You had faced storms. Battles. Centuries-old beasts that wanted your blood. But nothing had your heart racing the way it did now—standing outside the River House with Nyx, about to meet his parents.

His parents.

High Lady Feyre and High Lord Rhysand.

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, trying to appear calm, but Nyx’s hand caught yours easily. He squeezed gently, eyes filled with that familiar, grounding warmth.

“They’re going to love you,” he said, wings rustling behind him.

“You keep saying that,” you muttered, trying to breathe evenly, “but what if I say something wrong? Or knock over a priceless painting? Or trip and fall on the High Lady—”

Nyx laughed under his breath and leaned in, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You’ll be fine. You’re my mate, not a court emissary.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Before he could answer, the door opened.

Feyre stood in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in a soft lavender tunic, her hair braided over one shoulder. She blinked in surprise as if she hadn’t expected to find you there already.

But then she smiled—and not politely, not distantly, but warmly.

“You must be the one my son refuses to shut up about.”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Oh—um. Guilty?”

Nyx groaned behind you. “Mother.”

Feyre laughed. “I’m teasing. Come in.”

Inside, the River House was alive with a quiet elegance, art on every wall, a fire flickering in the hearth. Rhysand appeared not long after, dressed in black, of course, with a faint smirk that told you he’d heard everything.

“So,” he said smoothly. “The one who managed to bring our son back with a bruised ego and hearts in his eyes.”

You flushed instantly, but Feyre stepped in, lightly swatting her mate. “Rhys, stop intimidating them.”

“I’m not,” he said innocently. “I’m observing.”

Dinner was casual but perfect, held at the long table in the dining room, full of laughter and stories from their younger years—stories Nyx had clearly hoped would not be shared. You spoke when you could, trying to find your rhythm, but Feyre kept drawing you in with questions about your training, your life before Velaris, the first time you and Nyx met.

And then, as dessert was served—blackberry tart with honeyed cream—Feyre looked at you and said softly, “You’re good for him.”

You blinked. “I… I hope so.”

She nodded, voice gentler now. “No. I know so. He’s steadier. Calmer. And the way he looks at you…” Feyre glanced briefly at Rhys, then back at you with a soft smile. “It’s the way Rhys once looked at me across a battlefield.”

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t need to. Nyx’s hand found yours beneath the table again, anchoring you.

“You’re not just welcome here,” Feyre said, eyes bright. “You belong here.”

And in that moment, with Rhys nodding quietly, Nyx’s fingers entwined with yours, and the stars beginning to shimmer just beyond the windows, you felt it deep in your bones:

This wasn’t just your mate’s family.

It was yours now, too.