Cassian normally looked forward to Winter Solstice for a host of reasons, starting with the usual three days of drinking with his family and ending with the riotous fun of his annual snowball fight with his brothers. Followed by a steam in the birchin and more drinking, usually until all three of them passed out in variously stupid positions. One year, he’d awoken wearing a blond wig and nothing but an evergreen garland around his groin like a loincloth. It had itched and scratched awfully—though it was nothing compared to his pounding hangover.
He supposed, at its root, he loved the Winter Solstice because it was uninterrupted time with the people he treasured most.
This year, just as it had last year, it filled him with nothing but churning acid.
The Court of Nightmares was decorated as it usually was, adorned for the celebration that lasted three whole days surrounding the longest night of the year. Each night held a different ball, and at the first of them, Nesta would dance with Eris.
Tonight. In a matter of moments.
He’d had a month to prepare for this. A month of being in Nesta’s bed—or at least fucking her in it. The Cauldron knew she hadn’t ever asked him to stay after he pulled out of her.
He stood at the foot of the black dais, staring out at the glittering throng with a face that promised death. Az stood on the other side of the dais, wearing a similar expression.
Each and every one of the people here could fucking burn in hell.
Starting with Keir, at the head of the gathered crowd. Ending with Eris, standing proud and tall—wearing Night Court black—beside him.
Mor stood by Feyre’s and Rhysand’s thrones, representing them until they arrived.
The entire throne room was bedecked in black candles, evergreen wreaths and garlands, and holly berries. The twin banquet tables flanking either side of the massive space overflowed with food, but it was forbidden to all until Feyre and Rhys allowed it.
He’d lightened some of his Night Triumphant demeanor with the people of the Hewn City lately, but not by much. Cassian didn’t envy Rhys his juggling act. They couldn’t isolate Keir, not if they were to need his Darkbringers again. Hence the nicer tone. But they couldn’t let him forget the ass-kicking he’d receive if he stepped out of line. Hence the only slightly nicer tone.
They’d heard nothing of the Crown, nothing from Briallyn. She had not come for the Trove. Cassian wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was over. None of them were.
The towering doors to the throne room at last yawned open.
Dark power rumbled through the mountain, warning of their approach. The mountain sang with it. Everyone turned as the High Lord and High Lady appeared, crowned and garbed in black.
Rhys looked his usual handsome self, but Feyre …
The room gasped.
Tonight also served another purpose: to tell the world of Feyre’s pregnancy.
She wore a dress of sparkling black panels, much like the one she’d first worn here—and it did nothing to hide her swelling belly.
No, it showed off her pregnant womb, gleaming in the candlelight.
Rhys’s face was a portrait of smug, male pride. Cassian knew he’d shred anyone who so much as blinked wrong at Feyre into a million bloody ribbons. Indeed, cold violence rippled off Rhys as they walked toward the dais, Feyre’s baby-rich scent filling the air. He’d let everyone here smell it, further confirming that she was with child.
Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Her serene face was lovely, and her full red lips parted in a smile at Rhys as they aimed for their thrones. Keir looked torn between anger and shock; Eris’s face was carefully neutral.
Motion at the back of the room tugged Cassian’s stare from his enemies, and then—
Both sisters wore black. Both walked behind Rhys and Feyre, a silent indicator that they were a part of the royal family. Had mighty powers of their own. They’d planned it that way, wanting Eris to see for himself how valuable Nesta was. Cassian wondered if Elain and Nesta had broken their silence while waiting for their entrance. They hadn’t spoken to each other for months now.
Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed. So Elain had let her golden-brown hair down tonight, and pinned it back with twin combs of pearl. He’d never once in the two years he’d known her found Elain to be plain, but wearing black, no matter how much she claimed to be part of this court … It sucked the life from her.
Nesta in Night Court black threatened to bring him to his knees.
She’d braided her hair over her head in her usual style, but atop it, a delicate tiara of glinting black stone rested, slender spikes jutting upward in a dark corona. Each spike was topped with a tiny sapphire, as if the spikes were so sharp they’d pierced the sky and drawn cobalt blood.
And the dress …
Silver thread embroidered the skintight velvet bodice, the straps so narrow they might as well have been nothing against her moon-white skin. The neckline plunged nearly to her navel, where the silver thread gathered to hold a small sapphire that matched the ones on her crown. The full skirts brushed the dark floor, rustling in the rippling silence.
Nesta’s chin remained high, accentuating her long, lovely neck. Her red-painted lips cocked in a feline smirk as her kohl-lined eyes took in the room watching her every breath.
Nesta seemed to glow with the attention. Owned it. Commanded it.
Feyre and Rhys took their thrones, and Nesta and Elain came to stand at the foot of the dais, between him and Azriel. Cassian didn’t dare say a word to Nesta, or even glance at her, at the body on display—the body he’d tasted so many times now it was a miracle no imprint of his lips lay against her neck.
He didn’t dare look at Eris, either. One glance and it’d give away their entire game. Even her scent—his scent, Cassian knew with no small amount of satisfaction—had been carefully glamoured to hide any trace of him.
Feyre declared to the assembled crowd, “May the blessings of the Winter Solstice be upon you.”
Keir scuttled forward, bowing low. “Allow me to extend my congratulations.” Cassian knew the bastard didn’t mean a word of it.
Eris stalked to his side, their honored guest. “And allow me to extend mine as well, on behalf of my father and the entire Autumn Court.” He flashed Feyre a pretty, cultivated smile. “He shall be thrilled by this news.”
Rhys’s mouth curled in a cruel half smile, the stars winking out in his eyes. “I’m sure he will.”
There was no pretending tonight: Rhys truly was the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares while Feyre and their babe were here. He’d slaughter anyone who threatened them. And enjoy it.
Rhys said to no one in particular, “Music.”
An orchestra hidden in a screened-in mezzanine began playing.
Feyre raised her voice and said, “Go—eat.” The crowd undulated as people aimed for the tables.
Only Eris and Keir remained before them. Neither spared Mor so much as a glance, though she smirked down at them, her red dress like a flame in the gloom of the hall.
Cassian, in his black armor, felt more like the beasts carved into the towering pillars beneath this mountain. He’d brushed his hair and left it loose, and that had been the extent of his grooming for tonight. He’d spent most of his time thinking about how he’d like to peel Eris’s skin off in tiny strips, how Rhys and Feyre had crossed a line by asking this of Nesta. He loved them both, but they could have found another way to ensure Eris’s allegiance. Not that Cassian had come up with a better alternative.
At least Briallyn and Koschei had not yet acted further. Though he had no doubt they’d be making their next move soon.
Feyre commanded the crowd, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance.”
People paired off and fell seamlessly into the music. Keir went with them this time.
“Before you join the merriment, Eris,” Rhys drawled, a long black box appearing in his hands, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”
Cassian kept his face blank. Rhys had gotten the bastard a gift?
Rhys floated the box over to Eris on a night-kissed wind. Let enough of that wind remain, wrapping behind Eris, for Cassian to know it blocked him from sight. From Keir’s sight, specifically.
Eris lifted his brows, flipping open the carved lid. He stiffened, voice going low. “What is this?”
“A present,” Rhys said, and Cassian caught a glimpse of a familiar hilt in the box.
The dagger Nesta had Made. Cassian refrained from whirling on Rhys and Feyre, demanding to know what the hell they were thinking.
Eris sucked in a breath. Feyre said, “You can sense its power.”
“There’s flame in it,” Eris said, not touching the dagger. As if his own magic warned him. He shut the lid, face slightly pale. “Why give this to me?”
“You’re our ally,” Feyre said, a hand resting on her belly. “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It seemed only fair to give you a weapon that operates outside those rules, too.”
“This is truly Made, then.”
Cassian braced himself for the truth, the damning, dangerous truth to be revealed about Nesta. But Rhys said, “From my personal collection. A family heirloom.”
“You possessed a Made item and kept it hidden all these years? During the war?”
“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre warned Eris quietly.
Eris stilled, but nodded. He extended the box back to Rhys. “I’ll leave it in your keeping while I dance, then.” He added with what Cassian could have sworn was sincerity, “Thank you.”
Feyre nodded as Rhys took the box and set it beside his throne. “Use it well.” She smiled softly at Eris. “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me unwell enough that I worry about what so much spinning would do to my stomach.” It was the truth. Feyre had bolted from dinner three nights ago to find the nearest toilet. Now she made a show of looking between her two sisters. Elain gave a passable impression of appearing interested. Nesta just looked bored. Like they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made.
Perhaps it was because Nesta’s eyes had drifted toward the dancing, shimmering throng. As if she couldn’t help herself when the music swelled. She seemed to be half-listening. Maybe music meant more to her than the dagger—more than magic and power.
Feyre noted the direction of Nesta’s stare. “My oldest sister shall take my place.”
Nesta barely glanced to Eris, who pulled his assessing gaze from Elain to stare at the eldest Archeron sister with a mix of wariness and intent that set Cassian’s jaw grinding. Or it would have been grinding, if he hadn’t mastered himself in time to keep his face blank as Nesta began walking toward Eris.
Eris offered an arm, and Nesta took it, her face neutral, her chin high, each step gliding. They halted at the edge of the dance floor, pulling apart to face each other.
Others watched from the sidelines as the dance finished and the introductory strains of the next began, a harp strumming high and sweet. Eris extended a hand, a half smile on his mouth.
As if those harp strings wrapped around Nesta’s arm, she raised it, and placed her hand in his precisely as the last, swift pluck of the harp sounded.
Percussion and horns blasted; low stringed instruments started a rushing stroke of music. A summons to the dance in a countdown to movement. Cassian reminded himself to breathe as Eris slid his broad hand over Nesta’s waist, tucking her in close. She lifted her chin, looking up into his face as a deep-bellied drum thumped.
And as the violins began their sweeping song, a beckoning back-and-forth, Nesta moved as if her very breath were timed to the music. Eris went with her, and it was clear that he knew the dance’s nuances and exact notes, but Nesta …
She gathered her skirts in her other hand, and as Eris led her into the waltz’s opening movements, her body went loose and taut in so many different places Cassian didn’t know where to look: she was bent and shaped and directed by the sound.
Even Eris’s eyes widened at it—the sheer skill and grace, each movement of her body precisely tuned to each note and flutter of music, from her fingertips to the extension of her neck as she turned, the arch of her back into a held note. Cassian dared a glance at Feyre and Rhys and found even their normally composed faces had gone a bit slack.
By the time Nesta and Eris finished their first rotation through the dance floor, Cassian had the growing feeling that Elain had rather undersold her sister’s abilities.
The music burned through Nesta.
Had there ever been such a perfect, half-wild sound in the world? Mor’s memories on the Veritas were nothing compared to this, hearing it performed live, dancing through it. It flowed and swam around her, filling her blood, and if she could have done so, she would have melted into the melody, become the rolling drums, the soaring violins, the clashing cymbals with the counter-beat, the horns and reeds with their high-arcing song.
There wasn’t enough space inside her for the sound, for all it made her feel—not enough space in her mind, her heart, her body; and all she could do to honor it, worship it, was dance.
Eris, to his credit, kept up.
She held his eyes throughout each step, let him feel her supple body, how pliant it was as she arched into a cluster of notes. His hand tightened on her, fingers digging into the groove of her spine, and she let a small smile rise to her red-painted lips.
She had never worn such a color on her mouth. It looked like sin personified. But Mor had done it, along with the swoop of liquid kohl over her upper eyelids. And when Nesta had looked in the mirror at last, she hadn’t seen herself staring back.
She’d seen a Queen of the Night. As merciless and cold and beautiful as the god Lanthys had wanted to make her. Death’s Consort.
Death herself.
Eris released her waist to spin her, and it was no effort to time her rotation to the flutter of notes, her gaze locking back to his exactly as the music returned to the melody. Flame simmered in his eyes, and he spun her again—not a prescribed move in the dance, but she followed through, snapping her head around to meet his gaze once more, her skirts twirling.
His lips curled with approval, his test passed.
Nesta smirked back at him, letting her eyes glitter. Make him crawl, Mor had said. And she would.
But first she would dance.
Cassian knew the waltz. Had watched and danced it for centuries. Knew its last half minute was a swift frenzy of notes and rising, grand sound. Knew most dancers would keep waltzing through it, but the brave ones, the skilled ones would do the twelve spins, the female blindly turning with one arm above her head, rotated again and again and again by her partner as they moved across the dance floor. To spin was to risk looking the fool at best, to eat marble at worst.
Nesta went for it.
And Eris went with her, eyes blazing with feral delight.
The music stomped into its crashing finale, drums striking, violins whirring, and the entire room straightened, eyes upon Nesta.
Upon Nesta, this once-human female who had conquered death, who now glowed as if she had devoured the moon, too.
Between one beat and the next, Eris lifted Nesta’s arm above her head and whipped her around with such force her heels rose off the ground. She’d barely finished the rotation when he spun her again, her head turning with such precision it took Cassian’s breath away.
And her feet …
One spin after another after another, moving across the now-empty dance floor like a night storm, Nesta’s slipper-clad feet danced so fast they were a near blur. He knew that Eris turned her arm, but her feet held her, propelled them. It was she who led this dance. On the seventh spin, she twirled so swiftly she rose fully onto her toes.
On the ninth spin, Eris released her fingers. And Nesta, arm still stretched above her head, rotated thrice more. Each one of the sapphires atop her tiara glimmered as if lit with an inner fire. Someone gasped nearby. It might have been Feyre.
And as Nesta spun solo—on the toes of one perfect foot—she smiled. Not a courtier’s slick smile, not a coy one, but one of pure, wild joy, brought by the music and the dance and her wholehearted yield to it.
It was like seeing someone being born. Like seeing someone come alive.
By the time Nesta finished the last rotation, that absurd defiance of basic laws of movement and space, Eris had her hand again, spinning her three more times, his red hair glinting like fire as if in echo to the unchecked, dark joy bursting from her.
Nesta’s mother had wanted a prince for her. Cassian now thought she’d undervalued her daughter. Only a king or an emperor would do for someone with that level of skill.
She was seducing Eris within an inch of his life. The murmuring of the Hewn City confirmed that Cassian wasn’t the only one noting it.
Eris’s eyes gleamed with wanton desire as he drank in Nesta’s smile, the glow about her. He knew what Nesta might become with a little ambition. The right guidance.
If he learned that the Dread Trove answered to her, that she’d Made his new dagger …
It was a mistake, to bring her here. To dangle her before Eris, the world.
Emerging from her cocoon of grief and rage, this new Nesta might very well send entire courts to their knees. Kingdoms.
The music rose and rose and rose, faster and faster and faster, and as its last few notes sounded, Eris again released her. Nesta spun solo once more, three more precise, perfect rotations as Eris dropped to a knee before her and held up a hand.
The final note blasted and held, and Nesta halted with preternatural ease, taking Eris’s hand in the same movement that her back arched and she flung up her other arm, the portrait of triumph.
The next dance began, and Nesta did not hesitate when Eris led her into it. It was a lighter, easier dance than the first, whose music had been a song in her blood.
Her partner might be a monster, but he knew how to dance. Had known how her body screamed to do those extra, solo turns, and let her go free not once but twice, and even then it had not been enough. If she hadn’t been wearing the heavy dress, she might have begged the orchestra to play the song again so she could just execute spin after spin after spin by herself, knowing when to throw in doubles and triples by instinct and ear alone.
She was drunk on the music. But the second dance required no wild spinning or excess of emotion. As if the conductor of the orchestra hidden in this room wanted her to have a breather. Or at least talk to her partner.
Eris’s amber eyes studied hers. “Trust Rhysand to keep you hidden away.”
Right. She was to flatter him, keep him on their side. “I just saw you the other week.”
Eris chuckled. “And as riveting as it was to see you send Tamlin scrambling off with his tail between his legs, I didn’t see this side of you. The time since the war has changed you.”
She didn’t smile, but she met his stare directly as she said, “For the better, I hope.”
“Certainly for the more interesting. It seems you came to play the game tonight after all.” Eris spun her, and when she returned to him, he murmured in her ear, “Don’t believe the lies they tell you about me.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “Oh?”
Eris nodded to where Mor watched them from beside Feyre and Rhys, her face neutral and aloof. “She knows the truth but has never revealed it.”
“Why?”
“Because she is afraid of it.”
“You don’t win yourself any favors with your behavior.”
“Don’t I? Do I not ally myself with this court under constant threat of being discovered and killed by my father? Do I not offer aid whenever Rhysand wishes?” He spun her again. “They believe a version of events that is easier to swallow. I always thought Rhysand wiser than that, but he tends to be blind where those he loves are concerned.”
Nesta’s mouth twitched to one side. “And you? Who do you love?”
His smile sharpened. “Are you inquiring after my eligibility?”
“I’m merely saying it’s hard to find a good dance partner these days.”
Eris laughed, the sound like silk over her skin. She shivered. “Indeed it is. Especially one who can both dance and tear the King of Hybern’s head from his shoulders.”
She let him see a bit of that person—see the savage rage and silver fire he’d witnessed before Tamlin. Then she blinked and it was gone. Eris’s face tightened, and not from fear.
He twirled her again, the waltz already coming to a close. He whispered in her ear, “They say your sister Elain is the beauty, but you outshine her tonight.” His hand stroked down the bare skin of her back, and she arched slightly into the touch.
Nesta made her throat bob, let a hint of color rise to her cheeks.
The waltz finished, and they seamlessly fell into the next dance, a little more demanding this time. She remembered this one from her lessons with Mor—it was lovely and sweeping and like being in a dream, until its final minute became so grand it always knocked the breath from her. Anticipation thrummed through her, brightening her eyes.
“You’re wasted at the Night Court,” Eris murmured as she twirled, skirts enveloping the two of them. “Absolutely wasted.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Another chuckle. Motion lurked at the corner of her eye, but she didn’t break her stare from Eris’s, didn’t halt her steps until—
“Move.”
Cassian’s cold voice cracked through the spell of the music, halting her. He stood before them, amid the sea of people twirling around and around, and even though most wore black, his armor and blades made him seem … different. Like a true piece of the night.
Eris looked down his straight nose at Cassian. “I don’t take orders from brutes.”
Nesta stifled her snarl and said coolly to Cassian, “Am I to understand that you would like to dance with me?”
“Yes.” His hazel eyes were burning with violence. Had he really believed what he’d seen on this dance floor?
Eris bared his teeth at Cassian. “Go sit at your master’s feet, dog.”
It took all her concentration, every moment of Mind-Stilling, to keep from ripping out Eris’s throat. But Nesta shoved her fury down, to the place where she’d stifled her power. “No one likes a selfish partner, Eris.” She didn’t so much as look at Cassian. Didn’t trust what she’d do if she beheld pain in his eyes at Eris’s insult. Feyre and Rhysand had given Eris one of her blades just to ensure his continued alliance. She wouldn’t jeopardize it. So she added with a croon, “Time to share.”
Eris threw her a mocking smile. “We’ll play later, Nesta Archeron.” He ignored Cassian as he aimed for the dais again.
Alone with Cassian, the packed dance floor teeming around them, Nesta demanded, “Are you happy now?”
His face was like stone. “No.” A glance over his shoulder showed her a tight-faced Rhys and Feyre, who were undoubtedly shouting at him mind to mind. But if she and Cassian lingered like this for too long, the spell she’d woven around Eris might be disrupted, and …
Cassian offered up his hand. Swallowed once.
He was nervous. This male who had faced down enemy armies, who had battled to the brink of death more times than she cared to count, who had fought so many dangers it was a miracle he lived … he was nervous.
It softened some crucial piece of her, and Nesta slipped her hand into his, their calluses rasping against each other. His hand slid around her waist, so large it spanned nearly halfway across. She gathered her skirts, and lifted her gaze to his.
Nesta fell back a step, leading him, them, into the dance, and Cassian went with her.
He was not graceful like Eris. He did not instinctively move to each beat like she did. But he kept up, willing to follow her into the music, into the sound and the movement, and his eyes did not, would not, leave her face.
Their steps quickened, and Cassian found his rhythm.
He spun her, and she whipped herself around, his arms waiting to catch her.
His hand on her waist tightened, his only warning as he launched them further, faster into the music. Cassian smiled at her, and the world faded away.
The music was no longer the most beautiful thing in existence. He was.
Nesta couldn’t stop it then.
The answering smile that bloomed through her at last, stealing across her face, bright as the dawn.
Cassian would only yield Nesta to Azriel, who swept her into a waltz as easily as breathing.
Wandering over to the wine table to pour himself a goblet, Cassian met the eyes of a few courtiers gawking at Nesta and let them see what would happen if they so much as approached her. They quickly fell away, and he leaned against a pillar, content to watch Nesta dance with his brother.
Mor was at his side a moment later, her lips curving upward. “Looks like our lessons paid off.”
Cassian kissed her cheek. “I owe you one.” They’d been training in secret these past weeks. Mor had been positively giddy when he’d asked for her help.
But her eyes were dark now, her face wan.
“How are you doing?” he asked neutrally, well aware of the people around them. What Mor had been and was now to them.
Mor lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “Fine.” She nodded to Nesta. “I enjoyed seeing what she did.” She elbowed him in the ribs. “Though I suppose you didn’t. You just had to cut in, didn’t you?”
He crossed his arms. “Rhys can deal with it.”
“It seems like Rhys is,” Mor said, and Cassian followed her stare toward the dais, where Eris stood beside the thrones, speaking with Rhys and Feyre.
Without Rhys so much as blinking in their direction, Cassian found that Rhys had let him in on the conversation—he was inside Rhys’s mind, seeing and hearing the conversation through Rhys’s eyes. From Mor’s sudden stillness, he knew she’d been brought in, too.
“All right,” Eris was saying to Rhys, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You showed me what I can have, Rhysand. I’m intrigued enough to ask what you’d want in return.”
Feyre blurted into Rhys’s thoughts, What?!
Cassian wanted to echo the same, his entire body tightening. But Rhys didn’t move from where he lounged on his throne. “What do you mean by that?”
Lust glazed Eris’s eyes. Covetous, calculating lust. Cassian swallowed his growl. “I mean that whatever you want, I’ll give it to you in exchange for her. As my bride.” He jerked his chin to the box with the dagger at Rhys’s feet. “I’d rather have her than that.”
He danced three dances with her! Feyre squawked. Rhys’s lips seemed to be fighting a losing battle not to smile.
Cassian could only stare at Eris’s throat, pondering whether to strangle him or slit the skin wide open. Let him bleed out on the floor.
“That’s not my decision,” Rhys said calmly to Eris. “And it seems foolish for you to offer me anything I want in exchange for her, anyway.”
His jaw tightened. “I have my reasons.”
From the shadows in his eyes, Cassian knew something more lay beneath the rash offer. Something that even Az’s spies hadn’t picked up on at the Autumn Court. All it would take was one push of Rhys’s power into his mind and they’d know, but … it went against everything they stood for, at least amongst their allies. Rhys demanded their trust; he had to give it in return. Cassian couldn’t fault his brother for that.
Eris added, “It is a bonus, of course, that in doing so, I would be repaying Cassian for ruining my betrothal to Morrigan.”
Asshole. Cassian’s hands curled into fists, but Mor’s fingers landed on his arm. Gentle and reassuring.
Can’t we throw him to the beasts under the cell and be done with him? Feyre seethed to Rhys.
Again, Rhys’s lips twitched. So bloodthirsty, Cassian heard his High Lord croon to his mate. But Rhys said, “Anything I want, whether it be armies from the Autumn Court or your firstborn, you would grant me in exchange for Nesta Archeron as your wife?”
Cassian growled low in his throat. His brother was letting this carry on too far.
Eris glared. “Not as far as the firstborn, but yes, Rhysand. You want armies against Briallyn and my father, you’ll have them.” His lips curved upward. “I couldn’t very well let my wife’s sister go into battle unaided, could I?”
You can return every Solstice present in exchange for letting me tear him apart, Feyre said. Cassian clamped his mouth shut to avoid shouting his agreement toward them.
But Rhys, the bastard, silently laughed. His face remained stone-cold as he said, “I’ll consider it, and talk to Nesta. Keep the dagger, though. You might need it.”
Cassian glanced to Azriel and Nesta, still beautifully waltzing.
It didn’t spark one ember of his temper.
But Eris … Ally or not, he’d make sure the prick got what was coming to him.
