A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

She told herself it didn’t matter that he never stayed in her bed afterward to hold her. She wondered when he’d grow tired of it—of her. Surely he’d get bored and move on. Even if he feasted on her each night as if he were starving. Gripped her thighs in his powerful hands and licked and suckled at her until she writhed. Sometimes she straddled his face, hands clenching the headboard, and rode his tongue until she came on it. Sometimes it was her tongue on him, around him, and she swallowed down every drop he spilled into her mouth. Sometimes he spilled on her chest, her stomach, her back, and she came at the first splash of him on her skin.

She couldn’t imagine tiring of him. Having him over and over only made her need grow.

She’d been practicing dances with Morrigan in the House study twice a week, the two of them barely swapping more than a few words as Nesta learned waltz after waltz, some particular to the Hewn City, others to the Autumn Court, others to the Fae in general.

Rhys had given them the Veritas orb so Morrigan might share with Nesta her memories of the dances—and the music that accompanied them.

Nesta had watched the steps, the balls and parties that were sometimes full of light and others that had darkness and sorrow around the edges. Morrigan had offered no explanation beyond comments about a dancer’s technique.

The music, though … It was brilliant. So full of life and motion that she always found herself wishing she had another hour or two of lessons just to hear it again and again and again.

No one ever showed up to watch them, not even Cassian. If Morrigan reported on their progress, she never let on.

Now, with Winter Solstice three days away, Morrigan was wrapping up her lesson as snow drifted past the wall of windows. She asked Nesta suddenly, “What are you wearing to the ball, anyway?”

Nesta, leaning against the worktable to catch her breath and listening to the strains of the violin through the Veritas orb’s shimmering mirage, shrugged. “One of my dresses.”

“Oh, no.” Sweat beaded on Morrigan’s brow, and her braided golden hair curled slightly with the moisture. “Eris …” She searched for the words. “He’s all about appearances. You have to wear the right thing.”

Nesta considered what Morrigan usually wore, and frowned. “I can’t wear something that revealing.” Both Morrigan and Feyre opted for less is more when it came to their Hewn City attire. Nesta had no issues with nudity before her bedroom partners, but in public … The human had not been ripped from her entirely.

“I’ll look around.” Morrigan pushed off the windowsill. “See what we have.”

“Thank you, Morrigan.”

It was the first normal conversation they’d had. The first time Nesta had even uttered those words to Morrigan. Ever said her name.

Morrigan blinked, realizing it, too. “It’s just Mor, you know. Amren is the only person in this court who calls me Morrigan, and that’s because she’s a cranky old bastard.”

Nesta’s lips twitched upward. “Very well, then.” She added, trying it out, “Mor.”

The clock chimed one, and Nesta began walking out the door, leaving the orb and its soaring music where it lay on the desk. “I need to head to the library.” She was already going to be late, but the music had been so enthralling she hadn’t wanted to stop.

“So do I, actually,” Morrigan—Mor—said, and they fell into step in the hall. “The work I’m doing for Rhys and Feyre in Vallahan requires some research, and Clotho has been looking into it for me.”

“Ah.”

Stilted silence fell as they strode down the stairs, then into another hall.

The towering doors to the library appeared before Nesta asked, “Does it bother you that I’ll be dancing with Eris?”

Mor considered. “No. Because I know you’re going to make him crawl before the end of it.”

It wasn’t a compliment. Not really.

They found Clotho at her usual desk. She rose, greeting Mor with an embrace that left Nesta speechless.

“My old friend,” Mor said, her face lit with warmth. The face she showed everyone in this court except for Nesta. And those in the Hewn City.

Shame tightened Nesta’s gut. But she said nothing as Clotho’s enchanted pen and paper wrote, You look well, Mor.

“Eh.” Mor lifted a shoulder. “Nesta’s been running me ragged with dancing lessons, but I’ve been fine.”

I found the books you requested. Clotho placed a crooked hand atop a pile of books on her desk.

Nesta took that as her cue to leave, and nodded to the females as they fell into a discussion about the material. Gwyn was waiting a level below, watching them—with Emerie in the stacks behind her.

“What are you doing here?” Nesta asked Emerie. She’d still been in the training ring when Nesta had hurried off to her dancing lesson. But that had been hours ago.

“I wanted to see where you two work,” Emerie said, eyes upon Clotho and Mor a level above. She sighed, nodding toward Mor. “I always forget how beautiful she is. “She never comes to Windhaven these days.” Nesta could have sworn pink stole over Emerie’s brown cheeks.

Indeed, in the library’s deep gloom, Mor shone like a ray of sunshine. Even the darkness at its bottom seemed to slither away.

“I was showing Emerie the wonders of Merrill’s office while she’s off at a meeting,” Gwyn said. “I’ve got to go work, but I thought you could bring her around while you shelve.” Gwyn threw her a wry glance. “And dance.”