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He shifted in his seat, the three goblets brimming with mead trembling on their slim silver stems as he crossed his ankles, breathing deeply and drawing into his lungs the thick scent of candle wax that permeated his brother’s chambers. The thick furs thrown across his high-backed chair cushioned his shoulders well enough as he settled more comfortably into the seat at the head of his lord’s private table, and Cassian wondered for a moment if Rhys had slept at all, or if he had taken the furs from his own bed and draped them across those chairs in a night spent poring over the same papers that littered the table beneath his boots.

Given that the lord of Jorvik had summoned his two most trusted warriors for a private meeting before the sun had fully crested the sky, it seemed that, no, Rhysand hadn’t slept much at all.

Neither had Cassian, really, but that was a different matter altogether.

Suppressing a smirk, Cassian cracked his knuckles and shifted his attention back to the table. It was covered by a single large map and a scattering of letters and ledgers, dog-eared parchment hanging limply over the edges. A single short-handled seax weighed down one corner of the map; an empty goblet the other. At the other end of the table, a single scarred finger tapped impatiently at the edge of that map now, like every moment not spent with a sword in hand was a moment wasted.

“You know, brother,” Cassian drawled as his eyes slid up Azriel’s leather-clad arm, “I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen a bruise mar that pretty face of yours.”

His grin was little more than a flash of teeth— a smirk that even Loki would have envied. Smoothly Cassian plucked up his goblet and raised a toast to that shining bruise on Azriel’s cheekbone, turning purple beneath the grey light and half-hidden by shadow when the Dane half-turned his head. He drank deep; tasted honey on his tongue. It was true— Azriel had perennially worked hard to ensure nothing marked that face of his, almost as precious about his looks as Rhys.

Cassian couldn’t ever say he had shared the sentiment.

Azriel braced his palms on the edge of the table, his expression flat as his eyes flicked up. A vicious, merciless gleam shone in the hazel.

“One more word and you’ll have a bruise of your own,” the spymaster muttered, in a voice so low that Cassian thought even Heimdallr - he who heard the grass itself grow - would have struggled to catch it. Az met his gaze, daring his brother to goad him further as his knuckles turned white around the edge of the table. Every line of him was strung with so much tension that it was wonder he hadn’t yet snapped.

Cassian grinned again, swallowing a laugh as he leaned forwards. “Is that a threat?” he asked. “Or a promise?”

A muscle ticked in Azriel’s jaw. “Take it as you like. The end result will be the same.”

Laughter rolled through Cassian’s chest, his head canting to the side as his smile turned wolfish. “The nun really got under your skin, didn’t she?”

Az glowered, his dark eyes piercing as they fixed Cassian with a look the warrior was familiar with. It was the look Azriel gave him whenever he’d been bested; when his pride had been wounded. Cassian wanted to tip his head back and roar with laughter.

On the other side of the table, Rhysand rolled his eyes. Their lord was only barely listening, rolling a silver coin silently across the back of his knuckles. It was an idle gesture, one that might have been mistaken for ease were it not for the creases in his brow or the shadows beneath his eyes, or the fact that he had summoned them here at all— for a private meeting in his private rooms, where he had said said little and barely taken his eyes off that gods-forsaken map.

“Enough,” he interjected flatly, his voice a low, intemperate rasp.

Without preamble he slammed the coin face-up onto the table, letting it glimmer weakly in the thin light. Alfred’s face looked up at them; Elfred Rex inscribed upon its surface like a taunt.

The three of them looked at that coin, lying so innocently - so innocuously - atop the map that had only recently been marked up with the treaty line, inked in a long, diagonal line from coast to coast, east to west. Cassian felt the air between them grow cold, the breeze from the window one that chilled his skin as each of them studied that fucking coin, like they were all wondering how exactly they could ensure the face carved on that piece of silver would be haunting the underworld before the month was out.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, turning away from Cassian to face their lord. Their brother. “I have had several reports now of Alfred collating an army at Winchester. We need a plan.”

Rhys’ face was impassive. “Messengers were dispatched last night to all those in the surrounding areas. They know to be on the alert.” His eyes flicked up, landing on Cassian at the other end of the table as his lithe fingers reached out to slowly circle the base of his goblet. “It seems your woman’s husband conveyed our message and then some.”

Cassian said nothing.

Still, a slow smile curved his lips, a kind of slick satisfaction coursing through his veins as he heard those words— the ones that marked her out as his. She was, of course, in all the ways that really mattered. Fate might have bound her to another, but it wasn’t her husband who Nesta had feared for last night when the threat of battle had loomed. It wasn’t her husband who had taken the time to remind her - several times, in several different ways - of just how alive he still was.

Heat gathered in Cassian’s chest with the memory of it, the palms of his hands suddenly burning with a longing to touch her, to feel her beneath him again. He shifted in his seat, the chair beneath him groaning, and the grin he had sought to suppress rose to the surface anyway as he recalled it— how deeply she had taken him, how his body had merged so completely with hers that it had felt like they were merely two souls inhabiting one vessel. How she had been limned by the candlelight, a golden corona around her hair.

A fucking saint if ever there was one.

Rhys might have been the one baptised in the name of peace, but it was Cassian who found religion every night; blessed when he was between her thighs, possessed of something holy when she held him in her arms.

Oh yes, Cassian thought as he took a breath.

Nesta was his now, and her husband was going to learn - sooner or later - just how far a Dane would go to protect his own.

Azriel huffed, his scarred fingers curling around the edge of the table with a grip strong enough to splinter the oak beneath his hands. Suddenly, Cassian was forced to remember that war was on the horizon.

“Alfred is wilier than we gave him credit for,” he said carefully, caution in his tone as he all but ground his teeth. “He will mislike being caught out.”

Rhys snorted. “Would you?” He waved a hand, silver rings catching the grey light. “If you thought you had concocted a plan so clever only to have it turn out to be as transparent as glass?” Another snort. “To have it be foiled by a nun?”

Rhys’ face contorted into a sneer at the mere mention of the nun Az had dragged back to Jorvik with him, but the spymaster kept his own expression entirely blank as Cassian learned forward and dropped his feet to the floor at last. For a moment he thought of poking his brother even further - to remind them all once again how the nun in question had bested a Dane with a candlestick - but he thought the better of it as he scanned the map on the table, as if he could count the miles between this room and the king of Wessex.

“We need to pick a location,” he said smoothly, running a fingertip across the middle of England, crossing valleys and rivers until he landed on the red cross that set Jorvik apart from the rest. The thought of battle made the beast inside him sit up and take notice; the thought of bloodshed making his own run a little faster through his veins.

He could almost feel the field of battle titling beneath his feet, like Odin was standing beside him, guiding his steps and his sword both.

Rhys tilted his head. “And what makes you think a coward like Alfred will come to us in battle? He’s far more likely to hide behind his walls until we hammer them down.”

Cassian shrugged. “Bring him back north. Send another messenger with another proposal for peace.”

“You and I both know that any attempt at peace will fall apart. We tried it once and failed. I have no interest in trying again.”

“Nor I,” Cassian agreed smoothly. He tapped the map, right above the cliffs of Whitby, where an abbey currently sat in ruins. “But you’re right that Alfred is a coward. He attacked that abbey in the dark and was content to let Danes take the blame. He fears battle. But bring him north under the guise of peace and meet him in a location we choose. He will come armed anyway.”

Azriel nodded slowly. “A veiled invitation to battle.”

“If he really wishes to make peace,” Cassian shrugged, “then we will have the upper hand. He will do anything to avoid getting his hands bloody.” Another shrug, another grin, a weight at his shoulder that felt like the hand of Odin slowly urging him forwards. “And if he decides to face us in the field, well…”

“We still have the advantage because we picked the location,” Azriel finished, nodding slowly. The move set the silver in his ear shining in the light, a contrast to the bruise darkening his cheek.

Rhys rolled his eyes, plucking up the coin and studying its face, like the likeness of Alfred might provide some kind of insight. “He isn’t a fool. He’ll know that.”

Az leaned over the table, eyes flicking once to Cassian before traveling to Rhys. “But we have a bargaining chip.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, as pointed as a blade. Rhys leaned back, letting the coin clatter to the surface of the table once more.

“Mandray’s wife.”

Az hummed, tapping the edge of the table with scarred fingertips.

Unease pricked at Cassian like a thorn, the taste in his mouth growing bitter. He stilled, preternaturally so, as his eyes narrowed.

“I heard rumours when I was travelling,” Az continued, barreling on regardless with a wry kind of humour that made his lips curve into something almost like a smile. “News of her remaining behind has spread quickly. The word is that we’re keeping a Saxon woman hostage in a dungeon, brutalised and tortured, et cetera, et cetera.”

Cassian took a breath, feeling Odin at his back once more. It was a calm hand on his shoulder, a cool reminder of how he had left the woman in question that morning— safe and buried under piles of furs, sleeping peacefully in his bed after he’d spent the night memorising the taste and feel of her on his tongue. A dark smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, crooked and entirely sinful.

Az met his gaze. “I suggest we left Alfred know exactly what will happen to his favourite thegn’s wife if he does not face us in person.”

Cassian snorted. “And what will happen to her exactly?” He splayed his fingers on the table. “Because we all know that I am not about to let a damned thing happen to that woman.”

No— he’d sooner bare his own throat to the blade. Sooner see all of Jorvik - all of England - burn.

Az smirked. “Aye, but Alfred doesn’t know that does he?”

Rhys’ fingers curled beneath his chin, his eyes flat and cold. “And how do we know that her husband cares enough to persuade his king to march north? He was content enough to leave her here in the first place.”

It was Cassian’s turn to shrug, now. “He doesn’t,” he said slowly. “But he cares for his reputation. They see their women as a possession. He will want her back, if nothing else to avoid the humiliation of losing her to a Dane. And if Alfred wishes to be known as a great and benevolent king…”

“He cannot afford to abandon the wife of his retainer,” Azriel finished, straightening in his chair. “So we are agreed, then?”

Cassian leaned forwards again, dragging his fingers along the map once more, a direct echo of the way he’d traced those same fingertips over the curve of Nesta’s hip the night before; tracing the contours of her body the way he traced coastlines, now. He looked at the distance between Jorvik and Winchester, running through the miles in his mind. If they were lucky - exceptionally lucky - they would have a week at most to prepare.

At last he looked up, meeting Rhys’ eyes.

“Agreed.”

***

It was quiet, by the river.

The long grass, swaying in the wind, sat beneath a sky that was bruised and promised rain, and though once Nesta had found a Dane standing, glistening, in that water, it was entirely empty now, without even a single ship moored by the shoreline. It was cold, the weather almost harsh enough to bite, and as she stood there alone, she scanned the water’s edge, searching for a now-familiar crop of auburn hair.

Gwyn’s chamber had been empty that afternoon.

It had taken Nesta a single heartbeat to resolve to find the nun. After all, in those early days - after Alfred had left but before Cassian had charmed her - she had been forced to navigate Jorvik almost entirely alone. The streets had been foreign to her, the language she heard from outside her window unintelligible. It was a land that thirsted for her blood, according to the men in Wessex.

So it was easy, really, when Gwyn had arrived, clutching her cross and wearing her travel-stained cloak.

Nesta would not allow her to face the same uncertainty. The same anxiety.

And when she had sought solace, this was where she had found it. The river curled before her, the wind hurrying the current along, and even when the weather was turning, the air felt freer here. Calmer. The grass whispered in the breeze, and so, Nesta thought as she turned her head and caught a glimpse of pale fabric and red hair, was it any surprise that Gwyn had found herself drawn to the water too?

She looked out towards the river flowed towards the horizon, to eventually meet the sea. Perhaps it called to the nun somehow; perhaps the salt air reminded her of home.

Indeed, it was on her knees by the water’s edge that the nun’s head was bent. Her hands were clasped tight in prayer, pressed close to her lips. So tight was her grip that her pale knuckles were turning white, and prayers fell like raindrops from her lips, so fervent it was as though she thought the strength of her faith alone might erase the pain of the past few days.

In silence Nesta watched as Gwyn pressed her wooden cross to her lips, heard the whisper of her Latin on the breeze. It was a simple thing, that cross; wooden and crudely carved. A world away from the silver one around her own neck. And yet as Gwyn continued, Nesta knew innately that the woman before her felt her faith far, far more deeply than she ever had.

Pater noster, qui es in caelis…

Should it have been a comfort, she wondered, to hear those prayers spoken aloud? After so long in the clutches of paganism, should it have felt as familiar and as reassuring as a warm blanket?

Sanctificetur nomen tuum …

It didn’t.

Instead, the only image conjured was that of Alfred’s priest and the sneer that bent Osbert’s lips into a sermon. It sounded purer when Gwyn prayed, more sincere, and yet still Nesta could only think of how her own faith had suffered of late and how, in the wake of Alfred’s betrayal, she was beginning to wonder if God was really watching them at all.

The wind sent a shiver down her spine, but she did not move. She waited for the Pater Noster to end, and when at last Gwyn finished her prayer, she sat back on her heels and took a deep, audible breath.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Nesta tilted her head. “Whatever for?”

“For allowing me my prayers.”

Slowly Nesta moved towards the water, until she stood beside the nun who remained on her knees.

“I am a Christian too, you remember.”

Even if it felt like her soul was damned already— if she had drawn away from the God that had raised her.

Gwyn shrugged, letting her wooden cross drop back against her sternum as the clouds moved to block the sun, bending the light as it struggled to find a way through the grey. A strand of fiery-red hair shifted across Gwyn’s forehead, and as she looked out across the water, slowly she tucked it back behind her ear, drawing in another deep breath.

Nesta was quiet for a moment longer before she, too, sank to the ground. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her cloak tight around her in a vain attempt to keep out the chill.

“It isn’t so terrible here, you know,” she began slowly, looking sideways as Gwyn fixed her eyes on the horizon. “Not all that different from Wessex, in the end.”

No— and Nesta was beginning to understand that, now. Their people still worked the land, still sent boats on the water to bring back fish. Still raised their children and plied their trades. They might have spoken different tongues and worshipped a different set of gods, but at their core...

Weren’t they all just trying to make a life for themselves? Didn’t they all - Dane or Saxon or something else entirely - thirst and hunger and bleed just the same?

Gwyn hummed a little, her eyes still pinned to the grey sky and the gathering clouds. Nesta tilted her head.

“One of their women even offered to teach me how to wield a sword.”

With that, Gwyn turned. Surprise flashed in her eyes like lightning in the teal, and for a long moment, two swift blinks were the only sign that she had heard Nesta speak until her lips parted, a furrow in her brow.

“A sword?”

The word was spluttered, disbelief on Gwyn’s face as she leaned closer, resting her palm on the ground, grass flattened beneath her fingers. Nesta nodded, looking down at her own hands, her fingertips smooth and devoid of callouses. Emerie had a bracelet of scars around her wrists, evidence of a life hard lived on her skin.

“It is unusual, I know, but—”

“No,” Gwyn said, shaking her head as her hand reached out slowly and alighted on Nesta’s wrist. “I… wish someone had taught me how to wield a sword.”

The grief in her voice was enough to give Nesta pause, and as Gwyn dropped her hand and turned her face back towards the water, Nesta only looked at her new friend and inclined her head, a single brow raised in a silent invitation to continue speaking if she wished.

“I was supposed to be inside the abbey that night, you know,” she admitted quietly. In the water, the warped reflection of both Nesta and Gwyn trembled, but still Nesta saw mirrored back at her the way the nun squeezed her eyes shut, like the memory was a wound she was tearing open anew. “I was walking along the cliffs, even though the Abbess has scolded me a hundred times for doing so, but… I always loved to watch the sun set over the sea. It is… peaceful.”

She shook her head, dipping her face.

“I stayed longer than I should have; it was almost dark when I started back. And then I saw the smoke.”

Nesta could picture it— smoke curling against the night sky, flames illuminating the black. A single nun, racing along the cliff’s edge as fire licked at stone. A shudder racked Gwyn’s chest, a single breath sawing from her throat.

“Rhysand said there were no casualties,” Nesta pointed out gently. “Is it not possible that they escaped?”

“The roof had caved in,” Gwyn said, a hoarseness to her voice that hadn’t been there before. “By the time I got there the refectory was nothing but ash and wood, and…” She paused. “I don’t know that they got out. And even if they did, I have no way of knowing where the Abbess fled to, or when they’ll be back. Either way my sister is lost to me.”

A moment passed— a heavy, aching kind of silence.

The sky darkened, and there was no comfort Nesta could offer. Nothing substantial that she could do. Slowly, she dropped her gaze.

“I have sisters too,” she offered quietly. Like an olive branch, or a shared pain that might bind them closer together. “Two of them. But I have not… spoken to them for a long while. Not since I was married.”

Gwyn’s face softened. “They live far? From Wessex?”

Silently, Nesta shook her head. She angled her face away, fixed her eyes on the river. Because how could she explain that though it wasn’t unusual for a bride to visit home infrequently once married, she hadn’t so much as penned a single letter, not even to Elain?

It was only a matter of time, she had supposed, before her father sought to use her connection to the king to find a match for Elain and Feyre too, and, well, Nesta had decided long ago that they were better off far away from Winchester. From Alfred. From Tomas and his cabal of friends.

So she had chosen not to think of them. To protect them by forgetting they existed.

“Perhaps one day I will be reunited with my sisters,” Gwyn said as Nesta shook her head again, a quiet settling between them as the wind rusted the fabric of her cloak. “I must have hope. And so must you.”

Nesta swallowed. Said nothing.

“That is,” Gwyn corrected, clearing her throat, “if you wish to be reunited with them.”

And Nesta didn’t know what to say. How to answer.

Did she? If reunion meant a return to Wessex? How could she ever return when she knew what awaited her there?

And perhaps God was watching— perhaps God did still have some care for her after all, because she was saved from answering by footsteps pushing through the long grass, and a voice calling her name above the wind.

“There you are!” Emerie said as she stopped directly behind the pair still seated on the ground. She rested her hands on her hips, the hilt of a sword sticking out of a leather sheath that hung from a belt around her waist. Emerie grinned down at them as Gwyn blinked, her eyes fixed on that sword. “Cassian sent me to look for you.”

Nesta pushed to her feet; Emerie held out her hand to help her stand.

“He sent you?” she echoed, skeptical, as she gave the shield-maiden a pointed look from beneath a raised brow. “The last time I saw you, you were threatening to have his head.”

Emerie waved a hand. “Bah. That was then— this is now.” She grinned, thrusting out her hand as Gwyn rose to her feet. “You must be the nun who hit Azriel with a candlestick. It truly is an honour to meet you.”

It was almost gleeful, the way Emerie took Gwyn’s hand and shook it. Mirth glittered in her eyes, and when she pulled back, Emerie looked to Nesta and smiled so brightly it was almost enough to clear the clouds that were gathering darkly overhead.

“I have been dying to meet the one who gave him that nasty bruise ever since he walked through the city gates. It’s about time someone put a dent in that ego of his.”

“Gwyn,” Nesta said as the nun flicked her eyes again to Emerie’s sword. “Meet Emerie.”

Emerie grinned, flicking her long braid over her shoulder. “I have a feeling we are going to be such good friends.”

***

By the time Nesta neared the lord’s hall, the rain had started.

She had left Gwyn and Emerie by the river, with Emerie patting Nesta on the arm and promising her in no uncertain terms that she would see Gwyn safe back to the hall after showing the nun around the city, starting with the forge. The rain was gentle at first, falling gently as Nesta walked away from the water, but as she made her way through the narrow streets, it had started to rain in earnest. Puddles had swallowed her feet; clothes hanging on lines strung between houses had been hauled inside, and even though Nesta pulled up the hood of her cloak, the wool had been saturated so quickly that soon enough, water seeped through the fabric and soaked her to the bone.

She had no intention of slowing, the rain falling in sheets from a slate-grey sky, but as she reached the small courtyard in front of Rhysand’s hall—

Her steps faltered.

There, standing beneath the wooden awning that served as some kind of shelter, Cassian was waiting. His arms were folded and resting on the wooden railing, sleeves pushed up to reveal the tattooed, muscled expanse of his forearms. Around his wrists were a litany of string bracelets, small silver charms dangling from each one— for protection, for luck, for health and prosperity. Nesta blinked the rain from her eyes as he straightened, watching as he immediately came out to meet her, as if the Heavens hadn’t just opened.

In moments, his tunic was stuck to his skin, his curls dripping water into his face.

He held out his hand, fingers outstretched and reaching for her as she hurried through the downpour.

“Emerie found you, I take it,” he said smoothly, her hand sliding home against his as he pulled her under the awning and out of the deluge.

At last, Nesta took down her hood. A shiver undulated down her spine. “You did not wish to find me yourself?”

Cassian smirked at the challenge lacing her tone, but said nothing, only shrugged as he lifted his eyes to the sky, thick with rainclouds so dark, so black, it seemed like night had descended early.

“It felt… important for the three of you to meet,” he said after a moment, giving her another shrug as he waved a hand. “Perhaps the gods were nudging me to make it so.”

She quirked a brow. “I fail to see what interest your gods would have in two Saxons and a shield maiden.”

The Dane before her rolled his eyes, reaching out to push the wet hair from her face before his fingers dropped to her neck, untying her cloak and removing it from her shoulders. Gently his palms skated down the sides of her arms, rubbing over her forearms to try and bring back some warmth.

“The gods have an interest in us all, sweetheart,” he said, folding her cloak and draping it over the wooden railing. He turned, giving her a pointed look as he moved back to her, tilting his head. His eyes were lined with kohl, his scar-split brow lifting as his gaze roved across her face. “But, for whatever it is worth, you are no mere Saxon.”

Nesta allowed herself to be pulled into him when his hand rounded her waist. She braced herself with a palm flat on his chest, her chilled fingers seeking warmth in his skin. The air was still, silent save for the pounding rain, and Nesta could hear nothing above the beating of her own damned heart. His nose nudged at the space beneath her ear, his hands fisting at her waist.

“Oh?” she breathed.

He hummed.

“No mere Saxon could so successfully bewitch a legendary Norse warrior such as myself.”

“Legendary?” She scoffed, tilting her head back to look up at him. He smelled like leather and rainwater; like petrichor. His hands were cold, still soaked from the downpour, but still he tried to wipe the rain from her cheeks, his thumb gliding across her cheekbone in a long, slow swipe. Rain still dripped from his hair, small droplets collecting like diamonds on his silver earrings, and his skin shone, even in the grey light. When he grinned down at her, against all her better judgement, Nesta let out a soft, rolling laugh. “You are certainly in a good mood today.”

He dropped his head, his lips curving against her neck. “I spent the afternoon plotting the death of all those who would dare to take you from me,” he said smoothly, easily. “What can I say? It gets the blood flowing.”

Another shiver raced down her spine, entirely independent of the cold, and her entire body locked at the thought of her husband, a hundred miles away and yet still able to turn her blood to ice. Cassian’s hands tightened, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her jaw, like he knew exactly where her thoughts had turned, and knew, too, how to bring her back again.

She felt something visceral inside her react, something that made her want to hang on to this - this man, this life - with her fingertips. Perhaps it was the conversation with Gwyn; the reminder of her sisters. Whatever it was, it had some kind of ache building in her chest, a kind of defensive need to hang on through the storm she could sense on the horizon.

Nesta felt herself wavering, but Cassian’s palm slid up her back as he chased her lips for a kiss, his fingers tangling at her nape as he held her tight against his chest.

“They can’t have you,” he murmured. “Not unless you wish it.”

Nesta felt herself nod, her body no longer entirely her own as she ran her fingers along the skin at his collarbone,  where the laces of his shirt had loosened just enough to reveal a slice of damp, burnished skin. This - this - was safety, she thought as the gold of her wedding ring caught the dim light. This was freedom.

Cassian dropped his head, pressing his forehead against hers as his fingers moved to lace tightly with her own.

“It is cold,” he said, his voice a burr against her skin. “Come inside and drink with me.”

With another nod Nesta freed herself from his hold, but she kept their hands entwined as she took a step back and turned to face the hall that stretched behind them both. She took the first step, and as she looked over her shoulder to find him a half-step behind her, she watched the smirk on his face and wondered how it had happened— how she had become the one to lead him through the halls of this god-forsaken place.

He smirked again as he watched her, like he had been wondering the same thing.

And when they entered Rhysand’s hall, met with the sound of crackling fire and a hundred voices, Nesta wondered, too, when exactly a place so foreign had started feeling like home.

***

“Much changed whilst I was gone, I see.”

Azriel’s voice was dry as he slid an oiled cloth over the flat of his blade, his eyes lifting to study the distance between Nesta’s hand and Cassian’s, still linked as Cassian pulled over a stool. Wearing fresh clothes and warmer than she had been before, Nesta felt his fingers escape hers, only to land on her shoulders and guide her down onto the seat he’d procured for her. He said nothing, only squeezed her shoulder once before backing away in search of a stool of his own.

Nesta kept her eyes on Rhysand’s spymaster. She didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Only held his gaze.

“Indeed,” she said lightly. “You were bested by a woman, I heard.”

Cassian’s laugh reverberated through her chest as he returned, setting down his stool beside hers with a thud. Azriel’s face was mirthless, his eyes shadowed, and Nesta knew innately that this was a man who did not easily accept being bested, by a woman or not. She thought of Gwyn, so steadfast in the face of upheaval, and wondered how the two of them had managed to survive the journey to Jorvik at all.

“Drop the scowl, brother,” Cassian said smoothly, laughter in his voice. “She isn’t wrong.”

At that, Nesta could have sworn Azriel’s scowl only deepened. Somewhere across the room, as the fire cracked and spit, a bard took up a song in a language Nesta did not understand, and as Cassian called for someone to bring them some ale, she watched the spymaster study them with an intensity that might have made her shift nervously in her seat had she not felt so entirely at ease.

“And you?” Azriel said, pinning Cassian with a glare. “Have you told her yet?”

Cassian raised a brow. Nesta tilted her head.

“Told me what?”

A slow, wicked smile spread across her Dane’s face, and suddenly Nesta had no trouble remembering what kind of man this was; how ruthless and how cunning he could be. He leaned back a little, stretched like a cat in the sun. Entirely confident, entirely at ease. He tipped his head back, baring the skin at his neck as he let out a slow, deep hum.

“Haven’t you heard, sweetheart?” he drawled, giving her a wink that reminded her of all the times he’d teased her before— before she was his, before Jorvik had become comfortable. “All of East Anglia is aflame with the rumour that you’re hanging from the rafters in some dungeon or other.”

Nesta turned on him, her eyes widened. Cassian could barely contain his laughter, his eyes dancing as they roved over her, from the braids at her temple to the silver brooch at her collar, lingering on her neck, where he’d pressed a hundred kisses the night before. Each and every one a sign of devotion, of reverence, that seemed to make it all the more amusing for him as he tipped his head back and laughed again, the sound so rich it felt like a sin just to hear it.

“And you think it funny?” Nesta pressed.

He met her eyes and bit his lip to keep that laughter from bursting out of his chest.

“It is funny, love.”

Nesta rolled her eyes as Cassian clapped Azriel on the back as his brother-in-arms rose to his feet. Across the hall, another Dane - a boy, really - had signalled to the spymaster, and Nesta watched as Azriel inclined his head in a silent command for the boy to wait outside.

“Fetch her another drink, Az! Haven’t you heard that those god-forsaken heathens have been treating her so terribly?”

He raised his own cup, like a toast. Silently Azriel disappeared, and though the noise of the hall was deafening, each and every one of Nesta’s senses was fixed only on the Dane left by her side, like he had somehow became a fixed point in her universe, a port she kept returning to.

“Has it been dreadful for you, my love?” His eyes sparked, bright enough to rival the fire in the centre of the hall. His face was close to hers, his voice dipping low enough that only she could hear. “Is it so awful, to have a Norseman on his knees for you night after night?”

Nesta only brushed him aside, tilted her head as she fixed the Dane with a stare. With effort, she ignored the way her skin tightened at his words, at how her blood started to race at the sound of his voice.

“And so?” she said, clearing his throat as she straightened her spine. “What is your plan?”

He grinned again, like they were conspirators and confidantes— not two people from such different walks of life that enmity had been all but guaranteed. It was not lost on Nesta that he pulled her closer, hooking his foot around the leg of her stool the way he had done once before, when they were in this same hall, playing a game of strategy. And what was this, but yet another game?

His eyes were pinned to her lips, hunger in his gaze, and oh, yes, this was a game.

A game Nesta would relish in playing.

“Our plan,” he purred, “is to lure Alfred north with the promise of rescuing a hapless damsel in distress.”

She leaned closer, her eyes on his, daring him to look away. Flatly, she asked,

“And what of said damsel in distress?”

He snorted. “Since she is neither a damsel nor in distress, I think it is her prerogative to proceed however she sees fit.”

Nesta’s heart hammered in her chest. Freedom— it was offered to her on a platter, and all she had to do was take it. Smoothly, she pulled the ring from her finger. The one Tomas had given to her at the altar. The one that marked her as property, little more than a collar binding her to a master.

“Send it to Alfred,” she said as she pressed it into Cassian’s waiting fingers. “So there is no uncertainty.”

His face was lit with a cruel, merciless smile. His fingers closed around the ring, his eyes dark as he scanned her face again. “Shall I dip it in blood, first?”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “Do with it what you wish,” she shrugged. “I don’t want to see it again.”

Cassian nodded, tilting his face towards hers. It was an invitation, an offering, and Nesta reached out and steadied her hand on his thigh as he tucked her wedding ring into his pocket and used his free hand to pull her closer. His fingers danced along her wrist first, skating higher, until he reached her shoulder and could push her braid back over her shoulder. His eyes were ravenous, his cheeks as flushed as her own. In his throat, Nesta could see his pulse hammer beneath his skin, and God, she wanted to press a kiss to that throat. To feel his blood running beneath her lips and know that he was at her command— a man so ruthless, so bloodthirsty, so unafraid of taking what he wanted.

Hers.

This man was hers.

This time, she was the first to press her lips to his. His hand tightened at her shoulder, shifting until it rounded her neck. With his other hand he drew her legs across his thighs, leaving her half seated in his lap. It was scandalous, it was brazen, and it would have been the end of her in Wessex. But as Cassian kissed her with abandon, Nesta found she no longer cared for anything but the way his body moved against hers; all the promises he laid at her feet with every pass of his tongue against her own.

At some point, Nesta had stopped breathing.

And then, as swiftly as it had started—

“News from the South.”

Rhysand’s voice rang out through the hall, the lord who had been absent suddenly standing in the centre of the room, thunder in his features as his voice echoed so loudly it brought an end to everything. Rhysand’s eyes trailed across the room until he found Cassian. In one hand he raised a piece of parchment.

A letter.

Behind him, Azriel slipped silently back into the room, and suddenly Nesta understood. The boy— the Dane who had signalled to the spymaster had come bearing news. Slowly, Cassian’s hand fell away from Nesta’s thigh, leaving shivers in his wake.

Rhysand tossed the letter onto a table with disgust writ large across his features.

“Alfred comes back north,” he announced, stone-faced and cold. “We prepare for war.”

—