Azriel hadn’t been able to take his eyes off you all day. There was something different about you—something subtle yet distracting—that kept drawing his attention back, again and again. Especially now, as you looked up at him with that unmistakable pout and pointed toward his nephew, Nyx, cradled securely in your arms.

Somehow, you’d managed to be equally close with all three Archeron sisters, which had essentially earned you the ultimate privilege: babysitting Feyre’s son.

And from the moment Nyx had been placed in your arms, you’d been utterly undone. Completely, hopelessly afflicted with baby fever.

You’d been trying to convince Azriel ever since.

Catching your look, he rubbed the back of his nose and turned away, focusing instead on pouring wine for Feyre and Rhys, who were due to return any minute to collect their son.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he said with a quiet sigh, a smirk tugging at his lips, “that you become dangerously determined when you decide you want something?”