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Windhaven was somehow worse on the sixth day of her training than it had been on the first.
Today, there was snow, ice, and rain.
Today, Cassian was in a foul mood, and Nesta was in a worse one.
It started with a battle. The same one that they’d been fighting for almost a week now.
“The longer you sit on that rock, the worse you’ll freeze.”
Nesta lifted her chin, taking in the tense way he stood, his arms crossed tightly as he stared at her from the ring. His hair was pulled up today – handsome, though not enough to sway her from her stubbornness. She’d already made it one hour.
“I’d rather freeze to death than subject myself to whatever mortification you have planned.”
Because it was mortification, this regiment of his. To be in the middle of Windhaven, where the males could watch her like an animal on display, whistling and jeering at her arrival, laughing each time she rebuked their General’s attempts to get off her ass and do the one task she’d been given.
Cassian’s nostrils flared, and she could see the exasperation in his eyes. Naturally, this meant he was preparing to pivot to the next phase of their argument.
The threats.
“What happens to you if you don’t obey your orders is out of my hands, Nesta. You can’t blame me when there are consequences.”
Nesta was beginning to wonder if the consequences – exile in the mortal lands – was perhaps more suitable than whatever war she was fighting here. Perhaps there she could find silence. Solitude.
The permanent kind, where no one would threaten her again.
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”
Cassian scoffed.
“Of course not. You’d have to think me worth your time to do that. Never mind that training would give you the muscle you needed not to sit there freezing to death, just skin and bones.”
It was always the same with him.
Train.
Be a soldier.
Do something useful, other than wasting away.
Suffering, she supposed, was fine to the Night Court, so long as it served a purpose.
Well, she was content to suffer in silence a little while longer, if it meant maintaining her pride.
Not in the least when she felt their gazes on the back of her neck. Over her body. Desperate to take a piece of her. These males and their entitlement. Their judgement.
“Give us a show, princess!” One of them called, when she and Cassian remained locked in stalemate.
“Let’s see the witch get her pretty face dirty.”
Her new fae ears let her hear the quieter conversations too, the ones amongst themselves.
“I reckon she’d break for me in under an hour, if I was the one getting her off that rock.”
“The hellcats always need a firm hand.”
Shifting her eyes to her warden, she lifted her chin and said,
“You truly expect me to train under their lecherous leering?”
Cassian did not bat an eye and had stopped barking back at his subordinates after the first day. But it was all she could focus on. Their faces were all she could see when she closed her eyes at night, and the pit in her stomach grew larger and larger with each day.
The time would come, she knew, when one of them did something.
He sighed, as if exhausted by the idea of arguing over this particular topic. He was tired of all these topics, it seemed.
“Ignore them. You’re not here for their amusement.”
“And yet they are amused.”
The frown she received in response had her feeling more bitter and cold than when she arrived. Raising an arm, he did yield a little, when he offered,
“Emerie is supposed to have new leathers for you today. Why don’t you at least go try those on, if you are so bothered.”
Nesta would seize a victory when she saw one.
Pushing up from the rock, she trudged towards the female’s shop. The female who, despite herself, she actually quite liked. As she went, one of the Illyrians turned towards her, grinning something feral.
“Where are you going, little witch?”
Rolling her eyes, Nesta kept her eyes facing forward, determined to ignore them. It was hard though, as there were so many males gathered around the training rings. If they weren’t leering at her they were running through their own regiments.
They whistled at her. Called out. Barked.
One was even so bold to reach out, as if to touch her. It had her gnashing her teeth, flames erupting in her chest as she warned,
“Do not.”
It earned a round of laughter from his peers, enough that, finally, she heard Cassian shout,
“Enough!”
Looking back, she saw the way his eyes shimmered with irritation, but he looked more exasperated than anything else. That was fine.
It was her battlefield, not his. She would plan her own tactics.
Today, tomorrow, or next week, Nesta knew the moment would come when they would strike.
She would be ready.
---
“These fit you much better, I think.”
Nesta assessed herself in the mirror, emotionless at the sight of herself in the tight-fitting leathers. They were lined – warmer, blessedly, for the snow that coated the ground. Emerie had needed to alter them, to fit her too small body.
“Are they comfortable?” Emerie asked, glancing up at her from where she was working on a set of buckles.
“No.”
She found she did not have it in her to be cordial today.
But Emerie merely huffed, a small smile tugging at her lips.
“I imagine not. Going from the dresses of a lady to this must be difficult. The lining on these should help with the chafing, at least.”
Her cheeks flushed despite herself, and she averted her gaze, unaccustomed to such assumptions. After all, her thighs had been screaming at her all day, as had the backs of her knees and elbows.
“There’s a salve I’ll give you,” Emerie was saying as she stepped back to assess her work. “Stop by once you’re finished with whatever it is the General wants you in these for.”
“You haven’t heard?” Nesta supplied, voice flat as she made her way to the front door. “I am to be the Night Court’s newest soldier as compensation for my crimes, or whatever it is they see fit Or at least be something appealing to look at, for the males.”
Perhaps a bit dramatic, but such was her mood.
Emerie’s brows furrowed.
“Are they bothering you?”
Nesta shrugged. “They try. Do they bother you?”
The female hummed, and she pointedly ignored the patchwork of scars on her wings.
“They try. I am still here though.”
Nesta nodded. “So you are.”
There was a moment of silence, one where it felt as though Emerie wanted to say something. And yet, nothing came.
“I assume he will pay you handsomely for these,” Nesta said, eventually. “If not, let me know. I won’t let them stiff you.”
She did not give the shopkeeper time to reply before pushing open the wooden door and stepping out into the cold, resigned to another few hours of sitting on that cold fucking rock to be the source of entertainment for any male lingering in Windhaven.
But as she took a few steps onto the path, the hair on the back of her neck stood up, giving her pause.
Something was wrong.
Scanning her eyes over the world in front of her, Nesta spotted the threat mere steps from Emerie’s cabin, the pack of soldiers who often leered at her the moment she stepped foot in this place. They’d been waiting for her to emerge.
Keeping her chin up, she strode as confidently as she could manage back towards the training area, where Cassian was surely impatient at how long it had taken Emerie to fit her in better leathers.
She’d hoped, when this began, that they would not dare test her with their General being so close by. That hope was shattered when the largest of the group hulked towards her, looking ready for a fight. The same who had called out to her earlier.
At once, every nerve in her body stood on end as he opened his mouth.
“Still think you belong here, little witch? Not even those leathers make you look convincing. I could still snap you like a toothpick.”
The male – not quite as tall as Cassian, but perhaps just as bulky, had been eyeing her from the moment she’d first arrived in this gods’ forsaken place for training. She knew he’d just been biding his time before taking a shot.
Typical male behavior, if she ever saw it.
“I belong where I please,” Nesta replied, making an effort to step around him.
Instead, he stepped towards her, and a large, rough hand landed on her shoulder, heavy through the fabric of her jacket, pushing her back.
“I’m not finished.” He snarled, leaning in close enough that she could smell the ale on his breath. “Someone ought to remind you of your manners when a male is speaking to you.”
“Do not,” she warned, angling out from his hold, “put your hands on me.”
He released her, albeit roughly, but did not step out of her way.
“The General may be getting a laugh out of parading you around, but you soil sacred ground, with whatever wickedness you hold in that tiny body. Will it bleed out of you?”
Her power roared to life at the words, burning her insides. Shifting on her foot, she made another effort to leave, offering a flippant,
“Save your bitching for another day; for someone who cares to hear it.”
His arm came out again, blocking her, nearly hitting her in the face. Jerking her head back, she snarled,
“I said don’t you touch me.”
Something was bubbling within her – a warning that was buzzing in the back of her mind, at the base of her skull. A taut wire.
The male laughed, shaking his head, menacing in the way he advanced on her, closing the space between them until they were almost nose to nose.
“I don’t have to listen to a word you have to say, harlot.”
His paw-like hand reached out again, to grip her jaw. At the touch, that something within her snapped, and she was moving.
If he wanted war, she would give it to him.
Holding out her hands, Nesta opened her mouth, screamed, and exploded.
---
The next few moments were a blur.
Fire erupted from her fingertips as her hands pressed into the worn leather on his chest and shoved. The stench of the fabric melting away filled her nose but did not repel her. Nor did the shocked scream that left his mouth.
Instead, she was suddenly atop her target, falling down with him at the force of her opening blow.
Her fist was probably not formed correctly, but she swung it anyway.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Absently, she felt his hands on her, grabbing, but it only lasted so long.
Her knuckles were red; she could smell and taste the blood (though whose it was she did not know).
She only wanted him dead. So much so she didn't hear the crunch of his nose, nor the shouts of the Illyrians around her. The snow evaporated around them, flames shooting out, keeping them at bay, singing the ground.
She just kept hitting him. Each blow felt better than the last.
He would never dare lay a hand on her ever again.
He would not lay a hand on anyone, if she had any say in it.
She didn't stop until, suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her waist and tugged, lifting her off her opponent in one movement like she was nothing but a furious, screeching house cat. Her feet were off the ground as she was abruptly pulled away, removed from the situation; a child in time out.
Nesta screamed and fought with everything she had, her nails digging into her captor's skin as hard as she was able, earning a pained hiss.
He wasn't dead yet. She wanted to kill him, and how dare anyone deny her that—
"Nesta!" A voice was shouting in her ear as arms restrained her against a firm chest. "Mother above, Nesta. Hey, enough!"
She snarled, twisting and pulling at this newcomer's grip, outraged that he dared to touch her when she had just said not to. But he didn’t relent, and instead was moving through the snow, away from the crowd, where the males were still voicing their upset – shouting for things like her head, her blood.
“I said let me go!”
"Nesta, he's done! He's done, sweetheart. You're done."
Red siphons flashed in her periphery, and she looked down to see them strapped to the hands that held her, the knuckles white, as if it was a genuine effort to keep her still. Her breath came heavy, her body trembling with the depth of her fury.
Still, she recognized those hands, and it gave her enough pause to stop struggling.
"Breathe," Cassian ordered in her ear. "Breathe, it's over. You finished him. He's not getting back up anytime soon."
With a shout, she pushed once more, and this time, blessedly, he did let her go, and the rage that still consumed her sent her stumbling forward. Catching herself on the rough bark of the nearest tree, she snarled,
“Get away from me!”
Cassian held his hands up and yielded a step back. “Okay. Just take it easy, Nes, okay?”
Behind him, she saw one of the males take a step forward, shouting something at him in Illyrian, his own siphons flashing through the air. Immediately she bawled her hands into fists, ready for another fight.
Instead, she watched, somewhat dazed, as Cassian turned his head and said something so cold and vicious that, for a moment, it made everything within her freeze. For the next few seconds, it felt as though things moved in a haze, as the male turned back to the group, a snarl painted on his face. Through the crowd of them, she could just vaguely make out the prone form of her initial target, who had not moved.
The burnt flesh reached her nose again, and she crinkled it.
Then, Cassian was swiveling his head back to her, and everything snapped back into focus.
“Nes,” he tried again. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He reached for her, too fast, and the moment his fingers brushed her elbow she jerked back again, shaking her head.
“You aren’t listening!” She shouted, turning away. “Would it kill you to listen when I say not to touch me? When I tell you I don’t want to do this! Does my voice mean nothing to you?!”
Cassian’s face fractured a bit, but before he could respond, she noticed a pain radiating up her arms as she shifted back again. Looking down, she realized for the first time that her knuckles were split, blood coating the back of her hands. Flipping them over, she took note of the scraped skin on her palms from the tree.
Blood, everywhere, dripping down onto the snow.
A shocked sound slipped past her lips, breaking off in a sob, as the full weight of what happened came crashing down onto her shoulders.
Suddenly, it hurt so much.
Gods what had she done?
“Nesta…”
“Go away.”
She heard his breath shudder, heard the crunch of snow. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prepared herself for him to grab her, to take her away from here whether she liked it or not. But then—
“Move. Move! Out of my way.”
That voice was different – sharp and commanding but lacking the masculine threat that continued to overwhelm her. Blinking through tears, she noted a new shadow on the snow.
The newcomer did not reach out to touch her, as everyone else had done.
“Nesta,” Emerie said softly. “It’s alright. Can I help you?”
Lifting her eyes, she took in the Illyrian female, who stood in front of Cassian, as if to block him. Her face was calm, her posture confident. It was a different energy, one that she felt compelled to latch onto.
Emerie nodded at her as she assessed, as if to confirm that thought.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, okay? What do you think? Away from all this. Let’s go inside.”
“You’re actually going to let them go?!” A voice cried out, but neither Emerie nor Cassian offered a reply.
Nesta’s fingers flexed a little, sending another wave of pain. She was unable to hide her grimace, which earned her a small sympathetic smile. Letting out a shuddering breath, she lifted her hand and let Emerie take hold of her.
This was alright, she thought. This was not a threat.
“Come on,” she said, guiding her through the snow. “They’ll clean up here. We’ll go inside and we’ll get warm. It’s safe there.”
“General you cannot let this stand!”
Forcing her feet to move, she refused to look over at Cassian, who had remained frozen in place, seemingly at a loss, nor the males who increasingly began to voice their protest. She refused to look at the carnage she was leaving behind, not interested in the bloodshed.
Instead, she looked ahead, up the path, where Emerie’s cabin stood waiting.
---
The damage wasn’t quite as bad as it could be, all things considered.
At least, that’s what Emerie told herself as she washed a cloth delicately over the back of Nesta Archeron’s left hand. It bore the brunt of her attack, each knuckle split, if not cracked, from the force of both her ill formed punches and meeting the meaty flesh of an Illyrian warrior.
Her right hand fared similarly, though not quite as severely, save for the ripped open flesh on her palms, where Illyrian pine had been unforgiving. Emerie imagined it hurt like hell, but Nesta remained silent as she worked, her eyes fixated on where the cloth met skin.
When the worst of the blood was washed away, she applied a generous amount of salve to the open wounds, hating that this was its current purpose, rather than healing irritated skin from ill-fitting leathers.
With gentle fingers, she felt along the bones, searching for breaks. Nesta only flinched once, enough that she murmured soft apology, before going quiet again, stewing.
Emerie recognized it well enough.
The female in front of her was still full of unreleased energy – ready for one of those brutes to come crashing through the door, demanding penance.
She did not realize that, with the General of the Night Court’s Armies on hand, the likelihood of such a thing was slim to none. If he was not establishing order among the ranks, he was standing guard out front, smart enough not to enter this space himself unless invited.
“Did that male hurt you?” Emerie asked as she unfolded strips of linen she usually saved for other females in town.
Nesta sniffed, lifted her chin, and turned her gaze towards the window, which was covered by thick curtains.
“He would have.”
Nodding, Emerie took her time wrapping the cloth around her hands. He wasn’t dead, that much she had gleaned from the calls for a healer that echoed behind them as she guided Nesta inside. But from the charred smell coming off him, and the unrecognizable features of his face, he would be down for quite a while.
“That was impressive, taking him down like that. Did you learn from Cassian?”
Nesta snorted, a sound so undignified Emerie did not believe her capable of it.
“No. He wishes.”
Tilting her head, Emerie observed this high fae for a moment. The haunted expression on her face told her that whatever instinct she’d pulled from came from somewhere deeper. A memory, perhaps, of a different male. Of different violence.
Instinct, rather than the training regiments of the Night Court. Instinct, powered by whatever magic she allegedly stole from the Cauldron – a legend already spreading through their lands.
The witch.
Emerie had not seen the initial blow for herself, had only emerged when it rattled the windows and was followed by a cacophony of angry shouting. And yet, she imagined it, if the silver flames flickering in Nesta’s eyes were any hint of the splendor.
“Well, he had it coming, anyway.”
Finishing her work, Emerie released her hands, running through her mind what she should do next.
Nesta did not give her the chance to decide, and was instead immediately on her feet, swaying enough that she had to reach out to steady herself on the chair.
“I need to go,” she declared, tension thick in her voice.
“Go where?” Emerie asked calmly, rising after her. “I think here is the safest place for you right now.”
But Nesta shook her head, already stepping towards the door.
“No. they know you helped me; they will be here at any moment. You are in danger, and if we leave now, then maybe—”
“Nesta.”
The female paused, blinked, surprised, perhaps, at the firm tone of Emerie’s voice. It gave her enough time to enter her space and reach out to rest gentle hands on her shoulders.
“No one is coming here,” Emerie replied. “Do you understand that? This shop is warded, and even then, I hold my own. They are far too occupied with whatever hell Cassian is giving them, anyway.”
“They will bide their time,” Nesta argued, and in her eyes was genuine terror at the prospect. “And when you least expect it—”
“I have lived here a long time,” Emerie countered. “I have challenged them again and again. You asserted your dominance out there, and they will not try their luck again. Not with you and not with me. If anything, they will mark this place as under your influence and keep their distance.”
She watched as Nesta mulled over this justification, searching for flaws in the argument. Emerie was mostly sure it would hold.
“Come on,” she urged. “Come upstairs. You need something to calm you, and you need to rest. All will be safe in the meantime.”
Nesta’s eyes darted towards the front door again, unsure.
“Just until it settles down,” Emerie tried. “Okay?”
She let out a small breath, hesitated a moment longer, but then, mercifully, nodded her head.
Emerie offered her a tiny smile, squeezing her shoulder gently before guiding her towards the stairwell where her apartment resided.
Like any warrior, Nesta’s back was stiff as she went, her senses primed. As Emerie followed after her, she knew that real, true rest would not come easy.
After all, her war had apparently never ended, and Emerie was quite certain it had not begun when the King of Hybern threw her in the Cauldron.
---
Cassian’s head had yet to stop spinning as he paced back and forth outside Emerie’s cabin.
What the fuck had just happened?
His men had left the vicinity under his strict order, but not out of will. If they had it their way, he had a feeling they’d burn the entire structure down, and the two females with it. But he was still in charge here. And at the end of the day, he had seven siphons, and they did not.
He was thanking the Mother that that still held true.
“Do you want to tell me why that witch has nearly killed one of my Lieutenants?!”
Devlon’s voice was gruff and unforgiving, sending that familiar spark of anxiety down Cassian’s spine, despite the fact that he was no longer a boy.
“My Lieutenant put his hands where they did not belong, and paid for it. He should have known better than to goad her on.”
“You were supposed to keep them separate.”
Cassian laughed, shaking his head. “They were the ones leering at her, they could have kept their distance. They know that.”
Devlon frowned. “They will want justice for this, boy. He may not live. And after the war we cannot lose our higher ranked officers because of the whims of a volatile female.”
Taking a step forward, Cassian fought a snarl.
“If he dies, it is because of his own foolishness. If I were you, I would make that explicitly clear should anyone seek out revenge. Their stupidity will be met the same way.”
Devlon’s eyes shimmered in rage, and Cassian wondered, for a moment, if his authority would truly hold. If he would need to call Rhys and make this an even bigger mess. He was already dreading that conversation.
It had only been six fucking days since they’d started this.
“Watch yourself,” Devlon warned, his wings spreading. “And watch that girl.”
Cassian watched as he launched into the air, running a rough hand over his face.
It had all happened so fast.
Nesta had been as foul tempered today as she had been all week. Cassian had hoped that giving her the chance to take herself to Emerie’s would give her space to feel a little bit more autonomous. He wasn’t, after all, that stupid. He knew how this situation looked and felt.
He knew exactly how betrayed she was feeling. How little she trusted any of them.
He hadn’t known just how close she’d been to the boiling point.
He should have.
It had been one thing, to see her warn the males off from touching her. He’d planned on giving them plenty of hell while she was away regardless. It was another to hear the resounding ‘crack’ of her power as it snapped through the air, followed by the outraged screams of no less than a dozen of his men.
By the time he had shot into the sky and flown the short distance to the scene, Nesta had made that male’s face unrecognizable. So much so that Cassian hadn’t known who he was until he counted the siphons later, once she’d been escorted inside.
He hadn’t been thinking, when he grabbed her. Just that he knew that if she actually had killed him then and there, he may not have been able to stop the subsequent consequences. Illyrians respected a firm hand. They did not tolerate murder by an outsider.
Nesta had fought him every step, but what haunted him most was the horror in her eyes as she took in the blood on her hands, the shock that had already gripped her by the time Emerie had intervened.
Emerie, who had come out of nowhere with all the right words.
Where had he gone so wrong to not have them himself?
He stood, stewing, for well over an hour, trying to work that out himself. Trying to pin down the moments he missed where Nesta appeared so volatile. So on edge.
She was always so confident. So bullheaded. So fierce.
How much was an act and how much was a fight for her life?
When the cabin door opened, he nearly missed it, so lost in his thoughts. When Emerie cleared her throat, he turned to assess her, half expecting to see Nesta herself.
“You best come in,” Emerie said. “She’ll be here awhile.”
Cassian didn’t know quite what he expected by those words, but he followed the shopkeeper inside nonetheless, anxious to lay eyes on her.
Emerie led him upstairs to her apartment, a place he’d never actually step foot in. It was small – a one bedroom, with a tiny kitchen, living room, and kitchen table all sharing an open space. The bedroom door was ajar, and as he stepped further inside, he saw the shape of someone in the bed, still and quiet.
“She’s asleep,” Emerie offered, pouring him a mug of tea at the kitchen table. “Took a while to convince her they weren’t going to come break down the door. But I put her in something more comfortable, cleaned her up. The tea helped her sleep."
Cassian was, admittedly, grateful for the warm beverage, and took a long sip.
“It took awhile to convince myself too, actually.”
Emerie snorted, settling down in a chair. “That’s reassuring, General.”
He grimaced.
“Sorry. They won’t, I promise, or they'll deal with me. I’ll make sure there are extra wards too, just in case.”
Hesitating for a moment, he glanced from the bedroom back to the table, unsure where to put himself.
“Gods, sit down. You’re putting me on edge.”
Slowly, he obeyed, putting himself in the chair closest to the stairs, just in case. Breathing in slowly, he asked,
“How is she?”
Emerie’s eyes were analytical as she assessed him over the rim of her mug.
“Like any soldier who hasn’t realized her war is over. Ready for the killing blow at any moment, perceiving everything as a threat.”
Cassian frowned, guilt creeping up his throat.
“I have to ask what the hell you were thinking, taking her from one battlefield to another. You knew exactly what she would face here and yet, for some reason, you insisted upon it. Is this truly for her healing or is for some other purpose?”
“What are you implying?” He asked lowly, careful to keep his voice soft.
Emerie leaned back; eyebrows raised.
“It’s just, usually wounded fae get a healer. Some place quiet, without the constant threat of more violence. It seems to me like you’re trying to get something out of her.”
Cassian pursed his lips together.
“She was… out of control.”
The shopkeeper snorted. “In what way?”
“Sleeping around, drinking… not showing up to family gatherings. Spending money.”
“Is that all?”
Frowning, Cassian took another sip of his tea.
“It was no way to live.”
Emerie shrugged. “You certainly didn’t giver her much time to figure things out for herself. How long did it take you after your first war to stop fighting?”
“Well, I don’t want her to be like me, alright? It took too long.”
“And yet, here we are. Fighting.”
Cassian sighed, closing his eyes. It stung, the urge to disagree simply out of principal. It hurt worse to have to acknowledge she had a point.
“It’s different for females,” Emerie murmured. “For her, and for me. We are always fighting. It’s not just a war, and the recovery. It’s practically from birth. She didn’t use any training out there, when she took that male down. It was visceral. Instinct.”
“Visceral,” Cassian repeated.
Emerie hummed in affirmation. “I would have done it too. She’s terrified, Cassian. She doesn’t feel safe here. Who can blame her? How is she supposed to heal when she doesn’t feel safe? By learning how to kill people?”
Cassian shifted. “That’s…how I learned. She does need to know how to protect herself.”
Emerie tilted her head.
“What do you think that was?”
Placing his mug aside, he ran a hand over his face again, increasingly uncomfortable. “I get it, okay?”
“No,” Emerie said. “You don’t.”
It was Cassian's turn to snort.
“Because I’m a male.”
She shrugged again, and in the light through the windows he could see the patchwork of scars on her wings. He imagined they ached in the cold. In his mind, flashes of Nesta’s outrage lived constantly at the forefront.
He wondered if Emerie wished she’d had put her oppressors down the same way.
If she burned with the same rage.
“I… didn’t think,” he admitted. “She’s so… strong, all the time. So stoic and resilient. I didn’t think.”
“Of course not,” Emerie replied, offering him a small, weary smile. “Resilience is all we have, most of the time.”
---
Nesta slept well into the evening, long enough that Emerie began to wonder if she’d be sleeping on the floor of her shop.
Still, it gave her time to wash the leathers she’d just fit her in, to clean them of blood and soot, to heat up some left-over stew and put out a bowl for the guard dog who had taken up residence in her tiny apartment.
Namely, on a rickety stool at the side of her bed, watching the rise and fall of Nesta’s chest as if at any moment she would spring awake, ready to wage more war.
He didn’t touch the meal, didn’t really acknowledge that she’d left it out for him, instead seemingly lost in thought, something stormy in his eyes, in the few moments they lifted from his vigil.
Emerie recognized a devoted male when she saw one, and by the time the sun had set, figured she ought to set up the spare cot down in her storeroom, for the night. They certainly weren’t going anywhere.
Disappearing downstairs, she contented herself with the work, pulling out cushions and ensuring a fire was lit in the hearth, to keep her warm. She slept down here more often than she cared to admit, anyway.
She checked all the locks of her shop, ensuring all the curtains were tightly closed. She believed Cassian’s word that she would be safe, and thus didn’t feel as much anxiety as she might have, had she been alone.
Besides, she didn’t mind the males of this town thinking her shop under the protection of the General or the witch. The females would come for their wares all the same.
The stairs creaked as she returned up them, intent on a final cup of tea before she settled down. The space was lit by a few candles, and she took her time cleaning up the space, folding spare linens and putting away the salve she’d used for Nesta’s hands.
Cassian did not acknowledge her return, but as she worked at the table, she heard his voice all the same in a quiet murmur.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and as she glanced up, she took in the reverent way he held one of Nesta’s hands in both of his.
“I should have asked you,” he continued. “I should have listened. I will, tomorrow. You don’t have to sit on that rock anymore, and I won’t ask you to perform for anyone but yourself.”
She had rarely heard him speak so softly. It was a type of intimacy that had her wondering if she should avert her gaze.
“You’re so strong,” Cassian said, reaching up to brush through the strands of Nesta’s hair. “But you don’t have to be. For now, just sleep. Sleep, and I’ll be here, keeping you safe. No more fighting, I promise.”
Despite herself, Emerie’s lips twitched upwards, just a little. Holding her mug close, and made her way back to the stairs, intent on giving them their space. She had a feeling they’d have a long conversation in the morning. Hopefully, one that wasn’t an argument.
Glancing up one last time, she caught sight of the General as he leaned in to kiss Nesta’s brow.
“Your fight is over, sweetheart,” he whispered. “It’s time for rest.”
Nesta’s expression was lax as she slept, the tension that had defined her posture having eased away in the hours she’d spent beneath the blankets. Cassian had adjusted them to keep her warm, despite how meticulously Emerie had done so herself before his arrival.
With a soft huff, she turned, blowing out a few of the candles, and making her way down the stairs.
Nesta Archeron may not have peace now, but she could one day.
For that, Emerie was hopeful.