“She didn't possess Rhys's skill set, but having survived in the Court of Nightmares, she'd learned to read the subtlest of expressions. A mere blink, she'd once told him, might mean the difference between life and death in that miserable court. 'She's settled, then?'

Cassian knew who she meant. 'Taking a nap.'

Mor snorted.

'Don't.' His attention drifting to the glittering Sidra mere feet away. 'Please don't.'

Mor sipped her tea, the portrait of elegant innocence. 'We'd be better off throwing Nesta into the Court of NIghtmares. She'd thrive there.'

Cassian clenched his jaw, both at the insult and the truth. 'That's exactly the sort of existence we're trying to steer her away from.'

Mor assessed him with a bob of her thick lashes. 'It pains you seeing her like this.'

'All of it pains me.' He and Mor had always had this kind of relationship: truth at all costs, however harsh. Ever since that first and only time they'd slept together, when he'd learned too late that she'd hidden from him the terrible repercussions. When he'd seen her broken body and known that even if she'd lied to him, he'd still played a part.

Cassian blew out a breath, shaking away the blood-soaked memory still staining his mind five centuries later. 'It pains me that Nesta has become... this. It pains me that she and Feyre are always at each other's throats. It pains me that Feyre hurts over it, and I know Nesta does, too. It pains me that...' He drummed his fingers on the table, then sipped from his water. 'I really don't want to talk about it.”