It wasn’t Elain’s fault their father had died. No, that was entirely Nesta’s own fault. But if Elain was so determined to root out the good in her, then she’d show her sister how ugly she could be. Let a fraction of this agony rip into her.
This was why Elain had chosen Feyre. This.
Feyre had rescued Elain time and again. But Nesta had sat by, armed only with her viper’s tongue. Sat by while they starved. Sat by when Hybern stole them away and shoved them into the Cauldron. Sat by when Elain had been kidnapped. And when their father had been in Hybern’s grip, she had done nothing, nothing to save him, either. Fear had frozen her, blanketing her mind, and she’d let it do so, let it master her, so that by the time her father’s neck had snapped, it had been too late. And entirely her fault.
Why wouldn’t Elain choose Feyre?
Elain stiffened, but refused to balk from whatever she beheld in Nesta’s gaze. “You think I’m to blame for his death?” Challenge filled each word. Challenge—from Elain, of all people. “No one but the King of Hybern is to blame for that.” The quaver in her voice belied her firm words.
Nesta knew she’d hit her mark. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t continue. Enough. She had said enough.
That fast, the power in her receded, vanishing into smoke on the wind. Leaving only exhaustion weighing her bones, her breath. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Go back to Feyre and your little garden.”
Even during their squabbles in the cottage, fighting over who got clothes or boots or ribbons, it had never been like this. Those fights had been petty, born of misery and discomfort. This was a different beast entirely, from a place as dark as the gloom at the base of the library.
Elain headed for the doors, purple dress sweeping behind her. “Cassian said he thought the training was helping,” she murmured, more to herself than to Nesta.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Nesta slammed the doors so hard they rattled.
Silence filled the room.
She didn’t twist toward the windows to see who might fly past with Elain, who’d be witness to the tears Elain would likely shed.
Nesta slid into one of the armchairs before the unlit fireplace and stared at nothing.
She didn’t stop the wolves when they gathered around her again, hateful, razor-sharp truths on their red tongues. She didn’t stop them as they began to rend her apart.
When Elain burst into the dining room of the House, Cassian and Rhys were shaking off the frigid air that had been howling through Windhaven.
Her brown eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her chin high.
“I want to go home,” she said, voice wobbling slightly.
Cassian looked at Rhys, who’d dropped off the middle Archeron sister before retrieving Cassian from Windhaven. He’d wanted to see for himself how ready the Illyrians were to fight. That Rhys had found nothing lacking both elated Cassian and filled him with dread. If war began once more, how many would die? It was a soldier’s lot in life to fight, to march with Death beside him, and he had led males into battle multiple times. Yet how many promises had he foolishly made to the families of those who’d fallen in the recent war that the peace would last for a while? How many more families would he have to comfort? He didn’t know why it was different this time, why it weighed so heavily. But while Rhys and Devlon had been speaking, Cassian had been staring at the children of Windhaven, wondering how many would lose their fathers.
Cassian cast the memory aside as Rhys surveyed Elain, his violet-blue eyes missing nothing. “What happened.”
When Rhys spoke like that, it was more of a command than a question.
Elain waved a hand in dismissal before flinging open the veranda doors and striding into the open air.
“Elain,” Rhys said as he and Cassian trailed her into the dying light.
Elain stood by the rail, the breeze caressing her hair. “She’s not getting any better. She’s not even trying.” She wrapped her arms around herself and stared toward the distant sea.
Rhys turned to him, his face grave. Feyre warned her.
Cassian swore softly. Nesta is making progress—I know she is. Something set her off. He added, because Rhys was still looking like cold death personified, It’ll take time. Maybe no more visits from her sisters, for the time being. At least not without her permission. He didn’t want to isolate Nesta. Not at all. If Elain wants to see her again, let me ask Nesta first.
Rhys’s voice slithered like liquid night. What about Feyre?
She doesn’t want Feyre here.
Power rumbled through Rhys, guttering the stars in his eyes.
Calm the fuck down, Cassian snapped. They have their own shit to sort out. You threatening to obliterate Nesta every time it comes up doesn’t help.
Rhys held his stare, the inherent dominance in it like the force of a tidal wave. But Cassian weathered it. Let it wash past him. Then Rhys shook his head and said to Elain, “I’ll fly you home.”
Elain didn’t object when Rhys scooped her up and launched into the red-and-pink-stained sky.
When they were a speck of black and purple over the rooftops, Rhys sweeping along the gilded river as if giving Elain a scenic tour, then and only then did Cassian enter the House.
He stormed across the dining room and into the hallway; he charged down the stairs, his feet eating every inch of distance until he flung open the family library’s doors.
“What the fuck happened?”
Nesta was sitting in an armchair before the dark fireplace, fingers digging into the rolled arms of the seat. A queen on a quilted throne.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” was all she said.
His heart thundered, his chest heaving as if he’d run a mile. “What did you say to Elain?”
She leaned forward to peer at him. Then rose to her feet, a pillar of steel and flame, her lips curling back from her teeth. “Of course you’d assume I’m the one at fault.” She prowled closer, her eyes burning with cold fire. “Always defending sweet, innocent Elain.”
He crossed his arms, letting her get as close to him as she wanted. Like hell would he yield one step to her. “I’ll remind you that you’ve been the chief defender of sweet, innocent Elain until recently.” He’d witnessed her go toe to toe with Fae capable of slaughtering her without giving it a thought, all for her sister.
Nesta only simmered, near-shaking with rage. Or cold. Cauldron, it was cold in here. Only the heated floors offered any reprieve. “Fire,” he said, and the House obeyed. A great blaze flared to life in the hearth behind him.
“No fire,” she said, focused upon Cassian, though her words were not to him.
The House seemed to ignore her.
“No fire,” she ordered. He could have sworn she blanched slightly.
For a heartbeat, he was again in Rhys’s mother’s house in Windhaven. She’d been staring and staring into the fire, as if speaking to it, as if unaware that even he was there.
The fire crackled and popped. Nesta seethed to the open air, “I said—”
A log cracked, as if the House were merrily ignoring her, adding heat to the flame.
But Nesta flinched. Barely a blink and half a shudder, but her entire body went rigid. Fear and dread flashed over her features, then vanished.
Strange.