Injuries

…

Nesta sat where the healer had told her to rest, on one of the many lavish sofas in the House of Wind, glaring at the wall. She could not stand being helpless.

Azriel had walked by earlier, probably looking for Rhys, opened his mouth as if to say something, saw her face and decided against it. He slowly backed away.

Her lovely sister Feyre had decided to have Cassian, the disgusting pig-headed fool, train her to defend herself. Cassian had begun a sarcastic retort about her having been capable enough, when she'd given him what Mor called "the death stare", effectively silencing him.

Keep your stance wide, set your hips. His hands on her hips moved her into the right position, and she fought the urge to shiver.

Lower your body, bend your knees. Focus on your enemy.

She glowered at him, the same look that usually sent people scurrying for cover. His response, which irritated her to no end, was that same insufferable laugh. That laugh that did not make her heart beat just a little bit faster, or send that same fluttery feeling into her stomach.

But then there had been that stupid cliff.

She looked down at her leg and glared at the crisp white bandages on her ankle. The cliff had only been five feet deep, not even a cliff really. But when a dozen Hybern soldiers surprise attacked the area she didn't exactly have the time to watch where she was going. Fortunately, Feyre had heard her distress and called to the others to come help her–– although Nesta had no clue as to how.

Mor had found Nesta at the bottom of the small cliff, and after proceeding to stifle a chuckle helped her out. Nesta turned to the one they called Azriel and asked him where Cassian had gone.

The winged Illyrian just shrugged and said something about following the soldiers.

And so here she was, having been winnowed by Morrigan, waiting for him to return so she could thoroughly bash him upside the head. Suddenly her stomach emitted a very unladylike growl. She conceded to it and got up to find the kitchens.

After hours of limping down the halls–– not finding the kitchens–– she came upon a distraught looking Cassian. She corrected her limp. It hurt more, but she was too proud to limp in front of him. He turned to her, maybe it was her imagining it but it seemed that he stood a bit taller. He gave her a suave grin. To which she scowled some more. Then, as he took her in completely his expression darkened. His gaze strayed to her ankle.

"Did they do that?" He asked coarsely.

She shook her head. "I fell when I was running."

He nodded and lightened somewhat.

"Should you be walking?"

She frowned, "I'm fine, I can walk by myself."

To prove it, she took a few steps forward, then faltered as her ankle gave out. Cassian, the prick, gave her a smirk.

"No you can't," he stated and gathered her up in his arms as if she were a child.

By then Nesta was too tired to make threats.

"Put me down."

He simply shook his head.

"Where were you going?"

She gave him a withering look.

"The kitchens," she stated, in her best snarl. The outrageous git winked at her before making some food related innuendo she didn't hear completely.

As the Illyrian twit carried her to the kitchens, she peered at a cut across his chin. A flash of anger swept through her. Who the hell would dare hurt him? Only she could do that.

As if he felt the heat of her gaze he glanced down, meeting her eyes. He opened his mouth to say something but she cut him off.

"Who the hell gave you that?!" His eyes softened somewhat.

"It's just a scratch," Nesta gave him a look; he conceded, "All right it's a cut. But I really am fine."

But she couldn't get that anger out of her head that someone hurt him. He tilts her head to meet his eyes again.

"We're at the kitchens." His smooth voice rumbled against her and snapped her out of her thoughts. Cassian set her on her feet.

She mumbled something that he pretends not to catch.

"What was that?"

She glared at him, but he saw the glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

"Thank you." Her voice was uncharacteristically gentle. Before he could react, she grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled his face down. She pressed her lips to his, chastely, and her arms wound around his neck. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her there.

Too soon, she pulled away, a smug grin on her face. She shoved him back and ran into the kitchen.

A smile played across his lips as he stared after her.

A certain High Lady and her sister walked past him. Elain gave him a bright smile, while Feyre gave him a smug look.

"Falling so quickly, Commander?"

"Shut up."