Astrid

Feyre tightened her grip on her sister. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Elain's answer was a long time coming. For a moment, Feyre thought she might pretend not to know what she was asking, or that Elain simply might not say anything at all, might fall back on more dreadful silence as her answer. It had never been that way before—before, when they still shared their mother's old bed in the cottage every night, when they told one another everything they felt and thought and wanted, whispering under their breath so Nesta wouldn't wake.

When they knew one another. Loved one another, perhaps a bit more than two sisters should.

But, eventually, she whispered into Feyre's hair, "How could I? You're married—mated—and I…"

I don't want a mate.

"I thought you were mourning for— him." Bitterness rose up in the back of her throat, and Feyre swallowed it down. Hard. "Graysen."

I don't want a male.

She was hardly in any position to be jealous. Not when Graysen, the bastard, had soundly rejected her sister in front of them all. When Lucien, who was as good a male as any, was waiting in the wings for a mate who didn't want him back. Not when Feyre was the sister with the husband, the mate, and Elain spent every night alone in the guest bedroom across the hall.

I don't want a mate. I don't want a male.

When, she realized, she had forced Elain to watch her settle into her new life with Rhys, ignoring every sign that something wasn't quite right with her sister. When she'd hoped that getting swept off of her feet by a mate might fix her, might take her mind off of the strange, phantom-limb ache of missing her sister's body in the bed beside her, just like it sometimes did for Feyre.

"No, I… Maybe. But mostly, I was worried about…"

The hand in Feyre's hair twitched, as if to pull back. But before it could, Feyre grabbed her sister by the wrist, anchoring her hand in place.

"About what?"

She could practically hear Elain roll her eyes. "Rhys. The High Lord down the hall?"

Feyre huffed, jealousy forgotten, a grin tugging at her lips. "Are you going to sing me the nursery rhyme? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, beware the fae prince who arrives with the dusk—"

"Feyre!"

"Don't worry about him." She drew back, gazing through the darkness into Elain's lovely, scandalized face. She tucked a strand of golden-brown hair behind her sister's ear. "He knows how important sisters are."

And what a pleasant surprise that had been. When she dropped her shields for Rhys on Solstice night, she'd expected to be met with horror, revulsion—not time-faded memories of a dark-haired, violet-eyed female that were a damned mirror of her own memories of Elain. Not a smirking mate kicking her out of their bed the next night, a tendril of his darkness herding her across the hall and between her sister's sheets.

Elain pressed her lips together tightly. "Oh?"

"Mhm." Feyre bent her head, kissing Elain until she went lax and boneless again. "I told you. These Night Court fae have a funny way of showing affection."

Elain shook her head, disbelief etched into her features. But her dark eyes—those were so soft that Feyre's stomach flipped and fluttered at the mere sight.

"Everything is so fucked up here, Feyre."

"Extremely fucked up," Feyre agreed with a serious nod.

And then, just because she was Elain's little sister, just because she could and because Elain clearly wasn’t expecting it, she dug her fingers into Elain's side until Elain squirmed and bucked beneath her, giggling.

When Elain was breathless, torn between laughter and fury, Feyre reminded her, "And I'm their High Lady. So I believe I have to set the bar for 'fucked up,' so to speak."

With a twist of her hips and a breathless grunt, Elain pushed Feyre back onto the mattress.

A smile—a true smile, bright as the sun—lit up Elain's face. "You'll have to get creative."

"I can think of a few things." Feyre gripped Elain's full hips and hauled her closer. "I'm a very creative person."

Elain's hair formed a curtain around them as she bent forward, veiling them from view, her lips skimming Feyre's. "Thank the forgotten gods for that."