The House of Wind glittered in warm light, the ballroom alive with music and laughter as the Winter Solstice ball unfolded in a beautiful flurry of silk gowns, sparkling goblets, and glimmering faelight. Snow drifted softly beyond the vast windows, and the scent of spiced wine and pine lingered in the air.

You stood quietly near one of the tall windows, swirling the deep red wine in your glass, eyes watching the dancers glide across the marble floor. Your deep sapphire gown shimmered faintly under the candlelight, the color deepening against your silky auburn locks. The music was soft now, romantic, laced with old magic. But your thoughts weren’t on the music. They were on him.

Nyx.

Son of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court, and the one male who had made it incredibly difficult to focus on your training lately. Every morning sparring session, every joint mission briefing, every moment you shared in the House of Wind—he made you laugh, challenged you, and smiled at you like you were the only one in the room. You were a Valkyrie—strong, fierce, disciplined.

But with him? You were also aching.

The flutter of wings was barely a whisper, but you felt him before you saw him. That familiar presence, all shadows and starfire. You turned, and there he was—Nyx, in a midnight blue jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, his tousled dark hair slightly damp from the snow, a roguish grin tugging at his lips.

“Beautiful night,” he said softly, gaze flicking to yours, then lower—to the glass in your hand, then back up. “But you look better than the stars outside.”

You laughed, heart stuttering in your chest. “Careful, Nyx. I might think you’re flirting with me.”

He stepped closer. “And if I am?”

You swallowed thickly, your breath catching as he stopped in front of you—so close. You tilted your head slightly up to meet his eyes… and then you noticed it. The tiny sprig of green and red hanging above you. Mistletoe.

You both looked at it at the same time, and the air shifted. The space between you crackled like the edge of a blade. His wings tensed ever so slightly behind him. Your fingers clenched around your glass. You’d danced around this for months. The banter, the teasing, the tension.

But this…

“I guess tradition demands it,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His golden-brown eyes searched yours—no hesitation, just quiet wonder. “Only if you want to.”

And gods, you did.

You leaned up at the same time he bent down, your lips meeting in a kiss that was soft and tentative for a heartbeat—and then it deepened, months of restraint melting away. His hand curved around your waist, pulling you flush against him, your free hand sliding into the dark hair at the nape of his neck. The kiss was heat and stars, a promise and a beginning.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, his forehead rested against yours. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured.