Cassian lay facedown on the earth.
Nesta rushed toward him, praying, sobbing, her magic still echoing through the world.
She turned him over, searching for the knife, the wound, but—
The knife lay beneath him. Unbloodied.
He groaned, cracking his eyes open. “I figured,” he rasped, “I should lie low while you did that.”
Nesta gaped at him. Then burst into tears.
Cassian sat up, soothing sounds on his tongue, and took her face in his hands. “You Unmade her.”
Nesta glanced to the Crown on the earth—the black stain where Briallyn had been. “She had it coming.”
He chuckled, leaning his brow against hers. Nesta closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. “You are my mate, Cassian,” she said against his lips, and kissed him softly.
“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing her in turn.
And then his hands slid into her hair. And the kiss …
It did not matter, the world around them, or the Crown at her feet, as he kissed her. A mate’s kiss. One that set their souls twining, glowing.
She pulled back, letting him see the joy in her eyes, her smile. His awe, his own joy, made her throat tighten.
“Cassian, I—”
But two figures landed beside them, making the mountain shudder, and they whirled to find Mor and Azriel there, faces grave.
“Eris?” Cassian demanded.
“Safe, and the Made dagger is in our possession again,” Azriel said, “though Eris is pissed and confused. He’s at the Hewn City. But—”
“It’s Feyre,” Mor said.
