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justhereforacotar · 20 days

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Begged & Borrowed Time (xxix, ao3)

(Chapter twenty-nine: it's the reunion we've all been waiting for, but with Cassian as desperate for Nesta as he's ever been, and Nesta not quite convinced he'll feel the same about her post-Cauldron, it might not be as smooth as Cassian hopes.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

“Nesta.”

Her name fell from his lips like shards of glass, broken and cracked.

In its wake he forgot the pain in his wings, brushed it aside as the roaring in his bones dulled to nothing but a distant, feeble whisper. Still too weak to stand, Cassian gripped the doorframe so tightly that his knuckles barked and his hand began to hurt but…

Nesta.

Nesta stood there, lingering on the other side of the room, in the doorway that connected her room to what Cassian presumed was Elain’s. The wooden frame groaned beneath his fingertips as she stilled— so completely, so preternaturally, that the air between them seemed to tighten. To sharpen.

The world seemed to tilt, lurching and staggering— or perhaps that was just Cassian, and the way it felt like he was balanced on the precipice of some great cliff, with the rocks beginning to crumble beneath his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps, sawing from his throat, and only with effort did he force himself to straighten. To take a breath as his eyes alighted on the woman he loved for the first time in days.

The moment stretched, indeterminate, as Cassian raked his gaze over every damn inch of her.

Mother save him and Cauldron boil him.

She had always been the most beautiful thing in the world to him, but now…

Cassian didn’t have words.

Language wasn’t enough to do her justice as those familiar eyes pinned him in place. Something flickered in his chest, a distant kind of heat as he looked on her for the first time since Hybern. Her hair was tied in a plait that hung straight down her back, far less formal than the coronet he had grown so used to, and he longed so desperately to plunge his fingers into the braid, to feel its strands slipping through his fingers as he held her mouth against his own. Her skin was smooth, glowing like the pale face of the moon, and where she had been elegant and graceful before, she was devastatingly so now.

She could ruin him— lay waste to everything that he was and ever had been, and he would probably fucking thank her for it.

But beneath all of that statuesque beauty was a tightness that lined her face and sharpened her jaw, and an emptiness in her eyes that gave him pause. When she stilled like a deer caught in a trap, Cassian banked every ember that had begun to stir inside his veins.

A note of caution flickered along the bond, a warning bell beginning to ring.

From across the room, he caught her eye.

He had looked into those eyes enough to know them like the back of his own hand— to recognise anywhere that perfect shade of grey-blue, like storm clouds gathering over the open ocean. And when Cassian looked into her eyes now, he saw the glimmer of something else there too, a thin ribbon of silver skirting her irises. It shone just beneath the blue, and gods— when he looked into her eyes, it felt like falling.

But then— hadn’t he always been falling for Nesta fucking Archeron?

It’s her eyes, Cass.

Rhys’ words rose unbidden in his memory, and perhaps it should have concerned him, that hint of something other shining in her eyes. Perhaps he ought to have been worried. But he didn’t care, not when all he saw was the same ferocious blue-grey that had always reduced him to little more than a beggar on his knees, prostrate before the altar of a goddess.

For a moment he, too, was frozen entirely— weak at the sight of her.

And then his mate took a single step forward and breathed,

“Cassian.”

Just his name, drawn from her mouth, was his undoing.

With trembling legs, Cassian crossed the room in three strides. He was already reaching for her, not entirely certain how much longer he could bear to stand. His steps stumbled only once, but something about her fortified even the most broken parts of him, giving him the strength to stand when there was none left in his bones.

He ignored how his hands shook when he reached for her, swallowing as his fingers brushed her cheek and trembled at her jaw. He had dreamed of this, of feeling her warmth, and as his eyes darted across her face, scanning and searching and committing to memory, Cassian studied her the way he would a map or a battlefield. She blinked up at him, half-dazed as his hands dropped to her shoulders, skated down her arms and reached her wrists. Every inch of skin was one that Cassian thanked the Mother for, and every moment he had her in his hands was one he cherished. It was the kind of touch that he had thought, lying on that throne room floor in the jaws of death, that he would never get to have again.

So he lingered, made each and every pass of his hands last. He dragged his hands down, brushing his thumb across the soft skin of her wrist, right across the string of the bracelet she still wore— the bracelet he had bought her.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, now. That night when they had danced beneath the stars. When he had kissed her and held her and told her that she was his.

How much had changed, since.

Nesta barely moved as Cassian checked her over, searching for injury even though he knew would find none. She stood perfectly still, the gentle cadence of her breathing the only sound between them besides the pounding of his own heart.

She said nothing as he took her in, but Cassian didn’t miss the way her brow furrowed when she glanced at his wings, hanging limp at his back. He didn’t have the strength to lift them, the muscles required still too weak, and her lips thinned as her eyes grew wide with concern. He was certain that pain was still etched across his face, and though the burning in his spine had dimmed, it hadn’t vanished. But it wasn’t enough to stand against his need for her— to make him wish for his bed and his painkillers instead.

But before he could offer her any kind of reassurance, Nesta glanced away— like she couldn’t bear it, and didn’t want him to look too closely at the silver shifting in her eyes.

Cassian wanted nothing more than to smooth away every crease and line that anguish had carved into her brow, but there was too much— too many things he needed to say, too many parts of her he needed to hold, and he didn’t know where to start. His heart keened in his chest, something inside him wailing as the silence grew heavy, and Nesta didn’t stop him when he finally crushed her to his chest, banding his arms around her and holding her so tightly that it became a promise in and of itself.

Nothing was ever going to take her from him again.

He didn’t care that his wings protested the movement, tugging painfully when he engulfed her in his arms. He didn’t care that he could feel the stitches pulling taut again, threatening to rupture.

As Nesta splayed her fingers across his chest, Cassian cared only that he could hold her.

“You’re here,” she whispered against him.

“I’m here,” he said, his lips against her hair. He swallowed, closing his eyes and taking a breath, ignoring the way his knees felt weak. He held her against him, every line of his body singing where it lined up with hers, and gods— he was so close to unravelling, could feel himself coming undone.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, the words spilling out before he could contain them. And like the breaking of a dam, he couldn’t stop once he had started. Suddenly his tongue was clamouring for the words he needed, like he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “I should have stopped it— should have never let this happen. I should have been there that night when they…” His voice broke, his hands clutching her tighter as though he was afraid she might slip away. “I knew something was wrong. I knew, and I got Azriel to send a shadow beneath the wall, but he didn’t know… I didn’t know - didn’t think - that you would be with Elain, and I didn’t…”

Cassian had never been one to lose control of his tongue, never one to be so at a loss for words in front of a beautiful woman. But he was grappling now, searching for the right thing to say as a thousand different things rose up from his chest— a hundred apologies.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Her silence was louder than anything else, the look in her eyes more painful than any wound.

“I didn’t do enough,” he said, his hands fisting in the silk of her nightgown. His temper flickered as he remembered that this was all she had, nightgowns and Mor’s cast-offs.

But Nesta hardly moved. She was still and silent in his arms, her face impassive, and his heart cracked as the hand she had rested on his chest moved to rest above his heart. To feel its beat or push him away, he wasn’t sure. With the furrow still in her brow, Nesta didn’t seem sure either. Her eyes were wide, like she had too much to say too.

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice breaking once more as he brought his brow down to rest against hers. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said, her voice hoarse and her tone flat. His eyes flicked down to the hand she still had pressed against his chest, her bare fingers curling in his shirt. Bare fingers, with no band encircling her third finger. Cassian practically stopped breathing when he saw that space on her finger where her wedding band had once been, but he didn’t dare to hope.

Not yet.

The scar was still there too, he noticed, on her thumb. The Cauldron hadn’t wiped it away.

Cassian’s soul ached at the sight of it, and the temper that had flickered when he noticed the nightgown she wore surged. The anger he’d felt when he was with Rhys bubbled in his gut, reaching new depths, carving a ravine inside him so jagged and sharp he wondered if he might bleed. He could have killed Rhys. And Mor. And Amren. All of them— he could have killed them for letting Nesta open her eyes to find nothing but silence waiting to greet her.

Oh, he wasn’t just angry. He was livid.

The siphon on his hand pulsed. His mate had been forced to become something she despised, had been broken so completely whilst he had looked on, helpless. And now she stood like a statue in his arms, the distance between them feeling greater than ever before.

And when Nesta pulled back, retreating from his touch, Cassian felt his heart break.

His eyes closed. He heard the whisper of her movements as she took a step away, but when he opened them again and searched for her, all of that anger… melted. It didn’t cool, not entirely. But it retreated too, like an invading force that recognised a greater foe, a power it couldn’t withstand.

Because Nesta stood before him now, her back straight and her head held high like a queen despite the pain he recognised in every inch of her. There was a fury in her too, hiding just beneath her skin, and it was so potent that it put his own to shame.

And fuck, half of him wanted to stoke that fury. Wanted to see what she might do, how many worlds she might tear down. The warrior in him couldn’t breathe in the face of it, torn between wanting to fall at her feet and longing to kiss her until he breathed his last.

He might have stumbled a little, drawing a breath sharpened by the pain still spearing through his wings. Nesta reached out a hand, as if she might touch those wings now, but she drew back, cradled her hand to her chest as if she’d been burned.

“You’re alive, then,” she whispered.

He gave her a crooked smile. “Disappointed, princess?”

She didn’t rise to the teasing, only turned her face away.

Something in his chest cracked. The bond that he clung to seemed to be slipping through his fingers, and though he knew there was no way of breaking it, suddenly it felt… fragile.

That thrumming sense of unease spiked, the warning bell still ringing inside his head.

Cassian scanned her again, taking in the braided hair and loose nightgown. He scowled, resolved all over again to find her something better, and when Nesta evaded his gaze with expert precision, Cassian stepped forward and curled a finger beneath her chin, urging her face up towards the light. Reluctantly she met his eyes, and her own widened— with anguish, with pain, with grief. His heart broke for her, and keeping one finger beneath her chin, Cassian’s other hand darted out and drifted to her middle, rounding it and finding the small of her back, pulling her closer because he didn’t have the strength to take another step himself.

He just needed to touch her, to reach out and feel her warmth beneath his hands.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered as he pulled her flush, once more, against his chest. She was stiff, and though her hands rested on his chest, she didn’t sink into him the way he expected.

Apprehension pooled in his gut, coalesced with concern until it was thick in his throat. For the first time since the day the Attor had attacked Feyre in the woods, Cassian had a sinking feeling that he was on the other side of those high walls of hers, completely locked out.

“Don’t shut me out,” he murmured - pleaded - dragging his hand from the small of her back to the nape of her neck and back down in long, soothing strokes.

Nesta shook her head, closing her eyes tight.

But Cassian knew enough of grief and despair to recognise it for what it was— to know that she was simply hurting too much, with too much to adjust to, and though he had foolishly hoped that she might let him take her hand and guide her through it… she had closed herself off, letting the pain and the anger and the worry consume her.

Every year he watched as warriors stumbled from the forests around Ramiel, emerging bloody and broken from the Blood Rite. Every damn year he saw boys come home from the week long trial, still so green it made him feel sick. He’d watched them receive their tattoos, watched them plaster over the horror with a victorious smile, and when the sun went down and the night went quiet, he’d been the one telling his soldiers that it was alright, too, to acknowledge the brutality of what they had just been subjected to. He had seen too much not to recognise a soul in pain; knew too much firsthand not to see the way Nesta coiled like a wounded animal caught in a trap, ready to snap at any who came near.

She pulled away again, and this time Cassian let her.

Her jaw was tight, her teeth clenched. Her hands were curled into fists, and though her face remained blank, he could sense something roiling along the air between them, something tumultuous that made his instincts sharpen. Like the darkening sky before an almighty thunderstorm.

The space between them was charged. It always had been, had always felt alive somehow, but there was an edge to it now, something sharper that said that one false move would make the both of them bleed— would cut them both to the bone.

For the third time, her eyes fell on his wings.

He wanted to hold her— to feel her against him one more time, to cradle her in his hands until the stars stopped shining. And he wished she’d reach out again, wished she’d graze the membrane with her fingers. Just so he could prove to her that she still could— that nothing had changed between them.

Illyrians don’t let just anybody touch their wings, he’d told her once, and she was still the only one he would ever let near his wings. The only one beside a healer that he would ever allow to touch them.

“It’s alright,” Cassian said slowly. “I’m alright. Grounded for a week or so while they heal, but I’ll be fine soon enough.

Nesta lifted her chin, glancing briefly to the window. Something in her voice guttered. “So we’re both trapped here then.”

“You’re not trapped.”

“Aren’t I?” Nesta challenged, her voice low and bitter. He could feel her temper fraying, like a wave about to break. “If I wanted to leave, would you let me? Would Rhysand let me?”

It took everything in him to stay standing when he caught the pain in her voice, the grief she was trying to hard to bury beneath her anger. “It’s not about that—“

“When does it end, Cassian?” she demanded, the silver flaring in her eyes— like lightning forking through the sky. It didn’t scare him. No, instead he felt that same crackle of electricity, that same swell of power calling out to him. It made the siphon on the back of his hand glimmer. Nesta shook her head, sharp. “When do I get to start making my own decisions about my life?”

Cassian made himself step forward, reaching for her, but Nesta jerked back. Her lip curled, a snarl sounding from deep in her throat.

“I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to be here,” she said, quietly furious, and there it was— the crux of it all. “I never wanted to be one of you.”

She said it like an insult, imbued with so much venom it might have stung had Cassian not been expecting it.

He let it roll off his shoulders like water. “I know,” he said carefully. He noted the ire in her eyes and added, “Say what you want to me Nes. Whatever it is you need to get off your chest. It’s not going to make me run.” He blinked, his voice turning gentle. “You know I always loved that sharp tongue the most.”

She took a shuddering breath, and it killed him— as sure as a blade slipping between his ribs, angled up to nick his heart. It killed him, the way she looked at him like she might break if he reached out to hold her.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. “Tell me what I need to do.”

“Nothing,” she answered, deadpan. “I don’t need anything.”

She was cold, like a candle flame close to snuffing out. One that needing coaxing to be brought back. He let out a small breath, looking her in the eye and remaining exactly where he was. He didn’t blink, didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He meant it, when he said that nothing she could do was enough to make him run.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her eyes flashed, a spark that was there and gone in an instant, swallowed by the darkness. He wanted to clutch at it, to bring the spark back before it could die, but it flickered in her eyes, fading until there was nothing left to grasp. And he knew, knew without her needing to say it, why she had shut herself off. She had watched Elain be dragged towards the Cauldron, watched him lie bleeding on the floor. Could he blame her for drawing back, for trying to find a way to breathe around the grief of it all?

Something passed between them, unspoken. The bond seemed to tremble, and though Cassian felt it stronger than ever before, he wondered if she felt it, too. There had been so many times, even when she was mortal, that her eyes had widened when it tugged, when she seemed to feel the weight of it behind her ribs. Could she feel it now, he wondered, when every piece of him seemed to be holding on to that bond for dear life, clinging to it in the hopes that it might somehow prove a bridge between them, something to keep her with him even when she drew back from his reach?

With everything he had, every ounce of strength left, Cassian poured all the warmth he possessed into that bond, hoping she could feel it, unaccepted and unacknowledged as it was.

It was all he could do— standing there, trying to prove in the only way he could that he wasn’t about to turn away now.

“If you want to talk about it…” he began slowly, lifting one shoulder in an offer that was only falsely casual. He watched every breath she took, every swallow that caused her throat to bob.

Talk to me, he begged internally, whispering it along the bond as if she might somehow be able to hear him. Let me in.

Silence reigned for long moment, where even the House seemed to hold its breath.

At last, Nesta shuddered, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Cassian thought he might have wept.

“I lost your dagger, you know,” she began, in a voice that was so detached it hurt. “That night. I tried…”

Her voice faded to nothing as she turned to face the windows. The light was a halo about her frame, lining her silhouette with gold as she hid her face from him, and Cassian’s fingers twitched by his sides, longing to reach out and feel her in the palms of his hands. She shook her head, drawing a deep breath before finding the words she needed.

“I don’t know what happened to it,” she said quietly. “But they took it from me.”

It took him a moment to sense the weight in her tone. The remorse. The fucking apology.

Cassian could only stare at her back, bewildered. His brows bunched as he tracked his gaze over the nape of her neck and down her spine, his frown deepening. After a stunned moment, he curled a hand around her shoulder and turned her to face him.

“You think I give a fuck about a dagger?”

Nesta blinked. “It was clearly old. It must have been a favourite for you to have kept it for so long.”

It was. He’d had that blade centuries. Kept it oiled and cleaned and so meticulously looked after that even Azriel teased him about it whenever he got the chance. But did he mourn its loss now? No. Not at all.

“It was,” Cassian answered easily. He kept his voice slow, every word deliberate. “But forgive me, sweetheart, for putting things into perspective. I’d rather have lost that dagger a thousand times than lost you for a second.”

Her eyes rolled. “I don’t know why.”

The bond pulled uncomfortably in his chest, twisting and wringing as unease snaked a path through his entire body. He had watched as his words had landed, watched as her eyes had dropped to that scar on her thumb. Her lips had pressed together, thin, like she couldn’t understand why he’d ever value her life over a prized possession.

“Don’t you?” he asked softly, daring to take a step closer. The scent of her filled his lungs, made the bond constrict around his heart. “I thought I’d made my feelings for you quite clear.”

She didn’t answer.

It was like they were standing back in that morning room below the wall, whilst Feyre and Rhys and Azriel dealt with the Attor. Nesta had the same look in her eyes now as she did then, the same patina that coated her every move. She was wounded and angry and trying hard to keep her own heart from breaking, and when he extended out a hand and silently begged her to take it, she left him standing there, fingers curling in thin air.

“Nes,” he breathed, caring little that the desperation in his chest had leaked out into his tone. His heart hurt, and though he wanted to beg her again not to shut him out, somehow he couldn’t speak. Somehow he could think only of the three little words he should have said long ago— the ones he should have said that day in her father’s house, before Rhys had dragged him away. “Please. I love—“

“Don’t.”

Nesta reared back as though he had slapped her. Her voice was a pained rasp in her throat, sharp and cutting as she drew in a ragged breath.

“Don’t,” she repeated, whisper-soft.

But Cassian couldn’t breathe around the weight in his chest, the agony that had nothing to do with his broken wings.

“Why not?” he asked, searching her face, trying to find her eyes. With a half-turn of her head she avoided his gaze, leaving him standing there with his heart on his sleeve, bleeding and exposed.

“Because I’m not that person anymore,” she answered, the eyes he’d crawl over hot coals for flicking down to her hands, to the space where there had been a ring, once. “Whatever you felt before, I’m not the one that you…”

A soft snarl sounded in his throat, one of disbelief as Cassian stepped forward, bolder.

“Not the one that I what?” he asked, shaking his head and pushing the hair from his eyes. He caught her gaze and held it, refusing to let her turn away this time because fucking hell, he had loved her then and he loved her now. Did she think that what had happened in that throne room was enough to change things for him? Did she really think his heart could be so easily swayed?

“Say it, Nesta.”

When she shook her head, Cassian supplied the words for her.

“You don’t think you’re still the one I fell for so fucking hard, you had me over a barrel from that very first day?”

His voice didn’t waver, didn’t tremble.

It was the most fundamental truth he’d ever known, the fact that he loved her more than he’d ever loved anything in all his long years. He took another step closer and felt an ember of hope flare in his chest when she didn’t back away. Cassian tipped his face down, swallowing as he came close enough for her chest to brush his. The bond strained so tightly he thought it might be the death of him, and when he heard Nesta’s heartbeat flutter, he raised his hand and drifted his fingers across her face, ghosting his touch across her jaw. He kept his voice low as he said, at last,

“The one that I fell in love with?”

Her eyes closed, like she couldn’t bear it.

“It’s my fault,” she whispered. “All of it.”

“No,” he countered, his voice firm. He pressed his palm against her cheek, looking down into those blue eyes edged with silver and refusing to look away, even when the silver coiled and curled around her irises. “No, it isn’t.”

Nesta shook her head before turning her face down into his palm. Her lips brushed the base of his fingers, and in one smooth movement Cassian angled his thumb beneath her jaw and lifted her face back up into the light.

“If you want to search for someone to blame,” he whispered, “then blame me. I’m the one who promised to protect you. I’m the one who didn’t think to check your father’s estate that night. I’m the one that failed you.”

“I don’t blame you,” she said, taking a deep breath as Cassian’s thumb lingered beneath her chin, stroking idly along her jaw. He relished the touch; savoured it.

“And I don’t blame you,” he said smoothly. “So we’re agreed, then.”

Nesta huffed, and he swore then that there was the barest hint of something— a kind of sardonic laugh that was so quiet that even with fae ears he barely heard it. There was a tentative spark in her eyes when she looked up at him, searching his gaze with her own for the first time since he’d stumbled into her bedroom.

There she is, he thought.

He offered her a small smile in return, relief swelling behind his ribs.

Whatever hand he had extended, whatever rope he’d thrown down to her in the darkness, she’d taken it.

“Elain,” he said a minute later, glancing towards the door left ajar on the other side of the room. “How is she?”

Slowly, Nesta eased from his grip. Cassian’s hands mourned the loss of her warmth the moment she drew back, but he gave her the space she needed as she, too, looked towards that door. She shook her head gently, as if that were answer enough to his question. Cassian didn’t know what else to say— what comfort he could offer her. There was none.

Elain had been the first to go into the Cauldron, the first to emerge from its depths. And fuck, one of the first things she’d heard afterwards was Lucien’s stunned revelation about being her mate.

“About Lucien…” Cassian began slowly.

“No,” Nesta interjected, cutting him off. “I don’t care what claim he thinks he has on her. Elain isn’t his.”

Cassian hesitated. “Should he not have told her, then?”

Nesta laughed, bitter. “No,” she answered with finality. “No, he shouldn’t.”

“And how long would you have had him keep it secret?” he asked, just a shade shy of a challenge.

She only waved a hand. “He should have said nothing, should have done nothing. He should have left her alone entirely. She was engaged. What makes him think he has the right to—“

“He’s her mate,” Cassian cut in carefully. Nesta shook her head violently. Her eyes were like flint, just begging to be ignited, and her indignation sparked like an oil spill by an open flame.

“And that gives him the right to her?”

“It gives her the right to know,” Cassian countered. “Gods, it gives him the right to speak it out loud rather than bear the burden of it alone.”

“Burden?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?” she snapped.

Cassian let out a heavy breath. “I just mean that it must be heavy.” It was his turn to shrug now, to turn away. “To have felt it snap on his end and not hers. It can’t be easy.”

He couldn’t look at her as he said it— couldn’t bear to see her scowl. He thought his heart might break for good this time, because Mother above, he’d once thought that letting Nesta slowly adjust to the idea of a mating bond was the right thing to do, but now… Fuck, he couldn’t see a way out of it at all now.

Nesta huffed, frowning as she folded her arms across her chest. His heart bleated behind his ribs, but when Cassian found the strength, at last, to turn and look at her…

His resolve slackened, frustration dissolving.

The light danced across her face, playing in the strands of hair that had escaped her plait and strayed across her forehead. Her jaw was tight, but when she caught him looking, her eyes softened. Her lips parted on a breath, and Cassian blinked slowly as he took her in, from the tips of her newly-arched ears to the hem of her borrowed nightgown.

More than anything he wanted to tell her he loved her.

He sighed softly, running a hand through his tangled hair. He was tired of fighting, of her being more than an arms length away. If she wouldn’t let him tell her he loved her, then he’d fucking show her. So Cassian shook the tension from his shoulders and stretched his wings as much as his wounds would allow. Her eyes widened, lit with concern, but Cassian waved her off with a flick of his hand. Wryly, he smiled.

“Tell me they showed you the library, at least?”

Nesta blinked at the change in topic, dropping her folded arms. It took a moment, but slowly she shook her head. Cassian lifted his eyes and glared darkly at the ceiling.

You fucker, Rhys.

He added it to his mental tally, the list of things he was going to make sure Rhys paid for. A grim smile curved his lips as he thought of it, and when he brought his eyes back down, Cassian turned to his mate and felt warmth blooming along the bond that tied them together. Something flickered in Nesta’s face, cutting through the silver in her eyes, and as Cassian extended a hand, he didn’t fail to notice the way she slid her fingers between his without hesitation.

He squeezed her hand; a silent I love you.

And as Cassian clung to her like she was the beginning and the end of his everything… Nesta squeezed back.

Giving his mate a tentative smile, he tugged on her hand and said, “Well, then. Let me give you the tour.”

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justhereforacotar · 21 days

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Hunt x Nesta - Epilogue

Life sucked.

Hunt could split his life into two chapters: before Nesta and after Nesta. Both chapters sucked. But that little blip in the middle – the one week where life had been better than he ever expected was good. He’d always have that.

‘Stop moping, my goodness.’

Isaiah groaned from his desk then dropped his forehead onto the cheap wood.

‘Everything reminds me of her,’ Hunt replied, holding up a sugar sachet from the crappy coffee machine.

It was true. Hunt could draw a correlation to Nesta regardless of the topic; she liked it, she would have hated it, he wished he could show her it, they’d tried it.

He had loved Shahar but it had been intense from the start. The rebellion had intensified every moment of it, pushing them both towards a zenith that he free-fell from. Losing her was different. It was a loss that held finality – but Hunt had lost so many that day, had suffered so much as a result, the grief had been for Shahar and all the others who'd fought alongside him.

To Shahar, he had been Hunt, a powerful angel plucked from the bowels of Pangea to command her legions.

This was different.

To Nesta, he’d only ever been Orion. Grumpy, sleepy, teasing, serious, or goofy, she’d wanted all of him. And Nesta wasn’t dead but it would have hurt less if she was.

Night after night, Hunt scoured the internet on any whiff of something similar to the Horn to try and find a way back to her. He’d deal with breeches and no hair dryer if it meant they were together again. He’d even wondered if Ruhn Danaan would know anything about another fae relic because Isaiah couldn’t be persuaded to get another warrant to search the Autumn King’s home for hidden artefacts.

‘I know that you miss her, Hunt, but it’s just not possible to find her again,’ he said calmly.

Those same words had been said to him a month earlier, also by Isaiah, when he’d found Hunt deliberating in the street. He’d gathered is hard-earned coins ready to dump them all in the Astronomer’s lap so that he’d use his mystics to locate her. In the end, it proved too risky. Hunt wouldn’t dare to expose Nesta that way.

‘It fucking sucks,’ replied Hunt before shuffling back to his desk for a long night of paperwork.

When Nesta left, Hunt expected a depression to come and drown him. He’d been there before and it always lurked in his periphery. But she’d given him hope and it felt different. The light didn’t abate in her absence; the flame remained burning. So he worked and worked. Did what Micah asked. Treaded every single line without complaint. And he thought of her. Thought of her smile, her curiosity, the way she had him wrapped around her finger in a single day.

***

‘What now?’

Emerie’s brown eyes had dulled from their week of absolute hell. She sat on the cushioned windowsill of the river estate with mud still caked over her face. Nesta looked down at her own hands. They were splattered with a mix of blood. Some was hers, Cassian’s, Bellius’, and Feyre’s.

Her stomach was empty enough that it hurt. She’d see a healer soon. Gwyn had the worst injuries so was with Madja in a separate room.

A small cry rang out down the hall from the baby boy, Nyx.

Feyre had died. Her heart had stopped beating. Nesta had felt the whole world turn colder, felt the knife coming for Feyre’s thread, so Nesta did the only thing she could think of. Still beaten and ruined from the Blood Rite, she gave her power back. She gave it all back.

And Feyre lived. The boy lived.

Nesta wedged her aching body into the windowsill next to Emerie, wishing they were a different set of wings cradling her shoulders.

It had been a tough few months since her little jaunt to Lunathion.

To his credit, Lucien did not speak of what he saw. He simply pretended the entire event had never happened and acted with all the quality of one the males from Fangs and Bangs when it was discovered by the others that Nesta had returned. It was their secret, never to be mentioned. She was grateful for that.

None ever questioned her moroseness because it was no different to her capricious ways. She could feel herself pushing everybody away, as always, week after week without Hunt’s infectious joy. The idea of Cassian touching her churned her stomach. She’d put an end to it, dumbfounding him. And when her sister’s family had convinced her to seduce Eris through dance, it confirmed to Nesta that all she would ever be was a pawn to be used for their benefit. When Eris had shown interest, Nesta had considered it if only to have a lifeline out of the Night Court.

‘I don’t even know if it will work,’ Nesta said quietly, tilting her head to touch Emerie’s.

The pair of them absolutely reeked. Being dragged from their beds and dumped onto Ramiel for a week would do that. Only sheer grit and hoping had kept them alive. That, and Gwyn bringing a beast to slaughter eight of the Illyrians.

‘It’s worth a try,’ replied Emerie.

They’d huddled together in the dark, cold and tired but not willing to sleep. And Nesta had told Emerie and Gwyn everything about the male she’d found in Lunathion. How she could not even go an hour without thinking of him, without imagining a life together. They’d listened with rapture, delighted for her as true friends were. Even when she cried at the thought of leaving them behind, they encouraged her to take her chance if they made it out alive because they loved her enough to let her go and find happiness.

‘It’s complicated.’

‘What’s complicated? Toot the horn and fly off with your angel.’

Gwyn limped into the room in her filthy clothes. ‘Who’s tooting? Are we tooting?’

‘Nesta’s about to go to the future with her angel lover.’

Instead of indignation, colour heated her cheeks and she felt like a giggling, love-struck fool. ‘He is so handsome.’

The cell phone had died quickly from all the moments that Nesta had spent agonising over photos of the Umbra Mortis in his boxers, as he called them.

‘So we have heard,’ Emerie replied drily.

Nesta shoved her heart back into its cage. ‘It’s impossible. I’ve surrendered my power. The Horn won’t work. Hunt is a slave. It’s been almost four months. He could be sold by now to another owner.’

‘Then buy him back,’ urged Gwyn.

‘With what?’

Emerie braced a hand against her ribs as she stood. ‘Well, the High Lord did offer you anything for saving their lives.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Rhysand would never agree to let me go, much less give me a pile of his wealth to send me on way. They still think Cassian is my mate. That the bond will snap. If it didn’t snap when Briallyn had him try to kill me, it never will – and I thank the stars for that.’

The words hung heavy. It had been one horrific moment after the other. Cassian bellowing at her on a bridge crossing the Sidra that she was his, despite her refusals. Morrigan delivering her to Emerie and Gwyn as she trembled. Waking disorientated in the Blood Rite. Staring down Bellius as she held Ramiel’s pass. Briallyn controlling Cassian with the Crown, trying to kill her. Only the Mask coming to her rescue again had saved her life.

‘I made a list the other day of all the things I’d like to do in Prythian. Do you know what I wrote?’ At her friends’ expectant faces, she continued, ‘Finish my book. I have no desires or dreams here. I am simply an object.’

‘What did you write for the other side?’

The corners of her mouth twitched. ‘So many things. There are things I want to do that I don’t even know exist yet. I want to go to the amusement park with Hunt. To study. I’d study for my whole life. I want to throw my cap in the air when I’ve finished studying. I want to live with Orion – I want a life with him like I’ve never dreamed of a male before. I didn’t kiss him enough.’

‘It was not only the High Lord’s life you saved, Nesta,’ Emerie reminded her. ‘There is a High Lady of the Night Court.’

***

Silver light poured into the room like molten metal, so bright that Hunt needed to shield his eyes from the glare.

A low, hissing noise had him scurrying from his bed and pressing his wings to the cream wall in anticipation.

‘What the fuck.’

The wall opposite was flooded with a silver fire that chilled him to the bone. The narrow window above his bed frosted over. On his exhale, his breath was visible.

Then she was there.

The fire fell away, revealing an ornate library with rows of leather-bound books. Light streamed in from the massive bay windows, bathing Nesta in its glow. Like the first day that Hunt had seen her, Nesta was other-worldly. Instead of tight leathers that sinfully kissed every curve, she wore a pale lavender dress with a square-cut neckline. Her hands were buried in the long sleeves although Hunt spotted the tip of the horn poking from beneath. The draping skirts couldn’t hide the sneakers that she’d bought in Lunathion and declared the comfiest shoes she’d ever tried.

‘Tell me I’m dreaming,’ Hunt murmured.

Twice, Nesta’s lips parted then sealed again. Tears rimmed her grey eyes.

‘Nesta,’ he said, stepping closer to the fiery portal. The hairs on his arm stood from the seeping cold that surrounded it.

A soft gasp emitted from her side and two females came into view, ushered into the library by the same male he’d seen months ago with red hair and a metallic eye. One cradled a baby to her chest. This had to be Feyre; she had the unmistakeable look of her older sister although freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose and her hair hung freely. A swirling, black tattoo covered the hand that stroked her son’s wings. The other female was darker haired with large brown eyes reminding Hunt of a faun.

‘It worked?’ Feyre asked.

‘Obviously,’ the male replied, making Elain giggle and cover her mouth to hide it.

Hunt took another step closer to Nesta who was still immobilised. In the chairs behind her were two more females. Hunt had heard all about them. The winged one was Emerie and the red-haired one was Gwyn. Nesta’s face had lit up as she spoke of her only friends in Prythian when they’d been together.

‘Hey, Starlight,’ he said, reaching his hand through to her side. He jerked his chin towards her sister and the baby. ‘They made it.’

‘They made it,’ Nesta repeated, face twisting with emotion. ‘I gave up my power for them. I didn’t know if this would still work. I had to choose between seeing you again and saving them.’

‘And everybody won,’ he said, grasping her shaking hand.

It took every instinct not to haul her through to his side and kiss her until every star went out.

Nesta did that for him.

From the force that she yanked him to her, Hunt was practically falling. His hands found her waist to steady himself and he could feel her breath on his cheek as he pulled himself upright. Their bodies knocked together, the softness of her curves feeling like home.

‘I missed you.’

‘There has been nobody to laugh with.’ He touched his forehead to hers. ‘There was a national crisis because demand for ice cream plummeted since you left.’

When Hunt moved to kiss her, he stilled. There were markings on her neck, a fresh cut that still had the scab on her cheek and more wounds on her hands. They had to be recent because fae healed as fast as malakim.

‘What the Hel has happened? Are you alright? Who hurt you?’

The two females in the chair exchanged a glance then he noticed that both of them had been wounded recently too. Emerie had a bruise above her eyebrow that caused the lid to swell and Gwyn’s hands were bound in bandages.

‘It’s alright,’ Nesta murmured, holding his hands in hers. ‘Something happened. I was taken. The three of us. We woke in the Blood Rite.’

‘I don’t know what that is.’

Surprising him, Nesta broke into a laugh. It skittered over his skin like static.

‘What’s funny?’

‘That’s what I say to you, Orion.’

The male, Lucien, cleared his throat from his post at the door. ‘Nesta, I don’t know how long it will be open – or until they notice.’

‘Right,’ she said, nodding. ‘It was hell. All of it. That week on the mountain and all the months before. All I wanted was you. I told my friends that if we survived, if we made it through each night, I would find you.’

From the three-legged table, Nesta picked up a rolled-up piece of parchment. There was a line down the middle, splitting it into two columns. In an elegant script, lines upon lines of text had been written.

‘I wrote why I should stay here or why I should leave. There is danger on both sides, uncertainty, and it feels like leaping into the unknown. This is the world I know. My sisters are here. But the difference is in Lunathion, I will have you. And that makes all the difference, Hunt.’ She clutched the paper tighter. ‘I don’t care. All I want is you.’

When his day began, Hunt didn’t have Nesta appearing and offering him a forever on his bingo card. He blew out a breath. ‘Nesta, I’m a slave. I can’t give you a home. I don’t even know who my father is. If you want a life of comfort, you’re better off with Tristan Flynn.’

There was a brilliant shine of determination in her eyes. ‘I want a male who will love me.’

He’d loved her the moment she’d dropped out of the sky and told Isaiah she was a bard. These months without her had felt like living without the sun. He’d do another two hundred years in gorsian shackles strung up in the Asteri’s dungeon rather than spend another moment without Nesta.

Hunt stepped back through the portal to his room in the barracks and pulled out a prospectus for Crescent City University along with guidance on how to apply for funding. He’d gathered them just in case Nesta ever came back. He’d pulled legislation on the minimal rights of slaves. As long as Hunt answered when called, slaves could rent a property – they couldn’t own it, but it was a start, so he’d saved every penny of his pitiful wages, took double shifts and worked on his allotted days off to scrape together a few more coins because Nesta had given him that piece of hope that he hadn’t had before.

On the desk, there was photo album that he’d been compiling. It had provided an outlet instead of moping. Hunt had channelled all of his dreams into it.

‘There’s still space for more,’ he said, stepping back through and handing it to Nesta.

Her sisters and the other females peered over her shoulder at it. Every single photo that Nesta had taken on her cell and his, no matter how blurred, had been printed out and stuck in with his terrible handwriting beneath with a caption. Hunt had written about their day, about what she’d said, where they’d been or what they’d eaten. There was one of her bending down with the Istros in the background as Hunt had tried to get a scurrying otter in shot with her – but ended up with a smear of brown and yellow flopping into the river.

‘You look in pain there,’ said Elain, pointing to one.

‘She couldn’t decide on a milkshake flavour.’

Nesta’s lips quirked as she looked at the photo. ‘I regret banana.’

‘Is that why you drank mine?’

There were photos of him too. Ones she had taken. Ones that were blurry or zoomed in too far or ones in the elevator when she discovered that she could use the mirror to capture both of them. One of him with his fluffed-up wings and that rotten witch-ink halo on full display. One of them snuggled up on the bed on a pile of pillows. Lots of them together; Nesta appearing regal and poised whilst he looked surly or goofy to annoy her. One of Nesta in her gown before the ballet with Ruhn that she’d taken of herself in the bathroom mirror. A few of her when she’d put a cat-eared filter on and couldn’t work out how to take it off. Some even of Ruhn when he was driving, trying to block the camera with his tattooed hand.

‘I thought that was Rhys.’

Nesta chuckled, ‘So did I – and I gave him hell for it.’

‘They’re coming,’ said Lucien from the window where he’d been observing the skies. ‘They’ve likely felt the shift in the wards.’

On the horizon, three black shapes were moving quicker, wings beating rapidly.

Nesta turned to him, silver eyes shining with hope. ‘Will you have me?’

‘You were mine the day you fell from the stars. I love you. You think I make photo albums for every girl that lands in the middle of the road?’

Nesta silenced him with a kiss that surprised everybody in the room.

‘My bags are packed. I’ve already said goodbye.’

‘You’ll have to flirt with Flynn to get his credit card again,’ he said, grimacing slightly. ‘It will be centuries until I can afford somewhere for us to live.’

Feyre shook her head. ‘Finances are handled.’

‘I’m paying for your freedom,’ Nesta said resolutely. ‘There may only be one Umbra Mortis but I’m the bitch who stole from the Cauldron. That has to count for something.’

What she was, was a pillar of steel that could never be broken. Hunt didn’t care if she was sharp or unyielding, she was his Nesta. His girl from the stars.

Hunt slid his hands to her face, kissing her deeply. He didn’t care if her sisters watched. Didn’t care if the winged female whistled loudly at them. He had waited months to feel her again, to hold her.

‘We need to go,’ Nesta urged.

The two females had moved back to the chairs and exchanged a glance as the roof shook. A heavy landing. Feyre clutched her son to her chest, eyes going vacant as if listening to something else.

Three bags had been prepared and neatly tucked beneath the table. On her direction, Hunt hauled them up and through the portal back into the barracks. The final one tested his strength. It was bulky and ridiculously heavy, but with five females watching him, Hunt pretended the weight didn’t surprise him even if his muscles strained.

‘Are you bringing your Harp, bard?’

‘No. Only the Horn to close it then we’ll destroy it.’

Hunt pretended he didn’t just hear Nesta declare that she was about to break a priceless fae artefact that would have Einar Danaan, Micah, and the Asteri string her up from a dungeon for touching it.

They were doing this.

A cold sweat rippled down his back. They were really doing this. In the face of an archangel, a fae prince, and whatever the Asteri were, Hunt and Nesta were doing this for real.

His fingers enclosed around her wrists as steps grew closer. ‘Are you sure? You’ve known me a week.’

‘I have the rest of my life to know you,’ she said, before kissing him tenderly again. ‘Orion Athalar, you are my home. Maybe I fell that day, rattling the stars, because I was searching for you.’

The door swung open and shadows flooded in, sweeping the rugs of the library like a tidal wave that could no longer be held back. The first male had slicked back black hair and sparkling eyes so blue they appeared violet.

‘Shit, he does look like Ruhn,’ said Hunt.

In a soft voice, he said, ‘What is this?’

Two more males filed in, taking care to manoeuvre their large, leathery wings through the wooden doorway. These were the Illyrians she had spoken of which meant one was Azriel, who’d handed her a bag too heavy for her to manage, and the other was Cassian, a male who Hunt would delight in hurting.

Immediately, Hunt catalogued the subtle changes in Nesta. Whilst he would have expected her spine to go straighter, her chin to lift in defiance, instead Nesta curled in on herself as if she was deflating. Her shoulders hunched, making herself smaller and a flat, empty expression took up residence on her pale face.

The high lord’s eyes flashed to the Horn in Nesta’s hands. With a jolt of magic that Hunt felt fire across the room, he tried to lurch the Made item from her grip but it stayed firmly in her hand.

‘You have opened a portal to another world,’ he said, voice low and edged with warning. ‘You are endangering the lives of everybody in this city, Nesta. Endangering my mate and our son.’

Hunt couldn’t take it. It was as if all of the air was being pressed from the room. The two Illyrian sentries stood silent either side of their high lord in a display of cruel dominance. Neither would speak for Nesta. Hunt looked again to the females. Her two sisters were mute. The red-haired male had taken a not-so-subtle step closer to Elain, an arm extending ready to shield her. The other two females were as pale and timid as Nesta had become in their chairs; the winged one settled a hand on Gwyneth’s knee in reassurance as shadows lashed at the walls.

These fae pricks.

‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

The urge to let his lightning loose was an instinct that proved difficult to deny – but not when Nesta was in the firing line, nor a child and a male with a metal eye that would send his lightning haywire.

The high lord blinked in disbelief then took a step closer to Nesta.

Lightning wreathed his hands in response. ‘Don’t even fucking think about it.’

‘If it hits Nesta?’

Hunt could play that game. He went into the place where Micah sent him where it was cold and empty. ‘If it hits your son? Your mate?’

He let the static tighten the room so strands of their hair rose. Hunt pulled the clouds closer, bringing in a storm from the mountains which darkened the room. Rain pattered upon the glass.

The male to the high lord’s left tilted his head, back hair falling across his pensive face. The blue stones on his leathers pulsed. ‘What are you?’

‘He’s not Peregryn,’ the male with red stones said.

He kept his brown eyes fixed on the threats in the room while he spoke softly to Nesta. ‘Go through, Starlight. We’ll go to the movies tonight. I realised you never tasted popcorn.’

The weight of her decision pressed on her. That, or the arrogant bastards shooting daggers at her.

‘We can make out on the back row too.’

That shifted something in Nesta, like the final screw coming loose. She exhaled with relief and edged towards him. Hunt stretched out his arm towards her to sweep his love behind him, behind his wings, so she could step through safely to the barracks as if they were negotiating the transfer of a hostage.

‘Baby, can you get my gun? It’s in the holster at the bottom of the bed.’

With a trembling hand, Nesta placed the gun in the hand that was outstretched behind himself. Magic was great, but nothing could quite replace a steel kiss. Hunt cocked his weapon, keeping it trained on the high lord.

‘Which one’s Cassian?’

Likely the male whose face was purpling as he stared at Hunt like he wanted to wrap his hands around his throat. Join the club, buddy, Hunt thought.

‘The red stones?’

None in the room gave an acknowledgement to his words. He didn’t want this to turn into a standoff but now that Hunt was here, facing the bastards who’d made Nesta’s life a misery for the last couple of years, he couldn’t resist being a dick. The Umbra Mortis had earned his reputation. He’d survived torture and a failed rebellion. And he was going to have a beautiful future with his gorgeous Nesta – but first, these males needed to atone.

‘Listen, these ladies look as if they’ve seen enough violence so I’ll refrain from blasting your brains out on these lovely rugs, but you owe my girl an apology.’ Over his shoulder, Hunt asked, ‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’

‘Hunt, don’t bother. Let’s just close it.’

‘Does Lucien need to say sorry?’ he repeated.

Nesta gave a sigh. ‘No. Lucien is fine.’

‘Good male,’ he said, offering a slight wink in the scarred-one’s direction.

A shadow that had been creeping along the skirting board made to lunge towards him but Hunt hit it with a bolt of lightning that crippled it. The male who’d bejazzled his leathers with blue stones winced as if he felt the blow too. Aha, that was the shadowsinger. Red stones was the prick who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

‘Alright, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to say sorry to Nesta then I’m leaving with her. We’re going to have a beautiful life together and never come back to this place again.’ Hunt gave a dramatic sigh. ‘If I’m honest, I think it’s less about my company and more about the fact you three have made her life so miserable here that she's willing to leave.’

‘That’s not true,’ Nesta called, and he caught the slight playful edge in her tone. ‘I want to go to university too.’

Little minx.

The three males were carved from stone. Every now and then, Hunt felt something trying to edge towards his mind like a tendril of smoke but his lightning zapped it without thought.

‘My finger is getting really sweaty holding back this trigger.’

The gun wasn’t even loaded – safety protocol – but if these fae were as clueless as Nesta had been, they’d have no idea.

‘Nesta, I am sorry that we did not extend the same warmth to you as we did to your sisters. I’m truly sorry that after the war, we were not a support for you.’

‘Well done, blue stones. Next one.’

The high lady shuffled the baby who was growing restless in her arms. ‘Is this necessary?’

‘Yes. Next question.’

Hunt lashed his lightning towards the males’ feet, making them leap back a step. Damn, he wished he recorded the sudden bloom of fear on their arrogant faces.

‘I’m sorry that I loved you,’ Cassian said. ‘I’m sorry that I gave you everything I could and it still wasn’t enough. Nes, what are you doing? In this life, we can have our time together. Think of our future.’

‘Didn’t you make her walk until she collapsed?’

The male blanched. ‘It was for her own good.’

‘No,’ Hunt uttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I can't do this. I need to go before I shoot you.’

Behind him, Nesta’s snort of laughter was the confirmation that Hunt needed. Nesta would never get the apology that she deserved from this male – but the promise of a future free from him was good enough. A future with Hunt meant more.

His wings scooped low, tucking towards his spine, as Hunt took a backwards step. The cold bite of Nesta’s magic that surrounded the portal edged closer. He hoped he would look cool departing the library and wouldn’t fall on his ass through to the other side.

Once back in Lunathion, Hunt stood at Nesta’s side, proud to do it.

‘We won’t come here again,’ said Nesta, voice growing stronger with every word. Her eyes bounced between her friends and her sisters. ‘I love you but this is best for me. I wish you all the love in the world.’

Nesta lifted the horn to her lips and Hunt prayed to Luna that she’d hit that note on the first try or he’d laugh his ass off again. His hand enclosed around her fist, raising it in the air.

‘This is how we say bye in my world, assholes.’

Hunt prised Nesta’s middle finger up to flip them off – giving her only a moment to blow the Horn before she grinned.

Silver flames swarmed it then fell in on themselves like a star collapsing. They were left with the plain wall of his room in the Comitium.

‘You okay?’

Hunt touched her cheek in an attempt to read her expression. She didn’t need to wear the mask anymore. There would be no hiding her feelings or supressing her hurts. Nesta could be Nesta in Lunathion. And if she didn’t know who that was yet, it was fine. She could discover who she was.

Nesta slipped her hands around his neck, moving closer. ‘Oh, you are going to get it tonight, Orion Athalar.’

‘Oh?’ An eyebrow cocked up.

‘Defending me. Making them say sorry. What a male.’

Their lips crushed together. Now they had about a thousand things to do before they could relax, like storing the Horn somewhere safe, where nobody would notice the magic, find a place to live rather than keep her smuggled in the barracks, and figure out what the Hel was in that massive bag. With Nesta at his side, anything was possible. They’d weather the storm.

‘Your male,’ Hunt said between hurried kisses.

‘Mine,’ agreed Nesta.

‘Always.’

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