A/N: it's the last day of @cassianappreciationweek! I've loved seeing all the amazing fics and art that people have created to celebrate our favorite bat boy. And I thought I'd end the week with a bang: aka werewolf Cassian banging his wife 😉 the wife he definitely doesn't have feelings for or love. What are you guys talking about? Anyhoo! Enjoy the smut and Cassian being a big dumb boi. Perfect for celebrating his week.
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Cassian
Cassian steps through the door and inside the shop, the herbal scent of freshly brewed tea drifting down from the upper floor and tickling his nose. Emerie sits atop the shop's counter, legs dangling casually over the edge. With a chocolate cookie of some kind half hanging from her mouth, she merely raises her eyebrows in greeting.
"There you are," Cresseida declares, stepping out from the back room of the shop and grabbing Cassian's arm. "Come on."
She all but drags Cassian deeper into the shop and over toward a set of mirrors where a large box has been placed to act as a platform. Cassian steps up onto the box, and then Cresseida is snapping a measuring tape along his shoulder blades. She hums, the sound of a pen scratching across parchment echoing in his ears, before she's back in his space. This time, she clutches at his forearm and raises his arm into the air. Hard.
"Who knew being measured could be so… aggressive," Cassian notes teasingly, turning his head enough to follow Cresseida's hands as she measures from shoulder to wrist, only for her to force his eyes back forward again with a firm hand against his cheek.
"Maybe I'd be a bit gentler if I was also going to a ball," Cresseida fires back, wrapping the measuring tape a bit tighter than Cassian thinks is warranted around his bicep. "You know, as the wife of your second."
"You mean the second that I need to stay here? Just in case?"
"You really don't trust Vanserra?" Emerie pipes up to ask. "Think it's all some ploy?"
"Hybern could mount an attack any day. What kind of person decides that is the time to throw a ball?"
"Perhaps someone who wants to celebrate the joys while we still can?" Cresseida suggests, moving to his other arm.
Continue Reading on AO3
—
2025 tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed; bolded names mean Tumblr won’t let me tag you 🥲): @moodymelanist @sv0430 @bookstantrash @hiimheresworld @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @glowing-stick-generation @goddess-aelin @melphss @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @wolfnesta @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @that-little-red-head @kale-theteaqueen @superflurry @lady-winter-sunrise @freakingata @susanbanarchy @jsmelodies @unhealthyfanobsession @presskmewleroux @nativeswfl @livinforthetea @dying-of-wanderlust @berkskc @the-new-ribbon @underneath-the-sidras @deadandsane
@witch-and-her-witcher writes on another level. I think she mostly posts her acotar fanfiction as cee_darling on AO3 and it is all PHENOMENAL. From the tamsand monsterfucking fic "Lay Me on the Cold Dark Earth" and an abundance of other incredible oneshots that include lesser known (but wholeheartedly appreciated) ships like Morlain and Lussian, to their masterful multi-chaps that can really dig deep into ur soul like "A Court of Chaos and Darkness" (mating bond Nyxlin) and "Decode This Case" (modern with magic Azris), this author is seriously one of my all time favs
A/N: Happy Four Nations Championship!!!! Do you like how I timed this perfectly with puck drop? 😉 I've been absolutely loving watching this tournament and watching Team USA win for Johnny! And it has reinvigorated my motivation to write our beloved, Hockey Cassian. Hope everyone enjoys this chapter! It was both fun and challenging writing a hockey game from Nesta's perspective when she doesn't know the game lol. See the end chapter notes on AO3 for some fun hockey facts
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Cassian
Cassian smiles down at the yellow fabric in his hands, the strokes and loops of silver sharpie in the one and nine, the dark blue lettering declaring Velasquez. It’s perfect, exactly what he needs, and already, he starts to imagine the reaction it will garner. A thanks, of course. Maybe a smile or a laugh. Hopefully, another dinner.
But perhaps that’s getting ahead of himself.
With a decided nod, he tosses the jersey over his arm, finally slipping out of his truck. He’s never been more thankful to have the vehicle back in his possession. As nice as the rental car the team had provided him with once he arrived had been, there’s something comforting about sitting in this particular cab again. About the soft worn leather seats. About the distinct smell of hockey that never quite leaves the carpet of the truck floor. Hell, even the deep red stain from when Mor decided to open and then subsequently spilt wine is a comfort.
He still remembers when he first purchased the truck. It was his first major purchase after signing his first NHL contract. It had all been so surreal back then, being drafted, being signed, being on a proper NHL sheet of ice for the first time, and even now, Cassian can’t help but think back to when he was just a boy, and what that boy would think if he saw what they grew up and became.
Shaking his head of those thoughts, Cassian continues along the sidewalk until he reaches the storefront of Grumpy & Sunshine Books. When he peers through the front window, he spies Nesta standing just behind the counter. Much like the previous time he stepped inside the bookstore, Nesta has a book opened in front of her.
He's beginning to think it's a regular pose for her.
For a moment, all he can do is stare at her, at the way the lights of the bookstore dance off the golden brown strands of her hair, the soft sweater she’s wearing that’s just oversized enough that the wide collar exposes a sliver of collarbone and shoulder. She has her jaw cradled in the palm of her hand, clearly relaxed and at peace within the quiet of the bookstore. Unguarded in a way he's never seen. Even with the distance between them, Cassian can see the pretty pink that starts to spill across her cheeks, and he has to bite down a smirk as he finally strides inside.
“Did you get to the smutty part?” Cassian asks as he approaches the counter.
Nesta slams her book closed, raising her head to glare at him. “Is this going to become a regular occurrence with you?”
Cassian merely smiles in the face of her ire, holding up the jersey so that Nesta can see the back of it. “One jersey, signed by the entire Preds team. As promised.”
Nesta blinks a few times, but after a moment, she reaches forward, taking the jersey from his hands. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to pass this along to Gwyn.”
“And I also have these,” Cassian continues, reaching into his back pocket. “Three tickets to the Kraken’s home opener.”
Nesta doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to take the tickets from his hand. Instead, she merely continues to watch him, eyes narrowing slightly. The reaction, the way those blue eyes flare, just has Cassian’s grin growing. It’s certainly a look he’s growing familiar with, one he’ll be adding to his ever growing mental catalog. He waves the tickets, hoping the gesture is enticing, but when that doesn’t work, he merely sets them down on the counter, sliding them over to her.
“You want me to go to a hockey game?” The way she drawls the question practically has Cassian's blood singing.
“How can I be expected to play my best if you’re not there to cheer me on?” Cassian offers, earning an eye roll and a scoff, exactly as he intended.
“Are you going to ask me to wear your away jersey and everything?” Nesta fires back, a smirk tugging up the corner of her lips.
The sight has Cassian’s heart kicking up with excitement, and he chuckles softly. “Been reading a lot of hockey romance novels recently, sweetheart?”
“You wish.”
Despite her words, the pink color that spills across her cheeks betrays her, gives her away. Gods, Cassian would give anything to draw out that pretty color elsewhere. Would give anything to trace that color with his fingers, his lips. Would give anything to see if the pale freckles brought out by that blush are echoed anywhere else across her skin.
“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but you can’t wear my away jersey even if you want to.”
That gets her attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that I don’t have my away jersey. In fact, I don’t have any of my equipment. It’s the team that makes sure the jerseys get washed, that makes sure all the gear stays cleaned, that our preferred sticks are ordered and stocked up. There’s a whole equipment team that’s hired and paid just to do that.”
“So, what?” Nesta asks dryly, crossing her arms. “All you do is just show up?”
“Pretty much. Show up, look pretty, play great hockey.”
Nesta snorts softly, barely more than a low, breathy sound, but Cassian still delights in it all the same. It’s so close to a laugh. Gods, he'd do unholy things to get a laugh out of her, a real laugh. Would it be light and melodic? Would it be low and refreshing? Would it start loud and taper off into little more than breathy giggles? Would her nose scrunch? Would crinkles pop beside her eyes? Would those eyes flare with the joy, the surprise at a laugh tearing out of her? Would the easy serenity remain on her expression when the laugh finally subsided, a soft smile and pink cheeks the footprints in the sand following the warm, gentle wave?
“Cassian.”
“What?” Cassian blinks, realizing belatedly that Nesta was speaking and he most definitely was not listening.
Nesta shakes her head and rolls her eyes again. “You’ve taken too many pucks to the head.”
“And you can watch me take some more to the head on Tuesday.”
“Switching tactics?”
At Cassian’s wide, winning grin, Nesta sighs softly, finally picking up the tickets. She reads them over, and for a moment, Cassian is entranced watching a little dip form between her eyebrows, watching her lips tug down in the barest hint of a frown. Would she ever let him slide his thumb against her skin, to smooth away those lines and those worries?
“If you’re worried about the seats not being together,” Cassian jumps in to assure her. “The team only gives each guy two tickets, so had to ask one of the other guys for the third, but Donny promised me the families have the whole row and they’re not really sticklers on who sits in which seat.”
“In row… S?” Nesta asks, holding up the tickets so Cassian can see the seat listed. “You want me to go to a game, but aren’t even going to get us first row?”
Cassian laughs easily at that. “I’m not a miracle worker, sweetheart. Do you have any idea how expensive seats along the glass are? It’s how the team gets a huge chunk of revenue each game.” Nesta hums at that, but doesn't say anything else.
At her continued silence, Cassian tries to keep his easy smile in place, refuses to let it slip or let his nerves truly show. "So, you'll be there?"
"We'll see," Nesta tells him, but she tucks the tickets away in between the pages of her books.
It feels like a win to Cassian, the same high as watching the puck sink into the netting, and he doesn't bother biting back the way his grin widens in response. But before he can say anything else, his phone starts to vibrate in his back pocket, the reminder he set for himself so he wouldn't be late. He quickly digs his phone out, silencing the alarm, and clears his throat, offering Nesta an apologetic wince.
"I have to get going, but… I'll see you around?"
Nesta merely waves her hand, opening back up her book and settling her cheek on her fist again as she returns to whatever whirlwind romance sweeps her away between the parchment and ink. Cassian knows a dismissal when he sees one. Even if he still desperately wants to know what's happening in her book, what has her so enraptured and desperate to return to the characters and story. He's quite confident he could listen for hours if she wanted to retell him the entire plot. He's quite confident that he'd give anything to know what her favorite romances are, what her favorite moments are, just so he can recreate them.
"Bye," Nesta snaps, her voice dry and annoyed.
Cassian clears his throat awkwardly again, realizing that he was definitely staring like an idiot. Again. With a nod, he finally moves toward the door of the bookshop, knowing that Coach will kill him if he's late for practice.
~ * * * ~
Cassian rolls his shoulders and neck, making his way down the hall and toward the training room. His hair is still wet from his shower, water droplets dripping from the strands and dampening the shoulders of his shirt, and he's definitely feeling the way he pushed himself during practice. But despite it all, there's still a lightness bubbling in his chest, and not just from his interaction with Nesta this morning. He feels like he's starting to mesh with the coaching staff, feels like he's really buying into the system they play here, feels like he can feel chemistry starting to build with the boys.
It's going to be a great season, a great year, he just knows it.
Awbrey is already sitting on one of the massage tables in the training room when Cassian steps inside, getting his shoulder wrapped in kinesiology tape, and Cassian offers him a nod as he walks past. He drops his bag in the corner and grabs a pair of compression boots, settling on one of the open massage tables. He gets to work sliding his feet in and securing the straps nice and tight.
"Need any help with that?" Cresseida asks, stepping over to Cassian with a raised eyebrow. She truly might be his favorite member of the training staff.
"I'm good," Cassian assures her, setting the boots to his desired level. He lets out a relieved sigh when the massage starts, already working through the knots and helping with the soreness. "Although, you could grab my phone from my bag for me. So I don't get bored."
"Exactly what I get paid for: doing menial tasks for hockey players."
"Aw, come on, Cress." Cassian puts on his best pout, gesturing with his arm to the now empty training room. "There's no one else here that needs attention."
Cresseida settles him with an unimpressed look that would definitely send him skittering away if he weren't currently pinned down by the compression boots. She narrows her eyes, the bright blue of them practically icing over, and Cassian offers her his most charming smile. It seems to do the trick, even as she sighs and rolls her eyes, but she steps over to where he dropped his bag.
He waits for her to grab his phone, already thinking about if it would be too much to text Nesta. He could keep it simple, casual, simply ask how her day is going. But a surprised laugh draws his attention, and when he snaps his head in the direction of the sound, Cresseida is holding up the book he'd purchased the first time he visited Nesta's bookstore, the one he simply shoved in the bag and then forgot about.
Viking Bride
"This is certainly not what I was expecting for your reading taste," Cresseida teases, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"What? Because I'm a professional athlete, I can't enjoy romance?"
"Where did you even get a book like this? No way they sell this at a mainstream bookstore."
"This bookstore called Grump & Sunshine Books actually. It's the best romance bookstore in the whole city."
Cresseida hums, flipping through the book. "And what do you think so far? How far have you read?"
"Oh, I don't…"
Cassian lets his words trail off, swallowing back down the admission that he had no intention of ever reading the book, that he only purchased it in an attempt to impress Nesta, a desperate plea to get her to talk to him. Because it gives him an idea, the perfect opening that he's been looking for.
"I haven't finished it yet," Cassian says instead, his grin growing. "But I'll let you know what I think."
~ * * * ~
Nesta
"Who knew there would be so many people," Nesta comments, keeping her eyes on the strands of copper hair leading the way in front of her through the sea of blue all around them.
"It is the home opener," Emerie reminds her, making a face when someone rushes past and knocks against her shoulder.
"This many people care about hockey?"
The dry remark earns Nesta a number of looks from the people around them, even more so when they take in her attire. At least her friends laugh easily, Gwyn turning back and looping her arm through Nesta's with a bright smile as they continue to walk.
"I told you, Nesta Archeron," Gwyn says. "You're going to have more fun than you think."
The benefit of having Gwyn is that she clearly knows where she's going and what she's doing. She leads Nesta and Emerie to the arena entrance and through security. Their tickets are scanned and then they're stepping fully inside. Nesta has to admit, it's impressive. It feels a bit larger than life, certainly spacious and modern. She takes in the large digital screen displays on the wall, the different food and drink options, what appears to be a team store called The Lair.
"Come on," Gwyn exclaims, leading the charge forward. "They let you go down to ice level for warmups."
There's already a number of fans and certainly plenty of children lining the first few rows of the arena, many with signs. Nesta even spots one little girl with a Kraken bobble hat and a sign declaring, Will trade a puck for a box of cookies!, in large looping letters. But despite all the people already there, Gwyn is able to weave and find a place for them right along the glass.
They have to wait longer than Nesta anticipated, especially when they haven't even gotten drinks yet, but eventually both teams skate onto the ice. It's like watching organized chaos, the way some of the players skate laps around their half of the ice, others taking shots at their own goalie, and others still doing what looks like tricks in their own little bubble, spinning around and moving their sticks back and forth quickly.
It's easy enough to spot Cassian. He's one of the few players not wearing a helmet, and Cassian's hair is unmistakable, hanging in loose curls down to his shoulders and the dark blue of his jersey. His smile is wide and bright, and Nesta watches as he skates a lap before throwing his body against his teammate's, shoving the teammate against the glass, with an easy laugh.
Cassian skates away from the teammate, skates right toward where Nesta and her friends are standing, and she wonders if he somehow spotted them, but instead he drops down to his knees against the ice. He does it with surprising ease, like the motion is nothing for him. Nesta can't look away as he leans forward, practically on all fours with his stick against the ice and his knees spread wide. It gives her a perfect view of his ass, even if it's covered in hockey gear.
Cassian slides his knees wider, spreading himself open wider still, and then he starts to move his hips. Forward and back. In small circles. His hips move, and Nesta's mouth goes dry. It's almost sensual, the way he works them, and it's definitely obscene. Cassian straightens back up onto his knees, stretching his arms and his stick behind his back, but the image of his moving hips is already seared in Nesta's mind, a teasing brand of what could be.
A cheer echoes from Nesta's left, jolting her back to the present, and when she looks over, she sees that little girl from earlier jumping up and down excitedly. A quick glance toward the ice reveals one of the Kraken players skating toward the bench, the bright green box of cookies cradled in his glove.
"Cute," Emerie murmurs, clearly noticing the same exchange.
Nesta decides to keep her focus firmly on any player other than Cassian after that as they continue to stand along the glass, watching as slowly but surely, the number of players begin to dwindle. Soon, a horn blares through the whole arena, the players still remaining on the ice heading off and the various fans around them starting to make their way back up the steps toward the concourse. Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn head up the stairs as well, deciding to find food and drinks before they find their seats.
Nesta has a can of beer in one hand and a pretzel in the other as she follows Emerie to the row of their seats. There's already a group of women and a few small children in their allotted row and the one behind. A pretty blonde woman sitting at the end jumps up with a smile, quickly turning to chastise the little boy beside her before turning her attention to Emerie.
"You must be Nesta. I'm Corra. Fionn told me to be on the look out for you."
"Oh, I'm not…" Emerie trails off, turning enough that she can point in Nesta's direction. "That's Nesta. I'm Emerie and this is Gwyn."
Nesta clocks the exact moment the woman notices what she's wearing, but she has to give Corra credit. Her smile only drops a centimeter before stretching wide again.
"Well, I've already asked Clare to switch seats, so you'll have three together."
They all murmur their thanks as they shuffle to the three open seats. Gwyn ends up beside a little girl—the sister to the little boy and Corra's other child it seems—and she wastes no time striking up a conversation with her. Nesta turns her own attention to the arena around them, the ice stretched out below them, even as she can feel the eyes of those around her practically burning a brand between her shoulder blades.
"Is it just me, or does it feel like high school?" Emerie murmurs from Nesta's other side. "Wish someone told us there's apparently a dress code."
Nesta hums her agreement, but she's saved from saying anything else when the lights in the arena go down. Cheers echo through the arena, melding with the music that starts to blare through the sound system. It's quite the display and entrance: the music, the light show displayed across the ice, the mini-movie spliced with hockey clips played on the large screens, even the tentacle lowered down onto the ice. But it feels like a bit much when they take the time to introduce every single player on the team, and Nesta doesn't bother holding back her eye roll when it's Cassian's turn.
But finally, after all the fanfare, the game starts, and Nesta tries her best to keep up. It's all so fast paced, the back and forth across the ice. She doesn't quite understand all the rules, but at one point, Gwyn starts screaming about something that happened, other fans seemingly just as upset.
It doesn't take long for the Kraken to score a goal, leaving the whole arena erupting in excitement, but it seems to take even less time for the other team to score too. By the time the horn is blaring to signal the end of the period, it's tied one to one.
Although there are no goals in the second period, the fast-pace continues. At one point, Cassian skates at one of the players of the other team, throwing his body against him and slamming the other player right into the boards. The two shove and grab at each other in the aftermath, and somewhere in the scuffle, Cassian loses his helmet. He tosses his head back when they separate, getting his hair out of his face, and Nesta wants to curse the Mother with how unfair it all is. How unfair such a display, such aggression, could somehow be so attractive.
By the third period, the energy in the arena has only built even higher. There's six minutes remaining on the clock when something happens, the whistle blowing and play stopping. Whatever it is, everyone around Nesta seems happy about it, cheering as one of the opposing team players skates toward the little hockey player time-out bench.
As play resumes, Cassian jumps over the boards and onto the ice. Nesta watches as one of his teammates passes him the puck, watches as he skates along the blue line painted across the ice with ease, feet criss-crossing over each other. She watches the way players seem to gather and shove in front of the net, watches the way Cassian pulls his stick back just to swing it back forward.
She can't believe he dared to take a shot through so many bodies.
She can't believe the horn sounds to indicate it's a goal.
Almost the entire arena jumps to their feet to cheer, Cassian and his teammates coming together on the ice to celebrate. They skate toward their bench, fist-bumping the teammates there, and then it's just a waiting game. Waiting for the final few minutes to tick down. Waiting for the final horn to sound, signaling the end of the game. Waiting for the team and all of the fans to celebrate the Kraken's victory.
The arena empties out surprisingly quickly once the game is over. Nesta herself is looking forward to getting out of the cold and back home to her warm bed, but it seems that Gwyn has completely enamored the little girl beside her, the little girl holding Gwyn's hand while she chatters away. The younger brother is fast asleep in his mother's lap, and Corra watches on with an expression that is both fond but unsurprised at her other child.
"Alright, don't tell anyone I'm doing this," Corra begins, standing up and adjusting the boy against her hip. "But come on."
Corra leads the way up the stairs and through the concourse toward an elevator. Nesta doesn't hear what she says to security, but they all clamber inside and are taken all the way down to the basement level. Down a hall and through a door finds them inside a large room. The walls are painted the dark blue of the team's colors, three televisions taking up space on two of them. There's sofas and armchairs along with tables and chairs arranged around most of the space, but what looks like a bar stretches across the back wall, and there appear to be children toys tucked away in the corner.
Nesta recognizes many of the women in the room from the seats around them during the game, all chatting and waiting around. It feels like they're standing around forever before the door opens again and the first Kraken player steps into the room. At least, it's like a domino effect after that, and one by one it seems various men step through the door to greet their other half. With each man that steps inside, Gwyn leans over to whisper who it is, and in some cases, statistics or facts about the player, much to Emerie's barely concealed entertainment.
"Nes!"
Nesta turns just in time to watch Cassian step inside the room. The black dress pants he's wearing are form fitting and practically hug the thick lines of muscle of his thighs. The matching jacket for his suit is slung casually over his arm, leaving him in just his black button down, and, of course, he has the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, has the first few buttons undone. It gives Nesta the perfect tease of the dark lines of ink hiding beneath the fabric, gives her the perfect view of the veins in his forearms.
His hair is wet and slightly tangled, but somehow the messy look only seems to work for him. A pinkness seems to cling beneath the brown of his cheeks, but whether it's from his post-game shower or the exertion on the ice, Nesta isn't sure. With his wide, easy smile and his bright hazel eyes as he walks directly toward her, he's everything that Nesta wants to hate.
At least she gets to watch in real time as Cassian's smile falters and slips away. Small consolations.
"Are you… are you wearing a Flames jersey? Where'd you even get one of those?"
"What?" Nesta drawls, crossing her arms across her chest and raising a daring eyebrow. "You don't like my hockey jersey?"
The left side of Cassian's lips tug up in a smirk. "I just think you'd look a lot better in blue."
Nesta rolls her eyes at that, but she's spared from saying anything else when Emerie loudly clears her throat, drawing Cassian's attention.
"Emerie. Good to see you again. And you must be Gwyn. Nice to finally meet you."
"Thanks for the tickets, and the jersey," Gwyn tells him. "It was a good game. That was a nice shot at the end."
Cassian shrugs. "I got lucky with Jordy getting the tip."
Gwyn and Cassian continue to talk about hockey and the game, and Nesta is more than happy to just stand there and listen. It gives her a reprieve to remind her traitorous heart to stop being so affected by that stupid smirk of his, by the way he seems intent on looking at her. It gives her a chance to remind herself that no matter how attractive he might look on the ice or after a hockey game, it doesn't change the fact that he'll never actually care about her.
—
2025 tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed; bolded names mean Tumblr won’t let me tag you 🥲): @moodymelanist @sv0430 @bookstantrash @hiimheresworld @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @glowing-stick-generation @goddess-aelin @melphss @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @wolfnesta @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @that-little-red-head @kale-theteaqueen @superflurry @lady-winter-sunrise @freakingata @susanbanarchy @jsmelodies @unhealthyfanobsession @presskmewleroux @nativeswfl @livinforthetea @dying-of-wanderlust @berkskc @the-new-ribbon @underneath-the-sidras @deadandsane
Chapter five: A lot can happen over a game of hnefatafl.
(Previous chapter // next chapter)
Between his thumb and forefinger, Cassian held up a small ivory carving, no bigger than Nesta’s little finger.
“Your aim,” he said, tilting the tiny statuette until the candlelight shifted across its carved face, revealing a man with wide, expressive eyes and a crown balanced upon his head, “is to get the king into a corner. Moving only in straight lines.”
His voice rolled over her like a wave hitting the sands, so smooth and expansive. Later, Nesta might blame the scent of honeyed wine in the air or the haze of woodsmoke that lingered in the hall like a fine veil. Later, she might find any reason she could to explain why she didn’t snort at that tone in his voice - the cadence and the lilt of it, an edge honed by those used to giving instruction - and why she didn’t get right up and leave.
Later.
For now, she watched as Cassian set the miniature king down in the centre of the board with a flourish, in the middle of a square surrounded by intricate, angular, patterns.
“What happens when he gets to the corner?” she asked.
The corner of his lips twitched. “You win.”
Nesta straightened in her seat.
Easy enough.
“Your pieces protect the king,” he went on, setting out six smaller, faceless, statues in a circle around their ivory sovereign. A single line of black squares edged each side of the board, and as Nesta watched, Cassian laid out twelve more pieces - carved from ebony, this time - along those lines, like a horde of waiting soldiers. A wry smile flickered across his face as he set down the last of those ebony pieces and pulled his eyes up to hers.
“Mine attack him,” he finished.
Nesta snorted. “Fitting.”
His eyes simmered as he shot her a wink that would likely give any other Saxon woman a heart attack. “Once a Dane, always a Dane, sweetheart.”
With a roll of her eyes, she didn’t bother to respond. Instead, she took the time to look her fill at the board sitting between them on the table, with its black and white squares and neat lines.
It was strategy; she could see that.
She would not only need to find a clear route to the corner of the board, but predict where Cassian would move his pieces, too— anticipate his every move and block him before he could trap her. Something inside her piqued at that, like a great slumbering beast opened its eyes after a decade in hibernation. She had always been a curious child, always asking questions her father hadn’t known how to answer, and in the end, Aedwulf had given her education over to a local priest for a year or two, just to silence her incessant string of queries. The priest had been a kindly old man who seemed to have an endless well of patience for a child’s questioning, and though he’d read to her from the scriptures, he’d taken the time to teach her her letters too, and regaled her with tales of beasts and monsters from the same kind of myths her father had banned all knowledge of.
When she told her husband, Tomas had said that it had been a waste, teaching a woman to read.
So she had learned to swallow her questions and stifle that burning desire to simply... learn. But as Nesta looked at that black-and-white board, she felt the age-old tug of curiosity that she hadn’t allowed to swell unchecked for years.
And for the first time in over a decade, Nesta embraced it.
She lifted her eyes from the board, and found the Dane watching her like every move she made, every breath she took, revealed something to him. Some part of the puzzle he was trying to figure out. She quirked a brow, leaning back a little in her seat as she dragged her gaze over his face and felt defiance stirring in her breast— the kind that made her want to make a string of bad decisions.
“Why should I be the one to defend the king?” she asked flatly.
Those hazel eyes flashed with barely-contained delight as Cassian grinned, all teeth and mischief; a wolf in the dark. “Shall we trade, then? For once I’ll be the Saxon, and you can try your hand at being a Dane.”
“Is that what this is?” she countered dryly. “A game of Danes and Saxons?”
He shot her another wink, one that made her skin feel too tight. “Isn’t that what everything is these days?”
Nesta hummed before casting her eyes back to the board. Idly, she dragged a fingertip along its wooden edge, pausing when she reached the line of black pieces designed to capture the distressed little king.
“Who moves first?”
Cassian inclined his head, golden light catching on the planes of his jaw.
“Ladies first.”
***
Like a fool, Nesta had thought she would pick up the game as easily as she did everything else.
After all, languages had always come to her easily, and she had a mind not just for numbers but for dates, too. She could think and she could plot as well as any man, and yet somehow, she found herself on the losing side of this damned game, watching with ire boiling in her gut as Cassian plucked yet another of her pieces off the board and laid it down beside his tankard of ale.
Clenching her jaw and fighting the frustration that made her want to hurl the board at a wall, Nesta scowled.
She wasn’t used to this— to losing.
And yet her pieces had yet to make it anywhere near the king she was supposed to be attacking, because at every single turn Cassian blocked her, like he knew her move minutes before she made it.
Bastard.
He hadn’t been lying when he said he was good at this.
Drumming her fingers against the edge of the table, Nesta took a breath. Blinked. Tried to look at the board from a different perspective— from his perspective. No matter how much she wanted to turn over the table right now, the challenge he had proffered kept her sitting in that chair and kept her mind working harder than it had for years, and even as he moved another square closer to victory, Nesta hummed as she lifted a hand and hovered over one of her pieces.
Her eyes flicked up, watching for any sign on his face that she was making the wrong move. But Cassian wasn’t watching the board or her hand or the move she was planning to make. He was studying her instead, so intently she half thought he was measuring her breaths, counting her heartbeats. Shrewd and sharp, even with that endlessly-amused glint shining in his eyes, he looked at her like he could figure her out entirely, just by keeping his eyes trained on her face.
And Nesta understood, then. To win wasn’t just to understand the game. It was to understand the opponent, too.
With a cocksure grin, Cassian reclined in his chair, kicking an ankle over his knee as he waited— like he had all day. And, Nesta thought, maybe she had all day, too.
Softly, she hummed as she tilted her head, contemplating the board. With every breath she felt his eyes on her, felt her skin heat beneath her dress, and as the moment dragged, she realised that the game on the table wasn’t the only match being played. Another was going on too, with far more risks and fewer rules. With every pass of his eyes across her, Cassian sized her up, and Nesta would be damned if she wasn’t going to take the opportunity to do the same.
To better understand the opponent, she told herself. To win the game.
Not for any other reason did she ask, smoothly, whilst still dragging her eyes over the squares before her,
“Tell me. What is it like out there? On the sea?”
Surprise danced across his face for all of a single moment before a grin split his lips in two. In the warm light of the candles, the shards of gold in his hazel eyes seemed to be like shafts of sunlight filtering through the canopy of an autumn forest, warm and bright and yet somehow possessed of a hunger that Nesta half thought might have been mirrored in her own eyes, too.
“Curious are we, love?”
Nesta shrugged.
“I have never left this land,” she said slowly, letting her fingers drift across the board as she contemplated where to move next. Cassian watched her the whole time, like he knew her decision already and was just waiting for her to catch up. She flicked her gaze up; caught his. “Never seen beyond these shores.”
“A pity.”
“You sailed here,” she added, her hand stilling as, at last, she made up her mind. Before she could change it, she plucked up one of her pieces and moved it a single square to the left.
“Obviously,” Cassian drawled, crooked grin spreading as he gave her a pointed glance before flicking aside the piece she had just moved and replacing it with one of his own in a move so smooth, so confident, that Nesta scowled again. “I didn’t exactly part the North Sea like your god to get here now, did I?”
His eyes dipped to the cross at her neck, and Nesta fought the urge to tuck it beneath the fabric of her dress.
“Heathen,” she said calmly, rolling her eyes as he tried and failed to smother that damned smile that seemed to light up his entire face. But he didn’t answer, only took a deep pull from his ale as Nesta looked back at the board and tried to figure out what move he would least expect of her.
Still, she couldn’t quite get it out of her mind— the thought of a distant land, a foreign sky.
“Would you ever go back?” she asked.
For a long, long moment, Cassian was silent.
“Maybe,” he answered at last, his face turning pensive as he looked down into his tankard, like the honey-coloured liquid within might give him the answer he needed. “If the gods willed it so.”
He paused, setting the ale down with a shrug and trailing a finger along the rim. He wore a single silver ring on his finger, the muted gleam turning bronze in the light of the hundred candles that lit the space, and then, with a rumble in his throat that sounded something like an idle hum, he added,
“But I like it here.”
Bold, his eyes skimmed across her face, and Nesta swore she could feel every place those eyes alighted, like his attention was a stone skipping across the surface of a lake. She felt each ripple right down to her toes, felt it echo in her blood, and with a jolt she realised that not only did she not mind him looking at her that way, but she didn’t ever want him to stop, either.
“I like it here very much,” he murmured, pulling his eyes down from her face to her chest and travelling back up again in a lazy, languid, stroke.
“And there’s no Danish woman waiting for you across the sea?” Nesta asked, wondering if her voice sounded breathless to his ears as well as to her own; wondering how long it would take for her heartbeat to steady and her flaming skin to cool.
Cassian tipped back his head and laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sure there are several.”
Nesta rolled her eyes, but he only leaned closer, as if he were about to confide in her a secret. This close, she could smell the honey and leather scent of him, tinged with a hint of woodsmoke. She swallowed as he said, his voice so low it was little more than a scrape of gravel in his throat,
“But none so lovely as you.”
Slowly, as if moving through water, he dared to reach out across the space between them and brush his thumb across her chin, dragging his calloused touch along her skin for all of a single heartbeat before the shock of his touch had Nesta rearing back, her eyes turning sharp even as his danced, glimmering in the low light.
And then—
Before he could do it again, and before Nesta could second-guess herself and lean into the touch he promised, she took her chance to turn back to the half-forgotten game and move one of her pieces into a square directly beside one of his, knowing full well that it left her vulnerable and open to attack.
Knowing full well that he would seize the chance to capture another one of her soldiers.
And Nesta watched as Cassian moved without missing a beat, barely even tearing his eyes away from her face long enough to pluck her small black game piece off the board.
But Nesta smiled.
Because in moving so swiftly to take her piece, he’d left one of his others vulnerable, just as she’d suspected he would. And as his eyes widened, Nesta took her first of Cassian’s game pieces.
Shock lit his beautiful face, melting swiftly into delight as he propped an elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his fist.
“Good,” he said, letting the word roll across his tongue like a tide. “You’re a fast learner.”
Nesta shrugged. “Perhaps I have a good teacher.”
He hummed low in his throat— a sound so sinful she was certain her soul would bear the weight of it forever. It rolled and roiled and sank right into her, and Nesta wondered what it would sound like if he were to press his lips against her ear and hum again; if the vibration of it against her skin would permanently mark her bones.
“I’ll make a Dane of you yet,” he murmured.
God— she should not have felt lightheaded at that.
He had yet to look away from her, and as the moment stretched the air between them tightened until suddenly Nesta found it difficult to breathe. The board lay between them, but she couldn’t quite remember why they were playing or why she’d even entered that hall in the first place. The smile he gave her turned wolfish, so sharp she wondered if it would make her bleed, and as she dragged her eyes over the planes of his face, she thought of how he really was the most attractive man she had ever laid eyes on; all sharp lines and rugged edges that would engulf her if she gave him half the chance. She swallowed, feeling her heart hammer in her chest, and when he leaned forwards, as if pulled by an invisible string, so did she.
But the space between them was nothing. This close, Nesta could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. She studied his face; noted the scar through his eyebrow and the small bump in his nose that said it had been broken once or twice. Without thought, her eyes dropped to his lips.
Whose move was it, now?
Did she care?
She didn’t think she could care, when he was looking at her like that— like he’d devour the entire world if it meant he’d get to taste her for even a moment. She wanted to shiver beneath his gaze, but her entire body was warm. Her eyes darted back to that generous mouth of his as he sank his teeth into his bottom lip. Somehow, she had leaned forward even further, her necklace with the small silver cross dangling in the space between them, hovering over the board where they had played their game. Hanging precariously, like a pendulum.
Cassian’s eyes drifted to it for only a moment before, torturously, he pulled his gaze back up. Something like a groan left him, like he was trying hard to control himself.
“Dangerous, sweetheart,” he whispered, so close that Nesta felt his breath on her cheeks.
“What is?”
“The way you’re looking at me.”
Nesta didn’t move.
All it would take was an inch - less - on her part, and their lips would touch. And God, she hadn’t ever kissed a man simply because she wanted to. Hadn’t ever felt that rush of desire that only seemed to belong to the lucky and the determined. She hadn’t ever thought such things could be within her grasp, but instinctively she knew that if she took that step and touched this man…
Her world would never be the same.
But Cassian didn’t move either, like the same war was waging inside his head, too.
He swallowed, and Nesta watched his throat move. His fingers were curled tight around the edge of the table, like if he uncurled his grip for even a second he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from plunging those fingers into her hair, and—
“Cassian.”
Oh God.
All at once, and with terrible clarity, the entire hall came screaming back into focus.
The Dane from earlier - Azriel - stood behind Cassian’s shoulder, and suddenly Nesta heard the laughter, the voices, she had so entirely blocked out. The scrape of chairs being pushed back, of tankards being knocked together, the fire crackling loudly in the centre.
How had she forgotten so completely where they were? What she was surrounded by?
Heat rushed to her cheeks as she pulled herself back, but she noticed, with some small degree of satisfaction, that for a heartbeat Cassian seemed just as dazed as she was. Like he’d been just as caught up in her as she had been in him, and his eyes met hers only briefly as he cleared his throat and turned to the sound of the voice that had shattered their little illusion.
“Az,” Cassian said smoothly, although the expression on his face was so unimpressed that Nesta thought anybody else would have ran a mile. “Impeccable timing, as always.”
Azriel’s lips quirked in what might almost have been a smile, but then, grimly, he brought his scarred hand down hard on the table. Whatever veil of desire had lingered… it dissipated the second his palm made contact with the smooth wooden surface. Even the pieces on the game board shook.
“Rhys will meet with the Saxon,” he said, shooting Cassian a withering look before giving Nesta a single curt nod. “You can tell him that he’ll see him in an hour.”
Suddenly, brutally, reminded of what she had come for, Azriel’s presence was a pail of ice-cold water poured right down her spine, shocking her back into the present with a jolt that left her feeling like something precious had just slipped right through her fingers. All of the heat from a moment before faded like footprints in the sand, and coming to her senses Nesta shook her head, pushing back her chair and rising to her feet as she blinked once, twice, before letting her face settle back into the shape of the proper Saxon wife Tomas would be expecting.
But before she could leave, Cassian’s hand darted out, closing gently around her wrist.
“Come find me, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “When Rhys is done with the bastard. Or when he’s next in bed with someone else. Come find me.” He offered her another grin, another look that stirred the embers still burning between them. “I’ll show you what it is to be entertained by a real man.”
Nesta only blinked, smiling wryly as she eased herself from his grip.
“A real man?” she echoed, looking around the hall as she rounded the table and stood beside his chair. Lightly she laid a hand upon his shoulder, her fingers curling around solid muscle even as she forced herself not to notice the feel of him beneath her. She leaned down, close enough to whisper, but made no effort to keep her words quiet. “If you manage to find one, do let me know.”
Laughter burst from his chest, the sound rich and heady, and after Nesta patted his shoulder once before turning away, she found herself striding through that hall with her head high and a smile on her face, his laughter echoing inside her mind even as she went to fetch her husband. Even Azriel had smiled, she noticed.
Only when she reached the door did she realise that they had left their game unfinished.
***
“I believe I requested a private meeting.”
Tomas’ voice was a petulant rasp echoing through the silence of the lord’s hall, and the sneer on his face was as ill-chosen as it was ill-timed as Nesta watched her husband look up towards the small raised platform where Rhysand had set his carved wooden chair.
The hall was just as full as it had been an hour ago, and Nesta had been surprised when, after bringing Tomas back to the hall, Azriel had met them at the door and, instead of escorting them to Rhysand’s private chambers, had taken them into the same cavernous hall where she’d just played half a game of strategy.
Her husband was… vexed, to say the least.
But Rhysand only smirked, his hands braced on the arms of his chair, the curve of his lips absent any kind of humour.
“What you request doesn’t matter to me.”
The mockery of a smile fell away as Rhysand’s lip curled with distaste. He leaned forwards in his seat, and Nesta wondered if it was deliberate, how much it looked like a throne. Tension thickened in the air, like every single Dane beneath that roof was holding their breath, and Nesta was grateful to linger by the wall, half-concealed by the shadows. Tomas hadn’t turned to look at her since they had entered, but Cassian, standing just to the side of Rhysand’s chair…
Oh, he hadn’t taken his eyes off of her yet.
Like his attention had snagged on her the moment she’d walked in, and he had yet to free himself. She had expected a smile shot in her direction, or a wink as he inclined his head, but Cassian’s face was hard, like Tomas’ presence alone had sharpened his earlier good mood into something far more volatile.
She didn’t know why, but she wished he’d smile at her.
“My king has had word of an attack,” Tomas pressed on, lifting his chin with an arrogance that wasn’t just unwise, but lethally foolish too.
“How convenient,” Rhysand purred, his voice as dark and as cold as a mid-winter night. It brought a shiver across her skin, caused a chill to creep down her spine. “I, too, had news of this attack.”
Tomas stood in silence. Shock, Nesta realised, slithered briefly across his face. She saw it in the slight widening of his eyes, the incremental curl of his lips that he caught before it could turn into a grimace.
“Tell me,” Rhysand continued, “is it not curious? A Christian site is attacked but none are harmed? The building still stands? And the only thing of value taken, not gold or books or priceless treasure, but a handful of bones.”
Relics, Nesta realised. The only thing taken were relics.
Tomas had told her that the attackers had run off with all that they could carry. And she had no reason to trust Rhysand, but… her husband had seemed so calm when he received that letter.
Her eyes shifted from Tomas to the Norse lord and the cold expression he wore that didn’t just promise retribution but practically guaranteed it. Fury rippled from him, his entire frame lined with the threat of violence, and Cassian was no better. At his lord’s left, she didn’t miss how, every now and then, his fingers would drift idly along the belt at his waist, as if reaching for the seax tucked there. He caught her eye, but Nesta looked away— looked back to her husband, and wondered if he really had lied to her so brazenly.
But when her gaze wandered back, and landed once more on the Dane standing with his back straight and a merciless glint in those now-familiar eyes, Cassian gave her a small, barely-noticeable, nod as he folded his arms over his powerful chest.
And for reasons she couldn’t hope to understand, she trusted him far more than the man she had married.
Tomas sniffed, his tone venomous when he said, “Your kind seem intent on destroying anything sacred to Christians.”
Rhysand smiled, but it was far from kind— a sinister, serpentine curve of lips that made Nesta wonder if her husband was ever going to make it out of that hall alive.
“Your kind,” he echoed slowly, tilting his head. “Am I not a Christian now?”
Nesta didn’t think she was breathing.
It was a trap— she could see it as clear as anything. Whichever way Tomas answered, he’d put his foot in his mouth. He couldn’t answer. And after a long minute, where her husband’s silence stretched uncomfortably - and Rhysand let it, like he luxuriated in it - the Danish lord held up a rolled piece of parchment that she hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding.
“You will take this letter to your lord and master,” he said sharply.
Tomas started. “The journey to Wessex takes days—“
“Then you had better leave quickly,” Rhysand advised cooly as Tomas stepped forward to take the proffered parchment, his boots thudding on the floor as he tucked it into his pocket with a look of consternation twisting his features. Rhysand blinked, bored. “Now, perhaps.”
The glower on Tomas’ face might have levelled mountains had he been a stronger man.
Instead Nesta watched as he said nothing else, only turned to leave, cutting a path through the Danes that had been silent witnesses to the entire ordeal. She made to follow, but as she peeled away from the shadows—
“Wait,” Rhysand called, his voice ringing out through the hall that was so still, Nesta could hear the wind outside.
Tomas paused, looking back over his shoulder and wrestling his features into something like neutrality as Rhysand blinked flatly before nodding once to her.
“Your wife stays here,” he added. “To ensure your… co-operation.”
Tomas blinked.
Nesta wanted to laugh. To remind the northern lord that Tomas was unlikely to care either way. But then she met Cassian’s eye from where he stood next to Rhysand’s chair, and the slight smirk that played at the corner of his mouth made her wonder…
Had he played some hand in this? Asked Rhysand to make such a ridiculous request?
It didn’t matter, she supposed. Not as Tomas looked to her and huffed sharply, raising no dispute or protest as, with a mocking bow of the head, he nodded his assent. He didn’t look at her again as he swept from the hall without another word, and he certainly didn’t offer her a goodbye.
Not that she wanted one.
But Nesta looked to the doors as they swung closed in her husband’s wake and felt herself oddly unmoored— like the last truly familiar thing in this place, as lamentable and loathsome as he was, had just turned heel and walked away. Something pricked at her fingertips in his absence, something that felt like freedom, like possibility, and it was so dizzyingly foreign that Nesta was rooted to the spot, unable to move and unable to look away from that door, as if afraid that her husband was going to walk right back through it and change his mind.
Not that he could.
She was left alone - truly, utterly alone - as all around her the Danes fell back into a natural rhythm, like there hadn’t been an interruption at all. Games were taken back up, drinks refilled, and the tales told by the fireside were begun again as the logs cracked and the embers drifted up towards that gap in the roof where the darkening sky was visible through the clouds. Nesta lingered at the edge of it all, watching from the shadows and wondering if she ought to leave, when—
“I can’t say I’ll miss him, love.”
A hand brushed the back of Nesta’s elbow, fingers light and searching as Cassian trailed his touch down to her forearm. Even through the fabric of her dress his hand was warm, and the way he dragged his fingers so lightly over her sleeve was so casual, so practiced, it was as though he had grazed her arm a thousand times, in a thousand different lifetimes.
Relief swelled in her at his sudden appearance by her side, but Nesta forced herself to shrug idly as she tore her eyes away from those doors and said,
“Neither will I.”
The smile he gave her was a knife in the dark, as beautiful as it was lethal, and as he inclined his head towards the long tables, laden with game pieces and half-finished tankards of ale, his hazel eyes glinted in the fading light, all green and gold and amber; a forest at sunset. Heat gathered beneath her skin as those eyes fixed on hers, and as he deepened the tilt of his head, the silver earrings lining his ear winked at her like the distant gleam of foreign stars.
“It is a pity,” he said slowly, dragging out each word and letting it linger, like a kiss against her skin, “that your bed will be half empty tonight. It gets so terribly cold here when the sun goes down.”
Nesta snorted. “As subtle as an axe to the face, I see.”
He grinned; a wicked edge. “Who said anything about subtle?” He tsked, that smile turning lazy as those eyes continued to gleam. And then he nodded once more to those tables, extending a hand and exposing his palm. “Come. We never did finish our game earlier.”
Mildly, Nesta blinked. “Are you so desperate for my name?”
Cassian raised a scar-split brow. “Has it taken you this long to realise it?”
And she didn’t know why, but something about the way he looked at her - so brazen, so certain - had a blush rising to her cheeks. He dragged the edge of his thumb along his bottom lip, forcing back the smile that threatened to curve that generous mouth of his as he waited for her answer, and as his eyes dipped to her neck - lower - her heart hammered out an uneven beat that she didn’t have a hope in Hell of steadying.
It was ridiculous. She was no maiden— no innocent, naive girl still hoping for a hero to come and rescue her. No romantic fool still hung up on notions of love or desire.
And yet.
Cassian watched her, amusement lining his face as he waited for her answer, bearing witness to the silent war she waged on herself. And as the candlelight caught the planes of his face, bathing him in gold, she looked up into his eyes and suddenly felt like she was fighting the current of a mighty tide, swimming and swimming and swimming against it for fear of being dashed against the rocks, when perhaps she shouldn’t have been fighting at all. And as Nesta blinked and looked at the Dane standing beside her…
“Nesta,” she said quietly. “It’s Nesta.”
She didn’t know why it felt like such a significant offering— like far more than just a name. And for a moment Cassian said nothing, his face empty as he blinked. But then his lips parted gently on a breath, a soft whisper leaving him as he tilted his head to one side and gave her a soft smile, the expression that crossed his face one nothing short of wonder.
Like to know her name was to know religion.
“Nesta,” he repeated slowly, as if savouring the taste on his tongue. That wondrous smile lit up his face again, and hearing the way his accent made mountains and valleys out of the syllables of her name had her wishing he would say it again. Slowly, that smile began to consume his entire face, lighting up his eyes until she couldn’t believe that something as simple and as small as her name could have such a profound effect on a man so accustomed to bloodshed. “It is beautiful. Not a name I have heard before.”
“My father had ancestors in Gwynedd,” Nesta shrugged. “It is a Welsh name.”
“You are full of surprises,” he murmured. “Have you seen it? The lands of your forebears?”
“No.”
“I have heard tales of it,” he said gently, something wistful creeping into his tone. The wonder of a traveller speaking of distant lands; the awe of a man who had yet to find a piece of earth he wanted to plant his feet in for good. And yet Nesta wondered if the tales he had heard had been from marauding Danes, who had burned their way across the land. “Of it’s beauty. It’s mountains.”
“Then you have heard more of it than I,” she shrugged.
Her father didn’t speak much of it. His grandfather had moved from the mountains of Gwynedd to the plains of Wessex, a merchant who taught his son and his grandson the ways of the trade. She had asked, once, why they had never even visited the land where her great-grandfather had been born. Her father had simply told her not to speak of it, because she was Wessex born and bred and naught else.
A flicker of sadness drifted across Cassian’s eyes as he watched her, and with a sniff Nesta pulled herself out of it and blinked away the longing for a land she had never seen and a home she had never stepped foot in.
Perhaps that was what it was that drew her to this Dane. In her soul she sensed the same longing in him that she had spent years trying hard to bury— a yearning for someplace else.
“I am glad,” Cassian said after a moment, “that Rhys sent your husband away.”
Nesta offered him a small smile. “So am I,” she repeated.
And when he reached out to take her hand, she didn’t stop him. Didn’t stop him, either, as he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.
His lips met her skin; he looked up and met her eyes, sending a line of fire straight down her spine. She shivered, and all at once his eyes darkened, like he’d like to do so much more than kiss her hand. Indeed, when he rose, Cassian didn’t let go of her fingers. Instead he used the grip he had on her hand to pull her closer; her chest so close to his.
Moving slowly, like he wanted to map every inch of her, Cassian slid his other hand across her waist; his palm rounding her middle, his fingers travelling to her spine as her entire body became naught more than a burning taper.
But Nesta hissed, pulling away as her eyes darted to the tables around them. Her skin had practically sang beneath his touch, and his callouses scraped against her palm as she pulled her hand free of his, but still she looked around them and cursed.
He remained standing where he was, a pace away, his eyes still aflame even as he let out a laugh.
“Come now, love,” he said smoothly. “People don’t care who you are here.” He took a step closer, until her chest was pressed against his once more. She didn’t back away this time, feeling the heat of his body sink into her like an open flame.
“Or who your husband is.”
Her heart hammered, her pulse raced, and suddenly it felt like all the air had dried up like a creek in summer.
A wicked smile graced his face as he brought his lips to her cheek, dragging the suggestion of a kiss along her cheekbone until he reached her ear, where his voice dipped and he added,
“Or who you choose to fuck.”
Nesta swore she stopped breathing altogether.
His language had a blush stealing onto her cheeks, and he laughed again, the sound so deep and thick it felt like an extravagance just to hear it twice in one day, and as he pulled his mouth back from her ear, his thumb swiped along the same cheekbone he’d just dragged his lips along.
Nesta forced herself to remain resolute. Not to melt into his embrace
“And where am I to stay?” she asked, her voice turning sharp as she looked over his shoulder to the carved wooden chair where his lord and brother still sat. “If I am to be Rhysand’s hostage, will you keep me in a dungeon?”
Cassian laughed again. “Hostage? Sweetheart, you are a guest.” Smoothly he moved to stand closer to the wall, leaning against it and tipping his head back. “Rooms will be set aside for you here, in the lord’s hall.”
She blinked.
She looked at the hall, at the strangers that were starting to feel familiar to her. Their women laughed and drank and played games as much as the men. Some of them even had swords at their hip— warriors, just like their male counterparts. How could she stand in that hall, surrounded by such folk, and want to go back to the home that scorned her even for learning to read?
The ghost of Cassian’s touch seemed to burn against every place he had touched her. Her cheek, her hand, her waist. So many small touches setting so many small fires in such a short space of time. She swallowed. It was not lost on her that he had placed his back against the wall, leaving her with all the leverage. She could take a step closer or she could walk away.
He had left the choice entirely down to her.
And if there was one thing Nesta had suffered a severe lack of her entire life, it was choice.
And maybe it was that thought alone that emboldened her. Closing the distance between them again, Nesta flattened a palm on his broad chest.
“And if I didn’t like that room?” she breathed.
She watched his eyes darken. Watched as hunger overtook his features. His hand slid up his chest to cage hers against the fabric of his shirt.
“Then we’ll find one that suits you better,” he murmured. His eyes flicked down to her mouth, like they had done for a hundred times this evening alone. “Mine, perhaps.”
Nesta felt herself smile. “Perhaps,” she echoed.
He grinned, and with a flick of his hand he motioned for someone to bring him a tankard of ale. One of Rhysand’s household staff complied, striding over a moment later bearing not one, but two deep vessels filled to the brim with the liquid that made Nesta’s nose wrinkle as she remembered the bitter taste. Cassian only grinned again, lifting an eyebrow as he watched her wrap her hands around the tankard anyway.
“Skol,” he declared, knocking his cup against hers.
And like it was second nature, Nesta nodded and said in a perfect echo,
nessriel | E | hurt/comfort, modern AU - magic/CC inspired
Aux officer Cassian brings a stray home with him and he doesn't want to let her go. Lieutenant Azriel, and his life partner, thinks he has a bleeding heart and an undiagnosed mental health condition - until he meets Nesta Archeron for himself, sweating and vomiting through a self-led alcohol detox, and decides ... yeah, they should keep her. Nesta is at an all-time low, all her bridges burned, but she's going to pull herself together and try to keep her mess from spilling into these ridiculously gorgeous, kind-hearted Auxie's lives.
ao3
(Thank you @popjunkie42 and @thesistersarcheron for the support read throughs!)
For Day One: Beginnings of @polyacotarweek!
Chapters 1-3/9
Preview Below
~*~
Everything fucking hurts: Cassian’s knees are jammed up, his spine crackles along each vertebra, his balls feel like tenderized meat, and his godsdamn shoulder. Ripped out of the socket by a feral leopard shifter, high on pixie dust.
As if the hit that knocked him off of his feet wasn’t bad enough, the amount of paperwork he’d had to fill out because of the right hook he’d landed out of self-defense driven instinct afterwards was even more painful.
Cassian can feel the impact from his wing meeting with the concrete just as much as the strain in his neck from standing bent over the counter at the Aux.
Like the asshole knew how low tech they are.
“Mother fucker,” he mutters, slamming the unit door shut behind him.
He waits to hear the double beep of the lock before shoving the keys in his black jean’s front pocket and shuffling for the stairs to his apartment.
All Cassian wants is to get out of this fucking oppressive bullet-proof vest, kick off his boots, strip off his pants and sprawl on the couch with one hand down the front of his briefs and the other holding a cold beer. Put a game on. Maybe mess around with Az by sending him some dirty pictures.
An image of high cheekbones splattered with a dark flush, hot to the touch, flashes in his mind. Pupils blown wide and hand covering that seductive mouth to hide embarrassment.
Yeah, thinking about the pretty blush that will spread over his partner’s face? The way Az will jerk his head up to make sure no one saw … and then sneak another peek, maybe find an unoccupied room that doesn’t have cameras in it for some privacy?
Cassian grins wickedly.
He will definitely send dirty pictures.
Maybe after a beer or two, his shoulder won’t hurt so bad either and he can send a video tease. Get Az all worked up so he comes home in the morning ravenous, like a male possessed, ready to put Cass in his place for winding him up so tight —
A loud clatter right as Cassian rounds the stairwell to head up to the second floor cuts off his train of thought.
Engrained Aux training makes him hesitate.
Voices rise up behind the closest door.
Shit.
Apartment 132. A real sleazebag.
“— I’m a dirty whore? Yeah? Have you seen your fucking bed sheets?” A female’s voice becomes clear, growing louder along with heavy, slightly muffled footsteps on a carpeted floor. Drawing closer. “Learn how to do the laundry, you infantile asshole!”
The doorknob jiggles a few times along with a few incoherent curses before the door is wrenched open. Unsure what kind of scene is about to spill into the bottom floor of his apartment complex, Cassian holds still aside from his hand edging closer to his holster.
The female has her back to him, still yelling into the apartment with her middle finger in the air. “Your cleaning skills match the size of your cock, unsatisfact- ow!”
Cassian is braced for the collision course, but the female hasn’t been paying attention to anything but lobbing insults at the vampire arguing back half-heartedly from somewhere deeper in the apartment. She jumps as her bare shoulders connect with the kevlar covered metal plate on Cassian’s chest.
She whips around, hellfire seething from her. “Watch where the fuck you’re —”
The words die on her lips as she cranks her head up: taking in the uniform, the badge, the fucking Aux uniform aviator sunglasses perched on the bridge of Cass’s crooked nose.
With his polished talons gleaming two feet higher than his nearly six-and-a-half-foot height, he knows he looks intimidating as hell.
Her gaze lingers on the breadth of his shoulders, the swell of his biceps under his shirt sleeves, the thick column of his neck.
Cassian also knows he looks fit as hell.
“Shit,” she curses, but it’s breathy enough to sound unintentional.
The vampire is quicker than a whip, tossing a purse onto the concrete and slamming his door shut. The contents spill out of the purse because he hasn’t bothered to close it: chapstick, a pack of gum, various IDs and brightly packaged condoms ‘ribbed for her pleasure.’
Sleazebag.
The purple-colored veteran Aux ID in the discarded pile catches his attention, but Cassian doesn't give away his recognition.
“You alright, sweetheart?” he asks, cocking one brow up.
The hallway is open-air, but it does nothing to reduce the scent of chain-smoked cigarettes and strong alcohol coming off of the female.
Happy four year anniversary to A Court of Silver Flames, and Nesta Archeron’s journey!
This book was an experience that I wish I could re-do and live through all over again. Nesta Archeron is a character that I related to on such a deep and intricate level, and I will forever be thankful for discovering this series and her.
This book taught me inner peace. This book taught me the power of friendship. This book taught me that everyone is deserving of love. This book taught me that strength is more than physical. This book taught me what unconditional really means. This book taught me to keep reaching out my hand.
“For every Nesta out there—climb the mountain.”
I was inspired by the Elain Archeron commission that jasmineandshadows did—everyone should check that artwork out, as well! It’s stunning!
It has been four years since "A Court of Silver Flames" was published, and Nesta Archeron had part of her journey told. So, in honor of this date, I want to share this incredible art that @polianegicele made of our immortal slayer queen.
snowghoul
andulkaphoto
baratheonpilled
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
