Nesta stood on the plush blue carpet in the formal business room, or whatever Feyre called it, of her sister's river estate. She held a sac tightly in her arms, waiting for Feyre's mate to winnow the three of them to the cabin Nesta was being banished to in the Illyrian mountains. The sac held her most important possessions and was rather heavy due to its contents being mostly books. Her nostrils flared. Where the hell was that prick her sister had married—his insufferable high lordness—that she refused to recognize had any control over her. No. Maybe her sister, Feyre, did. But certainly not that ass.

Her sister sat up straight in a nearby ornate chair. Her hands rested on her thighs, and Nesta admitted she looked slightly nervous. Good. Nesta hoped she was questioning her decision to kick her out of Velaris, to stop paying her rent, her tabs. Even if Nesta's behavior was questionable, at best, her sister had dragged her into this life that she had never wanted to be a part of. Her sister and her damned mate. Nesta shot her sister a look of disgust. "Where is he?"

Feyre sat up a little straighter. "He's coming." She smoothed her dress and held her sister's eyes. "Try to think about this differently, Nesta. It's not a punishment."

It wasn't? Because it certainly felt like one. Her sister held all the power and had decided to press Nesta under her thumb, to move her wherever she pleased because she knew that Nesta had no other choice, no other option. Feyre did not agree with her lifestyle, which was laughable, because Nesta could count on more than one hand the terrible decisions Feyre had made—but she was safe from judgment, she was lucky, she was adored. She was High Lady of the Night Court.

Nesta spun away and remained silent. At least Feyre had shown up to carry out the sentence she had dealt. Elain was nowhere to be seen. Nesta imagined she was baking bread or tending to her gardens. Her beloved little sister had passed judgment on her, too. That hurt so much more than Feyre and her friend's choice—that fact that Elain had agreed—they had probably held a vote. Nesta had stood by Elain while she had remained mute, lovesick, and utterly horror shocked.

Perhaps Nesta had not always made the best choices. But did she really deserve this? They were throwing her away like garbage. To a relentlessly cold, unforgiving place. Maybe they thought it was perfect for her.

It was at that moment that Rhysand finally winnowed into the study. He wore his usual attire—black, intricate silver embellishments. He looked hard, void of the gentleness he saved for his circle. No. Absolutely none of that for her. Just repulsion. "Let's go," he said. Rhysand held out two hands, expectantly.

Nesta watched her sister rise, instantly more confident in the presence of her mate. Feyre lived well in her decision. "Okay," Feyre said, grabbing Rhysand's hand. When Nesta didn't move, Feyre nudged her with her eyes, looking to her mate's other hand. "Nesta."

She could not remember the last time she had touched the High Lord, and did not want to feel that immense power, which she knew he would send through her, it would be ice in her veins. Bastard. She lunged forward, moving her sac to one arm, and roughly grabbed his hand. If he was going to be gruff, she would match him and more. There was nothing but liquid abhorrence behind her blue-gray eyes.

They instantly traveled.

Nesta felt slightly lightheaded, standing in the middle of a cabin. The walls, floors, and furniture were all varying types of wood. It was dark. The only light came from the fire in a nearby hearth, and those sounds immediately flooded her senses—crack, pop, snap. She almost dropped her bag.

The cabin became more illuminated as candles were suddenly lit. Nesta stood in an open space, next to a couch, some chairs, and a low table. The kitchen and front door, she noted, was to her left. There was a strong feeling to run toward the exit, into whatever lay outside. But her wine-stained slip shoes were not made for the snow she imagined she would meet.

Feyre spoke as she moved to the kitchen. "It's cozy here."

Nesta might have agreed under different circumstances. She dropped her bag beside her and sat down on the couch, not willing herself to look around any further. The healthy fire still sang a horrific song to her.

"Elain and I were here earlier cleaning up." Feyre seemed to be making herself busy, adjusting things. "Elain gave you a couple plants," she said, pointing around the room. "You will have to water them."

Nesta seethed. She really didn't care about her sister's fucking plants. She was here. And she wanted to be left alone.

Rhysand moved to Feyre in the kitchen and muttered quietly, "I'll tell Cassian to water them."

Cassian. In the hours leading up to her arrival Nesta had put her thoughts on the Illyrian warrior on the back burner. She had been too busy pacing around her apartment, rushing to pack the items she had not the night before, when instead of preparing for today she had gone out to gamble and seek crooked company.

But yesterday morning Cassian had overseen her journey from apartment to river estate. And told her where she would be going when Feyre declared she no longer wanted Nesta in her precious city. You're coming with me to the Illyrian Mountains, he'd said.

Cassian was probably here in these same mountains, right now. She couldn't feel him, though, so he wasn't in the proximity. His role in this plot was not clear yet, but his presence was going to make it even more agonizing. She did not need that brute checking on her, flashing his cocky grin at her. But she was in his domain.

Done with adjusting, Feyre piped up. "Cassian will come once a day, starting tomorrow."

"I don't want him to come, I don't need him to come," Nesta spit from her spot on the couch.

Rhysand slowly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We need someone to make sure you're not dead." Feyre shot him a look and hit him, silently telling him to be quiet.

"Then send someone else" said Nesta.

Feyre moved closer to her sister. "It's the most practical. He lives here. Otherwise, we'd need someone who could winnow. Rhysand, or Mor—"

Horrible options. Apparently, her sister was not going to leave Nesta alone to slowly decay here. It wasn't a death sentence, but a prison.

At this moment, all Nesta wanted was for them to leave. She would say anything to make that happen. "Fine, send Cassian."

Feyre nodded and changed the subject. "There's food in the icebox, Elain made some bread, and there are books that she bought—"

"Just. Go." Nesta lifted her head and glared at her sister and her mate. She would say nothing else.

Rhysand was silent and held out his hand. He did not need any more dismissal; but, Feyre seemed to slump. Her frown held more sadness than she had obviously prepared for.

Did she expect this to go any better?

"Okay," Feyre said, much quieter than she usually spoke. "We'll see you soon." And then she grabbed her mate's hand and they were gone.

Nesta was finally alone. She boiled inside. Left in the woods with no money, no booze, and no men. They had secured her inability to carry out the behavior they disapproved of so much.

Across the living room Nesta got lost for a moment in the fire's flames. The colors mimicked the white-hot rage inside her. In an abrupt movement, Nesta moved from the couch to the small kitchen. Ripping open the cabinet underneath the sink she found a metal bucket. She filled it, standing at the sink, looking out the window. It was dark outside. A gust made the trees dance and the moon reflected off the snow.

When the bucket was full Nesta lifted it from the sink, moving toward her target. Crack, pop, snap… Swiftly, she dumped the bucket on the fire. It fizzled out with a hiss and smoke drifted across the room.