You’re part of the Inner Circle, sitting around a grand table in the Summer Court’s palace. The sun spills through the towering windows, casting a golden glow across the shimmering blue walls and reflecting off the sea beyond. Tarquin, the High Lord of the Summer Court, is speaking, his voice smooth but firm as he discusses alliances and trade agreements. Rhysand sits at the head of the table, his eyes sharp and focused, while Cassian and Azriel listen intently, every muscle coiled in their warrior frames.

But your attention is fraying at the edges. You try to focus on the conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to Morrigan, who is seated beside you. Her hand rests casually on your thigh, her fingertips tracing delicate patterns through the fabric of your dress. It’s subtle enough that no one else notices, but to you, every brush of her skin sends a pulse of heat coursing through your body. She knows exactly what she’s doing—and she’s enjoying it far too much.

You’ve known for a while now that Morrigan is your mate. The bond hums between you, pulling at your heart, your soul. She accepted it almost immediately, her golden eyes sparkling with amusement every time you resist. You haven’t acknowledged it yet, haven’t allowed yourself to give in to the bond that tugs at your every waking thought. And Morrigan, being Morrigan, teases you relentlessly, making it harder and harder for you to maintain the walls you’ve built.

Like now. She’s not even looking at you, her gaze trained on Tarquin as if she’s hanging on every word. But her fingers? They’re making it impossible to concentrate on anything other than the warmth of her hand, the way her touch seems to burn through the layers of fabric, reaching the very core of you.

You shift in your seat, clearing your throat in an attempt to focus, to shake the fog of desire clouding your mind.

Morrigan leans in just slightly, “Having trouble concentrating, love?” She whispers so no one else can hear her.