Everyone tensed as he leaned in, head dipping, and kissed her.
Nesta’s lips were chips of ice.
But he let their coldness sting his own, and brushed his mouth against hers. Nipped at her bottom lip until he felt it drop a fraction. He slid his tongue into that opening, and found the inside of her mouth, usually so soft and warm, crusted with hoarfrost.
Nesta didn’t kiss him back, but didn’t shove him away. So Cassian sent his heat into it, fusing their mouths together, his free hand bracing her hip as his Siphons nipped at her hand once more.
Her mouth opened wider, and he slid his tongue over every inch—over her frozen teeth, over the roof of her mouth. Warming, softening, freeing.
Her tongue lifted to meet his in a single stroke that cracked the ice in her mouth.
He slanted his mouth over hers, tugging her against his chest, and tasted her as he’d wanted to taste her the other night, deep and thorough and claiming. Her tongue again brushed against his, and then her body was warming, and Cassian pulled back enough to say against her lips, “Let go, Nesta.”
He drove his mouth into hers again, daring her to unleash that cold fire upon him.
Something thunked and clinked beside them.
And when Nesta’s other hand gripped his shoulder, fingers now free of stones and bones, when she arched her neck, granting him better, deeper access, he nearly shuddered with relief.
She broke the kiss first, as if sliding into her body and remembering who kissed her, where they were, who watched.
Cassian opened his eyes to find her so close that they shared breath. Normal, unclouded breath. Her eyes had returned to the blue-gray he knew so well. Stunned surprise and a little fear lit her face. As if she’d never seen him before.
“Interesting,” Amren observed, and he found the female studying the map.
Feyre gaped, though, Rhys’s hand gripped tight in her own. Caution blazed on Rhys’s face. On Azriel’s, too.
What the hell did you do to pull her out of that? Rhys asked.
Cassian didn’t really know. The only thing I could think of.
You warmed the entire room.
I didn’t mean to.
Nesta pulled away—not harshly, but with enough intent that Cassian peered at where she and Amren focused on the map.
“The Bog of Oorid?” Feyre frowned at the spot in the Middle. “The Mask is in a bog?”
“Oorid was once a sacred place,” Amren said. “Warriors were laid to rest in its night-black waters. But Oorid changed to a place of darkness—don’t give me that look, Rhysand, you know what I mean—a long time ago. Filled with such evil that no one will venture there, and only the worst of the faeries are drawn to it. They say the water there flows to Under the Mountain, and the creatures who live in the bog have long used its underground waterways to travel through the Middle, even into the mountains of the surrounding courts.”
Feyre frowned. “It can’t be more specific, though?” She asked Rhys, “Do we have a detailed map of the Middle?”
Rhys shook his head. “It’s forbidden to map the Middle beyond vague landmarks.” He pointed to the sacred mountain in its center, where he’d been held for nearly fifty years. “The Mountain, the woods, the bog … All can be seen from land and air. But its secrets, those discovered on foot—those are forbidden.”
Feyre’s frown didn’t lighten. “By whom?”
“An ancient council of the High Lords. The Middle is a place where wild magic still dwells and thrives and feeds. We respect it as its own entity, and do not wish to provoke its wrath by revealing its mysteries.”
Feyre faced Nesta, who was staring blankly at where the stones and bones had fallen in a neat little pile atop the bog. “The Middle is where the Weaver of the Wood dwelled,” Feyre said, voice tight. “If you go to the bog, you’ll need to be armed.”
“We’ll both be armed,” Cassian declared. “To the teeth.”
When Nesta didn’t respond, they all looked at her. None of them dared ask about that power, the being that had looked out at him. The one he’d melted away with his kiss. He could still taste that ice on his tongue, smell the scent similar to hers yet wholly different.
Nesta said, “We go tomorrow.”
Feyre started, “You need time to prepare—”
“We go tomorrow,” Nesta repeated. Cassian gleaned everything she wouldn’t say. She wanted to go tomorrow so she didn’t have the chance to think better of it. To learn more about the peril she’d be facing.
His fingers brushed against the small of her back, savoring her warmth after all that cold. “We’ll leave after breakfast.”
CHAPTER
32
“I should go with you,” Rhys said to Cassian as they gathered in the foyer of the river house the next morning.
“I should go with you,” Feyre countered, leaning against the stair railing, frowning at her mate and Cassian.
Nesta watched them in silence, the weight of the weapons she carried like phantom hands pushing on her back, her thighs, her hips. You’re still as likely to hurt yourself as you are an opponent, Cassian had said as he laid his weapons on the dining table this morning, but it’s better than going into Oorid unarmed. She’d selected a dagger and he’d grinned. Pointy end goes into your enemy.
She’d given him a withering look, but had allowed him to assist her with the straps and buckles of the various sheaths, focusing upon his strong hands whispering over her skin and not the task at hand.
“We both should go with you,” Rhys amended. “But at least Azriel will be there.”
“Thanks for your confidence,” Cassian said wryly, and kissed Feyre’s cheek. Rhys must have lowered her shield—for the moment. “You two aren’t even parents yet and your mother-henning has reached an unbearable level.”
“Mother-henning?” Feyre choked on a laugh.
“It’s a word,” Cassian said, so casually that Nesta wondered if he comprehended the danger they were walking into.
Nesta slid her gaze to Azriel, who shrugged subtly in confirmation. Yes, they were about to venture into a lethal, ancient bog. No, Cassian didn’t seem as disturbed as the two of them were.
Nesta scowled, and Az offered her a slight smile. They could be allies, that smile seemed to say. Against Cassian’s utter insanity. She found herself answering Azriel with a slight smile of her own.
Rhys sighed to the ceiling. “Shall we?”
Nesta glanced up the stairs past Feyre. Elain had again opted to remain in her room when Nesta was present, which was just fine. Absolutely, utterly fine. Elain could make her own choices. And had chosen to thoroughly shut the door on Nesta. Even as she fully embraced Feyre and her world. Nesta’s chest tightened, but she refused to think of it, acknowledge it. Elain was like a dog, loyal to whatever master kept her fed and in comfort.
Nesta wrenched her attention from the stairs, cursing herself for a fool for even looking.
“I don’t like this,” Feyre blurted, stepping toward her. “You haven’t had enough training.”
Cassian smirked. “She has two Illyrian warriors guarding her. What could go wrong?”
“Don’t answer that,” Rhys said drily to his mate. He met Nesta’s gaze. Stars were born and died in his eyes. “If you don’t want to go—”