Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they’d still been drunk, given away by Az’s relentless hiccupping.
Cassian nodded to the kitchen table. “Since you’re so good at sitting, why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”
When she didn’t answer, he turned to find Nesta standing in front of the hearth, arms tightly crossed, the flickering light dancing in her beautiful hair. She didn’t look up at him.
She’d always stood with that stillness. Even as a human. It had only amplified when she’d become High Fae.
Nesta stared at the fire as if it murmured to that burning soul of hers.
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
She blinked, seeming to realize he was still there.
A log on the fire popped, and she flinched.
Not in surprise, he noted, but in dread. Fear.
He glanced between her and the fire. Where had she gone, for those few moments? What horror had she been reliving?
Her face had blanched. And shadows dimmed her blue-gray eyes.
He knew that expression. Had seen it and felt it so many times he’d lost track.
“There are some shops in the village,” he offered, suddenly desperate for anything to remove that hollowness from her. “If you don’t feel like sitting in here, you could visit them.”
Nesta still said nothing. So he let it drop, and left the house in silence.
CHAPTER
9
Nesta stepped into the warmth of the small shop. The bell above the door jangled as she entered.
The floors were fresh pine, all polished and gleaming, a matching counter occupying the back, an open door beyond it revealing a rear room. Clothes for both males and females occupied the space, some displayed on dummies, others folded neatly along display tables.
A dark-haired female appeared on the other side of the counter, her braided-back hair shining in the lights. Her face was striking—elegant and sharp, contrasting with her full mouth. Her angular eyes and light brown skin suggested a heritage from another region, perhaps a recent ancestor from the Dawn Court. The light in those eyes was direct. Clear.
“Good morning,” the female said, her voice solid and frank. “Can I help you?”
If she recognized Nesta, she didn’t let on. Nesta gestured down at her fighting leathers. “I was looking for something warmer than this. The cold leaks through.”
“Ah,” the female said, glancing toward the door and the empty street beyond. Worried that someone might see her in here? Or waiting for another customer? “The warriors are all such proud fools that they never complain about the leathers being cold. They claim they keep them perfectly warm.”
“They’re decently warm,” Nesta confessed, part of her smiling at the way the female had said proud fools. As if she shared Nesta’s instinct to be unimpressed by the males in the camp. “But the cold still hits me.”
“Hmmm.” The woman folded back the partition on the counter, entering the showroom proper. She surveyed Nesta from head to toe. “I don’t sell fighting gear, but I wonder if we could get fleece-lined leathers made.” She nodded toward the street. “How often do you train?”
“I’m not training. I’m …” Nesta struggled for the right words. Honestly, what she was doing was being a wretched asshole. “I’m watching,” she said a shade pathetically.
“Ah.” The female’s eyes glinted. “Brought here against your will?”
It was none of her business. But Nesta said, “Part of my duties to the Night Court.”
She wanted to see if the female would pry, to see if she really did not know her. If she would judge her for being a miserable waste of life.
The female angled her head, her braid slipping over the shoulder of her simple, homespun gown. Her wings twitched, the motion drawing Nesta’s eye. Scars ran down them—unusual for the Fae. Azriel and Lucien were two of the few who bore scars, both from traumas so terrible Nesta had never dared ask for details. For this female to bear them as well—
“My wings were clipped,” the female said. “My father was a … traditional male. He believed females should serve their families and be confined to their homes. I disagreed. He won, in the end.”
Sharp, short words. Rhys’s mother, Feyre had once told her, had nearly been doomed to such a fate. Only the arrival of his father had stopped the clipping from occurring. She’d been revealed as his mate, and endured the miserable union mostly from gratitude for her unharmed wings.
No one, it seemed, had been there to save this female.