He shouldn’t be watching her.

Nyx stood near the edge of the gilded ballroom, one hand lazily nursing a crystal glass of something too sweet, too expensive. The Day Court did everything in excess—light, wine, silk—but none of it seemed to touch him. Not with her in the center of the floor.

She moved like she belonged to the music. Not the way most fae danced—practiced, performative—but like something ancient was moving through her. A pulse of wild spring magic buried beneath chiffon and poise. Green and gold shimmered on her dress, and her laugh—soft, unguarded—cut through the swell of music like a knife to his ribs.

He hated how easily she forgot him in places like this.

Or maybe she didn’t forget. Maybe she just tried to.

Tamlin had warned her, of course. “He is his father’s son. Keep your distance.” As if Nyx didn’t hear that every time he walked into a room with a crown on his head. As if he hadn’t spent years trying to outrun the shape of Rhysand’s shadow. And still, her father’s words wrapped around her like invisible chains. She didn’t meet Nyx’s eyes anymore. She didn’t seek him out in crowded halls. She didn’t touch his hand when their fingers brushed, like she used to.

But she didn’t dance like someone untouched.

Her smile faltered when their gazes finally locked. Just for a second. Just long enough to betray her.

There you are.

He wondered if she felt it, too—the storm curled beneath his skin, the heat that simmered where her laughter had touched him. A thousand High Lords could’ve filled this ballroom, and still, she’d be the only one who mattered. And yet she belonged to a world that hated his blood. That feared his mother’s name and spat his father’s legacy like poison.

She turned away from his stare a heartbeat too late.

Run, little thorn, he thought. Run before I stop pretending I’m the one who should let go.