2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

dark gifts.
Rhys’s face was blank, but his eyes were wary. Assessing. I almost demanded what the
hell he was looking at, until Mor breezed onto the balcony with, “If Cassian’s howling, I
hope it means Feyre told him to shut his fat mouth.”
Both Illyrians turned toward her, Cassian bracing his feet slightly farther apart on the
floor in a fighting stance I knew all too well.
It was almost enough to distract me from noticing Azriel as those shadows lightened,
and his gaze slid over Mor’s body: a red, flowing gown of chiffon accented with gold
cuffs, and combs fashioned like gilded leaves swept back the waves of her unbound hair.
A wisp of shadow curled around Azriel’s ear, and his eyes snapped to mine. I schooled
my face into bland innocence.
“I don’t know why I ever forget you two are related,” Cassian told Mor, jerking his chin
at Rhys, who rolled his eyes. “You two and your clothes.”
Mor sketched a bow to Cassian. Indeed, I tried not to slump with relief at the sight of
the fine clothes. At least I wouldn’t look overdressed now. “I wanted to impress Feyre.
You could have at least bothered to comb your hair.”
“Unlike some people,” Cassian said, proving my suspicions correct about that fighting
stance, “I have better things to do with my time than sit in front of the mirror for hours.”
“Yes,” Mor said, tossing her long hair over a shoulder, “since swaggering around
Velaris—”
“We have company,” was Azriel’s soft warning, wings again spreading a bit as he
herded them through the open balcony doors to the dining room. I could have sworn
tendrils of darkness swirled in their wake.
Mor patted Azriel on the shoulder as she dodged his outstretched wing. “Relax, Az—no
fighting tonight. We promised Rhys.”
The lurking shadows vanished entirely as Azriel’s head dipped a bit—his night-dark
hair sliding over his handsome face as if to shield him from that mercilessly beautiful grin.
Mor gave no indication that she noticed and curved her fingers toward me. “Come sit
with me while they drink.” I had enough dignity remaining not to look to Rhys for
confirmation it was safe. So I obeyed, falling into step beside her as the two Illyrians
drifted back to walk the few steps with their High Lord. “Unless you’d rather drink,” Mor
offered as we entered the warmth and red stone of the dining room. “But I want you to
myself before Amren hogs you—”
The interior dining room doors opened on a whispering wind, revealing the shadowed,
crimson halls of the mountain beyond.
And maybe part of me remained mortal, because even though the short, delicate woman
looked like High Fae … as Rhys had warned me, every instinct was roaring to run. To
hide.