“I understand how you’re feeling,” Feyre cut in.

“You know nothing about how I’m feeling,” Nesta snapped.

“It’s time for some changes.” Feyre plowed ahead. “Starting now.”

“Keep your self-righteous do-gooder nonsense out of my life.”

“You don’t have a life,” Feyre retorted. “You have quite the opposite. And I’m not going to sit by and watch you destroy yourself for another moment.”

“Oh?”

Rhys tensed at the sneer, but said nothing, as he’d promised.

“I want you out of Velaris,” Feyre breathed, her voice shaking.

Nesta tried—tried and failed—not to feel the blow, the sting of the words. Though she didn’t know why she was surprised by it.

There were no paintings of her in this house, they did not invite her to parties or dinners anymore, they certainly didn’t visit—

“And where,” Nesta asked, her voice mercifully icy, “am I supposed to go?”

Feyre only looked to Cassian.

And for once, the Illyrian warrior wasn’t grinning as he said, “You’re coming with me to the Illyrian Mountains.”