A Court of Frost and Starlight (A Court of Thorns and Roses #3.1) by Sarah J. Maas

And Amren, in her usual gray—cross-legged in the Illyrian armchair by the roaring hearth, those uptilted silver eyes sweeping over Nesta with distaste. So much had changed between her and the small lady, perhaps more than any other relationship.

Nesta didn’t let herself think about that argument at the end-of-summer party on the river barge. Or the silence between her and Amren since then.

Feyre, at least, smiled. “I heard you had quite the night.”

Nesta merely glanced between where Cassian took a seat in the armchair across from Amren, the empty spot on the couch beside Feyre, and where Rhys stood by the hearth.

In far more formal clothes than he usually wore.

The High Lord’s clothes.

Even if the High Lady of the Night Court was in attire fit for lounging on the sunny autumn day around them.

Nesta kept her spine straight, her chin high, hating that they all stared at her as she sat on the couch beside her sister. Hating that Rhys and Amren undoubtedly noted the filthy shoes, scented her old clothes, and probably still smelled that male on her.

“You look horrible,” Amren said.

Nesta wasn’t stupid enough to glare.

So she simply ignored her.

“Though it’s hard to look good,” Amren went on, “when you’re out until the darkest hours of the night, drinking yourself stupid and fucking anything that comes your way.”

Feyre whipped her head to the High Lord’s Second. But Rhysand looked inclined to agree with Amren.

Cassian, at least, kept his mouth shut, and before Feyre could say anything to confirm or deny it, Nesta beat them to it and said, “I wasn’t aware that my physical looks were under your jurisdiction.”

Cassian loosed a breath that sounded like a warning.

Amren’s silver eyes glowed, a small remnant of the terrible power she’d once wielded. “They are when you spend that many of our gold marks on wine and garbage.”

Perhaps she had pushed them too far with last night’s tab. Interesting.

Nesta looked to Feyre, who was wincing on the other end of the couch. “So you made me come to you for a scolding?”

Feyre’s eyes—the eyes they both shared—seemed to soften slightly. “No. It’s not a scolding.” She cut a sharp glance at Rhys, still icily silent against the mantel, and then to Amren, seething in her chair. “Think of this as a … discussion.”

“I don’t see how my life is any of your concern, or up for any sort of discussion,” Nesta bit out, and shot to her feet.

“Sit down,” Rhys snarled.

And the raw command in that voice, the utter dominance and power …

Nesta froze, fighting it, hating that Fae part of her that bowed to such things. Cassian leaned forward in his chair, as if he’d leap between them.

But Nesta held Rhysand’s lethal gaze. Threw every ounce of defiance she could into it, even as his order held her still. Made her knees want to bend, to sit.

Rhys said too quietly, “You are going to sit. You are going to listen.”

She let out a low laugh. “You’re not my High Lord. You don’t give me orders.”

But she knew how powerful he was. Had seen it, felt it. Still trembled to be near him. The most powerful High Lord in history.

Rhys scented that fear. She knew it from the second one side of his mouth curled up in a cruel smile.

“That’s enough,” Feyre said, more to Rhys than her. Then indeed snapped at her mate, “I told you to keep out of it.”

He dragged those star-flecked eyes to Feyre, and it was all Nesta could do to keep from collapsing onto the couch as her knees gave out.

Feyre angled her head at her mate, nostrils flaring. “You can either leave,” she hissed at him, “or you can stay and keep your mouth shut.”

Rhys just crossed his arms. But said nothing.

“You too,” Feyre spat in Amren’s direction.

The little female harrumphed and nestled back in her chair.

Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as Feyre twisted to face her. Her sister swallowed. “We need to make some changes, Nesta,” Feyre said hoarsely. “You do—and we do.”

They were kicking her out. Throwing her into the wild, perhaps to go back to the human lands—

“I’ll take the blame,” Feyre went on, “for things getting this far, and getting this bad. After the war, with everything else that was going on, it … you … I should have been there to help you, but I wasn’t, and I am ready to admit that this is partially my fault.”

“That what is your fault,” Nesta demanded.

“You,” Cassian said from the armchair to her left. “This bullshit behavior.”

Her spine locked up, fire boiled in her veins at the insult, the arrogance—

“I understand how you’re feeling,” Feyre cut in.

“You know nothing about how I’m feeling,” Nesta snapped.

“It’s time for some changes.” Feyre plowed ahead. “Starting now.”

“Keep your self-righteous do-gooder nonsense out of my life.”

“You don’t have a life,” Feyre retorted. “You have quite the opposite. And I’m not going to sit by and watch you destroy yourself for another moment.”

“Oh?”

Rhys tensed at the sneer, but said nothing, as he’d promised.