Happy Swiftmas! @c-e-d-dreamer might have blessed us with some gorgeous fluff yesterday, but today is all about the return of the angst 😈 Fair warning, there are no happy endings to be found here...
After the argument on the streets of Velaris, Nesta used the bargain to send Cassian away. But she hadn't worded her request carefully enough, and after Mor winnows her to Illyria, Cassian bends the rules to show up on Emerie's doorstep and beg Nesta to forgive him. But even despite how much she loves him… Nesta doesn't think it's a good idea to open the door and let him in.
...
There was a roaring in her ears. Relentless and deafening, like she was drowning; pulled beneath the surface of a storm-tossed sea. Every sound Nesta made seemed broken to her own ears— each move she made seemed numb, like her body wasn’t her own anymore. Like her heart had stopped beating back there in that crowded city street, had given up right there on the cobblestones.
I didn’t ask to be shackled to you, either.
Breathing hurt, now.
Like there was a void in her chest, a chasm she couldn’t fill. One he had made, as surely as if he’d torn her flesh with his bare hands. Because of that word— that one word sharp enough to break her heart.
Shackled.
Through a haze Nesta saw the looming shape of a building against the mountains. The fading paint on the windowsill. As if through clouded glass she saw it, barely feeling the wind carding its fingers through her hair or noting the snow-covered ground beneath her feet that had replaced the smooth, shining cobbles of Velaris. Mor’s hand, curled around her forearm, was little more than a spectre of a touch.
Because Mor had brought her here. As if Cassian had summoned her.
As if he had called upon his ex-lover and asked her to take Nesta away.
Mor had obliged.
Her face had been unreadable, her mouth tight as she had gripped Nesta’s hand and taken her into the blackness, emerging again in the rocky, snow-capped mountains. The bitter wind knifed at their cheeks as Nesta took stock of her surroundings. As, slowly, she recognised those mountain peaks. Recognised Windhaven, and recognised the front door they stood but feet away from— the small planter sitting on the porch to grow a handful of herbs that thrived despite the brutal weather; the bronze doorbell shined to a picturesque gleam.
Emerie.
Mor had brought her to Emerie.
Her crimson-painted nails curled around the bell-pull, but the even the melodic ringing wasn’t enough to drown out the voice in Nesta’s head.
His voice.
Emerie’s eyes widened with surprise as she pulled open her door; as she saw exactly how broken Nesta was, how brittle. Even Mor’s face had been limned with sympathy— with empathy, the kind that Nesta had never expected to receive from the blonde who had always stood so fiercely in Cassian’s corner. Emerie hadn’t wasted a moment before ushering her inside, replacing Mor’s grip on her arm with her own, like Nesta was as fragile as a newborn babe. Words were exchanged - ones Nesta was too far gone to hear - as Emerie took her inside, bid farewell to Rhysand’s Third, and set Nesta down at a worn oak dining table. She pushed a cup of tea in front of her, her lips continuing to move, but still Nesta didn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear it.
Could hear only that one word, echoing.
Shackled.
He had wanted her once.
She knew that— for months before the war she had watched his eyes follow her around whatever room they were in, like she was the centre of his entire world, a force he couldn’t help but be drawn to. He had reached for her, so many times. And he had been so willing to die for her, that day during the war. But now here they were— descending into something altogether harder to bear. Something painful. And somehow, somewhere along the way, the version of the legendary warrior that had sworn to find her in the next life had devolved into one that shouted at her in the street.
Like once he’d had her…
The lustre had worn off. The novelty.
When she wasn’t just the High Lady’s sister; something unattainable or forbidden— when she was just Nesta, within reach and easy to grasp…
He’d taken her for granted. Like she hadn’t signed her heart over to him on Solstice anyway, only to wake up alone once again, even though he’d stayed the night. She had taken him to her bed over and over and over again and yet still… she found it hard, now, to believe it had ever meant anything more to him than a convenient fuck. After all, he’d never told her what it was that he was supposed to have felt for her.
Until today.
Until an argument in the middle of a busy city street, and a slip of the tongue that laid bare the truth beneath.
Shackled.
Like she was a ball and chain, a punishment to bear.
Nesta pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself as Emerie pulled out a chair across from her at the sun-warmed table sitting in a shaft of brilliant winter sunlight. Her friend’s deep brown eyes beheld a multitude of emotion— pity swam there, along with concern, and there, when she furrowed her brow and her lips flattened, there was anger, too. Rage that said Cassian’s kneecaps might not survive the next time Emerie stood in the same room as him.
“I’m going to kill him,” she said quietly.
Nesta huffed a soft laugh. Felt the tears behind her eyes, but didn’t let them fall. Didn’t think she’d be able to stop if she started.
Emerie’s hand reached out, brushing across Nesta’s fingers in a way that said, I’m here, for whatever it is that you need. Taking in the tears that still lingered, gathered in the corner of Nesta’s eyes, the Illyrian swore quietly before she patted Nesta’s hand once, twice. Emerie’s face softened as she nodded at the tea she’d set on the table— chamomile, warm and soothing. Gently, Emerie said,
“Drink your tea.”
Nesta glanced down at the cup before her, watching the curls of steam dance as they rose from the honey-coloured liquid inside.
“Will it help?” she asked after a long moment, like it had taken her time to find her voice again. Even now it was hoarse, like she’d spent an age screaming, screaming, screaming.
“Tea always helps.”
Nesta huffed again, but lifted the cup to her lips anyway. Let the heat and the sweet taste soothe her. Emerie nodded, picking up her own cup and watching over the rim as Nesta sipped again. Her dark eyes missed nothing; noted Nesta’s tear-stained cheeks, and the lip she worried between her teeth inbetween cautious sips of Emerie’s brew. Concern warred with rage in those eyes; heartache battling with murderous intent.
And then those sharp eyes cut to the small window along the western wall, behind Nesta’s back. The shaft of sunlight shining through and warming her shoulder-blades suddenly went cold, like a shadow had passed in front of the sun. Emerie’s eyes narrowed— darkened beyond belief.
“Really,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “I really am going to kill him.”
And when familiar footsteps sounded up the three wooden steps to Emerie’s front door— when the knock came, echoing through the house and rattling Nesta’s bones…
Weary, she sighed.
***
Nesta knew who would be on the other side of that door if she opened it.
That thing in her chest, the thread that connected her soul to another grew slack as the distance between them vanished, and despite everything she’d said and the bargain they’d struck, the one she had used to send him away… she knew it would be Cassian she’d find standing on Emerie’s doorstep. She might have scowled had she the energy, but… she was just so tired of it all.
Still, she hesitated. Her hand hovered above the door handle, just a breath away from opening it and ordering him back to Velaris.
Emerie had seemed inclined to skin the general alive when his knock had sounded, but Nesta had quietly asked that Emerie let her have a moment— to let her figure out what to do. Her friend had searched her face for a long moment before shooting a filthy look towards that door and the warrior on the other side. Still, Emerie nodded firmly before eventually slipping away, murmuring something about there being some stock left for her to inspect in her back room, and Nesta had waited all of five seconds before making for that door and… pausing.
She didn’t know what to do.
And as if he could sense it - sense her - he breathed, so quietly,
“Nesta.”
His voice was a bolt through the heart, making the damn thing constrict in her chest, like it was all too ready to forget how much it was breaking. How much that same damn voice had made her bleed barely an hour ago.
“I thought I said you had to spend the night at the House,” Nesta answered tightly, her hand still a moment away from curling around that handle. She didn’t know whether it was that voice that made her pause, or the knowledge that as soon as she saw his face, she was just as likely to fall into his arms as she was to turn her back on him for good.
Through the wood she heard him laugh softly, sadly. “And I will. But it isn’t night just yet, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Nesta could have sworn she heard the sound of his heart breaking at that, shattering like the finest porcelain tumbling from a pair of clumsy, careless hands. Her hands.
“I thought we were past all that,” he countered, his voice muffled by the solid wood of the door. Even with her fae hearing, Nesta struggled to catch his words, so softly were they spoken. Pain thrummed along the bond between them, and she couldn’t tell if it was her own heartbreak ricocheting between them, or his. Slowly she laid a palm flat against the wood— wondered if he was doing the same on the other side.
“You were past all that,” she muttered. “And I also said I didn’t want you to talk to me.”
“I’m not talking to you, am I? I’m talking to a fucking door.”
“Perhaps the door is more inclined to listen,” she said sharply.
And she heard the air he sucked between his teeth, the sharp inhale of his breath like she’d sliced right across something vital. Her throat threatened to close, her heart aching so desperately she wondered how long she would last before it simply stopped beating altogether; before she finally bled out from the thousand cuts he’d left her with.
“I deserve that,” Cassian said slowly. The bond between them trembled, like he was trying his hardest to hold onto it, to keep it steady. “I deserve all of it.”
There was a rustle of movement, a soft scrape against the door that said he had, indeed, placed his hand against the barrier between them. The hands that had held her, brought her so much pleasure. That had cradled her face, brushed the hair from her brow. Resting aimlessly, now, on the one thing that separated them.
The silence was suffocating.
But Nesta said nothing; knew she was likely to say something she’d regret if she opened her mouth. So she remained quiet, listening to the weary beat of her heart and the echoing drum of his.
“Do you want me to grovel?” he asked. “Because I’ll get on my knees here, right now, if that’s what it takes.”
“You want me to forgive you, just like that?”
Cassian snorted. “No. I’m not fool enough to expect that. I just…” He sighed, almost wistful. “I want to apologise. I want to prove to you how much I mean it when I say I was a fucking prick on that bridge today. And you should rake me over hot coals for it. You should kick my ass from here to Adriata for it, but…” She heard the rustle of his wings and presumed he was shaking his head. “Just tell me there will be something left of us at the end of it all.”
“Was there ever an us?” she whispered.
It didn’t feel like it.
It felt like she had bent herself all out of shape in order to fit in the box he wanted, and it wasn’t enough. She had been so ready to die for him, had draped her body over his, but when it came down to it…. she was the only one dying now, withering away inside.
“Yeah,” he said, and this time she heard the soft whisper of fingers against the wood of the door, like he was curling his hand against the wood, trying to grasp it. To feel her, like a ghost through the grain. “Yeah, Nesta.”
Again she said nothing. Couldn’t find the words.
“There was an us the first moment I fucking saw you. There was an us every single time we were in a room together and I tried to pretend my heart wasn’t racing— every time I looked at you and couldn’t breathe, every time I spoke to you and forgot the right thing to say.” Another sigh, weary this time. “I say the wrong thing around you, because the truth is, Nes, that you have me scrambling every time you even look at me. Like I’m a teenager again.”
Her heart thumped, begged her to open that door, but—
“You left, Cassian,” Nesta bit out, her voice cracking as she counted the reasons why she needed to keep that door closed. “After Solstice— you left.”
“And I told you why,” he answered, the edge in his voice growing desperate. Frantic and sharp, enough to cut as deeply as any knife. Nesta only shook her head, her hand sliding lifelessly down the length of the door.
Oh, he’d told her. Had shouted it at her, listing the reasons why he’d left like it could in any way erase the way she’d felt waking up alone; like it could in any way make up for the fact that she’d promised him forever and he’d taken it with both hands, only to turn and run not eight hours later.
Because he had panicked; because he was afraid of what it meant, when he realised what they were. Nesta shuddered around the spectre of that godsdamned word again, looming large in her memory with a brutal kind of efficacy.
Fucking shackled.
He’d left her because he felt shackled to her. Even after all they’d shared that night, everything they had done, the parts of her soul she had bared on that last, deepest claiming—
She shook it off; cleared her throat.
“It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t change anything.”
A lie— every word of it a lie. And yet if she listened closely, she thought she might have just heard the sound of his heart breaking even further, shattering into a thousand pieces. Or was that just the last little part of her own, crumbling irrevocably into dust?
“I shouldn’t have gotten so angry before,” Cassian admitted quietly.
“No,” Nesta said fiercely. “You shouldn’t. I can’t say being scolded in public was ever the most romantic gesture.”
Maybe it was the bond, or maybe it was how well she knew him by now, like the back of her own hand or the other side of her own coin, but Nesta could practically see the grimace on his face. Could practically hear his wince, and knew exactly how those lips she’d kissed a hundred times would twist with the agony of it all. His hand moved across the wood of the door again, a slow drag, like he was trying in vain to reach her— to touch her.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said quietly. “Not really. What you call me— it doesn’t matter.”
She couldn’t help but scoff. “Evidently it does.”
It had mattered enough for him to push her on it. Mattered enough for him to insist upon it at the expense of everything else. And now here they were, the bond between them acknowledged at last; both of them hurting.
“No. I thought it did, but then I watched you walk away.” There was a small thud, like he’d rested his brow against the door now, too. “And I realised I would be the biggest fool in the world to care so much about fucking semantics when you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’d be the smallest man who ever lived without you.”
Her hands ached to reach for him, her very soul pleading with her to open that damned door. Some of the ice around her heart melted, thawed a little, and Nesta sighed as she shook her head.
Why did it feel like she was reaching out towards the fire with her bare hands, hoping this time the flames wouldn’t burn her? Why did it feel like she was making the same mistake she had before, and expecting things to turn out differently?
“I can’t do this, Cassian,” she admitted.
“What?”
Another shake of the head, like some part of her hoped the move might clear her mind enough for her to just… breathe for half a second. “I don’t know. I can’t do any of it— not arguing with you, or talking to you through a door, or listening to an apology that I’m terrified you’re going to forget the moment I open this door. Because what happens in six months, when I still don’t want to say—“ She faltered. “That word, and you’re angry all over again?”
“You know that I love you—“
“Do I?” Nesta interrupted. His shock was evident in the silence that followed, heavy. “It’s not like you ever said it.”
A beat, one where Nesta wondered if he was thinking back to all the times he could have said those three little words. All the times he hadn’t.
“I…” His voice stuttered. “Of course I did, Nesta. How could I not have…”
Silence.
He sucked in another breath so sharp she heard the inhale, and when there was another dull thud on his side of the door, she was certain he’d banged his forehead against it.
“Fuck.”
She let out a sardonic huff of a laugh.
Yeah, she thought. Fuck.
Because he hadn’t ever said it. Had left her doubting it all along, too terrified to ask.
And she really, really, didn’t want to have this conversation right now. She dragged her palm along the door, feeling each grain and flaw in the wood, half wondering if it would splinter her— if it would hurt as much as the strife between her and the warrior on the other side of that threshold.
“Please, Cassian.” she said quietly. “Before either of us say something we’ll regret.”
“Don’t make me leave,” he whispered. “Don’t turn me away.”
And because it was the only thing to save her - to save them, to preserve any hope of coming back from this edge later… Nesta summoned every ounce of her floundering strength, every last trembling drop of willpower she possessed as she lifted her chin and sniffed.
“Goodbye, Cassian.”
“Nesta.” Another thump on the door— another knock, desperate this time. “Nes. Don’t. Please.”
Her hand fell away from the solid wood, her fingers curling into a fist. To stop herself from reaching for that door handle. Because if she opened that door, she knew with certainty that one look at him would fell her.
“I love you.”
Too late— far too late.
And gods, she loved him too. She had known it, the moment she’d looked into his eyes on Solstice. When she’d felt the bond settle between them, even though she was too terrified to admit it. So she knew she had to do it, to save some piece of herself - of him, too. To give them both a chance to breathe, before she said something to hurt him, or he broke her even more than he already had.
“Just— go, Cassian. Come back tomorrow, if you want. But for now, please, just go.”
The way he swallowed was audible, his voice just the barest whisper as his hand slid down the plane of the door. That thing between them, the bond stretching between her soul and his, tightened. She felt his shudder, felt the guilt and the heartache and the grief so keenly she knew it wasn’t just her own pain taking up residence inside her chest. It was his, too.
“Alright,” he breathed. “Alright. I—“ He faltered, like some small piece of him was dying inside. “I’ll go. But I mean it, Nes. I really do love you. More than anything in the world.”
Nesta closed her eyes.
Didn’t move.
And when she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, his boots scuffing the snow, she felt the pain double, triple. Her fingers twitched, longing to reach for him still, and as she slumped against Emerie’s front door, she was left only with the hope that they weren’t past fixing. That they hadn’t broken so completely there was nothing left.
In the silence, Nesta could only pray that when he came back tomorrow, there would still something left worth salvaging.
When Cassian, the Lord of Iron Crest, has a meeting with the High Lord of the Night Court in Illyria, destiny nudges Lady Death into his path.
Illyria was not for the faint-hearted. It was a place with claws and teeth that chewed you out if you were tough enough – if not, it swallowed you whole.
Cassian landed with a heavy thump upon the sun-scorched earth of Windhaven. His presence echoed through the camp. Males paused from their talking and females kept their heads down as they worked. Lord of Bloodshed they called him. It was a moniker he’d earnt. From the moment he was pushed towards this Gods-forsaken camp, Cassian had spilt blood. He quickly learnt as a child that nobody would extend a hand to a bastard. If he wanted to eat, he had to be the one to put food in his hands. There were the odd few who’d be willing to offer a meal in exchange for a hard day’s work. The smiths were always in need of strong boys to shovel coal and run with a wheelbarrow with logs. On top of his training, the work used to leave him aching and hungry, and some pricks would take the work and refuse the meal at the end. It was easier to fight the bigger boys and take what they had. Cassian soon grew larger than them, quicker and more reckless too. He knew little of self-preservation. Soldiers were born to die.
‘Devlon.’
The camp lord of Windhaven inclined his head in the merest of acknowledgements. He had trained Cassian, many years ago. Over five hundred, to be exact.
‘Is he here?’
‘Not yet.’
Good, thought Cassian. The High Lord of the Night Court would find no allies in Illyria. The other lords had been summoned too. As the Lord of Iron Crest, Cassian couldn’t afford to be late. He was the first bastard to hold the mantle and he intended to keep it, regardless of the amount of blood he’d need to shed. He would do things his way, but an example needed to be set.
Iron Crest made Windhaven pale in comparison. Situated beneath the mountains in the north of Illyria, its summers were bitter and the winters brutal. They lost more to the cold and starvation than the Blood Rite every year. If a child made it to adolescence, it was a thing to be celebrated in the north. Iron Crest made hard bastards of them all, even the females.
And thanks to a petty, little high lord’s son, Cassian was shipped off there at ten years old. He’d beat Rhysand too many times when they sparred - and other times when Cassian attacked him whenever the opportunity presented itself. He'd pressed his face into the mud, laughed when he’d broken his nose and his mother swept him into her arms to coddle. They had been at war ever since. Cassian let Iron Crest mould him into something better rather than be crushed by the weight. In the Blood Rite, he'd needed no alliances. He was the first to reach Ramiel and managed it on the third day. Rhysand and the shadowsinger made it on the sixth, bleeding and exhausted. It would have been cowardly to kill them then - although Cassian had wanted to. A hand on his shoulder told him no. If the Mother had other plans for them then Cassian would follow her wherever she led.
When the war came, Cassian had barely been fully-grown but he was sent to the front lines against Hybern. He carved a name for himself by shedding blood and breaking bones. He bodied the spirit of Enalius himself. Cassian watered the ground with the blood he spilt. On the return to Iron Crest, he realised that there was no fight he couldn't win. No opponent that he could not best. So he took Iron Crest for himself. He would create the Illyria that he believed in.
No camp lord had wanted Cassian to rule alongside them with Iron Crest, but once the newly-crowned High Lord made his displeasure in Cassian known, the tide changed. Illyrians stuck together. It was in their nature to push against their high fae rulers. A half-breed who leaned more to his high fae side was unwanted as a ruler. They dreamt of a free Illyria – and Cassian was better to keep on their side because one day, he would cut Rhysand's throat.
Devlon glanced up at the sky. It had been an unnaturally warm summer. Not a single cloud marred the blue sky which was odd for Illyria. Cassian didn’t like it. It wasn’t right. Still, if it meant his people could plough the fields for longer and reap the benefits of good weather, maybe he wouldn’t lose so many to famine.
‘Rumour is that he will bring the high lady.’
‘No surprise,’ replied Cassian, scoffing. ‘They have been inseparable since their mating bond snapped.’
Maybe Cassian was a bastard in his heart too because he wished the high lord nothing but ill. Their people had been slaughtered as he stood by Amarantha – as he pleasured her - night after night for fifty years. Then he found his happiness in a mate he’d helped to torture. Illyrians did not have mating bonds, but the high fae blood in Rhysand overpowered his heritage enough to grant him a bond. Cassian wished she hated him. Wished she bucked and reared away from him. But no. Scouts spoke of an undying commitment between them. So, Illyria was left with a half-breed high lord and a once-human high lady who knew nothing of their customs that they were forced to bow and scrape the knee to.
‘They will bring the sisters.’
Few traders ever passed through Illyria due to its hostility but there were outposts to the east where one could barter passage to the Continent or where ships made port and paid cheaper fees than in the Day or Dawn Courts. Foreigners carried snippets of news. They spoke of unrest in Hybern – a brewing threat of war – and a division in Prythian between the seasonal courts due to Spring’s alignment with Hybern. As a result, the high lady’s sisters had been stolen from their beds into Hybern’s cradle. They had met their fates in the Cauldron. Rumour had it that they’d come out wrong. Cassian would decide if they were threats that needed eliminating. Anything that threatened Illyria would be removed eventually. It was taking time, but little pockets of rebellion were building. Soon, they’d strike out and demand their independence. What could the high lord do? Turn his Darkbringers on his Illyrians and lose two armies?
‘Watch the skies tonight,’ Cassian murmured. He caught Devlon by the elbow as the elder camp lord tried to move past. ‘And watch for shadows. Even in the dark.’
Since slaughtering his way to the position of camp lord, Cassian had done things his way. The archaic laws of his people mattered little to him. Their hearts mattered more. Any bastard who wanted a chance to train – and train fairly – was welcomed at Iron Crest. As such, their numbers were swelling. The Bastard Camp, some had taking to calling it. He’d rather have bastards who were loyal to him watching his back than pampered sons of high lords who went home to their mothers every night for rich food and a warm bath.
One by one, the other camp lords flew in. They knew to acknowledge Cassian now. The few before them who’d dared scorn him soon found a knife in their chest. And those that had ignored him lost their tongues. If they would not speak to him, they did not need a tongue at all.
When the high lord arrived, his violet eyes scrutinised what little he could see of Windhaven. As long as Devlon kept it tidy, it was all Rhysand cared for. He never bothered to greet its citizens or ask about their upcoming harvest. Their traditions and celebrations were not attended to by any of the ruling party. As long as his soldiers were honed to perfection ready to be utilised, the high lord cared for little else regarding Illyria.
The high lady was not what he expected. Her long, burnished gold hair was loosely braided and she wore the leathers of an Illyrian. She was petite with the spiked ears of the high fae. She certainly looked upon Illyria with the distasteful expression that only the high fae could manage though, her opinion of the land decided before truly experiencing it.
With a scowl, Morrigan – his second – surveyed Windhaven. Beside her was the shadowsinger. A waste of Illyrian talent. One who’d sold out his heritage to stand at the high lord’s side. Azriel would find no companions in Illyria. When their eyes met, Cassian’s siphons thrummed in challenge. The shadowsinger’s blue ones flashed in response. They hadn’t fought since they were boys. Cassian couldn’t say who would win now. He was stronger than any – but Azriel had speed and unholy shadows on his side. He was a bastard too though, who should be standing on their side of history, not Rhysand’s.
One of the sisters was meek. She cowed her dark head towards the ground as if Illyria was too much of an eyesore for her to face. Her gown was the colour of a sunrise, the pink silk at odds with the steel and blood needed to survive in this land.
Shepherding her towards the group was the third sister. This one did not bow and bend. Although she too wore a gown that swept the dusty ground, it was a dull grey. The material was plain and practical. It tucked in tightly at her slender waist to offer a glimpse of generous breasts. She tilted to her head towards her sister and spoke softly in her ear. She had the same colour hair as the high lady although it was braided in a coronet to hide her ears. Was she ashamed to be high fae? Cassian would be.
‘High Lord,’ Devlon greeted. As this was the camp in which he oversaw, it was his duty to welcome the ruling party. Cassian could not name a time in which the high lord had visited Iron Crest; certainly not while he ruled it.
‘Good,’ said Rhysand. ‘You are all assembled. And on time.’
They were soldiers. Punctuality was a staple of their life. Cassian gritted his teeth rather than start an argument.
‘What is that?’
One of the males off to the side asked. His finger pointed at the high lady’s sister, the taller of the two. He felt it too - that strange aura that she exhibited. Not wrong entirely, but something not of this world. Something greater. Power made the air around her go static and Cassian tucked his wings together.
‘Is she a witch?’
The female’s head raised slowly like a predator catching a scent. ‘Yes.’
The semi-circle of camp lords beside him recoiled from her. They had come out wrong, rumours said. One was a seer. One had powers she should not. The power of death. Silver fire.
Her gaze snapped to Cassian. Silver ringed her irises. She looked as though she wanted to burn him on the spot. There was no joy to be found in her face, only endless emptiness. like the bottom of the ocean. And yet, when she looked at him, Cassian went as taut as a bowstring. A ringing sounded in his ears. A need to bow roared through him. His lungs felt as though they were splitting and he fought the urge to reach for her.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Didn’t bloodshed go hand in hand with death?
***
‘We’ll stay in here while they have their meeting,’ Mor explained as she gestured to the few low-seated couches within the grey canvas tent. ‘Does anybody want tea?’
It was cooler in Illyria than Velaris. Although the sky was clear, a wind ripped through the camp but the Illyrians didn’t seem to notice it as they mopped their brows and continued their work. Nesta followed in behind Elain, trying to ignore the feeling like a target had been painted on her back. It had felt that way ever since her sister had returned from the dead with two faeries and promised to protect them. Their protection was as worthless as their word. She ran a hand against Elain’s hair and tried not to be revulsed by the pointed ears that they had been cursed with. It was difficult not to feel cursed. Elain spoke in riddles as she offered glimpses of an unstable future whilst Nesta’s powers had a habit of ripping out of her whenever her mood wavered and her silver fire rotted the world around her. She had melted the flesh from a male’s hand in Velaris when he’d placed an unwanted hand on her shoulder to get her attention. Lady Death they called her. Nesta hated it.
‘What is a witch? Do they exist?’
At Nesta’s question, Morrigan flopped down onto a couch. Her blonde hair splayed out around her. ‘Yes. They’re rare though. They amass more power than their natural reserve with devastating consequences.’
Feyre blew out a breath. ‘Then aren’t all three of us witches? None of us should have any magical reserves.’
‘No,’ said Mor. ‘The how is most important. Witches use spells to harness magic that isn’t theirs. Your magic comes from the High Lords of Prythian and yours,’ she gestured to Elain and Nesta, ‘was gifted by the Cauldron itself.’
Gifted was an interesting choice of words when Nesta had pulled out the Cauldron’s heart with teeth and claws.
The quiet shadowsinger cleared his throat then gave Mor a pointed look. ‘We should not speak of this here.’
Nesta refused to lounge like her sister and Morrigan were doing. Elain also remained sat upright in the tent. Their mortal habits were retained. ‘The Illyrian lords. They didn’t like that I said I was a witch.’
‘Illyrians don’t like anything, least of all a female who will look them in the eye and answer their superstitious questions,’ said Rhysand as he entered the tent. He shook his head. ‘Az, I need you in there. They’re out for blood today. Mor will guard the Archerons.’
‘Who was the male who didn’t step away?’
Nesta was showing all of her cards, she knew. The other camp lord couldn’t move away quick enough at the accusation of her being a witch, but that one – the one that had towered above the others - had remained rooted to the spot eyeing her without fear. It hadn’t been fear that quickened Nesta’s heart either.
‘That one is a pain in my ass,’ grumbled Rhys. ‘And he’ll drag his feet to make this meeting as difficult as possible. Az, let’s remind them who their high lord is.’
The pair departed in silence and only the idle chatter of Morrigan and Feyre broached it. When Nesta could no longer take the boredom of whittling away the time listening to their inane chatter, she announced that she needed fresh air. The words to try and stop her fell on deaf ears. Nesta needed to feel the air on her face. This was part of the Night Court, was it not? Surely, she should be able to walk freely through it.
Illyria was a stark contrast to Velaris. Instead of ornate rows of town houses with elegant facades and pristine gardens, most Illyrians lived in tents with better-off families having small, wooden cabins. The nights grew cold in the north, so Nesta could not imagine the misery of winter in such a place. There were no markets or theatres. It was without art galleries or boutique shops. Illyria was, for lack of a better word, bleak. She understood a little why Azriel abhorred his heritage. As Nesta walked through the well-tracked routes of the camp, many males either leered at her or made a sign against evil in her presence. The females kept their heads down while they worked if they were allowed out at all. The commonality amongst the females was that all of them had scarred wings. Some had deeper, heavy-handed scars as though they’d bucked from being clipped, whilst others had more clinical scars as if they had been sedated.
Nesta let her feet wander. Further out from camp, nature reigned supreme. The rugged terrain was unlike anything she had ever seen before. The hills were streaked with pink heather and rough gorse. Streams trickled through the hills into a fast-flowing river so Nesta stopped to cup the clear water with her hands and drink from it. There were so many birds flying freely in the sky. It had been so long since she'd heard birdsong in their tower of red stone in Velaris.
On her ambling through the outskirts of camp, she came across a boy. Tears had tracked through his grubby face. His dark hair had been cropped to the skull and the clothes he wore were too big for him.
‘Don’t run from me,’ she said, voice more severe than she intended it to be.
The boy stood his ground. He lifted his chin and asked, ‘Are you the high lady?’
‘Her sister. And who might you be?’
‘Fedor.’
Nesta caressed his cheek. ‘Where are you parents?’
‘I haven’t got any.’
Life in Illyria was hard – worse still if you were an orphan. Nesta had heard from Morrigan how orphans in Illyria had to fight for the clothes on their back and the food in their bellies. Nobody reached out a hand to help them. Only Rhysand's mother opening her arms to Azriel had saved him from that life.
‘What are you doing all the way out here?’
He searched the hills then his eyes flitted briefly to her face. ‘Nothing.’
‘Were you running away?’
Her fingers fit beneath his chin so Nesta tilted it upwards. His lashes were long and tears filled his eyes.
‘They’re sending me to Iron Crest.’
‘What is wrong with Iron Crest?’
Fedor jerked away from her touch then picked a stone up from the ground. He hurled it away from them so it landed with a splash in the river; Fedor had managed to throw it much further than she’d be able to.
‘It is the worst camp,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants to go to Iron Crest. The Lord of Bloodshed rules it. I hit too many boys here so Lord Devlon is sending me away. It’s not fair.’
Nesta could not bear to see a little boy’s tears – not when he had nobody else in the world. She reached her arms around him, pulling him against her abdomen. The boy sobbed against her. She leaned forwards, cradling his head to her body, as she shushed and soothed.
It took a great deal of time, but Nesta coaxed Fedor to return to camp with her as the dusk encroached. At the sounds of an argument coming from the high lord’s meeting, he clung to her hand so tightly that it hurt. The offer of a free, hot meal was too good to resist as much as his instincts told him to bolt. The boy was too afraid to enter the tent where her sisters and Morrigan remained, so Nesta brought the meal to him and they dined together upon a wooden trunk for weapons near a sparring ring. He ate so quickly that she had to ration his serving to slow him down before he choked.
‘This meeting is not done,’ came Rhysand’s voice.
The tent flap opened then the striking Illyrian stormed through. ‘I say it is done.’
His dark hair was pulled back into a loose knot, with many strands falling free. Although he shared the same hazel eyes and brown skin of the Illyrians, he carried himself differently. The ones she had seen either sneered or snivelled. This one did neither. He walked proudly, his head held high, like a male who knew his weaknesses as well as his strengths. Like Azriel, he wore seven siphons. Instead of the cool blue of the shadow singer’s, his were the colour of rubies.
‘Eat up,’ she murmured to Fedor, giving him her portion too.
As the darkness swallowed them, Nesta watched the camp lords departing one after the other with a spread of their wings into the sky. Rhysand exited shortly afterwards with a hand on Azriel’s shoulder as he spoke in his ear then the shadowsinger disappeared into the darkness as though he’d never been there at all.
‘You have my boy,’ a low voice rumbled.
Stepping soundlessly towards them was the broad chested Illyrian with a scar cutting through his right eyebrow.
Nesta stood in front of Fedor. ‘You are mistaken.’
‘He is to come to Iron Crest with me.’
She felt her lip curl in distaste. ‘You are the lord of Iron Crest?’
‘You’ve heard of me then,’ he replied, an arrogant smile dancing upon his lips.
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Cassian.’
‘I don’t care,’ Nesta snapped. ‘You are not taking Fedor with you. He will be coming with me.’
That incensed him. His wings spread out behind him to show off their massive size like a preening peacock. ‘No. He will not be going to the Hewn City. Illyrians stick together.’ Bypassing her entirely, Cassian knelt near the boy. Quicker than Nesta could blink, Fedor struck out at him. Cassian was quicker, catching the boy’s boot before it kicked him in the face. ‘You will come with me tonight to Iron Crest, Fedor. Lord Devlon has agreed it.’
Fedor tried to wrench his foot away, but Cassian held it tight.
‘Stop it,’ Nesta hissed.
A tear tracked through the grime on Fedor’s face. Cassian used his thumb to smear it away.
‘I will not say do not cry because change is scary for males like us.’
‘Us?’
‘Orphans. Bastards.’ Cassian shrugged. ‘They will throw every name at you, Fedor, but not in Iron Crest. I will not allow it. You will have a home. A bed. Warm food every day.’
He raised his dark head, hope brimming on his features. ‘Do I have to fight for it?’
‘You will train, but even if you lose every day, you’ll still have food.’
The boy eyed him with scepticism as if it was too good to be true. Nesta shared his sentiments. She asked, ‘And what do you gain from it?’
Cassian’s stare was too intense. It set a fire in her body. One that couldn’t be cooled. ‘A better Illyria.’
When he stood, the male towered over Nesta. She was not used to craning her neck up to look at males; usually she could look them in the eye without straining. He was simply enormous. The broadness of his chest was almost thrice her own. There were inches between them. The siphon on his chest pulsed in time with the beating of her own heart.
‘Come, Fedor. It grows late and we have a long flight home.’
At Nesta’s nod of approval – because Cassian’s words had struck a chord with her – Fedor slipped down from the wooden chest. He threw himself at Nesta, arms going tight around her. She held him just as tight, a hand stroking his bristly hair.
‘Has the high lady’s sister been kind to you?’
Fedor gave an emphatic nod with his arms still latched around her waist. Cassian gave a chuckle and stroked the boy’s head.
‘Perhaps the high lord will deem Iron Crest worth a visit and she can come too. You are emissary for the Night Court, aren’t you? It would be worth your while to get to know every part of this court – and Fedor would be glad to see you again.’
The cocky grin informed Nesta that Cassian did know he was backing her into a corner. To refuse would break the boy’s heart.
With a promise to visit him in a month, Cassian ushered the boy across the camp to Devlon to say a goodbye so that he could speak with Nesta privately. She squared her shoulders then stood up onto her tip-toes.
‘If any harm comes to him, I will strike you down,’ she vowed. ‘I care little for your reputation or your siphons, Lord of Bloodshed. If that boy is harmed in any way under your guidance, I will shred your wings with my bare hands.’
‘You have the heart of an Illyrian,’ he said.
Cassian reached for her so Nesta let her flames wreath her hands in warning. It did not stop him. The arrogant male placed both hands on her shoulders and pushed her back onto her heels so she lost a couple of inches in height. He stepped closer, closing the gap between them.
‘Is it true that you have killing power?’
Nesta kept her lips firmly together. The less who knew the truth of her powers, the better.
‘They call me the Lord of Bloodshed,’ he continued. ‘And you, it’s said, are Lady Death.’
She delved into a place within her chest that was cold and empty. Did her best to show that impassable ice on her expression to try and push him away. But Cassian gave her such a heated look that she was the first to look away with heat burning in her cheeks. His rough fingers caressed her cheek and lifted her face.
Nesta could hardly breathe as Cassian held her gaze.
‘Death and bloodshed walk hand in hand,’ he murmured. ‘I will thank destiny for leading me to you.’
From behind them, Feyre was calling her name. Before she could respond, Azriel appeared. His hand went to Truth-Teller in its sheath on his hip.
‘Step away from her.’
Cassian trailed his fingers down her face with such tenderness that her knees nearly gave way. She had never let a male put his hands on her that way.
‘No harm done, Shadowsinger,’ said Cassian, holding his hands up in a protest of innocence. He bowed his head to Nesta as he stepped away. ‘When you’re in Iron Crest, emissary, I’ll make sure to say hello.’
(An update to celebrate the end of @nessianweek ❤️)
Chapter 32: Cassian flies down to Velaris for the first time since his recovery and Nesta receives not one but two visitors at the House of Wind.
(Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)
Nesta felt Rhysand long before she found him.
As she rose from the chair beside Elain’s bed, skirting the sunlight that streamed in through the wide windows of the bedchamber, the High Lord’s presence was something slick and dark, snaking through the corridors of the House of Wind like a long-fingered shadow— stretching, searching.
Testing.
Her attention was pulled towards the library at the end of the corridor, and it felt familiar, that pull. That power. The way it glided across her skin, needled at her senses like it was trying to lure her out; similar in the way of distant cousins, so many generations removed.
With reluctance, Nesta followed.
Every step she took down the hallway seemed to bring her closer to something heavy, a dark touch against her skin that was as cold as the midnight sky in the middle of winter. It made the silver in her veins writhe, and when at last Nesta pushed open the door to the House of Wind’s private library, she wasn’t at all surprised to find a single chair filled by the empty hearth.
In the blink of an eye, somehow two weeks had passed since Nesta had last laid eyes on the High Lord of the Night Court.
She couldn’t really say she’d missed him.
“Where is Cassian.”
It was a question that might have been wrapped in thorns for the way it came out, barbed enough that even Nesta was surprised. Her voice seemed to echo in the emptiness of the library, the vast space silent, draped with the light of the noonday sun.
The High Lord flicked a hand towards the windows, a vague gesture towards the city down below.
Silver rings gleamed on his fingers, a burst of starlight against the impenetrable black of his shirt and pants, and as his dark eyes lifted, Rhysand kept his face blank and impassive, relaxing into his chair as Nesta paused in the doorway, letting the shadows fall across her as she lingered, hardly daring to step forward into the sunlight. Rhysand was bathed in it— a warm slant of golden light burnishing his sable hair and illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw as he tilted his head to the side, cataloguing her hesitation.
If he realised that he was the last person in the entire realm that Nesta wanted to see today, he didn’t show it. Rhysand merely rested an elbow on the arm of his chair, curling his fingers towards his palm.
“Nesta,” he said, a curious expression flitting across his face, like he was trying to summon an ember of warmth when he spoke. “I came to see how you were doing.”
A lie if ever there was one.
Rhysand might as well have had ulterior motives written right across his damned forehead.
He sat back, crossing one ankle over his knee in a stance that was only deceptively casual. Nesta wasn’t a fool; Rhysand might have appeared calm, like the mirrored surface of a still lake, but beneath… she knew his display of ease was just as false as her own. Through narrowed eyes she watched him, feeling the flames lick at her bones as they coursed through her like a whisper, a lethal undercurrent every bit as potent as Rhysand’s.
“Where is Cassian?” she asked again, folding her arms over her chest and remaining, steadfast, in the shadowed corner by the door.
“In the city,” Rhysand answered, letting his hand drop to pluck at a piece of lint at his knee. “The flight will be good for him. He needs to rebuild the strength in his wings.”
Nesta said nothing.
Rhysand’s eyes glinted. “Did he not tell you?”
There was something cruel there, something biting that said the High Lord didn’t like the way Cassian seemed to act as though Nesta had become the centre of his world. Somehow, something told her he was hoping she’d say no.
But Cassian had told her. Had knocked tentatively on her door that morning, stuck his head around the frame and asked if she wanted to join him. He’d been building up to it for days, taking small fights here and there, never far from the House roof, and even though he always asked, Nesta had never stepped out to watch him. She preferred to linger in the shadows, like it might protect her somehow. But Cassian had always come right back to her when he touched ground, like he couldn’t stay away too long, and with the sun climbing higher in the sky, she thought he might have returned by now.
Not that she was concerned.
Not really.
She just couldn’t keep her mind from straying to that night when everything had fallen apart, when she’d been lying on that cold floor, unable to do anything but watch as he lay broken and too far from her reach, his wings in tatters, his blood spilling on the stone.
What if he was hurt? What if it was too soon, his wings not strong enough to bear his weight yet—
“How are you, anyway?” Rhysand asked, hauling Nesta back to the present.
It was almost conversational, almost like he cared.
Suspicion crawled along her spine, dripping thick as oil. In the five days since Rhysand had last visited the House of Wind - for that godforsaken dinner that Nesta had heartily declined Cassian’s invitation to - he had seemed entirely content to leave her be, learning of her welfare through questions posed to either Cassian or Azriel, and yet now Rhysand sat in that chair, in the library that had become Nesta’s source of peace, asking her how she was. She didn’t fail to miss the way his eyes flicked to her folded arms, like he could sense the fire gathering there behind her ribs, pooling at her fingertips.
“Fine,” she bit out, looking right past him and out of the windows, to the sun-drenched city below. The river was a silver ribbon running through the winding streets, glimmering as the midday sun beat down upon its length, and she knew that if she only stepped forward, the light would brush her cheeks and warm her skin.
She didn’t move.
The power beneath her skin coiled, curling in on itself as if preparing to strike, and Rhysand’s face was a mask of indifference as he followed her gaze to the windows. Tapping a finger gently on his knee, he looked back once more at the hands Nesta wrapped around herself. Something flickered in his violet eyes, the stars there winking out as his attention snagged on the hands she kept concealed. The High Lord cocked his head to the side, examining her the way one might look at a beast in the woods.
His lips parted as he leaned forwards, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her with a kind of scrutiny Nesta hadn’t felt since her mother had died.
And then—
“Cassian will kill me, but I need to know what happened that night at Hybern. Inside the Cauldron.”
Every bone, every muscle, every nerve in Nesta’s entire body locked, stiffening as Rhys’ voice quieted.
She should have known, she thought, as her heart pounded indignantly in her chest. The moment she saw him there, waiting for her, she should have known the questions were coming. Questions he’d asked before— ones she hadn’t answered then, and certainly didn’t feel like answering now.
“I told you last time,” she answered, her voice a rasp that threatened to cut her throat on its way out. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you know exactly what I mean.”
Fury bubbled in her gut, stealing her breath as she watched Feyre’s mate look at her with barely-concealed disdain, his lip curling as he dragged his eyes across her frame. In another life, another time, perhaps Nesta might have found a way to get along with Rhysand. Maybe even like him. But if she was a fire refusing to relent, then so was he. All her sharpness, all her stubbornness… it was thrown back at her, reflected in his eyes. Like calls to like, she’d heard them say, and as Rhysand looked at her with a glare that she knew was identical to her own, she wondered if in this case, like didn’t call to like, but repelled it.
“Is that all you’re here for?” she hissed. “To see what you can gain by what happened to Elain and I in that throne room?”
Somehow, his face darkened even further. A shadow crossed his eyes, his hands clenched into fists as tight as Nesta’s own, and whatever patience he’d had before, it was fraying now, perilously close to snapping. His power rumbled, like a distant thunderhead about to break. He closed his eyes, as if letting it wash over him, and when he opened them again, there was a grim determination shining in the violet.
“You feel it,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Nesta. I know.” He held up a hand, spread his fingers and exposed his palm to her. She felt that rumble of darkness again, like it was skirting the edges of the House library, lurking. “I can feel whatever it is the Cauldron gave you. And I might have let it lie, but then Cassian mentioned the House magic had changed—”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Nesta growled, and this time it was true. She really didn’t have any idea what he meant about the House changing, and Cassian hadn’t said a word to her about it—
Rhys barrelled on, as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
“Your power needs to be controlled,” he said, and if she wasn’t convinced of his arrogance, she’d have sworn that concern shaded his words. “You may not believe me, but you’re my sister-in-law now. I came to check that you and Elain were both well, for Feyre’s sake if nothing else.” He ran his hand over his hair, took a breath. “I want to see if Elain—”
“Stay away from her,” Nesta hissed.
“She may need a healer—”
“What she needs is to be kept as far away from all of you as possible.”
“‘All of you’?” he echoed darkly. “And does that include Cassian? Shall I tell him to stay away, too?”
Nesta folded her arms, refused to answer. The ice that had burrowed deep into her bones reared, and a chill skirted down her spine as pressure began to build in her fingertips, pushing against her skin, begging for release. It felt like… destruction, pure and simple. Nesta clenched her fists, taking a deep breath in an effort to force the burning cold back down again, right into the deepest recesses of herself, and when she looked up and met Rhysand’s eye, she saw his lips thin, and felt his own power rumbling in answer as her own battled to stay present.
Those starless eyes were utterly flat as he curled his hands around the carved wooden arm rests of his chair.
And then she felt something brush against her— against her mind.
It felt like claws, sharp enough to tear through the fabric of her thoughts, like he might crack her open to see what was hidden inside.
The sound that left her was one of horror as she stumbled backwards, her spine flush with the wall as she pinned the High Lord with a ferocious glare. Her palms were flat against the wood-panelled wall, the fire in her burning, and even though Rhysand’s eyes remained steady - like he was trying hard not to startle her - there was a tendril of shadow, no more substantive than mist, still pressing at the boundaries of her mind— boundaries she’d never noticed as a human.
Never needed to notice.
The hair on her arms rose, her skin pebbled as she fought to control her breathing. She knew Rhysand could enter minds, but he hadn’t ever tried to enter hers before. That brush of power felt unnervingly like a hand, tapping softly at the mental barrier she had unwittingly constructed around her mind, and it was enough to make her blood run cold— colder than the ice inside her ever could.
A snarl ripped free of her.
“Nesta, you need to learn control—“ he began.
“Leave,” she hissed.
“This is my house,” Rhysand tossed back.
Nesta glanced once to the windows— the sunlight outside, the city that she didn’t want to see any closer. Something inside her recoiled, and yet still, she scowled as she pushed away from the wall.
“Then I’ll leave,” she spat. “I’ll leave this whole damned place, and when Feyre returns, you can be the one to tell her why her sister is lost somewhere in Prythian.”
Rhysand gritted his teeth, his starless eyes cold and ruthless as he pushed to his feet. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he gave her one long, lingering look that scorched. With an elegant hand, he straightened his black shirt, a deep frown heavy on his brow as disapproval radiated from him in waves. Whatever fraction of warmth he’d managed to conjure before, it was gone now.
“Good day, then,” he said sharply.
Nesta didn’t answer, only watched him march past her to leave before she slammed the door closed behind him.
***
Velaris was a beauty in the sunlight.
The river gleamed like the shattered surface of a diamond, shifting with the current, and as Cassian looked out over its banks from ground level, he realised how much he had missed it. Missed this, losing himself in the same city he’d spent fifty years fighting to leave. He hadn’t thought at all how much he might miss this place during those long years Rhys was under the mountain, but now, as he tilted his head back and filled his lungs, he swore he’d never forget again.
From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the sound of the market, a thousand voices on the wind like chimes, and the air itself was perfumed with lemon verbena and sea salt. Cassian took another deep breath of it, leaning his forearms on the railing overlooking the river, and thanking the Mother that he was able to stand there on that bridge at all.
Grateful— so grateful that the city had survived Hybern’s attack, and he had survived Hybern’s throne room.
His wings twitched at the memory. The flight down had been a strain on the freshly-healed membrane, but the burning he’d felt had been one of muscles remembering what it was to work, not pain. He’d felt the wind on his face and the elation fizzing in his blood, and for an hour he’d wandered the city before heading to the Palace of Thread and Jewels to place an order for a handful of dresses that didn’t seem too dissimilar to what Nesta had worn below the wall. He’d ordered some for Elain too, and charged the lot to Rhys’ account. And now, he was content to merely stand by and watch, to let the city roll by as the sun warmed his face, resting his wings as he relished the ache.
It was there, looking out over the Rainbow, that a familiar scent was carried to him on the wind.
“I don’t need a nursemaid, you know,” Cassian said dryly, keeping his eyes fixed on the city before him.
He could practically hear Mor roll her eyes as she joined him at the edge, looping an arm through his and pulling him away from the railing. Beneath the sun, she was practically gilded, her blonde hair shining almost the exact same shade as the golden necklace around her neck. She nudged him in the ribs with an elbow as she nodded to his wings and scowled.
“I heard you’d flown down here and had to check for myself.” She huffed. “Az is going to win the bet, isn’t he?”
Cassian laughed softly. “Sorry?” he offered, stretching his wings with a grin. There was only a little tug of pain now, and he was certain that he’d be back to flying miles a day within a few short weeks, well within the timeframe Az had set when he’d bet Mor those ten gold coins.
“I don’t know whether or not to be insulted,” Cassian continued, letting Mor lead him across the bridge and into the winding city streets. “Az had more confidence in me than you did.”
“It’s nothing to do with confidence,” Mor protested, her painted lips parting as her jaw dropped. “I just didn’t want you to push yourself too hard.”
It was Cassian’s turn to nudge her in the ribs. He’d almost forgotten how easy it was between them— the banter of friends who had known one another so long. And yet, he’d always thought that when Mor smiled and laughed, there were no secrets to be had between them. Nothing they failed to share. He turned his head to the side as they walked and studied her, wondering what else she’d kept close to her chest all this time.
“Drink?” she suggested, pausing at the threshold of a riverfront cafe, tilting her head towards the round wooden tables shaded by pale yellow umbrellas. Lemon trees were dotted between tables, citrus-scented candles already lit in the centre of each.
Cassian nodded, letting himself be herded towards a table at the back, and within ten minutes - like the staff had dropped everything in their rush to serve members of their Lord’s circle - Mor was seated with her back to the river, cold drink in hand as, idly, she stirred the crushed ice with a straw. Cassian didn’t know whether he wanted to grimace or not; the recognition he received on the street had buoyed him once, made him feel like the world lay at his feet.
It felt sour, now.
He shook his head, fingers curling around a tall glass of water. Gratefully he drank, but still, he couldn’t stop the curiosity from taking hold whenever he looked over at the blonde he’d come to view as a sister.
Really— what else had Mor neglected to tell him over the centuries?
“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat after letting the silence stretch for a beat too long. “Are you ever going to tell me about the human you mentioned back in Illyria?”
Mor’s face fell. Her fingers slackened around the edge of her glass. “Cass…”
He shook his head. “Come on. Don’t you think it’s been secret long enough?”
She hesitated, the bracelets at her wrists sliding down towards her elbow with a musical clink as she tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear. He’d known her long enough to know well that it was one of her tells— an easy way of avoiding eye contact. For a moment he was sure that she was going to leave him sitting in silence, her eyes never straying from the ice beginning to melt in her drink, but then, so quietly he barely heard her, Mor said:
“We met during the war.”
Cassian felt his entire body still. Mor’s eyes were dark, like the memory alone veiled them with grief, and each word seemed to tear its way up her throat, like she had to force her tongue to shape the words.
“I was in love— so deeply I thought the world might stop turning if we were parted. I was so sure that once the war was over, we’d be together. We’d be happy, for whatever amount of time fate granted us. And I was prepared to give up everything. To leave here. To leave you, and Rhys, and Az, and never look back. I was ready to leave it all.” A pause. Heavy, loaded with hurt so many centuries old. “And then the wall went up.”
Her voice caught; stuttered.
“It took me years to find a way through, and when I did… it was too late.”
Cassian swore he could feel her loss radiating from her even now, and his heart twisted with sympathy as he said, gently, “Tell me about him.”
Still, Mor didn’t look up. Slowly she reached out, dragged a finger around the rim of her glass as if searching for something to do with her hands.
“She was a queen.”
She.
Cassian blinked.
The words stalled on his tongue, his mouth opening and closing as he searched for the right thing to say. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his fair share of lovers of both sexes over the years, but Mor had kept this secret so close to her chest that he’d had no idea. Not even the faintest suspicion. And a queen…
He supposed it made sense now, why Mor had sneered so decidedly at the human queens they’d met in the Archeron manor.
With a frown carving a deep line between his brows, slowly Cassian leaned forward and placed his hand on Mor’s wrist, watching as her fingers stilled on the edge of her glass.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “And I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me.”
“It was just… easier to keep things the way they were,” she shrugged. Her eyes remained fixed on her drink, on the table beneath it. “It hurt, Cass. To know that she lived her life and then just… died. Without me.” Pain limned her face, tightened her jaw and made her voice a whisper. “Their lives are so brief— so fleeting. Everything I said before… I was just trying to protect you.” Another shrug punctuated her words, and at last - at last - Mor looked up. Her eyes were wide. “Maybe I didn’t go about it in the best way…”
Cassian couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him.
Mor’s eyes rolled, her huff soft as she folded her arms and rested them on the table. “Nesta and I won’t suddenly be the best of friends, but I can admit that I was wrong. I just… didn’t want to see you hurt.”
“I know,” Cassian said, shrugging as he rested an elbow on the arm of the wooden chair, curling his hand into a fist beneath his cheek. “But she’s my mate, Mor.”
It was the first time he’d said the words out loud to her, and although a shade crossed her brown eyes, she didn’t seem shocked. Her sigh was so quiet it was masked by the breeze.
“I know,” she echoed. When Cassian opened his mouth to ask how, blithely she waved a hand. “Truth, remember?” She smiled wryly. “I knew the moment she was tipped out of that Cauldron.”
He shook his head. “I felt it long before that.”
Mor hummed, welcoming the way the conversation shifted, tilted away from the parts of her left most vulnerable. “It wasn’t as strong then. Her mortality… it dimmed it, masked it just like the wall dampens our powers when we cross the border.”
And yet, Cassian thought, it didn’t really matter, did it? The how or why or when. He felt it now, stronger than ever, and as though he was pulled by an invisible string, his head turned, looking out across the river to the mountains on the other side of the city— to the House built right into the rock.
The windows gleamed, reflected the sun. And he wondered… which one did she sit behind? And how far was the distance between them now? Could he measure it in heartbeats?
“I miss her,” he said when he tore his eyes away. “I saw her this morning, and yet I miss her. What the fuck is that?”
Mor reached out to grasp his hand, and when he looked, he swore he saw tears linger behind her eyes, silver lining her lashes.
“You’re lucky” she said. “So lucky, Cass.”
He didn’t feel especially lucky, and yet, as he looked back to the House…
Cassian pushed away from the table.
“Yeah,” he said softly, nodding slowly. And as he stretched his wings and shot Mor a wry smile, he looked back across the city to the House and felt it pulling him back, a line in his chest as tight as a bow string. With one last look, and one last smile, Cassian looked to the woman he’d known for so many centuries and turned his back.
Decidedly he said,
“I’m going home.”
***
It was with aching wings that Cassian landed smoothly on the roof of the House, yet he couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as he tilted his head back and took a last look at the sky, the sun beating down on his skin. The wind ran fingers through his hair, brushed his cheeks, and Cassian savoured it: the elation that came with flying, that feeling that tasted so much like freedom.
It had been harder, flying up from the city rather than down. The muscles that had only slightly pulled with exertion before were protesting now, as if to remind him that he still had a little way to go before being back to full strength, but—
It didn’t matter.
The sun was shining, the day was warm and beautiful, and he’d just taken his first proper flight in weeks. As he entered the House in search of Nesta - because wasn’t he always in search of her these days? - he didn’t think there was anything the Mother could throw at him that could ruin his good mood.
And then he found her.
Nesta was curled on the sofa in the library, her legs tucked beneath her, like she wanted to make herself as small as possible. Though a book lay open in her lap, pages splayed, every line of her was stiff and weighted with tension, like she’d waded into a lake with rocks in her pocket. Her eyes didn’t move across the page— didn’t move at all in fact, not even to glance his way when he entered the room. Nesta kept her attention on the page before her, staring down like she wanted the entire room to swallow her.
Suddenly, Cassian felt like his heart was in his throat.
The grin that had been plastered to his face dropped, his steps slowing, as if he suddenly felt he had to move slowly.
“Good book?” he asked with a breeziness he didn’t feel, throwing his weight down onto the sofa beside her. Anything to provoke a reaction.
He wanted her to scowl, wanted her to glare at him, to ask him what he did with all that battlefield grace when he wasn’t using it. Come on, his eyes seemed to say when they looked her way.
Nesta said nothing.
“I went to a dressmaker today,” he said lightly, casting an arm wide and letting it rest on the back of the sofa. His fingers were an inch from brushing her shoulder, and gods, he longed to close that distance and let his skin brush hers, even if it was just for a moment.
Nesta blinked.
“Maybe you could come with me next time. Let her take your measurements properly.”
“No,” Nesta answered quickly, stiffly, her eyes still fixed on the pages of her book, like she might find solace there if only she searched hard enough.
“You liked the city before,” Cassian said gently, cutting a glance to the bracelet still tied around her wrist.
The one he’d put there.
The one that, even now, she never took off.
“No.”
Hopelessness was a bitter taste, cresting in his chest like a brutal wave as Nesta turned the page in her book. He was certain she hadn’t read a word since he’d entered, and yet she sniffed and focused her attention entirely on the pages before her, like he wasn’t there at all.
He frowned.
The silence stretched, uncomfortable, and sensing that Nesta wanted nothing but solitude, Cassian sighed before rising from the sofa. He stretched his wings, watching her, waiting for her to ask him to stay— waiting for her to just look at him.
She didn’t.
He didn’t know what had set her off today, but somehow, he didn’t think he’d get an answer even if he asked.
“I’ll… leave you to it, then,” he said uneasily.
Nesta sniffed a little, but still, said nothing.
He wasn’t fool enough to think she’d ask him to stay, and yet still, he hoped. Like a fucking idiot, he hoped that she might turn to him and let him in. Cassian felt his heart crack, her pain like a razor that sliced into him with her every dejected blink, and his fingers twitched as he fought the urge to fold her in his arms and hold her until everything stopped hurting.
He couldn’t stop himself from leaning over, though, and dropping a kiss to the crown of her head as he rose to his feet. He didn’t miss the way her eyes closed, like part of her wanted to savour it. His hand cradled the back of her head as his lips touched her hair, like he might be able to hold her to his mouth, kiss away the pain. He curled his fingers in her hair before pulling back, giving her a gentle smile as he eased away.
“I’ll be upstairs,” he said.
Briefly, Nesta looked up. She met his eye, her face filled with regret, and it was all Cassian could do to brush a thumb across her cheek before he left— smiling gently, even as his heart broke.
***
“Well, don’t you look terrible.”
Azriel’s voice was a cutting drawl, brutally acerbic as Cassian entered the small sitting room that bridged the gap between his room and the Shadowsinger’s. His brother sat alone, occupying one of the four chairs that had sat before that hearth for centuries now, with Truth-teller balanced in one scarred palm as he inspected the blade. The flat edge, freshly oiled and polished, shone like a mirror.
Cassian sank heavily into the chair that was always reserved for him in this room, allowing the cushions to swallow him as he rubbed his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “Rough day,” he said with a barely-there shrug.
Az lifted a brow. “It’s barely past noon.”
When Cassian didn’t answer, Azriel laid Truth-teller across his knee, and leaned forward as his shadows darted out to wind around the legs of Cassian’s chair.
Nosy fuckers.
“Rough flight?” Az asked.
“Not really.” Cassian shrugged again, more definitive this time. His eyes flicked up. “Don’t worry. You’ll still win your bet.”
Az smiled, wicked, before returning his attention to the weapon in his lap. “Mor will be furious.”
Cassian rolled his eyes. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and groaned, dragging a palm down his face. “It’s Nesta,” he said from behind his fingers. “Something’s bothered her today.”
After a moment, Az glanced up from his blade. “Rhys was here earlier.”
Another groan rumbled from somewhere deep in Cassian’s chest, a sound so weary he was astounded he didn’t fold. “How many times do I need to say it,” he muttered. “Pushing her isn’t going to help anybody.”
“You know Rhys,” Az shrugged. “He’s curious. And you know as well as I do that he can’t just sit around and do nothing.”
Cassian tipped his head back. “Sometimes I wish he would. That inability to do nothing got him stuck Under the Mountain fifty fucking years ago, and it’s exactly what’s going to turn around and bite us in the ass now.”
Azriel said nothing. Shrewd, he looked Cassian over, taking in every ounce of tension that lay thick across his frame. A small furrow carved a path between his brows.
“How is she?” he asked.
Cassian shook his head as he straightened in his chair, leaning an elbow on the curved wooden armrest and resting his chin atop his curled fist. “She’s in the library,” he answered. “Never seems to leave it. Like the books are the only thing that can comfort her.”
It’s the only escape I have, she’d told him once. A lifetime ago, in that stable below the wall.
Shadows whispered at Azriel’s ankles as the Spymaster took a final look at Truth-teller before sliding the blade back into the rune-embossed sheath. His eyes carried the echo of concern— not as potent as Cassian’s, but still there was something there, lurking just beneath the hazel, that said Azriel cared in that quiet, unassuming way of his for the woman sitting in silence downstairs.
“This is all new to her,” Az said softly. “She needs time to adjust.”
“She’s drowning, Az.”
Azriel sighed. “It’s not good for her, staying closeted away up here. She needs some fresh air. Needs to see people that aren’t us.”
Cassian stilled.
People that aren’t us.
Something clicked.
“Of course,” he murmured. “She won’t go into the city, but maybe… Maybe I can bring someone to her instead.”
Az looked confused, but Cassian leaned forward in his chair.
“I need you to do me a favour.”
***
The early afternoon light slanted across the library, warm where it fell across the patterned carpets. The room was washed with ochre, bright and rich, and yet—
Nesta hadn’t moved since Rhysand had left, frozen like one the statues that used to grace her father’s gardens.
Motionless and cold as stone, she sat with the same book in her lap that she had been pretending to read when Cassian had returned from the city earlier, the pages unturned, unread, as cracks formed in her chest that felt like valleys. She had watched the sun trace a path across the sky, pretending to read in the hopes it might help her forget all else, but it was useless. Just like the statues in her father’s garden, she was stiff, immovable— her eyes flat and hollow, feeling more like an imitation of life than anything else.
Bitterly, she sighed.
And just when she was about to close the book and give up altogether, the library door opened with a whisper against the carpeted floor. Cassian entered first, shouldering his way through the doorframe, holding the door open for Azriel and, behind him, a woman that Nesta did not recognise. A woman with wings— an Illyrian.
“Hey, Nes,” Cassian said, his voice quiet, like she was a deer he didn’t want to startle.
She blinked— said nothing. Both Azriel and the woman smelled of cold, like snow and wind, and though she wanted to ask so many questions, she couldn’t find the energy to speak.
The stranger stood in the centre of the library, the light gliding smoothly over her burnished skin as warm brown eyes took in the scene before her. With something like wonder on her face she looked at the windows offering a vista of the city below, and only with effort did she tear her attention away, noting the towering shelves that lined the walls before letting her gaze land, finally, on Nesta, sitting curled upon her sofa.
She took one look at her - just one - before turning sharply on her heel and looking up at Cassian and Azriel both. The move exposed her back, and the wings she kept tucked tight against her spine. As Nesta looked, she fought the urge to gasp, smothering the horror as it built. With the sunlight shining at an angle, each raised welt on the stranger’s wings was cast into brutal relief; deep valleys made by old and deliberate wounds appeared all the more vicious in the direct light, and the membrane of her wings was littered with so much scar tissue Nesta thought it was a wonder she could lift them at all.
But the stranger did not seem to care that the sunlight exposed her scars. She merely tilted her head, the movement causing her ruined wings to shift.
“You can go now,” she said simply.
Azriel nodded, slipping back through the door without another word, but Cassian… he hesitated. The stranger put her hands on her hips, a gesture that suggested she would brook no argument as she jerked her head towards the windows, braided ebony hair falling over her shoulder.
“Go down to the city. Go to Windhaven. Go anywhere. Surely you have better things to be doing than supervising a conversation between friends, General.”
Nesta frowned. Friends— she didn’t think she’d ever had many of those, and yet the dark-haired stranger stood there with her damaged wings, her cheeks still flushed from the cold of wherever she’d been before, and declared herself Nesta Archeron’s friend. She blinked against the strangeness of it, and as she watched, Cassian looked up and met her eye, a glimmer of hope dancing across his face that made some small part of her want to reach out and grasp it, if only to keep that spark in his eyes for a little while longer.
At length, he nodded.
“I’ll be training on the roof if you need me,” he said.
The woman grinned.
“We won’t,” she said, so saccharine it almost pulled a laugh from Nesta’s throat. Even Cassian smiled softly at that, his eyes flicking back to Nesta as if he, too, had sensed the laugh she’d almost loosed. Holding his hands up in surrender, he backed away, slipping through the door without another word. In his wake, the woman turned and offered Nesta a smile that was gentle and soft— kind in a way so few had ever been towards her.
“Nesta?” she said, walking slowly across the library floor. “It’s me. Emerie.” She gave her a small wave. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”
There was hesitation in the way Nesta unfolded on that sofa, letting her feet drop to the floor as she sat up straighter. Every move was slow, like she was still waiting for a trick to be revealed. Her eyes darted to the door, but Emerie shook her head.
“They’re gone,” she said with a shrug. “Nosy busy-bodies the pair of them, but I figured it would be good for us to catch up, just the two of us.” She nodded to the sofa, to the empty space that yawned beside Nesta. “May I?”
Nesta didn’t know what to say.
Suddenly, she felt the absurd urge to cry. The encounter with Rhysand that morning had plagued her all day, the words he’d said thrown back at her in the empty silence of the library. If not for Cassian - and Azriel, she supposed - Nesta didn’t think she’d see a single friendly face, what with Elain rarely able to leave her bed, and it was beginning to build now— a kind of loneliness she’d never really felt before, starting to wear her thin.
She looked to the door again, nodding as Emerie sat down, adjusting her wings with stiff movements over the low back of the library sofa.
“Cassian has been kind to me,” Nesta began, “but I’m glad to see another friendly face.”
Emerie’s brow furrowed. “Are they in short supply around here?”
Nesta shrugged. “You could say that.”
Her eyes travelled to Emerie’s wings, to the scars right down the centre of each. The injuries were a mirror of one another, the jagged edges and raised tissue in the exact same place, like somebody had taken a careless hand to each wing with purpose. Emerie’s face turned a shade paler as she watched Nesta take in those deliberate wounds.
“My father is a cruel man,” she said in explanation, as if it were the only thing that needed to be said.
Behind her ribs, Nesta felt her heart constrict.
“So was my mother,” she whispered in answer. Her eyes went to the scar on her thumb, the brutal reminder of all she’d endured. “And my grandmother, too.”
Emerie pressed a hand to that scar on Nesta’s thumb, as if she might be able to mask it somehow. “I trust they’re gone now?” Nesta nodded, and Emerie patted her hand lightly, like the news pleased her. “Good. Maybe soon, my father will be too.”
Her voice was blithe and dry, and yet there was still a spark in her deep brown eyes, one that Nesta suspected Emerie had fought hard to rekindle. She studied the woman before her— Emerie’s scars so much more obvious and devastating than Nesta’s own, and yet… Emerie had written her letters, had found joy in her books. Was still living, despite it all.
“How do you…” Nesta started. Failed.
How do you carry on?
How do you open your eyes each morning and still drag yourself from bed, despite everything you’ve endured?
Emerie seemed to understand anyway.
“He gave me life,” she answered, “but that doesn’t mean he can bend me to his will. He might have broken me once, but that doesn’t mean I am without value.” She shuddered, cleared her throat. “And besides, broken things can always be mended. And they are always stronger afterwards.” She met Nesta’s eyes without fear, and if she noticed the silver there, she said nothing. After a moment, her dark eyes sparked. “But I didn’t come here to cry, Nesta Archeron from Below the Wall.”
She said it like it was a title, and Nesta couldn’t help the wry huff of a laugh that escaped her.
“Then why are you here?” she asked with a raised brow.
Emerie grinned in answer, lifting up the canvas bag she’d brought and pulling out a book. “I’m here because I’m sick of talking books with you over letters. They’re so incredibly drawn out and slow. I’d rather do it in person.”
She handed it over, the cover emblazoned with the name Sellyn Drake. Nesta felt the smile pull at her mouth, a feeling so foreign these days that she almost wanted to hide it.
“The smuttiest I could find,” Emerie said before Nesta could bury that smile beneath a glare. When Nesta looked up, the Illyrian’s eyes were practically dancing with glee, and Nesta couldn’t help it. She laughed— laughed, for the first time since Hybern.
She’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
She felt her face drop, felt heat build behind her eyes. Not the burn of the silver fire, but the warmth of tears threatening to spill, and Emerie leaned over, patted her on the hand once again, as if to tell her it was okay— to cry if she needed to.
Nesta shook her head, forced away her tears. Emerie smiled softly, and as if already knowing what they needed, a silver tea service appeared on the low table before the sofa, steam rising in curls from a decorated silver teapot. Courtesy of the House, Nesta assumed, and for a moment her mind went back to what Rhysand had said earlier, about the House’s magic changing.
She hadn’t asked for the tea.
And yet there it was, two porcelain cups sitting beside a bowl piled high with sugar cubes, a pair of small silver tongs lying perfectly straight alongside. Nesta tilted her head, frowned as the tea fragranced the air, but said nothing as Emerie clapped with delight and reached over to lift the teapot, filling both porcelain cups before reaching for the sugar.
“You know, I was surprised,” Emerie began after a moment, dropping a cube of sugar into her tea, “when the almighty General of the Night Court came into my father’s shop and asked for book recommendations.”
“Like I said,” Nesta shrugged, leaving her own tea to cool. “He’s been kind.”
Emerie raised a brow. “More than kind, I’d wager.”
Nesta felt the heat of a blush on her cheeks, but flipped open the cover of the Sellyn Drake novel instead of looking up and meeting her friend’s eye. Still, Emerie pressed.
“Come on, Nesta. You’ve got to be sleeping with him.”
Nesta’s mouth dropped open— in disbelief, in protest, in laughter; she wasn’t sure. At length she took her head, dipping her gaze again.
“No,” she answered at last.
Emerie almost choked on her tea. “What? Why?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch as disbelief wrote itself across her face. “Nesta, he’s enamoured with you. And you obviously feel the same.”
Nesta waved a hand, refusing to focus on how obvious she apparently was. “Before, maybe. But it’s different now.”
“It’s easier now,” Emerie countered. “Surely.”
Nesta shook her head once more. “No, it’s not. I’m not…” she trailed off. Didn’t know how to say it. “I’m not who I was before.”
Emerie shrugged as she set down her tea. “I think he’d love you anyway.”
It was Nesta’s turn to choke.
That word— love.
She’d stopped him from saying it. Hadn’t been able to bear it; didn’t think she could stand to hear the words fall from his lips, to hear him tell her he loved her, when the woman he had fallen for was gone.
“I’m not me anymore,” Nesta whispered.
“The Nesta Archeron that wrote me letters to thank me for lending her books…” Emerie reached out, taking Nesta’s hands in her own. Her palms were warm, and Nesta wanted to pull away, afraid that the flames might make an appearance, but Emerie held tight. “I’m certain that I’m talking to her right now.”
She pushed before Nesta could protest.
“I know what it is to be… irrevocably changed by someone else’s hand. After my father cut my wings…” She shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to you in Hybern. Azriel wouldn’t tell me anything beyond the basics when I asked before he brought me here, but I think I know a little of how you’re feeling. I felt like my father had robbed me of everything that made me who I was.”
“They couldn’t heal them? Your wings?” Nesta thought of Cassian’s wings; entirely rebuilt. The way he’d looked so mournfully to the windows over the past few days, like the inability to fly had been a wound in itself. She didn’t know how Emerie had coped, if flight was as integral to the Illyrians as Cassian had made out.
Emerie shrugged. “Not in Illyria. And certainly not while my father lives. Maybe someday.”
Silence fell, but not uncomfortable. Emerie offered her a small smile.
“My point is that I remembered who I was, eventually.” Her eyes glinted. “And besides, I don’t think the General is a fickle man. I mean it, Nesta. I saw his face when I arrived. He’s exactly the same as when he walked into my shop and asked what kind of books a mortal woman might enjoy.”
Emerie’s face was soft, and Nesta glanced to the door as if expecting him to walk through it, and a small, tiny voice at the back of her mind, whispered that maybe… maybe he would still love her, regardless of what had changed.
And as she looked at Emerie, suddenly…
Suddenly, the darkness didn’t feel quite so impenetrable. Like there might be a crack somewhere that would let the light in.
“Now,” Emerie said, sinking back against the cushions and letting her wings stretch the little her scars would allow. “Are we going to keep being maudlin? Or are we going to discuss this?”
She held up the Sellyn Drake novel with one hand, its pages gilded by the afternoon sun. Nesta managed a smile, reaching for her tea and lifting the porcelain to her lips as she jerked her chin at the book Emerie held aloft.
“Go on then,” she said. “Show me just how smutty it gets.”
***
After a handful of hours, when the sun had gone down and darkness gathered on the horizon, Cassian ventured back downstairs.
It had been agony, forcing himself to remain on that roof, throwing the same punches and tossing the same daggers in a cycle, and over the course of the entire afternoon he’d tried hard to keep his mind away from the library beneath his feet. Away from the woman inside it.
Nesta hadn’t left the library yet, and Emerie hadn’t ventured upstairs to ask whether Azriel could winnow her back home.
Cassian wondered whether something had gone wrong.
After retrieving the dagger he’d just thrown from the chest of a training dummy, he abandoned the pretence and headed inside, his boots heavy on the stone floor. With each step the library grew nearer, and the silence in the House was so complete even his breaths seemed to echo.
The door was still firmly closed when he reached the hallway, the sconces lining the walls glowing gently as he approached.
And as Cassian reached for the door handle…
Nesta laughed.
The sound drifted through the thick wood of the library door, the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was enough to make him weak, and fuck, he’d die for that laugh.
He gripped the handle to steady himself, fingers curling around the metal, but he didn’t turn it. Even though he wanted so desperately to open that door and see her smiling…
Softly he drew away from the door, smiling to himself as Emerie’s laugh joined Nesta’s. Another peal of it rang through the hall, following him as he turned his back and walked away, chasing his steps as he headed right back the way he came. And as the sun fell fully behind the mountains and left the House of Wind in shadow, Cassian looked over his shoulder and heard that laugh again, quieter now but no less precious, and felt hope bloom in his chest.
Chapter 2 for @nessianweek day 6…. because uh… viking!Cassian is a legend? We're squinting with this one.
After an evening spent in the lord's mead hall observing the Danes and their ways, Nesta finds herself in trouble when an unfriendly Norseman follows her through the streets of Jorvik. Fortunately for her, she's already caught the eye of a man who'd sooner spill a river of blood than see her harmed...
(previous chapter // next chapter)
The business of negotiating land, it seemed, took hours.
In the lord’s hall, behind a wooden door carved with the image of a great tree encircled by a snake, the men disappeared. After briefly being shown to their lodgings, Nesta and the other ladies of the court had been escorted back to the hall, like the Danes didn’t trust them enough to give them free reign about the city just yet. And so, as the king and Rhysand and their most trusted men remained ensconced behind those doors, locked away for hours to debate the lines of their treaty - which towns and rivers would fall under the rule of the Danes, and which fields and roads would remain Saxon - Nesta studied that tree. Seated on a long wooden bench, she traced each meticulously carved branch that stretched towards the edges of the door, admiring the craftsmanship as she followed the tail of the snake that curved around the tree.
Somebody had told her, once, that the Danes thought their world was a mighty tree, and as Nesta sat and watched, she wondered if it was true. If the world was cradled by the boughs of a great oak, then where exactly did they sit, now? Were they in the branches, high enough to feel the light of the sun? Or was their little corner of England the roots of the tree, buried underground, so near to the scales of the beast that surrounded them?
She didn’t know who to ask to find out.
Every now and then, Tomas would leave the room, letting the door slam behind him as he left to fetch whatever parchment or deed the king had requested. Her husband muttered under his breath as he went, glaring at the walls, and not once did he stop to tell her - or any of them gathered outside that room - what was happening inside.
It was only when Rhysand stepped out into the hall and cast his eyes over the court of Wessex assembled before him - interspersed with Danes - that the news was shared. The Norseman’s face split into a ruthless smile as he took in the scene before him, the gathering lit by candlelight as the sun beyond the windows started to wane. The hall seemed to glow, the fire in the middle stirring as logs were added to the dwindling embers.
With a smooth, slippery kind of smugness, Lord Rhysand announced that the vast swathe of territory henceforth to be known as the Danelaw cut diagonally across Britain— so many miles and miles of land, surrendered to the heathen invaders that had looked at these shores and decided to make them their home, at any cost.
It was a wonder, Nesta thought, that King Alfred had left the room with the crown still upon his brow.
“This land has given me many things,” Rhysand began after his announcement, his violet eyes casting over the crowd with an intensity that made Nesta want to shudder. Beneath his eyes, somehow she felt like he could see into her soul— read her mind. “It has given me a new home, and comforts that I could not have dreamed of across the sea.” With a smile that felt almost genuine, Rhysand looked to Alfred like one might look to a brother. “With this treaty between us, I look forward to days of peace.”
Murmurs rose among the crowd; whispered agreements.
But Nesta saw the way Rhysand’s eye glinted in the firelight, the curve at the corner of his lip that made his smile more wolfish than anything else. And somehow, she didn’t think the peace would last.
There was a hunger in Rhysand— in all of his people, too. Did Alfred think a pretty parcel of land might be enough to sate that hunger, to slake their thirst for blood? Nesta looked to the snake carved on the door, its jaws wrapped around the tree that made up their world. The sharp teeth were shadowed by the firelight, the branches of the world-tree seeming to shake as the flames trembled, the light quivering like the sails on one of their ships, caught in the wind.
Servants appeared along the walls, and as Rhysand announced the feast and welcomed the Saxons to his hall and his hearth, Nesta looked back at that snake, and wondered if they hadn’t just walked right into its jaws.
***
In the lord’s hall, woodsmoke tangled with the scent of spices imported from far-off lands— places Nesta had only ever heard about in stories. Places where there was sand underfoot more often than stone, places where the sea was so blue it was deeper than the colour of a summer sky.
We had a ship arrive last week filled with spices— pepper and saffron and cumin. Entirely foreign to these shores without our extensive trading networks, of course, Rhysand had said, filling up his goblet with mead.
Nesta had never tasted anything like it— the meat so delicately spiced, the taste of smoke lingering deliciously on her tongue. Suddenly, she was ravenous. She tilted her head at the mention of the spices the Danes imported. Her father was a merchant after all, and yet… they spoke of lands so distant, where floors were made of tile and temples were erected in the name of yet more gods she couldn’t recognise. She followed the tales Rhysand told with interest as platters of food were laid out on the long tables that housed Dane and Saxon alike, the embers in the fire-pit glowing a vibrant red as smoke drifted up to the hole cut in the roof above, curling past the decorated wooden beams that stretched up from the floor; all of them carved with the faces of great beasts: serpents and dragons, wolves and bears. Mead and ale were poured liberally as conversation rose like the tides, and through it all Nesta sat silently, observing.
“Not good for the soul,” Osbert muttered as he plucked up a piece of chicken between his thumb and forefinger. “Such a rich diet. It heats the blood, fosters sin.”
Tomas scowled, poking at a piece of meat with the tip of his silver knife. “Everything about this place fosters sin, father.”
With a grimace twisting his features, he set his fork back down, the meat untouched. Like to break bread with the heathen was a sin all its own.
Indeed, as the meal ended and benches were pushed back from tables as the Danes rose from their seats to fetch more drink, Nesta noted with a sharp eye how more than a handful of Alfred’s court made haste to retire. Thegns and their wives made their excuses to their king, slipping away into the safety of their lodgings, like they couldn’t bear the peace any longer. Nesta, for one, found that she didn’t so much mind the food or the wine or the hall they found themselves in, and though there was a healthy dose of reservation as she looked at the Danes assembled on long benches either side of the hall, she had to admit that her curiosity was burning like a pyre, so many questions balanced on the tip of her tongue that she knew she could never ask aloud.
What were the creatures carved on those columns lining the room? What stories did they tell, and why were they deemed so important, so beloved, as to immortalise them in the wood?
Further along the table, King Alfred got to his feet. In a move that echoed, Rhysand did too, plucking up his goblet with lithe fingers as his assembled guests began to filter through the tables, the din of conversation rising all around them as formality was shed a little. The Northern lord took a different seat, closer to the fire, and beckoned to Alfred— to the empty seat beside him, illuminated by the flames. Both king and Dane might have claimed that they had left political discussions at the door as soon as dinner had been served, but Nesta knew the world of men too well to think differently. Negotiation continued, only this time it masqueraded as pleasant conversation.
Beside her, Tomas moved too, taking up a position directly behind the king, like he thought himself some kind of protector.
He didn’t sit down.
Only Nesta remained where she was. Even Osbert rose, a grunt of displeasure leaving him as he drifted to the edge of the room, taking up a seat against the wall, like still he feared someone was going to stick a dagger in his spine. Nesta didn’t think she could blame anybody for trying; Osbert watched with scrupulous eyes, speaking to no one, and giving no one leave to approach him. His silver cross shone in the low light, and every now and then the priest would wrap his fingers around it before lifting it to his lips, like showing his reverence to the cross might protect him in a hall so filled with heathens.
And yet Rhysand, she noted, recently baptised as per the terms of the treaty with Alfred, didn’t look particularly overcome with religious zeal of his own.
She supposed she wouldn’t be, either. Alfred and her husband might have thought Rhysand had taken the sacrament in all honesty, but he had been raised to believe in so many gods— what was one more added to his pantheon?
What was one more, when it brought him England?
Such a small price to pay, and even as he attended Mass on Sundays, she suspected he would still make his offerings to Odin.
She had said as much to Tomas, when he had first informed her of the king’s plan. The treaty they had made.
He had told her to stop trying to understand the politics of men— that it was too difficult a topic for her delicate female mind to comprehend. When he’d turned his back that night, she’d spat in his ale.
And now he stood behind the king, his chest puffed, engorged with his own self-importance, and as the firelight cast shadows across his face, Nesta half wondered if it would make her a terrible wife to wish that peace fell apart. To hope for a Danish blade to find a home in Tomas’ spine.
There were certainly enough Danes gathered beneath that roof to do the job.
She cast her eyes across them, taking in the way they raised their drinking horns, and the game pieces scattered across so many tables as they played a game she didn’t recognise. Her gaze roved across them all, until—
Across the hall, her attention caught on one Dane in particular.
Caught and held, like no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bid her eyes to look away.
It was the one from earlier— the one who had been fighting outside the hall. He lounged against the wall now the banquet was finished, one foot up, clad in leather with hair down to his shoulders. He looked… cleaner now. The blood had been washed from his face, his shirt exchanged for a fresh one, dyed a deep burgundy with not a single crease to mar the fabric. None of the men were armed, but there was a space at his hip where a dagger might rest, and over the broad span of his shoulders, she thought that the hilt of a sword might look at home there, peeking out from above his back. His eyes glinted in the firelight, and a well-trimmed beard graced his jaw. Silver beads were threaded through his hair, which was braided at his temples. The Northmen were known for their… vanity, Nesta thought wryly, but perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible thing. The leather he wore was polished and smooth, if a little worn, and his hair shone in a way that was unseen amongst the Saxons.
He was… curious, Nesta thought, tilting her head as she watched him beneath the candlelight.
The distance between them felt like nothing— like she might reach out and feel the fabric of his tunic beneath her fingers, and as she watched, not quite sure of whether she wanted to widen the space between them or diminish it, he lifted his chin and found her staring, their eyes meeting with something that felt like a thunderclap, a bolt of lightning to her soul.
He raised his goblet; a toast across the fray.
His eyes sparked, and at his side, the warrior with the scarred hands muttered something before shaking his head. The first leaned close to whisper something in the ear of the second, and when the second pulled back, his lips were curved with an indulgent smile as he rolled his eyes. In tandem, both men looked across the room, pinning Nesta to the spot when their eyes found her. The first tilted his head, his eyes still trained on her as he drew his lip between his teeth, eyes aflame as he let drop the foot that he’d had resting against the wall.
Slowly, he ran a finger across his lip, his interest written plainly across his face.
And when that look in his eyes said he was about to approach her…
Nesta’s heart stopped.
Without hesitation she tore her eyes away, back to her husband and her king, and Nesta really did feel apprehension then, like a knot in her gut she couldn’t loosen. Her blood felt too thin, like there wasn’t enough air. In her chest her heart hammered, because what would happen if that Dane decided to cross the hall to speak to her? Her mind reeled.
Did she want to know the sound of his voice? To know what her name might sound like when shaped by his northern tongue?
Tomas would have her flogged when they returned to Wessex.
She looked to him now, but her husband did not smile or speak as she rose from her seat and joined him at the king’s back. Tomas only glanced at her and the wine still in her hands, his lip curling. After a moment, he took a single step back from Alfred, gripping Nesta’s upper arm with a tight hand. Silent, a muscle ticked in his jaw.
The Dane across the hall retreated.
And still Tomas’ hand curled into the soft flesh of her shoulder, like she was one of his hounds to be restrained, and no wedding ring circled his finger the way it did hers; her golden band little more than a collar binding her to a single master. Had she been given the choice, she never would have married him. Might never have married at all, in fact. There were women in convents who dedicated their life to prayer. Who read history and theology and lived in peace, when the Danes weren’t raiding, and didn’t that sound like a better life than this?
Her father had sold her to Tomas, a landless thegn, in order to better his standing with the king. She had been a bartering chip, no more. Tomas had never viewed her as anything more either, and the fact that she had yet to bear him a son and heir had him growing impatient. He was not gentle nor kind nor loving— he was everything she had feared to find in a husband, and she dreamed of that convent life now, every time he touched her.
Nesta spent all of a single heartbeat in her husband’s grip before deciding to retire.
“I’m tired,” she said, setting down the goblet that was still half-full. “The journey left me weary.”
Tomas only made some non-comital sound in his throat. His hand fell away from her arm and without even glancing at her he said, almost as an afterthought, “I may join you later.”
Nesta knew well enough what he meant. If he didn’t find a place in a whore’s bed, he’d come looking for his place in hers.
She said nothing, only dipped her chin to hide the way her jaw clenched. She turned without a goodbye, cutting through the crowd and noticing that most of the other women had already left, too. As if they could sense that the night was about to shift, that the men were getting too deep in their cups. It was a sense all women bear, Nesta thought, an instinct engrained within them all, to know when the men they were surrounded by were about to shed civility and turn into beasts, with nothing but blood on the horizon.
In that regard, no man was different, be he Saxon or a Dane.
Their hands would wander, their ears deaf to any protest.
Quickly Nesta ducked outside of the hall, into the darkness and the cool air of the street outside, and looked towards the lodgings only a short distance away.
Beneath the moon, the narrow streets were silver. The corners were bathed in shadow, and she’d only made it a few steps before she realised there was someone watching her from the darkest of those shadowed corners. She saw the glint of something silver— the moonlight reflecting off a ring or a necklace.
Or a blade.
She pushed down the fear, lifted her chin and slowed her steps. Refused to be cowed.
“Who’s there.”
A dark chuckle answered her.
“Saxon,” a voice said, nasal and pitched too low, like the man it belonged to was trying to sound larger and more imposing than he was. Nesta might have scoffed had she not been certain that it would end with her blood on his hands. Her heart started to hammer.
He stepped into the moonlight. More boy than man, his dark hair was made black by the silver light, the sneer contorting his features making a caricature of the shadows on his face. A too-new scar cut across his nose, and his eyes were flat and cold. He manoeuvred out of the shadows until he was blocking the path ahead, and as Nesta looked behind her, she wondered if she could run back to the mead hall, make it to safety before he caught her.
She looked at the way he braced himself, and knew she wouldn’t make it far.
Her hand strayed to her skirts, where her dinner knife was tied to her belt. It was custom to carry a knife for dining, and though the blade was fine enough to eat with, she knew it wouldn’t do enough damage to the Dane before her. It was too short, too blunted.
He smirked, a cloud passing over the moon that cloaked him with shadow.
“I don’t like Saxons,” he whispered.
“Pity,” Nesta sneered before she could still her tongue.
It was unwise, she knew, and the Dane laughed, cruel and throaty.
“I never asked for an alliance with your king,” he spat, taking a slow step forwards as Nesta took a single step back. “I don’t want peace. I came here for blood— for glory.” He freed a blade from his belt, the curved edge of an axe raised. “And I’ll be getting it— one way or another.”
The moon was almost entirely masked now, plunging them into darkness. Only the sharp edge of his seax glinted.
And then— footsteps. Loud footsteps. Sure and confident.
The clouds cleared, and turning her head, Nesta beheld the Dane from the hall walking casually, carefully, down the street towards them. His eyes were fixed on the Dane with the weapon in his hand, though briefly they flicked to her, running across her from head to toe, as if to check for injury.
In his presence the Dane blocking the way ahead hesitated, the hand holding his seax raised dropping an inch, his fingers slipping on the short handle, as if searching for a stronger grip.
The Dane from the hall closed the distance quickly. His own small axe was tucked back into his belt now, and with one smooth, effortless motion, he freed the weapon and held it to throat of his fellow Northman.
The latter’s axe fell to the floor with a muted clatter.
Nesta took a step back, her spine hitting the wattle-and-daub wall of the building behind her. Even in the darkness she could see the scowl on the face of the Dane that had threatened her, and the unkind twist of his lips as the Dane from the hall pressed the sharp edge of his axe in a little harder, freeing a thin ribbon of blood that spilled down to the hollow of his throat.
“I’ve told you before, haven’t I, Kallon, about what happens to men who follow women down dark streets,” the Dane from the hall hissed. The one at the mercy of his blade - Kallon, Nesta presumed - tried to speak, but the effort was lost when the axe was pressed deeper against his throat, so perilously close to cutting right through. “Did the last scar I gave you fail to teach you well enough?”
Kallon tried to fight against the Dane’s hold, but his movements were pinned by the lethal edge of the axe at his neck. Resentment curled his lip even as his blood stained the ground beneath him, his eyes filled with such a bottomless, relentless hatred that Nesta’s own fingers traveled to her throat, curling around her necklace as if searching for something to grasp.
“Rhys will have my head if I kill you now,” the Dane muttered. “Something about keeping the peace while the Saxons are here. Not confirming their beliefs that we are naught but a violent and lawless people.” He snorted, the inflection in his voice making it clear that he was parroting Rhysand’s words, letting them echo in the otherwise empty street. He raised his free hand, grasping Kallon’s face roughly between his fingers. Blood spilled down the handle of the seax, coating the fingers of his other hand, but the Dane seemed entirely unconcerned as he lowered his face and met Kallon’s eye. When he next spoke, his voice was cold and dark, carrying no hint at all of an empty threat. “But trust me, the next time that I see you…”
He trailed off, letting the threat linger before pulling his blade away sharply. Kallon’s hand immediately banded his throat, covering the small wound.
He looked up at the man who had been but a moment away from killing him, and though his glare remained, he straightened. He was a full head shorter than the other Dane, and not nearly so well-built. Where the other seemed to have been born and raised on a battlefield, Kallon appeared to be the Norse equivalent of Tomas: cocksure, arrogant, and entirely devoid of skill.
Nesta pushed away from the wall, looking away from Kallon and finding her attention snared by the powerful span of the Dane’s shoulders, the way the muscles bunched at his arms as he slid his seax back into his belt.
“Leave,” the Dane hissed.
Kallon hesitated.
“Now.”
Kallon scrambled down the alley, his steps stumbling only once as he hurtled round the corner, bracing a hand on the wall to steady himself. A smear of blood was all he left behind, a crimson handprint made garish by the silver light of the moon.
For a moment, relief swelled in Nesta’s chest.
For just one moment— because then the Dane turned, and fixed all of that ruthless attention on her.
“Dangerous,” he said, his voice low and husky, “for a Saxon woman to be walking these streets alone.”
“Thank you,” she said, brushing a hand down the fabric of her cloak. “For…” she gestured to the mouth of the street where Kallon had disappeared, then nodded to the axe he’d just wielded in her defence. “…That.”
The Dane raised an eyebrow. A scar ran diagonal through it, and his nose was slightly crooked, like it had once been broken, long ago, and hadn’t set completely straight. It made him a rugged beauty, alluring and compelling in equal measure, and when the moonlight shifted and illuminated his face, Nesta thought he might have been the most dangerous man she had ever laid eyes on.
“You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said.
She bristled. “What else am I to do?”
He shrugged. “Do you not have a husband to escort you?”
Nesta scowled, forgetting that this man had just had a weapon against the throat of another. Somehow, she didn’t think he was going to hurt her. When he took a step closer, she didn’t retreat.
“I don’t need my husband to escort me anywhere,” she spat, hardly able to hide the venom in her tone.
His eyes darkened as he pulled his gaze across every inch of her. Even though every piece of her skin was covered, somehow she felt bare beneath his attention, like he was somehow able to see the parts of her she kept hidden. He drifted closer, those eyes like sparks of hazel, and he reminded her of something wild, something prowling in the dark.
He laughed— laughed.
“Tell me sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low brush against her senses. “Was he the man standing behind your king?”
She didn’t answer, letting her silence fill the space between them, but the warrior huffed a sharp laugh, one that was mocking and derisive, that should have made her afraid. But he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth again, letting his laugh devolve into a hum lodged deep in his throat, and as the moonlight drifted again across his beautifully rugged face, Nesta swallowed, and didn’t feel afraid at all.
“He looks weak,” the warrior continued, his lip curling into a sneer. “Can he even lift a sword?”
And oh, if Nesta were a good wife, she would have defended Tomas. She would have spun a tale of his bravery, of his strength, until the warrior before her backed off and left her alone. But she was not a good wife— not made for such things, to be shaped and moulded by her husband’s hands. So instead she shrugged, and looked the Dane before her straight in the eye. They liked their women outspoken, she’d heard. Allowed them to fight beside them in battle, did not consign them to breeding and childrearing— no, these brutish men from the north let their women be as fierce and as ferocious as themselves, and knowing that…
For the first time in her life, Nesta did not hold her tongue.
“He says he can.” She paused, words balanced on her tongue that she’d longed to say out loud since the day she was married. She’d never had the courage, but here, in the presence of this man, she found it— found it in abundance. “But then again, he says he can use his prick, and I’ve never seen proof of that, either.”
The Dane laughed again— louder this time, a true laugh, deep and sure. It echoed. Delight shone in his eyes as he took another step closer.
“Why did you follow me?” she asked, breathing in the scent of him, all leather and smoke and honeyed mead.
“Because these streets are no place for a lady,” he answered easily. When she said nothing - because what was there to say anyway? - he hummed a little, shrugging idly before continuing. “Besides, you were looking at me. In the hall.”
Nesta blinked. “You followed me because I looked at you?”
He grinned. “I followed you because it was clear to me that you liked what you saw.”
God in Heaven, this man.
A breathless laugh escaped her, one softened with surprise. “Are all Danes so direct?”
“Usually.” He lifted his head up, looking to the sky as he took a deep breath. “Life is short, sweetheart. I am a man born and raised for battle. Valhalla could welcome me any day now, should an enemy blade pierce my flesh, so why waste time?”
He took another step, and Nesta swallowed. He was close— close enough to touch, now.
“When I want something…” he continued, trailing off as his eyes dropped to her lips. They flicked back up, catching her gaze and holding it. “I don’t waste the opportunity.”
Nesta snorted. “Spoken like a true Northman.”
He quirked a brow. “Did you expect anything less?” He dipped his head, leaned in close, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Did you think all men are like your pitiful excuse for a husband?”
Suddenly, Nesta couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She had never been one to lose her senses over a man, and yet here she was, feeling her heart racing for all the wrong reasons in the presence of a heathen. It would be so easy for her to reach up, to drag her fingers across his beautiful, rugged face. To feel his heat.
When he laughed, the sound was like honey. Thick and warm and sweet, washing over her as he lowered his head, his lips a breath away from her neck. His hand hovered over her hip— not touching, not yet, but close enough that one wrong move would bring them crashing together, colliding so forcefully she didn’t think there would be anything left of her by the end of it.
When I want something…
His voice echoed in her head, burning and burning in her blood until the heat made her tip her head back, searching for the cool brush of the night air. The Dane took it for an invitation, his hands coming to rest at her waist.
She was too stunned to move.
Her body froze, so entirely still that she half thought she might have forgotten to breathe. And yet the space at her waist was warm, his palm seeming to mould to the shape of her, like it was what his hands had been made for.
“Odin has blessed me, it seems,” he muttered, his voice sultry in the dark.
Still, she didn’t move.
And Nesta thought of those hands— the hands he had on her, spanning her waist, his fingers at her spine as his thumb grazed her hip. Strong hands, firm. She swallowed, fighting the urge to pull herself away, grasping for composure as his thumb made another pass over her hip, a long swipe that had her blood heating.
She didn’t think of what it meant that he was a Dane.
Of the lives those hands had ended.
Of the monasteries on the coast, raided and burned to the ground.
He smiled at her, all lethal grace and beautiful, exhilarating possibility, and Nesta didn’t think of what it meant that his hands were soaked in Saxon blood.
And wasn’t this the worst kind of treachery— the most despicable treason? To not pull back from a Norseman’s touch, when a century’s worth of Saxon blood had been spilled at the hands of raiders just like him?
Maybe it was the mead. Maybe she’d lost her senses.
But damn her— when he held her, when he touched her, part of her wanted to fall right into him, like he was the sea, beautiful and dangerous, and she was standing alone at the edge of a cliff, hands outstretched.
She tilted towards him, each pounding beat of her heart resounding through her with a force that she thought could shatter a shield wall, and when his hand lifted to drag a finger down the column of her neck, lingering at her collarbone, she felt her eyelids flutter, her lips part. It was a question, an invitation, and she felt the heat of him, his lips so close to her own, and knew that he had understood, that the hand he still had circling her waist was an answer in and of itself.
And then—
From the direction of the hall, suddenly light spilled out into the street. Warm and golden and bright— a candle or a lantern, held in someone’s hand. Voices drifted out from the hall, loud and raucous, accompanied by footsteps. Whether a Dane returning home or a Saxon seeking their lodgings, Nesta didn’t wait to find out.
She hurled herself backwards, her mind clearing as the Dane’s hands slid from her waist.
In the absence of his touch, common sense came screaming back. She stood in the dark, in a foreign city, with a Dane’s hands on her— a Dane’s lips close enough to kiss. Madness. It was utter madness. No matter what peace had been agreed between her king and his…
He had killed his way to these shores.
She cleared her throat, putting a safe distance between them. When she glanced up, the moonlight illuminating the planes of his face, she expected to find anger colouring his cheeks, or displeasure narrowing his eyes— the signs she’d grown accustomed to when a man was robbed of what he desired. Instead there was mirth lining the corners of his generous mouth, the starlight reflected in his dark eyes. He didn’t look like a man who had been refused something— no, he looked like a man ready for a challenge, the smile playing on his lips telling her that this might as well have been a game to him.
And the chase, it seemed, had just begun.
“Good night, then,” he said, offering her a shallow bow as he took a step back. The moonlight gleamed along the edge of his seax, the sharp end of the blade shining like mercury in the darkness of the street, Kallon’s blood still staining the edge, and as the Dane rose to his full height, he shot her a wink that had her standing stunned.
“Good night,” she answered.
A grin answered her like a slash in the dark, one that imprinted itself in her memory, carved there like the beasts on the pillars in the hall. And as the Dane slipped away back into the shadows, Nesta didn’t look back as she made her way towards the rooms Rhysand had set aside for Alfred’s court, not daring to glance over her shoulder until she had reached the door, standing in the circle of candlelight emitted by the small tallow candle sitting on a ledge beside the window.
And a small distance away, like he’d followed a hundred paces behind to ensure she got back safely this time, Nesta saw a glint of silver— and that same smile, white in the dark.
Happy @nessianweek! Here's a teeny little one-shot for day 2 ❤️
In the midst of war, Nesta Archeron bandages an injured General's wrist, and as Cassian lets Nesta tend to his wound, he realises there's not a thing in the world that could make him pull away. (ACOWAR fix-it).
********
You’re hurt.
Two little words, whispered at the edge of a battlefield.
Blood— screams and mud, the clouds above threatening rain. A dismal backdrop to those two tiny little words, so small and so simple, and yet so loaded with meaning they were heavy off her tongue, significant enough to turn Cassian’s world upside down the moment they left her lips.
You’re hurt, she’d said.
Like a fool, he’d gazed at her in silence, too stunned to speak and unable to do anything but take her in with widened eyes, studying the loosened braid that he’d watched her pin tightly into place that morning, outside the tents when she thought nobody was looking. Except Cassian was always looking when it came to Nesta Archeron. Always searching for her in a crowded room, always making his way towards her.
Even now, with his wrist held stiffly against his side, he’d found himself walking towards that little circle of logs around a fire pit, instead of towards a healer.
You’re hurt.
He hadn’t said a word to anybody, and not even Rhys had noticed the way Cassian had cradled his injured wrist a little closer to his chest than he should have as he approached one of those logs, close to the flames. It wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had— not by a mile. The skin hadn’t even broken. But it had twisted too far, throbbing now, a sprain that needed to be iced and wrapped but was far from his top priority when his men lay dying in tents nearby, bleeding from injuries so much more lethal than his own.
And then she had spoken.
The fire had cracked, his eyes had lifted. And now here they were, Nesta Archeron standing with the firelight reflected in her eyes, her lips parted and her braid so perilously close to coming undone it looked as though someone had just plunged their fingers right into it. And gods— Cassian wished the situation was different. Wished that he could plunge his fingers into her hair and make her so undone.
“What happened?” she asked, her eyes fixed on him, like the world around them had ceased to matter.
“Nothing,” Cassian quipped, wanting to keep her eyes on him— never wanting to feel the lack of her attention.
Softly, Nesta snorted. Her hand reached out, lithe fingers curling around his battered wrist, and he couldn’t fight the hiss of pain that escaped his clenched teeth as he moved. A frown creased her perfect brow, and as she lifted her head to look up at him with those mercurial eyes…
There was an order in the way she looked at him. A question, too. And if there was one thing Cassian knew how to do - had been taught to do since before he could even fucking speak - it was follow godsdamned orders.
He didn’t need her to tell him to sit down.
Silently, Cassian sank down onto the nearest log by the fire, hardly tearing his eyes away from hers for long enough to make sure the log there was empty. Concern flickered in those eyes, but with his hand in hers, her fingers wrapped around that bruised wrist, Cassian had forgotten to feel the pain. Had forgotten entirely what it was to hurt the moment she’d touched him.
The Mother only knew how she’d been able to tell he was hurting when nobody else had.
“How do I fix it?” Nesta asked quietly, tracing her fingers lightly across his skin. It didn’t hurt— her touch was so light he barely even felt it, and he might almost have convinced himself that he was imagining it, if not for the way his nerves tingled where she touched him, burning as if to remind him that it was real— that Nesta Archeron stood before him, despite the shadows beneath her eyes that said all she wanted to do was fall down and sleep.
“It’s a sprain,” he said gently. “I just need to ice it before wrapping it—“
She was already reaching for the bandages, pulling out a roll of gauze.
Cassian wasn’t a fool. He knew that Rhys and Feyre were watching with dumbfounded stares as Nesta’s eyes flicked up, her gaze catching against his for a moment. Cassian held her stare for far longer than he should have, swallowing thickly as Nesta dragged her index finger across the back of his hand, a touch so tentative it was as though her fingertips were only drifting across his skin.
His eyes closed.
His heart was beating loud enough that he was sure she’d hear it, but Nesta only held his wrist in one hand, her palm smooth against his callouses as she started to lower herself to the ground. He heard the rustle of her dress, the shifting of her feet, and snapped his eyes back open. Logically, he knew that if she sat before him, she’d have a better angle for wrapping his wrist. Logically, he knew there was nothing in it.
And yet he knew, too, that he couldn’t bear the sight of her kneeling before him.
Not now— not yet. If either of them were to get on their knees it would be him, and it wouldn’t be to wrap her fucking wrist.
“No,” he said, his good hand catching her by the waist, his fingers landing on her middle just firmly enough to give her pause. Confusion flashed briefly across her face before Cassian offered her a wry smile. “Let’s not dirty that pretty dress, hm?”
She rolled her eyes as his good hand fell away, opting to sit beside him on the log instead. She didn’t bother to point out that the dress was plain enough, and already mud-stained at the hem, and Cassian didn’t bother to mask the soft smile when she sat beside him, her thigh pressing against his, her scent encompassing him. He twisted to face her, his wrist barking at the pressure as she pulled it across and into her lap, but it didn’t matter. How could it?
She began to wrap the bandage tight around his wrist, and Cassian winced. But Nesta didn’t waver and didn’t hesitate, meticulous in her work as she was with everything else. Only once did she pause, her eyes darting up to his face before falling back down again.
“Your face,” she whispered as she continued to wrap, her eyes landing on his cheek.
Cassian frowned.
Lifting his good hand, he brushed his fingers across his cheekbone, his fingers coming away red.
A small cut— tiny. He hadn’t even felt it.
“It’s fine,” he said.
She nodded, winding the bandages tight about his wrist.
“Will it scar?”
Cassian smiled softly. “Worried, sweetheart?”
She snorted gently, shaking her head in a way that was almost indulgent— endearing in a way that had Cassian forgetting all about the chaos around them; the fact that they were still dealing with the bloody aftermath of battle was so far from his mind it was almost laughable. All that mattered to him now was the woman before him, and gods, he hoped that roll of gauze never ran out. Hoped she might sit there with her hands on him forever.
“Don’t you find my scars dashing?” he added, tilting his head and offering her his most cocksure smile, a suggestive quirk of one brow.
Nesta’s silver eyes caught his, the air between them tightening— unbearably, impossibly. His heart stumbled, like just looking into her eyes was enough to have him tripping over himself, and as she finished her work on his wrist - tying off the bandage with a neat little bow - she sat back a little, as if preparing to leave. And suddenly Cassian felt like it would be the worst thing in the world - the most painful wound he could imagine - to have to watch her walk away.
He felt her fingers slide away, her touch retracting, retreating, and before he paused long enough to think it through, Cassian’s hand darted out, grasping hers. Tightly, he held her. So tightly, like he might convey in that one gesture all the words he didn’t know how to say yet, all the things he didn’t know how to voice. His thumb brushed along hers, tracing along the scar at the base of her thumb; the evidence of her own tortured past.
And when Cassian looked into her eyes, he swore the entire world was held there.
Still, she looked to the cut on his cheek. Warmth took root in his chest— because she cared, and she worried, and even though Cassian loved every member of the family Rhys had given him, the scars of his own childhood ran too deeply, and the notion that someone else gave a damn about him still made something twist deep inside him, made him want to weep.
He didn’t care if the cut scarred. If the battle left a mark on his skin.
It had led to this moment, and how could he ever regret that?
Distantly, he knew they were being watched, that conversation had fallen into stunned silence on the other side of the fire. If he looked up, he knew he would be met with Rhys’ startled violet gaze and Feyre’s slack-jawed surprise. But Cassian didn’t look up. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t look anywhere else but at her, like she was the most wondrous thing the universe had ever seen fit to create.
Slowly, he linked his fingers through hers, twining them together in a way that said he didn’t want to be apart from her just yet. Nesta blinked, her eyes heavy.
“Thank you,” he whispered, nodding to his bandaged wrist.
She didn’t answer— like she couldn’t find words. Cassian brushed his thumb across her hand again, and felt the way her breath caught. He gripped her hand tighter, and felt her do the same, clinging to him in the midst of the chaos, like the peace they had curated in this small corner was more precious to her than anything.
Footsteps sounded, breaking that peace. A familiar tread cut through the mud, and when Cassian looked up, Mor lingered by the edge of the circle, the firelight glimmering against the armour she still wore. Her blonde hair was pushed away from her face, her braid lying idle over one shoulder, and as he watched she stopped short, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her. And then they narrowed— her face tightening with suspicion and disapproval as she looked at the way Cassian’s fingers were twined with Nesta’s. She opened her mouth to speak, but Cassian looked away, looked to Nesta.
“You look like you need to sleep for a week,” he said gently, taking in the weariness that she was wearing like a cloak about her shoulders. With his free hand, he swiped at the dirt that had smeared her perfect cheek. Nesta raised a brow.
“I’m not the one that just fought a battle.”
Cassian smiled wryly. “No, you’ve just been dealing with the aftermath.” He nodded to the bandages. “Hardly an easy feat.”
She rolled her eyes, and Cassian’s heart beat faster at the sight. He could hear Mor speaking— Rhys, too. It didn’t register.
“Come,” he said, rising to his feet.
He didn’t drop her hand.
Mor’s eyes fixed on their interlinked fingers, and as Cassian turned his head, he saw Rhys’ mouth parted with surprise, and Feyre’s eyes were alight as her attention bounced between him and her sister. He refused to let it change anything— refused to let the moment he yearned for be lost. Once more, Cassian squeezed her fingers.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he said firmly.
“If that’s your attempt at seducing me, it’s woefully inadequate.”
He grinned. “One step at a time, princess. One step at a time.”
Throwing an arm around her shoulder, he led her away from that circle of logs around the fire. Only when they reached her tent did he draw away, putting some small amount of distance between them, even though it made his soul ache. Nesta sighed, like the weight of the past twenty-four hours had suddenly come upon her in a wave, and it was all Cassian could do to tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheekbone, skating down to her jaw.
“Sleep,” he said gently, nodding at the flaps of the tent where, from inside, a golden fae-light was glowing. “And in the morning…”
His throat began to close as he pulled away, wondering if this was a one-time thing. A moment fostered by intense emotion— the fear and adrenaline that came with a battle. What if, in the morning, Nesta woke and regretted every tender touch? What if, when the sun was high in the sky, she wished she’d never been so vulnerable?
“In the morning?” she asked.
Cassian reached out for her again, flattening his hand against her cheek. When she turned her face into his palm, he swore his heart hammered against his ribs so hard, he thought it might have bruised.
“Come find me, sweetheart,” he said, and he didn’t know whether it was an offer, a request, or a plea borne of desperation.
Nesta looked up, met his eyes.
“Okay,” she whispered.
And as she slipped away, her eyes already heavy with sleep, Cassian thought that single word might have been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard in all his life.
Okay.
Taglist: (if you would like to be added or removed, let me know!) @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @valkyriesupremacy @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome
A Nessian scene (from something I might be working on soon, no commitments) that popped into my head in the middle of the night:
"What are you doing?", Cassian demanded, arms still extended. His face was filled with anger and bewilderment.
She paused and turned back, "Going down to the River House. That is where this meeting is, isn't it?"
"It's ten thousand stairs, Nesta. I'll fly us down."
"No, thank you," she threw over her shoulder and continued to make for the stairs.
He overtook her in a few strides "Nes if this is about-"
"This isn't about anything. I have been summoned by the High Lord and the High Lady- I am simply following their orders. Now, if you'll excuse me."
He let her pass but followed her to the wooden door to the stairs. "You're weak and you haven't exercised a day in your entire fucking life, you can't go down ten thousand stairs. You need me to fly you down."
"I refuse to be touched by you. Or anyone else," she simply stated. Cassian tried to not let her words pierce his heart. "It will take you hours to make it to the River House. You want to make everyone wait that long for you?"
"That seems like a problem for the people who put me in this place."
I Can Take the Upper Hand and Touch Your Body: Part One
A/N: it's here! It's officially @acotar-omegaverse-week party people! Did you know there is a serious LACK of Nessian omegaverse? It's a crime. So you know I had to come out here and represent us Nessian girlies. So I hope everyone enjoys Nesta and Cassian "turning up the heat" in hopefully the best way 😉 Seriously, this is very filthy. The plot? Not really there. But there is plenty of smut 😇
Read on AO3 // Next Part
The first thing Nesta notices when the elevator doors open on the fifteenth floor is the scent. It’s unmistakable, a sweet mix of pheromones that is all too indisputable; although this particular scent seems to be tinged distinctly with pine, with the wind kissed breeze that blows off the mountains. Already, Nesta’s body begins to respond as that scent floods her senses, heat flaring through her veins and down to her toes, but she’s quick to snuff out those flames, refusing to let even an ember continue to breathe.
Presenting as an omega had been everything Nesta’s mother ever wanted for her. Since as early as she can remember, it was all Elinor Archeron ever seemed to speak about. She’d brush through the long strands of Nesta’s hair, braiding them back with the same harshness she took to parenting, and remind her eldest daughter that a good omega could secure the best alpha match, ensure the family’s security.
Her mother always made it sound like it was powerful to be an omega, but to Nesta, it felt more like a life sentence. A cold iron collar settling around her neck, around her wrists, shackling her to a life condemned as a trussed up broodmare.
A blessing from the Mother. That’s what Elinor had said when Nesta presented much earlier than most girls. What she said when she threw a ball to celebrate the presentation. What she said when she paraded Nesta around the room, when alphas twice Nesta’s age leered with too sharp teeth and too eager eyes at her body, pawed at her dress and her arms. It took all of Nesta’s willpower to hold her tongue against the word she really wanted to utter the whole night.
Curse.
So when Elinor finally passed, when Nesta was finally free, she became everything her mother would have hated. Cold. Callous. Stubborn. She swallowed enough suppressants until she could push through university and up the corporate ladder. Instead of the simpering, sweet omega the world expected, Nesta became one that snarls and bites. Returned every look she got from an alpha with a sneer of her own, every honeyed word with clipped ones, until alphas preferred to steer clear of her.
Nesta Archeron decided that she may be an omega, but she was in control.
Sighing softly, Nesta weaves her way down the hall and toward the source of the scent. The closer she gets, the thicker that scent becomes. She swears she can feel it wrap around her throat, swears she can taste it on the back of her tongue. It prickles across her skin and beckons her closer still. Nesta has to take a moment to close her eyes and breathe through her mouth, fighting back the fire she can feel threatening to crash over her and flush her skin, the shutter daring to skitter up her spine.
She rolls her shoulders and straightens her spine, continuing down the hall, but her steps stutter to a stop when she realizes exactly which office she’s being led to. Of course. Of course, it would be his office.
Alphas are large by nature, but Cassian Valdarez seems to take it to another level. He’s all wide shoulders and chest, all large hands and thick thighs. With dark waves of hair tumbling down to his shoulders and stubble scraped along the hard cut of his jaw, he looks like the sort of rugged male that belongs deep in the mountains. And yet, despite his size, he always seems quick to disarm with easy smiles and a warm laugh.
Nesta had hated him on sight.
Every cocky smirk that tugged up his lips, every drawled sweetheart that tumbled past them. Every time he called her Nes despite her correcting him on numerous occasions. It all fueled her endless annoyance with him. It didn’t help he’d been all but handed this job, adoptive brother to the CEO of Night Inc. apparently. Alphas were always just handed things.
Nesta doesn’t think she’ll ever forget his first day, when he ran into her in the breakroom. She had snapped at him, as she often did when an alpha dared to look in her direction, but rather than get that wide-eyed shocked expression, the unimpressed curled lip that usually came when she stepped over the line of omega expectations, he had merely thrown his head back and laughed, hazel eyes sparking as though the whole thing was delightful. It was infuriating.
Almost as infuriating as right now.
Nesta doesn’t even bother knocking. She swings open the door and strides right into the office, demanding, “what are you doing here?”
“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” Cassian drawls, looking up from his work with that cocksure smirk of his. “Did you forget that I work here? You’d think my name on the office door would remind you.”
“You know that’s not what I mean,” Nesta hisses, rolling her eyes. “I could scent you all the way from the elevators.”
That comment has Cassian’s grip tightening around his pen enough for his knuckles to turn white. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit. Go home.”
“Is that an order? Last time I checked, I didn’t take them from you.”
“I’m not fucking around, Cassian. Go home and fuck your rut out with your omega,” Nesta bites out, stalking closer toward Cassian’s desk.
She doesn’t miss the way that stupid smirk of his starts to slip for a moment, the way he glances away from her. There’s no other way to describe the expression other than shame and embarrassment. It draws a derisive snort out of her.
“You cannot be serious. You don’t have an omega to help you through your rut?”
“I was working on it,” Cassian growls lowly from between his clenched teeth.
“You’re pathetic.”
The bite in her words is enough to pull his eyes back to hers, the hazel of them blazing around his dilated pupils. “Careful, Nes.”
“Or what?” Nesta drawls with a roll of her eyes. “It is pathetic. What kind of alpha doesn’t have an omega for his rut?”
Cassian pushes up from his office chair, and Nesta is reminded just how large he is. He stands almost a head taller than her, and she has to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. With his wide frame, he practically looms over her, and this close together, all Nesta can do is breathe in lungfuls of his scent, feel that scent wrap around her limbs and send goosebumps prickling across her skin.
“Is that an offer?”
“You wish,” Nesta snaps.
She shoves hard at his chest, but of course he doesn’t even move an inch. Instead, his hands curl around her wrists, holding her there. The warmth of his touch and his dizzying scent still flooding her senses is almost too much. Already, she can feel her body betraying her, can feel flames licking low in her gut.
“You say that,” Cassian says, bending his face down until his breath fans across her lips. “But you forget that I can scent you too. Getting wet and slick thinking about me, Nes?”
With a growl, Nesta yanks her arms free of his grasp. “Fuck you.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to let you do.”
The words are enough to give Nesta pause, but it’s all the opening that Cassian needs. He presses right back into her space, his arm sliding around her back and grasping her waist this time. He pulls her flush against his body until she can feel every hard line of muscle hiding beneath his shirt, until she can feel the hard line growing between his thighs.
Clearly, his rut has well and truly taken hold.
He tips his head down and focuses his attention on her neck, breathing deeply and groaning. His fingers flex, fisting into the fabric of her blouse, and Nesta has to swallow hard as it pulls her closer still. His nose slides over the gland on her throat, and there’s no stopping the whine that tumbles free past her lips, the way her breath hitches in her throat.
No stopping the rush of slick she can feel.
It takes all of her willpower to push him away again, Cassian actually stumbling back this time. His eyes have darkened, a flame sizzling amongst the greens and golds, and that burning gaze is pinned fully on Nesta.
“Sit down,” Nesta demands, forcing the words around the breathlessness threatening to pull her under.
Surprisingly, Cassian obeys, walking backwards and collapsing back into his office chair. Only when she’s sure he doesn’t intend to move again does Nesta reach up under her skirt. She hooks her fingers under the waistband of her panties, slowly sliding them down her thighs, over her knees, and down her calves. She hears the distinct creak of wood as she steps out of them, and when she looks up, Cassian has a death grip on the arm rests of his chair.
She smirks as she walks her way around Cassian’s desk. She pushes the papers there aside, making room for her to jump up. She takes her time sliding back on the desk enough that she can spread her legs and plant her heels on the edge. Makes a big show of lifting up the hem of her skirt until her cunt is fully exposed, reveling in the soft growl that rumbles from Cassian’s chest.
“Mother save me,” Cassian groans, licking his lips. “Look at you.”
Nesta traces her hand down until she reaches between her thighs. She slides a finger through the slick that’s already gathered there, just that small, teasing touch leaving her gasping. She touches herself with more purpose on the next swipe, adding more pressure and continuing upwards until she can trace a circle over her clit. She moans softly, eyes fluttering closed and hips jumping against the pulse of pleasure.
“Gods, you're drenched already, sweetheart. So wet thinking about my cock and my knot, aren’t you?”
Nesta dares to bring her fingers lower again, dares to sink one into her cunt. She’s already produced so much slick, already so keyed up, that she meets almost no resistance. She pulls back and presses in two fingers next, whining high in the back of her throat. She moves her hand just how she knows she likes, pressing deep and curling her fingers, her hips rocking to meet every drive of them.
“Add a third finger. Get yourself nice and ready to take my knot.”
Nesta huffs at the command, but there’s no denying that inherent part of her that wants to be good for an alpha. The part of her that preens at an alpha’s attention. The part of her that claws with desperation for more, that demands to be claimed no matter how much Nesta has tried to suppress that instinct. It’s that part of her that has her squeezing in a third finger beside the other two, her entire body tensing at the stretch.
“Good girl.”
The praise has Nesta moaning again. She opens her eyes, finally looking at Cassian again, but it’s instantly a mistake. No longer are his eyes the bright hazel she’s come to know. Instead, they’re dark, the pupils blown out and swallowing his irises. His curls hang loose around his face, only adding to the shadows cutting across his jawline and the stubble lining the skin there, and with every heaving breath, his nostrils flare. She can see his throat bob with every swallow, see the muscles of his forearm flex where his sleeves have been pushed up to his elbow as his grip tightens against the arms of his chair.
He’s clearly holding himself back, and it’s unfair how attractive it is. How attractive he is. It’s almost instinctive, almost involuntary, the way her cunt clenches down around her fingers. The way another whimper is pulled straight from her chest at the sight of him.
“You take your fingers so well. Are you going to take my cock that well, too?”
Nesta huffs, even as she presses her fingers deeper desperately. “Who knew you were such a talker.”
“You like it.” Nesta wants to deny it but can’t, not with the way her body continues to respond to the deep timbre of his voice. “You like when I call you my good girl. Like being my good girl.”
Nesta tosses her head back again, but not before half heartedly rolling her eyes. She continues to drive and curl her fingers, continues to rock her hips against them, but it’s not enough. She tries to press her fingers even deeper, tries to spread them to achieve that stretch she craves, but she’s stuck right on that precipice, release glimmering in sight but still so out of reach.
“Please,” Nesta whispers, her hips jumping off the desk. “Please. I can’t– I need–”
With a growl, Cassian pushes to his feet. His fingers curl around Nesta’s wrist, tugging her fingers free and lifting her hand toward his mouth. Nesta’s breath hitches in her throat as he guides her slick coated fingers between his lips, as his tongue drags slowly over each digit, as his eyes flutter closed and a groan reverberates from deep in his chest.
“Please,” Nesta echoes again.
“Please what?” Cassian asks, even as he reaches for the belt of his pants, deft finger working to unfasten them. “Use your words, sweetheart.”
“It’s not enough. I need your knot.”
It’s hard for Nesta to be annoyed at the return of that infuriating, cocksure smirk of his when she’s still so on edge and desperate. When she feels so empty. It’s hard to think of anything else when Cassian finally finishes unfastening his pants, shoving the fabric of them and his boxers down the thick muscles of his thighs. Hard to think of anything else when the hard line of his cock is finally free from its confines.
Her mouth practically goes dry at the sight of it.
She’s not sure what exactly she was expecting, but she certainly wasn’t expecting the wide girth of Cassian’s cock. She wasn’t expecting the veins that run along the sides of his cock before circling around the center. Wasn’t expecting the thick head already purpling and weeping with his own arousal. She can feel another rush of slick dripping between her thighs in anticipation.
Cassian’s hand curls around his cock, stroking it lazily, but he doesn’t move any closer, doesn’t give Nesta what she needs. What she knows they both need. Instead, that smirk of his only seems to grow with each teasing stroke of his hand. So Nesta spreads her thighs wider still, pressing her hips closer to the edge of the desk. An offering.
“Please, alpha.”
“Fuck.”
Gone is that smirk, his chest heaving with a hitched breath. He finally steps closer into the cradle of Nesta’s thighs, dragging the head of his cock through the mess of slick and arousal gathered there, dragging until he can tease at her clit. His free hand reaches for her jaw, the large span of it enough that his fingers curl down around her neck. He drags his thumb across her bottom lip, leaning in so that his warm breath fans across her cheeks.
His lips slotting over hers is Nesta’s only warning before he presses his hips forward, the tip of his cock sinking into her. Nesta gasps into the kiss, but Cassian merely uses the opportunity to press his tongue into her mouth, to bury his cock another inch. The way he fills her already is unfair.
She owns almost every best knotting toy on the market to help her get through her heats, and yet still, it’s nothing compared to this stretch, to the feel of those veins dragging along the walls of her cunt. Even with how much slick she’s already produced, even with the way she rode her own fingers, he still has to slowly rock his hips before he finally feeds her the rest of his cock until just his knot remains, already swelling at the base.
Cassian pulls back from the kiss, and Nesta is like a marionette with her strings cut, falling back down against the desk with a quiet whine. Cassian doesn’t seem to mind. His hands find her thighs, fingers digging into the flesh as he hoists her legs to hook around his hips.
“Look at how my good girl takes me,” Cassian praises, Nesta clenching down around his cock at the words. “Oh, fuck, Nes. That’s it. You were made to take your alpha’s cock, weren’t you?”
When she doesn’t respond, he pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again, still teasing his knot. His hand trails further up her thigh, calluses sliding deliciously against her skin, until he can press his thumb down against her clit. Nesta cries out at the sensation, her hips bucking up, but Cassian’s hand on her lower stomach keeps her pinned in place.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes!” Nesta gasps out, her voice bleeding into a moan when Cassian rewards her by moving his thumb, tracing circles over her clit.
She’s already too keyed-up that when Cassian continues his ministrations against her clit, when he starts to rock his hips again, she doesn’t even have time to warn him. Her orgasm tears through her, and she clenches down hard around his cock, a moan of Cassian’s name falling from her lips as she tosses her head back.
“Fuck, that’s it. You’re so fucking gorgeous when you come all over my cock.”
Cassian continues to move his hips, working her through and stretching out her release until it starts to bleed into overstimulation. But he doesn’t stop. He plants both his hands on the desk, Nesta’s splayed legs now draped over his forearms, as he snaps his hips at a brutal pace. Nesta reaches a hand back over her head, gripping onto the edge of the desk just so she has something to hold onto, to keep herself from sliding back too much, a mess of high pitched whines and moans as Cassian continues to drive his hips into her.
Every forward thrust has Cassian’s knot catching, teasing, and Nesta’s thighs start to shake in anticipation, more slick adding to the mess already between her thighs. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’s aware of the breathy pleas, the moans begging him, that continue to pour from her throat but she can’t find it within herself to care, not with the steady thrum of pleasure coursing through her body and drawn forward by the very man fucking into her hard.
A few more snaps of his hips, and Cassian drives home, burying his knot in her cunt. Nesta isn’t sure she’s ever felt more full in her life, letting out a choked gasp at the utter stretch of his knot pressing against her walls. She dares to clench down around it, and Cassian groans lowly, rocking his hips shallowly as his cock floods her with the warmth of his own release.
Nesta slumps back against the desk, Cassian finally setting her legs back down. She lets her eyes flutter closed, set on catching her breath while they wait for Cassian’s knot to go down, but then she feels his hands slide up over her hips, over her waist. Her eyes snap open again when those hands move across her chest, his fingers finding the buttons of her blouse.
“What are you doing?” Nesta asks, craning her neck enough that she can peer at Cassian’s hands in confusion.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to get my hands on these,” Cassian explains, tugging the fabric of her blouse apart.
He pulls down the cups of her bra, but Nesta barely has time to gasp at the cool air of the office on her breasts before his warm hands enclose around them. His hands are large enough that each palm cradles the whole swell of her breasts, and he uses that to his advantage as he kneads and squeezes.
“Can you come again just like this?” Cassian asks, sliding his thumbs across her nipples. “I bet you can.”
“Fuck,” Nesta whines, her body already responding, that heat already building again and pooling low in her gut.
“Come on, sweetheart. I want to feel you really milking my knot.”
It’s a bit awkward with the way they’re still joined, but Cassian is able to lean over her, his mouth closing over her breast. His tongue drags and swirls around her nipple, Nesta arching up toward his face with a loud moan. He keeps his movements slow and languid, his teeth grazing teasingly along her skin. With his knot still pressing securely against the walls of her cunt, all the sensations are almost too much.
“Cass… Cassian,” Nesta pants, burying a hand in his hair, her nails digging into his scalp and fingers tugging at the dark strands.
The response only has Cassian doubling his efforts. Every slide of his tongue, every groan that reverberates against her chest, every drag of his calluses as he kneads her other breast with his hand, it all sends Nesta careening higher and higher. Cassian dares to rock his hips again, to press his knot even deeper, and it’s like a dam breaking. She comes again with a shout, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes at the pleasure that ricochets through her veins.
Cassian releases her breast with a quiet pop. “Good girl. Squeezing my knot so well.”
Nesta whimpers at his words, at the way she can feel his cock twitch again where it’s pressed so deep, can feel more warmth from his seed filling her cunt. It has another aftershock rocking through her, and Nesta tosses her arm over her eyes, her head feeling dizzy with the high of it all. Her heart pounds in her chest, her body already feeling wrung out, but still that instinctual part of her mind, that omega piece of her always clawing for release, begs for more.
His knot finally subsiding, Cassian pulls his cock free, and it takes all of Nesta’s willpower to swallow down her whine at the loss. She feels so empty, that inner part of her all but raging at the lack of an alpha’s knot keeping her stuffed full.
“Fuck, we made quite a mess, didn’t we?”
Nesta does whine when Cassian’s thumbs spread her cunt wider, and she doesn’t have to look to know the truth of his words. She can feel the combination of arousal, of slick, of Cassian’s seed leaking out of her and making a mess of her thighs and his desk.
“We can’t have that, can we?”
A quiet thump echoes in the office around them, and Nesta pushes herself up into a seated position in alarm, only to find Cassian now on his knees before her. His hands grasp at her thighs, tugging her further across the desk until she’s half hanging off the edge. It’s the only warning she gets before Cassian buries his face between her thighs.
Nesta’s feet scramble desperately at his shoulders, her hand shooting out to clutch at the dark strands of Cassian’s hair, but whether it’s to keep herself balanced or to keep him exactly where he is, she isn’t sure. He devours her with a ferocity that Nesta can barely wrap her mind around. His tongue fucks into her and curls, gathering all that mess, all while his lips continue to move against her. He lets out a groan, and Nesta swears she feels the reverberation all the way down to her toes.
It’s obscene, the way he works his mouth and eats her out. The way he keeps his darkened gaze on her the whole time while he does it. Even from between her thighs, Nesta can see that smirk of his. He turns his attention to her clit, the hot, wet slide of his tongue swirling circles across the bud, and Nesta’s whole body bows forward with a choked off moan. She’s not sure if she wants to rock her hips or pull away. Not that it matters, anyway, Cassian keeping a firm grip on her thighs and holding her to his face.
Heat courses through Nesta’s entire body, and she already knows she’s not going to last much longer, not with the way Cassian continues to play her body. He licks a thick stripe over her cunt, and when he returns to her clit, he sucks it between his lips.
Nesta’s release hits her with enough force, so quickly, that it takes her by surprise. Her throat feels hoarse from all her shouts and moans, her cunt still clenching and fluttering through the aftershocks even after Cassian pulls away. It seems almost unfair, that he’s had her orgasming so many times when it’s meant to be his rut she’s helping him through.
She slides her hand out of his hair and to his shoulder, fisting her fingers in the fabric of his shirt. Surprisingly, Cassian follows her silent command, standing up when she tugs, and he allows her to push him back into his chair. Her legs are wobbly as she slips off the desk, but thankfully, it’s not far to clamber onto the chair and straddle his lap.
Nesta reaches down between them, curling her fingers around Cassian’s cock, already hard again. She strokes up slowly, feeling the hot weight of him in her hand, the way he twitches against her palm in response to her touch. She drags her thumb across the head of his cock, daring to press teasingly at the slit and reveling when Cassian’s hips jerk up against her.
“Ready for my knot again already, Nes?” Cassian still drawls despite his body’s reaction. “You’re absolutely desperate for it, aren’t you?”
“Shut up.”
Nesta crashes her mouth against his, determined to keep his mouth preoccupied, but she can’t deny the accusation, either. As amazing as his mouth had been, it was nothing compared to his cock, to his knot. It’s dangerous the way need has clawed up her chest, the way its twined around her ribs and dug a space there. It’s all she can focus on, the way his cock stroked against the walls of her cunt, the way his knot stretched her, the way his seed filled her.
There’s no suppressing the omega within her now, no denying her alpha.
She presses up higher onto her knees, guiding and holding Cassian’s cock steady as she sinks back down. There’s no keeping up the kiss. Nesta can do nothing but moan in relief against his lips at finally being full again. She clenches down, her toes curling at him pressing so deep.
Cassian lets out a groan of his own in reaction, his head dropping back against the chair. “Mother save me, nothing feels like your sweet cunt wrapped around me.”
Slowly, Nesta starts to circle and rock her hips, her clit dragging against Cassian’s pelvis with every movement in the most delicious way. But it’s not enough. It’s not what she needs. Planting her hands on Cassian’s shoulder for balance, she starts to move more earnestly, fucking herself on his cock.
“That’s my good girl.” Cassian’s hands settle at her hips, squeezing. “My sweet omega taking her alpha’s cock so well.”
Nesta keens at the praise, especially when Cassian plants his feet, snapping his hips up to meet her every movement with a hard, brutal thrust of his own. The pleasure is everything, fogging over her mind until all she can focus on is Cassian’s cock, on the feel of it slamming home over and over and over. On the sticky mess of slick and seed she’s made of both their thighs. On the wet slap of skin and her high pitched moans echoing off the walls of the office.
There’s a ringing in Nesta’s ears, and it drives Nesta to move her hips faster, to chase that sweet release until she realizes that it’s not in her head. It’s a phone. The phone on Cassian’s desk is ringing. She slows her movements, glancing over her shoulder toward the device, but a slap to her ass has her yelping in surprise.
“Ignore it,” Cassian chastises, his fingers squeezing and soothing away the ache of his slap. “Don’t stop now, Nes. Not when you’re riding my cock so perfectly.”
The ringing subsides, the call clearly having gone to voicemail, but then it just starts anew all over again. Cassian growls out a frustrated huff. His arm snaps around Nesta’s waist, holding her to his lap, keeping her on his cock, even as he reaches forward with his free hand to snatch up the offending device.
“Are you a fucking idiot?” Nesta doesn’t need to see the screen of the phone to recognize the cool, clipped tone of Night Inc.’s CEO. “We have cameras in every office. What in the fuck were you thinking?”
“Fuck off, Rhys,” Cassian snaps into the phone.
“Go the fuck home, dumbass.”
With that, the line clicks, the call clearly ended. Cassian shakes his head and tosses his phone back on his desk, returning his hand to Nesta’s thigh as though he can’t keep his hands off her, even for the short time it takes to speak on the phone. He nuzzles his face into the junction between her throat and shoulder, skating his nose across her pulse point, and Nesta can feel that tell-tale smirk of his pressing against her skin.
Halting in her step, Mor’s speech cut off abruptly when she was met with a sight that was distinctly not Cassian buried under the blankets in deep sleep.
Instead of wings, there was long, dark blonde hair fanned out on the pillows, a thin arm that hugged a pillow this figure now rested her head on, as if she’d turned to grasp onto it whenever her bedmate had risen. Her breaths came slowly, deeply, a sign of an easy sleep.
She was beautiful in the sunlight, which caught on the freckles sprinkled across her skin. Not even Mor could deny it.
But what was most striking, what caused her jaw to drop and any and all words to flee from her mind, was the fact that, underneath the sheet that had been drawn up to her shoulder, Nesta Archeron was decidedly bare in Cassian’s bed.
A shocked sound choked past her lips, and her eyes lifted, roving over the rest of the room until she met the bright, gold-flecked ones of her initial target.
Cassian stood in front of his dresser, his back facing her, yet had turned his head on her arrival. Seemingly frozen in the middle of buttoning one of the sleeves of the cotton shirt he’d donned – distinctly not his usual training leathers – he was looking at her with an expression Mor didn’t think she’d ever been on the receiving end of.
There was no kindness there, no warmth that he usually greeted her with. Instead, there was a fierce irritation, a protectiveness, even. The message was clear even to her basest of fae instincts.
A warning.
A submission for @cassianappreciationweek Day 4: Lover
---
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Cassian couldn't remember truly enjoying a birthday since the mother figure who gave him one passed. But now, with the war freshly won and peace within reach, he knew everyone needed something to celebrate. Even if he wasn't much in the mood for cake just yet. Even if a certain absence made him swear he'd never celebrate anything again. Still, he tried. Because that was what Cassian always did. He put on a smile, and he tried.
538 years, and what did he have to show for it?
Even he knew that wasn't a fair thought. Bitter and without place inside the male he needed to be. The easy going, always happy, slightly insane daredevil that kept these insufferable melancholics glued together. Because that was what he had to show for it. Them. The silk sheets under his back and the family he never dared to dream of one day having.
Still, 538 years was a long time to never feel quite at home inside of one's own skin.
A/N: Omg we're back again! I would like to apologize for this taking so long. I genuinely forgot about this fic. That's the lesson here. Don't be like me and have so many WIPs you accidentally forget your own fics.... anyways! Happy Lover day of @cassianappreciationweek! Hope everyone enjoys some blue alien man Cassian and some NSFW goodies!
Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part
When Nesta blinks her eyes open, she feels more rested than she has in days, in much longer if she dares to admit it. The fog in her mind has finally cleared, the hollow ache in her chest finally dissipated, and for once, all Nesta feels is warm and content. It has her burrowing deeper into her furs, has her basking, if just for a moment longer, in the heat of the fire in front of her.
And the fire along her back.
Perhaps, she can blame the way she’s not fully awake yet, the way her mind is still trying to shake those final twisting vines of sleep. But it takes her a moment too long to register the weight across her waist, the warm hand splayed across her stomach and holding her close.
It all comes back to her in a rush fast enough to knock her off her feet, threatening to pull her under and drown her beneath dark waves. The Elder Cave. The metlaks. Cassian.
Almost instinctively, Nesta’s entire body tenses, a hand flying to her chest to press where her khui lives beneath her skin. She waits for the inevitable purring to fill the cave, for Cassian to make some comment and that awkward air that had cloyed against her skin like nails last night to return. Waits for the inevitable conversation about what will happen next, what they will do next.
But it never comes.
Cassian doesn’t even stir behind her, his breaths still slow and steady. Each one has his chest brushing along her spine, has warm air skittering across the crown of her head where he has his face buried in her hair. It shouldn’t be as relaxing as it is, but it’s a soothing balm over each and every one of Nesta’s frayed nerves, her muscles unwinding with each counted breath of his.
She’s not sure that she deserves it, this comfort. She certainly doesn’t deserve the male still sleeping so peacefully behind her as if he somehow finds comfort in her. How could anyone ever find comfort amongst the prickling thorns of her soul? If she gives in to the quiet of the cave enough, she can still hear Tomas’s words echoing and clamoring for attention in the back of her mind, can still feel his grimy hands on her body.
Even worse is the way she can still hear her mother’s voice too. Nesta is sure that back on Earth, her mother is rolling in her grave at Nesta being mated of all things to a big, blue alien man. It’s nowhere near the high-powered family name and riches her mother prepared her for, molded her for, expected of her. Another failure to add to Nesta’s lengthy list.
That familiar ache starts to solidify in Nesta’s chest, curling and piercing like claws around her heart. It sends ice flooding through her veins, has heat beginning to press behind her eyes, and Nesta takes a deep, stuttering breath against the way it gnaws and numbs at her insides.
A soft mumble of words sounds from behind her, and then Cassian’s arm curls tighter around her, tugging her back even closer against him. With his large size, it leaves his body practically curled fully around hers now, like his own sort of protective shield and cocoon. She hates that it works, that it has the voices in her mind quieting, Cassian somehow comforting her even when he’s fast asleep.
“Stupid alien,” Nesta mutters under her breath.
Despite her words, Nesta allows herself to give in to the comfort, allows herself to count each of Cassian’s breaths and match her own to them. Until her muscles finally unwind and relax, until all she can hear is no voices but just the quiet of the cave. With a soft sigh, her eyes flutter closed again, sleep curling back around her limbs as surely as the warmth between the furs, as the male wrapped around her.
When Nesta next opens her eyes again, she finds herself alone in the furs. She frowns, scrubbing the remnants of sleep from her eyes until the cave comes into full focus. The fire has been stoked back to life, flickering flames filling the cave with light and warmth. Cassian sits just beside it, hunched over slightly. He has a stone in one hand and what looks to be some sort of bone in the other.
For a moment, Nesta just watches him. Watches the way his hands work, knocking and sliding the stone against the bone. Watches the way his forearms flex, muscles working with the movements. Watches the way his mouth twists while he concentrates, his lips shifting until the left side tugs up into an all too familiar smirk.
“I have burned you some quill-beast meat.”
Cassian doesn’t look up from the task he’s doing, and Nesta is glad. She can feel heat creeping up her neck and threatening to spill across her cheeks at being caught staring. With a huff, she sits up, pushing the furs off her legs and shifting closer to the fire.
“Thanks,” she mutters, taking some of the quill-beast meat and nibbling on it. “What are you making?”
Cassian holds his hand up, and Nesta realizes it’s a knife that he’s been carving. “It is for you. I have used a small bone, so you will be able to grip it comfortably.”
Nesta can do nothing but blink dumbly at him, her mind reeling and trying desperately to wrap around his words, what they mean. Her silence doesn’t seem to deter Cassian. He reaches forward, warm fingers curling around the wrist of Nesta’s right hand. He draws it closer to him and turns her hand until it’s palm up, gently placing the handle of the knife against it.
“You will want to keep a firm grip with all fingers,” Cassian explains, guiding her fingers to curl around the handle, her thumb pressed over her forefinger and middle finger.
“Why?” Nesta whispers, finally finding her voice.
“If your grip is too loose, your hand will slide when you strike. Keeping any fingers off the handle will risk cutting on the blade.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
Cassian sighs softly, pulling his hand away from hers. “I told you that I would train you. I want to help you feel safe, Nes.”
Nesta looks down at the knife in her hand, carved so carefully with care. Her fingers flex and tighten around the handle. It’s certainly the perfect size, the perfect weight for her. A lump presses painfully against her throat, threatening to choke her, and she has to swallow hard around it.
“What will you do?” Nesta asks, desperate for a change in topic. “When we go back to the main cave?”
Cassian’s brows pinch, his lips dipping down into a small frown, as though he’s really thinking about it. “I will return to my hunting duties. I am sure they will need me back on the trails. Perhaps, I will volunteer to take one of the trails that is a farther journey. Many males have not wanted to take such journeys, especially since the humans have arrived.”
“You won’t want to stay at the cave and find someone new? I’m sure plenty of the women would be more than happy to share your furs.”
Even as she tries to force the teasing words, the joke falls flat even to Nesta’s own ears. It doesn’t change the fact behind them, though. She’s certainly seen the way some of the other women look at Cassian, at his broad shoulders and large hands, at his easy smiles and kind disposition. She’s seen the way they offer flirty smiles of their own. And she hates the way the thought has a sour emotion suspiciously close to jealousy churning in her gut.
“I do not wish for anyone else to share my furs,” Cassian tells her quietly. “There will never be anyone else for me, Nes. I would always choose you. Even if you do not choose me.”
The confession has Nesta’s breath catching in her lungs. Of course, it’s that moment that her khui decides to voice its own thoughts on the matter, thrumming to life. Cassian’s own khui begins to hum in response, the cave quickly filling with the purring sound. His gaze drops down at the response, his hand rubbing at his chest.
“But I hope you will still allow me to train you,” Cassian continues, meeting her eyes again. “So you can feel strong. Feel safe.”
“I feel safe with you.”
The words are out before Nesta can stop them, but it’s the truth. She knows that Cassian would never hurt her, that he'd never let anything hurt her. She knows that he’ll always protect her and have her back, even when she keeps pushing him away. Because he wants to. Because he cares.
When was the last time anyone truly cared about her?
Nesta's been fighting tooth and nail for what feels like her whole life. Fighting against the pressures and expectations placed upon her by her grandmother and mother. Fighting against Tomas and his words and his hands scraping against her skin. Fighting for her sisters. Fighting against her own failures and demons trying to drag her down under the raging waves.
And if Nesta is being completely honest with herself, she's tired.
“I will always keep you safe, Nes,” Cassian tells her, hesitating for just a moment before his hand reaches out and closes around hers. “No matter what. You leave, and I will follow. Always.”
“Why?” Nesta whispers, the pressure in her chest threatening to swallow her whole.
“You are my mate.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s as easy as breathing. “You were mine from the moment you landed here, the moment I saw you. And I am yours.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that. You shouldn’t be kind to me.”
“Am I supposed to be cruel to you?”
“Yes.” Cassian frowns at her answer, his hand shifting to cradle her face. His thumb slides across the apple of her cheek, swiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized slipped free. “I’ve been cruel to you.”
“I told you that I like our game, our back and forth. I wish for more of it.”
Nesta rolls her eyes before she can stop it, the laugh that tumbles free from her throat so at odds with their current conversation. But judging by the grin that tugs across Cassian’s face, drawing the reaction was his exact intention all along.
She doesn’t know how he keeps doing that, making her feel better, putting her at ease. How he keeps seeing her, truly seeing her past every cut and bruise and mask. How he keeps holding every jagged and broken piece of her and holding them like they’re precious rather than something that needs to be sanded down or fixed.
How he keeps being everything she needs, everything she wants.
She glances back down at the knife still in her hand, and it all hits her with a stark sort of clarity she doesn’t think she’s ever had, that she certainly didn’t think was possible these past few days. It settles with surety in her chest, around her heart like a golden thread, and determination straightens her spine. Setting the knife aside, Nesta pushes up to her feet, Cassian making a confused sound as he watches her.
“Do you not like it?”
“Who cares about the knife?” Nesta fires back, stepping closer and into Cassian’s space.
Cassian’s brow furrows in confusion, even as his hands come up to rest on her hips almost instinctively. “Are you well, Nes?”
“Stupid alien,” Nesta mutters under her breath.
She settles her own hands on either side of Cassian’s jaw, tilting his head up to where she wants him and pressing her mouth against his. She remembers a moment too late that the sa-khui don’t kiss, Cassian all but freezing against her. But then he’s responding with fervor, lips moving in tandem with hers. His fingers tighten around her hips, hauling her closer still until their chests are pressed together.
She lets him lead, lets him get a feel for mouth-mating as the sa-khui have been calling it. His tongue presses past the seam of her lips, sliding into her mouth, and Nesta has to hold back a whimper. The other women back at the cave had certainly spoken about the… differences when it came to the sa-khui compared to the men back on Earth, but no one had warned her that their tongues had ridges.
His tongue slides and drags against her own, flicks along the roof of her mouth, and Nesta is all but putty in his hands. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’s surprised how good at kissing he is for a beginner, but she also can’t find it within herself to care. She dares to bury a hand in Cassian’s hair, tugging at the dark strands, and Cassian groans into her mouth, his tail flicking forward to curl around her thigh as though holding her in place. As if she has any intention of stopping now that she’s had a taste.
“I now understand why the other males enjoy mouth-mating,” Cassian pulls back enough to say. He reaches a hand up to Nesta’s face, his large palm spanning her whole jaw and down to her neck, dragging his thumb along her bottom lip that she’s sure is kiss bitten and pink.
“So then why’d you stop kissing me?” Nesta asks, leaning back down to steal another kiss.
Cassian groans again against her lips, his fangs teasing at her bottom lip before he pulls away again. “Perhaps, I wish to kiss other parts of you, my mate.”
Nesta swallows hard, her voice breathless even to her own ears when she asks, “like where?”
The smirk that pulls its way across Cassian’s face is slow and all male bravado. One of those large hands slides along her back and curls back around to her waist, cradling her against his body. He keeps his grip on her, even as he pushes up and to his feet, as he shifts them both. The cave is small enough that Nesta barely has time to react to the movement before her back is pressed into the furs.
Cassian dips his head again, but this time, his lips latch onto her neck. His mouth is hot as it slides across her skin, fangs scraping right against her pulse point until Nesta is shuddering against him. She tilts her head back, presenting him with more access and keening when Cassian moves his attention to that spot just behind her ear.
“Cassian,” Nesta moans softly, arching her body up, desperate to get even closer to him.
“I like the sound of my name from your sweet mouth,” Cassian murmurs against her skin.
His hands slip beneath the leather fabric of her shirt, sliding up over her waist and leaving heat seeping beneath her skin. His fingers flex, squeezing the flesh, and Cassian groans where his face is still buried at her neck. His khui practically echoes the sound, his whole chest all but vibrating where it presses against Nesta’s own.
“You’re so soft.”
The words are enough to give Nesta pause, to pull a genuine laugh out of her. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes,” Cassian answers easily in that same matter of fact tone of his. His hands continue sliding up, lifting her shirt up completely and tugging it off. “I like it. You are not hard like the sa-khui.”
With her arms newly freed from her shirt, Cassian’s fingers circle around her wrist. He guides her own hand to his chest, sliding it down over his pectorals, over the muscles of his abdomen. Despite the almost suede softness of his skin, despite the warmth that exudes from him, there’s no denying the hard planes just beneath. Her fingers curl of their own accord, a shiver skittering down her spine that has nothing to do with her chest now being exposed to the cool air of the cave.
“We might need to start some sort of flirting lessons on this planet,” Nesta teases, desperate to regain some sort of control.
“Are you not impressed with me, Nes?” Cassian teases right back.
He pulls back enough that he can push to his feet, his hands reaching for the laces of his pants. It’s with slow, careful movements that he unties the knot, his eyes never leaving Nesta’s face. But Nesta’s own gaze dips to where he finishes loosening the laces, to where his pants drop away and to the ground. Her mouth goes dry as he tears away his loincloth and tosses it aside, his already hard cock bobbing free.
He’s large, certainly larger than any man Nesta ever saw back on Earth, and his cock is thick. She can see the vein running along the underside of it, the set of ridges along the top, the horn-type piece protruding that Nesta assumes must be the spur she’s heard the other women in the cave mention. The head of his cock is thicker than the rest, a darker blue than his whole body, and already it glistens with his own arousal.
“Are you impressed with me now?”
Nesta’s attention dances back to Cassian’s face, and she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised to find that cocksure smirk of his firmly in place, glowing eyes practically sparking with male pride.
She intends to wipe that look clean off his face.
It takes some shifting against the furs, but Nesta is able to shimmy out of her leggings, leaving her fully bare. She leans back on her hands, bending her knees and spreading her thighs. It’s well worth it for the reaction she garners, satisfaction burning bright in her chest at Cassian’s expression, at the way he literally drops to his knees before her.
“Nesta,” Cassian whispers, his voice reverent. His hands skate over her ankles, up her calves and thighs. “I must be the luckiest of males for my khui to resonate for you.”
Nesta surges forward, crashing her mouth against his before he can say anything else. He responds immediately, capturing her lower lip in his mouth and sucking. He’s clearly gotten too good at kissing already, but Nesta can’t find it within herself to care, especially when Cassian tears his mouth away to press hot kisses down her throat and across her collarbones.
His mouth closes around one of her breasts, and Nesta all but arches up against his face. With her khui vibrating in her chest, it only adds to the sensation licking like flames down her spine. She feels needier than she ever thought possible, the inside of her thighs already sticky and wet with it. She knows it’s her khui to blame for how keyed-up she feels, but it’s hard to care when all she can focus on is the heat of Cassian’s body pressed against her skin, the feel of his tongue swirling over her nipple, the ache in her cunt that she knows can only be filled by the male above her.
“Cassian,” Nesta pleads, bucking her hips up against him.
“Is there something that you need, sweetheart?” Cassian teases, shifting his mouth’s attention to her other breast.
Nesta moans again, grasping onto one of Cassian’s horns desperately. “Please. Cassian, please.”
“I enjoy the sound of you begging even more.”
Cassian’s mouth never leaves her skin, but he begins to trace a path down, along her sternum, over her stomach, across her hip bones. His hands slip up and tighten around her thighs, prying them far apart to make room for his big, alien body. It’s a simply obscene sight, her legs thrown over a set of blue shoulders, a head of dark curly hair and horns between her thighs. His warm breath fans across her cunt, and already, she can feel herself clenching in anticipation.
“Already so wet for me,” Cassian groans softly. “They say there is no sweeter taste than that of a resonance mate, and I cannot wait to find out.”
Before Nesta can fully register Cassian’s words, before she can say anything back, Cassian presses his mouth against her. Just the first lick has her gasping, her thighs squeezing instinctively around his head, but the reaction only seems to encourage Cassian. He devours her with a ferocity that has her seeing stars.
Suddenly, she feels like she understands why he was so good at kissing because the way he uses his mouth is practically unfair. She can feel every bumpy ridge along his tongue as it slides and swirls against her clit, and her toes curl at the sensation. And then he spears that tongue into her. It reaches deeper than any human could, those ridges dragging along the walls of her cunt.
Nesta cries out, it all too much and not enough at the same time. It feels too good, and she tries to rock her hips, tries to ride Cassian’s face, but his grip tightens on her thighs, holding her in place exactly how he wants her. Too fast heat pools low in Nesta’s gut, threatening to send her tumbling over the edge already, but she can’t find it within herself to care so long as Cassian doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing.
She whines at the loss when he pulls away, but at least, it gives herself a chance to catch her breath. She tilts her head enough that she can look down, but it’s instantly a mistake. His lips and chin are coated in her arousal, and he licks his lips with a groan, smirk still out in full force as his fingers flex against her skin.
“As sweet as I expected.”
That’s Nesta’s only warning before Cassian dives right back in. He focuses his tongue’s attention back on her clit, slipping one of his hands down so that he can sink a finger into her cunt. It’s all that Nesta needs, all that it takes for her orgasm to tear through her like a tidal wave. Her back bows off the furs, but Cassian doesn’t stop. He continues to lick at her and rock his finger, his ferocity and eagerness only seeming to grow with her release.
“Cass… Cassian…” Nesta chokes out between gasps, trying to squirm away from his ministrations and the overstimulation.
Cassian growls, gripping her hips and yanking her right back over his mouth. “Mine.”
For a moment, Nesta isn’t sure where one orgasm ends and the next one begins. Her entire body feels like it’s ablaze, head dizzy with the pleasure of it all. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she’s aware that she might be screaming Cassian’s name.
At least, Cassian finally relents, his tongue swiping one last time through the mess of her two orgasms before his mouth pulls away. Nesta slumps back against the furs, her chest heaving and aftershocks still skittering down her spine. She can feel Cassian’s hands slide down from her hips and over her thighs, humming at the warmth of his touch. Her eyes flutter open, and she finds Cassian still on his knees before her, his own glowing eyes half lidded and watching her.
“The next time we do this,” Nesta begins, still catching her breath. “Remind me to teach you about blowjobs.”
Cassian blinks a few times, his head tilting to the side, and Nesta wonders how that translates for him, what sort of imagery the word draws forth. But she doesn’t expect him to smile. It’s a slow thing, the way it pulls across his face, and it’s lopsided. Just the sight of it has Nesta’s heart skipping a beat between her ribs, and she has to swallow hard before she finds her voice again.
“What’s that look for?”
“You said next time,” Cassian explains, leaning over her until his face hovers above her own, that same dopey smile still firmly in place.
Nesta can feel a blush creeping up her neck and threatening to spill across her cheeks, but she refuses to look away from his gaze. “Well, yeah. We’re mates, right?”
“We must accept resonance first to make it official.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Nesta challenges, lifting her legs enough that she can hook them around Cassian’s hips.
“I would like to kiss you again.”
The earnestness of his voice is enough to give Nesta pause. Enough for her heart to trip over itself and warmth to flood between her ribs. This stupid alien. Stupid alien with his warmth and kindness and tender care. Stupid alien with his heart so proudly on his sleeve, handing over that heart to Nesta without a second thought, without an ounce of fear or worry. Who cradled Nesta’s own heart so carefully before she even realized she’d placed it in his awaiting palms.
And he’s all hers.
“You don’t have to ask. You can just–”
Before Nesta can even finish speaking, Cassian leans down and seals their lips together. The kiss is surprisingly gentle. It’s at odds with the way Cassian’s hands slide under her ass, lifting and tilting her hips up. At odds with the way the head of his cock slides across her cunt and the arousal pooled there.
His tongue presses into her mouth at the same moment he thrusts his hips forward, sinking his cock into her. Nesta gasps against his lips, her head falling back against the furs. It’s indescribable, the way he presses so deep, the way he stretches and fills her. She swears she can feel every ridge along his cock, that vein that runs along the underside. And gods, the spur. It somehow glides perfectly along her clit like another finger, only adding to the intensity of it all.
“Look at how you take me,” Cassian breathes, his attention locked on where they’re joined. “You were made to take my cock, weren’t you, sweetheart?”
“Fuck,” Nesta whimpers, clenching down around him.
“That’s it,” Cassian praises, dragging his mouth over her neck and finding that spot that has her clenching again. “That’s a good girl.”
Nesta tries to buck her hips up against Cassian’s hold. “Please. Cassian, please.”
Cassian groans, but he pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again. Nesta thought the stretch of his cock was one thing, but the drag of those ridges along the walls of her cunt with each hard thrust has her every nerve ending flaring with pleasure and heat. She lets out a loud moan, fingers slipping against Cassian’s skin as she digs her nails into his shoulders.
“We will need a cave far from the others if these are the sweet sounds you will make each time your cunt welcomes my cock.”
Cassian continues to rock his hips, setting a brutal pace. His cock somehow sinks deeper still with every thrust, his spur pressing tantalizingly against her clit. It’s all that Nesta can focus on, that burning pleasure, the way it threatens to swallow her whole. She can think of no better way to go, lost into those flames with the male above her.
“Don’t stop,” Nesta gasps out between moans. “Please, don’t stop.”
“Do not worry, Nes. I do not intend to,” Cassian pushes out between gritted teeth, clearly just as affected as she is. “I intend to have your delicious cunt wrapped around me every night until you are carrying my kit and then every night after that still.”
The imagery and the future it paints tugs a fresh litany of moans from Nesta’s chest and past her lips. She’s not sure she’s ever been this turned on in her life. She can feel the absolute mess she’s making between her thighs, can hear the wet slap of skin echoing off the walls of the cave around her, but it’s hard to care when Cassian continues to play her body like his own personal instrument.
“Do you like that, my sweet mate? I can feel the way you’re squeezing me.”
“Yes! Please. I need…”
Nesta doesn’t even have time to finish speaking, another choked off moan tearing through her. Cassian picks up the pace, slamming his hips against her own. Each hard drive of his cock sends her cresting higher still, release glimmering just within reach.
“Then come for me, Nes. Come all over my cock.”
One of Cassian’s hands slides up to her breast, thumb dragging against her nipple and palm kneading at the flesh. It’s all it takes to push Nesta over the edge. She all but screams Cassian’s name, spots dancing behind her eyelids as she arches up off the furs. Cassian groans against her ear, only snapping his hips a few more times before he stills above her. His cock twitches deep within her, flooding her cunt with warmth and his own release. It has her moaning again, has her cunt fluttering still and milking his cock.
She slumps back against the furs, taking a moment to catch her breath. Her heart continues to pound in her chest, but there’s silence otherwise in the cave, her and Cassian’s khuis finally quieting. It’s jarring, but there’s a peace to it too, wrapped up in this cave with Cassian’s warm body pressed against hers.
He pulls out of her, but he doesn’t go far, settling beside her in the furs. Nesta barely has time to shiver at the loss, at the cool air of the cave settling over her, before Cassian rearranges the furs to cover them both. His arms wrap back around her waist, tugging her to close to lay across his chest.
“Now we are mates,” Cassian declares proudly, burying one of his hands amongst the strands of Nesta’s hair.
Nesta snorts softly, but she curls tighter into Cassian’s embrace. “Guess you’re well and truly stuck with me now.”
“Stuck? I am not stuck.”
“It’s just a joke,” Nesta consoles him, patting his chest soothingly.
“I do not like this joke. I told you, Nes. I am the luckiest male to resonate with you,” Cassian tells her, his tone fierce.
“I know,” Nesta whispers. She shifts and turns her head up enough that she can meet Cassian’s gaze. “I’m lucky too, you know.”
Cassian smiles softly, the expression taking over his face in the most beautiful way. His hand moves from her hair to her cheek, his fingers carefully tracing over her features. Nesta’s eyes flutter closed at the gentle touch, and she leans fully into him, leans into the comfortable warmth this male gives her.
“My Nesta,” Cassian says, his own voice quiet, revenant. “My heart. My world.”
“Is that a declaration of love?”
“And if it is?”
Nesta opens her eyes again, unable to bite back the smile threatening to spill across her own face. “Then I’d say good. Because I love you too.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Cassian Week Day 2: Hair
Cassian pulled the loose braid over her shoulder and removed the scrap of twine (torn off a half-molding loaf of bread that morning) holding the end of her hair together. Nesta went stiff, pulling back immediately. Cassian's fingers lazily scraped through the bottom inches of twisted together strands. Pulling her apart one piece at a time.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
It's @cassianappreciationweek everyone! And I've been hard at work making sure I have something for every day! so get ready for 6 days of one-shots/drabbles (of varrying lengths) and then an update to Amidst the Maddness for Free Day! This is my first time fully participating in a fandom event and I am very excited. Hope you enjoy day 1.
Day 1 - flying:
“If I cried instead, would you leave me alone?”
ACOSF re-write set shortly after Cassian takes Nesta up to the House and she is refusing to train. Nessian has a conversation about flying and what it means to be free.
Ok I’m usually president of the let’s criticize Cassian club but things have gotten wild the last few days and we are almost at Cassian week and I relate to Nesta because no matter what that dumbass does there just is … SOMETHING ABOUT HIM
So.
Cassian did not say I love You (a travesty), but he did say (or think)
“His very heart was in his bloody, outstretched hand.”
“If Briallyn made a move against Nesta, he’d kill the queen himself.”
“Whatever you need to throw at me, I can take it. I won’t break.”
“I’ll take whatever you offer me.”
“Whatever you want. Whatever you need from me.”
“I’ve needed you from the moment I first met you.”
“I’m Here.”
“There is nothing broken to be fixed.”
“I have always been your friend, Nesta. Always.”
“You’re not going to use her”
“Love is Complicated.”
“Nesta’s mother had wanted a prince for her. Cassian now thought she had undervalued her daughter. Only a King or an emperor would do.”
“Do you want some peppermint tea?”
“I went back the next day. Asked the musicians of the Hewn City to play it all again for me.”
“There will be no one else. For either of us.”
“The only thing that frightened him was that she might reject the mating bond. Hate him for it.”
Happy WIP Wednesday my lovelies! 🥰 Please enjoy some more blue alien man Cassian as a treat. I really do promise he's returning for Cassian Week 🫡
“I will always keep you safe, Nes,” Cassian tells her, hesitating for just a moment before his hand reaches out and closes around hers. “No matter what. You leave, and I will follow.”
“Why?” Nesta whispers, the pressure in her chest threatening to swallow her whole.
“You are my mate.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s as easy as breathing. “You were mine from the moment you landed here, the moment I saw you. And I am yours.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that. You shouldn’t be kind to me.”
“Am I supposed to be cruel to you?”
“Yes.” Cassian frowns at her answer, his hand shifting to cradle her cheek. His thumb slides across the apple of her cheek, swiping away a tear she hadn’t even realized slipped free. “I’ve been cruel to you.”
“I told you that I like our game, our back and forth. I wish for more of it.”
Nesta rolls her eyes before she can stop it, the laugh that tumbles free from her throat so at odds with their current conversation. But judging by the grin that tugs across Cassian’s face, drawing the reaction was his intention all along. She doesn’t know how he keeps doing that, making her feel better, putting her at ease.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Teaser:
The High Lord stared at him over a cut crystal glass of very expensive whiskey. Cassian wanted to judge Rhys' frivolities. He wanted to scoff and sneer at the preening High Lord, but as the alcohol burned rich and bright across his tongue, settling warm low in his belly, Cassian understood the indulgence. If he only had so many glasses of whiskey left in his lifetime, it might as well be excellent whiskey. If he only had so many nights to sleep left in his life, it might as well be on a comfortable bed. If he only had so many nights left to share with a female, well ...
He cut his thoughts off there. Hope, a bastard Illyrian learned at a very young age, was a horribly dangerous thing. Even if he felt tiny pieces of ice chipping off that wall his mate kept permanently erected. Even if she had let him hold her hand and pull her close in that narrow prison hallway. Even if she had let him grasp her face between his hands, fist his fingers in the extra fabric at the back of her dress. Cauldron what he wouldn't give to get her into a pair of leathers. Maybe that was his next mission. If they were going to put her on the battlefield, or at least above it, she couldn't very well risk tripping on her skirt. All that extra fabric an easy target. Yes, it was the logical choice.
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