A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses 4)

Nesta swallowed. “I can’t.” But to let Elain involve herself, jeopardize her safety—

Amren said, “You tracked the Cauldron—”

“It nearly killed me. It trapped me like a bird in a cage.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.”

“Absolutely not,” Nesta spat, fingers curling at her sides. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.”

Feyre said, “It is Elain’s choice, Nesta.”

Nesta whirled on her, ignoring the warning flicker of primal wrath in Rhys’s stare. “Keep out of this,” she hissed at her youngest sister. “I have no doubt you put these thoughts in her head, probably encouraging her to throw herself into harm’s way—”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

Nesta’s pulse pounded throughout her body. “Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern’s camp?”

“I do,” Elain said coldly. “And I remember Feyre rescuing me.”

Roaring erupted in Nesta’s head.

For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity about to be thrown her way. “Look who decided to grow claws after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”

Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain’s face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike.

Elain’s eyes brightened with pain. Something imploded in Nesta’s chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it could somehow be undone. But Elain said, “I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”

Nesta blinked, everything inside her hollowing out.

But Elain turned on her heel. “Find me when you wish to begin.” The doors shut behind her.

Every awful word Nesta had spoken hung in the air, echoing.

Feyre said to her, gratingly gentle, “It wasn’t an easy choice for me to ask Elain to endanger herself like this.”

Nesta twisted to Feyre. “Can’t you find the Trove?” She hated each cowardly word, hated the fear in her heart, hated that in merely asking, she’d exposed her preference for Elain. “You’ve got all that magic, and you were Made yourself, even if it wasn’t by the Cauldron. You trained—you are a warrior. Can’t you find it?”

Again, that silence. But a different kind. Like a thunderhead about to break.

“No,” Feyre said quietly. “I can’t.” She looked to Rhys, who nodded, his eyes shining.

Everyone watched Feyre now. But Feyre’s attention remained fixed upon Nesta. “I can’t risk it.”

“Why?” Nesta snapped.

“Because I’m pregnant.”

Silence fell. Silence, and then Cassian let out a whoop of such joy that it shattered the fraught silence into smithereens, leaping from his chair to tackle Rhys.

They went down in a tangle of wings and dark hair, and then Amren was saying to Feyre, light dancing in her eyes, “Congratulations, girl.”

Azriel stooped to press a kiss to Feyre’s head—or an inch from it.

“I knew that stupid shield wasn’t just to practice something Helion taught you,” Cassian was saying, giving Rhys a smacking kiss on the cheek before turning to Feyre and grabbing her to him. Rhysand relented on the shield enough that Cassian could wrap his arms around her, still laughing.

And as Rhys dropped the shield, Feyre’s scent filled the room.

It was Feyre’s usual scent, only—only something new. A smaller, softer scent, like a budding rose, lay within it.

Cassian laughed. “No wonder you’ve been a moody bastard, Rhys. I suppose we’re about to learn a whole new level of overprotective.”

Feyre glowered at him, then up at her mate. “We’ve already had discussions about this. The shield is a compromise.”

Amren smiled broadly. “What was his starting offer?”

Feyre scowled. “That he never leave my side for the next ten months.” The Fae took longer to grow children, Nesta had learned from poring over the books in the House’s library during her initial weeks here. A month longer than a human pregnancy.

“How far along are you?” Azriel asked, gazing at Feyre’s still-flat stomach.

She slid her fingers over it, as if anyone’s attention there made her wish to protect the child inside. “Two months.”

Cassian pivoted toward Rhys. “You’ve been hiding this for two months?”

Rhys threw him an arrogant smile. “We thought you’d all guess it by now, to be honest.”

Cassian laughed again. “How can we guess when you’ve got her bundled in that shield?”

“Moody bastard, remember?”

Cassian grinned, and said to Azriel, “We’re going to be uncles.”

Feyre groaned. “Mother help this child.”

Azriel’s own grin bloomed at that, but Feyre’s gaze slid to Nesta.

Nesta said quietly to her sister, “Congratulations.”

For she’d said nothing, had only been able to stand and watch them all, their joy and closeness, as if she were looking in through a window.

But Feyre offered her a tentative smile. “Thank you. You’ll be an aunt, you know.”

“Gods help this child indeed,” Cassian muttered, and Nesta glared at him.

She turned to Rhys and Feyre and found the former watching her carefully, the epitome of ease with his arm around his mate’s shoulders—the gleam in his eye one of pure threat.

Nesta let him see it then. That she bore no ill will toward Feyre or the babe. Some primal part of her understood that Rhys was not only male, but a Fae male, and he would eliminate any threats to his mate and child. That he’d do it slowly and painfully and then walk away from her shredded corpse without an ounce of regret.

It was self-preservation, perhaps some new Fae instinct of her own, that had Nesta bowing her chin slightly, letting him see she meant no harm, would never hurt them.

Rhys’s own chin dipped, and that was that.

Nesta said to Feyre, “Did you tell Elain?”

Before Feyre could reply, Azriel said, “What about Mor?”

Feyre smiled. “Elain was the only one who guessed. She caught me vomiting two mornings in a row.” She nodded toward Azriel. “I think she’s got you beat for secret-keeping.”

“I’ll tell Mor when she returns from Vallahan,” Rhys said. “Given your reaction, Cass, I don’t trust that she can keep her excitement to herself if I tell her while she’s there, even if she doesn’t say anything to them. And I don’t want a potential enemy knowing. Not yet.”