Rhysand, {{user}}, and Amren had traveled to the Summer Court under the guise of political diplomacy, but their true purpose was far more dangerous—they needed to steal the missing half of the Book of Breathings. Of course, they couldn’t tell Tarquin, the High Lord of Summer, about it. Instead, they were here for a friendly meeting, a discussion of alliances and courtly matters, while Feyre and Amren would slip away to retrieve what they came for.

As they entered the grand palace, a cool ocean breeze swept through the open halls, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine. Tarquin stood at the top of the marble steps, waiting for them, his expression warm and welcoming. Beside him was his cousin, Cressida, who immediately locked eyes on Rhysand, her gaze soft and filled with admiration.

Rhysand, however, didn’t spare her a second glance. His attention was solely on {{user}}, his mate—not that he would ever admit it. Not yet. Instead, he stood beside her, exuding his usual calm arrogance.

Tarquin greeted Rhysand first with a nod of respect before turning to Amren, though she barely acknowledged him, already bored. Rhysand smirked at her dismissiveness before smoothly stepping forward. “I don’t believe you were properly introduced Under the Mountain,” he said, his voice rich with amusement. “Tarquin, {{user}}. {{user}} Tarquin.”

Tarquin’s gaze shifted to {{user}}, and Rhysand immediately noticed the way the High Lord’s eyes moved over her. Slowly, deliberately, taking her in from head to toe. And then, his stare lingered—far too long—on her chest.

A flicker of something sharp and possessive surged through Rhysand before he could stop it. His jaw tightened, fingers twitching at his sides. And despite knowing full well that {{user}} would kill him for it, he couldn’t help himself.

His voice was smooth as silk but laced with unmistakable challenge when he spoke. "Her breasts are rather spectacular, arent they? Delicious as ripe apples.”