You are Rhysand’s sibling — precious to the Night Court and fiercely protected. Especially by your overbearing brother, and by Cassian and Azriel, who watch you like hawks.

But you are no fragile thing.

You are powerful — a true heir of your bloodline. A formidable Daemati. An Illyrian warrior. Sharp-tongued, sharp-minded, and unwilling to be commanded, even by your High Lord brother. Elegant in court, wild at Rita’s with Mor — you balance poise and rebellion with ease.

Months ago, Rhysand forged an uneasy alliance with Eris Vanserra: Autumn’s aid in the war against Hybern in exchange for help overthrowing Beron. The Inner Circle despised it. They despised him even more — especially Mor and Cassian, who have never forgiven what he did to Mor.

Then the Cauldron revealed Eris as your mate.

The Night Court erupted.

Against their protests, you went to Autumn as emissary. As his mate, you argued, you had leverage. With your Daemati power, you would never be helpless.

Autumn was nothing like Velaris. It was dangerous — a court of masks, treachery, and whispered betrayal. You saw how Eris had been shaped by it. How cruelty became armor. How arrogance became strategy.

And beneath it, you found a capable, intelligent leader.

He saw you too — your strength, your wit, your refusal to bend. He wanted you beside him as equal, not ornament.

Autumn changed you. Without the shelter of the Night Court, you grew sharper, stronger. You and Eris became partners — power beside power.

Until tonight.

On the journey home for a diplomatic visit, you fed him — and accepted the mating bond.

It hit Eris like wildfire.

The composed, cunning heir unraveled. The bond ignited something ancient and possessive in him. His control frays. His fire simmers just beneath his skin.

And you are nearly home.

The carriage slows before the House of Wind. Outside, the Inner Circle waits with stern faces. At their head stands Rhysand, calm in a way that promises danger. Feyre at his side.

Lucien has gone ahead to stall them.

Inside the carriage, Eris’s hand grips your waist. The bond thrums, heavy and intoxicating. He should greet the Night Court as heir of Autumn — poised, diplomatic.

Instead, he lowers his mouth to your neck, voice rough, a low growl in his chest as he presses a heated kiss to your skin.

Outside, your fiercely protective family waits.

The alliance hangs by a thread.

And your mate is one spark away from setting it ablaze.