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

Rhys’s mouth curled in a cruel half smile, the stars winking out in his eyes. “I’m sure he will.”

There was no pretending tonight: Rhys truly was the High Lord of the Court of Nightmares while Feyre and their babe were here. He’d slaughter anyone who threatened them. And enjoy it.

Rhys said to no one in particular, “Music.”

An orchestra hidden in a screened-in mezzanine began playing.

Feyre raised her voice and said, “Go—eat.” The crowd undulated as people aimed for the tables.

Only Eris and Keir remained before them. Neither spared Mor so much as a glance, though she smirked down at them, her red dress like a flame in the gloom of the hall.

Cassian, in his black armor, felt more like the beasts carved into the towering pillars beneath this mountain. He’d brushed his hair and left it loose, and that had been the extent of his grooming for tonight. He’d spent most of his time thinking about how he’d like to peel Eris’s skin off in tiny strips, how Rhys and Feyre had crossed a line by asking this of Nesta. He loved them both, but they could have found another way to ensure Eris’s allegiance. Not that Cassian had come up with a better alternative.

At least Briallyn and Koschei had not yet acted further. Though he had no doubt they’d be making their next move soon.

Feyre commanded the crowd, her voice like thunder at midnight, “Dance.”

People paired off and fell seamlessly into the music. Keir went with them this time.

“Before you join the merriment, Eris,” Rhys drawled, a long black box appearing in his hands, “I’d like to present you with your Solstice gift.”

Cassian kept his face blank. Rhys had gotten the bastard a gift?

Rhys floated the box over to Eris on a night-kissed wind. Let enough of that wind remain, wrapping behind Eris, for Cassian to know it blocked him from sight. From Keir’s sight, specifically.

Eris lifted his brows, flipping open the carved lid. He stiffened, voice going low. “What is this?”

“A present,” Rhys said, and Cassian caught a glimpse of a familiar hilt in the box.

The dagger Nesta had Made. Cassian refrained from whirling on Rhys and Feyre, demanding to know what the hell they were thinking.

Eris sucked in a breath. Feyre said, “You can sense its power.”

“There’s flame in it,” Eris said, not touching the dagger. As if his own magic warned him. He shut the lid, face slightly pale. “Why give this to me?”

“You’re our ally,” Feyre said, a hand resting on her belly. “You face enemies that exist outside of the usual rules of magic. It seemed only fair to give you a weapon that operates outside those rules, too.”

“This is truly Made, then.”

Cassian braced himself for the truth, the damning, dangerous truth to be revealed about Nesta. But Rhys said, “From my personal collection. A family heirloom.”

“You possessed a Made item and kept it hidden all these years? During the war?”

“Don’t take our generosity for granted,” Feyre warned Eris quietly.

Eris stilled, but nodded. He extended the box back to Rhys. “I’ll leave it in your keeping while I dance, then.” He added with what Cassian could have sworn was sincerity, “Thank you.”

Feyre nodded as Rhys took the box and set it beside his throne. “Use it well.” She smiled softly at Eris. “Ordinarily I would ask you to dance, but my condition has left me unwell enough that I worry about what so much spinning would do to my stomach.” It was the truth. Feyre had bolted from dinner three nights ago to find the nearest toilet. Now she made a show of looking between her two sisters. Elain gave a passable impression of appearing interested. Nesta just looked bored. Like they hadn’t just given away the dagger she’d Made.

Perhaps it was because Nesta’s eyes had drifted toward the dancing, shimmering throng. As if she couldn’t help herself when the music swelled. She seemed to be half-listening. Maybe music meant more to her than the dagger—more than magic and power.

Feyre noted the direction of Nesta’s stare. “My oldest sister shall take my place.”

Nesta barely glanced to Eris, who pulled his assessing gaze from Elain to stare at the eldest Archeron sister with a mix of wariness and intent that set Cassian’s jaw grinding. Or it would have been grinding, if he hadn’t mastered himself in time to keep his face blank as Nesta began walking toward Eris.

Eris offered an arm, and Nesta took it, her face neutral, her chin high, each step gliding. They halted at the edge of the dance floor, pulling apart to face each other.

Others watched from the sidelines as the dance finished and the introductory strains of the next began, a harp strumming high and sweet. Eris extended a hand, a half smile on his mouth.

As if those harp strings wrapped around Nesta’s arm, she raised it, and placed her hand in his precisely as the last, swift pluck of the harp sounded.

Percussion and horns blasted; low stringed instruments started a rushing stroke of music. A summons to the dance in a countdown to movement. Cassian reminded himself to breathe as Eris slid his broad hand over Nesta’s waist, tucking her in close. She lifted her chin, looking up into his face as a deep-bellied drum thumped.

And as the violins began their sweeping song, a beckoning back-and-forth, Nesta moved as if her very breath were timed to the music. Eris went with her, and it was clear that he knew the dance’s nuances and exact notes, but Nesta …