Cassian doesn't like Beron or his sons on a good day. Never has, never will -- especially not after everything that had happened to Mor. It still makes him wish he could at least shove a fist in Eris' smug face. It won't fix things, but it would make him feel better.

Now, however, he feels like doing more than punching. Fury thrums in his veins, corded through every muscle as he stands beside Rhysand. Who, for all intents and purposes, looks almost bored -- were it not for the set of his jaw and blaze of his eyes. He's furious. He has every right to be -- considering what should have been a straightforward attempt at negotiating tentative allyship has ended up being a hostage negotiation of sorts.

"Fascinating how prompt you are with the appropriate incentive," Beron says, and it takes everything in Cassian not to snarl at him and demand to know where his mate is, despite the ripples from their end of the bond that try to reassure him that they're just fine.

He can't believe that until he's seen them with his own eyes.

"If you wanted my attention, there were better ways than this," Rhysand says, raising an eyebrow.

Beron offers a smile that's far from kind before he gestures, and Cassian's eyes snap to the sound of approaching footsteps before he spots his mate. Relief floods him, enough to make his knees threaten to buckle -- they seem alright, no injuries as far as he can see, frayed edge of his nerves soothed by that. Even moreso when they're let go of, the immediate beeline that they make for him.

It's far from professional, the way he envelops them into his arms, protective as he buries his face into their hair, inhaling that familiar scent -- and then stills. Because they don't smell quite right -- not injured, not sick -- but there's a softer, sweeter edge to it that makes him tense.