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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 1 day

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In Between The Lines

A/N: Happy @nestaarcheronweek ! This was originally intended for Metamorphosis but I’ll settle for cramming it in as a last minute contribution for Day 7 instead!

Summary: In her desperation to contact every friend and relative for help, a young Nesta stumbles onto a written connection with the most dangerous being of them all - a fae. She just doesn’t know that he needed the contact just as much as she did.

Rating: T, WC 3.3k

Read on AO3

With trembling hands, Nesta hands over what are now precious few coins over to the lady at the counter, thanking her before turning away. The ground crunching beneath her feet is a visceral thing. Every snap of a twig and crinkle of a dried leaf echoes in her ears.

Even coins to send out letters seem like a waste of precious resources. A cruel reminder of what they used to have in abundance being lost to them, having long sunk deep into the depths of the sea. Father had mentioned the funds they would get from selling the manor could tie them over for a good while but there is a despair and hopelessness in his dead brown eyes that boils Nesta’s insides.

It is as if he has given up.

Never mind he has three young daughters to feed and clothe, to ensure they wed well into good families. That look in his eyes was like looking at a dead fish, a reminder of a man who had all the riches on the island and still did nothing as his wife withered away. Nesta fumes just at the thought, the additional spurt of energy drives her home with hasty steps.

Nesta walks into the study where she has spent the last few weeks writing letters to every friend and relative - each one more desperate than the last. Only to receive nothing. The silence is louder than any crunch from the ground of impending winter or the trilling of birds surrounding a home that is no longer theirs.

The ink of the notepad glistens from where she had left it half written - another wretched letter she had all but signed off when the desolate realisation struck her: she has run out of contacts to write to.

She picks up the pad, a frown creases between her brows when notices fresh words forming just below where her letter stopped.

Who are you? How did you find me?

She drops the devil-willed pad, as if stung by hot iron.

No. Not the devil. Her fingers shake where she still has them stretched outwards.

Faerie.

***

For the first time in over forty years, Cassian feels something that is not fury and frustration, not the bottomless well of shame that he tries desperately every day not to lose himself in. Because for the first time after being trapped in Velaris, something from the outside seemed to have breached the enchantments hiding the Court of Dreams.

The content of the letter itself is nothing threatening. Just a letter pleading for financial assistance using words too beautiful for a bastard like him. Yet, oddly enough, there is no name or address.

The general in him hisses urgently, demanding him to plug the gap immediately. He pushes it aside in favour of the tight tug in his chest and the sight of elegantly curved scripture. The tug that pulls and pulls until the muscle beneath is sore and tender.

He tears his gaze away from the notepad and absently rubs soothing circles over his chest. Hazel eyes sharpen at the pen lying on the table a couple of inches away and he swipes it off the surface. He lowers the inky tip to the paper and watches blankly as the ink swells beneath the words and then vanishes.

With brows raised high, Cassian throws caution to the wind and scribbles away.

Who are you? How did you find me?

He drops the pen, fingers tapping incessantly against the pad, his leg joins in the restless motion soon after.

Minutes tick by.

Cassian continues to wait - knowing and needing the reply that is to come. He tosses the small knife up in the air. It flies past the height of his chest, his forehead, his wings, and back down into the waiting grip of seasoned fingers. Again and again, even as the room darkens around him.

Again and again until glimmering ink materialises, blessing the paper with its scrawl, beautiful but uncertain. Cassian leans forward, nearly toppling the chair over in its speed. Next to him, the tip of the blade embeds itself into the wooden surface of the table.

Can you help me?

He smiles widely as he pens down a reply, WHO are you?

Don’t play with me. His mysterious correspondent writes, angry in the crossing of their t, impatient in the jab of their period stop. Can you send us the gold or not?

He can’t, of course. Not while his city is still locked away. But they don’t need to know that yet.

What would you give me for it?

Dots of ink litter the space just below his question. As if they can’t quite decide how to respond. He lowers the pen to paper once more and offers, My name is Cassian. And you?

He frowns as the black ink forms more words, shaky yet stubborn. Are you here to help me or not?

A name, sweetheart. He taunts.

He can almost hear the huff in the response. You can call me Nina.

Is that your real name?

No. He barks out a laugh.

Touché.

Can you help me, Cassian?

A spark blazes a trail down his spine as he takes in his name written by his mysterious partner. He so desperately needs to see it again.

I want to. He tries to explain because he thinks it might actually kill him to have to lie to her. But there is a powerful ward that keeps my city hidden. I can’t contact anyone outside.

Without even realising it, he finds himself without air. Maybe in worry that she wouldn’t respond or in response to the ache in his chest. But finally, he releases it with the appearance of charcoal ink.

Then what do you call this? Comes the answer, direct yet petulant.

I don’t know. I thought that it might have been you.

Another scoff, he can almost hear it. Clearly, because he is the fae here, enthralling the young human female. Don’t be ridiculous.

I usually am. But not on this. You are the first person outside of the city that I have contacted in decades.

A long pause.

So you really can’t help me?

Cassian hovers the pen over the paper before, finally, I’m sorry.

He never gets a reply after that.

***

Nesta freezes in her path, sharp steely blue eyes taking in the angry twin pair of eyes. The tension crackles between them.

“What have you done?” She spits, “You were supposed to get food from the market.”

Feyre’s too youthful and slender fingers grip tighter around the body of the slightly battered bow slung over her shoulder. She shoots back sarcastically, “And then what? Starve for the rest of winter?”

She knows that. She did the maths weeks ago. The measly coins they had left would have lasted them no more than one more week. But it still could have been one more week of stale bread and pathetic bland stew, of not starving. Nesta’s jaw clenches, the muscle in her neck feathers in effort not to twist towards the lump of a man carving yet another wooden creature.

Instead, she tilts her chin just a degree north and her lips curl in derision. “And what can a child like you do?”

Her younger sister shakes her head incredulously, her knuckles turning white around the bow. “At least I am doing something.” And without another word, Feyre pulls her back rigid and walks out of the cottage.

Nesta ignores the all too perceptive brown orbs of her other sister, turning away to focus her attention on arranging the sparse possessions they have on the single shelf. Blue grey eyes narrow as they snag on the wide gaps between the stone walls.

A forgotten distant memory. A fevered conversation with a piece of talking paper. She pushes it away.

She draws her trembling hands back towards her chest and down to her sides. Slim fingers close in forces on the folds of the coarse material of her frock.

Useless. She is useless. What is a sharp tongue and perfect waltz in the face of starvation? What is the point of her? She thinks bitterly and turns away from the wall crevice.

The youngest Archeron returns hours later when the chill of the autumn night has begun to creep into their stoned shack, announcing her arrival with a creak of the door. Nesta opens her mouth, ready to shoot a snide remark when Feyre angrily dumps two squirrels on the table. Nesta forces her gaze away from the dead glassy look of the catch and meet-

The haunted abyss that has darkened the edges of vibrant grey blue eyes. The eyes of a girl who had just lost a piece of herself to the cold desolate woods.

The blankness vanishes with the next blink and Nesta clears her throat, snipping with distaste, “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Swallowing a growl, Feyre barely suppresses a look of bewilderment and yanks the squirrels off the table, noisily stalking out of the cottage. Only the sheer weight and ill-maintained hinges prevent the door from slamming. The entire house turns quiet in her absence, even the oscillating of Elain’s gaze is a palpable presence.

Nesta does not see that look in Feyre’s eyes when her sister steps back through the door. Instead, she takes in Feyre’s anger and bitterness and returns them with her own frosted rage.

Hours later, when sleep has eluded her for far too long, Nesta slips out of the body-warmed sheets of their shared bed and into the shivering grasp of the dead of night. Surely, only the Gods know the time now.

She crosses her hands to rub the back of her upper arms, futilely trying to stave off the eruption of goosebumps spreading along her skin. She halts to retrieve a crumbled pad from behind the loose stone.

She should have left this cursed pad in that large manor. Let the wickedness that lives within infect its next occupier, whoever is unlucky enough to buy their house. But when it was time for her to leave, she couldn’t. Her arm resolutely refused to obey its owner’s command and it was all she could do to stuff it beneath a loose rock and pray that it did not try to influence anyone else in her family.

Her fingers trace the yellowed parchment, her brain plays the scene of Feyre stepping out into the snow on repeat. Her youngest sister, taking up the mantle because the man who calls himself their father can’t. His ineptitude, her failure.

The iron bracelet jingles uselessly around her wrist as she raises a pen to summon, Cassian?

No answer. Of course, it’s been months, she scolds herself.

But still, Nesta foolishly stands in the cold. Staring until…

Missed me, sweetheart?

***

Cassian closes the door to his room with a small snick, one hand still ruffling the damp towel over his hair. He tosses it into a bucket in a corner, knowing it would have vanished before it actually hit the bottom. Exhaling a long insufferable breath, he collapses on the soft surface of his bed. His eyes travel to the yellowed pad lined neatly next to his blade.

Nina. Or whatever her true name is, not that it really matters at this point. They have been chatting on and off for a couple of years shrouded in masks and half-truths. Sometimes they go weeks without communicating, once even months.

A part of him still chastises himself for not having brought this to Amren - at what is clearly a breach in their wards. But how can he when he has been dying to crack them open without having the protection fall apart like a house of cards for decades? Spending hours in the library if it meant he could find a hairline fracture to slip through, to be fighting by his High Lord’s, his brother’s side? In its stead, he found a link to an all too young human female who is trapped by the Cauldron just as cruelly.

Someone, who wields sharp words as their sword and wit as their shield. With her, Cassian’s world is suddenly more than just Velaris. With her, he once again breathes the crisp air of the Illyrian mountains.

A careless hand sweeps the bound stack of paper off the table. It hits the firm muscled chest with a slight thud. His brows raise with amusement as he rereads where their conversation ended just a couple of nights ago.

Reading. I miss reading.

He spent minutes staring at the same elegant curvature that he has long ago committed to memory. He breathed it in once more, the enthrallling way she flicks the ends of her g or slopes her R, before rushing down to the depths of the House. He ignored the slight scowls of the priestesses as his wings rustled noisily past the quiet caverns of the library. It took him a couple more precious ticking minutes before he picked out a book.

With a tickling in his chest and a blooming smile on his face, he picked up a stray pen and began to write.

Cassandra’s head whirled around to take in her surroundings - the snowy mountains flanking the small town, the comforting smell of freshly baked bread, the chatters of life and energy swirling around her-

Her heart stuttered.

The male tilted himself away, facing the horse sputtering in delight as he ran a brush along silky soft fur.

Are you writing me a romance??? Disbelief playfully interrupted him.

He corrected her because he sure ain’t hell will never get away from pretending to be able to write it himself, I am copying you a romance.

A pause.

Why?

Because you said you missed it.

The lack of reply spoke louder than any words would. It compelled Cassian to put pen to paper once more and continued copying.

The sight of the long sections of fiction brings a lingering smile at the edge of his mouth, a warm flutter in his chest. Nina, being the infuriating female that she is, snipes impossible notes at the sidebars, distracting him repeatedly.

Cassian curves his abdomen in to sit up, one arm already outstretched to reach for the novel. In the next moment, he starts to write.

***

The fire crackles as the decadent scent of a hot meal wafts over the cottage. There is a lightness that traverses the house that is completely foreign to Nesta: Elain humming a melody just under her breath, lithe hands a motion in arranging a vase of beautiful flowers. Their father moves with a spring in his steps as he hovers back and forth a ledger of carefully notated accounts.

Just for a moment, Nesta lets herself pretend - immerse herself in the same reality her father and sister live in. They’re not poor any longer. Hot piping meals are readily available. The desperate kernel of hope they have held on to in the past few years has prevailed.

And she opens her eyes to zone in on the piece of broken wood left by an enraged beast of terrifying size, and the elder Archeron sister remembers.

There is no Aunt Ripleigh, there is no mysterious gold recovered from lost seas. There is no good fortune.

This is only a monster honouring some ridiculous treaty from generations past. There is no forgetting that the price of comfort is their youngest sister.

The wrongness of it leaves a bitter taste in Nesta’s mouth.

Silently, Nesta draws the paltry number of coins from her pockets. Coins Feyre had managed to barter from that female mercenary for the Wolf’s pelt, a different type of blood money. Her mind begins to run the arithmetic and forms a plan.

Perhaps if instead of a pair of new boots that doesn’t pinch, she could have enough. The weight of her plan begins to ground her, reduces the level of bitterness of every fibre of her body screaming at her that this is wrong.

The crackling logs of the fire snaps, ensnaring her attention. The gaze of razor edged silver blue eyes shifts to the fire. Behind it, the loose rock some distance sharpens into focus.

That night, Nesta leaves the comfort of her warm bed once more, digging out the thick wad of paper. She skips through pages of an indulgent fae romance, right to the end of their last correspondence some weeks back.

The Faes are unscrupulous folks. They trick and they take. This one is different only because he can’t. He is trapped just as much as she is.

But still, he is fae.

How do I get past the wall?

She has almost dozed off when glistening ink spurs her back to alertness.

The wall? Into Prythian?

Nesta clicks her tongue in distaste at the obviousness of the question when he adds another word after his last message.

Whatever the reason - you shouldn’t.

The side of her palm presses hard into the papered surface, her fingertips turned white against the tip of her pen.

It remains at the tip of her tongue as her mind refreshes and reminds her: The deep roar of the beast, Feyre’s steely blue eyes as she steps forward, unwavering in the face of powers leagues beyond her own. It’s my sister. She’s been taken. I need to get her back. She almost spills it all out.

But she doesn’t, not trusting the truth with anyone. Much less another fae.

She asks instead, Why?

There is hesitance in his answer. Things are messy now. It is why my city is locked away. It’s not safe, much less for humans.

The blatant dismissal sets a flame alight. It sputters and hisses at the indignity. But like a steel blade stressed in an impossible heat, it eventually quenches and leaves her with a hardened resolve.

All the more reason for me to try.

She doesn’t ask any more questions. Counting and setting the last of Feyre’s coins aside, Nesta climbs back under the covers with Elain.

She will look for the mercenary tomorrow.

***

The frigid sting of water swallows her whole. It burns and burns and burns. Vapourising all that she was, forging into a being she did not want to become.

Nesta opens her eyes when the darkness and agony fades, a foreign silver fire simmers deep within her. Swirling, waiting.

Light streams through the windows and shines on the elegant furnishing of the room. Outside the clear glass is the panoramic view of a city that is not hers, that she wants no part of. Withholding a long suffering sigh, she gets dressed.

The all-too-sharp fae hearing picks up on familiar grunting which she has long identified as the two winged fae sparring. Something in her chest twists uncomfortably at the memory of the crimson siphon adorned Illyrian.

Like everything else, she pushes it away.

It is only after she finishes braiding her hair, tucking those all too sharp ears behind thick locks that she notices a new book lying on the table. She picks it up with a frown and opens to its marked page.

Cassandra’s breasts grew heavier with every breath. The darkened gaze of Matthias pinned her to the rough wooden planked walls, its coarse surface scrapped uncomfortably against her bare back. The male approached with a predator’s stride, his smirk grew as he bracketed her frame between his large arms.

Nesta scowls as she tears her gaze away from the page. Her heart traitorously stammers at the all too familiar scrawl on the thin slip of paper marking the page.

The library is on the second floor, just down the hallway from the stairwell.

For the first time since she’s spilled out of the cauldron, Nesta smiles.

#oh my god I am not being normal about this #he was COPYING HER A BOOK #😭😭😭#nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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Nesta as High Lady of the Dusk Court for @nestaarcheronweek! This was originally supposed to be posted for the Queen of Queens prompt, but life got in the way, so Free Day it is.

✨please do not repost or use in any AI programs✨

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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@nestaarcheronweek | Day Six: Birthday Girl

I like to imagine Nesta celebrating her birthday with those she feels overwhelmed with happiness to be with. And as they are the first to completely accept the way she is, I love imagining that Gwyneth and Emerie, the chosen family, would also be celebrating with Nesta, first thing in the morning.

Art by: Jéssica Brasil (jessi.brasilart)

Commissioned by: @podemechamardek

🚫 Please do not repost.

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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'Beyond the door, a winding stair lit by black nephrite lamps, and far below, the place called Nowhere where the Dead drift down, where nothing is exactly forgotten.' — @nestaarcheronweek

#nesta archeron #😍😍😍

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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Top Shelf Love: Prologue

A/N: So, if you know me, you know that I love hockey. But if there's one thing I don't love, it's hockey romances because they are always so inaccurate that it's take you out of the story SO QUICK! Like what do you mean the captain of this NCAA D1 team is undrafted? What do you mean she magically has access to an NHL locker-room in the middle of a game? So this is my response to that! A super self-indulgent Nessian Hockey AU. For additional hockey context: Cassian is a defenseman for the NY Rangers; Rhys is a center for the Montreal Canadiens; Az is a winger for the Nashville Predators; and Lucien is a winger for the Toronto Maple Leafs. Anyways! Hope everyone enjoys this prologue and this absolute meet-ugly! Happy final day of @nestaarcheronweek

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Next Part

Nesta

Nesta sighs softly, tilting her head back against the leather of the seat. Almost instantly, she scrunches her nose, the stale scent of cigarettes, of sweat and previous occupants, flooding her senses. Eager for a distraction, she peers out the window instead. The skyscrapers loom like shadowed giants on either side of the road, a cascade of colorful lights spilling from their windows and reflecting off the wet roads, the puddles from the earlier rain. Throngs of bodies move along the sidewalks, neither the late hour or the dark clouds still clinging above deterring them clearly.

The city that never sleeps indeed.

The cab jerks to a stop along the curb, the driver not even bothering to turn around and say anything to her, merely tapping the fare display. With a roll of her eyes, Nesta fishes her wallet out of her purse to pay before finally slipping out of the cab. At least the driver pulls her suitcase from the trunk, setting it on the sidewalk beside her.

“Nesta! You finally made it!”

It takes everything within Nesta to swallow back down another sigh, takes all her willpower to force at least a hint of a smile to tug across her face. She can feel her earlier annoyance still simmering just beneath her skin, can still feel the exhaustion weighing down her bones. She’d give anything to be back in her own bed right now, anything to slip beneath her pile of blankets and curl up with a good book, but she’s here for Feyre, here to celebrate her baby sister.

So Nesta rolls her shoulders and plasters on an even wider smile before she turns around. But she should have known better, should have known that despite the physical distance between them, there’s no fooling her sisters. From the way Feyre raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching up in the barest hint of an unimpressed smirk, it’s clear she sees straight through Nesta.

“Sorry,” Nesta winces, her shoulders drooping already. “Journey from hell.”

“Sounds like you need a drink,” Elain offers with an easy smile, stepping forward and taking the handle of Nesta’s suitcase.

“Or five,” Feyre adds with a chuckle.

Nesta rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t exactly disagree. A stiff drink definitely sounds appealing after the nightmare of the day she’s had.

“I saw online that a lot of flights were just straight canceled, so I think you’re lucky to have made it at all,” Elain comments, leading the way along the sidewalk.

“I don’t know that I’d call a six hour delay lucky,” Nesta grumbles, practically shuddering at the memory of being stuck sitting and waiting in an airport for so long.

Nesta follows her sisters inside the building, but they take the elevator down, rather than up, Elain leading the way toward a black SUV. She tells her sisters more about the horrible journey as they walk. About the surprisingly long line at security. About the storms in the midwest and the delays and havoc they wreaked on all flights. About the child that seemed determined to scream for the entire five hour flight.

Once Nesta’s bags are securely locked away in Elain’s car, they return to the elevator and take it all the way up to the eighteenth floor, the doors opening with a soft ding. There’s no stopping the way Nesta’s jaw slackens as she takes it all in. A large centerpiece extends from the floor and fans out into the ceiling, the lights embedded within it casting the entire bar and its occupants in glittering golds. Live music seems to be coming from somewhere, twining and molding with the laughter, the conversations, filling the space.

But it’s the windows that really draw Nesta’s attention. Floor to ceiling windows seem to line every wall, offering a truly panoramic view of all of New York City and the Hudson. It’s a picture perfect view of the twinkling lights and night sky through the rain droplets still clinging to the panes.

“Wow,” Nesta breathes, taking it all in. “This place is definitely nicer than I was expecting.”

“If you think this is nice, you should see their venue.”

It takes a few moments for Elain’s words to register, but then Nesta is snapping her head toward Feyre. “You have a venue already? Does that mean you’ve picked a date?”

“Yes,” Feyre answers, unable to bite back her grin. “Next summer. July specifically, after Rhys’s season has ended.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit optimistic to think he’ll still be playing through June?”

“Elain!” Feyre exclaims, reaching out to smack the middle Archeron in the arm. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“What?” Elain shrugs innocently. “It’s true. I mean what’s their current record again?”

“Because the Leafs do so well when they choke every year?”

“At least they make the playoffs.”

Nesta snorts softly at her sisters’ bickering. “Since when did you become a sports fan anyways, Elain?”

“I guess Lucien’s been filling her with more than just his dick.”

“Feyre!” Elain squeaks out, her cheeks flooding with a blush.

“Darling,” a deep voice practically purrs, interrupting them. “There you are. I was wondering where my beautiful fiancée got off to.”

“Rhys, this is my oldest sister, Nesta,” Feyre offers, sidling up against Rhys’s side, her fiancé’s arm settling over her shoulders with comfortable ease.

“A pleasure to meet you at last,” Rhys greets, holding up the glass in his free hand in a mock cheers. The gesture is a bit sloppy, some of the amber liquid in the glass sloshing over the rim and spilling across his fingers, and Nesta realizes there’s a haze to his violet eyes.

“It’s an open bar,” Feyre mouths, clearly reading Nesta’s expression.

“You don’t have a drink in your hand,” Rhys suddenly says, as though he’s only just realized. “We need to fix that immediately.”

Rhys turns on his heel, pushing his way through the various guests gathered to celebrate him and Feyre without a care. Nesta rolls her eyes, but Feyre has a wide, soft smile on her face as she watches him go, eyes practically sparking with fondness. It’s clear this is the man that makes her youngest sister happy, so she can’t fault him too much.

“He’s right, you know. You do need a drink still,” Feyre says, looping her arm through Nesta’s.

Feyre leads the way toward the bar built around the large centerpiece. She leans over and gets the attention of one of the bartenders with ease, ordering what she tells Nesta is the couple's signature cocktail. It seems to be some sort of margarita, a deep blue in color with edible glitter that looks almost like stars swirling through the liquid.

“So…” Feyre starts, taking a sip of her own drink.

“So…?” Nesta echoes, although she has a strong suspicion she already knows where this conversation is going. She knows that expression on her sister’s face all too well.

“Rhys’s brothers are here tonight.”

“And you need to stop being such a busybody.”

Feyre sighs, turning so her hip leans against the bar, facing Nesta fully. “Why? I’m an excellent matchmaker. Just ask Elain…” Feyre looks over her shoulder, but frowns, turning in a full circle with her eyebrows pinched low. “Wait. Where did Elain go?”

“She and Lucien probably found some dark corner to fuck like the bunnies they are,” Nesta answers dryly. It’s certainly the trend with those two, vanishing for a few hours before appearing again with slightly mussed clothes and hair, pink often clinging to the apples of Elain’s cheeks and a wide, shit eating grin plastered across Lucien’s face.

“That just proves my point! At least tell me you stalked his Instagram or something.”

“Emerie and Gwyn did.”

Her best friends had been trying to convince her to get back out there for a month now. Even with how much time has passed since everything happened, it still feels strange. Of course, that hasn’t stopped Emerie from dragging her out to bars for trivia nights and karaoke as if they’re the best places to meet someone new. It hasn’t stopped Gwyn from trying to tempt her to start a dating profile on at least one of the plethora of app options.

It hasn’t stopped either of them from hyping her up after they spent so long helping Nesta to piece together the shattered fragments of herself, of her life, back together. It’s why Nesta loves them, why she doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

But when Feyre had suggested setting Nesta up with Rhys’s adopted brother, practically raving over the phone about what a good fit the two of them would be together, it had been like blood in the water for Emerie and Gwyn. Nesta had barely hung up with her sister by the time Gwyn had tracked down his social medias and had them displayed on the television ‘for the best viewing experience.’

Cassian Valdarez.

Any other emotions aside, Nesta can admit he’s attractive, that much was clear from the photos and videos on his Instagram. With his dark, curly hair tumbling down to his shoulders, his bright hazel eyes. He had been grinning widely in most of the photos, golden skin of his cheeks stretched and crinkles popping beside his eyes. But even the one where his lips were tugged up in a lopsided, cocksure smirk had Nesta staring.

Nesta had done a lot of staring.

Staring at the photo of him in sunglasses and shirtless, lounging casually on some sort of boat, wide shoulders and swirling lines of ink on full display. The photo of him in a locker room, dressed only from the waist down, showing off the tantalizing lines of his abs, his v-lines. The Reel of him working out, chest heaving and skin glistening, biceps bulging with every lift of the weights. The reel of him stick handling with just gloves, in a tank and shorts, the muscles and veins of his forearms working with each flick of his wrist.

“Okay, and?” Feyre’s voice draws Nesta back to the present.

“And what?”

“And what did Gwyn and Emerie think?”

Nesta sighs softly, fiddling with the stem of her glass. “I mean, they said I should go for it.”

“Ha!” Feyre exclaims, loud enough to draw the attention of a few others up at the bar. “See? I’m right. A perfect match.”

“Feyre, don’t you think—”

“Feyre, darling, I keep losing you.” Rhys slips into the space behind Feyre, wrapping an arm around her waist. He dips his head enough to press his lips to her neck before raising his gaze to peer at Nesta over Feyre’s shoulder. “Sorry. Do you mind if I steal my fiancée away for a moment?”

“Not at all,” Nesta assures him, but it’s Feyre’s gaze she meets. “I’ll be fine.”

Feyre and Rhys vanish into the crowds hand and hand, and Nesta settles at the bar, sipping her drink. Her eyes flit around, but she truly doesn’t know anyone here outside of her sisters. And despite her earlier words to Feyre, all the people, all the sounds and the lights, are starting to grate against her nerves, prickling and dragging along her skin like nails. Even downing the remains of her drink doesn’t seem to help, the alcohol only weighing heavy in her gut.

Leaving her now empty glass on the bartop, Nesta spins on her heel and stalks toward one of the walls of windows. She glances around at the different tables set up, the booths that line the windows and offer the perfect seats for the views beyond. Maybe she can find a dark corner to hide in for a few hours, or maybe, if she’s lucky, Elain and Lucien will decide they want to leave early to continue whatever they’ve started in an actual bed.

“Looking for me, sweetheart?”

The deep voice has a shiver skittering up Nesta’s spine, warm breath fanning across her ear. She spins around and comes face to face with a pair of hazel eyes, a cocksure smirk she’s only seen in photo-form before. Cassian Valdarez, in the flesh. He doesn’t even bother for subtly as his gaze rakes over her, and Nesta has to swallow hard as she tracks the way he licks his lips.

“And what if I wasn’t?” Nesta dares to ask, raising her chin.

Cassian chuckles, stepping closer into her space. “I think we both know you were looking for me. Why wouldn’t you be?”

Cassian’s hand reaches up in the space between them, snagging one of the stray strands of Nesta’s hair and twisting it around his fingers. Those same fingers skate down her neck, across her collarbones, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. His touch traces over her shoulder and down her arm before finally closing around her wrist, Nesta’s breath hitching at the warm of his hand, the size of it, and she can do nothing but follow along as he tugs her toward one of the booths by the windows.

He lets go long enough to fall back against the cushions, for Nesta to settle beside him, but then his hands are right back on her. This time, his palm slides against the skin above her knee, fingers teasing along the hem of her dress. His other arm stretches along the back of the booth, all but curling around her shoulders as he leans into her.

“You look gorgeous in this dress, you know.”

“But let me guess, it would look better on your bedroom floor?”

“You said it, not me, but I don’t disagree.”

Nesta snorts quietly, tempted to tell him that it was wrinkled when she yanked it out of her suitcase before she awkwardly changed into it in the airport bathroom. But she never gets the chance to. Cassian lifts his hand until his fingers curl around her jaw, tilting her chin up enough that he can slot their lips firmly together.

The kiss takes Nesta by surprise, but it doesn’t take her long to respond. She moves her lips against his, Cassian’s grip on her chin holding her exactly where he wants her. When his tongue slips into her mouth, she moans softly, fisting a hand into the front of his shirt to keep herself steady and to keep him close.

Cassian pulls back just enough that he can murmur, “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Right now?” Nesta blurts out before she can stop herself. She’s certainly not opposed to the idea, but with tonight being the first time they’re meeting, she thought he might want to get to know her more first. What exactly did Feyre tell him about her?

“You know what they say. No time like the present.”

“I should probably tell my sister I’m leaving then.”

Cassian’s eyes seem to glint, even beneath the low light of the bar. “Is your sister here? Does she want to join?”

Nesta is sure that she must have misheard him. “What?”

“It could be fun. Two sisters, one hockey player,” Cassian says easily, even daring to wink at her. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Nesta can do nothing but gape at him, her mind reeling with this turn in conversation, but then it hits her like a ton of bricks. “You don’t know who I am.”

Cassian chuckles again, that cocksure smirk of his never slipping for a moment. “Am I supposed to know who you are?”

“Do you even know my name?” Nesta snaps, pulling further away from him.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that, sweetheart. All that really matters is you knowing my name so you can scream it tonight.”

“You didn’t even want to ask for it before you kissed me? You don’t even want to ask for it now?”

“Look. We both know what you came here for, what you puck bunnies are always looking for, and trust me, sweetheart. I am more than happy to give it,” Cassian offers, the way his eyes dance over her frame again nothing short of a leer. It stokes the anger flaring in Nesta’s veins higher, until it burns bright and hot.

“Wow,” Nesta scoffs, pushing up to her feet. “Fuck you.”

Nesta doesn’t even wait to hear whatever sputtering response he might give before she turns on her heel and stalks away from Cassian, pushing through bodies to put as much distance between them as she can. She’s never felt more stupid, can’t believe that she allowed Feyre to convince her that Cassian was some great guy, that the two of them would be some perfect match.

She can’t believe that she had started to believe her sister’s words, that that damned hope had started to bloom and put down roots in the gaps between her ribs.

Because of course. Of course, Cassian is just like every other guy, only thinking with the head between his legs without a single care for what happens once the sun rises. He’s exactly what Nesta expects from a professional athlete, cocky and sure of himself, expecting every girl to fall at his feet ready to worship him and suck his dick.

She finds Elain and Lucien in one of the other booths near the opposite side of windows. Elain has her legs draped across Lucien’s lap, giggling around the straw of her drink. Lucien seems to be smirking through whatever story he’s telling, his arm stretched across the back of the booth, fingers toying aimlessly with the soft brown curls of Elain’s hair.

“Can we go?” Nesta interrupts, looking between the two.

Elain blinks a few times, but then she starts nodding her head. “Of course. You’ve already had such a long day.”

Elain pushes up and to her feet, wobbling just slightly in her heels, but Lucien is there right behind her, his hands spanning across her waist to steady her. She smiles over her shoulder up at him before turning her attention to her purse, rooting around with a frown.

“Wait. Where are the keys?”

“I have them, my love,” Lucien answers, holding up the keys dangling from his fingers. He turns his attention to Nesta, offering her a wink. “Don’t worry. She’s not driving.”

Lucien slides his hand into Elain’s, leading all three of them through the party and back toward the elevators. Nesta keeps her head down as she follows behind her sister and brother-in-law, and she certainly doesn’t bother to look back. Besides, it’s not like anyone is watching her. She’s quite confident a certain hockey player has already found some other poor, unsuspecting girl to capture his attention.

And as they take the elevators all the way down to the parking garage and back to the car, she vows to herself that she’ll never think of Cassian Valdarez ever again.

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

#oh cassian you fucking idiot #this is the most delicious meet-ugly though #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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Wrong Delivery Part Two

hello and happy free day of @nestaarcheronweek !! It’s been such a blast organizing this and seeing all the amazing things everyone has created, and thank you so much to everyone who participated!!

without further ado… the long awaited part two of this fic from Nessian Week 2023. I hope you enjoy 🩵🩵🩵

Summary: Cassian returns Nesta’s package. Chaos and embarrassment ensue.

Word Count: 1.8k

✷✷✷✷✷

Cassian

When Nesta’s package had been accidentally delivered to his address instead of hers, Cassian could hardly believe his luck.

Nesta Archeron was easily the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen, and now he had a real excuse to talk to her for longer than fifteen seconds. He’d taken any and all excuses to talk to her over the eight months that he’d been living here, though their interactions had mostly been quick greetings that ended with her rolling her eyes at him.

Though in his book, that was definitely a win.

Cassian had been enjoying his Friday off — his favorite part about being able to set his own schedule as a personal trainer — when someone knocked at the door. Frowning as he got up, he made his way over and looked through the peephole to see a guy dressed in a UPS uniform walking away. He hadn’t been expecting any packages, but that didn’t stop him from opening the door to see a tiny black box waiting for him.

He bent down and picked it up before heading back inside, shutting the door behind him as he tried to remember the last thing he’d ordered. Maybe one of his friends had sent him something — Mor loved sending them all little gifts whenever she went on vacation — but she usually texted their group chat when she sent packages over. Maybe it was something for Azriel instead…?

Keep reading on AO3 here!

#this is hilarious omg #nestaweek2024

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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Everybody tryin' to get a ticket to go but Those who go they don't come back They goin' way down Hadestown Way down under the ground

#obsessed with this cast #Hadestown

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whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 days

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Semper Eadem (V, ao3)

Chapter five: As the pageant nears its end, there are fireworks all around as Nesta and Cassian find themselves on the same page at last.

(The final chapter of Elizabethan!Nessian is here and posted for @nestaarcheronweek free day, which is incredibly fitting as chapter one was posted for Nesta Week last year 🥹 thank you to all of you who have put up with my ridiculous Elizabethan ramblings over the past year, and rest assured this will absolutely not be my last historical AU ❤️)

(Chapter one // chapter two // chapter three // chapter four)

The sea was a cruel mistress indeed, Cassian thought as he dragged his fingers, idle, through his bath water— but not half so cruel as Nesta Archeron.

After the trumpets and the fanfares of the Queen’s hunt had subsided, she had left him at the castle gates with naught but a parting smile tossed over her shoulder— one that had cut clean through his heart like a silver-tipped arrow. Cassian was no stranger to feeling at sea, to feeling the waves tip the world beneath his feet, but nothing could have prepared him for this; for the way his bones seemed hollow whenever she was near. Indeed, there was no storm or tempest that the seas could boast that could have had the breath in his chest failing quite like it had as she rode away. No sea sickness compared to this— to the way that just one look from her had him so consumed that the rest of the world simply ceased to be.

And just as each ship’s captain must ultimately yield to the almighty power of the sea, so too would Cassian surrender everything he was to her— ready and willing to lay himself bare afore a force too great for any mortal man to withstand.

Love.

A wry smile tugged at his lips as he watched the water shift around him, because yes— he loved her.

It was no false declaration, no game of affection, that had him feeling this way. In his bones he knew that Nesta Archeron was the only woman in the world for him, and as he watched each current and small wave lick against the wooden sides of the bathtub that had been hauled to his chamber and set before the hearth, he recalled the words that had set his world on fire.

I suppose, then, that you can be forgiven for ignoring my letters.

He hadn’t realised how desperate he had been to hear her say them until they had left her mouth. Until he was left on his knees, mouth agape, watching her as she rode away. And now the flickering flames housed in the stone hearth reflected and danced in the depths of the small tub, and as the glow glanced off the warm and fragrant water, Cassian watched as the dust and dried mud were lifted from his skin, marvelling at how much had changed over the course of a few hours— and how much every inch of that freshly cleansed skin now yearned for her touch more than ever before.

That’s not how I imagined you asking me to undress, he had drawled, but the bravado had been so false that his chest had felt tight. Not that Nesta had seemed to notice, but God— he didn’t think it was dramatic of him to admit that he’d been thinking of her divesting him of his clothes for months now, and though his fingers had been steady on the laces when Nesta had demanded he remove his shirt, his heartbeat had trembled, quivering like the plucked string of a musicians lute.

And he hadn’t missed how those tempest-blue eyes of hers had widened, dragging over his chest and dipping lower. A blush had stolen across her cheeks, beautiful beneath the dappled sunlight, and he had known - known - that whatever it was she had begun to contemplate, it was a thought far from befitting one of the Queen’s ladies.

The thought brought an easy grin to his face, a lightness to his chest.

Deep in the woods, Nesta Archeron had been almost as undone as he.

He might have lost the race with Eris, but he had won something far greater, and he allowed the thought to bolster him as he reclined in the water, allowing the heat and memory both to soothe his aches as best they could. At his back, a linen sheet lined the tub and prevented the wooden surface from giving him splinters, and as the warmth bade his sore muscles relax, he thanked the Lord for small comforts. One of the maids had even scattered lavender in the bathwater, giving the whole chamber a delicate fragrance that reminded him of the heather that grew by the northern borders; the lands he might have once called home.

Not that he hadn’t grown accustomed to discomfort. Months on a ship had calloused his palms and blistered his knuckles, and he was all too used to the feel of coarse rope winding around his hands, burning as it slipped through his fingers.

It all felt rather inconsequential, now.

Lifting his hands from the water, he watched the rivulets trace a path across hands scarred and marked by months at sea, and he thought suddenly that he didn’t want those hands to feel only the hilt of a sword or the bite of a rope anymore.

He wanted to feel her.

Wanted nothing but her skin beneath his palms for the rest of his life.

Her fingers had trailed lightly across his ribs, and in that moment Cassian had known that he would do anything to feel that touch again. He could have sworn he had died and ascended straight to Heaven, and if that made him heathen then so be it. The only altar he wanted to worship at was hers, anyway.

I forgive you.

Her words drifted back to him once more, just as precious to him as every jewel in the Queen’s crown, and just as glittering, too. Cassian had done nothing but stare after her as she had left, trying to find even a scrap composure, and once he’d risen from the mud and followed her - because he’d follow her anywhere - they had rejoined the royal party, where Nesta slipped away back to the Queen’s side, like nothing had happened between them at all.

But still Cassian felt the ghost of her touch lingering on his chest, her fingers skimming his ribs.

And when they returned to the castle, Nesta had reached the gates and turned back, searching for him in the line of courtiers trailing behind the Queen. When she found him in the crowd, she had smiled.

He always stopped breathing when she smiled.

The memory of it was the only thing that stopped him sinking back down into his bath and letting the heat seep into his bruised bones. He couldn’t linger— Nesta would be waiting, and the prospect of being on the receiving end of one of her smiles - or, indeed, one of her scowls - had Cassian rising swiftly from his bath, leaving ribbons of lavender-scented water behind as he reached for a towel.

There was to be a grand banquet this evening. Fireworks, too. And if Cassian played his cards just right…

He smirked to himself as he eyed the doublet already laid out on his bed for the occasion. Crafted of a deep red velvet with blackwork embroidery at the edges, it was the most expensive thing he owned, the most courtly attire he could boast, and since he fully intended to get down on his knees for Nesta Archeron, he figured he ought to dress for the occasion.

He added a small ruff around his neck as he dressed, one that peeked only barely from the edge of his collar. The starched lace brushed lightly against the skin of his neck, and as he ran his fingers through his hair to tame it, he pulled gently at the pearl hanging from his earlobe. Even dressed in so much finery, Cassian rolled the pearl between his thumb and forefinger and couldn’t help but feel that something was missing.

His eyes landed on the ribbon lying on a table before the window, where he had left it before taking his bath.

Is that— my ribbon?

Nesta’s voice came back to him, and Cassian snorted at the memory before taking up the sky-blue ribbon and tying it around his wrist. It sat so smoothly against his skin, the blue satin shining against the dark skin marked by scars, proof of a life spent with a sword in hand. Softly, he brushed his finger along the length of that ribbon, and felt his heart swell behind his ribs.

It had never been just a ribbon.

Not to him.

His eyes shifted back to the table, catching on the box he’d set out beside Nesta’s ribbon. It was a small thing, wooden and lined with velvet to nestle the treasure inside. He didn’t need to open it to know— he’d already done so a thousand times, ever since he’d walked out of a jewellers in Portsmouth bearing it in his hands. What lay inside that box had cost him a small fortune, but it didn’t matter. Every gold mark that had ever crossed his palm was worthless to him now anyway. Months spent plundering the seas might have filled his coffers, but it wasn’t stolen coin that had made him rich.

He reached for the box now, dragging a thumb along the seam.

Flicking the lid open revealed a pendant of solid gold cushioned in the velvet, polished and shining like a beacon against the darkness of its wrappings. Crafted in the shape of a heart and studded with garnets that winked up at him as he traced a finger over the intricate pattern carved into its surface, the necklace was a thing of unparalleled beauty.

Well, Cassian thought as he paused to imagine the neck he planned to hang such a necklace around— the woman the jewel had belonged to ever since he’d bought it, even if he’d yet to gift it her. Almost unparalleled.

Suspended on a golden chain crafted of delicate links, a Tudor rose bloomed across the precious pendant, carved in fine lines and inlaid with crimson stone. An elegant scroll had been engraved at the bottom, surrounded by vines and golden leaves, and even though the inscription was in French - and Cassian had never been all that fluent in the language - even he had been able to decipher it.

Always yours.

Wasn’t that the fucking truth.

He had walked into that jewellers with nothing but a purse full of gold and bucketful of hope, not knowing what he was looking for. But he had seen that golden heart-shaped pendant and known.

Just like every last piece of him, it had seemed like it had been made for Nesta.

And as the sun beyond the window began to dim, Cassian dragged his thumb along the edge one more time, allowing himself to wonder how warm the gold might feel once pressed against Nesta’s skin. The thought was damn near enough to make his knees tremble, but before he could wax poetic about the beauty of the thing, a knock at the door had him snapping his head to the other side of his chamber.

A fist pounded, insistent and unimpressed, at the other side of the wooden door.

“Are you ready yet, Cass?”

Rhys’ voice was muffled by the thick oak of the door, but drifted through nonetheless. His brother sighed so loudly that even the solid inch of wood separating them did little to mask it.

“We’re already late, and the Queen will have me sent to the chopping block if we tarry any longer.”

With a grin, Cassian plucked the pendant from the box, wrapped it in velvet, and tucked it inside his doublet before closing the lid with a snap. He snorted as he crossed to the door, patting his chest to make sure the pendant was safely stowed before he pulled open the door and shouldered Rhys out of the way.

His brother’s fist had been raised to knock again, a look of abject irritation on his face, but it did little to smother the grin still plastered across Cassian’s mouth. They had agreed to meet in Rhys’ chambers and go down to the banquet together, but his brothers had, it seemed, grown tired of waiting. Cassian offered no apology as he stepped lithely into the stone hallway, but catching Rhys’ grimace, he gave the Queen’s councillor three irreverent pats on the cheek.

“And what a pretty sight it would be indeed,” he said brightly, “if your head were to end up on a spike. Decapitation would really bring out your eyes, don’t you agree?”

Rhys batted Cassian’s hand away with a muttered curse and a roll of those eyes, and leaning against the wall, Azriel snorted.

The Queen’s spy stood with one booted foot crossed over the other, his arms folded over his chest, with a dark half-cape slung over one shoulder. Where Cassian wore a pearl earring, Azriel sported a simple hoop of hammered silver, and there was a wry smile on his face as he pushed away from the wall.

“You took almost as long as Rhys to dress,” he drawled, “and that’s saying something.”

The councillor cut them both a dark look, brows dropped low over eyes so blue they were almost violet. Rhys said nothing, but he straightened his cuffs and smoothed a hand over his doublet as he walked away. Like Azriel, Rhys wore black— the colour so deep it was tantamount to his near-inexhaustible wealth. His golden collar of state was draped across his shoulders too, the only thing breaking up the black, and Cassian eyed it as Rhys led the way to the great hall, the gold glinting beneath the candles lighting the way.

He threw a grin to Azriel. “Well, I know who I’m trying to impress,” he said slyly, raking his gaze over Rhys’ immaculate state of dress. “What of you, brother?”

Azriel snorted once more before looking pointedly to Cassian and raising a brow. Mischief glimmered in his hazel eyes as he said, “Lady Nesta’s sister has arrived for the banquet.”

“Oh?”

“Her youngest sister.”

Cassian wanted to throw back his head and laugh. “Has she now?”

The very girl who Rhysand’s father - bastard that he was - had an eye on for his son. Rhys scowled over his shoulder, undeterred by the chuckle Azriel let out under his breath, and pulling away from the elbow Cassian aimed at Rhys’ ribs.

“Are you trying to win an Archeron of your own, brother?”

Rhys blinked flatly, flicking his gaze to the ceiling in sufferance as they walked. “Hardly winning, if it’s arranged.”

Cassian shrugged, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Think of it— we’ll be brothers by marriage.”

Rhys ducked beneath Cassian’s arm and brushed a hand over his shoulder, as if to remove invisible dust.

“Lord forgive me, if she’s anything like her sister,” he muttered, lips twisting into a grimace, “then I’ll be on the next ship to Calais.”

Azriel took a step that brought him into line with his brothers, clapping Rhys firmly on the shoulder. Cassian grinned, and one hand drifted absently to his chest, where the jewel he had bought remained safe beneath his doublet. His fingers felt it beneath the velvet, and his heart seemed to soar. He shot Rhys a wink.

“Calais wouldn’t have you, you insufferable bastard. Besides, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

Rhys sighed heavily, pinching his brow as though he had suddenly developed a fierce headache. “And what have I done to earn such teasing? I did as you asked, did I not? I distracted the queen at the hunt.”

Cassian sobered a little, a soft smile crossing his face. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Azriel dipped his head in acknowledgement of his gratitude, but Rhys only rolled his eyes.

“I beg you be careful, Cass. Elizabeth doesn’t look kindly on illicit affairs amongst her ladies.”

“Worry not,” Cassian answered breezily, waving a hand as his boots echoed on the flagged stone floor. Ahead, the doors of the great hall loomed, and the sounds of celebration already filtered out and echoed along the hall. Every step brought him closer to Nesta - to his Nesta - and there was no warning in the world Rhys could give that would dampen the joy taking root within his heart. He felt an easy smile spread across his lips as he inclined his head to his brother and said, “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

***

Nesta could have sworn the hall fell silent when he entered.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Distantly, she knew the musicians kept playing. Knew that a hundred different voices still continued to speak, drifting up towards the rafters. But there had been some kind of pull she didn’t understand when Cassian had entered, and she had simply stopped hearing all the rest. The world had faded, like nothing mattered more than the privateer who strolled towards the queen on her dais, Lords Rhysand and Azriel by his side.

Suddenly, the simple act of breathing felt like a labour.

“Is that him?” Feyre whispered beside her. “The one you spoke of?”

Nesta did not turn to look at her sister. From her place standing four paces away from the Queen, she kept her attention fixed on the hall ahead, and the three men who had entered as one.

“I don’t remember that I spoke of anybody, sister.”

Feyre rolled her eyes.

Her youngest sister had been waiting when the royal party returned from the hunt, in a chamber with their father. After bowing deeply to the Queen and hearing Lord Archeron beg the queen’s forgiveness for arriving so lately to the pageant, Nesta had departed to her chambers with Feyre in tow, leaving their father to skulk away into the shadows, already seeking, no doubt, a round of lords to share in a game of cards.

But if Nesta had hoped that she might pass off the hunt as entirely menial, she had been a fool. Her sister never seemed to miss anything, her eye too sharp not to notice the way Nesta seemed… distracted following the day’s sport.

There were whispers, you know, Feyre had said idly, toying with the ends of her loose hair. They reached us even in Kent. I heard that there was a sailor a few months back that caught your eye.

Nesta had looked at her sister without so much as a furrow in her brow. You know how the court gossips. Such rumours all turn out to be baseless in the end, do they not?

And yet you haven’t denied it, Feyre pointed out with a smile curving her lips. Nesta had shook her head, and set to deciding on which dress she would wear for the banquet.

And what of you, little sister? Nesta had asked instead. I thought you would be wed to Tamlin by now. Or did Father find him wanting?

Feyre had snorted, the sound so startlingly unbecoming for a noblewoman that Nesta raised a brow. But then— Feyre had spent her youth in the country, raised so far from London. She had spent so little time at court that Nesta often forgot how different their worlds were, how much more freedom Feyre had been afforded, especially with their mother gone. She had been set to marry an earl from the Devonshire coast, and for a time she had seemed happy, his lands so full of greenery and bucolic beauty that it had seemed a perfect match. Nesta wondered what had changed.

Both Father and I found him wanting, Feyre shrugged. She settled herself on Nesta’s bed, leaning back against her hands. When Father decided you would best matched with the Duke of Northumberland, he realised that there would be a… space available at Lord Rhysand’s side.

Nesta really did scowl, then. I can imagine nothing worse than having to suffer such a man as my brother-in-law.

Feyre’s head tilted. Is he truly so terrible?

Before Nesta had been able to answer, they had been interrupted by a sharp knock on the door— one that called Nesta to the Queen’s side and reminded her of her duties in readying Elizabeth for the night’s banquet. Nesta had shaken her head and departed, leaving Feyre with the promise to speak to her later, and now her sister stood by her side, watching as Cassian entered the great hall, Azriel and Rhysand with him.

“Even so,” Feyre whispered. “Is that him?”

“I should think you would keep your attention on the man you may end up marrying,” Nesta hissed.

Feyre hummed a little, straightening her shoulders. “Yours looks like a rogue.”

“He is not mine,” she retorted, her words slipping through lips pressed tight together to mask the movement. Yet even as she spoke, she recognised the words for what they were. Falsehoods, bald-faced falsehoods uttered with all the skill of a courtier and yet still ringing hollow.

Feyre remained unconvinced. Nesta felt her sister’s sidelong gaze, and heard the whisper of a chuckle that left her lips. “So it is him.”

“You and I both know Father has his eye on Northumberland for me.”

“And you and I both know, too, sister, that if you had a mind to reject the match, you could do so far more easily than any other woman I know.” Her eyes darted to Elizabeth. “After all, one word to the Queen and she would close down all discussion of the union.”

Nesta pursed her lips, but her retort was banished as the trio of men approached the dais at last, all eyes fixed upon the Queen. The whispers ceased, and Nesta pretended not to notice how Cassian’s eyes strayed to her, taking her in from top to bottom, smirking with all the grace of a man who knew intimately the shape and feel of every one of his desires. It made her dress feel tight, and as she dragged her eyes away from the privateer, she pretended, too, not to take obvious note of the way Rhysand’s eyes flicked once to Feyre, widening with something that seemed to be surprise as Feyre met his gaze and stared him right back, studying him the way he studied her. Her sister’s eyes sparked beneath the candlelight, and Nesta felt herself groan inward as she realised that the look on Rhysand’s face had been pleasant surprise.

Elizabeth clapped her hands, snapping them all back to the present as Rhysand and his companions each sank to one knee, dipping into the lowest of bows.

“Your Majesty,” Rhysand said smoothly, his voice dancing across the candle-warmed stone. The Queen hummed brightly, and though Nesta tried to focus - honestly tried, futile as it was - she could not now force her eyes away from Cassian, with his head bowed and his hair hanging in loose curls to his shoulders, grazing the edge of his fine doublet.

At her side, Feyre tried and failed to mask the clearing of her throat. A sidelong glance revealed Feyre standing in her navy gown, five years out of fashion, tracking the path of the golden state collar across Rhysand’s shoulders. It had been a surprise to say the least to hear that their father had abandoned the betrothal to Tamlin and instead had an eye on Rhysand for his youngest daughter, and Nesta wasn’t entirely certain that the match was one she approved of. But the councillor, she noticed, glanced once more at Feyre, in a gesture so subtle she almost missed it. Though he remained steadfast beneath Elizabeth’s attention, those cold eyes that had so often glared at her from across the Queen’s chamber had somehow warmed a fraction in the presence of her sister.

“Good of you to join us, Rhysand,” Elizabeth drawled. The lord cringed. “The rest of my council arrived almost an hour ago.”

“Apologies, your majesty.” Rhysand cut a glare to his right, to where Cassian remained with his head bent. “I was delayed by my brothers.”

At his left, Azriel cleared his throat in protest.

Nesta fought a smile, and even the Queen seemed somewhat placated, her own lips curving in good humour as she reclined in her seat, arms braced on either side of her. Her diamonds glittered, her eyes sharp and piercing.

“And tell me,” she asked airily, dropping her eyes to Cassian, still on a knee. Indulgently, she tsked. “How fares my wayward bat? One hopes that it was not a longing for the sea that slowed you this evening.”

The privateer lifted his head at last, golden skin gleaming in the warm light. His eyes danced, as beautiful as a forest lake beneath an autumn sun. “Not at all, your majesty,” he said cheerfully, his voice reverberating, echoing in Nesta’s chest. “Your court has made me a happier man than I have been in a long time. I find I do not miss the seas at all.”

Elizabeth tittered, brushing a hand over her voluminous skirts. The praise had a smile crossing her thin lips. “I am glad to hear it,” she hummed. “Perhaps, then, you will tarry a while before next setting sail. After all, it would not do to rob us of so charming smile again so soon.”

Cassian grinned wider, giving the monarch a small nod. “As the Queen commands,” he said grandly, fisting a hand over his heart.

His eyes flicked to the side, landed on Nesta. He bowed his head once more, leaving her to wonder whether the queen he had spoken of was their blessed and anointed sovereign or… well, her. Indeed, from beneath his eyelashes, he looked up at her and tightened that fist pressed against his chest, as if he were swearing fealty to her from his place on his knees.

Elizabeth seemed not to notice Cassian’s distraction as he prostrated himself before her, merely clicking her tongue against her teeth in a sound of approval. Lifting her sharp eyes to the hall behind them, she waved a hand in dismissal. Others waited for the Queen’s ear, more courtiers gathering in droves as the hall began to fill.

“Go, sirs,” Elizabeth said airily, flicking her fingers towards the trestle tables lining the walls. “Enjoy the festivities.”

Nesta watched as her privateer rose smoothly to his feet. She watched as he backed away, watched as he took a seat at one of the long tables, slipping in amongst the nobility gathered beneath the hammer-beam roof. Watched, as he lifted his chin and sought her gaze.

She swore the air between them went taut, like a line stretched between them.

The air smelled like sugar, the sweetness like a fine cloak over the entire hall. The tables were laden with sweet dishes, candied fruit and gingerbread with sweetened cream. Sculptures made of sugar spoke to staggering wealth, and a grand version of Kenilworth itself had been constructed and wrought of sweets. But Nesta did not wish to taste any of it on her tongue— had no interest in the cakes drizzled with honey or the silver platters of fine desserts. The hippocras was sweet on her tongue when she sipped from her cup, but it wasn’t what she wanted to taste tonight.

She wanted so much more— wanted all the things she knew she could never ask for.

She wanted to taste his lips, wanted to feel the heat of his hand in hers. It was a touch that would have her condemned, a thought that would see her dismissed from the Queen’s service and left to bear the scandal, and yet still...

Nesta wanted.

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip, and as their eyes connected across the room, the tightness in her chest grew, constricting until she found it hard to breathe. Edged by candlelight, his skin was golden and his hazel eyes were like embers, dragging heat along her skin as they roamed. She swore her heart lurched, and though she had never been one for sentiment, something in her chest had turned molten, and she allowed herself now - at long last - to admit that, God, she had been wanting him all along.

She dropped her eyes, thinking back to how she had been so incensed when he strolled in that first night of the pageant— how she had been so angry that he had sailed with the tide and left her behind— cast her off and made a fool of her.

She knew better now.

Lifting her eyes back to his, Nesta watched as Cassian took a drink that Azriel offered. Without even blinking, Cassian looked to her and winked, lifting his goblet in something caught halfway between a toast and a salute.

Beside her, Feyre murmured slyly, “I like him.”

***

The night was dark, and in the heavens above colours burst into life amongst the stars, flaming red and green and white.

Tudor colours for a Tudor queen; a livery in fireworks.

The cost must have been astronomical, but Nesta rather thought that nobody at all cared much how much the fireworks had cost the Earl of Leicester to import from the far east. All they cared was that the wine was flowing, the musicians continued to play, and as the night turned balmy, sparks ignited in the dark and bloomed against the light of the moon.

The entire court had been ushered out into the grounds after the banquet, left to gather before Kenilworth’s red-brick walls. Courtiers lounged now on the rolling lawns stretching before the castle walls, or stood by the lakeside, grouped on the banks. The Queen had commanded a spot on the bridge Leicester had constructed over the said lake— a grand thing, six-hundred feet long with carven pillars along the length, and beneath her in the water the fireworks were reflected, seeming to come from the depths themselves, as if Poisedon had commanded them. As above, so below they ignited.

Elizabeth stood a mere half step from Nesta, her face angled up to the sky. The colours flaring to life against the stars were reflected in the queen’s diamonds, the stones around her neck suddenly aflame with red sparks as they lit up the night above. Nesta was fascinated— entranced.

Fireworks.

A marvel from so far away, brought to light up the heavens.

Another firework exploded above them, and suddenly Nesta could think only of all the wonders the world might hold, wonders she would never see. Wonders Cassian had seen. The privateer was standing behind her, next to Lord Rhysand, and when she looked briefly over her shoulder, she saw his eyes drop from the skies and fix instead on her, like she was a wonder to him far greater than the artistry of the night sky.

He winked at her, and Nesta could only hope that the darkness masked her blush as she faced forwards once more.

The very air itself seemed alive with joy— with an excitement that seemed to shiver. She felt the promise of the night in her veins, and wondered where exactly it would take her before the sun rose at its end.

Her thoughts were broken by the brush of a hand against her wrist, warm and soft and hidden by the dark. Her eyes flicked to the side, even though she knew who she would find filling the space beside her. Cassian had crept upon her silently, finding the gap in the Queen’s ladies and slipping between them. His fingers had glided along the bare skin of her wrist, and Nesta had known his touch as innately as if it were her own.

Silently, she raised a brow.

Cassian inclined his head to the side. As the fireworks continued to bloom above, Elizabeth’s court began slowly to disperse through the grounds, disseminating into the darkness. It was easy to slip away under cover of night, easy to be overlooked when eyes were turned skyward, and as the Queen’s party on the bridge began to thin and musicians struck up from somewhere by the lakeside, Nesta turned her wrist, letting Cassian’s thumb brush against the base of her hand. A soft smile curved her lips as she stepped into him, her back brushing the hard lines of his chest.

“Walk with me,” he whispered, just like he had a few nights ago after his return.

This time, Nesta did not hesitate before saying yes.

***

There was something in the air, that night.

Nesta had walked the paths of Kenilworth’s gardens before, but something seemed different, now. Something had shifted, like the earth beneath her feet had righted itself after years of being an inch off-centre, and perhaps it was all in her head— perhaps the only thing that had changed was her, now that the thing she had been running from was no longer buried so deep within her chest. But as the skies were illuminated above, she didn’t think so. The world was more marvellous, more beautiful now, when she saw it with Cassian at her side.

The privateer meandered along the gravel paths with her, hands clasped behind his back, and every line of him was at ease, comfortable and content. When he walked, he was so close that his arm brushed against hers; a whisper of velvet that made her foolish heart skip.

She wanted more of him— didn’t think she would ever stop wanting more of him.

“Tell me,” she said as she looped her arm through his, drawing closer to his side. Even through the thick velvet of her dress sleeves, she could feel his warmth. “Tell me what it is like at sea.”

She was still thinking of the fireworks; of the wonders the world could boast.

Cassian threw his head back, inhaling the night air. Nesta watched, entranced, as the moonlight glanced off his jaw and coasted down the column of his throat. The pearl in his ear gleamed a white so bright it seemed to shine, the opalescent sheen seeming to glow against the darkness of his curling hair. He glanced down at her, eyes bright. For a long time he was silent, seemingly content to look at her the way she looked at him— as if he were committing every plane of her face to memory.

“Freedom,” he said at last.

When their eyes connected this time, Nesta swore there were fireworks of their own in the air between them. She could feel something bursting, sparks in her chest. Her lips parted when he smiled, her breath stolen by the sheer beauty of his grin, the lovely way his eyes lit up.

“It’s freedom.” He pulled her forward, and with one hand pointed at the sky, at the horizon that was too dark to see. “When the sun breaks over the waves, when dawn stains the sky pink and purple…” He breathed again, eyes distant, as though he could see it. He shook his head and turned to face her, dropping the arm that was looped through hers and taking up her hand instead. For a moment he was silent, studying her face. “It’s beautiful.”

One hand held her own, his callouses sliding against her skin. And then slowly, his other hand lifted to brush against her jaw, his fingertips moving to map the curve of her face.

“But there are other things of beauty in this world,” he murmured, his gaze dipping to her mouth. Nesta canted her head to the side, letting his fingers wander still across her cheek, her jaw, grazing her neck as the tip of his thumb brushed the corner of her lips. Beneath her stays, her heart pounded.

“It is true that I love the sea,” he continued when Nesta did not speak, rendered silent by the brush of his fingers across her fevered skin. His voice dipped, a quiet purr intended for her ears alone. “But coming home has its pleasures, too.”

“Greater pleasures, I hope?” Nesta dared ask, the movement of her lips almost letting her mouth kiss his fingers.

A smirk pulled at his mouth, his hazel eyes darkening in the moonlight. He lowered his chin, leaned closer.

“Far greater.”

His hand fell to her neck, his palm splayed across her pulse. The heel of his palm rested on her collarbone, and beneath his touch her blood pulsed and pounded with reckless abandon. If he noted how it fluttered, how her heart raced, he said nothing. Instead his thumb swept across the column of her neck in a broad, languorous stroke. Despite the wine she had taken her fill of, Nesta’s mouth suddenly felt dry. Cassian leaned closer, the press of his hips shifting her skirts, and Nesta felt herself pitching towards him, like she were the ship and he were her anchor, the only solid thing for a thousand miles.

He smelled like leather and sea salt, with just the barest hint of something soft— like lavender. Nesta breathed it in, let it wash over her as she felt one of his hands move to her waist.

God, he was as intoxicating as the queen’s strongest wine.

All too soon, laughter echoed from somewhere far away. With a start Nesta jolted back, pulling from his easy grip and setting a distance between them that made something inside her splinter. Her eyes fell to the gravel beneath their feet, silvered by the moon.

“My father still wants me to marry Northumberland,” she said, if only because somebody had to.

Cassian shrugged, irreverently. “Oh, come now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “You’d hate it so far north.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “And yet you are from the north— your father’s lands are on the Scottish marches, are they not?”

“They are,” he shrugged, not allowing his air of irreverence to falter, even as his eyes hardened a little at the mention of the man who had fathered him. “That’s exactly how I know you’d hate it.”

Nesta shook her head, but found that somehow the space between them had vanished once more, like the both of them had been drawn to the other. He was close enough now that he when he dropped his head, his brow almost brushed hers. Nesta swallowed, daring to reach out and trace the laces of his doublet with the tip of her finger. She could have sworn he shivered.

“Nesta,” he breathed, his voice as rough as the gravel they stood upon. He seemed to steel himself, eyes dropping once more to her lips. Above them, more fireworks bloomed in the sky but this time, Nesta could not drag her eyes away from the man before her. Once again his fingers sought her skin, both palms rising until he held her face cradled in his hands.

“Marry me instead.”

Nesta Archeron blinked.

The emerald-green and ruby-red of the fireworks were reflected in Cassian’s hazel eyes, sparking as she blinked once more, more fervently this time. She pulled her head back an inch, just enough for his hands to drop. Her head began to spin, and Cassian did not retract his touch but left it lingering at her jaw, his fingers curling beneath her chin. Smoothly he urged her face up, brought her eyes to his.

“Have you lost your wits?” she asked, half afraid she wouldn’t hear his answer over the pounding of her own heart. But her voice didn’t come out as sharp as she intended, nor as incredulous.

Cassian only shrugged. “I have money enough,” he said. “Lots of it.”

Stunned, Nesta searched for something to say and came up empty. Cassian brushed his thumb along her jaw once more, as if to remind himself that he could, that she hadn’t drawn away.

“I’m sure I can get the Queen to give me an earldom, at least.”

At that, Nesta laughed. “No, you really have lost your wits.”

“One of my oldest friends is a member of her privy council,” he countered easily, as if they were discussing the weather. “Another is part of her extensive intelligence network. I rather think they can pull some strings.”

“Then you don’t know our queen at all, if you think the words of some men could sway her,” Nesta scoffed, taking a step back, outside his reach. “Lord Rhysand has been trying to settle a match between her and the Duke of Alençon for months and she isn’t prepared to listen. What makes you so different?”

“Ah,” Cassian grinned, stepping back into her space until the distance between them was nothing once again. “Because if I am the one to marry you, she gets to keep you too.”

Nesta frowned.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it sweetheart?” he said, his voice a fevered whisper accompanied by glinting eyes and a self-assured smirk. “If you marry Eris… well, you’d have to move to Northumberland wouldn’t you, and that’s so frightfully far away. I don’t think our darling queen would be happy at having to lose you.”

She could hardly hear over the pounding of her heart, the way it fluttered in her chest like a sparrow’s wings.

“My father might have lands in the north,” Cassian continued when Nesta said nothing, too bewildered to speak, “but it isn’t as though I will be the one to inherit them, bastard as I am.” He shrugged, like his illegitimacy was nothing to him anymore. “I have enough set aside to buy a house in London. I hear the queen favours Greenwich— I am certain we can find a nice little manor to make our own near there. You need not leave her service.”

“It’s true enough that she doesn’t take well to losing her ladies when they wed,” Nesta said slowly, a breathless kind of feeling blooming within her, one that felt dizzying in its exuberance. And then, pointedly, she added, “She stabbed one through the hand once, when she married without permission.”

“We wouldn’t do it without permission though, would we?” Cassian took her hand, lifted it to his lips. “Think on it, at least. This whole event is put on in honour of the queen— she’s in a good mood. I think Leicester half hopes she’s going to propose to him by the end.”

Nesta hardly dared breathe.

It was madness.

Madness.

Her father would be furious, and every man the length of England would hear of the scandal. But it wasn’t enough to stop her longing to accept, to let Cassian sweep her into his arms and take her to the church right now to make her his.

Before she could speak, Cassian lifted a hand to his doublet. From inside, he pulled out a small parcel wrapped in black velvet. With the moon high in the sky overhead, and the stars joined by the fireworks bathing Kenilworth in red and green, Cassian held out the parcel with a steady hand. Only when Nesta took it, only when he lifted his fingers to tuck back behind his ear a strand of hair that had escaped his tie, did she think she see him tremble.

Unfolding the velvet revealed a heart of solid gold. It shone burnished even in the low light, and the pendant was heavy in her palm. Inlaid with garnets, there was a flowering rose studded with gems and beneath, carved in an elegant scroll, the inscription read, in French, ‘always yours’.

Nesta swallowed, tracing a thumb over the smooth surface of the shining garnet. “The Queen will have your head,” she whispered.

Cassian scoffed. “You heard her. She likes my smile too much.” When Nesta raised an eyebrow, the privateer’s smile turned lupine. “Oh, she might throw me in the Tower for a month or too, but nothing too serious.”

Nesta shook her head, but as she watched Cassian’s smile turned soft, his eyes growing earnest as he took her hand, closing her fingers over the pendant he’d given her.

“I bought it from a goldsmith as soon as we reached land,” he said, his voice sober. “My French was never as good as Rhys’, but I know enough to translate. I saw that pendant and felt the truth of those words in my bones, because I have been so many things in my life, sweetheart - bastard, nobleman, pirate, privateer - but above all else I have been yours from the moment I met you. I signed my heart over to you that very first day, and I don’t want it back.”

His fingers squeezed hers, tight around the golden heart.

“Marry me,” he said again, his tone carrying a shade of desperation. “Marry me, because I have and always will be entirely yours. There shall never be another for me, sweetheart. It has always been you, and you alone.”

Somehow Nesta found the strength to glance up, into the face that was lined with honesty. His eyes bored into hers, his lips parted with his confession. God, she couldn’t say no to him. Didn’t want to say no to him.

“The Queen…” she began again, but her protest was weak now, and Cassian waved it away with a hand.

“She likes me much more than she likes Eris,” he said. “And I’m sure that if I get down on my knees and beg her to see how desperately I love you, she’ll understand.”

Nesta’s hand fluttered to her chest, where she could feel her heart beating. She knew her limits as well as any woman, and already felt her knees beginning to tremble. She was seconds from falling into his arms, mere moments from demanding that he tell her again exactly how much he loved her.

But she didn’t get chance. Before she could open her mouth, Cassian extended his arm and pushed back the sleeve of his doublet. There, tied against his skin, was her ribbon. The one she had given Eris at the joust. With deft fingers Cassian untied it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and lifting it between them until it was level with Nesta’s eyes.

“I want to be the one wearing your favour for the rest of my life,” he said, in a voice that was solid and steady. “Every joust, every tourney, every dance.”

“I still can’t believe you found it,” she muttered.

Cassian raised a brow as he tucked the ribbon inside his doublet. “Well, I wasn’t going to let Eris leave something so precious lying on the tiltyard floor now, was I?”

“Precious?” Nesta asked flatly. “It’s a ribbon.”

“Your ribbon,” he countered. “Precious.”

“To who, exactly?”

“To me,” he answered simply.

More fireworks burst into beautiful colour above, but for once Nesta did not turn her face to the sky. She felt the ghost of Cassian’s touch lingering on her skin, and as his hands drifted to her hips, his face was brought so close to hers that it would take only the barest movements for their lips to touch. And oh, Nesta wanted their lips to touch. She had never craved a kiss as much as this, had never wanted to feel the warmth and heat of another as much as she did now. Cassian dipped his head, his nose grazing her cheek.

“Nesta,” he whispered, like her name was a prayer to him.

Her hands travelled along his doublet, smoothing over the hard muscle of his chest. She curled her fingers over his shoulders, rising to her tiptoes to bring them closer. He groaned against her, his hands falling to her waist. It burned— his touch burned.

“If I said yes,” she murmured, her eyes falling to his lips, “would you kiss me, sir?”

“If you said yes,” he answered, a hitch in his voice, “I would kiss you until the stars dropped to the earth.”

His hands tightened on her waist, his grip one that Nesta didn’t ever wish to be free of.

“And then?”

Cassian let out a rough laugh, even as his head fell to hers, his lips grazing the corner of her mouth when he spoke.

“Then I would go to the Queen this very night, fall to my knees and beg her to let me have you. I would move Heaven and Earth and not rest until she gave her assent.”

Nesta fought a smile, winding her arms around his neck. Against her cheek, his own lips curved into a smile that he didn’t fight at all.

“And then I would kiss you again— and again, and again, until there is no breath left in me.”

Heat bloomed deep inside her, the blush on her cheeks flaming.

“What a pretty picture it is that you paint,” she breathed.

“A pretty reality, sweetheart.” Cassian straightened, looking down into her eyes with an intensity that almost made Nesta weak. “Say yes to me, and I will lay the entire world at your feet.”

“And if I don’t want the world?”

“Then what else would you have of me?”

Nesta shrugged. “I would have you— just you.”

His smile was wolfish, hungry. Suddenly his arms were around her fully, sweeping her to his chest. He lowered his face to hers once more, his lips hovering maddeningly above her own. So close— so close. When he spoke, his breath drifted across her lips.

“I already told you, love,” he murmured. “You have me. Wholeheartedly, you have me.”

Gently, Nesta lifted a hand and pressed it against his cheek. The privateer closed his eyes, like her touch was the only thing that could undo him. Her heart swelled, and on her tongue she felt the words begging to be spoken— and one word that mattered more than all the rest.

“Then how could my answer be anything but yes?”

He stilled. “Truly?”

Silent, she nodded.

And before she could blink, his lips were on hers. Slowly at first, gentle and explorative, like he wished to trace every inch of her and familiarise himself with it. And then it turned fevered, his hands grasping at her waist as her fingers curled against his neck. With a palm flat against her spine Cassian drew her closer.

Nesta knew, distantly, that if they were discovered everything she had would be ruined. If she were caught kissing a privateer in the gardens, whatever reputation she had would be so utterly destroyed there would be no coming back. And yet as Cassian’s lips danced with hers, she no longer cared.

Let them find her.

Let them see.

Let them know that the only man she wanted to meet at the altar was this one, the only ring she wanted to bear on her finger his.

Her lips parted, a gasp leaving her as his hands travelled south. Her skirts felt heavy, the fabric between them too much, and she was cognisant of nothing but his lips as he backed her against a nearby tree, bracing his hands on the bark as one leg slipped between hers. Nesta felt herself unravel. Her bodice felt too tight, the air too thin. Her hands travelled across the broad stretch of Cassian’s shoulders, clinging to him as the skies above them continued to burst with colour.

“How shall you have me, wife?” Cassian asked, nipping at her lips as Nesta shivered in his arms. “On my knees?”

Her heart stuttered.

Wife.

Still, she forced herself to arch a brow, even as his hand moved to her thigh, palming the fabric of her dress.

“Is there any other place a husband should desire to be, when before his wife?”

Cassian grinned at her. He leaned close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his hips pressed against hers. “No,” he breathed, grazing his teeth along her jaw. “No, there isn’t.”

She tipped her head back, watching the fireworks illuminate the sky. Cassian’s hands travelled along her thigh, above the fabric of her dress. He had called her wife, and she had called him husband, and even though there had been no vows exchanged or no priest to bless the union, she knew that the match was all but sealed. If he went any further, if his hands strayed beneath her dress…

Shaking her head, Nesta placed a hand on top of Cassian’s own, stopping his touch from roaming any further.

“Perhaps some things should be saved for our wedding night,” she whispered.

He blinked, squeezing her thigh once. Desire clouded his eyes, hunger written all over his face. As Nesta watched, he reined it in. With effort, he took back his hand, pressing a single chaste kiss to her cheek before drawing back.

“Then let me away to the Queen immediately,” he said, his voice glimmering with laughter. “I’ll beg her to let me marry you tomorrow.”

She batted at his shoulder. “Rogue.”

He grinned, catching her fingers and bringing them to his lips. “A rogue you have agreed to bind yourself to forever, sweetheart.”

He pulled away, but extended a hand to bring her with him. Nesta took it, feeling her fingers slip between his as the warmth in her chest settled. The heat did not vanish, but rather turned into something else, something far more tender, that warmed her bones. Cassian led her back through the gardens, towards the celebrations.

“Come,” he said, bringing her to his side and winding his arm through hers. “I must tell the Queen how you stole my heart like an expert thief.”

“If anyone is the thief, sir, I rather think it would be you,” Nesta countered tartly.

He laughed, and the sound had her already anticipating the moment he slipped a ring on her finger. He paused, turning and pulling her to his chest, his head dipping for one more kiss.

“Then deem me guilty,” he murmured, smiling as he lowered his mouth. “And condemn me to a life at your side, for you will find no happier convict.”

Nesta hummed and did not answer, winding her arms around his neck.

And as the fireworks overhead continued to set fire to the night, Cassian kissed her again, tender and soft and filled with a lifetime of promise. The privateer murmured her name against her lips, whispered his love against her as he held her to his chest, and Nesta felt herself secure in his arms, more cherished than she had ever been before.

“You’re certain?” he whispered, dragging his lips to her cheek.

Nesta smiled softly, delving her fingers into his hair. His hands held her steady, fingers splayed at the small of her back, and as she looked into his eyes she knew with unfailing certainty that there would never have been another for her— no man to compare to this one, with all his rakish charm and rugged beauty.

“I’m certain,” she whispered. “Marry me, sir.”

Cassian grinned, his eyes sparking as he lowered his lips to her jaw. His voice was a rasp against her skin when he spoke, a heated whisper. His hands fisted the fabric of her dress as he kissed his way to the corner of her mouth, still smiling against her as he said, with no hint of irony or care for consequence…

“As my queen commands.”

Taglist: @asnowfern @podemechamardek @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @starryblueskies7 @melphss @sv0430 @that-little-red-head @misswonderflower @fwiggle @tanishab @xstarlightsupremex @burningsnowleopard @hiimheresworld @wannawriteyouabook @hereforthenessian @kale-theteaqueen @moodymelanist @talkfantasytome @andrigyn @beansidhebumbling

#nessian #as per there is a very lengthy historical note on ao3 so if historical detail is your thing then do check that out #this one includes tidbits on the real entertainments at the pageant and the food served at the banquet #and also the inspiration behind the pendant #which is *real* and gorgeous and you should absolutely check the authors note where there is a link to an article with pictures of it #nestaweek2024

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