Rhysand bringing company into my house was already irritating.

The Spring Court doors open and the Night Court strolls in like they own the place—Rhys first, violet eyes calculating everything in sight. Cassian follows with the swagger of someone who enjoys breaking things, and Azriel moves behind them like a shadow that learned how to walk.

Typical.

Diplomacy, they called it.

I lean against the edge of the long table in the entrance hall, arms crossed loosely as they approach. The manor smells like roses and fresh ivy—someone clearly thought this meeting needed to look peaceful.

Rhys stops a few steps away.

Our eyes meet.

Old tension settles into the room like smoke.

“Tamlin,” he says smoothly.

“Rhysand.”

Pleasantries complete.

And then Azriel, and Cazzian and then another Figure. Black wings.Tall. Still.

The female standing beside the High Lord of Night is unmistakably Illyrian—dark hair spilling over one shoulder, posture straight and alert like someone who expects violence at any moment.

Interesting.

Rhysand brought an Illyrian with him.

Brave.

Or stupid.

My gaze drifts toward her more carefully.

And the bond slams into me.

The world tilts.

The sensation hits like a blade through my chest—ancient, absolute, impossible to mistake.

Mate.

For a moment I simply stare.

Because the female standing beside Rhysand—the Illyrian with the cold expression and wings folded neatly behind her back—

Is my Mate.

Well.

That explains a few things.

My eyes narrow slightly as realization unfolds.

The fancy bat lady.

Rhysand’s Sister.

The one people whisper about.

Strong Illyrian warrior.

Deadly Daemati.

Oh.

Oh this makes perfect sense.

The Cauldron does have excellent taste.

Across the room she goes completely still.

Not shocked exactly.

More like…

Deeply annoyed.

Interesting.

The bond pulls again, warm and instinctive beneath my ribs, and something in me settles with immediate certainty.

Yes.

That is mine.

Rhys begins talking about trade routes and alliances, but I’m barely listening anymore because a far more important realization has just occurred.

My mate is standing in Spring Court.

Which means— I glance at her again.

She still looks like she’d rather stab me than speak.

No matter. Details.

Because the real question now is much more interesting.

How do I get her to stay?

Diplomacy drops very low on my list of priorities.

Rhys keeps talking.

Cassian looks vaguely suspicious.

Azriel’s shadows stir.

And I am standing here realizing something extremely important.

Forget alliances. Forget politics.

The Cauldron just handed me the most formidable Illyrian in Prythian as my mate.

And I fully intend to keep her.

My gaze drifts back toward her again, slow and deliberate. The corner of my mouth lifts slightly.

Yes, this is going to be entertaining.

Because the more I look at her, the more the realization settles deeper into my bones.

Rhysand’s sister of all the females in Prythian.

The Cauldron could have given me anyone, and instead it handed me the one female that will make Rhysand lose his ever-loving mind.

I almost laugh.

The irony is exquisite.

The Cauldron would not let me keep Feyre.

That much is obvious now. The universe had other plans.

Better plans.

Because it took the High Lord of Night’s beloved from me…and gave me his sister instead.

I glance at Velastra again, considering this from a more practical perspective.

She is powerful. Dangerous.Terrifying, by the look of her. She already looks like she hates me.

Perfect.

I push away from the table slowly, circling once as Rhys continues speaking about alliances I have no intention of focusing on. Because now my mind is doing something far more interesting.

Strategizing.

Step one: do not alarm the bat.

She looks like the type that might stab first and ask questions later.

Step two: figure out how to make her stay.

Rhys will try to drag her back to Night Court eventually. Obviously unacceptable.

Spring Court has guest rooms. Very nice ones.

An entire wing, actually.

Could I just… put her in one?