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Black dots swarmed Nesta’s vision. She gripped the ledge harder, willing her body to right itself. She took another drink of water to steady herself.
‘You alright?’ Emerie narrowed her eyes at her, eyeing the shake in her hand as she pressed the cup to her lips.
‘I think my cycle is coming,’ she grumbled.
A look of sympathy passed Emerie’s face. Nesta still wasn’t used to fae menstrual cycles. They were less frequent at least than when she was mortal, but they were much, much worse. She had woken with dizziness. For once, she was thankful that Cassian had left the bed earlier than her because he’d only fuss at her staggering steps or the way her hip collided with the door frame. Nesta had pressed her face to the cool tiles in the bathroom, tamping down the temperature that had bubbled up in the bedsheets.
Since being turned, she’d only experienced two cycles and they’d been hell. This one was different however, already making her toes feel numb, her movements slow and laboured before it had really begun.
‘Do you need to stop?’
The other priestesses were still hard at work; Azriel oversaw the new recruits with his quiet, patient manner, while the tyrant was barking orders at the other end. Nesta had already snapped at Cassian for taking his bad mood out on the rest of them. For that, she’d had to drop and do twenty push-ups. Not doing them meant she was undermining him – and Cauldron forbid she endure Emerie and Gwyn’s teasing over preferential treatment if she didn’t. So, Nesta had gritted her teeth and forced her body down then back up, even when the whole roof was spinning in her vision. She thought her mate might have noticed her struggling when he put her out of her misery and stopped her at eighteen then ordered her to take a drink.
‘I’m fine.’ But she wouldn’t be if Cassian carried on drilling them this hard. He’d had an argument with Rhys over something and had taken it to heart. ‘I’ll speak to the slave-driver.’
Cassian had his arms folded, brows furrowed, watching the priestesses sparring with each other. Nesta came to stand beside him. The arm she looped through his was not a comfort – it was for her own stability.
‘Will you tone it down?’
‘Going too hard on you, sweetheart?’
‘You know exactly how hard I can take it,’ she murmured, admiring the way his pupils flared at her words. ‘But you’re working with priestesses from the library, not battle-hardened Illyrian males. Ease up or when you’re pushed off the roof, I’ll feign ignorance.’
Sweat ran down the females’ faces. Gwyn was puffing and panting, too breathless to even talk. The harsh din of their swords smashing together was beginning to make Nesta wince. Each clang struck against her temples.
‘Why don’t you show me just how gentle you want me to be?’
The challenge in Cassian’s eyes would have been something Nesta would rise to meet usually, but she wanted to be under a blanket. If she voiced any sort of hurt, he’d fuss too much. A few weeks earlier, she’d twisted her ankle and he’d acted like her life was hanging by a thread, forcing them all to stop, carrying her across the roof, demanding Azriel fetch Madja. Nesta shuddered at the memory.
It was just a cycle. It was normal to feel absolutely horrendous, but everybody got on with it. And so would she. Nesta let out a sigh and retrieved her sword. ‘Must you turn everything into foreplay?’
Cassian grinned at her. ‘One track mind.’
It was not unnoticed by Cassian that she moved more sluggish than usual or that her arm continued to drop. He only chided her for staying up late with her book. When he managed to disarm her lazily, due to her slow reaction times, he forced her to pick up her sword again and again.
‘Complacency will get you killed.’
‘That’s preferable right now,’ she muttered. The throb in her head was growing worse. If there was anymore pressure, her head might explode. She told herself to toughen up, that some of these priestesses might even be on their cycle right now and they were not causing a fuss. It hadn’t felt like this before though, she hadn’t been so nauseous and dizzy, so hot then cold.
‘Again,’ Cassian demanded. ‘Try and disarm me.’
Every time that Nesta lunged at him, her stomach churned more. Her whole body was drenched with sweat. The sage advice he offered went over her head because she was too focused on staying upright.
When she had finally managed to disarm him – thanks to a distraction tactic from Emerie and Gwyn – Nesta raced towards the nearest bin and hurled up her insides. Black encroached on her vision again as she sucked in air, kneeling with her arms wrapped around the bin.
Cassian’s hand was too hot, too heavy on her neck although he meant well. Worry nibbled at his expression already. ‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
‘I’m fine,’ she clipped, pushing up from the ground. ‘Pushed through a stitch.’
A cool shadow brushed across Nesta’s forehead then returned back to Azriel. He watched her carefully then said, ‘It’s probably time to stop for today.’
The priestesses who’d been drilled by Cassian all sagged with relief or dropped to the floor clutching their stomachs, making her lie more believable. This was the time where her mate would go around offering generous praise sprinkled with advice while they stretched to ensure each priestess left satisfied rather than groaning. They had started letting whichever female was bravest lead the cool down too which helped grow their confidence.
It had become a ritual to wait until all the priestesses had departed before she went inside herself, to not leave them with Cassian or Azriel alone. The males would never touch them, but if her presence eased their worries then Nesta was happy to stay.
‘What time should I come for the dinner?’ Gwyn asked, rubbing her hands together.
‘Six,’ Azriel replied swifter than Nesta could process the question.
‘You’re welcome to come earlier,’ Cassian added. He gestured to Emerie. ‘Emerie will be here too.’
They had only had a few dinners altogether; Nesta had spent them sandwiched between the two females at the far end of the table enjoying their own private conversation. Usually, she’d look forward to it – to at least have fun while the inner circle stroked their own egos – but with every passing moment, she felt worse and worse. Taking that excitement from Emerie and Gwyn’s eyes was an abhorrent thought though, so Nesta straightened up and continued on.
In the few hours that followed, Cassian returned to Illyria – likely to run off the end of his bad mood on some poor unsuspecting male there. In a sheepish voice, Emerie asked if she could take a shower and a nap in a spare room since she was exhausted from training. Nesta almost tore her arm off in eagerness at the offer.
Instead of seizing the opportunity to catch up on sleep in a tranquil House of Wind however, Nesta ended up clutching the toilet again. She had tried to breathe through the cramps squeezing her stomach while the bed felt like a boat on a tumultuous sea, until she’d raced to the bathroom to retch up every last drop of that morning’s breakfast. If she fixated on a spot on the wall then the whole house didn’t feel as if it was tipping on its side. One moment she was fevered, tearing at her clothes for some relief and the next, her body trembled beneath a blanket. Just a cycle, she told herself again.
When they were all seated at the table, the smells wafting from the kitchen heightened her nausea. The conversations swirled around her. Mor’s ringing laughter was like the peal of a high-pitched bell scraping in her mind. The deep rumble of Cassian’s voice shook her eardrums so violently that Nesta fought the urge to clamp her hands over her ears. She did, however, grip her forehead.
‘Are you well, Nesta?’ Elain asked, her hand stilled as it reached for a dish.
‘Fine. I forget how loud those two are.’ Cassian and Mor were like a pair of hyenas together, one high-pitched and yipping, the other capable of shaking the room with his voice.
Lucien smiled. The motion had the scar on his face tightening. ‘I’m glad we picked this end of the table.’
The heat from the dishes rose around the table. Nesta had worn a plain grey gown, suitable for the autumn day, but it suddenly felt too thick on her body. Her armpits were turning into a swamp and she fanned her face.
‘You don’t look good.’
Nesta blew out a breath through her pursed lips. ‘That was rude.’
Gwyn shook her hair from her face. ‘I mean that you look sick, Nesta.’
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ she lied, reaching for the dish of buttery parsnips.
The idea of putting anything in her mouth already had her gag reflex pulsing, but Nesta was nothing if not iron-willed. She forced down a forkful of her dinner then another. She sliced into the tender cut of lamb on her plate, barely chewing before swallowing that too. Heat radiated from her skin. Her dress was clinging to the sweat pooling on her back.
‘You’re sweating,’ Gwyn whispered.
‘Meat sweats,’ replied Nesta, waving away her concern. She jerked the cut of her dress from her chest, flapping it a few times to try and cool herself. Her skin was clammy, speech slurring. ‘It’s hot in here, isn’t it? I need a window.’
It was a mistake to stand so quickly. The floor shifted under her feet so the table appeared as if it was rising into the air as her vision swam. Nesta took a step closer to the window, forcing her feet to move, hoping the blurriness marring her sight would right itself.
Black swamped her. At first, she thought it was Cassian engulfing her with his mighty wings, but her feet kept moving, almost running forwards to save herself. Each beat of her heart was slower, weaker, like a feeble fluttering in her chest.
***
‘Has she been drinking?’ Mor murmured, kicking him under the table.
Cassian jerked his head towards the far end of the table where Nesta was rising unsteadily. Feyre frowned. Beside him, he felt Rhys tense.
‘Hot here. I’m need. Window.’
Nesta’s head lolled to the side as she slurred her speech. Cassian shot from the chair, hurdling towards her, but not quick enough. Nesta fell forwards as she fainted, face smashing into the windowsill on her way to the floor.
‘Shit.’
‘Cauldon, is she alright?’
‘I’ll get Madja.’
‘Oh my goodness!’
Cassian turned Nesta over. She’d taken a chunk out of her eyebrow and the gash was bleeding steadily, but she remained unconscious.
‘Lift her legs,’ Lucien advised, joining him on the floor beside her.
He followed the male’s commandment, raising Nesta’s legs by the ankles and holding them aloft. His throat was dry. Blood pounded in Cassian’s eardrums.
‘She’s only fainted,’ he reassured though it didn’t help. He’d not been quick enough to get to her.
It could only have been thirty seconds at most, yet each one was drawn out to an eternity. Finally, Nesta’s eyes opened groggily. She tried to push up then flopped back down, groaning and clutching the handkerchief Lucien had pressed over her wound.
‘I’m not sick,’ she announced.
‘Like hell you’re not,’ Cassian fumed.
Azriel appeared by them, face knotted with concern. ‘Carry her to bed, she needs to be somewhere soft.’
Elain hurried ahead of them opening each door then peeled back the duvet for Cassian to tuck his mate into – but her skin was like a furnace. The window latch clicked as Emerie opened both to allow the cool evening breeze in.
‘How long has she been sick for?’ Feyre strode from the bathroom brandishing a damp cloth and pressed it to her elder sister’s forehead.
Guilt writhed in Cassian’s stomach. She’d been lethargic in training, but he’d put it down to the fact she’d been awake until the early hours with her book. Damn Azriel for buying her that tiny faelight booklight which meant she’d lay there with the blanket over her head reading and reading until exhaustion took over her body.
‘I’m fine,’ she protested. ‘We can continue dinner.’
The dribble of blood down her face together with the rapidly swelling lump did nothing to convince any of them that Nesta was fine. Her golden hair was damp with sweat. Nobody missed the way she screwed her eyes shut and took shaky little breaths each time she adjusted position.
A rumble of power in the room alerted them to Rhys’ return with the kindly healer, Madja. They swept the growing crowd from the bedside and Cassian inwardly grimaced at the mess he and Nesta had left it in. If she was in a fit state, she’d be shooing them all out of the room rather than let them see her personal things.
‘How long have you had symptoms for?’
‘I’m not sick,’ Nesta repeated. ‘There’s no need to fuss.’
‘Let Madja clean your eyebrow at least,’ Rhys suggested. Feyre had come to stand by him, her mouth twisting with worry. He rubbed her arm with soothing circles.
Dependable Nesta who never let anything pin her down for long, was still putting up a fight. She forced herself upright, clamping her jaw together as she did so. After steeling her nerves, Nesta swung her legs onto the floor and pushed herself to a standing position. The simple move had her sweating with exertion, but she would not meet the eyes of any in the room.
‘There,’ she said shakily. ‘Fine.’
Madja made a noise that could have been a laugh. ‘Walk to the bathroom for me, Nesta.’
The healer jerked her chin towards Nesta as a sign they should flock around her. His mate made it all of three steps before her knees began to quiver and she fainted again. This time, Lucien and Elain had their arms around her, guiding her unconscious form back to the bed. Gwyn lifted Nesta’s ankle and wedged a pillow beneath them.
‘Why won’t she let us take care of her?’ Feyre murmured.
Because Nesta never wanted that to be held over her, Cassian thought. Because Feyre had hunted for her, and all of them had used that to guilt-trip Nesta for a couple of years. She hated depending on anybody. It had taken months before she would let him make her something to eat or help her with sharpening weapons. She’d always eye him suspiciously, worried that he might only be doing it because he wanted something in return.
‘Do you know what symptoms she’s been displaying and for how long?’
At the healer’s question, Cassian could feel his cheeks burning. No, he hadn’t realised his mate was sick. If she’d felt that way for a while, she’d hidden it from him. Shame washed over him.
In the corner, Emerie cleared her throat. ‘She said her cycle is coming.’
‘She vomited during training,’ added Azriel.
Madja placed the back of her hand to Nesta’s forehead. Her magic crawled over her, seeking an ailment. ‘It’s not her cycle. She has a virus. A nasty one. And because of this,’ she gestured to the gash on her brow, ‘I’d wager a concussion too.’
Her magic, a pale, yellow glow, knitted Nesta’s skin back together once the wound had been cleaned with antiseptic.
‘There’s nothing to do except let the virus run its course. Fae sickness is different to mortal ones - it is good if she is able to fight it with her own immune system.’
‘What can be done?’
‘Rest,’ Madja replied to her high lord. ‘For the nausea, bland foods. Try and get her to eat small amounts at a time. Plain toast, bananas, apple sauce. Don’t force her to eat if it makes her sick.’
‘Tea?’ Mor suggested.
‘Ginger can settle a stomach. Peppermint can be useful. Keep her in bed.’
‘Cass will have no issue with that,’ Rhys joked.
Over the laughter, Madja continued, ‘She must rest. No intercourse. While her body fights it, she’ll need lots of sleep. I can provide a tonic that will help her to sleep through fevers too, and another for the pain.’
The room quietened down with Mor, Azriel, and Lucien filing out with the healer. Mor had rustled through the cupboards but only found black tea, which she’d brewed anyway and rested on the bedside table before departing. Feyre loaded up a tray of leftovers and brought it into the bedroom. They picked at food quietly while Nesta slumbered in the bed. Elain perched on the edge of the mattress, holding the cold compress to her sister’s head and taking every opportunity to smooth the blankets around her body.
‘What can I do?’ Rhys asked.
Feyre drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair she’d dragged in from the living room. ‘We have ginger at home, I think. Maybe even peppermint tea. Could you fetch that?’
‘Anything else? Bananas? I can ask one of the twins to make fresh bread. What kind does Nesta like?’
‘Seeds,’ Cassian said. ‘She loves the loaves packed with seeds.
‘Emerie, do you want to stay? Or I can take you back to Illyria?’
At the address from her high lord, Emerie blushed but held her head high. ‘Could I return? Can I come back in the morning? Before training?’ Gwyn nodded eagerly at her side.
The two Valkyries departed, leaving Cassian with all three Archerons. Feyre had taken up the space on the other side of Nesta; both sisters keeping a vigil by the eldest who was stirring slightly. Cassian sat in the chair, fighting against the instinct to move both Feyre and Elain away from his mate so he could be the one beside her. But she hadn’t told him she’d felt unwell. The pain of it was a raw wound, sensitive to touch. He’d forced her to drop into push ups for complaining. Pushed her hard enough that she’d vomited because Nesta would never back down from anything.
‘She never gets sick,’ Feyre mused. She’d folded together a loose sheet of parchment into a fan which she used to gently waft a breeze over Nesta’s blazing skin.
Cassian hadn’t known her to get sick either. Mortals generally were sicker than fae; their bodies were weaker, more prone to picking up illnesses and infection. Even at her lowest, with not an inch of fat or no food in her stomach, Nesta still wasn’t sick.
‘She does,’ Elain countered. ‘But she tells her body she’s not and pushes through.’
‘Only Nesta’s mind could disagree with the rest of her body.’
‘One time when you left… to Prythian, Nesta had the flu but she still went out and chopped wood for the fire. She wouldn’t take a rest, just snapped at me in that way of hers that she was fine.’
Cassian wanted to ask why their father hadn’t gone out to do it, to let his daughter rest when she was unwell. Or why Elain herself had watched Nesta do it rather than volunteering. It was not the time to reopen old wounds, but Cassian still carried grief over the struggles Nesta had been forced to endure in the broken-down cottage they called home.
Rhys returned with an entire banana tree. Its leaves brushed against the ceiling and the house seemed to stretch upwards to accommodate its size.
‘A whole tree, Rhys?’
‘Day Court,’ he puffed, dragging it into the bedroom by its large, ceramic pot. ‘It will be better for Nesta if the fruit is fresh.’
‘A whole tree?’ Feyre repeated.
From thin air, Rhys produced a bag. ‘Ginger tea. Peppermint tea. Peppermint and spearmint tea. Ginger and peach tea. Lemon, ginger and honey.’
‘Fuck, Rhys how many did you buy?’
He set them all out on the desk, swiping away Cassian’s carefully organised paperwork. ‘The shop was closing, but stayed open for me. I'd feel guilty if I only purchased one kind.’
‘So, you purchased every kind they sold?’ Feyre queried.
‘Nesta’s unwell.’ That reason seemed to cover everything.
Before they all departed for the night, Rhys had brewed another pot of tea. Feyre had sliced up bananas and lightly toasted bread while Nesta groggily woke in bed. Elain helped her to sit up through the protests that she was fine to do it herself.
‘Why is there a tree in my bedroom?’
‘Rhysand was worried about you.’
Nesta blinked at Elain, the reply not quite answering her question.
‘Madja recommended bananas to help settle your stomach,’ Cassian explained, sitting in Feyre’s vacant position on Nesta’s left. He stroked a wide hand across her face, feeling the searing heat beneath. ‘Do you want to try and nibble on toast? Feyre’s making some for you.’
‘There’s ginger and peach tea here too. You used to love peaches.’ Before Nesta could protest, Elain was lifting the cup to her lips and cradling her jaw. ‘You must keep your strength up.’
‘I have strength. I disarmed my mate earlier.’
‘Through cheating.’
A spark lit up Nesta’s eyes as she caught his own gaze. ‘It doesn’t matter how the battle is won, as long as it is.’
Once the final three departed, Cassian slunk an arm around Nesta in bed. Her skin had cooled, but she remained sleepy and lethargic. He fed her chunks of cold toast that took her an age to chew. Her eyes were closed, head tilted towards his chest.
The question had been brimming on his lips for a long time. He had waited until the others had departed to give his insecurities a voice. ‘Nes, why didn’t you say anything?’
‘I didn’t want you to fuss. I’ll be fine tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I wanted to fuss over you,’ he said. ‘Maybe I want to take care of my mate. It hurts me that you didn’t think I would take care of you. I feel horrendous that I made you train today. And do not say that you are fine.’
Nesta let out a long sigh after sipping at her tepid tea. ‘I know you’d take care of me. You flap around like a mother hen if I get a papercut.’
‘Because I love you. And seeing you in any pain causes me distress. I just want you to be safe and happy and well.’
‘It’s just my cycle.’
‘Madja said you have a virus. And you are staying in bed tomorrow. Maybe even the next day.’
‘What about training?’
‘Az will do it. I’ll be here with you. Emerie is coming in the morning along with Gwyn. So let us take care of you like you deserve.’