For a long moment, Elain’s face did not shift, but those eyes seemed to focus a bit more. “Lucien,” she said at last, and he clenched his teacup to keep from shuddering at the sound of his name on her mouth. “From my sister’s stories. Her friend.”
“Yes.”
But Elain blinked slowly. “You were in Hybern.”
“Yes.” It was all he could say.
“You betrayed us.”
He wished she’d shoved him out the window behind her. “It—it was a mistake.”
Her eyes went frank and cold. “I was to be married in a few days.”
He fought against the bristling rage, the irrational urge to find the male who’d claimed her and shred him apart. The words were a rasp as he instead said, “I know. I’m sorry.”
She did not love him, want him, need him. Another male’s bride.
A mortal man’s wife. Or she would have been.
She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly.
He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth.
“When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?”
He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.”
Her too-thin shoulders seemed to curve inward. “No one ever does. No one ever looked—not really.” A bramble of words. Her voice strained to a whisper. “He did. He saw me. He will not now.”
Her thumb brushed the iron ring on her finger.
Another male’s ring, another marker that she was claimed—
It was enough. I had listened enough, learned enough. I pulled out of Lucien’s mind.
Nesta was gaping at me, even as her face had leeched of color at every word uttered between them. “Have you ever gone into my—”
“No,” I rasped.
How she knew what I had done, I didn’t want to ask. Not as I dropped the shield around us and headed for the sitting area.
Lucien, no doubt having heard our steps, was flushed as he glanced between me and Nesta. No inkling whatsoever that I’d slid into his mind. Rifled through it like a bandit in the night. I shoved down the mild nausea.
My eldest sister merely said to him, “Get out.”
I flashed Nesta a glare, but Lucien rose. “I came for a book.”
“Well, find one and leave.”
Elain only stared out the window, unaware—or uncaring.
Lucien didn’t head for the stacks. He just went to the open doors. He paused right between them and said to me, to Nesta, “She needs fresh air.”
“We’ll judge what she needs.”
I could have sworn his ruby hair gleamed like molten metal as his temper rose. But it faded, his russet eye fixing on me. “Take her to the sea. Take her to some garden. But get her out of this house for an hour or two.”
Then he walked away.
I looked at my two sisters. Cloistered up here, high above the world.
“You’re moving into the town house right now,” I said to them. To Lucien, who paused in the dim hallway outside.
Nesta, to my shock, did not object.
Neither did Rhys when I sent my order down the bond, asking him, Cassian, and Azriel to help move them. No, my mate just promised to assign two bedrooms to my sisters down the hall, on the other side of the stairs. And a third for Lucien—on our side of the hall. Well away from Elain’s.
Thirty minutes later, Azriel carried Elain down, my sister silent and unresponsive in his arms.
Nesta had looked ready to walk off the balcony rather than let Cassian, already dressed and armed for guarding the town house tonight, hold her, so I nudged her toward Rhys, pushed Lucien toward Cassian, and flew myself back.
Or tried to—again. I soared for about half a minute, savoring the cleansing scream of the wind, before my wings wobbled, my back strained, and the fall became unbearably deadly. I winnowed the rest of the way to the town house, and adjusted vases and figurines in the sitting room while waiting for them.
Azriel arrived first, no shadows to be seen, my sister a pale, golden mass in his arms. He, too, wore his Illyrian armor, Elain’s golden-brown hair snagging in some of the black scales across his chest and shoulders.
He set her down gently on the foyer carpet, having carried her in through the front door.
Elain peered up at his patient, solemn face.
Azriel smiled faintly. “Would you like me to show you the garden?”
She seemed so small before him, so fragile compared to the scales of his fighting leathers, the breadth of his shoulders. The wings peeking over them.
But Elain did not balk from him, did not shy away as she nodded—just once.
Azriel, graceful as any courtier, offered her an arm. I couldn’t tell if she was looking at his blue Siphon or at his scarred skin beneath as she breathed, “Beautiful.”
Color bloomed high on Azriel’s golden-brown cheeks, but he inclined his head in thanks and led my sister toward the back doors into the garden, sunlight bathing them.
A moment later, Nesta was stomping through the front door, her face a remarkable shade of green. “I need—a toilet.”
I met Rhys’s stare as he prowled in behind her, hands in his pockets. What did you do?
His brows shot up. But I wordlessly pointed Nesta toward the powder room beneath the stairs, and she vanished, slamming the door behind her.
Me? Rhys leaned against the bottom post of the banister. She complained that I was flying deliberately slow. So I went fast.
Cassian and Lucien appeared, neither looking at the other. But Lucien’s attention went right to the hallway toward the back, his nostrils flaring as he scented Elain’s direction. And who she’d gone with.
A low snarl slipped out of him—
“Relax,” Rhys said. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.”
Lucien cut him a glare.
Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?”
“I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ”
Nesta vomited again—then silence.
Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.”
The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned.
There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed.
Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame.
She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys.
Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered.
“Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?”
Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity.
He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.”
She blinked slowly.
But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be.