Eris wants to avoid a war that would expose him, Feyre had guessed. If Beron sides with Briallyn, Eris would be forced to choose between his father and Prythian. The careful balance he’s struck by playing both sides would crumble. He wants to act when it’s convenient for his plans. This threatens that.
But no one had been able to decide which was the bigger threat for them: Briallyn and Koschei, or Beron’s willingness to ally with them. While the Night Court had been trying to make the peace permanent, the bastard had been doing his best to start another war.
After an unusually quiet dinner, Cassian had flown back up to the House. And found the oak door to the stairs open, Nesta’s scent lingering.
So he’d waited. Counted the minutes.
It had been worth it.
Seeing her claw her way onto the landing, panting, hair curling with the sweat sliding down her face—completely worth his generally shit day.
Nesta was still sprawled on the hall floor when she hissed, “Whoever designed those stairs was a monster.”
“Would you believe that Rhys, Az, and I had to climb up and down them as punishment when we were boys?”
Her eyes shimmered with temper—good. Better than the vacant ice. “Why?”
“Because we were young and stupid and testing boundaries with a High Lord who didn’t understand practical jokes regarding public nudity.” He nodded toward the stairs. “I got so dizzy on the hike down that I puked on Az. He then puked on Rhys, and Rhys puked all over himself. It was the height of summer, and by the time we made the trek back up, the heat was unbearable, we all reeked, and the scent of the vomit on the stairs had become horrific. We all puked again as we walked through it.”
He could have sworn the corners of her mouth were trying to twitch upward.
He didn’t hold back his own grin at the memory. Even if they’d still had to hike back down and mop it all up.
Cassian asked, “What stair did you make it to?”
“One hundred eleven.” Nesta didn’t rise.
“Pathetic.”
Her fingers pushed into the floor, but her body didn’t move. “This stupid House wouldn’t give me wine.”
“I figured that would be the only motivator to make you risk ten thousand stairs.”
Her fingers dug into the stone floor once more.
He threw her a crooked smile, glad for the distraction. “You can’t get up, can you.”
Her arms strained, elbows buckling. “Go fly into a boulder.”
Cassian pushed off the wall and reached her in three strides. He wrapped his hands under her arms and hauled her up.
She scowled at him the entire time. Glared at him some more when she swayed and he gripped her tighter, keeping her upright.
“I knew you were out of shape,” he observed, stepping away when she’d proved she wasn’t about to collapse, “but a hundred steps? Really?”
“Two hundred, counting the ones up,” she grumbled.
“Still pathetic.”
She straightened her spine and raised her chin.
Keep reaching out your hand.
Cassian shrugged, turning toward the hall and the stairwell that would take him up to his rooms. “If you get tired of being weak as a mewling kitten, come to training.” He glanced over a shoulder. Nesta still panted, her face flushed and furious. “And participate.”
Nesta sat at the breakfast table, grateful she’d left her room soon after sunrise to make the trek up to the dining room.
It had taken her double the time it normally would, thanks to her stiff, throbbing legs.
Getting out of bed had required gritted teeth and a litany of cursing. Everything afterward had only gotten worse. Bending to put her legs into her pants, going to the bathroom, even just heaving open the door. There wasn’t one part of her legs that didn’t ache.
So she’d left her room early, not wanting to give Cassian the satisfaction of seeing her limp and grimace into the dining room.
The problem, of course, was that now she wasn’t entirely certain she could stand.
So she’d taken a good, long while eating her meal. Was choking down the porridge when Cassian prowled through the dining room doors, took one look at her, and smirked.
He knew. Somehow, the swaggering asshole knew.
She might have snapped something, but Azriel stalked into the room on his heels. Nesta straightened at the shadowsinger’s appearance, the darkness clinging to his shoulders as he offered her a grim smile.
Azriel was nothing short of beautiful. Even with those scarred hands and the shadows that flowed from him like smoke, she’d always found him to be the prettiest of the three males who called themselves brothers.