On their other side smoldered fire pits, clouds of smoke drifting to a fenced-in array of livestock, sheep and pigs and goats, all shaggy but well fed. And, of course, the Illyrians themselves. Females tended to steaming pots and pans around those fires—and all of them halted when Cassian and Nesta appeared. So did the dozens of males in those sparring rings. None smiled.
A broad-shouldered, stocky male whom Nesta vaguely recognized sauntered their way, flanked two deep by younger males. They all had their wings tucked in tight, perhaps to walk as a unit, but as they stopped in front of Cassian, those wings spread slightly.
Cassian kept his in what Nesta called his casual spread—not wide, but not tucked in close. The position conveyed the perfect amount of ease and arrogance, readiness and power.
The familiar male’s gaze snagged on her. “What’s her business here?”
Nesta gave him a secretive smile. “Witchcraft.”
She could have sworn Cassian muttered a plea to the Mother before he cut in, “I will remind you, Devlon, that Nesta Archeron is our High Lady’s sister, and will be treated with respect.” The words held enough of a bite that even Nesta glanced at Cassian’s stone-cold face. She had not heard that unyielding tone since the war. “She will be training here.”
Nesta wanted nothing more than to shove him off the nearby cliff edge.
Devlon’s face curdled. “Any weapons she touches must be buried afterward. Leave them in a pile.”
Nesta blinked.
Cassian’s nostrils flared. “We will do no such thing.”
Devlon sniffed at her, his cronies snickering. “Are you bleeding, witch? If you are, you will not be allowed to touch the weapons at all.”
Nesta made herself pause. Contemplate the best way to knock the bastard down a few pegs.
Cassian said with remarkable steadiness, “Those are outdated superstitions. She can touch the weapons whether she has her cycle or not.”
“She can,” Devlon said, “but they will still be buried.”
Silence fell. Nesta didn’t fail to note that Cassian’s expression had darkened as he stared down Devlon. But he said abruptly, “How are the new recruits faring?”
Devlon opened his mouth, then shut it, irritation flashing there at a fight denied. “Fine,” he spat, and turned away, his soldiers following.
Cassian’s face tightened with each breath, and Nesta braced herself, a thrill slowly building in her blood, for him to rip into Devlon.
But Cassian growled, “Let’s go,” and began walking toward an empty training area.
Devlon glared over a shoulder, and Nesta threw him a cool look before striding after Cassian. The Illyrian’s gaze lingered like a burning brand on her spine.
Cassian didn’t go for one of the countless weapons racks stationed throughout the training area. He just halted in the farthest ring, hands on his hips, and waited for her.
Like hell would she join him. She spied a weatherworn rock near the rack of weapons, its smoothness either from the harsh climate or the untold number of warriors who’d taken a seat on it as she did then. Its frigid surface bit into her skin even through the thickness of the leathers.
“What are you doing?” Cassian’s handsome face was nearly predatory.
She crossed her legs at the ankles and arranged the fall of her cape like the train of a gown. “I told you: I’m not training.”
“Get up.” He’d never ordered her like that.
Get up, she’d sobbed that day before the King of Hybern. Get up.
Nesta met his stare. Willed hers to be distant and unruffled. “I am officially attending training, Cassian, but you can’t make me do a lick of it.” She motioned to the mud. “Drag me through it, if you want, but I won’t lift a finger.”
The Illyrians’ stares pelted them like stones. Cassian bristled.
Good. Let him see what a waste of life, what an utter wretch, she’d become.
“Get the hell up.” His words were a soft snarl.
Devlon and his group had returned, attracted by their argument, and gathered beyond the edge of the circle. Cassian’s hazel eyes remained fixed on her, though.
A slight pleading note flickered in them.
Get up, a small voice whispered in her head, her bones. Don’t humiliate him like this. Don’t give these assholes the satisfaction of seeing him made a fool.
But her body refused to move. She’d drawn her line, and to yield—to him, to anyone—
Something like disgust filled his face. Disappointment. Anger.
Good. Even as something crumpled inside her, she couldn’t stop the relief.
Cassian turned away from her, drawing the sword sheathed down his back. And without another word, without a glance, he began his morning exercises.
Let him hate her. It was better that way.
CHAPTER
6
Each series of steps and movements Cassian went through was beautiful and lethal and precise, and it was all Nesta could do to not gawk.
She’d never been able to look away from him. From the moment they’d met, she’d developed a keen awareness of his presence in any space, any room. She hadn’t been able to stop it, to block it out, no matter how much she suggested otherwise.
Go! he had begged her as he lay dying.
I can’t, she’d wept. I can’t.
She didn’t know where the person she’d been in that moment had gone. Couldn’t find her way back to her.
But even as she sat on that rock and stared at the swaying pines covering the mountains, she watched Cassian from the corner of her eye, aware of every graceful movement, the rasp of his steady breathing, the flow of his dark hair in the wind.
“Hard at work, I see.”
Morrigan’s voice drew Nesta’s gaze from the mountains and the warrior who seemed so much a part of them. The stunning female stood beside her, brown eyes fixed on Cassian, admiration shining in them. There was no sign of Devlon or his followers, as if they’d drifted away long ago. Had it been two hours already? Mor said mildly, “He is pretty, isn’t he?”
Nesta’s spine stiffened at the warmth in her tone. “Just ask him.”
No amusement lit Morrigan’s face as she shifted her attention down to Nesta. “Why aren’t you out there?”
“I’m taking a break.”
Morrigan’s gaze swept over Nesta’s face, noting the lack of sweat or flushed skin, the hair barely out of place. The female said quietly, “My vote would have been to dump you right back in the human lands, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Nesta refused to stand, to meet the challenge. “Good thing being Feyre’s sister has its advantages.”
Morrigan’s lip curled. Beyond her, Cassian had halted his smooth movements.
Dark fire simmered in Morrigan’s eyes. “I knew plenty of people like you once.” Her hand drifted to her abdomen. “You never deserve the benefit of the doubt that good people like him give you.”
Nesta was well aware of that. And knew what manner of people Morrigan referred to—those who dwelled in the Court of Nightmares in the Hewn City. Feyre had never told her the full story, but Nesta knew the bare details: the monsters who had tormented and brutalized Morrigan until she was thrown to the wolves.
Nesta leaned back on her hands, the cold rock biting through her gloves. She opened her mouth, but Cassian had reached them, breathless and gleaming with sweat. “You’re early.”