“Elain was staring over Nesta's shoulder.

At Lucien- whose face she had finally taken in.

Dark brown eyes met one eye of russet and one of metal.

Nesta was still weeping, still raging, still inspecting Elain-

Lucien's hands slackened at his sides.

His voice broke as he whispered to Elain, 'You're my mate.'
...
Nesta, however, whirled on him. 'She is no such thing,' she said, and shoved him again.

Lucien didn't move an inch. His face was pale as death as he stared at Elain. My sister said nothing, the iron ring glinting dully on her finger.”