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Nesta glowered, but let out a low, considering chuckle. “Well,” she said, sliding past him and pacing for the window with smooth, calculated steps. “If that’s what a bastard-born Fae warrior can do, no wonder my sister has become so entangled with the High Lords.”
Bitch.
Bitch for the insult to him and to Feyre. “Did it bother you more that you wanted it, or that it was a bastard-born nobody who made you feel such things, Nesta?”
“It’s been a long winter. Beggars can’t be picky, I suppose.” Wall after wall after wall snapped up, her posture going stiffer, and—
What did he care? What did he care? He had enough shit to deal with. Throwing in a mortal who would have a few more decades before things between them became awkward was . . . foolish. And then there would be the matter of explaining it to everyone.
To Mor. His blood chilled.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew she and Azriel were . . . whatever they were. Knew Azriel had been in love with Mor from the moment she’d strutted into the Illyrian war-camp five centuries ago. And Cassian had been jealous—of Mor’s shy glances at Azriel in those first few weeks, and the fact that his dearest friend and brother . . . was looking at someone else. That she’d appeared, and then Azriel had changed. Only slightly, but Cassian had known his friend did not belong solely to him and Rhys anymore.
So when Mor had asked him to bed her . . . He’d done it. A jealous, stupid prick, he’d done it, and regretted it at that very first thrust, when he’d felt her maidenhead yield to him, and realized the enormity of what she’d done.
But then she’d walked away, and Azriel hadn’t made a move, and . . . Mor was still there between them. Somewhere between friend and lover. Dear to him as family, but . . . Cassian had hated himself for that look on Azriel’s face afterward.
And then for what had happened to Mor at her family’s hands.
He’d had lovers, some for a night and some for months, and Mor had never cared, but . . .
This woman standing before him like a pillar of steel and flame . . . Cassian didn’t want to tell Mor about her. About how he’d touched her neck.
Cassian managed to say, “Since you were happy for a distraction, I’ll assume the queens haven’t been in touch and be on my way.” Before she managed to completely castrate him. He flicked his fingers, Rhys’s letter appearing between them. He chucked it onto a low-lying nearby table. “Mail that to the queens as soon as you can.”
Nesta glanced between the letter and him, her shoulders squaring. “Tell my sister and that new High Lord of hers to send someone else next time.”
Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin. “Tell your other sister we’d rather deal with her.”
“Elain stays out of this. The less association with your kind, the better.”
“Why are you letting her marry that bigoted prick?” The question snapped out of him.
“He has good reason to hate your kind. As do we all.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“I thought you were leaving.”
“You have a damned opinion on everyone else in the world. Why not tell Elain she’s marrying a monster?”
“Perhaps all you males are monsters.”
If she’d been harmed by one, he didn’t blame her for that feeling at all. But his words were still sharp as he said, “She deserves better than someone like that.”
“Indeed she does.” Flat and cold.
He pushed, simply because he damn well couldn’t stop himself, “And what do you deserve?”
A slow smile, indeed a plains-cat readying for the kill. Then, “Certainly more than a bastard-born nobody.”
Bitch. But he drawled, “What a fine partner you are, Nesta. Remind me to bring a book on military strategy the next time. Maybe you’ll stand a chance then.”
A cold, flat look.
“It’s easier, isn’t it,” Cassian breathed, crossing the distance again, not caring who saw them standing in the bay window. “To wield the words and the coldness as armor to keep everyone from seeing where and who you failed and how you did not care until it was too late.”
Only hatred gleamed in her eyes, no hint of that slumbering lust that had addled his senses.
