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I winnowed into the House, answering my cousin's summon.

"What's this I hear about you wanting to fly to hybern yourself to scope out their military?" she demanded by way of greeting.

"It's nothing. Nothing any of you need to worry about," I told her, a headache already starting to form between my temples.

"Azriel would want to know that," Mor said, an emotion I didn't want to acknowledge glittering in her eyes..

"Azriel can go to hell," I sniped, frustrated. "He likely already knows, anyway."

I heard footsteps approaching from down the hall, but—with effort—managed to keep my eyes on my Third.

"We played games the last time," Mor said, solemnly "and we lost. Badly. We're not going to do that again."

"You should be working," I told her. They'd never understand. They want to protect him, but if any of them got hurt from something he could have stopped...it would kill him more painfully than any monster could. "I gave you control for a reason, you know."

Mor's jaw tightened, and she at last faced Feyre where she stood, watching us curiously.

"Say what it is you came here to say, Mor," I said even more tense because of my mate's presence.

Mor rolled her eyes, but her face turned solemn as she said, "There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess slain, the trove looted."

I halted. Utter rage coursing through my veins and paralyzing my muscles. "Who."

"We don't know," Mor said. "Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that showed signs of wounds from large blades, and no trace of where they came from and how they disappeared. No survivors. The bodies weren't even found until a day later, when a group of pilgrims came by."

Feyre made a small, strained noise, but the rage was so consuming I barely noticed.

I felt my wings spring from my back, responding to the adrenalin in my system—steadying me. "What did Azriel have to say about it?"

Mor glanced at Feyre. I hadn't spoken to her about keeping things from my mate so she continued hesitantly.

"He's pissed. Cassian even more so—he's convinced it must be one of the rogue Illyrian war-bands, intent on winning new territory."

"It's something to consider," I mused, remembering the brutal, one-track selfishness of the Illyrian leaders from my own days in the camps. "Some of the Illyrian clans gleefully bowed to Amarantha during those years. Trying to expand their borders could be their way of seeing how far they can push me and get away with it."

"Cassian and Az are waiting—" Mor cut herself off, giving Feyre an apologetic wince. "They're waiting in the usual spot for your orders."

Once again that feeling of wrongness at keeping anything from my mate—the thought that she might harm me with the information—was almost nauseating.

To ease my rolling stomach I took a deep breath, tasting fresh jasmine from the mountains and the sweet aromas brought in by different currents. The wind was especially potent today. I studied the open air again, the howling wind that shoved dark, roiling clouds over the distant peaks—suddenly desperate to taste the skies, to forget about Hybern and Priests and her for just a little while.

"Winnowing in would be easier," Mor said, following my gaze.

"Tell the pricks I'll be there in a few hours," I said.

Mor gave Feyre a wary grin, and vanished.

"How does that … vanishing work?" she said softly, her sweet voice filling the silence.

I couldn't look at her, but I would always give her what she wanted—and the technical explanation would be a welcome distraction.

"Winnowing? Think of it as … two different points on a piece of cloth. One point is your current place in the world. The other one across the cloth is where you want to go. Winnowing … it's like folding that cloth so the two spots align. The magic does the folding—and all we do is take a step to get from one place to another. Sometimes it's a long step, and you can feel the dark fabric of the world as you pass through it. A shorter step, let's say from one end of the room to the other, would barely register. It's a rare gift, and a helpful one. Though only the stronger Fae can do it. The more powerful you are, the farther you can jump between places in one go."

"I'm sorry about the temple—and the priestesses."

Her words flamed the simmering wrath. "Plenty more people are going to die soon enough, anyway."

"What are … ," she hesitated. "What are Illyrian war-bands?"

"Arrogant bastards, that's what," I muttered.

she crossed her arms, waiting. Her impatient expression almost made me want to smile

I stretched my wings, feeling the sun's rays rippling off the folds."They're a warrior-race within my lands. And general pains in my ass."

"Some of them supported Amarantha?"

"Some. But me and mine have enjoyed ourselves hunting them down these past few months. And ending them."

"That's why you stayed away—you were busy with that?"

"I was busy with many things." I thought of how irritated Az would be when he confronted me about my trip to Hybern and winced internally.

After an eventful day of being scolded (how Az manages to respectfully scold I will never know), and hunting down Illyrian war-bands to question them about the temple massacre, I returned to the House to take Feyre back to her beloved High Lord.

I embraced the pain I felt at her relief as I winnowed us to the Spring Court. Embraced the loneliness I felt winnowing away from her before she could spit on me in hatred. Embraced the terror I felt letting go of her hand and allowing her to run away from me—towards a place where I couldn't protect her.

Tamlin will protect her. He would never hurt her. I chanted, attempting to reassure myself that my terror was unnecessary. I knew that he loved her, so why was that fear not fading?

I got my answer about 2 weeks later as I sat in an important meeting with some assholes from the Hewn city. I had slipped my mask into place, exuding coldness and superiority. Becoming the High Lord that I hated.

I was in the middle of a ruthless reprimand—my anger and disgust only half faked—when a wave of terror crashed through the bond.

I froze mid sentence, flashes of broken windows and splintered furniture flashing through my mind. I barely noticed Mor and the three High fae staring at me before I winnowed straight to the House of Wind. The moment my feet touched the marble floors, a second stream of consciousness invaded my mind.

Tamlin was panting, the ragged breaths almost like sobs.

I was shaking—shaking so hard I thought my bones would splinter as the furniture had—but I made myself lower my arms and look at him.

There was devastation on that face. And pain. And fear. And grief.

Tamlin took a step toward me, over that invisible demarcation.

He recoiled as if he'd hit something solid.

"Feyre," he rasped.

He stepped again—and that line held.

"Feyre, please," he breathed.

And I realized that the line, that bubble of protection …

It was from me.

"Feyre," Tamlin groaned a third time, pushing a hand against what indeed looked like an invisible, curved wall of hardened air. "Please. Please."

Those words cracked something in me. Cracked me open.

Then he stepped over that line, dropping to his knees, taking my face in his hands. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"I'll try," he breathed. "I'll try to be better. I don't … I can't control it sometimes. The rage. Today was just … today was bad. With the Tithe, with all of it. Today—let's forget it, let's just move past it. Please."

I blinked the thoughts and images away, blind fury more potent than I had ever experienced overcame me. My mate...he'd almost hurt her...he'd unleashed his power NEAR HER out of anger as she confessed the feelings that were eating her up inside.

I was going to erupt into flames from the rage. Fuck the consequences. I prepared myself to winnow but was stopped by another slew of thoughts and images.

I should have told him it wasn't true, but … I had spoken with my heart. Or what was left of it.

"I'll try to be better," he said again. "Please—give me more time. Let me … let me get through this. Please."

Get through what? I wanted to ask. But words had abandoned me. I realized I hadn't spoken yet.

Realized he was waiting for an answer—and that I didn't have one.

So I put my arms around him, because body to body was the only way I could speak, too.

It was answer enough. "I'm sorry," he said again. He didn't stop murmuring it for minutes.

You've given enough, Feyre.

Perhaps he was right. And perhaps I didn't have anything left to give, anyway.

No. No. No. The terror intensified. Not only was she in physical danger but her soul...her spirit. He was crushing it—suffocating it—suffocating her. She was giving up. The female I knew wouldn't have stood for such mistreatment.

I fought the urge to run to her rescue. Feyre was my mate, and I would respect what she wanted no matter what I felt….and this broken, dying Feyre still wanted Tamlin.