And it had been his voice she’d heard. His voice and …
There was no sign of Rhysand. Just Cassian.
She stared at him for long minutes, the unusual paleness of his face, the brows still scrunched with worry, as if he fretted for her even in his sleep. The sun gilded his dark hair and shone through his wings, bringing out the undertones of reds and golds in both.
Like a knight guarding his lady. She couldn’t stop the image, sprung from the pages of her childhood books. Like a warrior-prince, with those tattoos and that muscle-bound chest.
Her throat tightened unbearably, her eyes stinging.
She would not let herself cry, not for herself or for the sight of him keeping watch beside her bed all night.
But it was as if her furious blinking woke him, as if he could hear the flutter of her lashes.
His hazel eyes shot to hers, like he always knew precisely where she was. And they were so full of worry, of that unrelenting goodness, that she had to fight like hell to keep the tears from falling.
Cassian said gently, “Hey.”
She clamped down on herself. “Hello.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” No. Though not for the reason he believed.
“Good.” He groaned, stretching, first his arms and then his wings. Muscles rippled. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“That’s fine.”
And that was that.
But Cassian threw her a half smile, and it was so normal, so him in a way that no one else was or would ever be, that her throat tightened again. “You want breakfast?”
Nesta managed to answer his half smile with one of her own. “I like your priorities, General.”
“What happened to you?” Emerie asked as they panted through their abdominal exercises. “You look white as death.”
“Bad dreams,” Nesta said, willing herself not to look to where Cassian stood, instructing Roslin from a respectful distance on how to do a proper squat. They’d had a quiet breakfast, but it hadn’t been awkward. It had been comfortable—easy. Pleasant.
Gwyn asked, on Nesta’s other side, “Do you have them often?”
“Yes.” Nesta finished a sit-up, grunting through the weakness in her middle.
“Me too,” Gwyn said quietly. “Some nights, I need a sleeping potion from our healer to knock me out.”
Emerie gave Gwyn an assessing look. Emerie never asked about Gwyn’s past, or the histories of the other priestesses, but she was a cunning female. Surely she’d seen the way they kept a healthy distance from Cassian, scented their hesitation and fear, and put a few things together. Emerie asked Nesta, “What did you dream about?”
Nesta’s body locked up, but she launched back into motion, refusing to let the memories master her. “I dreamed of the Cauldron. What it did to me.”
Gwyn said, playing with her hair, “I dream of my past, too.”
But Gwyn’s admission, Nesta’s own, didn’t weigh them down. Nesta’s head had cleared slightly. And somehow, she found she could push herself harder.
Perhaps in voicing those truths, they’d given them wings. And sent them soaring into the open sky above.
“How are you holding up?”
Cassian sat across from Rhys’s desk at the river house, an ankle resting on a knee, and asked, “Me? How about you? You look like hell.”
“Yesterday was a rough day, followed by a rough night.” Rhys rested his head atop a propped fist on his desk.
Cassian angled his head. “What happened before the disaster that was last night?”
Gods, he’d nearly wept this morning to open his eyes and find Nesta staring at him, her face clear and free of pain. The shadows still lingered, yes, but he’d take anything over her screaming. Over that magic Rhys could only explain as pure death.
When Rhys didn’t answer, Cassian said, “Rhys.”
Rhys didn’t look at him as he whispered, “The baby has wings.”
Joy sparked through Cassian—even as the broken whisper and what those words meant made his blood go cold. “You’re sure?”
“We had an appointment with Madja yesterday morning.”
“But he’s only a quarter Illyrian.” It was possible, of course, for the baby to have inherited wings, but unlikely, given that Rhys himself had been born without them, and only conjured them through whatever strange, unearthly magic he possessed.
“He is. But Feyre was in an Illyrian form when he was conceived.”
“That can make a difference? I thought she only made the wings—nothing else.”