Charlie

“Nesta, it should not have come out as it did.'

'Did Cassian tell you that?' He'd gone to Feyre, rather than here?

'No, but I can guess as much. He didn't want to keep anything from you.'

'My issue isn't with Cassian.' Nesta levelled her stare at Amren. 'I trusted you to have my back.'

'I stopped having your back the moment you decided to use that loyalty as a shield against everyone else.'

Nesta snarled, but Feyre stepped between them, hands raised. 'This conversation ends now. Nesta, go back to the House. Amren, you...' She hesitated, as if considering the wisdom of ordering Amren around. Feyre finished carefully, 'You stay here.'

Nesta let out a low laugh. 'You are her High Lady. You don't need to cater to her. Not when she now has less power than any of you.'

Feyre's eyes blazed. 'Amren is my friend, and has been a member of this court for centuries. I offer her respect.'

'Is it respect that she offers you?' Nesta spat. 'It is respect that your mate offers you?'

Feyre went still.

Amren warned, 'Don't you say one more fucking word, Nesta Archeron.'

Feyre asked, 'What do you mean?'

And Nesta didn't care. Couldn't think around the roaring. 'Have any of them told you, their respected High lady, that the babe in your womb will kill you?'

Amren barked, 'Shut your mouth!'

But her order was confirmation enough. Face paling, Feyre whispered again, 'What do you mean?'

'The wings,' Nesta seethed. 'The boy's Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labour, and it will kill you both.'

Silence rippled through the room, the world.

Feyre breathed, 'Madja just said that the labour would be risky. But the Bone Carver... The son he showed me didn't have wings.' Her voice broke. 'Did he only show me what I wanted to see.'

'I don't know,' Nesta said. 'But I do know that your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.' She turned to Amren. 'Did you all vote on that, too? Did you talk about her, judge her, and deem her unworthy of the truth? What was your vote, Amren? To let Feyre die in ignorance?' Before Amren could reply, Nesta turned back to her sister. 'Didn't you question why your precious, perfect Rhysand has been a moody bastard for weeks? Because he knows you will die. He knows, and yet he still didn't tell you.'

Feyre began shaking. 'If I die...' Her gaze drifted to one of her tattooed arms. She lifted her head, eyes bright with tears as she asked Amren, 'You... all of you knew this?'

Amren threw a withering glare in Nesta's direction, but said, 'We did not wish to alarm you. Fear can be as deadly as any physical threat.'

'Rhys knew?' Tears spilled down Feyre's cheeks, smearing the paint splattered there. 'About the threat to our lives?' She peered down at herself, at the tattooed hand cradling her abdomen.

And Nesta knew then that she had not once in her life been loved by her mother as much as Feyre already loved the boy growing within her.

It broke something in Nesta- broke that rage, that roaring- seeing those tears begin to fall, the fear crumpling Feyre's paint-smeared face.

She had gone too far. She... Oh, gods.

Amren said, 'I think it is best, girl, if you speak to Rhysand about this.'

Nesta couldn't bear it- the pain and fear and love on Feyre's face as she caressed her stomach.

Amren growled at Nesta, 'I hope you're content now.'

Nesta didn't respond. Didn't know what to say or do with herself. She simply turned on her heel and ran from the apartment.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A ​Court of Silver Flames