Autumn Court knows how to throw a party.

Firelight pours from the high balconies of the palace, music spilling through open archways while the entire court glitters beneath chandeliers of molten gold and amber crystal. Nobles swirl across the marble floors in silk and velvet, laughter rising above the orchestra like sparks from a bonfire.

It is excessive.

Loud.

Exactly the kind of spectacle I once enjoyed far too much.

I stand near the edge of the ballroom now, a goblet balanced loosely between my fingers as I watch the crowd with the calm indifference expected of Autumn’s heir.

Once upon a time I would have been in the center of it—surrounded by courtiers and noble daughters competing for my attention.

Now the noise barely holds my interest.

Until the doors open.

Conversation shifts subtly as the Night Court arrives.

Rhysand enters first, violet eyes scanning the room with that familiar predatory calm. Morrigan glides beside him like a living piece of starlight, Cassian following with the relaxed swagger of someone who expects trouble wherever he goes.

Azriel appears behind them like a shadow given form.

And then—

Her.

Velastra steps into the ballroom.

For a moment my mind simply stops working.

Because I have never seen her like this before.

Velastra has always existed in my memory clad in black Illyrian leathers—armor, blades, wings tucked behind her back like a storm waiting to break.

Now she wears something entirely different.

A black lace gown that catches the firelight with faint silver sparkles threaded through the fabric. The dress curves around her like it was designed by someone who understood exactly how dangerous she is.

Her tattoos are visible tonight.

Dark Illyrian markings curling along her arms and collarbone like living smoke against pale skin.

Her wings are still there—still powerful, still unmistakably hers—but the lace and silk somehow make them look even more striking.

Gods.

She looks lethal, and beautiful.

The realization hits me with brutal clarity.

I had this.

The hottest Illyrian warrior in Prythian.

My Mate.

And I made a joke of it.

My grip tightens slightly around the stem of my goblet as memory slams back into place. The moment the bond snapped between us.

The disbelief. The arrogance.

The careless way I laughed it off like it meant nothing.

Then the courtiers. Me flirting with them.

The stupid, childish need to prove that the bond didn’t matter. Gods. What an idiot I was.

Across the ballroom Velastra pauses beside Rhysand, violet eyes scanning the room calmly.

When her gaze finally lands on me—

The bond reacts instantly.

A sharp pull beneath my ribs.

Still there. Still unbroken. Still hers.

She doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t even acknowledge the moment beyond that brief flicker of eye contact.

Instead she turns slightly to listen to something Cassian says beside her.

As if I am nothing more than another noble in the room.

Which, to be fair—

I deserve.

I set my goblet down slowly on the nearest table, unable to look away from her now.

Because the female standing across the ballroom tonight is not the distant warrior I pushed away months ago.

She is something far more dangerous.

And as the music swells around us and the entire court continues celebrating—

One thought echoes mercilessly through my head.

It has been months since the last time I saw her.

Months since the moment she looked at me with that cold, devastating clarity and walked away from the bond as if it were nothing more than a thread she could cut.

I told myself I didn’t care.

That the bond meant nothing.

That Mates were overrated nonsense invented by sentimental fools.

Gods, I was insufferable.

The truth is far less flattering.

I noticed her absence immediately.

The bond never stopped pulling. Quiet. Constant. Like a reminder buried somewhere beneath my ribs that I had been given something rare—and treated it like a joke.

And now here she is again. Across the ballroom, wearing black lace instead of armor, looking more dangerous..

What in the Cauldron’s name did I throw away?