or impress anyone, really. Remelle’s got the more interesting gift – her magic lends itself toward mastering any language she hears, no matter how briefly. It’s why Maeve likes to send her around places. And Benson’s got a knack for becoming invisible whenever he wants to, which . . .” Essar winced.

“Makes him a good listener,” Celaena finished. Essar had to be lousy spy if she was so willing to talk. Essar brushed back a strand of her silky, dark hair.

“You must have impressive gifts, if Prince Rowan is training you.”

“I –”

“Those vegetables done?” Emrys asked, and one glance at the male had Celaena sending him her silent thanks. She handed him a bowl of the potatoes, then got to work on the next item. Essar was making neat, perfect slices – too slowly to be useful, but at least she was trying.

Essar said casually, “I can’t imagine Rowan is an easy teacher.”

“You could say that.”

“But they’re all like that – Rowan and his companions who serve the queen.”

“You know them?”

Essar blushed prettily. “I was involved with Lorcan, their leader, for a time. But – his lifestyle and mine are very different.”

“And what is Lorcan like?”

“A demi-Fae, like you.”

Was he now? Rowan had failed to mention that tidbit. Essar went on, “He has had to prove himself every single day, every hour, since he was born. Even though his power isn’t challenged by anyone other than Rowan, that is – he . . . Lorcan is not an easy male to be around. Some days, I’m surprised he has friends.”

“And Rowan is his friend?”

Essar gave her an amused smile. “In a way. They frighten even us, you know. Especially when they’re together in a room . . . Let’s just say that they sometimes do not leave that room intact by the time they depart. Or the city, for that matter.”

“And yet Maeve lets them work together?”

“She would be a fool to let them go – which is why she bound them to her with the blood oath. They’ve leveled cities for her before.”

A chill went up Celaena’s spine. “Actually leveled cities?”

Essar nodded gravely. “And yet Remelle thinks she can control Rowan – wants to possess him. Rowan could end Remelle with half a thought, if he was provoked enough.”

“She’s an idiot.”

“Indeed. But power is power, and since Remelle can’t look past Lorcan’s mixed bloodline, Rowan is her only option.”

“Would – would their children also belong to Maeve, the way Rowan does?”

Essar cocked her head. “I don’t know. None of his companions have sired offspring, so there’s no way of telling what Maeve would do.”

Celaena shuddered. “You don’t seem to speak reverently as the others do about her.”

“Not all Fae are willing slaves, you know. And part of – part of why my relationship with Lorcan fell apart was due to that. He is blood-sworn to her, and no matter how I cared for him, I am most certainly not. Nor will I ever swear such an oath.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you are training with the most dangerous pure-blooded Fae male in the world, and yet he treats you as an equal. He presented you as his equal.”

There was an implied question there – So who are you, really? – but Celaena couldn’t answer.

“I think Rowan just didn’t feel like dealing with Remelle alone.”

“Probably. But he’s also dealt with her on his own plenty. And since Rowan’s not one to show off a new companion just to spite an old lover . . .”

“I’m not sure I follow what you’re getting at.”

“I find it all very interesting.”

“I think you’re reading a bit into it.”

But Essar gave her a soft smile. “I’m sure I am.”

***

Dinner went well for the six seconds it took to walk from the doorway to the large table in the vacant dining hall. Since the table was so large, they’d set the five places at one end, with Rowan at the head, as his position demanded. The plan had been for Celaena to sit his left, with Essar beside her, leaving Remelle to take the seat opposite Celaena’s, and Benson across from Essar. But Remelle, moving swifter than Celaena had expected, had steered Benson into the seat meant for Celaena, plopped herself next to Rowan, and left Celaena with the choice of sitting beside the white-blond lady or the leering male. She chose Benson. Rowan followed the ordeal without comment, his attention pinned on Benson as Celaena took a seat next to the lord. But whether or not Benson noticed the lethal glare in Rowan’s eyes – gods, what was that about? – the lord revealed nothing. So Celaena had nothing better to do in the silence except take a sip from her wine, and pray that the meal would be over quickly.

The first course – a roast-chicken soup that Remelle and Benson frowned over – came out fast enough. It tasted divine, and Celaena managed all of one delectable spoonful before Remelle said to her, “So you’re from Adarlan’s empire.”

Celaena took a second, slow spoonful of soup. “I am.”

“I thought I detected the accent – Adarlan and . . . Terrasen, am I right? They do mangle their words over there so brutally. I doubt even years here will cure you of the boorish accent.”

Celaena took another very slow spoonful of soup. But Essar said, “I find the accent quite charming, actually.”

Benson grunted his agreement, giving her a too-long look, and Celaena fought the urge to shift her chair down a setting or two. Or to take her spoon and use it to carve out his eyes.

“Well, you had such a provincial upbringing, Essar,” Remelle said brightly. “I’m not surprised that you like it.”

Essar’s round face tightened, but she said nothing. However, when Remelle went to take a delicate sip of her soup, she let out a hiss and nearly dropped her spoon. The liquid was indeed steaming hot – far hotter than any of theirs.

Essar gave the female an innocent, questioning look, but Remelle said, “The beastly cook boiled this soup.”

Celaena clamped down on a retort. Especially as Rowan’s face became a mask of calm. One that usually meant violence was on its way. That had been his request, hadn’t it? To keep him from causing a brawl that would be reported back to Maeve?

So Celaena swallowed her own rage and said to Essar, “You grew up in the countryside?”

Remelle rolled her eyes, but Essar smiled. “My father owns a vineyard in the southeast of our territory. I spent my youth roaming the olive orchards and the cypress groves. But I moved to Doranelle when it was deemed time for me to enter society.”

“Alas, Essar has been rather unlucky when it comes to fulfilling her parents’ wishes to find a proper husband,” Remelle said.

“Husband,” Celaena found herself saying. “Not – mate?”

Remelle clicked her tongue. “Of course not. A mate is rare – most Fae don’t find them.”

Celaena couldn’t bring herself to look at Rowan, though her heart strained.

Remelle waved an idle hand- “So, we marry.”

“What if you marry, then you find your mate?”

“Wars have been started for that,” Benson finally said, his dark eyes seeming to swallow her whole. “But if that is the case, it is treated very delicately.”

“It’s a mess, is what he means,” Essar clarified. “A male will feel the need to kill any challenger to his mate, even if that challenger is already wed to her. Even if they’re in love. For all our refinements, there are still instincts that can’t be controlled.”

Celaena nodded, finishing off her soup. Remelle, however, smiled at her. “But as a half-breed, you won’t have to worry about such things. Finding a mate is even rarer for those with diluted blood – and none of us would marry you, anyway.”

Celaena started at the female for a long moment, even as she could have sworn she felt the reverberations in the table as Rowan snarled softly. Remelle refused to break the stare, and Celaena settled in, willing calm to her veins.

She could feel Essar’s attention, and could almost hear the puzzle pieces snap together in Essar’s mind as she recognized the coloring of Celaena’s eyes and murmured, “Remelle.”

But Remelle looked to Rowan and began saying something in the Old Language, smiling sweetly. When Rowan didn’t respond, Remelle turned to Benson, saying something else, to which the lord replied in the same elegant, lovely language. Remelle again opened her mouth, but Rowan said with lethal quiet, “Speak the common tongue, Remelle.”

Remelle put a hand on her chest in a mockery of an apology. “Something I forget – it’s not every day I’m in the company of half-breeds.”

Essar swallowed hard, her brown skin going a bit wan as she surveyed Celaena and Remelle. Oh, yes. The lady had figured out that it wasn’t some common by-blow seated across from them. Emrys and Luca entered, clearing the soup away and bringing out the next course – platters of roast meats and vegetables.

Emrys loitered by the doorway, and Celaena took one bite of the rabbit, moaned, and turned in her seat to nod her enthusiasm to the ancient cook. He grinned, his face flushing.

Then Remelle said, “Rowan, it must be a trial for you to have to eat this day on and day out.” She pushed her meat around on her plate, then set the fork down.

Celaena couldn’t look back at Emrys – didn’t allow herself to glimpse his face.

Rowan said, “I eat better here that I do in Doranelle.”

“There’s no need to be nice on account of the help,” Remelle said, “If they don’t learn what we like, whatever will they do in the capital?” Footsteps scuffed behind them, and Celaena knew Emrys had gone back downstairs.

Celaena said softly, “The next time you insult my friend, I’m going to shove your face into whatever plate is in front of you.”

Remelle blinked. “Well, I never –“

“Remelle,” Essar whispered. But Remelle put a hand on Rowan’s forearm, gripping with such possessiveness that Celaena saw red as the lady hissed at him, “You mean to let her insult me like that? To make threats against a member of the royal household?”

“Get your hand off me,” Rowan said too quietly.

But Remelle didn’t let go of Rowan as she snapped at Celaena, “You are dismissed from this table. Get out.”

Celeana looked at the white hand gripping Rowan. “Take your hand off him.”

“I can do as I please, and if you have any sense, you’ll vacate this hall before I have you whipped for your –”

Fire erupted, and Remelle’s scream echoed off the stones. Living flame wrapped around the lady, not burning, not singeing, just – encasing. Even the hand on Rowan was aflame, and through the column of gold-and-red fire, Remelle’s eyes were wide as she turned to Essar and said, “Release me.”

But Essar only looked at Celaena. “It’s not my magic.”

Rowan went perfectly still as Celaena willed the fire to allow a lick of heat through. Not enough to burn, but enough to make Remelle start sweating.

And then Celaena said, “If you ever raise a whip to anyone, I will find you, and I will make sure that these flames burn.”

She had to admit: Remelle had no small amount of courage, especially as the woman seethed, “How dare you threaten a lady of Doranelle.”

Celaena laughed under her breath. “The next time you touch Rowan without his permission, I will burn you into ashes.”

She turned her head to Benson. “And if you look at me or any female like that again, I will melt your bones before you have a chance to scream.”

Benson, wisely, nodded and averted his gaze. Essar was pale when Celaena pulled back her teeth in a snarl and said to her, “You keep everything you learned here to yourself.”

Essar nodded. Celaena at last faced Rowan, who seemed like he was trying his best not to smirk, though the amusement still danced in his eyes as she said, “I defer judgement to you, Prince.”

He studied Remelle, who was barely moving, hardly breathing, then jerked his chin. “Released her and let’s eat.”

The flames winked out so fast it was as if they’d never existed. In silence that fell, Remelle leaned over the arm of her chair and vomited on the floor. Celaena picked up her fork, took a bite of rabbit, and smiled.

***

“If I never see them again, it’ll be too soon,” Celaena said into the darkness of their room.

Rowan let out a low laugh. “I thought you liked Essar.”

“I do, but . . . you should have heard her trying to get me to talk in the kitchen.”

“About what?”

“About you. About our – relationship. I think you’ll go home to a host of unpleasant rumors.”

“I think the status of our relationship will be the least of the rumors after tonight.”

“Essar said that you – you and Lorcan once decimated a city together.”

He hissed. “Ah. Sollemere.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore.”

She turned over, staring at him in the moonlight that slipped in through the curtains. “You wiped it off the map – literally?”

He pinned her with a long look. “Sollemere was a place so wicked, full of monstrous people who did such unspeakable things, that . . . even Maeve was disgusted by them. She gave them a warning to stop their ways, and said if they . . .”

He clenched his jaw. “There are some acts that are unforgivable – and I won’t stain this room by mentioning them. But she swore to them that if they continued to do it, she would obliterate them.”

“Let me guess: they didn’t listen.”

“No. We got out as many children as we could with our legion. And when they were safely away, Lorcan and I leveled it to dust.”

“You’re that powerful.”

“You don’t seem shocked by it.”

“You’ve told me plenty of harrowing stories. If what these people did was so awful that even you won’t repeat it, then I’ll say they had it coming.”

“So bloodthirsty.”

“Is that a problem for you?”

“I find it endearing.”

She gave him a playful shove, but he caught her hand and held it, his calluses brushing her own.

“You could do that, you know. Make an entire city burn.”

“I hope I never have to.”

“So do I.”

He threaded his fingers through hers and held them up to examine the scars along the back of her hand, her fingers. “But I’ll never forget the look on Remelle’s face when you shot fire out of your mouth and eyes.”

“I did not.” He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that echoed in her chest. “Part woman, part dragon.”

“I didn’t spew flames.”

“Your eyes were living gold.”

Celaena narrowed those same eyes at him. “And are you going to reprimand me?”

He lowered their joined hands to the bed, but didn’t let go. “Why should I? she was given fair warning, she ignored it, and you followed through. It follows the Old Ways, and you had every right to show her how serious you were.”

She considered it, then after a moment said, “It scared me – how in control I was. How much I meant it. It scared me that I wasn’t scared. It scared me that . . .”

She made herself look at him. His face was unreadable in the dim light. “It scared me that…It scared me that I’ve come to care so much about you that I’d draw that sort of line in the sand. It scared me that I would burn and maim and kill for you, and yet – and yet at the end of the day, you still belong to Maeve, and there is nothing I can do, no amount of burning and maiming and killing, to keep you with me.”

He released her hand – only to slide his own against her cheek, the gesture so unexpected that she closed her eyes and leaned into it, hearing the unspoken words in the touch. “I know.”

***

The party departed the next morning, and Rowan didn’t bother to bring the princess down to see them off. It was for the best, given that Remelle still appeared jumpy and furious, Beson refused to look at anyone, and even Essar was wide-eyed. Rowan waited until they were all mounted on their fine horses in the courtyard before he approached.

It was to Essar he spoke, grabbing hold of her Asterion mare’s bridle. “Let’s hope last night was the most eventful of your journey.”

Remelle sniffed from her saddle, but said nothing. Essar, however, looked up at the fortress, as if she could see through moss and stone to the princess sleeping within. Essar, was a beautiful female – soft and inviting and clever – and he’d never understood why Lorcan hadn’t tried harder to keep her. She had been good for him. But Lorcan’s ruthlessness and cold ambitions were his best tools and worst enemies. He had only seen the female for what she offered inside his bedroom.

Essar said, “I do not think any of us will forget last night anytime soon.”

Neither would he. When Aelin had engulfed Remelle in flame, he’d been stunned stupid. She hadn’t demonstrated skills of that level, hadn’t practiced that sort of thing. And if Remelle had tried to fight back, if Remelle had physically hurt him or anyone in that fortress . . .the lady would be ash on the wind right now.

A threat had been made against those Aelin saw as hers. Such things would be dealt with swiftly and brutally. Interesting – so interesting for that side of the princess to have come snarling to the surface. And she had claimed him.

Essar knew. She’d figured out what kind of magic smoldered in Aelin’s veins, and that last night, the Queen of Terrasen had made a claim on him. If Essar told Maeve about it . . .

The others in the party moved on, Remelle stiff-backed, but Rowan remained with Essar. “Name the price for your silence,” Rowan said. Essar’s dark brows rose. “You think I would run the nearest gossip and tell them Aelin Galathynius is training here?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Essar’s dark eyes narrowed. “I would not run to Maeve, either. Remelle will tell her that the girl threw a tantrum and attacked her without provocation – she’d never admit to any of the truth behind it. Or figure out who she really is. And Benson . . . Leave him to me.”

“And your price?”

“There is no price, Prince.”

He gripped the bridle harder. “Why?”

Essar studied the disappearing party, then the fortress. “We have known each other for a while now. Through all the centuries, I have never seen your present another female as your equal – as your friend. And I do not think you did it because of who she is.”

Rowan opened his mouth, but she said, “I would not take that gift away from you, Rowan. Because it is a gift. She is a gift – to the world, and to you.”

His fingers slackened on the reins, and Essar motioned her mount into a walk. “She is going to fight for you, Rowan,” Essar said, looking over a shoulder. “And you deserve it, after all this time. You deserve to have someone who will burn the earth to ash for you.”

His heart was pounding wildly, but he kept his face blank, his will ice and steel. “If you see him,” Essar added with a sad smile, “tell Lorcan I send my regards.” And then she was gone.

***

Things fell back into their usual rhythm in the two days that followed, though Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about what Essar had said. Because he knew it was true, because . . . because he wanted it to be true.

Aelin had said nothing about it, though he’d sometimes catch her frowning at him, as if trying to decipher some puzzle. He was poring over a report Vaughan had sent him when she walked into his room that night. The smell of chocolate and nuts hit him, and when she twisted in his seat, he discovered her carrying a small, misshapen cake, a sheepish smile on her face.

“It took me hours to make this damn thing, so you’d better say it’s good.” She set it in front of him, along with a plate, fork, and a knife. The blade she used to slide into the chocolate-frosted lump, cutting a large piece. It was layered with a lighter frosting – some sort of creamy-looking filing between the dark cake.

“Chocolate hazelnut cake?”

She plopped the piece on the plate for him and took his hand to press the fork into it. “You have no idea how hard it was to get the ingredients. Or to find some sort of recipe. I haven’t even tasted it yet. Emrys looked like he was going to faint with horror.”

When Rowan just stared at the cake, she clicked her tongue. “This is the favor you owe me. Just try it.”

He gave her a long stare that usually sent men running, but she bit her lip and glanced at the cake. It was enough that he adjusted his grip on the fork, picked up a piece, and brought it to his mouth. While he chewed and swallowed, she was practically hopping from foot to foot and wringing her hands.

So he let out a grunt of pleasure, took another bite, then another, until the entire piece was cleaned off his plate. Then he took another piece. And another. Until his stomach was protesting and all but a sliver was left on the platter.

“I told you it was delicious,” she preened, giving him a triumphant smile as he set down his fork.

She ruffled his hair, but he caught her wrist, squeezing gently while he rose from his seat and brought his face dangerously close to her. He knew every fleck of gold in those remarkable eyes – knew how her very blood tasted.

And this near to her, their breath mingling…

“Now we’re even,” he said, and stalked out of the room. He was about three steps down the hall when Aelin’s fork scraped against the platter, no doubt scooping up the sliver of cake he’d left. A moment after that, her curse barked off stones of the fortress, followed by spitting and coughing. Despite himself, Rowan was smiling when he shouldered open the bathing room door – and quickly cast up the contents of his stomach.

After a hard-fought journey, the Queen of Terrasen has finally returned to her beloved Kingdom. But Aelin’s territory is not as she remembered. Adarlan has burned villages into smoldering ruins and left its people brutally scarred—if they were left alive at all. Even though Adarlan’s armies are at last marching out of Terrasen, the roads are still watched enough that Aelin, Rowan, Aedion, Lysandra, and Evangeline keep hidden in the shadows of Oakwald Forest as they travel to Orynth, the capital. But when supplies run low, the newly formed court must risk venturing into one of those hard-hit surviving villages to restock their stores. What they discover there is not at all what Aelin and her friends anticipate-something far more precious than supplies…

Read on for an exclusive look at an afternoon Aelin and her court will not soon forget, and one that may forever shape her vision of Terrasen’s future.}

They’d crossed the Terrasen border two days ago.

The little town baking in the midday sun was the first they’d encountered, the gray stones and moss-speckled shingles all weatherworn and near-crumbling. No main road connected to it-at least no road beyond a groove of wagon tracks through hard grass and mud-and freshly tilled farmlands surrounded it for a good mile in either direction.

Atop a grassy, rock-strewn outlook, Aelin surveyed the sprawl of hills through the little valley, the town at its heart, and the ancient ramble of Oakwald Forest flowing on after it.

“The outfitter is small, but surprisingly well stocked,” Lysandra said beside her, still breathless from scouting ahead. Rowan had accompanied her, keeping at a distance, letting the shifter glean what information was vital, then showing what she’d missed. He’d been training her since they’d left Rifthold-not just the scouting, but the flying. Reading the winds, too.

The shifter went on, “The people seemed friendly enough. I could buy what we need and be done in an hour or so. Then meet you in the forest with a wagon.”

Aelin at last drew her attention away from the village and valley. Lysandra wore her human form- rare, these days. “I assume you’d do this as…a man?”

Lysandra braced her hands on her hips. “No, as a squirrel.”

Aelin’s mouth twitched. “That’d be a sight.”

“What would be?” Aedion sauntered over from where he’d been rubbing down the horses, Fleetfoot trotting merrily at his heels. Aelin didn’t miss how her cousin raked his gaze over Lysandra-or how the shifter deliberately ignored it. Fleetfoot bounded right up to the shifter, however, and peppered her with sloppy kisses.

Aelin jerked her chin at the shifter, who was now ruffling Fleetfoot’s soft head. “Lysandra plans to barter with acorns for our food, apparently.”

Aedion’s brows furrowed. “What?”

The ladies snorted, right as Rowan said from where he and Evangeline had been gathering buckets of water, “Don’t even bother getting in the middle of that nonsense, Aedion.”

Aelin stuck out her tongue at the Fae Prince. Evangeline giggled— then quickly hid the grin when Rowan shot a look at her. The girl darted to Lysandra-wholly missing the crinkling in Rowan’s eyes as she took over pampering Fleetfoot.

Something tightened in Aelin’s chest at Rowan’s quiet amusement. He and Aedion had both been kind to the girl- knowing when to tease, when to comfort. Two bossy, overbearing older brothers-and trained, lethal killers. Gods help Evangeline when she was old enough to be interested in anyone romantically.

Though given the horror of her childhood, even with Lysandra’s intervention… Aelin supposed they’d all be happy for Evangeline when that day came. But the moment any young man looked too long at Evangeline… Aelin smiled to herself. The man or woman, she supposed- wouldn’t just have Rowan and Aedion snarling at them. Oh, no. They’d have a fire-breathing bitch-queen and a shape-shifter capable of turning into the face of their nightmares waiting to have a little chat.

Honestly, it was enough to make anyone pity the girl.

Fleetfoot seemed rather put out as Evangeline straightened and wrapped her arms around Lysandra’s waist, holding her tightly. The shifter smiled absently down at the girl, stroking her red-gold head.

“If you turn into a squirrel,” Evangeline said into Lysandra’s road-dusty white shirt, “will you travel on my shoulder and let me make an acorn hat for you to wear?”

Aelin bit her lip, striding toward Rowan and the water before she could make the mistake of meeting Lysandra’s gaze and howling. Rowan was indeed clamping his lips together, eyes dazzlingly bright. Aelin linked her arm through his and led the prince toward the copse of trees behind them quickly.

Aelin made it about ten feet into the shaded wood before her cackle burst free, echoing off the trees and scattering the birds, drowsy in the midday heat.

Rowan chuckled, rubbing his neck as Aelin fizzed and gurgled. Laughing at Evangeline was something none of them were particularly inclined to do, but…gods above.

“I’m honestly debating offering Lysandra a gold coin just so I can see her little woodland outfit,” Aelin said when she managed to master herself.

Rowan laughed again. “I don’t think you’d need to pay her anything— she’ll do it just to make the girl happy.”

Indeed, they all were inclined to make the girl happy. Evangeline had suffered enough-seen far more than a child should ever witness. Aelin and Lysandra had as well. As had Aedion, she supposed. But out of all of them…”You had a fairly happy childhood,” she said, more musing than question.

Rowan nodded nonetheless. “Yes-my parents faded when I was still young. But in all honesty, my uncle’s house was much more… fun. Our education was strict, but there was joy in that house. With six children plus me, plus a horde of my other cousins living nearby, it was a menagerie.”

Aelin lifted a brow. “Literally, with your other forms.”

He pinched her side. “You have no idea. When our tutors and nurses gave us orders, we’d simply fly away. So my uncle installed locks on the windows, and spikes on the chandeliers and bookcases, just to keep us from having anywhere to fly to.”

Aelin laughed. “I have trouble imagining you misbehaving.”

His brows rose. “I was obedient in public. And among strangers, I was quiet. But on my uncle’s estate … Perhaps I was calmer than some of my cousins, but we ran wild.”

“And you all could turn into hawks?”

“Mostly birds of prey fill the Whitethorn bloodline. My cousin, Enda, can shift into a peregrine falcon. Sellene, another cousin from a different uncle, shifts into a golden eagle. But we all bear the ice and wind-which was another source of grief for our tutors.”

Aelin strode for a tree and leaned against it. “But you wanted to avoid them when we went to Doranelle.”

He stiffened slightly. “They… Their relationship with Maeve can be fraught. Bringing them into the hell I was sure we were walking toward only added potential casualties.”

“Would they have sided with you-against her?”

“It’s been so long since I bothered to spend more than a few minutes with them that I honestly don’t know. I was not kind to them for a great while. I was worried that they might add more obstacles for you and me.”

She angled her head. “What happened between you?”

“After… Lyria,” he said, still hesitating on his mate’s name as if it snagged on something razor-sharp in him, “when I got back from wandering and swore the blood oath to Maeve, I…I shut out everyone I had associated with before then. The people who had known her, known us together. It was easier to surround myself with the cadre, with armies, than face the pity of my cousins. Enda—he and I were closest while growing up. He came to visit me every week if I was in residence in Doranelle. I refused to see him. Then I went off to war, and when I returned two years later, he didn’t come again.”

He shrugged. “The rest of my cousins would sometimes corner me at events, or show up at my door, but I dismissed it as meddling.”

She considered his words. “I don’t blame you.”

He seemed to sag slightly.

Pushing off the tree and taking a few steps toward him, she asked, “You have an actual house?”

“Many, actually properties owned by my parents, and going back generations.”

“I suppose you redecorated them in warrior-squalor.”

He rolled his eyes, stalking over to her. “I left them precisely how they were given to me. Stuffy, frilly, and utterly useless.”

“Only a Fae brute would find luxury to be that way.”

She let him back her up against the tree, let him brace his hands on either side of her head. “If I weren’t banished from Doranelle for the rest of eternity, I’d invite you to come play house. And I’d give you two days before you were bored out of your mind and grousing to me about it.”

“I happen to love playing house. Nesting is an art form for me.” Her lips twitched.

“Don’t you dare turn that into some joke about birds.”

She clenched her jaw shut, even as her lips shook.

Rowan flicked her nose.

She batted away his hand, laughing under her breath. “Our friends are being suspiciously quiet.”

“I bet they decided to go for a walk in the opposite direction.” He leaned in until his breath warmed her mouth.

“We should get those supplies from the town.” It was a halfhearted offer at best.

Rowan’s lips brushed her own as he murmured, “It can wait a minute or two.”

His first kiss was barely more than a caress. Followed by another, soft and slow, against the corner of her mouth. Then the other.

“Ten minutes,” she murmured, settling against the tree behind her. “Let’s give them ten minutes.”

“Twenty,” was his only response as she lifted her chin so he could have better access to her mouth, letting him place those featherlight kisses over and over.

“Do you remember that day in Mistward,” Aelin breathed, “when I finally mastered shifting, and we raced through the forest?”

Rowan paused his nuzzling long enough to nod.

He leaned in again to kiss her, but she put a finger on his lips. He met her stare, his eyes dark and simmering.

“You looked at me while we were running through the trees, and smiled.” She swallowed. “And you looked…you looked so alive, so wild and alive, and…” She traced the contours of his mouth. “I think that was the moment when I began to want you. I didn’t know it at the time, but… I think it was then. You were real and wicked and as savage as I was, and when you saw my speed and the Fae heritage and you didn’t balk…when you only smiled at me . No one had ever done that before. You saw all of me, yet you still smiled.”

Rowan brushed her unbound hair out of her face. “I think we both tried for a damn long time to convince ourselves of our… neutrality.” He kissed one of her cheekbones, then the other. “I find I prefer this much more.”

Her toes curled inside her boots. “Likewise, Prince,” she said onto his mouth, hauling him against her, savoring every hard inch and ripple of muscle. “Likewise.”

***

In the end, Rowan and Aelin were gone for thirty minutes.

Long enough for Aedion and Lysandra to have sorted out that they were all going to the village. One person getting that many supplies might draw attention, both from spies and would-be thieves, and after so long in the wild, Aelin was craving at least some semblance of civilization. How Rowan had wandered the wilds for ten years..

Aelin didn’t like to think about it. Him alone for that long, or the grief and guilt and rage that had thrown him so far into that abyss.

That even when he’d returned to civilization a decade later, he hadn’t really… lived. Yes, he’d gone off to war, gone on a thousand adventures, but… Aelin kept close to Rowan as they made their way into the little village, hooded and cloaked.

Lysandra was indeed wearing the form of a burly, plain man-to be their negotiator while they got what they needed. Evangeline was his daughter, Aelin her nursemaid, and the two males their hired guard. Their cover was simple: they were a small party trekking north to visit long-lost kin now that Adarlan’s armies were at last leaving.

With midday edging toward afternoon, many of the village denizens had finished their lunch and returned to the fields to tend the harvest now abundant in the dark soil. The perfect time to come; the main, dirt street was nearly empty. Save for the center of town, where the murmur of quiet talking whispered out, along with the splash of water and flap of wet laundry. Some sort of fountain, no doubt.

They reached the outfitter Lysandra had scouted, the shifter making a stellar show of lumbering up the stairs of the small stone building, then ordering them to wait outside.

Aedion’s quiet huff of laughter at the performance earned him a sharp warning look from Evangeline. Aelin dipped her head, ever the demure nursemaid, to hide her grin as Aedion murmured his apologies to the girl.

They led the horses to the stone trough at the edge of the building, and Aelin casually glanced at the quiet village around them.

One main street flanked by a lone tavern, a clothier that had somehow missed out on the fashions of the last five years, and a blacksmith. All were interspersed with what looked to be one- or two-room cottages. No roads led to the houses beyond the street-only grass and rocks seemed to mark the way.

“Did you ever come here before?” Aelin asked Aedion from the shadows of her hood, stroking her mare’s neck as the horse drank deep.

“No-I don’t even know what here is,” Aedion muttered, glancing over a shoulder. A few villagers eyed them as they hurried from the lichen- choked, gray stone fountain at the heart of town, mostly women with the day’s laundry in their baskets, off to hang them out at home.

“There are some abandoned houses,” she observed. “This close to Adar- lan’s border, do you think-“

“I think it’s best if we don’t talk about it here,” Aedion cut in. Aelin straightened. Her cousin added a bit more softly, a hand drifting to the Sword of Orynth hidden beneath the folds of his cloak, “Adarlan plundered—people sometimes fought back. People sometimes vanished. Or left entirely. I doubt any of the explanations are pleasant ones.”

And these were her people. This village was hers.

Her hood turned a bit stifling, but Aelin ran a hand through the mare’s mane. Rowan, his horse drinking greedily across from her own, asked, “Are there many villages like this?”

“These days?” Aedion’s hand lingered on the bone pommel of his sword. “The small ones like this, not connected to any of the main roads, survived with minimal damage. But the villages close to the roads-to the marching armies many are just bits of rubble. Adarlan took and took, and when they were done, they burned it all.”

Her throat tightened.

“We tried to help,” Aedion added. “But… we were usually too far away, or too late.”

Aelin snapped her head toward him. “You…” The words dried up. “Gods above, Aedion, no one blames for it.”

“If anything…” She shook her head.

Her cousin patted his bay gelding’s neck. “We couldn’t do much, anyway. Not without crossing a dangerous line with Adarlan. We tried to get the magic-wielders into hiding. But Adarlan always found them.”

A shudder went down Aelin’s spine. The King of Adarlan, in his twisted way, had tried to save them-had cut off magic so that the Valg, when they came, could not seek them out as prime vessels. And when that had not worked, he’d executed any with magic simmering in their veins. And those who tried to protect them.

“What about the Fae?” Rowan asked quietly.

Aedion’s turquoise eyes flickered in the shadows of his hood. “Adarlan had hunters-how and where they were trained, I don’t know. But they found the few Fae here. The ones that didn’t flee over the mountains, at least.”

Rowan didn’t respond.

It cracked her heart a bit when Aedion added, “I’m sorry.”

“As Aelin said,” Rowan replied, “it was not your fault. Or your burden to bear.”

Aelin might have echoed the sentiment had she not heard it—the sound that crackled through the town.

Laughter-children laughing.

And she had not heard it–had not expected it here of all places-in so long that she turned from her horse to seek the source.

There were five of them, the eldest no more than eleven and the youn- gest perhaps six, all bobbing and scrambling around the town fountain. Shrieking with delight as they were chased by-

Aelin left the mare behind, head angled as she walked toward the fountain.

Butterflies of water-pure water-flitted and chased after the children, emerging from the fountain and sparkling in the midday sun.

Adults had stopped their washing and chatting to watch, the children wholly unaware of their audience. Delight cast their faces near-glowing, their shrieking laughter and sprinting steps the only sounds amid the bur bling fountain.

And in the heart of their merry storm…a dirty-faced girl around eight wriggled her fingers, eyes scrunched in concentration, as her creatures fluttered to life from the fountain.

“Powerful,” Rowan murmured, appearing at Aelin’s side with that preternatural silence. “She’ll grow into a powerful wielder if she can already muster this much control, likely without training.”

Indeed, Aelin could barely summon more than a ribbon of water, let alone actual animated creatures. She noted the faces of the adults-at the same moment they realized strangers were in their midst.

Wary amusement shifted into something hard and cold. Aelin met the eyes of an older woman near the fountain-the others seeming to look to her for guidance. Their leader-or some person of authority. The woman’s tan, lined face hardened. Aelin only inclined her head, offering a small smile to the gathered women.

A hissed word from another washer had the girl halting. The other children picked up on the ripple of quiet—and went still.

Aelin held out a palm toward them. Toward the girl now ducking behind the skirts of the washer who had shushed her.

With the blazing midday sun, Aelin’s fire raged and roared in her veins, and she willed it to cool, to settle. Sweat beaded on her brow, but she held steady as a droplet of water formed in the air above her palm.

The girl let out a gasp that echoed through the silent square.

Aelin smiled a bit more, letting the water grow into the size of an apple, then setting it spinning.

The adults murmured, glancing at one another—and at that woman who had met Aelin’s stare. Already, the magic was quaking a bit, the smooth orb rippling and sagging in spots.

They all watched as a small water-butterfly flapped out of the fountain and alit atop Aelin’s sphere, its wings flexing.

A laugh of joy lodged in Aelin’s throat as she surveyed the fine details up close. The girl wasn’t just strong. She was creative. She’d used different currents to shape patterns into the wings, the entire butterfly in constant motion within its form.

Aelin kept perfectly still, concentrating so hard on keeping that sphere intact that she barely registered the scuffle between the girl and her guardian. From the corner of her eye, she noted the girl approaching, the other children peering around their keepers’ skirts, but she didn’t dare break her focus until the girl was before her and whispered, “You’re like me?”

The accent—the Terrasen accent, the lilt to the words…

She had not spoken to one of her people, in her own land, in… a very long time.

She wondered if the girl noticed that the sphere splashed to the earth not entirely for show. The water-butterfly, however, took off, flapping around them as if it were drunk on nectar.

Aelin met the girl’s brown-eyed gaze and said, “Not as talented, but yes.”

And the sound of her accent, the mix of Terrasen and Adarlan… The girl’s chin lifted. Mistrust-a bit of fear. But courage. A great well of courage– The girl did not back down.

“We were playing,” the girl said, as if they needed defending. As if… The empty homes, the wary faces, flashed before Aelin’s eyes.

“I saw,” Aelin said gently. Calmly. “You are very skilled.”

A one-shouldered shrug.

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“A good age.” Small, for nine. Perhaps years of poverty had taken their toll. Aelin’s stomach tightened.

“How old are you?”

One of the women choked behind them.

Aelin huffed a laugh. “Nineteen.”

“A good age,” the girl said, nodding sagely. Aelin laughed again.

Behind them, Aelin sensed Rowan and Aedion monitoring—but it wasn’t the males that drew the girl’s attention. “What happened to her face?”

Aelin knew who she meant, but she still looked over her shoulder to Evangeline, who stood between Aedion and Rowan, each warrior with a hand on her shoulder.

In the bright sun, the girl’s scars were stark—brutal.

“Bad people tried to hurt her,” Aelin said.

“Mama says that with my magic, I could be a great healer.”

“You indeed could,” Aelin replied, flicking her attention over to where the woman now monitored them with a stone face.

“I could heal her scars one day, maybe.”

Aelin considered. “That is very generous of you. I suppose it would be up to my friend, though-whether she wishes to remove them.” With magic-based healing, it’d still be a brutal process, but… perhaps it was possible.

“I could fix yours, too.”

Clever-eyed little thing.

“You could do that, and a great many more things,” Aelin said. She went on a bit louder, just so the adults could hear, “You could ensure your fields and farms get proper water. You could keep the fountain’s well safe. And yes, you could learn to heal and tend to the sick and injured.”

“Where?” said a low female voice.

Aelin looked to the older woman seated on the cracked fountain lip—the town’s matron.

“Where does she learn such things?” the woman pushed.

Aelin paused. She didn’t know. Had no idea.

“They burned the magic academy,” the woman said. “There’s no place left to learn.”

“I know,” Aelin said.

“Then don’t put dreams in her head,” the woman snapped.

Aelin’s cheeks heated. But Aedion said behind her, still hidden beneath his hood, “Terrasen will be rebuilt. Give it a few years, and there will be a place.”

“If war doesn’t destroy us,” the woman said, jerking her chin to the others to resume their washing. “Best be on the road soon if you want to make it to the next town by dark.”

A curt, if not polite, dismissal.

Aelin didn’t blame them. She looked down at the girl before her, looked into those large brown eyes. And she whispered so no one could hear, not the women washing or the Fae males monitoring, “If war comes, if we survive, wait a year after it ends. Then come to Orynth, and find Celaena Sardothien. Go to the castle and tell them you’re looking for her, and have come at last for magic lessons.”

“Phedre,” the older woman barked. An order.

But Aelin leaned down, whispering into Phedre’s ear as she slipped a gold coin into her pocket, “Do not be afraid of what makes you shine brightly.”

Whether the girl felt or identified the sudden weight in her pocket, she didn’t let on. Phedre only nodded, eyes so bright, and scampered off. Lysandra soon finished at the outfitter’s, and they left the village immediately after, a group of women and men trailing them toward the forest to make sure they were gone for good.

But for half a mile down the grassy slopes and to the threshold of Oakwald, a water-butterfly flitted at Aelin’s shoulder.

Seated around a fire of Aelin’s own making hours later, Oakwald a tangled nest around them, they dined on fresh berries and a few fine cuts of beef that Lysandra had procured for them. A rare, indulgent treat when they could hunt for themselves, but… none of them objected.

The shifter stayed in her human form long enough to devour her share, but now lounged in ghost leopard form at Evangeline’s feet. Fleetfoot, however, sat at the girl’s side, eyes riveted to the bit of meat still in Evangeline’s fingers.

Evangeline paused eating and said to none of them in particular, “Could a healer fix me?”

“There is nothing to fix,” Aedion said a bit too quietly.

Lysandra growled her agreement, but seemed to be listening, waiting for an answer.

They all looked to Rowan, who frowned slightly. “The process would require extensive treatments, with…” He checked himself, and said carefully, “With the scars being so deep.”

Lysandra tensed. Aedion was not the only one of them who blamed himself for the past. Evangeline ran a finger down the side of her face. “What kind of treatments?”

Those citrine eyes were so large, so full of… hope. Fear, yes, but hope.

“The kind that might hurt you a great deal before the scars get better.”

“But they would go away?”

“Perhaps.”

Aedion scuffed his boot against the dirt. “You don’t need it, Evangeline. You’re perfect as you are.”

Evangeline smiled at Aedion—broadly and happily. Aelin glanced to Rowan, who looked as she did: like someone had punched him in the gut.

Lysandra was just staring at her young ward, devastation in those pale green eyes. Devastation and yet… Lysandra glanced at Aedion, who had moved to sit beside Evangeline and was showing her how to make a proper daisy chain. Aelin didn’t miss the change in Lysandra’s expression, even in ghost leopard form, as she took in the warrior.

Aelin met Rowan’s eyes again, and he leaned in to press a soft kiss to her neck. He said, so quietly none of them could hear, “You told that girl to come to Orynth, didn’t you?”

She nodded. Rowan pulled back to look at her face, to study her. The pride in his eyes made her throat tighten. “It is an honor to serve you.”

But Aelin shook her head, looking at him, at Aedion, at Evangeline, and Lysandra, watching over them all. “The honor is all mine,” she said softly.

The next morning, Evangeline’s squeal of delight was nearly loud enough to wake the dead slumbering in their hill tombs to the south.

Lysandra remained in squirrel form throughout the day, and the next one after that, and wore her acorn hat as proudly as any fine lady while she rode atop Evangeline’s shoulder.

Chaol Westfall has always defined himself by his unwavering loyalty and his position as the Captain of the Guard. But all of that has changed since the glass castle shattered, since his men were slaughtered, since the King of Adarlan spared him from a killing blow but left his body broken. His only shot at recovery lies with the legendary healers of the Torre Cesme, in Antica-the stronghold of the southern continent’s mighty empire. And with war looming over Dorian and Aelin back home, their only chance at survival might lie with Chaol and Nesryn convincing Antica’s rulers to ally with them. Read on for an exclusive glimpse into Chaol and Nesryn’s journey across the sea-the beginnings of an adventure that may doom or save those they love most…}

After two weeks aboard the Wind Cutter, Chaol Westfall still wasn’t entirely certain how Dorian and Aelin had arranged for him to stay inside the captain’s lavish suite. He wouldn’t have put it past either of them to have bribed or bullied the ship’s captain into yielding the room- -but from the polite, cool distance with which the captain treated him and Nesryn, Chaol suspected that the Queen of Terrasen had made a point of visiting the ship before departing for her own kingdom.A suspicion that was only solidified by the handprint burned into the desk across the room.

Honestly, he would have preferred if they had just given him a small stateroom. Mostly for two reasons: the first, and perhaps worst, was that it only drew attention to him. To his condition. He still didn’t know what, exactly, to call the absolute numbness and lack of movement below his waist. But he could only endure it thanks to the other reason for wanting a smaller room: Nesryn.

With the larger cabin, there was really no excuse for her to stay elsewhere. And though he knew damn well that she could take care of herself, the thought of Nesryn staying belowdecks in a ship filled with sea-hardened men made him grind his teeth. So, she stayed with him. Here. In this room. In this very bed in which he was now lying, watching the reflection of sunlight on water ripple over the white-painted ceiling.

He hadn’t touched her–not during the nights they’d shared this bed. Not during the daytime hours, either. Though he certainly woke up most mornings with the merciful proof that something still worked below his waist.

Not that Nesryn showed any inclination to touch him, either.

He wasn’t sure whether that was a blessing. Whether he could stomach the sure humiliation of trying without use of his legs. Whether he could stomach reaching for her, only to have her recoil.

He knew Nesryn didn’t think less of him. She believed the injury was only temporary, and he knew that even if she had to bang on the front doors of the Torre Cesme, she’d get him help from its famed healers.

But he still noted the way she’d sometimes look at him–with that pain and pity.

He wanted to scream whenever she did. Whenever any of the sailors on this ship had the same look as they wheeled him in that infernal chair onto the deck for some fresh air. Another reason why he’d been granted the captain’s suite: it didn’t require stairs to access the deck.

He tried. Every day he tried to get just one of his toes to move. The empty silence that greeted him was more terrifying than those moments facing the king. Even the death he’d believed was coming had been less harrowing and unbearable than the utter silence of his body.

Chaol blew out a long breath, and slid his gaze to the woman sleeping beside him.

Nesryn’s dark hair spilled across the pillow, her tan face softened with sleep.

They’d been lovers over a year ago, but had never actually shared a bed until now. Hadn’t spent much longer together than the time it took to enjoy each other.

Everything with her had been out of order from the very start. They hadn’t even really become proper friends until this spring. And they certainly weren’t lovers now.

She never talked about it.

Her brow furrowed a bit in her sleep, and she nestled further into the pillow. Dawn had broken only minutes ago. They usually awoke with the sunrise to train in whatever way he could on the deck, but… she must have been exhausted if she had slept through the shifting light. He could let her sleep. Since he certainly couldn’t get into that awaiting chair without her.

Chaol rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He wished he could drift back to sleep. If Nesryn hadn’t joined him on this journey, he might very well have not bothered to get out of bed at all. Just to avoid the stares. And avoid the constant, endless reminder of all that he had taken for granted. The body he’d assumed would always serve him.

But the things he had come to depend on, the things he’d assumed would always be the same, always be right… they’d vanished too. They’d vanished the moment Nehemia Ytger had died, the moment that collar had gone around Dorian’s neck. The moment he’d seen his own men, seen Ress, hanging from the castle fence.

Chaol loosed a breath from deep in his chest.

He hadn’t told Nesryn or Dorian that he wished he’d been among them–his men.

That he wished Aelin hadn’t slipped the Eye of Elena into his pocket; that Rowan Whitethorn hadn’t spared him from the collapsing glass castle.

That even though Dorian appointed him the King’s Hand, he was still no better than an oath-breaker, a liar, a traitor.

***

The sun had become merciless the closer they’d sailed to the shores of the southern continent.

“It will only get worse,” Nesryn admitted as she panted beside him on the main deck, after Chaol had mentioned it for the second time that morning. They were both already deeply tanned from the hours spent out here–though she handled the sun better than he did. His face and bare chest and back were splattered with specks of peeling skin from various sunburns.

“And it’ll be even hotter in Antica, with summer now upon them,” she added, finishing her set of abdominal exercises. She slugged from a glass of water beside them before bracing his feet apart on the deck and pinning them down. The only way he could exercise his stomach muscles.

Chaol gritted his teeth and began his set, his body already aching from the grueling exercises they’d been working through. Peacefully–calmly. Not at all like the verbal sparring that had always accompanied sessions with Aelin.

He wondered if it made him a bastard for not knowing what he preferred.

He was on his seventh curl when Nesryn said, “You’re quiet today.”

He paused at the apex of the curl to his knees, meeting her dark stare. Wariness flickered in those night-black eyes, in that lovely, solemn face. He’d noticed the way the sailors looked at her. Especially now that she was in civilian clothing. Especially when her sweating made her white shirt cling with little to be imagined.

Chaol tried not to look at said white shirt as he renewed his repetitions.

“It’s the heat.”

“So you’ve said.”

Challenge, sleek and cool, lurked beneath those words. He ignored it.

What could he really say that wasn’t obvious? She was bracing his gods- damned legs. And she had to help him to just use the privy.

Chaol coiled upward again, a trickle of sweat sliding down his back, tickling, tickling–then nothing. It passed whatever demarcation line and vanished.

He did another curl, then another.

His friends were likely readying for conflict with Morath, and he could barely exercise without assistance. And if those healers failed, if he could not walk again…

“That’s enough,” Nesryn said quietly. “You’ve done double.”

Chaol obeyed, lying flat on his back, a boiling heat in his face, his bare chest.

A flopping fish in the sun–

He would beat this; he would fight this.

Even if the thought of Nesryn and whatever waiting sailor helping him into that chair right now made him want to roll off the deck and into the sea.

His stomach burned, his arms ached–but he jerked his chin at her. “Next round.”

“It’s too hot. You’ll get heat sickness.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“No, but you also aren’t immune to the dangers of the sun, so we’re done.”

He sat up, holding her stare as he growled, “Next. Round.”

They were close enough to share breath, and her own stirred against his

mouth as Nesryn said calmly, “No.” And stood from where she’d been bracing his feet.

Without her weight, his legs slid out–and only the clenching of his

stomach muscles and splaying of his hands on the deck saved him from falling flat on his back. His face heated, hotter than the midmorning sun, and he refused to see which sailors had observed it.

She strode the few steps to the wheeled chair, and every groan and rattle as she rolled it to him was like talons scraping down his temper. But he let her and the waiting sailor hoist him into it. And he did not speak, or look at anything but the door ahead, as Nesryn pushed him back to their room.

He didn’t speak for a while after that, either.

As a passenger–and as an incapacitated one at that– there was little to do during the day. Other than plan for their inevitable meetings in Antica, and when that grew tiresome, read the trunk of books Dorian had sent along with them.

Seated at the large captain’s desk in the suite, Chaol went over the list of names both Dorian and Nesryn had supplied. “The emperor,” he said to Nesryn as the afternoon sun sank toward the horizon, “has enough advisors and councilmen to make up a whole army.”

“He rules a continent,” Nesryn said mildly from the chaise lounge by the salt-stained windows, where she read one of Dorian’s books.

“He needs an army of people to manage it. And he goes by khagan, not emperor.” Chaol frowned at the sheets of information.

The god-city was the heart of that empire, the khagan’s mighty hold for three hundred years. The continent itself stretched from the arid northern continent, which Antica occupied, to the vast grassland steppes and deserts in the east, where the khagan’s bloodline had once reigned as nomadic warlords before turning conquerors, to the lush rice paddies and jungles in the west, to the towering mountains stretching to an icy sea in the south. The khaganate had taken it all–and built several cities throughout, key centers for trade and learning and invention. Magic wasn’t as rife as it was in their own land–though their healers had been extraordinarily gifted.

Chaol supposed that for a conquering people, having an abundance of healers had likely assisted in their rise. And would hopefully assist in his own healing.

But the other thing, the greater thing, he needed… “He has six children,” Chaol said to Nesryn. “Who commands the northern armies?” The one that would be closest to the Narrow Sea–to come to Adarlan’s aid.

“The second-eldest son. Sartaq. The one likely to take the crown.”

Succession in the khaganate was not determined by birth or gender. No- -it was determined by whom the emperor deemed strongest. Perhaps another reason why the dynasty had lasted. Lesser heirs were discarded, better ones raised up. The last khagan had been female–a mighty empress who had made slavery illegal, paid good money to bring in artists of all kinds to enrich her cities, and opened trade routes with previous enemies, filling her empire’s coffers to the point of overflowing. She had picked her fifth-born child–the current khagan—to take her throne, only days before she had died at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Already wed with children of his own, the khagan had ensured his reign by killing the siblings who had coveted that throne. Immediately. Along with any of their offspring.

Only three others survived his assassins–one of them fleeing into exile, and the other two swearing fealty. They started by having the healers of the Torre Cesme render them infertile.

No threats to the bloodline.

The khagans knew that most empires were not destroyed from outside forces alone–but from weaknesses within. A vast royal bloodline offered too many contenders for the throne, too many chances for divisive factions. Chaol wondered what it had been like to grow up in that household–to be a potential khagan heir and know your siblings might one day kill you.

Though Chaol supposed it wouldn’t be too different from his own upbringing.

His attention drifted to the large map painted on the wall. To Anielle.

Had his father heard of his injuries? Had his mother?

Anielle was so close to Morath. Too close. He prayed his father would get his mother out–get his brother, Terrin, out, too–before it was too late. The thought of either in Morath’s claws…

“We have nothing to offer the khagan,” Chaol said quietly.

Nesryn set the book on her lap.

Chaol continued when she remained silent, “We already trade with

them, already have agreed not to bother them if they don’t bother us…. There’s no incentive to join this war, to send an army capable of hammering Morath.”

“I’d think the threat of Morath turning its eye on them would be enough incentive,” Nesryn said, also studying the large map.

“Their empire is larger. Morath might seem inconsequential.”

“Not with those rings and collars–not if they have an aerial legion of witches that can sack cities.”

Chaol’s stomach twisted. “The khagan might find it more profitable to ally with Morath.”

“He would never,” Nesryn said tightly. “We do not bow to foreign rulers, and surely that’s what the asking price of allying with Morath would be. But the khagan will still need to be convinced of the threat–his children will need to be convinced of the threat.”

Chaol tapped a finger on the desk. “And what of the threat our friends pose?”

A dark eyebrow lifted.

“Dorian has magic–but Aelin… How do I explain Aelin Galathynius?”

“She gave you leave to bargain on her behalf. I assume that means you are free to explain her however it will benefit us.”

“An assassin turned queen who can shatter castles and kill kings as she wishes?”

Nesryn studied the cover of her book. “The khagan employs many spies. They might already know the assassin part–and her involvement with you.”

“Do you think that would hurt our cause?”

“We are free to love who we will in the southern continent,” she said. “Many do not bother with vows of marriage. But Aelin Galathynius shared a bed with Dorian Havilliard, and with you, and now with Prince Rowan. They might have… questions.”

“She didn’t share a bed with Dorian. Not–like that.”

“It was a romantic entanglement regardless.”

He clenched his jaw.

She opened up her book again with a feigned casualness. “Do you… do you still hold hope for her?”

“No,” he said, his voice flat and hollow. “She changed her mind; she changed–as a person. And even if she had wanted to be with me, I would not have left Dorian, and she would have gone to Terrasen, and it would never have worked. And perhaps we would have been a bit shattered by it, but whether in a year, or ten… Rowan would have been there. Waiting for her, all that time.”

“That’s a rather romantic view of it.” But her gaze rose to his face–to the scar along his cheek, courtesy of Aelin.

“She’s allowed to fall in and out of love as she chooses.”

“And have you fallen out of love with her?”

“This spring and summer was a maelstrom,” he said tightly, glancing at the burned handprint peeking from beneath a stack of papers across the desk. “Between Dorian, and all that happened… Everything fell apart. If the price of getting Dorian back was losing her, then so be it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you want to be.”

Instinct had him pushing off the desk–to stand. And his rage as his body refused to move, as his legs didn’t respond—

”Am I supposed to lie in bed and weep over it? That I was not the man she wanted? Am I supposed to mourn the fact that the dreams I had, the plans I made, were all for a woman who did not exist? Loving an assassin with no responsibilities is completely different from loving a queen with a kingdom and a world to look after. Would I have loved her if I had known from the start what she is?” He shook his head. “If I had met her now… my first instinct would have been to protect Dorian from her. I expect the khagan to feel the same.”

His words sank in, one by one. He added more calmly, running a hand over his face, “That’s the difference. Celaena was a fraction of Aelin– both good and bad. But Aelin… She is Celaena, and she is queen, and she is the Fire-Bringer. I fell in love with a facet, and I panicked when I realized it was a fraction of the whole–when I saw that power, that heritage, and… It was not a part of my plans.”

He looked to the sea gleaming behind her, the wind whipping the waves. “Rowan Whitethorn saw everything. From the moment he met her, he saw all of Aelin. And he was not afraid. I don’t blame either of them for falling in love. I don’t blame her.” He loosed a shuddering breath. “I was what Celaena needed after Endovier. But Rowan is who Aelin needs–forever.”

“And what about what you need?” Nesryn angled her head, that dark hair sliding along her neck and jaw.

“I have never been in a position to demand the things I need. This trip… is the first.”

She stalked to him with feline quiet, taking up a perch on the edge of the desk before him. She stared at him for a long moment, the lap of the waves and groaning of the wood the only sound.

He didn’t move as Nesryn reached out a slender hand and brushed the hair back from his brow. “You give and give and give,” she murmured. “When will it be enough?”

“It is my honor to serve.”

“I don’t mean in that way. When have you ever been selfish?”

“Stop trying to make me out to be something I’m not.”

She lowered her hand from his hair, the corner of her mouth tugging upward. “And what is that? A good man?”

“People died because of me.”

“They have also died at my hand, and Aelin’s, and a great many others! And this is war. A great many will die from your choices, or your hand, as well.”

“Not if I can’t walk.”

“You will walk again.”

He met those dark eyes. Unfaltering will glimmered in them.

“You will walk again,” Nesryn repeated. “And you will remember that you are a good man regardless, a brave and selfless man. You will remember that you may not have magic, but there is mighty power in the strength of ordinary people. You will remember that…” Her chest heaved and she steadied herself with a long breath. “You will remember, Chaol,” she said, “that the world needs men like you. In war, and after it. Especially after it.”

“And what of you?”

“What about me?”

His heart thundered as he traced a finger over the back of her hand, her knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the desk. “Where will you fit in with this?”

“I will go where I am needed most.”

“And if that is at my side?”

“Then that is where I shall be.” Her dark eyes flickered. “But I hold you to no promises, Chaol. I expect nothing.”

“Why?”

“Because I know who I am–what I am. You turned to me last summer, after Lithaen left you for Lord Roland. You turned to me again this spring, after Aelin. I am not the first choice. But for now, it suits my own interests to be here. I enjoy your company–enjoy you.”

He wasn’t sure how the conversation had shifted toward this. “You–you aren’t some sort of consolation prize.”

She let out a low laugh and leaned in to kiss the top of his head. “Would you have picked me if Aelin had come running back to you? Would you have noticed my existence?”

She pulled back when he didn’t answer, a self-effacing smile on her mouth.

She made to walk away, but he gripped her arm.

Yanked, actually, as he pulled her toward him and claimed her mouth.

Nesryn stilled, but didn’t retreat. So he gentled his kiss, loosening his grip on her arm, sliding his other hand around her neck to rest against her nape. Holding her to him as he kissed the corner of her mouth, the bow of her lips. Coaxing kisses, exploring the shape of her, until he nipped at her bottom lip.

Nesryn made a small sound and at last opened for him. The heat of her mouth, the slide of her tongue as it met his own…

Warmth and steel and silk–that’s what being with her was always like. Like pulling back a silken curtain to find a roaring storm beneath.

Finding he had no power to resist losing himself in it.

He tilted her head slightly to more thoroughly claim her, the hand gripping her arm sliding to rest on her hip.

She needed no encouragement. Her hands ran over his shoulders, digging in to muscle, as she straddled him. Slender–her body was so slender when he touched her like this. He forgot so easily how much smaller she was than him, how delicately built.

His hands roved over her ribs, her back, and he growled into her mouth as she ground against him. Yes, that part of him certainly worked.

Calculating, cool Nesryn–she was like molten steel in his arms as he devoured her mouth, then ripped his lips away to taste her neck, taste her skin. Salt and sun and smoke–

He slid a hand up her side, then palmed her full breast. Her hand landed atop his, guiding him to squeeze harder, to roll her breast in his palm as he licked up the column of her throat.

The noise that came out of her, deep and breathless, made him see red. Had his damned legs worked, he would have surged out of the chair and splayed her out on that desk.

But they didn’t work.

And even being here in this chair… even if they got to the bed…

How could he taste her everywhere he wished without needing her help?

She felt him pause. Felt the insidious thoughts grip him.

Nesryn gripped his face, her breathing ragged. “It is temporary, and we will fight it together.” She leaned in, nipping at his neck, his ear. “I can do everything.”

His back stiffened. “I don’t want you to do everything.”

But her fingers drifted toward the buttons of his pants. “I want to.”

For a heartbeat, he flashed between this chair and a broom closet in the glass castle. Where it had been so easy–so stupidly easy–to hoist Aelin against the wall and take her. Where he’d laughed as he did it. His stomach turned, nausea rippling through him as he glanced at that burned handprint across the desk.

Nesryn slipped her hand beneath the waist of his pants. He caught her wrist and squeezed lightly. “Stop.”

She obeyed. But by the time her hand was free, her face had gone still and solemn. She remained straddling him, but–

“Not like this,” he told her. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

He couldn’t read her face as she asked softly, “You can–feel it, can’t you?”

“Gods, yes.” He was aching so fiercely he thought he’d combust. “That part still works.”

“We can move to the bed.”

“No.”

Again, no ripple of emotion on that beautiful face. As if she’d blown out the candle that contained all of them.

Slowly, she stood, setting her shirt to rights. “It’s nearly dinner. I’ll go fetch the food.”

“Nesryn.”

But she was already walking toward the double door, her back a bit stiffer than usual.

He opened his mouth to say something, but the words failed him. How could he even explain? That it was humiliating? That he didn’t want to lie there like some invalid while she rode him? That being passive, being required to ask for things…

He hated words, had always preferred action. And this…

He still had nothing to say as she shut the door behind herself.

They barely spoke during dinner, and afterward.

And when she helped him into bed, then crawled in herself… she stayed as far away as possible. Her arms wrapped around herself. He knew she wasn’t asleep–knew her breathing was too shallow, too quiet.

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said hoarsely. “If I could, I’d have… I’d have taken you every which way by now. But I can’t, and I don’t want to settle for some reduced version–“

“You don’t know it’d be like that.”

Her first words to him in hours.

“You didn’t even try to find out,” she went on, her back still to him.

He sighed sharply through his nose.

And the sound must have kindled her temper, because she finally turned over. “You can’t stop fighting. You can’t stop living. Or you will never survive what’s ahead.”

“Says the woman who barely smiles and laughs.”

“Do not mistake my reserve for lack of feeling. Do not think that because I don’t flash my emotions around it means that I do not have them. That I do not have hopes and fears and desires. I have had to learn to be calm, to be quiet and aloof–because growing up in a city where most people were predisposed to dislike me for my heritage, I had to be those things. And now that we are headed into war, I find that those things are gifts. But I do not shut out the world. I do not shut out life. And I think you were doing that for a long, long time before your spine was broken. Before even Aelin came along.”

He opened his mouth. But Nesryn had already turned back over.

He mulled over her words, his face uncomfortably hot. She was right. Of course, she was right.

He tried to move his toes. Tried to do anything below the waist.

Only silence.

Three days. Three days until they reached the harbor of Antica.

He didn’t rouse her to voice his conclusions an hour later. Instead, he again watched her sleeping, that lovely face gentle in slumber.

It was stupid to say, anyway. It would not be what she wanted to hear.

That even though she had a point about living… this war might very well end with them all dead, anyway. And he would fight like hell to keep Dorian from that fate, to save Adarlan, but… he didn’t really see the point in bothering to fall in love with the world. Not when it could be taken from him. Not with so many dangers waiting to rip them apart.

Sleep eventually claimed him.

Even with the words between them, when he awoke at dawn, Nesryn was nestled against him, her hand curled against his bare chest. Right over his heart–as if she held it gently in her palm.

Chaol laid his hand over hers, listening to her steady, unfaltering breathing.

He would fight–but… he wasn’t quite sure how to even begin this business of living.

For Cassian, the brash, handsome Illyrian general of Rhysand’s armies, dealing with the opposite sex has always been easy—and enjoyable. But when he’s dispatched to the human realm to send a message for his High Lord, Cassian finds himself again pitted against Feyre’s sharp- tongued, steel- willed older sister Nesta. Honestly, Cassian has been aching for another round against the beautiful Nesta since their first, tense meeting weeks ago, though he certainly hasn’t admitted that to anyone—least of all himself. And Cassian certainly hasn’t admitted that he may have finally met someone not so easily seduced by his quick grin and unfaltering arrogance. Read on for an exclusive look at what happened at that second, private meeting—and why the High Lord’s general refused to divulge any of the details of it when he later returned to the Night Court.

It wasn’t that he was looking for a fight, Cassian told himself as he circled above the sprawling estate for the fifth time, despite the unseasonable, early spring chill so brutal it could steal the breath from even the most battle- scarred Illyrian warrior. Rhys had asked him to deliver his latest letter to the human queens, since Az was otherwise occupied trying to infiltrate whatever nasty defenses they held around their palace, and Mor didn’t want to set foot in the mortal realm unless necessary. Amren, naturally, was out of the question—simply because she was Amren and it’d be like sending a plains- cat into a pen of lambs. So that left him. Well, Feyre, too, but she and Rhys were . . . busy.

And, fine—maybe he’d agreed to come a bit too quickly, but…

Cassian surveyed the estate, the muddy, thawing grounds, the distant village, and looming, budding forest. He’d left their first encounter here not entirely sure where he’d stood, or who’d had the upper hand. And, Mother damn him, in the past few weeks, he’d found himself turning over every word and look he’d exchanged with her, over and over.

None of it had been pleasant, every syllable from her mouth barbed and vicious, and…

Cassian huffed a breath, hot tendrils ripping away in the wind. He couldn’t tell what was worse :that he’d thought so much about it, or that he’d run here so damn fast. And was now…dawdling. The thought sent him into a swift, near-reckless dive for the green-roofed estate, his magic’s cloaking rendering him little more than a fell wind and a hollow boom of wings. The horses in the nearby stables thrashed and nickered at his approach, but their keepers scanned their immediate surroundings, found nothing of alarm, and resumed their work.

Cassian tried not to think about how easy it was—how that lack of awareness, that lack of instinct, would likely cost them their lives should the wall be shattered. Should someone like him turn this estate into a personal hunting ground. He’d seen it happen in the last war—not that many humans had been wealthy enough to own property. But he’d witnessed what had been left of entire slave camps when one of the Fae decided to have some fun. The thought was enough for him to clench his teeth and hone his focus on the front door before him.

They’d sent word yesterday about precisely when to expect him. So when he knocked on the front door, it was a matter of a heartbeat before it was yanked open.

The sharp movement told him which sister had been waiting. Yet with his magic cloaking him, Nesta Archeron and her unnervingly perfect face saw nothing but thinning patches of snow on the muddy lawn and the sloping drive cutting through it, the cobblestones gleaming with streams of melting ice. She casually opened the door for him to pass, and called to the insufferably nosy housekeeper that no one was at the door and the sound had only been the wind.

Right. Because emptying the house of all the servants so often would raise more suspicions than was safe. Especially with the other sister engaged to a Fae-hunting prick.

The housekeeper scuttled into the immaculate foyer to confirm for herself that no one was there, but Nesta merely informed her that she was going upstairs and not to disturb her for an hour. The woman opened her mouth to object, but Nesta, with rather impressive fatness, repeated her order and began her ascent up the grand, carpeted staircase.

The housekeeper’s eyes thinned to slits as the young mistress strode away—and Cassian kept his steps quiet as death as he eased around the aging woman, then up the stairs as well.

He was focusing hard enough on keeping silent, on keeping his wings tucked in tight so they didn’t rustle anything, that he barely took in the heavy, pale purple gown, simpler than others he’d seen Nesta in, tight enough in the bodice to show of her slim waist, the ftted sleeves displaying her slender arms. A thinner build than Feyre and Elain—discounting the generous breasts that he glimpsed as Nesta reached the top of the stairs and turned left. Not that he looked at them. Much.

For all the world, Nesta was merely trudging to her room, perhaps a bit grumpy and groggy. But as soon as she entered the spacious bedroom, bedecked in velvets and silks of varying shades of blue and silver, and shut the oak door a moment later, the heavy, slow posture vanished. Along with his cloaking.

A blink was her only tell of discomfort or surprise—and he may or may not have let his wings spread a bit wider as she looked him over.

“You’re ten minutes late,” she only said, moving toward the far end of the room, where a fire crackled against early spring’s chill. Where the sound of the flames might cover their voices. Clever girl.

“I do have other duties, you know,” he said with equal quiet, flashing a grin.

Like circling the house because he was compiling a list of choice insults to throw her way, responses to an invented argument. Like a complete fool.

“Here I was,” Nesta said, a pillar of ice and steel beside the hearth, “thinking I heard you flapping around for ten minutes. It must have been a pigeon stuck in one of the chimneys.”

Cassian just stared at her. She stared at him.

His temper rose with dizzying speed at the words, the absurd perfection of her. A blade given form—that’s what she was.

He smiled, slow and vicious, precisely in the way he’d learned made her see red. A smile that he knew instantly unsheathed those lovely claws of hers. “Hello, Nesta. Nice to see you.”

No reaction, no shift in her scent at the smile that usually made his enemies start running. Nothing, save for the delicate fare of her nostrils. “How is my sister?”

Healing, he almost said. Trying to outrun the fact that she’s falling in love with Rhys, and pointedly ignoring the fact that he’s been in love with her for a damn long time. That all signs point to them being mates, but I’m not stupid enough to say it to either of them.

So he merely said, “Busy.”

A flicker of her throat. “So busy she cannot deign to visit, it seems.”

“Feyre’s got enough on her plate—with the situation with Hybern and outside of it.”

The fire drew out the golden sheen in Nesta’s hair as she angled her head. A predator sizing up a worthy opponent. “And what is your role in all of it?”

Cassian braced his feet apart on the floor. “I command Rhys’s armies.”

Her blue-gray eyes flicked over him in a sweep that might have cut of a lesser male’s balls. “All of them?”

“The important ones.”

A snort, and she looked toward the fire. As sure a dismissal and belittling as he’d ever encountered.

Cassian stiffened. “And what, exactly, do you do that’s of importance?”

Her head snapped up. Oh, that had hit its mark.

“Why should I bother defending myself,” Nesta said with lethal cold, “to a male who is so puffed up on his own sense of importance there’s barely enough space in the room for his enormous head?”

It was his turn to blink. Then he was stalking toward her, his long stride eating up the ornate carpet between them. She did not recoil, did not yield one step back. Only lifted her chin to meet his stare as he towered over her, spreading his wings slightly, and said through his teeth, “Do you have news from the queens?”

Her brows flattened. “Leader of the High Lord’s armies, and yet the brute remains. You cannot cow me with words, so you seek to intimidate me through your hulking size.”

“Hulking—”

“You need me far more than I need you. So I’d suggest you merely agree, tuck in those bat wings, and ask nicely.”

He did no such thing. But he did take a step closer, bracing a hand on the mantel, and leaned in close enough to breathe in that scent of hers. It hit him in the gut so hard he could barely focus, and it took five centuries of training to make himself meet her eyes rather than let his own roll back into his head, to keep himself poised there instead of burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, to keep from moving closer, from…touching.

No blush stained her cheek as he held the distance between them, hardly more than a hand’s span between their faces. She was young—twenty-two, twenty-three at most. But had she been with a man? He shouldn’t have cared, or wondered, and it made no difference to him, but… normally, he could tell. She…

Cassian couldn’t read her at all. So he moved his head closer, his dark hair sliding over his brow, and purred, “There are other ways I could play nice, Nesta Archeron.”

***

The Fae male—Cassian—was dangerous.

Of course, he was dangerous in the expected ways: tall, muscled, skilled in weaponry and war. Then there were those enormous wings, and the little fact that he was a deadly Fae warrior who served at the feet of the most powerful High Lord in history. A High Lord her sister was now entangled with—falling in love with, if she’d read it right. The High Lord already loved her wildly, that much was clear.

But Cassian was dangerous for another reason entirely. Not the handsome face, but those hazel eyes… They had a way of assessing everything and everyone.

Standing flush against the mantel, the snapping fire was blazingly hot against her left side as Cassian towered over her, close enough to share air. Nesta counted her breaths. Held that gaze, willing him not to see too far, too deep. Better to keep him distracted with the barbed words, the utter dismissal.

Or—this. The offer he’d thrown her way, the test. No doubt to find another weakness. Was there a way past her defenses in that regard?

Play nice. A small smile curved her lips.

“If I wanted a male pawing at me,” Nesta said, refusing to let her chin lower, “I’d sooner ask one of the hounds.”

That insufferable smile remained. And Cassian went right for the throat as he said, “Have you ever been with a male, Nesta?”

To lie or tell the truth—where did the advantage lie? So she merely said, “Have you?”

Cassian snorted, the breath of it caressing her lips. “I asked first, sweetheart.” He angled his head, that night-dark hair sliding over his brow like silk. “Unless you prefer females?”

It was by no means an insult if she did, but there was taunt enough in it that she placed a brazen hand on his chest. Sculpted muscle lay beneath the tight fighting leathers, the warmth of him leaking into her palm.

Fire—he reminded her of fire made flesh. She pushed gently on his chest, her hand somehow seeming smaller against the broadness of his torso.

Trained killer—predator by birth and training. Arrogant by nature.

Cassian only straightened as she dared a step closer, forced to do so merely because if he hadn’t, her mouth and his would have found themselves with no distance between them at all. “Who and what I prefer is none of your concern,” she said. “Nor is—”

“You haven’t answered my first question. Or are all these other questions a diversion?”

“What’s it to you?”

“More questions.” A cocky grin.

And that easily, she found it—the answer she knew would claw at him.

Nesta brushed her body against his, barely more than a whisper of a touch, but it still made him stiffen. Still made his pupils expand to nearly devour those hazel irises. She crooned, “No, I haven’t.” The truth. Her hand dug into the leather-covered chest. “Why should I have bothered? By the time I came of age, I was surrounded by low-born brutes and bastards. I’d rather use my own hand than sully myself with theirs.”

Any amusement faded. She could have sworn she heard the arrow of her words strike their target. She’d picked up enough about his upbringing. So she’d told him the truth—and wrapped it in a bundle of blades designed to slice him if he thought too long on it.

No, she had not been with any male, Fae or human. Tomas had wanted to, and she…some part of her had known no future lay with him. Knew about his hateful father, and that he did nothing to prevent the man from beating his mother. She had barely let Tomas kiss her, and that day when she had ended it, he’d…

She swallowed, shutting out the memory of what he’d said and done.

The sound of her tearing dress. No—it hadn’t gone that far, but…the blind terror in those moments he’d tried, before she’d screamed and clawed her way free. And never told anyone.

Something must have shown on her face, in her scent. Because his annoyance vanished—no, it shifted. Into something else, something…

Rage. That’s what stilled Cassian’s face. Pure, burning rage.

It robbed her of breath, of any sort of sense that she might indeed have the upper hand as he ground out, “Who.”

She hated Tomas, hated him enough that she sometimes hoped he’d get run over by a cart, but she wouldn’t wish on anyone the sort of death Cassian’s eyes promised.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, and made to withdraw her hand.

He gripped it, faster than she could detect, and pinned it there. His heart was beating at a gallop now—a thunderous, mighty gallop. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, this male.

If only for the fact that he made her feel so out of control. That she had no idea what he’d do—what she’d do—if he found her vulnerable for even a moment.

“Did someone hurt you,” he said, his voice so guttural she could barely understand it.

The wrath, the utter stillness with which he stood—this was how he was when he was close to killing. Wanted to kill.

His hand pressed into hers, calluses scraping. She hadn’t answered him. “Would it change anything if someone had? Would it make you see me differently, treat me differently?”

“It’d make me hunt them down and shatter every bone in their body.”

A shiver went down her spine—not at the fear of him, but at the truth in the promise. The sincerity.

“You don’t know me,” she said. “Why bother?”

Cassian snarled, inching closer, his hand gripping hers—then paused. As if the question sunk in. As if reality sunk in. He blinked. “I’d do it for anyone.”

She knew he meant it—and that he would.

Perhaps that was what unnerved her, made her want to slice at him. The utter sincerity. That he honored his promises, and did not make them lightly. That he saw and spoke the truth, and when he’d seen her that first day, he’d weighed her . . . actions when they’d lived in that cottage.

Her cowardice, selfishness. The rage that had consumed her, so that she wanted them all to starve, just to see if their useless father would bother to save them. And then little Feyre had stepped in, and Nesta had hated her for it, too—that Feyre had done the unthinkable and kept them alive.

She didn’t know what to do with it, that rage. It still burned and hunted her, still made her want to rip and roar and rend the world into pieces. She felt it all—too keenly, too sharply. Hated and cared and loved and dreaded, more than other people, she sometimes thought. Could sift between them all in a matter of moments, like she was trying on different sets of clothes, and no one could tell or care.

Except him. He could see it, feel it.

That first afternoon, he’d looked at her—not at the face and the body that human men marked, but her—and he had seen it all. She’d wanted to hurt him for it before he could reveal those things to everyone else, find a way to break him so he couldn’t—

The hand pushing her own against his chest gentled. Cassian’s thumb stroked the back of her palm, the pad of it rough with calluses. A log shifted in the fire, snapping as embers exploded, faring light into the room.

She’d been staring at him. He blinked, mouth parting slightly. Cassian leaned toward her, and Nesta found herself tipping her head back ,exposing her neck, granting him utter access as he grazed his nose against her throat.

***

Mother and Cauldron damn him both. This woman.

Nesta.

Cassian couldn’t bring himself to step back from the line that was so clearly drawn between them. One moment, he’d wanted to throttle her, then he’d read that terror on her face regarding her own past and he’d gone so murderously calm he’d scared even himself, then . . . then it had all stopped, the eye of a storm with them in it, and there she was. And in those blue-gray eyes, he could see the thoughts swirling in her as if they were smoke under glass. The cunning mind at work behind that face—the one he hadn’t been able to get out of his head these weeks.

So he’d just…moved. And then Nesta had tipped up her chin, allowing him access to her throat.

Every instinct in his body came roaring to the surface, so violent he had to choke them with a brutal grip or else he’d find himself on his knees, begging her for a touch, for anything.

But he leaned in, and grazed the tip of his nose along the side of her neck. Soft—her skin was so soft; so fragile. He could scent the mortal blood rushing just beneath. Cassian breathed in the smell of her into his lungs, stirring his cock as it latched onto some intrinsic part of him and sank its talons deep.

Nesta Nesta Nesta

Her eyes drifted closed, and a small, breathless sound came out of her as Cassian brushed his lips over where his nose had touched. His knees nearly buckled as her slender hand dug into his fighting leathers. He tried not to think of what that hand would feel like on other parts of him. Gripping him; stroking him.

More more more, his body sang.

He angled his head and kissed another spot, closer to her jaw. Her frantic heartbeat was like a hummingbird’s wings, though her body remained tight and loose in all the right places, a flush spreading across those gorgeous breasts of hers. Big enough to fill his hands, to nuzzle until she was begging him—

Her pulse hammered right beneath his mouth. His tongue brushed it. It was that touch that had her jolting back.

Nesta slammed into the wood paneling hard enough that he reached for her. But she was wide-eyed, livid, as she put a hand to her throat.

Cassian beat her to the venom about to blast from that throat and said, “Wound a bit tight these days, Nesta?”

She lowered her hand and hissed, “Is it some faerie magic of yours, to do such things?”

He barked a laugh. “No. Though I’m flattered you think so.”

Nesta glowered, but let out a low, considering chuckle. “Well,” she said, sliding past him and pacing for the window with smooth, calculated steps. “If that’s what a bastard-born Fae warrior can do, no wonder my sister has become so entangled with the High Lords.”

Bitch. Bitch for the insult to him and to Feyre.

“Did it bother you more that you wanted it, or that it was a bastard-born nobody who made you feel such things, Nesta?”

“It’s been a long winter. Beggars can’t be picky, I suppose.” Wall after wall after wall snapped up, her posture going stiffer, and—

What did he care? What did he care? He had enough shit to deal with. Throwing in a mortal who would have a few more decades before things between them became awkward was . . . foolish. And then there would be the matter of explaining it to everyone.

To Mor. His blood chilled.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew she and Azriel were . . . whatever they were. Knew Azriel had been in love with Mor from the moment she’d strutted into the Illyrian war-camp five centuries ago. And Cassian had been jealous—of Mor’s shy glances at Azriel in those first few weeks, and the fact that his dearest friend and brother . . . was looking at someone else. That she’d appeared, and then Azriel had changed. Only slightly, but Cassian had known his friend did not belong solely to him and Rhys anymore.

So when Mor had asked him to bed her… He’d done it. A jealous, stupid prick, he’d done it, and regretted it at that very first thrust, when he’d felt her maidenhead yield to him, and realized the enormity of what she’d done.

But then she’d walked away, and Azriel hadn’t made a move, and…Mor was still there between them. Somewhere between friend and lover. Dear to him as family, but…Cassian had hated himself for that look on Azriel’s face afterward.

And then for what had happened to Mor at her family’s hands.

He’d had lovers, some for a night and some for months, and Mor had never cared, but…

This woman standing before him like a pillar of steel and fame. Cassian didn’t want to tell Mor about her. About how he’d touched her neck.

Cassian managed to say, “Since you were happy for a distraction, I’ll assume the queens haven’t been in touch and be on my way.” Before she managed to completely castrate him. He flicked his fingers, Rhys’s letter appearing between them. He chucked it onto a low-lying nearby table.

“Mail that to the queens as soon as you can.”

Nesta glanced between the letter and him, her shoulders squaring. “Tell my sister and that new High Lord of hers to send someone else next time.”

Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Tell your other sister we’d rather deal with her.”

“Elain stays out of this. The less association with your kind, the better.”

“Why are you letting her marry that bigoted prick?” The question snapped out of him.

“He has good reason to hate your kind. As do we all.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“I thought you were leaving.”

“You have a damned opinion on everyone else in the world. Why not tell Elain she’s marrying a monster?”

“Perhaps all you males are monsters.”

If she’d been harmed by one, he didn’t blame her for that feeling at all. But his words were still sharp as he said, “She deserves better than someone like that.”

“Indeed she does.” Flat and cold.

He pushed, simply because he damn well couldn’t stop himself,

“And what do you deserve?”

A slow smile, indeed a plains-cat readying for the kill. Then, “Certainly more than a bastard-born nobody.”

Bitch.

But he drawled, “What a fine partner you are, Nesta. Remind me to bring a book on military strategy the next time. Maybe you’ll stand a chance then.”

A cold, flat look.

“It’s easier, isn’t it,” Cassian breathed, crossing the distance again, not caring who saw them standing in the bay window. “To wield the words and the coldness as armor to keep everyone from seeing where and who you failed and how you did not care until it was too late.”

Only hatred gleamed in her eyes, no hint of that slumbering lust that had addled his senses.

“Well, I see it, Nesta Archeron. And all I see is a bored and spoiled girl—”

She moved with impressive swiftness for a human, but still too slow to prevent him from blocking her.

Cassian gripped her raised knee, a mere inch from his balls, and squeezed tight enough to make her hiss.

“Cheap shot,” he said with a half smile. “Come play with me, Nesta, and I’ll teach you far more interesting ways to bring a male to his knees.”

She tried to wrench herself free, but he didn’t let go. She swayed back, and he caught her by the waist, hauling her closer to keep her from falling through the window. He snickered at the skirts around him.

“What are you hiding beneath all this, anyway?”

Nesta steadied herself enough to wrench her knee out of his grip.

“Get out of my house.”

Cassian simply grinned at her.

She surged for him.

He thought she’d strangle him, which was precisely why he gripped her wrists, but—

Her hands, cool and steady, landed on either side of his face. Tugged his head down.

Cassian’s breathing turned jagged as her eyes flicked to his mouth, as her body came flush with his, those breasts so soft against him. Stupid, stupid, stupid—

He didn’t care. Didn’t give a shit as she rose up on her toes, her mouth nearing his—

Pain exploded between his legs, knocking the breath from his chest as that gods-damned knee of hers indeed found its mark.

Cassian staggered back, swearing viciously. She snorted, looking down at him as he fell on his ass into an armchair, clutching his stomach, trying to reorder his brain—

“You’re all the same,” she said, imperious as the night and cold as the dawn. “Perhaps being an immortal makes you predictable.”

“You,” he gasped out.

A low laugh broke from those lips, which he’d been fully prepared to taste, to devour—

“No, the queens did not send word,” Nesta said, drifting toward the door. “I haven’t heard from them at all.”

Cassian willed his legs to move, but the pain lingered, immobilizing his knees.

“I’ll mail the letter tomorrow morning.” Nesta paused with her hand on the knob and looked over a shoulder. “You know nothing about who I am, and what I’ve done, and what I want. And while we’re on the subject, send someone else next time. If I see you on my doorstep, I’ll scream loud enough for the servants to come running.”

He gaped at her, the pain ebbing enough that he could stagger upright.

But Nesta was gone, slipping down the hall, where some servant called out to her and she murmured a response.

A minute later, he left. Not by the front door, but by squeezing through her gods-damned bedroom window like a thief in the night. He launched himself into the sky before anyone could wonder at the rustle and boom of wings.

Cassian did not circle over the house. But he could feel Nesta’s attention as he soared for the wall. Even shielded from sight, he could feel those blue-gray eyes on him.

The feeling chased him all the way back to Velaris.

“Well, that went better than I thought,” Rhys admitted after everyone had departed, leaning his head back against the arm of the study’s large couch. Nesta and Cassian had returned to the House of Wind, where my sister had promised to find some way to begin looking for the Dread Trove. My mate added wryly, “Despite that disaster with Elain and Nesta.”

I’d returned from talking to my sister about the baby—the boy—to find Rhys lounging on the couch, an arm flung over his eyes, apparently needing a moment of peace after enduring Cassian and Azriel’s exuberant elation.

I plopped onto the sofa beside Rhys, lifting his muscular legs to wiggle beneath them. “Elain showed some teeth,” I observed. “I wasn’t expecting that.” Or what she’d said about her lingering trauma. I’d meant what I’d discussed with Nesta—how many times had I focused solely on my terror during Elain’s suffering?

Rhys watched me through half-lidded eyes, the portrait of idle grace. But he said carefully, “How do you feel about it?”

I shrugged, leaning my head back against the cushions. “Guilty. She directed all of it at Nesta, but I deserve it, too.”

Elain and I had grown closer since the war with Hybern had ended. True, I might never go out drinking with her the way I did with Mor, sometimes Amren, but … well, with a baby coming, I couldn’t drink, anyway. And while I might never run to Elain first with problems or for advice, we had a peaceful, amicable understanding. I found her to be a pleasant companion.

I wondered if she’d resent that judgment. I certainly would.

Rhys asked, “Have you ever seen Elain act like that before?”

“No.” I chewed on my bottom lip. Rhys’s gaze tracked the movement. “I mean, she’s been brave when she had to be, but she’s never been confrontational.”

“Maybe she was never given the chance to be that way.”

I whipped my head toward him. “You think I stifle her?”

Rhys held up his hands. “Not you alone.” He surveyed the study as he thought. “But I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.” He sighed toward the ceiling. “With time and safety, perhaps we’ll see a different side of her emerge.”

“That sounds dangerously close to what Nesta said about Elain finally becoming interesting.”

“Sometimes, Nesta isn’t wrong.”

I glowered at Rhys. “You think Elain’s boring?”

“I think she’s kind, and I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also think we haven’t yet seen all she has to offer.” A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Don’t forget that gardening often results in something pretty, but it involves getting one’s hands dirty along the way.”

“And torn up by thorns,” I mused, recalling a morning this past summer when Elain had come into the house, her right palm bleeding from several gashes thanks to a stubborn rosebush that had pierced her gloves. The thorns had broken off in her skin, leaving sharp splinters that I’d had to pull free.

I didn’t dare mention that if she had been wearing the enchanted gloves Lucien had gotten her last Solstice, nothing would have pierced them at all.

I sighed, absently rubbing my still-flat stomach. “Let’s focus on helping one sister before we start on the other.”

“Agreed,” Rhys drawled.

I pinned him with a look. “Did you really need to give Nesta that death glare earlier?”

He sat up, the soul of innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Feyre darling.” He leaned in, and the air shimmered briefly as the shield around me dropped away. His lips brushed over my cheek. “I’d never do such a thing. You must be thinking of your other mate.”

“Yes, the cruel, overprotective, half-insane one.” I smiled as he kissed my jaw, then my neck. My toes curled.

“Cruel?” Rhys purred the word against my skin. “You wound me.”

I let him lay me down on the cushions, savoring the weight of him as he braced himself on his elbows. “You look happy,” he said, his smile soft and tender in a way so few in the world beyond Velaris ever saw.

“I am happy,” I said. “I’m happy that our family can share in our joy.” Regardless of how difficult my relationship had become with Nesta, it had lightened something in my chest when she congratulated us.

“If you think I’m overprotective,” Rhys said, his dark hair sliding over his face, “then just wait until Mor comes home from Vallahan. You’ll never leave the house without an escort.”

“I thought Azriel and Cassian would be the ones to worry about.”

“Oh, they’ll be bad. But Mor will probably add a second shield to you and check in six times a day to make sure you’re eating and sleeping enough.”

I groaned. “Mother spare me.”

“Hmmm,” Rhys said, his eyes near-dazzling as he fiddled with the end of my braid.

For a long minute, we smiled at each other. I drank in every elegant plane of his face, every ember of warmth and happiness that radiated from him. “Cassian said you’ve been moody. Why?”

I believed Cassian, but Rhys hadn’t been moody around me at all. Whenever my mate had looked at me lately, only pure love had gleamed in his eyes.

I’d never forget the moment we’d learned I was carrying our child, that beautiful boy that the Bone Carver had once shown me. I’d been sitting at an easel in the gallery late at night, painting a nightmare I’d had the day before.

The children had gone home, and I’d been the only one there—which was unusual these days—and I was left with some rare extra energy after the lessons. The things the children painted often left me in tears, though I was always careful to hide it. But despite the upswell of complicated emotions this daily work had sparked in me, it had proved gratifying in a way I’d never anticipated. In a way all of my considerable magic had never made me feel.

And the only thing to do with those feelings was to paint them out.

The nightmare had left me off-balance the entire day, lingering in my mind like some sort of bruise. I’d been back Under the Mountain, once more facing my second trial, those jagged spikes descending to impale me if I did not pick the correct lever in time. I’d somehow become illiterate again, unable to decipher the markings on the wall, forced to pick my salvation or doom at random. Rhys had saved me then—but in the dream, he hadn’t been there.

Only Amarantha had been present, the King of Hybern a shadow behind her, and somehow no one knew where I was, that I’d been dragged back here because she’d learned I’d somehow cheated my way out the first time, and I’d never escape, never escape, never escape—

That was the last thought I’d had before forcing myself awake— damp with sweat, my heart thundering in my chest. Rhys had stirred, tucking me into his side, his wing sweeping over us both, and although I’d cuddled into his warmth and strength, true sleep hadn’t found me again.

So I’d waited until the children had left the studio for the day before hauling over a blank canvas and my palette. I made myself a steaming hot cup of peppermint and licorice root tea, and picked up my brush.

I’d been painting out that nightmare for nearly two hours, my back to the door, when Rhys entered. He remained utterly silent. It wasn’t the contented silence he sometimes fell into while he observed me painting. It was pure, shocked silence.

I’d twisted to look at him just in time to see him crash to his knees.

And then he’d been weeping, and laughing, and all I could make out in his ecstatic babbling was one word: baby. I’d leaped off the stool. I was weeping too by the time I launched into his arms, knocking us both to the ground, and he’d put a hand to my stomach in wonder.

Something had altered in my scent since I’d bid him farewell that morning, perhaps even since I’d said farewell to the children. Life had taken root within me at last.

We’d lain together on the floor, our laughter and our tears mingling, and only when we’d calmed had I kissed him. Our clothes had vanished after that, and I’d ridden him on the floor of the studio, letting the light within me shine brightly enough to cast shadows through the room. He’d begun crying again as he watched me move, silent tears streaming through the star-kissed night pouring off him, and when I’d leaned in to lick them away, he’d climaxed so hard it sent me spiraling to my own peak.

And now, just as he had after that time in the studio, his fingers began tracing idle circles over my stomach, up to my breasts, already heavy and aching in a way that had nothing to do with the desire building between my legs. It had been one of the first signs, beyond the vomiting that lately had been nearly around-the-clock: my breasts swelled, and hurt.

Rhys circled one of my nipples, and it hardened beneath his touch. He watched it pebble through my shirt, like a cat watching a mouse

“Rhys,” I said when my question remained unanswered. “Why did Cassian say you’ve been moody?”

He closed his mouth around my breast, teeth grazing me through my shirt. “No reason.”

“Liar.” I tugged on his hair, forcing his head up. “Tell me.”

He shook off my grip and nuzzled his face into the side of my neck, lowering his body just enough that he showed me precisely how this was going to end. I couldn’t stop my hips from rising to meet him. Another early sign: I’d been ravenously hungry. Not only for food.

There had been nights when I’d barely waited for Rhys to enter the bedroom before I’d ripped his clothes off, before I’d dropped to my knees and taken his cock deep in my mouth, or asked him to fuck me against the wall. There were entire days when I’d found myself needing him inside me so badly that I’d used my daemati gifts to ask him to meet me at the town house during lunch, since it was closer to the studio than our new home.

This lovely, perfect home that we’d built—with a nursery that, Cauldron willing, would be occupied sometime late this spring.

Rhys had matched my relentless hunger with his own. Sometimes we went slow, savoring every inch of each other, the embodiment of making love. Other times—usually—it was pure, rough fucking. Just this morning, I’d been so swarmed with need that we’d barely gotten through a private breakfast in our room before I climbed into his lap and rode him until we were both senseless with pleasure.

I’d asked Madja about it yesterday—whether it was … normal to want him this much.

Yes, she’d answered, eyes sparkling. Many expectant mothers do not talk about it, but it has to do with your body’s altering essence. I can’t tell you why that is, but it is normal. Enjoy every moment of it.

Rhys said against my neck, “I’ve been moody because I’m not getting any sleep.” He licked up the side of my throat, and his hand into my pants. I didn’t stop it, not when his fingers found the slickness waiting for him. He let out a pleased growl. “See?”

I knew he was hedging, and I let it slide. I’d learned that Rhys would tell me what was bothering him when he was good and ready. Maybe Cassian had been misinterpreting it—maybe it had been directed toward my sister.

I knew that was unlikely.

But as Rhys slid his fingers inside me, setting a wickedly lazy rhythm, I let it drop. It had always been part of our friendship: to give each other the space to decide when we were ready to talk.

And then there was our final bargain, inked on us since we’d defeated Hybern … I kissed him deeply, tongue tangling with his. We wouldn’t spend a moment in this world without each other. I could only pray that our child would find such love one day.

Rhys brought me to the edge of climaxing, and then his hand and my clothes were gone. He unbuckled his pants with taunting slowness, watching my face as he pulled his considerable length free. He watched my face the entire time he slid into me in a single, mighty thrust, seemed to savor each of my moans and breathless pleas as he moved deep inside me.

As if he were memorizing it—all of it.

When we were both panting, Rhys’s face still buried in my neck, my fingers idly tangling in his sweat-damp shirt, I said, “It feels real now that the others know.”

Rhys knew what I meant. “There’s one person left to tell.”

I smiled, tugging his hair to get him to look at me. Rhys obeyed, staring down into my face. “You want to break the news to Mor or can I?”

He’d known her the longest, but I considered her my dearest friend, A sister, perhaps more so than my own.

“I think we should let him tell her,” Rhys said, nodding down to my belly.

I arched a brow. “How?”

He smiled wryly. “The next time Mor’s home, we’ll drop the shield around you. See how long it takes her to scent you. And him.”

I smiled back. “I like that.” I already wished I had some way of capturing Mor’s face in that moment. I brushed my hand through Rhys’s silken hair. “Do you have any names in mind?”

Rhys grinned. “Oh, yes.”

“I don’t trust that grin for one moment.”

“Why?” He pulled out of me, and with a wave of his magic, we were both cleaned. I stifled the rising hunger in me at the sight of him tucking himself back into his pants. “I’d never name him anything ridiculous.”

“I don’t believe you.” I tapped his nose. “Your family name—”

“Let’s not talk about my family name,” he said, nipping at my fingertips.

I laughed. “Fine.”

But his eyes dimmed. “What about naming him for your father?” My heart strained.

“You’d be all right with that?”

“Of course I would.”

I had to swallow the tightness in my throat as I sat up, facing him fully. “Perhaps for a secondary name, but … no. I want our son to have a name of his own.”

Our son. The words were foreign, yet lovely on my tongue.

Rhys nodded, face softening as if the words moved him as well.

I could already see the father he’d become—see him laughing as he tossed our child skyward, see him slumbering with the boy on this very couch, books left open in their laps. Our son would never, not for a moment, doubt that he was loved and cherished. And Rhys would go to the ends of the world to protect him.

I smiled at the daydreams, hands already aching to paint them.

Rhys let out a hum of contemplation. “What about Nyx?”

I blinked. “Nyx?”

Rhys pointed to one of the walls of books in the study. A leather-bound tome floated toward his open fingers. He wordlessly flipped to a page and then passed it to me.

I scanned the text inside. “An ancient night goddess.”

“From around the time of the Trove, actually,” Rhys said. “She’s mostly been forgotten now, but I like the sound of her name. Why not use it for a boy”

“Nyx,” I mused again, the name echoing in the silent study. I brushed my tattooed fingers over my stomach. Rhys’s hand came over mine, and we both smiled at the little life forming within my body.

“Nyx,” I said one last time, and could have sworn a flutter of night kissed power rose in answer.

Rhys sucked in a sharp breath, as if he’d also felt that kernel of power.

Together, we gazed at our linked hands, my stomach beneath them.

Together, we gazed at our son, and I offered my silent thanks to the Mother for the beautiful future that bloomed before us.

The river house had finally fallen quiet after the raucous Winter Solstice party, the faelights dimming to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadow of the longest night of the year.

Amren, Mor, and Varian had finally gone to bed, but Azriel found himself lingering downstairs.

He knew he should get some sleep. He’d need it come dawn, for the snowball battle up at the cabin. Cassian had mentioned no less than six times tonight that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Az had let his brother boast. Especially since Azriel had been planning his own victory for a year now.

Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Az fully planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight.

Az snickered to himself, to the listening shadows around him.

Sleep, they seemed to whisper in his ear. Sleep.

I wish I could, he answered silently. But sleep so rarely found him these days.

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced him any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated and pulling taut across his bones. So he slept only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours,

Azriel surveyed the empty family room, presents and ribbons littering the furniture. Cassian and Nesta hadn’t reappeared downstairs, though that came as no surprise. He was elated for his brother and yet…

Azriel couldn’t stop it. The envy in his chest. Of Cassian, and Rhys.

He knew he’d be swallowed by it if he went up to his bedroom, so he’d remained down here by the dying light of the fire.

But even the silence weighed too heavily, and though the shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would, he found himself leaving the room. Entering the foyer.

Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was.

The faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat.

“I…” He watched her swallow. She clutched a small gift in her hands. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to give it to you earlier.”

Lie. Well, the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She’d waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she’d leave her gift amongst his other, opened presents, subtle and unnoticed.

Elain closed the distance, and her breathing quickened as she again paused, now a scant foot away. She extended the wrapped gift, her hand shaking. “Here.”

Az tried not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present. But she’d gotten Azriel one last year — a headache powder he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use, but just to look at. Which he’d done every night he’d slept there. Or attempted to sleep there.

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days, and then opened the lid.

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, “You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you…”

He chuckled, unable to suppress the impulse. “No wonder you didn’t want me to open it in front of everyone.”

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

He offered her a smile back. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present.”

He left the rest unspoken. Because her mate was here, sleeping a level up. Because her mate had been in the family room and Azriel had needed to stay by the door the whole time because he couldn’t stand the sight of it, the scent of their mating bond, and needed to have the option of leaving if it became too much.

Elain’s large brown eyes flickered, well aware of all that. Just as he knew she was well aware of why Azriel so rarely came to family dinners these days.

But tonight, here in the dark and quiet, with no one to see…He pulled the small velvet box from the shadows around him. Opened it for her.

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin. His shadows skittered back at the sound. They’d always been prone to vanish when she was around.

The golden necklace seemed ordinary — its chain unremarkable, the amulet tiny enough that it could be dismissed as an everyday charm. It was a small, flat rose fashioned of stained glass, designed so that when held to the light, the true depth of the colors would become visible. A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, lifting it from the box. The golden faelight shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm glowing with hues of red and pink and white. Azriel let his shadows whisk away the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?”

His head went quiet. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her long, creamy neck.

He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. Letting his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin. Letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took a damn long time fastening the clasp.

Azriel’s fingers lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch. Until his palm lay flat against her neck.

It had never gone this far. They’d exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers, but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching.

Wrong — it was so wrong.

He didn’t care.

He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue —

Azriel’s cock strained behind his pants, aching so fiercely he could hardly think. He prayed she didn’t peer down. Prayed she didn’t understand the shift in his scent.

He had only allowed himself these thoughts in the dead of night. Had only allowed his hand to fist his cock and think about her then, when even his shadows had gone to sleep. How that beautiful face might appear as he entered her, what sounds she’d make.

Elain bit her lower lip, and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint to keep from putting his own teeth there.

“I should go,” Elain said, but made no move to leave.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping in long strokes along the side of her throat.

Her arousal drifted up to him, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the sweet scent. He’d beg on his knees for a chance to taste it. But Azriel just stroked her neck again.

Elain shuddered, drifting closer. So close one deep breath would brush her breasts against his chest. She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars.

Such terrible things that it was a sacrilege for his fingers to touch her skin, tainting her with his presence.

But he could have this. This one moment, and maybe a taste, and that would be it.

“Yes” Elain breathed, like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them.

Azriel’s hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain’s mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut.

Offer and permission.

He nearly groaned with relief and need as he lowered his head toward hers.

Azriel.

Rhys’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet mouth.

Azriel.

Unrelenting command filled his name, and Azriel looked up.

Rhysand stood atop the staircase. Glowering down at them.

My office. Now.

Rhys vanished, and Azriel was left standing before Elain, who still awaited his kiss. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back. Forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.”

She opened her eyes, hurt and confusion warring there before she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t– Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize. It’s I who should…” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness he’d brought to her expression. “Goodnight.”

Azriel winnowed into shadows before she could say anything, appearing at the doors to Rhys’s study a heartbeat later. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain had gone upstairs.

Rhys sat at his desk, furya moonless night across his face. He asked softly, “Are you out of your mind?”

Azriel donned the frozen mask he’d perfected while in his father’s dungeon. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rhys’s power rippled through the room like a dark cloud. “I’m talking about you, about to kiss Elain, in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled. “Including her mate.”

Azriel stiffened. Let his cold rage rise to the surface, the rage he only ever let Rhysand see, because he knew his brother could match it. “What if the Cauldron was wrong?”

Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?”

Azriel ignored the question. “The Cauldron chose three sisters. Tell me how it’s possible that my two brothers are with two of those sisters, yet the third was given to another.” He had never before dared speak the words aloud.

Rhys’s face drained of color. “You believe you deserve to be her mate?”

Azriel scowled. “I think Lucien will never be good enough for her, and she has no interest in him, anyway.”

“So you’ll what?” Rhys’s voice was pure ice. “Seduce her away from him?”

Azriel said nothing. He hadn’t gotten that far with his planning, certainly not beyond the fantasies he pleasured himself to.

Rhys growled, “Allow me to make one thing very clear. You are to stay away from her.”

“You can’t order me to do that.”

“Oh, I can, and I will. If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend their bond as he sees fit. Including invoking the Blood Duel.”

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.” The battle to the death was so brutal that it was only enacted in rare cases. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he’d found Mor all those years ago. Had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris to Blood Duels and kill them both. Only Mor’s right to claim their heads in vengeance had kept him from doing so.

“Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of vou.”

“I’ll defeat him with little effort.” Pure arrogance laced every word, but it was true.

“I know.” Rhys’s eyes flickered. “And your doing so will rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court but also with the Spring Court and Jurian and Vassa.” Rhys bared his teeth. “So you will leave Elain alone. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.”

Azriel snarled softly.

“Snarl all you want.” Rhys leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Rhys had rarely threatened punishment or pulled rank. It stunned Azriel enough that it knocked him from his rage.

Rhys jerked his chin toward the door. “Get out”

Azriel tucked in his wings and left without another word, stalking through the house and onto the front lawn to sit in the frigid starlight. To let the frost in his veins match the air around him.

Until he felt nothing. Was again nothing at all.

Then he flew to the House of Wind, knowing that if he slept in the riverside manor, he’d do something he regretted. He’d been so vigilant about keeping away from Elain as much as possible, and had stayed up here to avoid her, and tonight…tonight had proved he ‘d been right to do so.

He aimed for the training pit, giving in to the need to work off the temptation, the rage and frustration and writhing need.

He found it already occupied. His shadows had not warned him.

It was too late to bank without appearing like he was running, Azriel landed in the ring a few feet from where Gwyn practiced in the chill night, her sword glimmering like ice in the moonlight.

She stopped mid-slice, whirling to face him. “I’m sorry. I knew you all were going to the river house, so I didn’t think anyone would mind I came up here, and–”

“It’s fine. I came to retrieve something I forgot.” The lie was smooth and cool, as he knew his face was. His shadows peered over his wings at her.

The young priestess smiled–and Azriel thought it might have been directed at his curious shadows. But she just hooked her coppery-brown hair behind an arched ear. “I was trying to cut the ribbon.” She pointed with her sword at the white ribbon, which seemed to glow silver.

“Aren’t you cold?” His breath clouded in front of him.

Gwyn shrugged. “Once you get moving, you stop noticing it.”

He nodded, silence falling. For a heartbeat, their gazes met. He blocked out the bloody memory that flashed, so at odds with the Gwyn he saw before him now.

Her head ducked, as if remembering it too. That he’d been the one who’d found her that day at Sangravah. “Happy Solstice,” she said, as much a dismissal as it was a holiday blessing.

He snorted. “Are you kicking me out?”

Gwyn’s teal eyes flashed with alarm. “No! I mean, I don’t mind sharing the ring. I just…I know you like to be alone.” Her mouth quirked to the side, crinkling the freckles on her nose. “Is that why you came up here?”

Sort of. “I forgot something,” he reminded her.

“At two in the morning?”

Pure amusement glittered in her stare. Better than the pain and grief he’d spied a moment before. So he offered her a crooked smile. “I can’t sleep without my favorite dagger.”

“A comfort to every growing child.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. He refrained from mentioning that he did indeed sleep with a dagger. Many daggers. Including one under his pillow.

“How was the party?” Her breath curled in front of her mouth, and one of his shadows darted out to dance with it before twirling back to him. Like it heard some silent music.

“Fine,”he said, and realized a heartbeat later that it wasn’t a socially acceptable answer. “It was nice.”

Not much better. So he asked, “Did you and the priestesses have a celebration?”

“Yes, though the service was the main highlight.”

“I see.”

She angled her head, hair shining like molten metal. “Do you sing?”

He blinked. It wasn’t every day that people took him by surprise, but…”Why do you ask?”

“They call you shadowsinger. Is it because you sing?”

“I am a shadowsinger–it’s not a title that someone just made.”

She shrugged again, irreverently. Az narrowed his eyes, studying her. “Do you, though?” she pressed. “Sing?”

Azriel couldn’t help his soft chuckle. “Yes.”

She opened her mouth to ask more, but he didn’t feel like explaining. Or demonstrating, since that was surely what she’d ask next. So Az jerked his chin to the sword dangling from her hand. “Try cutting the ribbon again.”

“What–with you watching?”

He nodded.

She considered, and he wondered if she’d say no, but Gwyn blew out a breath, steadied her feet and balance, and sliced. A beautiful, precise blow, but it didn’t sever the ribbon.

“Again,” he ordered, rubbing his hands against the cold, grateful for its bracing bite and the distraction of this impromptu lesson.

Gwyn sliced again, but the ribbon remained unyielding.

“You’re turning the blade a fraction as it comes parallel to the ground,”Azriel explained, drawing his Illyrian blade from down his back. “Watch.” He slowly demonstrated, rotating his wrist where she did. “You see how you open up right here?” He corrected his position. “Keep your wrist like that. The blade is an extension of your arm.”

Gwyn tried the movement as slowly as he had, and he watched her self-correct, fighting against the urge to open up her wrist and rotate the blade. She did it three times before she stopped falling into the bad habit. “I blame Cassian for this. He’s too busy making eyes at Nesta to notice such mistakes these days.”

Azriel laughed. “I’ll give you that.”

Gwyn smiled broadly. “Thank you.”

Azriel dipped his head in a sketch of a bow, something restless settling in him. Even his shadows had calmed. As if content to lounge on his shoulders and watch.

But–sleep. He needed to at least attempt to get some.

“Happy Solstice,” Azriel said before aiming for the archway into the House. “Don’t stay out too much longer. You’ll freeze.”

Gwyn nodded her farewell, again facing the ribbon. A warrior sizing up an opponent, all traces of that charming irreverence gone.

Azriel entered the warmth of the stairwell, and as he descended, he could have sworn a faint, beautiful singing followed him. Could have sworn his shadows sang in answer.

He slept as well as could be expected, but when Azriel returned to the river house to gather his presents before dawn, he found Elain’s necklace amid the pile. He pocketed it. Spent the rest of his day, even the blasted snowball fight, with every intention of returning it to the shop in the Palace of Thread and Jewels.

But when he returned from the cabin in the mountains, he didn’t go to the market square.

Instead, he found himself at the library beneath the House of Wind, standing before Clotho as the clock chimed seven in the evening.

He slid the small box across her desk. “If you see Gwyn, would you give this to her?”

Clotho angled her hooded head, and her enchanted pen wrote on a piece of paper, A Solstice gifi from you?

Azriel shrugged. “Don’t tell her it came from me.”

Why?

“Does she need to know? Just tell her it was a gift from Rhys.”

That would be a lie.

He avoided the urge to cross his arms, not wanting to look intimidating. He blocked out the memory that flashed–of his mother cringing before his father, the male standing with crossed arms in such a way that made his displeasure known before he opened his hateful mouth.

“Look, I…” Az searched for the words, his voice becoming quiet. “If there’s another priestess here who might appreciate it, give it to them. But I’m not taking that necklace with me when I leave.”

He waited for Clotho’s pen to finish writing. Your eyes are sad, Shadowsinger.

He offered her a grim smile. “I lost the snowball fight today.”

Clotho was smart enough to see through his deflection. She wrote, I’ll give it to Gwyneth, Tell her a friend left it for her.

He wouldn’t go so far as to call Gwyn a friend, but… “Fine. Thank you.”

Clotho’s pen moved once more. She deserves something as beautiful as this. I thank you for the joy it shall bring to her.

Something sparked in Azriel’s chest, but he only nodded his thanks and left. He could picture it, though, as he ascended the stairs back to the House proper. How Gwyn’s teal eyes might light upon seeing the necklace. For whatever reason… he could see it.

But Azriel tucked away the thought, consciously erasing the slight smile it brought to his face. Buried the image down deep, where it glowed quietly.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty.

Bryce had barely settled in to work at her desk when her phone rang. She saw who was calling and grimaced.

“Cormac. To what do I owe this pleasure?” “I need you to attend a luncheon with me.”

“Here in the real world, we say, Let’s do lunch.”

A pause, and Bryce smiled. The Avallen Prince said tightly, “It’s a formal luncheon at Lord Hawthorne’s house. I’ve just been informed that you must attend with me.”

Bryce straightened. “Informed by whom?” “My father.”

It was her turn to pause. “What did my father have to say about it?”

“Nothing. He’s not invited.” A small mercy. “The Hawthornes and the Donnalls go back generations. This is between our families only. And since you are supposedly about to become part of mine …” She

could hear the sneer in his voice. “You are expected to be there.”

She debated objecting, but … she surveyed her desk, her tiny office. So at odds with the stirring forces around them. With her entire life. She’d take any distraction that was offered, even if it meant mingling with the Fae. “Do I need to look fancy?”

Thirty minutes later, Bryce found herself beside Cormac as entered the opulent villa in the heart of FiRo. A mere two block from her father’s house, and nearly identical: pale marble, olive and orange trees, beds of lavender swaying beneath them, aquamarine fountains sparkling in the sunlight… everything screamed money.

It was hard to believe Flynn had grown up here. A stiff-backed butler ushered them through the shining halls, as immaculate and impersonal as a museum. No TVs hung on the walls, no sound systems, nothing beyond the occasional firstlight to indicate that this place existed in the current century.

But Cormac’s brows were high. Impressed.

As the butler strode ahead, Bryce muttered to the prince, “I should have known this would be up your alley. Anti-tech living at its finest.” She gestured to a closed wooden door as they passed. “Dungeon’s down there. If you go now, you can probably beat the crowd for the two o’clock peasant flogging.”

Cormac gave her a sidelong, withering look and said with equal quiet, “I suggest you curb that irreverent humor before we enter the dining room. You are here as a representative of your bloodlineand our people.”

Bryce lifted her eyes to the ornately carved cornices, silently beseeching Cthona for strength.

Soft voices flitted down the hallway before the butler passed through the open doors of the dining room.

Bryce tensed for a heartbeat at the voices. Not just Fae awaited her in that room. They were Fae nobility. She glanced down at her lacy white dress and golden sandals. Clean. No wrinkles or dirt. She’d changed, grateful she’d left the outfit in her office

closet in case of an important meeting.

“You look fine,” Cormac murmured without shifting his gaze to her.

“I don’t give a shit,” she hissed back. But … these were her father’s people. Who had never known she was her father’s daughter before last spring, but … she’d seen their stares in the streets since then. Would never forget that they locked down their villas—this villa–when the in the demons attacked, shutting out anyone fleeing in sets. How many had died on the sidewalk just be these cates, begging for mercy?

As the butler ing room, listing extracted her pl butler announced their arrival to the crowd in the dinsom listing all ten of Cormac’s royal names and titles, Bryce ted her phone from her purse and pulled up Hunt’s contact es and info.

Or it had said Hunt this morning. Now his contact was listed under: Hunt, Whose Bones I Want to Jump Immediately.

She swallowed her laugh. When had he changed that? Though, after that kiss in the alley yesterday, she couldn’t disagree. She quickly typed out a message.

You’ll never guess where I am. Nice contact name, btw. Totally accurate.

“Put that away,” Cormac ordered under his breath as the butler finished the grand announcement. “It’s rude.”

Bryce checked her phone one more time-Hunt had answered, In a meeting. Call you in an hour.

She sent him an answering Ok! before silencing her phone and slipping it into her bag with a glare at Cormac.

The butler stepped aside, bowing low and motioning for them to come forward. Bryce took a steeling breath and stepped into the long, bright space that opened into the rear garden. Cormac put a hand on her lower back, guiding her in, and she debated shoving that hand off her.

A room full of people stared. No one smiled at her. Fine. She didn’t bother to smile back.

Cormac nudged her along, approaching a tall, handsome Fae male who was the spitting image of Flynn. A little older, but nearly identical, from the brown hair to the green eyes. Lord Hawthorne. She

couldn’t help but admire his slim-fitting charcoal suit, though she loathed herself for it. A slim, blond Fae female in a white sheath dress stood beside him, narrow-faced and cold-eyed. Lady Hawthorne.

Flynn, gods bless him, loitered by the floor-to- ceiling windows that overlooked the beds of lavender, knocking back a glass of champagne. She’d never seen him in a suit, but… Well, should it surprise her, given how many crazy things seemed to be happen. ing lately?

She and Cormac halted before their hosts. Lord and Lady Hawthorne bowed their heads.

Bryce tried not to blink. Right. She was … a princess. Or at least an unofficial one, engaged to a real prince.

Solas roast her alive.

Lord Hawthorne assessed Bryce, distaste filling his gaze, but he said nothing. The crowd still stared. She didn’t look to confirm how many were smirking at her cold reception.

“I believe the term you’re looking for is Your Highness,” the younger Flynn drawled, swaggering

toward them, handing his empty champagne flute to a waiting server. The words and motion set the crowd of about two dozen people chatting and mingling again, and though they appeared to be distracted, Bryce knew all eyes and ears remained fixed on them. Flynn didn’t seem to give a shit as he came up to

Bryce’s other side and kissed her cheek. “Hey, B.”

His mother’s nostrils flared. Either at the brazen show of affection or at her precious son deigning to touch a piece of trash.

Perhaps Flynn had done so for both reasons. It wasn’t every day that her heart softened a bit toward her brother’s friend, but she couldn’t help the rush of gratitude she felt.

Cormac, however, made a good show of exposing his teeth. “Lord Tristan.” The greeting was a warning. Back the fuck off.

Flynn did no such thing. They were allies in this room full of snakes.

So Bryce said to Flynn’s parents, offering them a close-lipped smile, “Good to see you.”

Flynn’s mother merely looked Bryce over with that cool disdain. His father frowned deeply.

Cormac cut into the stiff silence. “Thank you for hosting this luncheon. I’m honored.”

“Of course.” Flynn’s mother shifted from icy aloofness to all smiles as she faced the prince. “It was our lovely Sathia’s idea. She is so thoughtful.” Flynn snorted at the mention of his younger sister a warning glare from his father.

They might have looked alike in body and face, but the two males have been more different. Rumor had it the house’s spectacular gardens were the result of the elder Lord Hawthorne’s earth magic, but how a male so hard-hearted could produce such lovely things was beyond Bryce.

Cormac inclined his head, scanning the room until he found the petite, dark-haired Fae female holding court amid a cluster of fae males. And enjoying every second of it, from the coy smile on her pretty, heart- shaped face.

“Sathia never turns down a chance to trawl for suitors,” Flynn id cheerfully, and his mother glared

again, bristling. “Maybe she’ll get lucky this time and actually snare some poor bastard.”

“You are to be on your best behavior, boy,” his father growled. Bryce had picked up enough over the years to know that while Lord Hawthorne had never been in the Aux, he was a highly trained warrior. From his broad shoulders and the menace in that growl, Bryce didn’t doubt it.

Bryce threw Flynn a sympathetic look.

But it was Cormac who replied with bland politeness, “I shall go make my greetings to her. It’s been too long since we last saw each other.”

Flynn’s mother smiled broadly, practically foaming at the mouth, but when she caught Bryce smirking, cold reproach shone in her eyes. All right, then.

Bryce looped her arm through Flynn’s and announced to Cormac, “You go say hi. I have some things to discuss with Flynn.”

Cormac gave her a warning look that told her she was here to further their ruse. not be antisocial, but she’d already made a quick retreat with Flynn toward the windows.

Flynn swiped two flutes of champagne off a passing server, handing one of them to Bryce. She sipped from it. Damn, they’d brought out the good stuff for this. Bryce halted at the floor-to-ceiling windows and surveyed the room before saying to Flynn, “Your mom’s a real charmer. The other guests eyed them from across the room, but kept Bryce ignored them all.

Flynn swigged from his glass. “She’s pissy that you snatched Cormac before my sister could get her claws in him. She’s alwave thought Sathia would be a princess. So has Sathia.”

“What about Ruhn?”

Flynn gave her a glare that nearly matched his mother’s.

“Friends don’t let friends marry assholes.” Bryce laughed. “Your sister’s that bad, huh?”

“I’ve made sure Ruhn is well aware of what Sathia wants.” Flynn shrugged. “To be honest, Sathia’s fine. She survives in whatever way she can, I guess. And I can’t fault her ambition. At least she knows what she wants from life.”

Bryce decided against asking Flynn if he knew what he wanted from his own. “Why does Sathia even want to be a princess? She has plenty of power and money.” Adding a title would be a step up, yes—but it would also come with far more work and responsibilities.

“I don’t know. I never asked. Maybe she likes the sparkly crowns.” Flynn drank again. “I’m surprised you allowed the Prince of Assholes to drag you here.” “Part of the deal. Keeping up appearances and

whatnot.”

Flynn snorted. “Yeah, same.” Flynn might act the playboy, but there were some duties even he couldn’t shirk. She watched his carefully neutral face, the boredom he plastered there. Who was the male beneath all that? Beneath the partying and irreverence?

She arched a brow. “You really hate all this, don’t you?”

His brows lifted. “Why are you so surprised?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I feel like I owe you an apology for not realizing it earlier.”

He winked. But his amusement faded as he said a shade quietly, “That’s why Ruhn and I became friends, you know. Because we both hate this crap. We have ever since we were kids.

“What about Dec?”

“His family’s rich, but they’re not nobility. They don’t run in these circles. And Dec got to have a normal childhood because of it.” A soft laugh. ” Why do you think he’s the most well-adjusted of all of us? His parents actually give a shit about him.”

It was as personal as they’d ever gotten. Flynn continued, “So Ruhn and I – and Dec – we made our own family.” Another wink. It was as personal Ruhn and and D. “And now you’re in it.”

“I’m touched. Really.”

He leaned in to whisper in her ear, champagne on his breath, “You ever want to know how the Fae measure up to the angels, come me, B. I don’t bite. Unless you ask real nice.”

She yanked back. “Take your self-destructive bullshit elsewhere.”

He laughed—but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. She knew he hadn’t meant a word of it. Knew he was feeling trapped and pissed at having to be here and was acting out in any way he could.

Indeed, his mother was beckoning him over to where she spoke to a pale, meek-looking Fae female. Flynn groaned under his breath. “Duty calls.” He drained his champagne and didn’t say goodbye before sauntering to his mother’s side. The Fae girl blushed at whatever he said with that charming, boyish smile of his, ducking her head and mumbling an answer.

Bryce snorted. Good luck to her. And to Flynn.

“Rough day, huh?” Hunt asked her two hours later as he slid onto the barstool beside her at the gastropub off Archer Street.

Bryce held up a shot of espresso in one hand and a shot of whiskey in the other. “I couldn’t decide what I needed more: stuff to numb my soul, or stuff to wake me up from that funeral of a luncheon.”

Hunt laughed, wing brushing over her bare arm in a casual, warming touch. She couldn’t help the shiver that went down her skin in answer. “It was that bad?” She knocked back the espresso as Hunt signaled the bartender for a coffee of his own. “Spending time in a room full of people who hate me isn’t exactly my idea

of fun.”

He rested his arms on the black marble bar. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he said.

He did. If anyone got it, it was Hunt. Bryce leaned into shoulder, sighing deeply. “Am I pathetic for still letting them m get to me?”

Hunt pulled back to survey her. She didn’t balk from searching expression on his face. “You’re talking to the guy who recently got tossed in the Comitium dungeon for beating up some one who still gets to me after centuries of telling myself to ignore him. So if you’re pathetic, I’m a sad fucking loser.”

She huffed a laugh, leaning back into him. “You’re my favorite person.”

“Likewise, Quinlan.” He slid an arm around her, and Bryce savored the unfailing strength of him. Not

a strength to overpower her, but a strength that complemented her own-that bolstered it and helped it thrive. It was hard not to thank Urd every single day for sending Hunt her way.

They sat like that until the bartender brought over Hunt’s coffee, and Hunt removed his arm to sip from the hot drink. Bryce watched him, noting the slight tension in his shoulders, his wings. She asked carefully, “What sort of meeting were you in?”

Yeah, his wings shifted at that. “Sad fucking loser, remember?”

“Pollux, then?”

“Yeah.” A muscle ticked in Hunt’s cheek. “Staff meeting with Celestina. Pollux was … being Pollux. Trying to rile me. And Isaiah and Naomi. But mostly me.”

“No wonder you flew over here so fast when I asked you to meet me.”

Hunt threw her a half grin. “Oh, not at all. I was just hoping you were down for a bathroom hookup.”

Bryce laughed. “I’d be game for that, too, Athalar.”

Heat sparked in his dark eyes. “Yeah?” He set down his coffee.

Something low in her belly tightened in answer. She traced her finger over the countertop. “After that lunch, I need to do a little … venting.”

He tracked the sweep of her finger over the marble, his voice dropping an octave as he said, “I’ve only got ten minutes before I need to head back to the Comitium.”

“I’m sure we can find we can find something to keep us occupied,” she purred, basking in the raw desire of his gaze.

“Then head to the bathroom, Quinlan,” he said in that low growly voice that raked fingers down her skin. “I’ll be right behind you.”

She hopped off her stool, already slickening between her and whispered in Hunt’s ear, “That’s exactly where I want That’s thighs, and whisp you, Athalar.”

A soft snarl of pure need answered her, but Bryce was already o for the bathroom at the back of the pub. Knowing his gaze son her, she might have swished her

hips a bit. She could have worn lightning skimmed over her body in answer—and a sensual promise.

The single-stall bathroom had a working lock, which was all she needed, Bryce decided as she shut the door behind her, heart racing.

She washed her hands to give herself something to do, glancing in the mirror to see her eyes dark with desire, cheeks flushed. A woman ready to get what she needed.

The door opened and shut, and the sound of rustling wings filled the room. Bryce watched in the mirror as Hunt slowly slid the lock into place, eyes on her ass as he said, “That dress should be illegal.”

She looked over a shoulder, hands braced on the sink. “Why don’t you come confiscate it?”

A dark smile graced his lips, and he prowled closer. She didn’t fail to note the hardness pushing against the front of his battle-suit. Just the sight of it had her slickening further.

Hunt stopped just behind her, mouth dropping to her neck. “Ready so soon?” he murmured against her skin, sniffing delicately. Scenting her arousal.

Bryce pushed her ass into his front, drawing a hiss from him as she said, “I could ask the same of you.”

“Hmmm,” he said, kissing just below her ear. “I think I need some confirmation.” His hands slid down her thighs. “Shall I?”

Bryce widened her stance. “Confirm away.”

His teeth grazed her earlobe, tugging lightly before he slid hand under the hem of her dress.

Yes, fuck yes. His fingers skimmed over her bare thighs, work. ing upward, and she arched slightly against him, breath tight.

He nibbled on her ear, biting down again just as his fingers reached the front of her underwear. He hissed again at the wet ness he found. “Solas, Quinlan.”

Bryce could only manage a breathy moan. Hunt obliged her by gently pressing down, tracing over the shape of her sex. She bit her lip, halting just short of pleading with him to rip aside the lace thong

“I’m going to need more than ten minutes,” Hunt said darkly, fingers tracing and circling. “I’m gonna need fucking days to explore you.” He kissed her neck again. “Weeks.” Another kiss. “Months.”

She moaned again at that, and he pressed down right on her clit. Even like this, even over her underwear, he had her mere strokes from coming. The bastard knew it, too, and said against the hot skin of her neck, “Wound a little tight?”

She pushed back against him once more, grinding into his considerable hardness. His answering groan sent her closer to the edge.

He toyed with the band of her underwear, a cat playing with its dinner. He likely wouldn’t go any further until she told him, begged him, and-

The door rattled.

Bryce froze, processing the heady desire coursing through her and what that rattling door meant. Someone was trying to get in. Someone who might very well take photos and report that she and Hunt had walked out of a bathroom together. When she was supposed to be engaged to Cormac -when she had just been at a luncheon with Cormac as his fiancée.

“Shit,” Hunt murmured, hands sliding off her. Bryce just called out, “Occupied!”

Hunt grunted in amusement.

Of course there were no windows in here for one of them to climb out of. “What do we do?” Bryce paced a few steps.

“Watch and learn, Quinlan.”

He opened a small pocket in his battle-suit and pulled out a length of bandage. “Arm,” he said, and she extended her hand toward him.

He wrapped her forearm with the bandage, pinning it in place. Then opened a packet of antiseptic ointment and a small healing potion. He dumped both down the sink, their sweet and sterile smells filling the air. Then he threw the remnants into the trash atop the array of paper towels.

By the time Hunt opened the door, Bryce was playing along, cradling her “injured” arm to her chest.

“Just don’t remove the bandage for at least an hour,” Hunt was telling her as he stepped into the hall and nodded to the satyr male waiting for the bathroom. “The potion should have healed the cut by then.”

Bryce met the satyr’s stare and offered a glum smile. “Clumsy me. I’m never going to hear the end of this from him.”

The satyr just smiled weakly back before walking into the bathroom, his inhaling sniff informing her that he’d scented the strong odors of the antiseptic ointment and healing potion. Which were not only “proof” of the medical emergency, but had also wiped away any lingering scents of their arousal.

When the satyr had locked the door, Bryce glanced up at Hunt to find him watching her, desire still a dark flame in his eyes. “I’ll see you at home tonight,” he said quietly. Then he leaned in to whisper in her ear, “Maybe I’ll play medwitch and tend to your injury.”

She bit her lower lip. But before she could reply, Hunt had stalked out of the pub, people giving him a wide berth before he leapt into the skies.

It was only when she was walking up the steps of the archives that she realized she was still smiling. That all thoughts of the luncheon had faded away.

Hunt had done that for her. She’d never stop being grateful for it—for him. Bryce’s heart tightened and something brighter than starlight filled her veins.

It remained, shimmering and secret, glowing inside her for the rest of the day.

Fitzroy, huh,” Tharion said, peering down at the river otter in the bright yellow messenger’s vest standing before him in the airlock of the Blue Court. “Where’d that name come from?”

The otter’s whiskers twitched, large, brown eyes blinking at him. The creatures could understand their language, but they didn’t have the vocal cords to speak it, relying instead on writing. Animals, yet not. No power to speak of, beyond the occasional drop of water magic.

The otter pulled out a tiny electronic tablet and typed, its little, black fingers tapping the keys one by one. Tharion bent to take the tablet when it was offered, and read: Fitzroy was my great-great- greatgrandsire’s name, sir.

“Ah,” Tharion said, smiling slightly as he handed back the tablet. “A family name.”

More typing. My friends call me Fitz.

“Nice to meet you, Fitz,” Tharion said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. “You up for delivering this to the witches’ embassy?” A nod. Fitz extracted a metal cylinder from his messenger bag and offered it to Tharion. Tharion slipped the note inside and screwed on the watertight cap before handing it back to the otter. “Give it to

Queen Hypaxia—and Queen Hypaxia only.”

Fitz nodded again, not an ounce of surprise or awe on his fuzzy face. A true pro.

Tharion flipped the otter a gold mark. „Let’s keep it between us, Fitz.”

Fitz only winked and trotted for the small airlock built and reserved for the otter messengers. With a hiss of compressed air. the door sealed.

Tharion took his time heading back to his office. He had to maintain the appearance of looking for Emile, but right now he had a matter of his own to look into.

After locking the door to his office and powering up his computer, Tharion typed in the name that had been haunting him since last night.

Morganthia Dragas.

Hypaxia’s second in command. The late Queen Hecuba’s second as well. If anyone were to lead a revolt or make an attempt on Hypaxia’s life, it would be her.

While the witches had been on his radar only in the vaguest sense during his career, he’d looked into them after the Summit this past spring. His friendship with their queen gave him cause to be interested in who surrounded her. And after what he’d heard about Pax’s suspicions …

He skimmed through article after article about Morganthia. Little info came up beyond her tie to Hecuba, who had been a beloved, if enigmatic, ruler. Morganthia was the daughter of Moria, who had been general and second to Hecuba’s mother, Horae. Moria’s mother had been general and second to Horae’s mother, Queen Hestia, and so on throughout recorded history. A long line of powerful witches who had always served the throne closely.

But now it seemed that Morganthia wasn’t content to stand beside the throne any longer. Did she want it for herself?

Tharion idly tapped a finger on his desk, leaning back in chair. The last photo he’d stopped on was one of Morganthia and Hypaxia at the Summit. Morganthia stood beside her queen the gloom of a Reaper, all sharp angles and cold eyes. Pax hadn’t been smiling either, but the brightness in her eyes suggested kind ness and quiet joy.

It was that same brightness that had caught his attention when ‘d first encountered her, just two days before this photo was taken.

For a moment, he let the memory tug him back to the muggy warmth of the subterranean pools beneath the Summit center.

He’d been exhausted from the first day of meetings, and had pted for a late-night swim in the massive, winding pools. They’d been modeled to look like caves, with pillars and vaulted ceilings. some of the pools a hundred feet deep and equipped with housing units for mer who wanted to sleep submerged. Since

the River Queen’s daughter had wanted to stay in an underwater unit, he had little choice but to sleep down here in his own pod, too. But when sleep had been slow to embrace him, he’d found himself craving the quiet and stillness of one of the shallower pools. He’d assumed it would be empty so late at night.

At his desk, Tharion closed his eyes, letting the memory take over.

Exhaustion weighed down his body, his tail, as he wended between the pillars and grottos of the pools, reveling in the smoothness of his movement.

A moment of peace after a day of handling massive egos. And they were his job to handle, as the River Queen’s daughter certainly hadn’t stepped up to the plate.

He had no idea why her mother had sent her to the Summit at all.

Well, there was the obvious reason, which was that the River Queen didn’t leave the Istros, but to send her daughter, untrained and easily cowed … He supposed that was why he had been sent with her. He’d done the

talking. Had listened to Micah and San and the Autumn King and Sabine and all those assholes jabber away about war and trade, each trying to one-up the next. He figured he’d let them talk for another few days, let them exhaust each other, before making his points–and his queen’s points known.

But just sitting there for hours had drained him. And though he’d taken an early-morning swim to make sure the shift held, he needed this. His love of all things Above didn’t cancel out his love for what it felt like to be in the water, to move in it, to listen to its currents.

Another six days of this Hel.

At least he’d been able to sit. Athalar, the poor bastard, had been forced to stand in the back all day. He’d been gifted to Sandriel – Ogenas have mercy on the male.

There was nothing Tharion could do to help him. According to rumors, Bryce Quinlan had offered not only gold but her very life to Sandriel in Hunt’s stead. Sandriel had turned her down.

And in the process, Sandriel had revealed Bryce’s secret: Legs was the Autumn King’s daughter. While listening to the asshole talk today, Tharion had been shocked to realize just how many features and expressions the Autumn King and his daughter shared. How had he-how had anyone-not realized it?

Tharion shook his head, swimming another loop around the space, luxuriating in the powerful sweep of his tail, the answering ripple of the water magic in his veins.

A faint splash sounded through the water. Like something had been dropped.

He aimed for the surface, emerging slowly, making hardly a ripple as he peered toward the source of the sound.

There, sitting at the pool’s edge with her feet in the water, just inside the glass doors to the hall, sat Queen Hypaxia.

He scanned the white-tiled space for any hint of her guard, but the witch had come alone. She seemed content to just dabble her feet in the serene pool and lean back against her hands. There was no sign of her

cloudberry crown or fine robes. Just a simple white gown, as if she were one of Luna’s temple virgins.

Had she come down here looking for someone, or just for solitude?

Tharion kept to the shadows of one of the pillars, treading water as silently as he could.

He hadn’t formally met Hypaxia, since the River Queen’s daughter had not formally met her, but he’d seen her during whe procession, the fancy meal afterward, and during the meetin today. She’d been as quiet as he had been, listening to the whers rather than spewing vitriol. She’d even been taking notes throughout.

Young, but wise.

She kicked her feet, splashing, tipping her face to the ceiling. Young, but wise and beautiful.

He knew better than to let that thought progress, but he couldn’t stop himself from swimming closer. From letting his tail make enough of a splash that she looked his way, eyes wide with alarm.

He halted about ten feet away, where the water remained deep enough to allow room for his tail to

keep him vertical, and gave her a crooked smile. „I’d be careful putting my feet in the water if I were you,” he said. „Something might bite off those little toes.” He winked.

She didn’t smile, just asked sincerely, „What might bite them off?”

He chuckled. „I have to admit that I hadn’t thought further than the intro line.”

She smiled slightly then. „I hope I’m not intruding.” He waved a hand at the massive chamber, sprawling into faded gloom behind him. “Benefit to having a space as large as the entire convention center: little chance for crowding.”

She stared at him with those large, gorgeous eyes.

„You are Tharion Ketos. The River Queen’s Captain of Intelligence.”

„A lot of people doubt that whole ‘intelligence’ thing where I’m involved, but yeah. Hi.” He bowed his head. „You’re, ah… Queen Hypaxia.”

A shallow nod, her face going a bit distant.

„I’m sorry about your mother,” he added quietly.

„So am I,” she said, but added, „Thank you.”

She clearly wanted space and some time alone, but… he didn’t miss the sorrow in e sorrow in her eyes. The way her shoulders had sagged at the reference to her late mother. So he said, if only to get rid of that sadness on her face, „How’d you think today went?”

She angled her head, as if surprised he’d opted to continue the conversation rather than swim off and let it politely die.

„I found it … enlightening,” she said carefully.

„So diplomatic,” he teased, and swam closer, leaning an arm against the side of the pool. „I found it boring as Hel. A whole lot of posturing and little substance.”

Her lips twitched upward. „Is that your official report as Captain of Intelligence?”

„My official report is more like: windbag leaders blow a lot of hot air while fighting over who has the biggest dick.”

She laughed-softly, but with real humor. „I’m sure your queen will appreciate your keen assessment.”

He put a clawed hand over his heart in self- mockery. „She always does.”

Hypaxia’s gaze skimmed over the calm, empty water behind him. „I was advised to listen first, to evaluate my … companions here, and then make my opinions known.”

„Hence the notes.”

„You were watching?”

„Captain of Intelligence, remember? Unless you were doodling love letters to your handsome fiance.”

She blushed at that. „Queens don’t doodle. Or write love letters.”

„Wrong and wrong.” With a powerful movement of his tail, he leapt beside her onto the edge of the pool, splashing her in the process. „Sorry,” he said as her white gown soaked up the water streaming from him.

She waved him off. „A little water never harmed anyone.”

He examined her face for a moment, then asked,

„How long have you and Ruhn known each other?”

„That’s quite a personal question.”

He grinned. „If you think that’s personal, you’re in deep trouble.”

Her lips quirked again, as if she were fighting a full-on smile. „Not long at all. We only know each other casually.”

„He seems to have a good deal of interest in you.” Tharion kept his tone playful. “I maintained a running tally today of how many times he looked at you.”

„You did not.”

„I was up to seventeen by noon.”

She let out a laugh then, unleashing that smile. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

„Not a chance. Princey was practically drooling.” Another laugh, like silver bells. „You’re trouble.”

„I hear that a lot.”

An amiable silence fell. Then he asked, “You needed some time to yourself, huh?”

She resumed idly kicking her bare feet in the water. “I’ve spent much of my life at my mother’s private keep in the mountains, with only my tutors for company. In recent months, I’ve managed to find a way to ease into the modern world. But here I’ve found that I must adjust to having so many eyes on me as queen.”

There was a great deal to unpack there. “Why did you grow up alone in the wilderness?” „

It was my mother’s choice.” It wasn’t an answer, but her voice was aloof enough that he knew not to press. She continued, “I have . . . unusual gifts. Ones that my mother thought best to learn in seclusion.”

“Am I allowed to ask?”

„I would not have mentioned them to you if not.” He drawled, “So tell me, Pax: What sort of gifts?”

Her lips quirked upward at the nickname. But she said, “Necromancy. I can raise and speak with the dead.”

Tharion let out a long whistle. “Color me impressed.” His brows rose. “I thought witches were all House of Earth and Blood, though. Necromancy is a Flame and Shadow gift.”

“My father was a necromancer,” she said. “I inherited the full force of his talents.”

“So you ca you can, like … really raise the dead?” His sister’s face Hashed through his mind.

„There are lim It is why we mos lere are limits, and there can be dire consequences, but yes. ly we mostly stick to speaking with them, instead.”

“What happens when the dead come back? Are they … the same?”

„No. If their body has been destroyed, they require a new one. Which is disorienting, to say the least. And some find that they do not want to be ripped from the Eternal Lands. I haven’t done a true raising, though, so I can only tell you what I’ve learned from my tutors. We operate by a strict moral code, and they made sure I was well schooled in it.”

„They’re necromancers?”

„No. They’re ghosts.”

Tharion started. “Excuse me?”

“Very ancient ghosts. My mother thought it best that they be the ones to teach me. Not just about necromancy, but about everything a queen needs to know.”

His mind reeled. Necromancers weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard of, either. For the witch-queen to be one, though— that could have interesting implications. “Is this knowledge secret?”

“No. Some in my coven wish it were, but I am not ashamed. I have no reason to hide the skill. It works hand in hand with my healing abilities.”

“Life and death.”

„Exactly.”

That companionable silence again fell, and Tharion swished his tail in the water. She asked, “Do you prefer your mer form or the humanoid one?”

“No one’s ever asked me that.”

“Is it private?”

“No. I just …” He considered. “I don’t know the answer.”

She studied him. Like she could see the part of him that sometimes only raced back to water because he had to, not because he wanted to. He tried not to shift under that gaze, and turned the focus back to her by asking, “Do you prefer being on land or flying on your broom?”

She was having none of it. “That’s not the same thing. But if you must know, I prefer to fly.” She gestured to a brooch shaped like lush-bodied Cthona on her shoulder. “My broom is contained in this. As easy to summon as your fins. I find that I can sometimes hear it calling to me. That I can hear the wind itself calling to me, beckoning me to ride its dips and swells. There’s a freedom and quiet in doing so.” She gave him a knowing look. “I suspect you were swimming about down here for a similar reason.”

Young and wise, indeed.

“Swimming about makes me seem so … idle,” he protested. “How about ‘prowling the waters’ instead?” Again, that slight smile. “Prowling the waters, then.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I needed some time to decompress,” he admitted. “I’m, uh … I’m engaged to the River Queen’s daughter.” He so, so rarely ever spoke the words aloud. “It comes with perks, yeah, but also a lot of obligations on a daily basis. Enough of them that …” He cut himself off before he said too much, but from the gleam in her eyes, he knew the witch-queen read the unspoken words: that it was a huge mistake for me to make in the first place. “But beyond that, I just needed to think over all the crap the windbags at the Summit said today.”

“When I do speak, I shall make sure to try to impress you.”

„You’ve already impressed me and then some, Pax.” How many young rulers would share things with him like this? Guarded, yes, but still open. Friendly. If she’d been surrounded by ghosts her whole life, he didn’t blame her for wanting some living companionship. But the queen was still different. From the timid River Queen’s daughter, from the preening Fae rulers, from the glowering Archangels. A sort of clarity glowed in her eyes that he couldn’t turn away from.

Which was precisely why he jumped back into the water, trying not to splash her. When he emerged, slicking back his hair, he said, “Well, I need to sleep. Gotta be alert for more dick-swinging tomorrow.”

“Are you referring to yourself or the others?”

She said it so coolly that he burst out laughing. “Good night, Pax.”

She blushed, and Tharion swam a few feet away.

“Good night,” she said.

“See you bright and early,” he replied, and dove beneath the water. He aimed for his own sleeping pod across the space. a even when he knew he’d swum deep and far enough for her ne to see him, he could have sworn he felt the witch’s gaze lingering.

A beep on Tharion’s computer stirred him from the memory, and he opened his eyes to find a slew of new emails to read.

But he allowed himself a moment more to remember. How during the next few days, he’d continually flashed her a piece of paper during the meetings where he’d tallied all the times Ruhn had stared at her. How she’d blushed and waved him off.

How they’d met at the pool each night to chat about everything and nothing, sometimes only for five minutes, sometimes for an hour. By the time all Hel broke loose-quite literally—he’d considered her a friend. He knew she felt the same.

He’d returned to Lunathion during the demon invasion and had no idea when he’d see her again. Until last night. Until the attack on her and Bryce. Was her traitorous coven to blame? Who better to find out than a captain of intelligence?

Tharion sorted through his emails, then returned to his research.

He had friends, of course. Captain Tharion Ketos was nothing if not friendly. But those friends had always been casual. His connection with Pax had felt instant, honest, and deep. He sure as fuck wasn’t going to let the vultures in her coven hurt her or rob her of her birthright. Whatever it took, he’d help her.

That is, if he managed to survive all this business with Emile Renast and the Ophion rebels. Not to mention his queen.

He was still researching Morganthia when Fitzroy returned, bearing a message in the metal tube.

The otter waited politely at the door while Tharion read Hypaxia’s reply, written below his original message.

He’d written:

I meant what I said earlier. I’ve got your back. If you need me to deal with your coven, I will. No questions asked. I know a lot of hungry river beasts.

She’d replied, You are a good friend. Thank you.

He frowned a bit at the short, impersonal reply. But then he sam the postscript she’d added:

PS Looks like we’re back to dealing with the dick- swingers.

He laughed and tucked the note into his pocket, then said to the otter, „That’ll be all, Fitz.”

The otter typed away on his tablet, then handed Tharion both the device and a laminated business card. If you require someone discreet, I am available for private hire outside of the agency. I offer competitive, often superlative, rates.

Tharion looked down at the card, which said:

Fitzroy Brookings, Personal Messenger.

It listed a private email and stated that he was available every day of the year, even holidays.

“Enterprising,” Tharion said, pocketing the card. “I like it.”

The otter’s whiskers twitched, and he flashed Tharion a little fanged smile.

“I’ll be in touch, Fitz,” Tharion said with a friendly wave. The otter bowed his farewell before striding out. Tharion pulled both the business card and Hypaxia’s note from his pocket.

He’d definitely be in touch with the otter. If Hypaxia was in danger, he’d wield every asset he could to protect her.

Even if it meant risking everything he had.

It was early as fuck when someone started pounding on the front door to Ruhn’s house, ringing the doorbell over and over.

Sprawled naked on his bed, Ruhn cracked open an eye and hollered, “Somebody fucking get that.”

Dec hollered back from his room across the hall, “Somebody fucking kill that person.”

Flynn made no reply from his own room. The asshole was likely sleeping right through the commotion.

Another round of banging on the door and doorbell ringing. All right, all right,” Ruhn groaned as he slithered from the bed, fumbling for his black jeans. He didn’t bother with underwear as he slid them on, forgoing a shirt and trudging down the stairs.

If the press had arrived to ask about Cormac’s arrival, they were in for a rude fucking awakening. Perhaps he shouldn’t have left the Starsword on the floor of his bedroom.

Ruhn yanked open the door, wincing as blinding sunlight blasted him.

The petite, delicate female standing on the porch still had her fist raised to the door.

It was worse than the press.

The female was immaculate in a white dress, her silken black hair unbound, her tan face tight with displeasure. She wore little makeup, as was appropriate for all well-bred Fae females, but solid sapphire studs gleamed at the lobes of her pointed ears. A hint of the obscene wealth her family possessed. From all appearances she was beautiful—the ideal of a Fae female.

Too bad she possessed the rotted soul of a Reaper.

Ruhn didn’t bother greeting her before he turned to bellow over his shoulder, „Flynn, your sister’s here.”

“Do you know what time it is, Sathia?” Flynn hissed from where he perched on the grand staircase, nursing a cup of coffee.

Ruhn leaned against the banister at the bottom, his own coffee already half-consumed. Dec sat at the top of the steps, glowering at the female surveying them all.

„It’s nine o’clock,” Flynn’s sister said primly. “Most people have been up for hours already.”

„Only people who go to bed at eight like good little sheep,” Flynn shot back.

Sathia, Flynn’s younger sister by a decade, smiled coldly. „Better than the losers who drink and smoke all night and make a habit of spitting on their ancestors’ graves.”

Ruhn snickered. The female turned her disapproving gaze on him. “I include you in that group, Prince.”

Ruhn sketched a bow. “Proud to be in it.”

Sathia’s dark eyes blazed. Flynn cut in, „Why are you here, sister? Playing messenger for Mommy and Daddy?”

„No. They have no idea I’m here. I came to speak to you. All three of you.”

„Lucky us,” Dec muttered. Sathia ignored him, and said to Ruhn. „I have it on good authority that Prince Cormac of Avallen arrived here last night and declared your sister his bride.”

Sathia ignored him, and said to Ruhn. “I have it on good authority that Prince Cormac of Avallen arrived here last night and declared your sister his bride”

“This makes so much sense now,” Flynn murmured to himself. Then he laughed. „Planning on hunting Cormac down and dragging him to the altar?”

Sathia’s lips pursed. „I came to learn the truth.”

„It’s none of your business,” Ruhn said coldly. Despite his conversation with his father and Cormac last night, this matter was far from settled.

„You owe it to the Fae nobility of Valbara to make it known if an available bachelor has come to town.”

Declan burst out laughing. „That is a load of shit, Sathia, and you know it.”

The female didn’t back down, though they each had a hundred pounds and about a foot on her. Ruhn couldn’t help but admire her, despite the fact that he hated her guts. Sathia was pure predator at heart. Nothing-and no one-scared her.

„Prince Ruhn is marrying outside the noble bloodline,” Sathia declared. „So we must look elsewhere.”

„We,” Flynn taunted, „or you?”

Sathia stared her brother down. „I, at least, have some interest in bringing honor to our family name.” She sneered at the beer bottles littering the room from the party the night before.

Flynn yawned loudly. „Cormac and Bryce are engaged. Done deal. Now get the fuck out.”

Sathia put her hands on her hips. „How solid is the engagement?”

„For fuck’s sake,” Flynn groaned, and got to his feet, stomping down the steps. He grabbed his sister by the elbow. „Save your social climbing for someone who cares. Cormac’s taken. If you’re set on an Avallen asshole, then Cormac’s got twin cousins who could fit the bill. Which one liked females?” This last question was directed at Declan.

„Darragh,” Dec replied, and a shadow of memory darkened his friend’s face. Dec had been involved with Seamus, the other twin, for a time. A very short time, since he turned out to be the scum of the earth.

Right. Darragh,” Flynn went on as he steered his sister to the door. “He’s a prince. Not a Crown Prince, of course, but you’d at least get to wear a tiara.” He yanked open the door and practically shoved her out. “Why don’t you go bother him?”

Sathia planted her heels before Flynn could throw her down the front steps. She yanked her arm from his grip and snarled with impressive menace, „You’re an embarrassment to the Hawthorne name.”

„Good,” Flynn said, and slammed the door shut in her face. The lord leaned back against it and rubbed his neck. „Gods. She’s the fucking worst.”

„I bet her Ordeal will be something involving not being able to get her manicure done on time,” Dec said, coming down the stairs.

Ruhn chuckled. „Or the agony of suspecting that the maid stole her jewelry.”

„Again,” Flynn said. He eyed Ruhn. „You’re so lucky you didn’t have to marry her.”

„That was never an option,” Ruhn said, but it was a half-lie. Had his father ordered it, he would have had to marry Sathia. But his father had bigger ambitions.

He never thought he’d be grateful for that.

Declan said, „Someone like Darragh Donnall would be a good match for her. They’d make each other miserable.”

„You forget,” Flynn said, „that I’d have to call that shithead my brother.”

„True,” Declan said.

„She’d be happier,” Flynn continued, „with some weak-spined male she can boss around.”

„Plenty of those around here.” Ruhn muttered. Fae nobility were, for the most part, pathetic worms–as evidenced by their behavior this past spring, shutting out desperate people from their estates during the attack.

Disgust roiled in Ruhn’s gut.

Had the Starsword only chosen him, had Urd made him Starborn, because there were no other decent royals out there to carry the burden? The thought of the title and sword falling into the hands of some of the other Fae nobles, especially Cormac, sent a chill down his spine.

„Bryce better be careful,” Flynn said. „She’ll have an army of Fae females out for her blood now that she’s engaged to Cormac.”

“Bryce will enjoy the challenge,” Ruhn said, frowning deeply.

“How’d it go with your father last night?” Dec asked.

“Same as always.” It was all he needed to say. “The engagement stands.”

“I don’t trust that shithead Cormac for one second,” Flynn mumbled. „He must have some other reason for being here.”

Maybe, but he’s as bad as Sathia when it comes to the whole continuing the bloodline thing,” Ruhn said.

„Speaking of which,” Dec said, „any word from Hypaxia?”

Ruhn threw his friend a wry look. „No, asshole.” He ignored the glimmer of dread that rose in him. Not about his betrothed, the beautiful and wise witch- queen, but about the fact that continuing the bloodline wouldn’t be possible for him, even if he wanted to.

Was it fair to Hypaxia, to hide that information?

What did it make him, to keep it from her?

It made him alive, for one thing. Since his father would surely kill him if he knew.

His only value to his father lay in his breeding potential. And without it… no need for a thorn in his side.

Dec said, „Cormac is bad news, engagement or not.

I’d be careful if I were you, Ruhn.”

„He’s not going to jump me in my own city,” Ruhn said.

„He tried to kill you the last time you two saw each other,” Dec warned, and Flynn grunted his agreement.

„That was before the Ordeal. He wouldn’t dare now,” Ruhn said.

„He holds a grudge.” Dec insisted. „Not only did you get the Starsword, you showed him up on his home turf.”

„We showed him up.” Flynn corrected. „And if Cormac holds a grudge, then we sure as Hel do, too.” He patted Dec’s stomach. where the scar from Cormac’s blade remained despite the male’s Vanir healing. Dec batted him away. „Let him see what happens if he tries to start round two.”

For a moment, Ruhn was again in that mist- shrouded cave Dec’s blood warm and sticky on his hands. But he shut out the memory and said, „Just be on alert.”

If they killed the prince, there would be all-out war between the Valbaran and Avallen Fae.

Not that Cormac had shown any such concern all those years ago..

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

Ruhn entered the small yet beautiful villa through the back gate. Of course, the two Fae guards posted outside noted his presence, and definitely noted the Starsword strapped down his back, but at least they would be the only witnesses.

He didn’t mind people knowing that he visited his mother. But he liked to at least pretend he could visit her without it making the gossip rounds.

The garden at the rear of the villa was built for the arid climate, unlike most of the lush, magic-fueled estate grounds around here. White stones surrounded the olive trees; beds of swaying lavender buzzed with honeybees. A few orange trees by the northern wall filled the place with their sweet scent-as familiar to him as the reek of beer and mirthroot at his own house. He entered the villa through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors between two white pillars, stepping into the kitchen, which was sunny yet cool. He unbuckled the Starsword and its sheath, tucking it into the umbrella stand next to the garden doors. The thunk of the blade inside the ceramic holder was the only sound in the pristine space.

No personal touches. No photos of him. Even while growing up here, his artwork had never been hung on the stainless steel fridge. He hadn’t even known parents did that stuff until ng gone over to Dec’s house one day and spied his friend’s shitty artwork from school all over the place.

Ruhn let the memory fade as he strode through the white shining halls, aiming for the room where he knew he’d find mother at this hour of the morning.

Lorin was indeed sitting in the breakfast room, a book open fruit-laden table before her, dressed immaculately in a lilac-colored gown. She was beautiful, as all Fae were. A gentleness to her face. A sadness to her deep blue eyes – Ruhn’s eyes.

She was always perfectly put together. Always pristine and ready for a visit.

Not a visit from him, Ruhn had learned long ago.

But her gaze brightened upon seeing him, a smile of genuine warmth gracing her face. „Ruhn,” his mother said, rising from the table.

„Hey, Mom.” Ruhn motioned for her to sit. He pressed a kiss to her silken dark hair before sliding into the chair beside her. Though she was two centuries older than him, they looked the same age. He’d always envied the fact that Bryce’s parents would remain looking like her parents-that is, years older than her.

„To what do I owe this pleasure?” his mother asked, piling grapefruit and orange slices onto a plate for him.

„Just wanted to say hi,” he hedged, not ready to jump into conversation just yet. „See how you were doing. Did the handyman fix that issue with the garden sprinklers?”

„Yes,” his mother said. „Thank you for sending him.”

Ruhn refrained from saying that there was no one else who would have sent for him. His mother had no idea who to even call about issues in the home, and his father sure as shit wouldn’t bother to care. Lorin wouldn’t have dared to bother the Autumn King, anyway.

Luna shoot him down, but Ruhn had come home from his Ordeal in Avallen to find that his mother had gone two weeks the height of summer with a broken air-conditioning system. when he’d asked her why she hadn’t gotten it fixed, she’d only said she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.

So Ruhn had made sure in the decades since then to visit at east once a week to check on her and the house.

Ruhn picked at his fruit, then asked, „You see my father lately?”

His mother’s eyes flicked down to her plate. „I have not had that honor.”

Ruhn clenched his jaw. „He’s, ah, been busy.”

The thought of his gentle, lovely mother with the Autumn King … The male had used her like a broodmare, sired Ruhn and then dropped her into this cushy villa to rot.

But at least mentioning the Autumn King offered Ruhn a good opening into why he’d come. „We learned last night that he’s engaged Bryce to Cormac Donnall.”

His mother lifted her head at that, a smile gracing her beautiful, delicate face. „That is wonderful news.”

Ruhn shrugged. „Bryce doesn’t think so.”

„She doesn’t approve of the match?” Lorin frowned deeply.

„When you were… chosen for the Autumn King,” Ruhn managed at last, „did you get any say in it?”

His mother blinked at him. He’d never asked her about it only heard stories secondhand about the pairing that had resulted in his birth.

„It was my duty and honor. I was happy to oblige.”

Ruhn took a long breath in through his nose. „You could have said no, though. Right?”

„Why would I have ever said no?”

Ruhn suppressed his urge to groan at the ceiling.

„Because you didn’t want to jump into his bed?”

„I was chosen to continue the royal bloodline. There is no reason I should have not wished to do so.” The problem was that his mother had developed an affection for his father in the process. One that the Autumn King was incapable of returning. She asked, „What is this about, Ruhn?”

He couldn’t risk telling her the truth that he’d come here to see if there was some way out of Bryce’s engagement. Hopes his mother might remember some loophole either she or her family had tried to exploit.

It had been a fool’s errand. Ruhn had grown up knowing mother viewed her involvement with his father to be an honor – even it was little more than an arranged breeding. He didn’t why he’d expected her to suddenly admit to having doubts beforehand.

„Bryce is a smart girl-and a kind one,” his mother said. „She will see the wisdom and honor in this union with Prince Cormac.”

Lorin’s mother had been a Donnall it was through those blood ties that Ruhn had been invited to Avallen all those years ago. Blood ties were all that truly mattered among the Fae. Passing on the noble heritage, ensuring that no one sullied it.

Had his father been a different sort of male, Ruhn would have believed his relationship with Ember to be nothing short of defiant of that tradition.

But whatever rules his father might have broken to be with Ember Quinlan, he clearly didn’t care to allow those transgressions to his people. To his own daughter. Maybe that would change when Ruhn took the throne. Maybe he’d be the first to break the rules and traditions and put an end to the planned breeding and arranged marriages.

Ruhn tucked away the thought and asked his mother, „Anything in the house you need me to look at?”

She smiled broadly, as if grateful for the shift in conversation.

Ruhn spent the next hour with her, until his phone buzzed with a message from Flynn. Where are you? The meeting started five minutes ago.

Shit–the meeting with the Aux captains. Ruhn typed back, Stall for me. Be there in ten.

He rose from the table and said to his mother, „I have to head to a meeting, but let’s plan on dinner sometime in the next week or two, okay?” His mother beamed, and his heart tightened. Was he any better than his father, stringing her along with occasional visits and dinners?

The question lingered as Ruhn headed out into the lush quiet of FiRo a few minutes later, strapping the Starsword down his back las once more.

Would he be any better than his father when it counted? When he became king?

A small part of him wondered if the question even mattered. With what the Oracle had told him about the bloodline ending with him, he didn’t even know if he’d live long enough to be king at all.

Picking up his pace, Ruhn kept to alleyways and side streets. dodging the usual throngs of gawking tourists that would either recognize him or the Starsword and start snapping photos.

I might not live long enough to be king.

The thought should have disturbed him. But all it left in its wake was a strange calm, a hideous sort of relief. He waited for the guilt, the self-loathing to set in. Braced for it as he entered the Aux training facility, passing the Fae guards who saluted him.

But that strange calm and relief remained, steadying him for the rest of the day. He didn’t want to dwell too long on why that might be.

Urd had decided his fate. He’d save his breath for fighting things he could actually change.

Drip. Drip-drip-drip. Drip.

Eyes closed, head resting against the damp, uneven stone of the cave wall, Bryce listened to the stone and water talk.

Drip-drip. Drop. Drip-drip-drop.

It was more conversation than either Nesta or Azriel had offered up in the two hours that they’d all been taking a breather. Technically, Bryce was supposed to be sleeping. But without day or night to dictate her body’s rhythms, she just sat in a semi- stupor, not really asleep, not really awake.

Drip-drop-drop. Drip.

Bryce cracked open an eye, surveying her two companions. Nesta sat against the opposite wall, head down, breathing lightly.

But Azriel was staring right at Bryce. She started, whacking her head against the rock. White pain splintered across her vision. By the time it cleared, Nesta was awake.

“What is it?” Nesta peered down the tunnel to one side, then the other. Dripping darkness filled both directions, interrupted only by the silvery, watery glow of Bryce’s star through her shirt. A steady shine that hadn’t flared or dimmed. As if it was saying, You’re on the right track. Keep going.

Bryce rubbed the back of her aching head and sat up. “Oh, nothing. Just your usual predator-in-the-night warrior, staring at me while I sleep.”

“You weren’t sleeping,” Azriel said, faint amusement in his voice.

“How do you know?” Bryce countered, but her lips quirked upward.

Nesta yawned, stretching her arms over her head and rolling her neck from side to side. “It’s his job to be vigilant.” She lowered her arms, frowning slightly at Azriel. “Were you really watching her sleep?”

Azriel glowered. “When you say it like that, it sounds… unsa- vory.”

“It’s creepy,” Bryce grumbled.

“You are a stranger to us,” Nesta pointed out. “We’d be fools to take our attention off you for one second. Even while sleeping.”

Bryce crossed her legs, sighing. There was no hope of sleep- ing now. “Well, let’s not be strangers anymore,” she suggested. A survival tactic Randall had taught her: endear herself to any captor. Make them see her heart and soul so they might consider not killing her.

Because even though they’d left that interrogation cell, even though Nesta had given her back her phone, Bryce had little doubt that the killing option was still on the table.

“What is it you want to know?” Nesta asked carefully.

Bryce glanced between them. “How’d you two meet?”

She could have sworn Azriel tensed, like he was weighing how dangerous any answer might be, assessing why Bryce might want to know.

“There was a war,” Nesta said shortly. “Between who?” Bryce asked.

Again, that assessing silence. Azriel answered this time.

“Between an evil Fae King and us.” “You two, or, like… everyone?”

Nesta gave her a withering look. “Yes, the King of Hybern declared war on just me and Azriel.”

“I don’t want to discuss this,” Azriel cut her off coldly.

Bryce didn’t miss the wounded gleam in Nesta’s eyes. Attempting to salvage the conversation, she said, “Well, for what it’s worth, my best friend, Danika, had a shitty mom, too.”

“I don’t have a monopoly on that,” Nesta said flatly, still mas- tering herself after Azriel’s outburst.

Bryce offered a smile. “Danika said it built character.” And at Nesta’s shuttered expression, she found herself saying, “I think she was right – in a way. I think her mother’s cruelty made her a kinder, more thoughtful person. She saw how Sabine treated others, and was so disgusted by it that she wanted to become the opposite. Danika lived in terror of turning into her mother.”

Nesta didn’t say anything, but – there. A shallow nod. Like she understood. Like she lived with that fear every day. The water drip-drip-dripped again in the heavy silence.

“So that… phone of yours,” Nesta said suddenly, as if eager to change the subject for all their sakes. “You said earlier it has music inside it?”

Bryce fished the phone from her back pocket, its answering glare harsh against the softness of her starlight. “Yeah. I’ve got my entire music library on here.”

The clock on her phone read 3:56 in the morning. Her head spun. Was that the time here? Or at home? What day was it here- or there? How long had Hunt and Ruhn been-

She pushed the thoughts from her mind.

“Can I… hear some of your music?” Nesta’s question was ten- tative, as if she was uncomfortable making such a personal request. Bryce flashed her a half smile. “Sure. What kind of music do you like?”

At their confused silence, Bryce pushed, “Classical, dance, jazz…okay, those words clearly mean nothing to you.” “Put on the music that represents your world best,” Nesta said. “I think Midgard could descend into another war over that,” Bryce said. “But I’ll play you my favorite, at least.”

She grimaced at the dwindling battery, well aware that playing music would drain it, but the yearning for a taste of home overcame her apprehension.

Bryce scrolled through her music until she pulled up the folk duo that immediately leapt to mind: Josie and Laurel. Her hand shook a little with the sheer magnitude of picking which od their many songs to play, which sing to be the first ot theirs heard on this planet. Her favourites always shifted depending on her mood, her current phase of life. In the end, she went with her gut.

“Stone Mother” began playing, its rolling, thumping drums offsetting the wild, yet mellow, guitars. And then Josie’s voice filled the tunnel, sharp and yet soaring, accented by Laurel’s sweet, clear backups. The sound was foreign, earthy – haunting. In the span of a few notes, Bryce was back in her childhood bedroom in Nidaros, sprawled on the carpet, letting the sound of the music run over her for the first time.

Then she was in the dry hills of Valbara, surrounded by olive trees. Then the palm-lined quay along the Istros. Then with Danika. Then alone.

Then with Hunt.

This song had carried her through it all – through the years of pain and emptiness and rebuilding. It had carried her from light into darkness and then back to light.

The wraith-like harmonies echoed off the stones, until the rock sounded as if it was singing.

And when it was done, silence resumed. Nesta’s eyes were wide. “That was beautiful,” she said eventually. “I couldn’t understand a word of it, but I felt it.”

Bryce nodded, aching with thoughts of home, of the faces the song had brought to mind. “That’s a kind of folksy, coun- try sound. But this is what we call classical music-the stuff per- formed in grand halls. My friend Juniper dances to this kind of thing in the Crescent City Ballet. I used to dance, too, but… long story. This was one of my favorite dances. It’s from a bal- let called The Glass Coffin.” Bryce hit play again, and the violins began.

Again, Nesta was silent, knees now clutched to her chest, staring into the darkness. As if she was dedicating every inch of herself to

“This sounds like some of our music,” Azriel murmured. Nesta shushed him.

Bryce tapped her foot along to the melody, reading the expres sions stealing across Nesta’s face as the music played. Wonder and curiosity, joy and longing. Nesta seemed to be thrumming with the music, though she didn’t move at all. Like she was coming alive merely listening to the sound.

When the piece finished, its thunderous finale crashing through the cavern, Nesta met Bryce’s stare and said, “I like to dance, too.” It was a small piece of herself, but willingly given. Bryce felt her heart warm toward the warrior, just a bit.

“Yeah?”

But Nesta pointed to the phone again. “Play more, please.” So Bryce did.

Two hours later, they were walking again. Maybe Azriel had been interested enough in the music that he’d let them linger. Bryce had played them a sample of every genre she could think of. Nesta had clapped her hands over her ears at the screaming, wailing death metal, but Azriel had chuckled.

He’d probably get along with Ruhn and his idiot friends.

Nesta had loved the classical stuff the best, and both of them had been intrigued by the pulsing, thumping club music. “That is what you dance to in your world?” Nesta asked. Bryce hadn’t been able to tell if she was intrigued or dismayed. Azriel, at least, had seemed on board.

But now they were silent again, walking past carving after carving. They had to be getting close to… whatever waited at the end of this tunnel.

What if they walked and walked and found nothing, though? At what point would they decide to give up? Bryce’s star still blazed, pointing the way ahead, but what if they weren’t reading it correctly? Maybe her instincts had been wrong.

Maybe she hadn’t really been sent here by Urd.

Maybe it was all one big cosmic fuckup.

A giant accident.

Bryce’s throat tightened. She’d tried not to think about what was happening to Hunt and Ruhn, but in the ongoing gloom of the tunnels, her fear crept in again. Were they safe? Were they even alive?

“The music in your world,” Nesta said suddenly, interrupting Bryce’s doom spiral. “It’s all simply available to anyone?”

“In a way? There’s a sort of… nonphysical library made by machines that can store all the information in the world. Music, art, books-anything. So yeah, you can find any song, any piece of music, and listen to it whenever you want.”

“You have wonders in your world,” Nesta said.

Azriel added from a few steps behind them, “And terrors.”

Bryce grunted her agreement. “I’m sure you do, too.”

“We do,” Azriel said quietly.

Bryce filled in the gap of what he wouldn’t reveal. “But you’ve never seen things like guns or bombs, right?” She assumed they hadn’t, since they’d seemed so shocked when she’d shown them her memories in the Veritas orb.

“Did the Asteri invent those weapons?” Azriel asked darkly. “No. Some other sick fuck did,” Bryce muttered. “But they’re everywhere now.”

“They should all be destroyed.”

“Yes. They bring nothing good into the world.” Bryce angled her head to the side. “So you guys have swords and stuff?” “Something like that,” Azriel hedged. He clearly wasn’t going to enlighten her about their defenses.

“And your magic is…”

“Don’t push it,” Azriel said, a hint of that earlier chill entering his voice.

Nesta’s lips thinned at the tone, like she was remembering it, too. Like it didn’t sit right with her.

“Okay, okay,” Bryce said. “But it’d be cool to know something about your world. Or about you.”

They were both silent.

Bryce asked Nesta, “You have a mate, right?” She nodded to Azriel. “Do you?”

“No,” Azriel said quickly, flatly. “A partner or spouse?”

“No.”

Bryce sighed. “Okay, then.”

Azriel’s wings twitched. “You’re incurably nosy.” “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve said about me.” Bryce winked at him. “Look, I just… I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

Azriel didn’t answer, but Nesta said, “Yes. We are.” Bryce ran a hand over one of the carvings-a young girl sitting on a toadstool, a hound sprawled on the ground beside her. “It’s crazy to me that in fifteen thousand years, we’ve developed all sorts of tech and your world is still, you know, like this.” She motioned to their clothes, the cave. At Nesta’s narrowed eyes, Bryce quickly added, “I’m simply wondering why similar changes didn’t happen here. I mean, we had the Asteri, but a lot of our inventions didn’t come from them.”

“Maybe it was the result of so many different worlds blending together in Midgard,” Nesta mused. “Each brought all of its learn- ing. United, they figured it out. Separate, perhaps they wouldn’t have.”

“Maybe. But we also had firstlight-a communal source of power. You don’t have that here. Just individual power.” Granted, Midgard’s communal power was thanks to the Asteri. Was it a good or a bad thing? Bryce didn’t know where to even begin sort- ing that out. Her feelings about it were a messy tangle of gratitude and rage.

Nesta asked, “Without firstlight, would your world become like ours, do you think?”

Bryce considered. “I don’t see another way to power our cars or phones, so… probably.”

Azriel asked, “Do the guns need firstlight?”

“No,” Bryce said. “And some of the bombs don’t need it, either.” The weight of the darkness pressed in. “Those evils will remain in Midgard forever, even without firstlight.”

“And people would still kill each other, even without those weapons,” Nesta said gravely. “The wicked will always find a way to hurt and harm.”

“Is this the part where you remind me that you guys will always find a way to hurt and harm me if I step out of line?”

“Yes,” Azriel said softly. “But this is also the part where I tell you that we’re the ones who usually try to find a way to stop those wicked people.”

“Isn’t that a little revealing?” Bryce teased. “You’re supposed to maintain the image of the big, bad assholes. Not tell me you’re a bunch of crime-fighting do-gooders.”

“You can do good,” Azriel warned, “while still being bad.”

Bryce whistled. “I know a number of males back home who could only dream of delivering that sentence with such cool.”

Nesta chuckled. “I know a good number, too.”

Azriel threw Nesta an incredulous look. But Nesta was grinning at Bryce.

Bryce grinned back. “Male egos: a universal constant.”

Nesta laughed again. “If you weren’t our captive,” she said, shaking her head, “I think I might like to call you a friend, Bryce Quinlan.”

Bryce didn’t know why the words hit something deep in her.

“Yeah,” Bryce said hoarsely. “Likewise.”

They walked in silence again, but it was no longer tense. There was something…lighter in it. If only for the moment. Like they weren’t her captors, but rather her companions.

Fine. In this world, at least, the Fae weren’t so bad. They clearly had their share of Fae assholes here, too, but Nesta … Bryce didn’t mind her.

It was uncomfortable, really. Bryce had always prided herself on resenting any and all Fae, her brother and his idiot friends being the rare exceptions, but these two strangers, and what she’d pieced together about the people around them…

They seemed like decent, caring people who loved each other.

She wasn’t even sure the Fae of Midgard knew what the word love meant. The Autumn King’s definition of it had left a small scar on her mom’s face.

But these Fae were different.

Did it matter? The Fae in Midgard weren’t her problem, and she didn’t want them to be, but what if they could be more? Was such a change possible?

“Do you like it?” Bryce asked Nesta suddenly. “Being Fae?”

“I didn’t at first,” Nesta said plainly. “But now I do.”

Azriel seemed to be listening closely.

Nesta went on, “I’m stronger, faster. Harder to kill.

I don’t see a downside to that.”

“And the near-immortal life span isn’t so bad, huh?” Bryce teased.

“I’m still adjusting to the idea of that,” Nesta said, eyes on the tunnel ahead. “That time is so… vast. The day-to-day versus the sprawl of centuries.” She slid her attention to Azriel. “How do you deal with it?”

He was quiet for a moment before saying, “Find people you love-they make the time pass quickly.” He caught Nesta’s eye, and said a shade apologetically, “Especially if they’ll forgive your occasional snapping at them over things that aren’t their fault.”

Something seemed to soften in Nesta’s eyes-relief, perhaps, at the extended olive branch. She said quietly, tentatively, “Nothing to forgive, Az.”

But his words had lightened some of the remaining tension. And his next ones finished the job entirely as he winked at Nesta. “And I’ve been told having children makes the time fly, too.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but Bryce didn’t miss the gleam in them. Nesta was willing to play – to get back to their normal dynamic. She admitted, “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to raise a child.” She pointed to herself. “Raised by a terrible mother, remember?”

“Doesn’t mean you’ll be one,” Azriel said gently. Nesta was quiet for a heartbeat, then acknowledged,

“My mother was even worse to Feyre – and my sister has turned out to be…” She searched for the word. “A perfect mother.”

“There’s no such thing as a perfect mother,” Bryce cut in. “Just so you know.”

“Your own mother sounds pretty perfect,” Nesta said dryly.

“Gods, no,” Bryce said, laughing. “But she’d be the first to say so. Perfect is an unfair ideal to hold anyone to. My mom taught me that, actually.”

Bryce swallowed hard, thinking of Ember. Had the Asteri hunted her down and killed her? If Bryce ever got home… would her mother be there?

Nesta laid a hand on Bryce’s shoulder-it seemed consoling, somehow. Like she sensed all that coursed through Bryce’s mind, the panic now thudding in her heart.

“What is it?” Bryce asked, glancing at the female.

Nesta nodded to Bryce’s pocket. “Could we hear some more of your music?”

It was a friendly offer – definitely intended to pull Bryce out of her brooding. A kindness from a female clearly not accustomed to such displays. Bryce fished out her phone again.

The battery was inching toward the red zone. It would be dead soon. But for this… she could spare it. “What do you want to hear?” Bryce asked, opening her music library.

Nesta and Azriel swapped glances, and the male answered a bit sheepishly, “The music you play at your pleasure halls.”

Bryce laughed. “Are you a club rat, Azriel?”

He glowered at her, earning a smirk from Nesta, but Bryce played one of her favorite dance tunes-a zippy blend of thump- ing bass and saxophones, of all things. And as the three of them walked into the endless dark, she could have sworn she caught Azriel nodding along to the beat.

She hid her smile and played song after song, until the battery on her phone drained to the dregs. Until that last, beautiful link to Midgard went dark and died.

No more music. No more pictures of Hunt.

But the music seemed to linger, like a ghostly echo through the caves.

And with each mile onward, she could hear Azriel humming to himself. The rolling, wild melody of “Stone Mother” softly flowed off his lips, and she could have sworn even the shadows danced at the sound.

The modern art gallery off Archer Street was empty, save for the snobby draki receptionist who’d buzzed them in through the glass doors. Bryce had recommended the place, and as Ruhn and Lidia surveyed the array of paintings of bug-eyed cats and statues of rotten banana peels, he could only wonder if his sister had been fucking with him.

“This is…” Lidia had walked up to a painting of a dog walking its owner. “Art?”

Ruhn grunted. “Apparently.”

Across the immaculate gallery, the receptionist sniffed but didn’t look up from his laptop. Would the asshole have even let them in if he hadn’t recognized them? It was impossible to go any- where in this city, on this continent, on this entire fucking planet without being recognized. Certainly not after the events of last month.

Life hadn’t gone back to normal, not really, but tonight was supposed to be Ruhn’s attempt at it.

“You really want to hang something like this in the living room?” Lidia motioned to a painting of one of those bug-eyed cats sitting on top of a trash can, a rat dangling from its mouth.

“Not your thing?”

She scowled. “I’m not entirely sure what my artistic taste is, but I know it’s not this.”

He considered her words. “You don’t know what kind of art you’re into?”

She shook her head, her long golden hair flowing with the movement. Gone was the chignon. He’d spent hours running his hands through the silken strands of her hair, learning what made her lush body literally burn with desire.

“I was raised to appreciate only classical, imperial artwork-as was befitting a female of my heritage.”

He winced. He’d thought his childhood had been oppressive, but at least his father, piece of shit that he was, hadn’t stifled Ruhn’s interests. “So no teenage bedroom full of band posters for you?”

She chuckled, crossing her arms as she moved to the next painting. Her jeans did wonders for her ass,

and her tight black cashmere sweater left little to the imagination when it came to the breasts he couldn’t stop touching. Tasting.

He couldn’t get enough of her. Even living together these past several weeks, working together most days in the Aux … he couldn’t stop wanting her, needing her. It wasn’t just her body, though. It was Lidia herself- her wit, her dry humor, her bravery and selflessness and compassion.

He didn’t care how much Flynn and Dec teased him. He was unabashedly, unrelentingly in love with this female. With his mate.

“I’ve never had the opportunity,” Lidia said as she studied the next cat portrait, “to express myself through art. Not even by decorating.”

Ruhn peered at the massive black-and-white painting of a cat vomiting up a planet that resembled Midgard. “If you want to go wild and paint the apartment black and tape up band posters I won’t object. But if you hang up one of these monstrosities, we might have a problem.”

Lidia snorted, turning back to him. Gods, she was beautiful. Even more so now that she was in civilian clothes, no trace of the Hind to be found. Heat stirred in his gut, and from the golden eyes warmed, she knew what he was thinking. But Lidia said, “I was provided a suite of rooms at my father’s estate. It never crossed my mind, even as a child, that I might make the space my own. The rooms belonged to my father. They were to look the way he wanted them to look, just as I was to look the way he wanted me to.”

The heat cooled in her eyes, and Ruhn sauntered over, sliding an arm around her waist. “And the day you had Ophion squash him, he finally looked the way you wanted him to look.”

She choked. “That’s not funny.”

Ruhn pressed a kiss to her brow, breathing in her beckoning scent. “You laughed. Admit it: that sound was a laugh.”

She nudged him with a hip. “You’re a bad influence.”

“That’s the best thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

Lidia pulled away, and for a moment, Ruhn let himself admire her. His mate. His brave, lovely, brilliant mate.

Somehow, they’d made it. Somehow, they were standing in this weird gallery, shopping for artwork for their apartment. They were here, doing a relatively mundane thing, and the Asteri were dead. Pollux was dead. Mordoc was dead.

His father was dead.

And Ruhn was no longer Crown Prince Ruhn, but simply Ruhn Danaan. Well, technically, he was now Commander Danaan of the Crescent City Aux, but he only liked to bust that one out when Aux grunts were mouthing off.

Life was weirdly normal and yet… not. How long would this gallery last? Or the streetlamps outside? Or what about the cars, idling in traffic? Or the phone buzzing in his pocket-

Ruhn drew his stare from Lidia’s, realizing he’d been free- falling into her eyes, and pulled out his phone.

It was Flynn, who was technically on duty right now. Ruhn had instructed the asshole not to bother him on his night off under any circumstances. Any.

So Ruhn answered with a terse “What.” “There’s, uh… a problem.”

Ruhn gripped the phone so hard the plastic groaned. “Is Rigelus back from the dead?”

“No.”

“Then leave me the fuck alone.” Ruhn hung up. Lidia arched a brow. “You didn’t want to know?”

Ruhn put a hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the next piece of art. And fine, maybe his hand slid south a bit. To the beginning of the luscious curve of her ass.

Maybe her back arched a little bit, too. Like she remembered how he’d worshipped that spectacular ass last night-

His phone rang again. Dec this time.

Ruhn growled deep in his throat and answered, “What.”

“I really think you might want to check this out.” “Call Athalar.”

“Athalar is on the Depth Charger with your sister and the Ocean Queen right now. You’re closer.”

“It’s also my night off-“

“We’re at the eastern night garden in FiRo. Just get down here.” Dec ended the call.

Ruhn blew out a long breath. Lidia’s brows were raised, a half smile gracing her full mouth. “My plan for tonight was to take you art shopping,” he said, “then go out to a fancy dinner, and then fuck for ten hours straight.” She laughed, the sound full of joy, of life. So Ruhn wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing that beautiful, smiling mouth once, twice. “Rain check?”

She kissed him back. “As long as we get in at least two hours of straight fucking, I’m good.”

It was Ruhn’s turn to laugh, and as he steered them toward the glass exit, leaving the horrific cat art behind, he knew that it didn’t matter what he was doing with his night, so long as Lidia was by his side.

Traffic was bad enough that they opted to walk over to Five Roses instead of sitting in a taxi for an hour.

“I’m shocked anyone’s using their car right now,” Lidia murmured as they passed yet another avenue crammed bumper-to-bumper. “They’re wasting firstlight.”

“I’m guessing they’re Firstlight Zero deniers.”

There was a growing group of people who outright refused to believe the firstlight would run out eventually, who thought it was all some giant government conspiracy led by a cabal of nefarious people-Ruhn and Lidia among them-to switch over to a different power source that they had business stakes in, and would profit from.

It was delusional, ridiculous shit. And yet plenty of people bought it, denying even the possibility of the very real end coming, a big fucking Firstlight Zero power reading. Their resources were finite now, and if they didn’t stop expending and start conserving, they’d reach Firstlight Zero way faster than the experts had calculated.

Traffic thinned out a bit in FiRo, mostly because the Fae had instituted so many zoning laws and regulations against low-end restaurants, bars, and

hotels that there wasn’t much to draw tourists and unwanted people into their blooming paradise of villas and private gardens after sunset. An issue Ruhn had promised himself he’d deal with later, once they’d figured out how to avoid losing all their tech and reverting to reading by candlelight and cooking over hearths.

Lidia’s slender hand slid into his as they turned onto a calm, villa-lined block, the olive trees whispering in the crisp autumn night. “I’ve been thinking,” she said, quietly enough that he knew whatever it was, it was serious.

“Yeah?” He squeezed her hand, letting her know he was there. Lidia paused at the end of the street, a block away from the night garden. The golden light from the streetlamps danced in her hair as she lifted her other hand to his cheek. Ruhn closed his eyes, savoring her featherlight touch. Lidia said, “You’re so… pretty.”

Ruhn opened his eyes, laughing. “That’s what you’ve been thinking about?”

Joy sparked in her gaze. “No. I mean, yes. I was thinking about something else, but then you looked like… you, and…” She rose onto her toes and kissed him, teeth clamping on his new lip ring, tugging lightly. Teasingly.

Before he could yank her against him and thoroughly explore her mouth, Lidia pulled back, running her fingers over the buzzed side of his head. “Before you distracted me with all this . . .” She traced her fingers over the tattoos crawling up the column of his throat.

Ruhn grinned. He’d started getting his tattoos inked on his skin again-mostly new designs, but he’d had some of the old ones re-created. The skin on one hand was still a paler hue compared to the skin on the other- a slight reminder of what he’d endured in those Asteri dungeons.

Lidia’s hand stilled on the side of his neck. There was such love and joy and hope in her eyes that his breath stalled in his chest. She smiled again, like she sensed that. She peered down at their linked hands. “I’ve been thinking that… I’d like to marry you.”

The world slipped out from underneath him. The stars overhead seemed to gleam brighter, drawing closer. Were his knees shaking?

Lidia burst out laughing. “Your face! Ruhn-what does that mean?”

“You… want to marry me?” The words caught in his throat, snagging.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, as if unsure. “Do you want to marry me?”

He blinked. “Is that a serious fucking question?”

She glared daggers at him. “Yes. I mean, we’re mates, and I thought it might be.”

Ruhn kissed her deeply.

“I want to marry you,” he said between kisses, nipping at her lips. “I want you to marry me. More than anything.” She laughed again, and he swallowed the sound as he kissed her harder, deeper.

She wanted to marry him. Loved him enough to make it permanent beyond even their mating bond. To… become a family. Tears pricked in his eyes. He’d never realized how much he wanted one. Yes, Bryce was his sister, and he had his mother, but it wasn’t the same, somehow, as this thing he was about to begin with Lidia. It didn’t matter if they had kids, or if her sons were enough, he and Lidia would be a family.

She retreated, scanning his face, noting the tears forming. She kissed one away. “I love you, you know that?”

Ruhn cradled her face gently in his hands. “You’re sure? You want a wedding and all that crap?”

Amusement danced over her features. “I don’t think I want a big, fancy wedding, but… a small party with our friends, maybe?” “Whatever you want. I don’t care. I mean-not that I don’t care, but I’m cool with anything, so long as we wind up legally wed at the end of it.”

She grinned, taking his hand again and leading him back into a walk. “Well, I guess that’s a good thing,” she said after a minute as the sweet scent of night- blooming jasmine greeted them, and the bioluminescent garden glowed mere steps away.

“Why?” They crossed the quiet street, the slick cobblestones stained green and blue by the light of the shining plants and flowers.

He was so busy trying to read her face that he didn’t turn until she pointed into the garden. To where Flynn and Dec stood in suits, Bryce and Hunt grinning with them.

“Because I thought we’d get married right now.”

It was the most romantic, insane thing Ruhn had ever done-and he hadn’t even planned it.

That was all Lidia: Flynn and Dec had lured him over here at her direction with their vague “problem.” Not wanting to use up any extra firstlight, Lidia had chosen the night garden for its natural source of illumination. She’d gotten Bryce and Athalar, who had pretended to be summoned by the Ocean Queen, to be over here all afternoon and evening setting up the long table under a massive moon magnolia tree. Ithan, Tharion, and Isaiah were now grinning at him. Along with Hypaxia and Brann and Actaeon, and-

At that point, Ruhn started crying. He didn’t notice who else sat there; he just knew they were all there to celebrate him—and Lidia.

A black-robed Priestess of Cthona married Lidia and Ruhn beneath that moon magnolia, the plate-sized blooms each glowing as brightly as the celestial orb they’d been named after.

He didn’t need time to think, or prepare, or second- guess. Nothing had ever felt more right. It didn’t matter that they were both in their casual clothes, or that Ruhn hadn’t showered since yesterday.

All that mattered was that Lidia was there with him under the moon magnolia, her hand in his as he slid the titanium ring- which she’d procured herself, of course-onto her finger.

Titanium-the strongest of the wedding metals. Meant to symbolize the unbreakable nature of a couple’s bond. After what they’d been through, Ruhn suspected a new sort of metal would have to be invented to embody the strength of their bond, but he’d take titanium for now.

And as Lidia slid a matching titanium ring onto Ruhn’s finger, he wondered if they’d also need to invent a new word for love, to embody what overflowed from his heart.

“So all that bullshit you spun about going to the Depth Charger,” Ruhn said to Bryce later as they sat at one end of the long table, sipping sparkling wine-courtesy of the Autumn King’s dwindling stash, his sister had boasted-“was a cover for this?”

Bryce, wearing a painted-on red dress that he had caught Athalar ogling at least twice, swigged from her flute of wine. “Oh, we went to the Depth Charger.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder, to where Lidia was sitting with Brann and Ace a few seats away. “We had to go get them. I’m thinking I could start a new business: Magical Starborn Princess Sullen Teenager Transportation Services.”

Ruhn chuckled. “Where are Renki and Davit?”

Bryce smiled. “Lidia invited them, too, but they thought it’d be good for the boys to try out a quick solo trip. We’re bringing them back tomorrow morning.”

Ruhn watched his mate-his wife-talking with her sons. That quiet, radiant joy glimmered from her.

If she’d introduced the boys to Hypaxia-their aunt- Ruhn had missed it. The new Head of Flame and Shadow was already gone, no doubt to deal with yet another crisis either within her House or in the city.

“The kids are staying with us,” Bryce went on. “So they don’t have to listen to you and Lidia being gross all night.”

Ruhn glowered at his sister. “Thanks, I think?”

But he really couldn’t have asked for anything better. The boys would be a floor away from them-and yeah, they wouldn’t use the guest bedroom that Lidia had already decorated for them, but there would be time for that.

So Ruhn amended, with a warm smile, “Thanks- truly.”

Bryce kissed his cheek. “Anything for my big brother.” She gestured down the table toward Lidia. “I’m happy for you guys- really fucking happy, Ruhn.”

“I’m happy for us, too.” Brann said something that had Lidia bursting into laughter. Even Ace offered up a hint of a smile.

Ruhn glanced back at his sister, finding her eyes gleaming with silver. “Don’t you dare cry,” he warned her. “Or I’ll start crying again.”

Bryce threw her arms around him and held him tight. “You deserve to be happy, Ruhn,” she said thickly. “More than anyone I know.”

He just hugged her back, letting the embrace convey all that was in his heart.

Ruhn found himself passed around from friend to friend for the next hour, losing sight of his bride for a good chunk of that time. When he’d finally had enough of being without her, he found Lidia talking quietly to Naomi Boreas.

“You guys are talking shop?” Ruhn asked, sliding an arm around Lidia’s shoulders. “At our wedding? Really?”

Naomi rolled her eyes. “Is there something else we should be discussing? Our hair and nails?”

Ruhn didn’t dare answer that one, so he just grinned his most charming grin. Naomi winked at Lidia before walking away. They’d become good friends these last several weeks, and Ruhn was glad of it. He knew Bryce was trying to get the two of them- and Hypaxia- to join her, Fury, and Juniper in some sort of Badass Females Only social group, but conflicting schedules and putting out constant fires had intervened. Gods help everyone else when they finally managed to make it happen, though.

Ruhn pulled Lidia a few feet farther into the garden, night crocuses glowing a deep amethyst at their feet. “Lidia, I don’t have words for what tonight was. Is. What it means to me.”

Her soft smile was a thing of remarkable beauty. “I was so nervous you’d say no.”

“To marrying you? Seriously?”

She shrugged. “I’d hoped you’d say yes, but you do have all those tattoos and that lip ring, and-“

He laughed. “And that means I’m anti-marriage?”

“You’re unconventional. I worried that marriage might be too normal for you.” “What changed your mind?”

“Your sister. She told me that if I proposed to you, you’d cry like a baby and say yes.” Lidia cocked her head. “Which you did.” Ruhn glared over a shoulder at Bryce, now sitting on Athalar’s lap and chatting animatedly with Fury and June. “She knows me well, huh?”

When he looked back at Lidia, she was grinning at him again. Right as-

“Is that music?”

As if on cue, a trio of musicians appeared near the head of the table. Real musicians, to avoid using firstlight from speakers or their phones. And when they began playing a slow, sweet song.

“Dance with me, Ruhn.”

He gaped at his wife. “You really coordinated this down to the last detail.”

She brushed invisible dust off her shoulders. “I coordinated the hit on the Spine-a wedding was nothing.” But she lowered her hand to take his. “I never got to dance with you in the garden at the Autumnal Equinox. Consider this my way of apologizing for bailing on you.”

Ruhn kissed her-gently, lightly. “You do owe me for that, I guess.”

Her arms twined around his neck, and as her body lined up against his, as they fell into the melody, everything else faded away.

“I’m so grateful,” Ruhn said, seeing her and only her. “So damn grateful that Cormac gave me that comm crystal.”

“Technically, he blackmailed you into taking it,” she said dryly.

“True.” But Ruhn still offered up a prayer of thanks to the dead Avallen Prince, wherever his soul now resided. Hopefully he’d been reunited with Sofie Renast at last.

“I’m grateful, too,” Lidia said quietly. “For all of it, good and bad. Because it brought me to you. It brought us to this to right now.”

There was nothing more to say, not after that. So Ruhn held her tighter, and they danced in contented, joyous silence under the moon magnolia as the distant stars wheeled overhead.

So much of the future was undecided-he knew a great deal of hardship was coming their way. But for right now, for this moment, with Lidia in his arms, surrounded by their friends…

For right now, for the first time in his life, everything was perfect.

Ember Quinlan stared at the Fae female standing on the ornate red rug before a crackling fireplace. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn silver flames also crackled in the young female’s eyes. It startled Ember enough to pause.

Just a heartbeat, then-

Ember whirled to where the portal had been, to where Nena’s snow and ice had been, flakes of which were still melting in her black hair.

Randall’s rifle clicked-safety off. Ember didn’t need to look at her husband to know he had it aimed at the female monitoring them with such stillness.

The portal was gone. Only the room, this world, remained. A room with red stone walls, deep- cushioned wood furniture, and an entire wall of books. Windows lined the other wall, all of them shut against the night and revealing a glittering city far below. Not a modern, glaringly bright city, but rather one of low buildings and golden lights. A hint of a gleaming river wound like a snake through its heart.

Bryce had left her. Left them. Had thrown her and Randall in here, and closed the portal.

And now Bryce was-

The Fae female spoke, voice cool and flat, in a language Ember didn’t recognize. Because it wasn’t one of Midgard’s languages. It was a language of another place, another world-

“Open that portal,” Randall growled in their own language, and Ember turned to see her husband still aiming the rifle at the female’s pretty face. But the female glanced to the wall of windows. To the blackness sweeping from the horizon.

Even Ember’s mortal blood knew it wasn’t a storm. It was something far, far worse.

The female spoke again, voice still unruffled. She nodded to the rifle, motioning with a hand in a put it down gesture.

Randall did no such thing. “Open that portal,” he ordered again. The darkness on the horizon was racing toward them. The fine hairs on Ember’s arms rose.

“Lower your gun,” Ember whispered to Randall. “What?” Randall didn’t lower the rifle as he slid his gaze to her.

“Lower your fucking gun,” Ember breathed as the darkness raged closer, blotting out the city lights, the stars, the moon-

Randall clicked the safety back on, but he didn’t have time to lower it before darkness exploded through the windows.

“You had no right,” a Fae male thundered behind a shut door. Ember had heard Nesta call him Rhysand. She and Randall listened from a red-stoned hall, guarded by a solemn, dark-haired male with dragon wings.

Ember understood the words only because in those initial moments after the dark storm had ruptured the windows and burst into the room, she and Randall had been questioned. Since it was clear they didn’t understand the language, the male who had appeared from the heart of the star-flecked storm had given them both a silver bean and mimed eating it.

Ember had swallowed it, because the gray-eyed female- Nesta-had said “Bryce” and mimed eating the bean, then pointed to her mouth. Ember remembered that her daughter had mentioned eating some sort of magical thing here that had allowed her to understand and speak to these people in their own language. So Ember had swallowed it, and Randall followed her lead.

They’d blacked out, and awoken here, in the hall, right as the doors to the study were shutting. Ember had gotten a peek at the arrivals-just quickly enough to see Nesta cloistered with Rhysand, a short-haired female, and a broad-shouldered male with dragon wings like the warrior in the hall beside them.

Ember and Randall hadn’t dared talk. Not as wisps of the raging argument filtered out through the keyhole.

“You had no right,” Rhysand growled again, his voice reverberating through the stone. His power made the Autumn King seem like a child in comparison.

“I had every right,” Nesta countered icily. “The Trove answers to me, obeys me.”

“You transferred a deadly weapon into the very world where the enemies who have been seeking it have been camped out for millennia, right into the hands of the one person who could open a portal to our world with half a thought. What were you thinking?” The last words were a roar.

The other male in the room murmured, “Rhys.” A low, vicious snarl was the only reply.

The other female voice-dry, sharp-said, “Before you fillet her, Rhysand, I would hear the girl’s reasoning for handing over the Mask.”

“There is no excuse for it,” Rhysand snapped. “And when Feyre gets here-“

“I don’t answer to my sister or to you,” Nesta retorted. “I am not your subject to punish as you please.”

Ember glanced to their guard. The handsome male on Randall’s other side, his dark armor adorned with blue stones, remained stoic.

“You have jeopardized this entire world,” Rhysand shouted. “You might not answer directly to me, but you will answer to every being here for what you did.”

“She was desperate,” Nesta said, and Ember’s heart strained. “She was willing to leave her parents as collateral, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t give a shit who she left or what she claimed. You handed over the Mask-“

“She begged me to keep them, even if I wouldn’t give her the Mask.”

Ember glanced at Randall. Pure pain and grief filled her husband’s eyes. Bryce had… traded them. For that glittering gold thing she’d glimpsed passing from Nesta to her daughter.

And oh gods. Cooper-

Ember clutched the silver amulet of the Embrace around her neck, closing her eyes and murmuring a prayer.

Merciful Cthona dwelling beneath, protect our son, take him into your care-

In these weeks, however brief, the gangly, near- skeletal boy who’d shown up on her doorstep with such haunted, bleak eyes had become a son. From the worry now filling Randall’s eyes, Ember could only guess that his thoughts had drifted in the same direction.

Bryce had left Cooper behind. Had taken them, but left the boy, left him vulnerable and alone again-

Red washed over her vision. Bryce had been talking with Cooper, laughing with him on Avallen. She’d been acting normally, and yet she’d known she planned to do this, to leave him behind.

The beautiful, winged male glanced warily toward Ember, as if sensing her wrath.

In the study, Nesta was saying, “If there is a chance of defeating the Daglan–the Asteri-why not give Bryce the edge she needs?”

“Because they will kill her and take the Mask and Horn and open a fucking gate to this world!” Rhysand bellowed. “You should have killed Bryce the moment she opened that portal,” he raged on. “The moment she appeared, you should have been swinging Ataraxia at her fucking throat-“

“She deserved the honor of being heard out,” Nesta snapped back. “After all we went through, she deserved that.”

“She deserved to be obliterated for putting us at such risk-a second time!” Rhysand yelled.

“Argue later,” the other female advised. “We need to deal with the parents first.”

Ember stiffened, and Randall reached for a knife that was no longer there. They’d awoken to find his rifle and his knife gone. Along with the secret one he kept in his boot.

The study doors blew open, banging so hard against the stone walls that Ember could have sworn even their guard winced. “Azriel.” Rhysand’s commanding voice boomed from within the study. “Bring them.”

Azriel – the male who Bryce had traveled with in the caves. He was now motioning them forward, his face like ice.

Every step seemed to take too long as Ember and Randall, their guard flanking them, walked into the study. It was smaller than the room they’d arrived in. Too small, considering all the hulking males now occupying it. Rhysand had wings, too, like Azriel and the other male, but he also had the pointed ears of the Fae.

And the other, shorter female… her chin-length bob swayed as she turned, revealing silver eyes that marked every detail of Ember’s being, right down to the dregs of her soul.

Rhysand loomed like a roiling storm in the center of the room. Even the fire seemed to cringe from him. Nesta stood a few feet away, blue-gray eyes wary-no hint of that silver flame. She clenched her hands, but her face was nearly vacant. The handsome, broad- shouldered male at her side was thin-lipped with concern or anger. Maybe both.

None of the strangers seemed particularly… chill. Rhysand’s violet-blue eyes swept over Randall, then Ember. Randall tensed, like he’d leap between Ember and any threat, as he’d done so times throughout their lives together.

But Ember seethed at Rhysand, “Don’t bother obliterating my daughter.” Fury blazed through her. “When I get back to Migard, I’m going to do it myself.”

“Did you know Bryce was planning this?”

“I don’t know how many more ways I can say this,” Ember reiterated to Rhysand five minutes later. “No.” Randall added, jaw tight, “She tricked us-made us think we were headed up to Nena for a mission, but it was to dump us here.”

They’d had to strip off their heavy winter coats thanks to the warmth of the room, but now, in her long T-shirt and jeans, Ember felt a bit bare, surrounded by warriors armed to the teeth. Only the short female wore normal clothes.

That is, if the fine silk attire could be considered normal. If the necklace of rubies around her throat was a common thing.

“And where is she going now?” Azriel asked with soft venom. “Now that she has the Mask”- “-a withering glare at Nesta, whose face was carefully blank-“where is Bryce going?”

“I don’t know,” Ember insisted. “I didn’t even know she wanted the Mask-she didn’t tell us about this Trove of yours. She and Hunt must have planned this in secret.”

Because it had been Athalar’s storm wind that had shoved them in here. And if Ember ever got her hands on the Umbra Mortis…

“Yet you brought one of your guns with you,” Rhysand said, his accent tripping over the term. “You must have known you were heading into trouble.”

“Nena is… not a nice place,” Randall said. “You’d be an idiot to go up there unarmed.”

Rhysand fell silent, gaze sliding to the petite, dark- haired female. She sighed at the ceiling and said, “They are humans, Rhysand. We can contain them here.”

Randall shot Ember a look, as if to warn her to stay quiet. But she’d spent her whole life hearing that bullshit–she wasn’t about to tolerate it now.

“Right,” Ember bit out. “We’re just pathetic, weak, stupid humans. Little more than chattel to you.”

Ember could have sworn Nesta was watching her curiously.

But Rhysand said quietly, “If Amren offended you, it was not intended. We all have a deep respect for humans here.”

For some reason, Ember believed him. Amren inclined her head in apology.

“We won’t cause you any trouble,” Ember said, turning up his palms in what she hoped translated to a pleading gesture in this world. “We don’t even want to be here.”

“I am not concerned about your presence here,” Rhysand said, any hint of that warm sincerity hardening to ice. “I’m concerned about your daughter. If our ancient enemies get their hands on her, on the weapons she bears, on the people she loves…” He shook his head, the firelight dancing on his blue-black hair. “How hard would it be to break her? She has already proven that she will do anything to save her loved ones.” He gestured to Ember, to Randall. “If the Daglan-the Asteri, as you call them-capture her mate, her brother. won’t she betray us to save them?”

“You don’t know our daughter,” Randall said firmly.

Ember’s stomach turned, though, at the thought of the methods the Asteri would use to hurt Bryce. It had been bad enough hearing from Fury that Hunt and Ruhn were in the Asteri dungeons, with no word of where Bryce had gone. Ember hadn’t slept for days. Had barely eaten a bite until she’d gotten the news that Bryce had reappeared and wanted them in Avallen immediately.

Rhysand said calmly to Randall, “I don’t know your daughter, but my companions spent enough time with her lately to give me an idea. She’s softhearted yet ruthless. Scheming yet impulsive. Determined and stubborn. And with a dangerous tendency toward recklessness.”

“She’s been like that since she was a baby,” Ember said, rubbing her temples. “Imagine all that in a one- year-old.”

Randall cleared his throat in warning, but she could have sworn Rhysand’s mouth twitched upward. Like he could indeed imagine such a thing. Maybe he’d lived through something similar.

The male at Nesta’s side-her mate, if Ember were to make a guess-said casually, even as the worry in his hazel eyes belied his tone, “It’s late, Rhys. Let them rest, and we’ll meet again in the morning.”

Rhys nodded without looking at the warrior, and focused all his fury on Nesta. To her credit, the female stood stiff-backed, chin high. Imperious and unbending. Ember couldn’t help but admire her.

Rhysand’s violet-blue eyes guttered into pure darkness at the challenge in Nesta’s expression, her stance. A predator recognizing a worthy opponent and unsheathing its talons. His hands curled at his sides, as if invisible claws were forming.

Nesta’s mate shifted an inch closer to her, his eyes darting between the two of them, torn. Like he didn’t know who to side with in the brewing fight. “I’m fine, Cassian,” Nesta muttered.

Rhysand didn’t take his eyes off Nesta as he ordered, “Report to my office at dawn. We’ll finish this then.”

He stalked out of the chamber, the doors slamming behind him on a night-flecked wind.

In the ensuing quiet, Amren nodded to Nesta. “Find a room for your.. guests, girl. And pray to the Mother that your sister changes Rhysand’s mind tonight.”

With that, they prowled from the room as well, leaving only heavy, fraught silence in their wake.

“You two can stay here.” Nesta opened the door to a cozy bedroom overlooking the small city beyond. “There are wards on every inch of this place and the House is alive, so you can’t get out unless we allow it, but… it’s better than a dungeon.”

They’d taken Bryce to their dungeons. Furious as she was with her daughter, another sort of fury came over Ember at the thought.

“Thank you,” Ember said a shade stiffly to the female. Randall didn’t speak as he assessed every exit and potential weapon. “Wait,” Ember said. “This house is alive?”

“In a way,” Nesta said, waving a slender hand. “It reports to me. This is my home.” She sounded thin, brittle. After the verbal lashing she’d taken in the study…

“Thank you,” Ember said quietly. “For sticking your neck out for us.”

Nesta shrugged with one shoulder, turning to leave. “If you’re hungry, simply ask the House aloud and food will appear.”

“Convenient,” Randall murmured from where he stood at the window.

“Thank you,” Ember said again. “If there was a way for us to go back without Bryce…” She shook her head. “If we could go back, we’d go, and I could kill her for this, you know. I could kill her for this.”

“Your daughter loves you,” Nesta said hoarsely. “She loves you enough to send you away in order to keep you from harm.”

“She used us as a bargaining chip,” Ember corrected.

“No,” Nesta said. “She wanted the Mask to fight your Asteri, but I think she mostly opened the portal to send you here. Out of harm’s way.”

“She left our son behind,” Randall growled with uncharacteristic menace.

“I’m sure she has some plan for his protection,” Nesta said. “Your daughter seems to be very… resourceful.”

Ember huffed. “You don’t know the half of it. Try setting a curfew for that girl.”

A ghost of a smile crossed Nesta’s face. “I’ll check in on you after breakfast.” Her shoulders curved inward as she aimed for the door.

“Are you in trouble?” Ember ventured. Nesta’s meeting with Rhysand first thing in the morning clearly wouldn’t be a pleasant one.

“No more than usual,” Nesta said nonchalantly, but Ember could sense the lie.

“We really won’t cause any problems here,” Ember said, “as we promised earlier. I just want to get home to Midgard.”

“I don’t think you will get home-unless your daughter succeeds in her impossible task.”

Ember’s heart crumpled. But she said, “If anyone can find a way to take down the Asteri, it’s Bryce.”

Another ghost of a smile. “I’m inclined to agree.”

It was comforting, somehow-that this stranger from another world had faith in her wild, willful daughter. The wild, willful daughter who had felt like a mirror to herself sometimes, if Ember was being honest.

“Did Bryce… behave herself here?”

“No,” Nesta said. “She tried to feed me and Azriel to an oversize worm.”

Randall choked, but didn’t turn from the windows as he said, “Of course she did.”

Ember rubbed her eyes. “Gods, she must have driven you up the wall.”

“Indeed.” Nesta’s smile was slow, barely a lift of the corners of her lips. Like she wasn’t someone who smiled easily or regularly. A warrior, yes but she seemed young, despite those Fae ears. The way Bryce, with her own pointed ears, seemed young, though Fae could still look twenty-five when they were three hundred years old. The gods knew the Autumn King had still looked young-had still seemed barely into his thirties when Bryce had-

Her daughter had…

It had been Ruhn, Ember reminded herself. Ruhn had made the killing blow.

But it still felt like Bryce’s kill somehow. She’d confronted the Autumn King, taken on all his hatred and misery. Ember still didn’t quite know how to process it.

Nesta had that look, too. Like she was processing a lot of things.

And maybe it was some motherly instinct, but Ember found herself saying, “Tomorrow, if you walk out of your morning meeting alive… I’d like to sit down and talk with you, Nesta.”

Nesta remained silent a beat, no doubt weighing the request.

At last, her mouth curved upward again in that ghost of a smile. “I’d like that, too.”

~

“You should sleep, Em.”

Randall’s voice rumbled across the bed. Despite the clearly un-modern settings, the bed was comfortable enough to rival any mattress in Midgard. But it still offered Ember no shot at finding restful oblivion.

“I don’t know how you can even try to sleep,” she hissed, kicking at the heavy down blankets. “We’re in another world, for fuck’s sake.”

“Which is why we should rest while we can-so we have strength and focus tomorrow.”

Ember blew out a long breath. “Do you trust these people?”

Randall was silent for a moment, thinking it through in that quiet, considerate, merciless way of his. “I trust Bryce’s trust in them. I don’t think our daughter would have sent us into the hands of brutal murderers, when her intention was to keep us safe.”

Ember sniffed. “You sure about that? She threatened to shove me into the kiln once.”

Randall chuckled, turning onto his side and propping his head up with a hand. Gods, even after all these years, he was still handsome enough to make her toes curl. “I’ll remind you that you first threatened to toss JJ into said kiln if she didn’t clean her room.”

Despite herself, Ember laughed softly at the memory. But the amusement faded as she said, “Our baby’s going to try to take on the Asteri, Randall.”

“Rigelus won’t know what hit him.” Ember sat up, glaring at him.

He sat up, too, taking her hand in his, face grave. “I know what she’s up against. But I also know that if there is anyone on Midgard who can do this, it’s Bryce. And I’m not saying that as her dad. Have faith in her, Ember.”

Ember nodded, sighing. “I do. I’m just…” “Terrified.”

Ember nodded again, throat closing up. “Do you think Cooper-“

“He’s fine. The kid’s smart and capable. And he’s got Fury Axtar and Baxian Argos looking after him.”

“I will never forgive Bryce for this.” Ember bit back a sob.

Randall stroked a loving, reassuring hand down her hair. “Honestly? I hope to the gods we get the chance to tell Bryce how pissed we are at her.”

“I know.” Tears stung her eyes, and Ember couldn’t help her shuddering gasp. A moment later, Randall’s arms wrapped around her, tugging her tight against him. He kissed her temple. “We’ll see her again.” He kissed her once more, gently easing her back down beside him. “I promise. We’ll see them both again.”

~

Ember and Randall had just sat down for breakfast in the dining room-guided there by a silent Azriel- when Rhysand landed on the veranda beyond the glass doors. His vast wings were like storm clouds in the morning light. A heartbeat later, Cassian landed, Nesta in his arms. Both looking stone-faced. Pissed.

Rhysand snarled something that had Nesta’s shoulders tensing, her head bowing.

And Ember found herself pushing out of her chair, stalking for the doors. Randall tried to grab her, but he was too late. And Azriel didn’t stop her as Ember flung open the glass doors and asked Rhysand, “Isn’t it a little early to be biting people’s heads off?”

The trio froze. Rhysand slowly turned toward Ember. His eyes were black pits. “I don’t recall asking you to join our conversation.”

Ember kept her chin high. “You interrupted my breakfast. If you wanted privacy, you should have gone somewhere else.”

Was that amusement shining in Cassian’s eyes? Ember didn’t dare take her attention off Rhysand to confirm. Randall appeared at her side, a hand on her back in warning as he said, “We’ll leave you to it.”

But Ember refused to move, even as a part of her quailed in terror, and said, “Nesta made a choice to harbor us-she made a choice to give Midgard a shot at freedom. To give my world hope. What kind of person are you to rip her to shreds for it?”

“Em,” Randall cautioned.

Rhysand crossed his muscular arms. “Are you calling me a monster, Ember Quinlan?”

“I’m saying give it a fucking rest,” Ember snapped. Behind her, she could have sworn Azriel choked. But she jerked her chin toward Nesta. “Lay off her.”

Rhysand held her stare.

For a moment, an eternity. Stars seemed to flicker into existence in his eyes. Like the vastness of night lay within, sweet and terrible, beautiful and harrowing.

But Ember withstood it. She’d seen and faced true evil. Bore a mark on her cheek forever because of it.

Something seemed to soften in Rhysand’s stare-like he saw that. His gaze slid over to Randall. “With a wife and a daughter like yours, I don’t know how you’re still standing.”

Randall said with that casual charm, “Honestly, most days I don’t know, either.”

Rhysand blinked at Randall-and then laughed. A moment later, Cassian and Azriel chuckled as well.

Typical males. No matter what planet they were on. Ember didn’t smile, though. Her gaze landed on Nesta. The Fae female wasn’t laughing, either. Her blue-gray eyes remained fixed on Ember. Swimming with emotion. Surprise. Gratitude. Longing.

And it was that same mother’s instinct that had guided her last night that had Ember extending a hand toward Nesta and saying, “Come. Eat breakfast with me.”

Nesta took her hand, her fingers surprisingly cold. Like the flight up here had chilled them. Ember gave them a squeeze. “Don’t let him push you around,” Ember advised the female.

“Don’t worry,” Nesta said, even if that bruised look lingered in her eyes. “My sister-Rhys’s mate-gave him that exact same lecture twenty minutes ago.”

Ember hissed, “So he brought you back up here to lecture you away from her?”

Nesta snorted. “No. Feyre put an end to the argument. I’m not going to be executed. Not today, at least.”

At Ember’s horrified expression, Nesta amended, “They wouldn’t kill me. I don’t think. But… it’s complicated. I doubt anyone will be forgiving me anytime soon.”

Ember nodded toward Cassian. “What about your mate?”

The pain in her eyes-the guilt- seemed to deepen. “Cassian’s the most furious with me of anyone.” A muscle ticked in her jaw. Like she was holding back a giant wave of raw emotion. Only a wall of steel kept it at bay.

Ember squeezed Nesta’s hand again. “If there’s anything I can do to help, anything you need me to say to take some of the blame away from you…

Nesta gave her a half smile. “Handing Rhys his ass just now was good enough for me.” She steered Ember toward the breakfast laid out for them.

Ember glanced over a shoulder, to where Randall stood with Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian. All the males were now smiling, thank the gods. “Seems like Randall’s doing a good job of winning them over. Probably by telling them how difficult I make his life.” Nesta snorted again. “Complaining about mates: it’s practically a competitive sport for them.”

Ember chuckled. “Seems like Midgard and this place have some things in common, then.” She angled her head, taking in the beautiful, ancient-looking city far below, the river wending through it, and what seemed to be the distant sparkle of the sea. “What is this place, anyway? And why are all of you so attractive?”

Nesta smirked, looping her arm through Ember’s before she said, warmth finally entering her tone, “Welcome to the Night Court, Ember. You’ll fit right in here.”

The thumping bass from the shitty old boom box reached Bryce full two levels below the apartment. The sweet, musky scent of mirthroot hit her when she reached the next landing. And by the time Bryce unlocked the door and stepped inside, she was already dancing.

“There’s my favorite person!” Danika shouted, saluting Bryce with a rolled cigarette of mirthroot. A pile of it lay on the coffee table before her, Danika’s bare feet inches away. Bryce’s roommate gestured magnanimously to the spread of drugs.

“Where the fuck did you even get that much mirthroot?” Bryce toed off her heels, scrunching her chafed, aching toes a few times to work some life back into them. Then she reached under her dress and snapped her bra free. She whipped it around her head once for good effect, then sent it soaring across the living area. It landed in a sweaty heap on the threshold of her bedroom. Fuck, it was hot out. And it was hot in here.

Even with the air-conditioning on, a light sweat coated Danika’s face. It probably didn’t help that she wore her familiar leather jacket, with Through love, all is possible scrawled across the back, despite the summer heat.

Danika took a long drag of mirthroot, exhaling through her nostrils before saying, “I confiscated it from some asshole tourists who thought it’d be cool to get wasted in the Oracle’s Park and see if they picked up on her psychic vibes or whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “Gave them a formal warning and took their drugs.”

Bryce chuckled, plopping onto the sagging couch beside her best friend. “You’re a real role model.”

Danika passed her the smoldering cigarette. “Oh yeah. Crescent City’s finest.”

Bryce inhaled deeply, every taut muscle in her body relaxing at the taste of the smoke in her mouth.

On the crappy, too-small TV across the living room, the evening news blathered on, barely audible above the thump of the music on the boom box. The blackout last week, blah, blah, blah-

“Where’s everyone else?” Bryce asked, exhaling slowly before passing the mirthroot back to Danika. She’d gotten Danika’s message half an hour ago: a short video showing the pile of mirth-root-which had then been on the kitchen counter-with music blasting in the background, accompanied by the words Hurry home quick, honey.

So Bryce had, locking the gallery up in record time. So fast that she’d forgotten her dirty dance clothes from the class she’d taken at lunchtime. So fast that poor Syrinx had only gotten in one cuddle before she’d been out the door with promises to bring him a big treat tomorrow.

“Working,” Danika replied at last, smoke rippling from her lips. “Being the role model that I am, I took the evening off to enjoy the spoils.” She wriggled her toes, each one coated in chipped purple nail polish, at the mirthroot. “Bronson made me promise to leave some for him, so don’t make me a liar.”

Bryce took another hit. “If we smoke all of that, I think we’ll die, Danika.”

“Nah,” Danika said, smirking as Bryce slowly released a sweet cloud. “But you might still be high in two days.”

Bryce’s phone chirped, and she grabbed it from the coffee table to find that an email from Jesiba had popped up. Bryce skimmed its contents, then winced. She’d just put her phone down, intending to ignore the message for as long as possible, when Danika said, rising to her feet, “Maybe three days.” Bryce laughed, the room starting to slow and spin with a familiar haziness. She set the mirthroot down in the lopsided ceramic ashtray-a gem from their half-assed college pottery class-and leaned back on the stained cushions to savor the chill creeping over her.

Humming along to the music, Danika padded into the galley kitchen. Bryce’s phone buzzed with another message from Jesiba I expect a reply within the next five–

Bryce sighed and began typing back, any building bliss fading away.

“Wanna go out?” Danika called from the kitchen.

Bryce propped her feet on the coffee table, sending the email to Jesiba as she did. “No. My bra is officially off and I am not put ting it back on.”

“Who said you need a bra on to go out?” Danika emerged from the kitchen, munching on a soggy leftover sandwich.

“There’s still plenty of ziti from what I made last night,” Bryce offered, the music starting to send rippling gold rings through the room. Pretty. “That sandwich is, like, six days old.”

Danika took another bite and said around a mouthful, “I’d rather risk food poisoning from this thing than that… concoction.”

Bryce flipped off her friend with a finger that felt a million miles away. “You said the ziti was good!”

“It might have been on its own.” Danika crossed her arms. “But you added…?”

“Sausage.” “And?”

Bryce winced. “Some other stuff?” Okay, maybe she’d gotten a little overeager adding things to the recipe. She’d stopped herself after the garlic and olives, though.

Danika nodded sagely. “Yeah, no ziti. Let’s go out, though-I’ve still got plenty of room for more. Pizza, then beer. Then whiskey.”

“I have work tomorrow,” Bryce hedged. “Jesiba’s already messaging me about the pile of paperwork she wants me to fill out before she even gets in tomorrow morning. There’s no way I can get through it if I’m nursing a hangover. Or still high.”

Just two drinks.” Danika promised, unraveling and then re-braiding her blond, corn-silk hair with strands of amethyst, sapphire, and rose woven throughout. “I’ll have you in bed by one.”

That was a big fucking lie, if Bryce had ever heard one. But if Danika wanted to go out, only the two of them, no mention of making it a party with June and Fury….

“Please,” Danika asked, frowning slightly. She approached the coffee table and picked up the mirthroot cigarette, inhaling again.

“I could use it.”

Even with the haze of the drugs, it was hard to miss the tightness in Danika’s face, her posture.

So Bryce asked, as soberly as she could, “You all right?”

Danika shrugged, inhaling again. “Sabine. As usual.”

There was something in the way Danika didn’t look at her, didn’t meet her eyes… Bryce wasn’t entirely sure she bought it, even though Sabine was always nipping at Danika’s heels. But what else could it be? Maybe something with Thorne, but Thorne’s panting after Danika had never seemed to bother her before.

If Danika didn’t want to talk about it, though, Bryce wouldn’t push. She’d be there when Danika was ready. Bryce took another drag of the mirthroot herself, free-falling into the serene calmness, and said, “One-I want to be back here and in bed by one.”

Her best friend, the sister of her soul, winked. But some of that tightness, that distant worry remained- just a glimmer. Even as Danika said, eyes glowing with wolfish delight through the cloud of mirthroot smoke, “I’ll get you a fresh bra.”

“There’s a thousand-mark fine and a permanent citation for public drunkenness,” a male voice lectured Bryce and Danika two hours later, right as the clock neared midnight.

One in the morning loomed, but maybe she could push it to two. It was such a warm, beautiful night, the wind sighing through the palms. the kind of summer night that would linger in Bryce’s memory for years. The mirthroot still wrapped around her senses, heightening and yet soothing them, making her savor every perfect detail of this night.

Sitting on the rim of a fountain in a market square near Archer Street, Danika swigged from her bottle of beer. They’d gotten a six-pack from the nearby grocery store-and then another. This was their third. They had only the who cares effect of the mirthroot to blame for it, Bryce supposed. “No one likes a nare.”

Bryce snickered up at the trio of wolves standing around them: Connor, Zach, and Thorne. It was Zach who had spoken. and though his tone had been perfectly dry, his dark eyes glittered with amusement.

He made up half of the twin duo everyone called the Ghosts. If Zach was here, Zelda couldn’t be far away. But it was Connor who Bryce really looked at-and promptly tried to ignore. Especially as he said, “A little public drunkenness never hurt anyone.”

His tone was the opposite of Zach’s, though. He sounded amused, but she could have sworn something disapproving shone in Connor’s eyes as he looked at her Bryce glazed up at him as if to say, What? Danika needed a drink. And some mirthroot. A lot of it.

She could have sworn Connor’s frown said, There are better ways of helping her deal with Sabine.

Bryce shook her head. He saw too much-noticed too much. She changed the subject. “Where’s my bestie?”

Danika laughed. “I’m right here. You must have stoked more than I realized.”

“I meant Ithan,” Bryce said innocently “Hey!” Danika objected.

“Second-best friend,” Bryce amended.

Thorne chuckled. “Sleeping Big game in a few days”

Connor cautioned, “Do not invite him out. He needs rest.”

“Of course,” Danika said. “It’s a big, fancy, important sunball game. Why, the fate of the world rests upon it! We’d never interfere with that.”

Bryce and Danika swapped a glance. As soon as the trio left, they were totally messaging Ithan – the fun Holstrom, as she often teased Connor.

But Connor didn’t look like he’d appreciate being teased at the moment. Gods, did everyone have something smoldering inside them right now? Was it the summer heat? The way he was staring at her…

Bryce became keenly aware of how high her dress had ridden up her thighs, how much bare leg she had exposed, the drunken angle of her feet in her high heels.

“Look,” Thorne said, ever the voice of reason, “Amelie and the Black Rose Pack are on patrol tonight. Just… be careful.”

“Let them try something.” Danika snarled, and even Bryce tensed at that. Danika was spoiling for a fight.

“Don’t even think about it,” Connor warned, teeth bared in a way that reminded Bryce he might have been an Alpha in his own right if he hadn’t chosen to serve Danika instead. “A confrontation with Amelie is the last thing you need right now.”

“Oh?” Danika rose gracefully to her feet, only swaying a bit. “Why?”

Thorne stepped between them, the Omega flashing a disarming smile. “Because I don’t want to have to drag you into jail for murder.”

That seemed to appease Danika, who gently patted Thorne’s face. He held her gaze, and Bryce was surprised to see that Danika was the first to look away- like she couldn’t stand whatever she found in Thorne’s expression. Bryce could have sworn pure pain and longing filled Thorne’s stare.

But Zach nodded to Bryce as she stood, heels wobbling on the cobblestones. “Keep an eye on her, B,” he said.

Bryce saluted sloppily. “Will do.”

Danika snickered, slipping an arm around Bryce’s shoulders.

“We’ll go take our public drunkenness inside.” She tugged Bryce from the fountain, from the square. “We’ll be drinking ourselves into oblivion at Lethe should anyone need us.”

Bryce glanced over a shoulder to find Connor still frowning after her. She didn’t like that look, or all she read in it, so she just winked at him and let Danika lead her to Lethe’s forgetful embrace.

The whiskey bar was fairly busy for a weeknight. People still in work clothes sipped the expensive stuff from crystal glasses at the array of high tables, while drunk assholes like Bryce and Danika perched at the bar, downing straight shots of the cheap nail polish remover Lethe claimed was their house whiskey.

If they could have afforded the good stuff, they would have bought it gladly, but Bryce had zero money, and though Danika technically had the funds, Sabine was the one who signed off on the credit payments.

Bryce didn’t usually mind the cheap crap, but Danika was put- ting away an inordinate amount of it tonight. What was going on with her?

Bryce sifted through all that had happened in the past few days. Or tried to. With all the booze in her system – why had they started with beer? – she could barely think at all.

There was only one moment that stood out amid the drunken blur. “What’s up with you and Thorne?” Bryce asked Danika with no warning whatsoever.

“Huh?” Danika knocked back another whiskey. Gods, what number was that? Bryce herself had had… She tried to count on her fingers, but they multiplied and blurred.

Down the bar, an angel in the uniform of the 33rd was checking them out. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to try to arrest thei or try to fuck them. The red-haired male wasn’t bad-looking, actually. Tempting enough that if she hadn’t been seeing Reid Redner, maybe-

“There’s nothing up with me and Thorne,” Danika said shortly, signaling for another whiskey. “You gonna talk to that angel or what?”

“Not my type,” Bryce sniffed.

“Liar.” Danika teased. “He’s hot as shit.” Bryce laughed. “You go talk to him, then.” Danika winked. “Not my type.”

Bryce considered. “When was the last time you even went on a date with someone?”

Danika nodded her thanks to the bartender and sighed for a long moment. Like she was about to say something-

Gods, Bryce’s head was spinning. Maybe she should stop drinking.

“You’re Danika Fendyr,” a male growled from down the bar. They looked, and the male-a great, hulking brute of a draki with greenish scales running down his muscular arms under his gray T-shirt-tipped his glass toward them.

“What about it?” Danika asked, the words slurring only slightly.

The male downed his whiskey in one gulp, steam puffing from his nostrils. “Heard a lot about you.”

Bryce leaned forward on the bar, peering down its shining length at him. “All good things, I hope,” she

said with saccharine sweetness. It was definitely the mirthroot prompting her to sass a draki.

The draki spared her a glance, his reptilian eyes sweeping over her, then back to Danika. Bryce was dismissed. Invisible, unworthy of more than a look. Maybe a quick fuck in the alley, if he’d condescend to that. Bryce’s fingers clenched around her glass.

“Heard you’re a handful,” the draki said to Danika. “Who the Hel are you?” No drunkenness fogged

Danika’s words now. They were crisp and sharp. “Just a guy from the north,” the male answered, twisting his glass in his clawed hands. “Passing through. Didn’t think I’d see local celebrity.” He bit out every syllable of celebrity, his pointed white teeth glinting.

“Happy to make your night,” Danika said, her smile all teeth as well.

“Your mom’s a hateful bitch, you know.” The bar quieted.

But Danika remained utterly unruffled. “Oh, I know. What’d she do to you?”

The male’s pupils narrowed to the finest of slits. “Not to me. To my cousins. They’re just kids. Came down to the city for a fun weekend and never made it back home. Last we heard, Sabine Fendyr was having a little fox hunting them through the streets.” Bryce put a warning hand on Danika’s arm, but said nothing. Danika, however, said, “That doesn’t surprise me.” She nod ded toward the male. “You come down here to settle the score?” The wood bar smoldered beneath the male’s clawed, scaled hand. “You gonna try to stop me?”

Danika flashed a crooked grin. “Hel no. I’ll wish you luck, if anything.”

“Danika,” Bryce said. There was defying Sabine, and then there was outright mutiny. If Danika went too far over the line, she’d pay.

Smoke curled from the draki’s nostrils. “I did hear you weren’t like her.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” But Bryce didn’t miss the gleam in Danika’s eyes.

The male nodded to her, then slid off his stool, aiming for the door. He had almost reached it when he turned back and said to Danika, “You tip her off and I’ll come back to find you first.”

With that, he was gone.

“Solas,” Bryce breathed after the bar resumed its usual low-key murmur of activity.

Danika drained her whiskey. “The poor bastard doesn’t realize that he’s not going to walk away at all, whether Sabine knows he’s coming or not.”

“You should be careful,” Bryce said, fear clearing her mind for a moment. “You don’t know who the fuck that is-“

“If he wants to take out Sabine, he’s my new best friend.”

Bryce squeezed Danika’s arm, hard. “That’s a dumb fucking thing to say.”

Danika didn’t answer; she only ordered yet another drink. And Bryce didn’t object when another slid in front of her, too. After that encounter, she needed it.

And the next one. And the next.

Music began, and Bryce was dancing to it, even though Lethe didn’t have a dance floor. She made the whole bar her dance floor, and Danika was dancing beside her, and they were laughing and laughing, all thoughts of Sabine melting away, the rest of Midgard with her.

Minutes or an hour passed, and all Bryce knew was that she was sweating, and back at the bar once more, downing yet another whiskey. The hot angel had vanished, though she’d made a decent attempt at trying to lure him with sex-eyes to her side as she danced.

But the snobbery of angels ran deep. He might have given her sex-eyes right back, but he’d no doubt flown directly up into the lofty towers of the CBD and laughed with his friends about the half-human-

“Come on,” Danika said suddenly, pulling her off the barstool. “Let’s get tattoos.”

“Tattoos!” Bryce burst out laughing. “No fucking way.”

“Pleeeeeeaaaaase,” Danika whined. “Best friend tattoos.”

“Absolutely not.”

Danika then unleashed her ultimate weapon: the puppy eyes. And damn if they weren’t effective. “I’m sad and lonely and I want to get a tattoo with my best friend.”

“My mom will kill me,” Bryce protested. “We’ll get it in a place where she won’t see.” “It’ll hurt.”

“You’re so drunk you won’t even feel it.” Danika squeezed her hand. “Please? Pleasepleaseplease-“

Bryce sighed. What was some ink in her skin? Right now, just about any idea sounded good. Granted, what Danika had said-sad and lonely-lingered, but Bryce would press her on that tomorrow.

For right now, the night was still young, and they were young, and would one day be nearly immortal. The whole world lay at their feet.

So Bryce sighed again and said, “Sure. Why not?”

They weren’t the only drunk assholes in the tattoo parlor at two in the morning. No, they’d actually had to it, but now here they were. Gods, time was bending and slowing, then shivering and speeding up.

Danika had told the tattoo artist that she had a design and specific text in mind-Through love, all is possible-and wanted it done in a certain way. She’d said something about bringing an additive for the ink, a special wolf thing… No, that couldn’t be right. This had been spontaneous, and what the fuck did Danika know about tattoos? She had her pack tattoo, but nothing more.

Bryce lay face down on the plastic-wrapped leather of the tattoo table, the room spinning, spinning, spinning, Danika was spinning, too…

Literally sitting on the tattoo artist’s stool and spinning, like all that mirthroot and booze wasn’t impacting her at all.

“Why am I going first?” Bryce asked.

“Because you’re about an hour away from puking and passing out. I’ve got at least two hours until that point.” Danika halted her spinning, fixing her bright eyes on Bryce. “Cold feet?”

Bryce snorted. “No. But again: my mom is going to freak.”

“Ember’s got tattoos. And you’re way past the legal age.”

“You already have Through love, all is possible on your jacket. Why do we need it on our skin?“

The traced lettering-in some strange alphabet that Bryce had never seen but Danika had insisted on using-was drying on Bryce’s back while the tattoo artist prepared her supplies and ink in an adjacent room.

Danika winked at Bryce. “Best friends and all.”

Bryce smiled drunkenly, resting her chin on her hands. “Best best, best friends.”

Danika kissed her brow. “Always.”

“No matter what.” Bryce closed her eyes, humming to herself.

Danika’s voice was soft. “No matter what.”

Bryce opened her eyes at that softness. “Hey-what’s that all about?”

Were those tears in Danika’s gaze? Danika just winked again, though. “I love you, B. You know that? There’s no one else who would put up with me, or go along with me on all this… craziness.”

“I believe the term Thorne would use is bad influence.”

Danika grinned crookedly. “Nah. You’re the good in my life.”

Bryce’s heart squeezed. “Right back at you.”

The door groaned open, and a moment later, the tattoo artist reappeared, little pots of ink in hand. “This stuff you gave me is some weird shit,” she said, snapping on her gloves. “Took a while to dissolve.”

“But it mixed in?” Danika asked a bit sharply. “Yeah,” the artist said, fixing a mask over her mouth. “No guarantees that it won’t fuck with the healing or the longevity of the ink, though.”

“It’ll be fine,” Danika assured her. “The Prime gave it to me. Sacred wolf tattoo crap.”

“Sure,” the artist said, clearly not caring one bit where it came from or what it was. She probably only wanted to get through the night’s endless parade of assholes.

Danika waggled her brows at Bryce, drawing a laugh from her. “Don’t move,” the artist said, fingers testing along the knobs of Bryce’s spine, the expanse of her upper back. “I’m starting.”

“Here goes,” Danika said to Bryce, and reached for Bryce’s hand, their fingers interlocking.

“Light it up,” Bryce whispered to Danika as the artist stepped on the power pedal and the tattoo gun buzzed to life.

Danika just squeezed Bryce’s hand gently. And as the tip of the needle bit into Bryce’s flesh, piercing even through the drunken, stoned numbness, she whispered, “Light it up, Bryce.”

There’s no way your mom will let us do this.”

“What my mom doesn’t know won’t kill her.” “Bryce.”

It was Hunt’s warning tone that had Bryce turning from the evergreen garland she’d spread across the kitchen table of her parents’ house, half of the pine needles blanketing the linoleum floor at her feet.

Her mate lounged against the pink plastic counter that hadn’t been updated since it was installed in the house a century ago. Bryce was sure any interior designer worth their salt would keel over dead at the sight of it-and the matching cabinets-but Bryce loved it. Loved every inch of this house, tucked among towering conifers on a hill just outside of Nidaros. Close enough to walk into the small town, but far enough away to avoid the snooping eyes and ears of any passing neighbors.

Which was pretty much everybody in this town. Bryce had no idea how her mother had survived it-the local gossips had lost their minds when she’d shown up twenty-odd years ago, a half-Fae toddler in tow, under Randall’s protection.

Well, she knew how her mom had survived it: by picking a house on the outskirts of town, shielded by those centuries-old pines.

“What?” Bryce frowned at Hunt. She motioned to the garland snaking across the chipped wood table- another thing that had come with the house. “She’ll love this.”

“You’re using her… babies”-Hunt choked on the word “to adorn a decoration for the temple.”

“So?” Bryce grabbed the hot-glue gun. “It’s free advertising for her.”

Hunt pushed off the counter, wings rustling, and picked up one of the offending objects. “It’s sacrilege.” “Is it, though?” Bryce surveyed the tray of tiny ceramic infants lolling in beds of lettuce or flower petals or little birds’ nests. “The Winter Solstice is all about the death and rebirth of Solas and his final embrace with Cthona before dying. Hence the baby.”

“Yeah, but that offspring is meant to be Midgard. Not… lettuce-babies.” Hunt eyed the figurine in his hand, a bald infant with arms and legs like overstuffed sausage links. “Some people might get offended.”

“Some people might also think it’s funny.”

At his pointed silence, Bryce sighed, setting down the glue gun. Hunt slid into the chair across from her. He wore his favorite white sunball hat backward and a thick green sweater that did wonders for his broad shoulders, but his face was stony, dark eyes wary.

Bryce angled her head to the side. “Don’t we all need something to laugh about?” She pointed to the brass-plated light fixture above the table. “We’re quickly approaching Firstlight Zero.”

In Nidaros-on all of Midgard-firstlight was used sparingly these days. Most people only turned on what lights they needed, in the room they were currently in. Charging phones: limited to a quarter power max. No TV. Unless it was absolutely, one hundred percent necessary, the majority of people on the planet were doing their best to conserve what firstlight remained while the scientists and engineers and magic-wielders

raced around the clock to find an alternate energy source. And some way to retrofit all their tech to use it.

Bryce didn’t want to think about it. Not for the three days she’d be here with her family. So she tucked it away, along with all the other thoughts that plagued her about what had gone down this fall, about what they’d been dealing with since she’d shoved the Asteri into a black hole.

These three days were for her and Hunt, for Cooper and her parents.

And Syrinx, lounging at her feet, snoring lightly, wearing a little red solstice vest that Randall had knitted for the chimera.

“Where’d you go?” Hunt asked, and Bryce blinked. “Huh?”

“You’re glaring at those … things.”

Bryce snorted and lifted a baby-one bawling from inside a peapod-and dangled it in front of Hunt’s face. “These things? Do they creep you out?”

Hunt winced away from the figurine. “Yes. Partly because they’re weird, and partly because your mom, of all people, makes them.”

Bryce dropped her voice to an eerie whisper. “They sing at night, if you listen closely.”

Hunt grimaced. “Don’t even start.”

Bryce chuckled, setting the figurine down again and surveying the garland. She’d only glued one baby on it before Hunt had intervened. “So you really think we should just bring this to the temple with no extra pizzazz?”

“Yes. I think you should do exactly what your mother asked you to do before she left.”

into

He was dead serious. Hunt had faced down the Asteri, jumped into space and careened toward a black hole, and yet he was still scared of Ember Quinlan.

Bryce supposed that made her mate a very wise male. And she’d be wise to listen to his warning, too. So she began placing the figurines back in the tray she’d grabbed from her mother’s workshop-more of an attached shed, really-the ceramics clinking delicately against each other. “We’ll leave that terror on there, and see if anyone notices tonight.”

Hunt rolled his eyes. “I’ll pray to Cthona that you don’t get us chased out of town.”

“The pitchfork cabinet’s right next to the temple altar, you know.”

“Hilarious.”

“No, it really is,” she said, standing with the tray in hand, trying her best not to joggle it too much. If she destroyed the figurines, her mom might actually kill her.

Granted, her mom would have killed her for taking the dozen or so figurines from her workshop and gluing them to a garland, too, but Bryce had been willing to pay that price for her mom’s last-minute demand that she help with the temple decorations for the solstice ceremony.

After teleporting in late the previous night, Bryce and Hunt had awoken this morning to find her mom and Randall already out of the house, with only a note from Ember on the kitchen table.

We’re in town, helping set up for the ceremony tonight. Take Cooper to lunch-I know he wants to spend some time with you, and this holiday is a big deal for him.

That, of course, was no burden. At lunch, the teen had been a little quieter than the boy she’d come to know and love over the last few months, but she didn’t blame him. He’d lost his entire family, and though he’d been welcomed into a new one, the holi- day was sure to bring up painful memories.

So Bryce and Hunt had let Cooper be as quiet as he wanted while they grabbed sandwiches at the local diner. And pretended every patron and passerby on the street wasn’t gawking at them.

Save the world, get stared at for the rest of their lives. That seemed to be the deal.

But it had been the second part of her mom’s note that had prompted Bryce to see red.

Also, I volunteered you and Athalar for the temple- decorating com- mittee, so send that mate of yours to cut down some branches and tie them together into a

garland. The temple will expect you there around three to hang it up.

Randall walked Syrinx and gave him his breakfast.

And his second breakfast.

You’re welcome.

Hunt checked his watch-an analog one, since he didn’t want to waste phone battery. “We gotta head out. Done throwing your temper tantrum?”

Bryce glared at him over a shoulder and lifted the tray of fig- urines as she continued toward the pottery studio. “Keep it up, Athalar, and I’ll put one of these under your pillow tonight.”

His eyes flared with alarm. “You wouldn’t dare.” Bryce crooned in a baby’s singsong voice, “Come play with us, Hunt.”

Hunt flipped her off, but she noted his pale face with satisfaction.

“It was just a little surprise for the eagle-eyed,” Bryce hedged as she and her family walked down the snowy road to her parents’ house under a crisp, starry sky. Her breath curled in front of her, and even with a heavy coat and gloves, the cold seeped into her.

Ember stomped through the icy snow at Bryce’s side, clad in a red peacoat. “You’re lucky the High Priestess and Priest didn’t call upon Cthona and Solas to damn you.” Randall, Hunt, and Cooper, the cowards, kept a few paces back. Ember hissed, “I’ll never hear the end of this from Milly Garkunos.”

“Then finally tell Milly to shut the fuck up and leave you alone,” Bryce said, teeth chattering.

Ember’s eyes flashed. “Bryce Adelaide Quinlan. That woman has been very kind to you. When we moved to this town-“

“I know, I know,” Bryce said, slowing her pace to try to slip into the protective wall of males walking behind them. She could have sworn the three of them all slowed further. When she glowered at Hunt, her mate only stared at the night sky like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. So Bryce recited to Ember, “When we got here, Milly was the only person who would check in on us, bring us food, supplies-“

“What about me?” Randall cried with false outrage.

Ember waved dismissively at her husband. “You didn’t count.”

Hunt clapped a consoling hand on Randall’s shoulder. Cooper just snickered.

Ember sniffed. “Well, what’s done is done, and we’re lucky the High Priestess and Priest thought it was amusing.”

Bryce threw Hunt a Told you so look. He stuck out his tongue.

Umbra Mortis, folks.

A small house with white siding and a half-sagging front porch appeared between the trees, a lone candle- the sacred candle of the solstice-burning in the window to light the home. way The tradition wasn’t particularly fire-safe, but most families scraped together enough money to buy a protection spell from a sprite so they wouldn’t come home from the temple to find their home in cinders.

Solas’s light had been extinguished with the setting sun, and that lone candle stood for the one kernel of him that survived. A kernel of hope, to be fully rekindled with the rising of the sun at dawn-with

Solas’s rebirth from Cthona’s dark embrace through the long night of her mourning vigil.

The symbol of that embrace was prominent all over the town at this time of year: the circle sinking-or rising-between two mountain peaks. Also known as Solas’s face between Cthona’s tits. Though Ember hadn’t been too pleased when Bryce had phrased it that way as a teen when describing the Embrace amulet her mother always wore.

Bryce glanced at Hunt and found his attention now on the candle in the window. The one light in the darkness. His face was tight, eyes haunted.

She dropped back a few steps, and Randall and Cooper walked to Ember’s side, giving them privacy. When the others were far enough ahead, Bryce asked her mate, “What’s up?”

Hunt’s gray feathers fluttered in the frigid wind. “Just a bad memory.”

“Of what?” Sometimes he’d open up to her about things from his past that still ate at him. Sometimes he wasn’t ready, and she let him know that was absolutely fine. She’d be there to listen when- ever he needed her.

But Hunt slid his gaze to her. “Of you. In space.

Glowing against that black hole.”

Bryce blocked out the surge of memories, of old terror, and reached a gloved hand for his. “We have a lot to be grateful for this solstice,” she said, voice thick.

He squeezed her hand. “We have a lot to be grateful for every single day.”

Bryce paused Hunt with a tug on his hand, turning to face him. She cupped his cheek, his skin warming her fingers even through her gloves. “I’m grateful for you,” she said, rising onto the toes of her snow boots to press a kiss to his mouth. She pulled away just enough so that their clouded breath mingled between them.

Unconditional and unending love softened his eyes. “This is the first solstice I’ve had with a family – with my family – since… my mom.”

Her heart strained. She hadn’t thought of that. That this solstice was a big deal not only for Cooper, but for Hunt, too. And the way he called her and her parents family…

She kissed him again, deeper this time. “I better make it special then.”

He nipped her bottom lip. “I think we’re going to have to fuck out here, though.”

She blinked. “What? Why?”

Hunt kissed her again, a swift, wicked promise. “I can’t fuck you in your bedroom with all those Starlight Fancy ponies staring at me.”

Bryce laughed, and the sound rang out through the trees, bright as the silver bells the priest and priestess had rung at the temple at the ceremony’s end. Tonight, the High Priest and Priestess would have their own joining, to reenact the return of Solas to Cthona’s side. Hunt slid an arm around Bryce’s shoulders, tucking her into his side as they approached the house. Randall was unlocking the front door, Cooper hopping from foot to foot against the cold. Ember was watching Bryce and Hunt, though-and from the smile on her mom’s face, Bryce knew her mom was happy for her, scolding about the lettuce-baby aside.

And with her mate walking beside her, with her family now entering the dark house ahead…

Bryce realized she was happy for herself, too.

“I’m never eating another chocolate croissant,” Hunt groaned at dawn the next morning.

“I didn’t tell you to eat the whole tray,” Bryce said, nudging her mate with an elbow.

“You also didn’t tell me that Randall is a ridiculously good baker,” Hunt grumbled, folding a wing around Bryce. They stood on the front porch with steaming mugs of coffee-fresh from the fancy machine Bryce had shown her parents how to use again this morning-and watched the rising sun.

They’d all been out here fifteen minutes ago, coffee and pastries in hand, to salute the rebirth of Solas. Inside the house, Cooper was busy helping Randall prep a breakfast feast. An obscene amount of food, but Milly Garkunos was coming over, so Ember was in a tizzy.

She was currently vacuuming the living room for the second time that morning.

Bryce huffed a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Hunt asked, peering down at her.

“I’m thinking about Milly Garkunos,” Bryce said, looking around at the snow sparkling in the morning sun. “If my mom is the only person who you’re afraid of in the entirety of the uni- verse”-Hunt didn’t disagree “then what does it mean that my mom is afraid of Milly?”

Hunt chuckled, his laugh rumbling through her. He took a long sip from his coffee. “Maybe we should have sicced Milly on Rigelus and the other Asteri.”

Bryce grinned. “They’d have jumped right into that black hole, just to avoid her.”

Hunt laughed, the sound dancing off the pines, the snow. “Would’ve spared us a lot of trouble.”

Bryce clinked her mug against Hunt’s. The scents of sage, pork, and garlic floated out toward them. Randall had to be cooking sausage. “Maybe I’ll send

Milly down to Crescent City to sort out all those shitheads.”

His amusement dimmed, as if he’d remembered what awaited them after this too-short break. “I don’t think those shitheads are ready for the likes of Milly Garkunos.”

Bryce winked at her mate. “I don’t think you are, either.”

“That bad, huh?”

Bryce drained the rest of her coffee, savoring its swift burn down her throat. “She has an angel fetish.”

Hunt stared at her.

Bryce patted Hunt’s arm. “She’s got the 35th’s charity calendar on her kitchen wall. Hunky Angels of the North.”

Hunt’s expression grew more horrified with every word out of her mouth.

Bryce yanked open the front door, releasing an enticing river of smells: sausage, eggs, maple syrup, bread. She drawled, “I promised Milly that for her solstice present, I’d get you to take your shirt off and do push-ups for her.”

“You didn’t.”

Bryce waggled her eyebrows. “Or did I?”

His answering growl sent her racing inside, laughing madly.

It turned out that Milly was so overwhelmed by Hunt’s mere presence that she barely said a word at breakfast, or during the exchange of gifts afterward. The gray- haired human woman only offered a few vague comments about the unusually cold winter and kept her mouth shut, sneaking glances at Hunt now and then.

It had been an absolute delight to watch Hunt squirm, trying to pretend he didn’t know the old lady was drooling over him. Bryce hadn’t dared look across the table at Cooper-it was clear that he’d burst out laughing at the slightest provocation.

Only Ember seemed relieved at Milly’s unusual silence, filling the quiet with chatter about the ceremony last night, the need for a new roof at the school, and wondering how many people would show up for the solstice luncheon at the rec hall that afternoon- an event Bryce was skipping, thank the gods.

Cooper had received no such mercy from Ember, and had given Bryce a pleading look as he, Ember, and Randall had headed off ten minutes ago.

Now, sitting cross-legged on the twin bed in her tiny childhood bedroom, Bryce surveyed the small heap of presents she’d gotten from her family and smiled. “They went all out.”

“A perk of saving the world,” Hunt said from where he lounged on the floor, idly flipping through the coffee table book Ember had gotten him: Human Pottery Through the Ages.

The gift, of course, had come with a note:

So you might have some more appreciation for your mother-in-law’s craft.

Bryce had refrained from telling Ember that craft was a generous way to describe the lettuce-babies. It was solstice morning, after all.

Bryce ran a hand over the album on the bed beside her. Cooper, Randall, and Ember had all gotten her a signed first edition of Josie and Laurel’s debut record, signed by the folk duo themselves.

It must have cost a fortune, and Bryce had been beyond words at the sight of their signatures scrawled there. “I should return this and give them the money back.”

She had more money than she knew what to do with now. Her parents had refused to take a single copper of it. Put it to Cooper’s college fund, Randall had suggested. So Bryce had. It had still barely made a dent in what she’d inherited from the Autumn King, even after what she’d already given away. And then there was every- thing Jesiba had left her. A total of assets so great that Bryce had needed to sit down upon hearing the lawyer read the amount.

“Your parents would be deeply offended,” Hunt said, shutting the book with a thump. “You’re their child-it brings them joy to give you things like that.”

She frowned doubtfully.

Hunt sat up, peering at her. “Maybe it’s something you have to experience yourself to get.”

“Is that your way of saying you want to start making babies, Hunt Athalar?”

Hunt tipped his head back and laughed, and damn if it wasn’t the sexiest thing she’d seen all day. “I don’t think Midgard is ready for our babies, Quinlan.”

She might have laughed too had a dark, glittering sort of sensuality not entered his eyes. “Are you?” Her heart thundered. They hadn’t discussed it yet-and both of them remained on their respective contraceptives.

He rose with preternatural grace and sat beside her on the bed, which she hadn’t realized was ridiculously small until they’d had to sleep in it these last two nights. She’d nearly shoved him to the floor last night just to get some measure of space to turn over.

And now, sitting beside him… gods, it felt like that first time they’d ever sat close, their thighs brushing, in the library under Griffin Antiquities.

Hunt said a shade hoarsely, “I think we should wait until after the firstlight situation gets sorted out.” He cleared his throat. “And you already have your, uh, flock to tend to.” He nudged her with a knee.

“Is it a flock?” Bryce asked. “Or a herd?”

“Flerd?”

Bryce laughed. Avallen would be their next stop, to visit the six pegasuses who were now its star residents. “Yeah, the flerd is enough for now. They’re a bunch of demanding assholes.”

“Well, I hate to add to the flerd, but…” He strode to his week- end bag and pulled out a shoebox-sized present. He tossed it to her. “Here you go.”

“I was wondering why you didn’t leave anything under the window this morning.” Another solstice fire hazard: placing presents under the candle in the window to open in the morning after the celebratory breakfast.

Bryce tore off the glittery white gift wrapping, and at the first hint of rainbow cardboard beneath-

The sound that came out of her was on the same register as a screeching teakettle.

“You didn’t!” she screamed, ripping away more paper to reveal, in its full glory, a mint-condition Jelly Jubilee-still in her original packaging.

“Where did you find this?” Bryce asked, gawking at the box, at her grinning mate, at the sparkly purple

unicorn-pegasus, her glossy lilac mane curled to perfection. Not like the hot mess her original JJ had become, thanks to years of hard play when Bryce was a kid.

Hunt grinned. “Fury. She knows a guy who knows a guy.”

“Who trades in rare dolls?”

“I didn’t ask questions,” Hunt said, his face beautiful, so full of joy at her joy. “I just handed over the money.”

Bryce cuddled the box to her chest, then winced and set it down. She petted the plastic cover gently instead. “This will be an heirloom for our children, and our children’s children’s children.”

Hunt snorted. “Sure. They’ll all fight over who gets the mint-condition JJ.”

“This thing has to be worth-” “Don’t worry about it.”

Her heart filled to the point of pain. “Thank you. This is…” She kissed his cheek, savoring the warm, soft skin under her lips. “Thank you.”

Hunt just smiled, and with that smile… Bryce bit her lip, scooting back on the bed, away from him. He watched her every movement as she spread out, legs opening slightly.

“And where’s my present?” Hunt’s voice had dropped an octave.

Bryce stretched her arms up, sliding under the pillow above her head, offering the entire length of her body in invitation. “Come and get it.”

Heat flared in his eyes, and her body tightened as he crawled over her. His wings blocked out the sunlight trickling in through the window. “Would you like me to unwrap-“

But Bryce had slid her hand out from under the pillow and was now extending it-what was inside it-to Hunt.

“I told you yesterday to look under your pillow, Hunt,” she purred.

Hunt jumped back so fast, he nearly tumbled off the bed. “What the fuck!”

Bryce laughed, holding out the lettuce-baby figurine she’d had her mother make specially for him. “It’s your present.” She sat up, blinking innocently. “You didn’t think that sex was your only present, did you?”

He looked torn between laughing and running out of the room. Away from the small monstrosity in her hand. “Is that…”

She kissed the head of the figurine. “A little sunball hat. Turned backward.”

He paled. “And are those-“

“Little gray wings, the exact right shade of storm- cloud gray.”

“You turned me into a fucking lettuce-baby?”

Bryce cast her voice into a mocking falsetto, tilting the figurine this way and that as she said: “I’m the Umbra Mortis. Enemies cower before me!”

With that, Bryce tossed the figurine to Hunt. He caught it, but gingerly. Like he was scared it’d bite him. He cringed down at his face, turned into cherubic serenity. “This is the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen.”

She grinned. “A successful solstice present, then.” Hunt gaped at her, then burst out laughing. She had no warn- ing before he leapt onto her, burying his face in her neck. “I love you, you sadistic asshole.”

She wrapped her arms around him, stroking his feathers. “Right back at you.”

His lips found her throat, and he pressed a kiss there. Every muscle and nerve in her body came alert. He noted it—probably the shift in her scent, too-and pressed his hips into hers. Let her feel what was hardening between his legs. “How long’s that luncheon at the rec hall?”

“They’ll be back in two hours,” Bryce said, blood sparking.

“Good,” he said with dark promise, and drove his lengthening cock against her again. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

“I thought you didn’t want to fuck in here,” Bryce said breathlessly.

A storm wind blasted through the room, turning all the Star- light Fancy dolls-none of them good enough to come with her to Crescent City but all still too precious to throw out-toward the wall. The lettuce- baby-Hunt slid under the bed. “Problem solved.”

Hunt’s hand slid up Bryce’s stomach to cup her breast, to knead it through her cream-colored sweater.

“It’s a solstice miracle,” she whispered.

Hunt lifted his head, his gaze finding hers. Only love shone there. “It is,” he said thickly, and Bryce knew he wasn’t talking about the toys.

This-them. Being here, together. That was the miracle.

So Bryce kissed her mate with all the love shining in her heart. No matter what waited ahead, no matter what trials and hardships… they’d face it together. And that was a gift she’d be grateful for every single day for the rest of her existence. “Happy Solstice, Hunt.”