Their Fireheart

Chapter Forty Seven

Aelin

The frenzied pounding of a fist upon my chamber door roused me from my slumber, and I blearily cracked one eye open. The fact that I was still nestled between my four peacefully sleeping mates told me enough about whatever asshole was currently attempting to break down my door - they clearly weren't a threat.

After the whole debacle with the glass castle, my four, not at all overprotective mates had our temporary rooms warded tighter than Lorcan's asshole. Absolutely nothing was getting in here that they didn't allow, which meant they had obviously decided the fool who thought waking me at this ungodly hour was a good idea was my problem.

Dickheads.

I debated burrowing back under the covers until the unwelcome guest went away, but another round of feverish knocking quickly absolved me of that notion. Whoever it was, they were not going to be easily dissuaded. Grumbling complaints under my breath, I dragged myself from the cozy haven of the mattress, throwing a pillow at Cassian's head when I caught his muffled snickering.

Peacefully asleep, my ass. The fakers were just throwing me under the bus. Well, they'll regret that soon enough.

Throwing on a silken dressing gown, I ambled over to the entrance, dreaming up my retribution. All the while, the incessant knocking did not abate. The door swung open to reveal a disheveled Dorian, his fist still raised to bang against the heavy wooden door.

His raven hair was a mess, his eyes bright and manic. At the sight of me, he rocked back onto his heels, running his palms down his chest in an attempt to straighten his somewhat crumpled tunic.

"Ah, good. You're awake," He said with a slightly too-wide grin.

I snorted, leaning against the frame of the door.

"I am now. I can't imagine you meant for me to sleep through that racket?" I said pointedly.

He had the grace to adopt a chagrined - if not entirely apologetic - expression at that, but it was gone in a moment, quickly replaced by another deranged smile.

Looking him over more critically, I noted the dark shadows beneath his red-rimmed eyes, the slight trembles that shook his hands as he shoved them into his pockets. In fact, I think that tunic was the same one he had worn to dinner last night, when he joined me and my court for his first meal outside the solitude of his rooms.

He had been cautious - nearly skittish - when he'd joined us, but had slowly settled throughout the duration of the meal, much to my relief. To their credit, that was due in large part to the actions of my court.

He'd been tense - as though he expected to be thrown out at any moment, for my court to blame him for the sins of his father, ostracize him for the circumstances of his birth - until Rowan had bowed his head in greeting, deeper than even I had expected. Likewise, Rhysand and my other Night Court mates did not hesitate to treat him with the respect he was due as the ruler of this kingdom, despite the fact that we were technically occupying his territory.

Lysandra had been as witty and lovely as ever when I had introduced her to the young king, extending a simple greeting into a drawn out conversation, explaining who she was and what she had become to me and mine. He'd gotten particular enjoyment from the story of when I'd thrown a knife at her head.

Even Aedion treated him with begrudging kindness, or, at least he did once Cassian had pulled Dorian into a light-hearted conversation about what it was like to reside with Celaena the assassin, and the king's attention was no longer fixed on the green-eyed shapeshifter.

Lysandra and I had exchanged a long-suffering glance at that, silently lamenting over the absurdity that was the male species.

Yet my cousin managed to get a hold of himself, all but barking at Dorian to stay put when the lone human had attempted to sneak out early. Meeting my cousin's gaze across the table, I couldn't help but marvel at the fact that ten years later, the three of us were all sitting together at a table again - no longer children, but rulers of our own territories.