The Spring Court hall is unbearable.

Sunlight pours through the tall windows in thick golden sheets, illuminating polished floors and bright banners hanging between pillars carved with ivy and roses. The air smells of flowers—heavy, sweet, cloying. It coats the back of my throat with something almost sickeningly soft.

I despise it immediately.

Tamlin, however, seems quite proud of the place.

The High Lord of Spring stands beside a long wooden table at the center of the chamber, speaking with the careless confidence of a male who believes he has accomplished something impressive. His court lingers nearby, pretending not to stare too openly at the Hybern commanders now occupying their hall.

I listen with half my attention.

The rest of my mind moves outward.

A Daemati does not enter a room without testing the minds inside it. It is instinct—like breathing. Threads of awareness extend quietly into the space around me, brushing the surface thoughts of courtiers and guards alike.

Then the thread snaps tight.

My mind stops as abruptly as if I had struck stone.

A barrier.

The sensation is subtle but unmistakable. Clean. Controlled. Not frantic defense, but something deliberate—layered and woven so seamlessly into the room that most Daemati would never notice it.

I push again.

The shield holds.

Interesting.

Tamlin continues speaking beside me, entirely unaware.

“…you’ll find Spring Court hospitality more generous than rumors suggest,” he says with an easy grin, gesturing lazily toward the gathered courtiers.

I barely hear him.

Someone in this room has blocked me from every mind in the chamber.

Not poorly.

Perfectly.

My gaze drifts slowly across the hall, searching.

Courtiers.

Advisors.

Servants.

None of them.

Then my attention lands on the far edge of the room.

She stands near one of the tall pillars wrapped in carved ivy, leaning against the pale stone as though the political theater unfolding around her is of little interest. One hip rests casually against the column. A glass of dark wine turns slowly between her fingers.

Black.

She wears only black.

No Spring Court green. No gold embroidery. Nothing that suggests allegiance to this bright and insufferable place. The dress is lace, intricate and deliberate, the high collar rising along her throat while delicate fabric traces the long lines of her frame.

Silver hair spills over one shoulder like falling moonlight.

Even from across the hall I can see the tattoos.

Night Court markings curl across the pale skin of her arm—dark, elegant patterns stark against the lace of her dress.

She does not speak.

She does not move.

She simply watches the room through half-lidded eyes, lifting the wine glass slowly to her lips as if the entire court bores her.

The pressure against my mind pulses again.

Her.

Of course.

My mouth curves faintly.

Tamlin notices my attention shift and follows my gaze across the hall. Recognition flashes across his face immediately, followed by unmistakable pride.

“Ah,” he says.

His hand lifts, gesturing toward the silver-haired female by the pillar.

“My Viper.”

The words leave his mouth—

—and the world fractures.

The mating bond snaps into place with brutal force.

It is not gentle. It slams into my chest like a blade driven between the ribs.

For one staggering heartbeat the entire hall goes silent in my mind.

Her.

The truth settles with merciless clarity.

My Mate.

My hand closes hard around the edge of the wooden table beside me. The polished surface groans faintly beneath the sudden pressure of my grip as the bond surges through my body like wildfire.

Across the room she has not moved.

Still leaning against the pillar, still holding the wine glass still watching the court with quiet, venomous patience.

But now I can feel her. The cold precision of her mind.

The immense power folded neatly inside the mental shield stretching across the room, protecting every thought in this chamber from my reach.

Tamlin calls her his Viper.

I know better.

No male owns a creature like that.

That is my Mate.