The pounding in your head was nothing compared to the heat pressed against your back.

You groaned quietly, lids fluttering open to soft light bleeding through sheer curtains. The sheets under you were silk—definitely not yours. The scent around you was dark and clean, like cedarwood, starfall wind, and—

A low, sleepy sound rumbled behind you. A voice you didn’t recognize, but somehow felt.

“Good morning, gorgeous.”

Your breath hitched.

You turned slowly, every inch of your body protesting—used, sore, tingling in ways that made your cheeks flare hot.

And there he was.

Nyx.

The Night Court’s powerful heir. Son of Feyre and Rhysand. High Lord-in-training. Wings slightly askew and tousled raven-black hair falling over his forehead , his tattooed chest bare.

You stared at him like a deer in headlights.

He blinked, amused, one arm lazily slung over your waist. “Don’t look so shocked. You’re the one who told me—loudly, might I add—that you have a thing for wings.”

You groaned and dropped back onto the pillows. “Cauldron boil me.”

Nyx grinned, eyes drifting to the fading bite mark on your shoulder. “Didn’t sound like you had regrets last night.”

You shot him a withering glare and sat up too fast—instantly regretting it. Your head spun, and the sheets slipped just enough to reveal bare skin and you realized with icy clarity that you were naked.

He noticed too.

“Easy,” he murmured, sitting up behind you and placing a warm hand on your spine. “Are you alright?“ he asked gently as he studied your expression, “I’ll get you water. And maybe breakfast. You look like you need both after last night.”