Throne of Glass (Throne of Glass #0.1–0.5, 1–7)

by Sarah J. Maas

And her face. That gods-damned face.

And for these past few weeks, against his better judgment, he’d thought often about that face—especially that smart-ass mouth. But he hadn’t remembered just how stunning she was until she’d taken off her hood earlier, and it had struck him stupid.

He wondered if she realized that for all she complained about his alpha nonsense, she was pure-blooded alpha herself.

For a moment, a blinding, blistering wrath shot through him. It was instinct to lunge for her hand, to touch the face that remained downturned. But he held himself in check. She still didn’t look at him as she said, “Do you think—” “Never,” he said. “Never, Aelin.”

“If you’re a monster, I’m a monster,” he said with a grin broad enough to show off his elongated canines.

Not a monster—not for what she’d done, not for her power, not when Rowan was there. She’d thank the gods every damn day for the small mercy of giving her a friend who was her match, her equal, and who would never look at her with horror in his eyes. No matter what happened, she’d always be grateful for that.

“What in hell is that?” She kept going toward the bathroom, refusing to apologize or look down at the pink, delicate, very short lace nightgown. When she emerged, face washed and clean, Rowan was sitting up, arms crossed over his bare chest. “You forgot the bottom part.” She merely blew out the candles in the room one by one. His eyes tracked her the entire time. “There is no bottom part,”

there a specific color you’d like me to wear? If I’m going to scandalize you, I should at least do it in something you like.” “You’re a menace.” She laughed again, feeling lighter than she had in weeks, despite the news Rowan had given her. She was fairly certain they were done talking for the night when his voice rumbled across the bed. “Gold. Not yellow—real, metallic gold.”

Thirty minutes later, Rowan was still staring up at the ceiling, teeth gritted as he calmed the roaring in his veins that was steadily shredding through his self-control. That gods-damned nightgown. Shit. He was in such deep, unending shit.

“In Terrasen, there was only one.” She stirred the onions. “Things change. New traditions for a new court. You can swear it right now if you wish.”

Kaltain smiled faintly at the soldier shaking on the ornate red carpet, his golden-brown hair shimmering in the light of the dimmed lantern above him. “It does this,” she whispered, and curled her delicate fingers.

“We can only tug so much at the leash.” “Leashes can snap,” Asterin challenged. “So can your neck,” Manon said.

Abraxos had tensed, his tail shifting over the stones. The useless beast was worried for the girl. Manon narrowed her eyes at him. “Isn’t your kind supposed to eat young women?” He glared at her.

Darkness and death and black flame; despair and rage and emptiness.

“What—you squashed him to death like a pressed grape?” Rowan choked. “No, I didn’t squash him like a grape.” He gave the queen a feral smile. “I ripped the leg off the table and impaled him with it.”

“And,” Rowan added, “if you ever speak to her again the way you did last night, I’ll rip out your tongue and shove it down your throat. Understand?”

“I could dig Clarisse a grave no one would ever discover,” Aelin said. And meant it. Lysandra knew she meant it, too. “Not yet—not now.” “You say the word, and it’s done.” Lysandra’s smile was a thing of savage, dark beauty.

Here—Rowan was here with her, in Rifthold. And there was so much more she wanted him to see, to learn about what her life had been like. She’d never wanted to share any of it before.

“You cried?” She could almost see the memories of their training this spring flash in his eyes: all those times music had calmed or unleashed her magic. It was a part of her soul—as much as he was.

once played for Dorian, and it was not the light, dancing melodies she’d played for sport; it was not the complex and clever pieces she had played for Nehemia and Chaol. This piece was a celebration—a reaffirmation of life, of glory, of the pain and beauty in breathing.

When she looked up, panting slightly, Rowan’s eyes were lined with silver, his throat bobbing. Somehow, after all this time, her warrior-prince still managed to surprise her. He seemed to struggle for words, but he finally breathed, “Show me—show me how you did that.” So she obliged him.

It took only a minute before near-silent boots scraped on stone below, and a figure moved past the ladder, heading to where she’d left the cape, tracking her as he’d done all night. As she’d let him do all night. And when Lorcan walked right into that den of Valg commanders and the Wyrdhound that had come to retrieve their reports, when the clash of weapons and roar of dying filled her ears, Aelin merely sauntered down the street, whistling to herself.

will never forget, not for one moment, what you did to him that day in Doranelle. Your miserable existence is at the bottom of my priority list, but one day, Lorcan …” She smiled a little. “One day, I’ll come to claim that debt, too. Consider tonight a warning.”

Aelin had just unlocked the warehouse door when Rowan’s deep voice purred from behind, “Busy night, Princess?”

“At least I said it would be a big mistake,” she said with a fiendish grin. “I was tempted to say ‘little.’

His shirt, he noticed with no small amount of male satisfaction.

“Can we not get into a fight about it before my first cup of tea?” With lethal calm, he set the kettle on the stove. “After tea, then?”

But Asterin met Manon’s gaze—met it with a fury that Manon had never seen directed at her. “You let them do this.”

Rowan turned to her. He went completely and utterly still as he took in the dress.

“You said you wanted to see me in this dress,” she said a bit hoarsely. “I hadn’t realized the effect would be so …” He shook his head. He took in her face, her hair, the combs. “You look like—” “A queen?” “The fire-breathing bitch-queen those bastards claim you are.”

Rowan moved deeper into the entry hall, every step laced with power and death, coming to a stop at her side. “You can call me Rowan. That’s all you need to know.” He cocked his head to the side, a predator assessing prey. “Thank you for the oil,” he added. “My skin was a little dry.”

But Aelin remained in the hall for a moment, looking at Rowan. His brows were high as she read the words in his eyes, his posture. He never specified that only you had to wear it. Her throat tightened and she shook her head. What? he seemed to ask. You just … She shook her head again. Surprise me sometimes. Good. I’d hate for you to get bored. Despite herself, despite what was to come, a smile tugged on her lips as Rowan took her hand and gripped it tightly.

There was no part of her that disgusted him, no part of her that scared him,

would pay good money to see seventeen-year-old Aelin meet seventeen-year-old Rowan. His green eyes glittered. Arobynn was still talking. Seventeen-year-old Rowan wouldn’t have known what to do with you. He could barely speak to females outside his family. Liar—I don’t believe that for a second. It’s true. You would have scandalized him with your nightclothes—even with that dress you have on. She sucked on her teeth. He would probably have been even more scandalized to learn I’m not wearing any undergarments beneath this dress. The table rattled as Rowan’s knee banged into it.

Rowan shook his head subtly, his eyes dancing with a light that she’d only recently come to glimpse—and cherish. Do you delight in shocking me? She couldn’t stop her smile. How else am I supposed to keep a cranky immortal entertained? His grin was distracting enough that it took her a moment to notice the silence, and that everyone was staring at them—waiting.

The most powerful purebred Fae male in existence.

didn’t mind that she’d gotten that glimpse into him. He wanted to tell her that he didn’t care what she knew about him, so long as it didn’t scare her away—

He’d almost fallen to his knees when he’d first seen her earlier tonight.

She waited for him to pull back, but he just stared at her—stared into her in that way he always did. Friends, but more. So much more, and she’d known it longer than she wanted to admit.

“Don’t do that. Don’t—touch me like that.”

At dinner, she’d seen the expression flash across his face when he caught Aelin and Rowan smiling at each other. All of Arobynn’s jabs and stories had failed to find their mark tonight because Aelin had been too lost in Rowan to hear. She wondered whether the queen knew. Rowan did. Aedion did. And Arobynn did. He had understood that with Rowan, she was no longer afraid of him; with Rowan, Arobynn was now utterly unnecessary. Irrelevant.

She would find that love again—one day. And it would be deep and unrelenting and unexpected, the beginning and the end and eternity, the kind that could change history, change the world.

The hilt of the stiletto was cool in her hand, and as Lysandra rolled back over, no more than a restless sleeper, she pulled it with her. Lightning gleamed on the blade, a flicker of quicksilver. For Wesley. For Sam. For Aelin. And for herself. For the child she’d been, for the seventeen-year-old on her Bidding night, for the woman she’d become, her heart in shreds, her invisible wound still bleeding. It was so very easy to sit up and slice the knife across Arobynn’s throat.

One last time—you have to wear this mask one last time, and then you can bury Celaena Sardothien forever.

“Don’t get in my way,” she told them. She swept from the carriage, her cloak flapping in the spring wind as she stormed up the steps of the Keep and kicked open the front doors.

He took a step nearer, as if to brush his arm against hers. She sidled out of reach.

But she’d avoided him since last night, and today she had actually stepped away from his touch when he’d dared to reach for her. That had been real.

This woman, this queen of his … A familiar thrill raced through his blood.

You let them do this.

His Fireheart, shut in the dark. He owed the overseers of Endovier a visit.