Dark Light

22. Liar, Liar

The next day, Feyre convinced you to have breakfast at the river house. Before letting her winnow you away, you'd changed into a short sleeve babydoll dress embroidered with colorful flowers. It was a stark contrast to your dark Illyrian wings, but as you ate at the circular garden table in the backyard of the river house, lounging in the sun, you couldn't have cared less.

"So," Nesta said coquettishly, cutting into a pastry, "what did you get up to last night?"

When Feyre didn't respond, you realized the question was meant for you. You looked up, not all that surprised by Feyre's and her sister's politely playful expressions. You smirked, waiting for the embarrassed heat to wash over you, but it never came. Now, that surprised you.

"Well," you said, pushing a grape around your plate, "the House may've given me a little . . . something." When Feyre covered Nyx's ears with a knowing look, you added with a demure shrug, "A glass sex toy."

Feyre's brows shot up.

Nesta scoffed in mock offense. "The House has never given me a sex toy before, and I practically Made her." You were about to point out that Nesta didn't need a fake cock when she had Cassian's when she said, "Anyway, I bumped into Azriel earlier. He was in a surprisingly good mood."

"We may've had a little fun," you said, sipping your coffee.

Feyre grinned from ear to ear, but before she could say anything, Nesta said, "Oh please. Nothing is little when it comes to Azriel."

You choked on your coffee, coughing into your teacup. Feyre burst out laughing. Nesta smiled crudely. You leaned over the arm of your chair, cleared your throat, and then spit on the grass.

As you sat back up wiping at your mouth, Nesta asked, "What? Illyrians with large wingspans are also known to have large—"

"—swords," Feyre finished for her sister. "Large swords."

Nesta waved a hand, and then her gaze landed on you, curious and expectant.

"Well," you said, leaning back, "Azriel's sword sure felt rather large."

Nesta quirked a brow, intrigued. "He didn't . . . unsheathe it?"

You grinned at her euphemism. "You may find this hard to believe, but neither of us even wielded it last night."

"Cauldron, that reminds me of the time I—"

Feyre cleared her throat, glancing pointedly at Nyx. He was currently standing between her thighs, bouncing as he stuffed his face with blueberry pancakes.

Nesta rolled her eyes in jest before saying, "I was only going to say that (Y/n)'s story reminded me of the one time I succeeded in getting Cassian's blade to draw blood before it was even out all the way. He was rather . . . eager."

You gasped softly. "No . . . You didn't."

Feyre laughed so abruptly that she snorted, which sent Nesta into a fit of giggles.

Once Nesta pulled herself together, she nodded sagely and clasped her hands. "Yes, I did. It was amazing." Her gaze wandered about as she contemplated something. "You know what? I'd love to see Cassian and Azriel despair over their similarities later. And in front of us, too. The Lord of Bloodshed and The Shadowsinger deserve to be humbled every now and then."

The back of your neck prickled at Azriel's title.

The Shadowsinger.

You thought back to last night, to when his shadows had curled around your thighs and fingers, to when they'd palmed your breasts and grazed your nipples . . . You crossed your legs, hoping neither Feyre nor Nesta could smell your sudden arousal.