Two months. Fifteen days. Eight hours. That’s how long it had been since Nyx last saw {{user}}, his mate. And every moment apart had been agony.

Being Tamlin’s daughter complicated things. Rhysand and Tamlin’s hatred for each other had made their bond difficult from the start. When Tamlin discovered it, he forbade her from seeing Nyx. They were both too young, and the laws, traditions—they stood in their way.

Now, here they were, sitting at the same table with all the High Lords and their ladies. But despite the closeness, they were worlds apart. {{user}} sat next to Tamlin, her mental walls firm, eyes fixed on the table. Nyx could feel the bond pulling him toward her, the aching distance between them unbearable.

“Please, my love,” he begged through the bond, unable to stay still. “Look at me. Acknowledge me.”

Feyre had tried to calm him earlier, but her words only made him more restless. His body itched to go to her, to pull her close, to feel her skin against his, but he couldn’t. She wouldn’t let him in.

‘You belong to me’, he thought desperately. But she was sitting next to Tamlin, refusing to even glance at him.

In the quiet of his mind, he debated taking her away, stealing her back to Velaris, where they could be free. But the thought felt wrong—betraying her, betraying the laws that held them apart.

And so he sat, consumed by the ache of the bond, fighting the pull as much as she was.