Cassian had screwed up.

Big time.

In his defense, as he had argued to Mor, he'd been angry at the time. Beyond angry -- and he'd let his temper run his mouth for him, momentarily forgetting who he was talking to.

His mate.

Who, in their defense, Mor had supplied as the devil's advocate that she was, had been more than right to storm off the way they had. But they'd done more than storm off.

They'd left -- offered no explanation to anyone other than Rhysand, who'd made Cassian sweat before he'd told him that they'd left for the cabin in the mountains.

"I'd apologize," Mor told him unhelpfully, as if he didn't already know that. "But actually apologize."

And then she'd left, leaving him more confused than ever -- which had lead to now, with him in front of that familiar door, a bouquet of carefully wrapped flowers in one arm, along with a bottle of Rhysand's best wines.

He sure as hell hoped that his mate would forgive him.