In all the years that he had known her, Amael had never known Celeste to have a temper. He had never seen her so angry—so aggressive. Her father did not need her to defend him, but Celeste had whirled on Tamlin and blasted him with her magic before Amael or their family could stop her. He had blinked, and in that brief moment when Amael's eyes had been closed, Tamlin had been launched across the patio. When he'd opened them, the High Lord had crashed through the back doors of his manor.

That had not been the end of her rage.

Cassian had called an end to their training when Celeste had burned through three sets of sparring pads; when she had burned her gloves to soot and was pummeling her Uncle's open palms. Lucien had offered to help her control the flames, had reached towards her to do so, but Celeste had only snapped at him to mind his business. He'd gaped at her, and Cassian had barked for Celeste to watch her mouth.

A withering glare had been her only response before she'd turned and sulked from the courtyard. Cassian and Azriel had not stopped her, but Amael had taken a deep breath and followed his mate into the garden. His body had disappeared into the shadows; he was nothing more than Celeste's own silhouette as she stormed through the thorns and budding roses. Frost flickered at her fingertips as she lost herself inside the maze of shrubs.

Anger tumbled down the mating bond. Anger and regret and something akin to fear. She was angry that Tamlin had insulted her father—that he had spoken of Rhysand with such disdain that even Amael had wanted to throttle him for it. Celeste regretted having snapped at Lucien, and she regretted having potentially hurt Cassian. She was afraid… Amael did not know what she was afraid of. She had not told him that there were things beyond the obvious that frightened her.

"I know you're there," Celeste said. "I can feel you."

Amael withdrew from the shadows, though they flickered at the tips of his wings. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was trying to give you space, but you can't go storming off on your own—not here. This isn't home."

Celeste whirled around to face him, moving so quickly that her own weight nearly toppled her over. "I know that," she spat at him. Amael winced. "It's the Spring Court. It's the Mother's-damned Spring Court, and I want to go home."

The Shadowsinger held out his hands, a silent offering for Celeste to come to him. "I know," Amael murmured. He wriggled his fingers. "So do I."

She shoved aside his hands and sank into Amael's chest. "I hate this place," Celeste buried her face into his shoulder. "I hate Tamlin, I hate this court, and I hate the Mortal Queens," she gripped Amael's fighting leathers, her hold so tight that her fingers hurt. "I want to go home, Amael. I miss my parents. I miss Mor. I even miss Aunt Nesta."

Amael chuckled as he pressed a kiss to her temple. His shadows wreathed them in darkness, the kind that brought Celeste comfort because those shadows were wholly her mate. They were soft and caressing and gentle, an ice-kissed wind that danced and flitted across her skin.

"I'm sure they miss you, too," Amael murmured. "But Velaris isn't safe right now—not for you."

He chose not to hear the string of curse words that tumbled from Celeste's mouth.

"Rhysand said that he and Feyre would come for you as soon as the Queen's had been dealt with. They won't look for you here," Amael's eyes fluttered. "If they were to ever get their hands on you, Celeste…"

"I know," Celeste groaned. Amael felt the frustration that sparked through the bond between them. "They would kill me. They would use my magic to create their key to the Otherworld, and then they'd kill me. Or the key would. I don't know. But I don't care," Celeste twisted out of Amael's embrace and began to pace along the hedges. "I feel like a coward. My mother didn't hide from Hybern when he was looking for her. Neither did Nesta and Elain."

Amael watched her carefully. "This is different," he said. "You're their child, and they love you."

When she did not deign to acknowledge him, Amael reached for her, his fingers curling around Celeste's wrist. He pulled her against him, and before she could shove him away, he took her face between his palms. "I love you," he whispered. Amael brushed his thumb across her cheek, her skin bruised from her training. "And as much as I want us to go home, I'd rather we stay here until it's safe. You being grumpy and snapping at poor Lucien is worth it."

Celeste poked him in the chest. "I'm not grumpy," she said. "I'm miserable."

He snorted. "Yes, I can feel that," Amael quirked his head. "But you're afraid, too. Why?"

Celeste diverted her attention to the ground. She absently traced her fingers over his chest, the scaled armor of his fighting leathers cool against her skin. "I'm afraid," she began. "Because I don't know what's happening in Velaris. What if the Mortal Queens attack again? You saw what I did to their army. What if I'm needed, and I'm not there?"

"Velaris has been attacked before," Amael reminded her. "Rhysand and Feyre can protect the city on their own, but if they're needed, they'll send for my father and Uncle Cassian," Amael pressed his forehead to her brow. "I never want to see you like that again."

"Like what?"

"Like you were on Starfall," Amael felt her fingers give pause against his chest. "I could barely reach you. You looked at me while you were lost in your magic, and it's like you were staring right through me. It's like you weren't…you."

She took a breath. Amael had never told her how afraid he had been that night. He had never told her that he'd been certain that he'd finally lost her—that she was trapped in her magic's thrall and could not come back from it. Pulling her back from that edge, searching for that tether between them and yanking so hard that she'd felt the mating bond snap into place…it'd been a miracle that Celeste had returned to him with her sanity intact.

The Princess wrapped her arms around his middle. "What if that's the only way to defeat them?" Celeste asked. Amael stiffened. "Sinking that far into my power, I mean. You saw what I did to their army, Amael, and I'm the only one who can forge their key. What if—"

"No," Amael's voice was not its usual timbre. It did not possess even a fraction of his gentle regard for his mate. "If that's the cost to kill the Mortal Queens, then someone else will pay it."

Celeste tipped her head and blinked at him. "And if I'm the only one who can?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "Then I will tear apart this Earth until I find someone else who is able. You won't be the cost of winning the war that's to come. I won't allow it," Amael met her gaze, and the fire that burned in his eyes… Celeste did not balk from it as he dropped his voice and repeated, "I won't allow it."

She stared at him, his eyes the color of molten Earth. "You'd let Prythian fall to ruin?"

"I'd let the whole damn world fall to ruin," Amael meant every word; Celeste felt his sincerity through their mating bond. "You will not be the cost to save us."

"You're such a stubborn, overgrown bat," Celeste said. "And such a male."

Amael let the tension drain from his shoulders. "And you're an overgrown bat with terrible self-preservation. You can summon wings, you know," Amael slid his hands behind her. He traced his fingers down the length of Celeste's spine and did not acknowledge that she shuddered. "I haven't seen them in years, but you have them. You're Illyrian."

"I don't remember how to summon them," Celeste's eyes darted to the wings that loomed over Amael's shoulders. "I wasn't allowed to learn how to fly."

"With good reason," Amael tucked in his wings. The membrane sparkled in the sunlight. "Rhys was afraid that if anyone saw you and realized you were alive, they'd shoot you out the sky."

Celeste scoffed. "I didn't learn to winnow, either."

"Semantics."

Her mouth twitched with a smile. "Someday," Celeste began. "When all of this is over and our lives are horribly mundane, do you think you could teach me how to fly?"

"Of course," Amael brushed her hair back, his fingers sliding through the black strands as he tucked it behind her ear. "Though I don't think I'll mind mundane. As soon as the Queens are dead, I'm looking forward to a simple, peaceful existence."

She tilted her head. "Will we stay in the manor?" Celeste asked. "Or find a place of our own? If it's peace you want, you'll never have it so long as our family is near."

Amael snorted. "That's true," he placed his palm against her cheek. "You're comfortable in the manor, though. It's your home. I would never ask you to leave."

Celeste bit her lip. "It's not," she said. "Not exactly."

Amael raised an eyebrow.

She flattened her hand against the center of Amael's chest. She felt his heart beating against her palm. "My home is wherever you are. Whether that be the manor, in the Steppes, or somewhere quaint along the Sidra. You are my home—it's not a place, not really."

"So if I asked you to move to the Spring Court—"

She slapped her hand against his armor. "Don't ruin it."

Amael chuckled, and his breath was warm against her cheek. "I appreciate the sentiment," he promised. "I would never take you away from the Night Court. As much as I may be your home, so is Velaris. I'm content to find a quiet place there."

"The townhouse is empty," Celeste mused. "Perhaps my father will give it to us as a mating gift."

"Perhaps," Amael pressed a kiss to her brow, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary. "We should head back. Someone owes Lucien and apology."

Regret tumbled down the mating bond again. "I shouldn't have snapped at him."

"No," Amael agreed. "But Lucien, I'm sure, understands."

Celeste leaned into his chest and tucked her head beneath his chin. "I'm not apologizing to Tamlin," she grumbled. "It's a shame that the glass didn't slit his throat."

Amael tapped the knife sheathed at her hip. "I don't think you need the glass to kill him."

She wrapped her arms around his middle. Celeste closed her eyes and listened to the sound of his heart. Amael combed his fingers through her hair. "Can we stay here?" she asked. "Just for a few more minutes? I don't want to go back yet."

The Illyrian planted his feet, prepared to stand there for however long she needed. "Of course."

Celeste smiled. "Tell me more about that quiet life we'll have," she murmured. "Give me something to hope for."

And so he did.

Author's Note: Here's some cute fluff (kind of) at 4am because why not? Amael is so precious that sometimes I wish he was real. What do YOU picture for the two of them? If Celeste didn't hate the cold and Amael didn't the Steppes, I'd imagine they'd like a quaint little cabin in the mountains.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it, and happy Thursday to those who do not.