He’d thought the fire would consume him long before it ever warmed him.

That he was born for ash, not softness. For rage, not peace. That he’d never find a way out from beneath his father’s shadow — and if he did, there’d be nothing left of him worth saving.

But then came her.

The youngest Archeron. The quiet one. The clever one. She was not made of fire or frost like her sisters, not tempered in obvious power — but gods, she burned. She burned in her own way: quiet, unyielding, strategic.

And when she looked at him — really looked — he forgot that he’d ever wanted to be anything but hers.

It hadn’t started with love. It had started with an alliance. A pact. Two sharp minds, working beneath the notice of their louder counterparts, plotting something so precise, so elegant, that no one suspected them until it was far too late.

By the time the dust settled, they had won. And they were still standing — together.

Now, years later, the Autumn Court bloomed anew under his reign. He was High Lord. He was free. And gods help him, he was happy.

Most days, anyway.

He sat in the nursery wing of the palace, watching as three small, red-haired hurricanes tore through piles of silk pillows and sun-drenched rugs. His daughters — his daughters — squealing and sparring, already little terrors in training. Already everything to him.

And yet…

He groaned, letting his head fall against the velvet headrest.

Three girls. Three stunning, stubborn, flame-hearted daughters. All of them with his hair, his smirk, and his mother’s fiery temper.

He’d broken the curse, apparently. His father had only sons. His grandfather, too. Generations of flame-forged heirs who carried the Autumn Court name in strength and cruelty.

And then came Eris. Who fell in love. Who loved.

And in return, the Mother had given him three daughters — and a fourth child now growing in his mate’s womb.

A child whose gender was still unknown.

A fact which his mother delighted in teasing him about at every possible opportunity.

He rubbed his temples as he recalled her words from last week’s family dinner, voice too sweet to be anything but trouble:

“Looks like you are the one to break the Vanserra mold, darling. Your daughters are changing the court more than a thousand sons ever could. Now let’s see if you’ll get four-for-four.”

He nearly wept.

A laugh from the doorway drew his attention, and he glanced up just in time to see her. Dressed in a loose, flowing gown that did nothing to hide the gentle curve of her stomach. Golden sunlight crowned her hair, caught in the laughter dancing across her lips.

She stepped into the room like she owned it — like she owned him, and gods, she did.

Eris slouched deeper into the chair with a dramatic groan. “Three, love. And now a mystery fourth.”

She raised a brow. “Would you like to make it five?”

“Don’t tease me,” he muttered. “The Mother’s already got it out for me.”

She walked toward him, slow and indulgent, and perched on the arm of his chair, her fingers threading through his hair.

He leaned into her touch like a starving man.

“I don’t want a son because I think I need one,” he murmured, voice lower now. “The court’s doing fine. The girls will rule if they wish. But… just once. I’d like a child who looks like you. Not my damn hair. Not my eyes. Just… you.”

Her smile softened. “Eris.”

“Is that so much to ask?” he whispered, eyes closing as he leaned his forehead against her belly. “Just one little traitor to my bloodline.”

A snort escaped her. “You’ll love them either way.”

“I already do. Even if it’s another tiny tyrant with my hair and your sass.”

She paused, brushing a kiss to his temple. “You know, if it is another girl, I’m naming her Victory.”

Eris groaned again. “You’re a menace.”

“You married me.”

He cracked one eye open, flashed her that infamous smirk. “Because you schemed better than I did.”

“Exactly.”

Then came her grin, sharp as a dagger, wicked as sin. “And Eris?”

“Yes, my lovely tormentor?”