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“I don’t believe I need to reiterate the importance of discretion in this matter…” Rhys made a show of shifting his starlit glare between everyone gathered in his study. Nesta raised her chin and met him, cold and unflinching, arms folded across her leather-clad chest. If she could have escaped the iron grip of her mate’s muscled embrace, she would have stepped forward—leaned menacingly over his elaborately carved mahogany desk, perhaps—to show the High Lord that she was not one of his minions to be commanded.
Not that she had any notion of sharing the… adventure… that the past few days had been. Nesta may have made a pastime of going toe-to-toe with her sister’s mate, but she was reasonable enough to understand that it would be unwise to inform the whole of Velaris that a mysterious female from a different world had fallen from the sky and dragged herself and the infamous spymaster along on an archaeological escapade through the underground, at the end of which she awoke whatever nightmare thing that had been sleeping for eons and stole the Shadowsinger’s precious blade of truth.
Rhysand’s focus lingered on her as he continued, “But I will remind you, nonetheless.” Nesta rolled her eyes, earning an exasperated huff from her youngest sister. “Knowledge of this incident does not leave this room. If word of even the smallest, seemingly inane rumor makes its way back to me, rest assured I will find out which one of you could not manage to hold your tongue.”
”Wouldn’t it be easier for you to reach your little daemati claws into our minds and snatch it out of us?” Nesta snapped her fingers. “Like it never even happened.”
‘Nesta, please,’ Feyre’s exasperation echoed in her head.
Rhys’s glare was so cold it would have frozen the most hardened warrior in his tracks. “The temptation grows every moment,” he hissed through clenched teeth. The colossal arms around her tightened, Cassian’s warning growl rumbling deliciously against her spine.
Overprotective brute, she thought fondly, giving his knuckles a reassuring caress. If it were any other day—a normal one—she may have balked at the feral mate behavior, but she’d all but disappeared for half a week. Had the roles been reversed, she would have been desperately worried, no matter how much she’d have tried to hide it.
And she would have been out for the High Lord’s blood if she’d found out that her mate had been intentionally placed in that situation, no matter how great the prick’s power.
Considering the circumstances, Cass was handling things pretty damned well. She could accept a little extra neediness. A tighter, longer, lingering embrace.
Nesta cast a glance to the far wall, where Azriel leaned against the smooth stone, shadows frothing at his ankles, as if waiting impatiently for an order to drench the study in blinding darkness. She wasn’t certain what she’d expected to find there, but his expression was bland and empty, his gaze simmering gold as it bore a hole in the floor somewhere across the room.
The spymaster hadn’t spoken a singular word since they’d returned from below, the chill of his restrained ire replacing any potential conversation. The eldest Archeron could tell when he had silently relayed their experience to his High Lord, his stare relentless even as a muscle twitched in his jaw.
Azriel was beyond furious.
She felt for him, truly, but Nesta also hoped that his trusty dagger would assist their otherworldly friend in whatever horrors she may be facing.
”Have I made myself clear?”
Wordlessly, Azriel kicked off the wall and prowled toward the door. Nesta returned her attention to Rhys and dipped her chin. It was about as polite as she could muster. “Of course,” she replied. Before the words had fully escaped, she was swept into her mate’s strong arms as they made their escape.
The flight to the House was a whirlwind, but all she felt was comfort with her nose buried in the base of Cassian’s neck. His scent was wild, leather and evergreens and snow. Clutching him tighter, she recalled the Mask, the power of its temptation. She couldn’t allow herself to be lost to it, to sacrifice the happiness that had only just begun to take root.
”As much as I want to drag you straight to bed and keep you in my arms for the next week straight,” Cassian murmured into her hair as he landed gently on the balcony outside the dining room, “I promised Gwyn and Em that they could see you.” She couldn’t help but huff a tender laugh, the warmth of their shared bond flooding her chest. Her mate, the fearsome Illyrian general, was endlessly thoughtful. Nesta knew he wanted to be selfish with her, to revel in her touch and remind himself that she was safe and home. But he understood her needs so well, to know that their relationship was not the only bloom that needed water in the wake of her absence.
When he finally put her on her own two feet—after stubbornly carrying her all the way to the dark wood of the House of Wind’s library doors—she gave him a quick peck right above the strong line of his jaw. Before she could utter her thanks, she was unceremoniously dragged inside to the tune of relieved sighs and quiet giggling. The door clicked shut and she found herself, once again, locked in a nearly suffocating embrace.
“Where in the Mother’s name have you been?”
”We’ve been so worried!”
Nesta took a breath, letting herself fill with the love flowing from her chosen sisters as they squeezed her tighter before finally letting her go.
”You would never believe it,” she sighed. Gwyn grabbed her by the hand and practically dragged her over to the trio of armchairs near the window. The curtains were drawn, and the soft, buttery glow of candlelight sucked away the tension that had remained between her shoulders since the High Lord’s study.
“Tell us everything,” Emerie urged as they sat, her dark eyes warm and welcoming. Nesta’s answering sigh was theatrically dramatic.
”I’m afraid I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” she answered.
Gwyn shrugged. “Of course you have!” Her vibrant blue eyes glittered as she drew her knees up to her chin. With a mischievous grin that scrunched the freckles across her nose, she nodded eagerly. “Now spill.”
Nesta’s gaze darted between rich, encouraging chocolate and conspiratorial, sparkling teal. It was the briefest hesitation, not that she’d ever been uncertain. The corners of her mouth curled up, lips stretching into a smirk.
Surely, Rhysand understood that whatever she knew, Gwyn and Emerie would know, as well.
And if he truly expected her to remain completely silent—for her friends to simply accept that and be content—then he could, respectfully, get bent.
”So the other day, a woman literally appeared out of thin air…”