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

Feyre

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.”

“It’s your birthday,” he drawled. “The rules don’t apply to you.”

I rolled my eyes at that, even as I smiled a bit. Easing away the wrapping, I pulled out a stunning notebook bound in black, supple leather, so soft it was almost like velvet. On the front, stamped in simple silver letters, were my initials.

Opening the floppy front cover, it revealed page after page of beautiful, thick paper. All blank.

“A sketchbook,” he said. “Just for you.”

“It’s beautiful.” It was. Simple, yet exquisitely made. I would have picked it for myself, had such a luxury not seemed excessive.

I leaned down to kiss him, a brush of our mouths. From the corner of my eye, I saw another item appear on my pillow.

I pulled back to see a second present waiting, the large box wrapped in amethyst paper. “More?”

Rhys waved a lazy hand, pure Illyrian arrogance. “Did you think a sketchbook would suffice for my High Lady?”

My face heating, I opened the second present. A sky-blue scarf of softest wool lay folded inside.

“So you can stop stealing Mor’s,” he said, winking.

I grinned, wrapping the scarf around myself. Every inch of skin it touched felt like a decadence.

“Thank you,” I said, stroking the fine material. “The color is beautiful.”

“Mmmm.” Another wave of his hand, and a third present appeared.

“This is getting excessive.”

Rhys only arched a brow, and I chuckled as I opened the third gift. “A new satchel for my painting supplies,” I breathed, running my hands over the fine leather as I admired all the various pockets and straps. A set of pencils and charcoals already lay within. The front had also been monogrammed with my initials—along with a tiny Night Court insignia. “Thank you,” I said again.

Rhysand’s smile deepened. “I had a feeling jewels wouldn’t be high on your list of desired gifts.”

It was true. Beautiful as they were, I had little interest in them. And had plenty already. “This is exactly what I would have asked for.”

“Had you not been hoping that your own mate would forget your birthday.”

I snorted. “Had I not been hoping for that.” I kissed him again, and when I made to pull away, he slid a hand behind my head and kept me there.

He kissed me deeply, lazily—as if he’d be content to do nothing but that all day. I might have considered it.

But I managed to extract myself, and crossed my legs as I settled back on the bed and reached for my new sketchbook and satchel of supplies. “I want to draw you,” I said. “As my birthday present to me.”

His smile was positively feline.

I added, flipping open my sketchbook and turning to the first page, “You said once that nude would be best.”

Rhys’s eyes glowed, and a whisper of his power through the room had the curtains parting, flooding the space with midmorning sunshine. Showing every glorious naked inch of him sprawled across the bed, illuminating the faint reds and golds of his wings. “Do your worst, Cursebreaker.”

My very blood sparking, I pulled out a piece of charcoal and began.

It was nearly eleven by the time we emerged from our room. I’d filled pages and pages of my sketchbook with him—drawings of his wings, his eyes, his Illyrian tattoos. And enough of his naked, beautiful body that I knew I’d never share this sketchbook with anyone but him. Rhys had indeed hummed his approval when he’d leafed through my work, smirking at the accuracy of my drawings regarding certain areas of his body.

The town house was still silent as we descended the stairs, my mate opting for Illyrian leathers—for whatever strange reason. If Solstice morning included one of Cassian’s grueling training sessions, I’d gladly stay behind and start eating the feast I could already smell cooking in the kitchen down the hall.