Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as Feyre twisted to face her. Her sister swallowed. “We need to make some changes, Nesta,” Feyre said hoarsely. “You do—and we do.”

They were kicking her out. Throwing her into the wild, perhaps to go back to the human lands—

“I’ll take the blame,” Feyre went on, “for things getting this far, and getting this bad. After the war, with everything else that was going on, it … you … I should have been there to help you, but I wasn’t, and I am ready to admit that this is partially my fault.”

“That what is your fault,” Nesta demanded.

“You,” Cassian said from the armchair to her left. “This bullshit behavior.”

Her spine locked up, fire boiled in her veins at the insult, the arrogance—

“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.”