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thesistersarcheron · 2 years

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Pairings: poly!Cassian/Nesta/Azriel, Feyre/Rhysand Ratings: E Words: ~6k ----- Catch up on tumblr (prologue, chapter i, chapter ii, chapter iii, chapter iv, chapter v, chapter vi, chapter vii), or read here on AO3!

Summary It is well known across Prythian that High Fae mating bonds are a sacred union between two souls. Lesser fae mating bonds, more common yet less studied than their High Fae counterparts, are bound by an entirely different set of rules.

After the ball in the Hewn City, Nesta and Cassian swore to each other that there would be no one else. Ever. They didn’t account for Azriel.

“Holy shit.”

“Gwyneth!” Emerie’s eyes were wide with mock distress at Gwyn’s blasphemy, but her mouth was twitching as she tried to hold back her smile.

“No, it was a ‘holy shit’ moment, Em,” Nesta confirmed, keeping her voice quiet. Even just recounting the events of the past week to her friends made her heart stutter.

“He asked you to marry him!” Gwyn’s hand shot out, grasping at Emerie’s arm as if to steady herself as she stared, wide-eyed, at Nesta.

“He didn’t—”

“He built you a house,” Gwyn whispered, and at this, even Emerie nodded, impressed.

Nesta pursed her lips; she may have ridden Cassian within an inch of his life for sharing it with her, but… “He built himself a house. Centuries ago.”

Gwyn went on, unhearing, her blush so dark it nearly matched her hair. “And then he asked you to—”

She whipped her head around to stare at Azriel, who was on the far side of the training ring coaching a set of priestesses through moving together as a unit. For once, he wasn’t blanketed in shadow—the whorls of darkness that usually followed him everywhere were avoiding the bright morning sunshine in the dim stairwell at the edge of the ring—and he was moving with the priestesses, patiently demonstrating the way they should watch and anticipate each other’s movements.

It was a striking change from the brutal drills he’d been conducting just three weeks ago, Nesta would go as far as to say he seemed almost cheery, or as cheery as a male like Az could get. He was even allowing the groups that he decided didn’t need the refresher to sit and chatter while they pretended to stretch and he pretended not to notice.

Nesta had to wonder what Cassian said to him before they left Windhaven to put him in such a pleasant mood.

Gwyn turned back to Nesta wearing the same wonderstruck look Emerie had given in her Windhaven and repeated, “Holy shit.”

Emerie, blunt as ever, tilted her head. “So did you do it?”

“Emerie!” Gwyn hissed. Evidently, she still retained some sense of propriety that Nesta and Emerie didn’t, because she gaped at the third member of their trio.

“What? She reeked of both of them yesterday, and now she’s living with Cassian in Illyria. I’m curious!” Emerie whisper-shouted, and Nesta prayed they were still quiet enough that Azriel’s shadows or his acute fae hearing wouldn’t pick up on their conversation.

Another group of priestesses pretending to do crunches nearby was suspiciously quiet, their necks craning toward Nesta’s group. Nesta bent over her outstretched legs and reached for her toes, so she wouldn’t have to look anyone in the eye if they overheard.

“Cassian wasn’t actually proposing, and I’m not living there,” she told her knees, avoiding the subject that had both of her friends tying themselves in knots. Had she truly reeked of both males? She’d thought Azriel’s scent was on the bed linens, not herself. “I didn’t even bring any clothes.”

And, as she said it, she heard the way it sounded.

After a beat of strained silence broken only by Ananke’s shocked tittering, Nesta rolled up from her stretch. Emerie’s jaw had dropped, and Gwyn had buried her face in her hands, an alarmingly high-pitched sound issuing from behind them as a teal eye peeked out at Nesta.

Nesta schooled her features to suppress her own grin—a knee-jerk response to the feeling between smugness and embarrassment burbling in her stomach.

It sounded salacious because it was. Cassian was right that the thin dresses she wore in the House and the library weren’t suited for the snow drifts as tall as she was in the village, but she had also spent nearly her entire time in that cabin naked in Cassian’s massive bed.

“I didn’t have any clothes suited for the weather,” she corrected herself. At the very least, she needed to spare poor Dierdre, who had lowered herself for a breather between crunches and still hadn’t come back up. “I’ll actually need your help with that, Em, if you have the time.”

Emerie nodded, but her eyes were shifting toward the other side of the ring.

Nesta sighed, feeling the weight of everyone’s attention. She needed to quash the whole conversation before it could be blown out of proportion... though she was looking forward to getting Az and Cassian alone in the cabin. For a few days, too, Cassian promised.

She could think of a dozen different ways to spend a few days with two males.

“Almost nothing happened, and Cassian only mentioned weddings because he was teaching me about Illyrian customs. Is it really that interesting?”

Gwyn’s jaw dropped behind her hands. “Almost?”

But Emerie was tapping rapidly at her leg, shushing her, before she turned back to Nesta.

“It's interesting because you’re living the dream, Nesta. Every woman in Prythian wants those two, even if they won't admit it. Mother, you should hear what the people in Windhaven still say about the things they did when they were younger…”

Burning, irrational jealousy flared, its talons slicing at Nesta’s lungs. Emerie was still speaking, but she didn’t hear it as she grit her teeth against the slick, sickening feeling that rocked her.

She examined her nails, picking at one that had broken off on the headboard of Cassian’s bed last night while he tasted her after he’d fed her dinner and then begged for her to straddle his face. Begged, she reminded herself.

She’d need to fetch a file from the House before returning to the Steppes.

She took a deep breath and shrugged, all expertly feigned nonchalance when Emerie stopped talking.

“Why should I care about rumors? It’s not like I need to live vicariously through females they’ve already forgotten.”

Gwyn’s knees slowly rose until she was curled into a ball, her head ducked low, and her entire body trembled with the force of her silent laughter.

“Oh... My… Gods!” she gasped between giggles.

Emerie reached out and gathered Nesta’s hands in her own, whispered a dazzled “You magnificent bitch,” and then turned back to shush Gwyn again.

As Nesta watched them, smiling once more, she saw the shadows beneath both of her friends elongate, stretching unnaturally in the morning sunshine, and felt her heart freeze—and then resume beating twice as quickly as the shadow beneath her own hand rose, curling around her wrist like a bracelet.

Or, she thought as it grew darker, wider, and sturdier, like a cuff.

When she turned to stare at Az, he was wholly focused on the priestesses he was training.

Nesta swallowed. She wasn’t foolish enough to wonder how much he heard.

“Can we talk about books now?” she asked, trying once more to change the subject as the shadows faded back to their natural positions. Gwyn and Emerie, calmer now, both blinked at her vacantly. “Cassian’s started asking for recommendations.”

“Oh my gods,” Gwyn muttered again, as if in rapturous prayer. “He even likes your books?”

Nesta bit back another smile and jerked her head at the eavesdropping priestesses.

Emerie nodded, Gwyn swallowing back more giggling, and Nesta felt only gratitude that she had such perceptive friends.

“What about Sellyn Drake’s new book? It should be out next week. Fallen for Fall?” Emerie asked.

Nesta cringed. Perceptive or not, the three of them hadn’t discussed Eris—or her brief plan to accept his proposal—at all. She thought she ought to spare them the heart attack this morning by refraining from piling more information on top of what they had already learned.

“I don’t think he’ll like that one.”

”Have you…” Emerie chewed on her lip. Her eyes flickered toward Azriel, and then at the empty spot where Cassian usually conducted their lessons. Gwyn nudged her. “Have you ever read anything by Faustina Amata?”

Gwyn’s lips parted like she was familiar with the name, but Nesta shook her head. “I don’t recognize the name. What has she written?”

“She writes Illyrian warrior romances,” Emerie said. “You know, I think she might be the only actual Illyrian writing about us, now that I think about it. She’s the only one who gets it right.”

When Nesta only shrugged, she continued, “Have you ever heard of The Stars Over Ramiel or The Blood Rite Brotherhood series?”

Nesta shook her head. No, neither rung a bell—though she thought she could take a fairly accurate guess at the plots and the inspiration for the series, if Cassian and Azriel's escapades were as infamous as Emerie seemed to imply.

Emerie nodded. “I’ll try to dig some up. I had to steal the ones I read from one of my cousins ages ago.”

Gwyn wiggled her brows at Nesta. “Rumor has it they’re filthy.”

“There’s a reason I had to sneak copies out of someone else’s house,” Emerie said with a grin. “They have great action scenes, too, so Cassian—”

“Ladies.” Azriel’s voice, deep and quiet as ever, echoed across the ring as the priestesses he was working with started lining up at the beginning of the obstacle course. Nesta felt the weight of his eyes on her, her wrist tingling, as everyone went still and silent. “If you’re finished warming up…”

Gwyn was the first to recover. She grinned at him, clear-eyed and determined, standing with a wink to Nesta and offering Emerie a hand to help her up.

When Nesta stood, brushing dust and dirt off her leathers, she found Azriel's back turned to her as he ushered the groups into a neat line at the start of the obstacle course. As he counted down and waved a trio into the course, a shadow curled around his ear. He tilted his head toward it, stretching one wing in the opposite direction, and Nesta bit her lip as her eyes followed the long, long line of his wing as it moved.

And then Emerie's strong hands grasped her waist from behind as her friend dropped her forehead onto the back of Nesta’s neck, as if she suddenly needed to steady herself, her long, thick braid falling over Nesta’s shoulder.

“Holy shit.”

———

While Azriel flew Emerie out of the wards surrounding the House and winnowed her back to her shop after another brutal run of the obstacle course, Nesta packed the essentials she’d forgotten. Some conditioner, her favorite lavender perfume, the undergarments that had gone missing yesterday, and a few thick, fuzzy pairs of socks all went into a bag the House provided.

She was re-braiding her hair when a quiet knock on her door caught her attention.

Az folded his hands. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” Nesta said, shoving the last pin into her braid and slipping the wool dress the House had laundered and folded into her bag.

He sent a pointed look at the full set of leathers she still wore beneath her cloak.

“I’ll change at the cabin,” she said.

“Very well.” A shade of amusement passed over the fine planes of his face as Azriel inclined his head and gestured her from the room, following as she made her way to a balcony more suited for flight. “We’ll winnow to the shop. Emerie said she needed to speak with you.”

Nesta could only nod as they approached the balcony. Her mouth had gone dry.

Flying with Cassian off the House’s firm, safe footing and over that steep drop was one thing… but flying with someone else?

One of Azriel’s hands settled on her back between her shoulder blades. It twitched when her breath caught in response, as if he were second-guessing the casual touch.

“We’ll be in the air for all of thirty seconds before we winnow,” he told her, correctly surmising the cause of her hesitation. “And we will arrive on solid ground just in front of Emerie’s shop.”

“Right,” Nesta said, her eyes locked on the steep drop off the edge of the House.

“I’m a much smoother flier than Cassian.”

Nesta turned to Azriel, her eyes wide. She wondered if he remembered the morning after Solstice as well as she did, when he winnowed them into the air above the training ring. He had caught them, yes, but not before that terrifying plunge.

She wondered if she should try punching him again as a reminder.

“Usually.” His head dipped—again reading her correctly, as if he were the one with daemati power.

“Braggart,” Nesta murmured without heat, her eyes on the ground.

Az lifted one shoulder, his face shadowed.

“It isn’t you,” she felt compelled to say, staring at the spot where his dark fringe blended into the shadows over his eyes. She waved a hand at the ground and swallowed, forcing out the next words. “It’s… that.”

“I know,” he said. “You didn’t get a very easy introduction to flight.”

Nesta looked back toward tiny, distant Velaris. The river estate was a speck on the far side of the Sidra. “Does anyone?”

“No.” Az’s hand shifted lower, to the spot above her waist where it would rest in flight, silently coaxing. “Maybe the Peregryns. Cass thinks they use the feathers they shed to stuff mattresses to land on if they fall.”

Nesta huffed, laughing as much as she was scolding herself, and crossed the long strap of the bag over her torso, making sure it was secure. “This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not. They’ve always been soft,” Azriel said with deliberate obtuseness that seemed almost out of place coming from him. Nesta turned back to him, incredulous, and his lips were twitching.

“You aren’t going to throw us off the edge, are you?” she asked. She had seen the way Rhys and Cassian and even wingless Morrigan tended to jump from the balconies, only catching themselves at what seemed the last moment before they splattered onto the rocks below. She didn’t recall ever seeing Az do the same, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he did.

His face was suddenly serious. “Do you want that?”

“No,” Nesta said, clutching the railing.

“Then no.” He spoke like it was a foregone conclusion. “I can fly us up above the wards to winnow as well as I can winnow during a fall.”

“Okay.”

The hand on her back nudged her. “I can blindfold you, if you’d like.”

“I’ll kill you if you try.” She unclenched her hands, letting his soft, surprised laugh wash over her as she shook out the chill from the frozen stone. “Let’s go. Now.”

Az didn’t waste time with words, sensing that she might just make a break for the ten thousand steps if he gave her the chance. He bent, gathering her neatly in his arms, his grip on her waist and her thigh strong, reassuring. She held her breath and wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he spread his wings and then lost her nerve, burying her face in the collar of his leathers.

With a quick breath from him and one massive wing beat, they were in the air.

True to his word, they did not drop a single inch; Az flew them directly upward through the wards above the House, and then the shadows consumed them. The strange, black realm of shadow should have been more frightening, perhaps, but all Nesta felt was cool relief.

Then, they were on the doorstep of Emerie’s shop, and Azriel was tucking his wings, settling her gently on the ground, and opening the door for her.

And as it turned out, Emerie didn’t need much. She wrestled Nesta’s dress from her bag to gauge her size, showed Nesta a few dresses of thicker, warmer wool than the material the House scrounged up, asked which colors she preferred, and sent her on her way with a sly wink toward Az as a harried Illyrian female hustled into the shop with a handful of children clinging to her navy cloak.

He was still waiting outside, staring coldly at a group of Illyrian males. The almost imperceptible softening of his features at the House had hardened, and his expression was crafted of stone once more; his shadows were back in full force and so thick around his wings that they started to spill over onto Nesta’s shoulders the moment she stepped outside.

“I’ll take you to Cass.”

He held out an arm to her, barely looking in her direction as the proprietor of a tavern across the tiny square propped himself in his window, scowling at them with thick arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Nesta took Azriel’s arm. She recognized that bitterly cold shell better than she cared to admit, and, unlike Cassian, knew better than to try arguing with it.

Az reined in his shadows as they walked, but the darkness still trailed both of them like a cloak, the slight blue glint of his Siphons the only hint of light shining through the gloom.

They set off across the camp efficiently and wordlessly, Azriel guiding Nesta through the thinner patches of mud and slush. Unwilling to allow the barest hint of weakness from either of them to show through, he kept her subtly upright every time one of her boots got stuck, pulling her gently forward until she managed to free herself. He was firm, not flinching even once as she tugged at him, his entire body cast in cold, unyielding iron.

And she was glad for it. Every step they took revealed a new group of Illyrians gawking at them with fear and disgust. Novices whose grips tightened on the weapons they trained with, females who dropped brooms and dishes, young children who seemed to make a shrieking, horrible game of finding the brightest spot in the sun or near the cookfires as Azriel passed that made Nesta’s face flush with rage for him.

She knew little of his youth, but her heart pulled in her chest as she imagined decades of the same treatment during his own training nonetheless.

When they finally passed the training rings, shops, and cabins, some newer but smaller than those in the village, Az guided her through the semi-permanent cluster of tents that housed the novices and warriors on the other side of Windhaven, angling for the largest. The hardened warriors populating the muddy trenches between tents seemed to have some respect for Azriel—or, more likely, some respect for the seven Siphons glowing even more brightly through his shadows now—though they too paused what they were doing to monitor him while he passed. She met the eyes of each male brave enough to meet hers.

When they arrived at the same grand, oversized tent Feyre and Rhysand had claimed during the war, still draped in a black banner bearing the Night Court’s symbol, the shadows around it were already roiling, unrestrained. One speared up through the air to curl around Azriel’s ear and whisper its secrets to him.

He turned to Nesta. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to say anything that she could not already surmise from his dead, dark eyes and carefully impassive face.

She nodded, and he lifted one of the flaps of the tent for her.

Inside, she spotted Cassian bent low over the massive desk with the other lords, weariness written into every line of his body.

“...will examine the grounds tomorrow,” he was saying, his voice tight. “And if there are any signs of tampering, an investigation into their origins can be opened.”

The stocky male she recognized as Devlon seemed to be vaguely amused as he stared down his nose at Cassian.

Beside Devlon, another camp lord’s chest puffed with self-importance. “You know it is forbidden to enter the grounds unless you are a participant.”

Cassian didn’t allow his shoulders or wings to slump, but beneath the immediate rush of throat-tightening frustration that echoed down the tether, Nesta felt a pang of defeat so unlike him that she squared her own shoulders.

His tone was as unyielding as the longsword of Illyrian steel sheathed along the length of his spine. “I am the general of this army, and I’ll do what I damn well please if it means the novices who actually qualified get a—”

He paused, and his eyes lifted to Nesta and Azriel as cold air leaked into the tent, the braziers heating the space flickering.

Still lit from inside with her own anger on Azriel’s behalf, Nesta lifted her chin and strode forward, shadows parting the sea of grizzled elder warriors in front of her. She felt Az’s cool presence a half-step behind her and tightened her grip on the crook of his elbow, slowing her steps until he walked at her side.

Devlon was not the only one to sneer as they passed, but he was the most vocal. “What is she doing here?”

But Cassian only stood as they approached, silently wrapping an arm around her shoulders and bussing a possessive kiss over her cheek as he pulled her close, and she responded by swiping a fond finger over the light scar that cut through his lip.

“You don’t remember?” she asked Devlon, wiggling that finger at him.

Cassian pursed those lips at her—biting back a chuckle, she could tell, not disapproval. “I’m sure you all remember Nesta Archeron, Emissary of the Night Court.”

She set her shoulders and surveyed the gathered males. The last time she had been here, she humiliated Cassian by refusing to train with him as some of these same warriors watched and goaded him; she would do no such thing now. If hindsight granted clarity, then she could clearly see the hurt, rejection, and uncertainty that had been written on his face that day, as if he felt small because he hadn’t fully known what to do with her.

But he was hers now. Hers, in ways she hadn’t dared to entertain during the war or afterward.

And Nesta Archeron would allow no one she loved to bear the judgment of these pathetic, small males without the threat of her wrath, especially not when he was doing the same for her by embracing her in front of them after that painfully public rejection all those months ago.

Almost as if he could tell what she was thinking, Cassian swiped a fond, forgiving hand down the back of her cloak, where wings might be if she were Illyrian.

Toward the back of the tent, someone scoffed.

“And him?” the self-important lord asked. Derision was clear in his voice, though it still shook as he pointed at the mass of shadow beside Nesta. “We hardly need the shadowsinger—”

“The High Lord is concerned that the negligence that has led to this discussion was deliberate,” Azriel said from his sanctuary of darkness, his voice smooth and midnight-chilled, cutting through the tent with as much ease as Truth-Teller through flesh and bone. Nesta wasn’t sure how she knew Azriel hadn't spoken to Rhysand lately, but she could taste the lie on her tongue like a chip of melting ice.

Lies or not, the promise of violence in Azriel’s voice silenced the lords. An uneasy shift went through the tent, eyes darting toward the shadowy corners—just like the children from the camp outside.

When their attention turned back toward Cassian, his teeth were bared. “Who better to lead an investigation into your claims?”

A vein throbbed in Devlon’s forehead.

“As I said the last time she was here,” Devlon finally said, his hard eyes skipping over Cassian and Azriel both and narrowing on Nesta in her full set of leathers beneath her cloak. “The witch stays away from the females and the children, and anything she touches, we bury. Emissary or not.”

Azriel’s arm jerked beneath Nesta’s hand, and she felt his muscles shift beneath his leathers as his fists clenched, cobalt light bouncing off the coarse, waxed canvas of the inner lining of the tent as his Siphons glimmered to life.

Cassian’s arm rose behind her, and she heard the hardened leather of the pauldron covering Azriel’s shoulder creak as he clamped his hand down onto it. Nesta held tight too, digging her fingers into the crook of his elbow to keep him by her side.

But what she didn’t bother to do was to tamp down the cold flame of her own temper; she let it burn and burn, the way she hadn’t had the energy to do the last time she visited this camp, until the tent cooled so much that frost crackled on the steel poles and pegs keeping it aloft.

She didn’t try to contain the calamitous, overwhelming pain beneath her breast as the barb hit its mark, but converted it into fuel for her fire instead. She thought of the horrendous little children outside who were being taught to mock and fear Azriel by fathers like Devlon. Thought of the two winged children from the village playing and laughing in the snow. Thought of Feyre and her own winged babe and the precious little time her youngest sister might have left.

Devlon’s eyes widened, and the rest of the camp lords took a step back, their wings flaring uncomfortably as they glanced between Nesta and the two seven-Siphon warriors on either side of her.

And, with a cruel grin, she noticed that these lords, the most powerful men in Illyria, only had one or two Siphons apiece.

One toward the back—younger, his hair a deep, inky black instead of the salt-and-pepper of the others, with a jagged scar cutting through his cheek as if he’d been impaled on something face-first—even had the nerve to draw his sword. Nesta turned her fiery gaze on him.

And then she softened her grin to a bland, ladylike smile.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said pleasantly. Lifted her pointer finger and traced an idle line across the wooden desk in front of her, pointing at each lord who had disrespected Cassian and Azriel—and herself—in turn. Ice burned a clean black line that followed her path into the table, and Nesta had to channel every rare moment of true calm she had ever known to keep from showing the shocked jolt of surprise she felt at the sight of it.

“I just arrived from training elsewhere, as a matter of fact,” she heard herself say. “The Spymaster and I were simply coming to coordinate with the General before we set to work.”

“With pleasure, Emissary.” Cassian’s eyes were very carefully on her face. He lifted a hand to guide her back through the tent, tossing a grin full of savage promise over his shoulder as they left. “I’ll be back in five minutes to go over the eliminated Qualifiers, and if you are not here at that time, I will consider it an admission of guilt.”

———

Azriel could not contain himself as they exited the tent; he shook Nesta’s elegant hand off of his elbow and instead placed the palm of his own scarred, tainted hand on the small of her back over her bride’s cloak—all to get a rise from the assembled camp lords. He would rather flay them, gut them, slowly and sweetly, the pompous, small-minded, hateful bastards… but he was already in hot water with Rhysand, and he knew that pouring another boiling bucket into his scalding bath simply wouldn’t be worth it.

And, he reminded himself, Cassian had promised to thoroughly piss them off on his behalf this morning.

Among other things.

The grim satisfaction he felt as the shadows relayed the lords’ murmurs of shock and horror as he and Cassian flanked a Made female was payment enough. In her leathers, still rumpled from training, radiating the chill of Death itself and the scent of their general... Azriel couldn’t imagine anything they might fear more. Once they left the tent, more whispers followed them to the edge of the camp, riling his shadows until they hissed and writhed like vipers.

Cassian steered them to a steep, barren cliff at the edge of Windhaven where no one else might overhear them.

The sight of the cliff and the harsh, bitter wind rushing up from below made Nesta shift nervously on the balls of her feet, despite the frigid silver embers burning down in her own eyes. Azriel shifted his hand from her back to her waist again, palm tingling, and tightened his grip on her.

“Never a quiet day with you two,” Cassian crooned, playful and pleased and utterly unfazed by the touch.

He bent to give Nesta a kiss. He was close enough that a lock of his hair whipped up by the breeze tangled in the scales of Azriel’s armor and kept his lips on Nesta’s, sweet and coaxing, until the unnatural, unholy cold surrounding them was replaced by Windhaven’s mundane chill.

Azriel was tempted to follow him down, to curl his hand in that dark, wild hair and dedicate the taut, furious energy in his limbs to devouring them both.

When he finally broke away from his mate, Cassian chuckled under his breath as he examined them. He raised a brow at Nesta’s leathers—the sight of a female wearing them alone would be enough to rile up any male here, one way or another. Azriel had also thought it amusing back at the House, but the camp lords had soured his entertainment at their expense, as usual.

Then he turned his wary gaze to Azriel.

“Alright, Az?” His voice was tender, and Azriel locked his muscles to keep from bristling.

He only managed to pass two words through his gritted teeth in response. “They overstep.”

His attention slid back to the tent looming over all the others in the middle of the encampment of its own volition as fresh rage rose in his throat. To deny Nesta the use of their training rings and equipment was well within their rights—and it meant little to him when he knew the House could provide a better, safer space for her to train.

But to attempt to reject her from Cassian’s people completely, to keep her separate from the females and children like she was a threat, a disease…

His hands itched and burned as his mind resurrected the memory of another arrogant, domineering camp lord just like them.

He felt Nesta’s eyes on him, his shadows whispering curious, curious into his ear. His jaw locked; he couldn’t answer her unasked questions even if he wanted to.

Which he didn’t.

And Cass, Mother bless him, knew it.

“The camp lords only have power over their legions,” he told his mate, redirecting that sharp prickle of her keen attention to himself. “The soldiers, the camp mothers, the families that follow along on campaigns. Gives them authority over most living in the Steppes, some more than others—” Cassian’s pointed glance at him burned. “—but they can’t enforce a ban like that outside their camp, sweetheart.”

Nesta tilted her head, looking between them just once, and then took mercy on him. “Good, because Emerie will be expecting payment for a few winter dresses tomorrow morning anyway.”

This time, Azriel didn’t resist the temptation to give Nesta a once-over that mirrored the long, heated look Cassian gave her. Even beneath the cloak, every generous dip and curve was made visible by her leathers; her arms, crossed as they were over her chest against the chill, only pushed up her already ample breasts.

He let the memory of the way they flushed and heaved with her breath as she came around his fingers with a cry overwrite the ancient fire burning them.

To see her in a dress like that again, bits of those leathers added atop it, the skirt easy enough to push aside and slip a hand or a head beneath…

He made a mental adjustment to his plan for the evening as the eager shadow from the training ring locked around Nesta’s wrist once more.

“We’re the only ones on the mountain, Nes. I’m sure Az won’t mind if you forget the dresses,” Cassian said, stealing another kiss. His voice was dark with desire. “I won’t.”

“I’ll freeze before breakfast, Cass.” Nesta’s voice was a terribly pitched sing-song that told Azriel she was mocking some other conversation they’d already had.

“Shame.” Cassian shrugged, but he looked genuinely put-out beneath his grin. “But if you insist…”

“I do.” Nesta reached up and pulled the same lock of his hair that had gotten caught in Azriel’s armor.

“Always happy to support her shop,” Cassian sighed obligingly. He straightened then, rustling some blood back into his wings and glancing back toward the camp, serious once more. “Alright, my five minutes are up, and I’d rather not hunt down any errant assholes to make an example of before noon. Az, can you fly Nesta to the cabin? There should be some food in the kitchen for lunch, and I can bring supplies for dinner.”

Azriel looked to Nesta for his answer. The corners of her lips were upturned, satisfaction clear on her face as her pale eyes stared up at him, the ghostly pallor of fright replaced with rosy, cold-flushed cheeks. Nevertheless, her eyes were still wide, and he could tell was doing her best to keep her eyes on him instead of taking a sidelong glance at the cliff beside them. The shadow curled lazily in the plush fur collar of her cloak ticked in time with her heartbeat—too fast.

Azriel let go of her waist and pretended to reach for the scrap of black cotton in the pocket hidden beneath Truth-Teller’s sheathed blade.

“The offer to blindfold you still stands,” he told her, not at all serious

“As does mine to kill you,” Nesta said, clasping his wrist in one shaking hand as Cassian’s brows shot up. “The flight is only, what, ten minutes? Fifteen?”

“Five. I can winnow us closer.”

“Show off,” Cassian grumbled, but Azriel saw him adjusting himself, his eyes on their hands. “I can tell them to go fuck themselves and fly you home myself, Nes.”

“No,” Nesta said. She set her expression, her eyes steely, her mouth a sharp, resolute line that Azriel wanted to taste. “Az flew me here. He can fly me there.”

Azriel squeezed her hand. “I can.”

“See?” Neither he nor Cassian pointed out that her voice trembled, and Azriel committed himself to making this the smoothest flight he had ever taken as he bent, tapping a Siphon to activate his shield and gathering Nesta’s warm, soft body into his arms once more.

Cassian waited until they were settled to press one more kiss to her lips and bump a wing against his shoulder in the same alarming way that always sent a concerned bolt of heat through Azriel. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Azriel rolled his eyes even as his body reacted and tightened his grip on Nesta, raising his chin so she could tuck her face into his neck. He did his best to focus on the gray sky and the brutal cold as he leapt—directly upward—into the air.

#nessian #nezriel #nessriel #cazriel #?#a court of thorns and roses fic #a court of silver flames fic #nesta archeron #azriel shadowsinger #cassian #gwyneth berdara #emerie #the valkyries #my fics #viciousnessintelligencefic #sorry i forgot to upload these to tumblr for ages!!!#head to ao3 for more and the most up-to-date edits

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