U Ever In Such A Bad Mood U Feel Urself Turning Evil?

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under violet skies | azriel

summary; the dusk court has been hidden for many millennia. with a new ruler who no longer wants to hide, threats break out. azriel was tasked with protecting the high lady, the queen, of dusk court, from an assassination attempt.

word count; 9644

notes; I love the plot, I hate the smut, so be gentle with me, okay? ki just hit 3k, and a while ago she asked for something dusk court, and azriel, and hate fucking. I hope this lil gift meets all those expectations. 🤍

You really weren’t sure how you’d ended up here. In fact, everything felt like a blur. Surely, it had only been moments ago you’d been sitting at the table with Azriel, eating breakfast, laughing with the man who was your bodyguard as he whispered jokes about your court under his breath. 

Now, you watched as his shadows swirled frantically, through bleary eyes that were beginning to blacken around the edges. The pressure on your back rose, your fingers digging so hard into the cold stone tiles that your nails were tearing. What was it that Azriel had taught you, in all those months of training? You couldn't remember, your head was spinning. Somewhere in the distance, you could hear him screaming, yelling, the chains he was locked by rattling and shrieking as the metal gave nothing. 

Just when the darkness was reaching the middle, when you were so desperate for breath your heart was no longer racing, the pressure loosened. You sucked in a breath, so deep it hurt as it stretched abused muscles, and a cry fell from your lips. A steel-capped boot hit your shoulder, a rough kick that flipped you over onto your back, onto the wounded muscles that were already giving you hell. 

The room was a mess, what had once been your dining room, what had once been beautiful pillars of carved marble and moonstone was destroyed; smoking and flaming, debris littering the room. The dining table was cracked in two, you remembered the centuries-old oak giving way as Azriel had been thrown right through it. The windows were smashed, the pretty stained glass at the end that had cast a lavender haze over the whole room, you remembered the way flames had birth through it like shooting stars falling from the sky.

Footsteps crunched through broken glass, following where you’d rolled to a stop, one arm twisted awkwardly under your body, and the feeling of hot, sticky blood dripping from it was enough to make your stomach twist. He had a crazed look in his eyes as he waved his free hand around the room, head tipping to the side as his feet came to a stop near your head.

Azriel pulled tighter on the chains, the accomplices holding him back yanked so hard you heard something pop, and you took a shuddering breath, as best you could. “Let him go. You only want me.” Cold pressed to your throat as he crouched, your eyes snapping back, lips trembling, skin burning from the tears pouring down over them as you met the eyes of your attacker. Of the assassin sent to kill you, the one you’d known was coming, had been preparing for, and yet you’d never have been ready for this.

“Let him go?”

“Yes. Let him go.” Your voice trembled, weak as you tried to assert authority, the power that was your birthright, your power as the rightful ruler of Dusk Court, and he only laughed, bloodied teeth from his bleeding lip showing, a result of the one punch you’d managed to land before he’d gained the upper hand over you. 

“See, this is why we’re here. This is why you can never rule, you’re nothing like your father.”

“I take pride in that.” He sneered, eyes blazing with a kind of rage you’d never seen before, the insanity fuelling it terrifying you to your very core. You blinked back tears, refusing to let him see any more vulnerability from you than he already had. “Kill me now, or I’ll kill you for hurting him.”

He laughed again. The sound of it made fear strike down your spine, a cold slash that left everything alert with feeling, left every damaged nerve electrified and screaming. “You’d risk your life for a piece of Night Court scum? You change things, you are doing everything wrong. Your father knew how to rule, you’re nothing but a disappointment on that throne.”

“It’s sweet to know the family has such a loyal following.”

“You have no loyalty from me.” He spat, the mixture landing on your cheek, a searing hot reminder of just how powerless you were. Your eyes closed, bile moving in the back of your throat. Your hand shook so badly as you tried to lift it that you could barely smear it away. He stepped back, rounding your body, until he was hooking a hand under your armpit. Hauling you onto your knees, the rocks and splinters dug into your skin through the thin layers of gauzy, ruined dress, until you were facing Azriel. 

His lip was split, a trickle of blood running down from it, dirt and soot covered his face, a bruise forming along the right side that made you wince as you remembered the kick that had caused it. His wings were drooped, his left arm hanging limply by his side, and you wondered if that pop had actually dislocated it. His eyes were wide, his whole body all but vibrating with rage, and he struggling against the chains once again. 

“Look at him, an Illyrian. We all know of their reputations, of how they act. Bastards, monsters, degenerates, killers. You’d have, what, have our noble court follow in their footsteps? I hope dying for one of your precious Illyrians is worth it.”

Azriel was screaming now, shadows whipping in a violent frenzy as that cold knife pressed to your skin once again, not breaking the skin but enough that you could feel the blood throbbing in your neck against it. Your heart slowed, breath catching in a sob you tried to hold back, offering a shaky smile when Azriel’s desperate gaze met yours. “It’s okay, I’m dying for my mate.”

The room fell silent.

So quiet, you could hear your own heart beating in your ears.

“You’re dying for nothing.” His hand pulled back, ready to send the blade piercing into your neck, your heart, you didn’t know. Your eyes met Azriel’s, a shaky smile finding your lips. 

Then, the room went black. 

An explosion, swirling darkness like you’d never seen from Azriel before, barely catching glimpses of light through the hurricane of shadows closing in and in on you like a suffocating mass, until the light was gone entirely. Metal strained, shrieked, before giving way, and then blue cut through it. A solid burst of sapphire, a terrifying shot of power that illuminated the dark just enough for you to see him as he moved. There was a look on Azriel’s face you’d never seen before, a look that suggested that wasn’t Azriel at all, not the one you knew, not your mate, but someone else entirely. Someone much, much darker. 

That blast hit the man behind you, the force of it sending your body flying along with his, and when you hit the stone was again, your skull collided with the ground. It was dark again, the power gone, and you were left alone. All you had to guide yourself with was the screams, the sounds of gut-twisting torture as bodies were torn apart, the wet sounds of flesh tearing, the sounds of bones breaking, the sounds of lives ending. You didn’t pity them, but it didn’t stop you from being terrified. 

You did all you could, you pressed yourself close to the floor, forehead to the tiles as you wept, a hand over your body, body shaking so violently your joins scraped the rough floor. You could only hope it was Azriel who found you first. 

You waited.

And waited.

Eyes closed, soothing yourself with the sounds of your own cries, until the screaming stopped, until only one man’s heavy panting echoed off of the wreckage of the room. You cracked an eye open, watching the shadows crawl back, slowly, slowly, until you could see your own hands in front of your face again, until you could see the wreckage of the room. 

Blood, spattered everywhere. Across the tapestries and walls ad painting. Guts, hanging from bodies, the metallic smell in the air only making the queasiness worse. And then, Azriel, on one knee before the very same man who’d had a knife to your throat. The knife, still clutched in his hand, his hand clutched in Azriel’s, was now buried in his throat. 

It was a sickening sound as Azriel pulled the blade free, wiping it on the thigh of his leathers as he stood, and sheathing a new blade on his belt. A trophy. Rivers of red ran from him, along black leather, along golden skin, from raven hair. You hoped none of it was his. 

His eyes met yours, his shoulders still heaving, something cold and emotionless sitting in them, but as your gazes locked, you felt the bond in your chest hum. That golden thread that had been dead for so long pulled tight, and you watched his body stiffen, heard his sharp intake of breath.

The rush of it, it gave you just enough strength to get to your feet, to stumble over your shredded dress and the ruins of your home towards him. He remained still, so still it was like he was a statue, watching you move until you collapsed into him. Your hands smoothed up his chest, coming away red-coated, but you didn’t care, not as you cupped his face, thumbs smoothing over his cheek as you took in your battered mate.

“Az..”

Your lip wobbled. His didn’t. Instead, it curled down in a snarl, a sound that echoed harshly along your body. His hands come up, wrapping tightly around your wrists, yanking your trembling hands from his face. 

“Do not fucking touch me.”

You gaped, the thread in your chest going dead once again as his walls snapped up. Cold and hard and heartbreaking. 

You reached for him again when his hands let you go, only to watch as he turned, watching his back as he stormed from the room, shadows dragging with him like a cloak of pure darkness, until he was gone. 

Once again, you fell to your knees, one hand clutching at your chest. 

This time, you didn’t hide your sob, nor the loud wail that tore from you on a sore throat as you reached the ground.

“The threat is taken care of, so you’ll no longer be needing my services.” Azriel appeared as he always did, silent and terrifying, all but manifesting out of the shadows as he walked through the door, refusing to even show the decency of knocking. He was clad in his leathers once again, but no longer did blood streak down them, no longer were they torn and burned. He looked better than he had the last time you’d seen him, a week of healing had done him good, those Illyrian genes had fixed him up far faster than you had. There were still bruises along your back, your neck, your soul. He didn’t observe you the way you looked at him, he refused to look at you at all, stalking towards the desk on the opposite side of you and slamming a letter down onto it. “I expect you’ll be wanting this.”

He slid it with two fingers across the polished oak, before pulling back, hands tucking firmly behind his back, wings pulled tight. You didn’t pick it up, but continued to stare at him, watching him observe the space of your private office. He’d never been here before, not this close to your bedroom, the door behind you to it still wide open. You’d been on bed rest all week, waiting for him to visit you, to talk to you. He’d never come, so you’d had to pull rank and summon him. 

A muscle twitched in his tight jaw as though he was thinking the same thing. Finally picking up the letter and running your thumb under the seal on the back, three mountains and three stares glared at you from within the swirling grey wax. It popped open, your fingers delicately folding it open. 

It didn’t say much, a small, hastily scrawled letter in his unique cursive, bluntly explaining how he’d be leaving in the morning. His duties as a bodyguard and nothing more were completed, and when dawn broke, he would leave for the Night Court once again. Permanently. 

He stayed silent as you read, only daring to glance in your direction when you pressed it down flat onto the wood before you, smoothing it out, reading it again. And again. Your threat stung, an entirely new pain from the one you’d been recovering from all week, and when you looked up at him, that same empty look was present in his gaze. Vacant, unfeeling, void.

“You’re leaving?” He only nodded, stiffly, maintaining the eye contact for a second before dropping it once again, holding his chin high and staring over your head. Azriel had never made you feel small, never made you feel weak or helpless, not like he was now. He was leaving, you’d laid everything bare for him, your bond, your love, your life, and he wanted none of it. “I see.”

You lifted a pen, dipping it delicately into the ink, the tip hovering for only a second over the paper before you were signing it neatly. He let out a slight sigh as he watched the signature be drawn. Whiskey-eyes narrowed on you, as though he’d expected more; a fight, and argument, a royal demand like the one you’d used to get him here in the first place, but you had no fight left to give. 

“Thank you, Azriel, of the Night Court. Your services were more than I could have asked for.” It ached to even speak, to put a distance between you both like this, like he hadn't become your best friend, your confidant, the only man you’d ever loved. The only man who’s made you feel safe. This office felt far too small with him in it, and the palace felt far too big with the idea of him gone. “I’ll write to your High Lord, thank him personally for your services. I’ll be sure to send-”

Your voice cracked, his wings twitched behind his body as his head snapped back to you, and you only cleared your throat, putting on the same smile he’d trained you in months ago, to hide everything you really felt. You never thought you’d have to turn it on him. 

“I’ll be sure to send ample rewards for your services.”

He lingered a moment longer, hands flexing behind his back, before one reached out, spinning on his heel. He was almost at the door, hand hovering over the handle, when he turned back to you. “How long did you know?”

There was only one answer. “The night of my coronation.”

He visibly blanched, shoulders locking so tight you swore it must hurt. “That was almost a year ago.”

It was your turn to nod. Almost a year ago, Azriel had found you, surrounded by piles of lavender tulle and silk, sunken down onto the floor with your crown gripped in your hands, unable to even breathe. Almost a year ago, scarred fingers had wiped tears from your face and told you how to be strong, taught you how to be fearless, promised you it would get better. Almost a year ago, you’d realised exactly where the shadowsinger belonged. It had always been right there, at your side. 

“You’ve known for almost a year?” The cold mask of indifference broke, that simmering anger you’d known had been there breaking through as it rose, but at least it was something. You stood, walking around the desk slowly, intending to pour yourself and him a drink, but Azriel had other plans. “You kept this from me for almost a year?”

His shout was so loud that the glasses on the tray rattled. “Look at the way you’re reacting now, Azriel. You pretend to feel nothing, but you feel everything so deeply. If I had told you, can you say you wouldn't have run scared, let that fear consume you?”

“I have waited five hundred years for my mate, I have told you such, I had laid the deepest parts of myself and my wishes out for you to see and you still didn’t tell me? I told you how much I wanted you, and you never told me.” Beneath the anger, beneath all that fiery rage was hurt, just like the hurt you were feeling, and it bounced down that strained bonds between your bodies, no matter how much he tried to hide it or keep you out. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie, Azriel. I simply just didn’t tell you the truth.”

His scoff felt like a slap. “Oh, such a political thing to say. I don’t know what you were ever scared of, you’re a natural politician.”

That felt like a knife. 

If he could make cheap shots, so could you. 

“This is why I did not tell you. I knew you’d run away, like a coward. Just like you are now. I have waited for you for days, and for days you have avoided me, hidden away like a scolded child, and now you’re going home. You’re going back to hiding in your shadows, so you can observe the world from afar, longing to be a part of it, but never having the guts to join it.”

“You don’t know me!” It was an uncharacteristic burst, a few footsteps closer to accompany it, and you shrugged. 

“I know you better than anyone. Including, perhaps, yourself.”

His shoulders were heaving, ragged breaths sucked into his lungs as he glared at you with such hatred it lit you up from the inside out. His wings flared, chest tightening, and then he was stalking towards you. 

You backed up, all the way until your back was pressed to the wall, until he was so close you could smell the night lingering on him, the swirling mists and dewy forests, all heightened with his emotions, rolling off of him in waves. 

“I hate you.”

The feeling was mutual, he was running scared, breaking both of your hearts because he was too scared to give his to you. “I hate you t-”

His mouth descended onto your own, a kiss that knocked the very breath from your lungs, that had your head slamming back into the wall behind you with the force of it. Hot and angry, he wasted no time, the months of tension building between you two finally coming to a head like the eruptions of a volcano. Large hands settled on your hips, pressing you back into the wall, a dull ache in your back forming, a cry on your lips, and then it was gone. 

Gone, because in that moment of weakness, in that sound, he’d slipped his tongue into your mouth, powerful kisses growing deeper and wetter, overpowering you in every way as he crowded in closer. Close enough that you could barely slip a hand between your bodied, close enough that you could feel his heart racing against your chest, beating against his ribs, searching for your own. 

Mates.

That bond was singing, pulling tight, wrapping around you both as you tried to keep up with him, to kiss him back with everything you had. To show him you loved him, you were sorry, you just wanted to make him happy after all, you didn’t want it to end like this. 

To show him it didn’t have to end at all. 

His teeth bit your lower lip, hard enough to sting, to draw another cry from you as pleasure and pain blended into a mix that made your head spin. His teeth all but knocked against yours, your lungs burning for breath once again as he took the trauma you’d felt a week ago, and rewrote it into something new. Every nightmare that had plagued you for days felt so small now, as he held you, as he caged you in, broad frame tall enough that all you could see was him, all-consuming and devastatingly handsome. 

“I hate you,” He growled it into your mouth, one hand sliding up along your front, so confident in his touches that you almost whimpered as he grazed over your breasts, before his fingers were skimming lightly over the bruises on your neck, settling there comfortably. “I hate you for making me wait four hundred years for you.”

“I hate you for running away when you found out.” He squeezed, your oxygen cutting off for barely a second, and his lips moved down to your neck as you gasped. Biting, sucking, marking you as his with his mouth until you felt like every bone in your body was bending to his command. He let you go, let you take a breath, his lips grazing your jaw. 

“I hate your smart fucking mouth.”

You brought a hand up to his face, pulling his lips back to your own, a grateful hum leaving you as your mouths met again, your sighs tangling in the middle, and the bond in your chest jerked happily at the contact. 

It may not have been a loving kiss, it may not have been a kind kiss, in fact, every part of it was utterly brutal, but you loved it. 

“I hate the way you never tell me what you’re feeling.”

“I’m doing it now!” And then it changed, the hand on your neck smoothing down, sitting over your neck rather than squeezing it, thumb swiping over the purple marks littering your skin almost tenderly, as his mouth slowed from fervent to deep, something so erotic that the world seemed to slip away around you, nothing but the feel of him, the taste of him, remaining. His hands moved, tugging at the strings on the front of your dress, and you supposed that yes, he was telling you how he felt. Desperate, needy, betrayed and hurt and most of all scared. It was there to read in actions like a book. “I hate all these fucking strings.”

Fabric tore, the simple ties on the front of your dress giving way, and you tore your lips from his to look down at the mess. The corset was laying on the floor by your feet, the simple undershirt pooled around your waist, barely holding onto your arms it slumped down to your wrists, taut nipples exposed, shining skin with a glisten of sweat as you panted, and Azriel merely smirked when you looked back to him. “I hate that you’re such a fucking brute.”

His hands skimmed down your body, silently pushing away the rest of the material until it could pool at your feet, cold air sweeping in from the open window and making goosebumps rise along your exposed flesh, nothing but your panties and your crown left on your body now. He was still dressed, it was entirely unfair, and you began to tug with unsteady hands at the clasps holding his leathers shut. 

“I hate these fucking leathers.” The front came loose, your hands smoothing over his ribs to behind his body, drawing the two of you ever the closer as his hands roamed across your hips, toying with the lace scrap covering you. 

“No, you don’t.” He knew just how good he looked in them, a spark in his eyes that said he knew what he did to you, the arrogant prick, and whatever semblance of softness had formed in the last few seconds was wiped back out by the smug look he wore, your anger sparking at him once again.

But, he was right, and when he snapped the elastic against your skin, kissing along every mark he’d made on your neck already, your gasp was submission enough for him. “No, I don’t.”

“Good girl,” He mumbled, a rasp to his voice that made you heady with the thrill, nipping at your collarbone enough to make you jerk against him. His body only pressed you further into the wall. His fingers skimmed down, over the front of your panties, pressing at your clit softly through the material, and you were putty in his hands. He dragged the drenched material covering you to the side, one finger skimming through your folds, and you swore you forgot how to breathe as the anticipation became suffocating. “See how much better it all is when you tell the truth?”

A single, long finger slammed into you, sheathed in a single movement and a scream tore from your lips in shock. Your back arched, body curling as his thumb found your clit, pressing in rough circles that had you gasping against the hand still curled loosely at your throat. “Oh, fuck, Azriel..”

His finger crooked, rough scars dragged against you as he pulled it back, only to slam in again. It was an assault, the kind of stimulation that made your breaths shallow, eyes rolling back in your head, hips jutting up to roll into his palm as he used that single digit to throw you into ecstasy. Your fingers felt numb as you continued to tug at his leathers, as those final buckles behind his back you hadn’t managed, tearing at them until your fingertips hurt and they finally came loose. 

You shoved at them, dragging them from his body in a frantic motion to get your hands on as much of him as he had of you, your breasts bouncing with every rough pound of his finger into your core. A hiss left his lips as a buckle grazed the bottom of his wing, wings that flared out as you finally stripped him of his leathers, more heavy fabric dropping between you both and revealing miles of inked, golden skin for you to explore. 

There was a dark look in his eyes, one as dark as it had been days ago, only for entirely new reasons, and instead of scaring you, this one set every cell in your body alight. He met you halfway, instinct acting for you both as your mouths clashed together, a hot mess of tongues and lips as he claimed dominance over every part of you. That free hand slid up, until he was rolling one nipple between a thumb and forefinger, pinching to make you cry out, and he chuckled darkly against your skin. 

“I spent months imagining what kinds of sounds you’d make for me, but nothing compares to the sweet sound of my name on your lips.” He pressed a simple peck there, like a drug you were already hooked on you followed for more, and he slipped his hand back to your throat, pressing you back into the wall. His finger stilled for just a second, your body clenching ceaselessly around it, and you whimpered, needing him to keep going. “Say it again.”

“Earn it, and I will.” Your hips bucked against his hand, a challenge sparked in his eyes, and his hand moved. His touch left you entirely, until he was stepping back, only his hand at your throat keeping you from following him, from pathetically latching yourself to him as you stared. He looked like a god of old; rippling muscles flexing with every breath, whorls of dark ink, messy hair that matched, swollen lips still shining with your kisses, and eyes bright as he stared at you in the same way. “Azriel, please.”

“There we go.” He muttered, thumb swiping across your jaw in a soothing reward, your head tipped a little further into his touch as his hand slipped up to cup your face. He leaned in, dipping so close your lips parted, and he diverted just as his mouth brushed yours. A kiss to your jaw, to your neck, a flick of his tongue over your nipple as he lowered himself further and further, until he was mouthing at the sensitive skin below your navel. Your panties were dragged down your hips until you were stepping out of them, and when he looked up at you from his knees, you swore reverence and devotion lay in his eyes. He kissed at your knee, then the other, hands on your ankles yanking your legs apart and you grasped at the wall for balance. 

“You’ve moaned my name for me, but now I want you to scream it.”

His tongue swept along your core, punctuating his sentence and your entire body keened, almost collapsing into him right then and there. He did it again, rough strokes that ended at your clit, your fingers lacing into his hair, pulling on it while pushing him closer. His lips sealed around the bud at the apex of your thighs, sucking harshly as fingers crawled up from your ankles once again, swiping through the mess you were surely making, swirling in the build-up gathered there. 

You gasped, a whispered plea falling from your lips but even you didn’t know what for. He seemed to know, the tip of his tongue swirling lightly at your entrance, before sipping inside, wet muscle stretching you slowly, thicker than the width of that one finger, and every thought emptied from your head. 

The cool breeze from the window did little to soothe the heat inside of you, did nothing to ease the tremors wracking your body as you jerked and pleased, his tongue fucking you as his thumb played with your clit, filthy sounds that would haunt you every night when you touched yourself for the rest of the night as he moaned against you. “Oh, gods, Az..”

“I thought I told you to scream, sweetheart.” Two fingers slammed into your body in place of his tongue as he moved his attention back to your throbbing bud, and scream you did. His name bounced off of the walls, and you didn’t care if every worker and every guard and every citizen in all of Dusk could hear him taking you apart, you needed him more badly than you needed oxygen. 

He bit at you, just enough to tease, before soothing licks were taking over once again and you were rocking your hips again this face, holding him where he was, his name like a mantra on your lips over and over as he carried you toward the brink of the best orgasm you’d ever had. It was building, like an inferno, burning you up from the inside out, and when you came, it was with a scream that snapped off to silence, head thrown back and banging on the wall so hard it hurt. The throb eddied away, as everything in you focused on the way he kept going, riding you through it like it pleased him as much as it pleased you. 

If the noises he was making between your thighs were anything to go by, he was. 

He didn’t stop, fingers still going, your body spasming as he took your pleasure for his own, moaning against you as he licked up everything you had to give. When your legs buckled, he lifted one knee over his shoulder, supporting your weight with his own frame and diving even deeper. 

Wet fingers pulled out of you, gripping your other thigh and hauling that one over his shoulder two, smearing your arousal across your skin as his tongue moved back to where it had once been, sending a sharp surge of pleasure so acute up your spine you felt like you’d been electrified. 

“Azriel.. Az.. oh, fuck, I can’t- I-”

“I want you to come again, on my tongue this time. Let me feel you, sweetheart.” Your head was tossed back, whimpering weakly against the wall as he worked, your body never relaxing as he worked you right into another orgasm, dirty whispers from between your thighs with the abuse of his tongue and lips until everything was shaking and trembling, the room spinning with dizzy bliss. 

A single finger, again, knowing it was enough that one finger could drive you wild as he pressed down on that spot inside of you that made a scream louder than the rest break free. He knew you, knew your body like he’d had you for years, and you called for his attention by yanking on that bond in his chest as tears welled in your eyes, so fucked out you could barely even draw breath. He ignored it, pace only picking up.

He didn’t stop, not the rough drags of his tongue over your clit, so sensitive every touch felt like delicious torture, not as you shook and pulled on his hair, hips bucking. 

He didn’t stop, not until he was the only thing holding you up now, as tears streamed down your face, your desperate begging falling on deaf ears, until you pulled his head away from your abused core by a handful of his hair. 

Golden skin glistened, and you took shaking breaths, head falling back against the wall as your body twitched. That one finger slipped out of you, a broken cry leaving your lips as a gush of your arousal followed, and he twisted his head, a wet kiss pressed to the inside of your thigh, marking you with your own scent. 

He lowered one of your legs to the ground, the other following, and your knees buckled, his arm sliding around your waist and acting as the only thing holding you up as he rose to his feet once again. He kissed as he went, kisses that would taste like you, kisses to every twitching muscle, every spot that was still trembling, until his forehead was pressed to your own, soothing strokes of a big hand over your ribs as you calmed, hiccuping through your breaths as you recovered. 

“What a mess you are, look at you,” His words were mean, but his tone was soft, and you whimpered, nudging your nose against his own, any shred of affection would warm you. You were scared, scared that he’d take you apart, break you down and reduce you to tears and then leave. “If only your kingdom could see you now, crying for the bastard.”

Your lips parted, words ready to roll off your tongue when his mouth closed over your own, a surprised moan leaving you as his tongue languidly spread the taste of yourself to your own mouth, his skin still damp with your juices, his slick finger tipping up your chin. A mess indeed. 

“What was it you were going to say? You finally wanted to speak up?” He was mocking you, stealing your words from you. 

“You’re-” He did it again, silencing you with his lips, lazy kisses that you could get lost in, hands exploring every inch of one another’s body slowly as that frantic haze had cooled into something far more passionate now. 

“Try harder, High Lady.”

“I said, you-” Again, his mouth quieted you, and despite your whine, despite your desperation to speak, you clung to him, arms thrown around his neck as his found a home around your waist, hauling you his body until you were on your tiptoes to kiss him. His hips sat snugly to your body, his erection pressing firmly into your hip as layers of thick leather tried to hold him back, tried to hide just how much he wanted you. 

His mouth left your own, lips soothing softer kisses over the drying tear tracks on your cheeks as you panted. 

“I’m trying to say,” You paused, waiting to see if he’d cut you off again, but he didn’t. You cupped his face, pulling him back to be able to truly look at him now. His brows were furrowed, lips twisted in a frown; he was just as prepared for more pain as you were, and your heart broke at the sight. The last thing you’d ever wanted to do was hurt him, not when you loved him this much. “You’re not a bastard, Azriel. Not here. Not with me.”

He let himself sink into the moment, the love, for just a second, before adoration was glazing over with lust once again. It took little effort for him to scoop you up, for him to stride with you in his arms across the room, and to toss you down onto the bedding. Shadows writhed across it, encasing you both in murky darkness, sliding away to the floor in sated reams as Azriel stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at you. 

You knelt up, crawling towards him and smoothing your hands up his chest as his own fingers toyed with the laces of his leathers, freeing his cock, and tossing his head back with a groan as he wrapped his fingers around himself. “Oh, fuck. You have no idea how many times I’ve touched myself, just like this, thinking of you.”

“Yeah?” You kissed his jaw, his free hand smoothing around your waist, over your ass, dipping down until he could thrust two fingers into you in a single motion, and your body toppled forward into his. “Oh, fuck, Azriel…”

“Imagined what you’d feel like wrapped around me,” his fingers moved, pounding within you at the same pace he pumped his cock, matching thrust for thrust until you were shaking against him once again. “How good you’d take me. Imagined my cum dripping out of you, making a mess on all these expensive silk sheets. I imagined fucking you dumb, until you couldn't lie anymore, couldn't even speak anything except my name.”

You were teetering on the edge of an orgasm, one that was ruined as he pulled back, and your nails scraped lines into his chest as you clawed at him desperately, at his arm, pulling his hand back to your body, gasping his name as the feeling ebbed away. He kicked off the remaining clothes he wore, hands closing over your hips, turning you around and tossing you like a rag-doll, dragging you up to bed until you were where he wanted you. 

Giving it all up, ass up in the air, forehead to the mattress, surrendering everything to him, and he teased the head of his cock through your folds, nudging against your oversensitive bud until you cried out, writhing in his tight hold. There would be fingertip-shaped bruises on your hips in the morning, you had no doubt. 

The crown atop your head rolled off as you bucked back against him, the head of his thick cock gliding into you, thick enough to stretch you out, jaw going slack at the slight burn even that offered. He paused, fingers flexing on your hips. 

“Put that back on. I want to look at it while I fuck you, princess.”

Indignant rage sparked in your chest as he leaned over you, planting the crown haphazardly on your head, having the gall to not only handle it, handle you, so roughly, but to demote you within your bedroom. “I’m a fucking queen.”

“Not in this room. In this room, you’re just my cock-drunk little slut,” He sheathed himself within you in one solid thrust, your fingers twisting in the bedsheets as nothing short of a pornographic sound left your lips. He didn't go slow, he didn’t go gentle. He treated you as he always had, not royalty, not something to be protected, but his equal. 

He was angry, at himself and at you, at the world, and it showed. 

Every thrust that had his hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin on skin bouncing around the room as you tried to push back, body trembled as you hurtled towards another mind-bending orgasm, every point he touched lighting up like standing too close to a flame. He was your everything, every sense and cell honing in on him, the bond in your chest glowing with so much light you felt heat pouring off of it, felt the vibrations as you panted, screaming his name in broken thrusts as he fucked you. 

He was right, you were no queen in this room. You were debauched, ruined, covered in the smell of sex and cum, his mess, his mate.

Yet, despite it all, something far more important shimmered underneath. It showed in the softer touches, the smooth of his fingers over your ribs, the kisses placed on every still-fading bruise along your spine as he made his way up your body, covering you more and more. It showed in the way he held you, reverent and needy, even in his anger.

He all but smothered you as he leaned over you, needy pants of your name spilling from his lips as he reduced you to nothing but ash, sweeping away on the wind, and it became more than just sex. It wasn’t hate fucking, it wasn’t just two people giving up to the tension, it was mates finding one another, it was so much more. His hand closed over your own on the bedding, lips pressing to your shoulder as he fucked into you, whispers of your name in your ear. 

“You might give the orders outside of this bedroom, but just look how well you take mine. Now, cum.”

Your body sparked alive, the knot in your stomach snapping and it was only his arm around your hips holding you up as he fucked you through it that stopped you from falling into a twitching mess on the bedding, your arousal seeping from you, dripping down your legs, making exactly the kind of mess he had wanted. His thrusts faltered a little, the growls and moans he’d been making were becoming needier, frantic, his wings flaring out and covering the two of you like a shield from the world as he neared his own high. 

Your fingers parted beneath his hand, spreading until his own digits fell through the cracks, wrapping around yours in the bedding until he was holding on so tightly you thought he may even leave an imprint. You wanted him to. You’d get it tattooed if you could.

“Azriel..” He groaned, the only indication he was listening at all, and you twisted your head to him, his forehead pressed into your shoulder from behind as he sat snugly up against you, hips snapping together frantically. “Az, honey, I want to face you when you cum. I want to see you.”

“Oh, fuck..”

His motions were jerky, quick, like he couldn't trust himself not to cum as he pulled back, stepping away from you entirely. You rolled onto your back, propped up on weak elbows to look at him. He was destroyed, shining with sweat that made him look like he was glowing, wings drooped out by his sides, shadows twisting around his ankles and calves, cock glistening with your arousal, standing tall before himself, and he bit a swollen lip as he let you stare. 

“Gods, you’re so fucking beautiful, and so fucking good for me..”

“Come here, Azriel.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, falling back into your arms, body crushed down, pulled in, by the weight of whatever was shifting between you both. When he slid into you once again, his fingers wove with your own, pinning you down to the bed and setting a harsh rhythm, chasing his own high as you both balanced on the edge. “I hate you..”

You could barely breathe, his gaze locked on your own, fingers squeezed together as you bucked up to meet him, back arching against the bed, ecstasy drowning you in waves and you were clinging to his words for air.

“I hate you, because I don’t hate you at all. I love you more than anything in this fucking world.” His confession sent you tumbling over the edge into another orgasm, your eyes rolling back in your head, crown tipped to one side, and when your lips parted, he dipped down, mouth meeting yours. 

This was different to all the other kisses, it wasn’t threats and anger and hurt, it was promises and love and forgiveness, it was intoxicating, it was blissful, and you could barely kiss back, but it didn’t matter. His mouth stilled, groaning long and deep into your mouth, a cry of your name as his whole body locked. 

Heat exploded as he came, filling you up so deep, so much that you could feel it leaking out of you around him even as he stayed tucked deep inside of you, his hips pressed to yours. You panted, tasting him on every breath as he came, your fingers running soothing touches along his body like he had done for you, until he collapsed down. Too weak to hold himself up, too weak to leave, strong enough to come back at all. 

Your arms looped around his body, linking behind his back as his wings dropped their tension, following down, shadows crawling up over your bodies like a blanket. You stayed like that, long enough to catch your breath and calm your racing hearts. Long enough to clear the fog from your mind, allow you to think clearly once again. Long enough to feel the cold from the open window, to feel the weight of him pressing down, your only source of warmth. 

Long enough to feel him start to grow restless. 

You freed one hand from his back, selfishly stealing another moment or two for yourself before he was gone, running your fingers through silky, damp hair and trying to commit every part of him to memory, before he was nothing but a ghost, only living on in your memories. 

He pushed himself up on shaky arms, his warmth leaving you as he rolled away from you and onto his back, wings tucked tight to his body, and he stared at the ceiling. You felt used, his cum still leaking from you, hating how good it felt when you knew the pain that was coming. It was almost enough to make you sick.

“I’m sorry, Azriel.”

His head twisted in your direction, brows furrowed, and you could see him from your peripherals but couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze properly. Instead, you sat up, crown discarded in the bedding, the last piece of armour taken off. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But, more than that, I’m sorry I never came to find you. I couldn't but that didn’t mean I never thought about you, before I ever knew who you were.” 

His fingers reached out, dragging along your spine until they fell to the bed, a phantom touch you’d remember for the rest of your life. Comfort, even when you didn’t necessarily deserve it. 

“For centuries, I’ve dreamed of meeting you, of meeting my mate. I walked to that border so many times, held my hand over the air until I was too close, until the spell burned my fingertips and warned me back, until the pain was too much to bear. So many times I wished I could come and find you. I knew you had to be out there, over the years I was sure if you were here, I’d have known you, you were right on the other side of that goddamn barrier and I couldn't get to you. When my father died and that wall came crashing down, I felt awful, because I didn’t feel awful at all. No sorrow or sadness for a cruel man, all I felt was relief, and happiness, and freedom, even if I was chained to a throne.”

You took a deep breath, no tears coming at the memory of your father or the kingdom you now had, but tears came at the idea of doing it all alone, forever. You’d had love, you’d had Azriel, and if come morning he was gone, you knew you’d likely never love again. 

“If it’s been too long, if my cowardice of losing you when I finally had you pushed you too far, if it’s too late and it hurts too much, I will understand. I will love you no matter where you are Azriel, but I don’t expect you to love me back if it hurts, and I won’t blame you if-”

You felt the bed shift, turning to look at where Azriel was now sitting up, his hand finding your cheek as his lips closed over yours. The tears in your eyes spilt over once again as he kissed you, smearing between your cheeks as he gave his best to show you how he felt. “I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t know, what it was like for you, how scared you were. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words only brought a fresh wave of sobs, disbelief still etched into your mind, and he kissed along your cheeks, soft strums on the bond that felt like kisses to your spirit as he eased you across, back down toward the bed with him until you lay facing one another. 

“I love you. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You said you were! You were going to leave me at dawn, you were-” He mumbled an apology onto your lips, coaxing you to kiss him back until the frantic fear you felt had ebbed away. He ran the back of a finger over your cheeks, wiping away the tears. 

“I think it would kill me to leave you now.” Azriel lay his head down on the pillow you used, his nose brushing yours with every deep breath he took, concern still swimming in his eyes as he watched you. “I was scared too.”

“I know.”

“But you were wrong to hide it from me. We have to tell the truth from now on, I have to know your heart fully.”

“My heart is already yours, Azriel.” He only smiled, the first honest and genuine smile you’d seen since that fateful morning at breakfast before everything had gone wrong. “The truth, always, I prom-”

His hand cupped over your mouth, eyes wide as he stared. “Do you know what making a promise to someone from the Night Court means?”

“I do.” Your words were muffled behind his hand, his eyes only widening further. “And I promise, Azriel, to always be honest, even if it scares me. To love you the way you deserve to be loved, if you’ll let me.”

Your wrist burned, a sharp strike of pain before it was vanishing, and Azriel lowered his hand from your mouth, agape as you took in the new mark on your wrist. A small, perfect whorl now marred perfect skin, and you smoothed your thumb over it. He took your wrist gently, raising your hand to his mouth so he could kiss it softly. “I promise to match that, to match you, with honesty and love.”

He didn’t flinch as a matching mark formed on his own wrist, but when you kissed it like he had done for you, he smiled. That arm then snuck out, over your hips, tugging you in closer until there was barely a sliver of space between you anymore. Your hand smoothed through his hair again, before coming to rest on his cheek, a look of love on his face you thought you would never see. “I’m so happy I found you.”

“What made you come to the Night Court? When you realised you were in danger from one of your own people, you could have gone to anyone. Day would have been safer, Helion would have been able to trace the spell on you, and believed you right away. You wouldn't have had to convince him as you did Rhysand. Or Dawn, or even Summer. Why Night, when we had a reputation even you must’ve heard.”

You didn’t really have an answer, but he wanted one. “I don’t know. I just felt like that was the place to go. It felt like the right decision.” Azriel tugged twice at the bond between your bodies, already so strong, you could only imagine how much stronger it would get once you’d officially confirmed it.

“It’s going to be hard, y’know.” He rolled away, rasp in his voice as he untucked the blankets from your bodies, lifting them up and over you both slowly, his shadows pushing shut the open windows silently. 

“What is?”

“This.” He waved a finger between your bodies as he settled back in, sitting up among the pillows and letting a heavy sigh out, and you propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. “Hiding this, I mean.”

“Why would we hide it?”

Insecurity crept in, and a ragged sigh left him as you felt his own equal insecurities come flooding toward you. It was accompanied by sadness, and longing for you, even though you were right there. It broke your heart, it broke his heart, and you had no idea why. “I’m.. I’m your bodyguard. I’m a hired killer from the Night Court, it would not be approved of. It would make your life so hard.”

It was like a splash of freezing water, like stepping in the crystal pools of Dusk in the depths of the winter season, frozen right down to the bones within seconds. Reality was a bitch. Pressing your lips together, you sighed, a single thought flittering through your head and as you tried to suppress it, the bond on your wrist burned, hot and painful until the words spilled from you; “I’ll abdicate.”

“No. You can’t.” He shook his head, you both knew it wasn’t an option. “You worked so hard to build this kingdom back up, to make relations with other courts, to make alliances, you love it.”

“I love you more.”

“I won’t let you give it up.” His voice was firm, an end of discussion, and hard boundary, but there was one more option. You didn’t need the prompt of your promise this time.

“Fine. Then you become King.”

A startling laugh left him, self-pitying and shy, and you stared, unwavering until he calmed. “I can’t be a king.”

“Says who?” 

He didn’t laugh this time, he just lay, quietly, holding your gaze for as long as he could bare it before you felt his shame force him to snap away, swallowing thickly against the upcoming tidal wave of emotion he was doubtless fighting. “I can’t.. I wasn’t born for this. I was born for war and blood, I’m a bastard and a brute from the Steppes. I can’t rule. I’m not noble. I’m already a tarnish on you.”

“Do you know where shadowsingers come from?”

“What?” He was covered with confusion once again as he dared to turn back to look at you, at the change in topic. “They come from the dark.”

“No, Azriel, they do not.” Your fingers reached out, dipping into the swirling mass of black that surrounded you both, and a single shadow crawled up your arm, Azriel’s eyes widening as he realised it was not acting of his own accord, nor his, but yours. “There are no shadows in the dark, Azriel. Shadows require light to exist. Shadows do not come from Night as there is no light, they do not come from Day as it is too bright, nor Dawn, as dawn is the awakening, not the sleep. Shadowsingers come from Dusk. That is why there are so few in your world, because the genes stopped being passed down. I don’t know how repressed, how far back, but you, my love, have Dusk blood running through your veins. This is your heritage, right here.”

Azriel was speechless, a sudden breath leaving him as his chest deflated, and he turned to face you a little more. “There’s more like me?”

“Many more, Azriel. I had no idea you thought you were alone. I’ve met hundreds of shadowsingers in my lifetime.” He let out a wet laugh, shock taking over his face as he flopped back into the pillows, one hand scrubbing down his face. “You belong here, and if you want to go back to Night, I will abdicate. If you want to stay, I’ll crown you King myself. But I will not love you in secret, Azriel. Not when I have so much love to give you.”

“You have too much faith in me.” His voice wavered, but it sounded like he’d made his mind up as he took a shaky breath. 

“Well, I have to have enough faith for us both until you believe in yourself.” Picking up the discarded crown, you knelt up, and raised it high enough to place shimmering gold into his hair, adjusting it perfectly and brushing the hair it flattened away from his face. “What a handsome High Lord you’d make.” 

You teased him with his own wording, a term that had been overruled by your father to place distance between yourselves and the other courts, and one you looked forward to taking back. His grin split his face like sunshine through clouds, nervous laughter following as he reached up to touch it. 

“And what a pretty smile. You’ll have everyone eating from the palm of your hand in no time, they’ll like you more than me.”

“Impossible.” He leaned in, sweeping you up and into a kiss, one that was bursting with smiles and laughter and love, and your hands came up, holding the crown firmly to his head as it tipped. You’d make him his very own, one that was his, that showed just how much he meant, and you’d place it on his head yourself. Crown him before everyone. Your love, your mate, your High Lord. “It’s heavy.”

“It takes some getting used to.” You whispered back, stealing a couple more kisses from him before settling back, admiring him lounging in the bed. Naked, silk sheets pooled low around his waist, crown sitting askew in his hair with a smile on his lips. 

“I can’t wait to see the look on Rhys’ face when he realises he’s not the only High Lord in the family, now.”

random things i hear pt 6

guy 1 (after learning what ovaries are): wait... shouldn’t girls be more careful about moving too much? what if they break the eggs in their ovaries??

biology teacher, who has just about had enough of (t)his bullshit: I- you- NO, BROCK, THAT’S NOT HOW HUMAN EGGS WORK

stinkytofubaby on instagram

🪷

Lucien is sweet and kind in a way that none of the other male characters of Acotar are. All of these horrible things have happened to him, his friends and family have betrayed and thrown him aside multiple times, and he still wants to help. He still wants to fight for those who are even weaker then him, and just be a good person regardless of how it could benefit him.

He has nothing and no one and he still tries.

why am i just learning that today is national asexuality day !!!! happy day to all my aspec mutuals!!!!

Feminine Painting Details

happy lesbian week!!

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth of the River House as Feyre paced the sitting room, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. The Inner Circle sat scattered across the plush sofas and chairs, their expressions ranging from curious to downright skeptical as she relayed the news. Feyre’s hands twisted together, a nervous habit she hadn’t indulged in for years, but Nesta had that effect on her.

“She accepted?” Amren finally broke the silence, her silver eyes narrowing as she leaned back in her seat, swirling a glass of blood-red wine. “Nesta Archeron, the Queen of Isolation herself, is coming to Solstice?”

Feyre nodded, her lips twitching into a tentative smile. “Not only is she coming, but she asked if she could bring someone.” She hesitated before adding, “I told her yes, of course. I didn’t want to make her feel… unwelcome.”

Rhysand, sprawled lazily in an armchair with an air of casual authority, arched a dark brow. “And you didn’t think to ask who this someone might be?”

Feyre shot him a look. “I was too stunned she said yes at all. I wasn’t about to interrogate her, Rhys.”

Cassian, who had been unusually quiet, sat forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. His hazel eyes glimmered with a mix of hope and trepidation. “She’s bringing someone? Like… a friend? Or…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

“Maybe she’s found someone she actually likes,” Mor interjected with a sharp smile, though her tone carried an edge of disbelief. “That would be a Solstice miracle.”

Azriel remained silent, his shadowed gaze flicking between Feyre and Cassian, but his jaw clenched slightly, as if bracing for something unpleasant.

“It doesn’t matter who she’s bringing,” Feyre said, her voice firmer now. “What matters is that she’s coming. She’s choosing to be here. After everything…” Her throat tightened briefly, but she pushed on. “This is a step forward. For all of us.”

Amren snorted softly, setting her glass down with a delicate clink. “Or it’s just Nesta being unpredictable as always. Who knows what her angle is?”

“She doesn’t need an angle,” Feyre snapped, surprising herself with the force of her own words. “She’s my sister. I invited her because I want her here, not because I expect anything from her.”

Rhysand reached out, brushing a calming hand along her arm, his violet eyes softening. “No one is saying otherwise, Feyre. But you can’t deny it’s… unexpected.”

“It’s more than unexpected,” Mor muttered, crossing her legs and leaning back against the cushions. “It’s suspicious.”

Cassian’s gaze darkened, and he turned to Mor, his voice low. “She doesn’t owe us anything, Mor. Least of all your approval.”

An awkward silence fell over the room, and Feyre took a deep breath, centering herself. “Whatever her reasons, she’s coming. And we’re going to welcome her, like family should.” She glanced at each of them, daring them to challenge her. “That includes whoever she chooses to bring.”

The conversation drifted into quieter speculation after that, but Feyre remained by the fire, staring into the flickering flames, trying to suppress the nervous flutter in her chest. Nesta was coming. For the first time in years, her sister was coming back into their orbit—not for an argument, not out of obligation, but because she’d chosen to.

She clung to that sliver of hope like a lifeline, unwilling to let it slip away.

The silence that filled the room after Feyre’s announcement felt heavy, as if each member of the Inner Circle was lost in their own tangled web of thoughts about Nesta. It had been nearly a year since the last Solstice, when everything had come to a head, and the aftermath had left deep, jagged rifts between them all.

Nesta had stormed out that night—her words sharp, her tone colder than the snow that blanketed Velaris. In the weeks that followed, she’d stopped opening the tabs she’d once so freely placed on Rhysand’s account, a quiet but unmistakable declaration of her independence. The refusal had stung Feyre, though she couldn’t quite put into words why. Perhaps it was the finality of it, the way it marked a line between them that Nesta had no interest in crossing again.

“She’s changed,” Feyre said softly, breaking the silence. “You all know it.”

“She stopped drinking herself into oblivion, sure,” Cassian muttered, his voice low, his hazel eyes shadowed. “But it’s not like she kept us in the loop about anything else. She just… left.”

“She distanced herself,” Mor corrected, her voice clipped. “Not that it was a huge loss. She’s barely spoken to any of us since.”

Feyre flinched at the bitterness in Mor’s tone but didn’t argue. Mor wasn’t wrong. After Nesta had left the Inner Circle’s orbit, she hadn’t looked back. Letters had been the only form of communication—and even those had been sparse and stilted, only coming when someone else initiated the conversation. Feyre had written her often, clinging to the hope that Nesta would eventually reply with more than perfunctory sentences. Occasionally, she did. But it wasn’t the same.

“She moved out of that awful apartment,” Feyre said, a tinge of relief in her voice. “She found a job, started to rebuild… on her terms.”

“Good for her,” Amren said dryly, though her gaze flicked toward Cassian, as if gauging his reaction. “But the cost was cutting all of us off. You’d think one of her priorities might have been mending those bridges.”

“It’s not that simple,” Feyre said, her voice sharper now. “You all know how things were before. Nesta didn’t feel welcome. She didn’t feel… wanted.”

“Because she didn’t let anyone in,” Mor snapped. “She shut us out long before we gave up trying.”

“That doesn’t mean we were right to stop,” Feyre shot back.

Cassian stood abruptly, running a hand through his hair. “Enough.” His voice was gruff, strained. “Nesta did what she had to do. Maybe it wasn’t pretty, and maybe it wasn’t what any of us wanted, but she’s alive. She’s trying. And that’s more than most of us can say for her a year ago.”

Feyre’s heart ached at the truth of those words. She remembered the haunted, hollow look in Nesta’s eyes during her lowest moments, the nights Feyre had spent wondering if her sister would simply vanish into the void of her own despair.

Now, though, there was something different. In the rare moments Feyre had seen her, Nesta seemed more at ease, steadier. She no longer carried the same brittle anger like a shield. Still, the distance between them had grown into a chasm, and Feyre didn’t know how to bridge it.

“She’s coming to Solstice,” Feyre said again, more firmly this time. “She’s taking a step toward us. We owe it to her—and to ourselves—to meet her halfway.”

The room fell silent again, but this time it felt less oppressive, as if the weight of Nesta’s absence was finally beginning to lift. Even if it was just a sliver of light breaking through the cracks, Feyre clung to it.

The silence that followed Feyre’s words was as heavy as it was unyielding. No one argued, no one even shifted in their seats. It was the kind of silence that pressed down on Feyre’s chest, filling the room with the unspoken weight of everything left unresolved between Nesta and the Inner Circle.

Elain, ever the peacekeeper, appeared at just the right moment, her soft steps barely making a sound as she entered the sitting room. She carried a tray of cookies, their golden edges gleaming, the faint scent of cinnamon and cloves trailing after her. Her warm, practiced smile faltered as she glanced around the room and noticed the tension.

“Elain,” Feyre started, but before she could say more, there was a sharp, deliberate knock at the door.

The sound cut through the quiet like a blade, startling everyone. Elain froze mid-step, her eyes flicking to Feyre, the tray trembling ever so slightly in her hands.

No one moved at first. They all seemed rooted in place, as if reluctant to acknowledge what the knock meant. Feyre felt her pulse quicken. Nesta had arrived—and early, no less.

“I’ll get it,” Feyre said, her voice firmer than she felt as she stood, smoothing her hands down her sweater.

No one stopped her, though she could feel their eyes on her as she crossed the room. Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his face unreadable, while Cassian stared at the floor, his jaw tight. Azriel’s shadows curled faintly at his shoulders, and Mor crossed her arms, her expression blank but tense. Even Amren tilted her head slightly, as if listening for some hidden truth in the knock.

Feyre opened the door, her breath catching when she saw Nesta standing there. She looked different—not in the obvious ways, but in the subtleties: her posture straighter, her face calm, but without the guarded steel that had once made her seem untouchable.

“Nesta,” Feyre said softly, relief blooming in her chest. Her eyes flicked to the person standing just behind her sister, bundled in a heavy coat with a hood shadowing their face. “And you must be…?”

Nesta stepped inside without answering immediately, her gaze sweeping across the room before settling on Feyre. “Thank you for inviting me.” Her voice was steady, though her fingers tightened around the strap of the bag slung over her shoulder. She turned slightly, gesturing to the figure at her side. “This is Taryn.”

The hooded figure stepped forward and lowered their hood, revealing a sharp-featured, dark-haired woman with piercing eyes. She inclined her head in a polite nod, though her expression was unreadable.

Feyre managed a smile, even as the weight of the room shifted behind her. “Welcome,” she said, stepping aside to let them in.

The room’s tension grew as Nesta and Taryn entered, the warmth of the fire seemingly unable to dispel the chill that followed them. Feyre glanced back at the others, her resolve firm. This was going to work. It had to.

Feyre stepped aside, watching as Nesta and the woman—Taryn—stepped into the house. The warmth of the firelight illuminated them both, and it was then Feyre noticed the bags slung over their shoulders. Nesta’s was a small, simple satchel, while Taryn carried a larger bag that looked heavier.

Her gaze flicked to the bags, curiosity stirring. “Are those…” Feyre hesitated, not sure how to phrase it without sounding too eager. “Are those presents?”

Nesta’s stormy blue eyes met hers, unreadable for a moment. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible nod, she answered, “Yes.”

Feyre’s breath hitched in surprise. Nesta—Nesta, who had barely even attended Solstice last year and had left before the sun had fully set—had brought gifts. Feyre swallowed the lump rising in her throat and tried to smile, though her chest felt tight with emotion.

“Let me take your coats,” she said, her voice soft.

Nesta and Taryn obliged, shrugging out of their heavy winter cloaks and handing them to Feyre. For a moment, Feyre’s hand brushed against Nesta’s, and it struck her how steady her sister felt—no tremble, no hesitation. A quiet strength radiated from her, and Feyre’s heart ached with both pride and longing for the bond they’d once shared.

As Nesta handed her bag to Taryn to carry into the sitting room, Feyre couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you pick them out yourself?”

Nesta’s lips twitched, a faint flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Of course I did.”

The answer was so matter-of-fact, so… Nesta, that Feyre couldn’t help the quiet laugh that escaped her. “Well,” she said, stepping back to allow them further inside, “I’m sure everyone will be thrilled.”

From behind her, the room had gone silent again, the Inner Circle still frozen in a mix of shock and discomfort. But Feyre pushed aside the tension and turned to lead the way. For now, she would focus on this small miracle: Nesta was here, and she had brought gifts. Perhaps that meant there was hope after all.

As Feyre turned to lead Nesta and Taryn further into the room, it was Elain who finally broke the silence. Her soft, melodic voice cut through the awkward tension with surprising ease.

“It’s wonderful you came, Nesta,” Elain said, setting down the tray of cookies on the low table in the center of the sitting room. Her warm, genuine smile brightened the room in a way that only Elain could.

Nesta’s gaze flicked to her younger sister, and though her expression didn’t change, Feyre noticed the faintest softening in her sharp features.

Elain’s eyes moved to Taryn, taking in the woman with polite curiosity. “And you even brought a friend,” she added, her tone light and welcoming.

Taryn, standing quietly beside Nesta, inclined her head. “Taryn,” she introduced herself simply, her voice cool but not unfriendly.

Elain’s smile widened, and she gestured toward the chairs by the fire. “It’s lovely to meet you, Taryn. Please, both of you, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get more tea.”

Nesta gave Elain a small, almost reluctant nod of thanks before stepping further into the room. Taryn followed closely, her movements deliberate and composed, as though she were ready to leave at any moment if the atmosphere soured.

Feyre’s chest tightened as she glanced between them, grateful for Elain’s efforts to ease the tension but painfully aware of how stiff and silent the rest of the Inner Circle remained. It was a fragile moment, one that could shatter with a single wrong word, but Feyre clung to the hope that Elain’s warmth might be enough to hold it together.

Elain paused in the doorway before disappearing to fetch tea, her gentle voice trailing behind her. “It really is wonderful to have you here, Nesta. Both of you.”

For a fleeting second, Feyre thought she saw something flicker in Nesta’s eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or maybe just relief. It was hard to tell, but Feyre held onto that moment like a lifeline. Small steps, she reminded herself. Small steps forward.

Feyre led Nesta and Taryn into the sitting room, the warmth of the fire contrasting sharply with the tension that hung in the air. The silence from the others was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the hearth. Still, Feyre kept her posture steady, determined to ease them into this fragile reunion.

“Here,” Feyre said gently, gesturing to the open space near the large, decorated table where the others had already placed their gifts. Nesta and Taryn followed her lead, setting their bags down with quiet precision.

As they straightened, Feyre’s gaze flicked to Nesta. She looked… different. Better. Healthier. The sharpness in her face had softened, replaced by a glow that hadn’t been there the last time Feyre had seen her. Her cheeks were fuller, her skin had a healthy flush, and her silver-blue eyes were clear, unclouded by the weight she used to carry. Even the way she stood—back straight, shoulders square—spoke of someone who had found stability.

Feyre felt a pang of emotion, a mixture of pride and longing, as she realized how much more beautiful Nesta looked like this. Not just in her appearance, but in the way she carried herself: calm, composed, and whole.

Her gaze shifted to Taryn, and Feyre took a moment to really look at the woman. Taryn was striking, her sharp features framed by dark hair that shimmered in the firelight. Her deep green eyes, cool and assessing, seemed to take in everything around her at once. She exuded a quiet confidence, one that balanced Nesta’s steadiness in an unexpected but complementary way. Feyre couldn’t help but think the two of them made an impressive pair, both polished and self-assured in ways that only added to their beauty.

Nesta and Taryn chose seats at the edge of the circle, slightly removed from the Inner Circle but still within reach. Feyre noticed the way Nesta’s hand lingered on the arm of her chair for a fraction of a second before she sat down, her gaze flicking toward Cassian and then away just as quickly.

Feyre settled herself in a nearby seat, her heart beating faster as she tried to catch Rhysand’s eye, silently willing him to say something to break the quiet. But her mate remained impassive, his violet eyes watchful as he leaned back in his chair.

Nesta folded her hands in her lap, her expression unreadable but calm. Taryn mirrored her, her gaze sweeping across the room, lingering briefly on each face before settling on the fire. Feyre couldn’t help but feel a twinge of nervousness as she realized how starkly Taryn’s composed demeanor contrasted with the awkwardness in the room.

Still, Feyre clung to the image of her sister as she was now—healthy, whole, and undeniably beautiful. Maybe, just maybe, this Solstice would be different.

Feyre perched on the edge of her chair, her fingers curling around the warm mug of tea Elain had handed her moments before. The silence stretched, oppressive and stifling, as everyone seemed content to avoid being the first to speak. Nesta sat still, her back straight and her gaze unwavering as she looked toward the fire, while Taryn leaned back in her chair with an air of quiet observation, her eyes flicking between each member of the Inner Circle.

Clearing her throat softly, Feyre decided to try. Someone had to break the silence. “So,” she began, forcing a smile that felt a little too tight. “How have you been, Nesta?”

Nesta’s gaze flicked to her, cool and composed. “I’ve been well,” she replied evenly, her voice calm but offering no further detail.

“Good, good,” Feyre said, trying to keep her tone light. “You look—healthy. Happy.”

Nesta’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Thank you.”

The tension thickened as Feyre searched for something else to say. She glanced at Taryn, hoping to bring her into the conversation. “And you, Taryn? How did you two meet?”

Taryn raised an eyebrow, a faint smile playing on her lips. “We crossed paths in Velaris,” she said simply. Her tone was polite but distant, as if she were carefully choosing her words.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Feyre said quickly, nodding. “Are you from Velaris originally?”

“No,” Taryn replied, and though her voice remained pleasant, there was a finality to it that made it clear she didn’t intend to elaborate.

Feyre felt the weight of everyone’s eyes on her, their silence only amplifying her own discomfort. She glanced toward Elain, who was now quietly rearranging the tray of cookies on the table, clearly avoiding getting involved. Mor crossed her legs, the sound of her heel tapping faintly against the floor the only indication of her impatience.

Cassian’s chair creaked as he shifted, his jaw tight, though he still hadn’t said a word. Azriel’s shadows swirled lazily at his shoulders, his unreadable gaze fixed on the fire. Even Rhysand, who could usually ease any room with a well-placed quip, sat quietly, his violet eyes unreadable.

“Well,” Feyre said, forcing another smile and gesturing vaguely toward the tray of cookies. “Elain baked those herself. They’re—ah, delicious.”

Nesta glanced at the cookies but made no move to take one. “I’m sure they are,” she said evenly, though her tone didn’t quite reach warmth.

Feyre felt the flush rise to her cheeks, the silence stretching again as her attempt at conversation fizzled out. She glanced at Rhys, silently pleading for him to step in, but he merely raised a brow, clearly leaving it to her to navigate this minefield.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm. Small steps, she reminded herself. Even if those steps felt more like stumbling in the dark.

Amren, ever the one to speak her mind, eyed Nesta with her usual calculating gaze. The tension in the room thickened as she leaned forward slightly, her sharp voice cutting through the quiet. “Well, well, Nesta,” she said, her tone laced with that usual dryness. “You look… well, you don’t look like you’ve spent your nights in taverns anymore. How interesting.”

Feyre’s heart sank, the words landing like a slap. She braced herself for the usual reaction, but to her surprise, Nesta didn’t flinch. She didn’t even respond. Her face remained calm, her gaze steady, but there was a quiet strength in her silence.

It was Azriel who broke the tension, a soft snort escaping him as he leaned back in his chair, his shadows swirling lazily around him. Feyre blinked in surprise as his lips curled upward in a rare, almost amused expression. It wasn’t often that Azriel openly showed his thoughts on something, but there it was—his appreciation for Nesta’s quiet defiance.

Nesta, for her part, seemed unfazed. She simply continued to sit there, her posture regal and her gaze fixed ahead, as if Amren’s words hadn’t even touched her. Feyre couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride in her chest at her sister’s unshakable composure.

It was then that Nesta’s eyes flicked to Taryn, and for a fleeting moment, Feyre caught a glimpse of something soft in her sister’s expression. There was an unmistakable look of pride on Nesta’s face as she glanced at the woman beside her—an unspoken recognition that, whatever her past had been, she had something now. Something real.

Taryn’s lips curled slightly at the corner, and though she didn’t speak, the look she exchanged with Nesta said everything. There was a quiet understanding between them, something unspoken, but palpable in the air around them. Feyre watched, still processing Amren’s comment and Azriel’s rare amusement, as Nesta and Taryn settled into the room with a grace that surprised even her.

Amren, sensing that the moment had passed without provoking the reaction she’d hoped for, sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly. She seemed to begrudgingly accept the shift in the dynamic, her attention drifting away from Nesta to the others, though her earlier comment still hung in the air.

But for the first time in a long while, Feyre didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Instead, she watched her sister—strong, unbowed, and silently proud—and felt a deep sense of admiration for the woman Nesta had become.

The silence stretched for another few moments before Elain, ever the one to soften the tension, gave a small, polite cough. “Well,” she said, her voice light and a little too bright, “dinner is just about ready.”

Everyone seemed to take that as a cue, rising to their feet as though the movement could dissolve the discomfort that still lingered in the room. Feyre felt a quiet sigh of relief as the group slowly shuffled toward the table, the tension ebbing just slightly, though the undercurrent of awkwardness remained.

Nesta and Taryn, however, were the last to rise. They moved with an easy grace, and Feyre couldn’t help but notice the quiet but deliberate way they settled into their seats. Nesta was all composed elegance, her posture straight as she placed her napkin across her lap with careful precision, while Taryn followed suit beside her. Feyre briefly exchanged a glance with her sisters before joining the others at the table, settling into the seats already taken by Cassian, Rhysand, Azriel, and Amren.

As the dinner began, a soft hum of conversation started among the Inner Circle. It was hesitant at first, filled with polite exchanges and the kind of superficial pleasantries that came with shared history, but it slowly grew more natural. Feyre felt a weight lift from her chest as she tried to relax into the evening, though her eyes kept drifting to Nesta.

Cassian, unusually quiet, kept his gaze trained on his plate more than the conversation at hand, but Feyre caught him looking up several times, his gaze snapping toward Nesta as she spoke with Taryn. She was laughing softly at something Taryn said, her eyes warm, her posture relaxed. The sight of Nesta, at ease and so far removed from the bitter, closed-off woman she’d been, made Feyre’s heart swell with a mixture of pride and sorrow.

The tension that had been there earlier, the weight of the past, seemed to lift as Nesta filled her plate. She ate with a steady, measured grace, occasionally glancing around at the others. Her laughter rang clear when Taryn made a remark about something mundane, her smile radiant and full of life, her earlier silence forgotten. For the first time in a long while, Nesta was enjoying herself, and Feyre couldn’t help but feel a flutter of hope.

As Feyre continued to watch, her gaze flickered back to Cassian. He had his jaw clenched, but she could see the way his eyes lingered on Nesta—sometimes soft, sometimes intense. It was hard to miss the way his stare seemed to follow her every movement, but Nesta remained absorbed in conversation with Taryn, unaware of the attention.

Feyre’s heart twisted slightly at the sight. She knew what Cassian’s feelings for Nesta had been, and maybe still were. But Nesta… Nesta was a different person now. Stronger, freer. Feyre couldn’t help but wonder if the quiet longing in Cassian’s eyes would ever fade, or if it was something that would always linger between them, even in moments like this, where the distance between them seemed insurmountable.

As the meal continued, conversation flowed more easily, but beneath the surface, there was a quiet undercurrent of curiosity. Feyre could feel it, though no one spoke it aloud. All of them were watching, their eyes flicking between Nesta and Taryn, as they shared glances, smiles, and occasional whispered jokes. There was something undeniably close between the two women, an intimacy that spoke volumes without a word being said.

It was Cassian who seemed the most restrained, his silence betraying the thoughts he was no doubt keeping to himself. His gaze occasionally shifted to Nesta, then to Taryn, but it was hard to read his expression, his usual confident demeanor replaced with something more guarded. Amren, always quick to pick up on things, narrowed her eyes, but she didn’t comment. Instead, her attention seemed to shift between Nesta and Taryn, as though she was piecing together her own theories.

Rhysand kept his usual smile in place, but Feyre could see the flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. It was there, hidden beneath layers of casual conversation—everyone was silently guessing. Was it something new? A fleeting connection? Or was there more to their relationship than they could see at a glance?

But Feyre couldn’t shake the surprise that lingered in the back of her mind. She had always known Nesta to be… well, Nesta. She had never shown much interest in romantic relationships, not in the way Feyre had, and certainly not in women. Feyre had always chalked it up to her sister’s trauma, her walls so high that she never seemed to let anyone in. So when she saw the way Nesta and Taryn interacted, the small, shared glances and the subtle, tender touches, it was both startling and fascinating.

She had never imagined Nesta in that light—at least, not with another woman. She couldn’t help but feel a small spark of curiosity flicker in her chest. How long had this been going on? When had it started? And more than that, Feyre realized she had never once asked her sister about her heart—what she wanted or who she cared for. She had been so focused on Nesta’s bitterness and the distance between them, she had never taken the time to think beyond the surface, to ask what truly mattered to Nesta.

There was a fleeting moment, as Nesta laughed softly at something Taryn said, that Feyre caught a glimpse of something more than just friendship in their connection. The warmth, the comfort, the quiet joy that seemed to radiate from the two of them—it was unmistakable.

Feyre’s mind raced with questions she had never thought to ask, but in the same breath, she didn’t want to pry. Nesta had always been fiercely independent, and Feyre had learned the hard way that pushing too hard could create distance. But seeing her sister so happy, so at ease in Taryn’s presence, made Feyre wonder if maybe there was something she had missed.

She turned her attention back to her plate, trying to focus on the food in front of her, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Nesta and Taryn. She was surprised, yes, but she couldn’t deny that she felt a strange sense of relief. It was good, wasn’t it? To see Nesta with someone who seemed to make her feel at home.

The moment stretched on, the air thick with curiosity and silent observation, when suddenly, Morrigan’s voice broke through the quiet, sharp and cutting as always. Her eyes, glinting with mischief—or perhaps something more—settled on Nesta as she leaned slightly forward in her chair.

“So,” Morrigan said, her tone casual but laced with an undercurrent of something Feyre couldn’t quite place. “How long has this been going on between you two?”

It wasn’t an innocent question. The way Morrigan phrased it, with that familiar edge in her voice, made it clear it was meant as a jab—a test. Feyre’s heart stuttered as she glanced at her sister, expecting a reaction, waiting for something, anything, to break the carefully constructed calm.

Nesta didn’t flinch, though, her expression a picture of composed indifference. But Feyre could see the subtle shift in her posture—a tightening of her shoulders, the slight narrowing of her eyes. Nesta’s fingers gripped the edge of her plate just a little tighter. Taryn, who had been casually leaning toward Nesta, faltered, her smile dropping for a brief moment, but she quickly recovered, her own gaze hardening.

Feyre’s chest tightened as the silence stretched, heavy and charged. It was clear Morrigan’s question had hit its mark. It wasn’t just an innocent inquiry; it was a challenge, one that was meant to make Nesta squirm, to put her on the spot in front of everyone.

Azriel, seated across from Nesta, let out a soft, almost imperceptible breath—one that Feyre recognized as his way of showing his disapproval. Cassian, on the other hand, stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. It was clear that this was a familiar dynamic, one that Morrigan often employed to get a rise out of people.

But Nesta’s response was nothing short of a revelation. With the same quiet confidence she’d shown earlier, she turned to Morrigan, her eyes icy and unfazed. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

The words were soft, but they carried weight. There was no anger in her tone, no sharpness—just a calm, deliberate dismissal of Morrigan’s jibe. Feyre could almost feel the ripple of tension that passed through the room at her sister’s response.

Morrigan, momentarily stunned by Nesta’s unflinching composure, blinked, but her lips curled into a thin smile, her gaze flicking between Nesta and Taryn. “Of course,” she said, almost mockingly, her voice still laced with the same biting humor. “I suppose it’s not my place to know.”

But it was clear to everyone that the barb had been thrown, and while Morrigan tried to brush it off, the atmosphere had shifted again—this time, away from curiosity and into something more uncomfortable. Feyre felt a slight burn of anger for her sister, for the way Morrigan had tried to undermine her so casually, but she couldn’t help but admire the way Nesta had held her ground.

The rest of the table seemed to sense it too. A few exchanged glances—some sympathetic, some cautious—but the tension didn’t break entirely. Morrigan, for all her wit and sharpness, had not expected Nesta to be so resolute, so untouchable.

Rhysand, who had been silently watching the exchange with a practiced calm, finally spoke up, his voice smooth and warm. He glanced at Nesta, his usual charismatic smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“It’s good to have you here, Nesta,” he said, his tone light but sincere. “Either way, it’s been… too quiet without you around.”

There was a pause, and then he added, more softly, “I know Feyre and Elain have missed having you here. You may not have seen it, but it’s true.”

Feyre’s heart stirred at his words, a small flicker of guilt flashing through her. She hadn’t realized how much her absence had weighed on the family until now—until Rhysand so easily voiced what had been left unsaid for so long.

Nesta didn’t respond immediately, but when she did, she raised an eyebrow in that way she always did when she was about to make a point. Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile.

“Well,” she said, her voice steady, “I’ve invited both Feyre and Elain out to restaurants and taverns a few times. But it’s not like they ever accepted.”

There was no malice in her words, only a cool, unbothered truth that hung in the air. Feyre’s eyes widened, the surprise evident on her face, while Elain’s cheeks flushed a shade of pink that made Feyre feel the heat of embarrassment on her own face.

Feyre had never known—had never considered—that Nesta had tried to reach out like that. She thought back to the years of strained silence between them, to the countless nights Nesta had spent behind closed doors, away from the family.

But now, Nesta had put herself out there, offering something she hadn’t before, and Feyre had never even known. The realization stung more than Feyre had expected, but it also made her feel a tiny flicker of hope. Perhaps this was the beginning of something—something that would bring them all closer.

Feyre opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Nesta continued, her voice steady and unapologetic.

“I don’t do this often, you know,” she added, her gaze flickering between the three of them. “It’s not my style to chase people. But you all kept saying you wanted me around, so I thought I’d make an effort.”

Feyre was silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. She hadn’t realized how much effort it had taken for Nesta to come back, to reconnect. Nesta had always been the one to keep everyone at arm’s length, and yet here she was, still trying.

“Thank you,” Feyre said softly, her voice filled with an emotion she hadn’t expected. “I’m glad you did.”

Nesta’s expression softened for just a moment, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. She gave a small shrug, as though the acknowledgment didn’t mean much to her, but to Feyre, it was everything.

Nesta sighed softly to herself, the weight of the evening settling deeper into her chest. She had been trying to navigate this new territory with her family, trying to find the right balance between distance and connection, but it was more difficult than she had imagined. She could feel the stares—casual, curious, like they were all waiting for something to happen.

Feyre, always the one to sense when things were off, cleared her throat and smiled brightly. “How about we have dessert while we open presents?” she suggested, her tone light, trying to shift the mood. “It’ll be fun.”

The others seemed eager for the distraction, nodding in agreement as they moved away from the dinner table and toward the living area where the presents were gathered. The air, though, still hung heavy with the unspoken, as if everyone was quietly waiting for the moment to pass.

Feyre picked up the first present, holding it carefully as she read the name on the tag. Her brow furrowed for a moment, and then she looked up with a small, surprised smile. “This one’s from Nesta,” she said, her voice soft but clear, holding the gift out as she looked around. The silence stretched for a beat, the atmosphere thick with an odd tension.

Nesta met her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable passing across her features. She was sitting back a little, arms folded loosely across her chest, watching the scene unfold without offering much of a reaction.

Feyre carefully untied the ribbon, peeling back the paper, and inside was a set of paintbrushes and oils. The wooden box was elegant in its simplicity, polished to a smooth finish. The paints looked high-quality, and the brushes—sleek and professional—spoke volumes about Nesta’s taste. Feyre’s heart skipped a beat as she realized what the gift meant. She hadn’t expected something so thoughtful.

“I—” Feyre paused, a lump forming in her throat. “Thank you,” she said, her voice unsteady, but genuine. The room seemed to hold its breath as Nesta nodded, watching her closely.

The rest of the Inner Circle looked between each other, their gazes shifting from Nesta to Feyre, but no one spoke right away. It wasn’t the gift that made them hesitant, it was the quiet undercurrent of something else—the words that went unspoken between them, the history that still hung in the air. But Nesta didn’t seem bothered by the silence; she simply sat back, looking more relaxed than she had in a long time, her attention now drifting toward Taryn, who was seated beside her.

The tension in the room remained thick, and the presents continued to be passed around, but it wasn’t lost on Feyre how everyone was exchanging small, tentative glances. It was clear that there was still much to navigate, much to rebuild, but this moment—this simple, thoughtful gift—felt like a bridge. Something solid in the midst of all the uncertainty.

Feyre opened the next gift, the room shifting with small, awkward comments and light-hearted jabs as everyone tried to break the silence. But for Feyre, as she gently ran her fingers over the brush handles, a quiet thought lingered in her mind: maybe things weren’t as broken as they seemed. Maybe this, however uncomfortable, was still progress.

As the presents continued to circulate, Feyre couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air, a soft, lingering undercurrent of discomfort. She was watching her family, taking in the moments of awkwardness, the careful smiles, and the small exchanges, when Cassian and Morrigan suddenly swapped gifts. Feyre’s eyes widened as Morrigan unwrapped a set of elegant, dark lace lingerie, holding it up with a smirk that said everything about the playful jab she’d likely intended. Cassian, in turn, was holding up a similarly risqué gift—soft, red silk underwear that made even Feyre blush a little.

She had expected the moment to be awkward, maybe even uncomfortable, but as she glanced over at Nesta and Taryn, sitting beside one another, she was surprised to see them smiling softly at each other. It wasn’t a fleeting glance, either—there was a warmth between them, a quiet understanding that Feyre hadn’t seen in Nesta before.

Taryn leaned in slightly toward Nesta, her lips brushing her ear as she whispered something too soft for anyone else to hear. Nesta’s eyes widened for a split second, then softened, and to Feyre’s complete surprise, she giggled. A full, unguarded laugh—something Feyre hadn’t heard from her sister in a long time, something that made her heart flutter with the unfamiliar joy of seeing Nesta so at ease.

It was a sound that didn’t fit with the version of Nesta Feyre had grown used to. The older sister who had kept so much inside, the one who rarely allowed herself to be vulnerable, much less to show any outward softness. Nesta’s laugh seemed to cut through the room’s awkwardness, drawing a few curious glances from the others as they tried to figure out what had made her so lighthearted.

Feyre blinked, unsure of what to make of it. She glanced quickly at Taryn, who had a small, knowing smile on her lips, as if pleased by the effect she’d had on Nesta. But it wasn’t just the laugh that caught Feyre off guard—it was the connection between the two women, something new and subtle that Feyre hadn’t expected to see.

She quickly turned her gaze away, pretending to focus on the next gift being opened, but she couldn’t stop the lingering thoughts that followed her. Could it be that Nesta was truly finding herself in this new chapter?

As Feyre watched Nesta and Taryn, something shifted in her chest, an unexpected sadness that wasn’t entirely about Feyre herself, but about the years that had slipped away, the things left unsaid, and the distance that had quietly built between them. Seeing Nesta laugh, something so genuine and full of life, reminded Feyre of the parts of her sister she had longed to see emerge again, but hadn’t. It made her realize how much time had passed without them truly connecting, without really knowing who Nesta had become during all those long months of silence.

It wasn’t that Feyre was angry or resentful about the way Nesta had distanced herself, or about the woman who had clearly made her so happy. No, it wasn’t Taryn who caused the sadness, nor was it about the complicated emotions that came with watching someone you loved grow into something you hadn’t anticipated. Feyre was happy for Nesta, truly, in a way that surprised her. She was glad her sister had found a space where she could laugh freely, where she could be something more than the woman who had been crushed by grief and trauma.

But Feyre couldn’t ignore the deep ache in her chest as she watched. How had she let it go so long without truly seeing her sister, without trying harder to understand her? Nesta had changed, she had grown, and Feyre felt as if she had been standing at the edge, waiting for her sister to come back—but Nesta had already found herself elsewhere. It hurt, in a way that Feyre didn’t know how to articulate.

Her smile, though warm, was tinged with something more bittersweet now. As Nesta and Taryn exchanged whispers, as they shared something that felt so uniquely theirs, Feyre realized she was no longer the person her sister turned to for comfort. It was Taryn, not her. And for all the love she had for Nesta, for all the good intentions she had in trying to bring her back, Feyre felt the quiet sting of being left behind.

This wasn’t something Feyre blamed anyone for—least of all Nesta. It was just a quiet realization of how much time had passed, how much had shifted, and how those changes were irreversible. She had always thought they would grow together, in their own ways, but that hope had begun to feel more distant. Feyre sighed softly, quickly pushing the emotion down, not wanting to let it steal the joy of the evening.

Elain cleared her throat, breaking the soft silence that had fallen over the room. Her eyes darted to the pile of presents before her, and she carefully picked up one that seemed different from the others. It wasn’t a box, but a carefully wrapped bundle, and she held it out toward Nesta, her hands slightly trembling as if unsure of the reaction she’d receive.

“Here, Nesta,” Elain said, her voice a little quieter than usual, but warm, full of hope.

Feyre watched, her heart tightening as Elain offered the gift. It was a book set, wrapped in delicate paper with a satin ribbon, the kind of gift that showed thoughtfulness. Elain had always been the one who poured herself into nurturing those around her, even when it came to Nesta, despite the distance that had grown between them. Feyre could see how much Elain was hoping for a good reaction—how much she wanted to rebuild that connection with Nesta, even if it was just through something small like this.

For a moment, there was a stillness in the room, everyone waiting, perhaps holding their breath to see how Nesta would respond. And then, slowly, Nesta took the gift from Elain’s hands. She smiled faintly, her eyes scanning the wrapping before she carefully set it down to untie the ribbon.

When she finally unwrapped it, Nesta’s eyes flickered over the book set—classic novels, well-loved and already known to her, perhaps something Elain had thought she’d enjoy. But Nesta didn’t seem surprised. She didn’t seem disappointed either, though there was a moment’s pause before she looked back at Elain.

“I already have this,” Nesta said, her tone soft but steady. “But thank you, Elain.”

Nesta’s smile lingered, something faintly warm in her eyes as she looked at Elain. “I appreciate it,” she said quietly, her voice softer than usual, her words more sincere than Feyre had heard in a long while.

As the conversation moved on, Feyre felt a sudden weight settle in her chest. She glanced over at the pile of presents, and her gaze drifted to Nesta. Elain’s gift had been the only one for her, the only thing that had been offered to Nesta. The realization hit Feyre like a cold wave—she hadn’t gotten Nesta anything. She hadn’t even thought to, caught up in everything else, in the tension of the evening, in the strange, quiet joy of having her sister back in their lives.

The sting of guilt gnawed at her, because she should have thought of something. She should have found something personal, something meaningful to give to Nesta, especially after everything they had been through. But no, Elain was the only one who had considered it.

Feyre glanced down at her own hands, feeling suddenly empty and unprepared. How had she missed it? Had she truly been so focused on the idea of Nesta returning, on making things right between them, that she had forgotten the simple act of giving? She should have gotten something for Nesta, something that showed she remembered, that she cared. Something that wasn’t just a grand gesture or a fleeting hope but something small and thoughtful.

Her heart squeezed in her chest as she looked at Nesta. She could see the way her sister was holding herself, the careful way she smiled, even as she tried to mask any discomfort. Nesta hadn’t expected anything. Feyre had assumed that Nesta wouldn’t care, that she would be indifferent to the gifts or the evening, but that wasn’t true. Nesta had accepted the invitation. She had come. She had brought someone with her. And here was Feyre, not even having thought to give her something—anything—to mark the occasion, to show that she still cared, even after everything.

For the briefest moment, Feyre felt her face flush with embarrassment. She was the one who had wanted this night to go well, to have her family together again, but now it felt like she had failed Nesta in the smallest, most basic way.

She looked over at Elain, who was still smiling, still holding onto that soft relief, as if her gift had been the bridge between them. Feyre felt the weight of her failure in the silence that followed. No one had commented on the fact that Elain’s gift was the only one, but Feyre knew. She knew, and it stung more than she could explain.

Her gaze flickered over to the pile of presents once more, and her stomach dropped as the pieces slowly clicked together.

They had all received gifts from Nesta. Each one of them.

Cassian had his new set of armor polish, perfectly chosen for the items he’d always used to maintain his gear. Mor had a sleek, beautifully crafted dagger—one that Feyre knew would be the perfect match for her. Even Azriel had a dark cloak, lined with silver threads that shimmered faintly under the light, a gift she knew Azriel would never admit to appreciating but would wear nonetheless.

And yet, Feyre hadn’t reciprocated. She hadn’t thought to give Nesta anything, while Nesta had clearly put effort into their gifts, had thought about each of them, chosen something personal.

Feyre opened her mouth to speak, to try and bridge the awkward silence that seemed to have settled again, when Taryn unexpectedly reached for an envelope tucked inside her bag. She handed it over to Nesta with a soft, knowing smile, and Nesta took it, her fingers lingering on the edges of the paper for just a second longer than necessary.

Feyre watched as Nesta carefully opened the envelope, her brow furrowing slightly as she pulled out a pair of tickets. The moment her eyes scanned them, they widened in shock, her voice barely a whisper as she read the name aloud. “The ballet?”

Taryn nodded, her smile warm, and Feyre caught a glimmer of something—pride, maybe—beneath her calm exterior.

Nesta, still holding the tickets in her hands, blinked in disbelief. “But they sold out months ago,” she said, shaking her head in amazement. “I—I didn’t think there was any way to get in. How… how did you manage this?”

Taryn’s smile softened even more, and Feyre could see the connection between them, an ease that was new, and yet, not so new after all. Taryn had a way of making Nesta look like she was finally settling into something she hadn’t quite realized she was missing—something that wasn’t just companionship but a deeper understanding, a way of making the world feel just a little more expansive for Nesta.

“I have my ways,” Taryn replied simply, a wink accompanying her words.

For a moment, Nesta was speechless, the tickets held so tightly in her hands that Feyre thought they might tear. But then Nesta’s lips curled into a genuine, wide smile—the kind Feyre hadn’t seen on her sister’s face in years. It was a look of pure, unguarded joy, a moment of surprise and gratitude.

“Thank you,” Nesta said softly, her voice almost cracking. Feyre had to swallow down the tightness in her own throat as she watched her sister. That small, simple act of kindness from Taryn—something Feyre hadn’t seen in their family for so long—seemed to break something open in Nesta.

Taryn gave a soft shrug, as if to say it was nothing, but Feyre couldn’t help but notice the way Nesta’s expression shifted, how her posture softened just slightly. The tension that had clung to her earlier seemed to ease just a little, like a small crack in the armor she wore so tightly around herself.

She hadn’t realized just how much it must have hurt—how much it must have meant to Nesta—that this was a piece of her past, a part of herself, that she had quietly kept hidden. Feyre remembered the long-ago days when Nesta had danced, her movements graceful, her face full of joy. But those memories had faded, overshadowed by everything that had happened since.

And now, seeing Nesta hold those tickets, the spark of something old and forgotten in her eyes, Feyre couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since her sister had allowed herself something purely for her own enjoyment. Something that wasn’t just about surviving the weight of the world.

It hit Feyre with a sharp clarity—when Nesta had said she’d frequented the taverns, not for the men or the drinks, but for the music, they’d all thought she was lying. They had assumed it was just another excuse, another way for her to hide, to make her actions seem less painful or desperate. But Feyre realized now how wrong they’d been, how little they had truly understood. Nesta hadn’t been lying. She had been searching for something beautiful, something that resonated with her heart—the music, the rhythm, the feeling of moving to a beat that wasn’t born of their cruel, tumultuous world.

The guilt gnawed at Feyre. They had brushed it off as just another thing Nesta claimed, another part of her that seemed too difficult to believe. But it wasn’t. Nesta had always loved dancing, always had a soul that craved something more than the darkness of the taverns. Feyre had dismissed it, had dismissed her, not even bothering to see the layers that had made Nesta who she was, the complexities that lay beneath the surface.

Now, as she watched Nesta sit with Taryn, the gift of the ballet tickets between them, Feyre couldn’t help but wonder how much of Nesta’s soul had been buried in the years she spent trying to survive—how much of it she had given up to the harshness of their world, to the expectations and the hurt. Feyre had never asked her about the music. She had never asked Nesta to tell her what she had really been seeking when she wandered into those taverns.

And now, Feyre had to confront the reality that they had failed to see it, failed to see Nesta’s pain and the things she longed for, things that didn’t involve anyone else but her.

Her heart clenched painfully, and she couldn’t shake the thought that she, too, had been a part of that failure. They had all let Nesta be alone in her struggle, thinking her needs and desires were just more of her façade. They hadn’t even considered that she might be trying to reclaim a part of herself, trying to find something to hold on to that wasn’t all wrapped up in the past they had shared. It was only now, watching her with Taryn, that Feyre could see the weight of her sister’s quiet longing.

The sudden awareness of this made Feyre feel smaller, more guilty. She had thought that Nesta was lost, that the anger and the bitterness she displayed were all that was left. But Nesta had always been more than that. She had always been more than the broken pieces they had ignored for so long.

As the present exchange began to wind down, Feyre thought the tension might finally start to lift. She watched as the last few gifts were passed around, each one drawing out more smiles, more laughter, a moment of connection that hadn’t been there before. But then, Cassian stood, that teasing grin of his slowly spreading across his face as he held up a small, delicate box in front of Nesta.

“This one,” Cassian said with a playful tone, “is for you as well.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked to the box, her brow furrowing slightly, but she didn’t say anything. Feyre noticed the way her sister’s posture stiffened, a subtle shift that didn’t go unnoticed. Cassian, ever the opportunist, didn’t seem to care as he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into a mockingly sweet tone.

“Open it, sweetheart,” he teased.

For a second, it felt like the entire room froze. Nesta’s face, usually so controlled, shifted ever so slightly—an uncomfortable twinge in her features, a small narrowing of her eyes that Feyre recognized all too well. She didn’t want to take the box, but she did, her fingers grasping it with hesitant care. The room waited in almost a silence as Nesta slowly opened the small lid.

Feyre could feel her heart thud in her chest, and for the first time, she understood that something was off. The joy, the warmth that had started to blanket the evening, vanished in an instant. Nesta’s eyes dropped to the contents of the box, and when she saw the ring inside, the air around them seemed to thickest.

The room was silent. Feyre’s throat tightened as she realized what was in the box—a simple, silver ring. But not just any ring. It was the same one Cassian had tried to give Nesta the last Solstice. The same ring she had rejected with a sharpness that had left Cassian wounded and the rest of them uncomfortable. Feyre had known it was a painful memory for both of them, but seeing it again now, in the present, felt somehow worse than it had before. It was a ghost of their past, a reminder of the rift between them.

Nesta’s face was unreadable, but Feyre could see the flicker of something—maybe confusion, maybe dread—in her sister’s eyes. It was clear Nesta hadn’t expected this. It was clear she hadn’t wanted this. She took the ring from the box slowly, her fingers brushing over the smooth metal as she exhaled quietly, but her lips were pressed tightly together.

Cassian stood, grinning like the fool he was, his eyes glinting with that mischievous gleam he usually wore. “What’s the matter, Nesta? Not even a thank you?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly testing the waters, his voice lighthearted but carrying a hint of challenge.

Feyre couldn’t help the surge of discomfort that rushed through her. She wanted to say something, to stop Cassian before he made it worse, but she found herself frozen in place. She had been so focused on the fragile balance of the evening, on how much progress Nesta had made in such a short time, that she hadn’t anticipated this moment—this reminder of the tension that still lingered beneath the surface between her sister and Cassian.

Nesta, to everyone’s surprise, didn’t respond immediately. She looked at the ring in her hand, a flicker of something crossing her face, and then she slowly, carefully, set it back in the box. She closed the lid with deliberate slowness, her gaze lifting to Cassian’s with a quiet intensity. For a moment, the room felt as though it was holding its breath.

“No, thank you,” Nesta said softly, her voice steady but firm. “But this isn’t something I need. Not now.”

Cassian’s grin faltered, the teasing edge gone. Feyre could see the frustration building behind his eyes, but he didn’t push. Instead, he gave a small, resigned shrug, as though he was used to this—used to the unspoken rejection that hung between them like an invisible thread.

Taryn, still sitting beside Nesta, placed a gentle hand on her arm, an unspoken show of support, and Nesta looked at her, offering a small, almost imperceptible smile in return.

Feyre couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but something about the moment made her chest tighten with sorrow. It was as if, despite all the progress, the chasm between Nesta and Cassian still remained. And it wasn’t just a matter of pride or refusal. It was something deeper—something neither of them had fully reckoned with.

Cassian’s face darkened as Nesta handed the ring back with such finality. The playful grin he had worn moments earlier disappeared, replaced by a look of quiet hurt, the kind that only those close to him could read. He stared at the box, his fingers flexing, as if he were trying to force the weight of the situation into something lighter, but it wasn’t working. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, but there was no hiding the hurt that lingered behind his eyes. He quickly tried to mask it with a shrug, but it was clear that Nesta’s rejection had cut deeper than he had let on.

Morrigan, ever the one to speak her mind, let out a sharp scoff. She leaned back in her chair, her arms folding over her chest as she gave a pointed look toward Nesta. “Well, that was just charming,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Could’ve at least been polite about it, don’t you think?”

Feyre’s heart sank. She had hoped the evening might stay civil, that they could all enjoy the rare peace they had with Nesta’s return. But Morrigan’s comment tore through the fragile air of the gathering, cutting it like a knife. Feyre glanced at Nesta, who didn’t flinch at the jab, but instead, her eyes hardened—sharp, unwavering. It was clear that Morrigan’s words meant nothing to her now.

Nesta remained silent, her jaw tightening, but her gaze never wavered from Morrigan. There was no anger in her eyes—only a steady resolve, as if she had long since stopped caring about what people thought of her. Cassian, still standing, looked away quickly, clearly not wanting anyone to see the rawness in his expression.

Morrigan, of course, didn’t care. She tilted her head slightly, studying the tension in the room like it was an entertaining spectacle. “I just don’t get it,” Morrigan continued, her voice dripping with condescension. “What’s the point of playing hard to get if you aren’t even willing to try? Doesn’t seem like you’re putting in much effort, Nesta.”

Nesta’s glare cut through the room like a blade, her icy stare locking onto Morrigan as the words fell from her lips. There was no hint of hesitation, no softness in her tone—just the cold, biting clarity that always seemed to come when Nesta was pushed to her limit. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?” she said, her voice calm but dangerous, each word deliberate. “I’m in a relationship. A real one. And I don’t owe anyone, least of all Cassian, anything. I don’t need to return his feelings just because he’s decided that I should.”

The silence in the room thickened as Nesta’s words hung in the air, but Morrigan, ever the provocateur, wasn’t about to back down. She leaned forward, her gaze sharp and unapologetic. “He’s your mate, Nesta,” Morrigan said, her voice dripping with something Feyre couldn’t quite place—whether it was disdain or just sheer annoyance at being defied. “You can’t just dismiss that. You don’t get to throw away a bond like that.”

Cassian’s expression twisted, and for a moment, Feyre thought she saw a flash of something—resentment, hurt, maybe even shame—as he looked between Morrigan and Nesta. But it was quickly replaced by a blankness, as if he had shut himself off from the conversation entirely.

Nesta didn’t flinch at Morrigan’s words. If anything, the corner of her lips twitched ever so slightly, almost as though she were amused by Morrigan’s inability to grasp what she had said. “Maybe I don’t want to be defined by that bond, Morrigan,” Nesta replied, her voice low but firm. “Maybe I don’t want to be tied to someone just because fate decided it for me. You think that’s easy? That it’s something I just want to accept and move on with?”

The tension in the room crackled like a storm, and Feyre could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t want to intervene, but she also knew that whatever was happening between Nesta and Morrigan had to be addressed—before it turned into something that would break apart what little progress they had made.

Morrigan narrowed her eyes, clearly unfazed by Nesta’s words. “That’s your choice, I suppose,” she said, her tone laced with something Feyre couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe, or disbelief. “But you’re not going to convince anyone here that what you’re doing is right, Nesta. Especially when he’s your mate.”

For the first time, Feyre noticed the look in Cassian’s eyes—a mixture of hurt and something else that was harder to define. It was the look of a man who had been told, once again, that he wasn’t enough, despite the bond that should have connected them. Despite everything he had done, everything he had tried.

Nesta’s expression softened for a fraction of a second, but it was quickly replaced by the same implacable distance that had become her armor. She didn’t look at Cassian; her gaze was focused solely on Morrigan as she delivered the final blow. “You can think whatever you want, Morrigan,” Nesta said, the edge of finality in her voice unmistakable.

Feyre, feeling the weight of the moment, quickly pushed herself to her feet, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to interject. “Please, can we just—” she began, but Nesta stood before her, cutting her off with the sharpness of a blade.

“I think we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Nesta said, her voice flat and resolute, with no hint of the warmth that had been there when they’d first sat down. She didn’t look at anyone else, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as though she had made up her mind the moment Morrigan’s words hit her ears. “Taryn and I are leaving.”

The room was frozen in place for a moment, everyone watching as Nesta turned away without waiting for any further response. Taryn followed quietly behind her, picking up her bag, her expression unreadable. Feyre’s heart sank as she watched them both move towards the door. It had all unraveled so quickly.

Feyre, unable to stop herself, moved to follow. She felt a desperate need to fix things, to somehow make everything right, but she knew, deep down, that the damage was already done. “Nesta, please,” Feyre called softly as she reached her. “I’m sorry. Morrigan—she didn’t mean to make it worse, but she didn’t understand. I know, Cassian is your mate, and we all respect your choice, truly. But isn’t this something we should… maybe talk about? Please?”

Nesta stopped, turning to face Feyre, her expression still unreadable, though there was a glimmer of something behind her eyes—something Feyre couldn’t quite decipher. For a moment, they simply stood there, the weight of Feyre’s words hanging in the air between them. Nesta was silent for a long time, and when she finally spoke, her words cut through the tension like a cold wind.

“Is Elain talking to Lucien while flirting with Azriel?” Nesta asked, her voice low, but the challenge in it clear. Her eyes flicked over to Elain, who was still at the table, looking as surprised as anyone else. The comment was so pointed, so unexpected, that Feyre froze for a moment, unsure how to respond.

Feyre’s face flushed hot with a sudden rush of embarrassment. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, and she glanced over at Elain, who was equally flustered, her cheeks pink with the unmistakable hint of a blush. It was so obvious now—Elain’s soft laughter, her teasing looks at Azriel, and the way she seemed to be drawn to him more and more lately. Feyre couldn’t help the sudden, awkward shift in her own expression as she shot a quick look at Azriel, who had gone entirely still, his gaze focused on nothing in particular.

“Oh,” Feyre stammered, her face now burning. “I—well, that’s not exactly—” She trailed off, unsure of what to say. There was no denying it now. “I mean, she’s not… It’s not like that,” she finally managed, but even as the words left her mouth, she knew how it sounded—like she was trying to cover something up.

Nesta’s lips quirked into a half-smile, though it was more bemusement than anything else. “You don’t have to lie, Feyre,” she said quietly, a note of something almost sympathetic in her tone. “It’s obvious.”

Feyre felt her stomach twist. She had always been so attuned to the unspoken moments between her sisters, but this—this moment of embarrassment, of Nesta cutting through the tension with something so sharp—was entirely new.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre repeated, her voice small. “It’s just… It’s been a long night. I didn’t mean for it to go this way.”

Nesta, however, didn’t seem to hold any ill will. She nodded once, her expression hardening again, like she was already shutting herself off from any further emotional entanglements. “We’ll be going now,” she said softly, but the finality in her voice made it clear that there was no room for discussion.

Feyre, her heart aching with the weight of the evening’s tension, took a tentative step toward Nesta, her voice soft and sincere. “I would love to have you again, Nesta. Please, don’t be a stranger,” she said, her words carrying a warmth, a hope she desperately wanted to believe in.

Nesta paused as she reached for the door, her back still turned to Feyre. The dim light of the room flickered in the silence that stretched between them, and for a moment, Feyre thought Nesta might not respond at all. But then she heard her voice, low and steady, yet touched with something unspoken.

“We have a house now,” Nesta said, her tone even but undeniably firm. “Taryn and I. Every weekend, we’re at the taverns.” She finally turned to face Feyre, her expression unreadable but not unfriendly. “You’re welcome to stop by if you want. They’ve got live shows playing, and we always have a couple of drinks.”

Feyre swallowed, her breath catching as the words sank in. She had expected something else, perhaps a refusal, perhaps a coldness, but this… this was something different. It wasn’t an invitation with open arms, but it wasn’t a door slammed shut either. It was a line drawn, an offer made, but with distance—a distance Feyre knew she had no right to cross easily.

“I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind,” Feyre said, her voice softer than she intended, filled with a sadness she couldn’t quite suppress. “I hope you know you’re always welcome here too, Nesta.”

Nesta nodded once, her gaze flickering briefly to Taryn, who stood by the door, ready to leave. “Thank you, Feyre,” she said, the words surprisingly calm, though there was a finality to them.

As Nesta moved toward the door, Taryn paused, her gaze shifting from the retreating figure of her friend to Feyre. There was a quiet intensity in her eyes, a calm that carried with it a sense of finality. She took a breath before she spoke, her voice carrying a weight that made Feyre stop in her tracks.

“She’s inviting you. It’s up to you and Elain to decide if you want to be a part of her life, not the other way around.”

With those final words, Taryn gave a small nod, the strength in her gaze undiminished. She turned toward the door to join Nesta, but before leaving, she looked back at Feyre once more.

“She’s trying, but if you keep waiting for her to come to you, you’ll lose her.”

The door closed softly behind them, leaving Feyre standing in the quiet, the sting of Taryn’s words echoing in the silence.

Feyre stood frozen, her mind racing as Taryn’s words replayed in her head. She felt a heavy, suffocating shame settle in her chest, a tightness that constricted her lungs. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, but the sting of truth washed over her like a wave, forcing her to turn back toward the room.

Taryn had been right. All of it—every single word.

The realization hit Feyre like a gut punch, and her face flushed with the heat of guilt. She had expected so much from Nesta—her loyalty, her presence, her willingness to return to them—without ever stopping to think what it cost her.

She hadn’t been fair.