“You being too drunk to climb the stairs last night aside,” I said wryly, earning a vulgar gesture in response, “space in this house does indeed seem to be an issue. You could stay up at the House if you’d prefer. I can winnow you in.”

“The House is boring.” Cassian yawned for emphasis. “Az sneaks off into shadows and I’m left all alone.”

Azriel gave me a look that said, Illyrian baby indeed.

I hid my smile and said to Cassian, “Perhaps you should get a place of your own, then.”

“I have one in Illyria.”

“I meant here.”

Cassian lifted a brow. “I don’t need a house here. I need a room.” He again toed the footboard, rocking the wood panel. “This one would be fine, if it didn’t have a doll’s bed.”

I chuckled again, but held in my retort. My suggestion that he might want a place of his own. Soon.

Not that anything was happening on that front. Not anytime soon. Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.

“Perhaps that will be your Solstice present, Cassian,” I replied instead. “A new bed here.”

“Better than Mor’s presents,” Az muttered.

Cassian laughed, the sound booming off the walls.

But I peered in the direction of the Sidra and lifted a brow.

She looked radiant.

Solstice Eve had fully settled upon Velaris, quieting the thrum that had pulsed through the city for the past few weeks, as if everyone paused to listen to the falling snow.

A gentle fall, no doubt, compared with the wild storm unleashing itself upon the Illyrian Mountains.

We’d gathered in the sitting room, the fire crackling, wine opened and flowing. Though neither Lucien nor Nesta had shown their faces, the mood was far from somber.

Indeed, as Feyre emerged from the kitchen hallway, I took a moment to simply drink her in from where I sat in an armchair near the fire.

She went right to Mor—perhaps because Mor was holding the wine, the bottle already outreached.

I admired the view from behind as Feyre’s glass was filled.

It was an effort to leash every raging instinct at that particular view. At the curves and hollows of my mate, the color of her—so vibrant, even in this room of so many personalities. Her midnight-blue velvet gown hugged her perfectly, leaving little to the imagination before it pooled to the floor. She’d left her hair down, curling slightly at the ends—hair I knew I later wanted to plunge my hands into, scattering the silver combs pinning up the sides. And then I’d peel off that dress. Slowly.

“You’ll make me vomit,” Amren hissed, kicking me with her silver silk shoe from where she sat in the armchair adjacent to mine. “Rein in that scent of yours, boy.”

I cut her an incredulous look. “Apologies.” I threw a glance to Varian, standing to the side of her armchair, and silently offered him my condolences.

Varian, clad in Summer Court blue and gold, only grinned and inclined his head toward me.

Strange—so strange to see the Prince of Adriata here. In my town house. Smiling. Drinking my liquor.


“Do you even celebrate Solstice in the Summer Court?”

Until Cassian decided to open his mouth.

Varian turned his head toward where Cassian and Azriel lounged on the sofa, his silver hair sparkling in the firelight. “In the summer, obviously. As there are two Solstices.”

Azriel hid his smile by taking a sip from his wine.

Cassian slung an arm across the back of the sofa. “Are there really?”

Mother above. It was going to be this sort of night, then.

“Don’t bother answering him,” Amren said to Varian, sipping from her own wine. “Cassian is precisely as stupid as he looks. And sounds,” she added with a slashing glance.

Cassian lifted his glass in salute before drinking.

“I suppose your Summer Solstice is the same in theory as ours,” I said to Varian, though I knew the answer. I’d seen many of them—long ago. “Families gather, food is eaten, presents shared.”

Varian gave me what I could have sworn was a grateful nod. “Indeed.”

Feyre appeared beside my seat, her scent settling into me. I tugged her down to perch on the rolled arm of my chair.

She did so with a familiarity that warmed something deep in me, not even bothering to look my way before her arm slid around my shoulders. Just resting there—just because she could.

Mate. My mate.

“So Tarquin doesn’t celebrate Winter Solstice at all?” she asked Varian.

A shake of the head.

“Perhaps we should have invited him,” Feyre mused.

“There’s still time,” I offered. The Cauldron knew we needed alliances more than ever. “The call is yours, Prince.”

Varian peered down at Amren, who seemed to be entirely focused on her goblet of wine. “I’ll think about it.”

I nodded. Tarquin was his High Lord. Should he come here, Varian’s focus would be elsewhere. Away from where he wished that focus to be—for the few days he had with Amren.

Mor plopped onto the sofa between Cassian and Azriel, her golden curls bouncing. “I like it to be just us anyway,” she declared. “And you, Varian,” she amended.

Varian offered her a smile that said he appreciated the effort.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight. As if it had summoned her, Elain slid into the room.

Mor was instantly on her feet, offering—insisting on wine. Typical.

Elain politely refused, taking up a spot in one of the wooden chairs set in the bay of windows. Also typical.

But Feyre was staring at the clock, her brow furrowed. Nesta isn’t coming.

You invited her for tomorrow. I sent a soothing caress down the bond, as if it could wipe away the disappointment rippling from her.

Feyre’s hand tightened on my shoulder.

I lifted my glass, the room quieting. “To family old and new. Let the Solstice festivities begin.”

We all drank to that.

Chapter 17


The glare of sunlight on snow filtering through our heavy velvet curtains awoke me on Solstice morning.

I scowled at the sliver of brightness and turned my head away from the window. But my cheek collided with something crinkly and firm. Definitely not my pillow.

Peeling my tongue from the roof of my mouth, rubbing at the headache that had formed by my left brow thanks to the hours of drinking, laughing, and more drinking that we’d done until the early hours of the morning, I lifted myself enough to see what had been set beside my face.

A present. Wrapped in black crepe paper and tied with silver thread. And beside it, smiling down at me, was Rhys.

He’d propped his head on a fist, his wings draped across the bed behind him. “Happy birthday, Feyre darling.”

I groaned. “How are you smiling after all that wine?”

“I didn’t have a whole bottle to myself, that’s how.” He traced a finger down the groove of my spine.

I rose onto my elbows, surveying the present he’d laid out. It was rectangular and almost flat—only an inch or two thick. “I was hoping you’d forget.”

Rhys smirked. “Of course you were.”

Yawning, I dragged myself into a kneeling position, stretching my arms high above my head before I pulled the gift to me. “I thought we were opening presents tonight with the others.”