"I'm going to write a short little one-shot," she says.

"It shouldn't take me more than a day," she says.

"It'll only be a thousand words or so," she says.

She lies.

AN: It may be my birthday but I got ya'll a present!

Something's wrong.

Which is ridiculous because nothing could be better. Nesta's home, the one they've made together and is literally in his arms, snuggled beneath a mountain of blankets.

By all rights Cassian should have passed out ages ago, exhausted from the long flight back to Velaris from the Illyrian Steppes and their enthusiastic reunion. The Mother knows she is. Gentle sighs that are just shy of being considered soft snores escape her lips as she nestles into his side, forever leeching his body heat, not that he minds. Her golden brown hair is mussed, the stray fly away strands tickling his skin, and Cassian wonders if that's what's keeping him awake.

Because something is most definitely wrong.

There's an unmistakeable nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he just can't shake that grows stronger with each passing minute. Maybe it's the lingering wisps of longing. The missing of her, his mate. The phantom ache in his heart, as though a piece of it is gone when she's gone, taken it with her.

An unfortunate series of scheduling conflicts has kept them apart. Nesta's spent a fortnight visiting Elain and Lucian in the Spring Court, and though he'd wanted to be there with her, the yearly summit between Camp Lords demanded his attention. Then afterwards, some inconsequential emergency that amounted to a four day stint in the snow and ice on the Steppes for nothing and Cassian was near desperate to see his wife again. One ill-timed joke from his High Lord or his brother might have sent him over the edge, but fortune it seemed was on his side when he'd left the camp early that morning.

Tonight is the first night they've been together in any sense of the word in just over a month, the longest the two of them have been apart since they've mated and married. Cassian wonders if it's the residual tendrils of feeling that are causing this, this panic, even after an evening tangled in sheets. A night filled with laughter and good food and catching up on trivial events, and worshiping Nesta's body.

It's something he's missing. Something critical that has his instincts roaring at him to protect his mate. It strikes him then, almost as strongly as when she'd first accepted the mating bond, this viperous feeling, this need to hide her away from the world.

He bites back a groan, knowing how much of a light sleeper Nesta is because there's no reason he should be feeling this. There's no danger, no war. Not even the Camp Lords are making trouble. Prythian is the most at peace it's been in Cassian's five hundred years. The seven courts seeking to maintain peace in the wake of Hybern's attacks. Hell, even the human realms are silent, enjoying the mildest winter in a hundred years.

Yet something's keeping him awake.

Nesta sighs, a much deeper labored breath, and shifts in her sleep. Her hair freed from its normal plait spreads across the pillow next to him, and the great gossamer strands that glint in the moonlight move with her, obscuring half her face. She looks much younger like this. Sleep softening her face to make her look like the young girl he'd met all those years ago. He brushes back the sheet of hair and she shifts again, snuggling closer to his body until her head rests on his shoulder.

"I can feel you staring, Commander," she says, eyes cracking open to meet his gaze in the star flecked darkness of their bedroom. She breathes heavily through her nose, hot air caressing the bare skin of his chest.

"Sorry, Sweetheart," he apologizes, voice rough with exhaustion. Cassian brushes a finger down her cheek. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

"M'kay," she mutters through a jaw cracking yawn that brings tears to the corners of her eyes. "'m too tired to go again."

Cassian chuckles, a low rumbling noise that's caught midway between a laugh and a hum, and presses a kiss onto the top of her head. Her face is serene, gentle in the soft moonlight.

Nesta senses his agitation and Cassian knows she won't let herself sleep until he's settled. It's a long standing unspoken agreement that neither will rest while the other is as keyed up as Cassian is right now. It makes for sleepless nights when nightmares of the cauldron and drowning and the shredding of membranous wings inevitably wakes one of them.

She sends tender waves of peace and contentment down the crystalline thread that connects them, and it soothes the beast inside him just enough that he feels himself drift off. He hangs there in the fuzzy space of almost asleep, where he loses track of time and space and the only reason he knew he'd actually fallen asleep is because he dreamt of impossible things.

Nesta's shaking in her sleep. The dawn's first light has started to creep through the windows, and Nesta's trembling hard enough to indicate she's having another nightmare. They come less frequently, but never falter in their intensity.

He's awake in an instant. Instincts flaring with a nauseating sense of urgency that has him launching himself from the bed. Stumbling like a foal's first steps, he narrowly misses clipping a wing on the small table next to their bed. The sudden motion wakes Nesta, startling her right out of whatever dream she'd been having, and Cassian in his deprived state can't clamp down on the feeling fast enough.

The wine and the late night and the rich food and the anxiety down the bond and the nightmare have Nesta rushing to the bathing room where she empties the contents of her stomach, slamming the door behind her. The nightmares don't always induce vomiting, but then again, Nesta's never been able to hold her drink, even in her new immortal body. Never had the drive to build up a tolerance to the stuff. The times Mor drags the two of them out to Rita's with the rest of the Inner Circle, she's spent the evening sipping a single glass of wine. Cassian can only recall a couple times she'd had much more than that, last night's celebration included.

Cassian doesn't follow, knowing that Nesta will come to him when she's done, when she's ready to talk to him. She needs her space, doesn't like the vulnerability of being sick around someone, even if that someone is her partner, her equal. She'll talk to him about it though, once she's had the opportunity to collect herself. To gather her thoughts. Nesta doesn't hide herself from him behind her walls with him anymore, but she does ask for a moment to herself.

He'd tried it once, chasing after her when she was newly made and his wings were barely healed. Before they were officially mated, and the tenuous bond between them was nothing more than a flicker of feeling now and then. A particularly bad nightmare had him careening to her room down the hall in the House of Wind and then promptly fleeing when she'd used her gifts from the Cauldron to light his favorite pair of sleep pants aflame.

Instead Cassian paces outside, wings twitching in time with his heartbeat, and instincts bellowing at him to go to her. He ignores them, in favor of clamping down on his end of the bond, lest his anxiety aggravate her further.

The door sweeps open, and Cassian stops mid-stride to face her. Worried hazel eyes scrape over her frame, inspecting her for injury. She's pale, and a little shaky, hair now bound in it's usual plait. The thin muslin shift she's donned doesn't do much to keep her warm, but she greets him with a weak smile.

"I'm ok," Nesta says in response to the question in his gaze, voice hushed but firm in the early dawn light. She waves a hand at the way his eyebrows pinch in concern and the half formed questions she can read on his lips. "I'm fine."

And she is. He can tell by the way she traipses back over to the bed and how her shaking slowly subsides until it's just the chill that sending shivers through her body.

She's always cold. Even in the heat of summer, Nesta is always freezing and while Cassian more than appreciates the aesthetic and the ease of removal of the clothes she wears to bed, he'd much rather have his mate comfortable and warm. They've had too many arguments about her choice in nightgown to count, but the blanket hog insists on barely there slips of silk and cotton or nothing at all. Nesta admitted once that she likes curling up under Cassian's wing, leeching heat from him, and the lack of clothing encourages his cuddling, so she doesn't have to ask. A sentiment she promptly rescinded at the teasing look Cassian shot her immediately after, citing a momentary lapse in judgement.

"I am fine," she insists again, and its then that he realizes he's been staring, inspecting her for any concealed twinge of pain or fleeting flicker of distress down their bond. "But you are not."

There's a distinct lack of teasing in her tone as Nesta tucks her feet underneath herself and settles onto the end of the bed. Cocking her head to the side, she blinks up at him, deceptively sweet. The look has fooled more than one Camp Lord, and normally the look would make him chuckle, but not now.

"Out with it."

Cassian takes a ragged breath and runs a hand through his hair, fingers snagging on the knots that have formed in his sleep. He starts pacing again, the movement bleeding off some of the agitation coursing through him.

"I…" he starts and then hesitates, unable to find the words to describe the writhing sense of uneasy that's slithered its way up his spine.

"Cassian," she says, and that single word, with its commanding tone has him wondering why Rhys hasn't given her his job as Commander of his armies. It grounds him, making him stop in his tracks. His eyes snap back to hers, wings flaring wide. When he'd looked away he doesn't know.

"Something's wrong and I don't know what it is. My instincts are telling me to take you and run. It hasn't been this bad since…" he says all at once, stopping to pull on his hair again in frustration. "Shit, Nesta. Sweetheart, I can't remember."

"Worse than after we accepted the bond? Or faced down Hybern for the last time?" she asks, but she doesn't wait for an answer before rising from the bed.

She can feel it roiling down the bond, his iron clad grip on containing his emotions failing him. Waves of unease and distress crash into her like a tempest storm over rocks and she steels herself against the feeling. Whatever this feeling is, it's bad. Bad enough to steal her breath. The frenzy that'd accompanied their bonding pales in comparison to this… this need. She's never seen him so distraught before, and even if she couldn't feel it so keenly, she trusts him implicitly. If he says there's something wrong, then there is.

But instead of moving to comfort her distressed mate, Nesta heads over to the armoire, pulling out a set of his flying leathers. Only years of dodging blows save Cassian from being hit in the face when she tosses them over her shoulder, before pulling open another drawer. Nesta grabs a thick sweater and a pair of warm leggings for herself, and slips the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders.

Cassian's breath hitches as the garment pools at her feet. She turns just in time to catch him raking his eyes over her bare body. Nesta's face blooms into a smug smirk and she considers calling him an idiot for good measure, but he's still far too troubled for her liking. There's a hunger in his eye now, the primal lust of seeing his mate bare before him that threatens to take over the feelings of unease. Threatens, but doesn't completely mask it.

She does chuckle when he lets out a low whine as she slips into a pair of red underclothes, settling the scrap of lace over her hips, and starts to pull the sweater over her head.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Getting dressed," she says with a cheeky roll of her eyes. Her teasing tone an attempt try to coax him to join her in their usual banter. "I thought that was obvious."

It doesn't work though. She can still feel it bubbling beneath the surface. Can hear it in the rustling of his wings, that great membranous wingspan spread wide, not to show dominance, but in preparation to fly, to steal her away from any potential threat or harm that would come their way. Can see it in the twitch and flex of his corded muscles, tense and waiting to spring into action, the itch to fight, to protect.

"I can see that," he says through gritted teeth as though the clenching of his jaw somehow controls the rest of his body. "But why?"

"Because," Nesta says, tone serious once more as she recognizes that her normal distraction tactics aren't going to work in this scenario. Fully dressed, she pads up to him. Slow, cautious almost, as though not to further grate his raw nerves. She braces her hand on his thick bicep, a familiar gesture and sensing her intent behind the touch, he scoops her up into his arms. "We are going to pay our High Lord and Lady a visit."

It's a flustered Nuala who opens the door to Rhys and Feyre's townhouse, ushering the pair, along with the early morning chill, into one of the sitting rooms. It's not often that Cassian calls on his High Lord this early, at least not during peace time.

Feyre appears first, almost stumbling through the door in a shirt that has to be Rhys', judging by the size of it, and a pair of leggings that seem hastily thrown on. It's obvious that neither the High Lady nor her mate were expecting company so early.

"Morning," Feyre yawns.

She plops down onto one of the overstuffed chairs, indicating that Cassian and Nesta join her. Nesta does, sitting on the settee across from Feyre with more decorum than her sister. Cassian remains standing however, unable to relax his guard, even in a place as heavily warded against intruders as his High Lord and Lady's townhouse. A snap of Feyre's fingers and the table between them fills with trays of tea and refreshments. She pours Nesta a cup and offers one to Cassian who declines with a sharp jerk of his head.

"It's a little early for house calls, don't you think?" calls a voice from down the hall.

Seconds later Rhys appears in the doorway, impeccably dressed. He entrance is accompanied by a low rumbling noise, like thunder in the distance, and Nesta lets out an exasperated sigh, used to Rhys' flair for dramatics, and slightly annoyed that he'd waste his powers on just her and Cassian. But when Cassian suddenly appears before her, throwing himself between her and his High Lord, she realizes the sound is coming from him.

The growling subsides as Rhys freezes and for a moment the High Lord's mask drops entirely, replaced by confusion and concern. Rhys studies his brother, reading the anxiety that rolls off of him in great torrents. He inclines his head to make eye contact with Nesta, and Cassian lets out a scathing hiss. The temperature of the room skyrockets, the siphons he'd insisted on strapping on glowing a threatening red.

"Excuse him," Nesta says with a dark look at her mate when the sound of her voice startles him and hazel eyes lock onto hers. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning."

Guilt and shame rake through him and down their bond as Cassian realizes he'd almost lost control. Lost control in front of her, his mate. A blistering retort sits on Nesta's lips, but she can't bring herself to let it loose. Not when Cassian looks so lost, not when he's barely keeping himself together; he's her mate, her equal, and she can't bring herself to tear him down. He stalks over to the window at one end of the settee, close enough to shield her if the need arises.

Nesta turns back to see Feyre and Rhys exchanging a look as the High Lord settles onto the arm of her chair. She resists the urge to growl at them, knowing that Cassian is barely keeping it together and one of them has to remain calm. They'd agreed on the flight over that Nesta would be the one to explain things; Cassian unsure of whether or not he could control the urge to protect Nesta from other males, and whether or not Rhys would be included in that, even if he was already mated and married.

"Somethings wrong," she says, nodding to Cassian, who's pacing, stuck between eyeing Rhys warily, and glaring at some unnamed threat that lay out the window in the city.

Rhys raises a brow and gives her a look that says, "What was your first clue?" and Nesta does glare at him then. It's bad enough that Rhys still holds a grudge against the oldest Archeron sister, regardless of how much Feyre insists the two get along and the work Nesta does on behalf of the Night Court. But she's not going to engage in some juvenile battle of wills.

"He said it has something to do with the mating bond. Cassian's been feeling…" she pauses looking for the most diplomatic word. "...unsettled since last night. More territorial apparently."

She goes on to explain about the lack of sleep and the feeling that's been screaming at him that Nesta's in danger, that his mate is somehow in harms way, that he needs to get her out of here, away from the city, and other males.

"Do you think it has anything to do with being Made?" Feyre asks, concern filling in her eyes.

"It could be," Nesta says. The possibility of it having to do with her Making had occurred to her, but she'd dismissed it. "But Elain never mentioned anything while I was there."

And Feyre takes Nesta's word for it; if she thinks Elain is fine in Spring then there's no doubt in her mind that their middle sister is well taken care of where she is. Mated and married and on their third of their small gaggle of children well on his or her way.

"I suggest you start doing research," Nesta adds, "Consult your Suriel. Message Elain just in case Lucian is exhibiting any of the same signs of aggression." Cassian snarls at the word.

"And where will you be whilst your High Lady and I do all the hard work?" Rhys asks.

"Away," Nesta answers abruptly. "Somewhere far enough away from everyone else that might be considered a threat. Unless you feel like unleashing him on your pretty city or want to send him to one of those camps where everyone is a threat. That might not sit too well with their Camp Lords. Unless you think the Hewn City is in need of a regime change."

Nesta shrugs flippantly, and Rhys laughs outright.

"How do you know you'll be safe?" Feyre asks.

"Because I'm his mate, and whatever this is, is hightening his instinct to protect me at all costs, and if nothing else I can handle whatever this brute dishes out."

Flames engulf the hand she uses to gesture to Cassian once again and her mate smirks at her. As if he'd harm a single hair on her head. He'd vowed to protect her and her people from harm that day in her father's living room; vowed it again on their wedding night, the silly human tradition that he'd insisted she stick with, to embrace what was left of her humanity. He'd been one of the few with enough power and skill— and patience, though that's still entirely up for debate—to train her, test her newly Made powers to see what the Cauldron had given her.

Nesta stands, halting further discussion, not missing the casual way Rhys' eyes rake over her body another time, not a lecherous movement, more calculated and thoughtful. He merely nods, agreeing to her plan. Feyre follows them into the entryway, stopping Nesta to embrace her before they leave. It's stiff and awkward, but sweet that her youngest sister would care.

"Go back to bed." Nesta gives a derisive sniff. "You obviously got as much sleep as we did."

The implied innuendo hits home, and Feyre blushes, stammering out a denial, that she'd spent the evening painting by fae-light and that Rhys had to drag her to bed so she could get some rest. The two males share a chuckle at the flustered High Lady's response and Nesta feels some of the tension bleed out of Cassian. She fixes her mouth into a knowing smirk and bids her sister and brother-in-law farewell.

"So you want to tell me why you're not more worried about them?" Feyre turns to her mate as the front door to the townhouse closes behind their Army Commander and his mate.

"You didn't sense it?" Rhys lets out a wicked chuckle that slides along her bones. "Your sister will be fine. Cassian on the other hand…"

They barely make it ten paces out the door, which is more than Nesta expected in the first place, when Cassian scoops her up and launches them into the morning sky. She'd had him pegged around five, and was prepared for the abrupt take off.

"That went well," he says, voice rough like sandpaper.

"Almost too well," Nesta replies and she's right.

She'd expected some sort of protest, some argument that one or both of them was too important to spare for the indefinite time they'd asked for, and she'd come prepared. The two of them have been working hard lately. Nesta as ambassador to both the human realms and the Seasonal Courts. Autumn is terrified of her, which delights both of her brother-in-laws to no end. Tarquin and Cresseida find her ability to distract Cassian long enough to prevent him from further destroying their cities invaluable.

Newly brokered peace means finding worthwhile endeavors for the Illyrians before upstarts and rabble rousers cause internal issues. A poorly occupied army makes for rebellion and Cassian has been putting them to good use to prevent the army from growing bored and making trouble within the Night Court.

They glide along in the chill morning air and Nesta wonders what's keeping Cassian from winnowing out of the city. Before she can ask though Cassian breaks the silence.

"Need anything from home before we go?" he asks.

"Just you," she says, placing a hand on his cheek, and even though she knows better than to steal his focus away from the terrain below them, she takes the time— knowing the sky above Velaris is one of the safest in all of Prythian— to make him meet her eye. "Are you going to be alright?"

Cassian leans his forehead against hers and inhales deeply. The cold air bites his lungs but the scent of her, the peace she's radiating down their bond to him, and that he's finally able to steal her away, get her to safety away from any and all potential danger does well to soothe his soul.

"Yeah," he says and Nesta releases her hold on his face.

She loops her arms around his neck, settling herself more snugly into his arms. Already the late night and early morning catch up to Nesta and she closes her eyes, burying her face into the crook of his neck. She presses a kiss against the strip of bare skin she finds there, atop the edge of one of his spiraling tattoos and then relaxes in his arms.

She hasn't even asked him where they're headed, just that Cassian must have some place in mind, that sense of home and safety that he's been longing to drag her to. The scent of pine and leather and winter skies fills her senses, and she's home. No matter where she is, if he's there, it's home.

"Are we going to fly the whole way there?" Nesta asks, shivering despite the warm clothes. Cassian must sense her discomfort, because his siphons glow red again. This time far less menacing, and the air around them warms to an acceptable degree.

"Just some," he says. "It'll help burn off the… stress. Break around lunch time, and winnow us the rest of the way."

She hums in response, drifting off, knowing he'll wake her when the time comes, trusting Cassian to keep them safe.

Nesta dozes gently for the next few hours, drifting in and out of consciousness. It's nearly afternoon when she wakes. Snow dappled trees and a mountain range she doesn't recognize replaces the city skyline she's grown so used to seeing. The trees are old and reach up as though they could pull the sky down with their thick branches.

"Good morning Sweetheart. I didn't think I'd exhausted you that much," Cassian chuckles. "I guess we'll have to work on your stamina while we're away."

He gives her a wolffish grin, and she shakes her head at the boyish glint that twinkles in his eyes. Relief washes through her, that her mate is back. Back to the teasing overly flirtatious male she'd fallen in love with. That the sense of foreboding is easing the further they travel from civilization.

They glide low over the trees, Cassian's great booming wings blowing the snow from the treetops. A wide clearing appears on the horizon, plenty wide enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. Cassian drops into a steep dive with an elated shout and Nesta shrieks. Shrieks that turn to great peals of laughter that only Cassian seems to be able to draw out. She should be used to this. The swoop and rush of landing and how he pulls up only at the last minute, as though Cassian's challenging the ground, daring it to stand in his way.

Unexpected tears form in her eyes. She could have missed this. If his wings hadn't healed properly. If she hadn't accepted their bond. If one or both of them died in the war. Not wanting Cassian to worry, Nesta wipes them away, pretending that it's just the wind from the free fall that's caused them.

The landing is smooth, feet crunching into the snow, and Cassian sets Nesta downs on the ground, hands braced on her hips until he knows she's steady enough to stand on her own. He beams down at her, not really wanting to let her go. The smile is so contagious that Nesta can't help but return the gesture.

Nesta takes a monument to explore, finding early spring blossoms pushing through the patches of snow near the edges of the clearing. The buds are white with the barest hints of purple at the center.

The scent of food calls her back to her mate and she finds that he's pulled a blanket and what looks to be a feast of all of her favorite foods from a pocket realm. It's then that she realizes she's had nothing to eat since leaving Rhys and Feyre's that morning and that she's ravenous. Cassian laughs when she reaches for one of the crusty rolls, digging in without waiting for him. She stuffs herself, finishing off the plate he's dished up for her like she hasn't eaten in weeks, faster than when they were starving, trapped in that hovel they'd called home with her sisters and useless father, relying on Feyre's hunting to provide them with whatever meager scraps she could scrounge up. She's sucking the juice of the out of season berries that she saved for dessert when she meets Cassian's assessing eye.

"What?" she asks, wondering if there's stains on her lips or cheeks, but then she feels his hunger coursing down the bond.

"We need to go," he says, food and blanket disappearing as they stand. "It's much too cold out here for what I have planned for you."

Shivers of delight course through her body as he scoops her up and takes to the sky once again.

The arrive at the cabin, the one Rhys sequestered the two oldest Archeron sisters in upon their arrival into the Night Court, the one that's littered with paintings by her youngest sister and while it isn't filled with the happiest of memories for Nesta, she figures it makes sense. Mor assured her that no one, save the members of the Inner Circle knew of this place and while now that extends to Lucian and Elain, no one else would know where to come looking for them. Rhys and Feyre will be sure to warn the rest of the Inner Circle to give them a wide berth while they figure out what's ailing their Army Commander.

Once they're to the porch, Cassian can no longer contain himself. He pushes her up against the door, lips colliding into hers. He's a dichotomy of gentleness and feral savagery. His hands cup her cheeks with such reverence as he sucks on her lower lip, drawing its into his mouth, and Nesta moans. Her legs wrap around his waist, grinding against him. One hand grips his back, nails digging delightfully into his leathers. The other hand goes to his hair, clutching him closer, deepening the kiss.

His tongue slips into her mouth, caressing hers with soft languid strokes. He'd missed this. Missed her and having all the time in the world to be with her, and now that he's gotten her alone he's going to take his time.

He breaks the kiss, sucking down the side of her neck. Nipping his way down to her collarbone. Leaving small marks. Reclaiming her as his. One hand slips underneath her oversized sweater and latches onto one of her breasts and Nesta answers him with a keening whine for more.

There's a noise in the the clearing behind them and another growl, a far more feral growl rips through him. It's probably nothing more than the shifting of snow in the branches, but Cassian will take no chances.

Making sure that Nesta crosses safely over the threshold, Cassian takes to the sky to perform a perfunctory perimeter check. The door closing behind her, Nesta quickly sheds her outer layers, leaving a neat trail of clothing for Cassian to find on his return.

He chuckles, picking up each item on the way, planning to scold her playfully for leaving her clothes strewn about the cabin until he comes to a scrap of red lace, and all thoughts of scolding go out of his head. Cassian refrains from running down the hall, not wanting to seem as eager as he's feeling.

When Cassian arrives at the door to the bedroom, he expects to find her in some sort of scandalous position. Instead she's face down in the pile of pillows, bundled in a thick blanket, sound asleep. He can't bring himself to wake her just yet. Not when she's snoring gently and looks so at peace. So he prowls out the door, and sets about checking the provisions they have at the cabin.

He wakes her slowly hours later with soft languid kisses and they make love as the sun sets over the surrounding woods.

They've been in the cabin for two weeks, when early one afternoon Cassian stumbles in from the cold. He's taken to patrolling the area around the cabin at various times of the day. 'To stretch his wings' he says, and to 'keep a look out for predators that lurk in the forest that surrounds the cabin' while she reads or bathes or takes a nap, but they both know it's mostly when Nesta gets sick of his fussing. His eyes bright with tears, and the roiling cacophony of emotions traveling down the bond has Nesta panicking. Scanning him for injury, she rushes to his side, possibly the least composed she's been ever.

"Cassian, what's wrong?" she asks, the foreign edge of hysteria creeping into her voice.

He drops to his knees, wings snapping around her back to engulf the both of them, cloaking them in darkness. Her hands bury themselves in his hair as he presses his face into the soft flesh of her stomach. He inhales deeply, taking in her scent, and Nesta runs her fingers down his cheekbones and reaches to cup his jaw, attempting to get him to look at her. To meet her eye, to reassure her that he's alright.

"You're pregnant," he says, voice cracking on the words as the tears slip down his face.

"I'm what?!" But his words hit her like ash arrow with a sudden certainty.

She's pregnant.

And everything makes sense.

The fatigue she's been experiencing, that set in while she'd visited Elain and Lucian, that even now, with no set schedule and no need wake early, she still finds herself napping in the afternoon.

Her overall moodiness that she'd attributed to boredom.

Cassian's territorial aggressiveness against Rhys. His stupid fae male instincts driving him mad with the urge to hide her away to keep her and their growing family safe.

Even the mild nausea she'd been hiding from him for the last couple weeks in the hopes of keeping him from worrying.

And Rhys. Mother. That prick probably knew, probably guessed the moment Cassian launched himself between the two of them and was back in Velaris waiting for them to figure it out.

"I'm pregnant," she whispers, and the rightness, the sureness of it rings through her.

"When?" Cassian asks, but they both know.

She'd been so busy, so distracted with Elain and Lucian and work that Rhys had given her so that she could won't focus on the missing of her mate that she'd ignored the signs. He picks her up, spinning her in a circle with a whoop.

"You're pregnant," he breathes again, and like that, everything is right in the world again.

fin