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

She didn’t know him, but she recognized that gleam in his eye. The predatory intent and cruel amusement. Knew what it meant when his stare dipped to her nightgown, her breasts peaked against the frigid cold, her bare legs.

Fear burned like acid through her entire body.

None of the others stirred. At least she had that. But this male …

He glanced to his left—just for a blink. Nesta followed his stare, and her breath caught. Embedded in the trunk of a tree, gleaming faintly, was a knife.

Impossible. Having weapons in the Blood Rite went against its rules. Had the male known it would be there, or had he just spied it before she had?

It didn’t matter. It only mattered that the knife existed. And it was the sole weapon in sight.

She could run. Let him lunge at the knife and flee in the opposite direction and pray he didn’t follow.

Or she could go for the blade. Beat him to it and then … she didn’t know what she’d do then. But she stood in a field of sleeping warriors who would all soon awaken, and if they found her weaponless, defenseless—

Nesta ran.



Cassian couldn’t breathe.

Hadn’t been able to breathe or speak for long minutes now. His family had arrived, and they all surrounded him in the wrecked bedroom of Emerie’s house. They were speaking, Azriel with some urgency, but Cassian didn’t hear him, heard nothing but the roaring in his head before he said to no one in particular, “I’m going after them.”

Silence fell, and he turned to find them all staring at him, pale and wide-eyed.

Cassian tapped the Siphons on the backs of his hands, and his remaining Siphons appeared at his shoulders, knees, and chest. He nodded to Rhys. “Winnow me to her. Az, you find Emerie and Gwyn.”

Rhys didn’t move an inch. “You know the laws, Cass.”

“Fuck the laws.”

“What laws?” Feyre demanded.

“Tell her,” Rhys ordered him, night swirling around his wings. Cassian bristled. “Tell her, Cassian.”

The asshole had used that inherent dominance on him. Cassian gritted out, “Anyone who pulls a warrior from the Blood Rite will be hunted down and executed. Along with the warrior who is dishonorably removed from the Rite.”

Feyre rubbed at her face. “So Nesta, Emerie, and Gwyn have to stay in the Rite.”

“Even I can’t break those rules,” Rhys said, a shade softer. “No matter how much I might want to,” he added, clasping Cassian’s shoulder.

Cassian’s stomach turned over. Nesta and her friends—his friends—were in the Rite. And he could do nothing to interfere, not without damning them all. His hands shook. “So, what—we just sit on our asses for a week and wait?” The idea was abhorrent.

Feyre gripped his trembling fingers, squeezing tight. “Did you— Cassian, weren’t you listening at all when we got here?”

No. He’d barely heard anything.

Azriel said tightly, “My spies got word that Eris has been captured by Briallyn. She sent his remaining soldiers after him while he was out hunting with his hounds. They grabbed him and somehow, they were all winnowed back to her palace. I’m guessing using Koschei’s power.”

“I don’t care.” Cassian aimed for the doorway. Even if … Fuck. Hadn’t he been the one to tell Rhys not to go after those soldiers? To leave them be? He was a fool. He’d left an armed enemy in his blind spot and forgotten about it. But Eris could rot for all he cared.

Az said, “We have to get him out.”

Cassian drew up short. “We?”

Rhys stepped up next to Azriel, Feyre beside him. A formidable wall. “We can’t go,” Feyre said, nodding to Rhys. It needed no explanation: with the babe less than two months away, Feyre wasn’t risking anything. But Rhys …

Cassian challenged his High Lord, “You can be in and out in an hour.”

“I can’t go.” Midnight storms swirled in Rhys’s eyes.

“Yes, you fucking can,” Cassian said, rage rising like a tidal wave that would sweep away all in its path. “You—”

“I can’t.”

It was agony—pure, undiluted agony that filled Rhys’s face. And fear. Feyre slipped her tattooed fingers through Rhys’s.

Amren asked sharply, “Why?”

Rhys stared at the tattoo on Feyre’s fingers, interlaced with his. His throat bobbed. Feyre answered for him. “We made a bargain. After the war. To … only leave this world together.”

Amren began massaging her temples, muttering a prayer for sanity.

Azriel asked, “You made a bargain to die together?”

“Fools,” Amren hissed. “Romantic, idealistic fools.” Rhys turned bleak eyes to her.

Cassian couldn’t get a breath down. Az stood still as a statue.

“If Rhys dies,” Feyre said thickly, fear bright in her own eyes, “I die.” Her fingers grazed her swollen belly. The babe would die, too.

“And if you die, Feyre,” Azriel said softly, “then Rhys dies.”

The words rang hollow and cold like a death knell. If Feyre didn’t survive the labor …

Cassian’s knees threatened to buckle. Rhy’s face was tight with pleading and pain. “I never thought it’d turn out like this,” Rhys said quietly.