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

Nesta remained prone, limbs loose, eyes closed, the sunlight making her hair, her sweaty skin, shine. He couldn’t stop the image from rising: of her lying in his bed like this, sated, her body limp with pleasure.

He swallowed hard. She cracked open an eye, sitting up slowly, and took the water he extended. Chugged it, realized how thirsty she was, and eased to her feet. He watched as she aimed for the ewer, filling her glass and draining it twice more before she finally set it down.

“You never told me what you wanted for the second hour of training,” he said eventually.

She looked over a shoulder. Her skin was rosy in a way he hadn’t seen for a long, long time, her eyes bright. The breathing, she’d said, had helped her. Settled her. Looking at the slight change on her face, he believed it.

What would happen when the high wore off remained to be seen. Small steps, he assured himself. Small, small steps.

Nesta said, “The second hour was on the house.”

She didn’t smile, didn’t so much as wink, but Cassian grinned. “Generous of you.”

She rolled her eyes, but without her usual venom. “I have to change before I go to the library.”

As Nesta entered the archway, the gloom of the stairwell beyond it, Cassian blurted, “I didn’t mean what I said last night—about everyone hating you.”

She halted, her blue-gray eyes frosting. “It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He dared one step closer. “You’re here because we don’t hate you.” He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted you to know that. That we don’t—that I don’t hate you.”

She weighed whatever the hell lay in his stare. Likely more than was wise to let her see. But she said quietly, “And I have never hated you, Cassian.”

With that, she walked through the doorway into the House, as if she hadn’t hit him right in the gut, first with the words, then by using his name.

It wasn’t until she’d vanished down the stairs that he released the breath he’d been holding.





CHAPTER

13

She was starving. It was the only thought that occupied Nesta as she shelved book after book. That, and how sore her body was. Her thighs burned with each foot she walked up and down the ramp of the library, her arms unbearably stiff with each book she lifted to its resting place.

That much soreness, just from stretches and balance exercises. She didn’t want to consider what a workout like the ones she’d seen Cassian go through would do to her.

She was pathetic for being so weak. Pathetic for now being unable to walk so much as a step without grimacing.

“Cooldown, my ass,” she grumbled, heaving a tome into her hands. She peered at the title and groaned. It belonged on the other side of this level—a good five-minute walk across the central atrium and down the endless hall. Her throbbing legs might very well give out halfway there.

Her stomach gurgled. “I’ll deal with you later,” she told the book, and scanned the other titles remaining in her cart. None, fortunately or unfortunately, needed to be shelved in the section that book belonged in. To lug the cart all the way over there would be exhausting—better to just carry the tome, even if it was an essentially meaningless trip to deposit one book.

Not that she had anything better to do with her time. Her day. Her life.

Whatever clarity she’d felt in the training ring levels and levels above fogged up again. Whatever calm and quiet she’d managed to capture in her head had dissipated like smoke. Only moving would keep it at bay.

Nesta found the next shelf required—quite a ways above her head, with no stool in sight. She rose onto her toes, legs shrieking in protest, but it was too high. Nesta was on the taller side for a female, standing a good two inches above Feyre, but this shelf was out of reach. Grunting, she attempted to shelve the book with her fingertips, arms straining.

“Oh, good. It’s you,” a familiar female voice said from down the row. Nesta pivoted to discover Gwyn striding swiftly toward her, arms laden with books and coppery hair shimmering in the dim light.

Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as she lowered herself fully onto her feet.

Gwyn angled her head, as if finally realizing what she’d been doing. “Can’t you use magic to put it up on the shelf?”

“No.” The word was cool and sullen.

Gwyn’s brows twitched toward each other. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been shelving everything by hand?”

“How else would I do it?”

Gwyn’s teal eyes narrowed. “You have power, though, don’t you?”

“It’s none of your concern.” It was no one’s concern. She had none of the High Fae’s usual gifts. Her power—that thing—was utterly alien. Grotesque.

But Gwyn shrugged. “Very well.” She dumped her books right into Nesta’s arms. “These can go back.”

Nesta staggered under the books’ weight and glared.

Gwyn ignored the look, instead glancing around before lowering her voice. “Have you seen volume seven of Lavinia’s The Great War?”

Nesta scanned her memory. “No. I haven’t come across that one.”

Gwyn frowned. “It’s not on its shelf.”

“So someone else has it.”