You stood in the grand hall of the House of Wind, draped in icy silks threaded with starlight. You were your father’s diplomatic envoy—beautiful, composed, terrifying in that Winter way. And you were there because Kallias didn’t trust the Night Court.

Not entirely. Not with you.

Across the room, Nyx leaned against a marble pillar, dark wings casually folded, that same infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. As if he knew how much he got under your skin. And he did. Every word he spoke to you came out like a challenge.

“You look cold,” he said as you passed him, low enough for only you to hear.

You didn’t miss a step. “Better cold than constantly brooding. Tell me, do you practice that smirk in the mirror?”

He grinned. “Only when I know I’ll be seeing you.”

You rolled your eyes, moving to the balcony to escape the heat that bloomed in your chest—heat you refused to acknowledge came from him.

Later, alone on the terrace, you felt him behind you before he spoke. Always that whisper of shadow, that scent of storms and cedar.

“You don’t like me.”

“I don’t like anything about you,” you snapped, turning. “You’re arrogant, reckless, far too good at knowing exactly how to get under my skin.”

His violet eyes gleamed. “So I do get under your skin.”

You scowled. “If you say one more word—”

“—You’ll freeze my lips?” he teased, stepping closer.

You should’ve moved away.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment was charged—more than irritation, more than rivalry. It was that damn pull again. The one you’d felt since the border skirmish months ago. Since he saved you from a poisoned arrow. Since you both stood panting in the snow, staring at each other like the world had tilted.

“I don’t want a bond,” you said softly. “I never wanted to be tied to anyone.”

He looked at you—not with arrogance, not with amusement. But with understanding.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “Until I found out it was you.”